Archive of Our Own

Dean runs his fingers over the mark on his arm. Scar, mark, symbol – whatever they want to call it, it’s part of him now. It makes his eyes black and ignites a rage unlike anything he’s felt before. He’s stronger, smarter, faster and all that comes with a price, but it makes him a damn good hunter so he doesn’t complain.

Sam can’t stand it. Cas doesn’t like to be around him. He spends more time alone, goes on solitary hunts more often. Kills more often. It’s a myth that hate and love can’t coexist. Dean loves his family and hates everything else. It’s not balanced, but it satisfies him and life makes sense.

He wanders into the kitchen, still covered in blood. He took out a shifter around 6 a.m. and the whole fight lasted less than a minute. He cleans his face and hands at the sink.

He stops in front of the fridge and grabs a beer. It doesn’t taste like anything but old habits die hard. He tips it to his lips and takes a swig. At least it’s cold. He moves toward the table but suddenly hits something solid. His feet won’t let him go any farther. It’s a familiar feeling. He looks up at the ceiling. Sure enough there’s a fucking devil’s trap painted above him.

Dean throws his beer and the bottle shatters on the floor. “Sam,” he screams.

It’s not Sam who responds first. Cas comes running and Dean rolls his eyes. Lately Cas’ strategy is to panic first, assess later.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is it the mark?”

“No, it’s not the fucking mark,” growls Dean. “Look up.”

Cas frowns at the sigil holding Dean in place. “Why is that there?”

“Because Sam’s an asshole.”

“Would you like me to remove it?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, Cas. I want to live in front of the fucking refrigerator forever.”

Cas squints at him. “Why?”

“God dammit,” mutters Dean. “Just go find Sam.”

“He’s not here,” says Cas. “I can let you out, if that’s what you want.”

Dean bites back another retort because there’s no point in even trying with Cas. His sense of humor just up and disappeared one day.

“I need to call him first,” says Cas. “We need to know why he wanted to trap you.”

“It’s a prank,” snaps Dean. “He’s a child. This is a prank. You are useless. Get over here and let me out.”

Cas glares. “Fine,” he says. He drags a chair over to where Dean is standing and climbs up to scrub away at the outer circle.

“Just mojo it away,” says Dean.

Cas huffs. “My power is low.”

That explains his attitude. Cas is at his worst when his grace is fucked up.

Sam chooses that moment to appear. “What are you guys doing?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear.

“Fuck you,” says Dean.

Sam laughs. “Serves you right for being predictable.” He steps forward. He kneels in front of Dean and something clicks in his hand.

“I can’t seem to remove this,” says Cas. “Sam, what did you use to paint it?”

The floor around Cas and Dean ignites and Sam steps back. He waves his lighter in front of Dean before tucking it into his pocket.

Cas looks down at the flames then back up at Sam. “I don’t understand,” he says.

“Rowena did it,” says Sam. “No clue what she used.”

“But the holy fire,” says Cas.

“I needed a way to keep you here,” answers Sam.

Cas climbs down from the chair. At this point Dean can’t blame him for being confused.

“You two have been driving me crazy for years,” says Sam. “The mark only makes it worse.”

“I really hate you,” says Dean.

“No you don’t,” says Sam. “I’m doing you a favor.”

Cas tilts his head. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” answers Sam. “I trapped you here and I’m prepared to keep you here for as long as it takes.” He folds his arms over his chest, clearly proud of himself. “You two are going to talk about your feelings for each other.”

Dean kicks the chair. It makes it past the trap and through the fire, but breaks when it hits the kitchen cabinets.

Sam is unimpressed. “You love each other,” he says. “Everybody knows it.”

“I’m going to peel the skin off your face when I get out of here,” growls Dean.

“You’ll come around,” says Sam.

“Don’t leave me here,” says Cas. “I do not want to be confined to a small space with him.”

“I’m sorry,” says Sam. “I really am, but you guys haven’t given me much choice. I thought things were bad before, but now that Dean’s a knight—Jesus, it’s like Romeo and Juliet with more bickering and less poetry. I need a break.”

“You better let us out right now,” snaps Dean.

Sam ignores him. “Good luck,” he says, then saunters out of the room.

“That little bitch,” hisses Dean.

Cas leans back against the fridge and his shoulders slump.

Dean inspects the holy fire. It’s burning about a foot beyond the devil’s trap barrier. He can’t reach it. That means it’s on Cas to break the trap and get them out. “I’ll give you a boost,” says Dean. “See if you can get through that stupid thing.”

Cas raises an eyebrow.

“You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,” says Dean. “Break the trap then I’ll put out the fire. I can’t reach it from here.” He steps to the edge of the trap to prove his point.

“The fire will burn out before the trap fades,” says Cas. “I’m willing to wait.”

“What the Hell does that mean?”

“It means,” says Cas, “if I’m patient, I will be free soon and you will still be stuck here.”

“Well who the fuck pissed in your corn flakes?”

“You, probably; given your predilection for wreaking havoc for the sake of your own amusement.”

Dean sighs. He smirks, then quickly schools his expression. He turns so his entire body is facing Cas. He puts a hand on the angel’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says. He makes sure his eyes are wide and conceals any hit of insincerity. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

* * *

Castiel almost falls for it. Dean is mesmerizing when he gets like this. He’s doing everything right and it almost feels real. His eyes are locked on Castiel’s. His hand is warm on his shoulder and Dean’s thumb is tracing small circles over his trench coat. It’s so close to the way Castiel imagined that he almost gives in and lets himself believe.

Then Dean’s eyes flicker from green to black and back to green again. Castiel’s blood turns cold.

Dean’s still watching him; apparently unaware he’s given himself away. He does that often and it chills Castiel to his core. Seeing a darkness that does not belong to Dean’s soul – watching it fester and consume – sometimes it’s more than Castiel can stand.

He doesn’t push Dean’s hand away because somewhere beneath the bile of the mark, it’s still Dean who is touching him. It’s still Dean who gently squeezes Castiel’s shoulder. It’s still Dean who licks his lips as he waits for Castiel to respond. Despite everything, the man beside him is still Dean and Castiel still loves him.

That is perhaps, the reason he breaks.

“I love you, too,” says Castiel. He holds Dean’s gaze and searches for a glimpse of something, anything real.

Dean smiles. His free hand moves to Castiel’s waist and he pulls their bodies together. The hand on Castiel’s shoulder slides up to cup his cheek. Dean leans in for a kiss.

Their lips touch and Castiel’s fantasies rush forward and bleed into reality. He kisses Dean back, clinging to him. He tells himself he can’t taste damnation on Dean’s tongue as the demon licks into his mouth. He tells himself Dean’s hands don’t burn as they hold him tighter. He tells himself this is the righteous man and not a knight of Hell.

Dean drags his teeth gently over Castiel’s lower lip as he pulls away. He grins, then shrugs off his flannel. His t-shirt follows it quickly and suddenly Dean is half naked in front of him.

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat. Without thinking Castiel brushes his fingertips over Dean’s torso, stopping just above his waist. His lips part, awed by the intimacy of the moment, and Dean takes the opportunity to swoop in for another kiss.

He hums into Castiel’s mouth and his hands sneak beneath Castiel’s layers of clothing. One hand untucks his shirt then suddenly makes skin-to-skin contact with the small of his back. Castiel’s knees buckle and he suddenly understands humanity’s obsession with flesh. He falls against Dean and the hunter doesn’t budge. He holds Castiel and his nails dig into his back. He makes another sound that makes Castiel’s entire body shiver.

“Are you guys—holy fuck!”

Castiel quickly sobers up and spins around. Sam is backing away slowly with a hand over his eyes.

“This can happen in my room or the kitchen,” says Dean. “Your move, Sammy.”

“Your room,” says Sam. “For the love of God. Just hang on a minute.” He’s still not making eye contact. He moves quickly and extinguishes the holy fire, then he reaches up and swipes at the trap with something long and sharp and unfamiliar. 

Dean releases Castiel and stretches. He bends down and collects his clothes. He claps Castiel on the shoulder. “You catch on quick,” he says. He winks, then strolls out of the room as if nothing happened.

Castiel says nothing. He doesn’t have the words.

Sam glares after his brother. “That bastard.”

Castiel swallows hard. He can still taste Dean; still taste ash. He remembers his shirt and stares down at the floor while he readjusts.

“I really didn’t see that coming,” says Sam. “Temper-tantrum, yeah, but that? I can’t even believe you went alon—”

Castiel looks up to see why Sam stopped talking, but Sam’s just looking at him.

Sam’s disbelief morphs into pity as if he can see right through him. “Cas, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think that through. I didn’t think he’d react like that.”

“It’s all right,” says Castiel. He tugs his coat back into place and runs his hands down the front of his shirt to smooth it. “He’s changed.”

“He loves you,” says Sam. “I was sure that would work.”

“I think you are the only person he’s ever really loved,” says Castiel. “With or without the mark.” He’s mostly composed himself again. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I need to return to my research.”

He leaves and doesn’t really register Sam’s goodbye.

* * *

Dean can’t get comfortable in his bed. He remembers what it was like to be comfortable, but that warm, heavy feeling of relaxation has evaded him ever since he became a knight. He wiggles around before giving up. He stands and decides his energy would be better-spent killing monsters. He leaves and makes it ten feet down the hall before he runs into Sam.

