Sam should sleep.
He should try and figure out what the gods are up to now that they've flattened this one Midwestern town, figure out if they know or what their whatever.
Sam should eat.
He's hungry, he knows that much. He should eat the food that Amelia keeps putting in front of him, but he can't, not right now, because it almost hurts.
Sam should sit next to his brother.
He should refuse to leave his side and be there in case Dean wakes up soon, so that Sam will be there, so that he'll be comforted, so that everything will be okay.
But he doesn't.
He isn't sure if there's anything he's still able to do. It's not the grim determination he had at first, when Dean had gone to Hell. It's not even the listlessness he had when Dean had gone to Purgatory. Because Dean is here, right here, and he's alive but not conscious, and how is he supposed to deal with that? He's dreaming— Cas says he's dreaming— and it's Castiel that hasn't left him. It's Castiel who sets up the mattress on the living room floor and sits guard. Hand on his shoulder, even though Sam's pretty sure that Castiel had sent them messages from far away before, that physical contact is not necessary. Castiel who can swim through Dean's dreams.
"Mostly nightmares," he says, when Sam asks. "I— I try to fight them off."
I try to keep him safe is the unspoken message, but Sam knows that even Cas can't keep Dean safe forever, even in his head. He can fight the imaginary demons for awhile, maybe— but in the end…
In the end, Dean's going to be trapped in mental hellfire.
And Sam doesn't know how to deal with that.
Can't go closer, can't go far away. He stands in the living room doorway, watching.
The scene hasn't changed. Cas watching over his brother, like he'd said he would in Oklahoma. Once Sam is half convinced that he sees wings, curled around them both, but then he blinks.
"Hey." Benny stops next to him. Also stares at the image. "Angel doing his dreamwalk thing again?"
"I can't tell." Cas doesn't respond to much regardless. Sam can only hope that he's scrolling through his mental library, because they barely tried the books. There's hardly anything known of souls, much less what to do when they get freaking torn. "Hey, is that Dean's phone?"
"Yeah." The vampire is tapping away at the numbers. Sam isn't sure how he knows Dean's lock code, but then he's hitting the camera.
"What are you doing?" Sam asks, slightly alarmed.
Click.
Cas must be in Dean's dream, because he doesn't respond. Or maybe he can't be bothered to care.
"For Dean, the next time he thinks that the angel is looking for a chance to up and leave him. And the next time he fixes to go do something stupid, because this is what the rest of us are left with."
Yeah.
To be fair, leaving the house when angry isn't entirely a stupid decision, but maybe he should have listened for— the sounds of battle first.
Sam should be out with Garth, Amelia, Don and Mrs. Tran looking for survivors, trying to help people. Saving people.
Sam should be reading with Kevin.
But he can't really find it in him to care.
Don's seen carnage before; Sam should care how he's handling it. Amelia, doctoring people instead of animals. A person, an animal; stitches are stitches, help is help, and Sam's just freaking useless.
He'll get over it, it's only been a day. Soon he'll have the energy to march out to the nearest crossroads, or something. Even though he knows that he won't and he can't and everyone in this house will kill him if he tries. But he'll hate himself if he doesn't.
Castiel straights up slightly. Touches Dean's face for a moment before settling in a different position. He looks up at Sam and Benny.
"How is he?" Sam asks.
"I left him on a beach," the angel says. "He was happy."
He can't resist. "How long until—"
"The nightmares catch up?"
Nod.
Castiel shakes his head. "I don't know. I'll— I'll check later, I suppose."
And because he has to say it: "You don't have to do that, Cas."
The look he gets is one of a timeless being who's freaking exhausted. There aren't age lines on his face, and yet it's so evident— a little like Inanna, perhaps. "No," Castiel says. "No, it's the least I can do. I couldn't—"
Couldn't save him, couldn't stop him from leaving the house. Didn't hold on tight enough, delay him by a few extra minutes. Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda, and Sam doesn't understand everything that's going on between them but Christ.
Castiel lifts Dean's head slightly, presses a cup of water to his lips.
Sam closes his eyes.
He's exhausted, but there's enough sleeping being done in this house.
"Sam." Benny joins him on the porch, holds out a beer.
Sam takes it. "Yeah?"
