Archive of Our Own ^beta

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04:01 AM
15th of June, 2012
Del Rio, Texas, United States of America

***

The Roadhouse was a place Castiel and his fellow permorfers frequented after every show in the broadway ended. It had always been their sanctuary, a place they escaped to after a long and exhausting day.

But for Castiel, tonight didn't come with the usual surge of relief and comfort. When he saw men dressed in military uniforms, gold-plated wings clipped to their chests, every cell in his body begged him to leave the bar without a second thought.

Castiel felt a hand circle his arm, momentarily distracting him. A beautiful woman gave him her sweetest smile, the one he always find so sincere that it never failed to flatter him.

"Everything alright?" Meg whispered to his ear, making the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Castiel returned her smile with one of his own.

"Just a little bit tired," Castiel answered. It wasn't a lie. After days of rehearsals and the full-blown performance they had just wrapped up on threater two hours ago, he was surprised he even had the strength to drag himself to a bar for a drink.

"We can go home, you know." She replied, so Castiel looked at her with such fondness in his eyes and held her hand.

Meg Masters is a friend, maybe a little bit more than that, especially when Castiel remembers all the nights he spent with her.

He met her here at the Roadhouse a couple of weeks ago. She’s one of the newly recruited officers currently training at Laughlin Air Force Base. And given the nature of their chosen careers, they were both busy people, but they always made time to see each other, just like tonight.

"Where's the fun in that?" The man beside Castiel chuckled, swirling the ice in his glass. He was a fellow performer, a dancer with a loud laugh and faster feet. In fact, everyone gathered around their table tonight, except Meg, was part of the Broadway cast. They’d come straight from the theater to celebrate the success of their latest show. They were all still in half-costume, eyes smudged with eyeliner and exhaustion, nursing drinks like their lives depend on it.

Meg leaned forward from across the table, raising an eyebrow. "You theatre people are exhausting. Do any of you even breathe between numbers?"

"We don’t breathe," A woman on Meg's side replied, lips tugging into a rare smile. "We just pretend we’re not dying." That earned a round of laughter. Someone toasted to that. Glasses clinked.

"You looked like you were ready to pass out during curtain call," the other man said, talking to Castiel.

Castiel offered a dry smile. "I was. But I figured collapsing in front of a full house might kill the mood." Laughter erupted again around the table.

"Oh, come on," Meg chimed in, swirling her drink with lazy amusement. "You looked ridiculously composed, as usual. It’s kind of infuriating."

Castiel turned toward her, a hint of amusement in his tired eyes. "I try to keep my suffering quiet. Artistic integrity and all that."

Meg smirked. "You’re lucky you’re pretty when you’re in pain."

"Lucky you, having me as your date tonight." He replied, and that earned a few playful whistles from across the table.

Even with all the laughter and conversation surrounding him, Castiel couldn’t shake the sudden uneasiness building in his throat. His eyes swept across the bar, landing on the group of men he had noticed earlier, now playing pool at the far end of the room. He watched them carefully, trying to figure out if a certain person had come with them. And deep down, he hoped that man hadn’t.

But then, the door creaked open.

Castiel didn’t need to turn. The shift in air, the subtle tension in his shoulders, he felt it before he saw it. Then, laughter rang out near the pool table.

Dean Winchester had arrived.

There he was, in his flight jacket and dog tags, every inch of him loud without saying a word. His smile was cocky, as always. He greeted his fellow pilots with a clap on the back and a well-practiced swagger, like he owned the room, or didn’t care if he didn’t.

Castiel's grip on the glass tightened slightly. Dean hadn’t seen him yet. Or maybe he had, and he was pretending not to. Either way, Castiel watched him from across the room.

"He’s cute," Meg said casually, her eyes followed Dean, like Castiel did. "In that devastating, ruin-your-life kind of way."

Castiel said nothing, his gaze fixed on the man he never thought he’d see again. His breath caught the moment their eyes met.

Dean looked away first. Typical. Castiel was already halfway through his whiskey by the time Dean crossed the room, pretending the place didn’t shift the second they locked eyes.

From the far end of the bar, Castiel watched.

Dean stood at the pool table, cue in hand, all confidence and ease. He laughed, head tilted back slightly, mouth open, reckless in the way only someone utterly at home in their skin could be. The low lights caught on the metal of his dog tags and the curve of his smirk. He moved with the kind of looseness Castiel remembered too well, like tension was something for other people.

Castiel didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Dean leaned over the table to line up a shot. His jacket shifted, revealing the familiar arch of his back beneath a tight black tee. The sound of the cue cracking against the ball echoed softly. Dean’s team whooped as he sank it.

Castiel didn’t smile. He just watched.

The game slowed. Dean handed off the cue and made his way toward the bar, threading through the crowd with practiced ease. Castiel’s table, half-shadowed near the wall, sat just a few feet away.

Castiel’s fingers curled loosely around his glass, but Dean didn’t look over.

He stood at the bar, waiting on drinks, leaning with one elbow propped casually, his back half-turned to Castiel’s table. The nearness was sharp, a presence Castiel could feel in his bones. Every small movement, the flick of Dean’s wrist, the shift of his weight, dragged Castiel’s attention like gravity.

Castiel didn’t realize the table had quieted until someone nudged him.

"Drinks," one of his castmates mouthed, gesturing toward the now-empty glasses crowding their table. A few teasing smirks followed, but Castiel didn’t argue. It was easier to move than to keep pretending he wasn’t watching him.

He stood, smoothing down the front of his shirt, and made his way through the press of people, weaving between tables still sticky with spilled alcohol and glowing with low amber light.

Dean was still at the bar.

Of course he was.

Castiel kept his eyes down, focusing on the row of taps behind the bartender, but as he stepped up beside Dean, the space seemed to narrow. The crowd felt louder, the air thicker. He could hear the faint clink of Dean’s rings against his glass as he picked up one of the beers, the scrape of a bottle against the counter.

They stood side by side.

Close.

Too close.

Castiel felt it. The slight turn of Dean’s head, the shift of his shoulders, the weight of that gaze falling on him like an old wound being pressed open.

He didn’t look. Not yet.

Instead, he handed the bartender the drink list in his head, voice low and even. As he waited, he could feel Dean was still there, unwavering, the silence between them louder than any conversation.

