Warnings: This chapter contains profanity, explicit sex (m/m pairing), disturbing imagery involving the death of a child, and some discussion of addiction. Also it's just all around depressing.

This chapter is set during 5.04: "The End". Once again, I will not be rehashing the plot of the episode, just focusing on the parts where this story differs from canon. If you find it confusing, please go watch the episode. It will fill in all the blanks. And if you don't already know that "Hey, Jude" is by the Beatles, you have clearly been living under a rock and I can't help you.

Happy reading, and please leave a review if you like it.

There were no spare beds in the refugee camp, so his future self had grudgingly scrounged up a sleeping bag and a pop-up tent. The sleeping bag's zipper was broken, the tent had a couple stains that looked suspiciously like blood, and there was always a rock digging into Dean somewhere no matter how he positioned himself. He was starting to think it was the same rock and it was moving around just to fuck with him. This was exactly why he hated camping.

Well, this and memories of his dad stranding him in the woods with nothing but a map and a hunting knife and ordering him to get to the rendezvous point in three days. Those nights, huddling next to his fire while out in the dark mysterious things rustled and sighed, had been the worst of his life up until then. Worse than the night his mother died. He'd felt so tiny and alone, and he'd known for a fact that if he got lost out there, no one would come to save him. Dad would just take it as proof that he wasn't cut out for the hunting life, that he wasn't strong enough. John would move on, train Sam instead. That, more than any survival instinct, motivated Dean to find his way back because if he lived up to the Winchester legacy, then maybe Sammy could have a normal life. Maybe Dad would settle for Dean and let Sam go.

Memory melded seamlessly into nightmare. He was small, nine or ten years old, cradling a hunting rifle that was much too heavy for him and sighting on something between the trees. "Kill it," said his father's voice. He couldn't tell if John was actually standing next to him or was just in his head. He didn't dare turn to look or he'd lose sight of the target. It was moving so fast. "It's a monster, Dean," his father insisted. "You have to kill it." But Dean hesitated. He couldn't see the thing properly. What if … "Do it, Dean. It'll kill you if you don't. It'll kill Sammy."

Sammy. Have to save Sammy.

Dean pulled the trigger. The creature screamed. Not an animal scream, a human one. A child. Dean walked through the trees until he stood over the body of a boy, maybe six years old. The kid was face down, but Dean recognized that soft brown hair, that skinny body already too tall for its age. "Sammy?"

He fell to his knees and turned his little brother over, pulling the limp body into his arms. Innocent hazel eyes looked up at him, puzzled but calm and trusting. "Dean," Sam said, his voice still high and piping. "Is the monster gone?"

Dean felt blood running over his hands, hot and thick. "Yeah," he said. "The monster's gone. You're safe."

Sam sighed and burrowed into Dean's chest just like he used to when he was actually this little and Dean would rock him back to sleep after a nightmare. It was always Dean who did that. The most Sam could get out of Dad was a pat on the head and a gruff, "Go back to sleep, kiddo." But Dean understood that it wasn't that easy. Sometimes you needed someone to hold onto. You needed to listen to a heartbeat that wasn't yours so you could be sure that you weren't alone in the universe.

"Dean," Sam murmured sleepily. "Will you sing the song?"

Dean didn't have to ask what song he meant. There was only one song Sammy ever asked for. Most of the time he made faces when Dean tried to sing. He plugged his ears and said Dean sounded like an alley cat having a fight with a tin can. But this song was different. It didn't matter if Dean was off key. What mattered was the words, and Dean knew those perfectly. He didn't remember actually learning the song. He'd just always known it like he knew his own name.

"Hey, Jude," he sang, his voice cracking. "Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better." He sang until his brother's eyes closed, until he stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped being Sammy and became just an empty shell.

Dean woke with tears on his face. He wasn't alone, and his hand closed on the gun beside him before a gravelly voice spoke out of the darkness. "It's all right, Dean. It's just me."

"Cas?"

"Yes."

Dean released the gun and rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the shameful tears.

"You were singing in your sleep," Cas said.

Dean said nothing.

"It was a nice song."

"What are you doing here, Cas?" Dean cut him off since he clearly wasn't going to drop the subject on his own.

Cas was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Last night on Earth?"

Dean froze. He couldn't make out Cas's face, but he could hear the angel smirking at him. "You know I'm not …"

"Yes, I know which one you are."

"So why—"

"Because he doesn't want me anymore." Cas said it without bitterness or anger, just quiet resignation. "But you still do." To prove his point, he palmed Dean's crotch while simultaneously licking the shell of his ear.

