Sequel to: When Angel's Weep.
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Chapter 1: Faith Is a Loaded Gun
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The world had fallen silent. The kind that crawled under your skin and settled there.
Dean dropped to his knees, the cold mud sucking at his jeans and seeping through to his skin. Damp earth clung to him, grounding him in the wreckage. The air was thick with the acrid tang of burnt grass and ozone—sharp enough to sting his eyes, raw enough to catch in his throat. His breath hitched. Red warmth, metallic and bitter, spread across his tongue. He hadn't noticed he'd bitten his cheek.
The stillness closed in—heavy, suffocating. Only the faint crackle of dying embers broke through. Heat still bled from the scorched ground beneath him, but it was slipping away. Fading. Just like—
His gaze dropped.
Cas.
Dean's fingers found cooling skin, the rough fabric of Castiel's coat cool beneath his touch. There was warmth there still—barely. Like the fire hadn't quite claimed everything. Not yet. But it was leaving. Fast.
And those wings—charred, blackened scars burned into the earth—reeked of ash, of endings. Burnt feathers. Burnt hope.
Dean clenched his fists, dirt grinding into his palms. His heart pounded, too loud in the suffocating stillness.
No. No, not like this. Not again.
"Come on, man," he rasped. His voice cracked around the edges. "Cas…"
Nothing. No breath. No twitch. Just skin growing colder by the second.
Dean's vision blurred. He swallowed hard, jaw tight enough to ache. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to Cas. Not after everything.
His hand tightened on the coat—too heavy, too still. Cas was always moving, always tilting his head at something that didn't make sense, fidgeting when he thought no one noticed. Not this. Never this still.
Grief clawed up his throat. He shut his eyes, tried to swallow it down. Behind him, gravel crunched—Sam, rushing toward the house, toward Kelly. Toward the kid.
Dean didn't move. Couldn't. The world had shrunk to this spot: cooling flesh, blackened wings, the weight of loss pressing down like gravity had tripled.
"You stubborn son of a bitch," he rasped, fingers curling tighter into the fabric. "Why'd you—damn it, Cas—why'd you do this?"
He knew why. Cas always threw himself in front of the blast. That was just… him.
Dean's chest twisted. He should've stopped him. Should've done something. Instead—this.
Dean's gaze flicked back to the wings. His chest tightened, breath hitching. Angels weren't supposed to die like this. Not Cas. Not after all they'd survived.
His throat worked around a sound he couldn't let out—something between a laugh and a sob. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, fists tightening until his nails bit skin.
Anger stirred, slow and simmering, twisting through the grief like gasoline catching a spark. It burned hotter with every breath.
Lucifer.
That son of a bitch had done this. Stabbed Cas like he was nothing. Like he didn't matter.
And the kid—Lucifer's spawn. Jack.
Cas had believed in him. Had died for him. But all Dean saw was a manipulative freak who'd twisted that faith into a weapon and pulled the trigger.
Heat surged through his veins, fury drowning out the grief. Later. He could fall apart later. Right now—right now, there was something that needed handling.
Dean pushed to his feet, joints stiff, legs protesting from kneeling too long. Didn't matter. Pain was background noise. His gaze cut toward the house.
Cas had seen something in that kid—something worth saving. Dean tried—tried like hell—to see it, too. But all he could picture was that blinding flash of light, that last breath, those blackened wings.
Good intentions didn't mean a damn thing with Cas dead in the dirt.
Jaw clenched, he reached for his gun.
This wasn't about belief anymore. Wasn't about hope. Cas had gambled on that kid. Dean wasn't about to make the same mistake.
His boots crunched over gravel and singed grass as he stalked forward. The Colt weighed heavy in his hand—familiar, lethal. Knuckles white, breath tight.
Lucifer's spawn.
Castiel's killer.
Grief and rage twisted together, narrowing his focus to a single, burning point.
The door loomed ahead. Cold metal beneath his palm.
Dean's heart pounded, adrenaline singing through his veins.
And with that, he stepped inside.
—Three Weeks Later—
The Impala's engine rumbled beneath Dean's hands, vibrations thrumming through the steering wheel as he pulled into the bunker's garage. His body ached—muscles stiff, ribs bruised from the Wraith fight—but the exhaustion dragging at him wasn't just physical. It sat heavier. Deeper. Like an anvil pressing into his chest, weight growing with every mile.
Missouri.
Her face flickered through his mind—the fierce set of her jaw, the way she'd stood her ground, knowing full well she wouldn't walk away. Another loss. Another damn name on the list that kept getting longer.
Dean sat there, hands still on the wheel, breathing in the stale air of the garage. Or not breathing. Hard to tell anymore. His throat burned with something too close to grief. He clenched his jaw, swallowing it down.
He rubbed at his eyes, shoulders sagging under invisible weight.