The bartender lined the drinks up in front of him. Castiel reached for them, careful, methodical, like he hadn’t just been hit by a memory that smelled like metal and desert sun.

He finally turned, arms full of drinks.

And Dean was watching him, like he’d been watching the whole time.

"You still drink that overpriced crap?" Dean said, nodding to the glass.

"You still smell like jet fuel and poor impulse control?" Castiel replied without missing a beat.

Dean smirked, just a little, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I could say it's nice to see you again, but we both know I'd be lying."

Castiel shifted the drinks in his arms, the condensation already slick on his fingers. "Then do us both a favor and stop pretending you’re happy to see me."

Dean scoffed, leaning an elbow on the bar. "Pretending? That’s rich, coming from you."

Before Castiel could fire back, a voice cut through the noise. Loud, casual, and unmistakably familiar.

"Yo, Captain! You fall into the beer tap or what?"

Three men from the pool table approached, all in uniform or close to it, sleeves rolled, collars loose, eyes gleaming with the kind of easy camaraderie Castiel remembered too well. One of them clapped Dean on the back, then glanced at the line of drinks on the bar.

And then he saw Castiel.

His eyes widened. "Wait. No way. Castiel?"

Castiel’s jaw tightened.

Another pilot stepped in, squinting like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. "Castiel, damn. You were in our training class at Laughlin, right?"

They were grinning now, jostling each other with the rush of recognition. "Man, we thought you joined some secret program or got recruited by NASA or something. What the hell happened to you?"

Castiel straightened his spine. "Life happened."

There was a beat of silence.

One of them gestured toward the pool table. "You gotta come play a round with us. For old time’s sake."

Castiel’s mouth twitched, but not into a smile. "I’m good."

Dean raised a brow. "Still allergic to fun, huh?"

Castiel turned to him slowly, gaze cold. "Still mistaking arrogance for charm?"

Dean opened his mouth, but—

"There you are." Meg slid in like a storm cloud with perfect timing, taking the drinks smoothly from Castiel’s arms. She glanced between him and Dean’s group with narrowed eyes, catching the tension instantly. "Something wrong, Clarence?"

"All good," Castiel muttered.

"Right. Your fans are getting thirsty."

She walked off with the drinks before he could respond, leaving Castiel face-to-face with the ghosts of his past. Unfortunately, the ghosts weren’t going quietly. Before Castiel could retreat, the girls from his group, bright-eyed, curious, and already tipsy, came trailing after Meg and stopped short at the sight of the uniformed men.

"Oh my god. Are those pilots?"

Castiel silently cursed.

Within seconds, introductions were being exchanged, flirtation ignited like fireworks, while Meg just looped an arm through Castiel’s.

"Cas! You never told us you used to be in pilot training!"

All eyes turned to him again. Dean included, now leaning casually against the bar like he had all the time in the world.

Castiel didn’t flinch, but his voice was quiet when he replied. "There wasn’t anything worth telling."

One of the copilots laughed. "You kidding? You were the guy to beat. Even Dean couldn’t—"

"Drop it," Castiel cut in sharply. The smile on Dean’s face faded, replaced by something unreadable.

They were already pulling Castiel toward the pool table, dragging him back into a world he’d spent years clawing his way out of.

The pool table was a storm of light and noise.

Castiel stood at the edge of it, drink in hand, flanked by theatre castmates still bubbling with flirtation and curiosity. The pilots were louder now, basking in the attention, trading jokes and stories like playing cards. And at the center of it all, was Dean Winchester.

Castiel kept his distance, arms crossed.

"So wait," one of the actresses asked brightly, placing a hand on a pilot’s arm, "you’re telling me Castiel used to fly fighter jets? Like, real ones?"

Dean chuckled without looking up. "Yeah, but he dropped out before they could assign him to the aircraft he qualified for."

That earned a few snickers from Dean’s crew. Castiel’s jaw flexed.

"Didn’t stop him from acting like he flew the damn fleet," another pilot added.

The table laughed again.

Meg shot Castiel a sideways glance, one brow raised. But he didn’t speak.

"We thought he was gonna go full Top Gun on us," the same man continued, chalking his cue. "Guy was top of the class, knew all the manuals by heart, probably knew every single one of them before we even got in the damn simulators. Then boom, one day he’s just gone."

Dean leaned down to take a shot. The cue cracked, and the balls scattered. One sunk clean into a corner pocket. He straightened slowly, eyes flicking to Castiel for the first time since the bar.

"Must’ve decided we weren’t worth the effort," Dean said.

Castiel’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "You weren’t."

That silenced the table for a beat. Someone muttered, "Damn."

Dean stepped forward, holding the cue loosely at his side. "So what was it, huh? Couldn’t hack it? Stage lights more forgiving than afterburners?"

The theatre group quieted, tension crackling in the air. A few castmates glanced between them, unsure if this was some inside joke or the edge of a knife.

Castiel met Dean’s gaze steadily. "I don't need to explain myself to anyone, especially you."

A sharp inhale came from one of the girls. Dean’s jaw tightened, just for a second.

"Is that right?" Dean said, voice low. "Because last time I checked, people don’t walk away from something they love unless they’re afraid they’ll fail."

"And some people only stay because they’re afraid of who they’ll be without it," Castiel shot back.

No one moved.

No one laughed.

Only the hum of the bar filled the gap between them, and the sound of someone breaking another round at a far-off table.

Meg cleared her throat and stepped between them, drink in hand, like someone standing between two loaded guns.

"Wow," she said brightly, "you two really know how to kill a vibe."

The tension broke slightly, a few awkward chuckles escaping from the theatre group.

"Clarence, come help me get the rest of the drinks," Meg said, already turning him by the elbow.

Castiel hesitated, but let her steer him away. As they walked off, he could feel Dean’s eyes burning into his back like a memory that never stopped scarring.

Meg pushed open the back door of the bar, the alley outside glowing orange from a flickering neon sign. The moment it shut behind them, the noise died.

Castiel leaned against the brick wall, still clutching the untouched drink.

He didn’t say anything and neither did she.

She let the silence settle, lighting a cigarette with slow, practiced flicks. Then, casually, she finally said, "You looked like you were about two seconds from snapping a cue stick over his head."

