A/N: DESTIEL IS CANON, BITCHES! JACK KLINE IS GOD!
WARNING: This fic contains graphic depictions of violence, implied/referenced character death, self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, and alcohol abuse/alcoholism.
Dean's phone rang.
And it rang.
And it rang.
God, when would it stop?
A part of him — a small, small part of him — knew he had to answer it. That was the logic whispering from the lost depths of his mind. And the rest of him, the emotion, was decimating all in its path, like a natural disaster, like what God had done to the other worlds. His thoughts, his reasoning, they died out like little flames, suffocated, starved of oxygen, till only black smoke encompassed them. His mind, which had been alight with so many panicky, racing thoughts just a minute ago, was dead. Not truly dead, but what was there left to live for?
Castiel — he…
And Dean…
Fuck, now he was sobbing. He'd been trying to hold the sobs back for a little while, but they clawed their way from him, echoes that came deep from his shattered heart as it fell into ruin.
His phone rang.
Castiel was gone.
And Dean didn't even have a body to say goodbye to. All that Castiel was had been taken from him, and in his final moments he'd given Dean everything.
Castiel had given him what he'd been too afraid to give to himself since he was a little boy, what he'd been too afraid to ask for, to fight for, to believe in. And he'd taken that part of Dean, that little boy who'd once had hope, and he'd told him that it was okay. It was okay. Dean was who he was, and he was loved.
Now there was no one.
No one at all.
Again, that small part of his mind whispered, words smothered in smoke: You still have Sam and Jack.
And he did.
But they weren't Castiel.
He loved them.
Just not in the same way. His love for them didn't come anywhere close to the type of love he had for Cas.
Sam was his brother.
Jack was his son.
But Cas was… Cas was his best friend, his family, the angel who'd fallen for him, the angel who had shown him in his final moments that it was okay to fly.
If it hadn't been a goodbye, Dean would have flown. He would've let Cas take him away, would've begged him for it.
Dean would do anything to have gotten just a few more seconds. A few more seconds so he could try and make sense of what had happened. A few more seconds so maybe he could've held him tight, kept him safe.
But Castiel wasn't safe.
Dean was now, but at a great cost, one of the greatest costs in his life. He was alive, unhurt. That didn't mean he was whole.
Having him go… like this…
Well, Dean was absolutely sure he'd never be whole again.
Maybe he'd never been whole. Or he had, for the first four years of his life. And then his mother had burned. The life he would've had had burned.
Then, all his life was for twenty-two years was looking out for Sam. Always looking out for Sam. He kept Sam safe from John, their fucking father who was supposed to be there for them. He wasn't supposed to drink and get angry and tell them that monsters were real. For a long time, Dean had thought John was the only monster — taking him and Sammy from state to state across the godforsaken country, pulling them out of school, away from friends, making learning so damn hard till Dean didn't care. Till he didn't care at all. And he had friends, buddies, who had hurt Dean. And he'd taken it. He'd taken it for Sam. John was the monster, and he'd broken Dean. He'd taken a happy little boy whose life had suddenly been turned around by his mother's death, and had shown him that there weren't happy things in the world.
And Dean had somehow managed to find happiness in Sammy. Even when Dean got mad it was always Sammy. At the end of the day, being Sam's mother, his father — it was never a burden. Because Sam was safe. And that was enough to make little Dean smile.
Yet still he'd hurt inside, maybe from everything, maybe from nothing.
Sam said he'd realized he was always different. Dean knew the feeling.
Oh, fucking god, he sure as all hell knew the feeling.
So he'd never spoken of it. He'd never even let it turn into more than just a speculation he'd passed off as some weird kink he wanted to try. He did that. He buried it, he locked it away, he left it hidden…
Until Castiel.
Castiel sacrificed everything for Dean, and even then Dean wasn't ready. How could he be ready when everyone he loved died? How could he be ready when death and pain was all he was used to, and all he knew? What was love to a man like that? Was it even real? And if it was, how was he supposed to act? How was it supposed to feel? All he knew was that it would suffocate him.
God, it would suffocate him till he ran. Till he ran, and ran, and there was nothing left.
There was nowhere to run this time.
And what would he be running from? A god damn empty room where words had been said before falling into nothing? An empty room where his best friend should be?
Dean just couldn't do it.
He was sure he wouldn't even be able to stand.
And that little boy in him that had seen and heard that it was okay to be who he was, to love — well, he'd gone and hidden under a blanket in a dark corner. Maybe the smart thing would be to hug him, to tell him it was alright. But there would be no doing that.
While Castiel loved Dean, Dean didn't love himself.
But he did love.
He loved, even now as it hurt, as it shattered his entire world, and broke everything down into a fine powder. The emptiness, the too-loud beats of his heart, set that powder aflame, turning it into nothing.
What was left of Dean had been taken from him.
So here he was, sitting on the floor, a bloody handprint on his shoulder, unable to function, to think, to breathe… And he was nothing. He was just a useless body of flesh and blood. His whole heart had been taken from him. Stolen.
There'd be no getting it back.
Dean's phone rang again, and he had to pull in the urge to throw it across the room, or break it in half in his hands.
Still crying, but holding his breath against more sobs, he picked up the phone. He wiped at his eyes, and was met with the name SAM on the screen.
Dean steeled himself, staring at that name, preparing, getting himself ready.
He bit back his pain, he swallowed it, till he could almost forget it was there.
Almost.
And that almost wasn't enough. Wasn't enough to stop hurting, to even let him lie to himself to try and feel better. It just wasn't.
But it was enough for Dean to press the little green indent, and put the phone to his ear.
Sam was saying something, and he didn't care. He just didn't fucking care. There was just roaring in his ears, and those words, over and over again till he bled from the inside out, "I love you."
Dean couldn't keep his tears back, and they rolled down his cheeks once more.
He breathed in, chest hurting, throat aching, the corners of his eyes stinging, and he could only say one thing: "Sammy…"
"Dean? Dean, what's wrong?"
Now the sobbing started up again. Now the soul-crushing agony came to realization.
Dean would have to leave this room. There was a world out there that didn't just need saving, it needed him to exist in it. How was he supposed to without him?
Still, he would have to leave. He'd have to talk to his family, have to explain.
The beginning of what was after his end would be this phone call.
And as it all crashed down on him like the broken glass that had showered him the first time he'd heard Castiel's true voice, suddenly, unthinkingly, Dean was sobbing, "He's gone! He-he's gone! Sam. Sammy. H-h-he's gone! He's gone he's gone he's gone! Oh, god! H-he's gone."
When Dean heard Sam begin to cry with him, that's how he knew there had been something in him left to hurt.
