Title: Renegade Atlas
Rating: M
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: through seasons 4 and 5, tiny tiny parts of 6; it's mostly canon
Warnings: insane!Dean, violence, gore, language, torture, thoughts of self-harm/suicide, explicit Hell!sex, angst like whoa, sex, bloodplay, knifeplay, dubcon and probably a giant bastardization of angel lore
AN: So this is easily the most fucked up chapter so far I think? I mean, you might not think so, but it feels that way to me. Ugh. Seriously, read the warnings, because there's a lot of heavy shit about to go down.

In the meantime, I hit 50K with this! Yay! :D Second longest thing I've ever written. Also, completely self-edited because I am a lazy fucker and I just finished this about ten minutes ago. Please, please, please let me know if you see any mistakes, because I would really like to fix them. In the mean time, soldier on!

Dean does not live to meet expectations, thanks. He's allergic to "the plan" and he does not intend to follow Zachariah's orders anytime soon, and this whole sent to the future thing only shows him that he has to get Sam back, not any of the other crap Zachariah wants him to learn. It's obvious, and he's kind of surprised Zachariah missed how easily this could turn Dean back to Sam.

Point is, he's not gonna back down—not for anything, not even if this dickhead angel tries to teach him just one more lesson or a hundred. Lucifer's right. Dean's not gonna kill Sam, he won't say yes to Michael, and he is going to spend the rest of his life hunting the devil if it kills him. And if it breaks the angel at his side and ends in Dean's death, well, Sam's still breathing. He might be the devil, but he's still breathing. Sacrificing everything, Cas included, absolutely aches, but he knows it's the truth.

He knows, too, that he could spend a hundred years in Zachariah's little classrooms if that's what Zachariah wanted, and Dean would spend the time wearing down. Last time that happened, when creatures beyond him tried to break him down, Dean fell. He doesn't want to be the weak, pathetic animal that breaks at the slightest pressure against his mind, but he lost himself in just thirty years once, and it will happen again if he's put in that position.

As Zachariah advances, Dean steels himself. He knows torture better than this angel, knows what to expect and how to make his mind float off into the distance where there is nothing but emptiness. He can handle it, if just for a little while.

What he doesn't expect is Castiel.

Never, not once in his life, has Dean ever expected Castiel. The way it happens is one minute, Dean is staring down Zachariah and hoping that someone will save him, and then he is watching the open road and Castiel is behind him. Dean never even realized he was praying for a real angel.

"That's pretty nice timing, Cas," he says, and it feels like he's on the edge of something tall and deep and heart wrenching.

Castiel, he says, "We had an appointment."

And it's just like that.

Whatever Sam says about him, Dean isn't completely emotionally unavailable. He tries to play it off a lot of the time, it's true, because that's the way he was raised and those lessons never left him, but Dean doesn't practice internal denial nearly as much as he does externally. It still happens a lot, but he's smart enough to know that when his heart thuds once, skips, and crashes back into time, he's not as he was before. He became something else in that moment.

"Don't ever change," Dean says instead of the new truth, because inside he's choking on emotion.

Cas' gaze is soft. "How did Zachariah find you?"

And that's probably the question of the hour, Dean thinks. "Long story," he says. "Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on, okay?" He pulls out his phone and thumbs down to Sam's contact number. It's clear, what he has to do, because Zachariah has put it all in stark perspective.

"What are you doing?" Cas asks quietly.

One corner of Dean's mouth curls up, and he says, "Something I should have done in the first place."

He hits talk and listens to it ring, acutely aware of Castiel standing at his side and watching his every move. It rings and rings, and Dean resigns himself to just leaving a message when it cuts off.

"Dean?"

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says, blowing out a breath of air and turning so his back is to Cas.

"What's up?"

"If you still want back in," Dean says slowly, "I—I'll be—"

"Of course I still want back in," Sam interrupts, voice jumping. "I never should have left, Dean, I never should have agreed."

"Yeah," Dean says, and the lump crawling up his throat is embarrassing.

