WARNING: Suicide is a topic in this chapter.


Castiel was morbidly fascinated.

It had been five days since Dean broke the sigil that kept Castiel from healing, and in that time, Castiel had gotten significantly better. He could move his fingers, and the contents of his abdomen had shifted back into place, and the damage to his lungs was almost nonexistent. He was still in pain, but it paled in comparison to what he had felt before, and he found himself fascinated by the injuries that remained.

He poked at his red skin, still recovering from the burns inflicted on him, and he gingerly touched the scars that hadn't disappeared yet. That wound in his stomach from the very first night, on the motel floor, was still somewhat open but not infected. In fact, Dean had been cutting him so relentlessly, he was pretty sure he hadn't had an infection in more than a week because none of the wounds were left to fester. He would bend his fingers, and even though the ability to move them had been returned, he still felt the pain of the dark bruises and bones he assumed had been broken.

Dean… you held out for thirty years. Castiel blinked slowly, rolling onto his side and laying his hand flat against the old mattress. He stared at the purple flesh, a curious light in his eyes, and after a moment of contemplation, he shook his head in disbelief. How?

Castiel jolted at the sound of a door slamming, pushing against the mattress and looking around with a quickened pulse. No one had come into the panic room, but he could see the dark sky through the grate at the top, so he wasn't sure what anyone would be doing going outside. He also wasn't sure why they wouldn't be more careful to be quiet.

Is something wrong?

He struggled to his feet and slowly walked out of the panic room, climbing the stairs. He looked around as he turned to the right and shuffled down the hall. When he came to the library, he saw the couch was empty, and he had learned over the past few days that Dean had been sleeping there.

So… Dean is the one who ran out…

Castiel looked toward the front door.

Dean…

He stood still for a moment, contemplating his position. He knew the brothers expected him to hate them—logically, he knew he probably should have—but he didn't. It wasn't that it hadn't been Hell for him, it was just… well… he could close his eyes and hear the sounds of many, many people begging for mercy. Every city that had been completely leveled simply because Heaven commanded it. Castiel couldn't exactly judge them, no matter how personal they had made it. His sins far outnumbered theirs.

But will my presence do any good?

It was possible Dean didn't want anything to do with him. Dean had told him to recover and then go his own way, as long as he didn't interfere with their mission. He knew he had the capability to help, and he knew he couldn't return to Heaven even if he wanted to—and honestly, he wasn't sure he did want to. Not anymore. But did that mean he wanted to join them? Would they allow him to join them?

What do I do?

He crept toward the front door, tongue flashing over his split lips. If Dean was struggling with his sadistic tendencies, he might not have wanted to see the person who brought them to life. He had waited to rescue Dean until the seal had been broken, and then he had put Alistair in front of Dean and handed him a blade and holy water. Even if Castiel hadn't been completely sure of his own actions, those were the actions he had taken. Would it help Dean at all to face the person who had pushed him down this path?

Castiel stayed still for another second, and then he started for the door.

I have to do something.


Blood.

He could smell it, he could feel it, he could taste it. It was glistening on his lips, light and shadows dancing on the shades of red. Slick fingers raked through the soft, warm substance, ripples spreading out from the digits of stained flesh. Knives carved into skin and muscle and bone, shredding until the life fluid poured out, over the body, over the table, onto the floor.

Screeches that split the eardrum; sobs that wrenched out of a broken, gushing chest. Fire in his veins. Cracked fingernails clawing at a wooden, metal, plastic table. Lightning under his skin. Buckles clinking as the straps were fastened, leather creaking as the straps were resisted with every instinct known to man. Crying, pleading, begging, metal, bone, flesh, blood, blood, blood, so much blood, beautiful blood, succulent blood, tantalizing blood—

No. He gasped, jolting upright on the couch, hands flying out and legs tangled in an old blanket. No. He gripped the cushions for a fraction of a second, and then he jumped up, rushing toward the door. No. He bolted outside, the cold, December air biting at his bare arms and feet. No.

