Dean recognized the voice, of course. He'd know it anywhere, even without the accompanying visual: that oh, so familiar red hair standing out against the surrounding darkness, that flannel, that smile. Each detail was achingly familiar, and he had to fight to stay still, to not move. (Whether the aborted motion were a hug or a flinch, he wasn't sure, but it was one of them. Maybe both.) They'd lost so much over the years - a slew of names and faces etched into memory because they were so completely gone otherwise - and each resulting grief was its own particular blend of misery; Charlie's was the devastation of a little sister lost, a protective instinct unrealized. Hers was one Dean wasn't sure he could ever forgive.

Her words were a little harder to recognize, if only because he knew - intellectually speaking - that she'd never say them. She had a right to, of course, and his subconscious had done its very best to assure him that she had said them, again and again across who knew how many nights of uneasy sleep, but the fact remained: those weren't her words, and she'd never have said them. She was always too good for that. Too positive, or too optimistic, or just too kind.

He accepted them anyway. Took the harshness - it wasn't like he didn't deserve it after all - and the blame - he deserved that, too - and everything those few sentences levied at him. He doubted that was the end of it, either, since whoever not-Charlie was didn't seem inclined to make things painless, but he was alright with that. (A distant side of him, the bit that could always find something tolerable about a given shitty situation, murmured that well, at least it's not interminably silent anymore, and the voice was being useful for once so he didn't shut it up immediately.)

"You're not Charlie." It wasn't a question. It wasn't even laced with a veiled kind of self-doubt. He knew, deep in his marrow, that it wasn't Charlie. "What are you?"

The thing scoffed with Charlie's voice. It sounded wrong, somehow, for something so cold to come out of someone so warm. "'What', huh?" The mirth sounded halfway genuine, though that was undercut by a degree of self-assuredness that rendered it a bit slimy. "Good, good. Just as I'd expect, Mr. Winchester."

The name felt wrong and it grated, grinding badly like something interrupting the cogs of a machine. No way in hell was he going to invite not-Charlie to a greater degree of friendliness, though, so he didn't say anything about it. "Like I said. You sure as shit ain't Charlie, so what-" He gave it all the emphasis he could, hoping it damn well bit. "-the hell are you?"

Not-Charlie giggled. "Is it easier? To hear what I'm saying and tell yourself that it's okay because it's not real? Like that makes it any less true?"

"You're wasting your time." Dean didn't bother to put any degree of emotion into the words; anger would do just fine.

"Well. It's a good thing time is a mortal construct, then, isn't it?" Not-Charlie spread their arms, grinning too sharply. "I've got all the time in the… well." The lips twist. "'World' is a bit pedestrian, isn't it? All the time in the Empty, then."

Charlie never sneered like that. The disguise wasn't at all difficult to see through. It looked like someone wearing their parent's much-too-big clothing: ill-fitting and wrong, even if everything were to be fastened just so. "Anyone ever tell you you're an arrogant sonuvabitch?"

Not-Charlie snorted. "No, actually. That distinction rests rather entirely with you."

"Good. You're an arrogant sonuvabitch."

"Guess that answers your question, then. 'What am I?'" The question was parroted back, tinged by that same sneer. "Apparently, an arrogant sonuvabitch." Any illusion of mirth faded away abruptly. For a second, Not-Charlie looked like that dark doppelganger of hers, cold and rigid and menacing. "And very, very, very tired."

"Kinda seems like that's your fault, bud."

"Oh?" Not-Charlie's eyebrows lifted, expression inscrutable. "How're you figuring that?"

Dean could give a serious answer - transition them firmly into the bargaining stage of things, or try to antagonize his and Cas' mutual way out - but it wouldn't be half so fun (and probably wouldn't work as well anyway). Instead, he shrugged. "Too much coffee after 8 pm."

Not-Charlie's expression didn't move, frozen. "Hilarious." (The tone would suggest that no, actually, the comment wasn't hilarious.)

Dean shrugged. Rolled his shoulders like he always did whenever Sam pulled one of his bitchfaces. "Just sayin', man."

