This is now a slight spin off of my other fic, I See a Darkness, which I had conjured up an alternate plot for but didn't know if I would use it until now. I used some material from that fic, but I tried to change most of it so it would still be original.

Chapter Inspiration: Revenant- someone who has returned, especially as from the dead

Recap:

I need you.

It took me so long to realize that I-

I love you.

Cas? Castiel?

Can you- can you just give me one last miracle?

Don't be dead.

Please.

CHAPTER 2: REVENANT

Cas died on a Thursday.

It was May. Sunny. They'd chosen a nice grassy patch under the weeping willow tree. The upturned earth was warm as two graves were dug by two brothers. Sweat made Sam's shirt cling to his back as he brought the shovel down to the earth.

Dean tried to help. A last gesture, a sign of loyalty to a fallen brother.

Dean's hands were shaky from nerves and pain, a sheen of sweat appearing on his too-pale skin. Every time he brought the shovel down, his broken ribs threatened to puncture a lung. But if Dean noticed, he couldn't bring himself to care.

It didn't take long before Sam snatched the shovel from Dean's hands. "I don't need you killing yourself." Sam had said.

Dean didn't argue, which only made Sam that much more worried. Quiet Dean was not good. He made his brother go sit at the base of the willow until he was done.

Halfway through digging Kelly's grave, he looked over to see his brother bent over something with his pocketknife in hand. Good. He was keeping himself busy. Trying to stay distracted.

A few minutes later Dean limped over, and Sam finally saw what he was working on. He had made a rickety little cross out of some nearby tree branches and lashed them together with braided pieces of grass. He wordlessly handed it to Sam, who stuck it in the ground at the head of the graves.

They stood there for a moment. Sam opened his mouth to say a few words, just because it seemed like he ought to, but nothing came out. He sighed, wetting his lips. He was about to try again, but a rustle of movement made him stop.

He watched as Dean walked away.

They took me off the rack, and I tortured souls, and I liked it. All those years, all that pain. Finally getting to deal some out yourself. I didn't care who they put in front of me. Because that pain I felt, it just slipped away. No matter how many people I save, I can't change that. I can't fill this hole. Not ever.

Why- why isn't this pain slipping away? It's latching on, hooking deep into me like a parasite. That pain, the pain of hellfire, of a bone-deep ache that had only begun to start carving away shards of my soul. . .

That' was nothing. That was easy.

But this- I can feel my soul shattering. I can feel little shards of broken glass where it used to be, cutting up everything that comes near, hiding away like a wounded animal. The glass, my soul, it's tearing me apart from the inside, shredding me, ripping a hole through me, and I can't help but wish I could feel real pain, because maybe it would numb this, this feeling, this-

This heartbreak.

I can't fill this hole. This hole is me now. It's who I am. A black hole, sucking everything in to where it'll never see the sun: I'm destruction incarnate, utterly void of all light. But maybe, if I play my cards right, I can use this to my benefit. I can direct this black hole, this whirlwind of destruction, towards my enemies, towards Jack and Lucifer and whatever the hell I come across when me and Sam open a portal to find mom. But until then, I have to make sure my black hole doesn't destroy me, or Sam.

And the worst part?

The worst part is, I can imagine what you would say: that you were just a soldier. That I shouldn't grieve you. I can imagine it like you were saying it, whispering it in my ear, right now. Whispering lies, you tricking yourself into thinking that you weren't important. That you never were. That you're not worth all this pain.

But Cas- you're wrong. You're so very, very wrong. You, of all people, should know- sometimes, the pain that we bring on people- sometimes it isn't deserved. It isn't fair. And sometimes- hell, all the time- there's no rhyme or reason to it. But knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less. And yes, Cas, maybe you thought I was redeemable, fixable, even after everything I've done to you, all the pain I've caused you, but. . .

I'm not.

I, Dean Winchester, I'm utterly broken. My soul is a tangle of sharp jagged bits. I'm scared to touch it because I don't want to get hurt. I'm scared to let Sam see it, because he might try to help fix me. I'm past fixing. I'm damned, it seems, destined to see everyone I love die. I'm irredeemable, despicable, hateful, and I betrayed and hurt you time and again. And yet, through it all, I still had the nerve to call you my best friend.

And you. . .

You were naive enough to call me the righteous man.

-
Life continues for everything else. It's summer- the sun is beating down, the crickets chir when the sun wakes up and when it dies, and the bullfrogs croak out near the lake at night. Birds still sing, grass still grows. I still breathe.

It isn't fair. It seems impossible, really, that life should go on as normally as ever in the face of what happened- but I suppose the trees don't know, or don't care, as much as God doesn't.

The cross is just salt in the wound. A reminder, a marker that screams You could've fixed this to god, which Dean himself wanted to scream.

Dean pulled himself out of his thoughts for a moment, shifting his gaze to Kelly's grave just a few feet away with a cross almost identical to Cas'. I can feel myself nudging to the point where I'll be past feeling, past caring. I'm scared to fall off that precipice, but at the same time I don't want to feel. I want to be numb.

Kelly was innocent. They both were- and why was it that only the good die young?

My hand is suddenly moving of its own accord, tremors shaking through my fingers as I run my thumb across the rough carving on the branch. C. My heart's already broken, but if it wasn't I'm sure it would be near tearing again when my thumb runs over the W. Winchester. Because that's what Cas was: a Winchester.

Family don't end in blood, boy.

That's just the problem, wasn't it? For the Winchesters, family always ended in blood.