Castiel let out a dry breath and looked away.

"You know him?" he asked.

Meg shrugged, lighting a cigarette. "Captain Dean Winchester? Of course. Everyone in my class knew him by his call sign 'Hunter'. Loud. Cocky. Always two seconds away from getting court-martialed. Everyone either wanted to be him or punch him." She took a drag, looking at Castiel out of the corner of her eye. "You obviously picked the second option."

He didn’t answer right away.

"You were in the same training class, weren’t you?" she pressed.

"Briefly."

"Didn’t seem brief back there."

He stayed quiet, gaze fixed on the cracked pavement. Meg didn’t push. She just leaned beside him, blowing smoke upward into the cold air.

"He’s not just some asshole, you know," she said after a pause. "He’s sharp. Best instincts I’ve ever seen. Gets under your skin because he knows how to read people."

"Amazing what people call a talent when it’s just manipulation with better branding." Castiel said quietly.

Meg smirked. “Still sounds like a grudge to me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Another beat of silence passed. The sound of a glass breaking somewhere inside the bar, followed by laughter. The party hadn’t noticed their absence.

"You never talked about any of them before," Meg added. "The academy, the pilots. Like it was a whole other life you buried in the desert."

Castiel looked up at the sky, at the narrow slice of stars barely visible between alley walls. His jaw tensed.

"That’s because it was."

Meg studied him for a second, then flicked her cigarette to the ground and crushed it with her boot.

"Well," she said, nodding toward the door, "they’re all mixing drinks and making eyes at each other now. Theatre girls and flyboys, it’s chaos in there."

Castiel didn’t move.

"Come on, Clarence. You can either mope out here like the brooding ghost of flight school past, or you can come back in and watch your friends embarrass themselves trying to flirt with men who talk in acronyms."

He gave her a look, but the corner of his mouth twitched just slightly.

Meg smirked, victorious. "There he is."

She held the door open for him. Castiel lingered just a second longer, then followed her inside.

The music had shifted to something louder and more chaotic by the time Castiel and Meg returned inside. The bar felt tighter, hotter, too many bodies, too much noise. The pool table was still a magnet, now crowded with theatre girls laughing at pilot jokes they probably didn’t understand, and the pilots happily letting them not understand.

Castiel tried to disappear into the background. He walked back to their table with the other members that stayed behind, drink still untouched, eyes low. But his ears betrayed him. He caught it mid-sentence.

"…probably just couldn’t take the heat. You know how it is, some guys break before the cockpit."

A laugh followed. Not cruel, but casual. Tossed off like a harmless observation.

Castiel froze.

"I mean, you remember the rumors, right? About Castiel? Real tight-ass, brilliant flyer, but something was off. Used to stare into space like he was seeing ghosts."

Someone snorted. "Didn’t he get flagged during evals?"

"Psych flagged, yeah. Quiet discharge. Real hush-hush."

Another voice cut in, low, familiar, and colder than before.

"Where the hell did you hear that?" Dean asked, eyes narrowing. His face clearly showed how caught off guard he was by the rumor.

The group quieted, but no one answered right away. A few exchanged glances, suddenly unsure.

Dean straightened, scanning the table. "Seriously. Who’s been spreading that shit?"

That did it.

Castiel’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood. Not loud, but final. Meg turned her head just in time to see him move toward the bar, straight-backed, calm on the surface, but she knew better. She saw the way his hand tightened around his glass like he wanted to crush it.

He stopped a few paces from the group. The pilots went quiet. One of the theatre girls blinked, confused by the sudden tension.

Castiel’s voice was steady. Dead quiet.

"Funny. I don’t remember any of you knowing a damn thing about me."

A pause. One of the pilots opened his mouth, probably to joke, probably to deflect, but he didn’t get the chance.

"It’s good to know what kind of stories you tell when someone isn’t around to correct them."

Dean stood straighter. His jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I didn’t break," Castiel said. "I was pushed. And you were all too busy flying your ego missions to notice."

The silence after was heavy, embarrassed, maybe even ashamed.

Castiel turned to leave but Dean’s voice stopped him.

"Cas—"

"Don’t." Castiel didn’t look back. "You got what you wanted. I disappeared. Stay grateful."

Just then, a taller pilot with a lazy grin and the kind of bravado that always went unchecked in a room full of uniforms spoke up.

"Hey, Castiel." His voice cut across the tension like a blade. "You still fly, or did the stage lights fry your reflexes?"

Castiel had nearly made it to the edge of the crowd, but he turned, slow and measured.

"Excuse me?"

The pilot leaned on his pool cue like he was posing for a recruiting poster. "We’ve got airspace booked tomorrow out at Laughlin. Real jets. Training dogfight. One-on-one. You in?"

The chatter died instantly.

Someone’s drink paused halfway to their lips. Another pilot raised their brows, not bothering to hide their surprise.

"You serious?" one of them muttered.

"That’s not a sim." another added. "That’s an actual sortie."

The man just smiled wider. "Come on, Castiel. You’ve still got that edge, right? Or is that only for stage directions now?"

Meg, who decided to follow Castiel, shifted beside him like she could feel the heat radiating off him.

"You’re inviting a civilian to go up in a live dogfight," Castiel said flatly. "That’s reckless even by your standards."

Dean said nothing. He was watching Castiel like a man watching a fuse burn toward a detonator.

The pilot shrugged, still grinning. "Still got friends on base. Still got jets on standby. You’ve got a license, don’t you?"

Castiel didn’t blink. "You have no idea what you’re asking."

"Sure I do." The pilot stepped forward, voice dropping just enough to feel like a challenge. "I’m asking if you’ve still got it. Or if you were always just a name on a chalkboard."

A slow silence fell over the group. Then someone chuckled. Someone else muttered, "Oh god."

Then Castiel smiled, just barely. His stare didn’t waver.

The theatre girls looked back and forth between them, unsure if this was a challenge, a joke, or the beginning of a war.

Castiel took a step forward.

"Fine," he said. "You want to play? I’ll play. Just don’t cry when I make you taste Gs you didn’t train for."

That got a few laughs, a whistle. The pilot raised his glass in mock salute.

Meg muttered behind him, “Jesus Christ.”

