Lucifer let go of Castiel with a dull smile. There was a look in his eye, a certain shade that made Castiel shiver in his bones. It wasn't disinterest, it wasn't superiority or sadness or cruelty. Nothing he had seen before, in the two times his brother had visited the summer house.
This time, it was love.
(Gabriel was leaving, leaving to join Heaven. Mother was dead, God didn't hear her crying. Father wasn't there, not all there at least. And Lucifer? Lucifer was brilliant. Lucifer was perfect. Lucifer was starting the End of the World.)
"You know what they told me, Castiel?" He said his name softly, like velvet over a coffin. "They told me you were dead. They said you killed yourself after Father left. But I didn't believe that. You always had so much faith, brother. So much ill-placed faith in faces you couldn't see."
Lucifer bit his lips, and knotted his arms across his chest. He looked much older, now, and a disease of the skin was eating round red spots of raw flesh into his face. Castiel knew he was brilliant still.
"You can't say that. You left me. You left me and Gabriel and Mother and Father to ourselves. You said it would be beautiful!" Castiel didn't realize he was screaming until his fists were slamming into Lucifer's face, bone on bone. It hurt, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "You betrayed me! You betrayed all of us!"
Somewhere, Dean was shouting. He could hear the strain, the confusion in the man's voice. Dean Winchester. Dean Lee. Dean Winchester. Dean Lee. Who was real, who was fake? The air smelled like flies and blood.
Someone tried to drag him off of Lucifer. Away from the King, the Morningstar, the rebel with a ready cause. But Castiel was angrier than he had ever been, hot tears sliding down his face.
"I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING. I TRUSTED YOU, AND YOU FELL ANYWAY!"
(The car slid from the driveway, and from the house Mother whimpered to God, anyone who would listen. Gabriel broke things. Castiel waited on the porch. Father laughed, Father cried. The End had already come.)
Castiel felt whoever was holding him fall as he slammed an elbow into their anonymous face, the warmth of their blood on his white dress shirt. He was standing again. Tears stained his vision, but he could see okay for a moment, a terrifying moment.
The room was in pieces. Dean was standing truimphant over an unconscious Meg, his shoulder clenched tightly in a white-knuckled grip, teeth gritted against the obvious pain. Two other demons lay, one behind Castiel, one beside Dean.
There were more coming, though. Their footsteps rang through the dusty air like the howls of wolves and Castiel finally remembered where he was.
What was happening.
The orders he had, the choices he had to make. Who he was with.
"You were always," came a quiet thoughtful voice from the floor. "Such a peculiar thing, Castiel."
Lucifer grinned through a broken mouth. Castiel hadn't done much, but "The Devil" sat cross-legged on the dirty wooden floor and stared up at him with a sad smile.
"You really don't understand anything. But I'll always love you. And one day, you'll come crawling back to me," he leaned forward, and Castiel took and involuntary step back, shuddering out a breath. "You wanna know why? We're the same, brother. Exactly the same."
The doors burst open. Dean shouted ("shit oh shit oh shit"), Castiel jumped, unsure of anything but the fear in his heart.
But Lucifer waved away the demons. Tom stared, open-mouthed, at the calmness of the man, his eyes flicking between Meg and Dean and Castiel and Lucifer.
"But sir, the Winchester boy–"
"Stand down, Tom,"
"And your brother–"
"I said, stand down, Tom." He smiled again. His teeth were red and loose. "They'll come back. They always do."
But Castiel didn't see anything else, because Dean was dragging him away.
...
The car was exactly where they parked it. Dean hadn't expected this, of course; he'd thought those fugly bastards would've laid their filthy paws all over Baby. With a smirk, he admitted their was hope for humanity yet.
"Let go of me, Dean Winchester."
Oh, right. He was still holding Cass.
"You ain't gonna spaz out on me again, right dude?" He unwraveled his arms from around Cass' waist, trying to ignore the fact that he could smell what shampoo he'd used that morning. (The same girly shit as Sammy. Who woulda guessed.)
Cass' face was as blank as it could have possibly been. His eyes were vacant, unfocused, his mouth tight and grim. Dean felt worse–his shoulder wasn't getting any better.
