Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel’s alarm went off at 5 am. It always did.

His hand fumbled across the nightstand, silencing it with a slap that had no urgency, no irritation, just muscle memory. He rubbed his eyes for a second and stared at the ceiling for a while, waiting for his brain to catch up with his body. 

It never really did.

Sheets pulled back. Feet to floor. Cold.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the light of the moon through half-open blinds. His one-bedroom space felt even smaller, the emptiness more pronounced without the distraction of electric light. Castiel shuffled toward the bathroom, each step more of a habit than a decision. Toothbrush. Paste. Water. Brush. Spit. Rinse. Stare.

He sometimes prayed while staring at himself. Not this morning, though. There was nothing to pray for. 

Shower. Towel. Clothes. The same shirt as Monday. Or maybe it was Tuesday. Did that really matter? He buttoned it without thought, putting his work vest right on top of his shirt, frowning at the sight of it.

Castiel had a degree. He spent years giving everything to major in theology just to end up working in a shitty gas station. Sometimes he tried to convince himself he was still in the transition process between graduating and working, but it's been three years now. 

Coffee. Black. Bitter. Microwave beeped. Toast popped. Castiel sighed as he sat down to eat his breakfast, not even awake enough to have any coherent thoughts. 

Keys. Wallet. Bag.

He locked the door behind him and stood there for a moment. Breathed in the hallway's stale air. Then walked.

Bus station. Same crowd. Same faces. He stood there, grabbing the bus handle like his life depended on it. Well, if the bus turned too suddenly, it would surely save him from an embarrassing fall to the ground. But nothing could help them all if they suddenly got hit by something, or if the driver fell asleep on the wheel, or if he just waited for the doors to be opened by accident and simply jumped, or-

His thoughts were interrupted by a lady elbowing him by accident. She didn’t apologize, even with Castiel staring blankly at her.

He got to his station. Walk towards his job. Open the shop. Turn on the lights. Get the coffee machine working. Check up the register. Wait for clients.

Nothing new under the sun. Same day as always. Same routine, same life, same shitty apartment, same shitty job, same shitty bills, same fucking-

The door opened suddenly. Castiel straightened his back and gave his best fake smile. It always felt forced, but either no one seemed to notice or no one cared enough to bring it up.

A blonde woman with an exaggerated tan came through the door. Castiel recognized her instantly; Maggie Wheeler, she was the owner of the art gallery in the center of town. He didn't like her at all. Maggie was a pretentious woman, her features set in a perpetual expression of refined discernment.

She came every Wednesday morning, the only day she actually worked in the gallery. It must be nice staying in all day. 

“Hello Casiel.” Said the woman. Her smile was a calculated gesture; she embodied art gallery chic, appearing intelligent without necessarily being so.

“It’s Castiel.” He remained with her as he did every Wednesday. She waved him off as always, grabbing an energy drink from the fridge.

Sometimes Castiel lets his mind wander. Maybe, just maybe, one Wednesday he won't see her annoying face in the morning. And when he turns on the TV in the comfort of his home, he'll find out something happened to her at night. Maybe she's in the hospital after a terrible accident. Or six feet under. Maybe he could be the one to end her right now. He could shatter the glass window with his elbow, seize a shard of broken glass, and drive it straight into her neck. He can almost feel the blood in his hands just by imagining it. He can see the life fading from Maggie's eyes, and-

The woman placed her drink in front of him, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

“Earth to Casiel!" She said with a smile.

“Sorry.” He imitated her gesture, receiving just a tiny sigh in return.

“Always in your own little world, aren't you?” Pity. It was all over her face. “Don’t worry, I get it.” She didn’t. “It's too early in the morning, I also feel like a ghost”. Castiel didn't feel like a ghost. He didn’t feel like anything.

“That would be 2.49. Do you want anything else?”

“Oh no, I’m good.” She gave him a five dollar bill. When Castiel reached the register, the woman shook her head. “Don’t bother, just keep the change. See you next week.” Maggie grabbed her drink and walked straight through the door.

Castiel pocketed the change. Once, he'd have bristled at such an offer; he didn't need charity or pity. But tonight, he couldn't summon the energy to care. Money was always scarce. It always has been. His pride was slipping away, piece by piece, with everything else inside him. 

He sighed and continued with his original task: checking the coffee machine. He was exhausted, his eyelids heavy with the weight. The thought of a hot cup of coffee was tempting ; just enough to get him through the next few hours. But then he glanced up at the security cameras mounted above the counter. His boss was meticulous, always watching, always counting. He'd been caught before. A small sip here, a refill there, and suddenly his boss treated it as the worst act of treason ever committed. Castiel had paid double the price for his mistake.

Next, he moved behind the counter, counting the cash drawer with mechanical precision. The register was empty, save for the crumbled bills Maggie had just given him. No other change to give. Another day, another minor issue to deal with.

As the morning wore on, the station began to fill with the usual crowd: commuters grabbing their morning coffee and truck drivers fueling up for the long haul. Castiel greeted them with a nod or a grunt, his energy drained, his patience thin.

Just as he started to think today might not be so bad (after all, he didn't really have to deal with angry or more bothersome clients other than Maggie), the door chimed as someone else entered: Arthur Ketch, his boss.

Arthur Ketch was an insufferable man. He started more and less like any normal boss; strict, but not too harsh. Weird, but not foul. 

Touchy. He was very touchy. 

It got worse with the passage of time, especially when his boss found out Castiel was gay; being outed on social media by a high school ex-boyfriend was definitely not a funny experience whatsoever. Castiel felt so alone and frightened; in a small town like the one he lived in, the word travelled fast. Very fast. While nothing overtly violent occurred, the subtle hostility was ever-present. He was called slurs while walking down the street, and whispers followed him in the local shops. But he never reported it. He felt he didn’t have the right to. After all, he wasn’t being physically attacked; it was just words, right? Other people had it worse.

He wanted to turn to his mother. She always knew how to comfort him. Just a pat in the hair, a kiss on his forehead, and every trouble would fizzle out.

She was gone now.

In his loneliness, Arthur seemed to support him. He was not by any means a shoulder to cry on, but he was there nonetheless. He never treated him badly and actually seemed to defend him when someone got out of line inside the shop. And, well, he hadn’t fired him.

It started slow. A brief touch there, a weird smile lingering on his face as he watched him work, standing too close during conversations. All things that could really mean nothing and be intensified by Castiel’s constant paranoia, so he tried to ignore it. After all, Arthur was married; his wife was a lovely woman. He came to the shop sometimes; it was very rare, but Castiel didn’t mind seeing her. She didn’t talk much; she never looked at him with pity or disdain. She minded her own business, and Castiel liked her.

He couldn't recall her name, a fact that gnawed at him, especially after she went missing. 

He couldn't claim to have known her well, but she seemed pleasant enough. Sometimes, he entertained the thought that she had simply grown weary of Arthur and the confines of this town, choosing to leave without a trace. The disappearance wasn't widely discussed, and Arthur was tight-lipped about it, so Castiel never learned the full story. 

Everything shifted when she was gone.

The things that Castiel already found weird just intensified even further; now, besides prolonged touches, Arthut mentioned things Castiel did in the store when his boss wasn't there, making it clear he was watching the cameras frequently. Gradually, he started noticing some of his belongings going missing from time to time. One time, while reaching down to place new products on the bottom shelf, he could have sworn he heard the faint click of a camera behind him.

“Hello Castiel” He gave him a lopsided smile. “Quiet evening, isn’t it?”

Castiel hummed in response, keeping himself in place. Lately, to avoid an unwanted situation, he stayed behind the counter when his boss came to the store. Especially on days like this, when the mere thought of another human being coming any closer makes him want to throw up. 

Arthur walked around the store, standing right in front of him.

“Shop is slow at this time of day, isn't it?”

We will be alone for a while; it's what he really meant.

“Oh, not really.” He lied, walking away from the counter and pretending he was reaching for something on the back shelves. But he felt Arthur’s gaze settle on him, sharp and unwavering. He could picture almost perfectly in his head where his boss was looking.

The keys in his pocket pressed against his thigh, sharp edges familiar, oddly comforting. He could imagine Arthur’s smug face, leaning too close, misreading the silence for invitation. Castiel wouldn’t flinch. He’d smile just enough, and as Arthur’s lips neared, he’d plunge the jagged metal into the soft part of his eye. Not the temple, not the heart. The eye. It had to hurt. He didn’t want to be quick. He wanted messy.

In his mind, Arthur screamed and dropped like a severed puppet. Castiel dragged him by the collar and threw him hard to the ground. His hands around Arthur’s throat, tightening until his boss’s face turned a mottled purple. The spit came easy, and every insult hissed from Castiel’s lips felt more satisfying than the last. Pig. Pig. Pig. Again and again, like a prayer.

But in the real world, the hum of a ceiling fan filled the space.

“Any big plans this weekend?” Arthur asked.

“Yes.” Castiel quickly lied.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow in response.

“My uh, cousin is coming to visit.”

“I see.” He gave Cas a tight smile. “Well-” He checked his watch, brow furrowing. “Damn. I’ve got to call the distributor before they close. Keep an eye on things, will you?”

“Of course,” Castiel said, almost too quickly.

Arthur turned and walked out the door, the jingle of the bell sounding absurdly innocent against the storm still raging in Castiel’s skull.

Castiel didn’t move. The shop was quiet again. Too quiet.

And his keys were still warm in his pocket.

When it was time to close the shop, he didn't waste any more seconds he needed. Just grabbed his coat, flipped off the lights, and locked up. The keys felt heavier than before.

The bus arrived with a tired sigh and nearly empty seats. Castiel slid into one near the back, resting his head against the window as the city passed in blurred snapshots: shuttered stores, streetlights flickering like faulty memories, a couple arguing quietly at a corner.

He didn't think of anything. Somewhere between the weight in his chest and the hum of the wheels beneath him.

It wasn’t until he stepped inside his apartment, flicked on the single light by the door, and caught sight of the forgotten calendar that the silence turned sharp.

July 2.

His mother’s birthday.

He stared at the date like it might blink away if he held still long enough. But it didn’t.

He hadn’t lit a candle. Hadn’t bought the cheap flowers she used to pretend she didn’t want. Hadn’t even remembered until now.

He went to the closet, knelt down, and reached behind the dusty winter blankets. His fingers touched the box: an old wooden box where he had kept everything remaining of his mother. He grabbed it and cleaned the dust on top of it. Beside it, there laid a whiskey bottle. One-third full. Cheap, aged only by time and intention. He'd told himself he was saving it for something good.

He stood up and with the box and bottle in hand, he walked towards the counter. He poured a splash into a chipped mug and sat by the window, the city murmuring outside like a lullaby out of tune.

“Happy birthday, Ma,” he whispered, and raised a glass towards the one photo he kept of her on his night stand.

His mom was a complicated woman, to say the least.

She had been lovely once. Warm, spontaneous, and full of laughter that echoed through his childhood. She'd bake cookies at midnight, sing off-key to old records, and let him paint on the walls when he couldn’t sleep. For a while, she was magic.

But the magic had a sharp edge. When the illness crept in (slow at first, then all-consuming) it changed her. The warmth turned erratic. The laughter, strained. His father couldn't take it and left. But he stayed. He was just a boy, too young to understand what schizophrenia meant, yet old enough to carry her through the worst of it. He held her hand through delusions, through silences that stretched for days, through nights where she forgot who he was. All by himself.

And then, one morning, she was gone.

He blinked slowly, the city lights blurring in his vision, and took a sip from the mug. The burn was familiar. So was the ache in his chest.

She had been complicated. Broken. Beautiful. And she had loved him in the best way she knew how.

Castiel knew he did the best he could to take care of her, but he was a kid. He had to grow up more quickly than everyone else. Maybe, just maybe, if his father had stayed, if he hadn’t bolted at the first crack in the facade, she might still be here. The thought gripped him like a vice. It made his hands clench and his throat burn hotter than the whiskey. It made him angry, not the loud kind, but the quiet, steady kind that settled deep in his bones and never fully let go.

He set the whiskey aside and stared at the box in his lap for a couple of seconds. Sighing, he opened it. 

The scent of old paper and dust drifted up to meet him. Inside were a handful of photographs. Most of them he'd taken himself: his mother smiling through chipped teeth, half-laughing, half-tired; her hands caught mid-gesture, always expressive, always moving. There were earrings too, the delicate kind with tiny turquoise stones, and a worn silver bracelet shaped like a vine. He remembered how beautiful they looked on her, how sometimes the thought of slipping them onto his own wrists burned so vividly in his chest that it scared him. That feeling, raw, unspoken, he had buried deep, where no one could see.

He moved the photographs aside and found something he didn’t recognize.

At the very bottom, wedged between the box’s warped lining and a folded cloth napkin, was a strange amulet. Rough metal, dark with age. A symbol he couldn’t place was etched into its center, faintly glowing under the dim light like it had been waiting.