He ran out to the Impala, slowing to a stop behind the car and staring for a moment before he started to turn in a slow circle. He looked at the junked cars, chest heaving, and he stared up at the night sky. Barely breathing, he reached up and gripped his head, knowing he had gone too long without a fix, knowing the dreams he had been having for the last week weren't going to go away.

"You've got people who need you to be moral—to be human."

He stood there, in the cold, and he wrapped his arms around himself, gripping his limbs so tightly he thought he could feel the bones creaking.

Bones.

Ribs groaning under the growing weight of cinderblocks and stones. Femurs piercing the skin and pointing into the air. Noses with cartilage bent out of place. Fingers twisted and crooked and deformed.

No!

He let go of himself, turning in a circle again, almost frantic. It was like he thought the broken-down cars could help him. Like the wind could carry an answer to his ears and melt away the throbbing sensations in his body.

"You're not one of them. You're one of us. Don't ever forget that."

He ducked his head, screaming out some of the pressure building inside him. His entire body was tingling, clinging to the memories he was trying to fight off, craving the darkness and blood and gore. He was throbbing, pulsing, aching.

Shouting again, he reached up and buried his face in his hands. He clenched his jaw, sucking air through his teeth, and he wished with every fiber of his being that he could feel a sting at the backs of his eyes. But he couldn't. He could only feel the pure evil coiling its way through his soul.

"Dean, the way you're talking… and the way you looked while you were cutting him up. You…you're scaring me."

He grabbed the trunk of the Impala, tearing it open and lifting the cover that concealed his weapons. Moonlight illuminated the guns and knives and chains, green eyes flashing from one thing to the next, and he snatched up the pistol he normally kept under his pillow. Hands grappled with the weapon, struggling to disengage the safety. He took a deep breath and pressed the muzzle to his temple, closing his eyes.

"I… just… I need to know I'm not losing you again."

He stopped. He didn't open his eyes. He just stood there, gun to his head, body almost trembling with the amount of desire in it, and pictured Sam's face. But what was he supposed to do? He didn't want to leave Sam, but the person he had become was not what Sam needed or wanted. It wasn't Sam's brother; it wasn't the person Sam had lost. It was someone entirely different.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I—?

"Dean."

Dean whirled on the spot, and before his brain had even registered that it was Castiel who was standing there, he was aiming the gun at the angel's head. "What do you want?" He jerked the weapon in the general direction of the road that led away from Bobby's house. "You've been healing up for five days, and don't get me wrong, you still look pretty awful, but you're—"

"Dean."

"What?" Dean sucked down a breath, unable to quell the panic in his veins. "You're really gonna try and get revenge? You think you can win just because your powers aren't restrained?" Though, maybe if Castiel killed him, it would be easier for Sam to take than suicide. "Well, come at me, Cas."

Castiel stared for several moments, blue eyes wide and trained on Dean's face. He looked so weird, standing there in sweatpants and a flannel shirt, but even the new clothes couldn't cover all the damage. His skin was still red on the side of his neck where the branded sigil had been, and his face was dappled with bruises. Pale lips were split and still somewhat bloody, and when Dean's gaze traveled down to the hands hanging limply at Castiel's sides, he could see the bruising left over from the broken bones.

"What are you doing?" Dean spread his arms, but he was quick to put his aim back on Castiel. "Come fight me already!"

Castiel shook his head, standing no more than ten feet away without a single indication of aggression anywhere on him. "Don't do this, Dean."

Dean let out a bitter, angry laugh. "You—you do not get to tell me what to do." He shook the gun, as if it were Castiel's shirt in his hand instead of a firearm. "After what you did? All the lies and manipulation? Threatening Sam? Putting Alistair in front of me on a silver plate?" He could hear himself getting louder, and he could feel the heat in his chest and head getting more intense, but Castiel just stared at him. "Refusing to tell me what Heaven was planning, even under torture, because you're still toeing the company line? A company that wants to see the whole world destroyed?"

