Chapter Text
February 8th, 2010.
As we welcomed a couple and their teenage daughter into Camp Chitaqua today, I ponder on what it means to have a family. It seems over the past year that my ideas on the matter have been completely turned around. My kin used to be my brothers and sisters and we used to trust blindly in our Father’s orders. Meeting Dean has irrevocably changed my perception of the term. Bobby Singer is equally responsible for this new philosophy, since he has instilled in “his boys” the notion that family doesn’t end in blood, and it doesn’t start there either. Family, rather, is something you build, you work, you fight and you bleed for. It’s the people who are there for you through thick and thin, the ones who are willing to sacrifice for you no matter what. It means telling harsh truths and gentle words of encouragement alike.
I see the way Bobby has doted on Dean and it brings me great joy to see that one man stepped up for him. He cares for him even when his body does not let him. He comes to me often to talk about Sam because he knows it hurts Dean too much to discuss. I have come to enjoy our moments together immensely. He is a well-traveled man with an encyclopedic knowledge of hunting, but more importantly he has heart. I learn something new from him every day. When he learned that Dean and I were romantically entangled, he came to me that night, put a hand on my shoulder and told me he was glad Dean had found someone to keep him right. He welcomed me to the family and said I better watch myself because he would cause “biblical levels of harm” to me if I hurt Dean. When I assured him that nothing in this world means more to me than the man we both loved and that I would rather die than cause him pain, he laughed and said he knew. I admit I felt overwhelmed by gratitude that a man such as him would view me as part of his family. Through a constricted throat I thanked him and offered him a drink. I thought my emotions were mostly reserved for Dean, but I am beginning to feel for many things. It doesn’t scare me as much as it should. Perhaps it is the way all angels should have been created.
Castiel wakes around noon up after a long night of talking to Dean. Upon opening his eyes, he stretches his arms over his head and knows immediately this is going to be a bad day. He grunts as he lowers his left arm towards his chest, holding it with his other hand. He takes a few steadying breaths. Gritting his teeth, he gets up and forages through his drawers for a bottle of oxy he knows he stored in there. He must have exerted himself a bit too much yesterday while digging. He pops two pills and sits at his dinner table, letting them take effect. This is when Castiel misses being an angel the most. He misses the warmth of his grace being able to heal him. Now it’s but a whisper, a flickering light inside him that could barely guide him through a moonlit night.
When the high finally hits, Cas goes outside and his body naturally guides him to what used to be Bobby’s cabin. His hand rests on the handle when he realizes that the house will be empty. He enters anyway and sits on the beat-down couch. He brings his knees up to his chin and curls himself inward. The small room smells like old books and incense. There are bottles scattered about, which Cas is pretty sure weren’t there before. Maybe he isn’t the only person missing the old man. Bobby was the person Cas had turned to when his life completely turned around.
They had been on the road, sat in defeated silence days after having lost their only known tool capable of defeating all evils, trying to change their minds on an easy hunt near St. Louis.
The electric guitar solo of Dean’s ringtone had rung from his pocket. Dean had fished out his newest flip phone and pressed the speaker button.
“Yeah?”
“I just got off the phone with the sheriff. Some people in town are starting to show strange symptoms and they’re attacking their families. She went downtown and wouldn’t you know it, she found a very strange graffiti on City Hall’s windows. ‘Said Croatoan.”
Dean and Cas shared a heavy look.
“Bobby, you listen to me right now. You barricade yourself in that damn house and you don’t even so much as try to go out unless me or Cas knocks on that door, you copy?”
“Son, I ain’t about to go on a promenade while Sioux Falls is crawling with zombies. Call me when you get here.”
They had driven as fast as they could. In under two hours, they were in Sioux Falls. They could tell it was already pandemonium here. Dean thankfully knew the side roads by heart and he called Bobby on their way to his house, biting his lips nervously. When Bobby didn’t pick up, they knew something was very wrong. Dean had practically leaped out of the Impala, guns in tow. They had fought off a few infected that had wandered on the property easily. It seemed as if the battle had already happened. The front door of the house was hanging off its hinges. They found Bobby’s empty wheelchair riddled with bullets. There was blood everywhere, their shoes soon adding tracks to the dozens of other scarlet stains on the floor. Bodies were laying everywhere around them, but none of them were Bobby’s. Dean had frantically searched the house, eliminating one more infected he found upstairs. Finally, they noticed the track of blood going towards the basement. They immediately understood that Bobby had sought refuge in his bunker.
“Bobby? Please tell me you’re in there,” Dean had closed his eyes expectantly as he stood in front of the iron door.
“Took you long enough!”
The door had struggled open as Bobby hung off of the door handle. He collapsed on the floor, his abdomen stained a dark crimson. Dean was immediately on him, and he had looked up at Cas with so much panic that the angel took no time to crouch over the old man to heal him. He closed his eyes and harnessed the energy of Heaven. He felt the familiar warmth wash over him, but it sputtered unusually. He looked at his open palm and saw the light flicker in his hand. He doubled his efforts and felt some of Bobby’s flesh stitch back together, but he couldn’t go all the way. He felt a sour taste in his mouth and the same fatigue he noticed at the hospital washed over him.