"Just tell me where and when, man," Sam says, and he sounds so painfully grateful that Dean wants to kill himself for ever suggesting they part ways. They never work well without each other. The time between getting Sam from Stanford and leaving his dad to start hunting on his own is still one of the worst memories of Dean's life, and even Hell knew and used that to its advantage.

Dean spills out a place without thinking, says when he gets there he'll wait for Sam to show up, and Sam thanks him a million times.

"Don't sweat it, Sammy," Dean says, nodding to himself. "We're gonna stop these sons of bitches if it's the last thing we do."

"Yeah," Sam says fervently, and Dean can just see his wide, hopeful eyes. God, he hopes Sam never becomes what Dean saw back there in the garden, because there is too much promise in a world that is never destroyed by angels.

Dean hangs up, snapping his phone shut and clutching it tightly in his fist.

"Do you know what Zachariah showed me?" he asks Cas after a long silence, voice pulling roughly from his throat.

"No, Dean."

"He sent me to the future. 2014, five years from now, and he showed me what life was gonna be like then." Dean shakes his head. "It wasn't Earth anymore. Sam, he—he said yes, and I never did. Lucifer destroyed the world because of it. The people, they were all gone, Cas. The only thing left was—was nothing."

Cas touches Dean's elbow hesitantly. "What did you see, Dean?" His voice is the gentlest Dean has ever heard it. He tries to swallow, but he can't make his throat work.

"We were in a refugee camp. You—you lost your grace, you were just a human, and you lost it, man. You were poppin' pills and sleeping with all the women, and I didn't care about anything. I sent you to your death, and you trusted me. You trusted that me and you died." Dean shakes his head helplessly. "They all trusted me, and I killed them all."

"It's not you, Dean," Cas says. "It's one possible future, and it's not going to happen here."

"Yeah, that's—that's why I called Sam," Dean whispers as Cas' fingers curl around his arm. "Because in their world, we never joined back up again. The devil was in Detroit and Sam said yes to him there, and we never saw each other again, not when we were both still human." Dean snorts and stuffs his hands in his pockets, but Castiel doesn't let go.

They've been wrong before. It used to be such a good idea to kill Lilith, when it sounded like the only chance at salvation they had, but it became their downfall. They've never been able to work around Chuck's visions, never done anything that wasn't carved into stone millions of years ago, and Dean doesn't know which way is right. Maybe this time is different and Sam only says yes because he and Dean ended back up in the same car again , or maybe Dean has to kick him out again because it's all too much.

We will always end up here.

If fate is so insistent, why tell him there's another way? Why does Dean have to deal with the knowing, the waiting for Sam to turn around one day and become the devil?

"Dean," Cas says softly, and the sound of flapping wings surrounds them. Dean opens his eyes to the inside of some hotel room, a nice one, with unstained carpets and a bathroom that doesn't come with six different kinds of mold on the tiles.

"Shit, Cas, I can't afford this," Dean says, but Cas ignores him.

"No one will attempt to enter this room," he says, marching Dean over to the couch and pushing him down. "No one will know you're here."

"Stop, Cas, what the hell?" Dean says, shaking the hands off and trying to stand back up. Cas just glares at him and holds him there with a hand on his shoulder. "Dude, I need to get on the road, I gotta meet Sam. You can't just keep me here."

"I can take you to Sam tomorrow," Cas says. "But from what I understand about humans, after they go through traumatizing experiences, they require rest and recuperation, and you won't find that in the car, Dean."

"I'm fine, Cas," Dean says, but it's weak. He's exhausted, body and soul, and he's hungry as hell and possibly a little dehydrated.

"I'll be back soon," Castiel says instead.

"What? No, you son of a—dammit, Cas!"

Dean stares around the empty hotel room, at a loss, and when he tries the door, it's locked from the inside. He throws the refrigerator open next—also not moldy, how pleasant—and there's food in there. Mostly vegetables and crap like that, but Dean's stomach is growling and his head feels weird, so he tosses together a sandwich and calls it good. At least there's meat.

Cas turns up after an hour of Dean staring at the wall across the table. His plate sits empty and forgotten, but he isn't hungry anymore.

"Dean?" Cas asks carefully.

