Title: The Downpour at the End

Chapter 2: 4AM Forever

Author: Me.

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: M

Pairing: Destiel

Disclaimer: As a student I only own a car, a cellphone and a dog. That is all.

A/N: This fic is going to be song-inspired. Yay me! Haha. First inspiration is 4AM Forever - Lost Prophets. Listen to it before and after you read the chapter, if you like. It's a beautiful song. Listen, love, live! Enjoy! xxx

-Chapter 2: 4AM Forever-

Sacrifice is the willingness to surrender something good for something better. Or that is what Dean used to think. Like giving up a morning of sleeping in to spend the day watching a son's soccer game with your wife and buds – giving up an hour's worth of uninterrupted sleep to strengthen a family bond that's so precious, so priceless. Or perhaps choosing to drop a subject at college and do it the next year to assure that diligence and good grades are awarded, guaranteeing a brighter future for you and your loved ones. But this was not his life. He wasn't born into a life filled with the age-old cliche of white picket fences, steaming apple pies and carpooling with the neighbors. He was born directly into 'Hell'. Sacrificing was a heck of a lot more different in his world. This was his life. In his life 'sacrifice' was underrated.

Life is full of limitless possibilities, but in order to transform a possibility into a reality you should have to choose – sacrificing the many in order to attain the one. As the saying goes, nothing is gained without something given. The question was just how much did Dean have to sacrifice? How many times did he have to 'give up' the things he held dearly and close to his heart? How much was he supposed to give to attain at least one thing better? He sometimes felt as if he wasn't sacrificing anymore and that he was rather letting things slip from his calloused fingers as he held on too tightly – too weak, too fragile to fight harder. Or maybe he was just so far gone and tortured by life itself that his subconscious had let go a long time ago and that he was giving up… giving in and giving up the things he cherished.

Love. It was a word Dean only knew because he had heard it spoken or felt by others. He never really had the chance to feel it himself. He had no concept of the word, no definition, no experience. Love was taboo in his world. Love meant loss, loss meant hurt, and hurt meant that things would never be even close to normal. He was always the one sacrificing in some way to let others have what they wanted, what they loved. He did not deserve it, or so he felt.

That was the thing. His sacrifices always involved some kind of thing, not love, but close to it, he presumed. Wasn't sacrifice only supposed to have meaning in the context of a goals, dreams or missions? In pursuing these, you are forced to face obstacles which require a forfeiture of physical or emotional comfort in the service of something that matters more. But why did he always have to relinquish the people… the things… the emotions close to love? Just for nothing. He had received absolutely squat from fate in return for the price he had been paying over the years.

The greater the vision, the greater the shared sacrifice was to attain it. Sacrifice was supposed to be easier when he was focused on what he had to choose rather than what he was giving. He had chosen years ago to live a life exempt from 'the family business', with Sammy always close. The only way he had to do that was to stay focused, do his job, the job thrusted upon him, and his vision and mission would stay clear and in sight. But the road to the finishing line was a motherfucker, and that was understating it. He had lost so much already and received nothing, not a single thing, not even hope, in return.

Sharing his sacrifices with Sammy had placed a burden on his little brother that he would have lifted in a heartbeat, if he could. Why did Sammy have to go against him and start with the Trials? It was supposed to be Dean. It was supposed to him, the righteous man, who had to carry that cross, to make things safe for Sam, the other people on earth and to put those they had lost to complete rest, knowing that their boy, Dean, had did what they so wished to do or help with doing. He believed in Sam, he promised, he knew Sam could pull it off, to an extent, but Sam deserved not to have been handed such a colossal charge. Now Sammy was weak and dying, once again, and Dean was feeling useless. He could do nothing to fix the broken brother that was now resting in one of the rooms of their Men of Letters-lair. Once again Dean was disappointing everybody, his brother… And Cas.

It had only been a few weeks since he had last seen Castiel. The memory was etched so deep into his mind as if it had happened a few minutes prior to recollecting it. He could see Castiel standing over him, those normally azure eyes, gray as an ocean after a horrible storm, beating him to a pulp. He could have sworn Cas was having an internal struggle, and he had heard the angel say that Naomi was at the bottom of it, that Naomi was messing with his head.

Dean's heart contracted as if being forced by a vice grip, his throat was closing in on itself and he could feel the tears fighting to break loose from his tired eyes. He could still hear Castiel, hear his own bones and face crushing under the angel's brute force, hear is own pathetic pleading.

Cas, you don't have to do this. Cas, fight it, this isn't you. Who is Naomi? Fight it.

He could see the angel's struggle, but still Cas came at him with unbreakable confidence, breaking an arm as Dean held on to the Angel Tablet.