"Dean."

"I'm not Dean!" He screamed the words, jerking the gun as he once again considered turning it on himself. "I am someone else. I am something else. Dean is dead!"

Castiel shook his head again. "No, he isn't." He took a step but stopped when Dean refocused the gun. "I pieced you back together—"

"—after you got me out of Hell. Yeah, you mentioned that. You said this kind of darkness doesn't exist in me." Dean laughed, throwing his arms out wide as if to present himself. "Well, you were wrong!"

Castiel took another step. "You—"

"Either kill me or let me kill myself." Dean panted, lowering his arms to his sides. "Let me go back to Hell, back to where I belong."

Staring—endlessly, evenly, with some unknown emotion in his eyes—Castiel uttered words in his rumbling baritone. "Dean, you resisted your urges for months. If I hadn't forced you to interrogate Alistair—"

"So what? I played the part, I acted reluctant, I pretended to be the same me I've always been." He shook his head, another laugh rising in his throat. "That doesn't change what I am. It doesn't make me any less evil, Cas. Do you get that?"

"Dean, you're trying to kill yourself to protect your loved ones."

Scoffing, Dean gestured to Castiel. "How do you know I'm not killing myself so I can return to Hell and get back to what I love?"

Castiel stepped forward, closing several feet of distance before Dean aimed his gun again. "I know why you're doing this because I know you. You can't control what's in your head. You can't control what you feel, or the thoughts and sensations that come upon you." He shook his head, expression earnest. "But you can control your actions, and that's what you've done. You stopped torturing when Sam asked you to, no matter how it made you feel. You kept asking me questions during the torture to keep yourself grounded; to remind yourself that you were achieving a goal and not feeding an addiction."

"Cas!" Dean all but screamed the name. "I want blood on my hands! I want to cut into people, I want to hear screams, I want to—"

"Then why haven't you carved up Sam and Bobby?" Castiel extended his arm toward the house behind him. "Why are you determined to go back to Hell? Why not just go into town and start destroying? Why not become a serial killer?"

Dean trembled, still feeling the weight of his weapon against his palm. "Cas, you're not hearing me. I am psychotic. I loved—I loved everything I did to you. When I was pushing my knife into your body, I got the kind of elation in my chest that no drug on Earth can give you."

"And you were still able to walk away. Dean…" Castiel inhaled, a pained look in his eyes. "You can come back from this."

"How?" Dean screamed. "How am I supposed to come back from this? This is who I am, Cas, this is—"

"This is not who you are." Castiel took another step and reached out, gently grasping the gun in Dean's shaking hands. "This is not who you are."

Dean gasped, chest stuttering. "If this isn't me, then who am I?"

For a moment, Castiel just looked at him, and then a faint smile appeared and disappeared in an instant. "You're Dean Winchester. You're the man who risks his life time and time again to keep people safe. You're the man who loves his little brother more than anything in the world."

"No." Dean shook his head.

"Yes." Castiel gently worked the gun from Dean's hand, tossing it aside before Dean had a chance to stop him. "You still know what's right and wrong, Dean. You know that these feelings you're having aren't normal, aren't good, aren't safe. You've been fighting them."

Dean dropped his hands, taking a shuddering breath. "Yeah, and I've been losing."

"You're not always going to win, Dean. You've been surrounded by temptation. Did you really think you were going to be able to fight it off when you were literally burying a knife in my chest?" Castiel shook his head. "Give yourself some time away from it. Give yourself some time without torture on your list of objectives."

"Yeah, and what am I supposed to do in the meantime?" Dean pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to catch his breath, trying to soothe the burning in his body. "What am I supposed to do when I'm having a freaking wet dream about tearing someone apart?"

"You rely on us."

Castiel blinked, realizing he wasn't the one who spoke.