He picked it up carefully. The edges were sharp, and as he turned it in his fingers, it caught his skin, just a nick, but enough. Blood welled up and dripped onto the metal, vanishing instantly like it had been swallowed.

“Shit,” he hissed, flinching. Blood beaded up and smeared across the surface. He grabbed a crumpled napkin from the counter and wiped at the cut, muttering under his breath. He didn’t think twice about the amulet. Probably some junk jewelry from a thrift shop, his mom had loved collecting weird things.

But then the floor trembled.

At first, he thought it was his imagination, a subway passing beneath, maybe. But the trembling turned into a rumble, and the rumble into a full-on shake. The lights flickered. The pictures in the box rattled. The mug toppled off the table and shattered.

“What the-?” he backed up fast, heart pounding. The amulet dropped from his hand and hit the floor with a clang too loud for its size.

Then the air split open.

Right there, in the center of the room, something clawed its way into the world; smoke and shadow twisting into form. A shape emerged, massive and wrong: all jagged limbs, too many eyes, a mouth that opened sideways with rows of glistening teeth. Its body pulsed like it was barely holding itself together, made of muscle and void, slick with something that shimmered wet in the flickering light.

He screamed.

The thing jerked toward him, but then its movements slowed. The smoke around it thickened, curling tighter like a second skin. Bones cracked. Flesh shifted. Limbs bent and re-formed as the monstrosity began to shrink and straighten, reshaping itself with sickening grace.

By the time it stood upright, it was wearing the face of a man. A handsome man with green eyes and a big smile.

“Hello, Castiel.” The man’s smile grew even bigger. It looked almost inhuman. “Thank you for summoning me. It has been a while since I came to earth.” He stretched himself, without a care in the world. “Dude. Stillhouse whiskey? Really? This is no way to welcome a guest.”

That's the last thing he remembers before fainting.

Chapter Text

Cas woke up on the floor.

His cheek was pressed against cold carpet, and for a moment, he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. The room spun as he sat up too fast, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He gasped for air, eyes darting to the corner where…

Where it had been.

Nothing now. Just the corner. Just the silence.

But his pulse wouldn’t slow. His skin felt too tight. He clutched his knees and stared at the empty space, willing it to stay empty.

Had he imagined it?

The thought came like a whisper, then a scream.

Was this it? Was it starting?

His breath hitched. His mother’s schizophrenia had crept in slowly, first the paranoia, then the voices, then the long, terrifying descent into a world no one else could see.

Was he cursed too? Was he going to lose himself like she did? Would anyone even notice?

He had no one. No safety net. No one to drag him back when he slipped. And he wouldn’t last as long as she had. He knew that. He was weaker. He was already breaking. He would end up killing himself like-

“I’m still here, ya know?” The voice came from behind him.

Cas froze.

He turned his head slowly, dread crawling up his spine like ice. And there it was. The creature, no, the thing , was sitting casually on his one-person couch, legs crossed, looking far too human now.

Cas screamed.

He scrambled backward, knocking over a chair, fumbling toward the whiskey bottle he’d left on the counter. He smashed it against the edge with a sharp crack, glass splintering in his hand. He pointed the now broken bottle towards the intruder. 

“Stay back!” he shouted, voice cracking. The creature raised its eyebrows, amused. 

“Easy, tiger.”

It stood and began walking toward him, slow and deliberate.

“No! No, please! I don’t have any money; just go away!” Cas’s hand trembled violently, the jagged bottle neck still clutched tight.

The creature crouched beside him. Cas whimpered, shrinking back. Then, with a smile that made Cas’s stomach turn, the intruder took the bottle from his hand.

And stabbed himself in the chest.

Cas screamed again.

Blood welled up, dark and thick. But the creature didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just kept smiling, eyes locked on Cas like he was watching something beautiful unfold. It pulled the bottle out and tossed it aside. Glass shattered across the floor. Cas flinched hard, curling in on himself.

“No. No, you’re not real. You’re not…”

He squeezed his eyes shut, covered his ears, rocking slightly. But he could still feel the creature’s presence. Still hear the blood dripping. Still sense the smile.

And somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered, You're losing it. You’re just like her. You’re already gone.

He remembered the way his mother used to scream at shadows. The way she’d claw at her own skin, convinced something was crawling beneath it. The way she’d beg him to make the voices stop.

And now here he was.

Screaming at things that weren’t there.

“Ya done?” the creature asked, voice dry, almost bored.

Cas didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“I’m real,” the thing said, crouching again. “I know that’s hard for your little scrambled brain to process right now, but I’m not a hallucination. I’m not a metaphor. I’m not your mommy’s ghost.”

Cas whimpered.

“I’m a demon,” the creature said, smiling like it was a punchline. “Name’s Dean.” Cas shook his head violently. 

“No. No, you’re not real. You’re not-”

Dean sighed. “God, you’re whiny. We’ve got work to do, Cas.”

He stood and walked over to the cluttered counter, rummaging through the mess until he found it, the small, black talisman, etched with symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light. He held it up. 

“You marked the talisman. I don’t make the rules. You did this.”

Cas blinked through tears, still curled on the floor. Dean checked the calendar on the wall, tapping it with a fingernail. 

“Three days. Sunday. That’s your deadline. You have to make three sacrifices. One per day. Or the world ends.” Cas let out a strangled sob as Dean rolled his eyes. 

“No. No, this isn't real.”

“Let me show you what happens if you don’t.”

He snapped his fingers.

Suddenly, the apartment was engulfed in flames. Smoke choked the air, thick and acrid. Heat blistered his skin. He screamed, stumbling to his feet, coughing violently. He ran to the window, tried to open it, but outside was worse.

The city was burning. People were screaming. Agonizing. Crying for help. The sky was black with ash.

Dean appeared behind him, whispering into his ear.

“You smell that?” he said softly. “That’s people burning, Cas. Smells like burgers on a grill, doesn’t it?”

Cas opened his mouth to scream, but Dean clamped a hand over it.

“Shhh,” he said, almost tender. Then he snapped his fingers again and everything vanished.

Cas was back on the floor. Only Dean remained. Watching him. Smiling. Cas was still trembling, the phantom heat of the burning apartment clinging to his skin like sweat. His breath came in short, ragged bursts.

Dean leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with a casual tilt of his head.

“I don’t want the apocalypse to come,” he said. “So let’s stop it from happening.”

Cas looked up, eyes wide and glassy. Dean smiled. 

“It’s really nothing. Just three killings. One each day. That’s it.” Cas stared at him. 

“That’s it?” he echoed, voice hoarse. “Are you serious?”

Dean’s grin widened. 

“Hey, that’s the first time you really answered me.” The demon said. Cas shivered. A cold, crawling sensation ran down his spine. He felt like he was unraveling, thread by thread.

“I’m going insane,” he whispered. Dean didn’t flinch. 

“Animals don’t count,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Has to be humans. Sorry.” Cas blinked. 

“Why?”

Dean shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I didn’t write the rules. I just enforce them.” Cas shook his head, trying to make sense of it. 

“This isn’t real. This can’t be real.” Cas began again. Dean pushed off the wall and walked toward him. 

“It’s not that deep, Cas. People die every day. Car accidents, overdoses, heart attacks. You’d be less lethal than a sedan.” Cas flinched. 

“If I talk to you, you’re real. So I won’t talk to you.” The human said. Dean crouched again, meeting his eyes. 

“We’re already talking. This is happening. You have to kill someone today, or the world ends.”

Cas shook his head violently. 

“No. I’m not killing anyone.”

Dean sighed, straightened up, and looked at the clock. 

“Then I've got about twenty hours to change your mind.”

Cas stumbled backward, breath hitching, eyes locked on Dean like he was watching a bomb tick down. His hand fumbled behind him until his fingers grazed the edge of the kitchen counter, then the phone. He snatched it up, never breaking eye contact, every muscle taut with dread. Dean didn’t move. just stood there, arms loose at his sides, gaze steady and unreadable.

Cas blinked hard. Once. Twice. Like maybe if he did it enough, Dean would vanish. But Dean stayed. Solid. Real. Breathing.

Cas’s thumb shook as he unlocked the phone and hit the contact labeled Dad . It rang. And rang. And rang.

“Pick up,” he whispered. “Please, just…just pick up.”

Voicemail.

He hung up and tried again. Same thing. Again. Again.

The silence on the other end felt louder than Dean’s presence. His dad hadn’t answered any calls since he left Cas and his mother. But this time, it hurt even more. It was proof that no one was coming. That he was alone with this thing that wore a human face and said the world would end.

Cas lowered the phone slowly, knuckles white around it. His chest heaved. He looked like he might throw up.

“He’s not gonna help you.” Dean finally spoke, voice low and almost gentle. 

Cas flinched. Dean stepped forward, slow and deliberate. 

“You think I want this? I’m just doing my job, man.” Cas lurched to his feet so fast the phone skittered across the tile. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, like the air itself was too thick to swallow. He backed toward the bathroom, one hand braced against the wall, the other clenched into a fist so tight his nails bit into his palm.

Dean didn’t follow. Just turned his head slightly, tracking Cas’s every move like a predator indulging the prey’s last dance.

“Don’t,” Cas said, voice cracking. “Don’t come near me.”

Dean raised both hands in mock surrender. 

Cas’s shoulder hit the doorframe. He blinked again, hard, desperate. Dean was still there. Still solid. Still watching.

“I’m not doing this,” Cas said. “I’m not. I’ll run. I’ll leave. I’ll…”

“You won’t,” Dean said, quiet and certain. “Because if you don’t start taking this seriously, everyone will die.”

Cas’s stomach twisted. He turned and bolted towards the bathroom, feet pounding against the floor, heart slamming against his ribs. He had to get away from that voice, that face, that impossible ultimatum. He slammed into the bathroom, locked the door, and collapsed against it. The mirror caught him: wild eyes, sweat-slick skin, and a tremble in every limb. He looked like someone else. Like someone breaking.

From the other side of the door, Dean’s voice came again, muffled but clear.

“You’ve got eighteen hours and fifty-two minutes.” Dean said. Cas pressed his hands to his ears. But he could still hear it.

Cas stayed in the bathroom the rest of the night, curled awkwardly between the toilet and the sink, knees drawn up, spine pressed against cold tile. He didn’t sleep; he knew he wouldn’t, even if he tried. The space was too small, too sharp, and his thoughts too loud. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Dean’s face. Heard his voice.

From time to time, the demon spoke through the door. Calm. Casual. Like they were old friends.

“We should start looking,” Dean said once. “Someone easy. Someone no one’ll miss.”

Cas didn’t answer. He pressed his palms to his ears and tried to drown it out with his own breathing. He knew Dean could come in if he wanted to. The lock was nothing. But he didn’t. That was the only mercy.

He kept wondering if this was real. If maybe he’d finally cracked. The panic had burned off hours ago, leaving something quieter, heavier. He felt utterly lost. Every time he tried to convince himself it wasn’t real, Dean spoke again. And it felt real. Too real.

When Cas heard his alarm clock go off in the bedroom, its shrill beeping muffled through the door, he opened the door slowly. Dean was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, like he’d been waiting politely. 

“Morning, sunshine.”

Cas didn’t respond. He walked past him, grabbed his jacket, and left the apartment.

Dean followed.

Cas went to work. The gas station was quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of stale coffee and motor oil clinging to everything. He clocked in. Took his place behind the counter. Tried to act normal.

Dean leaned against the snack rack, picking up a bag of chips and reading the back like it mattered. No one looked at him. No one acknowledged him. A woman came in, bought cigarettes, and didn’t even glance his way.

Cas watched her leave, heart sinking.

No one could see him.

That really confirmed it. Cas was hallucinating. Delusion. Something broken in his brain. It just made everything heavier, but the panic from last night didn’t come back. It was replaced by something slower. Duller. A kind of grief.

He imagined walking out the back door. Past the dumpsters. Into the street. He pictured the cold biting at his skin, the way the air would feel: sharp, clean, indifferent. He imagined standing there, just beyond the reach of the flickering light, watching the empty road stretch out in both directions. He’d wait. Still and quiet. Until headlights appeared in the distance, fast, careless, inevitable. And then he’d step forward. He didn’t think about blood. Or pain. Or the sound his body might make on impact. He thought about the stillness. The silence that would follow. The end of noise.

He didn’t move.

Dean crunched a chip loudly. “You know, if you’re gonna mope all day, at least do it with some flair.”

Cas didn’t look at him.

He rang up a customer. Gave change. Stared at the register like it might swallow him whole.

Dean kept talking. Cas kept ignoring him.

The words blurred; something about the weather, something about a movie Dean hasn't seen since his last time on earth. Cas didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even flinch when Dean tried to joke, tried to tease. His voice was a buzz in the background, like static behind glass.

When his shift ended, Cas walked home in silence. The streets were slick with old rain, the air heavy with exhaust and the faint smell of fried food. He didn’t notice. Didn’t care. His feet moved because they had to. His body followed out of habit.

He felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything inside him and left the shell to keep walking.

