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, angst, angst, and more angst
AN: I must confess that this is a day late because some of the stuff in here hit a little too close to some personal issues of mine and it was a bit harder to get out onto paper. The editing job I did on it is also probably shoddy, so kindly let me know if there are any glaring errors. I tried my best but it's hardest to see the errors in your own work when you've been over it so many times already.
I want to say thank you so much to all my readers, reviewers, etc.; you guys are amazingly great. I've received some truly inspiring messages from you guys, and every little bit means so much to me. So thank you.
Update11/20/12: What does this website have against double dashes? Double dashes are nice; they don't keep the words all squished together when you mean to use them as a break in a sentence. Fixed them to the normal long hyphens!
You son of a bitch, Castiel thinks. I believed in you. I believed in you, you son of a bitch, I believed in you.
So losing faith, it feels like this, then. Castiel thought he had been there when Lucifer rose and it turned out God had done nothing to stop it—had encouraged it, even, with His plans that had been in place for thousands of years.
Now Castiel knows there's a stark, sharp difference between a lack of faith in a Father that hadn't answered his calls yet and a Father who refuses ever to answer his calls. The first is like obdormition of a limb and then the release in letting the blood flow again, but the second is a pressure that never lets up, until the pins and needles never go away and they grow and grow and grow. They grow until the only option is amputation because that limb is dead and it's only dead weight now, so the only thing left to do is cut it out of your life entirely.
That's what losing faith is like. He feels lighter, freer, but not necessarily better. Castiel lost something that he's never going to be able to get back, and it's no more a blessing than it is a curse.
He leaves the Winchesters in their hotel room with the worthless amulet because he doesn't want them to see him like this. For some reason, they still believe in him—they still look at him and see all this strength and grace, even though he's fucked up everything with Dean and is a powerless shell of the creature he once was. Castiel doesn't understand. He doesn't understand why God would leave them all alone, he doesn't understand why he cares more about these useless humans than he does his only family, and he doesn't understand why Dean fucking Winchester doesn't believe Castiel when he says he loves him.
So much for being an all-knowing angel.
He flies until he reaches some unknown point in America. If he cared to know, Castiel could probably come up with the exact geographical location, past names, and important events in the history of this place, but for once, he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to be an angel or a warrior. He just wants to be Cas, the man who played a role in starting the Apocalypse and regrets it with everything he has in him, and now the only idea he had to stop it has become dust in the wind.
Even the things he says now are just parodies of phrases he's heard Dean use before, little nods to things Castiel doesn't have a hope of understanding. He's not human enough, not angelic enough—he's just a mistake in creation, really. All the angels who have fallen before him have embraced humanity like Anna or stayed powerful and absolute as Gabriel did. They have not found themselves caught in the middle as Castiel has.
God, he's so alone. Castiel is alone and God does not give a single fuck that his youngest son is reduced to simply praying for salvation because he's not strong enough for this anymore.
Really, the only question left at this point is what he's supposed to do. Unbidden, a thought comes to his mind—what would Dean do? Get drunk, probably. Drink his problems away until he couldn't feel them anymore and then fall asleep. Castiel's watched it happen enough to times to be able to picture it in his head.
He's an angel. He can't get drunk, and that's terribly unfortunate considering the circumstances. Castiel would like to get drunk, actually—he would like to get lost in sin and debauchery, even if only just for one night where he didn't have to deal with clarity.
Still, he turns to face the old liquor store behind him. The lights are on, a red and blue open sign flickering sadly in the grimy window. Castiel doesn't have to look inside it to know that the place is a horrible excuse for a business, considering how much deceit and law breaking it indulges in.
Castiel thinks about it. He could go in there, take liquor, and use his grace to make the cashier forget he was ever there. He could do that so easily—it would hardly subtract from the little grace he has, and it would be much easier to see if he can get drunk if he actually has alcohol.
Dean would do it. Never in his life would Dean pass up a chance to get at free alcohol, regardless of if he was going to get drunk off it. But Castiel isn't Dean, and he can't base every decision he makes off what Dean might do in his place, all because Castiel is in some sort of sick, sinful love with him. It would be wrong, but not any more wrong than rebelling against Heaven and plotting to destroy Lucifer so the Apocalypse cannot go on as planned.
He doesn't mean to start walking towards the liquor store, but the reminder of everything he's done to get here makes his feet start moving before Castiel fully realizes why he's doing it.
Funny how that works. He's become so used to this body and this lifestyle that Castiel can't even control simple things like walking anymore. Pathetic. Even Balthazar would be ashamed of him.