Yet, it didn't hurt as much as what Dean hadn't gotten to say. And an empty room wouldn't care.
Dean didn't know when he'd hung up, what he and Sam had talked about. Time had passed, he'd tossed his phone aside, and the tears had dried.
Hollow, so done with fucking existence and God and everything, Dean did the bravest thing he'd ever done.
He stood up.
The world had ended, and Dean was sitting in the kitchen, drinking beer like it was a god damn regular Thursday night. But there it was: no more Thursdays, no more weekends, or even fucking horrible Mondays. It was all… done. Poof.
He was still in the kitchen a case of beer later and that was how Sam and Jack found him.
Dean couldn't see straight as they came to him, and held him, and begged him to tell them what had happened.
Not wanting to know what had happened wasn't enough for him. He couldn't just pretend it didn't exist. He couldn't compartmentalize, couldn't put this part of him aside for the greater good.
There was no greater good anymore.
So that memory was as sharp and clear as anything. Clearer than even the most diligently cleaned window. There would be no erasing it. Ever. This was all there was.
So Dean cried tears he'd thought had all been cried out, and he told them, He's gone. There was nothing else to tell. No other truth.
Castiel was gone.
And the story wasn't over. It went past the last page, to the part that no one wanted to read. That was the part where Dean now existed, but not where he lived.
There was no living, not without Castiel.
His beating heart was a lie.
And it kept lying.
Lying and lying and lying…
Dean was glad when he lost consciousness and couldn't hear its lies, if only for a little while.
Jack wished he'd never gotten his soul back. He wished none of this had happened. That he hadn't lost his Grace, and then his soul. That he hadn't killed Mary, that he hadn't been killed by God, that Billie hadn't brought him back, and used him, and made him kill himself. That he hadn't survived that destruction, that he wasn't sitting here, right now, feeling, and feeling till he couldn't say anything.
His dad was…
Castiel was…
The word wouldn't come to him.
He knew it. All of him knew it.
But this world wasn't real enough for him to think it. Words weren't real when compared to the great agony bursting and bleeding through him. So he sat on his bed, Sam's arm around him, staring at nothing.
Sam was talking, and Jack heard it, Jack realized he was alive, even when he didn't want to be. He really didn't want to be.
At least he knew he wasn't the only one.
Dean had probably had enough to drink to kill himself by the time they'd gotten him to tell them everything and calm down, but there was no Death anymore. Was that why he still lived?
And this was the endgame.
Even if they could die, God wouldn't let them. Not yet. He was writing out his last chapter, and the three of them were a part of it. At least… maybe Sam and Dean were. God didn't want Jack in his story, not really.
"Jack, I–I know this is… hard. He was your dad. It's okay if…"
Sam sighed, and Jack looked up at him, tears leaving him unable to see. His other dad was just a big blur.
"No," he spoke. "It's not."
And somehow he knew Sam was crying. His dad grabbed him, holding him tight, and Jack collapsed against him. They both cried, holding each other as if that would save them.
There was nothing left to save.
Dean opened his eyes. He opened his eyes, and, god, he wished he hadn't. He wished he hadn't been able to, wished he was in a place far darker than death. The extra space on his bed, though never filled by anyone, had never felt emptier. It could've been filled, it could have...
Head pounding with such fierce pain that he could barely see, Dean rolled onto his side, and put a pillow over his head.
He tried to tell himself this wasn't real, that he wasn't still alive. The incisive headache yelled and screamed until he knew otherwise.
And then he had to run to grab a bucket because he was throwing up. It was definitely because of his hangover and all the beer, but it sure as hell felt as if every part of him was sick with what had happened.
It was sick. And he couldn't even blame God for it. God hadn't written this, this thing with Castiel. All of it, every single moment, had been because of Dean, because Dean had made Castiel happy.
And Castiel had made Dean happy. He'd made him so happy that at times, just seeing his smile had made him forget the evil in the world, if only for a few seconds.
They weren't supposed to have been happy.
That was the problem. They were the problem, the crack in God's plan, the flaw.
"We're making it up as we go."
If they hadn't been happy then maybe…
"You asked, 'What about all this is real?' We are."
...Castiel would still be alive.
Another bout of vomiting started again, head spinning, entire body aching and sick, and just feeling ready to die.
No one came to help him. Dean didn't mind. Sam needed sleep. Jack needed a father. For all Dean knew, it could've been the middle of the night, or really early in the morning.
Castiel would've been around to help him.
Even if he wouldn't have done so (Dean wouldn't have blamed him, given how gross this was), he should at least be alive — talking to Sam, laughing with Jack, getting ready to send Dean a series of emojis that only made sense to Cas.
He should've been, he should've been, he should've been…
He wasn't.
Dean's head started to play "Fade to Black," as if his subconscious was trying to soothe him.
The beginning strummed out, the beautiful whine of an electric in the background. The tune built and grew, a beginning turning into full-fledged beauty. And then the parts and phrases and notes became more, coalescing into a melody of guitars, of everything in tune and together, even just in Dean's head. In his head there was a stage, a stadium, a band. Real people, life.
Dean found himself humming, though barely aware of it, as he hung with his head over the bucket, the reek of his sickness washing over him. He could barely see, what with his eyes watering, tears trying to form, and sweat rolling down his skin and dripping down through his brows.
Life it seems, will fade away / Drifting further every day / Getting lost within myself / Nothing matters, no one else
Dean tried to take deep breaths, then forgot how to breathe, and in mere moments he was violently ill again, as if his body had forgotten how to function.
I have lost the will to live / Simply nothing more to give / There is nothing more for me / Need the end to set me free
With hardly any time to collect himself, Dean was sick again. God, he wanted to breathe. He couldn't breathe!
Things not what they used to be / Missing one inside of me / Deathly lost, this can't be real / Cannot stand this hell I feel / Emptiness is filling me / To the point of agony / Growing darkness taking dawn / I was me, but now he's gone
Dean had nothing left, nothing left at all, but his body kept trying to take from him. And it did.
No one but me can save myself, but it's too late / Now I can't think, think why I should even try / Yesterday seems as though it never existed / Death greets me warm, now I will just say goodbye / Goodbye
Finally, he was sure he was done — at least for now. He was collapsed in the hallway, lying on his side, cement hard and scratchy against his cheek. His body — the only sad, pathetic thing left of him, the one thing that hadn't even been supposed to belong to him — ached. Dean ached.
Maybe he should get up.
Maybe he should stay there for all of time.
There was no point to anything else.
At all.
Ever.
Why would there be?