"Look." Benny sits down on the porch steps, rubs one hand across his face. He seems to be bracing himself, and Sam knows what he's about to hear. Knows, and he doesn't want to hear this. Doesn't want to even think— "Look. Sam. I know— look." A deep breath. "You know Dean's like a brother to me," he says. "I've— we've— been through a lot together. Not as much as you an' him, but I—" he stops again. "I know him well enough to know that— I don' think he'd want to live like this, Sam."
"No." Sam shakes his head once. They'd all been thinking it, he knows they've all been thinking it. "It's only been four days."
"And it's gettin' worse. Castiel is gone longer'n longer, fighting Dean's pers'nal demons, and—"
They both take long drinks.
The sky is clear.
It's too clear. It should be raining, it should be dark. Everything should be miserable because Dean might not wake up.
And Sam voices what he's been thinking, over and over. "It's just Hell in his own head." Pause. "But—" Anyway. "Cas wouldn't let us get near him."
Benny smiles a little bit. Glances over his shoulder, where an angel is still watching over their brother. "They won't give up on each other," Benny says. "Christ. Took us a coupl'a months to find him, in Purg'tory, and he never stopped. I told him, I told him that the angel's prob'ly dead, prob'ly gotten out, can take care'a himself, should leave here withou' him because we had our chance."
That's Dean.
Selling his soul even when nobody is buying.
And this shouldn't be on the list of things troubling him, but hell. "When— right before Dean left." Swallow. "He and Cas, were, um."
"I think the modern term is 'sucking face.'"
Somewhat accurate. And Dean was awake then, full of emotion and running and talking and he has to wake up. "Yeah. Did you— did you know?" (And it's not that he's grossed out— weirded out, maybe, because his jokes about Dean's repressed homosexuality had always been jokes and even though he'd wondered, he'd never expected Dean to work it out himself, and since when has sleeping with things that aren't human ever, ever ended well? Because Cas has done a lot of good, but he's also done a lot of bad, and Dean had had enough trouble last time even acknowledging the bad and then spending months drinking himself to sleep. And Sam doesn't hold grudges, exactly, he'd told Cas he was forgiven and he is, but that doesn't mean he wants him sleeping with his brother. Is afraid of having Dean broken again.)
(Then again, it's probably too late for that.)
Benny's laugh is one that comes before crying. He doesn't cry, though. "I saw them in Utah," he says. "And then I figured something went down when Inanna made us all horndogs. But I don't know if it'd been a constant thing since then or not. Haven't seen 'em, anyway."
Sam closes his eyes. "I can't," he says, and he doesn't need to give Benny any more context. "He'd never give up on me or Cas or you, we can't give up on him."
"I just—" pause. "Now that we know Heaven's real, I'd like to make sure, if— if it's inevitable, that he gets there. What happens when your soul—"
It's a strange thing, death, when you know that the consciousness of the person is still out there somewhere. In heaven, in Hell, in Purgatory— fuck, Dean has been to every afterlife possible, and hated all of them. So where's the comfort there? Where does that leave them?
"A few more days." Sam's voice cracks, and he has to stop a moment to collect himself. "Let's give him a few more days. Cas— Cas will think of something. We'll find something."
Benny nods. Then throws his empty bottle off the porch.
It shatters on the sidewalk.
Sam wonders what it looks like. A bottle flying out of nowhere. But nobody saw. They're hidden, alone, secret. A small sanctuary while the world around them burns.
"Loki and Ereshkigal have joined forces," he says. "They're forming, like, a Team Evil, or something."
"Damn." Pause. "Think we should warn Inanna?"
Are they on her side now? They don't owe her anything but a lot of trouble. "I don't think she'll take kindly to me seeing what all the gods are up to in my sleep. Don't think any of 'em will."
"Yeah," Benny says, "they'd probably just kill you."
It's the next evening that things change.
Sam comes into the living room to find Cas removing Dean's shirt, and he tries not to be sick at the lifeless flop of arms.
"What are you doing?" he asks. Tries to work up some indignation, but he's too busy at the sight of Dean lolling around like a rag doll.
"Sam, could you please get me a Sharpie?"
The request sounds odd, coming from the mouth of an angel.
Sam gets him a sharpie.
"What's this for?" he demands, even as he offers it.
Castiel is bent over Dean's chest, and starts to draw. They're symbols that Sam doesn't recognize, but they're so careful, so precise. Dabbing over each line, to make it clear, wide, black, perfect. Maybe Enochian.