Cas? You want it? Take it… But you are going to have to kill me first. Come on, you coward. Do it. Do it!

Hit after hit, blood streaming from his head, nose and eyes, he pleaded.

Cas! This isn't you. This isn't you.

Cas, Cas, I know you're in there. I know you can hear me.

The angel's lifeless eyes pouring right through him, as Dean tried to break through to his friend, his closest ally…

It's… me. We're family. We need you.

He could still feel his every cell bleeding with anger and heartache at the same time. He could feel his heart stop as he stared at the once peaceful and innocent angel. The angel who had given him so much to be thankful for. The angel who had pulled him from the Pit. The friend who had been there, no matter what the fucking world spit at him. He felt as if his heart had been forcefully ripped from his body, strangling a tortured sound from Dean.

I need you…

He could feel the cold tone of Cas' words slice like a searing knife through his mind, both ice and fiery, conjuring an unimaginable grief inside of him. He had to protect the Angel Tablet from Naomi AND Dean? Cas could've killed him on the spot and Dean wouldn't have minded, but hearing the words combined with Cas' untrustworthy tone in Dean, was worse than death. Why, he did not know, but he knew that Cas not trusting him was the last thing he wanted. Trust with the Angel was the last thing he would ever sacrifice, let slip or be taken from him. Cas' trust was the reason Dean had been holding on to life for so long. And now Cas' precious trust was ripped from Dean by the angel himself. The closest thing he felt to love… gone.

Dean could feel the tears running through his fingers as he was lying on his hands, sitting at the table with the huge world map in the main hall of the Lair. He could hear is breath hitch as he exhaled and tried to bite back the pure anger, the hurt. Even though he wanted to, he could never forgive Cas for betraying him like that, for not having the balls to trust him, for severing the bond they shared, with just a few words and a flutter of wings. He was family for God's sake and family did not just leave. Family did not just forget. Bastard. Coward.

"Cas… why…" he heard himself utter under his breath before he unexpectedly heard footsteps coming towards him and quickly gathered himself and wiped the tears from his face. Tears? God, it was as if he had turned into a little girl who had her cotton candy stolen had the local fair.

Sacrifices? Pfff… They did not exist! Things are either lost or taken and so help me, I will rather go back to The Pit than to surrender or give away something in my life again. You hear me, Cas? Whoever's listening? Never!

He shifted in his seat, kicked his sore legs up onto the table and reached forwards for the beer that had long since been forgotten. He could feel every muscle in his back scream from fatigue and stress as he stretched. He took a swig and gurgled some of the golden brown liquid because he knew if he had to speak now he would sound like a hormonal teenage boy on his way to his man-voice.

Kevin rounded a corner, sleepy-eyed and still wearing his pajamas. At first he didn't notice Dean sitting at the table. Dean could see what the months of deciphering the Tablet and the close-calls with Crowley and his demons had done to the poor boy. He was a wreck – alive, but a complete wreck. His eyes were bloodshot with large, black duffle-bags lining his upper cheeks. His lips were chapped and his hair and beard were out of control. His pajamas were stained with hot sauce, coffee and some other stuff Dean chose to ignore. Dean managed a small chuckle at the sight of Kevin looking like a hung over, homeless man.

The sound caught Kevin's ears immediately as the boy almost fell back into a bookcase, "Jesus! You could have killed me right there!"

"A dirty mouth, the way you look, the way you walk…Advanced placement, overachieving squirt, my ass. Alcoholic, is probably a better way to describe you." Dean replied, easing the tension he was holding in, smiling broadly at Kevin.

"Apparently, they call it being a prophet." Kevin said.

Dean's eyes shot down to his beer, his fingers fumbling with the label, the walls of pressure at attention and even more so, as he tried to hide a guilty look that had spread over his face. One more sacrifice they had to make to reach their goal – taking Kevin from his mother, telling him about his duties as the prophet, sending Kevin's mom to hide and then getting her killed. The pain just didn't stop. This was the shared sacrifice he had heard of in his life. This boy had to take part in their lives, give up everything and for what? Just for a nice scorching hot little seat next to Dean on their derailed train to Hell.

Kevin ignored Dean's new demeanor and asked, "What are you doing up? It's only 4AM?"

"Couldn't sleep," Dean replied, trying to make eye-contact and shake the guilt.

"Breakfast then? I couldn't sleep either…" Kevin said pointing towards the kitchen, "How about some bacon and scrambled eggs?"

"Nah, it's cool, Kev. I got some breakfast right here." Dean muttered, holding his beer towards Kevin, winking as he tried to convince his stomach otherwise.

"And you were calling me a drunk?" Kevin laughed.