But Dean was still watching Castiel, jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

Castiel didn’t wait around to hear it. He walked away, leaving the bar’s neon warmth behind.

***

The theatre was cold in the mornings, the stage still echoing from last night’s curtain call. Dust floated in shafts of light from the high windows as Castiel moved through his marks, half-present at best. His castmates joked, stretched, ran lines, humming tunes from the score. He smiled when required. Said his lines. Hit every cue.

But his mind was still stuck in that bar. Still locked on Dean’s eyes, on that stupid challenge thrown across the pool table like bait. He hadn’t even touched a stick in years, let alone flown a jet. He didn’t know why he said yes. Maybe pride. Maybe self-sabotage. Or maybe something worse, hope.

Castiel stood center stage with a script in his hand he wasn’t reading. A stagehand shouted something about a prop cue. Someone tripped in the wings. Someone else laughed. But the hum of it all felt far away, like he was underwater.

He hadn’t slept much. Hours spent lying on his back, staring at the ceiling of his too-quiet apartment, thinking of steel, sky, and Dean’s voice echoing, "Must’ve decided we weren’t worth the effort."

A stage light flared too early and someone swore. Castiel didn’t flinch. He just walked slowly to the edge of the stage and sat, letting the familiar scent of sawdust and cheap paint try to settle him.

The scene was supposed to be light. Castiel was meant to banter, flirt, toss his lines across the stage like jazz. But his rhythm was off.

He dropped a cue. Missed a step in the blocking. Anna Milton, his co-star, pulled him aside mid-rehearsal.

"You okay? You look like you’re about to be sick."

Castiel offered a weak smile. "Just didn’t sleep."

"Well, whatever bar you crawled out of last night, remind me not to follow you in." She bumped his arm with hers. "You’re lucky you’re charming when you brood."

He let the joke land, gave her a half-smile that didn’t stick.

Finally, the rehearsal was finished. Castiel stood by the vending machine in the hall, sipping burnt coffee from a paper cup. His fingers drummed against it in an uneven rhythm.

The base kept creeping into his mind. The sound of the wind on the tarmac. The metal of the cockpit. The challenge.

What the hell was he doing?

He hadn’t been in a fighter jet since the day they grounded him. Since he was labeled "unstable," handed a silent discharge and a sealed file. Since the military, the thing he thought he’d build a life around, turned its back without looking back.

And now he was walking right back into it, because a bunch of hotshot pilots with bruised egos called him out like it was a bar game.

Stupid. So stupid. And yet…

He finished the coffee and threw it out. His hand lingered on the trash lid for a second too long.

Then he turned and walked out.

He drove to the air base right after rehearsal, dressed in his old flight suit. They never told him a time, just "tomorrow." The ambiguity itched in his skin all morning until he gave in and went early, hoping no one would be there yet.

But someone was.

Dean stood beside an open jet bay, sleeves rolled to the elbows, deep in the guts of an F-22 Raptor. Grease marked one forearm. His hair was a mess. He looked annoyingly good doing absolutely nothing glamorous.

Castiel paused at the gate. Of course it had to be him.

Dean looked up.

"You’re early."

"You didn’t give me a time."

Dean wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it aside. "Was hoping you’d take the hint and not show."

Castiel crossed his arms. "You thought wrong."

Dean sighed. "You’re not military anymore, Cas. You don’t have to prove anything."

"I’m not doing this to prove something."

"No?" Dean’s tone sharpened. "Then what, huh? Some sort of ego trip? Old rivalry nostalgia? You’re not even cleared for this."

"That didn’t seem to matter when your boys were mouthing off last night."

Dean stepped closer. His voice dropped. "This isn’t a bar fight, Cas. You go up there and something goes wrong, there’s no second take, no applause."

Castiel didn’t flinch. "It’s still just flying."

"You haven’t flown in years."

“Then it’s about damn time I did.”

Dean laughed once, short, sharp, humorless. He took another step, boots scraping against the concrete.

"You don’t get to waltz back in here after how you left and act like you’re still part of this."

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "You should’ve told your wingman that before he opened his mouth."

"Yeah, well, he’s an idiot. I’m the one who has to scrape the idiot off the runway if he gets smoked."

"I’ll be fine."

Dean snorted. "That’s what you said before you ghosted the program."

That flicker, a crack, passed through Castiel’s expression. It vanished just as fast.

"Is that what they told you? That I ghosted?"

Dean didn’t answer. The silence between them pressed like altitude, thin and cold.

Castiel smiled, barely touching his eyes. "You really have no idea why I left, do you?"

Dean’s jaw worked. "If you’re not gonna say it, I’m not gonna beg you for the truth."

"No. Of course not. That would require effort."

Dean laughed again, louder this time, like something between amusement and frustration. "Still so smug. Still think you’re the smartest guy in the room."

"Not the smartest," Castiel said calmly. "Just not the one pretending to be something he’s not."

That landed.

Dean stepped forward, close enough now that Castiel could see the faint scar at his hairline, something new, something earned.

"You think putting on a costume and playing pretend on a stage makes you better than us?"

"No," Castiel said. "I think it makes me honest."

Dean shook his head. "You’re gonna get in that jet today trying to prove something. But guess what, Cas, no one’s watching. No medals. No rankings. Just wind shear and gravity."

"Good." Castiel’s voice dropped low. "Because for once, I’m not doing it for them."

Dean paused. Studied him. Like he couldn’t decide if Castiel had lost it, or finally found something worth fighting for.

And then the others arrived. Voices echoing across the tarmac. Laughter. Jokes. The rattle of gear bags slung over shoulders.

Castiel didn’t look away from Dean.

"If you don’t want to watch, don’t," he said softly. "But don’t try to stop me."

He turned and walked toward the jet, the heat rising from the ground in shimmering waves.

Behind him, Dean didn’t follow. But he didn’t walk away either.

The sun was brutal, beating down on the silver skins of the Raptors lined up along the runway. A few of the pilots stood in a loose circle, helmets tucked under their arms, laughing in that too-casual way adrenaline junkies always did before doing something reckless.

Castiel approached in silence, his helmet already clipped to his flight suit.

One of them, in rooster-cut, smirking, the same guy who challenged him last night, nodded at him.

"Didn’t think you’d actually show, Broadway."