"Dean's soul is torn," he says. "Torn, but there are no parts missing."
Okay.
"Okay."
"So I'm going to attempt to mend it."
Oh.
That seems logical. They haven't thought of this before, and Sam is, in some disconnected way, surprised about this. After all, it would be logical, wouldn't it? Except, "How do you give a soul stitches?"
Pause. There's just the quiet sound of sharpie against skin.
"I'm going to bind it together with Grace," Castiel says, as though this were obvious.
And Sam's heart soars— knewitkknewit Cas won't let him die— but he still has to ask, because he knows that Dean will be furious if Cas hurts himself waking him up. He knows, he doesn't much care because Dean, but he figures he owes it to his brother. One thing on a long list.
"How?"
He gets a quiet sigh. "This has never been tried before," he says. "But— this thing I am drawing, it will call the Grace to him. It's instructions, if you will, for what it's to do when it enters. Instructions being to mend his soul."
"And you got this from—" (Because he wants to believe it, God does he want to believe it.)
"I've been going over the proper words in my mind for the last day."
And that's probably not a good sign, because it means that this is so very very careful, and precise, and there are many opportunities for error. Sam grimaces.
"What's that going to do to you?"
Castiel shrugs. "You can give blood," he says. "It's no different."
And Sam doesn't know if he's lying or not, but it's good enough for him. Castiel's face is blank as he draws. There's nothing but concentration there. Carefully works around Dean's tattoos.
There are people in the room with them— Benny and Amelia and Mrs. Tran, he thinks, from the shoes and the way they're breathing,
"Do you need me to do anything?"
There's a brief silence. Sam wonders why the world isn't celebrating, and maybe he should go get Benny or Garth or someone, but whatever. Castiel hesitates a moment before carefully unbuttoning his shirt. Everything is so calm, here, so quiet, so careful, like one stray breath will mess everything up. There should at least be music.
"I need you to cut a line from here—" he gestures to one spot, up high in the center of his chest, "—to here."
And god this is so precise, and Sam's hands are shaking as he takes the angel sword offered to him. It's a line between his ribs, right where that hollow space is when you miss someone, when you love someone, when it really hurts, and Sam wonders if that's the reason that it's this, this particular line. But that's okay. Sam has cut thin lines before, he can do it. He can do this. He can do this.
If only his hand would stop shaking.
And then someone else's hands are on his. "Let me," Amelia says quietly. She gently tugs the sword out of his grip, and then turns to the angel. "How deep?"
"Deep," Castiel says. "You'll be able to see the grace."
Zachariah's glowing eyes flash in Sam's mind, and— "Won't that kill you?"
A shrug. "Probably not. For— for an angel to die, the sword usually has to pierce their grace completely. Go all the way through," he says, when Sam still looks confused.
"Oh."
God, he's not even doing the cutting anymore and— he lifts a hand. God. Breathe. He can breathe.
Amelia's hands are perfectly steady as she touches the tip of the blade to Castiel's borrowed chest. "Here?"
"Higher."
"Here?"
"Yes."
"Okay." She nods, swallows. "Tell me when to stop."
Castiel doesn't react as she carefully presses the blade forward. Until there's a soft, muted light around the edges. And then she pulls down.
The line of light— of Grace— leaks out. Like it did with— with all the other angels that Sam has seen die. But instead of spreading out, every which way, it's being pulled down, down, to where the symbols on Dean's chest are starting to faintly glow.
Sam forgets to breathe for a minute.
"Stop."
Amelia pulls the knife out, and Cas waits a few more moments before pressing his hand over the wound. But it's like when Sam used to put his hand on top of the flashlight, or in his mouth, laughing at the glow. It keeps coming. His pain is only visible in his tensed muscles, tight jaw.
And it's the image of Dean waking up to find his angel dead that Sam starts panicking. "Casti— Cas what do you— what should we—"
Amelia turns to look at him then, and he stops. Scoots back a little to give them space. And then Amelia, Christ, Amelia, is swatting Cas's hand out of the way. Presses the wound together and extends a hand. "Don," she says.
Don comes forward, and Sam doesn't know when he came in, but he's holding Amelia's emergency med kit.
"Human stitches won't hold," Castiel says. There's no emotion in his voice, but Sam can see the flicker of worry in his eyes.
