Dean drives recklessly, and Castiel can almost hear the pleas of the tires as they slip across the overgrown path, bouncing across avoidable pitfalls and splitting themselves on the smaller boulders. The day is as barren and forsaken as their lives have come to be, and the small patches of sunlight from above are never enough to warm the world beneath. Dean's eyes are sharp, a chasm of green, boundless fixation that permits nothing other than blind bravery, and he keeps his gaze ahead. He focuses on nothing but the end now, the outcome, the final destination. Cas sighs and grips the bar beside him and holds tighter to the MP5 strung across his lap as the jeep lurches and pitches.
There is no radio here. Dean stopped singing a lot time ago.
The cabins are quiet, and only Chuck bothers to greet them anymore. They've brought back three bags full of canned goods and toiletries, but the polite smile on Chuck's face is laced with grim subtleties, belying the fact that they didn't get enough; they never can. Croats roam the streets like nightwalkers, catatonic for fresh meat, easily snapped from a dead stupor by the sound of boots on gravel.
Dean barely speaks, leaving Castiel to help Chuck sort and inventory, and when Cas finally steps foot into his cabin only forty minutes later, Dean is already a quarter of the way through a scuffed bottle of scotch. His boots are up on the rickety table, splatters of mud over the book Cas had been reading for the third time. Cas closes the door behind him, moving the beading away from the hinges carefully.
"We've got enough canned and dried food for the next week, but Chuck says we're nearly out of fresh water, and if we keep rescuing people we're going to need more beds."
"So we stop rescuing people then," Dean comments lightly, taking another swig of alcohol like a parched, desperate man.
Castiel doesn't answer. He knows this side of Dean, this downcast, shell of a man. It had been four years since Sam's departure, and less than one since news reached them of Lucifer's new vessel. Dean had gone very quiet then, for months. And now, he was loud.
Castiel's grace may be nothing but a pinprick of light anymore, but Dean's thoughts, his presence, screamed at him in a way it never had before. Being near him was almost unbearable sometimes. He supposes that's what disappointment feels like. Being wrecked.
He grabs a bowl from the small cabinet, piled among other mismatched dishes that were cracked and broken, and begins spooning stew from a pot over the fireplace into it. The meat is thin and it's mostly broth, but Castiel knows Dean hasn't eaten since before they left early this morning.
He places the bowl by Dean's feet and grabs a medical case from the bookshelf. The supplies are meager, and he's quickly running through them, but they have plans for a run to a nearby urgent care center for replacements. There's a bottle of Percocet hidden in the case, Castiel has been saving it for a special occasion, but he smiles wearily and swallows two, washing them down with a sip from Dean's bowl. He sees no such future promises anymore.
"A little early for that, isn't it?" Dean grunts, his head thrown back as he watches Cas out of the corner of his eye.
"It's dark already," Cas croaks back, and wonders blearily how long it had been since Dean and him have had a conversation that didn't involve hand signals and battlefield strategies.
"You know what I mean."
Cas pulls out a length of gauze and a small sewing set, selecting the thickest thread and motioning for Dean to pull up his shirt. "Off. Besides, I don't say anything about the empty bottles under your bed. I'll stop using if you stop drinking, my friend."
Dean scoffs and swallows another mouthful, but pulls off his outer shirt as commanded. There's a large gash in his arm, just below his shoulder, from where he sliced the skin on exposed sheet metal running from croats. Cas pulls up a chair next to Dean, unrolling his supplies and threading his needle. Dean's eyes run slowly from the soup next to his feet to Cas, who was prodding his arm gently to figure out how best to sew him shut.
"You're not my mother, you know."
Cas says nothing, but begins to lace and stitch Dean's wound closed as Dean tips back more of his bottle. Dean would drink, and eat, and pass out on Cas' bed, hidden from the shameful questions from the remainder of the camp, and Cas would remain quiet about it. Because that's what Dean needed.
—
It took only two years for Dean to come to him, broken and soft in places that had once been impenetrable. Dean's nights were spent in Cas' cabin, the fire burning itself out as Dean wept into the crook of Castiel's shoulder, tears of lament for his brother, for his own grief, for never calling Sam back from that darkened ledge. Cas would hold him tight against his body, sprawled across the bed as Dean soaked his shirts, night after night, and Cas remained silent, counting the number of days he believed he had left until his grace faded completely. The angels had left. He was nearly mortal.
Dean found out when Cas stopped being able to heal their wounds, when he started to smile more, to drink more. His immediately reaction was to beg Cas to go with them, to follow the angels to whatever plane of existence they ended up on, but Cas shook his head.
