tracy_loo_who | Fic: Dust and Echoes (Dean/Castiel, PG-13)

Title: Dust and Echoes
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, gen/pre-slash?
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: ~3,100
Spoilers: 4x22 - Lucifer Rising
Notes: Endless love to

kitsu84 for the musical inspiration (the title is from a song in her latest Dean/Castiel fanmix), and to

ibroketuesday for helping me fix this.

feather_qwill, I hope Lucifer is okay. :">
Summary: Dean just wished Castiel's first real decision hadn't been his last.

When the archangels came, Dean didn't wonder if they were here to kill him or save him. All he could think was, you killed my angel.

It had only been a few minutes since he'd stood next to Castiel at Chuck's house, but Castiel had kept his promise: he'd held them off long enough for Dean to stop Sam. Dean was the one who hadn't keep up his end of the bargain, and for one second, the worst thing about bringing on the end of the world was that Castiel had died for nothing.

The second passed, and Dean's thoughts turned back to Sam, because although the archangels just might spare Dean if they thought he still had a part to play, he was pretty sure they wouldn't find a reason to spare Sam. "Come on, Sam!" he yelled, and it was a good thing his hand was already latched onto Sam's jacket because everything was so bright now that he couldn't see a damn thing and even trying to squint was painful.

Sam didn't resist this time, and together they ran, stumbling, out of the convent, only seconds before the archangels hit. Dean threw Sam to the ground and covered his brother's body with his own before everything burned white.

***

He came to in a crappy motel bed just like any other, feeling achy and thirsty. "Sam," he said hoarsely before he was even fully awake, and there was Sam at his bedside, trying to hand him a glass of water.

"Take it easy, Dean, you've been out for a whole day." Sam's voice sounded strained, but he was fine, and so was Dean, so he didn't dwell on it.

"Cas," he said suddenly, eyes darting up to Sam's with an almost wild sort of hope.

His heart sank when Sam only looked confused. "He hasn't stopped by."

"No," Dean said with a soft bitterness that made Sam frown. He took the glass of water and stared at it, but didn't drink. "Of course he hasn't."

***

Sam had no idea what had happened between Lucifer and the archangels, but he told Dean St. Mary's Convent had been flattened when he'd come to.

Dean didn't fully appreciate just how flat archangels could flatten a place until he was parked in front of the blackened lot Chuck Shirley's house had stood on only yesterday. Dean had thought that maybe he'd find something clichéd among the ruins; a single feather, maybe, or a scrap of tan trench coat.

There were no ruins. There was nothing at all to indicate that an angel of the Lord had made his last stand here.

Dean looked anyway.

***

Not being able to find anything to remember Castiel by only made Dean remember him more.

He remembered stabbing Castiel, he remembered Castiel's wings, a quiet moment on park benches, the niggling suspicion that Castiel had only turned his cheek to avoid breaking Dean's fist. The way he'd told Dean he wasn't here to perch on his shoulder but then had always come through for Dean when he'd needed him most, even after they'd done God knew what to him up in Heaven. And sure, it had taken some pleading and threats and even a little emotional blackmail along the way, but it said everything about Castiel that pleading and threats and emotional blackmail were what had worked on him.

As much as Dean wanted to believe that Castiel had sacrificed himself for the world, he knew it wasn't what he'd said about people and families and right and wrong that had changed Castiel's mind and turned This is long foretold into Yeah, well, we're making it up as we go. He'd done it for Dean. Everything he'd done had been for Dean; he could finally see that, now, because he couldn't deny it anymore. Just because Dean hadn't deserved it didn't make it any less true. That's why he'd subconsciously thought of Castiel as his angel when the archangels had arrived, and that's why Castiel was dead, now.

Dean almost wanted to laugh. Castiel had saved him from Hell and then Dean had sent him to die, alone, outnumbered, and hopelessly outmatched against Heaven's most terrifying weapon. And he'd never even thanked him.

