I'm uploading two chapter today, because it's a kind of finale (and Supernatural finales are always two-episode long)... If you have made it so far you probably know that this work is dark as hell and designed solely to torture the reader with the worst kind of pain, tragedy, angst and all, but there is a warming here anyway:
Major character's death.
Musical dare: "Wind of change" by Scorpions
Chuck is a bit startled by urgent knocking on his doors. So startled, in fact, that it takes him a while to struggle free from the blanket he was wrapped in and then disentangle rags heaped on the floor next to his cot in pursuit of something to wear. Having made himself presentable he opens the door to see Cas leaning against the door frame. He's already clad in his battle gear: soiled worker's boots, loose jeans, his favorite cotton tunic and one of the job lot of almost identical heavy duty jackets that Dean hoarded like a maniac because they always got ruined within weeks of wrangling with Croats and trolling through the woods. The prophet gives his friend an uneasy once-over, huffing a half-amused sigh at his own thoughts. The jacket is obviously too large for the little, wiry man. Of course he would have never snatched such an outfit for himself - he liked soft, flowing fabrics, not those asbestic-like, boxy armors Dean values. There's an uzi hanging loosely on a greasy strap on his left shoulder and two banged up Berettas on both sides of his belt. And there is something sombre about him, something so dark and cold that Chuck loses the track of time for a couple of seconds; he just stares at Cas, wrapped up in a tuneless, lightless haze until Cas tilts his head and lifts a corner of his mouth ever so slightly. The prophet gets that Cas doesn't understand what got him so taken aback, but even without understanding Chuck's feeling he is already poised to ridicule it. He decides to follow the cue.
"Ugh, Cas, you look like ass..." the man remarks warily.
"Of course I do. I am wasted and high..." the angel chuckles; the dark spell is lifted in no time, leaving Chuck one to one with the well-known tangle of old, aching scars, vitriolic sense of humor, and a touch of abderian insanity, "and I haven't showered since yesterday morning. But what matters is that I did one random act of kindness just for you, my special friend."
The fallen angel pokes Chuck on the chest with his index finger, then muscles into the cabin.
"I've convinced Hannah and Rachel that a threesome is the only way for a woman to fully explore the profundity of her sexual energy," Cas explains, gesturing fulsomely "Meeting the astral projection of her anima and animus at the same time. You should go for it. Thank me later," he frowns, pinches his lower lip and looks up in a goofy pantomime meaning that he has just said something stupid "Or don't. Anyway, you're welcome."
The prophet looks at his friend askance.
"Aaaand... You wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me this?"
Cas takes his time to answer Chuck's half-angry, half-concerned remark. His chest heaves in a slow, deep indrawn breath. He seems to sober up within seconds; intoxication or whatever it was that made him act like a spiteful jester drains from his body in one pained, long sigh.
"This might be the last occasion," he says softly.
A terrible realization burgeons in Chuck's stomach; the swirling, chilling sensation of free fall intensifies when he rises his head to look into his friend's eyes, and behind the icy glaze of studied indifference he sees dark velvet of distant, reconciled sorrow.
"Might?" his voice is more whimpering and brittle than he'd like it to be, "Might? Are... are you...?" a slight twitch of Cas's jaw muscles confirms Chuck's misgivings; he starts to stammer "Wh... Oh, God. You... you know it is. Oh, God..."
Silence swells around them like a billow, engulfs them, makes Chuck's chest feel heavy, but empty. He holds on to the angel's peaceful gaze, lets himself be drawn to it, soothed by it until he can keep his own breath in check again.
The fallen angel takes something out from his chest pocket, then grabs Chuck's hand and slips the thing into it, closing Chuck's fist around the hardness of metal warmed up by Castiel's body heat and softness of a coiled, oily lash. The man rises his eyebrows in an unspoken question.
Cas clears his throat. His lower lip flutters when his unfocused gaze slides over the trees and cabins veiled by thin, ominous fog.
"I thought that if maybe, just maybe someone survives this will help you remember."
"Why me? I mean I'm just... I'm just a guy..."
The man unknowingly shakes his head and takes a step back, but Cas follows him, almost pinning him to the cabin's thin, damp, moldy wall.
"You know him. In a way you've known him longer than I have," he adjures, "You understand. There has to be someone who remembers him as a good man."
"Cas, man..."
"Please," he reaches for Chuck's hand that is still clasped around the amulet and gives it a brief, firm squeeze, then turns away.
Chuck slowly works up the courage to say something, but Cas is already on his way to the rally point. The prophet follows his friend into the night, trying not to snap on the way. He wants to stop him, to ask, plead, but before he manages to find proper words his throat is knotted and his eyes sting; he knows his voice would break if he tried to call out to his friend, so he just walks, haunted by an ice-cold certainty that the meters that separate him from the gravel driveway where the cars wait, ready to drive off, are his last chance to say something, to change something; that otherwise he will regret not taking the shot for the rest of his life . Halfway there he resolves that there is no point in trying not to sound weird. He shouts out despite the lump that makes his voice sound wailing and silly:
"But what... What about the others?"
Cas stops, but doesn't turn to face his friend. He waits for Chuck to catch up before answering:
"They suspect, I guess. But hey," he sniggers bitterly "they think we're saving the world. The won't live long enough to be disappointed. Perhaps it's the best fate a man can face now."
Having said that Cas resumes his brisk, hell-bent pace. The prophet tries to get in his way, piteously aware that his own height and posture make him look like a puppy barking at a mailman.
"And you? Can't you stay?"
The angel spins around in one smooth motion to come to an abrupt halt facing Chuck; the prophet's face almost bumps into his chest. He has to take a step back and rise his chin to see that the other man's expression indicates that he is sincerely astonished.
"Of course I can," Cas replies with a hint of amusement, darting a searching glance at his friend, and it's all it takes for Chuck to understand everything.
His whimpering groan makes Cas bristle a bit. The prophet can sense that his friend is considering adding an angry remark, but instead, the fallen angel takes a deep, calming breath. His expression softens, he even makes a move like he intended to place his hand on Chuck's shoulder, but in the end his hand just falls limply onto his thigh.
"Chuck, you're missing the point. You think I will die at sunrise, but I...we..." he drags his hands down his face as if he wanted to wipe away last remnants of this mask of scorched bitterness he's been living with for months, "We haven't been alive for a long time," he admits in a bewilderingly mellow voice, "Instead, we become this. The only thing I think we have left, Dean and me, is each other," Cas bites his lower lip and lowers his gaze in an expression painfully reminiscent of juvenile abashment. It seems that merely mentioning the name brightens up Cas' face with a warm, serene smile and lights sparks in his eyes, "If Dean says it's time to go out in a blaze of glory, win or lose, so be it. I'm in."
They walk the last meters towards the rally point, approaching cars and men gathered there in silence. Cas waits until all other vehicles dispatch, gets in, closes the door and sticks his head and arm out through the window to give Chuck one last pat on the shoulder.
"You see," he explains with an easy smile, no traces of doubt or grudge left, and despite the signs of fatigue and hardship's he's went through, his face is almost angelic, "that's just how I roll."
He drives off, glancing at the rear view mirror to see Chuck smile back, wave and salute him.