Dean drew in a sharp breath and bit his lip. Yep. Couldn't argue with that. "What, um …" He took Cas's wrist and moved his hand to a more neutral location so he could get enough blood in his brain to remember how the English language worked. "What about the side effects?" He couldn't see Cas's wings here, which he figured meant the connection had already worn off in this time, and he didn't want to cause problems for his future self by starting that up again. The guy might actually kill him for that and paradoxes be damned.

Cas laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "Dean, there won't be any side effects unless you count sore muscles. I'm not an angel anymore."

"What?" Dean sat up. "How did that happen?"

A vague movement in the dark was Cas shrugging. "I think it had something to do with the other angels leaving. After that my grace just … faded away. I'm human now. Mostly. Hell, last year I broke my foot and got laid up for two months." His tone was casual, but Dean's eyes were getting used to the dark now, and he could see the humiliation on Cas's face.

"I'm sorry, man," he said softly.

Cas shrugged again. "I know. The other you is sorry too. I think that's why he won't sleep with me anymore. I remind him of his failures."

Dean had a feeling there was more to it than that. He remembered how it had felt to have Cas inside him, how perfectly content it had made him. With the world crashing down around him, with Sam gone and the end quite literally nigh, he wouldn't dare let himself feel that. Not when it could be snatched away at any second. With so many people counting on him, he didn't have the luxury of a broken heart.

But why was he letting Cas think it was his fault? Couldn't the other him see how much pain Cas was in, how lost and alone he felt? Couldn't he at least be a good friend even if he couldn't be more? No, that would be way too fucking healthy. And Sam wasn't here to bully him into talking about his feelings, so he wasn't going to.

Cas watched him, but he didn't ask what Dean was thinking. Instead he said, "So can we fuck now?"

The words were so hollow, so … not Cas, that they actually doused Dean's arousal rather than stoking it. He flopped onto his back, wincing as that sadistic rock jabbed him in the kidney. "No, Cas."

Cas frowned. "Why not?"

"Because this is screwed up. You want the other me, and I … I want the other you, the one from my time." It had been weeks since he'd seen the angel. They'd been keeping away from each other like they'd agreed, and it had been … easier in some ways. At least he didn't have to constantly remind his dick that sex with Cas was no longer an option. But there were other things he missed even more. Talking to Cas, explaining human stuff to him, arguing about whose plan was more insane. When Cas called to ask for his help finding the Colt, Dean had felt a warm twist of anticipation in his gut.

"But all we have is each other," said the Cas sitting next to him.

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "And that's … It would be wrong. We'd just be using each other."

To his surprise, this made Cas smile. "Oh, I've missed you," he said softly, reaching out to cup Dean's cheek. "The other you would never have said that." He leaned down and kissed Dean.

For a moment Dean forgot what he'd just said, lost in the feel of Cas's lips, warm and dry and so familiar. His hand came up to touch Cas's face and encountered that scruffy beard. That jolted him back to reality, and he pushed Cas away as gently as he could. "Don't," he said. It sounded more like a plea than an order.

"You're wrong, Dean," Cas said, his fingers tracing slow circles on Dean's stomach as though he was soothing a child. "I don't want him. I want you. This you, the one who still cares about me." He looked away, and his voice sounded a little choked when he continued, "But I understand why you don't want me. I am a poor imitation of myself these days."

Dean felt his heart crack right down the middle. How could he be angry at his future self for letting Cas drown in shame and self loathing, and then turn around and do the exact same thing? What did it matter that this wasn't his Cas? It was still Cas. Cas who'd always been there when Dean needed him, who'd given up everything for Dean. How could Dean deny him this one thing?

He reached up and turned Cas's face back towards him. "Kiss me," he said.

Cas's eyes widened, but he complied without hesitation.

It was different. Cas tasted human for one thing, like whiskey and canned chili and cigarettes. And as surprisingly good at it as he'd been the first time, he'd gotten better. Much better. Dean tried not to think about who he'd been practicing on. Then Cas slipped a hand into Dean's pants, and Dean no longer had any trouble not thinking. "Fuck, Cas," he groaned.

"You like that?" Cas murmured, nipping at his earlobe.

"Fuck, yes."

"Nothing says thank you like reciprocation."

Dean realized he'd just been lying there, letting Cas do all the work. "Sorry," he said, quickly unzipping Cas's jeans and wrapping a hand around him, finding him fully hard.

Cas moaned and thrust into Dean's fist, still working Dean nimbly. Dean tried to match his rhythm, but he kept getting distracted because what the fuck was Cas doing down there? How many fingers did he even have?

"Don't have any lube," Cas grunted.

"S' fine," Dean said. "We can just do this." It was probably for the best. Cas wasn't an angel anymore, and he sure as hell wasn't celibate.

