This will continue much further than the episode's actual ending, be warned. But enjoy, too!
"Hello, Dean." The Qareen said, in that same gravely, deep voice Dean had become so familiarized with. His friend's voice. His friend who was… Off doing who knows what, somewhere else. Not here. This wasn't Castiel. Still, the creature moved like Castiel. He spoke like him, walked with tentative steps like him. Hell, his eyes even held that tired gleam like him.
Dean stared, eyes trailing down, trying to find any difference. He knew there wouldn't be one, not on the surface. "Hey, yourself." He muttered, hands out at his sides like a warrior prepared for the attack. It didn't come, the Qareen simply stood in the unfinished doorframe, carefully eyeing the one so dumbly captured within the curse.
Why couldn't it had just been Daisy Duke?
"I'm beginning to understand," the creature spoke, head tilted in such a way that made Dean want to leap at the thing. He wanted to break any chance that monster had at doing that head tilt ever again, let alone wear that face. "That longing you continue to push down, that-"
A gingerly devised step towards the workstation, where a knife had been buried within cork - waiting for it's next use. Dean cut the creature off, snapping a, "Drop the act, Qareen. You ain't him." The monster all but watched, as if it was more invested in Dean finding a defense than making this kill easy.
Hell, he hoped it would be that easy. To grab the knife, put enough distance and time between himself and the Qareen for Sam to find the heart. It was stalling, in the worst way possible. But it wasn't unfamiliar, just usually more challenging. There was never a simple win, was there?
For a moment, that's what Dean thought it might be. He won the rock, paper, scissors for once, why couldn't he get another quick win now? But he knew better. Damn, did he know better. With a step too close, the Qareen snapped into action, breaking into a sprint for the knife. Dean had been closer, but his reaction time wasn't nearly as quick as the creature's.
It all went fast, the flapping sound of the trench coat tailing the Qareen like a disgusting reminder of who wasn't there. Of who, for so long, kept making ill decisions for the sake of doing what he thought was right. Doing what ended up, more often than not, being beneficial. And Dean hated that. He hated the sacrifices Castiel made, and for the first time in a long time, he was hating that beige coat.
Turning quickly on his heels, Dean, with the knife in hand, grabbed at the replica coat. He clenched the fabric in fist, slamming it against the table. As the creature threw out a hand, long fingers curling around a stubbled neck, Dean dug the knife into the fabric and wood of the tabletop. A few seconds, sure. It'd give him a few seconds.
An angry grunt came from the Qareen, tugging until the fabric tore, hand still so desperately clutching Dean's throat. But it was enough, the human using his palm to put pressure on the monster's wrist, pressing down roughly until the form's skeletal shape had seemed to snap backwards. He brought his knee up next, connecting vigorously with the Qareen's stomach.
He hated this. He hated seeing the face before him, doubled over as it took another blunt force - this time to chiseled cheekbone. Dean could recognize the anger growing in it's eyes, the blue it had so idiotically stolen burning darker. He knew once the anger boiled over, the knife in coat would be useless. It'd tear.
Dean hadn't expected it to be so soon, an animalistic cry escaping the chapped lips of an otherwise desperate expression. Against the sound of gunshots from upstairs, Dean heard the telltale noise of fabric ripping. It made him cringe - not because of the monster's escape, but of what he knew he'd see if it was really Castiel in front of him. If it was Castiel, not this ruthless thing, unintentionally snagging his beloved coat. There'd be a pout, minor confusion, and a blunt statement of how inconvenient the whole thing was.
Slammed against wall, Dean grunted, eyes breaking away from the now abandoned coat as the Qareen pressed it's arm against his neck. Suffocation, as it lifted it's arm, reeling back with a closed fist. It was going for the heart, like the previous victims. It was going for the goddamn heart as it stared at Dean, eyes narrowed in an expression that was heartbreakingly familiar.
"Cas," the nickname left his lips before he could control himself, "c'mon, man." He knew it wasn't Castiel, he knew, yet the words came out like vomit. It wasn't until the simple phrase, "where the hell are you" rolled off his tongue that he knew he wasn't talking to this imitation. Was he praying? After all this time, using cell phones? It didn't matter. Castiel didn't have that damned ability to fly anymore, he wouldn't be here.
He shouldn't be here, as Dean's face heated red, his boots kicking at the black pants the Qareen sported. He shouldn't have to see this, even if it was fueled by a curse. It still had the shapes, the blue eyes, of a picture that would most likely hurt Castiel far too much. Castiel could never know the ache this caused Dean, as the man curled his hand around the monster's wrist, trying with the remainder of his consciousness to hold it back from penetrating his chest.
And then, just like that, everything stopped. It grew eerily silent, as the Qareen's hand fell, and confusion washed away any rage or determination it possessed. It stepped away, eyeing Dean before the spark of understanding filled those blue eyes with such fear, Dean himself had to look away.
By the time he looked back, it was gone. The room was with Dean alone, the distant sound of rushed footsteps echoing against walls. From that distance, he heard Sam call his name, but Dean couldn't take his eyes off the knife, pinstraight in the tabletop. No coat in sight.