Dean needed out. He needed space. Not much, not for long, just…
Just he was suffocating.
Just he felt he couldn't breathe, felt like everything was caving in. He'd maintained his composure after the confrontation with Sam, retaining his calm exterior through their mostly silent drive back to the Roadhouse, then had extended it for the next day or so, all the way through every dinner. He'd felt Sam's eyes on him though, scrutinising, probing, as if with every pass, his brother was scraping away at the layers of defence Dean had so meticulously built up around himself. And he knew, he knew, that Sam suspected the calm was merely a façade. And while that bothered him, he could at least hold on to some semblance of dignity by not letting his baby brother, who already had so much to deal with, see the fractured person he really was, hidden away behind his many masks.
But he was close to his limit and he needed space. The Roadhouse was too warm, too populated, too noisy. Too much of everything he just couldn't handle any more of right then, and he needed out.
The cold night air stole his breath for a moment, pinpricks of ice bristling on his cheeks, numbing his skin before his body acclimatised. He didn't even need to think, he knew where his feet were taking him, the frost beneath his footfalls crunching with each stride and the fog patches of his breath hanging ghostlike in his wake, briefly marking his passing before they too dispersed.
He just wanted to drive. Mindlessly. Aimlessly. Endlessly, if he could. Some empty, open, long forgotten road that came and went nowhere and yet never seemed to stop. Perhaps if he drove far and fast and hard enough, he'd find the edge of the world, and if he did, he'd just press his foot down and let Baby fly.
The keys were in his hand, ring-finger subconsciously laced through the keyring as a symbolic pledge made to his Baby, and it was only when he was stood beside her that he paused.
Baby held his reflection in the driver side window, distorted and skewed, but still clear enough in the moonlight to stop him in his tracks.
He resembled a ghost, an apparition. He wouldn't have been surprised right then if he saw his reflection flicker, half expected it in fact, so spectral and pale was the ashen image that stared back up at him. Haunted, that was the word, and he wondered if someone could haunt themselves. He had died, after all. Perhaps he was a kind of ghost, beneath all his masks and deflections, perhaps there really wasn't much of him left anymore. Maybe that's all he was now, barely human, barely alive, something insubstantial, like smoke in a bottle, contained and held together by armours and veneers, threatened with oblivion if the stress fractures spread and that brittle shell ever broke. That was how he felt, more and more so lately; barely there, barely holding it together, on the verge of cracking and breaking and falling apart.
The argument with Sam had left him shaken. He hadn't taken any time to acknowledge just how deeply it had affected him, because he hadn't had any space. But there, in the privacy of darkness, faced with only himself under the cloak of a freezing night, his shoulders finally sagged a little.
He hadn't expected his secrets to have ever been uncovered, and while he knew, or at least hoped, that Sam wouldn't share them with anyone, Dean still hadn't planned for anyone to have ever known that he'd been to Hell. Even Bobby didn't know, not about John having made a deal nor what Dean had done for the sake of it.
He realised that if he was being haunted by his former self somehow, then equally, he was being haunted by Sam too. Having his brother back in his life, having him so close, it had created an imbalance in Dean's oh so carefully constructed persona.
Because Sam tipped the scale. Always had, always would. And when those scales tipped over, Dean's world toppled with it. Sam was the only one who could ever do that. Because Sam was Sam; the exception above all, above everything and everyone. The one who tipped the scale.
It was a fact that Dean had always cherished. Except that now he also feared it.
Dean had pushed almost everyone in his life away, partly to prevent himself from getting hurt but also in part because he couldn't deal with people's concern. He knew people probably cared about him, maybe, but he didn't let them close enough to feel the consequences of their concern. Except perhaps for Bobby, Dean was content to tell himself he didn't owe anyone anything. He could absolve his guilt for his actions. He could tell himself that if he got injured, if he died even, it wouldn't really hurt anyone, and so in a way, it didn't even matter. He didn't matter. Despite all the responsibility he now shouldered, despite being charged with staving off the upcoming Apocalypse and potentially fighting the Devil, deep in his heart, Dean simply couldn't bring himself to feel that he really mattered to anyone or anything. That made it easier to tell himself he didn't care. He could say yes to Michael and he really didn't care what happened to him in the process, because he really didn't matter to anyone. It was the reason he could jump without looking and then drink away the pain if he survived the fall, the reason he told himself he could carry on like that till he died and never hurt anyone along the way because of it. Because no one would miss him. Because no one should care. He'd crafted it that way, after all.
But Sam changed all that, with just one look. With just one look, Dean felt like he was a teenager again, about to leave for a hunt. Growing up, it had been Sam's concern for his safety, that look of worry in his younger brother's eyes that used to sober Dean up and scare him more than any monster ever truly could. It used to always remind Dean that there would be consequences if he let himself get careless. There would be pain, for Sam, if Dean got hurt.
Because Sam cared, despite everything.
Sam tipped the scales. Sam threw Dean akilter.