Dean drifted in and out of hellish consciousness, and when he found himself sick again, and was wondering where the fuck his family was, there was a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was a familiar hand, a loving hand.
But it wasn't Cas.
Dean's body finished torturing him for a moment or so, and Dean tilted his head up to look at his brother.
"Hey," Dean croaked out.
Hey. The first real, normal word he'd said since— It wasn't very eloquent, but Dean wasn't really one for speeches.
Sam was making a face, clearly disgusted, and Dean just gave him an apologetic look.
"You gonna live?" Sam asked.
Dean gripped him, a sign to help him up, and then they both hauled him to his feet. Dean just leaned against the wall, breathing hard, hating, hating, hating…
"Sadly."
Too-hot water pattered against Dean's reddening skin, and he barely felt it. There was nothing left to feel. So he burned himself as he showered, as he wished for what he could've had, wished for what he'd lost, wished for more.
The alive, coherent — hell, two-percent happy — half of him was back in the dungeon, back with Him.
"You see yourself the same way our enemies see you."
Dean trembled under the water. The other half of him that existed in the present moment all too real for the moment.
"You're destructive…"
He clenched his fist. Both sides of him pulling at each other, pulling till...
"...and you're angry…"
Dean's body shook fiercely as he aimed that fist at the shower wall without a thought or care in the world.
"...and you're broken."
Lower it. Lower it. Come on, Dean. Don't do this.
"You're—you're 'daddy's blunt instrument.'"
The two sides snapped him in the middle, like a wad of gum pulled too far in either direction. What was left was gross, stringy, raw hurt.
Dean slammed a fist into the wall.
"And you think that hate and anger — that's what drives you."
Skin split. Blood welled up hot on his fists. Cracks sounded — either his knuckles or the wall, Dean didn't care.
"That's who you are."
Tile broke, little, gray fragments falling like ash.
"It's not!"
Dean cried out, slamming his fist into the broken wall one last time. Utterly spent, and drained, he slowly collapsed to the marble floor. He cried, tears mixing with hot water, mixing with blood.
"And everyone who knows you sees it."
That fragment of being was how he existed for the next moment, minute, hour… He wasn't sure how much time passed, but all he heard over and over were Castiel's words.
"You changed me, Dean."
How was Dean alive and breathing?
"I love you."
And he loved him, but he hadn't gotten to say it.
Now he never would.
Dean flitted through time, flitted through moments, burdened with a heavy fog that obscured his cares and wants, his drive, his fight… maybe even who he was. Somehow, he came to, finally breathing, the fog clearing just enough for him to realize he wasn't alone. He had Sam, he had Jack. And did they need him? Did he need them?
The fog hadn't cleared enough for Dean to see.
He was sitting in the bunker's library, a cup of coffee in his hands, warming his nearly-lifeless fingers. Sam and Jack sat across from him, and their bodies were turned towards each other ever so slightly as if they were talking to each other.
"If everyone's gone, what do we do?" Jack asked, Dean realizing he was beginning to listen, that maybe he was beginning to care.
"We—we do what we do."
"But there's no one."
Sam let out a world-burdened sigh, and ran a hand through his hair and then over his face.
Dean gazed at them, confused, and looked around, finally fully realizing that there was existence on the physical plane, and not just one of agony.
"What?"
Sam and Jack shot looks at him, seemingly startled that he had spoken, and they looked… God, they looked broken too.
Dean drank some of his coffee.
Sober up, you idiot.
Sober up. Not just from the alcohol. From the grief. From the layer of darkness shrouding him. From his self-pitying narcissism.
"I think we need to touch base," Sam said. "You've been…" He waved his hand vaguely around his head.
"Yeah, yeah." Dean put his coffee down, and then instantly regretted it because he thought maybe holding it was the only thing that had kept him sane the last few minutes. Instead he settled for putting a hand under the table, and pressing his thumb into his thigh much too roughly. The other hand he wrapped into a fist, even as his scraped knuckles protested. "Well, world to save, you know?"
"Actually," Jack said in a quiet, hopeless voice, "there's… nothing."
"What do you mean there's nothing?"
"Nothing," Sam said, as if that would clear it all up. "Zilch. Nada."
"Nada doesn't sound good."
"Yeah, so—so… while you and—while you, uh… well, while you were—"
Dean frowned, brows furrowing together. "Just get on with it."
Sam's words escaped him in a pained rush, as if someone had suddenly whacked him in the gut with a heavy wooden plank, "God erased everyone."
Great, so Dean definitely was going crazy. He looked from Sam to Jack, then back, seeing if maybe they were pulling some weird joke, or if he'd somehow heard wrong. Erased. And if he had, then what the hell were they still doing here?
"Uh… this is a joke, right?"
"No," Jack answered.
"I wish."
"So he erased the world, but left us here?"
"That's what it looks like."
Dean was glad he'd found an excuse to hold onto his coffee again. He had a sip, and then just stared.
What a fucking joke the final moments of his life were turning out to be.
"Shit," Dean exclaimed.
Sam glanced at Jack, eyes clearly saying, Don't swear in front of the kid.
Oops.
Dean shrugged at Sam, giving him a what do you want? look, and then shook his head at Jack in what only a small part of him hoped was in a begrudging, parental manner.
"So he Thanos-snapped us," Dean went on.
Sam, even while looking like crap warmed over had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, managed to keep his energy going as he explained, "Sort of. Except, you know, minus the whole 'half of all life' thing. But I… we thought you already knew some of the deal, since Cas—"
Everything in Dean went cold. Colder than death.
"Oh, so that's how you think Cas went?" Dean asked, emptying his cup of coffee, before pushing it till it rolled aside. Sam caught the mug before it hit the floor. Dean started to pace.
"I thought, you know, like Eileen and—and—"
Dean whirled on Sam.
"He ain't Eileen, Sam! This is Cas!"
"Dean, I loved him too—"
God damn it, he wanted to throw something.
"You know what Cas did for me? You don't, do you? Did he even tell either of you about the Empty?" Jack looked away, face going pale. Dean frowned, and stared hard at his son. "He did," Dean surmised, voice a deadly steel.
"Dean, just leave him—"
"He didn't have to," Jack answered. The kid tried looking up at him, but as a tear started to fall, he settled for gazing at the table. "He made the deal in front of me."
"Deal?" Sam asked. "What deal? What are you two talking about?"
"Ask him!" Dean pointed. "Since he already friggin' knew, ask him!"
That had Sam placing a protective hand on Jack's chest. There was a glare on his face, amidst loss, and confusion. Fuck, if Sammy started crying, Dean wouldn't be able to control himself.
Jack was crying.