"I do not spaz. I act upon reason and personal moral."
"Oh, so attacking your apparently long-lost psychopath brother?" Bullet wounds didn't hurt sarcasm in the Winchester boys. "Yeah, man, real moral. How come you didn't tell me you were a prince of Hell, huh? Didn't cross your mind?"
Cass didn't even move. Just kept staring over the hood of Baby, not so much as a twitch. A strand of bed-head wandered across his forehead, but he didn't move to touch it.
"I am meant to kill you," he said at last, quietly, calmly. "I am meant to kill you so I can live again."
"Because some tight-ass Heaven chick said so? C'mon, man, suck it up! Fight back! You're not their...their...puppet. Their good little soldier. You're just a nerdy dude in a trench coat, okay?"
Silence. The street was quiet, the pain was nearly unbearable. But he had had worse, and he would stitch his wounds and drink his pain away later. Right now, he had to deal with this.
But–
"They know where his is."
"What?"
"They are going to kill him. They are going to kill him unless I do this."
Dean blinked, and shifted uncomfortably. He remembered, only last night, a snatch of conversation concerning three agents, Cass, and a man called B on the back of a photograph.
"Balthazar, huh?" He ran a hand over his jaw. He needed a shave. He needed a drink. "Who was he?"
Cass smiled just a little then. Still, he did not look at Dean, did not turn.
"My boyfriend," he said quietly.
Oh, thought Dean.
"Oh," said Dean.
The car ride back was slightly uncomfortable.
...
Once upon a time in a far away land, there was a socially awkward idiot and a mysterious stranger. They were happy and dating and woo-fucking-hoo, thought Dean as he chugged his fifth beer.
The motel room they were at now was only slightly better than the one they had met at twenty-four hours previously. Meaning, Dean couldn't exactly see the disgusting stains, but that just meant they were better hidden. A cigarette butt here, a spider nest there, and voila, a shoulder wrapped in gauze.
Oh, and Cass was spectacularly drunk.
"I don't understand," he slurred from his awkward curled-up position on the couch in front of the battered TV set (Dean wanted the bed, thank-you-very-much). "If the pizzaman loves her so much–"
"Oh, for the love of Metallica, Cass, were you raised under a rock?"
"...not that I am aware of."
He was even grammatically correct while drunk. Great. Dean found himself missing Jo and Ellen and Ash with their stupidly funny drunk stories.
But this was okay. He stretched, yawning, and stood somewhat clumsily. Dean Winchester could hold his beer, and after three he was only a bit fuzzy around the edges. But Cass...well. He was practically a saint when it came to anything apparently. This was his "first attempt at intoxification by alcoholic beverage".
Dean plopped himself down next to Cass, and snatched the remote.
"Look, I'll show you something worth watching."
He flicked through channels until he found an old James Bond, mid-explosion. Cass looked disgruntled.
"Too loud," he muttered.
It had been a long day.
They sat in content silence for a moment. Dean flashed back to the same sentence, over and over, while Cass frowned at the television with growing drowsiness.
He was my boyfriend.
"Hey, Cass?"
"Yes, Dean Winchester?"
"I'm gonna help you. I'm gonna help you kick that Anna bitch's ass. And then we're gonna kick your psycho brother's ass. And then we're going to buy you a new outfit 'cause you look like a banker."
"Okie-dokie."
Dean couldn't help but smile.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Bond was escaping death by crocodile, and Cass was sound asleep on Dean's shoulder, a slight snoring emitting from his general direction.
He looked almost happy, now. The trauma was gone, replaced by the telltale flicker of dreams underneath his eyelids, and Dean felt kinda sorry for the guy, in a weird way. Like he was losing everything.
Just like Dean.
His cell rang two minutes and forty-three seconds later.
"Hey,"
"Dean?"
Sammy.
"Dean, you there?"
"Yeah, man. You okay? How's Bobby? He being a crotchety old bugger again?" Dean chuckled, shifting slightly so as to push Cass' head off of him a little. He wasn't fond of...well, friendship.
The silence that followed Sam's monotone made everything turn black and white.
"Dean," said Sam. "Jess is dead."
...