School and work got me hostage right now. The good news though is that school is over in just a few weeks, so once it's out, I'm going to focus all attention into finishing this. Thank you guys for all your patience.
"Dean," Sam says his name slowly, like he's spelling it out. His voice is calm, he's bent down and his hands are always visible, with palms facing outwards. "Dean, give it to me."
"Fat chance." Dean clutches the blade to his chest. The blood is warm and sticky. It's the most important ingredient. He can find everything else now; the one ingredient he had been most worried about is now laying calmly in his hands, pulsing under his fingertips.
"Boy," Bobby says. Unlike Sam's he's leering over Dean, arms crossed, lips curled over his teeth, "you better listen to your brother. Give it up before you hurt yourself."
"The only thing I'm gonna hurt is an oversized dick with wings."
"How?" Sam says. "You buried that thing in his heart, Dean, and he didn't even blink. We've been over this, we can't kill him. And since we're not on his radar, let's stay off. I really don't want to deal with another pissed off archangel."
"But we can kill him!" Dean flashes the blade to Sam, the blood shining with the sunlight that hits it. "'If it bleeds, we can kill it'! We just need to find the right weapon, Sammy. And now that we have this, we can make it!"
"Boy, you've finally gone off the deep end, ain't ya?"
"Cas told us how to make an angel blade, Bobby. We can make an angel blade and it'll be an archangel blade and we can kill him!"
"How in God's name are you gonna make an angel blade, Dean?" Bobby asks.
"Not in God's name," Dean says, his lips spilling with the bitterness of his soul. He damned whatever deadbeat, sadistic God would let this any of this happen. "Cas told us how to make it; we got the blood, now we need silver."
"And where are you gonna find silver? None of us are exactly rollin' in dough."
"I'll figure it out."
"You're not stealing anything," Sam says. "Besides, Cas also said he had to 'incorporate the element of air'. How do you plan on doing that? You're terrified of flying."
"I'll figure that out when I get to it. One step at a time, Sam."
"Listen to yourself, Dean."
"I am listening to myself! And what I'm hearing is that I'm the only one even trying to avenge—"
"Stop right there, Dean," Sam snaps. "Don't you dare insinuate that I don't care that Cas is dead. He was my friend, Dean!"
"You sure have a shitty way of showing it."
"Because I'm not drowning myself in alcohol? Because I don't spend every waking moment focused on revenge and anger, I don't care that Cas is dead? How dare you. How….how dare you! Cas saved our asses, because of him we left that place with our lives; excuse me for trying to do something with mine."
"Sam," Bobby says, his voice low and wary.
"And you know what, Dean? I didn't get my revenge. You killed Yellow Eyes. That should've been my kill and you know it. So fuck you."
"Sam," Bobby's voice lowers even further; he puts a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam yanks out of Bobby's grip.
"You want to kill yourself? Fine. But don't make me watch."
"The only thing I'm going to kill is an archangel! See Sam, you're not listening to me!"
"Oh my god," Sam says and rubs his face. He looks to Bobby. "I can't do this. Not…not right now."
Sam leaves Bobby's house with a slamming door behind him. Dean just sighs and holds the blade even tighter to his chest. Bobby makes a motion to try and grab at it again, but then he stops and groans.
"You know what, Dean?" Bobby says. "I'm done. Do whatever the hell you want."
He knows he's dreaming. He can tell by how heavy the air hangs.
And then of course, there's the silhouette of Cas sitting on the edge of the bed, back turned towards him. But he looks different; he's not wearing his coat, Dean notices, which is stupid, because of course Cas isn't wearing his coat; Dean has it.
Dean used to dream of Hell; he used to dream of the fire and chains and whips and he'd wake in panic, covered in sweat and Cas would be sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at him in his Castiel-way, somber, confused and depressed. Then Cas started to take them away, replace them with something pleasant and walk around in them. Dean used to yell at Cas for that—he didn't want Cas in his head- and Cas eventually stopped, but though he'd never admit it, Dean began to miss it almost immediately.