And Dean wished he was the person Cas had thought he was, because he would've cared. He would've cared that their kid was hurting, and had lost a dad. Yet all Dean could think was how Jack had known.
"He's just a kid!"
"Weren't we just kids? That ain't a good excuse, and you know it."
"No, I don't need to know that. You do. You think it's fair what's happened to him, what's been happening to this family? We're the grownups here! I get you miss him, I miss him too, but at least friggin' act your own age!"
Those words seemed so tone deaf, so wrong that Dean laughed, even as his eyes filled up with tears.
"Yeah, because you always could, couldn't you?" Dean asked. "I raised you, kept you safe from dad, from other hunters, and you didn't have to do a damn thing. You just got to act. Your. Age. When's it my turn to be the sensitive one, Sammy! Huh? When!"
"You're gonna put that on me?"
"If I want, yeah."
"What else, then? What else are you gonna put on me? Mom? The Apocalypse: take one? Dad?" There was a deathly pause followed by, "Cas?"
"You're lucky that last one's on him!"
"Just tell me what the hell happened, man! Please, talk to me."
"No, you know what? I've done my fair share of talking. Jack, the floor's all yours."
To Dean's surprise the kid actually got to his feet. Tears wet his cheeks, and his face was scrunched up as if he was trying to hold in a sob.
"You don't have to do this, Dean." Before Dean could even shoot him a questioning look, he clarified, "Hurt Sam. He didn't do anything. And Cas" — Dean growled — "he wouldn't want this. He wanted to be happy." Jack sniffled, and then couldn't go on for some time, mouth working open and close. If a sound came out he'd sob. Dean knew what that was like, and still there wasn't room in the tiny sliver of what remained of his heart for care. Cas was gone, and Jack had known about the deal? "He just wanted to be happy. But he told me—he told me he never would be. So I… I believed him." Dean couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet, not as that kid that looked so much like Cas, the kid that Cas had taught him how to love, met his eyes. The hurt of a dead parent lay there. And Dean knew that hurt. Everything in him softened, and Jack started to cry in earnest. "I believed him."
Dean almost collapsed, and then had to hold himself up with the edge of the table. Sam didn't go to him. Sam was busy taking care of Jack, who still looked at him like a kicked puppy who wanted something. But good. Let Sam take care of the kid. Jack needed someone more stable than Dean.
"I would've believed him too," Dean murmured.
Sam cleared his throat, and then sniffled. "So this… this deal — what was it?"
The world swallowed Dean up. From very far away, as if the words reached him down a long tunnel, he heard Jack answer, "Cas — he made a deal with the Empty."
"Why?"
"To get me back after the first time I died. The—the Empty wanted me, but—but Cas wouldn't let… He gave himself to it instead. I'm sorry."
Sam held Jack's face. "Don't you ever be sorry for being here and alive and with us. It's not your fault. It could never be your fault."
"He wasn't supposed to be happy!" Jack argued, ignoring Sam, still on a downward spiral. "He told me, he told me!"
"So he had to be happy, is that it?" Sam asked, trying to gently coax the information out of Jack.
"Truly happy."
"And he wasn't before?"
"Were you? Were either of you?"
The silence was answer enough.
Aches throbbed in Dean's chest along with that silence, his head pounding.
"Then what…?"
Sam trailed off. When Dean's world focused in again, he realized that both the remaining members of his family were staring at him.
Dean's bottom lip trembled, and he pouted. The tears had stopped minutes ago, but wanted to come anew.
All he could do was shake his head at them. "Don't. Don't ask me that. I can't do it. I just can't."
Because if he did he'd have to understand, "You changed me, Dean. I love you." And with their universe being the only one left, there sure as hell wasn't one out there where he could make sense of it, where those words wouldn't make him ache and bleed and scream inside. Where those words could've been returned. And all the other Castiels, they'd done their job. They'd listened to God. Not this one. Not Dean's Castiel.
The almost-knowing look on Sam's face was enough to send Dean's heart racing. God, he needed to change the subject. What was the remaining subject left in the world? Oh, that's right! "So Chuck out-infinitied the Infinity Gauntlet. It's us, and him. What can we even do?"
"Is Billie still a player?"
Memories cut into Dean like a whirlwind of sharp glass, and even slamming the door on them couldn't stop them from coming through. Still, he managed to answer, "No."
"Is the Empty?" Jack.
Dean couldn't answer.
They understood.
Dean gazed off into the emptiness inside himself, realizing his entire world now looked like that on the outside.
"What can we do against him?" Dean asked, voice lost and void of hope. "There's nobody left."
Quiet reigned, quiet that encompassed all the world. The cars that had been getting driven must have all already crashed, the buses, and trains, and airplanes all mute in their destruction. The universe was empty. There was just this.
A thought started to work itself out in Dean's mind, had maybe even hit the drawing board, but he ignored it. He simply said, "I'm gonna grab a drink," and walked out.
Day two of the Life-Sucks-and-Then-You-Die-But-Wait-You-Can't-and-You-Wish-You-Could bus ride of horror and fun started the same as the one before.
Sam didn't come help him this time.
And neither did Jack.
Day three it was Sam's turn.
Day four it was Jack's.
Day five…
Day six…
One week into the epic bus tour of living nightmares, Dean wanted to get the fuck off, but there wasn't an exit. And that thought had come up again; that nameless thing that he couldn't begin to imagine but for some reason gave him hope. So he was in the library, researching vague lore and mythology, and even the stuff that threw ancient cosmology into the mix, when Sam found him.
"Looking for a way to fix this," Dean said in lieu of a greeting as Sam walked in, and his brother, having been about to ask the question, closed his mouth.
"Getting Cas back?"
"Maybe if we get Cas back," Dean told him, words loud and fervent, "we can figure the rest out."
"Yeah, how much sleep did you get?"
Dean got up and went to go flip through another book. To answer Sam, he shrugged. His brother sighed. He went on, "The world's dead. Does it matter?"
"You mat—" Sam looked up — to what? to Heaven? — of all things, and then decided to drop it. "Okay, what'd you find?"
Dean pointed at his laptop, and went over to the cabinet filed with the catalogue cards. He shuffled through them, looking, looking…
"So you said God went and hit delete, right? And you know the whole, 'So it is in Heaven, so it shall be on Earth' thing? Well, I was thinking, that's just it. He didn't take a wrecking ball to this place, so maybe Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, they're all still in the game."
Dean found the card he was looking for, read it over three times till it was in his head, and then he set to searching the library, hands held out, ready to grab.
