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Mourning didn't come naturally to Angels. Feelings were passed off as fleeting glitches in their programming, giving them no room to accurately describe why killing their sibling hurt them in the way it did, or why they felt nothing towards them after the deed was done. No remorse was needed for their occupation; only blind submission to a faceless Father’s orders, no matter the cost. Humans were insignificant to Angel alike, only to be used as vessels and smote whenever the order was given. Useless. And those who sympathized with them were to be questioned. Those who felt for them Fell.
Yet, Castiel was stuck somewhere between the fourth and fifth stages of grief. Though, seeing thick red on the murderer’s weapon admittedly kick started the process of denial into overdrive, leaving him wallowing in doubt and wondering just what, if anything, could’ve been done to prevent such a tragedy. Maybe time could be reversed; maybe he could stop Metatron if he went back to the precise moment. Or maybe to where it all began, where the decision had been made. Make it so it never happened. Left Dean in Hell to suffer an eternity of torture, leaving his brother behind. Or further – to make sure the copulation of the Campbell’s and Winchester’s never occurred. Then, maybe then, he wouldn't feel the gaping hole where his heart beat against its will, struggling to keep his failing body alive.
On occasion, the lack of rhythm filled him with the hope that he was finally dying, that he would take his final breaths and join the void of nothingness. But then it would start again, pounding erratically, fighting to make up for seconds lost. The only thing that kept him alive was the very thing trying to kill him. An illness with no cure, waiting to take him when he least expected it. He prayed for death to come in his sleep. Perhaps God really was cruel and intended him to live on the brink for the rest of eternity, for the sins he committed for humanity, for one man.
The man whose body he couldn't find. If it were true that Dean were dead, he would have found him by now. Bruised, battered, tainted – but alive. There was no such luck. Months of searching for any sign of life, any possible trace of existence turned up nil. Maybe he is dead, he found himself thinking more often than not. But I would have found his corpse. Sam would have notified me. No, Sam hadn’t even called. Maybe he was just as in the dark, or had already disposed of his elder brother. He hoped it was the former – in the case of the latter, he would have – should have – called. He wasn’t that… stupid.
With the degeneration of his Grace and the weakening of his limbs came the incessant need to rest, to preserve what he had left. He disobeyed his body’s demands until he couldn't bear to stand upright, to keep his eyes open to the blinding daylight or the abyss of night. Hotels were always viable options; he understood the need to pay for lodgings, but with no source of income, he made by with what he could. Behind unlocked doors, the backseat of the Continental, long since abandoned homes, whatever he could come across at the time. Any place he could pass out without the worry of being hunted down and strung up against his will.
With the darkness of sleep came the dreams; disembodied voices beckoning him to give up the cause, that he would only hurt himself in the end. Bodies without features replayed past conversations and ones that had yet to occur. ‘I don't need saving,’ it would say one night. ‘Forget me,’ it would beg. ‘I’m not worth it.’ ‘Save yourself.’
‘Die.’
After each, he would awake distraught with the taste of bile on his tongue. Dreams weren’t concrete, just projections of subconscious thoughts and desires. But they felt real; lingering touches, words playing in real time so close to his ear, begging, pleading. He felt each and every one, filling him with false hopes for the day ahead until he collapsed and succumbed to his delusions. Day in, day out. The endless cycle of his humanity rearing its ugly head, each hour, his internal clock ticking closer to the twelfth hour. ‘It’ll be over soon,’ echoed in his ears.
The fifth stage hung its head around the corner the morning he awoke to buzzing on the nightstand, pale morning light streaming through cabin windows, illuminating small swaths of the oak-paneled room around him. Sheets half shoved away in the throes of nightmares, Castiel pulled the tattered remains of himself together and reached for the cell phone vibrating away, rattling the long-since broken lamp. He pressed talk and listened to the voice on the other end with sleep-clogged ears, three words jolting his heart out of rhythm – “Dean’s a Demon.”
He couldn’t strip out of his robe fast enough.
Searching the hunter’s regular haunts shifted towards acts of violence, the once-cold trail burning hot before his eyes. Palo Alto, Las Vegas, Topeka, Nashville, Atlanta; Dean had been burning a streak across the country laden in senseless crime and murder – attempted and successful – tearing the very fabric of his being with him. Disgusting was one word for it – psychopathic, lust-driven, crazed, even. This wasn’t him. Security tapes didn’t lie. Black eyes and all, he was there – gas stations, bars, casinos, that one office complex. He wanted to vomit at the thought, too human of a feeling for him to stomach.
Neither he nor Sam were any closer to pinpointing what he would do next.
The last location he checked and the most recent, he had been spotted beating a store clerk half to death over pornography, looking haggard and depraved as ever. Flaunting himself for the eyes of all to see. Did he have no sense of decency? Or had that fled with the last of his insecurities? Whatever had been done, from possession to the very thought of his soul being twisted in such a manner, left him damning the perpetrator into the deepest pits of Hell itself.