"Yeah?"

"I brought pie."

Dean looks up. Cas is standing there with a thin paper plate in his hands, apple pie still steaming on top with ice cream and caramel melting everywhere. It smells like cinnamon and nutmeg.

"I'm not hungry," Dean says, looking away and fighting the edge of nausea.

Castiel sets the plate down uncertainly. "I don't...understand," he says, frustrated. "You haven't explained to me what happened and I don't—"

"Haven't explained?" Dean says, shocked. "My brother said yes to the devil, Cas, what the hell more do you want to know?"

"He hasn't said yes yet," Cas says, and Dean wants to wrap his hands around Cas' neck and squeeze him until he listens, because that doesn't matter. Because fate and destiny have always been jerking them around, like a dog on a choke chain, and there's absolutely no reason for that to suddenly change now.

"You don't get it," Dean finally says through his teeth. "You weren't there; you didn't see what I turned into, or Sam, or what you turned into, Cas. You don't—"

Cas snarls and grabs Dean by the wrist, hauling him up from the table. "Don't presume to tell me what I don't know, Dean Winchester, because you are a boy with no knowledge of my life. Are you under the impression that I don't know what it's like to have your family leave you? Do you not understand that I hate what I've turned into?" He throws Dean back onto the couch, and Dean sees red.

"This isn't about you, Cas!" he shouts. "This is about the whole fucking world, not your daddy issues. Fuck!"

"You're right," Castiel says, and his voice is low and on the edge of uncontrolled. "This isn't about me, but that doesn't make it about you. You don't get to be sad when the world is sitting on your shoulders about to end and you know how to stop it."

"I don't—" Dean says, but Cas plows on.

"Do you know what I had, Dean? I had unlimited power, unlimited knowledge, the sky at my fingertips, and I gave it up. I can't hear my brothers anymore, and my head feels empty all the time," Cas says, his eyes blazing the fire that sets Dean's mind on edge. "And here I am, empty and wrong. Do you know what that feels like, Dean? Can you understand that?"

Dean sets his jaw and looks away.

"You're right," Cas says, quieter. "You don't know. And you can never know. But remember that Lucifer is as much my brother as Sam is yours, and I understand what it is like to lose a brother to the darkness. I have lost many, and you only have one."

God, he always makes Dean feel like shit. He doesn't even have to do much, just tell Dean what's actually going on with him, and Dean fucking snaps because he can't handle the guilt. It's not a contest, and he knows that, because it doesn't matter who's in worse pain or who's lost more family. Still, Dean has to fight it—he has to, he was born and raised a fighter. If he can't kill something, he burns it, and if he can't burn it, it's probably Sam.

He can kill anything; he can burn the rest. Sam fits outside all of those categories, and Cas is even more of an outsider because Dean didn't grow up with a predetermined space for Castiel. He's something utterly different, and even Sam can't make Dean feel remorse like Cas can.

"We can do this, Dean," Cas says, and he pulls Dean up from the couch. "But we have to do it together. We all have to do it together."

There's something so hypnotizing about Castiel and Dean just falls into him. Their lips meet like waves meeting the shoreline, crashing into completion, and Dean doesn't know what he's doing anymore as he thinks about wrenching his body away and just falls into Cas' arms instead.

Cas matches all his aggression with patience, turning Dean and pressing him against a wall so he can control it. His hands rest gently on Dean's hips, thumbs moving in soothing circles just under his shirt and jacket, and his tongue soothes over Dean's bottom lip after his teeth nip harshly at it.

He kisses Dean, holding him and sending something moving deep in Dean's chest. It's that same damn feeling as before, the one where Dean is about to hurtle off a cliff. He pretends he's doesn't understand it, he ignores it, and he lets himself be kissed. Because Dean may have started this, but he is in no way in charge of it, and he's much more accepting of that than he probably should be.

It ends naturally, with Dean's heart racing and his lips bitten-red, and he realizes that his hand is fisted in Castiel's messy tie. Cas doesn't move away, and he stays, staring with his eyes flicking all over Dean's face.