***

When Dean slept, he dreamed of Hell and blood and screams. But there were feathers, too, and suddenly the screams were Castiel's, as Dean tore him apart feather by feather, carved him up one tiny papercut at a time, broke him down over and over again every time their eyes met.

Dean jerked awake with cold sweat on his forehead and Castiel's name on his lips, and he didn't go back to sleep.

A few feet away, Sam was far too silent in his own bed to be asleep, either, but neither of them said anything.

***

Dean hated thinking about Castiel. He needed to do something. Hunt something.

"What's in the news?" he asked. He hadn't wanted to know, before, but it was time to own up to what they'd done.

Sam didn't look up from his laptop, but the frown that was already on his face deepened. "Not too much, actually," he replied uneasily. "Some isolated incidents of cops raping and murdering anyone who calls 9-1-1, surgeons who torture patients on their operating tables, priests who drown people during baptisms..." He trailed off and shrugged. "Some nasty stuff, but not exactly end-of-the-world, you know?"

"They're building up to something big," Dean said, and Sam nodded slowly. The sudden cold dread of not knowing was almost worse than if Sam had started listing entire cities that had been wiped out, but Dean forced it down and started packing his bag. "So where's the nearest incident?"

"Bloomington, Indiana," Sam replied, but didn't make a move.

Dean paused to eye him pointedly. "Well?"

"What are we gonna do, Dean, damage control? Chase after a few rogue demons and pretend Lucifer isn't out there?" Sam ran restless fingers through his hair and shifted in his chair.

"Got a better idea?" They'd called Bobby earlier, but he hadn't had too much to say, and Dean had already burnt the Free Divine Assistance card he'd come to rely on.

"Maybe the angels--"

"I've had enough of those fucking angels," Dean growled, with so much venom Sam actually looked at him in surprise and shut up. After a moment, he closed his laptop and packed it.

***

The entire staff of the surgical wing at Bloomington Hospital was possessed, but Dean and Sam locked them in and exorcised them all at once. Sam still remembered the incantation, and Dean stood amidst all the writhing demons and watched him chant the words and thought, You'll be okay, Sammy. He felt lighter than he had since Lucifer had risen.

Afterward, Dean insisted they stop by the trauma ward, just for a few minutes. It was possible, he told himself, but no one there wore a tan trench coat and the set of Dean's shoulders was a little lower on the way out than it had been on the way in.

If Sam noticed, he didn't comment.

***

"We should make hex bags," Sam said, and Dean instinctively revolted against the idea, but Sam went on. "Lucifer might be looking for us, and the last thing we want is to be caught with our pants down by his lackeys." He paused, then added, "Or by the angels."

Dean knew Castiel was dead, he knew, but there was a part of him that still had trouble giving up on his angel for good. It felt like the final betrayal to add to his list.

"Dean?" Sam prodded when he didn't respond. "You know we have to, and while we're at it we should make a few for Bobby, too."

Dean sighed. It had been three days, and Sam was right. "Fine," he grunted, and looked up at the ceiling. I'm sorry, Cas.

"Great." Sam didn't sound like he thought anything was great at all. "I looked up a place, let's go."

***

While Sam was off collecting everything they needed, Dean watched the short, sour-faced owner of the dingy little shop yell at a woman in her mid-forties about something. She kept apologizing as she dug through her purse, and finally came up with a few bills for him, which he glowered up at her as he took. Then he shoved something at her in return, and Dean moved close enough to see that it was a porcelain angel with a broken wing. The woman must have broken it on accident, because she looked down at the thing in her hand, shrugged, and tossed it toward the wastebasket.

An image flashed through Dean's mind, that of Castiel's slightly hurt expression as he'd looked down at the pieces of shattered angel by Dean's feet, and he reached out on impulse to catch it.

Both the owner and the woman blinked at him, and Dean gave them his best shit-eating smile.

"Thought you said angels were dicks," Sam muttered as he passed Dean on his way to the counter.