"I'm not going to leave you. I do regret that I won't be able to help you anymore, not as an angel. My grace will be gone soon."
And for the first time in months, Dean's smile was laced with a beautiful familiarity, and Cas thought he might be able to drown in it.
"I don't need you as an angel."
And somehow, Cas was okay when he ceased to be one.
—
It's October of their second year, and the cabins aren't insulated. Castiel is reviewing a map in his head, pinpointing the red markers in Dean's handwriting, trying to recall if there's a home improvement store within reasonable distance that might have insulation they can bring back. Dean is drunk in front of the fire, a half empty bottle dangling from his fingertips as the reflection of the flames lick past the green in his eyes.
Cas tries not to watch him, tries not to let the overwhelming feeling of sorrow radiate past the closed off excesses of his mind. But he's had a Tramadol or two and his bed, for once, is soft and pliable beneath him, like the universe finally decided he deserved a break, and Dean is nothing but a considerable distraction.
It's nearly an hour before Dean crawls over him, and Castiel raises his arm to greet him, to let Dean bury himself into his side, listening to Cas whisper quiet praises in Enochian until Dean passes into a fitful sleep. But this time, Dean hovers, and Cas tilts his head as Dean runs a shaking, unsure hand across the stomach beneath him. He murmurs Cas' name, fingers finding the hem of Cas' shirt and fingering it upwards to trail a warm path between Castiel's hipbones.
Oh, Cas thinks.
He reaches up to stroke Dean's cheek, an unspoken reassurance that yeah, it's okay, he gets it, before Dean is letting out a startled, greedy sound as he leans down to capture Cas' lips. It's mouthy, shattered, and Cas can feel the destruction through his very bones. Dean's body presses down against him, all angles and soft flesh meeting dirty denim, before he's moving his lips to Castiel's neck, breathing heavy against the skin as he starts to rut against the answering bulge in Cas' jeans.
"Cas, I need…"
But Castiel is already moving a hand towards the buttons on Dean's pants. He would do anything Dean asks of him, be anything he needs, but for once, it isn't too much of a sacrifice.
—
Dean tries to pretend he doesn't like Castiel's new-found sense of humor. It's rocky, to start off, a tangible pain born from the medication, and it tips the line between bitter and cocky too often for Dean to be completely comfortable about it, but it gains Castiel leverage the better he learns to control it. The drugs help mellow him. He used at first to hearken back to a time when feeling nothing was, quite literally, a God-send, but somehow it had circled back, and lack of emotions gave way to a new high, a glorious sanctimony of self preservation and humanity, and Cas watches as Dean caves into it beautifully.
Cas isn't sure if Dean fell in love with him when he became human, or if Dean always loved him, but it wasn't until Castiel's grace left him that he was comfortable enough to embrace the idea. Either way, Cas swallows it gingerly with each new prescription bottle he finds, because Dean is fleeting, and their relationship has always worked best when Cas kept his distance and watched from afar.
Which is why he's utterly confused when Dean unfurls a map on the table and kicks Cas' feet off the wood.
"Sober up, we have to plan a run."
"Oh yeah?" Cas replies, smiling as Dean tries to manifest his coldest expression. Utter determination. "And what of Risa?"
"Risa nothing, she's over building a pen for the chickens we found."
"A coop?"
Dean rolls his eyes, and the hard lines of his mouth soften. "Whatever Cas, you doin' this with me or not?"
Cas hums leisurely, pulling the map towards him and opening his notebook for the inventory lists, which were dangerously barren. "So, from commanding a garrison of angels to being second in command for a rag-tag team trudging through the apocalypse for basic essentials?"
Dean shrugs, and the smile is prominent through the dirt streaked across his face. "Hey, what can I say. It's a part you were born to play."
Cas shoots him a smile that may have held a little more than he meant it to, because a red tint rises up Dean's neck as he watches Cas uncap a marker with his teeth.
"Whatever you need, my liege.
—
They lose people.
Usually only one at a time, and they are scattered, far in between. Newcomers, those still baking their own minds in a melting pot of fear and disbelief, too timid to use a weapon, too prideful to flee or follow Dean's commands. Most are gone before they're even integrated, given a bed in a cabin shared with other names no one is likely to remember when they're gone.
This time, they lose four.
And Dean, for all his stoic security and blasé attitude, is furious. Cas watches him carefully on the drive back, nearly three hours of it, waiting for signs that Dean is breaking. Three of the men were new, young and pompous, who had scouted off on their own, desperate to earn their keep and make their names known. But the woman, she had been there for over a year, one of the very first to join them at the cabins. She had gone back to look for the boys, and Cas and Dean found her, ribs pulled apart and chest carved open, vacant and stained eyes that watched them retreat silently as they quaked in grief and fury.