I take a shaky breath, bowing my head. I don't care if it looks like I'm praying.

When I open my eyes again, the sun is much lower than it had been. The sky is changing colors, and I can hear the buzz of insects all around me. Moisture from the dirt long since seeped into the knees of my jeans, but I can't pretend to care. I-

"Dean." A voice is hovering behind my shoulder, tentative and firm all at once. I look to my side and almost jump to see Sam standing there, but I don't. My gaze slides back emptily to the still-slightly-raised mound of dirt in front of me.

I don't want to turn away- I don't think I can. I've been kneeling here for I don't know how long. It's been an eternity: now I'm rooted to the ground like the huge weeping willow that stands vigil over your grave. Or maybe I'm more like a blade of grass, so easily broken and bent.

I take what I think will be the last look until tomorrow at the crosses. They're rickety, lashed together with flimsy twine. They're almost falling apart. But they were holding themselves together better than us.

We have our facades, of course, but even a facade can look like a familiar face to your loved ones. We're both falling apart, a pair of marionette dolls that Fate had played with a bit too harshly. We are broken. Fate has been careless. Our hearts have been twisted and torn and stitched back together until they don't resemble anything that was once capable of emotion, and every time we have to do this, bury a friend, family, I can't help but wish to God it was me instead of them.

I wish to God I could take your place. But I know he isn't listening anymore.

"What are we gonna do?" The owner of the voice is at my shoulder now, crouching down next to me. I can see Sam out of the corner of my eye: he's looking at me, unsure of what he should be doing. I suppose he finally decides to just be a brother, a constant force for me to lean on. He looks away, eyes roving over the small cross made of knotted branches. They pause on the initials carved at the center, where the two branches are lashed together.

His words are still ringing in my ears, echoing in my head. What are we gonna do? What can we do? We don't have anything left. No plan, no mom, no Cas, no help.

No hope.

I say the first thing that comes to mind, what's been ingrained in me since my mom was first taken from me, and what's been reinforced since then.

"We fight. Like we always do."

C'mon, Dean. You're the big brother. You still gotta take care of Sammy. Don't make him grieve another death.

Your heart stopped. Mine broke.

This feels- wrong, somehow. I don't know what "this" is, why I feel guilty. Because I'm still alive? Because I'm even remotely relieved that it was you and not Sam? Because I know you were a friend, and the past few weeks between us- we abandoned you. Betrayed you. After all of our promises, all of our assurances that you wouldn't be alone, that you had us, a family- and we abandoned you because of some stupid idea you had, that a demon baby could be good. You always saw the good in everything, Cas. In Jack. In humanity, with all of its hatred and flaws. In the notion that your brothers weren't all evil.

You saw the good in me. In Sam.

You deserve more than this. You deserve to be alive and breathing, standing here next to me as the world says its goodbyes to Kelly Klein. Standing with us against the world, against all odds. Like you always were.

Like you always had been.
Is this what those cosmic consequences were? They feel cosmic. And now- now I wish you hadn't killed Billie that night Cas, because I'd rather be dead than be feeling this numb grief whenever I think of you, or say your name. I'd rather be dead than have to deal with this grief, like an old friend, over yet another person I love that I failed to save.

I'd rather be dead. You hear me, Cas?

And I'm sorry- God, I'm sorry for so many things. So many, Cas. I just want you to know- you were one of us, wings or not. You were human, maybe more human than Sam and I ever were, and sometimes I forgot that you didn't actually have a soul. And I'm sorry that we didn't honor you with a hunter's burial, but, Cas, you have to understand. . .

If there's the slightest chance you can come back- the slightest chance, which, less face it, we've worked with less- you'll need a body to come back to. And I know you would never go all vengeful spirit on us, so don't even try to pull that card. Don't try to keep me from doing this.

I know you don't have a soul. And I know that if you were here, you would say that I was being too hopeful, tell me to move on, keep fighting the good fight because the world needs us, that we shouldn't be wasting so much time grieving you or some crap. But Cas, you have to know -

I'd rather have you. Ghost or not.

Castiel remembered stepping through the portal, leaving Lucifer kneeling on the dusty barren ground with an angel blade sticking through his gut. He stalked back towards the portal, wanting nothing more than to get out of this sad, doomed little world. A world without two heroes.
He allowed himself to breathe when he was through the portal, when the earth morphed under his feet from crumbling clay to grass. Sam and Dean were waiting on the other side, both with relief etched on their faces when they saw Castiel.

It didn't last very long.

He knew before he even felt it. Their faces told him- something terrible had just happened.

He supposed he had to have felt something, but he couldn't quite remember. It felt- empty. A strange tingling, like he was a phantom and someone was waving their hand inside his chest trying to find his heart. It only lasted two eternal seconds, and then it was over.

Castiel was dead before he hit the ground.

That was the end of it. A millennia of experience, of hopes, dreams, love, friendship, pain, betrayal. Sacrifice. A brother. A fighter. Snuffed out by 20 inches of metal.

He had been expecting nothing. Just- endless blackness. A void. Emptiness. He didn't have a soul, after all. He knew what was waiting for him when he died- or rather, what wasn't waiting for him.

But Castiel- he wasn't an angel. Not really. And he hadn't been for a long, long time. Perhaps a part of him always knew that.

Blessings, it seemed, presented themselves in the strangest ways.

Hope you guys liked this chapter- I've had it sitting around collecting plot bunnies for a few weeks now. Not to worry, there's more to come.