"You're one to talk about sleep schedules." (The comment itself was weirdly knowing. Dean didn't much like the idea that Not-Charlie felt so willing and able to comment on his day-to-day.) "Bit hypocritical, no?"

Dean shrugged. Grinned the fake smile he'd long gotten good at giving people. Winked, once, without any genuine desire to do so. "Do as I say, not as I do."

"That does seem to be your motto, doesn't it?"

"Lying kinda goes with the hunting territory."

Not-Charlie hummed. Nodded. Lifted a hand to chin-level, stroked it as the other hand curls around the opposite bicep, the very picture of fake-thinking. "So does insincerity."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, you know…" Not-Charlie shrugged. "Telling people you'll keep them safe and failing so miserably. Calling yourself a hunter when incompetent would be a far better description. Lying to people you claim to trust. Tell me…" A pause, and the fake-thinking gesture hitched, freezing for a few seconds like Not-Charlie had forgotten how to maintain it. "How many of the people you care about so much actually know you? How many actually, really, truly trust you?"

Dean didn't move, didn't react, didn't rise to the bait. He did mutter out, "Enough."

"No, I'm serious…" Not-Charlie's stolen voice would sound endearingly earnest in other situations, lightness supplemented by persuasion, an attempt to reassure him of its truthfulness. In that situation, it just came across as mocking. "And, and, and-!" (Dean had heard that enthusiasm before, in that same tone: Charlie ranting about something or other, too caught up in what she was saying to formulate the next sentence, buying herself time by reserving her slot as "next to speak." It hurt, but it still wasn't her.) "How many losses are your fault, huh?"

"Enough."

"I know you think about it often enough. Should be easy to answer, right?" Not-Charlie walked nearer, too close for comfort. Dean didn't move, kept his hands tangled in dirty trench-coat canvas so he didn't start swinging, clenched his jaw to suppress… well. Everything. "Charlie, of course…" Not-Charlie's hand traversed the path from hip to thigh, like someone modeling a new suit. "But the others too. Ellen. Jo. Bobby. Benny. Crowley. Rowena. And these are just your greatest hits: there are so many others!" There was a manic kind of glee there, and it gave Dean just enough anger to ignore the biting sting of pain building up with each name. "And now Cas!"

The words did make things easy, to a degree. Not to listen to them - Not-Charlie wasn't wrong, was only voicing the same thoughts that coursed through Dean's head on the regular, but that didn't make them easy to hear - but to have continued reassurance that Not-Charlie was… Well. Not Charlie. She'd never have pulled out all the transgressions they'd committed - against her, against the others - would never have laid them out one by one in devastating simplicity. That quiet brand of cruelty wasn't her style.

Dean's voice was quieter than he'd have liked when he spoke, but at least it was steady. "You done?"

Not-Charlie huffed out a slimy scoff. "You're no fun. What's the point of you even being here?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Dean answered anyway. "Cas."

Another scoff, more disbelieving than frustrated that time. "Oh, surprise, surprise. The renegade angel has been nothing but a thorn in my si-"

"Good," Dean interrupted. He didn't like the words - he might suck at self-evaluation, but even he knew his own voice well enough to know that his tone was ice — but they worked to his advantage so he didn't bother with protesting. "Then you should be glad to see him go."

Disbelief started dripping from Not-Charlie's entire countenance like the black ooze rippling around them. "You don't know who you're talking to, I see."

Dean blinked. Tried to fight back a laugh. Failed to suppress a short, sharp bark of tempered mirth. "A+ on observation right there."

Not-Charlie gave him a Look.

"Well, it's just…" Dean shrugged. "Kinda thought we established that already. The hell else was that 'what are you?' song and dance?"

Not-Charlie was smiling again, but there was no warmth behind it. "Hilarious."

Dean returned it. "I try."

Not-Charlie bowed. There was a flourish to it, but not a Charlie flourish. It felt wrong, too. "The Empty, at your service."

"You couldn't come up with a better name? Kinda repetitive, no?" Dean shrugged at the glare Not-Charlie - or, apparently, the Empty - levelled at him. "Just sayin', man. Not enough you've gotta steal faces, you can't even come up with a decent name? I mean, Kansas' is alright and all, but I sure ain't naming myself Lebanon, now am I?"