"Balance still has to be a thing, and even the Men of Letters thought that was the most important cosmic rule. Everything else says it too. Hell, even physics. So I bet those realms are still up and kicking, and I started looking into that, but then things got weird."
Sitting on the free table beside the one Dean had taken over, Sam read through the notes up on Dean's laptop. "Wow," he commented, "you really did your reading."
"Yeah, and here's the thing…" Dean found the book, pulled it out, and yep, it was just as musty and old as he'd thought it would be. He went over and slammed it down beside Sam, rattling the part of the table not being sat on. "The Men of Letters didn't know God was real, but…" Dean blew dust off the cover, and started flipping it open. "Balance was important. They even said some bullshit about, uh… about… Hinduism, and Buddhism. And I'm saying, man, it all fits."
"Fits?"
"Well, if Amara was the opposite of God, then what was the opposite of them? They were two powerful, cosmic beings; her — the dark, and God — the light. I know she said before that she was everything opposite light, but she also said she was destruction, and chaos. That doesn't sound like nothingness to me, which, according to the Men of Letters, needs to be a variable. Without nothing you can't have something."
"Dean, did you get a college degree while I was sleeping? You're worrying me."
He ignored him. "The Norse described it as Ginnungagap…"
Dean found what he was looking for, and thank fuck, it had a picture too. He slammed his finger onto it. Onto what was on the page in thick, black ink.
"Here. This." Dean held the book up for Sam to see.
Dean watched the realization dawn on his brother's face, and he put the laptop aside to grab the book.
"The Empty."
"The Empty," Dean confirmed.
Jack wanted to help. He did. He really did. But he didn't care. How could he care? Still, he pretended he did. Maybe that's all any of them had been doing for the past week. Without Cas, caring didn't seem to matter.
"What is all this?" Jack asked, as Sam led him into the bunker library, and he took in all the books and notes.
"Dean's been working."
Jack almost stopped dead in surprise.
Dean. Dean, his dad who had blamed him for Cas, who had drunken himself sick two days in a row, who hadn't said a single word while he and Sam had tried to talk things over? That one?
Jack spotted his dad, and were his hair longer, it surely would have been in utter disarray. There was a wild desperation in his stance, and on his features, haunting the depths of his eyes.
"Everyone's here. Good. Great."
Dean filled him in.
Jack just stared at him hard, as if not understanding, and then looked at Sam.
"We're not joking," Sam assured.
"Ex-excuse me?" Jack asked.
"Look, it's simple," Dean began, "Amara and God are the opposite ends of existence, but what's opposite existence? The Empty. So we do something to either God or the Empty and it upsets the whole system."
"Which we want?"
"I'm not really one for believing in miracles, but you're you, and well…"
"Cas isn't technically dead," Sam finished for him.
"So that means…?"
"You know those plants you been killing, Jack?"
The kid just stared, cheeks going pink as if he thought he was about to get blamed for it.
"Don't worry, you're not in trouble," Sam assured him.
Jack still didn't relax. Dean didn't blame him. He wouldn't have been able to either if he had some freaky power that Sam had only just told him about three days ago.
"Billie's gone, and there's a vacancy. We think—"
"Dean."
"I think that this is where you might come in."
"But I didn't kill God," Jack told him. "I failed."
Dean had lost the ability to smile, but still he managed to keep his face soft as he explained, "You didn't fail, Jack. This was Billie's game. And since she's not here anymore, maybe it's your game now. The ball's not just in your court. You're the only court."
Jack's eyes squinted in befuddlement, a look so similar that it nearly ripped out and shredded the remaining sliver of Dean's being.
Sam lightly whacked him on the chest, and whispered, a reminder, "Sports references."
"Oh, right. So you know the force dyad shit" — Sam glared daggers — "in The Rise of Skywalker? You're Rey at the end."
The kicked puppy look on Jack's face lessened just a fraction.
"So I get a lightsaber?"
"Can you make a lightsaber?" Sam asked, referring to his powers.
Jack shook his head. "Oh. No. Not yet."
"Anyway," Dean went on, "you're Death. You get the powers, the responsibilities, the all-exclusive VIP access pass to wherever you want. So you can do this."
"Do what?"
Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sam had started going to kneel in front of the kid, eyes all soft. Dean closed his mouth, and just watched, listened.
Sam took Jack's hands.
"Jack, we understand that you've been through more than is even possible for anyone your age, and we get that it hurts. We couldn't be there for everything with you, but if you give us this chance, we'll be here for this. Your new powers — they're not a curse. Maybe they're not a gift either. But I know what you can do, and I've seen what's been happening. And I have to believe this happened for a reason, even if that only reason is that this is happening. Jack, we… we might be able to win. To-to finally make this the end, our end. And Dean and I, we're gonna be right here with you, every step of the way. Heck, I'll even carry you if you need me to."
Jack's eyes were lined with silver, even while wide with disbelief. The tears built up, but they didn't fall. His gaze went to Dean.
Dean just responded, somber, "None of us is in this alone. We're family."
A tear rolled down Jack's cheek. "And Cas?"
"We do this right and we'll get him back."
We have to.
Dean was buzzing with caffeine, and nearly delirious from lack of sleep and alcohol. Surely his body couldn't take it anymore. This had to be it.
It was for his mind.
The plan, while being other-worldly complicated, was simple. Sam and Jack would go to Death's Library to try and access the powers that had transferred over, and Dean would go looking for the Empty. Sam had begged Dean to come to the library with them, had reasoned that since he'd seen the Empty there, that it was their best lead.
Dean knew it wasn't.
The Empty could go anywhere it wanted. Hell, using that point, the bunker could be their best lead. Dean had a feeling about this though. Castiel had gone into Hell to save Dean. He'd fallen when it feared him, and now it was Dean's turn to do the same for Cas. He had to fly.
Dean headed with Sam and Jack to the artifacts room to say goodbye. Even with fear biting off the hope brewing in his stomach, Dean just prayed this wouldn't be their last goodbye.
Jack had a backpack of supplies with him, making him look like he was off to his first day of kindergarten. Yeah, if for a nephilim's first day of kindergarten they went to claim the power to defeat God. Completely normal.
Dean stood across from them now, the key to Death's Library in Sam's hand. Quiet reigned, all three of them feeling the gravity of what they were going to attempt. This wasn't like when they were stopping the Apocalypse, or trying to defeat Lucifer, or even stopping the Darkness. This was saving everything. Saving it from God, from the Darkness, from what Billie's plans had set in motion. And on top of that they had to tell the Empty to go fuck itself. Dean personally wanted to be the one to do that last bit.
"You get in there, you do the work, you get out," Dean told Sam. "You and the kid need to be safe. That's all that matters."