The woman, Isabelle, she had someone back at camp. When the jeep lurches to a stop, dust lingering to coat the exterior of the vehicle, he is there waiting, eyes dampened and betrayed as he waits for the second vehicle, waits to see the woman he has grown to love, in the absence of all else.
Cas doesn't expect Dean to say anything, this had always been Sam's forte, but the cold ice in his eyes surprises him, and Dean grabs the duffels from the back and walks towards the cabins without sparing a glance towards the broken man before him. Cas sighs. He's not drugged enough for this.
There's a blurred apology, the promise of heroism in death, but the man is blubbering, the small flashes of anger completely crumpled by the poisonous taste of crippling dismay. He is on his knees before Castiel, praying, begging, and Cas is lost, memories he swallows bitterly as he looks around, panicked, finding relief only when Chuck and two women curl their arms around the man and lead him inside.
Cas stands outside for a long time, eyes unfocused on the earth beneath him.
Dean is in his cabin, their cabin, as it's become, and he's shaking against the wall. There are no bottles in his hands, no words on his tongue, but Cas can still feel him, blind emotions rippling through his body and tensing the air around them.
"Dean," he starts, but he never gets the chance to calm him. Dean is on him, gripping his shoulders until his pulse cries out, bruises blossoming beneath fingers. There is hell in Dean's eyes, and Cas swallows, bracing himself for what's to come. Wishing Dean would at least let him get drunk first.
The blow lands hard, the first is always the worst, and when the second hits Cas can taste blood. Dean pauses, gives Cas a brief moment to spit the offending liquid from his mouth as he staggers to keep his balance. He struggles for words. Dean can combat violence, play into it, and the only power Cas ever had was the ability to stop Dean in his tracks with a well-placed verse.
"Dean, don't. This isn't your fault."
Dean raises his fist again, gripping Cas' shoulder harder to keep him still, but the fire in his eyes is waning, flickering. Cas watches, Dean's knuckles slippery with his blood, and feels his headache roar to life beneath the throbs of pain in his jaw. The inside of his mouth is split against his teeth, and his lip is busted. Iron fills his senses. His voice is shattered.
"Dean."
And Dean breaks, fisting his hands in Cas' jacket and burying his head into his neck, pain and anguish washing over him as Cas feels the tension in the room dissipate, leaking away like the proverbial bag of atmosphere had sprung a leak. He lets his body slump against the wall behind him, dragging Dean up against him, nothing but heavy weight and a choked sob.
"Cas. Fuck, I'm so sorry."
Cas smiles through the blood in his mouth, eyes reaching for the heavens as he presses his hands into Dean's back.
"You know, it actually hurts now. More than it used to, anyway."
Dean almost laughs, a crazed exhale of a broken, deluded man, and he's shaking in his apologies again, fingers tightening on Cas, desperate instead of furious.
"I can't save them. I can't. I can't save anyone."
The word Sammy is radiating across Dean's presence, through his soul, and the sharp misery from the man against him washes over Cas, wave after wave hitting him harder than Dean's fist against his jaw.
Cas can't even be mad. Feelings are nothing knew to him, but Dean has felt too much in far too little time, and Cas' own emotions will need to take back-burner for Dean's. He curls a hand into Dean's hair, whispers to him, bottled phrases of glory and pride, sacrifice and beauty that he saves for moments like this, the calm of Enochian patching through the cracks in Dean that shine like the sunset of Castiel's fading grace.
He waits until Dean stops shaking, until his breathing is easy and his body tangible through his indiscretion. Cas considers for a moment, before he strokes his hand down through Dean's hair, curling at the bottom of his neck, and presses his lips gingerly against Dean's collarbone.
"You need release," Cas mutters, and he can feel the skin beneath his lips becoming warm. "I assure you that I can be much more than a punching bag, if that's something you want."
Dean's fingers sink into his back as Cas speaks, and his pulse rises, the hammering of Dean's heart almost palpable against his chest.
Cas loves him. He always has.
"Let me take care of you," he begs, unashamed of the plea in his voice as he runs his fingers across Dean's hip, pulls at his belt loop. "Let me be what you need."
Dean lets out a breathy exhale and let's himself fall. It doesn't fix him, not in the slightest, but then on, for every punch he wants to throw, he will press a fallen angel against the wall instead; for everything he wants to break, he buries himself deeper into the one thing that's always been constant to him; and for every moment he feels like dying, he drowns himself in praises against Castiel's skin, warmer than the breath he uses to mutter words he could never speak to anyone. To a love he swore he'd never commit to.