“Something is wrong. My powers- I’m not at full capacity.”
“Is it the bunker?”
“I have been here before and it was never a problem previously. Something is wrong with Heaven.”
Dean and Bobby both looked at him in horror. Dean’s father figure could breathe normally again, but he was still holding his side painfully.
“Go, go look, I’ll patch Bobby up for now.”
Thankfully, Castiel had found he could still fly to Heaven. When he had arrived, he had found it practically empty. It was as if someone had shut the power off and it was surviving on a generator. The light pulsed on and off, giving Castiel nausea. He felt even sicker at the notion of him being motion-sick, which should be impossible. He had steadied himself by holding onto the walls as he wandered his home, calling for his brothers and sisters. He finally found a small group of angels who seemed to be getting ready to leave.
“What is going on?” he asked, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing.
“There aren’t enough of us left. Heaven is dying, Castiel.”
“That’s not possible. What will happen to the souls? What happened to our brothers and sisters? Surely even if they’re on Earth, their power is still enough to sustain Heaven?”
“They are leaving for other worlds or other time frames. It will be enough to keep the souls here, but there won’t be enough juice to sustain our angelic powers.”
Castiel had turned towards the voice he recognized. Inias, who had been in his battalion.
“And what about you? You’re abandoning your post too? Doing like the rest of them?”
“You have a lot of nerve telling us we’re deserters when you chose the Winchesters over us,” said the angel Naomi, her face betraying her disdain.
Castiel let out an incredulous laugh.
“I chose the Winchesters because they are going to save us! Am I the only one who believes we shouldn’t give up on our Father’s creation? Why is no one ready to fight?”
The small group exchanged glances. Inias spoke up.
“Castiel, Hell has already won. They have unleashed the Croatoan virus and we still do not have a vessel for Michael. The virus will devastate the population, our hopes of finding another capable shell for him are getting thinner and thinner.”
“So this is all about Michael? We are warriors, shouldn’t we at least try to give Hell some resistance?”
“See, this is your problem. You wanted to stop the apocalypse. We wanted to win it.”
Castiel felt ice run through his veins.
“What will happen to those of us who still want to try? You’re leaving us to die?”
“You can become one of them and fight on their side, since you so wish.”
Castiel had stood in front of his kin at a total loss. There seemed to be no convincing them. He shook his head regretfully and left, going back to Dean and Bobby. They had managed to get him in the Impala and they drove away from Sioux Falls with a pit in their stomachs. Both of them were losing a home today. They had judged that staying in the city would be too dangerous if there were more infected, so they were getting out while they still could. They had packed up the car with as many books as they could and drove off. Castiel could barely look at Dean, embarrassed that Heaven was abandoning them to their fate while he had been defending their intentions to the Winchesters all along.
Dean had driven them to a secluded campsite he had visited on a hunt in his twenties. Camp Chitaqua was supposed to be a temporary refuge, but as the Croatoan virus started to ravage big cities, it had become clear to them that it was going to become their new home. Bobby never fully recovered from his wounds, one of his lungs had been badly injured, and even though Castiel tried to heal him some more every day, it never seemed to be enough. The angel grew less and less powerful every day, and after some time, Bobby asked him to stop wasting his failing power on him. They managed. What they had envisioned as a month-long stay turned into a year and then several more.
The government had handled the crisis terribly, deciding to bomb cities that were affected too severely to try and give people on the outskirts a chance. The camp had gained some members over the years, all of them hunters who called Dean or Bobby for backup somewhere or people smart enough to flee the city while they still had time. The secluded woods of the Midwest seemed to be the perfect hideout. The Croats weren’t smart enough to go out of the cities where they were infected.
Even though Cas couldn’t help Bobby with his wounds, he made sure to check on him every day. At first he had been pretty grumpy about it, feeling like Cas was infantilizing him, but then they had gotten to know each other better. Cas had started asking questions about Sam and Dean’s childhood, or about a particular book he saw on one of Bobby’s makeshift bookshelves. Bobby had noticed he had been asking about Dean a lot and he wasn’t blind, he could tell they were much closer than before. Castiel had blushed and stumbled on his words and tried to brush it off, as he wasn’t sure if Dean wanted to break the news to Bobby himself.
He scoffed and turned his wheelchair around, going through his library for something.
"Idjits," he'd said fondly, shaking his head and handing a poetry book to Cas.
Thom Gunn's Jack Straw's Castle was now resting in his hands, a message the angel was yet to understand. When he read the lines about Jack's dream lover and his yearning to belong later that night and felt sudden wetness on his cheeks, well.