Dean looked down at the angel with the broken wing in his hand and wiped the dust from its face with his thumb. Its eyes were painted blue, and it was so stupid, but Dean wanted to keep it. "Not this one," he said quietly.

***

Things with Sam were mostly okay. They still tested the waters around each other sometimes, little jokes and hopeful half-smiles, but Sam had apologized, and Dean had forgiven him.

They talked about Ruby and Lilith, they talked about Dean's voicemail, and they talked about Zachariah. "What about Cas?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Dean's jaw tightened and a muscle in his cheek twitched. "Cas tried to help me stop you," he replied flatly. "We went to Chuck's to ask him where you were, but then the archangels came and he stayed." I'll hold them off, I'll hold them all off, Dean heard. Those words had been echoing around inside his head since he'd gotten back from Chuck's two days ago.

"Maybe he got away," Sam suggested hopefully.

But Dean remembered how terrified he'd looked in that green room when he'd told Dean they'd be hunted and killed, and he remembered telling Castiel that this was worth dying for. He shook his head as he tied up the final hex bag and said, "No, I don't think so."

***

As the days passed, the isolated incidents increased in frequency. All the prisoners in Arkansas were shot to death in their cells on the same day, and the Red Wings made a comeback during one game after they killed every man on the opposing team and the blood froze over in a ghastly display of team colors. Dean and Sam drove grimly from job to job, the angels didn't bother them, and they didn't talk about Castiel.

Dean still thought about Castiel, though, every goddamned day. Despite the constant reminder from the porcelain angel that held vigil from beside his bed every night, Dean came to think of Castiel as more of a human than as an angel. Angels were heartless sons of bitches, and Castiel might have been that way once, but he had grown into someone who'd had passions and fears, someone who'd thought for himself and made his own decisions.

In a way, Dean was proud of Cas, his infuriating but ultimately faithful friend. He'd never had many of those. Dean just wished Castiel's first real decision hadn't been his last, and he didn't think he'd ever forgive himself for that.

Dean found himself missing Castiel, which he found ironic after having spent a year rolling his eyes whenever he'd heard that quiet rush of air against wings. He wished he could hear it again.

***

One month after Lucifer rose, Israel attacked Palestine, brutally.

Sam was shaking in front of his laptop, and he looked up at Dean with too-wide eyes. "I know what the plan is," he said. "I know what he's going to do."

"What?" Dean asked, even though he could guess, even though he didn't want to hear the answer.

"He's not going to destroy humanity, Dean," Sam said weakly. "He's going to give us a few nudges and watch us destroy ourselves. With all the nuclear and biological weapons we've got these days -- Dean, the world won't survive World War III. He's--" he broke off, eyes wild.

"He's always sneered at humanity," Dean finished for him, slowly, like the world crumbled a bit more with every word he spoke. "This is the ultimate practical joke, perfect for getting the last laugh."

Neither of them said anything after that, simply sat and stared numbly at each other. The apocalypse hadn't really felt like the apocalypse until now, and neither of them had any idea what to do.

That's when a bomb destroyed half of the motel, and Dean and Sam were hurled to the floor as their half shook violently.

They were on the second floor, and from the screams they could hear through the walls, it sounded like the fire was spreading fast.

"Shit," they both swore at once as they scrambled up and began shoving as much as they could into their bags. Sam was ready first, and by that time the fire was already consuming one wall and they were breathing too much smoke. Dean shoved their father's journal at Sam and yelled hoarsely, "Go! See if you can get anyone else out too, I'll be right behind you."

Sam nodded and disappeared, and Dean cast one final look around. The wooden frame of his bed was beginning to catch fire now, and he suddenly remembered that his hex bag was under the pillow. He swore under his breath and rushed to retrieve it, but halfway across the room, Dean's eyes landed on the porcelain angel that had been knocked to the floor. The floor was carpeted so the angel hadn't broken, and Dean decided in that split second to save it instead of the hex bag.