Maybe, Dean foolishly let's himself think, maybe Cas is doing it again. Maybe these last two years, these horrible horrible years, were only a dream and Cas is taking them away again.
And the Cas sitting on his bed has that same expression and Dean's heart is taken in a vice because…this is the dream. He held Cas as he died. Dean witnessed his death. And the reminder of what he had…of what Castiel used to do for him…
But his heart wants, it wants so badly that Dean can't help himself even though he knows it's a bad idea. He reaches out and puts a hand on Dream Cas's shoulder.
"Lay down with me," his voice is a harsh whisper, worn down with alcohol and cigarettes. He coaxes Dream Cas backwards and then they're laying down, facing each other, Dream Cas staring at him in that all too familiar way, Dean's fingers curled in his hair; his eyes burn.
"I miss you," he says. His stomach curls inwards, his heart is in his throat and the air around him is polluted. But Cas is here, even if it really isn't him. His presence, his aura…it almost transcends the boundary of life and death. Dean wants to fall into Dream Cas's warmth. He buries himself in Dream Cas's chest, and he feels Dream Cas's chin come to rest down on his head.
"I'm really sorry," Dean mumbles, "I know I'm taking a long time, buddy, but I'm getting there. Raphael's going to die and I'm going to kill him. You're watching me, ain't ya? You know I'm trying."
Dean's fingers curl in the fabric of Dream Cas's shirt.
"Sam doesn't think it'll work. But he's a bitch, what does he know? He won't even try. He thinks I'm tarnishing your memory or some bullshit like that by even trying. You know that girlfriend of his, that Azazel killed? Jess? I only met her the one time, but I could tell he was in love with her and when she died, all he did was bitch about avenging her; but when I try to do it, suddenly, it's wrong. The difference between him and me though is that Sam's just talk. I'll actually do what I say I'm gonna do. He thinks he's so smart, Mr. Full Ride, Mr. College, Mr. Perfect Score on my LSATs, but really he's a moron; he doesn't understand that I have to do this.
"You understand, don't you?"
Dream Cas's breath is warm on the back of Dean's neck. It feels nice, but Dean forces himself out of the Cas cocoon to look in his eyes. "Say something? I miss talking with you. I, I really miss you."
A smile tugs at the corners of Cas's lips, and Dean doesn't know why, but everything about it is wrong.
"Is this," a sound that is not Cas's voice drawls from Cas's lips, "what you imagine you and him would've been?"
Dean's sitting up and on the opposite side of the bed in a second. Anger is all he knows. "You're a bigger bastard than I thought."
"I told you," Raphael sits up, but he's still wearing Cas's image and his voice from Cas's face is wrong, "that he was incapable of loving you. He saw the mountains grow; he saw the birth of species and their extinction. He was slaying demons before he spoke his first words. Do you really think he would've put up with your trivial needs for affection?"
"He loved me." It doesn't matter what anyone ever says; Dean knows the truth.
I am hunted, I rebelled, and I did it, all of it—for you.
No, nothing anyone, not even the biggest dick with wings says will ever convince Dean otherwise.
Raphael blinked at him through Cas's eyes. "You have no idea how you tormented him." A hand reaches out, the back of the palm rests softly on Dean's cheek. "But I know. I held his thoughts in my hand. Dean Winchester, can you comprehend eternity? I sincerely doubt it. Have you any idea how old Castiel was when he first met you?"
Raphael sweeps Dean with a single swoop of Cas's eyes. "How much longer do you think you have to live? Were you a normal human, I would say forty years. But you are not a normal, healthy human, you are a hunter. Through my eyes, hunters do not live for very long, it is such a violent, bloody existence. Look at your mother and father for proof. Let's be generous, though, and assume you would live for another twenty years. Twenty more years you would've spent with him. Twenty years to a being who lived for tens of thousands, you would give him twenty and then you would die—a premature, bloody, violent death- and where would that have left Castiel? Alone and Fallen, where he would remain for eternity. Unable to return to Heaven, but having nothing left for him on Earth. Your mortality was his true nemesis and you never even noticed. What a pity, that he stood to Lucifer and Michael, spat in the face of Zachariah and myself, only for his unstoppable enemy to finally reveal itself. And, behold! It is you; you that he gave up even Heaven for, was the enemy that was too much."