And even after all these years, all the separation, his brother still knew him better than anyone. Or, perhaps more accurately, remembered him, some better version of him, more accurately than anyone. Sam would see right through Dean if he peered long and hard enough, and there was a real danger Sam would manage it too, given enough time. If he ever got to his core, Dean knew Sam would find him lacking in comparison to the brother he remembered, that one he'd once idolised all those years ago. Because that version of Dean didn't exist anymore, at least not as far as Dean could see, not that Dean wanted to look inside himself too much lately. Dean was close to a monster now, in his own estimation, given all the things he'd done and all the things he was willing to do, and that was what scared him most of all; that he would be seen for what he truly was. So he pushed people away because he couldn't bear to have them see him. Couldn't bear it because he felt so ashamed and so disgusted and he hated himself because how could he not and they would be disgusted and repulsed and hate him too because how could they not and God help him sometimes he almost didn't care because he was so god damned tired of it all but as tired as he was he could still fool the whole world and keep them all at bay.
But not Sam.
Sam tipped the scale.
Sam threw him off balance, out of alignment.
Sam was the exception, above all and everything.
Eventually Sam would see him, and it would be Dean's own fault if Sam managed to catch a glimpse of him, because Dean had forgotten just how comfortable he could get around Sam, how unguarded and open and relaxed at times. In his ease, under the scrutiny, the masks slipped just a little off centre, the armours hung just a fraction too loose, the barricades shifted and buckled and cleaved.
And the grotesque monster beneath was revealed.
Because Sam had the power to undo Dean, simply by the proximity of his being.
And that being had almost ceased to exist. That was the other cause of this unnatural dip into maudlin thoughts. Perhaps that was the more pertinent reason right then, because the way Dean felt about himself, well, that was nothing new to Dean anymore. But the sudden knowledge that Sam had been dying, that he could have died, that he had come so close to ceasing to exist and Dean hadn't had a clue about any of it, that was the knowledge that was causing him to slip into panic.
And he understood now why Sam had needed him at John's funeral, why Sam's eyes had been pleading with him, needing reassurance. Sam had suspected that John had made a deal long before Dean ever had done. Even when Dean had eventually figured it out, he'd never truly known why, never known the cause for the deal, not for certain. He'd had his suspicions since then of course, had assumed that Sam must have been one of Azazel's pet projects and that John had intervened because of that, but he'd never really known for sure, and as it turned out, it seemed he'd been wrong. And if John had ever discovered the truth, any truth, he'd never explicitly confided in Dean, had only hinted and crypted and demanded obedience, so Dean had been forced to make his own assumptions after his death. But still, regardless of any of that, regardless of the reason for the deal, it didn't change the fact that John had made one and if Dean had simply spoken with Sam at the funeral, right from the start, he would have known that much sooner and their father wouldn't have spent so long a time in Hell. But Dean had simply turned his back on Sam and left. He'd thought he'd come to terms with his actions and perhaps for a time he had, but he felt the immeasurable guilt of it again, now with the added bitter aftertaste of Sam having come so close to death, a thought he found unbearable to stomach.
Sam had almost died, and he hadn't even known. Dean had been just a phone call away from being told that his brother was dead, and he hadn't had a clue. A wave of self-loathing rose as he felt sickened at the thought.
He placed both hands on the roof of the car, pitching forward slightly as he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to quell the sickness, trying to control the panic.
He felt exhausted, by everything. His memories, his responsibilities, his subterfuge and his failings. Everything.
And he felt extinguished, as if the weight of it all was grinding him down, slowly smothering his fight, till there was close to nothing left.
"Dean."
There was a softness in the low tone, a concern woven through the timbre. But it wasn't Sam's voice by his side right then. Perhaps in another lifetime it would have been. Dean wondered if he'd wanted it to be, suspected that secretly he did, but found he was too ashamed of the want to acknowledge the need.
Besides, the frost would have announced Sam's footsteps had it been him, whereas angels feared to tread.
Dean tilted his head, eyes opening with effort before he pushed himself onto his side, resting against the car and crossing his arms over his chest as he faced the angel.
Cas was watching him patiently, curiously, as if Dean were a peculiarity, something complex and interesting that he couldn't quite yet decipher. Sometimes, when Cas stared at him like that, Dean felt the angel was analysing each and every molecule, each and every atom that made up his being, as though trying to read him like some archaic tablet that didn't quite all fit together as it should.
"You're troubled." Cas said at last when he sensed Dean had settled.
It was in that strange tone that Dean on occasion found infuriating, one that sounded like it answered the very question it asked, whilst being neither inquiry nor fact and yet both all at once.
Dean never could explain it in a way that made sense.
"What am I supposed to say to that Cas?" he asked instead, the question pushed out on the breath of a sigh.
"You could either confirm it or deny it."
"And you'd believe me either way?"
The angel's mouth twitched. "If you confirm it, it would be an understatement. If you deny it, it would be a lie."
"So basically I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't? Great. Good to know." He'd been aiming for light-hearted, but it fell woefully flat and Cas frowned in response.
"Dean you are not damned. You are chosen. You were saved for a purpose."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Because I started it all in Hell. Saved because I caved right? Or something like that. Gotta tell ya Cas, really not in the mood for this trip down memory lane."
The angel's frown deepened, his expression taking on a more pained quality, and his voice softened when he next spoke. "That is not why you were saved Dean. Surely you don't believe you're the first soul to have ever been broken by Hell? You should not have even been there."
"What does it matter what I believe? It doesn't change the fact that it's my fault. Or that we're losing. I'm losing."