Cas nodded and went back to work. For a while the only sounds in the tent were heavy breaths and moans and the silken sound of skin on skin.

Dean came so abruptly that it was over almost before he realized it was happening. It took him a minute to notice that Cas was still hard in his hand. "Sorry," he said and resumed his stroking. But after a couple more minutes it became clear that this was not going to do it for Cas, and no wonder. If he'd ever done to himself what he'd just done to Dean, then Dean was up against some stiff competition. He would have to get creative.

He let go, ignoring Cas's whine of protest, and rolled the other man onto his back. Cas looked up at him, puzzled but trusting. Dean pulled Cas's pants down to his ankles, laid down between his legs, and took Cas in his mouth.

"Fuck," Cas gasped. His hips twitched, but he didn't buck. He'd learned some self control as well as some technique.

Dean sucked and licked, swirled his tongue over the head and very carefully scraped the shaft with his teeth. He hadn't done this in a long time, but it was like riding a bike.

Cas's moans became more needy, his breathing more labored. "Dean," he gasped, and at first Dean thought he was saying it just to say it, but then he tugged urgently on Dean's hair.

Dean lifted his head a second before Cas came, and so he got his first sight of Cas's oh face. Last time he'd been too absorbed in his own orgasm to really notice it. Plus there were the glowy angel wings distracting him. It was perfectly balanced between pain and pleasure, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a long, guttural moan. It was gorgeous. Then the last spasm passed, and Cas got the same blissful, fucked out look he'd had last time. "Fuck, I needed that," he breathed.

Dean crawled out from between his legs, moving awkwardly in the close confines of the tent which now reeked of sex. Cas pulled his pants up and zipped them, heedless of the sticky mess coating his groin.

"You can stay," Dean said. "I mean, if you want to." It occurred to him that Cas had an actual bed to sleep in, so why the hell would he want to spend the night on the cold, hard ground with Dean?

But Cas looked at him and said, "Okay," then laid back down.

Dean hesitated. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head Cas's chest and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, but he wasn't sure if that was allowed. He wasn't sure what they were to each other. Even in his own time he wasn't sure.

Cas solved the problem by tugging Dean down into his arms. "You always overthink things," he muttered and kissed the top of Dean's head.

Dean smiled into Cas's shirt. Maybe there was hope for the future after all.

~o0o~

Way too early the next morning, Dean stood and watched himself organizing his troops. It was still indescribably strange seeing his own body walking and talking but not having any control over it. It was like a nightmare. He couldn't figure out how much of what he didn't recognize was the changes of the last five years and how much was just things he'd never noticed because he was him. How close was he already to becoming this bitter, hopeless, angry man who could shoot a friend in the back without a second thought?

A hand slipped into his back pocket and squeezed gently. Dean whipped around and saw Cas grinning at him. "You're riding with me," Cas said. "Our fearless leader approved it." He winked. Actually fucking winked. Dean didn't think the Cas of his time even knew how.

"You can drive?" was the first thing Dean could think to say. Cas's hand was still tucked snugly in Dean's pocket and seemed to have no intention of moving.

"Oh, yeah. You taught me."

Dean wondered what that had been like. Hell, probably. It would have reminded him of teaching Sam to drive which, knowing him, would have made him brusque and short tempered. And Cas would have been frustrated both by the fact that he needed this mundane human skill and the fact that he couldn't master it instantly.

Cas guessed what Dean was thinking and chuckled. "Yeah, it wasn't fun. But we got through it without any bloodshed. It was before we stopped …" His smile slipped and he lowered his eyes. "Things were better then," he finished quietly.

Dean darted a glance at his future self who was not looking at them. Very pointedly not looking. He felt like he should apologize for things he hadn't done yet. Instead he silently vowed that he would do it different. Even if he couldn't save Sam, couldn't save the world, even if he ended up right back here, this was one thing he could definitely change. He wouldn't push Cas away no matter how much it scared him, no matter how much it hurt. He would be there for Cas until the bitter end. A broken heart was better than no heart at all.

The trucks were loaded and on the road before the sun cleared the tops of the trees. It was really disconcerting to be in the passenger seat while Cas of all people was at the wheel. Dean hardly ever rode shotgun to begin with, and when he did it was always with Sam or, once upon a time, his dad. Occasionally Bobby, but that was it. To make matters worse, when they'd been driving for about half an hour, Cas pulled an orange prescription bottle out of his jacket and downed a handful of pills.

"What is that?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"Want some?" Cas held out the bottle as though it was a bag of Mn'Ms.

