Future!Dean and Cas time. Angst and fluff. This is probably completely over the top, feel free to ignore how utterly ridiculous and teenage-level-angsty this is going to get.

By the way, "One Wing in the Fire" has its own fic now. If you want to keep reading it, you can go read it there. It will no longer be updated here.


A Pair of Clipped Wings and a Dirty Old Trench Coat


The future that Zachariah had sent Dean to was one of many possible ones but it was the one he thought would do the most damage.

In another future, Sam had still said yes, the demon virus had still swept across the world, and the small pockets of humanity still clustered around campfires in the dead of night to try and survive. In another future, Chuck had still ceased to be a prophet, Bobby had still died, and Castiel had still been abandoned by his brothers and fallen.

But in another future, Dean had not hardened and shunned those he cared about for fear of becoming too close and losing them all over again. In another future, he had not run suicide missions that killed half of his men, he did not shoot a person simply because he merely suspected them of being infected, and he did not discard Castiel to drugs and women and sleepless nights haunted by memories of what he used to be.

In another future, Dean was a guardian. Instead of charging into a war he had no possibility of winning, he protected the humans in his care, only leaving for supply runs. In a strange, bittersweet and broken sort of way…he was happy.

It was early in the morning, too early for much light. Dean's sleep crusted eyes cracked open slowly. The curtains were still drawn across the windows, the thin fabric sifting the pale light into a dull glow that left the room mostly in shadows. Dean rolled over sleepily and threw his arm around Castiel.

Only Cas wasn't there and his side of the bed was cold.

"Mmg, Cas…?" Dean grunted, kneading a fist into his eyes as he squirmed underneath the tangled blanket on top of him. He yawned and stretched, glancing around the bedroom but the fallen angel was nowhere in sight. The Winchester swung himself out of bed, bare feet tingling against the cold wooden floor, and stretched again until his back popped. Then he stood and, clad only a worn pair of pajama pants, padded across the room to the door.

It was already cracked and whispered quietly open with the barest hint of a squeak. Dean stepped down the hall, rubbing a hand through his hair and looking into the rooms as he went. The bathroom door was open, the room beyond empty, and the same was true for the storage room and the sitting room. But he found Cas in the kitchen, sitting on one of the worn out chairs at the table with his back to the doorless entrance. His bare shoulders were hunched and his head was bowed and, as curled and taunt as he was, Dean could clearly make out that scars on his back.

They weren't battle scars and there were times that Dean wished they were because that would have been easier, a lot easier, to deal with.

Castiel had been half mad when Dean had finally found him again after the disaster of Sam saying yes to Lucifer. The angel had not just fallen, he had been cast aside. His brothers had fled the earth, seeing no reason to remain when this was a fight they would surely lose. And they had left Cas behind. Already a rebel, already half-lost because of his compassion and love for the Winchester brothers, already covered in the stink of humanity, they had shunned him. When the angels had fled, Cas had tried to follow but they had pushed him down and left him there.

Crushed, abandoned, and powerless, Castiel had spent a bitter year wandering pointlessly, not quite sure what to do with himself, unable to find Dean, unable to do much of anything. Dean found him wasting away in the ruins of the city, bleeding to death from the cuts on his back. It had taken a while to nurse him back to health—both in body and mind—but when he was finally stable, Dean had grabbed him roughly by his shoulders and yelled that if he ever tried to do that stupid shit again, he'd kill him himself.

And Cas, poor broken and fallen Cas, had cracked the barest hint of a smile.

Dean stepped into the kitchen and pressed his hand against the fallen angel's back, the lumpy scars ridged reminders under his palm. Cas had been trying to find is wings. He'd thought that sliver of broken metal might be enough to cut them out. He'd been lucky none of the infected had found him bleeding like that.

He'd been lucky about a lot of things.

"You okay, Cas?" Dean asked, fingers rubbing against the base of Castiel's neck.

"Yes." Came the gruff reply and then, "No. I…Dean, I dreamed of falling again. I dreamed of falling and of my wings burning and…" His voice hitched and he would not look at the hunter.

"Hey, its cool." Dean dragged the other chair around so he could sit next to his fallen angel, "I still have nightmares about the day Sam—about that day."

"I know." Cas answered and this time he did turn his head, brilliant blue eyes locking with Dean's vibrant green ones, "You had one last night, I heard you talking."

"I thought you fell asleep before me."

A small, sly smile turned up the corners of Cas' mouth, "I let you think a lot of things."

Dean punched him lightly on the shoulder, "Fine, I'll let you keep thinking that you let me think things. For now, I'm making breakfast." With that, he got to his feet and made for the cupboard but a quick hand snagged the back of his pajama pants and tugged them down, revealing the bare skin beneath.

"Cas!"

"Mine." Castiel said firmly and pushed a kiss into the base of Dean's spine before he let him go, "I want coffee."

"We're out of coffee. There's a supply run tomorrow, though, I'll try and find some when we go."

Cas made a strangled, yawning sort of noise and Dean looked over his shoulder to see the fallen angel stretching, arms raised to the ceiling and chest thrust forward as his spine crackled. The hunter's green eyes flitted over the scars on Castiel's front. Failing to cut the wings from his back, upon his rescue from the city and his awakening in the camp, Cas had grabbed the nearest sharp object and tried to carve himself a new pair of wings. On his chest.