"You're not –"
"Kyle's still missing, Jess' world is shattered, and Sam's right back where he never wanted to be. Oh and did I mention, the Seals are still breaking, Lilith is untraceable, Lucifer's gonna rise up and destroy the world and I can't seem to do a damned thing about any of it. Any of it! So tell me, what is it I'm not seeing here? What's the big world-saving headline that I'm missing? Coz I gotta tell ya Cas, I got nothing."
Cas waited. He'd learned that with Dean, it was better to let him breathe than to fight his ire with ire of your own. Not that Cas had any towards him. When he finally responded, his voice was as assured as his belief was in his words.
"Jess has been returned. She is strong, she will heal. We will find Kyle. Sam is coping. And if it comes to the last Seal being broken, you and Michael will stop Lucifer."
"You sure about that?" Dean retorted, not fully appeased but still less heated than he'd felt during his outburst. "In case you hadn't noticed, my track record isn't full of home runs lately."
"You are the Michael Sword Dean. Whether you run to your home or not."
"That's not what that… Point is, maybe the sword needs to be re… I don't know. Whatever the hell it is swords need doing. Melted down, or re-forged or whatever. Thrown back into the furnace." He snorted humourlessly. "Bet you wish you'd pulled someone else's ass out the fire instead huh? Shopped around a little more. Coz believe me, I think you would've been better off leaving me down there to rot."
"There was no one else, other than you. There never could be."
Dean scoffed. "Or maybe you guys just didn't look hard enough."
"You were raised from Perdition for a reason Dean. Chosen by the Will of Heaven. Not on a whim, or by mistake, or by chance. But by design, by Divine intent."
Dean shook his head. "What does that even mean, Will of Heaven? And chosen how? Like, what? You all stood around to vote and I just happened to–"
"The Will of Heaven is the Command of God." Cas cut in.
His words had an effect, and even in the paleness cast by the waxing moon, he saw the colour drain from Dean's face, leaving him paler still. Rather than provide Dean with solace however, as Cas had intended, this new insight seemed only to heighten Dean's self-doubt. Cas couldn't understand how this creature, this being who had been chosen by God from amongst all others in creation, could find so little of worth within himself. It was as though he were blind to the light that so clearly shone from within him. But then, Castiel reminded himself, wasn't pride a sin? He shouldn't be surprised then that Dean Winchester had almost none.
"Are you telling me God chose to save me?" Dean whispered, his voice breaking over the words.
"Who else could?" Cas affirmed.
"Why? Why me? What…? Is it… like a punishment? To make up for something in my past–"
"You were saved from Hell Dean; I assure you, you are not being punished."
"Then why?"
"You are the Michael Sword."
"But why me?"
"My Father works in–"
"I swear if you say mysterious ways, I'll punch you in the face, angel or not."
"…In ways I have never questioned."
"What if he got it wrong?"
"He did not."
Dean shook his head. "How can you simply accept something without any proof? How can you just believe?"
"Did you ever question your father? Did you doubt what he commanded? Did you require proof?" Dean didn't need to respond to that and they both knew it. Cas continued without waiting for a reply. "I believe in the Word of God Dean. I believe in the Will of Heaven. And the reason I do not question why is because I see the proof before me, in the righteousness of the man I saved. In the righteousness of the soul he possesses." He took a step closer, head tilting slightly as he fixed Dean with a stare and placed a hand gently on Dean's shoulder, palm aligning perfectly with the handprint he knew was branded on Dean's skin. "I see the proof in you. It would serve your own cause if you were to believe in that too."
There was a subtle tremor in Dean's jaw, before he clamped his mouth shut and looked away. To most other creatures, it would have been imperceptible, but Cas had sensed the orbit of air molecules between them shift in response to the quiver. More than that even, he'd sensed Dean's soul fluctuate ever so slightly, as if it were fighting with itself to try and find some balance within him.
And he sensed Dean's rising discomfort as the moment stretched out, so he let his hand fall away and shifted his gaze. He couldn't help continuing to wonder though, about the intricacies of humans. He wondered if they were all so complex, but he had already decided that was not true. His own vessel for instance, was not torn and tortured in the way Dean seemed to be.
Dean seemed almost to be in constant flux sometimes, to be questioning his worth and value and existence. Except for when he fought and when he hunted. Then, there was no self-doubt, no hesitation, no dissent or questions within him. He was resolute and fearless. There was no confusion about what was right or wrong, as if he knew, innately, which path to take. He possessed a clarity then that shone so bright and pure, Cas wondered at times if even Angels, celestial beings filled with Heavens Grace, could lay claim to such divinity.
But of course on that score, he'd been finding himself questioning many of the opinions some of his brethren held. Uriel's words, for example, doubting the command to protect Dean, the insolent way in which he had spoken of him, all of which to Cas seemed verging on blasphemy, troubled him greatly.
As did the revelations of Tamiel and Turiel having been traitors within their midst.
As did the suspicions of someone, or something, having meddled with time. And while Castiel was justifiably concerned to learn of it, he didn't like that he had been reassigned to deal with it. It wasn't simply the apprehension he felt at the prospect of approaching the Fates for an answer. What he didn't like was that the protection he had promised Dean, for Sam and his family, had been brushed aside as though inconsequential. Revoked without his knowing. But was that truly what bothered him, he wondered. That he had not been informed? Surely that would make him prideful, to think Heaven should inform him of the decisions it made. But it wasn't pride he felt, he was certain of that. It was concern for the human he still felt was in his care.