“You dick,” says Sam. “How could you do that?”

“Which thing are you yelling about?” asks Dean. There’s only one thing for Sam to yell about, but playing dumb is more entertaining.

“You used Cas to escape.”

“He was pretty willing,” says Dean. “Besides, it was your idea.”

“I wanted you to tell him how you feel.”

“I think I made it pretty clear,” says Dean.

“You are ruining any chance you have with him,” says Sam. “You pick away at his trust every day and you’re starting to get on my nerves, too.”

“Sorry,” says Dean. “I’ll leave.” He snaps his fingers and disappears. He doesn’t go far, just pops into the abandoned warehouse above the bunker. He waits a while then returns to his room. Teleporting is becoming easier and easier. He’s getting stronger and Sam and Cas are clearly jealous.

He sneaks down the hall again. He hears a muffled voice coming from Sam’s room so he investigates.

Sam is on his knees at the foot of the bed with his hands clasped together and his head bowed. His back is to the door and he’s talking to himself. He’s praying.

“I can’t save him,” mumbles Sam. “You have to help. He’s done so much for the world. Don’t let him become a monster. He wouldn’t want it to end like this.” His voice cracks. “Find someone else. Anyone. I don’t care who they are. Just let Dean come back. Take me instead. Save him.” He takes a shaky breath. “Please save him.”

Dean slips away from the door. He can’t listen to that. It makes him itch.

He creeps to the library. Cas is sitting in a chair with a book open in front of him but he’s not reading. He’s hunched over and his head is resting on the table. His fingers are twisted in his hair.

It’s suddenly more than Dean can stomach. Something in him stirs. He can’t look at them every day knowing he’s killing them. But he can’t leave either. He can’t let go of them or he’ll lose what’s left of his control.

“Hello, Dean,” rumbles Cas. He takes a deep breath and sits up straight. “Sam was looking for you.” Cas’ eyes are puffy and swollen but his expression is as unreadable as ever.

“What’s up with you?” asks Dean. “You look kind of bummed.” He doesn’t know why he says it. He’s in danger of bruising a wound he perfectly well knows he created.

“I am not ‘bummed,’” says Cas.

“Suit yourself,” says Dean. It’s easy to forget, so he changes the subject. “There’s a werewolf not too far from here. Want to help me kill it?”

“How do you know it’s a werewolf?”

“I don’t,” answers Dean. “It’s just a guess. Few people have been mauled in a town north of here. Whatever it is, I’m going to go kill it. Figured you might want to stretch your legs.”

“My legs are fine.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll be back before dinner.”

“Fine,” says Cas, sighing.

“Great. I’ll get Sam.”

Dean slinks back to Sam’s room and waits until he’s sure Sam isn’t praying anymore. He drags his brother out to the garage and Castiel follows behind them. Sam refuses to let Dean teleport them so they take the Impala. The last attack was reported about an hour away. Dean takes them directly to the scene of the crime instead asking around town first. He gets out and starts patrolling the area. They’re onto something; he can feel it.

An hour into the search, Sam’s ready to bail and head back to interview people. He seems determined to do things the “right” way. Dean pushes them just a little farther.

There’s a dilapidated building in the distance. It’s the perfect hideout for something waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting human. The wind blows and Dean can almost taste blood in the air.

A shadow moves inside the shed and Dean breaks into a run. Sam and Cas are shouting behind him. He bursts through the door, ready to rip the beast apart. He turns a corner and all he registers is pain.

He blacks out. Someone calls his name. He blinks heavily.

Cas rushes to his side, but something grabs him. He crumples.

It gets dark again. There’s another scream. Something hits the ground hard and shakes the floor. He rolls to his side, senses returning one at a time.

Sam’s on his knees beside him, already gagged and tied to a support beam.

Dean tries to get up. He’s not lying on the floor like he thought. His hands are cuffed behind his back and he’s leaning against another beam. His head nods toward the ground and he catches a glimpse of another fucking devil’s trap.

Rage bubbles up from the mark and Dean’s mind is a little clearer. He tries to break free of the metal bonds around his wrist but something is blocking his strength. That only makes him angrier.

He looks around for Cas and finally the scene falls into place. Cas is writhing on the ground at the feet of five people dressed in dark suits. The all hold long sliver blades. One of them calls Cas brother.

Angels.

Dean screams and realizes he’s gagged too. He pulls hard against the beam behind him and it cracks.

“Let them go,” hisses Cas.

“Don’t struggle,” says an angel. “You’ll only make it worse.”

A woman steps forward and blinding blue light erupts from her fingertips. Cas screams and the sound rips into Dean.

There’s a burst of heat, a bright flash, then the building is quiet.

The angels step back. Cas is obscured by two large black masses on top of him. He’s breathing hard. His eyes are glowing. He manages to push himself up to his knees. He’s naked and bleeding. The black masses move with him.

It takes Dean a minute to realize he’s seeing Cas’ wings for the first time. He glances at Sam. His brother shoots him a worried look and struggles to free himself.

“You allowed the Mark of Cain to be reborn,” said an angel. “You failed your charge. You failed Heaven. You failed our Father.”

Cas glares and his wings lash out, knocking the angels back. He screams again and strikes two of the angels with his grace, but he’s not strong enough to deal a lethal blow.

The angels are on him in seconds. They wrestle him to the ground. It takes two to pin down each wing.

Cas looks between him and Sam. “Look away,” he pants.

“Let this be an example to all others,” says an angel. He holds Cas down and plants a knee in the center of his back.

“Don’t look,” screams Cas.

Dean can barely breathe. His body is too full of rage to make room for air. He yanks hard and the beam snaps. He scrambles to his feet, arms still trapped behind his back. He manages to use his shoulder to pull the gag away. “Let him go,” he growls. “It’s me you want. I’ve got the mark. Let him go.”

The angel closest to Dean glares at him. “There are consequences to your actions,” she spits. “All three of you need to remember that.”

The angel on Castiel’s back raises his blade.

Dean screams.

The blade plunges down.

Cas cries out and it’s the worst sound Dean’s ever heard. Cas’ body twitches and writhes but the angels hold him to the floor. He takes a ragged breath and looks to Dean. “Please,” he says. “Don’t watch this.”

The blade plunges down again. Cas starts convulsing. One wing flails violently against the hands clinging to it.

They’re not killing him. They’re maiming him. They’re taking his wings.

There’s a loud crack. Cas screams again then his eyes glaze over. The wing falls limp. The angel brings the blade down again.

The mark burns. Dean burns. Everything around him is fire and, like a bomb, he explodes. He snaps the cuffs restraining his arms and throws himself at the trap’s invisible barrier.

The blade plunges into Cas’ jet-black feathers. Blood stains everything. Cas heaves against the floor.

Dean can hear himself screaming, but he’s not sure what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter. The angels aren’t watching him. He throws himself at the barrier again and again.

Something snaps to his left. He looks in time to see Sam scrambling toward the trap, pocketknife in hand. His drags the knife across the wood and breaks the sigil.

There’s another loud crack. Dean rushes forward. He doesn’t hold back, he’s not sure he could if he wanted to. He doesn’t think, doesn’t plan his next move, doesn’t decide who dies first or suffers the most.

With a burst of energy he pins the angels to the walls without really understanding what he’s doing. Something invisible binds them against the building. This is the mark’s power; Dean’s just directing it. The first angel dies in an eruption of ash. The next is beheaded and set on fire. It explodes. The next two get their throats slit with an angel blade. The last one takes a blade to the chest over and over and over and over again. Its ribcage is shattered. Dean throws the blade down and starts ripping out bone and muscle and flesh. Its insides are pulp before Sam manages to pull Dean away.

Someone whimpers and Dean remembers where he is and why he’s killing. He and Sam rush to Cas’ side. His wings are lifeless on either side of his body. The blood on his back is so thick it’s hard to see anything else.

Dean takes off his coat and flannel shirt to see if he can stop the bleeding. He doesn’t have time to gape at the horror in front of him.

Sam says there’s a road leading away from the building. He thinks he can bring the car closer so Cas won’t have to walk. Dean tells him to hurry.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t remember much after the first strike. He heard Dean calling for him. Someone died, but he’s not sure who it was. He remembers his wings. The pain doesn’t hit him all at once. It’s slow and throbbing. He can feel his grace leaking away. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. He’s exhausted.

When he wakes up again he’s in the back of the Impala. Someone is holding him upright to keep pressure off of his wounds. He’s fairly certain he’s naked, but there is a coat over his lap. Something warm and soft is pressed against his side. He leans against it.

“It’s all right,” says a voice. “We’re almost home.”

Castiel tries to ask what happened. He tries to move his arm but the pain near his shoulder blades is too intense. He winces.

“Cas, you’ve got to hold still, buddy. Lean on me. We’ve got you.”

He tries to remember. Sam and Dean were trapped. The angels outnumbered them and overpowered them. He tries to speak, to ask if the hunters are all right. His throat is raw. Did he scream?

The person holding him adjusts slowly and cradles his face. They ease his head down to rest against their shoulder.