"I soaked the thread in holy water," Amelia says, sticking the end of the needle in her mouth as she threads it with one hand. "And then waxed it. It should hold."
And Sam can't help but being impressed, and maybe Cas is a little impressed too.
"How did you know to do that?" Sam asks.
Amelia's face is now almost level with Cas's chest, as she careful slips the needle under skin. "Entire new range of medical lore," she says. "There's some interesting stuff in those books. Including the properties of holy water." Her voice is slow, measured too. Like Castiel is one of her dogs and cats that she is so good at soothing— or maybe it's Sam that she's trying to calm. Either way, her voice is as steady as the flash of silver going in and out of Castiel's skin.
The symbols on Dean's chest are practically white now, awash in light.
Dean moves.
Everybody stops but Amelia. All eyes staring at him as he shifts slightly.
"—Mmy? —As?"
Castiel's hand twitches, like he has to remind himself to stay still. The light isn't coming out anymore, but Sam isn't looking.
"Dean," he says, touching his brother for the first time in days. "Dean, can you hear me?"
Dean moves a little more, but then his head lulls to one side. But maybe it's healing, maybe it's getting better, and he didn't expect him to just get up and walk off— except maybe he did, a little but Dean can't always be as awesome as his little brother.
"Just a couple more," Amelia says.
"Thank you."
She just nods when she pulls back. Dabs at it with what Sam hopes is tap water, and not from Benny's special Aquafina barrels that they'd roll home from Costco. And Castiel is peering down at his chest like he's not quite sure why he isn't bleeding out yet.
Amelia flattens an adhesive bandage across the wound, then sits back. "There," she says.
"Thank you," Castiel says again.
He moves over carefully. Touches Dean's hand.
"—As?"
"Dean," Cas says, but it's barely over a whisper. But Dean just does that squirming thing again. Still doesn't wake up.
"Is he dreaming?" Sam asks.
Cas's hand traces over Dean's forehead. "I don't have the— I'll have to wait a little, before I'm able to check." Pause. "Hopefully he'll wake on his own before then."
Dean rolls over onto his side, with what sounds suspiciously like a snort.
Artemis is sitting across from a man. They're in a coffee shop— Starbucks, according to the logo on their Styrofoam cups.
The man has golden hair and a smile like dawn. But he isn't smiling now.
They're arguing.
He hides his face in his hand. "You— you stole Enlil's mace? You've been-"
She sits.
"No," he's saying. "No, no. Why would you tell me this? How can— you cannot do this."
"I can. I don't think I have a choice anymore." She shakes her head. "Their plan— Zeus and Enlil— I cannot stand behind that. And everything is already falling apart."
"This is our family." His voice shakes. "It's breaking— that's all the more reason you should stay."
"I cannot," she says again. Reaches out, covers his hand with her own. "Come with me." It's almost a whisper. "Please. We can stand together like we should, we can help protect the world."
The man snorts. "Since when are you so keen on humanity?"
"I walk among them. More than the rest. But I— Inanna showed me the Mes. What they plan. What they say and do behind closed doors and no I'm not talking about the fucking… There isn't space in their New World, not for people, not for us—"
"We're his children. He's our father."
He's crying now. His tears turn to birds as they hit the floor.
"Come with me," she begs again. "I've forgiven you so much, Apollo. I forgave you for Daphne, for the death of Orion. I stood with you against Hermes, in the Trojan war— in everything have I followed you. Please. Trust me this time."
He takes a deep breath. "You're my flesh," he says horsely. "My twin. My other half." Swallow. "You know I cannot."
There are tears in her voice, one last, one final— "Please."
Apollo shakes his head, eyes hardening into rock. "Zeus was wrong. Inanna did seduce you." He clings to her hand. "I'll forget. I'll forget we had this conversation— you can—"
Shaking, she pulls away. "You know I cannot."
He looks down. There's nothing for a moment but the sad song of the birds.
"Go. Go," he says finally. "I'll have to tell them. I'll— I'll give you one hour."
She nods once in thanks. Stands. Leans over the table and presses her lips against his forehead, hair swinging forward to cover their faces. When she pulls back, a moth sits in his hair.
"Sister," Apollo says. "Do not make them kill you."
She stands for a moment.
He opens his eyes.
"Go."
She turns and runs. Grabs a silver bicycle that's leaning against the door, and kicks off. Pedals a few feet before jerking the handlebars back and rolling into the air.