Jack reached out and gripped Dean's arm, and he felt something in that touch. For just a second the lights flickered. Or had he imagined it?
"You need to be okay, too."
Dean just glanced at Jack, trying to figure out what he was feeling, what sensation that was touching him.
Nah. Probably nothing. Just the kid becoming Death.
But it didn't feel like Death. And the three of them had already hashed out the whole 'Jack not being a reaper' thing, but Jack was something that hadn't existed before. This had to be it. What else was there?
What else was there?
Cas…
"You're a good kid, Jack," Dean told him. "I'm sorry I ever made you feel otherwise. Take care of my big brother, okay?" Jack nodded, and then Dean looked at Sam. "Take care of him, Sammy. You've always been better at that than me."
"Only because you raised me. Now, go, try to find the Empty. And keep your phone on in case you need anything."
This was the part where Dean should say a joke, where he was supposed to act like he was fine, and like he wasn't about to walk into something huge, like they all weren't. That part wasn't real. What was real was the cracks in Dean's broken shell at the thought of losing someone else.
And those that he might lose had already turned to go.
They have to do this, they have to do this, he told himself vehemently. You have to do this.
For Cas.
"Sam? Jack?" They faced him. "We're doin' the right thing. We're doin' this for Cas." Dean swallowed hard, and then added, words near-guttural, "For—for love."
Sam nodded, and his jaw clenched. A tear slipped from Jack's eye.
"For love," Sam affirmed.
"For love."
The three of them turned to go, Dean heading out alone.
Death's Library was quiet, and empty, even with the remains of the fallen reapers.
Jack had thought maybe he'd feel something upon stepping into the Library, but he didn't. At least, not anything he expected. He felt… good. Was being Death supposed to feel good? Jack had just seen it as this neutral cold. But there was something here, something he was drawing on. But what?
Sam started to walk ahead. "Her desk was through here," he explained. "It's where I found God's Death Book. Maybe…" His dad trailed off, realizing he wasn't following him. He eyed him up and down, face etched with quiet alarm. "You okay?"
Jack nodded.
He wasn't.
The drive to the Gates of Heaven had never seemed longer. The long, empty roads pulled at the loneliness inside Dean, and begged it to come out and play. To try and remedy it, Dean had been an idiot and tried the stereo. Of course nothing's on, dumbass. Everyone's fucking gone. So he put in a tape. His hand had brushed over one tape in particular that he had thought Cas had still had on him. Yet, there it was. Dean hadn't been able to get back on the road for minutes afterwards, just crying as he looked at Dean's top 13 Zepp Tra xx.
"It's a gift. You keep those."
Then why had he given it back? He'd had it, for years, and now it was in the Impala.
Had Cas known?
So Dean had spent too much time crying over that cassette tape, trembling as he considered putting it into the tape deck and listening to it.
He couldn't do it.
Not alone.
Not without Cas.
He'd randomly chosen something else, and now he was listening to "Carry On Wayward Son" by Kansas. The lyrics were enough to make Dean want to go back to 1976 and punch Kerry Livgren in the face. There wouldn't be peace when they were done. If they were ever done. Which they wouldn't be.
Would they?
This was trying that, it was a start. Telling himself that didn't make it feel true. There was no ignoring the tears that burned his eyes, as the music tried to lull him.
Lay your weary head to rest / Don't you cry no more
Yeah, as if.
Dean drove.
When he got to the Gates, not a sound could be heard. For some reason he'd expected the sounds of bugs, and other tiny creatures of the night.
Nothing.
Fuck, God had done all those in too?
If he had, that meant the power keeping the realms bound against humans was gone. He was betting on it.
So Dean stepped out of the Impala, his last remaining anchor in a dark, and silent world, and went up to the sandbox. A collapsed tower resided along the corner of a sandcastle. And the sandcastle beside it was windblown, the grains having traveled till only a chunk of the top remained. It was ready to fall.
Dean held back his tears, had to do so by holding his breath, and kicked the sandcastles aside, and then leaned over to rub his arms through the sand to smooth it out as best he could.
Dean took out a flashlight and a copy of the pattern Sam had given him, and he set to work, the sand cold against his fingers.
Not much time had to pass for Sam to learn that checking Billie's desk had been futile. There was nothing to be found. If there was, it wasn't meant for human eyes.
"Can you… see anything?" Sam asked Jack.
Jack looked around slowly, taking it all in, squinting as if he could peer into the tiniest speck of existence (Sam wished he could right about now).
"I only see what you see. But I… feel something."
"You feel something? What do you feel?"
"Just… weird." Some realization or other dawned on Jack's face, and then he straightened, suddenly looking so serious. "Excuse me, I have to go and check something."
Before Sam could question him, he'd already begun to walk away.
So he just followed, and trusted that his son truly knew what he was doing.
The Gates opened.
Dean stood there in shock as he looked at the silvery-white light of Heaven bursting into the night. All he could do was stare. Honestly, he hadn't thought he'd make it this far.
He held his breath, and held out a shaky hand. Fingers touched the light. He gasped.
They'd passed through.
Fuck, they'd passed through.
Dean breathed a sigh of relief, and then readied himself to step in.
"This is it."
Dean walked into Heaven, even while life beat through his chest.
Though he'd heard multiple descriptions of Heaven from Castiel, Dean was still taken aback with how white everything was. Halls seemed to go on forever and ever, overlapping, and running on into infinity.
Dean gulped.
"So… this is Heaven."
And it's nice not getting the dead guy tour this time.
Alive, thank you very much.
It was the first time Dean had wanted to be alive in a week.
"Jack, where are you going?" Sam asked.
"To see."
"To see what?"
Jack walked briskly, Sam following at a cautious distance. They turned down a row of books, and then another, and another.
"It."
"Can you be more specific? Whoa!"
Jack had stopped short, and Sam had to rein himself in so as to not bump into him. His son still had that same serious expression on his face.
"I don't know. I just…" He raised a hand, and pointed his finger behind him, head already turning. "I have to go that way."
"Your powers?"
"I think so."
"Well, when they let you know what's going on, just fill me in, okay?"
"Okay."
Jack went on ahead, following some cosmic path that only he could see.
Jack didn't know exactly what he was looking for.
The books. The books. It was all about the books. And a book that Jack needed to see.
Why did it matter?
Which one?
When he saw a bright, glowing 'K,' on top of the next bookshelf, he knew what this was.
Jack raced into the row, a powerful sensation thrumming through him.
"Hey, Jack!" Sam exclaimed.
He probably didn't like that Jack had just taken off, but he couldn't help it. He had to find it.