Dean froze, terror cutting into his chest as he looked around the angel to see Sam and Bobby standing just outside the front door. His brain immediately scrambled for some explanation as to why he was standing outside in the middle of the night having a meltdown, but he knew it was too late. They had seen—and maybe heard—everything, and he had no way of justifying himself.

"Dean…" Sam walked across the scrapyard with Bobby on his heels, slowing to a stop as he approached his brother. "You don't have to do this alone." He reached out briefly, like he wanted to take Dean's hand, but he wasn't quite close enough. "I can handle interrogations by myself. You don't have to do them anymore. We'll do some test runs to see if killing a monster quick and clean gives you those same feelings, and if it does, we'll figure something out."

Bobby slipped his hands into his pockets, probably trying to hide them from the cold. "You can always tell one of us when you're craving. Even if I'm not with you, I'm just a phone call away. Call me at four a.m. and we'll talk about anything under the moon."

Dean swallowed, head jerking in a shake. "No, you don't—you don't understand." He turned away from them, closing the short distance to the Impala and bracing his hands against the sides of the trunk. "You don't understand!" He dropped his head, screwing his eyes shut, fingers turning white against the metal frame as they gripped it.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and soon two arms were winding around his ribcage, Sam's voice soft in his ear. "Help us understand. We'll get the hang of it. We'll learn together, and we'll figure out how to do this right."

Dean shuddered, head jerking in a shake. "I can't be what you need me to be."

"Yes, you can." Sam squeezed him a little tighter. "You just need time to get there."

Dean tried to process what they were saying, the faintest flicker of hope igniting in his chest. Was it really possible to function like he used to? Could he be Dean Winchester again? Even with the darkness inside of him, could he learn to live with it? To be happy without his greatest desire?

Gently, someone touched Dean's right hand. Someone else put a hand on his left shoulder.

"You should just let me go back to Hell," Dean growled. "I'm not worth the effort."

"Yes, you are." Sam shifted his arms like he was trying to pull Dean closer, even though Dean was pretty sure that was impossible. "Of course you are."

"You're family, boy." Bobby squeezed Dean's shoulder.

"I'll fight for you, Dean." Castiel gripped the hand he was holding.

Dean didn't say or do anything; he just stood there, trying to rid himself of the rage and desperation that had been coursing through him from the moment he woke up. He took deep breaths, focusing on the three presences around him, and he started to feel a cooling sensation in his veins. His heart slowed a bit, not racing in his chest anymore, and his grip on the Impala started to ease.

"Cas, I…" Dean stopped, eyes still closed. "I might never apolog—"

"I know," was Castiel's simple response.

"I don't… I honestly don't know what's real. I was cutting you up, and I was just so high, and then when Sam made me stop, I was angry. I could only feel those two things." Sucking in a breath, Dean shook his head. "I don't know if I'm capable of feeling anything else."

Castiel worked his fingers in between Dean's, clutching him tight.

"Sam… Bobby…" Dean grit his teeth. Did he feel remorse? Was that emotion even in him anymore? He knew he had hurt them, and he knew he didn't want to hurt them, but—

"You don't have to feel sorry to be sorry, Dean." It was like Sam could read his mind. "If you can't make yourself feel it, that's fine. You still know it."

I still know it.

Silence fell over them, broken up only by the wind blowing through the scrapyard. Castiel held onto Dean's hand, Bobby kept squeezing Dean's shoulder, and Sam just continued to stand there with his arms wrapped tightly around his brother.

"I was in Hell, Sam. Did you really think it wasn't going to twist me up inside? Turn me into something new?"

But even if he was something new, could he learn to live with it? Could he actually make something good out of himself even if he still had those dark, twisted urges? Was he strong enough to fight the good fight, and was his family going to be enough to keep him from succumbing?

"Everything's gonna be okay, Dean."

Dean ducked his head and finally surrendered.

Everything's gonna be okay.


"I can't believe you're still here."

Castiel didn't look up from his mug of tea, blue eyes gazing almost vacantly at the purple skin of his hands and fingers. "I have nowhere else to go."