His wings are gone. What’s left of them will rot away over the next few days. He can feel his grace fading. If he’s lucky, this will kill him.

Castiel floats between dream and reality. It takes him a while to understand they’ve made it back to the bunker. He hears the Winchesters talking. They’re alive.

* * *

Dean is soaked in blood. None of it is his. He’s standing in the bathroom door because Sam won’t let him get closer.

“You’re being too rough,” says Dean.

“You can’t help until you calm down,” snaps Sam. He’s crouched under the shower supporting Cas and trying to clean his wounds.

“How the fuck am I supposed to be calm?”

Sam holds Cas against his chest and looks at him through the water. “Trust me,” he says, “I want your help. But I saw what you did back there. You cannot touch him. You don’t have any control right now. It’s a miracle we made it back to the bunker in one piece.”

Dean grits his teeth. It’s true. He drove too fast and took more risks than he normally would even in crisis mode.

“You’ve got two choices,” says Sam, “and I’m not going to judge you no matter which one you pick. Either wait until the mark isn’t influencing you so much, or take care of it now.”

There’s only one way to take care of the mark when it’s burning like this. Unleashing its wrath on five angels barely begins to satisfy it. Apparently Sam knows that.

“It’ll be faster if I force it to burn out,” says Dean.

“I’m not going to judge you,” says Sam. “Do what you need to do.”

Dean nods. “I’ll be back.”

He pops out of the bunker and reappears in the middle of what he suspects is a vampire nest. He’s got a map in his room of possible monster hideouts. He hasn’t had a chance to verify most of them. If his hunch is right, this nest is massive. He’s been itching to investigate. Now he has an excuse.

He’s in the middle of a warehouse. He rolls his eyes. Vampires always pick shitholes like this. The floor he’s on is empty so he assumes there’s a basement. He finds a door and doesn’t bother keeping quiet.

His hunch is right. The vampires are sleeping downstairs. They hear him and the whole damn nest comes to life.

Dean doesn’t hold back and he doesn’t try to focus. The monsters come at him and he just lets go. It’s almost like a dance but without elegance or design. He moves and they move, testing each other’s power. By the time they figure out how many it will take to stop him, half of the nest is dead.

Dean loses count of the number of times they bite and claw and stab. They can’t hurt him. They can’t run. The survivors cower in the corner as Dean rips into another victim.

They’re trapped and he can smell their fear. It’s intoxicating. He takes his time with this one. Panicked eyes are watching everything. He counts six vampires of varying strength and age huddling together in the shadows.

The monster in his hands goes limp and he can’t toy with it anymore, but he can still use it to incite fear. He tears chunks of flesh from the body as the approaches the others. They can’t back away. One of them gets brave.

It moves to the front of the huddle, arms spread like it plans to sacrifice itself and shield the others.

Dean is giddy. His body is on fire and he has just enough adrenaline left to make the most of the kill.

He grabs the brave one by the neck and tosses it across the room. He knows he can count on it to get back up and keep fighting. He selects a wide-eyed vampire next and jumps towards it. Predictably, it hides behind someone else. That someone bares its teeth, willing to fight back. Dean will save them for last.

He unleashes on the other three. They’re unremarkable and there’s no style to the fight but their deaths are cathartic. The last one gasps and it’s like scratching an itch.

It’s down to the brave one, the coward and the coward’s defender. The brave one throws itself at Dean. He shoves it off, knowing it won’t relent until it’s dead. He needs it to know it failed to save its family. He needs to see the shame in its eyes.

He kills the defender. The coward screams. It’s delicious. Dean slows down and lets himself relax into the next death. The coward cries and begs the entire time so Dean takes it slow.

The brave one is breaking. It’s fighting with everything it has to save the coward, to save just one member of the family. Dean knows it needs to save just one. He grins as a feeble plea for mercy dies on the coward’s lips.

The brave one slams its fists against the floor, then throws itself at Dean. Its righteous fury is a pathetic imitation of his own.

Dean grabs it by the neck and stares it down. “You fucked up,” he says. “They’re all dead.”

It spits in his face.

“I could let you go,” says Dean. “I could let you live, leave you alone long enough to crave vengeance, let you build a new family, then let you get strong enough to think you can win.”

The brave one weeps, a wet and ugly sound.

“But you’ll never win,” says Dean. “It would be cruel to let you have hope.”

It stops struggling. It trembles against his hands.

“You’re lucky,” says Dean. “You don’t have to live with yourself.”

It looks at him, terrified. “Please,” it breathes.

Dean snaps its neck and separates the head from the body.

He leaves the mess behind. He steps outside. It’s raining. He looks up and lets the water wash away the dirt and blood. It’s cool and soothing on his skin. His heart slows to a normal, almost human pace. He stands beneath the storm until he’s shivering and soaked to the bone.

He picks the blood from under his nails and flicks in into the mud. Satisfied, he returns home.

* * *

He’s leaning against something again. It’s cold and hard and there’s a smell he can’t quite identify but it doesn’t seem natural.

“Stay with me.”

Castiel blinks. Sam is trying to pry him away from whatever is supporting him at the moment.

“I need you to lean forward,” says Sam. “Can you do that?”

There’s a short stool in front of him. He assumes Sam wants him to prop himself against it.

Sam is gentle as he helps Castiel readjust. “I need to see your back,” he explains. “I’m going to try to wrap this up. I think it’s still bleeding but I can’t see where it is.”

“Can’t,” says Castiel. It’s not a useful comment, but it’s the only word that makes past his lips.

“I know it hurts,” says Sam. “Stay with me. I’m almost done. You can rest soon. You’re going to be ok, I promise.”

There’s a sound near the door. Someone else enters. Castiel manages to turn his head. He finally realizes they’re still in the bathroom.

Dean approaches slowly. His hair is wet and he’s not wearing the same thing he was when they left the bunker earlier. “How is he?” asks Dean.

“Still fighting,” answers Sam.

Dean nods, understanding something Castiel doesn’t. Dean kneels in front of him. He touches the back of his hand to Castiel’s forehead. “He’s burning up,” he says.

“We’ve got to deal with his back first,” says Sam.

Dean looks up and the color drains from his face. “Is that grace?” he asks.

“What?” asks Sam.

Castiel closes his eyes. The last fading tendrils are too faint for a human to detect, but not for a demon. Cold fingers touch his face and he flinches.

“Sorry,” says Dean. “I need you to look at me. You need to stay awake.”

Castiel opens his eyes slowly.

“Are you losing grace?” asks Dean. Considering the atrocities he’s seen, sometimes Dean still seems shocked by the world. He seems shocked now; or maybe horrified is a better description. “Answer me,” he says.

Castiel takes a deep breath and his lungs seize in protest. “Yes,” he answers.

“Are you dying?” Dean’s watching him; holding his face in both hands so he can’t look away.

“No,” answers Castiel. The angels didn’t want to kill him. They want him to suffer on Earth while everyone around him dies. They want him to survive, crippled and powerless.

Dean looks over Castiel, presumably to share some silent message with Sam. Dean stands and moves to join his brother. They speak in hushed voices.

“The bones will disintegrate,” says Castiel. “Just leave them.”

Dean returns to crouch in front of him. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this,” he says. “Your wounds are bad. I think we can help but you need to talk us through it.”

“Leave them,” Castiel repeats. He takes another breath and pain shoots through him.

“We can’t,” says Dean. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Grace is healing as it leaves,” says Castiel. “I will stop bleeding soon.”

“Then what?” asks Dean.

“Then my—what’s left, the bone, will fall away.” Castiel can’t stand the look Dean gives him – the realization that Castiel isn’t an angel anymore, that he’ll never be the same. He closes his eyes again.

“Look at me,” says Dean.

“No,” murmurs Castiel.

“Fuck it,” says Dean. “We’ll sew up and wrap what we can. He’s not bleeding as much as he was. If it doesn’t stop, we’ll cauterize the wound. It’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch no matter what we do.”

His voice moves and Castiel knows he must be standing.

“You take over,” says Sam. “I’ll find something for the pain.”

 “I’ve still got some oxycodone from the last time we were in the hospital,” says Dean. “It’s in the side pocket of my pack. Check the expiration date.”

“How the Hell did you end up with oxycodone and I didn’t?” asks Sam.

“I stole it and you didn’t,” answers Dean. “Go get it and hurry. I’m going to start stitching.”

The brothers trade places. Castiel hears Sam leave.

Dean touches his back, his fingers ghost over his skin. “Mother fuckers,” mutters Dean. “I’m going to kill the next angel I see.”

Castiel intends to respond, but he forgets what he was going to say before the sentence is fully formed. Something stings on his back and tugs his skin.

“Sorry,” says Dean. “This is going to hurt.”

Castiel forces his mind away from the pain. He lets the darkness carry him away. Dean’s still talking, but his voice isn’t clear anymore. It doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters right now.

He wakes up later. He’s not sure if it’s been minutes or hours. He hears the brothers again.

“You need a break,” says Sam. “I’ll watch him for a while.”

“I’m fine,” says Dean. “I don’t sleep anymore, remember?”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need a break.”

“I’m fine, Sammy.”

