#death!cas

◆

“I do not cause death,” Castiel said, many months later. “I am merely the link between worlds.”

 Dean lifted his head, shock crossing his pale face. 

“You again.”

His voice was hoarse, weakened through many nights of grief. Tragedy had once again come to their small community, and Castiel could feel Dean’s soul still aching from it.

Castiel stepped forward, looking at the cold form lying before Dean, life now burnt out.

“You were not related to this man,” he said, almost a question.

“No,” Dean answered shortly. 

“Ah.” 

 Castiel looked away. Even after all this time, the nuances of humanity still escaped him.

The silence between them stretched. Castiel furrowed his brow, searching for the appropriate words to use. 

“I’m sorry.”

 Dean said nothing, but his eyes widened, betraying his surprise.

“Dean.” 

Another entered the room, long hair skimming over reddened eyes.

“They want us outside,” the newcomer said, thin, tall, even younger than Dean. “You know. To say a few words.”

 His request was thick, choked. Castiel looked back from his face to Dean’s. Their pain was great, and shared. 

“Yeah, be there soon, Sammy,” Dean answered in a low voice, never taking his eyes off Castiel.

 The boy waited for a moment, eyes sliding towards the spot where Castiel stood, where to him was only empty space.

“You’re not still seeing ghosts, are you?” He asked, smiling wanly. 

His soul flickered, strangely dim. 

“Nah,” Dean answered quietly.

They did not speak after that, even after the boy left the room. Some time later, Dean left too, with a quick nod toward Castiel, so brief he might have missed it.

Castiel watched him go.

Robert Singer sighed, a wistful smile on his face.

“Well,” he said, turning to Castiel. “We’d better get goin’, huh?”

 Castiel nodded.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Let’s.”

◇

Revolution came. Blood ran through the streets and voices cried out in the dawn, the sound of shouts and guns being fired. 

 Dean lay slumped against a building, bleeding in the dirt—a wound in his thigh that desperately needed a doctor. Castiel waited by the dying body of Dean’s compatriot, watching soldiers run past.

Dean saw him and his face went pale.

 “Well, Castiel,” he murmured. “You comin’ to finish me off?”

 He knew. He knew if Castiel was there, it was already too late.

 He passed out soon after from the blood loss. Dean was not to die yet, but soon. Thirty minutes maybe, a stray bullet to the head. He would feel nothing. 

Castiel thought for a moment. Then he did something he was not allowed to do. 

 He picked up the dead comrade’s helmet and slipped it over Dean’s head, brushing the hair back from his glassy green eyes. Then Castiel gently laid him back against the building.

 “Not yet, Dean Winchester,” he whispered.

◆

Castiel was not sure why he did it. But nothing happened. No fire, no brimstone, no splitting of the fabric of time. Whatever cosmic consequences he had incurred lay quiet.

In the hospital, many died. Castiel checked on him frequently. By the seventh death, he was awake.

"Castiel," he whispered. “Cas.”

 The nurse hushed him and quickly turned up his medicine. Dean slipped back under—but not before he grabbed Castiel’s hand.

In sleep, he burns cooler, the swirling ocean during a storm.

◇

Dean sat there, sunken eyes, in a wheelchair. 

War brings out the demons inside.

"Y'know, I'm startin' to think you're following me."

 Castiel frowned. 

"You do not know this man. I believe you are the one following me."

"Yeah, well." Dean turned his head away, scratching at a cheek covered in rough stubble. "I had to thank you, didn't I?"

 Castiel hesitated.

"I did nothing."

"Sure."

 Dean picked at the edge of his bandage. A couple weeks and he'd be able to walk again. 

 "All I'm saying is, it's pretty nice I got the angel of death as my friend."

Castiel let out a small derisive sound.

"I am not an angel."

"Then what are you?"

Castiel thought for a moment.

"I'm not sure."

 Then, something in his words registered. Castiel looked at him curiously. 

 "Friend?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Friend."

◆

Dean was not there when Castiel took his father. They hadn't spoken in years.

 “So that’s it,” John said flatly.

Castiel nodded.

“Yes.”

 John was silent for a long moment. 

“Guess there’s no talking my way outta this one,” he muttered. “No more deals to make.”

Castiel slowly shook his head.

 John looked back at his own body, tears welling in his eyes.