"Sorry to disappoint," Castiel replied dryly.

Another pilot chuckled. "Didn’t know washed-up pilots came with Broadway resumes."

"Let’s get this over with," Castiel said, shifting the helmet in his grip.

"Hold up," one of them cut in, raising a hand. "We’ve got to talk stakes. You can’t just go up there without putting something on the line."

Castiel raised a brow. "Oh? What do you suggest? Blood? A soul?"

The first pilot grinned. "Nah, nothing that dramatic. Just… loser does 300 push-ups. On the tarmac. In front of everyone. Shirt off, obviously."

"Naturally," another chimed in. "And you’ve got to count them out loud. No skipping numbers."

They all laughed.

Castiel gave a slow blink. "I’m not taking my shirt off for any of you."

"Then don’t lose."

He stared at them for a beat, then slid his helmet under one arm.

"Hope you stretched."

The laughter turned to a few whoops and a mock salute as they all turned toward their jets.

Off to the side, Dean stood with arms crossed, eyes narrowed, not laughing, not joining in. Just watching.

The challenge was real now.

Castiel stood in front of the jet. The sun hit the Raptor’s surface just right, casting reflections like a blade. His flight suit felt strange on his body, like a uniform pulled from a dream he barely remembered.

He climbed the ladder in silence.

Inside the cockpit, the world narrowed. The switches, the HUD, the hum of power kicking in. Everything was familiar and not. A deep breath filled his chest. For the first time in years, he felt something settle inside him.

The canopy hissed as it sealed above him, muting the world in an instant. The cockpit was tight, sterile, and familiar in a way that made Castiel’s heart lurch.

Everything in here was muscle memory. His hands already moving through pre-flight checks before he could second-guess himself. Switches clicked. HUD flickered to life. Oxygen hissed through the mask slung at his side. The harness bit into his shoulders.

The voice in his headset crackled, "Raptor One, green across the board. Call sign confirmation?"

He hesitated. He hadn’t used a call sign in years. Then, low and calm, Castiel said, "Ghost, ready for takeoff."

The tower acknowledged. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He glanced left. The other Raptor was already taxiing into position, cocky and sleek, just like the pilot inside. One of Dean’s boys. Maybe the one who started this. Maybe just a stand-in for a war Castiel was always meant to finish.

As he rolled into place, he caught movement near the tower.

Dean.

Arms crossed, standing alone, headset on, watching through the glass. Castiel tightened his grip on the stick.

The Raptors launched into the sky like arrows loosed from a bow.

The sound was deafening, a roar of power and fire. But inside, it was just the hum of engines and the voice of the tower counting down altitude and clearance.

Castiel climbed hard, arching into the clouds like he never left. His stomach stayed solid through the Gs. His breath steady.

He reached 25,000 feet. Then 30. He was flying again.

And for a moment, for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about the academy, the whispered rumors, or Dean Winchester watching from the ground.

He was just… up.

"Dogfight begins in three… two… one."

The radar lit up. A blip curved off to the right, his opponent already pulling wide, trying to bait him into the open sky.

Castiel’s heartbeat was steady, hand light on the throttle. His opponent broke left, hard and fast. Castiel followed.

G-force gripped his ribs. The turn threatened to crush breath from his lungs. But it didn’t. He rode it like he never stopped. He watched for the flick, the tell, the fakeout, and there it was. Same old tactic.

Castiel banked left instead, nose down, diving into a controlled freefall to pick up speed. His blood surged, heart kicking like it remembered what this was.

The other pilot adjusted, looping high.

Castiel saw it, too wide.

He climbed sharp, angle perfect, and cut inside the loop.

He was behind. Lock tone beeped. His target broke right, diving for ground.

"Come on," Castiel muttered, teeth clenched, hands feathering the stick.

He followed. Hard. G-forces pressed into his chest, but he stayed smooth, his breathing calm. He had him.

Lock tone again. Flares deployed.

"Cute," Castiel whispered.

He looped up, throttled down slightly, let his opponent overshoot, and then slammed the throttle forward, flipping in behind.

"Ghost has missile lock."

He didn’t fire. There were no weapons today. Just confirmation.

One beep.

Two.

Three.

"Kill confirmed."

***

"Reset for second pass."

This time, the other pilot didn’t go easy. He came in high and fast, trying to shake Castiel with a rolling scissors maneuver, twisting, climbing, dropping to force a stall.

Castiel didn’t bite.

He drifted out of sync just enough to watch the patterns unfold, predictable. The same patterns they drilled into you at the academy. The same tricks Dean used when he got cocky.

Castiel pulled a high-G barrel roll, inverted his flight path, and hung upside down over the other Raptor for just a second, long enough to trigger the tone again.

"Ghost has kill. Second confirmed."

Tower validated. Below, someone whistled. Static. Laughter.

The dogfight went on until Castiel got confirmed kills on everyone. Castiel exhaled, long and deep. Sweat ran down his temple. But he was steady.

The descent was slow. Clean. Controlled.

Castiel touched down smooth, wheels kissing the tarmac like he’d never left it. The jet rolled to a stop at the end of the runway. The canopy hissed open.

Sunlight spilled across the dash. His hands, still on the stick, trembled only slightly. He took a moment, just breathing. And then climbed out.

The crew that gathered didn’t say much at first.

One of the pilots whistled low. "Damn." Another muttered something about "Still got it."

The one he’d beaten twice approached with a good-natured groan.

"Would you look at that? You got beaten to a pulp by a washed-up pilot with a broadway resume." One of them teased.

"Guess I’ll start counting."

Castiel tilted his head. "Shirt off, remember?"

Laughter broke out. Even Dean cracked a smile. But his eyes didn’t leave Castiel.

As the others circled the poor guy gearing up for push-ups, laughing and calling out exaggerated counts, Dean wandered over, hands in his pockets, stopping just short of Castiel’s shoulder.

Dean smirked faintly and nodded toward the jet.

"Not bad, for a theatre guy."

"You’d be surprised how often I want to crash something mid-performance."

Dean huffed a small laugh, eyes flicking to the runway.

"You didn’t have to say yes, y’know."

"I know."

They stood there a beat, the wind tugging gently at their suits. Someone in the background shouted, "Thirty-eight! Thirty-nine!"

