Cas wandered slowly through the Bunker's halls, feeling an invisible weight hunch his shoulders. The lights flickered into life as he rounded each corner, illuminating the next stretch of identical hallway. His shoes squeaked on every other step, the regular creak echoing pleasantly down the bare corridors.
It was the fourth day since the Cure. Dean was paler, thinner, but every bit as unconscious as he had been on day one. Cas was fast losing hope.
Sam's resolve was as unshakable as ever, but Cas could see the strain was beginning to take its toll. The younger Winchester looked almost as haggard as his brother, and the dark circles under his exhausted eyes aged him drastically. Despite Cas's ever-improving skill at sandwich-making, Sam still wasn't eating as frequently as Cas thought was healthy. Ignoring each untouched plate, Cas kept up a steady stream of BLTs and grilled cheese masterpieces.
As much as he wanted to glue himself to Dean's bedside, Cas couldn't help but feel he was intruding on the brothers' grief. Or perhaps he was just nervous that Sam's hyperawareness would redirect itself onto him. He wasn't yet ready for his secret to be known. They had enough to be worrying about without adding to the pile.
Not paying any attention to where his feet were carrying him, Cas was surprised to open one of the heavy doors and find himself staring at the stairs leading to the garage. Needing no encouragement from him, his feet stepped up into the cavernous room.
Cas's eyes flicked over the classic cars before his gaze was riveted by the crumpled wreck of what took him a moment to recognise as Dean's old Impala. He came to a halt before the ruined car, his jaw dropping as he saw firsthand the destruction that had crushed the old Chevy almost beyond recognition.
The frame was jagged and bent, looking like a massive piece of black paper that had been crumpled by a giant's hands. Both windshields bore a spiderweb of white scars, and the only glass left in the door windows were jagged teeth bared against the shadowy maw of the interior like a wounded animal's, boldly warning an intruder not to approach. Only one tire remained unburst and even it was woefully flat, and every rim was bent. One of the windscreen wipers stood perpendicular from the wreck, looking to Cas like a hand outstretched, beseeching help.
Dean had done this.
The two concepts didn't make sense to Castiel. He knew Dean had caused severe damage over the last year, but he simply couldn't reconcile the idea of Dean Winchester willingly doing this to his beloved Baby.
No. The demon had done this. And Dean would undo it.
Cas raised his fist, gently lifting the old car a foot into the air. Concentrating on the different flavours of metals and plastics, he slowly unclenched his hand. As his fingers straightened, so did the metal frame. Metal popped and squealed as dislodged fragments of glass tinkled like chimes to the floor. The rear windscreen trembled and shattered as the chassis jerked under Castiel's ministrations, sending the opaque glass skittering over the inky black hood and raining down like sculpted ice to bounce and twirl against the muted grey dance floor.
When the frame had been restored to something reminiscent of the '67 Impala design, Cas set the car gently down on its ruined tires. It was severely dented and the formally jet black paint was scarred with rough greyish breaks where the metal had snapped, as though some great clawed beast had ravaged it. It still looked broken and sad, but Cas knew Dean would be able to fix it. He had done it before; this time would be no different.
Provided he woke up, of course.
Cas's brief smile faded like cloud-veiled sun. Four days, and he hadn't so much as stirred. The IV Sam had persuaded into the crook of his unbranded arm offered what meager sustenance it could, but whether or not Sam could – or chose to – see it, Dean was wasting away. Shadows swallowed his cheeks. Caves consumed his arms where his shirtsleeves ended. His whispering breaths were not enough to smooth the creases where the blanket lay over his hollowed stomach. Sam had spent hours trying to coax a warm broth through Dean's lips, but the older Winchester had been unable to swallow the nourishment.
Dean was dying, and thanks to Castiel's newly reinstated angelic abilities, he was watching it happen in unbelievably high definition. He was grateful for Sam's relative blindness – the hunter couldn't see that each breath was minutely shallower than the last, or the colour seep inexorably from the haggard face.
And there was nothing Cas could do to stop it.
A brand new, untested, unique Grace and the best he could do to help his friend was untwist his old home into a more noticeably car-shaped shell. It was pathetic.
Cas pressed a hand over his eyes, suddenly feeling very old indeed. It was strange, how he had lived for so many millennia without ever truly understanding the cruel gift of love and in these last few years becoming an expert in heartache. He wasn't altogether sure he didn't prefer numb ignorance.
As if on cue, Metatron's voice resounded through his mind, the memory a thin echo of the booming intrusion of the previous week.
"Oh Castiel? I know you can hear me – you're the only one left who can. You can't ignore me. I know you're still out there and I swear I will harness the unparalleled might of my shiny new angelic army to blast apart every stone until we find the one you're trembling under. And Cas? I won't be quick. I'll take my time with you. And the first punch? Oh, that'll be the sweetest. You see, I'll find your precious Winchesters and I'll peel their skin off while you watch – helpless – as they scream their lives away.
"But that's only the start of the fun – that's when I'll start tearing apart their souls. And you've heard a soul's scream, Castiel. You know how it rips apart something deep inside you. Can you imagine how it'll sear into heart when the souls that're screaming belong to your darling pets? And when they're gone and their screeches have faded into silence, I'll leave you, all alone, in my very cell for, oh, say six millennia, with nothing but the memories of those screams for company, and then, when I've had my fun with you, that's when we'll get started on you. That's when I'll start pulling out every feather, one by one. That's when I'll make you beg me for forgiveness, beg me for death!
"And when at last I'm bored of the noises you make, then I'll grant your wish."
Cas couldn't suppress a shiver as the snarling whisper faded in his mind. Knowing the Bunker was the safest place for him and the Winchesters to be didn't offer Cas much comfort. What it really meant was that if Metatron ever did find the hunters' haven, there would be nowhere for the Winchesters to run or hide.