Dean licks his lip and tells himself he imagined Castiel's gaze tracking the movement, and he says, "That...shouldn't have happened."

"Of course," Castiel says stiffly, and Dean thinks maybe he should stop instigating things with Cas when it upsets him so much. They have to do this together, he said, and Dean shouldn't mess with the weird equilibrium they've cultivated between them.

Smoothing out the lapels of Cas' coat, Dean pushes him gently away . He goes easily enough, taking careful, measured steps until he is on the other side of the room.

"You should sleep," Cas says, looking at the bed. "I will take you to Sam tomorrow."

"Thanks, Cas," Dean says.

Sometimes he feels like he missed something important.

Castiel's wings are so large and pretty. They stretch out so far when Dean's chains pull them apart, feathers flaring and muscles straining to keep from breaking the delicate, hollow bones inside them, and they're so black they shimmer like oil. Dean rakes his fingers through the feathers along the top bone and grins at Castiel's little whimper. So beautiful.

"You're so perfect for me like this, baby," Dean says, tracing Castiel's lips with his finger. He tips the tip inside and sighs, humming a song to himself. "God. So warm."

Cas wrenches his head away and his whole body strains against the chains. Dean made them himself, though; they're built to hold angels in, and he wouldn't waste his time on something that didn't work in the end.

Dean drags his nails across Castiel's stomach, hard enough that the skin turns red and raised after he's done, and he follows each line carefully with his tongue.

"Has anyone ever told you that your hips are like knives?" Dean asks, scraping his teeth over the jut of bone just below Cas' pelvis. Castiel shivers beneath him. "I really, really like knives," Dean says breathlessly, scrambling for his cart.

His favorite one is on top, the wood-hilted, shining gold blade winking up at him. Dean keeps it sharp because it slices skin with the barest pressure that way, and he likes to leave tiny, razor thin cuts everywhere on the bodies. It doesn't bleed much, true, but it's gorgeous anyway.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean pants as he touches the knife to Cas' hip. "Wanna see those pretty bones."

The flesh peels back under Dean's careful attentions, thin and tight, and Dean was right. He's pretty right down to the bone, even bloodied and pink.

Dean carefully licks the blood away so he can get a good eye on the real color of the thing, and Castiel's breath hitches underneath him. He licks his lips when he looks up, bottom half of his face red, and Cas stares at him with wide, terrified eyes. His pupils are blown and he's bitten right through his lip in terror.

"Shh, babe, it's okay," Dean murmurs, his hand trailing up Cas' chest as he leans in to kiss him. Castiel bites at his tongue and Dean hisses into his mouth, wrapping a hand around his throat and tightening his fingers until Castiel gives it up to him. "Such a pretty neck, too," he says. "Might have to open that up too, look inside it. We'll do that later, though; I still wanna hear you scream for it. "

The taste of blood lingers in Dean's mouth, and he slowly looks back down Castiel's body, savoring the stains he left on it. Slowly, he moves down, and then—

"God, you're fucking filthy," Dean says triumphantly, grabbing Castiel's hair and yanking his head up. "You're getting off on this, look. Your dick's all hard for me. You like it when I use my knives on you; you like it when I show you your insides."

"No," Castiel spits, deep and guttural, but the proof is a lot further down than his mouth.

"I think," Dean says, hand sliding down to wrap around Castiel's cock, "yes."

Cas' reaction is immediate—his whole body arches upwards, wings flinching against their bonds, and Dean's grin goes so wide he feels like his face could split in half. That might be fun. "Stop," he says, but there's no resolve in his voice anymore.

"Fuck," Dean says. He fumbles for his knife, accidentally gouging a cut in Cas' collarbone, but it just makes his dick twitch. "Damn, baby, sweetheart, fuck, you love it when I hurt you, don't you? Do you want me to slick you up with your own blood and ride you, babe? Would you like that?"

Cas just moans, strangled sounding. Dean carves into his skin and he gets an idea, the knife swerving almost of its own accord as he sends it a little too deep.

"Dean Winchester," he reads when he's done, satisfaction curling low in his stomach to mingle with desire. "Do you like being marked? It's like I own you."