Perhaps someone in Heaven would take umbrage at his being there with Dean now, when it wasn't his job anymore. But having raised him from the Abyss, Cas believed that Dean was still his charge, his responsibility, and more than that, he had started to consider Dean a respected ally in the fight against the armies of Hell, not simply because he was Michael's true vessel, but because of who he was independently of that. Because of his strength and morality. Because of who Dean had, in Castiel's eyes, proven himself to be.
Which brought him right back to his original concern. He knew many of his brother's and sister's shared Uriel's dislike for humans, thinking them to be lower beings. But being around Dean, it was making Cas question the prejudices of his kin. And more worryingly than that, to Cas it seemed now that those prejudices verged dangerously close to pride, to the very same sentiments Lucifer had expressed before he had rebelled against their Father and ultimately fallen.
Was it not prideful to think oneself better than other creatures of God? And if it was, then surely it was a sin to indulge such thoughts and feelings. Surely it was a sin to turn their backs on humans, humans who were after all God's creations, and were in many ways better than Castiel and his brethren were. Did that not make Uriel's choices and actions questionable?
He was still mulling over these concerns when Dean spoke.
"You're troubled."
There hadn't been any glibness in the way Dean had repeated the angel's earlier remark, but when Cas looked at him, he would swear he saw something akin to teasing flicker behind the hunter's eyes. Before he could wonder about it though, Dean became serious, and the look was gone.
"Seriously Cas, how you doing? You all good?"
It caught the angel off guard and he was surprised at himself for his lack of personal awareness in that moment. Could it be that he was beginning to let his celestial guard down around this human? Had Uriel been right, about that point at least? Was he losing himself? He refocussed as he began to answer.
"I'm…" But it took him a moment, because in an existence which spanned millennia, it occurred to him that his own state of being was something he had never fully contemplated before.
Because before Dean, no one, angel nor man, had ever asked. Perhaps, he thought, before Dean, no one had ever cared.
"I'm slightly troubled," he admitted at last, speaking the words slowly as if testing the feel of them in his mouth before they slipped out over his tongue.
"About what?" When the angel hesitated, Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on Cas. Fair's fair. We're on the same side here, remember? Besides, it's what friends do, apparently. They talk. So lay it on me. What's on your mind?"
Is that what we are? Cas wondered, surprised. Friends? The thought, the word, the concept, bounced around inside him for a moment as if trying to find a place to settle. When it finally did, he realised he found it immensely pleasing.
Dean shivered a little as he waited for a response, and it occurred to Cas that the temperature was not ideal for humans. He knew however that were he to point this out to Dean or to offer to adjust his body temperature, Dean would become uncomfortable, resentful even, at the supposed weakness, as he had done in the hospital parking lot when Cas had offered to remedy his bruising jaw. In Cas' opinion, what little pride Dean did possess, manifested quite oddly at times. Dean wore his pain, carried his wounds, bore his injury, as though he deserved to suffer the hurt of every blow and torment and cut inflicted upon him. Cas couldn't understand it. But then again, who was Cas to judge. Without indicating that he was doing so, Castiel raised the temperature in their immediate vicinity by a few degrees, registering with satisfaction when Dean's cheeks regained some of their colour.
Dean was still waiting for an answer, and for split millisecond Cas considered deflecting or dismissing the request.
But Dean considered him a friend.
Dean had said so.
And friends talked, apparently.
So Castiel talked.
He told Dean about the possibility of reality having been altered. He told him about the difficulty in tracing the moment in time that time had been tampered with. He told him about his concern at what effect it may have had on the world. He told him how temperamental the Fates could be. He confessed his anxiety about tracking them down and questioning them. And he confided the sorrow he felt at the loss of his many brother's and sister's who'd fallen in their mission to protect the Seals. He left out Uriel's words, omitted Uriel's threats. He expunged from the telling his doubts and reservations about the motives and alignment of some of his kin.
Dean listened attentively to everything, commenting once or twice, but on the whole surprising Cas with the level of interest he displayed, which seemed to be genuine. When he'd finished his account Cas felt somehow lighter, as if he'd been carrying a burden, the weight of which had now been lessened by the sharing.
Dean was quiet for a moment.
"So these chicks, the Fates …. They hot?"
As was often the case, Cas found Dean's line of thinking peculiar at times, if not impenetrable.
"They exist as beings unaffected by and lacking in temperature," he replied, still not sure what the relevance was.
"No I mean are they hot. Good looking. Attractive. You know… three sisters, weaving time and fate and all. They gotta be good with their hands and fingers at least."
"They do not possess appendages as you would recognise them but…," he considered it for a moment. "I suppose their appearance is not unpleasant to gaze upon," he allowed.
"OK good. Not unpleasant to gaze upon is good, let's go with that."
"Why is that relevant?"
"Coz when you go see them, at least you won't be facing some fugly ass monsters from the nether lagoon. Given how things are going round here lately? I'd take that as a win."
"I see." Cas acknowledged, finally understanding Dean's point. "Yes, I suppose it is more pleasant to face them than to be faced with a horde of demons… Although the Fates are infinitely more powerful than demons. And they can be temperamental and quick to anger."
Dean shrugged. "Yeah well, Fates be crazy. Besides, if they smite you, then well… it was fate."