When he gets inside, there's an old man working at the counter, smoking a cigarette and coughing without a care in the world. Castiel can see the cancer growing in his lungs as the man coughs loudly and wetly, and he feels nothing but a surge of cross anger that he would willingly choose the path to disease while fully knowing the possible consequences he was inviting. Humans are stupid that way.
A second man is browsing the aisles, beer and another bottle already in hand as he searches for something else. Castiel stands in the doorway, observing, and neither of them even bother to look up at him.
Castiel starts at the aisle closest to him. There are bottles of every shape and size lined up, and he doesn't know anything about any of them. He hasn't seen Dean drink any of this before, and it hits Castiel then how completely out of his element he is here. He likes to think he has some sort of experience with humanity now, but he doesn't know the difference between a bottle of brandy and a bottle of whiskey without Dean here to explain it to him.
Beer isn't strong, he remembers, so it's probably best not to bother with that. He's going to have a hard enough time getting drunk as it is without simply imbibing drinks with low alcohol content.
The other customer finally grunts loudly in triumph as he discovers his last bottle, and brings his purchase up to the register and letting it clink loudly down on the counter. Castiel watches the old man heave a put upon sigh, typing the items into an old cash register and generally glaring at everything for disturbing his smoke.
"That'll be $21.95," the old man says in a bored, spiteful tone, and Castiel has to remind himself that he's not here to interfere and strike the fear of God into any humans today.
"Yeah?" the customer says, reaching into his coat to pay, and when his hand comes back out, it's with a handgun. "Because I think you should be paying me."
Castiel does roll his eyes then, because it's so pathetic to see the way the man's hand shakes with the gun, even though his fingers are tight and sure on the trigger. He isn't above shooting anybody, which is a pain in the ass, but the old man doesn't seem to get that.
"Whatever, kid, put it away," he says, scoffing and tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette into an ashtray. "You gotta pay for your shit."
Poking the gun closer, the man—John Martin, Castiel sees suddenly inside his head, aged twenty-five years with no living family and an apartment he's about to be kicked out of for forgetting to pay his rent—snarls, "Give me the money, old man, or I'll get you out of the way and take it myself."
Castiel flies instead of walking, just enough so he's right behind the man—practically a boy, really, he's still so young. The trigger gets pulled just at that moment, sinking a bullet into the man's shoulder and making him howl as he stumbles backward into the wall, sliding down it slowly.
"That was highly unnecessary," Castiel says, and the man jumps around, startled. Castiel hadn't considered the possibility that he had been invisible when he entered the store, but it wouldn't be the most terrible thing that's happened to him today.
"Hey, man, I'll shoot you, too," the boy says, "unless you back the fuck off, right fucking now."
"I'm giving you a chance to leave," Castiel replies mildly. "I suggest you take it."
"What, you think I'm just gonna pussyfoot out of this now?" he shouts, backing around the counter until he can get into the cash register. "Fuck off, man."
"I am not your man," Castiel says from right next to the boy's elbow. John starts, swinging the gun around and shooting Castiel in the chest.
It doesn't affect him at all, which is more of a relief than Castiel expected. Being cut off from Heaven has been hard on him, and it's nice to know he's still so completely unaffected by human weapons. Castiel simply sighs as John shoots him again, right through the heart this time. He's a decent shot—far more experienced than Castiel would have originally guessed.
"What the—what the hell?" John says, and he shoots again, point blank through Castiel's forehead, and, really, that's just rude. "What the fuck, who the—who the fuck are you?"
Castiel recognizes an opening when he sees it, and he takes a minute to shake his wings out as the lights explode into sparks all around the liquor store. His sword slides into his hand almost as an afterthought, and with a giddy feeling, he realizes how great it feels to be an angel like this again.
"I am Castiel," he says, powerless to stop the manic grin spreading across his face. "And I am an Angel of the Lord." There's thunder, then lightning, and Castiel knows his wings are spreading out as far as they can, silhouetted against the dingy walls of the liquor store.
"There's no..." John says weakly, stumbling back and catching himself with a hand on the counter as his gun clatters to the floor. Castiel watches it fall contemplatively, wondering if now is as good a time as any to start using guns.
John suddenly begins to scramble backward, his alcohol and money forgotten. Castiel holds up his sword and spins it between his fingers—he's only putting on a show at this point. He has no reason to kill this boy, but he's not going to let a chance like this go, not when he can still contribute to the world by scaring the shit out of some useless kid.
He watches John all the way out the door, their eyes locked together because John can't look help but stare at Castiel in terrified fascination. This is right, Castiel thinks. This is what humans are supposed to look like when they look upon the glory of an Angel of the Lord.
Only. Castiel isn't exactly an Angel of the Lord anymore, is he?
No, he muses as John finally falls over himself to get out of the parking lot and away from him. He's an angel, of course, but he's hardly affiliated with his Father or Heaven anymore, and that destroys his high of power faster than any bullet ever could.