The three of them made a system for their rations. It worked well. Dean or Cas would go out from time to time to get essentials in a smaller city that wasn’t too dangerous yet. Meanwhile, at the camp, they started to plant a garden so they would be more self-sufficient if and when if became too dangerous or simply impossible to venture out to small towns. Bobby would help them with gardening by planning which plants would go where. Cas would ask questions about native species and the ideal sunlight, while Dean grumbled and picked the dirt from under his nails constantly with a frown. It had made both Bobby and Cas smile, discovering a new quirk to the man they both knew so well. It was idyllic, for a while, the three of them working in harmony, too focused on action to fall to pessimism.
From the moment Dean had told Bobby about the nature of their relationship, Bobby had seemed to open up to Cas even more. He would pat his arm playfully while making a joke at Dean’s expense, comparing him to his wife. Cas loved the way Dean would immediately blush all over and catch Cas’ adoring gaze to bear the embarrassement. They ate all their meals together, Dean and Bobby had taught Cas how to cook and making the most of the limited food they had. For a while, he didn't need to eat anything, preserving the precious rations for the two humans who actually needed it, but as the year came to a close Castiel had found himself starving. His vessel was becoming more and more human and it meant he had to actually start eating with them, not just keeping them company. He saw the worried look in Bobby's eyes the first time he described the pain of being famished, which he couldn't understand then. Dean had assured him that cooking for one more person was not a problem and that it may just be a side-effect of staying on Earth this long, but the angel and the old man both knew it was a bad omen for things to come.
Once their numbers grew and they had manpower to go on retrieval missions, Bobby helped create a communication channel between hunters through radios and spent hours teaching Cas how to work them properly and how to manage the channels.
“Ain’t it ironic? If you’d known how to work radios back in the day, you might’ve been able to actually tell us your message instead of blowing out our eardrums.”
Cas smirked.
“I doubt my true voice would be intelligible to humans even if I knew to pick a frequency.”
“Show off.”
Bobby always made sure Cas and Dean had the proper information before they were sent into the mouth of Hell on their Colt retrieval missions. Nothing Bobby could have done, however, that one fateful night where it all went wrong.
In 2012, while they were in Troy, Missouri, a Croat had sent a bullet right through Cas' shoulder, destroying his humerus and sending him flying to the ground in agony. With a shaky hand, he had tried to heal himself but nothing had happened. As he tried to move his arm, what felt like a white, blinding blast of lighting shot through him, straight to his head. Dean had been beside himself. The mission was a total bust as Dean had immediately abandoned his post to rush to Cas’ help. He had seen panic like that in those green eyes only a handful of times, and it had always been about Sam.
“Hey, hey, look at me, Cas, look at me,” he had said, pressing on Cas’ injured shoulder and making the pain somehow even more unbearable.
Castiel had trouble focusing on Dean’s face and his ears were making a TV static noise, but he could hear someone screaming. He realized shortly thereafter that it was him. He had put all his effort into concentrating on Dean’s voice. He could tell his wound was bad. There was so much blood.
“I’m getting you out of here okay? Even if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Dean I– If I don’t make it, I love you,” he managed to groan out.
“No you shut up right now, this ain’t how we’re doing this. I ain’t losing you too, goddammit.”
Dean had carried him out of the war zone on his shoulders, gunning for the Impala, which he had insisted on driving that day. Maybe subconsciously, Dean knew something would go wrong and that they would need the comfort of something they used to call home. Cas could see his own shoulder hanging at a grotesque angle against Dean’s back. He sucked in sharp breaths as he felt it bounce slightly at the cadence of Dean's half-jog. His mind was blank, all he could take in was the present moment and the blood pouring out of him, burning hot and yet freezing cold. Dean had laid Cas on the backseat and tied his jacket around his gushing shoulder and he had driven them out of the shootout, leaving all of their men behind with the Croats. Cas didn’t remember the drive at all, too blinded by his pain. The tires had screeched to a halt at a hospital Dean had somehow found and he had brought him inside. The deserted building still had plenty of medical equipment and medicine.
“Dean. Dean, everything is blurry.”
“Okay, okay hang in there for me Cas, alright?” Dean had torn his shirt off of him, his shaking hands stabbing his shoulder with a needle.
The relief had been almost immediate. Dean noticed how fast he was breathing and had stopped working on taking the fragments of bullet out to catch his wandering gaze.
“Babe, look at me. Yeah that’s it. We’re going to take a breath together alright? In, and out. Good. Can you do that again for me?” his bloody hand was stroking Cas’ hair, trying to soothe him.
Castiel drank in Dean’s voice, following his instructions. Dean had slowly pulled him out of his utter panic.
“I’m sorry. I tried, but nothing happened,” Cas croaked out, raising his good hand to look at it after he had stopped hyperventilating.
“It’s okay, it don’t matter. You and me, that’s what matters, alright?”