But then, that was all before Lucifer found Sammy.
-–
The news reached them quickly, much quicker than Cas would have expected. He anticipated it, felt the stir of discontent and worry deep within him for days before Chuck approached their cabin, hesitant knocks and a pale face the only affirmation Castiel had needed to slide his unease into the full-blown confirmation of Dean's greatest fear.
Lucifer had his vessel.
Dean disappeared for days once he found out. A ripple of uncertainty passed through the camp, rumors and horrors spreading like wildfire behind hands and whispers, shared in a drunken discontent over the evening fire. But Castiel held the line, promised them that Dean would be back, that Dean had a plan. That Dean would still be able to kill the devil.
Castiel couldn't care as much as they did, couldn't bother to fake his enthusiasm over the gut-clenching reminder that Dean would never, ever be the same again. Not after he found out, not after Lucifer was dead. But then, hiding his heartbreak was something that Dean would need him to do.
And so, he did.
—
Dean withdraws, plans haphazardly draped across every wall, meetings with strangers, whispers of the blade. Lucifer is all that matters now, Lucifer and Sam, and Dean swallows himself wholly into their mission. Cas takes care of him, reminds him of basic needs, and helps him set up strategic vantage points, teaches him how to use the environment and think like a soldier. Dean is gruff, and his hands will twitch like he wants to grab Castiel, pull him in, but his mind is focused and fixated, no distractions, and Castiel feels each new wall Dean puts up like a slit in his throat.
Dean's angel becomes an asset where he used to be a partner. A weapon, where he used to be a comfort, and ignored, where he used to be a lover.
Castiel finds delight in each new pill combination. Part of him is still surprised to wake up sometimes, but he's grateful. If he's gone, Dean might forget to eat, or sleep. Might even forget he's alive.
Really, Castiel is happy to numb himself to ensure Dean's continued existence. If Dean so needs.
—
"They'll never see us coming."
Bile rises in Cas' throat. He knows when Dean's lying. He knows Dean's very soul.
"Trust me. Now, weapons check, we're on the move in five."
Dean moves forward, slipping behind another dilapidated car to gain a new vantage point, making a show of studying the ground beneath him, the windows of the building before him. Cas wills his muscles to follow his lead, to not shake in the disbelief that encompasses his very being, and moves to kneel beside him.
"Something you want to tell me?"
And maybe it's the drugs, or maybe Cas is just tired. Tired of everything. But his voice doesn't shake or stammer, and when Dean finally turns to meet his eyes, there's a fear there that Cas hasn't seen in a very long time.
"No, why?"
Cas shifts, letting his knees bump against Deans in a sad attempt for one final reminiscence. It only makes him feel sick, and where there is anger in his heart, the words that pour from him are steady and light, almost carefree. He feels like he could laugh at his own incredulous disbelief.
"You forget, Dean, that I commanded armies. I am a soldier. I've fought wars that lasted longer than your very existence," he glances up, surprised when Dean matches his gaze. "I know a trap when I see one, and I know the false hope only a leader can give."
Dean averts his eyes, and Cas is comforted, if only slightly, by the anguish he sees before Dean looks away.
"Cas…"
But Dean doesn't finish. He never will. There's nothing for him to say.
Instead, Cas loads a new mag into his pistol and checks the rifle at his side, quiet and determined. There's a finality in the air around him, and Dean is melting away with it, solid lines and colors fading into something unrecognizable. Cas' last few years, the bliss he had, there was no more of that to obtain here.
He thinks about kissing Dean, one last time, but he hates the thought of tainting perfection. So he cradles Dean's chin in his hand, forcing green eyes to meet his gaze, and smiles. It's broken.
"I once told you that I would be whatever you needed, and I plan to hold true to that," he pauses as Dean swallows, and the hurt in his face is so pronounced it almost makes Cas feel like what they had might have been real after all.
"Even if that means being bait, Dean."
He shoulders his weapon and stands, eyes ghosting over the broken, damaged soul before him, the one he was always so sure he could save. The one he believed would be able to save him back. He motions for the rest of the group to follow him, hardly bothering with caution as he slips past the fencing and holds it open for the rest of his betrayed party, glancing towards Dean's retreating back as he moves to meet Lucifer, to enact his revenge.
Castiel gives Dean more time than he should, willing for a single word, a single movement of hesitation, one last moment of connection, of appreciation, of love.
He wills Dean for a single moment of regret.
But Dean never turns around.