Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the end, it all makes a morbid, perfect kind of sense. Classically tragic.

To save Dean, to permanently rid him of Michael’s presence, there is only one way. Endless legwork, countless hours of lore-searching, head-bashing and dead-end crashing, blood, sweat and tears...and it all comes back to the same damned conclusion.

Dean Winchester has to die.

It could be made more palatable in a variety of wordings; however, it all boils down to that one, terrible truth: To spare the world the machinations of a megalomaniacal Archangel -- to rid Dean of Michael (manipulative Michael, who’s artfully managed to make it where Dean can’t even eject the Archangel due to how deeply embedded and thoroughly entangled Michael has made himself in Dean’s psyche) -- Michael must be run through with a blade of equal caliber, an Archangel blade.

Which means Dean must be run through with an Archangel blade.

Fatally.

To win, they have to sacrifice Dean, not unlike Sam had been sacrificed to cage Lucifer, all those years ago. Only, this is so much more final. With Sam, there had been that nebulous grey area of potential. He’d been in a different realm, but not beyond reach. Still accessible, if the right loopholes were exploited -- which Castiel had been impelled to do, because of his loyalty to the Winchesters, and had done so, albeit messily….

...So messily.

He doesn’t plan to screw up anything this time. There’s no-one to barter with, no deals to make or strings to pull. Simply his own will, and what he has to offer.

All he has to offer.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

It transpires in an astonishingly brief moment, but to Castiel, the instants comprising the whole scenario stretch like an open road cutting across the plains: endless potential, but with a clear destination.

Sam’s grunts of exertion as his strong arms pin back his slightly shorter brother’s arms, holding him back against his broad chest.

The resistance of fabric, skin, muscle, the squishy give of organ -- just the barest drag as Gabriel’s blade slides through all, like parting water, the snap of fibres resounding in Castiel’s head, even as they are imperceptible to Sam.

Blood drips down Sam’s face, trailing across his upper lip from a busted nose, smeared across his bared teeth. His eyes are squeezed shut tight, but the tears gathering upon the chestnut lashes are visible.

His attention snaps down though, as the electric white-blue of Michael’s Grace coalesces behind the green of Dean’s eyes, making the colour incandescent, like borax on flame, for a millisecond before overwhelming it, as Dean’s shout of shock is swallowed by the roar of Michael’s true voice in anguish and rage and the rush of air as his wings flare in a spasm. Dean’s body is lit from within in the Archangel’s death throes.

There’s a liquid sound as Gabriel's blade is pulled out, Cas’ hand acting without conscious input. The clatter as it hits the floor reverberates in his head, like the vibrations of a ringing bell, tightening his focus all the more on Dean, like falling in a tailspin. If the noise of the metal upon the concrete floor is the vibrated brass of the bell, then his own measured heart beats are the sound waves, rippling out...smoothing...stilling. Waiting.

The instant is like the garage door, sliding to a close. The window of opportunity is so small -- infinitesimal. A hair’s breadth. A heartbeat.

The space between heartbeats.

...He sees It, flickering in his periphery. Its oily, noxious presence bearing on his senses. It knows. ...His startlement almost throws everything.

Light flaring blindingly bright from Dean throws his attention back to the matter at hand. As the light explodes forth, every light and glass fixture within the Bunker follow suit. Sam falls backward, booted feet pushing him across the concrete, an arm flung over his shut-tight eyes as the other works to get him out of the blast radius.

Dean’s gasped exhale pierces the air, punched out of him -- identifiable even amidst the cacophony of raining glass, loud in the sudden vacuum of quiet with Michael’s silence. His eyes are the brightest shade of green Cas has ever seen them, the only other time being the awful moment he said ”yes.” His freckles stand out bronze against his pale skin, reverse constellations. (Cas mapped them out in September of 2009.) Their eyes lock, a flash, but as always, that’s all it’s ever taken.

I’m me. Thanks, man.