The front wheel glows silver in the night sky.
High above the ground, perched atop the moon, Artemis closes her eyes and screams.
And below, in the Starbucks, Apollo reaches up and takes the moth from his hair.
He stares at it for a moment. It's so small in his hand— wings fluttering, antenna curling, preparing to fly.
He crushes it in his fist, and his scream echoes his twin's.
Sam wakes up with tears on his face. But everything is quiet now. Nothing like the voices that had been echoing in his head.
He looks to the window, watching for a few minutes as the moon slowly rises into the sky. Can't help feeling sorry for both of them.
Cas is sitting in the living room, but he doesn't react as Sam goes into the kitchen. Scribbles on a piece of paper.
Apollo found out that Artemis joined Inanna.
Apollo is sad.
Don't wake me up.
When he goes back to bed, he's secretly hoping that he'll dream.
The ground is brown and grey, but Dean knows where he's going, because there's a trail. Black lines, curling slightly, are scorched into the earth.
Wings, he realizes after a few minutes. Angel's wings.
And the thought terrifies him, and he's running faster, but the wings, they're so huge, he doesn't know where they end. But he knows he has to get there. Knows he has to see if Cas is okay and the wings are getting wider so he must be near their center, they have to get wider before they get narrower again, he remembers Zachariah's, and so he runs faster and faster and they're getting darker and darker and there, there, up ahead is the body. Lying still between the two great wings, and Dean can't see the face, but he's covered in a tan trench coat—
He wakes up screaming.
Although later he'll tell Sam that it was more of a manly yell.
It takes a moment for the view to come in focus— the bottom legs of the couch, and everything tastes like cotton and his head has been stuffed with something. And he feels like he's just run a marathon, run a long way, even though from the stiffness he's probably been lying like this for a while—
"Sammy?" he croaks, straining to sit. "Cas?"
Then there are hands next to him, on his arm, his shoulder. "Dean." That's Sam. That's Sam. "Dean, are you okay?"
His neck feels like he's breaking as he turns it. And then there's Cas, a couple feet away. His hand is on Dean's shoulder, but when Dean looks at him, he pulls back. Glances at Dean once before disappearing. Goes before Dean can ask him to stay. And he isn't quite sure why, but he's still dizzy, and his dreams are coming back to him with far more clarity than dreams generally do.
"Ugh."
"What do you want?" Sam's hands are fluttering around. "Water? Food? What—"
"Sleep," Dean says, trying to open his eyes. He's freaking exhausted, which seems like not a good thing, because of how much time seems to have passed. He lies back down anyway.
"No—" Sam is still doing his worried routine. "Sit up, just for a second—"
"I did," he says. "I want to go back to sleep."
He does.
The next time he wakes up, it's just Cas with him. The windows are dark.
"Is there anything you need?" Cas asks slowly.
"People keep asking me that." He presses his thumbs against his eyes. "Ugh."
Cas doesn't say anything after that, and then he disappears. And Dean knows that he's only flitting about the house, that he can't leave, that he's probably just upstairs or even in the damn kitchen, but going after him would feel like more effort that he has the ability to give. Hell, he doesn't even know if he can stand.
He's also not quite sure why he's shirtless and has things sharpied all over his chest.
But he's awake now, and he doesn't seem like he's about to go unconscious again, and he'd really like to ask Cas what the hell is going on, but if Cas can't stick around then—
Fuck it.
"Cas?" he says quietly. "Cas, can you hear me?"
No response.
"I'm pretty sure you can, since we're in the same house, and I could just yell, but I don't want to wake everyone up so—"
And there's the flutter of wings. Dean looks over. "Hey."
Cas dips his chin.
"So." Pause. "I thought that Ammit tore up my soul." Then again— "If you were actually in my dreams? Was that—" because yeah he's pretty sure he's not supposed to know every single thing that happened in his dreams, days of sensation and images and colors. They're supposed to blur after you wake up.
"I was there."
Oh. So, well then. (Being on top of Cas, the sounds, the freaking sounds that Cas makes, and just walking through fantastic colors listening to stories, because he's never heard Cas talk that much before, Cas on top of him—)
"Ah."
More silence.
"So how'd you wake me up?"
Cas explains briefly, and Dean isn't sure if he should be annoyed at the martyrdom again. But Cas is appearing and disappearing like normal and so— and so maybe that's okay?