Dean breathed a sigh through his smile. The boy had a point. He had been resorting to beer, whiskey and any other alcohol he could find for a couple of days now. The past weeks had been brutal, most probably the worst Dean had ever went through, except for his time in The Pit, but it sure as well, hell, was fucking critical.

Dean and Sam had found Metatron who had revealed the secrets of the Third Trial. The Trial that had been crucial for Sam to complete. Sam was growing weaker by the second, the effects of the charge eating at his existence, extinguishing the light of his existence slowly. A demon had to be cured and it had to be done as soon as they had gotten their hands on one. They had found Father Max Thompson's research in the knowledge-rich archives of the Men of Letters. Sammy had done his best to go through everything and that is where shit started to almost fly automatically into the proverbial fan.

Crowley was pissed. He was fucking livid that the boys were being so successful with the Trials that he ordered all demons to return to him, leaving no victims for Dean and Sam to cure, or try to cure, for argument's sake. So they did what they had to and dug up that bitch demon knight, Abbadon. They had her, trapped, double trapped, no hands attached, no means of attacking them or anybody else. They were so fucking close. And then Dean sacrificed a few minutes of his time to answer a call from Crowley.

Crowley had started killing the people that Dean and Sam had ever saved. Every 12 hours. They had been too late for the last victim. More sacrifices. More people hurt. And in those few minutes leaving Abbadon on her own, she escaped. God knows how? This was the Winchesters' life. One step forward and then some supernatural mess swoops in and drags their asses back a couple hundred paces.

They had no demon. They had no help from the angels. People were dying. Sammy was dying. He had nowhere to turn to. No family, no friends. It was just Dean, Sam, Kevin and the Demon Tablet.

The fact that the demon activity or any other weird activity, for that matter, had been non-existent for a few days was bothering Dean. No storms, no disruptions and no funny business at all. No murders, no leads, nothing. Sure, it meant that it gave Dean and Kevin some time to figure out their rather messed up situation, but Dean couldn't help feeling uneasy. He could not shake the feeling that something worse was about to come. It felt like déjà-vu, but the bad kind, where you feel like you've seen this shit before and then some instinct inside you warns you to start running, hide or get the hell outta there.

But he only felt a void where his usual conscious was supposed to rest softly inside his mind- where it fit so perfectly and melted in so easily and comfortably. He knew his conscious was supposed to be warning him, but it was quiet. It made Dean's stomach lurch with fear. He could almost taste the bile rising in his throat. He was lost. He was lost without any direction. He was lost without his conscious… His Castiel.

"…Dean… Dean!" he heard his name being yelled at him. Kevin was still standing across the room, looking bewildered and irritated at the same time, "Are you even listening to me?"

Dean snapped out of his trance, "Ugh, sorry man," he said apologetically scratching the hairs on his upper neck, "Lost you there for a sec."

"What I said was, we don't have anything left in the kitchen anymore. We're all out of stock. Mind giving me some cash to go raid that 24/7 convenience store, up the road?"

Dean guffawed at Kevin, "Nice try, but you're not going anywhere, kiddo. And did you really think I would let you take my Baby? You're out of your freakin' mind!"

"Then I guess I will have to walk? This prophet-life just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" Kevin retorted sarcastically.

Dean felt a pang in his heart and shrugged it off by joking, "You're a prophet and you are Asian. There is NO WAY you are driving Baby. Besides, Crowley's guys will probably gank you if you walk out that door, you hear me?"

"You know that's racist, right? I could have you sued." Kevin replied, not showing if any offence was taken.

With that Dean slowly rose from his seat at the table in the main hall, lifted his arms high above his head and stretched as far as he could. He could feel his body, muscles and cartilage snap into places they were supposed to be. God, he needed sleep.

"So sue me, little man. And while you are at it use some of that lawyer cash to buy us some stuff for the kitchen," Dean laughed, "I'm just messing with you. Lighten up. What do you need from the store? I have to clear my head, so I'll go."

Dean resumed a normal position, falling back into a slumping stance, his body refusing to do anything that required too much effort. Kevin left the main hall and returned in a flash, bearing a post-it with a few items scribbled down on it.

"Jesus, Kev, this Tablet-stuff is getting to you. I can't make out a thing you've written. It all looks like English mixed up with some freaky symbols. Get your head out of your Enochian-ass and re-write this in cursive or something! And I see no short words on here. Where's the pie and beer?"

Kevin ignored Dean's response to his writing, rolled his eyes and left for his room. Halfway he turned around, "Oh yeah, when you get back we need to talk." Then he vanished.

