All right, here is my double upload. I am deeply sorry for not being able to carry out Hoellenwauwau's request for a fluffy getting-together. It's just that good things don't happen in the endverse; not in my experience. I did magic up a couple of fluffy endverse scenes, but I just can't think of good emotions related to any major events in the endverse. My brain just pops up a "409 error" notification and freezes.
What I managed to do was to come up with a getting-together one-shot that takes place in the apocalyptic endverse, though it is pre-Camp Chitaqua. It's rather something that deadone1013 might like: "raw pain and misery".
Next chapter will include some plotless fluff ( I mean I hope it will be light and nice enough to be qualified as fluff) to mend your broken hearts.
Thank you for your wonderful reviews, they make my day!
BTW I thought that I can place musical dares here to maximize the torment. For this chapter, I dare you to read it while listening to Leona Lewis' "Run"
They know that the epidemic has engulfed Wyoming as soon as they enter the first motel to book a room. There's a middle-aged, bulky man behind the counter instead of a typical bored lady; he isn't even hiding the suspiciousness in his look when he eyes Dean and Cas. Two lone strangers roaming a country that is no longer safe to travel must seem odd, but their worn-out paramillitary clothing, sure, brisk walk and the clink of gunmetal in their duffel bags lets him know that these two know where they are and what they are doing. The man shoves aside his Remington 870, which was lying on the counter, to make room for the register book: frequent power shortages make on-line booking and computer register useless nowadays.
There is one more sign of crisis. The man doesn't give them funny looks or make a wry face when the book one room. Safety first. He knows that. Sleeping alone is the first thing that gets people killed. Barred windows, barbed wire and moat filled with broken glass might keep Croats away, but it won't work against looters, robbers or all kinds of disturbed people who moved on from preaching and repenting to actually assaulting sinners upon seeing the first signs of the Apocalypse. Nobody sleeps alone anymore. Dean almost misses the days of relative normality, when he had to deal with teasing or scandalized looks in nearly every place he visited with Sammy. He regrets ever wishing to work alone, to free himself of Sam's constant pranks or nagging. Cas's quiet, patient, unobtrusive presence makes the loss even worse, makes him feel even more hollow. He follows the fallen angel upstairs, gritting his teeth against the old, obstinate anger smoldering in his chest.
"Left or right?" he asks as soon as they enter their room only to break the silence.
"You know that I it makes no difference to me, pick the one you like."
Dean checks the beds for hardness and broken springs. He isn't getting younger, so he starts to appreciate the role of good mattress in good healthy sleep. One of the beds seems more comfortable, so he plunges onto it to straighten his legs only for a while before he'll have to proceed with demon-proofing the room and preparing himself for the night.
Cas proceeds to take of his jacket and boots after fishing a small wash bag from his duffel, then draws several sigils on the walls using a can of glow-in-the-dark paint and a folded stencil. Unlike his companion, he keeps all his possessions in an improbable order. He isn't one to waste time on chatting, resting, watching movies or choosing the better bed either. Winchester is aware that heavenly soldiers training couldn't have included a human evening routine, but sometimes the man has an impression that he's traveling with an ex-millitary. The same straight, stiff neck, the same inability to lay back and relax, the same drill. Yet, there is something even more annoying abut Cas when they are alone: he's even more taut, watching every step and motion as if he was struggling with his own vessel, as if he watched out not to make even a slight mistake in his studied routine, not to let any emotion surface.
Dean takes a deep breath when the bathroom door close behind Cas's back. He's on his own. Going over good memories is one of the methods he mastered in order to avoid being left alone with his ruminations, but it's not perfectly safe either. There are a few topics that are ridden with hidden icebergs: memories of something he's lost, of moments when he could have changed something, but didn't. He knows the wave of unexpected pain clawing at his throat all to well to risk it, so in moments such as this he thinks about movies he's watched, girls he's slept with or Cas. Things he did, things he didn't do. Good times they had. The way the angel used to be more relaxed, more easy-going. He does have better days from time to time, when he attempts to use his growing knowledge of pop-culture to make bad jokes or socializes with other people, but he's never so light-hearted around Dean. The man guesses that he'll have to take that silent treatment; there is no way to change it now. The weight of unspoken grudge and long overdue apologies, the memories of things they've both lost - it all must make his presence unbearable for the fallen angel. Sometimes, when the road stretches out for miles and they sit in the car in silence he's almost ready to say sorry, but he always chokes the words back. There's no way to apologize for what he has done or what he failed to do. There's no use if he can't make things right.
There is a touch of bitter longing that veils these memories. It feels like Dean lost not only what had been, but also what could have been... all these moments when he thought he was so close to getting through to the angel, to entering his world, to finally understanding. He's always felt that there was something beautiful that he was missing. A key to Castiel's mystery, hidden somewhere in his naive confessions and fleeting glances. A passionate prayer he couldn't hear. Maybe if he had listened better, he wouldn't have to bear the bleak, cold silence between them now.
The bathroom door creak; Winchester shakes off his ruminations, but Cas has already noticed that something was wrong. He sits next to the man with a heavy sigh. Dean can't help noticing how humane and vulnerable he's looking now that his skin is still damp from the shower, his unkempt hair dripping with water that sinks into a tattered towel on his shoulders. He's wearing only old checkered flannel pants and a simple white A-shirt.