Cas thought about that and, despite Dean's smirk, he found it actually helped to ease his concerns. After all, what was meant to be, would be. As a divine being, he believed in that.
"What're you gonna do when you find out what's been changed?" Dean prodded, back to business again.
"I don't know." Cas confessed. "They may have already dealt with it, corrected the path. Perhaps this is the correction."
"This can't be." Dean said, eyes drifting towards the Roadhouse as he shook his head. "This… With what's happening to Sam and his family. This can't be the good version."
"Until we know what was altered, we won't know what has changed."
"So there's a chance that perhaps I'm not meant to be Michael's vessel?" Dean ventured, unable to censor the slight intonation of hope from his voice. "I mean, maybe that's what's been changed. Maybe it's why we… why I haven't been able to stop Lilith."
Cas found it surprising how uneasy that suggestion made him. Over the course of their acquaintance, he had begun to think of Dean as a comrade, and now possibly even a friend. There were a great many qualities in Dean that he had come to admire and appreciate. And although Cas wouldn't admit it out loud, he was more frequently than not finding himself preferring Dean's and even, by extension, his family and friends company, to that of his own angelic brethren's. Dean was honest in a way that Cas now realised Heaven perhaps wasn't. There was no ulterior motive with Dean, he spoke his mind whether it would cause offence or not, as long as it was a truth. Through Dean's actions, Cas had come to realise that perhaps Angels (himself included) had lost their way a little, were no longer valuing life with the same precious reverence as they should, as indeed, Dean did. And life, human souls, they were ultimately His Father's greatest gift and creation after all. And while Dean's family and friends were always at the forefront of Dean's concerns, saving people, the whole world and all of creation in fact, came a close second. The selfless way in which that came naturally to Dean, the unflinching clarity with which he saw that and was willing to sacrifice himself for that, was one of the many reasons that Cas had begun to view the human as far better than almost any other soul, or even angel that he had known. The thought then that Dean might not be the natural choice to lead Heaven to victory, given how strong and brave and noble a leader Cas already considered Dean to be, sat very uncomfortably with the angel. He couldn't think of any other soul as being better equipped for the role. But the uncomfortable truth was that what Dean had suggested was a possibility he had to consider.
Rather than openly commit to it however, Cas simply shook his head. "There is no way to know," he replied instead. "Until we learn more, we cannot say what has changed. Or why."
Dean looked away, and Cas felt the hunter's mood shift again.
"Tell me something Cas and don't sugar coat it. When Michael and Lucifer go at it, how bad's it gonna get?"
Cas shifted on his feet, unsure what Dean wanted to hear. The last battle between Cas' two eldest siblings had left a multitude of casualties in Heaven, on both sides. He knew Dean was astute enough to guess without being told the level of destruction a biblical war would have.
"Are you asking how bad it will be for you or–"
"For people Cas," Dean said, cutting him off. "I don't give a crap for me, but for the rest of the human population, for the billions of people running around on Earth. They haven't got a say in it, or even a clue about what's on the cards. How bad will it be?"
Cas weighed up his words before responding, knowing Dean would somehow not be satisfied with an answer that was anything but brutally honest.
"In the worst case, it will decimate the population. But those souls, the ones who refuse to side with Lucifer, they will be guaranteed their place in Heaven. They will have salvation regardless of what happens to them in the war on Earth… Provided Michael prevails."
"Right. Provided Michael 'prevails'. Winner takes all," Dean muttered disdainfully. "And what about the other sorry bastards? The ones who don't take a side? Or the ones who don't believe in Heaven?"
"Heaven exists regardless of belief. Not believing, not taking a side, it's tantamount to siding with Lucifer."
"So I'll be responsible for a bloodbath either way."
"You'll be responsible for helping Michael defeat Lucifer and his horde once and for all."
"Helping Michael. You know I don't see him helping us very much. Or at all. In fact, if I wasn't responsible for starting it all, I'd tell him to go join your brother in Hell. Coz he sure as hell doesn't seem to give a crap about what we need."
"It's not about need. It's about the bigger picture."
"And what is that exactly? Hmm?"
"Defeating Lucifer. Ensuring Heaven's sanctuary."
"Seems to me all it means is billions of people dying for the sake of your family feud."
"You'll be responsible for securing safety and eternal peace for the rest of humanity. That is no small prize Dean."
"It's no small cost either Cas." Dean responded quietly. "Billions of lives. That's no prize."
His calm tone made his point and sentiment more clearly than any amount of raging bluster ever could have done and Cas found he had no rebuttal for the sobering reprimand he suddenly felt.
"I agree Dean," he allowed, sighing at the concession. "The weight you carry, the burden you feel… While I believe the end is just, the means… are troubling. They may be unavoidable unless we stop Lilith. You are right, of course, the cost is… it's not one to be dismissed without consideration. But if we can't stop Lilith and Lucifer is released, then Michael is our only hope. You are our only hope."
"So basically, I'm Obi-Wan to your Leia, is what you're saying?"
Cas gave Dean an uncertain look, debating whether or not to ask for clarification, before deciding it possibly didn't matter. As much as Dean's statement seemed nonsensical to him, Cas suspected the explanation wouldn't be any more illuminating, at least not for him. He instead felt the need to simply reaffirm his earlier sentiment, so he reiterated it, hoping it would assuage the doubts Dean was having.