He couldn’t stop thinking about his mother. The way she used to stare at the walls. The way she whispered to people who weren’t there. The way she cried without sound. He’d always told himself he was different. That he’d escaped it. But now… Now he wasn’t so sure.

The thoughts had been creeping in for months. The sense that nothing mattered. That he didn’t matter. That he was just a placeholder in a life that had never wanted him. He’d been depressed before, he knew that feeling. But this was different. This was deeper. This was rot.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside. The lights were off. The air was stale.

Dean was already there.

“Perfect timing,” Dean said, grinning. “It’s night. We’ve got a couple hours left. Let’s do it.”

Cas didn’t answer. He walked past him, into the kitchen. The linoleum was cracked beneath his feet. The fridge hummed like it was trying to fill the silence.

He opened the drawer and pulled out a knife. He gripped it tightly, the smooth handle pressing into his palm, the blade catching a sliver of light.

Dean’s eyes lit up instantly, his whole posture shifting from idle to electric.

“Yes,” he said, voice sharp with excitement. “Fucking finally! C’mon, man, I’ll help you find someone. We’ll make it quick. Clean. You won’t even have to look them in the eye.”

Cas didn’t respond. He turned the knife slowly, deliberately, until the point faced inward, toward his own chest. Right over his heart.

Dean’s smile faltered.

Cas’s hand was steady. His breath came in shallow, measured pulls, like he was bracing for impact. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but there was no hesitation in his body. No tremble. No second-guess.

He moved fast.

A single, fluid motion; arm drawing back, blade angled, ready to drive it deep.

“Cas!” Dean’s voice cracked, panicked, and he lunged forward.

But before Castiel could make contact, the knife jerked violently from his grip. It didn’t fall, it flew , yanked by something unseen, spinning through the air with unnatural speed. It struck the cabinet door with a heavy thunk , the blade embedding deep into the wood, handle quivering from the force.

Cas gasped, stumbling back, eyes wide.

He stared at the knife. Then at Dean.

Dean was already in front of him, hands gripping his arms, holding him firm. His expression was no longer gleeful, it was tight, urgent, almost afraid.

Cas couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Dean’s grip tightened on Cas’s arms, fingers digging in just enough to hold him still. His voice came fast, sharp, angry.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped. “You think that’s the way out? You think dying gets you off the hook? All humanity would be destroyed if you do!”

Cas didn’t answer. He just stared at Dean, at the way his chest heaved, the way his jaw clenched. And then he felt it.

Dean’s hands.

Really felt them. The pressure. The heat. The weight of skin on skin.

Cas’s breath caught. His gaze flicked to the knife, still buried in the cabinet door. The wood around it splintered, the handle trembling slightly from the force of impact.

This wasn’t a hallucination.

This was real.

And it didn’t help.

The realization didn’t bring relief. It didn’t lift the fog or ease the ache in his chest. It just made everything heavier. Sharper. The numbness didn’t vanish, it settled deeper, like concrete poured into his bones.

He’d thought, maybe, if he was going insane, there’d be a reason for how broken he felt. A name for it. A way to fix it. But now…

Now he was just broken in a world that was real.

His face crumpled. The tears came fast, sudden, like something inside had finally given way. He sank to the floor, knees folding, shoulders shaking.

Dean stopped yelling.

He stared at Cas for a long moment, then sighed, long and low, and sat down beside him. Not touching. Just close.

The silence returned, thick and humming. Cas cried quietly, the sound barely more than breath. 

“You know,” he said, “the talisman only works on people who are corruptible . Not corrupted. So, uh, that speaks well on your character, huh?” He elbows him slightly, trying to make him laugh, but Cas just keeps crying. His face was buried in his hands, shoulders still trembling.

Cas let out a shaky breath, but the tears kept coming. He didn’t feel clean. He felt like a mistake. Dean glanced at the knife still embedded in the cabinet, then back at Cas. Dean leaned back against the cabinet, exhaling slowly.

“This is my first task out of hell. And I need to get this right, man.” He looked around the kitchen, at the cracked linoleum, the flickering light overhead. “I don’t want to go back down there. You think Hell’s just fire and screaming? It’s worse. It’s endless torture, endless pain and suffering, I don’t want to go back. And I like earth, ya know? And humans. I don’t want’em all to die.”

Cas looked down at his hands. They were still shaking. His chest still ached. He didn’t want to kill anyone. He didn’t want to be part of this.

But he didn’t want the world to end either.

Cas whispered, “I don’t know if I can.”

Dean nodded. “Then let’s figure it out together.”

Cas stared at Dean, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat. The weight of it all,; the talisman, the knife, the choice, came crashing down like a tidal wave.

“No,” he said, his voice cracking. “No, no, no. I won’t kill anyone.”

Dean rolled his eyes and scoffed, the shift in his tone immediate and cutting. 

“Jesus, Cas. You think your little moral crisis is more important than six billion lives?”

Cas flinched, but Dean wasn’t done.

“You were ready to kill yourself ten minutes ago. At least do something good for once in your life before you try again.”

That did it.

Cas stood abruptly. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed his coat and walked out, the door slamming behind him.

The night air hit him like a slap. Cold, sharp, real. He walked fast, down the street, past shuttered storefronts and flickering streetlamps. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his breath coming in short bursts.

He couldn’t believe how close he’d come. The knife. The talisman. The way it had felt, like gravity pulling him toward the end. And it wasn’t just tonight. It was the first time he’d tried again. Since his mom died.

He hadn’t even realized it until now.

Cas stopped at the corner, leaning against a lamppost, trying to breathe. Trying to be .

Footsteps behind him. Fast. Heavy.

Dean.

“Cas!” he called. “Come on, don’t be dramatic.”

Cas didn’t turn around. Dean caught up, breathless but still somehow smug. 

“You think walking away fixes anything? The world doesn't give a damn about your feelings!” Cas didn't respond, just kept on walking faster this time. Dean crouched slowly, boots creaking, his voice soft but sharp. “That ache in your chest? That’s the part of you that still cares. That’s the part we need to kill.”

“Fuck off.” Cas says.

“I would if I could! But I'm trying to save the world here.”

They reached the underpass of a road bridge, graffiti-stained concrete, the hum of distant traffic overhead, the tunnel stretching ahead in dim yellow light. The air smelled like wet stone and exhaust, thick and metallic, clinging to the back of the throat. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, rhythmic and slow, like a ticking clock.

Cas slowed, footsteps echoing hollow against the concrete. His coat brushed his legs with each step, the fabric heavy with damp. His breath fogged faintly in the chill, and he didn’t look at Dean.

Dean stopped suddenly, boots scuffing to a halt. 

“Wait. Look.” He reached out and grabbed Cas’s face, fingers firm but not cruel, palms cold against skin. Cas flinched but didn’t pull away. Dean turned his head gently, deliberately, toward the far end of the tunnel.

A man stood there, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. Alone. Oblivious. The glow of the screen lit his face in flickers, casting shadows across his features. His posture was relaxed, unaware of the tension coiling just yards away. Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent. 

“He’s perfect. No witnesses. Beginner’s luck.”

Cas blinked, confusion tightening his brow. 

“What are you-”

“One hit to the head,” Dean said, gesturing with a slow tilt of his chin. “With that brick. He’s done.”

Cas’s stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in his gut. “What brick?”

Dean smiled, slow and eerie, like something ancient waking up. “The one in your hand, sweetheart.”

Cas looked down.

A brick. Heavy. Red. Rough around the edges. Sitting in his palm like it had always belonged there. Dirt clung to the surface, damp and dark. His fingers curled around it instinctively, like muscle memory, but he hadn’t picked it up. He hadn’t even seen it. He gasped.

“No!” he shouted, voice cracking.

The man looked up, startled. 

“Are you okay?” His voice echoed faintly, footsteps beginning to approach, concern etched into his face.

“No, stay back!” Cas yelled, panic rising like bile. “Please, just…stay back!” Dean stepped closer, his presence pressing in like a shadow. His voice was calm, almost soothing. 

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I looked into this guy’s soul and he absolutely deserves to die?”

Cas shook his head violently, hair falling into his eyes. “No! No, stop!”

The man hesitated, clearly alarmed now. His grip tightened on his phone. 

“Who are you talking to? Do you need help? I can call someone, an ambulance?”

Dean didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, unflinching. 

“His name’s Aaron. He’s married to a sweet girl named Julie; she is twelve years younger than him. He is a creep, really. They started dating when she was sixteen. He was twenty-eight.”

Cas froze, breath catching in his throat.

“They have a daughter. Daisy. She’s five. Cute kid. She wants to be a singer when she grows up. But you want to know what else is fucked up about this guy? He beats the shit out of his wife almost every day. And he’s resisting the urge, but he really, really wants to do the same to their kid.”

Cas’s breath hitched, sharp and shallow. He shook his head harder, hands flying up to cover his ears, fingers digging in like he could block the words from reaching his brain. 

“Stop. Stop it.”

Dean leaned in, his voice low and relentless, like a blade pressed against skin. 

“You want to save the world? Start with him.”

Cas dropped to his knees, brick forgotten, hands pressed tight against his ears, eyes squeezed shut. His coat pooled around him, the fabric soaking up the grime of the tunnel floor. His whole body trembled, breath coming in ragged bursts.

The man stood a few feet away now, phone in hand, voice trembling. 

Dean didn’t move. Just watched Cas fall apart, eyes unreadable, mouth set in a line that wasn’t quite a smile. Something ancient flickered behind his gaze, something patient. Then he crouched again, slow and deliberate, and reached out.

“Look,” he whispered.

His fingers brushed Cas’s temple, barely a touch, like the ghost of a thought, and the world around them shattered.

The tunnel dissolved.

The cold, the concrete, the echoing traffic, all gone.

Cas blinked and found himself standing in a dimly lit living room. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and something sour, like spilled beer and old sweat. The wallpaper was peeling. A TV flickered in the corner, volume low, casting blue light across the stained carpet.

Julie was there.

She was small and hunched, arms raised to shield her face. Aaron towered over her, fists clenched, face twisted in rage. He struck her once, twice, and again, and she crumpled against the wall, a muffled cry escaping her lips.

Cas flinched, heart pounding, breath caught in his throat.

Then he saw her.

In the hallway, half-hidden behind the doorframe, stood Daisy. Tiny. Barefoot. Her pajamas hung loose on her frame, and her eyes were wide, frozen. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. She just watched.

Cas’s chest seized.

“No!” he shouted, voice raw, and the world snapped again.

He was back in the tunnel.

The man was right in front of him now, crouched slightly, reaching out with cautious hands. 

“Hey. Are you okay? You’re shaking. You’re-"”

Cas didn’t hear the rest.

All he could see was Daisy’s face; small and pale in the hallway’s shadow, her eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a silence that screamed louder than any cry. That image seared itself into him, burned through bone and breath and reason.

All he could feel was the weight of that moment, the helplessness, the horror, the way time had folded in on itself and left him stranded in the center of something unbearable.

The rage surged up from somewhere deep and primal, older than thought, older than mercy. It roared through his veins like fire.

Cas’s hand shot out, grabbed the brick with force, fingers curling around it like it belonged to him, like it had always belonged to him. The rough edges bit into his skin, drawing blood, but he didn’t feel it.

Aaron barely had time to flinch.

Cas swung.

The brick connected with a sickening crack, a wet, meaty sound that echoed off the tunnel walls. Aaron screamed, stumbling backward, blood blooming across his temple in a sudden, vivid spray. His knees buckled.

But Cas didn’t stop.

He lunged forward, eyes wild, breath ragged, and tackled Aaron to the ground. The man’s phone skittered across the concrete, screen shattering on impact, its glow snuffed out like a dying star.

Cas straddled him, brick raised high, and brought it down again.

And again.

And again.

Each blow landed with brutal finality, the sound of splintering bone sharp and wet. Blood splashed across Cas’s coat, his hands, his face. It soaked into the cracks of the pavement, pooling beneath Aaron’s twitching body.

Aaron screamed, then gurgled, then went silent but Cas kept going. His breath tore out of him in gasps, his face twisted in something that wasn’t grief, wasn’t justice.

It was fury.

It was the echo of Daisy’s silence.

The tunnel rang with the sound of impact, of breath, of blood. The air was thick with iron and violence, the kind that clung to the skin and wouldn’t wash off.

Dean stood a few feet away, watching.

And he smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel. Just quiet. Satisfied.

Like something had finally clicked into place.

The tunnel fell silent.

No more screams. No more impact. Just the soft, irregular sound of Cas’s breathing; shallow, broken, like his lungs couldn’t decide whether to keep going.

He was still straddling Aaron’s body, the brick slick in his hand, blood dripping from his fingers in slow, deliberate trails. His arms trembled. His shoulders sagged. The rage had burned through him, and now there was nothing left but the hollow echo of what he’d done.

Aaron’s face wasn't recognizable at all. Split. Broken. Deformed. Out of place. One eye had come out of his socket and…

Castiel dropped the brick and covered his mouth with both hands, letting out a scream when he realized he'd just splashed the man's blood on his face. He twisted around to try to throw up, but Dean stopped him, holding him from behind and covering his mouth.