Dean stuffed the post-it into his jean's pocket and headed for the main entrance of the Lair. Before exiting he put on an old, blue jacket – it reminded him of something. It was almost as deep blue as the ocean on a not-so-sunny day. He realized he had been wearing it more often over the past weeks. It made him feel safe, not because his weapons and gear fit nicely into the pockets, but because of the color. He smirked at his trail of thought, grabbed his keys and continued to leave the Lair.

Outside it was pissing rain. Fuck, he thought. He trailed off to the Impala and froze for second as he imagined a shadow flickering in the backseat. He gripped tightly to the angel blade in his jacket, as he made his way slowly to his Baby. Not now. I don't have it in me to fight anything at the moment. When he was standing at his door he saw that it was in fact his imagination. He heaved a sigh of relief, unlocked his door and got in. In one motion he collapsed onto his steering wheel. His mind, his torn soul, his body was surrendering. Stuff was getting to him, and bad. What was he supposed to do?

Without realizing what he was doing, Dean started praying.

Cas. I need you to hear me. I need you to take a goddamn second and just listen. I promised myself to stop calling you. I made a decision to leave you alone. But I can't… Even if what you did to me, your betrayal, is something I won't, I can't forget. Whatever the hell you are up to, wherever you are, I don't want to know. I just… We need you. We need your help. Just give me a couple of minutes of your time. I can't do this… I can't do this alone. I can't do this without… without you… dammit!

"C…ca…castiel…!" he uttered in a deep, somber tone, his voice breaking.

"Trouble in paradise?!"

Dean's actions were that of a snake striking at a non-expecting mouse. In one swift move he almost turned completely in his seat, leaned over and was pinning the intruder who had startled him, to his back seat, the angel blade moments away from breaking skin.

Dean's throat went dry, his head started throbbing with pain, "Cuh..Cuh"

The intruder shifted under Dean's blade pressing into his skin at his throat. Shifting eyes moving quickly from knife to Dean and back, "Crowley, yes, so glad you remember my name. Bad case of amnesia or what's the matter?" Crowley said, his accent draining the remaining energy from Dean's mind.

"You… you're… What the… You know what I don't care! Why are you here?! You start killing people we saved and you… you just pop in, you son of a bitch!" Dean yelled as the fury inside him started boiling.

"Calm down, Sunshine. I know my methods haven't exactly been approved of by the Winchesters, but believe me, I would not be here if it wasn't for my current situation. Oh, and I have told you before, son of a witch." Crowley winked.

At this Dean pressed the blade closer, carefully as to not break skin. He was out of it, but he still knew that this was the only demon he had seen in weeks. He was losing his mind, but he was still going to do everything to save his brother.

"Bitch, witch, your mother was still a filthy whore," Dean grinded through his gritted teeth, "So, why are you here?" he asked pointing at the dried blood in Crowley's hair, face and on his clothes. He only then realized that Crowley's normally rich-guy suit was torn to pieces. He had long slices, deeper than some that Dean had ever seen, in his neck. His face was a mess. He hands were bloody and swollen and three fingers were missing from his left – only his middle and index fingers were still there.

"Oh, I love it when you talk all dirty, boy. It makes my thighs quiver. You see, after you and that Moose decided to let Abbadon free, she came after me. And as you observed, I don't like beating girls. I forgot how strong the bitch was." He said examining his own injuries, still aware of the blade at his throat.

"And you thought we would help you?" asked Dean, "You have got to be fucking kidding me…"

"No, no, Dean. I know you are under-evolved and your brain is too minute to conceive my big words, so let me break it down for you. Crowley no more king. Abbadon now queen. Crowley no need help. Crowley give help to Moose and brother. Together kill Queen Bitch!" mocked Crowley.

Dean punched Crowley in the gut with his free hand, only to feel his hand almost break from the recoil.

"Nah-ah-ah, I am still a demon. Abbadon may have made me her little bitch, but I am still stronger than you, pathetic human."

Dean shook his hand and lifted his eyes slowly towards Crowley's. Dean's eyes were burning hot, as if his anger had manifested itself in a physical form.

"I don't believe…" Dean breathed, emphasizing every syllable through bared teeth.

"I had expected that. So why don't you ask the ones who brought me here? I am sure hearing the words from their lips would change your mind a little." Crowley interjected.

Crowley's words had been formed by his lips, Dean had heard the sound flowing from them, but he did not expect to see what had appeared in his rear-view window.

Khaki. White. Red. Cobalt silk and two piercing silvery-blue eyes staring him down.

Dean felt his heart sink into the bottomless pit that was his soul. He could not speak. He could not move.

Behind his car stood…

"Cas..."

Another A/N: I hope that was good enough. Please please please review. I would love to hear from you. PM me with questions, requests and all that stuff. Check out my tumblr if you want - I am durzob - Love, Durzo xxx Shoutout to Chiyume!