“Miss my boys,” he mumbled. “I shoulda...shoulda done more. Shoulda done right by them.”

He sighed, staring blankly at his hands.

“Guess it’s too late now.”

 Castiel spoke softly.

“Your son is a fine man.”

“Yeah?” John turned, raising an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

 Castiel avoided his eyes, holding out a hand.

"Come," he said. "Mary is waiting."

◇

"How come I see you so much?”

"Death is everywhere.”

"Then how come your name isn't...y'know. Death?” 

 "There are many old names for things. Everything changes with time."

Silence sat between them, comfortable yet steady.

"Is there a god?" 

"Why would you ask me that?" 

"Dunno. Figured if there was, they'd be your boss."

"If there is, I've never met them.”

“Huh. Told Sammy as much. He still thinks you don’t exist, by the way.”

“People find it hard to believe things they cannot see.”

“Mmm.”

“It’s something I have wondered, many times, Yet it remains mysterious, even to me." 

 Castiel looked down at his hands, the means of his lonely burden.

 "I am merely the ferryman,” he murmured. 

Dean nudged his shoulder.

"So the Greeks were right then?"

"What?"

 Dean rolled his eyes.

 "Never mind."

◆

When his next-door neighbor died on his kitchen floor, Castiel visited Dean. 

He was crying. 

“Dean.”

 He looked up slowly, eyes unfocused.

“My dad’s dead,” he mumbled. Castiel nodded.

“I know.”

 “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Castiel shrugged slowly.

 “I hadn't talked to him,” Dean said, a confession. “Not in years.”

“He mentioned you.”

Dean dropped his head back in his hands, shoulders shaking. Rather than comfort, Castiel’s words seemed to have the opposite effect.

 Castiel stood still for several long moments.

Then he knelt, reached out, and touched his cheek.

Tears clung to Dean’s lashes. He looked up at Castiel, shattered, laid bare, his rough exterior finally split open.

 Dean leaned forward, lips parting.

 This soft, broken man was the edge of a knife, a precipice for which there could be no coming back.

   Castiel brushed a thumb over the freckles dusting his skin—wheat and honey stars in a milky sky. 

And he kissed him.

◇

Dean still burns cool in his sleep. But they've evened out, and now, he feels like warm summer rain in Castiel’s arms. He has stopped shivering when Castiel holds him.

 “What do I look like?” Castiel whispers one night.

They do not have much time left. Castiel has been reckless, pushing the limits further and further each time he stays. He cannot begin to imagine what danger might come from his disobedience.

 “You don't know?”

Dean smiles, and starts to trace the lines of his face.

“You look human. Sorta.”

His fingers dance down Castiel’s jaw, sweeping across his chin.

“But...I look at you, and know you're not...y’know?” He laughs softly. “I can just tell. You're made of something else.”

Dean’s hands skim across Castiel’s bare throat.

“When you’re wearing clothes,” he continues, a hint of mischief in his tone. “It’s always the same ugly-ass coat.”

Castiel makes a small indignant sound.

“It is not ugly.”

“Just saying.”

Dean grins, loose and easy, tangling his fingers in Castiel’s own.

“You could rock the whole badass look. Black cloak, scythe—the whole deal.”

“The scythe was quite cumbersome,” Castiel deadpans.

 Dean looks at him for a moment until he realizes Castiel’s joking—and he laughs.

“And you got one hell of a sense of humor,” he murmurs, leaning in.

 Castiel accepts the kiss, closing his eyes. Despite all he’s seen, all he’s suffered, Dean is still so full of love. The resilience of humans will never fail to astound Castiel, but Dean is something else. 

He pulls back, smiling softly, then reaches up, tugging at Castiel’s hair. 

“This is brown. Really dark brown, almost black. Way darker than mine.” 

Dean looks at him, lowering his voice.

“Your eyes are blue, and they're the prettiest eyes I've ever seen.”

 Castiel catches his hand, pressing a small kiss to his palm.

Dean’s smile fades as he watches Castiel, his chest rising and falling slowly. Castiel’s does not. 

He does not breathe.

 “When I gonna die, Cas?” Dean whispers.

 Castiel goes still. 

Dean searches his face. 

“C’mon,” he says, a slight shake in his voice. “You gotta know.”

Castiel looks at him, and realizes he does not. 

 “I don't,” he says, shocking himself with the words. 