Castiel’s vision had finally stabilized. He had read the worry on Dean’s beautiful face and raised his working hand to his shirt collar. He brought him down gently, pressing their lips together. Dean had kissed him so tenderly, careful not to move him. The gentle caress of his lips and the press of his nose against his cheek had broken something in Castiel that day. He choked out a sob. He was no longer in pain, the morphine Dean had administered him working its magic, but he had realized then that he was no longer an angel. He was just a creature of flesh and blood, so brittle and fragile. Dean seemed to understand what was going through his mind. He kissed the top of Castiel’s head as he rested a reassuring hand on his nape.
“I’m gonna fix you up, you’ll be good as new.”
Castiel shook in his arms for what felt like forever, hot tears mixing with the blood Dean had involuntarily stained his face with. How could humans bear to be like this: so small, so utterly lost, so
Dean had carefully extracted the bullet fragments and had stitched Castiel up. He had taken all the care in the world while bandaging him. Dean then washed all the blood off of him with a cloth, gentle as Cas had ever seen him. He passed the blood-stained rag through his hair, never looking away for long, making sure Castiel was still with him. Cas could tell he had frightened his friend and he wished he had it in him to reassure him it would be alright, but that day he truly hadn’t known if he would make it. His head felt much too light, his hands, or rather, the one he could feel, clammy and he'd thrown up when he sat up to be cleaned. Dean had draped his jacket over his naked shoulders as softly as he could. After wandering through the hospital, they had even found a sling for his arm. Dean collected all the medical supplies he could find to bring back to camp.
It took weeks before Castiel could even move his fingers. They had used up all the morphine they had found in the first week, trying to keep the pain to a minimum. Dean would switch up the gauze and clean the wound once a day, making sure there was no infection setting in. When Dean finally thought the sling could go, Cas stared in horror as he realized he could barely move his hand up.
He felt. So much, all the time, incessantly. It was exhausting. The throbbing of his shoulder would come screaming back after the morphine stopped working and he stopped being a functionning person. He had become somewhat used to normal human feelings: hunger, tiredness, passing aches, sadness. But nothing could have ever prepared him for the overstimulation of constant searing pain, this dull and unforgiving tormenter. He would take the assault of thousands of voices of angels over the human chronic pain any day.
He felt so useless. Dean had to take care of him constantly and he had to watch him go on supply runs or missions by himself or with other hunters. He couldn't protect him anymore, not in a way that mattered or helped. On a particularly dark day, Bobby found Cas lurking in the gun cabin by himself. He wheeled himself in and stared at the array of weapons in silence for a while.
"Colt Single Action ."
"I'm sorry?" Cas turned to him, out of the loop.
"That's the gun I keep in my desk and look at once in a while, asking myself if today's the day I flip the lights out. I never do, 'cause Dean needs me, and Sam needs me. But I can't say it doesn't cross my mind when it gets real bad. When I try to get up in the middle of the night and I have to pick myself up off the goddamn floor, I think about it."
Cas turned towards the guns again and nodded as he eyed the particular gun he had been staring at for the last hour.
"I pray, all the time. No one ever responds. I used to think that whatever I have left of my grace would eventually fix this. It hasn't."
"Son, I think you and I both know there's no goin' back. I'm real sorry about that. But you can't give up now. There's still a lot of fightin' left to do. And Dean needs you, too. Probably more than he does me."
Something twisted in Castiel's gut. Maybe it was the sincerity in Bobby's tone, or the guilt he suddenly felt at wanting to end his life without considering the effect it would have on Dean. He still had trouble identifying everything. He sighed and shut his eyes tight, trying to raise his bad hand towards his face and hissing as a new flare of pain shot up his arm.
"When it gets bad like this again, come and see me instead, alright?" Bobby made sure to look him in the eyes to get his confirmation before wheeling himself out of the cabin, somehow knowing he had talked him off the proverbial ledge.
That’s when his visits to Bobby’s cabin had started. It felt as though no one else understood him. Even though the wound had healed beautifully thanks to Dean’s dutiful care, Castiel woke up every day in pain. Bobby helped him through his physiotherapy, as he was the only person on camp who had any knowledge on the matter. The exercises helped marginally, but it wasn't enough to quiet Castiel's overwrought nervous system.
Dean would see him struggling to do basic tasks and rush to his rescue, not knowing it made it worse. He resented having to be taken care of. Angels were warriors, yes, but they were also providers, healers. Now he was none of those things and he felt so alienated from himself it gave him hives. The warm hand at the small of his back felt patronizing, even though Cas knew it was simply meant as a gesture of love. Worst of all, he didn't know how to voice any of it without sounding completely ungrateful.
He was sitting outside under a tree, trying a grounding technique found in one of Bobby's books when he felt Dean sitting next to him, smelling like gunpowder, leather and sweat: he was back from a supply run. Dean didn't say anything until Cas opened his eyes, and found him enraptured in him. He could barely see auras anymore, but something about Dean just shone brighter than anyone else. It felt like the whole world put a spotlight on him, his Father's greatest creation, a creature so exquisite he had his own gravitational pull. Cas stared back longingly. He wished he could give him back an ounce of all the generosity he had given him in the past months. He wished he could bring him a win to say he was sorry. He ached for things to be different.
