Soldier On

Chapter 4 – No Rest for the Weary

Consciousness brought on a sense of clouded dread that was beginning to feel too familiar for Dean's comfort. The first thing he became aware of was the fact that the warmth he had fallen asleep to had not moved. Castiel's uniform was still gripped in his fingers and he could still feel Miller's frame moving with every breath. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness; the light of day hadn't risen to shine through the thin material of the tent. He slowly sat up, eyes falling to where Cas should have been, but he could hardly see more than the man's outline. His fingers relaxed and released the uniform's fabric, trailing along the length of Cas' arm and wrapping around his hand. There was no reaction, obviously; he was asleep.

Still something loomed over Dean's shoulders. Something wasn't right. Well, a lot of things weren't right. But he had this terrible feeling...

The cry came moments later, much less surprising than it should have been.

"Ambush!"

Gunshots rang out, the characteristic single fire sound from an M1 mixing with the Type 100s surrounding the camp. The soldiers in Dean's tent bolted up one after the other, Cas along with them; he glanced down at his hand briefly, then up at Dean, who withdrew his own and didn't hesitate to get out of the tent. In the darkness, he couldn't recall where he'd left his rifle, so he settled for grabbing a nearby BAR and taking cover behind one of the military jeeps. He fired everywhere the forest lit up in short bursts, only able to assume he'd managed to hit his target if the firing stopped. There were no guarantees.

By then the rest of his squad was out of bed and mimicking his tactic—find some cover, guess, and shoot. Someone, he couldn't recognise the face out of the corner of his eye, tried to sprint from a tent to where Dean had his back to the car. The man had almost made it when three or four bullets tore through his arm and leg, causing him to stumble and fall, screaming in pain. Dean stood, but fingers caught a handful of the back of his shirt and yanked him back to cover. Cas.

"I have to help him," Dean shouted over the never ending bursts of rounds.

Castiel shook his head. "There's too many. You'll be hit too."

Dean tore his gaze from Cas' eyes, black in the darkness and fixed on his, to glance back at the fallen soldier. It was hard to see, but he swore the man was still breathing. Dean pushed the arm until it released his shirt and lifted his rifle.

"Cover me."

"Dean—"

He stood, firing half a clip blindly into the tree line before sprinting towards the marine on the ground. With the drop of his heart, he realised who it was, bleeding out at his feet and adding red to the already hopelessly stained boots. At least he had been right about one thing; Miller was still breathing. Bullets screamed passed his ears and over his head and he threw his weapon down and hooked his arms under his friend's. A quick glance up and he saw that Cas was upright, still behind the jeep but firing a series of controlled bursts wherever the Japanese happened to give away their positions, and the firefight was diminishing by the second.

Dean kept his head down as he dragged Miller. He wasn't going to let this boy die. The young soldier that should have been in school. The young soldier that didn't belong here. The young soldier that had to go and remind him so damn much of his baby brother, little Sammy that deserved the hand he'd been dealt as much as Miller did, but Miller still had a chance, and Dean was going to make sure he made it.

"Grenade!" One of the newer troops screamed in warning, and Dean's instincts kicked in immediately. He dropped to his knees and threw himself over Miller, head snapping up to catch a glimpse of the explosive between flashes, just in time to see it rolling under the jeep.

"Cas!"

He turned and Dean reached for him, outstretched arm ending with an empty hand that flailed, flexed and closed around nothing. The last thing he saw was the detonation, the smaller explosion before it caught on the vehicle, which burst into flames. He saw Cas abandon his weapon and move to dive for cover. He didn't see anything else, because he'd hidden his eyes from the brightness and shrapnel, ducking his head and covering it with both arms. The jeep went off like a firework connected to an amplifier. It was deafening, and although Dean could feel Miller's blood seeping into the front of his shirt, he was off the man in a moment, no longer required as a human shield.

His ears were still ringing as he stumbled towards the blackened frame of a truck. The enemy had started to retreat, with the exception of one or two. The rest of Dean's team picked them off wherever they spotted movement. But he stood in the open, unarmed, stunned, covered in blood.

Where was Cas?

"Winchester, look out!"