Castiel shifts, then regrets it. The pain is too much. It’s getting worse. At least he’s not sitting up again. From what he can tell he’s lying on his side in a bed. It feels like pillows are stuffed against him to prevent him from rolling over onto his back. He misses whatever the Winchesters say next, but he hears Sam leave. He opens his eyes.

Dean is standing by his bed watching him. “Hey Cas,” he says.

“Hello Dean.”

“How are you feeling?”

Castiel doesn’t know how to begin to answer that question. He hasn’t really stopped to assess how he feels. “Better,” he says. It sounds like an appropriate answer. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Going on 24 hours,” answers Dean. “Your fever broke a few hours ago, so that’s good. You need to drink some water though. Do you think you can keep it down? Do you feel like you’re going to puke?”

“No,” answers Castiel. He needs water because his body needs to stay hydrated, because he’s human now. “I can drink.”

Dean has a water bottle waiting. He opens it and sticks a straw into the bottle. He sits on the edge of the bed and tucks a hand underneath Castiel’s head. “You’re probably really thirsty,” says Dean, “but drink slow.”

He helps Castiel lift his head and holds the bottle and straw to his lips. Castiel drinks and remembers the first time he experienced thirst. It’s different this time. He didn’t fall from Heaven. His grace isn’t being held captive somewhere. It’s gone and he’s human and he will be thirsty again soon. He will be thirsty for the rest of his life.

Dean pulls the bottle away and sets it on the nightstand. He withdraws his other hand. He blinks and his eyes flicker from green to black then back to green. He doesn’t seem to notice.

He stares down at Castiel without saying a word. So Castiel stares back.

* * *

Dean can’t get that sound out of his head; the way Cas screamed when they took his wings. He didn’t beg, he just told Sam and Dean not to watch.

He brushes a lock of hair away from Cas’ face. “I led us into a trap,” he says.

“They probably had this plan for a while,” says Cas. “It was inevitable.”

“Fuckers,” mutters Dean.

Cas sighs. “Did they take my wings with them?” he asks.

Dean bites his lip. He thought Cas was awake for that. “Your wings—” He swallows the lump in his throat. “They vanished.” Disintegrated is a more appropriate word. As soon as he touched them they fell apart and turned to dust in his hands.

“I’m surprised they left them,” mutters Cas. “I’m sure they wanted a trophy.”

Dean hesitates before confessing. He’s not sure how Cas will react. “They didn’t leave,” he says.

Cas squints at him.

“I killed them,” says Dean.

“There were five,” says Cas.

“Yeah,” says Dean. “Now there are none.”

Cas winces and reaches for Dean’s arm. He pushes the shirtsleeve up to reveal the mark. He stares at it for several seconds, then lets his head fall back to his pillow. “You shouldn’t have been able to do that,” says Cas.

“They had it coming,” says Dean.

Cas closes his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“I’m not sorry,” says Dean.

“I don’t expect you to be,” says Cas.

They sit quietly together. They don’t need to speak. Dean knows they’re both thinking about the mark. They’re thinking about the day Dean snaps and doesn’t come back to himself. They’re thinking about the day Dean kills the people he loves.

Dean tries not to dwell on it, but losing Sam and Cas gets easier to imagine every day. Sometimes he can even picture himself killing them. It will be easy, especially now that Cas isn’t an angel.

“I’m afraid,” says Cas. He looks to Dean.

“Of me?” asks Dean.

“For you,” he answers. “Once Sam and I are gone there will be no one to comfort whatever remains of your humanity.”

“It’s not going to come to that,” says Dean. “We’ll find another way. We always do.”

Cas is staring at him again. “You almost sound like yourself,” he says.

“Because I’m worried about you,” says Dean.

“No,” says Cas. “The mark has been satisfied. Killing the angels must have calmed it for a while.”

Dean nods. He doesn’t bother correcting him. He doesn’t want to think about what he did to the nest so he tells himself he doesn’t remember.

Cas licks his lips and the mark craves something else. Their first kiss was a ploy so Dean could escape a trap. He knows Cas wasn’t pretending and he wants to admit he wasn’t either.

He shouldn’t have played Cas like that, but he won’t feel bad about it much longer. He’s been lucky to have 24 hours of clarity. He can feel himself ebbing away.

“I don’t want you to remember me this way,” says Dean.

“You will outlive us all,” says Cas. “I won’t last long enough to remember you.”

The right words are too heavy to say, so he takes the angel’s hand. He lifts it gently and presses a kiss against his knuckles. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he says.

Cas closes his eyes tighter. “Don’t worry about it,” he whispers.

* * *

It takes an entire week for the remains of his wings to crumble away. He eats and drinks and sleeps because he has to in order to survive. Dean stares at him whenever they’re in close proximity. It’s frustrating and he seems to have no explanation for himself. His eyes flicker to black more often.

Castiel wakes up one morning and he can’t bring himself to get out of bed. His stomach twists and he leans over the edge of the bed in time to vomit into the trashcan. He hangs over the side of the bed for a moment. He’s too warm and his body feels too heavy to move. After a brief struggle, he manages to wiggle free of his t-shirt.

He carefully pushes himself back onto the mattress and rests on his side. The air feels good for a moment, but chills quickly interrupt his relief and suddenly he can’t stop shivering. He pulls the covers over himself and waits for his body to stop shaking.

Dean chooses that moment to check on him. He’s taken to patrolling the bunker instead of sleeping. Castiel hasn’t quite mapped out his entire routine, but he knows Dean checks on him and Sam at least once every hour while they sleep.

“Did you puke?” asks Dean, flicking on the light. “Your room smells like puke.”

Castiel throws and arm over his face. “Yes,” he mutters.

Dean peers over at the trashcan. “Gross,” he says. He pinches his nose and lifts the receptacle. “I’ll dump this. Be right back.” He disappears. It doesn’t take him long to return.

Dean puts the now-clean trashcan back and sits on the edge of the bed. He eyes Castiel’s discarded shirt. “You naked under all those blankets?” he asks.

“No,” grumbles Castiel.

“Do you want to be?” He flashes a toothy grin.

“I’m in no mood for jokes.”

“I’m not joking,” says Dean. “Pretty sure we could both be naked just like that.” He snaps his fingers.

“Dean,” begins Castiel, “I just vomited into a wastebasket. Do you really think I am interested in entertaining the implications of what you’re suggesting?”

“Chill,” says Dean. “I was just kidding.”

“Charming,” mutters Castiel.

“I think I’m funny.”

Castiel looks up at Dean. “If you’re only here to taunt me, I’d rather you leave.”

“C’mon baby,” says Dean. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I’m too tired to indulge you.”

“I hear you calling for me,” says Dean, a smirk teasing at his lips. “You say my name in your sleep.”

“I’m sure I do,” says Castiel.

“Not gonna lie,” says Dean, “I wouldn’t mind having a front row seat to some of those dreams.” He licks his lips and winks.

Castiel narrows his eyes at the demon. “Most of them are memories of purgatory,” he says. “The dreams usually end with you being torn to pieces by faceless monsters. I’m usually trapped. Calling your name is all I can do.”

Dean lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“However,” continues Castiel, “if you want a front row seat to my nightmares, by all means, be my guest.”

“Buzz kill,” mutters Dean. “Why are you naked then?”

“I’m not naked.”

“Why’s your shirt off?”

“I was too warm.”

Dean frowns and touches Castiel’s forehead. He does that often. “Your fever’s back,” he says. He stands and circles the bed. He sits behind Castiel and he can feel Dean’s fingers moving near his bandages. “Shit,” mutters Dean.

Castiel hides his face in his pillow.

“I think you’ve got an infection,” says Dean. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” He disappears.

When he returns, he comes through the door and his arms are full. He takes his place behind Castiel again. “I’m going to lift you a little,” he says. “I need to get a towel under you.”

“All right,” says Castiel. He grits his teeth, prepared for pain.

Dean hardly touches him. He tucks the towel underneath Castiel’s side quickly then pulls away. “Done,” he says. “Sorry. I have to open your stitches and I don’t want to get blood on your bed.”

Castiel risks the pain to look over his shoulder. Dean’s eyes are green.

“You all right?” he asks.

“Yes,” answers Castiel. He lies back against his pillow.

“Ok,” says Dean. “Brace yourself. This is going to suck.”

He feels something tug at his skin then hears a snipping sound.

“This would be a lot easier with lidocaine,” mutters Dean.  He snips something else then puts a hand on Castiel’s side. “Can you hang tight for just a second?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right back.”

The weight behind him disappears. Castiel sighs. Sometimes Dean is so close to who he was it’s hard to remember he’s different. Castiel needs to talk to Sam. They need to handle this better. What they’re doing now isn’t good enough. Dean deserves better.

Dean returns after a while. “Hospital security was tighter than I thought.” He holds up a syringe. “Do you trust me to poke you with this thing?”

“Yes,” answers Castiel. “You have to stop breaking into places like that. You’ll draw attention to yourself.”

“I don’t mind a little attention,” says Dean. He returns to Castiel’s wounds.

When Dean injects the medication, Castiel gasps. It burns.

“Sorry,” says Dean, pulling away. “What’s wrong?”

“It stings,” answers Castiel. “I wasn’t prepared. I’m all right.”