He shoved the door open. Boots hit concrete with a dull thud. The bunker's cool air wrapped around him—usually a comfort. Tonight it just felt cold.
Keys clattered onto the war table, the sound echoing off stone walls. His duffel hit the floor next, jacket following in a heap. Layers peeled away until it was just him standing there—raw, empty, staring at nothing.
Missouri's voice echoed in his head: "You take care of them boys, Dean Winchester."
Didn't feel like he was doing a great job. Yeah, they'd saved James and Patience. But Missouri was dead. Win some, lose some. He was sick of losing.
A beer. That's what he needed—something to take the edge off gnawing at his insides. He turned toward the kitchen—
And froze.
"I was just showing him how to focus," Sam's voice carried from down the hall. Calm. Almost… friendly.
Dean's stomach twisted. Him. There was only one him Sam could mean.
Jack.
Dean's jaw tightened. Fingers curled into fists as he pivoted toward the noise, boots striking the floor harder than necessary.
He found Sam in the library—laptop open, papers scattered across the table in that familiar mess of scribbled notes. Like they were studying for a damn test. Jack wasn't there, but the air hummed with leftover energy, that unnatural buzz Dean recognized all too well.
His voice came out sharp. "What the hell is this?"
Sam looked up, blinking. "Dean—"
"You teaching him now?" The words cut, sharp and fast. "What, you two got a study group while I was out fighting a damn Wraith?"
Sam sighed, closing the laptop. "Jack wanted to understand his powers. I'm just helping—"
Dean barked out a bitter laugh—except it caught halfway out, snagging on something raw. He dropped his gaze for a beat—don't soften now—then locked back on Sam.
"Helping. Yeah, that's rich." His knuckles whitened against the table's edge. Stay angry. Easier that way.
Say it. Just say it.
"Did you forget he's the reason Cas is—" The rest lodged in his throat, grief clawing up and cutting off the words. Air thickened between them—heavy with what neither wanted to say.
Sam's expression shifted. That look. Pity. Dean's stomach twisted harder. Don't look at me like that.
He forced the words out, rough and breaking: "—the reason Cas is gone."
Silence stretched, tense and suffocating. Dean exhaled sharply, chest tight. Guilt twisted, sharp and fleeting—He wanted to scream that Cas had gambled everything on that kid—and lost. But the words stuck, bitter and wrong. Cas had seen something in Jack. Dean just… couldn't.
"Or does that not matter to you anymore?" It came out harsher than he intended. Maybe. Didn't matter.
Sam's jaw clenched. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" Dean laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. "Cas is dead, Sam! And you're here playing mentor to the thing that got him killed!"
"It wasn't Jack's fault—"
"The hell it wasn't!" Dean shot back. "If that kid hadn't shown up, Lucifer wouldn't have—" His voice cracked. Grief surged, burning through the anger—but he shoved it down, eyes hard. "Cas believed in him." The words tasted like ash.
Sam's gaze softened again—too much, too close. Stop looking at me like that.
And maybe that was the worst part. Cas had always seen the best in people—even when he shouldn't have. Dean clenched his jaw. Belief hadn't saved him. It had gotten him killed.
"And look where that got him," Dean snapped.
"I miss him too," Sam said quietly. "But blaming Jack—"
"I'm not—" Dean stopped, running a hand through his hair. Yes, you are. But anger was easier. Safer. Easier than that hollow pit spreading inside him.
Sam waited. Patient. Steady. Always trying to understand.
Dean opened his mouth—nothing came out. How could he explain? That every time he closed his eyes, he saw Cas's body—wings burnt into the dirt. That the silence Cas left behind was worse than any battlefield. Like something had been carved out of him, leaving raw, bleeding edges.
Couldn't say that. Wouldn't.
"Forget it," he muttered, turning away. "You wanna believe in the kid? Fine. But don't expect me to."
He didn't look back. Didn't see Sam's face. Didn't want to.
Sam stood frozen, the library settling into a hollow quiet after Dean's retreat. The echo of boots on concrete faded, but the words Dean had thrown at him still hung in the air—sharp, lingering. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion sinking deeper than the bone-deep weariness from weeks on the road.
He got it. God, he did. Cas was gone. And Dean—Dean always carried grief like it was another weight strapped to his back, shoulders bowing but never breaking. Except… this felt different. Like something inside his brother was splintering, too jagged to hold together.
Sam glanced at the papers strewn across the table—spells, lore, anything that might explain Jack's abilities. Cas had believed the kid could be good. Sam wanted to believe that, too. Had to. Because if he didn't… what was the point?
But Dean—Dean wasn't ready. Maybe he never would be.
Sam sighed, fingers curling into a fist before he forced them to relax. Dean would shut him out—he always did when things hurt too much. Pushing wouldn't help. It never did.