Somehow, the thudded impact of Dean’s body against the floor does not reverberate against Castiel’s eardrums: it just hangs heavy in the preternaturally still air.

He has to get this right.

Almost in tandem, as Dean hits the ground, Cas hits his knees beside him. Sam’s call of his brother’s name, of Cas’ own, come on a distant murmur, fuzzy; all Castiel’s focus is on the task at hand -- literally. Blood pooling beneath Dean tickles up at the knees of the black dress pants; deep red seeps forth between the fingers of the hand he has clapped over the misleadingly innocuous wound, painting the tan of his skin and wicking up the fibres of the cuff of his white dress shirt. Cas is oblivious to that, though, unaware even of the painful grip of Sam’s hands about his biceps. All his focus is devoted to calling forth his meagre Grace, praying to nothing but their combined resolve that this is enough.

It has to be enough.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

”Dean!”

Sam scrambles for upward mobility, his vision still patchy from the mini-nova that had expelled forth from his brother just feet in front of him. Distantly, he realises his boots are scrabbling through the ash of emblazoned wing-prints: they take up the whole of the room almost, primaries creeping up the walls to either side, fingertips to Heaven.

He sees Cas fall to his knees as Dean hits the floor and gives up the pretense of trying to find his feet. This is it. This is it. This is when everything falls apart. While never spoken, it’s an unwritten truth that Dean and Cas are inexplicably intertwined -- their profound bond and all. This is where Sam loses not only his brother, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, he’s watching the final act of losing of his best friend, too. He saw the start of it flicker across Cas’ eyes when they had come to this conclusion. It had been gone when Cas, after taking a walk, had come back and announced it would be him to do it.

”I’ll do it.” Quiet, firm, final. Resolute. Sam was too wrung out to think to argue, silently thankful he hadn’t even had to ask.

Sam grabs Cas about his upper arms, eyes furiously sweeping the tableau before him. The blood spilling from his brother, so less dramatically than when the Hounds had come for him, but still just as final. He’s seen his brother still far too many times. Dean’s blood paints the hands Cas has over his wounds, and distantly, Sam thinks there could be something poetic said about it. ...He imagines Dean chastising him as a nerd for even having that stray thought.

“Cas. Cas.” He can’t form anything else. The words form and crumble like ash in his mouth. Everything he could say would make this terrible moment alive, make it indelible, make it real. ...He knows that’s ridiculous -- (It is real; it is happening. It’s happened again. He’s gone again.) -- but his shock-addled brain can’t seem to process it. All he can do is squeeze Cas’ arms, give him a little shake.

Stare wide-eyed at the golden glow flickering...suffusing his friend’s blood-slick hands.

Cas is murmuring something almost too softly to hear -- Enochian, Sam’s brain supplies abstractly, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to translate. “Cas. Cas -- what’re...what are you doing? It’s --”

It’s gotta work. It’s gonna work. But --

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

He can hear and feel when Dean’s heart stops, hear and feel the rattle of his final exhalation. And in that razor-thin moment between finales and finalities, Cas calls upon every vestige of his angelic nature and will and pushes.

He doesn’t see as it takes, eyes glued to Dean’s face, only aware from the soft glow touching against Dean’s still features that this foolhardy plan is fruitful. He doesn’t even see it as his Grace sparks, stutters and sputters, before finally strengthening and how it radiates from his bloodied hands as his Grace responds to his will, his focus to stitch back together what he had undone, mend flesh and perforated organs, as he uses his being to will Dean Winchester back to life as he had done a decade ago.

This is power he no longer has.

If he succeeds, the cost is literally waiting in the wings, Its malevolent nothingness dancing at his periphery. A chaotic cat with a cornered canary as it sings its lungs out for the miners.

In a way, it’s a comfort, that oily presence.

A thump against his hand. Sandy lashes flicker. ...He sees a brief flash of green -- emerald green flecked with jasper brown, more precious and beautiful than either, the fact he sees them again everything -- echoed with a painful inhale before there's...

...nothing.

It means this was worth it.