“No. You can't puke here; you’ll leave more DNA in the scene. I already have too much to clean.” Cas gasped when Dean let go of him, as the nauseating feeling completely left his body. This demon was playing with his body. Cas turned his head slowly, eyes wide and unfocused.  

“I killed him.”

Dean nodded. “You did.”

Cas looked down at his hands. Blood smeared across his palms, beneath his nails, streaked up his sleeves. It was warm. Sticky. Real.

“I killed him,” he repeated, voice barely audible.

Dean’s gaze softened. “You had to. Just two more to go, Cas.”

Cas’s breath hitched. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing down on it from the inside. He looked at Aaron’s body again, then away, then back. His stomach twisted.

His mouth went dry.

“I didn’t want to,”  Cas wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve, smearing blood across his cheek. He didn’t cry. Not yet. But his eyes burned. Dean glanced at him, voice quieter now. 

“You okay?”

Cas didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, for one terrible moment, he had felt okay. Powerful. Justified. Not triumph. Not joy. Just a dark, quiet relief. Like something had finally snapped into place. Like the violence had scratched an itch he hadn’t known was there.

And now he hated himself for it.

Chapter Text

Castiel was vomiting into his toilet.

He barely made it to his house, his brain still trying to catch up with everything that had happened. Dean did not follow. Cas was sure he had explained why he needed to stay behind, but he didn't pay any slight attention to the demon.

His hands gripped the porcelain of his toilet seat so hard his knuckles went white. His stomach convulsed, empty now, but still trying to purge something deeper. Something that clung to him like oil.

The blood.

It was still on him. Dried in streaks down his arms, crusted into the folds of his shirt, smeared across his neck. His hands were the worst: sticky, stained, and trembling. He turned them over, palms up, and saw it under his nails. Dark. Rust-red. Human.

He gagged and bent over the toilet again, retching until his throat burned and his ribs ached.

The memory wouldn’t stop replaying. The weight of the brick. The sound of bone breaking. The way Aaron’s body had gone limp beneath him. The way it had felt: too easy.

Cas stumbled back, stripped off his clothes in jerky, frantic motions, and threw himself into the shower. The water was scalding, but he didn’t care. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to erase .

He scrubbed at his skin with both hands, nails scraping, soap barely lathering before he rinsed it away and started again. The blood swirled down the drain in thin, pink ribbons, then darker ones. He watched it go, transfixed, like maybe if he stared long enough it would take the guilt with it.

But it didn’t.

Flashes hit him like lightning: Aaron’s scream, the sound of the brick cracking skull. He gasped and dropped the soap, slumped against the wall, and slid down until he was sitting in the tub, knees pulled to his chest.

He cried.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet, broken sobs that shook his shoulders and made his breath stutter. The water kept running, steam curling around him like fog.

He didn’t hear Dean come in.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Dean’s voice cut through the hiss of the shower. 

“Got rid of the evidence. No one’s gonna find anything.”

Cas didn’t respond.

Dean stepped closer, boots echoing softly on the tile. He pulled back the shower curtain.

Cas was curled up, soaked and shivering, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Dean sighed. “Jesus, Cas.”

He reached in, turned off the water, and knelt beside the tub. His hands were firm but careful as he helped Cas to his feet, guiding him out of the shower like a child.

Cas didn’t resist.

He just stood there, dripping, hollow, letting Dean drag him into the cold air.

Dean wrapped the towel around Cas’s shoulders, the fabric thick and scratchy against his skin. He dried him off with slow, methodical movements, like he’d done this before, like he’d cleaned up after worse. Cas didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, dripping and hollow, his eyes fixed on the floor.

Dean pulled a clean shirt from the dresser and slipped it over Cas’s head, guiding his arms through the sleeves. Then sweatpants. Socks. He dressed him like a doll, gentle but efficient.

“There,” Dean said, smoothing the fabric over Cas’s chest. “Good as new.”

Cas blinked slowly, lips parted, breath shallow. Dean sat beside him on the edge of the bed. 

“Yeah, it takes some getting used to,” he said, voice low, almost soothing. “But you did it. First one’s always the hardest.”

Cas didn’t respond. Dean leaned back, stretching. 

“Just two more, and I’m out of your hair. You’ve got the whole day to pick the next one. No rush.”

Cas closed his eyes.

“I killed someone,” he whispered.

Dean glanced at him. “Yeah.”

“I’m mad,” Cas said, voice cracking. “I’ve gone insane. Everyone said my mom was mad, and they’ll say the same thing about me. And they’ll be right this time.”

Dean frowned. “Cas-”

“She never hurt anyone,” Cas said. “She was kind. She was gentle. She was sick, but she never…she never killed anyone.”

Dean sighed. “You’re not crazy.” Cas opened his eyes, glassy and wet. 

“I’m a murderer.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeaaaah. But not a crazy one, though.”

Cas stared at him, horror creeping back into his face.

Then he stood abruptly and walked to the kitchen, grabbing his phone from the counter with trembling hands. His thumb hovered over the keypad, already halfway to dialing.

Dean was beside him in an instant.

“What are you doing, man?”

“I’m calling the police.” Cas said, voice trembling.

“Cas.” Dean said, his voice sharp now. “Don’t.”

“I have to. It’s the right thing to do. I shouldn’t live with this.” Dean stepped closer, hand hovering near Cas’s wrist. 

“You call the cops, what happens? You go to prison. And the world ends anyway.” Cas’s thumb trembled over the screen. Dean’s voice softened. “You’re not insane. You’re not your mother. You’re just scared. And you’re trying to do the right thing. But this isn’t the way.” He touched Cas’s wrist gently. “Taking three lives is nothing against the billions that you can save, Cas.” 

Cas lowered the phone slowly, eyes still locked on the screen. Dean reached out and gently took it from his hand.

“Let’s just sit down,” he said. “Take a breath. You’ve got time.”

Cas didn’t argue. He walked toward his nightstand, tore open the drawer, hands shaking, and grabbed his rosary like it might save him. He dropped to his knees, clutching it to his chest, fingers white-knuckled around the beads.

He pressed the crucifix to his lips and began to pray, frantic, broken whispers spilling out between gasps.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “Please, forgive me. I didn’t mean to-I didn’t know…”

Cas sat hunched on the floor, knees drawn up, clutching the rosary so tightly the beads dug into his palms. His lips moved in frantic whispers, half-formed prayers tumbling out between gasps for breath.

Dean watched from the couch, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Cas,” he said quietly. “God’s not gonna help you.”

Cas didn’t stop.

Dean leaned forward. “He’s been gone a while now.”

The prayers faltered. Cas went still.

“Am I going to hell?” he asked, voice barely audible.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He looked at Cas for a long moment, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”

Cas let out a choked sound and hurled the rosary across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp crack, beads scattering across the floor like broken teeth.

He covered his face with both hands, shoulders shaking, breath ragged.

Dean didn’t move.

After a long silence, Cas lowered his hands, eyes red and swollen.

“I’m not surprised,” he said hoarsely. “I was condemned well before this.” Dean frowned. 

“Uh, no. I told you, the talisman only works on corruptible souls. Ones that were going to heaven.”

Cas blinked. “What?”

Dean shrugged. 

“Yeah. You’re going to hell now , for the sacrifices. But you weren’t before.”

Cas stared at him, stunned. “But… I’m…” He hesitated, his voice cracking. “I have unholy thoughts. I’ve been unholy. I’m attracted to men. That’s unholy.”

Dean looked at him for a beat, then snorted.

“People don’t go to hell for that.”

Cas blinked again, like he hadn’t heard right. Dean leaned back, arms draped over his knees. 

“Seriously. That’s not how it works. Hell is not full of queers. Please. It’s full of murderers, sadists, and people who sell out their own blood. Not folks who fall in love.”

Cas’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked down at his hands, still trembling.

“I thought…” he started, but couldn’t finish.

“You thought wrong.” Dean’s voice softened. 

“What’s going to happen to me?” Cas asked, voice tight as he scratched at his arms, harder than he should, like he was trying to scrape the fear out of his skin. “Will I just… be tortured forever? For one mistake? I didn’t mean to use the talisman. I didn’t want this.”

“I know.” Dean sighed, eyes heavy. He hesitated, then added, “You won’t be tortured for eternity. Not exactly. After a while… it stops.” Cas looked up, confused. 

“Stops?”

Dean’s gaze drifted away. 

“When you lose enough of yourself. When you give in. When you agree to hurt others. That’s when you’re free.” He paused, then said quietly, “You become a demon. Like me.” Cas’s breath caught. His eyes widened. 

“Demons are… humans?”

“We were,” Dean said. “We’re not anymore.”

Cas stared at him, stunned. “How did you end up there? Were you a killer? Did you fall for the same trap I did?”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “No.” He didn’t elaborate. Cas frowned. 

“You’re dragging me into hell and making me kill people. The least you could do is indulge my curiosity.”

Dean exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t bad. Not really. I made a deal.”

Cas blinked. “A deal?”

“My little brother died. Right in front of me. I couldn’t take it.” He sighed “My whole life revolved around him. Without him, I didn’t have a purpose. So I was selfish. I traded my soul to bring him back.”

Cas was quiet.

Dean continued, his voice rough. “I got a few more years with him before hell came to collect. Now he’s alive. And I’m not.”

“Oh,” Cas said softly. He looked down, sadness flickering in his eyes. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected Dean’s damnation to be born from love.

“Have you thought about… reaching out to him?” Cas asked. “Now that you’re back on Earth?”

Dean shook his head. “Can’t. Not until the job’s done.” He moved closer, sitting beside Cas. “But he’s okay. Finished school. Got a good job. A girlfriend. They’re expecting now. I think the idiot wants to name the kid after me.” Dean laughed, but it was hollow. “I can’t do that to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t come back into his life. Not like this. If he saw what I’ve become… he’d never forgive himself. He already blamed himself when I died. Now he’s finally healing. I won’t ruin that.”

Cas looked at him, quiet. “He might miss you, Dean.” Dean’s eyes darkened.

“I’m not his brother anymore. Not the one he knew. I’ve tortured souls in hell, Cas. If he saw me now, he’d put a bullet in my brain without blinking.”

Cas’s voice was soft and steady. “I think he’d be glad to see you.”

Dean shook his head. His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but the fight drained out of him. He exhaled hard through his nose.

“Whatever, man.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not hostile. After a beat, Cas asked,

“So I’ll be like you. A demon.”

Dean nodded once. 

“Yeah.”

Cas tilted his head, thoughtful. 

“It sounds lonely.”

Dean let out a dry laugh, more breath than sound. 

“Yeah. It is.” He turned slightly, just enough to catch Cas’s eye. “But I can keep you company. Might not suck as much if we’re lonely together.”

Cas’s lips curved, faint but real. “I’d like that.” Dean leaned back, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. 

“Get some rest, angel.” The word slipped out before he could catch it. Cas blinked, surprised but not displeased. He didn’t feel like an angel. He felt stained, hollowed out. But coming from Dean, it didn’t sound like judgment. It sounded like Grace. “You, uh, have work tomorrow. You should sleep. No need to look suspicious.” Cas gave a small nod. 

Cas slept better than he expected. No tossing, no waking in a cold sweat. He didn’t ask if Dean had done something to help. Didn’t want to know. Morning came like it always did: pale light filtering through the blinds, the distant sound of traffic, and the low murmur of Dean humming a song as he got dressed. He moved through his routine like clockwork: coffee, keys, jacket, Dean trailing him like a shadow as they headed to the bus stop.

Cas still felt the anxiety coiled tight in his chest. It hadn’t gone away. Just dulled, like a blade wrapped in cloth.

On the bus, two older women chatted loudly a few rows ahead. Their voices cut through the hum of the engine.

“Did you hear? They found a body under the bridge. It was on the news this morning.”

Cas froze. His fingers clenched around the metal pole. He didn’t breathe. Dean leaned in, his voice calm. 

“I took care of everything. There’s nothing left to trace.”

Cas nodded, but the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen. He stared out the window, watched the city blur past, and said nothing. At the gas station, the routine resumed. Unlock the door. Flip the sign. Start the coffee. Dean perched on the counter like he owned the place, watching Cas move with quiet intensity.

The first customer of the day was a sharp-tongued older woman with a permanent scowl and a voice like sandpaper. She complained about the coffee, the lighting, and the price of gas. Cas offered polite responses, but she left in a huff, muttering something about “useless boys.”

Dean watched her go, then smirked. “She’s got the attitude. Could be a good candidate for today’s sacrifice.”

Cas spun around, eyes wide. “Dean,” he hissed. A man browsing the snack aisle looked up, startled. Cas gave him a tight, apologetic smile. 

“Sorry.” He forced a smile and returned to the counter; embarrassed, Dean chuckled, unbothered. 

“You really need to relax.” Cas didn’t answer. He turned back to the coffee machine, hands trembling slightly as he poured a fresh pot. 