"Hey, sunshine," he finally said, smirking.
"Hello, Dean."
The bright, beautiful smile he flashed him made Cas' insides melt and the warmth he felt overrode the overwhelm in his mind and body.
"I got you something. Found it while on my run."
He fished something out of his bag. It rattled as he put it in the middle of his palm. Cas looked at the little orange bottle.
"To help, you know," his bright green eyes full of anticipation and kindness.
Cas frowned as he felt his throat close up, his lips pulled in a wavering smile. He gave a few little nods, words escaping him. Dean smiled and fixed his hair softly, understanding more than anyone. Cas took his hand as he pulled it away and pushed it against his chest as he closed the gap between their lips. Dean's hand splayed out, feeling his heartbeat in his chest. His free hand found Cas' jaw while Cas nested his palm against the exposed skin on Dean's hip, his shirt having ridden up while he sat down. It was soft, and heady and intimate, it was desperate and grateful and finally grounding him to reality. Cas pulled back to catch some air and Dean made a soft whine, his nose pressed hard against Cas' cheek. His eyes were still closed and he now gripped his neck. Their tangled hands still rested against the ex-angel's chest, as neither of them wanted to break the moment.
"Thank you," his gravelly voice broke the silence and he felt Dean squeeze affectionately.
Unfortunately, what neither could have ever accounted for was that that gift would turn out to be a poisoned apple. The next day, when Cas finally took the painkiller, he finally felt nothing. It was quiet in his mind and his body stopped its incessant screaming. It was so peaceful he reeled from it. He ran outside and closed his eyes, praying, to someone, to anyone:
"Please, let this be the reprieve I've been asking for."
Silence. Then again, it had been silent for almost three years now. He felt so close to his angelic self right then and there that he did not care. He found Dean tinkering on their cars alone and grabbed him until he was flush against the metal door of the vehicle, pressing himself into him, giving his neck kisses.
"Woah, good morning to you too, honey."
Cas almost purred at the pet name, bringing his mouth over to his stubbly jaw, and ultimately kissing him hard and meaningfully. Dean grabbed at him and gave back just as much heat, clearly predisposed to the affection. Chapped lips against soft plush ones, tongues mingling, hands scratching scalps and digging in hips: Cas felt electrified.
Dean grabbed his face in his hands and pulled him back slightly, looking at him with wide round eyes and a smirk.
"Feeling better today?"
"Feeling amazing."
And for a while, it was amazing. Until the stash ran out and Cas realized he would have to go back to his miserable, human life. On his last pill, Cas begged Dean to let him go out with him to search for more. He agreed slightly reluctantly, as Cas' arm still wasn't where either of them would want it to be. He wouldn't be able to fend off for himself very well with his limited range of movement, but he promised he'd retreat if anything went South. The run went smoothly, and they found a disaffected pharmacy where the raided the countless boxes of leftover pills.
Cas had moved too much and helped load too much so he popped two oxycodones and felt himself drift away on the drive back. He laughed more easily, his mind wandered freely and he felt glorious, glorious nothing. And what was a single pill to hold him off became two. Then three on days where it was more humid outside and he woke up in a persistent and dull ache, or when he and Dean would get into a fight about something like torturing demons and he needed to feel even more detached. He stopped going to Bobby's for physiotherapy because with the dose he took, pain was but a memory.
Dean had started noticing Cas staring in the distance more and more and being generally more aloof. Dean had also started to comment on Cas’ general “uptightness” being seemingly gone. He had tried to be a shoulder for Cas to cry on, but at that moment, the ex-angel had truly nothing to cry about. He was so numb to it all he felt completely detached from his mortal vessel. Castiel felt utterly untethered. The only times it felt like he could still connect to his body was when he and Dean would end up tangled in the sheets, either in an angry and passionate embrace, or in a heated, high-on-each-other moment. There seemed to be less and less tender, gentle moments. It was rough and needy and messy.
One day Cas had walked in the cabin and he had found both Dean and Bobby sitting there, a pile of empty prescription bottles in front of them.
“Hello.”
“Really, Cas, hello? What the-” Dean took a deep breath. “Do you want to tell us what these are?”
"It seems fairly obvious."
"Don't play with me. These should have lasted you months. Why are there so many?"
“I’m sure you’ve figured it out since you’ve ambushed me here.”
“Boy, you don’t even sound like yourself anymore.”
Cas had laughed sardonically.
“I’m sorry that I’m not acting like a perfect little wounded animal anymore. In case you haven’t noticed, my family has so completely left me behind that I’ve lost all my powers, my arm is all kinds of messed up, and I haven’t felt useful for months! So I would expect me to not act like me too!”
“Cas watch your tone–”
“Your family left you behind? What does that make us, huh? You ever think about what it feels like for us to see you be high all the damn time?”
Cas had stood stoically in front of the two men, biting his tongue until he couldn’t anymore.