Cas had already double-checked and refreshed the Enochian spells carved into their ribcages in an effort to keep them better hidden (which had not been easy to explain to Sam), but that didn't mean they were unfindable. The angels Metatron was supposedly creating might have entirely new talents – there was no way of knowing. The only life form ever to be created by an angel was a Nephilim, and they were notorious for being unpredictable. Cas wasn't entirely convinced that Metatron was even capable of creating a new host of angelic warriors, but on the off chance he was, he and the Winchesters were woefully unprepared for an attack. One angel could not fight off an army of Heavenly soldiers.
Metatron's words twisted around and around in Cas's mind like swirling pipe smoke. He had boasted of killing every disloyal angel – but did he mean every order of angel? Was Cas truly to believe that the cherubim were all dead? Killing the cupids was unthinkable. It would be like killing love itself. Surely Metatron could never be so callous.
Or could he?
Cas turned his ears to angel radio once more, and again he heard nothing but a silence so deep it deafened him. There was only one other time in his long millennia when the angels had seemed so silent: when Cas was human. Could it be that his new human-made Grace didn't allow him to tune into that frequency? No. Not tuning in was different to tuning in to the nothingness.
Cas put a hand to his forehead, leaning gently against the Impala's dented hood. These questions were pointless, answerless. There was no use torturing himself with ifs and buts. He knew his best option was, for now, to stay put in the Bunker and help his friends in any way he could. Then, once he knew either way what would become of Dean, he and Sam could turn their attention to –
"CAS!"
The shout in Cas's mind was echoed by the voice reverberating through the halls, so loud it made Cas jump. Feeling his heart leap up to his throat as though wanting a better view, he turned and flew through the corridors, coat whipping about his heels.
He reached Dean's room in moments and landed hard, not bothering to fold his wings as he took stock of the situation.
Sam was leaning over the bed, his hands pressed hard against Dean's chest, desperately trying to keep him lying still. Dean's eyes were half-open and sightless, blood flowing from his nose, mouth and ears as he bucked and jerked wildly on the bed as though he were being electrocuted.
"CAS!" Sam called again, unaware of the angel's arrival. "CAS!"
"I'm here." Cas stepped forward and raised his hand, gently but firmly pinning Dean's spasming body to the bed. Sam looked around confusedly for a moment before tentatively relinquishing his grip.
"What happened?" Cas asked. He could feel Dean's muscles straining against his invisible bonds, fighting with a strength Cas had been sure had drained out of him.
"I don't know," Sam said breathlessly. "One second he was still, completely comatose. Then his eyes opened a bit – I thought he was waking up. But then I noticed his nose was bleeding and a second later he went full Exorcist."
Dean's green eyes were glassy and vacant as they stared at the painted ceiling. His mouth was slightly open, but he didn't make a sound. His shallow breaths were heavier and more ragged than before, but there was no scream to accompany the relentless twitching that was all Sam could see of the man's increasingly desperate struggle.
"Cas, what is happening to him?" Sam's eyes were beseeching Cas, searching faithfully for some answer, any answer. Cas could only hazard a guess.
"He must be facing some challenge in his mind. Something strong enough to reconnect him to his body."
"What, so he's awake?"
"No. Whatever he's experiencing is simply powerful enough to reengage his muscles."
Sam's expression and shoulders fell. "You mean like electricity through a dead frog? It doesn't mean he's getting better?"
Cas waged a brief war between kindness and honesty. Honesty won. "Actually, Sam, it ... it probably means he's getting worse."
Sam fell back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his weary eyes. "I can't take this, Cas," he said without looking up.
"I know."
"No." The hunter's voice was suddenly stronger, more certain as he looked up at the angel. "I mean I can't take this, Cas."
Having the distinct impression he was missing something, Cas leant forward. "What do you mean?"
"I mean there's gotta be something I can do! When I was in a coma, Gadreel brought Dean in to show him how bad it was – he saw me. He could, I dunno, talk to me, couldn't he? He was there!"
Seeing where he was going with this, Cas held out a hand. "Sam, it's just too dange –"
"DON'T TELL ME IT'S DANGEROUS!" Sam roared, bounding to his feet.
Cas stared. Sam looked to the ground, ashamed but still breathing heavily. Dean's struggling began to weaken against Cas's invisible restraints.
"Don't tell me it's too dangerous," he repeated, his tone lower and calmer now. "I don't care. I've got to help him. I can't just leave him alone to face this."
"Sam, I can't bring you inside Dean's head. I can't even take a peek myself."
"Why not?" Sam growled, and Cas could hear how valiantly he tried to keep his voice level and civil.
"Because it means bringing one or two more multi-dimensional balls of blistering energy into a vessel – a person," Cas corrected himself, "that is already deeply damaged. If I tried to bring you to him, it could disrupt whatever balance he has left inside him."
Sam was shaking his head, his face set in a look Cas associated with apocalypse-averting stubbornness. "Not if I use this." He pulled a small jar of beige-brown roots from a bag under the desk and held it out to Cas. "African Dream Root. It'll work. And it's safe – and I'll have powers if I take it. I'll be able to help."
"Sam," Cas said warningly, eying the root with deep distrust. "I don't think –"
"I'm doing it, Cas. I'm sorry, but I can't just sit here and watch my brother die. I can't. You can either help me, or stay out of my way."
Cas held the Winchester's gaze for a long moment as he felt Dean's twitching abruptly cease. He turned and looked at the man he had pulled from Hell's racks as his eyes slid slowly shut. He was dying. What had they to lose? Another few hours of agony, watching him waste away?
Cas looked back to Sam. Lowering his hand and releasing Dean, he nodded.
"I'll help."