"Unless Michael is joined with his true vessel, Lucifer will have the higher ground and the only outcome will be the annihilation of all life. No one will be saved."
"Higher ground? Seriously? You're just gonna put that out there and just… Nothing? …No, you're right. Prequels were lame anyway."
"Dean I don't know what you're–"
"You're still assuming that I'm Michael's true vessel."
"You are," the angel intoned, without a hint of uncertainty.
"And you're assuming there's no other way."
"If there is, I'm not aware of it."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "But you're not certain."
"As I said, if there is, I'm not aware of it."
"So, assuming there isn't, I have to sacrifice the few to save the many, that's the bottom line."
Cas nodded.
"Even if the few are a few million, possibly billion innocent people."
Cas nodded again.
Dean remained quiet for a long time. It was as though he were waiting for the moment to pass, for the conversation to be swallowed and digested and for a time at least, to be forgotten. Cas felt unsettled by Dean's questions, mainly because they echoed his own concerns. While he knew Heaven had initially been fighting hard to prevent the Seals from being broken, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that recently there had been a shift in gear. Of course, he wasn't privy to everything Heaven decided or decreed, but it seemed Heaven's efforts to prevent the final Seals from breaking had been paired down in favour of preparations for Lucifer's release, as if that release were all but certain. Cas wasn't sure he could so easily commit himself with such certainty to an event which was, as yet, uncertain. Lucifer's release was likely, but by no means unavoidable. Dean seemed to share that sentiment, which only reinforced Cas' conviction that he and Dean shared an understanding and a desire for a common goal. It made Cas want to gain a better sense of the hunter and spurred him to question him further.
"May I ask you something?"
"You mean other than if I'll be Heaven's lapdog without any pushback and if I'm OK with letting Michael use me as a rent-boy for the Apocalypse?" Before the angel could respond however, Dean shook his head dismissively. "Forget it. What d'you wanna know?"
"Why do you distrust my kind so much?"
"Cas…"
"You don't wish to be Michael's vessel. You seem uneasy working in alliance with Heaven. Why?"
"Look, it's nothing personal, OK? I just… I guess I don't play well with others, or I have trust issues. Whatever... I wouldn't worry about it Cas. I have trouble trusting anyone. So, like I said, nothing personal."
"But you trust me?"
Dean stared at him, assessing him, and Cas felt himself inexplicably disarmed under the probing candour of his scrutiny and judgement. He also felt suddenly, strangely, hopeful, as though Dean's opinion of him mattered.
"Yeah," Dean responded at last. "Yeah, I do."
"Why?"
"Because I think you tell me the truth Cas. At least I hope you do."
"You don't think others are truthful?"
"No, I don't."
"Why?"
"Because frankly, I don't think humans matter to them. I don't think Heaven gives a rat's ass about what happens to us down here. We're just an afterthought if that. An irritation. Ants at a picnic. Shrapnel in a bomb."
"Those are two very different things."
"Point is neither one is the main event. Neither one makes the headline."
"Dean–"
"Point in fact, Michael, not lifting a damn feather to help get Kyle back. Not showing his face on Earth. Even with the Seals. Or even to kick the crap outta Lilith, when I'm pretty damn sure an Archangel trumps a demon- bitch queen from hell. So? Where the Hell is he? He was happy enough to pop into my dreams to lay out his 'Heaven-needs-you' recruitment crap, but he doesn't wanna get his precious little wings dirty with the heavy lifting?"
"To exist on Earth he would need his vessel. Namely you. And as you have made it clear to him, to all of us, you are not yet willing."
"Do you blame me? I mean come on! I know I'm pretty but I ain't dumb. Michael doesn't care."
"You assume he isn't the one who sent me here."
"Is he?"
Cas didn't respond and Dean smirked. Cas attempted to continue, annoyed suddenly by Dean's dismissal of Heaven. Or perhaps, with his astutely accurate assessments which hit far too close to home.
"Heaven is occupied with–"
"The bigger picture. I know. And yet… you're here. You've made time. And I don't think it's because Heaven commanded it or because Michael sent you. I think it's because you know it's the right thing to do. Because you care. That's why I trust you Cas, we're not just insignificant rodents to you. You actually care."
"So your lack of faith in the others, it stems from feeling ignored?"
"It stems from being expected to fight a war I never signed up for…" He huffed a humourless laugh then. "Except I did, didn't I? When I started it all? So I guess I can't back out. But you know what? Sam, Jess, the kids? They've done nothing wrong. I'm not sure I can trust a Heaven that doesn't raise a finger to help the innocent."
"Dean I –"
"Never mind. No, to answer your question. No, I don't really trust any of your family that I've met so far. Not Michael. Sure as hell not Uriel."
"What's wrong with Uriel?"
"Look, Cas, I know he's your brother and all, and I don't mean any disrespect, I don't. So…"
"You can speak freely Dean."
"Yeah?... Really?... OK. Well then… well then the guys a dick. You gotta know that."
"He's one of the most fearsome warriors in Heaven."
"Doesn't stop him from being a dick."
"Why?"
"Why is he a dick?"
"Why do you distrust him?"
"Because he's a dick."
"Dean–"
"Look, what does it matter what I think?"
"Because… I'm curious as to your reasoning. And as the final battle draws closer, we will most likely be fighting side by side. I'd like to understand what makes you decide the things you decide."