He just wished he knew how to reach him this time. Somehow, he had to.
The bunker felt too damn quiet as he walked away—Sam didn't even try to stop him. Just let him go. That silence sat heavy on Dean's chest, pressing in, thick as the grief he'd been choking on for weeks.
His boots echoed against the floor, each step dragging him closer to nothing. Left. Down the hall. His room.
Door shut behind him with a solid thunk.
And then—silence.
Dean exhaled, breath shaky. Forehead pressed to the wood. One beat. Two. Then he pushed off, yanked open the dresser drawer, and grabbed the whiskey bottle—half-empty, not nearly enough. No glass. Just the burn—hot, sharp, useless.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, bottle dangling from his fingers. His gaze slid to the nightstand.
Cas's phone.
Still there. Still useless. Still silent.
Another pull from the bottle. Burn. Breathe. Nothing.
Why does this hurt so damn much?
His jaw tightened. Eyes lifted—toward the ceiling, toward whatever was up there. God. Chuck. Whoever was watching. If anyone even gave a damn.
"You watchin', Chuck?" His voice was rough, scraped raw. "Sittin' up there, enjoyin' the show?"
The emptiness answered—thick, smothering.
Whiskey swirled. His grip tightened. Heat twisted in his chest—grief, anger, regret—a pressure cooker ready to blow.
And then—something broke.
The bottle hit the floor with a dull thud. Dean was on his feet before he registered moving, rage igniting like a spark to dry timber. His fist drove into the wall—once, twice—skin splitting open with a wet crack. Pain bloomed sharp, white-hot, shooting up his arm. Blood welled fast, sticky warmth sliding down his knuckles.
Didn't matter. Let it hurt. Hell, he welcomed it.
"You son of a bitch!" His voice tore through the room, hoarse and burning like sandpaper dragged down his throat. "You brought Cas back how many times, huh? And now—now he's just done?" He laughed, brittle and raw—the kind that scraped up from somewhere deep and dark, leaving a bitter taste.
No answer. Just the low hum of the bunker's ventilation—the sound needling into his skull. His head throbbed, pulse pounding behind his eyes. Breath came ragged, hitching in his chest like he couldn't get enough air.
Fists clenched at his sides, fresh blood smearing across his jeans. His hand stung—hot and swelling—but the ache was distant. Background noise.
"He believed in you," he snarled. "Stood by you when no one else would. And you just—"
Words failed. Grief slammed into him, sudden and brutal. His legs gave out, knees slamming hard against the floor—pain flared, sharp and immediate, jarring through his bones. Hands shook, sweat-slicked and bloodied, the sting of torn skin throbbing with every heartbeat. Breath hitched, chest tight like something heavy had caved in.
"Please," he whispered. Forehead pressed to his knuckles. Breath hitched. "Chuck… I—" His voice cracked, shattering on the word. "Just… bring him back. Please."
No sound. No warmth. Just absence.
Tears burned hot, slipping through defenses worn thin. "I'll do anything," Dean choked. "You hear me? Anything. Just—" His voice broke, a sob catching in his throat. "I need him back."
Silence. Cold. Unforgiving.
His hands dropped. Eyes lifted to the ceiling, face twisted in anguish. "Answer me!" His voice echoed, bouncing off the walls—raw, desperate, empty. "You owe me that much!"
Nothing.
Only the void remained.
Just the empty.
And something snapped.
Dean grabbed the whiskey bottle, fingers slipping on the glass from sweat and sticky warmth. He hurled it—muscles straining, shoulder screaming from the sudden movement. Glass shattered, a violent crack splitting the air, shards raining down like tiny razors. Whiskey splattered his face, burning in the cut above his brow, the sharp reek twisting his stomach. The chair went next—flipped, crashing to the floor, wood splintering. Papers scattered, fluttering like ghosts.
His fist drove into the dresser—once. Twice. Three times. Skin split wider. Red smeared wood and knuckle. Didn't matter. Couldn't care. Pain blurred into the haze swallowing him whole.
Breathless.
Broken.
And then—he stopped.
The room was wreckage—glass shards glinting like tiny knives, furniture askew, whiskey pooling dark on the floor. His chest heaved, sweat slicking his skin, tears streaking down. Hands trembled—bloodied, raw.
Dean stumbled back, ribs aching with every breath. The bed hit his back, but even the mattress felt like concrete—unyielding, cold. His body throbbed: fists burning, head pounding, cuts stinging with every shallow inhale.
Whiskey and sweat thickened the air—cloying, suffocating. Fingers twisted in the sheets—tight, white-knuckled. Breath hitched. Voice cracked. One last plea. One last thread of hope.
His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but that single, desperate word. "Please."
Silence answered.
His eyes slid shut.
Darkness pressed in—cold, heavy, absolute.
And the stillness didn't budge.
—To Be Continued—