Castiel turns his gaze to the man on the floor. He's wheezing for breath, staring up at Castiel as if he's seen a ghost, and Castiel takes pity on him, touching the old man's forehead and sending him straight to a hospital nearby.
That leaves just Castiel, alone in the dark of night in the middle of a liquor store, and the idea of getting drunk just became a whole lot more feasible.
He passes a hand over his forehead. Already healed. Castiel, the angel who isn't an angel, and at least his skin isn't still broken and bleeding. That would probably be more obnoxious than anything else, because it would be difficult to show his face around humans with a bullet wound on his face like a glaring mark of otherness.
Castiel starts drinking out of a blue bottle without stopping to check what it is. It burns his throat on the way down, and he wants more of that feeling immediately.
Turns out angels can get drunk, given enough alcohol and time, and it's obvious why this feeling appeals so much to Dean. It's morning by the time Castiel's mind is thoroughly scrambled—he can't think straight, forget feeling emotions—and the sun rises without anyone coming to the store. Humans are terribly unobservant like that.
He drinks a lot after that night.
Dean hates the way Cas looks when he's drunk, glassy-eyed and too blissed out for an uptight Angel of the Lord. Slap some different clothes on him and take away the otherworldly glint in his eyes and Dean would be looking at Cas the druggie from 2014, about to indulge in an orgy because he doesn't have anything better to do with his life anymore.
He almost doesn't want to give Cas any painkillers when the hangover kicks in, as if he could somehow punish Cas with pain for getting so smashed, but Dean knows by experience that never works.
It feels like Dean's already enabling Cas' drug habit just by tossing him the bottle, but they have work to do. They have a whore to kill and a town to save from Hell, and that's not going to happen any time soon so long as their biggest weapon is down for the count.
Besides, he gets it. God knows Dean drank for years because his dad was more concerned with the hunt than he was with his sons. It's not his place to judge Cas, not at all, especially because he knows how much it can help just to not feel anything for the brief amount of time between getting roaring drunk and passing out face first on the floor. The only difference is that it's about a million times more unsettling to see it happen to angel, even one who's fallen and rebelled as much as Cas has.
"Yeah, I've been there," Dean says, feeling awkward as he tries to offer his comfort. "I'm a big expert on deadbeat dads. So…yeah, I get it. I know how you feel."
Cas' face is carefully blank, shaking his head almost imperceptibly as he says, "How do you manage it?" Dean imagines all the things he could say.
You drink.
You hope that one day he starts caring.
You drink when he never comes back.
You wonder if it was your fault.
You think about what you could have done to make him love you.
You wish you could have kept your baby brother safe.
You don't manage it. You don't get over it. It sits in you for the rest of your life, and you can't ever make yourself feel better, because that's your dad that hates you, not just a stranger you never have to see again. Your dad doesn't care about you anymore and it doesn't matter how hard you try to make him care about you. He never will.
Instead, he says, "On a good day, you get to kill a whore."
And that's the goddamn truth.
Cas laughs, rough and under his breath as he opens the bottle of Aspirin. "When are we leaving, O Fearless Leader?" he says, sarcastic and scathing as he tosses a handful of pills back.
"Don't call me that," Dean hisses, heart moving double time as he can't help but see that human version of Castiel instead of the real one. "I'm not—you can't. Don't."
"Fine, then, I won't," Castiel says, rolling his eyes.
"I mean, Cas," Dean says, walking slowly to the bench where Cas sits, sinking down next to him. "You know this isn't you, right? With the drinking and the painkillers and—you can't go all drugged-up Jimmy Hendrix on me again."
"Is that what you're labeling me as?" Cas says, his gaze piercing when he turns to look at Dean. "Obviously I'm completely wrong to do this, considering the only humans I've ever seen deal with losing their father have done exactly the same thing. Pardon me for trying to emulate."
"What happened to thinking we can stop this?" Dean says. He's grasping at straws now, the world breaking under him.
Cas snorts, head hanging forward until his forehead touches the top of the Aspirin bottle clutched in his hands. "What would you have me do, Dean?" he asks bitterly. "I rebelled so we could stop this, but I don't have a single fucking idea left right now."
"Then we keep going, right?" Dean says. His hands are shaking almost as much as his voice. Cas is the rock; Cas is the angel; he cannot give up because he is the only thing keeping Dean going right now. "We find another way—we figure out another plan. We have to. We can't just let Michael and Lucifer have at it."
"I know," Castiel says, raising his head to look at Dean. "I know, Dean."
Dean doesn't say it aloud, but he thinks, What are we going to do? He takes one last sideways look at Cas, sees the way he's staring aimlessly into the night like it might have answers for him.