He set his sights on a small suburb outside Beaufort, staking out a riverside bar into the late hours of the night, hoping for any possible sign of the Demon. One night progressed to the next – had he already left town? Was he really too late? It was the closest he had gotten since his departure from Heaven, and he would have to start over again, wait for the next strike against humanity. What was his motivation? Or was someone controlling his very thoughts, feeding him ideas, initiating his freshly corrupted soul into further degradation? He gripped the steering wheel in frustration – such an idea couldn’t be true.
On the third night, the streak broke – a man dressed entirely in black with a ball cap sauntered out of the bar, a smitten-looking woman draped under his arm. He looked drunk, for a better use of words. Shit-faced sounded too much like the Dean he used to know; that Dean didn’t exist. In his place was a maniac dressed in human skin, green eyes dancing black with every passing glance, the darkness of his soul permeating everything around him, everything he touched. Denial went hand in hand with Agony, the reality shrieking in his ears, itching the skin of his lips to be spoken, heard.
What have I done?
Night four, he waited outside the Continental with arms crossed, chewing his lower lip in anticipation. He would make an appearance, no doubt. But having Dean haunt a location for days on end was less than logical. What was keeping him grounded? Was he waiting to be discovered? The obvious answer came in the same black-dressed form standing outside the back entrance of the bar, fowl smelling smoke billowing from the white-wrapped stick dangling from his lips, pouring from his mouth in thick rings. The putrid mass of what once was a soul took more interest in him than the body wearing it did, shifting anxiously, writhing in his direction.
Dean was within his grasp, just a few dozen feet away, and he couldn't bring himself to cross the threshold. It was shock, he figured. What was he supposed to feel, having finally found the one man in the universe he would sacrifice himself for, alive? Corrupted, but alive nonetheless. Residual anger fueled his movements, the fraying remains of Grace flickering through his veins. His footsteps resounded, clicking on the asphalt. Wind lapped at the edges of his coat.
The sight of Dean’s face, a full three feet from his own, had him wincing in sympathy. Seeing him in person was exceedingly different than on security cameras – formerly pristine features turned grotesque, bones jutting at odd angles, horns spiraling from his temple and behind his ears, fangs clinking with every drag and release from his cigarette. Wings towered high overhead, jagged and boned – he couldn't mute the sight. And he knew Dean could tell, the Demon sneering at his plight, blowing smoke in his face.
“Castiel,” he cooed, voice indifferent. How long had it been since he heard his full name uttered from those lips? “What took you so long?”
It took him a long moment to respond, purely to build up the willpower to confront him. Everything about him was disconcerting, from his stance to the very way green irises flitted to black, just to goad him into action. It wouldn't work like that. “I was under the impression you were dead,” Castiel stated, struggling to keep his voice from cracking.
Dean took a final drag before tossing the butt to the pavement, exhaling lazy rings while crunching it beneath the toe of his boot. “Far from it, Angel.” Castiel scrunched up his nose at the mention. “Even better than before, right?” He twirled to demonstrate; his obvious delight was sickening. “C’mon, say somethin’, man! No ‘Hello, Dean’? No ‘Where have you been?’”
Several replies crossed his mind, some borderline blasphemous. “This isn’t you, Dean,” was all he could muster.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up at the mention, lips quirking into a snide smile. “’Course it’s me. You see anyone else standing here? ‘Cause I don’t.” He folded his arms. “It’s still me, just better. Got more juice than you can imagine. And by the way, look’s like you’re just about burnt out.” Dean smirked; Castiel glowered. “How long were you gonna look for me, huh? Until you died? …Always such a martyr, Cas. Am I really worth losing your Grace for?”
“Always.”
The word tasted fowl on his tongue. Standing before him was the remnants of the former righteous man, now drenched in decadence and sin, reveling in a way his former self had no capacity to do. Drowning in pleasure and vice, blood and alcohol, how could he stand himself? Did he even have remorse for his crimes? Did he know how many hunters were out for his head? Did he even know what lengths he went through to find him?
Surprisingly, Dean’s gaze hardened; he had been speaking before his brain could properly comprehend the words leaving him. “Maybe I didn't want to be found. …You should’ve left me alone, I was doing perfectly fine on my own—.”
“You weren’t,” Castiel snarled, unable to restrain his words. “You’re torturing people, Dean. You’re on a path that I can no longer save you from. You’re killing innocents, you’re destroying house and home – you’re becoming what you feared the most. And I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by and watch you destroy yourself, not when there’s a chance we can recover what’s left of your soul.”
“’We’?” Dean laughed. “What, ‘re you workin’ with Sam now?” Castiel didn’t respond. “I should’ve known you’d run off to him and try to make some miracle cure—.”