Dean’s voice dropped a little. "So why’d you come back?"

Castiel finally turned to meet his eyes. "Just wanted to see if I still knew how."

The poor guy on their backs was barely halfway through his punishment set, groaning out numbers between labored breaths while his squad cheered him on with brutal joy.

"Forty-six! Come on, Raptor Boy, keep it moving!"

Dean stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes tracking Castiel as he cleaned off his gloves and unclipped the top of his flight suit. He looked calm. Too calm.

That’s when one of the pilots clapped Dean on the shoulder with a grin.

"You’re up next, Winchester."

Dean raised a brow. "Am I?"

"Hell yeah. You skipped out earlier, remember?" Another chimed in. "Can’t let the civilian show us up without a real fight."

Someone else elbowed him. "C’mon, Cap. One more round. Ghost versus Hunter. Just like the good old days."

Castiel, now behind them and toweling off his face, paused, just slightly, at the sound of that call sign. He didn’t look over. Not yet.

Dean gave a dry snort. "Pretty sure Castiel's had enough sky for one day."

"Oh, don’t give us that. You’re the one who’s always got something to prove," one of the younger pilots said, half-laughing. "Don’t tell me you’re scared of the stage guy."

Dean turned then, just enough to glance sideways at Castiel, who was absolutely still, water bottle halfway to his lips. Their eyes locked for a moment, something unspoken, long-standing, sharp and familiar passing between them.

Castiel slowly lowered the bottle. "Scared, Dean?" He said, voice mild.

Dean gave a tight little grin. "Didn’t want to make you look bad in front of your fans. You'll just embarass yourself."

"Oh, I assure you, they’ve seen worse."

The group around them erupted into delighted groans and whistles.

"That’s it. We need this to happen."

"Castiel vs. Dean, let’s go!"

Dean rolled his eyes, but his smile said he wasn’t actually against it.

Castiel just cocked his head. His tone was cool. Measured. "What’s the matter, Captain? Afraid I’ll show off in front of your squad? Please, don't strain yourself."

Dean stepped closer, jaw ticking slightly.

“Get in the air with me and find out.”

There was a different kind of silence when it came to this dogfight. Less joking, fewer whistles. The other pilots sensed it, whatever existed between Castiel and Dean wasn’t old-school rivalry anymore.

Dean zipped up his flight suit beside his Raptor, rolling his shoulders with the slow stretch of someone who didn’t need to prove anything, but might do it anyway.

Castiel said nothing. Just climbed into his cockpit like he was putting on an old coat he hadn’t worn in years.

Both jets powered up. Twin monsters crouched on the tarmac, ready to leap.

Tower said, "Raptor One, call sign Hunter. Raptor Two, call sign Ghost. Cleared for combat airspace. Engagement begins at angels twenty."

They rose into the open blue like two blades pulled from the same sheath.

Castiel moved first, quick, surgical, veering wide and high, testing altitude. Dean didn’t chase. He stayed central, conservative, watching Castiel’s movements from a lower angle.

This was the dance they knew. Only this time, Dean wasn’t reckless. He was calculating. And Castiel wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was flying for himself.

They met in a split-sky turn, two contrails slicing parallel, then spiraling off opposite directions like magnets reversed.

Dean’s voice crackled in the comms.

"You’re slower than I remember."

Castiel didn’t respond.

Instead, he cut throttle mid-climb, letting Dean overshoot just as he had in the earlier match, but Dean rolled out instead of biting, pulling into a high Yo-Yo and falling behind him in a wide arc.

Smart. He remembered that move. Now Castiel was the one exposed.

Lock tone: beep—beep—

Castiel twisted left, hard. G-forces pressed deep into his ribs. He dropped low, faked a stall, then rolled into a corkscrew climb.

Dean followed again.

They were circling now, both too sharp to fall for old traps.

Dean fired the mic again.

"Still flying like you’re scared to break something."

Castiel smirked behind the mask.

"Still chasing ghosts, I see."

Dean didn’t answer, but his Raptor suddenly dove, fast, trying to bait Castiel into a low pursuit but he didn’t follow. Instead, Castiel climbed. He knew what Dean was doing, trying to control tempo, trying to make Cas act emotional.

So he slowed. Let the space stretch. Dean cursed under his breath, audible in the static.

Castiel let the Raptor glide on the edge of a stall, drifting sideways, altitude bleeding off like sand through his fingers. Dean climbed to meet him, cocky now, thinking Castiel had miscalculated.

And just as he lined up for lock, Castiel rolled. Full inversion, pulling vertical out of the stall with a sudden boost of throttle that caught Dean out of angle.

Lock tone: beep-beep—beep-beep—

Castiel could fire. He didn’t. Instead, he pulled back just before it locked. Let it sit there. Silent. Hanging.

Tower voice said, "Ghost holds kill lock. Confirmed."

Dean leveled out. No flares, no scramble. He just stopped.

"You had me."

Castiel didn’t reply. He simply eased back on the throttle, let the silence stretch across the sky like fog.

The Raptors descended in tandem, two shadows across the clouds.

They landed without ceremony. No cheers this time. No whistles. Just the dry desert wind and the slow cooling of engines.

The base was quieter than earlier, but everyone had gathered again. Word had spread.

Dean climbed out of his jet, already tugging off his gloves, jaw tight.

Castiel descended with careful calm. Helmet under one arm, he didn’t even look toward Dean at first, just walked across the tarmac like a man finishing a sermon.

Then one of the younger pilots piped up from the crowd said, "Well, well, well. Looks like the great Hunter’s doing pushups after all."

Dean groaned. "Seriously? We’re still doing that?"

"Oh yeah," someone else grinned. "Three hundred. Tarmac rules. Shirt off. You know the drill."

Dean looked across the lot, right at Castiel, who was now standing just near the edge of the group, arms crossed, watching with the kind of maddening composure that made Dean want to throw his helmet.

"You gonna count for me, Ghost?" Dean asked, peeling off his flight suit halfway, undershirt following.

Castiel tilted his head. "Only if you keep form." Laughter broke out. Dean dropped to the concrete.

"One," Castiel called, voice flat. "Two."

Dean grunted through them. "You enjoying this?"

"Immensely." Castiel didn’t smile. Not really.