Dean mulled it over, and for a moment, Cas thought perhaps the hunter would refuse to answer, before Dean finally spoke again.
"The few times I've met him, he just gave me a vibe. I can't put my finger on it. I just don't like him. He's like those guys who wear expensive suits and spit on their shoes to get the shine just right. After a while, they don't even care what they're doing, long as they look good doing it. Long as they can see their own reflection smiling back at them. Long as they can feel self-righteous and high and mighty and better than anyone else. They're blind to everything but whatever it is they want to see. And they don't care. About any of it."
"That is quite a summation."
"Hey, you asked. …Don't smite me, OK?"
"I… That is not my job."
"What's brought this on anyway?" He narrowed his eyes, assessing the angel. "Are you having doubts? About the big Battle Royale?"
"To have doubts, any doubt, is to fall."
"To fall?" Dean echoed. "You mean fall fall? Like Lucifer?"
Castiel didn't respond, simply averted his gaze, and for Dean, that was answer enough.
"OK," he responded. "OK, let's not do that then. Look I'm sorry I don't like your brothers. They probably don't like me much either."
Cas couldn't help the slight twitch of a smile on his lips. "Uriel does find you… trying, at times."
"Yeah? Well, did I mention I think he's a dick? Hey, I'm just glad it was you who pulled me out and not Uriel. The thought of having to deal with him on a regular basis? Nuh-uh."
There was a natural pause in the conversation, but after a while, Castiel again felt the tension in Dean rise.
"Do you think," Dean began cautiously after a while. "That it could be my fault?"
"What could be your fault? The Apocalypse? Dean the first Seal–"
"Not the Seal," Dean corrected. "This change in the timeline. Could it be my fault?"
"How so?" Cas asked, again not following Dean's line of thinking.
"I don't know. You said it yourself, I never should have been in Hell. Maybe while I was there I messed up more than just the first Seal? Maybe I messed with the order of things or something."
"I doubt that."
"You sure?"
"Not every calamitous thing that happens, happens because of you Dean."
Dean paused a moment, before giving him a look. "You're trying to tell me the universe doesn't revolve around me? You're breaking my heart Cas."
Cas opened his mouth to reply, to inform Dean that the rotation of the universe was far too intricate and elaborate a system to simply be hinged upon orbiting around a single human, and to point out that if Dean's cardiac muscles were indeed fracturing in some way, Dean would most certainly be experiencing considerable pain right then, in fact would probably be dead.
But then he saw how Dean was looking at him; eyebrows raised as if in silent challenge, a hidden smile peeking through just a little at the corners of his mouth, head tilted towards him oh so slightly as though he knew exactly what Cas had been about to say, and eyes dancing playfully, for a moment not looking defeated at all, but shining bright as they watched him.
And Cas realised Dean was teasing him. Not maliciously, not with any cruelty or spite, but this was what Dean considered humour. Cas personally didn't understand the nuances of it, but he was beginning to recognise the look. And he realised suddenly, that he appreciated the moment, appreciated being a part of it. It possessed an odd sort of familiarity which felt strangely comforting.
"Yes," he told him matter-of-factly instead. "That is exactly what I am telling you." Then as an afterthought, added. "And my condolences to your heart."
He was rewarded with a huffed laugh and a slap on the shoulder. He didn't know why but he felt as if he'd achieved something significant, passed some milestone or boundary that very few ever got to traverse beyond.
It felt good.
They stood in silence for a while, at ease in each other's company. Cas would have gone as far as to call what he felt to be contentment.
"You planning on vanishing?" Dean asked after several beats.
"At some point, I will have to. But I thought I might stay here for a while. Until Jess recovers more fully."
"Good." Dean nodded his approval, then shifted on his feet.
"And you?" Cas glanced at the car keys still dangling from Dean's hand. "Are you planning on taking a drive somewhere?"
Dean followed his gaze, staring at the keys as though weighing up his feelings. Then he clasped his fist around them and shrugged.
"No. No I guess I don't need to go anywhere."
It was in unspoken agreement when they both eventually moved in unison to make their way back to the Roadhouse. Part way there, Dean stalled a little, half turning towards the angel by his side.
"Hey Cas? …Thanks."
Castiel was about to ask for what, but then realised it probably didn't matter. He could feel that he'd managed to do something good in the world, do something good in Dean's world, and whatever that was, he knew that it had at least left Dean feeling better, and that knowledge left Cas feeling fulfilled.
The smile which escaped Cas in response may have seemed slight to some, but for angels, who could count the degrees in the angles of a snowflake and feel the weight of a spider's breath on their wings, it spanned and weighed an infinity.
"Likewise Dean."
Dean's corresponding smile was less graceful and more awkward but just as genuine none the less. Cas let him off the hook by looking away after a moment and they continued the rest of the walk in companionable silence.
-oOo-
Sam had been waiting for the right time to approach Dean and Bobby, knowing he needed to tell them about the dreams he'd been having. He was apprehensive about airing his thoughts however, knowing how easy it would be to dismiss or ridicule his confession. He'd been doing the same after all, right up until the point Jess had been found, or as the blonde from the vision had phrased it, returned. After that he couldn't deny the validity of his visions anymore, had even at some point made the transition from dismissing them as nightmares, to accepting them as visions.