“I’m sorry that this is bringing back memories of Sam, but this is not the same situ–”
“What the hell did you just say?” Dean had raised his voice ever so slightly and the chill that had gone down Castiel’s spine was so strong he felt like he was about to throw up.
The hurt he had seen on Dean’s face that day made him want to disappear. He had shaken his head and taken a step back. He felt something for the first time in weeks, his skin crawling with shame and regret.
“I’m sorry I– I’m going to go. I’m sorry,” he had turned on his heels like the coward he was and locked himself in a vacant cabin that would later become his own.
He had made himself scarce for weeks. He did his chores when he was sure Dean wouldn’t cross his path. He avoided Bobby’s house like the plague. He barely talked to the other hunters in the camp. He screamed himself hoarse as he prayed and prayed for someone to relieve him of his misery, but nothing came. Finally, after making himself go through withdrawals for an excruciating 48 hours, he crawled back to Dean. He raised a clammy hand and rapped the knuckles of his good hand against the wooden door. He heard the low rumble of Dean’s voice beckoning him inside. Dean had seemed surprised to see him.
“Hello, Dean. I want to apologize for my behavior in the past few months–”
“Jeez, Cas, you look like shit.”
Their words had gotten jumbled together. Cas’ brow furrowed. There had been a long, pregnant pause. Dean looked good, as always. He had some stubble today and wore the green jacket Cas always preferred on him, as it brought out his eyes. He fidgeted nervously with the bullets he was counting and then he had placed them back on the table decidedly. He got up and invaded his personal space like Castiel used to. The smell of pine and amber of Dean’s cheap body wash was intoxicating, Cas’ body screamed for a dose of his skin against his own.
“I want to apologize. You were right. I wasn’t in my right mind. I should have never brought up Sam, I regret every word that came out of my mouth that day.”
Dean’s big doe eyes had lowered to the floor. His mouth twisted and he shifted his weight from one hip to the next.
“I feel so scared all the time and the pain– I’m not used to it, I’ve never had to manage this constant dull ache for so long. It was such a relief when I could hear myself think again over the thrum of this constant reminder that I’m no longer myself,” he breathed out. “It’s not an excuse, however, for the effect it has on others. I know that,” he drank in the hard line of Dean’s mouth and the sparkling eyes that he could not read at the moment.
Dean passed a hand over his mouth, a gesture Castiel recognized as a grounding method his friend used when he had to deliver emotional replies.
“I know. I’m sorry too, Cas. We were scared too, ‘cause this is not something we were good at last time. We’ve been down this road and it wasn’t pretty. It was messy a-and painful and I wish I had a fucking guidebook here to tell me how to handle this better, but all I have in me is this-this rage at watching someone I love-” his voice broke and he cleared his throat roughly. “... do this to themselves. I wish you’d talked to me, man. I wish I could understand. I can’t even imagine what losing your mojo must feel like to someone who’s lived for frickin’ eons with it. I just don’t want to lose you,” he whispered the last sentence, a private thing.
Like magnets, the two of them pushed and pulled towards each other, but there was a force greater than them stopping them from colliding. There was the hint of a hopeful smile on Cas’ lips.
“I haven’t used in two days.”
Dean nodded, understanding.
“I can’t promise it’ll be easy, or smooth, but I don’t want to put you and Bobby through this.”
“Okay.”
Blue met green again.
“Fuck I missed you.”
Dean wrapped his arms around him and Castiel held back. He pressed a kiss against Dean’s neck and breathed him in. Dean shivered at the contact, nudging his nose through Cas’ hair. Cas kept kissing every inch of him he could reach, his veins buzzing with the sensation of having Dean close again. As he kissed and bit at his lover’s lobe, Dean let out a heavy and shaky breath. He had placed Cas’ face in his hands and taken his mouth prisoner, a needy noise coming out of him.
Castiel pressed himself against Dean, his hand running through his hair. The thrill he felt was such that he had wondered how he had even survived these last few weeks without Dean. His kiss felt intoxicating, the taste of his lips so sweet and delectable Castiel could feel his teeth ache. He was almost violent with how much he needed this. Dean’s hand ran under his shirt, scratching at his back and that was all Cas needed. He pushed Dean towards the bed and they fell backwards together. Cas had hissed at the impact on his shoulder but he kept on kissing Dean like he was his only sustenance.
“Careful, please, for me,” Dean had said between kisses.
Castiel had nodded and sat up, straddling Dean’s thighs, his hands roaming on his firm chest. Dean took the opportunity to lift Cas’ blue linen shirt, his warm hands caressing his torso as he did so. He had taken particular care in removing the left arm slowly. Dean sat up underneath Cas and kissed at his chest, peppering him with love. Cas took him by the chin gently and planted an open mouth kiss on those obscene lips he loved so much. He felt Dean squirm under him and started moving his hips over him, the friction feeling out-of-this world. They quickly stripped out of their jeans and briefs, desperate for the connection they had been craving for weeks.
Cas had laid Dean down and explored each nook and cranny of his freckled body with his lips, loving to make him shiver. He had taken his time licking and sucking at his sensitive nipples, knowing it rendered Dean putty in his hands.