“Oh, right, I forgot. Lidocaine stings I think. Or maybe I got the wrong medicine. Shit. I wonder what I just stuck you with.”

Castiel rubs a hand over his eyes. “Just leave the wound open. I will ask Sam about it in the morning.”

“Sam, right. Good idea.” Dean disappears again.

He hears voices down the hall. Moments later Dean and a bleary-eyed Sam enter his room.

“What’s wrong?” yawns Sam.

“Cas’ back is infected. I think,” answers Dean. For some reason he can’t seem to make eye contact with his brother, so he looks at the floor instead. “I got some antibiotics for him to take.” He pulls a bottle from his pocket. “I was going to stitch him up again. I got some lidocaine too, but—um—I—it stung when I injected it.”

Sam rubs his eyes. He wanders over to where Dean was sitting and begins poking around. He pats Castiel on the shoulder. “I’m not going to stick you with whatever this is,” he says. “I’m going to clean out the wound and leave it open until tomorrow. I’ll wrap it again, just be careful and try not to move your arm too much.”

“All right,” says Castiel. He closes his eyes and bites down again, prepared for pain.

It hurts, but it’s not unbearable. He cracks his eyes open and looks to the door. Dean isn’t there anymore. “He’s getting worse,” says Castiel.

“I know,” says Sam.

* * *

He doesn’t go far, just down to the library. He needs to be far enough away that if Cas cries out, he can’t hear it. He wasn’t prepared to enjoy the way his friend flinched when the needle pierced his skin. He wasn’t prepared to imagine the first blade in his hand. He wasn’t prepared to picture Cas’ death.

One little twinge of pain was all it took. Dean saw everything. He saw himself stab Cas, then round on Sam. He saw his family die. The mark is ready for it to happen tonight. They are the only obstacles in his way. Without them, he’ll be unstoppable.

He slumps into a chair. He should be with Cas right now. He should be comforting his friend, keeping him hydrated, telling him they’ll get through this and that Cas will be an angel again.

He’s useless like this and his only saving grace is that his family can’t read his thoughts.

His arm twitches, but he doesn’t move. He can’t satisfy the mark with blood right now. It wants Sam and Cas and will settle for nothing less. He stays still, waiting and hoping the itch will pass.

Sam finds him first. “I need your help with Cas,” he says. “I don’t think I should leave the wound open. It’s not as bad as I thought and I want to stitch it back up. I think he’ll be all right with the antibiotics.”

Dean shakes his head.

“I’m not asking,” says Sam. “Cas is hurt. He’ll get better, but we need your help.”

“Not right now,” mutters Dean.

“Yes now,” says Sam. “You can do this. We trust you.” Sam takes a step toward him.

“Don’t,” shouts Dean. He jumps from the chair and backs away. “I can’t, Sam.”

“Yes you can. We need you,” he says. “You can do this.” He takes another step. “You’re not that far gone. The fact that you’re worried you’ll hurt us is a good sign.”

“I’m worried I’ll kill you,” says Dean. “It’s taking everything I have not to gut you right now.”

“You’re stronger than the mark.”

“Sammy, if you take another fucking step I’ll kill you, then I’ll head straight to Cas and kill him too.”

Sam takes another step.

Dean disappears. He doesn’t think he just leaves. He ends up in the woods, doubled over clutching his arm to his chest. The pain is so intense his knees buckle and he collapses. He’s never felt this before, but he knows this is the result of the mark going unsatisfied. It called to him and he refused to answer and now he’ll pay the price.

He feels its power stretching through him, filling his veins and burning like acid in his body. His eyes are heavy. He knows he won’t be the same when he wakes.

* * *

Castiel stumbles into the war room, a worn and weathered journal in his hand. Dean has been gone for too long and they haven’t had much luck trying to track him. Castiel isn’t healing, but he pretends to feel better so Sam will focus on finding Dean. It was hard to convince Sam at first, but Castiel’s “poker face” has greatly improved. He hopes if he can successfully lie about his health, he can successfully lie about this.

The journal is in a language he knows is foreign to Sam and hopefully the internet. He was surprised to find the journal tucked away in the Men of Letters archives. The thick dust on the cover told him the Winchesters hadn’t bothered with it yet. It’s hand written and it contained loose pages most likely created by the previous tenants of the bunker, but Castiel hid those pages in his room. He wrote his own notes and translations to present to Sam.

He clears his throat and Sam jumps.

“You should be resting,” says Sam.

“I prefer to help,” says Castiel. He’s spent the last three hours cashing in every favor he’s garnered throughout his existence. For an ancient being, there are depressingly few people he can call upon. He sets the journal on the table along with his notes. “This is written in a primitive demonic language,” he says. “A language used long before Cain was burdened with the mark and even before Lucifer fell.”

Sam’s mouth hangs open.

“I translated what I could, but whoever wrote this likely knows more demonic lore.”

Sam waits. He’s taken the bait. The journal isn’t demonic. The language it uses is an old vampire code that died out nearly 2,000 years ago. It’s still used from time to time, but most have forgotten it.

“I believe I found the author, but I don’t know if he was human or not,” says Castiel. “This is at least 80 years old. It may be a dead end.”

“What are you getting at?” asks Sam.

“I’d like to visit him, if he’s still alive,” answers Castiel. “He may know something about the mark.”

“Ok,” says Sam, standing. “How far away is he?”

“He’s in Maine,” answers Castiel. “And I’d like to go alone.”

Sam shakes his head. “No way. You’re still healing.”

“You should stay here in case Dean comes back,” says Cas.

Sam narrows his eyes. “You’re looking for an excuse to get out of the bunker,” he says.

“No, I—”

“You’re going to look for Dean.” He nods to the book. “Is that even real?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie to me, Cas.”

Castiel didn’t anticipate Sam figuring it out so quickly. “I wouldn’t lie to you,” he says.

“And yet,” says Sam. “Look, I can’t keep you here. I’m not your warden. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you, but I will argue with you and tell you it’s a dumb idea.”

“You don’t even know what my idea is,” says Castiel.

“Ha,” says Sam, “so you are planning to leave.”

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Yes,” he says. “You can’t come with me. I thought this,” he points to the journal, “would be a suitable distraction.”

“You can’t save him alone,” says Sam. “It’s too dangerous and you’re not fully healed yet.”

“Unfortunately time is of the essence,” says Castiel. “I’m well enough. I have to go.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing the two of you wouldn’t do for me.”

Sam looks down and his hair falls into his eyes, covering his face. “If something happens to you, Dean will be pissed.”

“If he’s pissed it will mean he’s back,” says Castiel.

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t do it.”

Castiel sighs. “Continue your efforts here. I’ll do what I can.” He holds out his hand. “Good luck, Sam.”

Sam takes his hand and shakes it firmly. “Good luck, Cas.”

He leaves the youngest Winchester to his research and goes to the garage. He retrieves the bag he left waiting by the door and selects an inconspicuous vehicle. He’s counting on the honor of fallen angels and witches.

Castiel drives away from the bunker and begins his thousand-mile journey.

* * *

He stares at himself in the mirror. He’s in someone’s house, someone who took the time to decorate their hallway with children’s handprints and family portraits. His face is caked in thick, dried blood and he knows it’s not all from tonight. He knows the people in this house are dead. He doesn’t know why and he doesn’t remember the last time he stopped to look at himself.

Black eyes blink back at him. He used to care. He remembers caring about something but he doesn’t remember what or why. He knows the smallest handprint on the wall makes his chest feel heavy. He steps away from the mirror.

The bodies are in separate rooms, the male died in the living room, the female on the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. The children died together.

He takes their bodies one by one and arranges them together in the largest bedroom. If it weren’t for the mess, it would look like they were sleeping.

He presses his hand to the wall outside of their room and leaves a bloody print behind.

He steps outside. It’s dark. No one is waiting for him. No one can tell him what happened. He turns back to look up at the house. He knows this isn’t his first murder. He can taste the others; the metallic twinge of death lingers on his tongue.

He can’t remember why.

Suddenly he’s pulled from the house. The colors of the world spin and collide together in a blur. He reaches out to steady himself. He hits the ground hard. The First Blade is in his hand as he scrambles to his feet. He’s been summoned.

The room is small, hot and thick with smoke. Figures surround him. Someone is chanting. A man leaps forward and drives a knife into his shoulder. It burns and his vessel struggles against it. He can’t get free.

He swings at the man with the First Blade. He lands a blow, but the man pins his arm to the ground.

“Dean,” says the man.

The chant continues. He struggles against the attacker. “Get off,” he growls.

“Asbeel, now!” shouts the man.

A woman takes the first blade from him then vanishes from his side. The next thing he feels is pain. A roar echoes from the sky and the sound is so loud it shakes the room. The man crouches on top of him, almost shielding him as the building rattles around them.

“I love you,” whispers the man. “Come back to me.”

* * *

Castiel holds one arm out and Asbeel cuts into it with the first blade. The cabin might not survive the ritual. He bleeds into a bowl on the ground. They don’t know how much blood it will take.

Asbeel knows the spell, though she warned Castiel before they started she’d never seen it cast. She was one of the few angels to follow Lucifer from Heaven. She was present when God created the mark and she saw Lucifer carry it. She only knows what Lucifer’s told her about how to transfer it.

