Title: took a turn into dead end street and lost our way
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel pre-slash, 2014!Castiel, Sam, Bobby, S6 guest character
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dean gets a strange call from Cas saying that he's stranded on the side of the road. When Dean gets there he finds a very confused and starting-to-get-the-shakes 2014 Cas. At first Dean thinks this was his chance to make up for his future self's screw ups, but it becomes clear this isn't just good luck: there's been a switch. And unless he can find a third option, Dean's facing a godawful choice: either he sends 2014!Cas back to certain death or he leaves "his" Cas stranded in a Croat-ridden wasteland, alone and at Lucifer's mercy.
Word Count: 2,518
Total Word Count: 11,126
Warnings: Character death.
Notes: This scene was planned out and written as long as one year ago. And you know what? I ended up scrapping everything and using about one measly paragraph from the original. GAHHHH.

One more epilogue to go! Can't believe I've made it here at last :D Though the plot sounded way better in my head back then...but at least I'm glad to have stuck this one out, I have way too many unfinished stories lurking about.


Dean sensed immediately that something had changed when he got back.

Castiel was still sitting at the table, head bowed over his clasped hands - but among the debris from the day's research marathon littered everywhere was now the dull gleam of gunmetal. Dean didn't have to look closer to know that the Glock had been filched from the bottom of his bag. Cass sneaking off, stealing his stuff, keeping secrets - Dean tried to feel more than tired anger, but the surge subsided as quickly as it swelled. "You could have just asked," he muttered as he settled himself across from Cass, noticing with some concern that the safety's off. Something cold slithered through his stomach as he dwelled on that - factoring in the slumped looseness of Cass' pose, the veiled meaning of his words, the nightmares, so fucking many of them

until sleeping's impossible, but resting's still possible

if he can only be man enough cowardly enough and instinctively he reached out to take

escape

the gun away, only to freeze in his tracks as Cass laid his hand firmly over his. "You would have asked why," he said, and Dean jerked away as though stung.

"What's going on, Cass?" Sam stopped wringing sleep from the corners of his eyes, leaned forward sharply as though struck with the same unthinkable notion. "It's way too late - early," he corrected himself with a groan, "to pull the mystery act. Dean said you've got some inside intel?"

"Yes," Cass said and sighed, not at all helpfully. "It's not so often that I hate being right."

Bobby, thank God, cut right to the point they're all slowly tip-toeing around, estimated time of arrival likely twenty minutes after the end of the world. "Spit it out," he ordered, scowling at Cass. "I didn't let Dean drag me up at this ungodly hour just to hear you bullshit away my shut-eye time."

"Our good host has spoken." Cass spread his hands and smirked. "Very well, it's really quite simple. You can't summon my present self because he's in the future. There's been an exchange."

He said this as though it's obviously self-explanatory, and in a way it was - Dean's head spun as gears churned, pieces snapped into place, forming an awful picture - "What?" he blurted out, noticing out the corner of his eye the marked lack of surprise on Sam's face, and it hurt, a little, being the last to find out, even if he did get why. It's not like he'd been very reasonable about anything to do with Cass the last hectic days, fine, and the way Sam's actively avoiding his eyes now told him that he wasn't going to like what came next.

"Fortunately," Cass went on, "Balthazar's dropped in for a quick visit and confirmed that future's still alive and kicking, for now." His gaze dropped. Dean followed it to the whiteness of his knuckles as his fingers clutched, for one spasmodic, blink-and-miss-it moment, at the fabric of his jeans. "Less fortunately, if you recall...when the switch took effect, it wasn't exactly under the most fortuitous of circumstances."

"You were still with Lucifer," Dean said, flatly - numbly. Beside him, Sam made a small, choked sound - apparently putting two and two together but at this instant Dean couldn't care about anyone other than Cass, who kept his eyes firmly down and simply said, "Yes."

They sat in loaded silence for about a minute. Sam slid his chair an inch away from Cass, looking stricken. "What happens," he said at last, and Dean felt his muscles tense up even more, "when that future's gone?"

"Well," Cass said. "As far as the universe is concerned, there's only ever been one of me, isn't it? As they say - two's a crowd." He sat up straight with a cheerful smile that never wavered even when his eyes slid over to the gun sitting so innocuously on the table. "You know what to do."