“—We can cure you, and you know it—.”
“—Well maybe I don’t wanna be!” the Demon snapped back, lashing out and shoving Castiel into the opposite wall, hand pressed hard to his chest. “Maybe this is what I’ve always wanted to be, huh? Ever think about that?” He pushed harder; Castiel grunted. “You can’t fix this, Cas! You can’t—.”
“We’ll try.” He gripped Dean’s wrist, the bones grinding with unrestrained pressure. “I’ll try. Whether I die or not, it’s worth saving you.”
With a huff, Dean pulled back and crossed the alley, hands buried deep in his hair, unkempt strands spilling from between his fingertips. “So damn stubborn. That’s all you’ve ever been!” He spun and shoved his fist into the brick nearest Castiel’s head, the material webbing outwards, crumbling – he didn't flinch. “You’d rather die for someone who doesn’t give a shit about you than fix yourself?”
His lack of a response should have been answer enough. For long seconds, he stared into pitch black eyes, fighting off the wince he knew was threatening to break through. “So fuckin’ stupid, Cas.” Dean retracted his bleeding hand from the wall, slinging red on the blacktop. “Why do—why do you care? What’s wrong with you?”
He backed off of the wall, taking a step into Dean’s personal space. “Why is it after all these years, even after you’ve willingly allowed yourself to become this… thing, you still can’t believe you’re worth something?”
Dean huffed. “Because I’m not. ‘specially now.” He broke into a laugh, the very sound echoing throughout the alleyway, seeping into the parking lot. “I mean look at me, Cas! Really, look at me. I’ve done some fucked up shit while you’ve been ‘looking’ for me. Hell of a job you did, by the way. You think that’s good enough? You think your cure’s magically gonna bring the old me back? ‘Cause news flash, he’s gone! And he’s not coming back! So you can go home and have your bromance with Sam all you want, ‘cause no matter what you do, it ain’t gonna work.”
“It will.” In retaliation, he forced Dean into the wall opposite them, pining his shoulders into the brickwork.
Narrowed black slits watched him in fascination. “Like it when y’get all feisty with me.”
“Shut up,” he hissed. “What makes you think you have a choice?”
“Oh, I got plenty of choices,” Dean spat. “Like, how I chose to hurt those people—,” You killed them, Dean, “—and how I chose to work with Crowley!” What has he done to you? “But you know what choice I regret not taking?” Admittedly, no. The glint hidden behind sable eyes had him on edge, stepping back wearily. “It's that I never did this before.”
The crack of his skull colliding with the masonry overshadowed the rough press of Dean’s mouth on his, one hand jerking his wrists behind his back with unrestricted force, the other tugging at his lapel to snatch it open, shoving it haphazardly off to one side. It didn't register that Dean was kissing him or tonguing at his lower lip, no – all he could feel was blood trickling from the minor wound on the back of his head and the heat of the Demon’s body against his own, radiating through his clothing, seeping into the very essence that threatened to take his life.
This isn’t right, he thought belatedly. It’s not supposed to be this way. Kisses in the past were tinged with want, intent – Dean was trying to prove a point in as violent of a manner as possible. He wanted Castiel to submit, and he barely had to lift a finger to get what he wanted. Given his old Grace – or any Grace that wasn't his currently, for that matter – he would have fought back. Shoved him away, reversed the roles. For the first time in his existence, Dean had the upper hand, held his life in his grasp. And he would be the death of him.
It hurt, what Dean did to him. No finesse and all brute force. Somehow in the haze of lust and grief, they found their way back to Dean’s motel room – a three star on the riverfront, draped in white linens and pale blue walls – with Castiel’s face buried in the sheets, wishing it were over. At least Dean had the slightest of consideration for his well being, prepping him at the barest minimum, keeping him on the faintest edge of pain with each erratic thrust, one hand fisted in his hair, the other holding his hands at the small of his back. The sense of vulnerability developed through months of declining health had him desperately trying to place himself somewhere else, away from the room, away from what had become his life.
The simple words Dean spoke to him, telling him how good he was, how he had waited so long, the things he was planning to do to him, fell on deaf ears. He bit the pillow to stifle the anguished moan that threatened to break free. Despite the all-encompassing sting, the too-hard pushes and bites to whatever flesh was exposed, he wanted it. It was Dean – Dean was alive. Dean was touching him, caressing his skin in his own way, moaning his name like it was the only word he knew.
To his sheer embarrassment, he was half hard, cock hanging heavy between his legs; tears pricked the corners of his eyes, begging to be spilled beneath closed lids. This is Dean, he chanted in a half-hearted attempt to comfort himself, a litany of anguished moans escaping his lips, This is Dean. This is Dean. He’s alive. He’s with me.