"So I got a graceful soul now?" He rubs his chest, as though he could actually feel it.
He gets a smile. "It shouldn't make any difference."
"So it's not like, um." Dean hesitates. "Sam's demon blood? Because if a few drops of that could—" give him freaky visions and make him a demon blood junkie. Cas knows.
"It's not like Sam's demon blood. It's not in your body, it's in your soul."
He's not entirely comforted with that, but it's Cas and he'll take it. So he relaxes some against the couch.
"You should eat," Cas says. He's nothing more than a shadow in the dark. "You've been living off liquids for days."
Yeah. Dean doesn't want to know who fed him. Doesn't want to think about being that pathetic ever again. Fuck.
"'M not hungry," he says. And then he knows, without a doubt, that Cas is about to leave again. Just go upstairs, to the kitchen, whatever, but— He puts on a smirk. "So do I smell or something?"
Actually, he probably does. He hasn't had a shower since before everything.
Cas tilts his head a full forty five degrees to the side. "Not any more than you should." Pause. "You should probably take a bath, when you can."
"You didn't give me a sponge bath?" Dean turns his smirk up even higher. "I'm hurt."
"Why are you asking me this?"
Because you don't want to be around me, he thinks, but he doesn't know how to say that so he just shrugs.
"Dean."
He can't talk about this. He can't ask for what he wants, and anyway, it never ends well. He wants Cas to move closer. Wants to just sit next to him— and that's not cuddling, it's just proximity, and he doesn't know how to ask so he just waves a hand. "Just seem to rather be other places is all. I mean, I just thought—" Yeah no he can't do this. He's not going to be that pathetic, so he just sort of waves a hand. "Forget it. I'm going back to sleep."
He can't breathe in this house.
He'd been simmering before he'd gotten his freaking soul torn up, and now— maybe the graceage is giving him more energy. Or maybe everyone is treating him like an invalid and just making the problem that much more annoying. He doesn't even know what. Just that he's going to go insane.
There isn't even any beer left.
Which wouldn't be a problem if the town hadn't been destroyed, leaving an alcohol-soaked foundation. Christ, everything's gone, but this house, because the magic on it was powerful enough that it somehow didn't exist. They should have covered the whole town, should have protect everyone, should have known that it'd be Dresden here, shoulda shoulda shoulda.
The only thing he can do is go and sit on the porch, without anything to bubble up his insides. He'd been planning to sit on Benny's cot, but it's already taken by one Amelia Richardson, who is also holding what must have been the last beer.
He sighs.
Then he nods at her, and she nods back, while he goes and sit as far away from her as possible while still remaining in the safety of their protective freaking force field— maybe just stand out there with a giant target on his chest saying COME AND GET ME, so that he'll have something to shoot— but that'd be disrespectful to Cas and Sammy, what with them having just fixed his soul and all.
Well, Cas having just fixed his soul. And then actively avoiding him. The fuck.
Anyway, he's pretty sure Sam would beat the crap out of him if he went out alone, and while he's angling for a fight, he's not that desperate yet. But it's only a matter of time.
He hunkers down a little, doing his version of Sam's brooding and pensive shoulders.
"Hey, Dean?" Amelia asks.
He grunts to show that he's heard.
"If you—" and then she stops. And this sounds serious. Do I look like Dr. Phil to you?
A little bit.
Christ, he misses Bobby.
"Yeah?"
"Sorry." She goes quiet. Good. She can take her problems and her Moments to someone else. Someone like Sam or Don, who are both in love with her and probably stressing her the hell out and it's not like Mrs. Tran— aw, hell. Dean grew a uterus around the time he gave Cas his trench coat back, so he turns around. Slides down the porch so that they're within talking distance.
"What's up?"
She sloshes down some beer, and Dean definitely isn't jealous.
"If you had to choose between Sam and Cas—"
Silence.
"What?" he manages, hands twitching around a phantom bottle. His own voice coming back to him—Hell with them, Cas. You don't mean it. Don't I?
She sighs, and passes him the beer. He considers being worried about germs, but he's literally looking at the remains of the world, so he takes a drink anyway.
Yep, there are the bubbly insides.
"I think I'd die," he tells her. Because angels protect tablets and he protects Sam. But the thought makes him feel sick. "Why?"