“Cas, sweetheart, if you don’t hurry up and touch my dick I might have a heart attack,” he panted.
Cas chuckled and kissed Dean to shut him up. He had managed to shift his weight to his right arm and position himself over Dean in a way that his bad arm could comfortably stroke Dean’s length while kissing him senseless. Dean whimpered when Cas finally touched him, grabbing at Cas’ back. As his lover’s hands scratched at his shoulder plates, Castiel couldn’t help but miss his wings and the sensations they could have offered them during this intimate moment. Dean must have felt him tensing up slightly, because he stopped them and looked into Cas’ eyes.
“You good?” as Cas nodded, he noticed where his hands were placed. “You miss ‘em?”
“Yes. It’s fine Dean, I don’t want to think about this. Not right now, not when I finally have something I want,” he had kissed Dean’s neck to try and move them past the conversation.
Dean had let out a small sigh as Cas made a mark with his teeth. Ultimately, he pushed Cas’ away, leaving his hands on his chest.
“Cas, you know you’re still one of the strongest people I know even without them, right?”
There it was again, that feeling in Cas’ throat that made him unable to talk. Dean had this ability to bring it out of him the most. That overwhelm that struck him to his very core and made his eyes prickle. He had wondered if he would ever get used to it, then. The answer was still no. He pushed their foreheads together, trying to peer deep into Dean’s pure sunshine of a soul. He remembered being blinded by it in Hell as he fought his way through the demons. Once he had reached him and he finally touched the very essence of righteousness, Castiel had felt a synergy of the two entities –his grace and Dean’s soul– combine into one. It was so powerful he permanently burned a trace of himself on Dean’s reconstructed body. He had always wondered why it had taken the form of a human hand, considering he had been in his true form to achieve his mission. He knew now. At that fateful instant, Dean Winchester had given Castiel the gift of his humanity. This inundating love he had for others had changed Castiel irrevocably. It was then that he had truly started to feel for the first time. Dean had shown him time and time again how beautiful humankind could be. It seemed that he would keep doing so until his very last breath.
“Thank you,” he had croaked out, all the weight of his adoration pouring out of him.
He kissed him tenderly. His lips were Castiel’s remedy for all his mortal ailments. The wet of his mouth against his own had made Cas desperately hard. After some getting ready which had Dean moaning out his name softly, Cas pushed himself inside Dean and set a slow pace. Dean held up his left side, caressing his ribs as he did so. Cas savored the slow rocking of their bodies together, his mouth hanging open against Dean’s jaw. Their lips were raw from each other’s stubble and the incessant kissing but neither cared to stop, feeling too desperate to receive the sloppy but passionate touch of their lover, best friend, soulmate. As they took their time, Cas’ good arm started to tremble under his own weight. He tugged at Dean’s ear with his teeth, which made him gasp out in pleasure.
“Roll us over, sweetheart” he whispered as he kissed the tender skin just behind his ear, nuzzling his nose through the short chestnut hair.
Dean turned his head and caught his eyes, a surprised look upon his face, but a growing smirk appearing slowly and showing his perfect teeth. He squeezed Cas against himself, tangled their legs together even more and pushed them around, making sure to protect Cas’ bad shoulder.
“I'm the one who says that.”
“You have the monopoly on sweetheart?” Cas chuckled as he angled his hips up and slotted himself back inside Dean with a bit more force than he had in the last half hour, making his head drop between his shoulders with a moan.
“Yes,” he shuddered as Cas hit him in that sweet spot once more. “I want my own nickname.”
“Hm. My Fearless Leader. How about that?”
“That makes me sound like I run a cult- ah!”
Cas sped up his pace to shut him up. Dean grabbed onto Cas’ back and propped him up to a sitting position, his legs wrapping around him.
“All the same to me. I would follow you blindly into the mouths of Hell if you’d ask me to, Dean.”
Cas kissed his neck as they started to lose control from going on for so long. Cas’ strokes became erratic and quick, Dean’s thighs hitting Cas’, trembling. Dean grabbed a fistful of Cas’ pitch black messy hair at his nape, holding onto him like a lifeline. Their breaths were getting shorter and shorter, their mouths hung open in bliss as they came to the peak of their pleasure together. Dean came first as Cas’ hand finally touched his erection again, his ecstasy endermic. Cas rode into Dean for a few more minutes, the sounds of Dean coming undone sending him over the edge finally. He felt the warmth of Dean pulse against himself until he grew soft and retreated. Dean took his face and kissed it mercilessly.
“Y’know, I could grow into Fearless Leader,” he joked, lapping his tongue against Cas’.
Cas’ chuckle had been low and he hid his smile into another kiss.
For a while, their relationship had been solid. Dean was Cas’ champion in his recovery, making sure to offer him enough distractions and taking care of him as much as he could while maintaining order in the camp. Bobby and Cas patched things up as well, the old man offering Cas some wisdom or some physical therapy depending on the day. Like everything during an apocalypse, hope came in waves and washed away much too fast.
