"Cas. Not going to lie, man. This is freaking me out."
Dean paced around the marble-topped table. Another white room, this one ornately paneled with gilded baroque flourishes and lit by a crystal chandelier. Matching gold and crystal sconces gleamed between paintings in heavy gilded frames. Castiel sat slouched in an antique armchair upholstered in white damask, elbows on his knees. He raised his head and looked at Dean wearily.
"You chose the decor. This is your subconscious, not mine. If you don't like the view, change it. In fact, why don't you focus on remodeling? Let me concentrate on healing you."
Dean scowled at a statuette of an angel on a decorative pedestal, one of many pieces of sculpture that adorned the room. "If I'm your vessel now, how is it I'm even conscious? Or is this just some figment of my imagination?"
"You do seem to be far more aware than Jimmy Novak ever was," Castiel admitted, "but then, I shielded his consciousness for much of the time he served as my vessel."
"Yeah, but the poor bastard remembered getting stabbed and shot," Dean said dryly. Tired of pacing, he dropped down on a settee near the marble fireplace.
"Yes." Castiel nodded solemnly. "Physical trauma apparently has that effect. That would explain your current cognizance of your situation," he mused.
"My current cognizance?" Dean's eyebrows arched. "So, I say yes to being your vessel, you heal me up, and then what? You take over my body and leave my mind broken and drooling in some corner of my subconscious, is that the deal?" He stood up and prowled across the room to confront the angel, who simply looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed with exhaustion.
"I wouldn't condemn you to such a fate, Dean, even if I had that power. But remember, you were destined to serve as Michael's chosen vessel, as your brother was ordained to be—"
"—Lucifer's." Dean concluded bitterly. "I've heard the bedtime stories. We're just wash and wear, wrinkle-free, Winchester meatsuits for archangels."
"Well, I'm no archangel," Castiel said with a trace of humor. "Look. Sit down, enjoy a hamburger and a beer. Let me focus on saving your life."
Dean turned and saw a golden platter of paper-wrapped take-out burgers materialize on the table in the center of the room. Beer bottles beaded with condensation rested in a crystal bowl of crushed ice. He scowled at the additions. They wavered for a moment, shimmering like a heat mirage, then disappeared.
"Maybe you shouldn't save my life, Cas. Is it really worth saving? You said it yourself, once: you can see inside me. Nothing but pain. Guilt, anger, confusion... Maybe it's time to just let it all go." Dean turned back to the angel, huddled in his rumpled trench coat. "I failed. I couldn't kill Lucifer." He drew in a deep breath, accepting it. "It's over, Cas. Just let it go. Let me die," Dean told him, resigned. "Let me be at peace."
Castiel pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the space between them. He stopped just inches away from Dean, as if everything he'd ever learned about boundaries and personal space had been forgotten.
"I remember that conversation. You told me to take my peace and shove it up my ass." He gripped the front of Dean's coat in his fists, pulling him in even closer. "Quit your whining," Castiel said fiercely, eyes locked on his. "I'm doing this."
"Not without my consent," Dean retorted, just as fierce. Just as stubborn. "I failed, didn't you hear me? I don't want to be saved! I changed my mind."
"It's too late for that, Dean. You gave your consent." Blue eyes bored into hazel, unblinking.
Dean glared right back. "I don't want to be saved," he repeated, his voice a low, harsh growl. He knocked Castiel's hands away. "I take it back."
The angel's eyes flashed righteous anger. "It doesn't work that way. Once a vessel gives his consent, it cannot be revoked."
"Oh yeah? Watch me." Dean's hands had clenched into fists during the exchange, his stomach tightened into a knot. He gathered that ball of tension, that anger and confusion, and thrust it outward, leveling the white paneled walls. Crystal, marble, carved and gilded wood exploded into sparkling shards and Castiel was blown back, out of the ruined jewel box of a room.
Dean's consciousness slammed back into his body. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. Stunned, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Cold. So cold he ached, and yet, he burned, too, every nerve on fire with pain. He was lying on the ground in the unkempt, overgrown garden. To his left, the Colt lay discarded. He tried to stir, to lift his head, to move his hand and pick up the weapon. Nothing, not even a twitch. His body was paralyzed.
Darkness closed in, his vision fading, narrowing, nothing visible but a rose, red as blood, blooming brightly at the far end of the tunnel. His chest ached, lungs burning, but he couldn't summon the strength to draw a breath. He couldn't scream. Couldn't move. The rose faded, withered. Died. He couldn't see. Red light faded to black.
Castiel! Cas! ...Cas!
Author's note: Thank you so much to Becca and MadWithMusic for the kind reviews! I really appreciate the encouragement. Thank you also to those who followed/favorited this story.