Castiel lets his forehead fall against Dean. The hunter has stopped struggling, but he’s staring at Castiel. He can’t move thanks to the dagger sticking out of his shoulder. The sigils carved in the handle will hold him for a while.

The three witches are gathered in the corner of the room. The strongest is reciting the spell.

“Please come back,” whispers Castiel.

“I think it’s working,” says Asbeel. She pulls the bowl away.

Castiel turns his head to the side and sees his blood being mixed with the other ingredients for the spell. The very fact that Asbeel is even here is a testament to the danger of this plan. Castiel wasn’t expecting to her to show up in person. She is motivated by only by her thirst for vengeance and destruction. She’s here to witness the birth of the Darkness.

Castiel hasn’t told the witches the full story. They think they’re undoing a powerful curse. They don’t know they’re going to die. They don’t know he’s sacrificing them.

The mark bursts into flames and Dean screams.

Castiel clings to him. “Heal him,” he shouts.

“Not yet,” says Asbeel.

Thunder crashes above them. The windows shatter. Castiel prays. The chanting stops and abruptly turns to screaming, but he doesn’t look. The witches are part of the spell. It’s too late to stop it now. The room grows hotter as their bodies catch fire and burst.

Asbeel cackles. “You will become a legend,” she says.

Dean’s eyes flutter and close. The mark stops burning. His body goes limp.

Asbeel takes the First Blade and heads to the door.

“We had a deal,” shouts Castiel.

“I’m not wasting power on your stupid pet,” she shouts.

Castiel pushes himself up and chases her to the door. He doesn’t get far. As soon as she touches the grass, she kneels and holds the First Blade up to the sky like an offering. Lightning strikes and Castiel is thrown back into the room. When he stands, Asbeel is gone and so is the First Blade. The wind howls and the rain begins.

Dean groans from the floor. Castiel closes the door and prays the little building will be enough to keep them safe.

He digs a t-shirt out of his bag and tears it into strips. He pulls the blade from Dean’s shoulder and wraps the wound as tight as he can. He ties a strip around the cut on his arm and tightens it with his teeth.

Thunder roars again and the lights go out. Castiel grits his teeth and pulls Dean toward a doorway leading into the hall. He can’t remember why, but he heard once that doorways were a good place for humans to take shelter in the event of a natural disaster. They can’t escape; Castiel isn’t strong enough to get them both to the car. He can’t heal either of them and he can’t drag Sam into this yet.

He holds the hunter in his arms and waits for the storm to end.

* * *

Dean wakes up slowly. His body isn’t responding to his brain just yet. He opens his eyes. Wherever he is it’s dark and cold, though he’s pressed against something warm.

His shoulder aches. His forearm aches. The more his body comes back to life the more he aches. He tries to clear his throat.

“Dean?” asks a rough voice.

He can’t speak. His throat is dry and raw.

“It’s all right,” says the voice. “You’re safe.”

It takes him a moment to understand that the echoing booms he’s hearing are thunder. Lightening strikes and the flash is bright enough to briefly illuminate his surroundings.  It’s not much help, he doesn’t recognize the location but it’s obvious a fight broke out. He tries to push away from whoever is holding him. “Sammy?” he calls.

“He’s at home. Be careful, you’re injured.”

Dean finally looks at the other man. “Cas?” Pain and weakness abruptly catch up with him. He slumps back against the angel’s chest. “What happened?”

“You’re free of the mark,” he answers.

The mark. Dean remembers getting it. He remembers feeling it burn him from the inside out. He remembers dying. “How?” he asks.

“It’s a long story,” answers Cas. “You will undoubtedly be angry when you hear it. I may have caused a second apocalypse.”

“I’m too tired to be angry.”

“Good. I’m too tired to be guilty.”

Lightening flashes again and Cas really does look tired. His eyes are just barely open and he’s swaying slightly as he holds on to Dean. He’s warm, and that’s great for now, but he’s almost too warm. Something’s not right.

“What happened to you?” asks Dean.

“Nothing new. I’m just slow to heal. I’ll be all right.”

“Nothing new?” asks Dean.

Cas frowns and looks down at him. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“I don’t know,” answers Dean. “I guess not.”

“I’m not an angel any more.”

Dean sits up, wincing at the pain. “How long? What happened?”

“My wings were taken. The spell wasn’t supposed to impact your memory.”

He wiggles free from Cas’ arms with unexpected ease. It’s unsettling. Cas is weak. Dean crawls behind him and pulls Cas’ t-shirt up. He doesn’t know why he expects to see something. He’s never been able to see any evidence of wings before.

Dean sucks in a breath when he sees the bandages on his back. Carefully, he lifts a hand to touch the uncovered skin.

Cas flinches when Dean’s fingers press against him.

Everything comes back to him in one big burst. It knocks the air out of Dean’s lungs and has him clutching his chest. He remembers the angels, the blood, the people he killed, everything.

Cas is at his side. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” gasps Dean. “But you’re not. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“Humans can’t fix this.”

“I’ll let humans decide that for themselves,” says Dean. He pushes himself to his feet. His body screams at him to stop, rest, assess the damage. He stoops to pull Cas up with him.

“We can’t leave,” says Cas. “It’s too dangerous.” He sways again and Dean catches him.

“Let me worry about what’s dangerous,” says Dean. “You focus on staying vertical. How did we get here? Do we have a car?”

Cas nods and fishes a set of keys from his pocket.

Dean takes them, then slips an arm around Cas to support him. Holding him hurts. His forearm feels like it’s burning and on the opposite side, his shoulder is throbbing from the stab. He ignores it. He’s in better shape than Cas and they need to get to safety. “Lean on me,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

He’s not sure if Cas is entirely awake after that. They stumble out of the building and into the pouring rain. The water is almost falling sideways in the wind. It’s cold and it stings when it hits Dean’s skin. He recognizes a car from the bunker’s garage and heads toward it. It’s already unlocked. He eases Cas into the passenger seat then gets behind the wheel.

They’re in the middle of fucking nowhere and he doesn’t have a phone or a map or any idea of where the closest hospital might be. He starts the car and hits the gas. He’ll follow road signs and hope the storm doesn’t get worse.

Cas shudders against the door. Dean drives a little faster. He doesn’t understand how Cas got this bad. He wasn’t like this when Dean left. He must have seemed healthy if Sam let him leave alone.

He reaches out to touch Cas’ forehead. “How long have you been sick?”

Cas mutters something in a language Dean doesn’t recognize.

“Stay with me,” says Dean.

Cas curls away from him, shifting closer to the door. He mumbles again.

“What was that?” asks Dean.

Cas says something that sounds like “vo-pah-ho.”

“I don’t know what that means, buddy,” says Dean.

Cas mumbles again. “Nah-n-el vo-pah-aho,” he says.

He steals a glance. Cas’ head is leaning to one side like he doesn’t have the strength to hold himself up. Dean pulls the angel to his side. He’s not sure what good it does to have Cas leaning against him instead of the door, but feels safer.

Cas keeps talking to himself. His eyes are closed and tears are seeping out beneath his lashes.

“It’ll be ok,” says Dean. “We’re going to get you to some nice human doctors with nice human medicine and you’ll be good as new.”

The angel repeats his strange mantra.

* * *

Castiel wakes up to the sound of something beeping near his head. He blinks against the bright light. He’s in a room with white walls, a window and an open door. The equipment around him looks medical. He’s lying on his side in a bed with a soft blanket covering his body. Not far away, in a dingy reclining chair in the corner, he spots Dean.

He moves to sit up and accidentally yanks the tube connecting him to some of the equipment. It doesn’t make much noise, but it’s apparently enough to disturb Dean.

The hunter sits up and rubs his eyes. “Cas,” he says.

“What happened?” asks Castiel. “Are you all right?”

Dean stands and approaches the bed. His arm is in a sling and he’s wearing plain blue pants and a white shirt. He’s grinning. “I’m fine,” he answers. “We drove out of the storm. How are you feeling?”

Voices sound from down the hall and they seem to be moving closer. Castiel doesn’t get a chance to answer the question.

“Follow my lead,” murmurs Dean. “I told them I don’t remember what happened to us and neither do you. They want to get the police involved but I keep telling them no. I kind of think they think you’re my hostage or something, so they’re probably going to want to talk to you alone. I told them you’re my husband and the last thing I remember is getting dragged out of our car at gunpoint. That’s all you should remember too.”

Castiel squints at him. “I’m your husband?”

“Just go with it,” hisses Dean.

The voices are almost to the door.

“You don’t remember anything,” says Dean.

Castiel nods.

Dean gets up and steps out into the hall. “He’s awake.”

“Oh good,” says a woman.

Dean steps back inside with a nurse following behind him.

“Will you get him a cup of ice?” she asks Dean.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I’ll be right back.”

The nurse smiles and watches him leave, then turns to Castiel. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“A little stiff,” answers Castiel. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to remember being close to death. He would have died in the storm if Dean hadn’t gotten them out when he did. Part of him still expects to die.

She checks the equipment and makes a few notes on the clipboard in her hand. “Your vitals are much better. We were worried about you.”

“How long was I unconscious?”