"But if you could only see one of them, for the rest of your life—"
"Would the other be happy?"
"I don't know."
Dean takes another drink before giving it back. This is sick. Sick. Like those would-you-rathers Lindsey Mora had liked playing in the eighth grade—Would you rather be blind or deaf? and Dean had never admitted how much both those possibilities terrified him. How both would get him killed.
"Is this about your love triangle?"
She snorts. "Makes me feel shallow. But yeah."
Dean isn't sure what he wants to say. What he can say. "It's different, though," he manages. "What you said about Sam and Cas. That's— different. I mean, I'm not screwing Sam. Or Cas." The porch's ugly green paint comes off easily under his fingernails, and he picks at it until he gets the bottle back. There isn't much left, so he does the gentlemanly thing and takes only a small bit. "I'm not in— It's a different kind of— attachment." Yeah, wordsmith, he is not.
"I love Don," Amelia says quietly. She's not looking at Dean, or even the destruction around them. But somewhere far off, where he doesn't think he can see. "Don is family. He's— I'd die for him."
"But you're in—love with Sam."
He gets half a laugh. "Ever have your heart walking around outside your body?" Pause. "God, that sounded stupid, but—"
Yeah. Dean knows the feel. This time, he drains the rest of the bottle. Can't have your cake and eat it too. "I know."
There's a loud thud from inside the house, and he's half on his feet with his hand on his knife when Garth pops up in the window, swearing about a hole in the rug.
How Garth made it this long is slightly beyond him. But he's a good guy. If there's one thing Dean's learned from fucking living with him for over a month, it's that.
They need to get out of here.
Jesus Christ.
Dean's almost happy he got knocked out so fast, because he isn't sure he could have dealt with seeing everything here fall to pieces. The smoldering remains of houses, some that are gone all but the foundation. And the bodies, Jesus Christ, some of them are freaking kids and he doesn't know what the news is listing it as, doesn't know what the explanation is, because everywhere are there people fallen, everywhere there are— civilians, freaking civilians, and they didn't even— god— Dean sinks to his knees in front of a burned out car.
It's okay. It's okay. He's seen worse than this. Carthage. That town with the Jefferson Starships. Hell. Hell was definitely worse.
"You can go back inside," Sam says. "You don't have to—"
But of course he has to. Has to remind himself that no matter what she's done for them, Inanna is not their ally, that there are no good sides in this fight. That while they clash and fight and fuck and scheme— god, the only thing left of this man is a Pink Floyd Laser Show t-shirt.
Dean rubs his forehead.
He's not going to vomit.
He's not going to vomit.
He's certainly not going to cry. Not in this decimated town with the sky painted blue and the roads and buildings painted black. Not here where all lives that were better, people that were— probably weren't innocent, probably cheated and lied and did shitty things like the rest of them but it's a melted face, distorted with pain that stares up at him.
"Were there any survivors?" he asks, dreading the answer. His voice is dangerously close to cracking. "Any?"
Nobody says anything.
Castiel is standing in the ruins, perfectly still. Like a monument, like one of those white crosses on the roadside. And Dean had asked Dad about them when he was little, thought it meant something about keeping away demons, but it was just a normal, stupid human death. Death they can't stop because they can't try. He should take a photograph: Angel watches over Fallen. But it's a little too late for the angel's presence to do any good, isn't it.
Surround him, roving around, are shadowy women. Reaching down, holding glowing souls in their hands. The Valkyries, Cas had said earlier. Cradling the souls in their hands and carrying them to Valhalla. Or whatever. Reapers that everyone could see, death that Dean could talk to although they wouldn't talk back. Just continue walking, collecting things with slender, ghostly fingers.
Dean closes his eyes.
It's all too bright.
Then he opens them again. "How come there aren't any— anyone?" he asks Sam. "Shouldn't there be newsies and search and rescue and people blaming the government?"
Sam shrugs. "There were," he says. "At first. But it's been declared unsafe." And his voice is far too— calm, and he's had more time to process, and Dean's bracing for the you can't save everyone but it doesn't come.
He isn't sure if he's grateful or not.
After all, the last few weeks, he's saved— well, there were a couple ghosts and demons and shit.
But it doesn't feel like he's saved anyone.
Just another apocalypse.
He was right, that day Bobby died the first time.
The world really does want to end.
Dean looks up again, at Cas surrounded by the ruins.
