Ashes flew up into the grey morning air, red and yellow stars against the cloudy sky. The wind carried them up, up, dancing and twirling before they fell, slowly drifting back down to their source. Logs crackled as flames danced over the wood. Dean had felled them himself; his rage and his grief had fueled every swing of that rusted axe. It was Dean who had laid the body on the pyre, wrapped securely in a thick white sheet, and it was Dean who had lit the match. Who had burned the very person he had killed.
He stood in front of the flames, their heat lapping hungrily at his skin. But Dean didn't move; he didn't care. The heat felt like hell, but deep down inside he welcomed the anguish and the pain.
Footsteps approached from behind him, but Dean didn't turn around. Eventually a hand came to rest on his on his shoulder, a silent and solid touch of comfort. "Dean. This isn't your fault."
Dean didn't turn to answer his brother, but his head fell as he tried to keep back the tears. Goddammit, he wasn't going to cry, not in front Sam.
The hand squeezed sympathetically, and Sam let out a long slow breath. "I know Cas meant a lot to you, Dean," he finally said. "Hell, he meant a lot to me, too, but I know he -"
"Shut up."
The younger Winchester fell silent and Dean could feel his hurt, but right now he didn't care. Castiel was gone. "I'm sorry," Sam pulled his hand away, and after a second he stepped away. "I'll be by the car. Take as long as you want." He clapped Dean's shoulder one last time, and Dean finally looked up into Sam's face. His brother's eyes glittered wetly with undisguised
grief, and he dipped his head when Dean stared.
He listened as his brother walked away before he turned back to the burning pyre. To Castiel. He had wrapped the angel, trench coat and all. Part of him had wanted to keep it - dammit he had wanted to keep it so bad - but somehow ... taking it felt … wrong. He ran a hand down his face to brush away the tears, and he felt the cold drag of metal on his flushed skin. He had taken one thing, though. There had been a ring on Castiel's finger, a silver wedding band from long before the angel had walked the earth. It had sat on his warm finger for over a decade, and now it rested on Dean's hand, pressed up tightly against Dean's own ring.
The wind whipped the flames and the heat through the air, but Dean didn't move. He would stay.
He stayed there until the pyre burned to little more than ashes. The logs were dull and white, and the acrid sting of smoke burned his throat as he reached out and touched one of the ashen and splintered branches.
Saving your brother - that's my priority. He could hear the low, deep rumble of Castiel's voice from only two days before. We will get Sam back. No matter what.
No matter what. Dean tapped the branch as tears blurred the world. Two days ago since Castiel had made that promise, and Dean could almost feel his warm hand on his arm. Who would have known that promise would have so high a cost?
Wind whipped through his hair, carrying Castiel's voice on its back. "Thank you." His words rasped in his throat, and Dean swallowed to fix it but to no avail. "Thank you," he repeated. He glanced over his shoulder to see Sam standing by the Impala and turned back to the pyre. "I … I love you," he admitted quietly. The words felt new and foreign on his tongue,but he let out a shaky breath and a shake of his head. "I love you, Cas, okay?"
The only answer came on the cold breeze, and Dean didn't dare to look back as walked away.
Α...Ω
He returned to Castiel's grave the next year, and the year after that. Always on June 12th. The day God's angel had finally died.
A large oak grew from the ashes, the thick trunk supporting long, heavy branches and their crown of leaves. Dean carved Castiel's name into the trunk on the third year, his knife scoring the thick bark. He cut his hand on the 's,' a large, deep scar that would mar his skin for the rest of his life. Dean didn't care.
The seasons passed, and Dean came year after year after year. Wind, rain, or shine, he came.
Then one year he didn't.
Sam came the next day, a shovel in his hands. It was the job that finally did him in, just like Dean had always said, and the drinking and the sleepless nights had only sped up the inevitable. Dean had died doing his job. He dug his brother's gave among the roots and buried him in the shade of the tall, stretching branches. The leaves cast dappled shadows on the ground, like the shadows of celestial wings as Sam carved Dean's name beside Castiel's. The white bled with each deep mark.
Dean Winchester + Castiel.
Sam knelt down and pulled two rings from his pocket, the two rings from Dean's left hand. He pressed them into the soft dirt, side by side, before he stood up and walked away. Dean had never mentioned his feelings towards Castiel.
But Sam knew.