By the fiftieth pushup, Dean’s arms were trembling, but not as much as the tension in the air. Castiel was still watching, cool and unreadable, until Dean shot him a look from the ground.

"You’re staring, Cas."

Castiel blinked slowly. "Keep it up, Hunter."

Dean muttered something under his breath and kept pushing.

He was on pushup number 76 when Castiel caught movement in his periphery, boots, the sweep of a dress uniform, and Meg’s ponytail bouncing as she walked with purpose.

She wasn’t alone. Castiel straightened. His heart dropped.

General Amara Schneider.

The insignia on her shoulder gleamed in the sun, and so did the polished edges of her restraint. Her expression was unreadable, but her presence? Heavy. Like cold steel in the gut.

Meg shot Castiel a tight, almost apologetic glance as they approached.

Dean noticed the shift too, pushing himself upright from the tarmac, brushing gravel from his palms, breathing heavier now, but eyes locked on the imposing woman striding their way.

General Amara Schneider stopped in front of the crowd with the quiet authority of someone used to rooms falling silent.

They did.

Her sharp gaze settled first on Dean, then on Castiel, and stayed there.

"Did you enjoy your little joyride, Castiel?"

Castiel didn’t answer.

"Let’s not waste time pretending this was cleared through proper channels,” she said, her voice precise, crisp. "Unauthorized use of an F-22. Grounded civillian breaking protocol. Zero clearance. That alone could cost a dozen people their stripes."

"It was my call," Dean said quickly, stepping forward. "I take full—"

She held up a hand. "Relax, Captain. I’m not here to hand out punishments."

That stunned the group into silence. Castiel said nothing, but he didn’t look away.

She turned slightly, addressing the group around them. "He shouldn’t have been in that cockpit. But he flew better than any of you." Then back to Castiel, "You want to waste that on stage lights and applause? Go ahead. But don’t pretend it’s some kind of noble exile."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Dean looked between them, unsure if he should step in again.

Amara's eyes stayed locked on Castiel, her tone softening, not kindly, but deliberately.

"You were removed for good reason. No one’s pretending otherwise. Your record, your background… even you didn’t argue when they flagged you."

Castiel’s jaw tightened.

"So why now?" he asked flatly. "Why show up today?"

Amara didn’t answer right away. Her expression was unreadable, military calm layered over something colder, more personal.

"Because we need talent. Desperately. And yours is… inconveniently exceptional."

That landed like a blow.

"Well, that's a fancy way of dressing this up like it's a second chance when this is really just a draft notice in disguise." Castiel said quietly.

She stepped closer.

"Call it what you want. There’s a mission coming. High-level. Classified. I’m pulling favors to get you cleared, temporary reinstatement under special conditions."

His throat was dry. He stared past her, jaw clenched, hands stiff at his sides. Castiel let the silence sit. Amara studied him for a moment. Then nodded once.

"You’ll have my offer on paper before you leave the base. Think it through. And next time," she added, glancing to Dean, "maybe let the man decide if he wants to be saved."

She turned and walked off without another word.

Meg exhaled. "Well. That went better than I expected."

Dean looked at Castiel, who hadn’t moved. He didn’t know what to say to him. So he just stood there, watching Castiel watch the sky.

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the tarmac. The buzz of the crowd faded as people dispersed, some back to the hangars, others still lingering, exchanging looks but keeping their distance.

Castiel stayed where he was, boots planted on the concrete, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he was holding something in.

Dean had stepped away, for once knowing better than to say anything.

In Castiel’s hand was a folded document, crisp and heavy, the proposal Amara had promised.

He hadn’t opened it. Didn’t need to. He’d told himself he wouldn’t even read it. And yet, his eyes skimmed over the text again.

Temporary reinstatement. Special operation. Classified mission. High-risk. High altitude. No room for error.

That was her version of an olive branch. But it wasn’t the offer that unsettled him, it was who had made it.

His eyes lingered on her signature at the bottom. General Amara Schneider. His father’s sister. His last living relative.

He hadn’t spoken to her in years, not since she’d shown up after his discharge offering a Pentagon job like it was a consolation prize. Like her help was something he should want.

He didn’t want it then. He wasn’t sure he wanted it now. Because even before, he knew her help came with fine print. With ceilings. With control. And she had never called again, until now.

But he also couldn’t stop thinking about the way the jet felt beneath him today. How natural it was. How clear the sky was at twenty thousand feet. How for a moment, up there, he wasn’t broken, flagged, or dismissed.

He was just flying.

He ran a thumb over the fold in the paper. A small part of him still wondered… Could he really go back?

Chapter Text

Where it All Started
10th of July, 1983
Pontiac, Illinois, United States of America

***

The house smelled like metal.

Old blood, rusted tools, something rotting behind the walls. The kind of smell that stuck to your lungs long after the air cleared.

Ten-year-old Castiel stood barefoot on the concrete basement floor. The cold bit through his skin. His hands were sticky. His shirt, too big for his small frame, hung damp and stained at the hem.

Across from him, a man knelt on the floor, tied, shaking. His mouth was gagged with a filthy cloth. His eyes were wide.

And behind Castiel, towering in the gloom, stood his father.

"He’s no different from the others," his father said, voice calm, like they were discussing firewood. "You look him in the eye. You don’t flinch. This is who we are."

Castiel couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. His father crouched behind him, guiding the boy’s trembling hand, the one holding the knife.

“You’re not a coward, Castiel. You’re blood.”

The man on the floor made a sound, panic, pleading, something too muffled to understand. Castiel wanted to cover his ears, but he didn’t. Maybe this one would be easier. Maybe the shaking would stop. Maybe if he just got it over with, the silence afterward would finally be enough.

His father had wanted him to kill this man, just like the others who had found their way to their basement. And Castiel didn’t disobey. He never did.

Then, the door upstairs crashed open. Footsteps thundered. Shouts echoed. Flashlights cut through the dark.

"FBI! Hands where we can see them!"

In the blur that followed, Castiel fell backward. Gunshots rang out like thunder.

One. Two. Three.

The body fell behind him with a sickening weight. His father’s last breath didn’t sound like a man dying. It sounded like something leaving the world that should’ve never existed in the first place.

Castiel didn’t move.

The knife slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. A bright stripe of red crossed his palm, but he didn’t feel it.