"I'm usually asleep." The Empty flashed him an annoyed look again, and the comment from earlier - very, very, very tired - came to mind.

Dean nodded, and he put the barest amount of effort into making it seem like halfway-genuine sympathy. "That's a real shame," he managed. "But, you know, we can always get out of your hair now. Leave you in peace."

"How kind." The flatness of the tone contradicted the words cleanly. "But I'm afraid a deal's a deal. And this one-" A scornful glance was directed at Cas, still sprawled half-in, half-out of Dean's lap. Dean's hands twitched, but he didn't move beyond that. It was a show of restraint he didn't appreciate having to make. "Made a deal." A moment, then, "And, besides, he's finally gotten into line and slept, so I'm not especially inclined to disturb the… status quo."

There was a sibilance to the last two words, and the hissing Latin feels like a taunt. Dean didn't address it, but he filed it away, another grievance to fuel him through whatever conflict ensued. "I'm sure."

"But the thing is…" The Empty shrugged Charlie's shoulders, shook her head, laughed with her voice (or at least a facsimile of it). "It's just so peaceful now."

Dean blinked. "You just said you couldn't sleep."

"Yup!" The p popped itself merrily.

"That ain't jiving with peaceful in my book."

"Oh, no, that's right." Between one blink and the next, Charlie vanished, melting away into darkness before being replaced by Cas' too-familiar silhouette. "It's not peaceful because you're here, with all your talking and your shouting and your breathing. Things would be so much better if you just leave. "

Dean knew it wasn't Cas, of course. That was easy; the real Cas was still slumbering too-peacefully on the floor, clothes stuck to the tacky floor and tangled between Dean's own fingers, still dead (or as good as) and silent. Additionally, much like Charlie, Cas wouldn't be saying those words either. It wasn't that Cas wouldn't stand up for himself - he would, with that same impassioned, do-what's-right mentality he always had, whether he was successful or no - but he wouldn't have done it like that.

It wasn't as easy to ignore, though. Partly because he couldn't shake the idea that maybe Cas' refusal to stand up for himself like that didn't change the fact that the statements could be true anyway. (Cas was, like Charlie, just too good to be mean. Too willing to smother annoyance or hide frustration in the name of some greater good.) Partly because the only reason things would be peaceful were he not there was because Cas had made a deal, because he was dead, because Dean had killed him.

He tried anyway, though. "Like I said… I'm quite sure we're happy to."

"You misunderstand-"

"No, I don't, actually." Eventually, Dean should probably stop antagonizing immortal, overpowered entities, but it didn't stop him from responding willfully anyway. "I'm choosing to ignore you. There's a difference."

The Empty grinned, a bitter, twisted parody of Cas' usual smile. "I see. And how long do you think that'll last you?"

Dean shrugged. "Gotta be longer than you'd like. I mean, you're immortal and apparently 'very, very, very tired.' Seems like I've plenty of time and a lot of noise on my side."

The Empty rolled its eyes. "Your big plan is talking at me? "

Dean shrugged. "It's as good as anything else I've got." He'd have changed plans if he couldn't see a sudden line of tension in Not-Cas' shoulders, a narrowing of his eyes, a rigidity to his fingers as they rested in a loose fist. It was almost like the Empty hadn't had time to adjust to the new vessel, like its new pair of shoes was still giving it blisters. "And I'm really annoying."

Shockingly, the Empty didn't return his cheeky grin with anything welcoming. Instead, he just blinked. "I see," it repeated in Cas' voice. "And what's your plan after that?"

Dean shrugged. "Never been too good with plans." It wasn't fully false, but wasn't fully true either. He had a brief sense. Something about getting Cas back and then fleeing to his room like a coward, shutting himself into the familiar four-walls-and-a-tape-player, and not leaving until Cas had enough time to get away from the people (read: person) responsible for his death. "I'll figure it out when I get there."