In the winter of 2013, Bobby caught a nasty cold. By that point, of course, Castiel couldn’t heal him at all. He was hacking up a lung for a solid two weeks and his condition didn't seem to improve. Cas had been at his beck and call all month, trying to make him better. He had gone down a rabbit hole of one of Bobby’s books about herbalism and tried just about every recipe he could think of. Nothing had helped for good. It became clear that the cold was in fact pneumonia when the old man could barely move without wheezing profusely and trying to catch his breath. While they did have some medical supplies, they didn’t have enough antibiotics to help him. His fragile lungs which Castiel had never fully managed to heal couldn’t handle an ailment this severe.
"Well that's just my luck, ain't it? Dying of a regular disease in a goddamn apocalypse."
"Don't say that," pleaded Dean, who was looking severely distraught these days.
Bobby's kind eyes fell to him and he smiled a little.
"I'm not done just yet. Gonna have to endure my groaning for at least another day," he tried to laugh but it turned into a coughing fit.
Castiel could see the fear on Dean's face: that of a child about to lose a parent, woefully unprepared for this monumental change, refusing to even admit that their mentor wouldn't live forever. He wished he had the words to make it better, but he was just as lost. He didn't feel sadness, no, he felt rage. He screamed and pleaded for his own Father to do something, anything to stop this. He he tried raising a hand over Bobby's chest numerous times while he was sleeping, concentrating so hard he gave himself a bloody nose once. Not so much as a sputter of light came through. The tragic irony of the man who had welcomed him in his family being abandoned by Castiel's own blood wasn't lost on him.
Bobby had passed away in February. Dean was never the same afterwards.
He had already lost Sam since they had exhausted every idea they had to save him. Losing Bobby too felt like his last bit of hope had died. His mentor, his father, his friend, the man who truly cared about him could no longer save him from the rising sea level. Cas had trouble keeping afloat himself at the sudden and senseless loss of his friend. He tried to keep it together whenever he was with Dean, but he had found himself staring into nothingness for hours when he was alone. His mind raced with thoughts about how if he had just used his powers when he still had them, he could’ve healed him completely and none of this would’ve happened.
Paralyzed by grief and without the one person he always turned to when he tried to manage his pain, Cas relapsed. His suffering was not only physical, it was mental. His head was reeling with morbid thoughts and violent dreams. He needed it to stop. He needed to feel nothing again. Dean was too inebriated himself to notice. What good were a drunk and a junkie together? They weren't, was the answer. What should have brought them together made them fall apart. Without Bobby to share the burden, everyone turned to Dean to lead the camp and another responsibility was put on his shoulders. It hardened him. He was so conscious of everyone that he forgot himself. The gentle lover turned into an occasional comfort and then into an empty shell of his former self. Bobby was always the one to shake Dean out of his stupor and Cas had tried and failed to do it half as well.
Castiel could tell Dean looked at him differently now. Having to deal with Cas' rollercoaster moods was too much to ask and the rift in their relationship that the Apocalypse had created was now too big to bridge over.
Cas lays here, in the present, among Bobby’s old things, he wonders again if Dean would have truly kept fighting even with Bobby here. The years have gone by and Sam has remained prisoner of his own body. He’s been gone for the same amount of time he had gone to Stanford. Dean has never seen so little of his baby brother. It’s eating at him, the idea that he failed him and therefore their father. He thinks that having Bobby pass before they could find a surefire way to save him must have also added to Dean’s burden of guilt. Cas knows his own burden has Bobby’s name right at the top. He sighs and decides if he can’t change that, he will at least be useful and take a load off Dean’s shoulders today. He walks to the basement where the demon is tied up.
The creature from Hell raises his head. Cas tries to ignore the pain in his shoulder as he beats the demon to a pulp. He may not be an angel anymore, but he still remains a trained soldier and he knows how to hold his own with his fists. Out of breath, he retrieves the angel blade he brought with him and cuts into the man. He gets some information out of him, but nothing really important. The location of other demons, news about Lucifer. Nothing he couldn’t have inferred from the state of the world. He firmly plants his angel blade through the demon’s foot, annoyed at him. The screams reverberate against the walls. Cas leaves more antsy than before. Chuck intercepts him as he makes his way back to his cabin and startles at all the blood.
“Jeez, Cas, did Dean ask you to interrogate the demon?”
“No. I needed to punch something. I thought I might as well make it useful.”
The scrawny bearded man watches him for a moment, something in his eye Castiel can’t quite place.
“You would do anything for him, wouldn’t you?”
Cas turns towards him and squints, his brow scrunched into a quizzical expression. Chuck has never asked him anything like this. He usually focuses on Dean.
“Can you tell Leandra, Jessie and Shayla to meet me at my cabin in twenty minutes?” he replies instead, needing his pent up energy to go somewhere.
Chuck’s lips quirk up for a moment.
“Sure, Cas.”