Chapter 34.
When Dean felt they had enough fuel, he and Jack divided the last load between them and returned to the clearing to add it to the pile Jack had already made. Sam and the other one had been busy too. Four pretty comfortable looking beds of brush and leaves were arranged around the fire with low hurdles of branches behind them to reflect back the heat of the fire. John Winchester would have been proud of Sam's work.
"I've seen motel rooms with less comfort." said Dean.
Sam smiled. "Well, we did our best."
"The fire is our job." said Dean, "Right, Jack?"
"Yes." said Jack.
Dean showed him how to set the first thin branches and sticks in place and where to put the kindling. He arranged the larger logs on the edges, not wanting to overwork Jack. He would never have said he was being asked to do too much, but he seemed far too delicate in his present state and Dean had no wish to embarrass him by giving him more than he could handle.
When they were ready, he felt in his pocket. "Hold it, I have my lighter."
"Use mine." said Cas, giving it to Jack. Dean knew Cas had only one lighter, his birthday present, engraved with the words he had meant at the time, "Lux tua, vita mihi" - "Your light is my life."
"Such a friendship is an abomination!" Michael had said. It felt like an abomination.
Jack smiled, reading the inscription. The smile seemed conspiratorial. The celestials were laughing at him, at how easily they had won his trust. Jack flicked the lighter on and bent to light the fire and his eyes were alight with the excitement of a kid getting to play with fire. Dean turned away and looked into the gathering darkness, knowing that there was nothing conspiratorial here ... nothing dark but his own corrupted thoughts.
"Great work, Jack!" said Sam as the fire came to life.
Dean turned to look. Jack stood up straight and stared into the new flames. Cas gently guided him back a few feet. As a full-strength nephilim, Jack was invulnerable to fire. In his present state, not so much.
Jack, Sam and Cas stood close together, a family group. Dean was, by choice, not a part of that group. He was the only one not trying to be part of it. The heat from the fire seemed not to apply to him. He was feeling the cold of the outer darkness, beyond the homely circle Sam and Jack had made.
Jack passed the lighter back to Cas and Cas looked at it, reading the inscription, Dean thought, before putting it into his pocket. Their eyes met for a moment and then Dean looked away, angry with himself for being the first.
He gestured to the four comfortable couches of leaves. "Which is mine?"
"You choose. I don't know what arrangement will make you most comfortable." said Sam.
"Killing all celestials, probably." said the angel.
"Cas!" said Sam.
"It's okay." said Dean, "The way I've been acting ... "
"Cas looked at Sam, then turned to Dean and said, "Forgive me. I withdraw my comment. Maybe, if I put the fire between us, you'll feel more at ease. Although, it's not like holy fire." He went to sit on the other side of the fire.
Dean took the seat opposite. He did feel better with the flames as a wholly useless barrier between them.
Sam and Jack took the spaces to either side, Sam leaving his almost immediately to fetch the supplies and then hand out the beers.
Dean tried to focus on the fire, trying to feel the warmth, but he felt oddly disconnected from everything, zoning in and out for no reason. Then, somehow, he managed to concentrate on the flames and feel heat on his face, but it reminded him of the last time they had gathered around a fire, when they had burned Cas's body.
He struggled to swallow but his throat felt constricted. He remembered not being able to look at the body on the pyre, watching the smoke rise instead, feeling the unbearable loss, the full weight of the guilt, wishing he were on the pyre.
He knew they would soon look at him. This whole thing was about him, after all. They would look at him and see his distress and misjudge him, seeing hatred instead of remembered grief ... for the angel he hated ... the angel he would fight off with anything that came to hand if it tried to get near him.
It. Once, he had grieved Cas like a brother and now his mind called Cas it without a second thought. Except, that was a second thought. It still hurt, thinking of his death ... of every one of his deaths.
"It's too hot here." he said, standing up and walking out of the firelight into the cool concealment of the trees, the cool beer bottle in his hand. He knew what they would think, but it was hardly unfair to think it. The Michael-spawned contempt was one of the many emotions overpowering him, though it was not the strongest. He had lost Cas so many times and every time had hurt, but not like this did, this separation in life, a breaking of their profound bond, a betrayal of Castiel's unchanging loyalty.
Maybe Cas would go home. Maybe Jack would come to find him to say they were alone in the woods as Sam took Cas back. Maybe Sam would come to reason with him, begging him not to hate Cas, even as the tears of repeated partings swelled in his eyes. Was it even worth trying to claim he didn't hate Cas? Every change of wind seemed to flip him from love to hate to fear.
Jack had been so proud of making the fire. Dean felt like a jerk for spoiling his night. He wondered again why any of them even tried to help him. They must see how worthless he was.
He rested his back against the smooth trunk of a tree and opened his beer. It had no flavour. A tear ran down his face and he pretended some smoke had irritated his eyes.