When Jack was pulled to a stop by the thrumming beat in his body, he stood before an empty space on the shelf, right in between Jack Klein, and Jack Klopp. Without a thought, without even the intelligible whisper of intent, Jack's fingers found the empty space.
Sam caught up to him.
"Don't do that. You could've been attacked."
Jack knew he was right, but he was too entranced with that hollow space on the black shelf to say anything.
"Jack?"
"It was supposed to be right here."
Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, a product of distress, confusion… exhaustion.
He just wanted Cas. That's all he wanted. All he needed.
Jack Kline needed his father, the father he'd chosen, the one who was supposed to have been there for forever.
The bookshelf was smooth beneath his fingers.
The angels were gone. There was nothing. Dean was actually breathing heavy and deep with relief at that.
No angels. No problems.
Only one angel mattered.
If there weren't angels, then how were the lights on? Dean suddenly wondered. He whirled, questioning it.
No angels probably meant no souls, so maybe… the angels weren't needed to sustain this realm anymore? It just… did it by itself?
Odd that something meant to be so pure could find true peace in abandonment. Dean almost growled at the walls as he walked. Just another reason to hate Heaven.
"Hey!" he called. "Hello?"
Still nothing.
Good.
He paused at an intersection, looking around, eyes moving frantically, head spinning.
"I just wish there was someone to give me directions," he pointed out to himself.
His phone started ringing.
"Kline," Jack said. "My name is supposed to be here, but…" He reached out, and grabbed the book to the left.
Page after page after page described detailed and informative deaths. Deaths that would happen, that might happen. It ended on a page that said, Killed in God's mass execution of the planet.
Frowning, Jack dropped that book, and grabbed the next he could get his hands on.
Again: Killed in God's mass execution of the planet.
Breathing weak and shallow, something calling to him, he picked up another book.
Killed in God's—
Another.
Killed in—
Another.
Killed in God's mass—
Killed—
Killed in—
Killed in God's mass execution—
Killed in God's mass execution—
Killed in God's mass execution of the planet.
Killed in—
Jack dropped the book he was holding, now farther down the row, books and pages scattered about everywhere. They littered the floor in white and black.
"They're all dead," Jack said. "But I'm not here. My book, my name… Billie said I was supposed to die, and I—I did… I think. Then where's my book?"
Sam carefully stepped over the mess Jack had made, and went to grip his shoulder.
"You're here, Jack. You're alive. So—so… So maybe you don't need a book."
A force whispered in Jack's ear.
"No, everyone needs a book. Let's… Let's get back to finding out how I become Death."
Something was wrong with that last sentence. Something was so erroneous that Jack couldn't find the will to put one foot in front of the other.
His face fell.
"Jack? Hey, Jack, what is it?"
"I feel weird."
Sam's eyebrows raised slightly, but pulled in at the inner ends near his nose. Softness settled in his eyes. A crooked tilt of his lips that was almost a smile had Jack reassessing his entire expression.
That was love. And confusion. Exasperation.
"Yeah, I noticed. So is this… good weird? Bad weird?"
"Just…" Jack paused to think, and frowned, the dimple at the corner of his mouth pulling in. "Weird."
"Alright, so how do we make 'just weird' start making more sense?"
Somehow suddenly so sure of what he was doing, Jack took his backpack off from around his shoulders, and unzipped it to start searching through it.
Sam stared in abject horror when Jack's hand came free of the bag holding the twisted, primordial gold of the archangel blade.
"Ah."
"Ah?"
"I want to try something."
"Jack, the words 'I want to try something' being said while—while holding a knife — they've never been a good idea."
"Well this one is."
Jack handed the backpack to Sam, who took it, too shocked to do anything else.
Jack twirled the angel blade between his hands, studying the way the light gleamed.
Do it, a voice whispered.
As Jack aimed to stab himself he knew that voice was his own.
Cass alit the screen of Dean's phone. His heart didn't dare to beat.
Breathless, mouth dry, he answered it.
"Wait, wait! Jack, what are you doing?"
Sam was ignored.
He tried reaching out for his son, but before he could do anything, the archangel blade was plunging its way into Jack's chest.
Words wouldn't come to Dean as he held the phone to his ear.
"Dean?"
The sight of the weapon sticking out of his son's chest left Sam's lungs hollow, trying to build up for a scream that had already been stolen.
"It's alright," Jack said.
God, he spoke.
How—?
"It's alright."
He pulled the archangel blade out, and the deep wound Sam could see through the rip in Jack's shirt healed.
"Jack—"
"It can't kill me."
"What does that mean?"
"I think it means…" Jack dropped the archangel blade, and then raised his hands in awe. "...I can do this," he finished. Jack waved his hands.
"Cas?"
One second. Two. Dean held his breath. His heart beat.
Nothing else was said.
Dean vainly searched Heaven, phone to his ear, calling out Cas' name.
There was no answer.
Just as Dean was at the entrance to what looked like a garden (was it the Garden?), the line went dead.
All alone in the vastness of Heaven, Dean's voice echoed out: "Cas."
Books flew off the shelves, up into the air, pages scattering around them. A page stayed in the air in front of Sam long enough for him to see that 'Killed in God's mass execution of the planet' was being erased. Black faded into white.
The pages seemed to find their proper places, they settled, and Jack stood there, both hands raised as if he'd just finished conducting an orchestra and the end note of the big finale was still ringing through the air.
"What did you do?" Sam asked.
"I think I saved them."
"Cas, I love you."
Cas, I love you.
That was annoying. Amongst the dark and blank nothingness there was now… something.
Castiel tried to ignore it and fall back into a deeper slumber.
Cas…
He twitched in his sleep.
Shut up, he thought.
Cas…
Fallen onto his knees, Dean began to pray, "Cas, I hope you got your ears on. I… I need you with me in this fight, man. I need you with me in everything. In—in pulling pranks on Sam… in drinking at the bar… over-stuffing myself on those new bacon waffles at Biggerson's. And Jack, he needs you. Your son — o-our son — shouldn't have to feel this. This ugly, animal inside that can only claw up everything around it when a parent dies. He's feelin' that, Cas. He's feelin' it, and he needs you so he won't. He needs you!"
Somehow, Jack knew what he said was true.
What had been quietly and gently building and building since the explosion had finally reached its peek and been set free.
Jack was… free.
He could see everything, feel everything, hear, smell, taste, touch.
Jack was.
Dean prayed to Castiel.
Jack cried, even while he smiled, knowing what he could do.
Jack set to work, glowing with gold.
"Sam — he… he needs you, too. We're supposed to be a family."
Sam.