“A few days,” she answers. “The wounds on your back were infected. It looked like someone else tried to tend to them.” She’s watching Castiel carefully.

He squints at her. “Wounds?”

“You don’t remember?”

Castiel shakes his head, pretending to be confused. “Dean – my husband – and I were in our car. I think we were attacked. I don’t know what happened.”

“You have injuries of varying ages,” she says. “You don’t know how you got any of them?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t remember anything.”

Dean finally comes back into the room. “Here you go,” he says handing Castiel a cup of ice.

“Thank you.” He takes the cup, then takes Dean's hand and holds it. He makes sure to look happy in case the nurse thinks he’s a hostage.

Dean sits down in a chair by the bed and cups Castiel’s cheek with his free hand. He is presumably playing the role of a worried spouse. He leans over and kisses Castiel’s forehead. “Thought I’d lost you,” he whispers.

Castiel doesn’t know if the nurse is buying the act. He’s not watching her. He’s too busy staring back at Dean.

The nurse says something about someone else coming in and Dean nods. When she leaves, Dean doesn’t take his hand away. He continues the act. He still looks happy. There are dark circles under his eyes. He’s obviously tired but it doesn’t seem to weigh him down like it usually does. He’s even relaxed, which is strange because Dean doesn’t normally relax when he’s in a hospital.

Castiel squints at him and wonders how much of the past week was real. Was he dreaming? “I think I’ve triggered a second apocalypse,” he says.

Dean actually laughs. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

Maybe he’s dreaming now. “We need to leave,” he says. “We have to stop Asbeel.”

“We will,” says Dean. “We’ll get to that later.”

Castiel blinks, feels himself slipping away again. He’s not ready to go back to sleep. He needs to know the plan.

Dean is running a hand through his hair. “I almost lost you,” he says again. “I’m so sorry, Cas.” He eases Castiel back down and onto his side. He doesn’t seem angry at all and he should be; they have another monster to fight because of Castiel. Dean can’t possibly understand what’s happened. If he knew, he’d be furious.

“Asbeel released the Darkness,” says Castiel. “I let her do it.”

Dean hushes him and glances up at a machine attached to Castiel. “Don’t worry about that.” He nods to the machine. “Your heart rate spikes every time you talk about Asbeel. We need to keep you calm and relaxed.” He’s still running his fingers through Castiel’s hair.

He frowns as he watches the hunter. He grits his teeth and sits up again, reaching for Dean’s arm. The spot where the mark should be is bandaged so Castiel starts picking at the tape.

Dean doesn’t stop him. He adjusts his arm so Castiel has better access.

Castiel carefully pulls back the bandage, braced for the worst. He finds raw, pink skin and dried blood. The mark is gone. He clings to Dean’s arm with both hands, vaguely aware that he’s trembling as he holds onto the hunter. He feels something welling up in his chest. The feeling spills over and he feels tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You saved me,” says Dean. “Again.” He gets up without pulling his forearm away from Castiel and sits on the edge of the bed.

Castiel looks up and touches his face. Dean doesn’t flinch away so Castiel pulls him into his arms, digs his fingers into Dean’s shirt, feels the scratch of Dean’s stubble against his neck. It’s real. Asbeel ran away, the mark is gone, Dean’s not angry, Sam is safe and it’s all real.

He gasps and thinks this may be the first time he’s actually felt his lungs expand. Dean’s holding him, but not with the same ferocity. He can’t. Castiel’s back is still injured and both of Dean’s arms are hurt. His back may never heal. The wounds are there to make him suffer, make him remember the suffering his actions caused.

He holds Dean a little tighter. Now isn’t the time to wallow. He can pity himself later, when he’s alone and there isn’t anything to distract him.

* * *

They sneak out of the hospital in the night, when the nurses are changing shifts. The drive home is long and quiet. Apologies keep clawing their way up Dean’s throat, but they’re never put into words. He can’t think of an adequate way to atone for the horrors he’s committed.

He wanted to let Cas stay and rest, but they couldn’t risk sticking around. They’re both on the upswing anyway. He needs to call Sam but they don’t have a phone and he couldn’t risk making any calls at the hospital.

He had to take his arm out of the sling to drive. His shoulder doesn’t hurt so much as throb and it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

Cas is sitting beside him. He keeps yawning but refuses to go to sleep. He’s staring more than usual and sitting closer than he normally does. Dean’s decided that’s a good thing. At least the mark didn’t scare Cas away. He hopes the same can be said for his brother.

Of all the terrible things he did while the mark was on him, one incident refuses to leave him alone. He can live with murder and pain as long as his family can live with him, but he can’t live with hurting them. He can’t forgive himself for taking advantage of their kindness.

He owes Cas an explanation and a confession. He’s so close to saying it but the words make his throat close up. He clenches his jaw. “You said something weird while we were driving out of the storm,” he says. He kicks himself. He’s a coward.

“What did I say?”

“I think it was another language. Sounded like nan-el vpah-aha.” He shakes his head. “That’s not right, but it was close to that. Va-pah-o? Is that a word?”

Cas huffs. “It’s Enochian,” he answers quietly.

“What’s it mean?” asks Dean, glancing at him.

Cas is glaring at the road with his jaw clenched.

“Is it bad?” asks Dean. “You don’t have to tell me, I was just curious.”

“Nah-neh-el,” says Castiel quietly. “The literal translation is ‘my power.’ It’s how angels refer to grace.” He shifts in his seat. “Voh-pah-ah-hoh means wings.”

Dean looks at him again. Cas has curled in on himself.

“I was babbling,” he says. “It’s not significant.”

Dean wishes the bastards that attacked Cas were still alive so he could kill them again. He wants to stop the car and hold Cas in his arms and tell him everything will be all right. He wants to put the world on pause and hide away in the bunker with his family and give them all a chance to rest. More than anything, he wants to get rid of the hopeless expression on Cas’ face right now.

“We’ll get your wings back,” says Dean. “And your grace. That’s my first priority.”

“That’s not necessary,” says Cas. “Asbeel is our primary concern.”

“Not for me. I want you to—”

“It’s not necessary,” says Cas again. He’s a little more adamant this time.

Dean reaches across the bench seat to touch him, but Cas pulls away.

The angel huffs, then shakes his head. “Apologies,” he says. “I don’t mean to be short with you. I think I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

Dean reaches out to him again, gritting through the pain when he extends his arm. He rests his arm on the back of the seat and half-tugs at Cas’ sleeve to get him to move closer. It’s lame and it’s certainly not his best move, but he can’t get himself to talk and he can’t think of anything else to do.

Cas slides closer but out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see him squinting in confusion.

“You’ve been uncharacteristically affectionate lately,” says Cas.

“Yeah, well,” says Dean. It’s not an answer.

“I wonder if it’s a symptom of the mark.”

“It’s not the mark.”

Cas gestures between them. “This is not the way we normally ride in cars.”

Dean sighs. “How about you just get comfortable and don’t worry about it.”   

Cas folds his arms over his chest. “I maintain this behavior is out of character.”

“Noted,” says Dean.

The rest of the drive is tense, though Dean’s pretty confident Cas isn’t mad at him. An hour later, Cas starts to nod off and Dean encourages him to lean against him. Cas complains again “for the record” about Dean being weird.

He is being weird, but suspects deep down, they both understand why. He’d said everything he wanted to say when Sam trapped them in the kitchen. The only problem was the demon didn’t mean it and Cas was smart enough to know better. He needs to say it again.

The sun is rising but the light is still dim and low on the horizon. Dean pulls onto a side road off of the interstate and finds a quiet place to park. He’s having trouble staying awake and they don’t have enough money for a room. They’ve only got what Cas had when he left the bunker and they need to save it for gas and food.

He shifts in his seat and readjusts his arms so that he’s comfortable and Cas is still propped. He drifts off to the soft sound of the angel’s breathing.

* * *

Castiel jerks awake and the chills of the nightmare quickly recede. He’s curled against Dean in the front seat of the car. They’ve stopped and the hunter is asleep.

He lets his head fall back against Dean’s shoulder. This affectionate version of Dean is a welcome change from the demon, but it’s not right. This isn’t his Dean. Sam will know what’s wrong. Hopefully Sam will also know how to fix it.

Dean stirs and gently squeezes Castiel’s shoulder. “Should probably get back on the road,” he grumbles. His eyes aren’t even open.

Castiel doesn’t answer him. Dean needs to rest.

“You were talking in your sleep,” mumbles Dean. “Pretty sure it was in Enochian again.”

Castiel feels his face flush. It’s embarrassing that he cannot control his grief; that he lets it leak out when he’s unconscious. Nanaeel Vpaah is a lamentation meant to be said where no one else can hear. It’s a pitiful eulogy for his loss.

“Does it hurt?” asks Dean. Apparently he’s not going back to sleep. Castiel must have disturbed him with his dream.

“No,” answers Castiel. It’s not a pain he can put into words.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“That’s not necessary,” says Castiel.

Dean squeezes his shoulder again, then moves his hand up to ruffle his hair. “Humor me,” he says. “I need to stretch my legs anyway.” Dean doesn’t give him a chance to protest. He’s already out of the vehicle.