For something that was done in a state of half-madness, it was remarkable how steady Cas' hand had been. He'd only managed to get one wing done before someone had come in, discovered what he was doing, and stopped him. But it was well done, nonetheless, even Dean (as much as he hated what those scars stood for) couldn't deny that.

An arching curve of white etched from underneath Castiel's collarbone, down his side, over his ribs, to curl to halt just above his hip. The 'feathers' were intricate twists and spirals intertwined with ancient lettering that Cas had told Dean was a language older even than Enochian, the language of angels and the language God had used to build the Earth and the cosmos. Chuck had called it Art Nouveau-ish and had earned a glare from Castiel for it. Whatever it was, Dean both loved and hated it.

"You've got that look on your face again." Castiel's rough edged voice drew Dean from his thoughts.

"What?" The hunter quickly busied himself with finding the loaf of stale bread and sticking it in a saucepan over the open stovetop.

"The look," Cas continued and there was a creak from the chair as he shifted his weight, "That says you would say 'yes' in a heartbeat if Michael ever deigned to ask."

Dean ducked his head, eyes shadowed beneath lowered lids. His shoulders and back tensed, his movements became quick and jarringly sharp, and didn't say anything in response to Castiel's remark.

Given the chance, Dean would have said 'yes' if just to try and set things straight. Hell, after what happened with Sam, he had screamed yes to the Heavens until he was blue in the face. No one had answered and the world had collapsed around his ears, crumbled beneath his feet, and left him stranded with nothing to cling to. He'd been as alone as Cas and it had taken a lot of alcohol and effort to drag himself out of the rut he'd found himself in and try to do something useful, to try and save humanity the way he'd used to.

Warm, dry hands suddenly slid around his waist and a face pressed into his back between his shoulder blades,

"Don't think about it too hard," Cas whispered, hot breath flitting across Dean's skin, "You'll burn the toast."

"If that was a joke, it didn't make any sense." Dean said but his voice was still hard and he hated himself for that. In another future, one he was completely unaware of, another Dean had told another Castiel to leave and never come back in that tone of voice.

"It wasn't a joke. The toast it burning." Cas said lightly.

"Shit!" Dean jerked the saucepan off the burner and dumped the toast onto the countertop, dragging Castiel along with him because the fallen angel hadn't let go of his waist. Dean could feel the scrape of Cas' scars across his back as he shuffled around, trying to find a place to put the hot pan and turn the stove off at the same time.

"Cas, can you please let go so I can finish cooking?" The hunter finally asked once he'd managed to turn off the burner and put the fire out.

"Spoilsport." Castiel muttered but pulled away. Dean looked over his shoulder to see Cas padding out of the room on bare feet and sighed. Both of them were pretty messed up, he decided—a fallen angel that dreamed of burning and a broken hunter that saw only failure. What a fucked up pair they made.

He turned back to the slightly burnt toast, decided it was fine and the slices on a chipped plate in the middle of the worn out table. Then he filled two mugs with water from the jug in the fridge, pulled some rabbit from the freezer to defrost for lunch and dinner, and ran his hands up and down his bare arms at the chill. It made him realize how cold it was starting to get. Winter would set in soon; they needed more blankets and firewood if they were going to make in through.

There was the sound of footsteps and the creak of a chair and Dean turned back around to see that Castiel had taken a seat at the table and pulled the plate towards him. He was wearing his old trench coat over his pajama pants and it sent a pang through Dean because it made him remember when things had seemed so much simpler. He didn't say anything, though, just took his seat beside Cas and quietly ate his breakfast. It was silent for a long while.

Cas finished his toast first, licked the crumbs from his fingers, and turned to stare at Dean with those impossibly blue eyes that were a little dull and ragged around the edges. Just like the trench coat. Dean pretended he didn't notice and slowly finished off his breakfast, scooping up the plate and empty mugs and dumping them into the sink to be dealt with later. When he returned his attention to the kitchen, Castiel had left. Dean frowned and walked across the short hall to the sitting room. Cas was stretched out on the couch, humming softly to himself, eyes closed, head back against the arm rest, fingers lightly tracing the wing carved into his chest. He was still wearing the trench coat.

Dean crept around the couch and shuffled down so that he was on top of the fallen angel, straddling Cas' waist. Thin slits of blue looked up at him and Dean smiled, pressing his fingertips down Cas's chest, following the trails Castiel's fingers had made across the car there. Then he grabbed a fistful of the former angels' coat and yanked him up so that their lips smashed unceremoniously together.

This continued for a while.

The trench coat remained on.

Dean didn't mind. Sure, the future was shitty, their lives had fallen apart completely, and they were probably all going to burn in hellfire by the end of it but, really, at least it was something. A bittersweet, half-shattered, no-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel kind of something but it was a something all the same.

In another future, Dean had never confessed his feelings to Castiel. In another future, Dean had never even met the angel. In another future, Dean had said 'yes' and Castiel had been left to watch as things had been torn apart and he had had no one to turn to. In another future, Dean had rejected Cas and the angel had broken apart without a grounding force, become a half-mad creature that no longer recognized Dean Winchester at all.

If this Dean had known these things, he might have been a lot happier with the future he had.

As it was, he didn't know of these other possible futures.

And really, it was probably all for the better.

All he needed at the moment was a pair of clipped wings and a dirt old trench coat.