The Empty clicked a tongue that didn't belong to it, shook a head that wasn't its own. "Seems risky to me."

"You would say that."

"Well, I mean, just think about it, right?" The same fake-thinking pose returned, and Dean had the sudden sense that it wasn't an act. That it was simply the Empty being the Empty, its own mannerisms slipping through its camouflage, one of the few things actually genuine about the encounter. He also had to fight back a sudden sting of nausea, the twist of something painful in the very pit of his stomach at how similar the situation felt to watching Lucifer in Cas' skin, and his hold on Cas' shoulder tightened before he could stop himself. "What's to say he even wants to come back, eh?"

Dean didn't bother to hold back his own thoughts - didn't shove away the quiet sardonicism of a bit old hat, buddy; been there, done that - but he didn't voice them aloud either. (If he were in a better mood, he might have said it outright, but he didn't feel like it, so he just let the opportunity slide.) "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

"More like burn that bridge when you get to it."

Dean grinned. He knew without having to look that it was tight-lipped and false, but he was too damn tired of the back-and-forth to care. "Or that."

"And you're just…" The Empty shrugged Cas' shoulders. It felt wrong, more like it was trying to settle a new suit into place than an actual shrug. "Okay with that?"

Dean wanted to shake his head. To deny it. If he were being honest - if that were actually Cas instead of an imposter - he would. Instead, he nodded. "Yup."

"Huh." The Empty tsk'd again. "That's a shame." A shake of the head. "I'd expected better."

Dean shrugged. That was old hat too; he was long used to not measuring up to people's expectations. To his own. The grin didn't falter, and nor did the Empty's fake regret. "Sorry to disappoint."

Another shake of the head, looking for all the world like the human embodiment of I'm not mad, just disappointed before the ghost was promptly given up. The smugness slipped back into place like it had never left, and Dean was suddenly quite glad he didn't trust the front he'd been shown. "Wouldn't you want to just avoid all that, though? To go back home? He's none the wiser-" That same derisive look directed itself at Cas. "And is actually quite content to stay. It'd be a matter of moments for me to open the portal, to let you thro-"

"No." Dean shook his head, the motion firm. "I told you, it ain't gonna happen."

The Empty's stale parody of Cas spread its arms. "Then we're at an impasse. You're trying to renege on a deal that cannot be broken, and I wish for an oblivion you're preventing. Tantalus against Tantalus: a perfect stalemate."

"There's a way out and you know it. Hell, there's a way out and you control it. You control the deal, and you can break it. You can't stop me from making noise."

A grin. It was a little closer to Cas' usual one, but still leagues away. "You give yourself too much credit. Your voice is grating, yes, but not unending."

Dean nodded. "True." The Empty shifted, then, a momentary thing that nonetheless conveyed complete certainty. "But." The motion stilled. Dean reached for the tape player again, and pulled it out with a flourish. "I've got reinforcements. You know what this is?"

"I-"

He didn't let it continue, interrupting without concern. "It's a tape player. I used to have a Walkman, which was nice and all - had some good music on that - but I upgraded. This-" He gestured, shaking it with a grin. "Is remarkably effective. Still not the best sound quality, but beggars can't be choosers. It plays music well enough. Good music, too, not Sam's shitty pop. Most importantly, though…" He paused. Loaded the tape. Grinned. "This one doesn't need headphones."

From his hand came the short, sharp sound of a button clicking.

The crank of a volume dial spinning.

And, finally, the familiar strains of Led Zeppelin, slightly tinny from the speaker but good enough and, above all else, loud.

For the first time since he'd gotten there, the Empty flinched.

And Dean grinned.

– – –

Eventually, the tape clicked to a stop. The sound didn't cease immediately, echoing off of whatever surfaces surrounded them, but Dean waited until it finally died down before speaking. "How ya feeling, then?"

"Peachy," the Empty said. It's poor attempt at Cas' voice didn't sound pleased.

"Oh, good," Dean countered. "Second side's damn good too."

A button clicked.

– – –

The music echoed to silence again. The real Cas hadn't moved - selfishly, much as Dean wished he'd wake, he was a bit grateful for those last few moments before the irrevocable post-resurrection argument and goodbyes - but the Empty had taken to pacing.