The gas station hummed with fluorescent light and stale air. Cas moved through the motions, restocking gum, wiping down the counter, and refilling the coffee pot, his body present, his mind elsewhere.

He pictured the woman from before, her mouth sealed with duct tape, her body crumpled in the walk-in freezer, one shoe missing, frost beginning to form in her hair. Her eyes were open, wide, glassy, and accusing. He imagined dragging her in, the freezer door closing with a soft thud, the silence afterward like a balm.

Dean, lounging invisibly on top of the fridge, swung his legs like a bored teenager. 

“You’re doing it again,” he said, his voice sing-song. “Pay attention to your job, dude. Leave the murder fantasies for tonight…” Cas blinked, snapped back to the present. 

“I wasn’t-”

“You were. I saw the freezer fantasy. Very Hitchcock of you.”

Cas sighed, rubbing his temples. 

“I feel sick.”

Dean dropped down behind the counter and started juggling three Snickers bars. Badly. One hit the floor. 

“Ta-da,” he said, bowing. “Distraction achieved.” Cas snorted despite himself.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously effective.”

The bell above the door jingled. A very old woman shuffled in, wrapped in layers of floral fabric and smelling faintly of lavender and mothballs. She smiled at Cas with a kind, toothless grin. Dean leaned in, whispering theatrically. 

“Now this is a prime candidate. Trust me, she wants to die. You’d be doing her a favor.” Cas bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He nodded politely to the woman and rang up her lottery ticket.

“She’s gonna win five bucks,” Dean added. “Buy a cupcake. Choke on it. Destiny fulfilled.”

Cas coughed to cover a laugh. The woman left, humming to herself.

The bell above the door jingled. Cas didn’t look up right away; just another customer, he thought. A woman stepped inside, holding the hand of a small child. He caught a glimpse of her in the reflection of the coffee machine: tired eyes, a worn jacket, and the kind of posture that spoke of long nights and heavy burdens.

Then he turned.

Recognition hit like a punch to the chest.

The woman and kid from his vision.

Julie.

And Daisy.

Cas froze. The air felt suddenly too thick, the hum of the freezer too loud. Julie looked hollowed out, like someone had scraped the light from behind her eyes. Daisy clung to her hand, wide-eyed and silent, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest.

Cas’s breath caught. He couldn’t move.

The vision Dean had shown him repeated in his mind, Julie’s husband, fists clenched, rage boiling, the sick glint in his eye when he looked at Daisy. Cas had seen it. Had felt it. And then he’d acted.

Julie’s husband was dead. A body under the bridge.

Cas’s hands trembled.

Dean stepped closer, his voice low and steady. 

“You saved her. He would’ve started hitting her in a couple of years. Daisy would’ve spiraled. Drugs. Trauma. Suicide at twenty-two.”

Cas swallowed hard.

“But now?” Dean continued. “She’ll need therapy. A lot of it. But she’ll live. She’s a mom at thirty-one. Her husband loves her. Treats her right. You gave her that.”

Julie approached the counter, asking for gas and a bottle of water. Her voice was quiet. Daisy clutched a stuffed rabbit, eyes darting around the store.

Cas nodded, rang them up, and handed over the change with a soft 

“Take care.”

Julie gave him a tired smile. 

“Thanks.”

As they left, Cas exhaled slowly. The knot in his chest loosened just a little. Dean leaned against the counter, smug. 

“See? You’re not a monster. You did’em a favour.”

Cas didn’t answer. But he didn’t dissociate again for the rest of the shift.

Cas went home in silence.

The city blurred past his window, neon bleeding into rain-streaked glass. He didn’t speak. Didn’t let himself think in full sentences. Just fragments. Just the thrum of inevitability in his chest.

He had to do it again.

Not because he wanted to. Not because it thrilled him. Not really . He had to save the world.

Still, somewhere deep, so deep it felt like someone else’s thought, there was a flicker of excitement. A pulse. He hated it. Tried to drown it in logic, in duty, in Dean’s voice echoing in his head.

This isn’t pleasure. It’s survival.

Right?

He paced his apartment, coat still on, boots tracking in water. Then turned and left again. A bar. That’s where he’d go. Loud. Anonymous. Full of people who wouldn’t be missed until morning. Dean walked beside him, hands in his pockets, casual. 

“Drunk people are easier,” he said. “Sloppy reflexes. Bad judgment. You barely have to try.” Cas shivered. 

“You’ve done this before,” he said. Dean glanced at him. 

“What?”

“Killed people. When you were human. Or-or now. As a demon.”

Dean frowned. Didn’t answer. Cas didn’t push. But the silence between them felt sharp.

Back home, Cas opened the drawer. He needed something. A weapon. Something that would make it quick. His fingers found cold metal.

A knife.

The same one he’d nearly used on himself. Dean shook his head. 

“No. You’re not a knife person. Too much blood. Too slow. They fight.” Dean said, and Cas nodded and kept rummaging.

His hand closed around something heavier.

A hammer.

Dean’s smile widened. “ Yesssss. You’re a skull-cracker. That’s perfect for you.”

Cas stared at the hammer. It felt solid. Brutal. Honest.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of it resting in his lap.

And waited for the part of him that still felt human to say no .

It didn’t.

Cas stood slowly, the hammer still in his lap. He wrapped it in an old towel and tucked it into his coat, the bulk of it awkward but manageable. He didn’t look in the mirror. Didn’t check his face. He knew what he’d see: something hollowed out, something trying to pass for calm.

Outside, the night was damp and restless. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting pale halos on the pavement. Cas walked without urgency, hands in his pockets, breath fogging in the cold. The bar was a squat building with flickering neon and a broken sign. He’d never been here before, but it felt familiar, like every place people went to forget themselves.

He pushed the door open.

Heat and noise hit him at once. The smell of beer, sweat, and fried food. Music thumped low and steady, like a heartbeat. Cas didn’t flinch. He moved through the crowd, shoulders tight, eyes scanning without focus, and slid onto a barstool near the far end. The light there was dim, the kind that made faces blur and intentions soften.

The bartender approached, a woman with tired eyes and a practiced smile.

“What can I get you?”

Cas cleared his throat. His voice came out too fast, too stiff. 

“Two whiskeys. On the rocks.”

She nodded. “Coming right up.”

Dean leaned against the bar beside him, invisible to everyone but Cas. His expression was amused, almost fond. 

“You don’t have to order for me.”

“I’m not,” Cas said quietly.

The drinks arrived. Cas sat alone at a corner table, nursing one of the whiskeys. The other sat untouched. The bar was loud, but the noise felt distant, like it was happening behind glass. He kept his coat on. The hammer weighed heavy against his side.

Dean slid into the seat across from him, casual as ever, legs stretched out, eyes scanning the crowd.

“See that guy by the pool table?” he said, nodding toward a man in a leather jacket. “Total prick. Burglar. Mostly targets elderly folks.”

Cas didn’t respond. Just kept watching. Dean leaned in, grinning. 

“Oh! That girl over there! Yeah, the one with the red dress? Serial cheater. The guy she’s making out with right now? Her boyfriend’s cousin.”

Cas blinked and looked over. The girl caught his gaze and winked at him mid-kiss, bold and unbothered. Cas flushed and looked away. Dean frowned, reached across the table, and gently turned Cas’s face back toward the crowd. 

“Focus.”

Cas swallowed hard. 

“This is insane.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. 

“What about that guy near the jukebox? The one with the expensive coat. He literally murdered his wife.”

Cas turned slowly.

And froze.

Arthur Ketch.

His boss.

His breath caught. 

“He… he what?”

Dean nodded, almost bored. “Oh yeah. Married to this woman, kind of sweet, but a full-blown alcoholic. Sad story, really.”

Cas frowned. He hadn’t known any of that. Dean kept going. 

“Anyway, it turns out Ketch is a whole closet case. No offense.”

“None taken,” Cas said quietly. “I’m not in the closet anymore.” Dean smirked. 

“Right. So, his wife knew. Didn’t say anything. Just drank herself into oblivion. Then one day she walks in on him with another guy. Her brother.”

Cas’s stomach turned.

Dean laughed, low and sharp. “Would’ve been funny if he hadn’t murdered her right after. They hid the body together. Real romantic.”

Cas stared at Ketch, who was laughing with the bartender like he didn’t have a care in the world.

The hammer felt heavier now.

He stood up. Now decided.

He was going to kill him.

He moved toward Arthur with a deliberate sway, letting his shoulder brush a stranger’s on the way, letting his steps falter just enough to sell the illusion. He needed to look tipsy; Arthur would definitely want to take advantage of that.

Disgusting pig.

Cas stumbled, just slightly, into Arthur’s side, catching himself with a hand on the man’s chest. 

“Shit. Sorry,” he muttered, voice low and rough. Arthur turned, and his smile bloomed slow and familiar. 

“Castiel?” His eyes lit with recognition and something else- “Well, well. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Cas forced a smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Didn’t expect to be here.” Cas responded. Arthur’s gaze dragged over him, lingering. 

“You look good. Different. Loser.” His fingers brushed Cas’s wrist, then didn’t quite leave. “You were always a little stiff. I like this version better.” His hand slid down Cas’s arm, thumb grazing the inside of his elbow. Cas swallowed the bile rising in his throat and let his fingers trail lightly over Arthur’s chest, feigning playfulness. 

“Maybe I just needed the right company.” Cas said. Arthur’s smile widened, predatory. 

“Is that what I am?”

Cas tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. 

“You could be.”

Dean stood a few feet away, silent. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Cas with something unreadable, anger, maybe. Disappointment. Hurt. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but the weight of his gaze was suffocating.

Arthur leaned in, breath warm against Cas’s cheek. “Dance with me.”

Cas hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

The music was slow and sultry. Arthur pulled him close, one hand low on Cas’s back, the other grazing his hip. Cas let himself melt into it, let his fingers rest lightly on Arthur’s shoulder, then slide down his chest. He even laughed once, soft and fake , but convincing.

Then Arthur’s hand slid lower. Brazen. He grabbed Cas’s ass, fingers curling possessively.

Cas stiffened. His stomach turned. He wanted to shove him away, wanted to scream. But instead, he turned his head and found Dean’s eyes.

They locked.

Dean didn’t look away. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was steady, grounding. Cas held it, clung to it. Let it anchor him.

He let his body relax again, just slightly. Let his breath hitch. Let a low, quiet moan slip from his throat, not for Arthur.

For Dean.

Arthur chuckled, pleased. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

Cas didn’t answer. They kept dancing. Kept touching. Arthur’s hands were everywhere, waist, hips, thighs, ass, like he wanted to brand him in front of the whole bar. Cas let him. Let it all happen. But his eyes never left Dean.

And for a moment, it was bearable.

Later, Arthur leaned in, breath hot and sour against Cas’s cheek. 

“You wanna come back to mine?”

Cas blinked slowly and let his head loll slightly like he was drunker than he was. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, syrupy sweet. “Take me home.”

They stepped out into the night. The street was quiet, the air cool against Cas’s flushed skin. Arthur didn’t touch him now. Didn’t even look at him. Just walked ahead like Cas was a stray he’d picked up and forgotten about.

Cas found it curious. At the bar, Arthur had grabbed him like a trophy. Out here, he was invisible.

He didn’t care.

Arthur’s house was small, cluttered, and dim. As soon as the door shut behind them, Arthur shoved Cas against the wall, mouth crashing into his. Cas kissed back, let his hands slide up Arthur’s chest, and let his body respond like it was supposed to.

He didn’t let the disgust show.

Arthur’s fingers fumbled at his shirt, tugging it up, but Cas stepped back quickly, heart hammering. The weight of the hammer in his jacket pocket felt suddenly enormous.

“Let’s go to your bedroom,” he said, voice low, teasing. “I want you.” Arthur grinned, drunk on the promise. 

“This way.”

Cas followed, every step heavier than the last. The bedroom was dark and stale. He scanned the room, looking for angles, for timing, for anything. He needed to strike soon; he didn't want this to go on.

But his hands were shaking.

The anticipation clawed at his throat. He felt like he might throw up. Like his body was rejecting the violence before it even happened.

“I…can I use your bathroom?” he asked, voice tight.

Arthur waved him off, already distracted by tidying up his very much messy room. “Sure, sure. Down the hall.”

Cas locked the door behind him. Gripped the sink. Tried to breathe.

His chest was tight. His vision blurred. He was going to lose it.

And then, Dean was there.

Leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting the whole time, arms crossed, eyes burning with something fierce and protective.

“Hey,” Dean said, his voice low but steady. “You’re okay. You’ve got this.”

Cas didn’t answer. Just stared at him, heart thudding.

Dean stepped closer. “This is necessary. You’re doing great. That fucking bastard is gonna pay.”

Cas nodded, barely. His throat felt raw. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, again and again, until the panic dulled into something he could carry.

Dean didn’t move. Just watched him, quiet and solid.

Cas breathed. Straightened. Nodded once more.

Arthur was waiting for him in the bedroom, sprawled across the bed like he owned it, like he owned Cas. He smiled wide. 