A single hand trailing his back broke him from his fervor. Out of character, surely – Dean had been nothing but brutal with him, forcing himself on him, hands exuding excessive pressure while Castiel would have gone willingly either way. The fingers tracing the knobs of his spine, sweeping down his flank set him on edge. Even his tone shifted, the consistent growl of blasphemes and profanities dulling to frustrated grunts. The grip loosened; his hands fell limp to his sides.
“I can’t—,” he heard through the haze of harsh breaths, “—I can’t get off like this.” And Dean was pulling out, letting him collapse into the ruffled sheets with a huff, stretching out cramped limbs. At the edge of the bed, Dean sat with his head bowed, looking small and ashamed; he refused to make any sort of eye contact, looking to the side as Castiel shuffled towards him, taking him by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. The black didn’t faze him. “You’re supposed to fight me, not just… lay there and take it!” A pause. “…Don’t look at me like that.”
He cocked his head. “Like what?”
“…Like you pity me. Like you wanted this.”
“I don’t condone any of your actions just as much as I don’t condone what you’ve done here,” he deadpanned. Dean had half the heart to look guilty at his words. “…And yes, I may have wanted this, but in another time and place. Not when you’re…” he motioned to Dean. “…this.”
Dean scoffed, pulling his face from Castiel’s grasp. “You’re one to talk. You’re not even an Angel anymore. I can see you, Cas. You’re not even in there! You’re days away from keeling over! And you wanna talk to me about what I am?”
“I’m what I am because of you.” Before him, Dean sat back, wringing his hands in his lap. “I didn’t drag you out of Hell for you to become a Demon. I didn’t kill my siblings, I didn’t give up my Grace, I’m not dying for you to give yourself over to Crowley, for you to burn down everything you stood for. I’m not—I didn't grieve for months to find you—to see you like this.”
Dean watched him impassively, eyes tracking the wetness streaking his cheeks. He couldn't feel the coolness of tears against flushed skin or the shame that came with it. Not while Dean just stared; had he even heard a word he said? “You’re in love with me,” he heard the Demon speak, purely in curiosity. “You actually are, oh my God—.”
“God has nothing to do with this.”
It was Castiel’s turn to look away, ignoring the surprised smile Dean wore. “Well, hate it break it to you Angel, but you’re on this boat alone.”
He knew – from the moment he saw him in the alley, he knew. The Dean before him wanted nothing more than selfish pleasures and blood to wash his hands in. “I’m aware.”
“Are you really?” Teasingly, Dean lifted up onto his knees, drawing his face within inches of his own. One hand cupped his flaccid cock, stroking him in full, thumbing the slit enough to bring him back to hardness. “And you’d still let me do this to you?”
“Yes.” Any other statement would be a lie. His conscience wouldn't allow him; Dean would see right through his words, anyway.
The Demon kissed him, coaxing him back into the sheets, covering him with his own body. “So now who's the depraved one? Gettin’ off from me fucking you raw like a two-bit whore.”
Castiel met him kiss for kiss, burying unrestrained hands in Dean’s hair, managing the upper hand with a series of harsh presses and more than enough enthusiasm. Successfully flipping the Demon onto his back, he moved to straddle his waist and ground down without remorse, tugging his head back by the roots enough to expose the vulnerable skin of his neck. If he wanted, he could kill him there in that bed – use the last of his Grace to draw the Demon out of him. It might not kill him, maybe just injure him for the time being, until the wounds knit together. It was a risk he was willing to take.
Dean watched him lazily, swallowing underneath his glare. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Finishing what you started.”
Relinquishing his grip, he reached back to guide Dean inside again, their shared moan reverberating off the walls of the small room. Dean wasted no time in picking up the pace, nearly bucking Castiel off his lap within the first few thrusts. He grounded the Demon with a palm to his chest, the other fisted into the sheets nearest his head. Black watched blue in amusement; Castiel choked back a whine. “I don’t love you,” Dean smiled, thrilled.
“I know.”
Dean’s hands grabbed his ass, forcing him down onto his cock again, again, his head grinding his prostate ever few passes. Purely on accident, he figured; he was nothing but a tool for Dean’s release. “I never did,” he grinned through a kiss.
“I know.”
He closed his eyes; he couldn't bear to look any longer.
The following morning, he awoke to an empty room and the linens tangled around his hips, furniture in disarray. The window was open, blinds shifting in the breeze; outside, the Continental sat, the keys sitting atop the television set. Bite marks marred the skin of his thighs, collarbone, a nipple. If he bothered to look at himself in the bathroom mirror, he would probably find more on his neck and shoulders.
A note on the closed door read ‘Let me go, Cas.’
He would have to go back to the motel, call Sam. Tell him about their encounter. Leave out the worst of the details. Until then, he buried himself underneath the covers – they still smelled like him – and cried himself sick, until all he knew were the sound of his own sobs and the knowledge that Dean was alive.
And he was dying for nothing.