"I know, but…" Sighing, Sam approached the sofa and sat down on Castiel's right. "We tortured you. You shouldn't be staying with us and…"

Castiel inhaled before sipping his tea. "Do you have any idea how many people I have tortured in my many, many years?" He felt the urge to smirk, but the look didn't make it onto his face. "Do you know how many innocents I've killed?"

"But Cas… if you don't hate us for what we did, that's… that's some kind of Stockholm Syndrome or something. It's not healthy."

Castiel had no idea what Stockholm Syndrome was, but he could get the general idea. "You were achieving a goal. You did what you had to." Even if Dean had enjoyed it a little too much.

Running his fingers through his hair, Sam let out a sigh. "Does this mean you aren't going to follow through on your threats to destroy me?"

Castiel took another sip. "I was angry. I'm not anymore."

"But why?" Sam scooted a little closer, his hands moving in Castiel's peripherals. "I don't understand why you're not angry anymore when you have every right to be. It doesn't make sense."

Tilting his head back, Castiel looked at the ceiling, almost as if he expected a rational answer to be written there. "You and Dean… you were aware of the darkness in what you were doing. Even though Dean loved it—even though he craved it—he still knew, logically, that it wasn't good. That's what enabled him to stop when you asked." He wet his lips. "You both acknowledged that it was a necessary evil, but that means you acknowledged that it was evil." He tapped his finger on the side of his cup. "I've spent my entire, rather lengthy lifespan around people who took the same course of action and claimed it was righteous."

Sam dropped his hands into his lap, sitting in quiet consideration, and then he let out a sigh. "If you're sure." He paused, and there was something more vulnerable, more afraid in his voice when he spoke again. "Do you… really think we can save Dean? I mean, I do, but… I'm so close to it. I want an outside perspective."

"I believe we can." Castiel kept his head tilted back, eyes trained upward. "Though, my perspective is much more eternal. That allows a lot of time for change." Then, feeling a mild curiosity, he turned his gaze from the ceiling to Sam and asked, "Why do you believe it can be done?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous chuckle. "Well, when Dean talks about it—about how it makes him feel and stuff—it sounds like an addiction. I don't have much experience, unless you count the demon blood, but humans beat addiction all the time. I mean, every case is different but… there are plenty of recovered heroin addicts out there who will always love heroin. That doesn't keep them from not using heroin and doing other things instead. Humanity, we… we fight, and we win. Dean is no exception."

Nodding a few times, Castiel pursed his lips and gave Sam a contemplative expression.

"People also learn to live with mental illness all the time." Sam wet his lips, his hands starting to move. "I mean, you would think dissociative identity disorder would be enough to completely destroy your life. Being multiple people? Not knowing when you're gonna become someone else? But we've figured out a way to overcome that."

Castiel maintained his silence, watching the way Sam almost… became inspired by what he was saying.

"Dean is strong. He has been through so many things and come out on the other side. He can do this. I believe he can. I know he can." Shaking his head, a small smile started to pull on the corner of his mouth. "He's smart. He's brave. He's got a great support system. We're gonna beat this."

Lifting his cup to his mouth, Castiel took another sip. "I believe you're right." He faced forward again, this time staring at the wall directly across from him. "But he has to believe it, too."

"Yeah…" Sam sighed heavily. "I know."

Castiel tapped the mug in his hands. "He will. Eventually."

Sam laughed that time, the defeated tone completely gone from his voice. "Yeah. I know."


Author's Note: I hope you didn't find Castiel's reaction unrealistic. I truly think that someone like Castiel, who is and always will be a soldier at heart, understands the terms of war. Even though Dean was sadistic about it, he would have let himself be stopped by Sam if he hadn't had a good reason to keep going. Which, of course, is what he did when they finally got Castiel to talk.

I'm only planning on one more chapter after this, and even though it's mostly written, I'd like to add a little more meat to it this weekend. As always, if you're interested in following my work, check out my tumblr or website for updates!