Not interesting enough. The name sounded familiar, but Castiel didn't care. Why couldn't that talking thing just go. Away?
Sleep.
Sleep…
"I need you," Dean told him. "I—I don't just need you; I love you. I love you, Cas. And I don't think I know how to stop. How could I? You saved me. You took a soul that was—that was damned, and you showed it goodness. Kindness. Caring. And I know—I know that at first, you weren't that person I grew to love. I know. You were rough, and stern, and so desperate to stay in line that you were… the biggest ass I have ever met.
"Then you learned. I don't know how. But you learned. You learned free will, learned—learned that we did have our own choices.
"I know I didn't believe you, when you said we were real. You know, I just thought… it's just God, right? It's just God in my head? Writing the script?
"Yet you believed. You believed, to the point where you had to walk away because I wouldn't listen. I—I was angry, I was—I was hurt. I couldn't see the other side of this, or even a better side. There was this… darkness.
"And you left, and I didn't stop you.
"I'm sorry. I should've. I should've… I should have stopped you, Cas. Because when you left, that darkness, it got darker. Everything got darker.
"Please, I hope you can hear me. 'Cause this isn't it, Cas. We are not giving up! Where's the soldier of Heaven who wouldn't back down from a fight? The angel who could rule armies? The man I…" Dean's near-sobs had turned into angry yells, but they quieted now. "The man I love. I… I love you, Castiel, and I don't want to be in a universe without you. That crack in your chassis? You make it bigger. You make it bigger, you hear! You said we were making it up as we go, so here I am, making it up. So, come on, Cas. Stand up. Wake up! Hear me."
Hear me.
Castiel listened.
Gold flowed around Jack, and the energies of the universe began to nudge at a sleeping form.
"I know you wanted this to be the end. Listen, I know. I know. But it's not. Maybe it was for you, but not for me. You said—you said you don't need to have, but… having, that's all I've ever had that was real. Just being hasn't been enough. It—It wasn't enough for my dad, it wasn't enough when I was raising Sam, it… It wasn't enough.
"And you know, when you told me that you cared, that I'd taught you how to care, a little boy back in Kansas in 1983 found love again. He found hope.
"That boy, that boy would go on to beat himself down, and tear himself apart inside till he was everything—everything his son of a bitch father wanted. Hell, till he thought he wanted it. I ripped myself apart for years, Cas. Years and years, I kept telling myself, No, that's not who you are. Just stop thinking about it, and you'll be alright. No, no. One more thought like that and your family wouldn't love you anymore. I—I thought they'd…. that they'd see me, and they wouldn't like who I was. Worse, I thought they would hate who I was — who I am.
"And who I am, Cas… wow, buddy, I have been trying to find words for years, and maybe I'll never find them. But that little boy? That little boy who needed you? He knows. I know. The labels, the words, they don't matter. What matters is that I love you. So, Castiel, wake the hell up this instant! Come on! You said I thought I didn't deserve to be saved, and you showed me I did! I'm here to do the same! Cas, you deserve to be saved!"
Castiel opened his eyes.
Cas, you deserve to be saved!
Dean.
Jack closed his eyes, at peace with what he'd done.
With a snap of his fingers, he and Sam had left Death's Library.
Dean fell to his knees, and screamed through gritted teeth, tears running down his face till they flowed down his neck to soak into his shirt.
He wasn't here, he wasn't here, he wasn't here!
Dean's body tensed, his fists clenching.
Black was everything he saw.
He couldn't breathe.
How could he breathe when all was gone and lost from this world?
His head tingled with emptiness.
Then the dread kicked in, and the guilt, and the godawful, gut-wrenching grief. It bogged him down, clasped onto him, dragged him down into a darkness deeper than any he'd ever known. The grief…
"Dean."
Everything stopped.
The world stopped.
Dean wasn't sure he was alive anymore.
He'd thought he'd never hear that voice again.
Slowly, lungs starved of oxygen, throat unable to swallow, Dean turned towards that beautiful, and achingly-familiar deep timbre.
Green eyes met blue.
Dean froze, all of him ice cold and hot. His limbs froze and burned. His core flew away even while it sunk back down to the earth.
Castiel looked as he always did. He had that stupid tan over-coat on, and he had the suit, and the shoes, and the tie a blue that didn't even come close to rivaling his eyes. And his eyes — so crystal clear, such a bright cerulean that Dean swore he was drowning in them. His tan skin was handsomely lined and broken up by a charming stubble on his jaw, above his lip, and along his cheeks. His hair was dark, black as a starless night, even while his eyes swam with stars. That chiseled face with the heavenly pink lips felt as if it was all Dean had ever known. The defined nose, the sharp jawline, the elegant cheeks.
Castiel stood before Dean Winchester and he smiled.
Dean was so taken with him that he didn't even notice Sam and Jack standing behind him, taking in the absolute and utter miracles that had happened.
Cas.
Cas was alive.
Oh, god, Cas.
Dean rushed to him, and before he knew it, his forehead was pressed to Castiel's, and they were sobbing, holding each other, frantically stroking at each other's faces.
"Dean."
"I didn't—I didn't know if—"
"I'm sorry."
"God, I'm so—
"—happy to be with you."
"Cas."
Castiel just grinned, a tear trailing off one dark eyelash to land on and tickle Dean's cheek.
"Is it really you?" Dean asked, words tentative, voice breathless.
"Of course, Dean. I always come when you call," Castiel answered, voice soft, but words so assured, so happy. God, could Dean finally let himself have that happiness? "You prayed to me."
"Yeah. I did. Did… Did you hear?"
Dean pulled back slightly, now afraid. Had he somehow gotten it all wrong? Was this not what Castiel wanted? Had Dean taken a sacrifice and perverted it, twisted it into what he thought he needed? It wouldn't be the first time. He searched Castiel's eyes, terrified. He drifted away.
Castiel gripped him tight, and pulled him into a kiss.
Dean Winchester was saved.
Castiel was saved.
They'd done it, all of it, for love.
"Everything you have ever done — the good and the bad — you have done for love."
Castiel's lips were soft, and warm, and alive against Dean's. They were real.
This was real.
"You raised your little brother for love."
Dean couldn't kiss him back hard enough, couldn't hold him close enough.
"You fought for this whole world for love."
Dean Winchester and Castiel breathed each other in, lips brushing, air coalescing…
"That is who you are!"
...and Dean knew true happiness, because he didn't kiss him for want, or need. He kissed him for love.
Dean was ready to save the world again, and he'd do it all for the angel who'd shown him that they could write their own story.
They could write it themselves, and run with it, and let it live and breathe and flourish, and let it be.
And they did.