Another deadone1013's request - what happened in Cas and Dean's cabin after Paige and her child went full Croat and were killed.
I know it was supposed to be lighter, but this piece kinda crawled out of my head onto the keyboard on its own... I'm still mildly proud of it. Anyway... yeah. dark, painful, full of triggers. Even I am impressed by how twisted and unpleasant it came out.
If you like Endverse, don't forget to check hoellenwauwau's endverse fic. It fits nicely with the canon and it's not that hopeless, though still far from fluffy.
Dean walks up the stairs slowly, feeling his heart sink with every step. His hands are cold; there is this unnerving, stomach-turning quiver thrumming inside him, making him stop every couple of seconds to force himself to take one deeper breath, because otherwise his shivering muscles make his chest move, but can't even fill his lungs with air.
He lets out a barely audible sigh of relief at the sight of Cas standing by the window. Moon's blueish light dimmed by scarce clouds seep through dirty glass of windowpanes to highlight the man's craggy, weary face, his thinned lips and pale eyes that seem even larger than usually.
Cas's face looks almost white in this light; on this lurid, cadaverous skin Dean can see a streak of black, dripping down from a corner of Cas's mouth, smeared on his cheek; he clenches his fist at the memory of slapping the fallen angel. Driven by instinct, his gaze wanders lower to check on Cas's hands – they're still wrapped in bandage and there's little blood seeping through the faded, tattered fabric. It's a good sign.
"How many?" Cas asks simply; Dean staggers back, lost and shocked at the moony, bleak tone. Something is pushing him to come closer, to put his hand on his lover's shoulder, to explain, but fear stops him in his tracks. He knows Cas enough to sense that this peace is faked, that there is a turmoil of rage and despair underneath its taut surface.
"Annie and Ben, Hans, Carla, little Megan…" Dean goes over the list of victims; names and faces ache in his memory like fresh burns.
Cas turns slowly; the movement is lazy, almost dreamy, but the leader notices the slight shaking of the hand Cas uses to support himself against the windowsill.
"The baby?" the fallen angel asks and all Dean has to do is to nod.
Suddenly, Cas lets go of the windowsill; he takes a couple of shaky, unsure steps across the cabin only to sway and be held steady by Dean.
"Hey, what do you think…."
"I need to see them," the shorter man drawls out, "let me go."
"You're not going anywhere. Not now."
"Dean, let me go!"
Winchester can feel his friend go tense in his embrace in a second; the steady, firm pressure of muscles that are shivering slightly. He adjusts his hold while Cas tries to regain balance; he succeeds sooner than Dean expected and a stubborn tug-of-war transforms into real wrestle. It takes all Dean's strength to keep Cas in place.
"Let me go," Cas spits out every word, wrenching his gnarly, lean arms from Dean's hold. His shirt tear in the process. In the last possible moment Dean trips him up; they both hit the wooden floor in the same second and the leader uses his quick reflexes to straddle his friend and grip his wrists.
"For fuck's sake, man!" he breathes into Cas's face; his own fury flurrying in his chest is what lets him withstand the angel's glare.
"I said, let me go."
They stay like this for seconds, minutes; the fallen angel closes his eyes, stills in Dean's hold, shields himself from reality with a veil so thick that Dean's furiously hissed profanities can't pierce it. His breath slows down and after a while the leader isn't sure if his lover is still conscious.
"Cas, damnit. Talk to me."
Blue eyes snap open. Dean's breath hitches at the sight; he has never seen such rage, not in Cas, not in a demon, not even in himself.
"Cas, I'm not letting you out of here until… until the guys take care of everything."
The angel's snarl is like a red-hot whip across his face.
"Why? You think I can handle the sight of a dead body?"
The leader bites back an insult.
"You're not yourself." he says instead.
A bitter, breathed "uhm" it the only answer.
Cas's taut body relaxes gradually and Dean recognizes the moment when he can let go. He sits up on his heels, letting the fallen angel pull his legs in and kneel on the floor. They stay in this ridiculous poise, staring at each other with grudge and distrust until Cas tilts back a bit, eyes Dean with a quizzical expression, mixed emotions contort his face and the leader knows that the man is about to snap, but he might burst into laughter as well as break down crying – Dean can't tell.
"There's blood on your shirt," he states instead; sprouting insanity making the corners of his lips twitch in a slight smirk, "and on your hands."
"It's yours," Dean explains with an exasperated sigh, because he knows exactly what the angel found so funny. To his horror, Cas bares his teeth and throws his head back; a cruel, ragged, bestial laughter rolls through the night's silence; it boils in his throat, ugly and wet, making his half-bare chest quiver until it leaves him breathless. Dean leaps forward to pull Cas's shoulders and make him straighten up; the face he sees when Cas finally does is frightening, almost demonic.
"Cas, hey, look at me," the leader clasps Cas's jaw to steady his head; the angel still smiles against Dean's grip that is so tight it will surely leave bruises; echoes of that terrifying laughter still shake his whole body, "Or not," Dean growls, pushing Cas's head away with disgust, so hard that the angel sways back and has to sit on his heels again. The leader scrambles to his feet, ready to walk away when he hears commotion behind his back; he spins around in time to block Cas's blow; instincts kick in, so he uses the momentum to wrench Cas's arm and throw the angel against a wall.
He growls, pushing Cas's chest with a flat hand.
"You do that again, and I swear I'll…"
"You'll what?" the fallen angel cries out into his face, "What will you do that you haven't already done to me?"
Cas crouches, frightened by the sound when Dean's fist hits the wall next to his head. The leader stares ahead blankly, right at the spot where he has seen Cas's face a moment before. There's a black smudge there now – blood from the back of Cas's head – shiny and wet against the old, rough planks.
He takes a step back, kneels next to his lover, puts a shaky hand on his shoulder, traces the angled line of his arm that covers Cas's head.
The fallen angel relaxes, leans into the touch, seeks it until Dean's hand finds Cas's cheek, until his fingers trace the curve of Cas's neck to rest on his shoulder. There's more compassion than pain now in Cas's eyes when their gazes finally meet.
"Don't you even talk about it. Ever." Dean whispers dryly. Cas doesn't even have to nod to let him know that it's over. Water under the bridge. Another thing they will never bring up. Another wound they will never forget.
The leader helps his lover up and half-leads, half-carries him to the bead. When they finally settle down he takes a quick look around to make sure that there is no shard of glass around; he unstraps his thigh holster and puts it on the floor far on his side of the bed along with the gun that's still tucked in it, then does the same with the sheathed knife in his pocket and the butterfly one he has in his boot. Cas observes him with a blank, void look.
They lie down on their sides, Dean behind Cas's back. It's almost morning and despite the fear and disgust still gnawing at his guts Dean is slowly giving in to that dry, sandy, heavy weariness that makes his spine hurt and his vision blur. He weaves the fingers of one hand into Cas's hair and wraps the other around his waist, then throws one leg over Cas's legs. A slow, sad sigh makes the angel's back grind against Dean's chest. The morning chill crawling along Dean's back makes him twitch; the warmth trapped between their bodies burns like drops of molten iron.