"What," Dean said, after more silence. (Cass was getting a real knack for them.) Then, "No, no, no. What the fuck are you thinking - how could we possibly - "

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean abruptly realized his voice was raised without remembering how it had gotten there or when he had stood up, chair shoved back and fists curled tight at his sides. Cass looked very small from his full height, and he made an effort to calm himself down. "When exactly were you going to tell us all this, Cass?"

"Never." Cass shrugged. "You can see the merits of that course of action. While we're arguing pointlessly, I'm being subjected to the loving ministrations of my dear brother in the old timeline. Or what did you think I'm dreaming about all the fucking time?"

"So we break him out," Dean said impatiently, "but I don't see how shooting your brains out is gonna accomplish that - "

"He's part of the spell, Dean," Sam broke in, voice even and authoritative, trampling down the rest of Dean's objections. "He's the reason why angel'd up Cass can't just flap back here."

"One bright shiny gold star for Sam," Cass said, raising his hands in mock applause. "Come on, Dean, you're being extra dense even by your usual standards."

Dean looked back and forth between the two of them; helpless, angry. "You're saying there's nothing we can do but play right into the angels' hands and just flat out murder him."

"It's not murder if it's consensual," Cass corrected, as casual as discussing the weather. He didn't mind, Dean thought in horror. He really didn't mind dying, leaving all he had behind. Hell, guy would finally get to have a decent snooze at last.

It's this last thought that struck particularly hard. "So that's it," he snarled. "You're just gonna give up and let Heaven push us around, you hypocrite, after all you've told me never to give in to Michael - "

Cass hit him in the face. It wasn't a very painful or effective punch, but it still knocked all the words out of Dean. He stared in shock as Cass, very calmly, rubbed his knuckles. "That," he said clearly and concisely. "was for being a goddamned asshole."

Bobby dug iron fingers into Dean's wrist. "Time-out, boys," he declared in a tone that brooked no argument. "You and me," he said to Dean, "are gonna go over there and have ourselves a grown-up talk."

Traitor, Dean couldn't help thinking, but let himself be shepherded away to the naughty boys' corner anyway - where Bobby proceeded to poke him hard in the chest, eyes narrowed with displeasure.

"He's just tellin' it like it is," he said. "Maybe he's more blunt about it, but he's not too much different from the angel and you're used to dealin' with that stick in the mud. Who are you really steamin' about, him or you for not being able to swoop down and rescue every single sufferin' soul on this planet?"

"You can't expect me - you can't expect us to choose, Bobby," Dean argued, keeping his voice low. "You weren't there. You didn't see, what I did to him, what I let happen - "

"The idjit that did all that," Bobby cut in pointedly, "is dead."

Dean winced, but Bobby was just getting started. "And him?" He nodded to Cass, who was talking quietly with Sam - no prizes for guessing what about. "He's a dead man walkin' and he knows it. You didn't pull the trigger, but he's as dead as that future of his." And because reading Dean's mind apparently was the superpower of the day, Bobby added, "This ain't some second chance gift-wrapped for your benefit, Dean. The angels did this to yank your chain, and, fool that you are, you're lettin' them get away with it." More gently: "You've been down this road more times than I can count, son. We all have. You know this well enough, but I'll say it again: there's nothin' good waiting for you down there."

He wheeled himself away. Dean glared at the floor, nails digging into his palms. Bobby was right, he admitted, but he was also wrong. It felt wrong. Didn't matter if Cass was some bastard child of a paradox and an anomaly, a loose thread in the fabric of the universe that had to be snipped off, choose your own bad metaphor- he was still a living, breathing person. He'd bleed and convulse when the bullet shredded his brain apart, and then he'd collapse and then he'd die.

And then...Cass, Cass the angel, would be able to come home again.

He's buried so deep in his thoughts that when he almost jumped when Cass suddenly spoke up, right next to his elbow. "They're dead too, Dean."

Dean pulled away. He couldn't look at Cass like this - not when the image of his bloody corpse was too fresh in his mind's eye. "Like what?"