He wonders if it already has.
"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure."
He spins around, to see an impossibly cheekboned figure sitting in an impossibly preserved chair eating an impossible sandwich.
Cas, Sam and Benny are at Dean's side in a moment. And he can't help but be grateful.
Even though he knows that they can't win a fight against Death. But then, Death has never been too interested in trying.
An unsettling thought occurs to him. "Are we dead?"
Death glances at the Valkyries. "Them? Nah. They're not mine, but as long as someone's doing the job, I'm okay with it. Someday, I'll come for them and their masters."
Dean's lips twitch, and he and Sam exchange a smirk. Death rolls his eyes, and takes another bite of sandwich.
"So…" Sam frowns. "What do you want from us?"
"The pleasure of your company, of course. Hello, angel." He dips his head at Cas. "Learned a valuable lesson, have we?"
Cas doesn't respond— just continues staring the Horseman down— Dean grins a little. He has to.
"And who else— ah. Vampire. Should I teach you a valuable lesson about life and death? That seems to be all I'm good for these days."
Benny takes half a step back, before reconsidering and moving up again. "Nah. I know I'm not gettin' out of Purg'tory next time I croak."
"Quite right." Death finishes his sandwich and licks the mustard off his fingers, before learning forward onto his elbows. Making a platform with his hands on which to rest his head, as he continues staring at them with unblinking eyes. "Now," he says. "Despite your incessant stupidity, I have come to a decision."
Sam grits his teeth. And yeah, Death did do them a solid, but— actually, now that Dean thinks about it, Death is the only one that's come through for them every time. That's kind of ridiculous. And sadly ironic.
"Oh?" Sam says.
"That tablet that young Kevin is playing with. It is not the one you want." Death reaches into his bag, and pulls out— a six-inch sub. Okay then. Dean's starting to get hungry. It's been far too long since he's had fast food, and that's basically on the bottom of his food pyramid. "I believe you know to which I am referring, Castiel."
The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and everybody is dead. Cas frowns. "I do not."
"Oh, it's in there. Waaaay deep in your wiring. The angel tablet. It would be in your best interests to find it." He takes an impossibly large bite, chews, wipes his face with an impossible napkin. "Yours, and mine."
Dean narrows his eyes. "Why yours?"
But Death is standing up now, walking back towards where his car has just appeared. "I'll be here long after these pagans," he says. "I've been here longer than anyone. But what I do not want is to have to spend the next millennium cleaning up their mess. With the Mes, they write a new plan, and that one is quite a headache. I'd like to avoid it. Goodday."
He departs, with a reasonable amount of style, and leaves the four staring at each other in disbelief.
"What the hell," Benny says, "was that about?"
Dean turns to Cas. "An angel tablet?"
Cas looks at them, and then up at the sky, as though the horseman is up there skywriting a more detailed explanation in the clouds. "We.. Angels, we protect these tablets. It's in our very nature. Wiring, like Death said. I suppose— that somewhere in our— unconscious— is knowledge of all the ones in existence. I knew not of the angel one until… perhaps I should go to heaven, and—"
"They probably won't be happy if they know you know," Sam points out, glancing at Dean as though he's some sort of IED. Actually, Dean has seem Sam diffuse IEDs, one time with his hand literally tied behind his back. This is something more dramatic. (It's not like Dean is going to go apeshit over Castiel leaving again. He learned his lesson last time, thanks.) "Maybe we should, um… try and find this tablet, see what's on it?"
"Wait." Benny raises a hand. "Someone want to tell me… why we're going to go after somethin' because Death told us about it?"
"How the hell are we going to find it, anyway? All the ones we have sort of fell into our laps." Sam grimaces. "We don't have anywhere near the resources that Crowley and Dick had."
"I believe—" Cas considers for a moment. "I think that if the knowledge is buried somewhere in my head, perhaps the location is too. How else are we to protect them?"
"Right," Dean says. And then twitches, as one of the Valkyries passes close by him. She doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't exist for her. "Right, but what are we going to have to do to you to get to Heaven's Top Secrets? That sounds like serious shit, Cas."
"I don't know."
"Right."
The angel still isn't looking at him.
Dean stares for another moment at the carcasses around them. "Let's go," he says shortly, and turns and stalks back towards the house.
At least now there's sort of a mission.
He steps over the body of a toddler.