“Can’t believe you’re finally over playing hard to get. It was cute in the beginning, but after a while? Kinda tiresome.”

Cas forced a laugh, light and breathy. His stomach turned.

He’d never let Arthur think he was into him. Never gave him that satisfaction. Arthur was a fucking pervert. A predator. Cas hated him. Hated

He cut the thought off. Let his body move instead. He walked toward Arthur slowly, hips loose, eyes half-lidded. Seduction like a mask.

“Do you have a condom?” he asked, voice soft. Arthur grinned, wide and greasy. 

“Right to the point, huh?” Cas nodded. Arthur rolled his eyes, standing. 

“Hope you’re worth it, kid. I hate not fucking raw.”

He turned his back, rummaging through a drawer.

Dean’s voice exploded in his head.

“Now. Now. Now. Now!”

Cas’s breath caught. His hand flew to his pocket. The hammer was there. Heavy. Real. His fingers curled around the handle, slick with sweat. His heart was a drumbeat in his throat.

He panicked, but he moved.

One step. Two.

Arthur was still turned away, muttering something about lube, about how Cas better not be a pillow princess.

Cas raised the hammer.

And then he struck.

The metal connected with Arthur’s skull with a sickening crack. Not enough to kill. Not clean. Arthur screamed, high and sharp, and dropped to his knees, clutching his head, blood already pouring between his fingers.

“What the fuck-!” he gasped, trying to turn, trying to crawl away.

Cas froze. His breath caught. The hammer felt heavier now, like it was dragging him down.

Arthur lunged.

They collided hard, bodies slamming into the dresser with a dull thud. A lamp toppled, shattered on the floor. Cas stumbled, the hammer slipping from his grip and skidding under the bed.

Arthur spun, blood streaming down the side of his face, eyes wide and feral. He grabbed Cas’s shirt with both hands, yanking him forward with surprising force.

“You fucking psycho!”

Cas tried to twist free, but Arthur was bigger, stronger, and fueled by pain and rage. They crashed into the wall, Cas’s shoulder slamming against the plaster. Arthur shoved him hard, and Cas’s back hit the edge of the bed frame, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Arthur swung a fist, sloppy but brutal. It caught Cas across the jaw, sending stars across his vision. Cas reeled, tasted blood.

He ducked the next punch, barely, and drove his knee into Arthur’s thigh. Arthur grunted, staggered, but didn’t let go. He wrapped a hand around Cas’s throat, fingers digging in, squeezing.

Cas clawed at him, gasping, vision tunneling. His feet scrambled for purchase on the carpet. He tried to pry Arthur’s hand loose, nails raking skin, but Arthur just squeezed harder, face twisted in fury.

Cas’s lungs burned. His legs buckled.

Then, his fingers brushed metal.

The hammer.

He grabbed it, blind and desperate, and swung upward with all his strength.

The head of the hammer caught Arthur under the chin, snapping his head back with a sickening crunch. He staggered, grip loosening, blood spraying from his mouth.

Cas didn’t wait.

He lunged, driving Arthur backward, and brought the hammer down again, this time on the side of his skull. Bone cracked. Arthur screamed, a raw, gurgling sound, and collapsed to his knees.

Cas hit him again.

And again.

Until Arthur stopped moving.

Until the only sound was Cas’s ragged breathing and the distant hum of the bathroom fan.

Dean was there, standing in the doorway, watching silently.

“You’re okay,” he said. “It’s done.”

Cas dropped the hammer. His hands were shaking. His throat ached. His jaw throbbed.

Arthur’s limbs were twisted unnaturally, one arm bent beneath him, the other sprawled out like he’d been reaching for something. His face was ruined, blood and bone and pulp where features used to be. The pool beneath him was growing, slow and steady, seeping into the carpet like ink.

Cas watched it spread.

And for a moment, just a moment, he felt something rise in his chest. Not horror. Not guilt.

Something close to satisfaction.

Righteousness.

This was justice. This was what Arthur deserved.

Dean stood in the doorway, silent, watching him.

Cas almost smiled.

Then-

The front door creaked open.

Cas froze.

Footsteps. A voice, casual, warm. “Love? I came home early. You here?”

Cas’s blood turned to ice. He turned to Dean, but Dean didn’t speak. Didn’t move. There was no time.

Cas bolted from the bedroom, heart pounding, feet slipping slightly on the blood-slick floor. He reached the hallway just as the man, tall, in his mid-thirties, keys still in hand, stepped into view.

The man stopped. His eyes went wide. Then he saw the blood on Cas. The hammer. The open bedroom door.

He screamed, turning to run. Cas didn’t think. Didn’t wait for Dean’s voice. He moved.

He lunged, catching the man from behind, arms locking around his torso. The man thrashed, elbowing Cas in the ribs, but Cas held on, dragging him backward into the hallway.

They slammed into the wall. A picture frame shattered.

Cas wrapped one arm around the man’s throat, the other gripping his arms closed tight. He squeezed, forearm pressing hard against the windpipe.

The man clawed at him, gasping, legs kicking wildly. He tried to scream again, but it came out as a choked wheeze.

Cas didn’t let go.

He tightened his grip, muscles burning, jaw clenched. The man’s nails raked his arms and his neck, desperate. His face turned red, then purple. His movements slowed.

Cas held on.

Held on.

Until the body went limp.

Until the man sagged in his arms, dead weight.

Cas let him drop.

He stood there, panting, staring at the two corpses. One sprawled in the bedroom, face caved in. The other crumpled in the hallway, neck bruised, eyes still open.

Two bodies.

Two lives.

Gone.

His hands were shaking. His arms ached. His shirt was soaked in blood, some of it his, most of it not.

Dean let out a low whistle.

“Damn,” he said, grinning. “That was intense. You went full berserker mode. I mean…!” He gestured to the hallway. “That chokehold? Brutal. You’re a natural.”

Cas didn’t respond. He just stared at the mess. At the blood. At the silence. Then, suddenly, his voice cracked through the air. 

“Is it done?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“The sacrifices,” Cas said, eyes wide, voice hollow. “I killed three people. Is it over?”

Dean looked at him, then slowly pulled a watch from his pocket. He checked the time. His face shifted just slightly. Something like pity flickered behind his eyes.

“No, uh…” he said quietly. “It has to be one sacrifice per day. It’s eleven fifty-three,”  Cas’s breath hitched. “If that guy had come later,” Dean continued, “maybe this would all be over. But he didn’t.” Cas stared at him. 

“So it doesn’t count?”

Dean shook his head. “One per day. That’s the rule.” He repeated Cas’s knees buckled slightly. He leaned against the wall, blood smearing across the wallpaper.

Dean stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’ll be there tomorrow too. I’ll help you.”

Cas didn’t move.

He just slumped into Dean’s chest, exhausted, trembling, trying not to think about the way his blood was soaking into Dean’s shirt. About the way Dean didn’t seem to mind.

About the way he liked that.

Chapter Text

The water ran red for a long time.

Castiel stood beneath the spray, unmoving, watching the diluted blood swirl down the drain like it belonged to someone else. His skin was slick with it, dried patches flaking off, fresh streaks blooming anew as the heat coaxed it loose. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t shiver. Just stood there, letting the water do what it was meant to do.

The bodies were still in their place. He’d stepped over them on his way to the bathroom, careful not to slip. Castiel hadn’t looked closely. He didn’t need to. Dean would handle it. 

He washed his hands again, even though they were already clean. Scrubbed at his forearms, his chest, and the hollow of his throat. Slower this time. Calmer. The panic had burned out hours ago, leaving only the numbness behind. He felt disconnected from his body, like he was watching someone else move through the motions. A ghost in his own skin.

When he stepped out of the shower, he didn’t bother with a towel. Water dripped from his hair, traced down his spine, and pooled at his feet. He walked naked through the apartment, past Dean crouched beside the corpses, murmuring incantations under his breath. Castiel didn’t speak. Dean didn’t look up.

He opened the dead man’s closet and pulled out a shirt. It smelled like cologne and dust. He dressed slowly. The jeans were a little loose. The socks didn’t match. It didn’t matter.

He should've felt something. Guilt. Revulsion. Grief. But there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of autopilot, the distant echo of a conscience he couldn’t reach.

Castiel walked back to Dean and held out his blood-soaked clothes. Dean glanced up, eyes dark, then snapped his fingers. The bundle ignited instantly, no flame, no smoke, just a shimmer of heat, and then nothing. Gone.

Castiel watched the space where the clothes had been. Then he looked at Dean.

“I’m ready,” he said, voice flat.

Dean nodded once. “Let’s go.”

They walked in silence toward Castiel’s home.

The night was cold. The streets were empty, no cars, no voices, just the soft rhythm of their footsteps echoing off shuttered buildings.

Castiel didn’t speak. His face was blank, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Whatever thoughts he might’ve had were buried deep, unreachable even to himself. His mind felt hollow, scraped clean by the weight of what was coming.

Dean walked beside him, hands in his pockets, jacket pulled tight. He didn’t try to make conversation. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t break the fragile quiet between them.

Dean kept glancing at Cas, trying to read him. But Cas didn’t fidget, didn’t sigh, and didn’t move. He just stared straight ahead.

They stepped into the apartment without speaking. Castiel sat motionless on the edge of the bed, the silence stretching between them like a held breath. Then, without looking up, he spoke.

“Can I ask you something?”

Dean, still standing in the doorway, nodded. 

“Yeah. Of course.”

“My father,” Castiel said, voice low. “Do you know if he’s going to Heaven or Hell?” Dean blinked. 

“Uh… yeah. Why?”

“I need to know.”

Dean shifted, uneasy. “Look, man, that’s not really something I’m supposed to-”

“Dean.” Castiel turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto his. His face was unreadable, but his gaze was sharp, cutting. “Please. I need to know.”

Dean exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s… he’s going to Hell. For now. But he’s trying to turn things around. Couple years, maybe, his fate could change.”

Castiel was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once, almost to himself.

“Then I know who my next victim is.”

“Cas, man-”

“He needs to die,” Castiel said, voice low but shaking with fury. “If I’m going to hell, he better be right there with me. I won’t let that man set a foot in Heaven.”

His hands were clenched at his sides, shoulders tight. “It has to be him.”

No hesitation. No emotion. Just certainty.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, trying to stay calm. “Look, I get the anger, Cas, I do. But he lives almost twenty hours away. That’s a hell of a trip. Isn’t it better to find someone more, I don’t know, approachable?”

Cas didn’t flinch. “No. It has to be him.”

Dean stared at him. The air felt colder now. Not because of the words, but because of the weight behind them. The finality.

Castiel stood abruptly started pacing the room in tight, restless circles, like his body couldn’t contain the storm building inside him.

“I can’t let him go to Heaven,” he said, louder now, breath ragged. “Everything that went wrong in my life is because of him. Every goddamn thing.”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.

“He never cared. Not once. I was a kid, and he didn’t even look at me. My mother, she was the only one who tried. And when she started slipping, when the sickness got worse, he left. Just left. Like we were a burden he could shake off.”

Dean didn’t interrupt. He just listened, jaw tight.

“I was twelve,” Cas said, eyes wild. “Twelve. And I was the one taking care of her. I was the one hiding the knives. I was the one cleaning up after her episodes. I was the one who found her hanging from the ceiling.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “He wasn’t there. Not at the funeral. Not when I called. Not when I begged. He pretended I didn’t exist.”

Cas stopped pacing, breathing hard. His fists were trembling.

“That man can’t go to Heaven. He doesn’t deserve peace.” 

Castiel could make sure of that. He’d end it, end the story the way it should’ve ended years ago. No redemption. No forgiveness. Just consequence. He’d take his father’s life with his own hands, make him look him in the eye, and make him see what he made. 

And then Cas would follow. 

Not out of grief. Not out of despair. Out of design.

Castiel would kill himself.

Hell would take them both. And Cas wouldn’t just be damned. He’d become something else down there. Something sharp. Something cruel. Something with purpose. A demon.

He’d find his father in the pit. He’d know the sound of his breathing, the shape of his cowardice. He’d wait in the dark, patient, until the moment came. And then he’d make him scream. Make him bleed. Make him remember. Every time he turned away. Every call ignored. Every night Cas spent alone, terrified. Every morning he woke up to silence, to madness, to the smell of decay, and to the sound of his own heartbeat trying not to break.

He’d carve it into him. Not once. Not twice. But endlessly. Until pain was the only language his father spoke. Until regret was etched into every nerve. Cas would be the architect of his suffering. The echo of every abandonment. The answer to every silence. Forever.

He inhaled sharply, chest rising like he’d finally found oxygen.

Dean was still watching him, cautious now. “Cas…”

But Cas just looked past him, eyes glassy, jaw set. 

“Yes,” he said. “It’ll be him.”

He turned on his heel and started moving, fast and focused. He grabbed a small bag from the corner and began packing with mechanical precision. A few bottles of water. Some food. Rope, just in case. Enough cash to get him there. 

A knife. For both of them.