Raphael frowns, then, and wears that Castiel pout. "I have pondered the idea that he allowed himself to be killed because he could not bear the thought of you dying first."
That does it for Dean. He lunges at Raphael. Raphael moves and Dean topples to the floor and even though it's a dream it hurts. He looks back over his shoulder. Raphael is standing by him, glaring down.
"Get out of my head," Dean growls. "Get out!"
He remembers something Cas said, when they first met. Angels needed consent.
"I do not give consent," he says, the words drawing blood from his lips, "I don't want you here-get out of my head!"
"How queer," Raphael says, cocking his head. "It is like a memory. Perhaps you and Castiel were in love, you two are so very much alike in many ways."
The implication of those words force Dean to gnash his teeth together to keep from crying out. How dare he, how dare he! He lunges for Raphael again and then—
And then he's awake, gasping for breath, hands clamped tightly on the sweat soaked sheets. The room is empty, except for him. He can hear Bobby snoring through the wall behind him; he can hear Sam's fingers clacking against his keyboard underneath him. Dean looks to the bedside clock and it's only two in the morning, but he doesn't think he'll be able to fall back asleep even if he wanted to.
He needs to kill something, he has to kill something; if he doesn't, he'll go mad. He gets out of bed and follows the sound Sam leaves. Sam looks up at him and—when did Sam start to look so old?
"That a hunt?" Dean says, pointing towards Sam's computer. They're not going to talk about this afternoon, Dean knows. That's fine with him. He doesn't want to talk about it, he wants to do something, but he can't kill Raphael until he finishes the archangel blade and he can't do that until he has all the supplies, but he needs to kill something now.
"Maybe," Sam says, rubbing at his face. The blue glow of his computer screen reflects in his eyes. "Uh, this farmer in Helena, Montana got about half his herd stolen and the police found a couple of the dead bodies exsanguinated with the tongue and eyes cut out. You know goat blood, that's some heavy black magic, so I'm thinking witch, maybe? Either that, or a couple of sick kids out to reenact Carrie."
"Let's go to Montana, then," Dean said. South Dakota to Montana? They were practically next door, it would only take a few hours. If they left now, they could be there by noon.
"We can't just leave, Dean. What about Bobby?"
"We'll leave a note," Dean says as he shucks on his jacket.
"What's with you?"
"Nothing," Dean says. He rolls his shoulders. "Just fucking hate witches. Better take her out before she finishes whatever it is she needs all that goat blood for. You said yourself, that's some nasty shit."
"Yeah. But, still. It can wait till morning."
"If Dad were alive to hear that…"
"But he's not. Dad's dead, Dean. You don't…we," Sam corrected, "don't have to live in his shadow anymore."
Maybe Sam didn't, but Dean was past the point of escape from his father's ghost, from Cas's ghost; it was a constant lingering in the back of his skull. Usually it was asleep, but it didn't take much to jar it awake and for the words and reminder to jump through.
Save people.
Hunt monsters.
Take care of Sammy.
If he wasn't doing at least one of those things at any given moment, his Dad would've had his ass. Sam just didn't understand; he and Dad fought all the goddamn time, but his Dad had loved Sam, had been proud of Sam and bragged to anybody who would listen about his son, Sam. He never bragged about Dean to anyone.
And even years after his death, after taking out Yellow Eyes, after stopping the Apocalypse, Dean still couldn't convince himself that his Dad would be proud of him. So he had to keep trying.
"We don't know what's going on," Dean says, "so we might not be able to afford a couple of hours."
If he doesn't kill something….
"Bobby's a big boy," he continues, "he won't go crazy over a Dear Bobby letter. C'mon, Sam, we're wasting daylight here, let's go."