Dean doesn't heed him, barreling on.

“Because when I die, I mean what if—”

He stops, fear in his eyes.

“What if I never see you again?” Dean whispers.

 Castiel cradles Dean’s face in his hand, shaking his head, opening his mouth to whisper false words of comfort. 

That's when he feels a tug at the edges of his being, and he’s being pulled halfway across the world, to the next death. 

 The last thing Castiel sees are Dean’s panicked green eyes, before everything turns to black.

◆

“SAM, NO—”

Dean runs, his scream rending the night air.

“No, no, Sammy—”

He reaches Sam just before he collapses, dropping with him in the wet dirt. 

“Dean—” Sam chokes out, as the perpetrator runs away with his crime into the dark. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Hey, hey, no—it’s okay, alright?” Dean tries to pull him up, support him, even as Sam falls to his knees, slumping forward. “You’re fine—it’s fine, it’s not even that bad, it’s not—”

Dean cuts off. He lifts a shaky hand from the wet patch spreading over Sam’s back, seeing it come away covered in slick red.

“Shit,” he breathes lowly.

Sam says something, jagged and garbled in his throat. Dean shushes him, hands coming to his face. 

“No, no, Sammy, you’re gonna be fine—we faced worse before, you just need to—”

 Sam’s face is ashen white, his eyes starting to slip closed. Dean gasps back a choked breath.

 “C’mon, Sammy,” he begs. “Come on.”

He looks around, to cry for help, for something, anything—

And he sees Castiel.

 “No,” Dean breathes.

  “I'm sorry, Dean,” Castiel whispers.

  “No,” Dean snarls again, gripping the back of his brother's jacket.

He doesn't have long. Samuel Winchester’s heart is pushing the blood out of him, slowly but surely. It won't take more than a few minutes.

   Castiel takes a few steps forward, but Dean jerks back, dragging Sam backward, shielding him with his own body. 

 Dean meets Castiel’s eyes. He's broken. 

“No, Cas,” he whispers. “Please, no.”

Castiel’s hands tremble.

“I have to.”

Sam breathes in raggedly.

“Just a few more years,” Dean whispers. “Please.”

“I can’t,” Castiel answers softly. “Death demands life.”

“One year, just one year, c’mon, at least give him something—”

Dean stops, choking back sobs. His breath spirals silently into the night air, the ground slick with rain and blood.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel murmurs.

 He kneels beside them and places a hand on Sam’s forehead. 

Dean watches, bone-white and utterly defeated. 

Sam gasps.

“Dean,” he murmurs. “I...I see him.”

 Dean looks down at him, shocked out of his stupor.

“Y-yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. “Your angel...Cas.” 

Dean nods silently, tears dripping down thick and fast.

“He was real after all,” Sam mumbles, his head drooping onto Dean's chest.

 Dean stares down at his brother’s pale face, hands clenched in the loose folds of his jacket.

Seconds, now.

 Castiel closes his eyes. He has no heart, but he’s sure this is what it feels like when it breaks. 

“Take me.”

Castiel looks up sharply.

Dean’s jaw is set, his eyes are firm. 

 “Take me instead,” he orders again.

Castiel stutters, fear constricting his throat.

“Dean, I—”

 He stops, shaking his head. 

“I can’t,” he whispers.

“Bullshit, you can’t,” Dean spits back. “You saved me.”

 “I—”

 His argument dies in his throat. 

As Castiel beholds him, stares into Dean’s eyes—his fate is murky, the truth to Castiel lost in shadow.

  Dean reaches out, catching the edge of Castiel’s sleeve.

"Please," he begs. "Please, Cas."

  Castiel shudders, and looks back to Sam’s pale face.

“And you would leave him here alone?” He swallows thickly. “Without you.”

 Dean is silent for a long moment. When Castiel finally musters the courage to look back at him, his normally carefree face is drawn tight, resignation heavy on his shoulders.

“I ain’t supposed to be here, Cas,” he whispers. “I felt it. Ever since…”

 Castiel knows. 

Ever since he ripped up the rules, leaving nothing.

  “I was supposed to die,” Dean says quietly. “Maybe I should. “

Sam’s breathing slows, his face grows slack.

Dean tightens his grip, knuckles white. 

“It’ll be hard for him at first,” he breathes, looking down at Sam. “For—for both of us. But I know he’ll understand.”