Snarling in Dean's general direction, Castiel turns his head as far away from Dean as he can get it.

"Rude," Dean comments, flicking at Cas' collar again until he gets a good look at the bone. "Do you treat all the boys like this, all the ones who want to sit on your dick? Or is it just me? Am I special, Cas?"

Dean reaches down to touch himself as Cas groans, ashamed. His cheeks are colored with two high, bright spots of red, and Dean appreciates a man with bloody stubble. Makes 'em look like the real deal, like a man who could actually take Dean apart with their hands.

It's funny 'cause Dean's the one who takes them apart.

The scene shimmers, and suddenly there's a wide table under Castiel's back, something for Dean to brace his feet against as he swings up to straddle Cas' thighs. Cas grunts as Dean's weight settles on him.

"Mm, baby," Dean says, burying his nose in Cas' neck. He smells like fear and sweat, something Dean could lose himself in for hours, but he has goals right now, things to do. "Gonna need some blood from you, get me all opened up." Castiel gasps, tries to cover it up with a cough, and it's bullshit Dean can see straight through. "It's okay to get turned on like this," Dean whispers lecherously.

"Get off me," Cas snaps.

"Get you off? Can do, old buddy, old pal, but first I wanna see you bleed."

Dean draws his knife down the center of Cas' chest, deep enough to scour against his breastbone. Blood goes everywhere, and Dean slicks up his fingers excitedly as the smell of it claws into his nose. Motherfucker.

He starts with two fingers, hardly bothering to stretch himself as he shoves a third in barely a minute later. Cas' eyes keep flicking over to Dean's hand like he wants to watch but can't rationalize it with himself, but that's alright with Dean. He likes his fucks half-unwilling and half-enthralled, because they're unpredictable that way.

"Alright, sweetheart, let's do this," Dean says gleefully, smearing Cas' cock with blood and holding it under himself. Castiel goes back to struggling almost like he forgot he was supposed to be protesting, but that's what makes it better.

Dean's ass burns as he sinks down, too much, too fast, too little preparation, and it's perfect, oh, God, is it perfect, even as Cas says, "No, no, no," on repeat as he bucks his hips up into Dean's ass. Dean stabs the knife into Cas' lung to try and shut him up because he's ruining Dean's high, but all that does is make him protest louder. If he'd only just scream.

"You like this, right?" Dean asks, and he laughs when Cas says no. "Liar, liar, pants on fire, babe, don't think I can't see straight through you. God, you should feel the way your dick feels in my ass like this—hurts so good, you don't even know. You really just don't know."

His orgasm creeps up on him entirely too fast, in Dean's opinion, and he puts his hands back on Cas' neck, using it for leverage to fuck himself on Castiel's dick. He clenches his ass in time with his thrusts, and soon Castiel is coming inside him, a hot, wet rush that leaves Dean lightheaded.

He jerks his own cock until he comes, all over Castiel's chest as his come mixes with blood.

"Taste this, 's so good," Dean says breathlessly, pressing some of it into Castiel's mouth. Cas' face is blissed out, half-asleep, and he licks lazily at Dean's fingers for a moment before he comes back to himself and snaps with his teeth.

Laughing, Dean pulls back, says, "Baby, you can't lie to me like you can lie to yourself.

Dean wakes up to sticky sheets and a bucket of denial so large he thinks he might actually drown in it.

Three weeks, three hunts, and Dean is feeling normal and productive, almost like that night never happened. He's ignoring a lot of things about that general time, honestly, but it's almost easy to think it was all just some strange, strange hallucination that happened without Sam at his side. Sam keeps him sane, keeps him human, and it makes sense that Dean would lose that innate sense without him. Nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing at all.

Cas doesn't call and Dean doesn't care. He's too busy ganking some real monsters, the kind he's supposed to be after, and Castiel is off searching for God. It's all well and ordinary, perfectly in tune with Dean's usual M.O.

He doesn't dream about the feeling of Castiel's hipbones under his tongue again, but he hasn't gone to sleep sober in a while, either.

Yay, well, that was fun. Um. Let me know what you think? :D