He turned towards the ravaged screaming, met with a Japanese soldier, bleeding heavily from a graze wound on his cheek. He rushed forwards, arisaka at shoulder height, bayonet pointed directly at Dean's chest. He was dimly aware of the American troop that had warned him firing and missing every shot.

Dean's hands shot up and took hold of either side of the rifle's barrel, struggling to stop its advance. The two soldiers struggled and fought for control over the weapon, the Japanese troop pushing and pushing it forwards, set on sinking the blade into his enemy's heart. Abruptly Dean yanked on the gun, pulling the other man off balance long enough for him to shove forwards again and rip the arisaka from his hands. Dean spun it around and drove the bayonet deep into the soldier's stomach. Their eyes met, and Dean turned the gun, ripping the skin around the entry wound. Blood poured from the Japanese man's mouth. By the time the blade was withdrawn and he fell to the dirt below, he was already dead.

Dean threw the weapon down and glanced over his shoulder. Two crowds caught his attention; the one around where he'd abandoned Miller, and another, smaller one no more than six feet from the jeep. He sprinted to it, legs heavy and weak, collapsing underneath him beside the body.

"Move," he muttered, shoving the medic aside. Somebody had already closed Cas' eyes. He'd never see their striking blue again.

He wiped the blood from Castiel's singed face with a trembling hand.

"You can't be dead," he whispered. "You can't do this to me. You can't. Wake up, Cas, I need you."

There was a hand on his shoulder; someone trying to pull him up, to his feet, away from his friend. He fought it off and suddenly his team was restraining him, the sergeant gripping his forearms too hard to pull away, making him stand up. He struggled and shouted as they draped a filthy sheet over Cas' form.

"He's not dead! Stop it, he's not dead! I need him!"

The back of Hudson's hand struck Dean's cheek hard and his gaze was forced away from Cas.

"You listen to me, private. He's dead and there's nothing you can do about it."

Dean began to protest again when a second explosion sounded off, not similar to the one that had murdered his best friend but exactly the same. Yet his gaze wouldn't leave Hudson's as the sergeant began to grin, and it became clear that it hadn't been a vehicle, it had been them. Heat crawled up his legs and that horrible smell of burning flesh filled his lungs.

"Well, there is one thing you can do," Hudson said, his voice a low, predatory growl. Flames licked at his face and melted the skin, patches becoming nothing but bone. Dean could feel the fire spreading throughout his own body, not just on the outside but on the inside too, leaving him unable to make a sound while every square inch of him burned and there was nothing he could so about it.

Except—

"Say yes."

He bolted up, soaked with sweat and tasting blood. He'd bitten a sizeable hole in his lower lip. Slowly, rubbing at his sleepy blue eyes with one hand, Castiel sat up beside him.

"Dean?" He whispered, so as to not wake up the other men. But Dean didn't answer; his grip on Cas' uniform was tighter than before. It hadn't moved. He released it and crawled out of the tent, still breathing heavily. He ran a distressed, shaking hand through his sweat-beaded hair and paced, eyes fixed on the silent line of trees surrounding the camp. All a dream.

God, he was never fucking sleeping again.

A hand came to rest on his arm and he spun, pushing it off. Cas held his hands up in surrender, looking tired, confused and concerned all at once.

"We have to get out of here, man," Dean mumbled. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and shook his head. "Fuck, Cas, we have to get out of here."

Without any kind of warning, there were arms around him. Cas had never been any good at comforting, but Dean sank into the embrace immediately, his body too worn to resist it. His face hid away in the fabric of his friend's shoulder. Still he trembled. Cas only held on to him tighter. There were no words of comfort to be offered, no words spoken at all. Nothing more than a hug. It spoke more than either of them could possibly say anyway. When Dean shut his eyes, though, breathing in the familiar smell and slowing his heart rate back to normal, all he could see was that burned and bloodied face, those closed eyes, that terrible sense of finality that let it set in how alone he had been without Castiel. They were both human now. They were both mortal, able to wound, able to be wounded, able to kill and be killed. Unnoticed, a tear escaped his eye and seeped into Cas' uniform, leaving behind one small, darkened stain.

Not for the first time, the thought crossed Dean's mind, and had he said it aloud, which he never dared to do, Castiel wouldn't have been any surer. Were they even going to make it out alive?

Neither of them got much more sleep that night.