Nothing more. He wasn’t planning to stay.

Then, without ceremony, he grabbed a notepad from the desk and tossed it into the bag. Took a pen and slid it into his pocket. He’d want to write a suicide note. Not that anyone cared. But he didn’t want to leave the world without a word.

Dean stepped forward, alarm rising. 

“Cas, come on. Think about this. We don’t have time. We need to kill someone approachable.” Cas didn’t stop packing. 

“Please, Dean,” he said, his voice low but steady. “This is something I have to do.” Dean exhaled, frustrated. 

“I’m just worried, okay? If you don't kill him in time, then everything goes to hell. Literally. You can kill him later.” Cas zipped the bag shut and looked up, eyes burning. 

“This is the only chance I’ll get to kill him without consequences.” Dean stared at him, jaw tight. “You’ll clean it, right?” Cas asked.

Dean hesitated. Then sighed. Nodded.

“Good,” Cas said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Then we’re doing this.”

They stepped out into the cold night. Cas walked with purpose, eyes scanning the rows of parked cars until he stopped in front of a beat-up sedan. He turned to Dean.

“Can you steal it?”

Dean frowned. 

“Seriously?”

Cas didn’t blink. 

“You erased every trace of me from the last murder scenes with a snap of your fingers. You can steal a car.” Dean rubbed his temple. 

“This kind of thing draws attention. Cops. Cameras. You want to get caught before you even get there?”

But Cas was already moving. He stepped up to the driver’s side and, without hesitation, slammed his elbow through the window. Glass shattered, scattering across the seat and pavement. Dean groaned. 

“You’re unbelievable.” He snapped his fingers, and the car keys materialized in Cas’s hand. Cas glanced down at them, then looked up. 

“Thanks.”

Dean rolled his eyes. 

“Just don’t crash it.” Dean slid into the passenger seat, brushing shards of glass off his jeans. Cas climbed in after him, the keys still warm in his palm. He jammed them into the ignition and turned.

The engine coughed once, then settled into a low, steady hum.

Neither of them spoke.

Dean stared out the window, jaw clenched. Cas adjusted the mirrors, checked the fuel gauge, and then put the car in drive.

They pulled away from the curb, the broken window whistling faintly in the wind. After a few blocks, Dean broke the silence. 

“Are you sure about this?” Cas didn’t look at him. 

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Dean nodded once, then leaned back, arms crossed. He didn’t argue.

Cas drove.

“I know you’re here because you have to be,” Cas said quietly, his voice barely audible over the wind. “But… Thanks for staying. You’re good company. Maybe the only real company I’ve had in years.” Dean shifted, uncomfortable. 

“Cas…”

Cas gave a short, bitter laugh. 

“It’s insane, isn’t it? And sad. You’re a demon, after all.” Dean’s jaw tightened. 

“Yeah.”

“Hope you find me in Hell when I get there.” Cas glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Dean turned to him, serious. 

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas murmured. His fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel, knuckles pale. “All my life, I thought I was damned. For loving men. For acting on it. For feeling good in ways I wasn’t supposed to. For wanting, for touching, for not waiting until marriage. For the thoughts I had. Dean… my mind’s never been clean. I’ve thought about death more times than I can count.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I know.”

“But I was still going to Heaven,” Cas said, almost wonderingly. “Isn’t that wild? I had a place waiting for me. I did okay. I did good.”

Dean didn’t respond. His silence felt heavy, like a held breath. Cas kept going, maybe because he knew he wouldn’t get another chance. 

“I’m finally getting the destiny I always thought I deserved. Isn’t certainty better than doubt?” He laughed, a little too loud. “Nothing matters now, Dean. I don’t have to stay put. I don’t have to pray or beg for forgiveness that’s never coming. I know it won’t come. And that’s... God, that’s such a relief. You have no idea.”

“Going to Hell isn’t a fucking relief, Cas.” Dean’s voice cut through the air, sharp. Cas looked at him, eyes tired. 

“There’s never been relief in my life.”

Dean’s fists clenched. 

“So you think Hell’s better? Newsflash, Cas, it’s not. Time moves differently there. You want to know how long I was tortured?” Cas didn’t speak, just nodded once. “Four months,” Dean said. “That’s how long I was gone. But in Hell? Forty fucking years.”

Cas flinched.

“I was skinned alive. Cut into pieces. Rebuilt. My eyes were sliced out, and they left me blind for two years while they kept going. And the worst part?” Dean’s voice cracked. “I gave in. I couldn’t take it anymore. I tried, Cas. I really fucking tried. But I wasn’t strong enough. I made a deal. I tortured other souls the same way they tortured me.”

Cas’s breath hitched. “Dean…”

“And it felt good,” Dean whispered. “That’s the part that kills me. It felt good. You don’t come back from that, Cas. You don’t come back from the taste of blood.” Cas nodded slowly, eyes on the road. 

“I know. I have already tasted it, Dean.” Dean looked at him, something breaking behind his eyes. “But that’s my destiny,” Cas said. “Like it or not. Let me find something good in it, Dean.”

“There’s no good in it.” Dean’s voice was low, almost pleading. 

Cas smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m saving the world. That’s good enough for me.”

“You’re not saving the world, Cas!” Dean’s voice was sharp, almost mocking. Cas flinched. 

“You told me-” Cas’s breath hitched. 

Dean cut him off. “I told you what you needed to hear.”

Silence. Cas stared at him, stunned. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The sacrifices. They’re not to save humanity.” Dean’s jaw clenched. Cas stared at him, throat tightening. 

“What?”

“They’re to open the gates of Hell.” Dean’s voice dropped, almost ashamed. 

Silence.

Cas’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked like he’d been punched.

“You said-” he started, voice trembling. “You said if I didn’t do it, the world would burn.” Dean nodded slowly.

“I needed you to believe it.” Dean’s voice was quiet. Cas’s hands were shaking now. 

“You needed me to believe it?”

Dean finally looked at him. 

“If the gates don’t open, I fail the mission. I go back.”

“To Hell.” Cas’s voice was hollow. Dean nodded. 

“Maybe forever.” Cas’s eyes narrowed. 

“So you lied. You lied to keep yourself out of Hell.”

Dean’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to-”

“To what?” Cas snapped. “To torture people? To be the monster you swore you weren’t?” Dean flinched. 

“I wanted to stay on Earth.” Dean turned to look at him. “I don't want to go back. And maybe I could stay here with you.”

Cas laughed, bitter and sharp. “Don’t give me that fucking bullshit now.” Dean opened his mouth, but Cas cut him off. “You tricked me. You made me think I was saving lives. You made me kill for you.”

“It was the only way.” Dean’s voice was barely audible. 

Cas turned to him, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to say that.” Dean looked down, ashamed. Cas’s voice dropped, cold and precise. “I wasn’t going to Hell for a noble sacrifice. I was being used. Like a weapon. Like a fucking pawn.” Dean didn’t speak.

“Will you still clean the evidence?” Cas took a breath, trying to steady himself. 

Dean hesitated. “Cas-”

Cas’s voice snapped like a whip. “ Answer me! ” Dean looked up, guilt written all over his face. 

“Yes.”

“Good.” Cas nodded once, jaw tight. He turned back to the road, eyes fixed ahead. “Now fuck off. I don’t want to fucking see you.”

Dean shifted in his seat. “Cas, please-”

Cas swerved the car sharply, tires screeching against the asphalt. 

“I swear to God, I’ll hit a fucking tree!”

Dean vanished.

Cas drove in silence.

His knuckles were white against the wheel. His chest felt like it was caving in. The road stretched ahead, endless and empty.

He wasn’t saving the world.

He was cleaning up Dean’s mess.

And he was done being lied to.

The road blurred under the tires, endless and gray. Cas didn’t remember the last time he stopped. Maybe somewhere in Nevada. Maybe not. The gas station clerk had looked at him like he was bleeding from the eyes. Maybe he was. His coat was crumpled in the backseat, stained. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking.

Eighteen hours of asphalt and silence. No music. No voices. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional scream in his head.

Dean’s voice kept replaying.

“I told you what you needed to hear.”

Cas gritted his teeth.

He remembered every face. Every sacrifice. Every lie.

He remembered the way Dean looked at him, like he was something holy. Like he was something useful.

He remembered believing it.

The sun was low when he finally pulled off the highway. The gravel crunched under the tires as he turned onto the long, winding road that led to his father’s house.

But he didn’t pull into the driveway.

He stopped in the street, engine idling, headlights off. The house sat quiet in the golden light, framed by pine trees and the soft hum of cicadas. It looked… normal. Lived-in. Like a place where people laughed.

Cas stared at it through the window, unmoving. 

Then, movement.

A woman walked up the path toward the house, holding the hands of two small girls. One had pigtails. The other clutched a stuffed rabbit. They were giggling, tugging at her arms.

The front door opened.

HIs dad stepped out, smiling wide. He kissed the woman on the cheek, scooped one of the girls into his arms, and laughed as the other wrapped around his leg.

Cas’s breath caught.

He watched his dad hug his now wife, lift his daughters, and kiss their foreheads.

Like he was capable of love.

Like he was capable of being a father.

Cas’s hands curled into fists on the steering wheel.

Where was that man when he was growing up?

Where was that warmth when his mother cried herself to sleep?

Where was that softness when Cas begged for it?

If his dad could be this now… was Cas just not worth it?

Something broke.

Cas turned off the engine, opened the door, and stepped out. The gravel crunched under his boots as he walked toward the house. His dad looked up, still holding one of the girls. His smile faltered.

“Castiel?”

Cas stopped at the edge of the yard. 

“Chuck.”

The name landed hard. Not Dad. Just Chuck. Chuck’s shoulders relaxed slightly, like that word had let him off the hook. Cas saw it. And it made him furious.

“We need to talk,” Cas said, voice flat.

Chuck glanced at his wife. She leaned in whispered something in his ear. He nodded.

She ushered the girls inside, one of them still clutching the rabbit. The door closed behind them with a soft click. Chuck stepped off the porch, hands in his pockets. 

“What’s going on? You need money or something?”

Cas stared at him. “No.” Chuck tilted his head.

“Then what?”

“I just want to talk,” Cas said. Chuck hesitated. 

“Okay…” Cas gestured toward the car.

“Want to take a ride?” Chuck looked at the car, then back at Cas. 

“Sure.”

He didn’t ask where they were going.

Cas didn’t tell him.

They walked in silence toward the car.

And Cas knew: this wasn’t going to be a conversation.

It was going to be a reckoning.

Chuck glanced at the passenger-side window, where a spiderweb of broken glass stretched across the corner. 

“Window’s busted.”

Cas kept his eyes on the road. “Almost got robbed.”

Chuck nodded, like that was normal. Like it didn’t mean anything.

They drove in silence for a while, the city bleeding past in streaks of neon and shadow. Cas didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice. Eventually, Chuck shifted in his seat. 

“Look… why are you here?”

Cas didn’t answer.

“I got your call the other day,” Chuck said. “Sorry I didn’t pick up. I was working, and I just couldn’t-”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit, Dad.”

The word landed like a slap. Chuck flinched.

“I mean it,” he said. “I wanted to reach out. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I just didn’t know how. I thought maybe you wouldn’t even want to see me.”

Cas’s grip tightened on the wheel. His knuckles went white. The car felt too small, too loud, even in its silence.

“See, Dad?” he said, his voice low and shaking. “How can I even begin to believe you?”

Chuck didn’t respond. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For leaving. For what I did to you and your mom.”

Cas’s breath caught. His chest felt like it was caving in.

“Don’t fucking talk about Mom.”

Chuck tried again, softer this time. 

“I just want to say-”

Cas slammed the brakes. The car jerked to a halt in the middle of the street. He turned, eyes blazing, and hit Chuck as hard as he could. Chuck’s head snapped sideways, colliding with the window. He slumped in the seat, unconscious.

Cas sat there, breathing hard, fist throbbing, heart hammering against his ribs.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Cas stared at the dashboard, at the blood smeared across the cracked glass. His hand trembled. Not from fear. From release.

Eventually, he shifted into drive.

The streets blurred past. He didn’t remember the turns. Didn’t register the lights. Chuck slumped beside him, breathing shallowly, head lolling with each curve in the road.

Cas drove out of the city, past the industrial parks and shuttered gas stations, past the last lonely diner with its flickering neon sign. He kept going until the road narrowed, until the guardrails rusted, and until the pavement gave way to gravel.

The cliff was quiet.

He parked at the edge, where the earth dropped into nothing. The ocean roared below, invisible in the dark. The wind was stronger here, colder. It tugged at his coat, hissing through the broken glass like a warning.

Cas got out, walked around to the passenger side, and tied Chuck’s wrists to the seat with the rope he’d kept in the trunk. 

Then he waited.

Chuck woke to the sound of wind.

It howled through the broken window, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of salt and stone. His head throbbed. His cheek was wet, blood or drool; he couldn’t tell. He tried to move, but his arms were pinned. Rope. Tight. Rough against his skin.