"Dean, you don't have to do it," he begins, not looking at his friend.
"No, you're right. We need to find Crowley. Visiting Hell's Gate is the best shot we have."
"I know. I can go alone."
Dean sits up abruptly, making his companion finally look at him. There's compassion and sorrow in Cas's gaze, and something that Dean can't name, but what's making him uneasy.
"Dude, could you just once not come up with this kind of shit? Why do you always, like always, try to go kamikaze?" It starts as a salty joke, but halfway through the sentence Winchester realizes that he really means it. Nonplus flashing through Cas's face lets him know that they are on the same page, "I mean seriously, what's wrong?" he asks softer.
"Nothing is wrong. I simply wanted to say that I understand if you don't want to go back there."
Hell. So this is what it's all about. Not exactly hell, but its threshold. The only place where they could meet demon marauders, not exactly happy with Lucifer's rule, still clinging to their underground hiding place.
It's been so long and so much has happened since his death that Dean hardly remembers anything, or rather hardly believes the time in Hell to be the worst thing that happened to him. Losing Jo and Ellen, seeing the world slip into madness, and hearing the news from Detroit... He went to hell to save his little brother from death, but in the end he brought a much worse fate down upon Sam. None of this would have ever happened if he was simply left there to rot.
"Why didn't you just leave me there?" he hisses, unaware of what he's doing. Hurt and offended look on Cas's face lets him know that he said it out loud. He can't stand that expression of sorrow and pity. He couldn't name one reason if he tried, but it simply feels wrong. Cas should be the one apologizing. The embers of rage burst into flames in no time. All he wants it to wipe this look from the fallen angels face.
"You knew what would happen," Dean presses, leaning towards his friend, "It was too late to save the seal, so why rescue me, huh? You dragged me out of there just so that I could be Michael's condom and help you blow the planet off?"
Cas moves away a bit; he tenses up, his face solidifies into an expressionless, impervious mask.
"My orders were just to save you. I wasn't aware of Raphael's plan," he answers in a dead, flat voice.
"Cut the crap," Dean's yell snaps the other out of this state.
"Dean, I knew nothing until much later. You know that. You can blame me for not telling you about Lilith in time, but I swear I did not know about it back then."
"What would you do if you knew?" Winchester urges, claiming the space from where Cas has just retreated, pinning him to the bedhead. The fallen angel tries to remain calm, but uncertainty and hope bleed through his pretended indifference when he whispers:
"Why does it matter?"
"Dunno. Just sometimes I feel like you're one of them. Big, mighty dicks using us here like puppets. So yeah, tell me. What would you do?"
"Back then?" Cas heaves a deep, weary sigh leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees; his absent gaze wanders about the farthest wall; his friend can see how hard Cas is trying not to look at him, "The same, most probably. I used to follow orders. I did not understand what I understand now."
"And now?"
"I would still try..." comes a timid answer, full of weakly concealed ardor.
"Yeah," Winchester snorts, "Cause it came out so well."
This raillery is like a slap on Cas's face; he turns to Dean, stands up, puts all the strength he has left into a zealous ensuring:
"Dean, it's not too late!"
"What do you mean not too late?" Dean stands up as well to tower over his friend, threatening and accusing as they stand chest to chest in a motionless fight, "Everything went to hell, can't you see? The worlds ending!"
Cas finally gives in. He looks away for a moment, then meets Deans eyes again to pierce the man with the sad, knowing look Dean fears so much.
"Dean, I understand. It is too late for Sam, but you still can save countless others. People who are someone's brothers, mothers, children. You told me that. They are worth saving. You can still kill Lucifer. Save people."
In spite of his desperate attempts withhold that look, Winchester feels that he is going pale; he darts nervous glances here and there, trying not to surrender.
"And you?"
"I shall keep trying to save you."
There is a moment of tense, charged silence, disturbed only by their heavy breaths. Cas takes a small step back, but the man follows his every motion as if he was hypnotized, as if something was telling him not to let the fallen angel out of the distance that lets him feel the warmth of Cas's body and see the slight, quickened pulsation of the veins in his neck.
"From what?" his trembling mouth makes his voice sound weak and brittle.
"From becoming the man you believe you are."
Why?" the man leans in closer; the other's breath feels hot and electrifying on his neck and cheeks.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Winchester twitches when the tips of Cas's fingers gingerly skim his chin and lower lip, but deep down he isn't really surprised. It's the same look of admiration and boundless devotion that he's seen so many times, that has confused and irritated him so many times, but now he finally knows what it means. Relief washes over him, but then comes denial, guilt, fear. This should not be happening. With the remnants of his willpower he pulls away; he grips Cas's wrist, but something in him breaks and instead of moving the angels hand away from his own face, he presses a long, soulful kiss on the inside of his palm.
"Cas, no. Don't," he pleads and chokes back a sob when Cas's other hand traces the curve of his jaw to rest on the back of his head.
"It's all right, Dean," he feels Cas's fervent whisper rather than hears it; words he's so afraid to hear scorch his skin when Cas's lips move against it; words that will forever remain seared into Dean's brain, "It's too late for me anyway."