Dean knows it's hopeless. He knows what he has to do.
He takes off in the Impala the minute he can get away from Sam for more than two seconds. It's obvious that Sam isn't letting him out of his sight—he knows what it means that Dean killed the Whore, and he's not about to let it happen.
It isn't Sam's choice, though. He's not the one who's going to have to live with the consequences of this for eternity. Either Sam says yes or he doesn't, but Dean's going to be the one trapped in his own body while Michael rides him like a pony to the end of time. This is Dean; this is his choice, and he wants to get on the road one last real time. God knows he'll never see it again like this. Cars and roads and slow travel—it's all human and Earthly and not worth an archangel's time, and Dean just wants to see it one more time. He doesn't think that's a lot to ask.
This is it. This is life; this is Dean Winchester's last day on Earth, so he's going to visit a single mom and her kid because he's a masochistic asshole.
Sometimes Dean thinks about Lisa late at night, on the days he's not too drunk to form a coherent thought, and he wonders what life with her would be. It'd be normal, for one. Dean would have a steady job, maybe as a mechanic or something else where he could work with his hands, and a steady income, and a kid he picked up from school at 2:30 p.m. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, because normal people have schedules. They don't stay up for hours on end staking out houses to make sure a werewolf isn't going to turn up and eat the heart out of a five year old.
Then at night, Dean would sleep in the same bed as Lisa. Sleeping together, but not necessarily having sex, because normal people in normal relationships don't need to have sex all the time to be together. They'd wake up to an alarm clock—the same sound every morning, not dependent on the whim of whichever motel they were staying at—and have breakfast in the kitchen.
It doesn't sound horrible. Actually, it sounds pretty damn great, but it's not for Dean. Yeah, Lisa is Dean's better life. She's the benchmark for standard, normal living—a nice suburban house with a sweet kid and a lawn that needs mowing most every week. She represents a normal life, sure, but she's not—she isn't going to make Dean happy, not for real. He doesn't love her the way she deserves.
It hurts and it's painful to say, but Dean's never going to love her. He's wrecked, broken by someone else in his life that shouldn't mean as much to Dean as he does, and it's all Cas' goddamn fault in the first place for raising him from Hell and refusing to believe Dean isn't good enough.
He isn't good enough and whether Cas likes it or not, he is never going to be good enough. Dean has let too many innocent people die; he has tortured too many innocent people, and he has a taste for blood that never entirely went away after Hell. Fucked up and broken, that is just the way Dean Winchester rolls, and at least he's got a nice enough car that he does it in style.
Battle Creek isn't far from Blue Earth. He doesn't have to stop more than once, and that's just to take a leak and grab a meal out of a vending machine. Less than twelve hours on the road, and he feels like Hell, but it's daytime and Lisa looks beautiful as ever.
Even when he kisses her, Dean knows she's nothing more than a dream.
God, she's lovely and wonderful and everything that he could ever want in a wife and a family. But she isn't someone he would sacrifice himself for—she doesn't light him on fire from the inside out or have a brand on his soul that feels like pleasure and pain and execution under her hand. She isn't Cas.
It's been a long time coming, Dean thinks, for him to realize this. It's been there, just under his skin, waiting for him to wake up and smell the goddamn roses.
Dean's never going to love anyone the way he loves Cas. No one else can ever feel like a livewire under his fingers, under his heart, because he has been wrecked and torn open by the angel who saved him. He is a blessing and a curse, and Dean is stupidly, aching, desperately in love with him.
It makes it that much harder, knowing what he's about to do. Because this time, he sees it—he loves Cas just as fucking much as Cas loves him, and now he's about to hurtle himself into the end of days alone. Hell, he'd aim for the end with Cas; Dean would hold out and never say yes if Cas would always be by his side. They would drive and drive, town to town and road across road together, chasing down the damn devil and praying to a God that didn't care anymore, and they'd die that way, bloody and perfect, with wings burned into the ground and a smoking Chevy behind them.
Dean sees that future just as surely as he sees the one with Lisa, only this one is more tragic and beautiful than anything she could ever offer him.
In another life, in another world—Dean could have Castiel. But he's made up his mind. He can't watch any more people die in this stupid war, not if he can stop it. Some things are more important than love. They'll all go to Heaven, the people, and they will be happy there. It doesn't matter if Sam says yes to Lucifer, because either way, this battle is going to happen. Dean's ready for it.
He's always been a good soldier.
Two chapters left, guys. They're plotted out and ready to be written like no other. Well, it might be three. We'll see. My brain goes crazy sometimes—I had to cut some stuff out of this chapter, even. Anyway. As always, you can find me on tumblr at .com, and do let me know what you think!