He'd planned on waiting till after dinner, when the children were in bed, and Jess would again be resting. He'd planned on catching Bobby's eye, on bribing Dean with the coercion of beer, of suggesting that they all relocate to the back, to the privacy of one of the vacant rooms. He'd planned on how he would phrase his revelation, how he would defend against the inevitable resistance and cross-examination.
But as the table had been cleared and he'd cradled a sleeping Eric, preparing to put him to bed, he saw Dean grab his jacket and bolt. By the time Sam had lain the youngster down and had gently soothed him back to sleep, he assumed Dean would already be miles away. Except he hadn't heard the Impalas engine rumble to life, so as he got to the front door and reached for his own coat, he took time to pause at the window and look out into the Roadhouse parking lot.
And there was Dean, pitched against the car, head hanging down as his arms, his hands, clung to the car roof, barely keeping him upright, and he looked more exhausted and spent than Sam could remember ever having seen his brother look before. It took Sam's breath away a little really, partly because he hadn't expected it and partly because he suddenly realised just how constantly and adeptly Dean had been hiding the extent of his fatigue, given that this was what he truly looked like when he thought he was unseen. Hiding the weight of whatever burden was grinding him down. Sam knew there was something more than just the responsibility of staving off the Apocalypse, as if that wasn't burden enough. He wondered what it could be, what thought could have passed through his brother right then, to result in him looking so broken.
In that instant, seeing his brother's fragility laid bare, some part of Sam's heart broke a little, and he knew he needed to get out there, to somehow make it better. To at least try, even though he didn't have the faintest idea how. Hell! He was pretty sure he'd somehow only succeed in making things worse, because that was just the way things went when you tried to help Dean in any way. But it came right back to the same argument; he had to try because they were family, so in all honesty, who else would?
He had his arm halfway into the sleeve of his coat when he saw the angel materialised next to Dean. Had that been the plan all along? Had Dean and Cas planned to meet? To discuss something? To leave to go somewhere? Sam watched, unmoving, expecting them to either disappear with some angelic magic, or else climb into the car and drive away.
But neither thing happened. Instead they seemed to simply talk, and Sam could tell from his brother's body language that he'd been irritated by whatever the angel had said to him. Dean held himself defensively, angrily, and Sam didn't need to hear what was being said to know that Dean was retaliating at something. He'd been on the receiving end of that from Dean enough times to know it was usually a reaction to the other person getting too close, too personal, too concerned. He sighed, waiting for the inevitable fallout, anticipating the corresponding anger from the angel which was sure to come, followed by the resultant throwback of Dean's rising fury. He finished pulling on his coat, preparing himself to get out there and defuse the full blown argument he could see brewing between his brother and the angel.
Except that it didn't happen. He didn't know what the angel said or did, but the argument never transpired. Somehow Dean didn't continue shouting, didn't turn his back to stomp away in an angry haze. Amazingly, the two were actually having a conversation, an almost congenial one it seemed. Sam knew if he'd been the one out there, such cease-fire never would have happened between himself and Dean. Whatever he could have said to Dean, it would have ended badly, he had very recent proof of that. Up until then he would have said it was simply the way Dean functioned lately, with everyone. He would have said that there was no talking to Dean without suffering the wrath of his defences. And yet even as he watched, there it was, proof that it wasn't just Dean's MO, because this angel had effortlessly achieved something which Sam struggled with.
Sam wouldn't call it jealousy, he wouldn't call it envy, but when he saw Dean give the angels shoulder an affectionate slap, when he saw Dean actually laugh, when he saw the smile linger with genuine ease, something inside him fractured a little and there was no curtailing the knee-jerk thought that blazed through him right then.
It should be me.
He was both surprised and ashamed the instant he became aware of the thought, but in any case, he couldn't deny the truth of what he felt.
Watching them both, sensing their closeness, their comradery, their friendship, he couldn't supress the longing for those feelings to exist between Dean and himself instead.
But he knew full well the reason that they didn't. He hadn't put in any of the groundwork for such a relationship to exist, not for many, many years. He understood suddenly that he'd been existing on a misconception, on an unspoken and up until that point, unrealised fallacy; he had assumed he could never be usurped. That his position in Dean's world could never be taken up by another. Because if he were being honest, nobody else had filled Dean's shoes for Sam, nobody had ever come close. But watching the two men as they eased into a visibly comfortable silence, knowing that the angel had talked Dean off from some unseen ledge that Sam couldn't even get close to, it suddenly dawned on Sam that in his absence, his usurpation was perhaps precisely what had occurred. While he would never begrudge his brother anyone's friendship or support, he had to face the prospect that his vacancy had perhaps finally been filled by another and the acknowledgement of that left a deep, hollow, painful ache in the pit of Sam's heart.
As the two men made their way slowly back to the Roadhouse, Sam quickly removed his coat and moved away. As they re-entered the building, Sam saw Dean's guardedness become fully re-established, solidifying when they made eye contact. And as Sam made his move to suggest a meeting, he pretended that the knowledge of that guarded defensiveness around him, didn't stab at him to his core.
tbc.
Thank you Kathy, MewWinx96, Shazza19 and Long Live BRUCAS :-) I'm glad you're still enjoying it! This one was a monster of a chapter, kind of got away from me. I guess it made up for the last one being so woefully short.
And thank you to everyone else who's reading or following or favouriting etc. I'll update soon.
Stay well out there my friends :-)