"They're dead," Cass repeated, "but I don't see you crying and throwing temper tantrums over them." He cast a vacant eye at the still-dark sky through the window, still smiling but also with bitterness. "It's so strange to think they're out there somewhere. For three years we hunted together, shat together, fucked together. We were more than rebels; we were warriors." There's an odd pride in his voice. "And now, they wouldn't know me if we crossed in the street. I suppose you could say that, to me... they're as good as dead."

"You're talking about..." Dean realized.

"Still..." Cass shrugged. "Objectively speaking, their fates have changed for the better. I can't get too upset about that." He walked around to face Dean, folding his arms. "I'm not a selfish bastard. Unlike someone I could name."

Incredulous, Dean finally met Cass' eyes. Selfish? He felt a pang of hurt. "You're not making any sense, Cass. I'm sorry about your friends, but..."

Cass smirked. "You've been dealing with ghosts your whole life, Dean." He looked down at himself, one hand moving to finger with the hem of his worn shirt. "How stubbornly they hold on, how stubbornly they're held on to...sad pathetic creatures all, long after they should have made themselves let go."

"But you're not dead," Dean insisted. "You're alive." He grabbed Cass' wrist, holding back a wince at how easily his fingers encircled it, how thin and light he felt - as though the bones would break if he just clenched his hand into a fist. "You have a pulse. You're warm. Ghosts don't have that. There's got to be another way."

"You're not listening." Cass tried to pull free, eyes slitting in anger. "I've had enough of this."

"Well, so have I," Dean snapped, tightening his grip. "What you're suggesting - it's just stupid, it's such an obvious trap. Imagine - if you killed yourself and nothing happened, just think - " How I would feel, he meant to finish, only he couldn't because Sam had just come up behind and struck him sharply on the side of his neck. Dean lurched forward, crying out in pain; his hand sprang open. Cass shoved him away and rubbed his wrist, watching him narrowly.

"This way you feel - " He paused, considering his words. "Do you really feel so much guilt over me, Dean?" He sighed. "You shouldn't, to be honest. Five years is a very long time."

"It didn't take me five years," Sam said quietly. "Cass - whatever I've done to you - "

"Please, one penitent is more than enough," Cass interrupted, holding up a hand and backing away. "Just don't do it again, that's all I ask."

Sam's mouth set in a grim line. "I promise."

Dean's eyes widened in sudden fear. "Cass, where do you think you're going?" He straightened, took a step. Sam blocked his path.

"Sorry, Dean." He looked regretful. "Time's running out."

Dean snarled, raising his fists. "I'll knock you down if you don't get out of the way - "

"And then you'll what, tip an old man out of his wheelchair?" Bobby said dryly, not making a move to intervene. "Give it up, Dean. Five years just made that boy's mind more stubborn. You ain't goin' to stop him."

Cass smiled at him, eyes softening. "That's right, Bobby. Maybe things might have been different, if..." He cut himself off as he opened the door, gun in hand. A cool wind licked into the house, lifting papers, ruffling his hair. "I'll be right back."

"Lookin' forward to it," Bobby muttered gruffly.

Dean dived. Sam threw himself on top of him, struggling to keep him pinned down. He was larger and stronger, but Dean had desperation on his side. "Cass!" he pleaded, horrified to hear his voice breaking. "Don't do this!"

Cass paused, halfway out the door, to stare at him - an odd, indecipherable expression on his face. "You aren't the Dean I know," he said at last, voice rough. "I'm not obligated to take orders from you."

He went out.

Moments later, there was a muffled bang. The night shone bright as day. Dean jerked violently enough to dislodge Sam, jumped to his feet. He was already running when the light exploded upward and outward, turning the world into stark whites, blacks. Dean screamed, flinging up an arm to shield his dazed eyes. A moment later he had to drop down and curl into a ball as the windows shattered inward, glass shards riding the waves of terrible, piercing sound.

The angel's cry ceased, the intensity of its light dimmed. Dean lay where he had fallen, aching. Something wet was dripping down his face. Someone said his name from somewhere far away. His body shook. That, too, felt an unimaginable distance away, as though he was floating somewhere in the middle of a vast black sea; its many voices roaring in his ears as the waters closed over his head.

Dean closed his eyes and let himself sink.

end part seven