AU for 15x19. warnings at end of story

We Are

"I'll kill Sam, he'll kill me, we'll kill each other," Dean said, as cocky as he could manage, "but you gotta bring them back. The people, the birds… and Cas. You gotta bring Cas back."

For a moment, Chuck just stared at them. Harsh, unyielding, like a vast desert. There was nothing in his eyes, not a bit, and it almost surprised him. 'Cause he could remember when the entity was different. Still a dick, yeah, but there had been something that was now just purpose, whittled down to a fine, sharp point. Seemed like he got nasty when he couldn't play with his toys anymore.

Dean just knew what Chuck was going to say. "Sorry boys, it's too late…" and he'd leave them on this empty planet with a long, slow death from starvation; this world, the last world in the universe, burnt out. Back into The Darkness it came from.

Then, like a streak of lightning, something hollow rose in those empty tunnels, like a ponderous creature rising from the sea, blind and unaccustomed to the light. Something hollow, crippled—but there. "Fine," Chuck said, harshly. "You know what? Fine. But you'd better make it good, Winchesters." He snapped his fingers.

And Dean let out a breath. He'd known the silence, dead crypt silence, had had him freaked; it reminded him of those times late in the Leviathan purge when he and Sam had rolled through so many empty towns; it reminded him of Croatoan, and Hell in between the interesting bits; it reminded him of the Bunker's dungeon, last sleepless night, when he'd shook and the buzz of the emergency phone rang and he'd thought; that's it. Sam's dying, Jack's dead, we failed; and somehow all the breath had been sucked from his lungs into racking sobs.

And now they were back, all the ordinary sounds; cars going by and the hum of machinery and the heavy thrum of a city, a country, a whole world with individuals walking down their streets like eight billion lighters in an endless void. And sprawled out on the ground, shocked, confused, staring back at him: Cas. Cas, bereft, stony, betrayed; still as gorgeous as he had looked when they first met, when he'd stepped over that salt line in the barn, like it was nothing, like he hadn't turned the entire world over on its axis, shook the magnetic poles out of whack, changed Dean forever.

"Hey, Cas," he said, and fuck if his voice didn't shake. He didn't want to do this in front of God, didn't want his emotions playing across the cosmic screen; it pulled something twisted from low in his belly, felt like grief. And still, still he felt like shouting in triumph, just flipping his middle finger to fate, because Cas was back; he reached down to help the angel up, and—slipped. Like there was a buzzing between his fingers and Cas's, a sort of oily nothingness, a repelling force, stopping them from making contact. He stared down, and Cas stared up, and for a moment Dean almost screamed, almost cried, almost curled down on the blacktop and refused to move like that would change a thing. Then he stepped back, letting Cas get up on his own, and swung his gaze back to Chuck.

"You bastard," he said.

Cas glared too, fists clenched as though he were seriously considering punching the entity right in his nasty little bearded smirk.

"You didn't think I'd make this easy, did you?" Chuck said disaffectedly, with a little shrug.

"Yeah, like killing each other is already so easy," Sam said; there was terror, and something like a deep resignation; still, he put his solid weight behind Dean until there they were, all three of them, facing the unfaceable, together. "You're a sadist; an evil, spineless coward. Just like Lucifer."

For a moment Dean tensed, waiting for some sudden molecular burst of annihilation, but Chuck just stared back at them, and he could feel Sam's tension, not hatred but something worse than that; fear. Because no one had dragged Sam down; degraded him, broken his spirit, cut out his last remnants of hope, better than God. He reached out his hand, slid it into his brother's, and felt Sam's grip tighten around his own, sweaty and shaking and yet there. Still standing.

"Maybe I am," Chuck said at last. "Well. I haven't got all night, you know." He crossed his arms.

"Dean," Cas said, lowly, and Dean could feel the vibrations of it, shivering close enough to brush his neck with warmth, to sear his bones. "What deal did you make? What did you do?"

"We said we'd end it," Dean said. "The way he wanted. He'd wiped out the whole world, Cas…"

"No," Cas said. And then again, louder; like repeating it would make anything different, like he was creating a new word out of anguish. "No."

Then Sam was taking a breath, facing them both, and there was that stubborn bullheadedness in the set of his shoulders, that even now at the end made Dean feel warm, this kid he'd taken care of since as far as he could remember, this man that he'd grown with until they made one creature stronger than they ever could have been apart. "This isn't about him," Sam said. "This is about us." Sam reached out with his free hand and it almost wasn't a surprise that he was able to lace Cas's fingers in his own, and Cas let out a breath, like he was shocked, like he'd forgotten what it felt like to be touched.

Dean smiled, and god it hurt; it hurt and he could feel the tears gathering at his eyes, but he smiled. "Fuck yes." And somehow Sam was smiling too, and then Cas, looking deeply at both of them, nodded in agreement.

So without really thinking they moved back to the Impala and Cas slid into the front seat, eyes never leaving Dean, and Dean bit his lip. So many things to say. So many things he'd never had the courage to do, that graceful creature he'd been so afraid of shattering, like if he laid him down on those seats and touched him he'd break, never be able to stop.

"Dean," Cas said, and the word was a reassurance.

"Yeah," Dean said. Hardly a word, so quiet, but there. "Yeah, Cas." And something in Cas's eyes seemed to light, and for a moment, even he smiled, and Dean felt the tears that had been building up break free, quiet, unattended to, like they were nothing.

Sam sat back beside the angel, hand still holding Dean's own, and Dean crawled in with them, until they were pressed up as close as they could be on the seat, swinging the door closed after them.

Outside, the night was dark and removed, and if God was watching, so what. This wasn't about him at all. It never had been, and maybe it had taken Dean too long to realize that, but he was getting there.

Sam reached into his jacket, pulled out a knife, and Dean nodded, taking a blade from the holster at his ankle. The air was warm and still; safe. He grinned. His own blade pressed to Sam's chest and feeling an answering coldness against his shirt. "On three?"

"Sure," Sam said. "One, two…"

They pressed home.

The pain wasn't anything new; he'd felt worse, had worse ways to die. And honestly? This wasn't top of the list, not even close, but something about it felt different. It had nothing to do with the blade pulled back out of his chest or the bubbling tang crawling up his throat, and everything to do with the look of reverence in Sam's eyes, which were filled with tears, big, weepy tears that Dean brushed away with the pad of his fingers, and the calm certainty of Castiel's presence before him, the ocean blue of his gaze.

"I love you," Dean said, just staring at them: staring like he might drink his fill if he could just stay here forever, as though the end would never come.

Yeah. He knew of many ways to die, quick and slow, humiliating and peaceful, pointless and fucking pointless because as many times as you died a hero it never changed a thing; but this? Something about this was different. Chuck, that poor bastard, didn't get it. He could make them his puppets. He could force them to do whatever he wanted to fulfill his sick storyline. But the meaning?

That was all theirs.

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warnings: major character death [but still a better ending than the finale]; some language