Cas stood in place, watching the horizon. One hand hung at his side. The other held a knife.

Chuck’s breath caught. “Cas-” Cas didn’t turn. “What are you doing?” Chuck’s voice cracked. “You…you knocked me out. You tied me up. Jesus, Cas, what is this?”

Cas finally looked at him. His eyes were hollow. Not angry. Not wild. Just… emptied out.

“You left us,” he said. Chuck swallowed. 

“I know. I know I did. I was scared. Your mom- she wasn’t well, and I didn’t know how to-”

“Don’t,” Cas said. “Don’t talk about her.”

Chuck’s mouth snapped shut. Cas stepped closer, the knife glinting in the low light. 

“She needed help. I was twelve. I didn’t know what schizophrenia was. I thought she was possessed. I thought if I prayed hard enough, she’d stop screaming.”

Chuck’s face twisted. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“You didn’t want to know.” Cas leaned in, voice low. “You left me with her. You left me to hold her down when she thought the neighbors were trying to kill her. You left me to lie to the doctors. To the school. To everyone.”

Chuck’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I swear to God, I’m sorry. I wanted to come back. I thought about it every day. I just-I didn’t think you’d forgive me.” Cas smiled, but it was a dead thing. 

“I didn’t ask for forgiveness.”

He raised the knife. Chuck flinched, pulling against the ropes. 

“Please, Cas. Please don’t do this. You’re not like me. You’re better. You’re kind. You’re-”

“I’m tired,” Cas said. 

He turned toward the cliff.

The engine was still running. 

The wind roared louder now, like it was trying to drown them both. Cas stared into the dark, into the nothing, and felt the knife heavy in his hand. His pulse thudded in his ears. He could feel the moment narrowing.

Then: sirens.

Far off at first. Then closer. Wailing. Multiplying.

Cas froze.

He spun toward Chuck, eyes wide. “What the fuck did you do?” Chuck was hyperventilating, his chest heaving against the ropes. 

“I didn’t-I didn’t call anyone. I swear. I swear to God-”

Cas raised the knife to his throat. Chuck whimpered. 

“It was-it was my wife. She called the police. As soon as you showed up. She thought- she thought something was wrong.”

Cas’s hand shook. The blade pressed against skin.

“Drop your weapon!” a voice shouted from behind. Sharp. Commanding. Close.

Cas turned and saw the flashing lights, the silhouettes of officers with guns drawn. His breath caught. His mind fractured.

No way out.

No way forward.

Just the cliff. Just the knife. Just Chuck.

“Fuck it,” Cas whispered.

He turned back to his father, eyes wild, and raised the blade.

“I’m sorry,” Chuck sobbed. “Please, please, Castiel!”

Cas didn’t hear him.

He didn’t hear anything but the blood in his ears and the voice in his head screaming do it do it do it!

But before the blade could fall, the windows shattered.

Glass exploded inward. Arms grabbed him, hard, fast, and brutal. The knife was wrenched from his grip. He screamed, kicked, thrashed, but they were everywhere. Hands on his shoulders, his wrists, his face. The car door was ripped open. He was dragged out into the gravel, pinned to the ground.

“No!” Cas screamed. “No, no, he has to die! He has to die!”

His voice cracked. He fought like something feral, like something cornered.

“He has to go to hell!” he sobbed. “This is the only way! He has to-he has to!”

They cuffed him. They took the knife. They tried to speak to him, calm him, but he didn’t hear them.

All he saw was Chuck.

Still tied to the seat. Still breathing.

Still alive.

Cas screamed until his throat gave out.

The police car smelled like sweat and vinyl.

Cas sat in the back, wrists cuffed, forehead pressed to the window. The sirens had stopped, but the ringing in his ears hadn’t. His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. His hands, his legs, his mouth. All foreign.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

The officers said something to each other. He didn’t hear it.

The drive blurred past in fragments: streetlights, intersections, and the low hum of the engine. Cas stared at his reflection in the glass. He looked like a ghost.

At the station, they tried to interrogate him.

They asked questions. Motives. Whether he was on drugs. Whether he’d planned it.

Cas didn’t answer.

He didn’t even look at them.

Eventually, they gave up. One of them muttered something about psychiatric evaluation. Another said he was a danger to himself and others. They threw him into a holding cell. The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

Cas sat on the bench, hands limp in his lap. The walls were pale gray. The floor was concrete. A security camera blinked in the corner.

He stared at nothing.

Then, slowly, something cracked.

His chest tightened. His throat burned. His eyes stung.

He began to cry.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears, leaking down his face like something broken inside had finally given way.

He folded his hands.

Not in surrender.

In prayer.

His fingers trembled as they laced together, knuckles white, nails bitten down to the quick. He bowed his head, his forehead nearly touching the cold concrete beneath him. The gesture was old, instinctive, something sacred buried deep in muscle memory.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked on the name.

“Please come back. I need you. I need you right now.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and aching.

Silence.

No flicker of flame. No shift in the air. No scent of sulfur or leather or rain. No sign of Dean.

Just the buzz of the light. The distant echo of footsteps. The soft whir of the security camera in the corner, watching.

Cas looked at the clock on the wall.

10 minutes to midnight.

“I still have time,” he murmured. “I can make you stay.”

He wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing tears and snot across the fabric. His eyes were bloodshot, lashes clumped together. He glanced at the camera, just once, then lowered his gaze, slow and deliberate. Slowly, carefully, he slid his hand in his pocket. His fingers brushed something.

The pen.

The one he’d hidden earlier meant for the suicide note. Black plastic. Cheap. Sharp enough.

He tucked the pen into his sleeve, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might bruise his ribs.

He had to get someone here.

He slumped forward, suddenly and sharply, clutching his stomach with both hands. He let out a strangled gasp, loud enough to echo off the concrete walls.

He collapsed onto the floor, knees drawn up, body curled in on itself like he was trying to hold something in. His breathing turned erratic, short, shallow bursts punctuated by low groans. He pressed his forehead to the cold floor, letting sweat bead on his skin, letting his body shake just enough to sell it.

He made a wet retching sound, then a choked sob.

“Help,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “Please-hurts-”

The camera blinked overhead.

The door opened fast.

An officer stepped in, hand already on his radio. “Hey, what’s going on? You okay?”

Cas didn’t answer.

He twitched, rolled slightly onto his side, clutching his abdomen like something inside was tearing. His face was pale, lips parted, and eyes unfocused. He let a thin line of spit trail from his mouth to the floor.

The officer hesitated, then knelt beside him, one hand reaching for Cas’s shoulder, the other fumbling for his radio.

“Dispatch, I’ve got a possible medical-”

Cas struck.

He twisted violently, his arm snapping out from under his body. The pen slid from his sleeve into his grip. He drove it into the man’s neck with everything he had. He turned his arm to open his neck even wider.

The plastic cracked on impact. The officer screamed, a raw, animal sound, blood spurting in a hot arc across the concrete. Cas scrambled back, panting, eyes wide, the pen still in the officer’s neck, slick and trembling.

The officer fell sideways, clutching his throat, gurgling.

Alarms blared.

Red lights flashed.

Then the ground began to shake. A deep, guttural rumble, like something ancient waking beneath the foundation.

Cas tried to brace himself, hands splayed against the wall, but the concrete bucked beneath him. He lost his footing and fell right into the pool of blood. It soaked through his clothes, warm and slick, coating his arms, his chest, and his face.

He gasped, tried to crawl backward, but the shaking intensified.

Outside the cell, officers shouted. Boots pounded toward him, and the door slammed open. Two officers raised their guns, shouting commands Cas couldn’t hear over the roar.

Then.

Snap.

Their necks twisted violently, unnaturally, like marionettes with severed strings. They dropped to the ground in less than a second. No warning. No struggle. Just dead.

Cas stared, wide-eyed, blood dripping from his chin.

He heard it then.

More cracking. More bodies collapsing. Down the hall. In the offices. In the interrogation rooms. The sound of bones breaking. Of lives ending. The entire station was dying.

His breath came in shallow bursts, chest heaving, heart thudding against bone like it wanted out. The blood beneath him was warm, sticky, and congealing in patches across the concrete. It clung to his skin like guilt.

The sirens had stopped.

The screaming had stopped.

Only the flickering red light remained, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The shaking stopped. Abrupt. Like someone had flipped a switch on the world. The silence that followed was unnatural. Not empty, but watching . It was like the air itself was holding its breath. The lights flickered once, a single stutter. Then steadied.

And Dean was there.

Cas whispered, voice hoarse and broken: 

“You came,” Cas said, voice barely audible. Dean stepped into the room, slow and deliberate. His boots left red prints on the floor. 

“You did it,” he said, eyes locked on Cas. “You didn’t have to. But you still…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “Why?”

Cas tried to push himself upright, but the blood beneath him was slick. His elbow slipped, and he hit the floor again with a grunt.

“I wanted you here,” he said, breath catching. “I didn’t want you to go back.” Dean didn’t speak. “I know what it costs,” Cas said. “I know what you asked me to do.” Dean moved closer, crouching beside him. 

“So you opened the gates.” 

Cas nodded. Dean reached out, hesitated, one hand reaching out, not to strike, not to punish.

To touch.

To see.

To feel .

Cas took it, fingers slick with blood, and let Dean pull him upright. He leaned into Dean’s arm, breathing hard.

“I prayed,” Cas said, voice rough. “Could you hear it?”

“Demons can’t hear prayers.” Dean’s eyes flicked toward him.

“I prayed to you.” Dean swallowed hard. “You’re not an angel,” Cas said. “You’re not a god. But you asked me to open hell, and I did. And now you’re here. You’re worth worshiping, Dean.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Will you stay?” Cas leaned in, resting his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. 

“Yeah.” Dean answered. Cas’s fingers curled tighter around Dean’s arm.

“Then let me stay too.” Cas’s breath came fast and shallow. His fingers dug into Dean’s arm, slick with blood, still wet, still warm. It soaked through Dean’s sleeve in seconds, smearing across his skin, his ribs, and his chest. The scent of it was sharp and metallic, thick in the air between them. He leaned in, forehead resting against Dean’s collarbone. 

“Let me stay,” he said, voice low, almost pleading.

Dean’s hand came up, slow and deliberate, cradling Cas’s jaw. His thumb dragged through the blood on Cas’s cheek, and Cas shuddered. Not from shame. From the way Dean touched him, like he wasn’t afraid.

Then Dean kissed him.

Cas didn’t breathe. His mouth opened under Dean’s, and the blood went with it, wet and metallic, smeared between their lips, their tongues. Dean tasted it without flinching. He kissed deeper harder, and Cas felt the blood slide across his face, into the corner of Dean’s mouth, and down his chin. It was everywhere now. On their skin, in their mouths, binding them together in every way.

Cas gripped Dean’s arm tighter, fingers slipping in the mess he’d made. Dean didn’t pull away. He pressed closer, letting the blood stain him, letting Cas mark him with it.

When they parted, Cas saw it: Dean’s lips red, his throat streaked, and his eyes dark and steady. Cas didn’t speak. He just stepped closer, shoulder brushing shoulder, blood binding them like a vow.

Dean began to walk towards the door, extending his hand for Cas to take

“Where do we go?” Cas asked as he glanced once at the ruin behind them. 

“Anywhere they don't find you.”

Castiel nodded. “Then they won’t.”

They left together, the silence behind them thick with ghosts.

And the night swallowed their names.

And Cas didn’t know if he was safe, but he knew he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

It had been seventy-three days since the gates of hell opened.

Cas knew because he counted

They’d moved cities. Changed plates. Burned clothes. They drove through the back roads of nowhere, the kind of places that didn’t ask questions. The car was old, stolen, and smelled faintly of gasoline and damp earth. Dean drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Cas’s thigh. Possessive. Reassuring

The trunk thudded once.

Cas didn’t react.

Dean glanced at him. “He’s still alive.”

Cas nodded. “I know.”

They didn’t speak for another hour. The sun was low, bleeding orange across the horizon. The trees grew sparse. The road turned to gravel. Dean pulled off near a clearing, no houses, no lights, just the sound of wind and the weight of what they’d brought with them.

He killed the engine.

Cas stared straight ahead.

Dean said, “You sure?”

Cas opened the door. “I’ve been sure.”

They walked to the back of the car together. Dean unlocked the trunk. The hinges groaned.

Inside, Cas’s father blinked up at them, dazed, bloodied, wrists bound tight behind his back. His mouth was gagged, but his eyes were wide. Pleading.

Cas didn’t flinch.

Dean looked at him. “You want me to do it?”

Cas shook his head. “No.”

Dean stepped back.

Cas leaned in, voice low and steady. “Hello, Chuck. It’s been a long time.”

Dean didn’t answer. He popped open a beer, took a slow pull, then tossed the empty can into the brush.

“We got work to do,” he said.

Cas nodded once.

They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t need to.

Dean walked to the back seat and pulled out the shovel.

Cas reached for the crowbar.

The woods were quiet, waiting.

And Chuck screamed into the gag, but no one was listening.