Dean's bad feeling got a whole lot worse. He snatched the bottle and looked at the label? "Amphetamines?" He was relieved that it wasn't something stronger, but still … Where did Cas get them? Was he stealing medicine from the refugees to get high?

"Mmm," Cas said, taking a swig from his canteen which fortunately smelled like nothing but water. "Takes the edge off, but I'm still sharp enough to fight."

"And drive," Dean muttered. He pocketed the bottle. He didn't know how much of these it took to cause an overdose, but he wasn't taking any chances.

Cas followed the movement with his eyes, and Dean was fully prepared to wrestle him for custody of the drugs. He'd met a few junkies in his time, and he knew that when their stash was threatened, rational thought went right out the window. They'd claw their own mother's eyes out to protect the source of that precious high. But Cas said nothing, and Dean could have sworn for a second he actually looked grateful. He wondered if his other self had ever even tried to get Cas clean.

Another hour down the road the silence was starting to get to Dean. Every radio station in the country was static — no more AC/DC, no more Zeppelin. Hell, at this point he'd settle for Taylor Swift.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"You just did."

He looked at Cas sharply. That had sounded suspiciously like the old Cas, but no, it was just sarcasm. He was smirking mischievously, obviously waiting for Dean to say, Can I ask you something else? Instead Dean said, "Why are you doing this?"

Cas sighed, annoyed at being thwarted in his little game. "You'll have to be more specific."

"This." Dean pointed at the road and the other trucks ahead of them, one of which was being driven by his future self. "Following him on this suicide mission. You said it yourself, Cas. He doesn't care about you."

Cas's hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles were white. "But I still care about him," he said in a deadly quiet voice. "He may be broken and hopeless and suicidally reckless, but he is still Dean Winchester, and I will not abandon him. Wings or no wings, I'm still …" He swallowed hard as though fighting tears, but his eyes remained dry. "I am his," he said, stating an incontrovertible fact, a fundamental law of the universe. "His guardian angel. Until the day I die."

There it was again. Cas's strange belief that Dean was somehow important, that he was worth it, worth losing everything. "He doesn't deserve you," Dean said. I don't deserve you, he didn't add. It was implied. They were the same person.

Cas tilted his head, considering this, and the gesture was so very Cas that it made something hurt deep inside Dean. "Deserve? Maybe not. In my experience very few people get what they deserve. But we should at least get what we need." He turned to look at Dean, and it was one of his soul gazing looks. For just a second he was an angel again. "Do you think he needs me?" he asked.

"Yes," Dean said without hesitation. "He does."

~o0o~

"Oh, I learned a lesson all right. Just not the one you wanted to teach."

I learned that I need Sam, and I need Cas. I need my family because they're what's going to get me through this in one piece. Not following the Plan, not being a good soldier, not doing what my dad taught me and putting the mission before everything. His future self had reminded him way too much of his father.

"Well, then I'll just have to teach it again!" Zachariah was livid, his wings flared wide. They were black, but not like Cas's. They were a dull, featureless black. Dean didn't look directly at them. He did not want to explain to Zachariah why he could see them. It occurred to Dean that every time he showed up, the angel was a little less slick, a little quicker to drop the let's-be-friends act and show his true colors. Dean was really getting under his skin. "I've got you now, boy," he said, pointing a finger at Dean, "and I'm not letting you go until you —"

The motel room vanished and Zachariah along with it. Dean was standing by the side of a highway, Cas's hand on his shoulder. He took one look at Cas and knew he was really home because Cas had wings.

Dean caught him in a bone crushing hug, and to his surprise Cas reciprocated immediately, resting his chin on Dean's shoulder and stroking his back in a soothing motion. Dean's arms went right through the wings, and his brain rebelled against the conflicting signals, so he shut his eyes and just breathed in the the thunderstorm scent of the angel mixed with the exhaust fumes of the highway.

"Are you all right, Dean?" Cas asked worriedly.

"Fine." Reluctantly Dean released him and stepped back. "Nice timing."

"We had an appointment." Cas's eyes twinkled with smug amusement. He'd clearly enjoyed getting one over on Zachariah. And was there a little bit of possessiveness in that look as well? A touch of "Don't fuck with my human"?

I am his, a voice echoed in Dean's mind. His guardian angel. Until the day I die. How he could remember a conversation that hadn't happened yet and maybe never would happen, Dean wasn't going to ask. Time travel made his head hurt.

"How did Zachariah find you?" Cas asked.

"Long story. Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on." Before he could lose his nerve, Dean took out his phone and pressed speed dial one.

Sam and I haven't talked in five years.

Sam didn't die in Detroit. He said yes.

Whatever details you alter, we will always end up right here.

Well, screw that. Time to start rewriting the future. His own way.