So when the hex bag burned, Dean stood up with the angel clutched in one hand, turned, and found Castiel in the middle of the motel room, looking completely unperturbed by the flames and smoke around him. His head was tilted slightly, and his lips were in the shape of something that could almost be a smile if Dean squinted, and Dean's heart got caught in his throat at the sheer, glorious familiarity of the sight.

He crossed the room in two strides and pulled Castiel into a fierce hug before he even meant to, and at first Castiel was stiff and ungiving, and reminded Dean of the inhuman thing he had punched a month ago. But then suddenly he became soft and pliable in Dean's arms, and Castiel brought his own arms up around Dean to hold him close, albeit gently, like he was afraid he might crush him.

"Dean," Castiel breathed, and Dean only squeezed his eyes shut and hugged him tighter and didn't care that the ceiling was about to cave above them and the floor was about to cave below them because Castiel was alive, and he was here and he wouldn't let Dean get hurt.

A moment later they were someplace quiet and cool, and Dean breathed fresh air. He let go of Castiel and stepped back just far enough to be able to get a good look at him, and as ever, piercing blue eyes returned his gaze.

"Sam--" he began.

"Sam got out fine," Castiel told him, and there a warmth in his eyes that made Dean's throat tighten, so Castiel answered his unasked question. "The archangels left me when Lucifer rose, so I survived."

And suddenly the guilt was back, and Dean looked away, but Castiel leaned slightly to remain in his line of sight and said, "I regret nothing, Dean."

Dean looked at him incredulously. "How can you even say that, you lost everything, shit, Cas, I thought you were dead, and it was all for nothing!"

Castiel's gaze dropped to Dean's hand, and Dean realized, with a small amount of embarrassment, that he was still clutching the porcelain angel with its broken wing. Castiel shook his head once as his eyes flickered back up to Dean's, eyebrows arched. "You seemed to think I had nothing to lose, before," he pointed out, and Dean thought he could hear an emphasis on before.

He didn't know what to say to that. It was true, of course, Castiel had been blind and led around on a leash by the other angels, but at the same time, those angels had been his family, and they were all he'd known for his entire existence. He didn't look terribly lost, standing here with Dean on an oddly familiar dock by a lake, but Dean didn't know how he could be feeling anything but lost. He fished for something to say, anything to acknowledge the enormity of Castiel's sacrifices, but came up empty. "Thanks, Cas," he said at last, helplessly. A little miserably.

And maybe Castiel understood, because his head tilted again, and his lips curved into a smile, slow and small, but Dean didn't have to squint to see it this time.

"Now what?" he asked numbly, because he was still reeling from the apocalypse and the fire and Cas. And even before he got an answer, he could feel an enormous weight lift from his shoulders with just the question, simply because Castiel was here again and Dean could ask him that.

"Now?" Castiel echoed, expression somber as he looked away from Dean and out across the deceptively peaceful lake. "Now you save the world, Dean."

It wasn't really an answer, but Dean hadn't been expecting one anyway. And even though part of him still couldn't quite believe Castiel had really come back, he blurted, "Will you stay?" Because maybe he didn't have the right to ask, and maybe he was terrified Castiel might say no, but he knew he needed this and thought Castiel might just be the one to say yes.

"Yes," Castiel promised, eyes clear and unblinking as he stared into Dean's, and everything was still so fucked up, but suddenly having to save the world seemed a tiny bit less impossible than it had only a few minutes ago, because Sam was his brother again and Castiel was his angel again, and Dean could keep them both. He had to, and this time, he would make sure he deserved it. Somehow.

"So much for not being here to perch on my shoulder, eh?" he quipped a little shakily, before this turned into a chick flick moment.

Castiel's brow furrowed a bit and he said, in all seriousness, "I will concede that, but I draw the line at playing the harp for you."

Despite himself, Dean smiled for the first time since he'd watched Sam drink blood in Illinois, and Castiel gripped his arm so they could go back and stop that overgrown kid from doing something stupid, like go searching for Dean in a burning motel.

fin.

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Fic: Dust and Echoes (Dean/Castiel, PG-13)

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