 Castiel cannot think. Dean cannot fathom what he’s asking of him.

 “Cas.”

 Dean’s voice breaks on his name.

“Cas—please,” he whispers. 

A soft touch on his cheek.

 “We’ll see each other again,” Dean breathes, swallowing thickly. “R-right?”

Castiel folds his hand over Dean’s. 

“Right,” he whispers, but he’s not sure if it's true.

He slowly places his other hand on Sam’s, and looks up into Dean’s eyes. He nods, just once.

Sam bolts upright, just as Dean slumps over, the light fading from his eyes.

 Castiel sags, the transfer of energy leaving him weak. It's like watching a film in reverse—Sam rises dazedly, and when he understands what has occurred, he is the one now shaking his brother’s lifeless body, agony in his voice.

“Dean!” He calls, looking around wildly. “Castiel, you son of a bitch, don’t you dare—bring him back—”

He continues raging, cursing Castiel in one breath and begging for help in the next.

 “I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean whispers.

Sam stills, hiccuping.

“Be good, alright?” Dean continues softly. “You keep fighting. And take care of my wheels.”

Sam drops his head, stifling a choked laugh. Dean smiles, sad and bittersweet.

“Remember what Dad taught you, okay?” He murmurs. “And what I taught you.”

 Behind them, a soft white light begins to glow, banishing the obscure dark. Sam does not notice, or see. He is too caught up in his grief, mourning over a now-empty shell.

The universe demanded the soul of a Winchester, and it got one. Yet a life traded for another cannot move on. 

Castiel knows this. 

Beside him, Dean’s hand finds his.

Castiel shivers. Not candle-warm, like the other souls he’s helped cross over. Dean’s hand is as cold as his own.

 “Let's go, Cas,” Dean whispers. “I can't see this.”

They turn away, Castiel giving one last look to the brother they’re leaving behind.

 And they walk forward into the light.

◆◇

Castiel’s work has always been demanding. Souls dying everywhere across the globe, some within the same second. 

 With two, the job is somewhat easier. 

◇◆

She opens her eyes. She must’ve slipped under again, a brief respite from the pain.

She sits up and is surprised to find the motion does not hurt her. In fact, nothing hurts anymore. Instead, she feels only lightness.

“Well, you sure took your sweet time.”

   She turns, startled to see a man standing at the foot of her bed.

He clicks his tongue, pulling back the edge of a leather glove to tap a shining watch on his wrist.

“We’re late enough as it is,” he says expectantly. “And I don’t got all day, seeing as my brother’ll kill me if I don’t get to visit him again.”

He thinks a moment, then chuckles, a wry smile playing around his lips.

“Well.” He smirks. “He would if he could.”

 She blinks a few times, bewildered.

“Who are you?” 

 The man ignores her question, removing his gloves completely. He’s tall, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and black cloak. 

“Tessa, right?”

He smiles, extending a hand.

On his fourth finger is a ring, white ivory in a square setting.

 Tessa doesn’t move.

“I’m dead.”

 The man winks.

“Bingo,” he answers. “Or ‘condolences’, as Cas would say.”

 Before she can ask what that's supposed to mean, the man quickly checks his watch again, speaking brusquely.

“Okay, but seriously, come on.” He jerks his head, nodding over his shoulder. You’d think we’d have all the time in the world, but turns out we run on a very tight schedule.”

Tessa eyes him warily.

“And...where are we going?” 

“Y’know.” The man gestures vaguely. “On. As they say.”

“On,” she repeats.

 The man smirks.

“Yeah. Dust in the wind and all that.”

She frowns.

“What?”

“It’s a—” The man stops, waving an impatient hand. “You know what—never mind.”

 He turns, beckoning once again. Seeing no other option, Tessa falls into step beside him. 

Before them is a warm silver light, growing brighter by the second.

They reach the threshold of what seems to be a shimmering door, a gateway.

Tessa takes a deep breath. Despite everything, she is not afraid. 

 She looks back at her strange shepherd, gathering her courage.

“So.”

He glances up, raising an eybrow.

“You’re Death,” she says.

 The man chuckles, once again pulling on his black gloves.  

"Sure am," he answers, smiling. "Well—"

He shrugs.

"One of them, anyway.”

 He turns, holding a hand out for her to shake.

“You can call me Dean.”