Castiel sighs. He gets out of the car and circles in front of it to stand with Dean.

“Turn around and let me see,” says Dean. “Your wounds got infected last time. I think that combined with whatever you did to cast that spell pushed you over the edge.”

Dean lifts Castiel’s shirt and begins his inspection. “They had you on an antibiotic. I think I swiped enough for a ten-day dose.” He sighs. “I had to steal it the old fashioned way. I already miss teleporting.”

Castiel feels him peel back a bandage.

“These look a lot better,” he continues. “Probably time for a pill. You shouldn’t take it on an empty stomach though.” His fingers are gentle as he tests the skin around Castiel’s wounds. “You want diner breakfast or crappy gas station breakfast?”

“Whichever option is fastest,” answers Castiel.

“Crappy gas station breakfast it is,” says Dean. “We need gas anyway.” He smooths the bandage back down and lowers Castiel’s shirt. “Your back looks a lot better.”

Castiel turns around to face him.

Dean seems to struggle with himself for a moment. He clenches his jaw, then brushes Castiel’s hair from his forehead. “You flat-lined back at the hospital,” he says. “One minute I was sitting there talking to you and pretending you could hear me, then that stupid machine went crazy and people came running in.”

Castiel tilts his head. He’s not familiar with the expression shaping Dean’s face.

“They shoved me out of the room and I spent the next two hours losing my damn mind.” He puts both hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “You’ve got to take care of yourself. You can’t push your body beyond what it can handle. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Castiel can’t look at him anymore and he’s not sure why. He lowers his gaze. When Dean pulls him into a hug, Castiel struggles to return it. Perhaps there’s something wrong with both of them.

They spend the majority of the day in the car, stopping two more times for gas. They finally reach the bunker around midnight.

They enter through the garage. The lights are on and Castiel hears footsteps as soon as they enter. Sam stops in his tracks for a second. His eyes are already watering.

He crosses the room in three steps and doesn’t give Dean a chance to say so much as “hello” before he’s pulled him into a hug.

“It’s good to see you too,” croaks Dean. “You’re kind of crushing my lungs though.”

Sam releases him then checks his arm.

“It’s gone,” says Dean. “Cas got rid of it.”

Sam seems to notice Castiel for the first time. He hugs him too, though with significantly less force. The youngest Winchester has dark purple bags under his eyes. His hair is tangled and matted in places and he’s started growing a wild and untamed beard.

“You look like shit,” says Dean.

Sam steps back from the two of them and stares for a moment. “So do you,” he says finally.

* * *

They sit at the kitchen table and swap stories. Apparently while Cas was cashing in favors and rounding up his motley crew, Sam was tracking Dean through news of gruesome and mysterious deaths. When the storm hit, Sam was in Texas. He saw a report on the storm and hauled ass back to the bunker.

“What were you going to do if you found me?” asks Dean.

“Trap you in the dungeon,” answers Sam. “I had some new wards to try. I think I could have held you here for a while.”

“Then what?”

Sam rubs his hands over his face and shakes his head. “I only got as far as bringing you back.”

Dean looks between Cas and Sam and takes a long drink of whisky. His brother looks about ten years older and Cas has just started to get some color back in his face. Dean’s got so much blood on his hands he should feel sick. He should hate himself more. Instead he’s so damn relieved that his tiny, broken family made it out alive. He’ll box up the gore and carnage and shove it somewhere in the back of his mind with all the other nightmares. In the grand scheme of things, today is a damn good day.

After they’ve all settled in, Cas excuses himself to wash off two days worth of road-grime. Sam cracks open another beer. Dean sticks with hard liquor.

“How’s he doing?” asks Sam.

Dean realizes he’s staring at the doorway where Cas just left. “Better, I think. He was in really bad shape.”

Sam drops his head. “I know. I hoped he’d healed more than he actually had.”

Dean doesn’t want to accuse Sam of not taking care of Cas. He doesn’t want to spend this time scolding him for letting Cas leave.

“I shouldn’t have let him go,” says Sam. “We just wanted you back and it made sense to split up.”

“I’m not blaming you,” says Dean. “You thought he was getting better.”

Sam huffs. “It’s been a shitty year.”

“You can say that again.” He claps Sam on the shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. We’re alive. We all made it. We can count sins and beg forgiveness later.”

Sam sighs. “New rule,” he says, “next Big Bad, we tackle it as a team. No more splitting the party.”

Dean clinks his glass against Sam’s bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

They empty their drinks and sit in silence for a few minutes. The time after an Almost-Apocalypse is always the most surreal.

Sam sighs again. “So where do you two stand?”

Dean isn’t sure how to answer that, so he doesn’t.

“Got it,” says Sam. “Square one.”

Dean stares at the floor. He can’t deny it at this point, but he doesn’t have anything productive to say.

“We’re all human now,” says Sam, “and we can’t cheat death forever. You’ve got to tell him.”

“What if he can’t forgive me?” asks Dean. He’s not sure where the question came from.

“He’ll always forgive you,” answers Sam. “Same way you’ll always forgive him.” He yawns. “I might actually die if I don’t get some sleep.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Go get your beauty rest. I’m probably going to crash in a few minutes too.”

Sam slaps him on the shoulder. “Talk to your boyfriend,” he says, then leaves Dean alone to roll his eyes at no one.

Dean is legitimately exhausted but he waits for Cas to get out of the shower and get ready for bed. He stalks outside of the angel’s room until he’s worked up enough nerve to knock.

“Come in,” calls Cas.

Dean enters to find Cas sitting with messy, damp hair and shirtless on the edge of his bed.

Dean scratches the back of his neck. He’s practiced saying this line for five minutes. He’s just got to nut up and actually go through with it. “So,” he begins, “I was thinking – you haven’t slept so good lately.” He can’t quite look directly at Cas so he focuses on a spot just to the left of him. “I thought maybe I could watch over you – to help with nightmares and stuff. Um—unless that’s dumb.”

Cas tilts his head and studies him in a way that makes him feel warm and a little dizzy. “I thought that was considered ‘creepy,’” he says.

“It’s not,” says Dean. “Or, I guess it doesn’t have to be. Unless it creeps you out, then never mind.”

Cas looks at him like started speaking in tongues.

Dean huffs. “Can I see your back?”

That breaks the angel’s focus. He nods so Dean sits beside him on the bed. Cas must have taken the bandages off to shower, but the wounds aren’t open and they don’t look red or swollen. He runs his hands over Cas’ back, tracing muscles that must have been, at one point, connected to wings. Cas seems to relax under his fingers, so Dean presses a little farther. He uses more of his hands and inches closer on the bed.

Cas’ head droops forward and he sighs. Dean runs his fingers alongside the wounds and Cas shivers.

“I’m so sorry,” mutters Dean.

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Cas. “I had it coming.”

Dean eases an arm around Cas’ waist and gently pulls him against his chest. Cas doesn’t protest but he’s not relaxed. His body is more wilted than it is calm. Dean holds him close. He’s not good with words so he doesn’t try to speak. He just holds on as the angel slowly falls apart in his arms.

“I’m not what I used to be,” murmurs Cas. “I don’t know what I am.”

Dean presses a tentative kiss to Cas’ shoulder and for some reason that seems to be the thing that exceeds Cas’ tipping point. He cries in that quiet, lonely way people do when they realize someone else can see how far they’ve fallen. He cries, so Dean holds him tighter, keeping Cas’ scars pressed as close as he can, until the angel stops trembling.

Dean eventually pulls Cas into his lap. He presses his lips to Cas’ temple and Cas finally returns the embrace.

“You’ll always be an angel,” whispers Dean. “Wings or no wings. You’re my angel.”

Cas wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m having difficulty controlling my emotions.”

Dean hushes him and eases Cas’ head to rest against his shoulder. “I promise this isn’t going to be like it was last time you lost your grace. And I promise this is temporary. I don’t care what it takes.”

Cas shakes his head. “That’s not necessary.”

“I mean it,” says Dean. “This is temporary. We always hit rock bottom and come back better than ever.” He kisses Cas’ temple again, lingering a little longer this time and he doesn’t pull away. He breathes in the scent of Cas’ hair and presses his fingers into his skin.

Cas takes a shaky breath and clenches his jaw. Suddenly his lips collide with Dean’s and they’re clinging to each other, hungry and shaken.  “I love you,” breathes Cas. “I should have said it many years ago.”

“I love you, too,” says Dean. “I know I was a dick about it before, but I swear that was the mark talking.”

“I know,” says Cas, nuzzling against him. “Or, at least I hoped it was the mark.”

“We’re going to get your wings and your grace back,” says Dean. He kisses Cas quickly before he can respond. He eases them backwards onto the mattress and they lay tangled together.

They don’t say much for the rest of the night. When they finally fall asleep, Dean makes sure Cas is secured in his arms with his back pressed tight against Dean’s chest. There’s no such thing as perfect in their world and they’ll never be one hundred percent safe, but they’ll always have each other. If Dean is honest with himself that’s all he really cares about. The world will go to shit one day. Team Freewill will burn out and the fight will become someone else’s problem. But they’ll always be together. Earth, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory or some other God-forsaken realm; they’ll be together. There aren’t enough monsters in existence to keep his family apart.