"You good?"

The Empty snorted. "Just fine."

"Yeah, you sound it." Dean grinned, cheeky as ever. "Fine by me, though. You pick up on so much, second go-'round."

A button clicked.

– – –

The song echoed to a close.

"Status?"

"Amazing."

"Cool."

Click.

– – –

Dean had lost track of how many times the tape played before the Empty finally called a halt. It was kind of insulting, actually - no one in their right minds stopped 'Travelling Riverside Blues' before it was through - but he went along with it with a smile on his face because he was damn well going to get Cas back, one way or the other.

When the halt was called, it was to a very satisfying level of desperation on the Empty's behalf, as shown through a rather urgent double-handed wave. "Stop, stop, stop."

Dean didn't listen immediately, fingers slow as it reached for the buttons, traced the path to the right one, started depressing it.

The Empty's next "Stop!" came with an emphasis that suggested it wasn't used to being kept waiting.

"Hmm?" Dean grinned, the hum as innocent as he could make it. "What's that? I couldn't hear you."

The return expression wasn't a smirk. It could loosely be defined as a smile, but only very loosely. It was essentially one of Sam's bitchfaces condensed to the barest quirk of the lips. "I'm sure you couldn't, with that racket-"

"Hey!" There were acceptable insults and unacceptable insults. That wasn't an acceptable one. "I'll have you kno-"

"I literally could not care less."

"B-"

"Shut up." It was snapped out and impatient, and Dean counted that as a victory. "You want to leave or what?"

"Cas, too?"

The Empty rolled stolen eyes. "You going to leave me be if I say no?"

"Hell, no." Dean shook his head, firm in his refusal. "No sleep 'til freedom."

"Then get. Out." It sounded impatient, the sound of a rubber band held tight enough to almost snap. "You're too loud."

"Thank you." It grated to say, even as a joke, but Dean would toe the party line until he and Cas had gotten out and worry about bruised morality then. (It wasn't like he'd been a saint to begin with.) "I've worked hard at it. Years of little brothers to annoy, I guess."

The Empty met Dean's grin with a scowl. "Yes, yes, good for you. Get up."

Dean obliged. Pulling Cas up after him wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but he did it anyway; it was the work of a few minutes to get one limp arm over his shoulders, to get a decent hold around Cas' waist, to shift a few steps to be sure he'd make it out without much difficulty. "Ready," he said, and hoped it wouldn't piss the Empty off enough to change its mind.

Luckily, it didn't seem to. The Empty simply gestured - a half-hearted thing, dripping with the confidence of a showman but not half so in-control as it probably hoped - and the portal was there, almost identical to the one Jack had summoned earlier. Instead of pitch-darkness, though, the slightest tinge of light was visible on the other side, a beacon of something, and Dean had to hope it was good because the other options were unacceptable.

The Empty's hand dropped. "There you go. Now get out."

"Will do," Dean said, flicking a two-fingered half-salute in the Empty's direction before making his slow-but-steady way over. Cas' head lolled against his neck, still dead or unconscious or something, but Dean had no option other than trusting he'd be fine when they went through the portal. Instead of worrying - or, rather, worrying more than he already was - he focused on that gentle gesture, the closeness it afforded. He focused on memorizing it, too, the gentle brush of hair and smooth skin against his clavicle searing itself in his memory so he'd still have it whenever Cas left. (It wasn't really a question of if.)

"Anything else, Mister Winchester, or can you leave me and my newly developed headache in peace?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, we're good." Then, grudgingly, in the name of policy, "Thanks again."

The Empty hummed. It wasn't warm or friendly. It wasn't even impassioned but aggressive, nor cold and dismissive. It was just a lack… and that made rather a lot of sense, given the givens. "Get. Out."

They were already near the portal, and Dean could feel the thrum of energy rushing towards it. He tightened his grip on Cas with both hands, just to make sure nothing went wrong in transport, and took a step through it. Inky darkness surrounded him, closer, even, than it had been two seconds before.

And then they were out.