Boots stomped around him, black and heavy. Men in tactical gear swarmed the room, weapons raised, voices barking commands.

"Kid! On the ground! Let me see your hands!"

He flinched, not from fear of being shot, but from being seen.

One of the agents knelt in front of him. A woman, eyes wide with shock.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered. "He’s just a kid."

Someone pulled the gag off the man still tied up on the floor. Another agent moved to untie him. He was sobbing.

Castiel just stared straight ahead. Not blinking. Not crying. The woman reached for him.

"Hey. Can you tell me your name?"

Castiel didn’t answer because his own name felt too heavy in his throat. He just sat there, too stunned to understand freedom when it finally came.

He was held in a room hours later. He sat wrapped in a gray wool blanket on a plastic chair under fluorescent lights. The room smelled like burnt coffee and floor polish.

Agents came and went. Some asked questions. Most talked like he couldn’t hear them.

"Parents?"

"The mother died years ago."

"No other siblings?"

"No, just the father. Serial pattern fits."

"Kid’s been there the whole time? Jesus."

He didn’t speak. They gave him peanut butter crackers and juice from a box, but he didn’t touch them.

A man from Child Protective Services came next. He smiled like he’d been trained to smile. Castiel didn’t trust it.

"You’re very brave," the man said, crouching down. "We’re going to find you a safe place, okay?"

Castiel just nodded. Because what else could he do?

From that night on, he drifted. Orphanage to orphanage. File to file. The headlines called his father a serial killer. The counselors called him “survivor.” But the other boys in the bunks called him things sharper than all of that.

Psycho. Freak. The kid with killer blood.

He didn’t fight back. He didn’t speak much. He just stared at ceilings and counted cracks. The same way he used to count footsteps coming down into the basement.

He got in one fight when he was thirteen. A kid spit in his tray and called him "murder boy." Castiel didn’t remember swinging, but his knuckles were bruised and he had a new scar under his eye when they moved him again.

At fifteen, a state psychologist tried to help.

The office was silent. Not the peaceful kind, but the sterile, aching kind, where even the hum of the overhead lights felt too loud.

Castiel sat still in the cheap plastic chair, the gray wool blanket they gave him years ago was long gone, but the cold never really left. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, like he had been taught. His posture, rigid, unreadable.

Across the room, the psychologist’s desk sat covered in neat stacks of papers and a half-finished mug of tea. She had left moments ago, probably to find a supervisor or schedule the next session.

She’d been kind. Gentle. Thought she was reaching him. She told him he didn’t have to carry everything alone. That he could still have a future. That he could still feel safe.

But Castiel’s eyes were on the window.

Outside, the sky was washed in early autumn gray. Wind bent the trees like they were bowing to something invisible.

In the distance, a runway came into view, a civilian airport, maybe a military training strip. Hard to say.

And then, A jet took off. Sleek. Black. Cutting through the clouds like it had never been afraid of falling.

Castiel leaned forward just slightly, breath still.

The roar came a second later, muted through the glass. But he felt it in his chest. Not fear. Not anxiety. Something else.

The plane climbed higher, and higher, until it vanished into the overcast.

Castiel didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

He just watched the last trace of contrail disappear, and something shifted quietly inside him. Not like a decision. Not even like a dream.

A need.

Not to run away. Not to be free. But to be in control. Of his path. Of his body. Of something powerful enough to defy gravity and silence all the noise in his head.

***

Castiel didn’t tell anyone what he saw that day. Not the therapist. Not his caseworker. Not the boy two bunks over who never stopped asking him questions.

He kept it to himself. Like a secret he wasn’t ready to share in words.

By the time he was seventeen, he had earned a scholarship for theater arts, some foster care agent had insisted he audition, said he had a stage presence that unnerved people in the best way.

He took it. Not because he loved the spotlight, but because it was structure. Control. A place where the lines were written down and no one bled if you got them wrong.

But in between rehearsals and black-box performances, he started spending his mornings running miles before sunrise. Studying physics textbooks in between lighting cues. Sitting in on aviation seminars he wasn’t registered for.

Something inside him just wouldn’t let go of the sky.

At nineteen, without telling anyone from his program, he applied for the Air Force prep track. It was meant to be exploratory, just to see if he could pass. Just to see if he’d be allowed.

He aced every test.

The recruiter was surprised. "Performing arts major?" he’d said, flipping through the file. "You don’t strike me as the type."

Castiel had only replied, "I’m not the type for anything."

He kept his head down.

Even when he started the prep track officially, he didn’t tell anyone back at his university, not his professors, not his castmates, not even the director who thought he was wasting his face on ensemble roles.

He kept both lives running in parallel. His mornings were for throttle control and aircraft schematics. His nights, for blocking and spotlights.

The truth belonged to him, and for once, he wanted to keep it that way, to build something that wasn’t stained by his past, or shaped by pity.

He didn’t know if he was flying toward something or away from it. All he knew was that it felt like he's finally moving forward.

And then came Laughlin Air Force Base.

The real program. No more lectures from behind glass. This was where pilots were made, or broken.

Castiel remembered stepping off the bus with a bag slung over his shoulder, sun glaring off the tarmac, adrenaline already rising like static under his skin. Rows of cadets stood in line, boots sharp, expressions sharper. No scripts. No safety net. Just steel, sky, and expectation.

That’s where he saw him for the first time.

Dean Winchester.

Leaning on a railing like he owned the place, already in uniform, dog tags visible, sunglasses reflecting the drill instructor’s every move. He laughed too loud at someone’s joke. His smile was cocky, blinding. The kind of guy people looked at and wanted to follow or fight.

Castiel didn’t even know his name yet. But he knew. He knew this was going to be his rival. It was in the way Dean’s eyes flicked to him in passing, lingered a second too long, like he was sizing him up already.

It was in the way the instructors muttered, "That one’s fast. Reckless. Best stick a leash on him early."

It was in the feeling Castiel got in his gut, not fear, not even resentment, but anticipation.

He didn’t believe in fate. But collision? He believed in that.

And from the moment Dean Winchester stepped up beside him on the tarmac, hand offered, smirk in place, saying, "So what, they let drama majors fly now?"

Castiel knew exactly how the next few years of his life would go.

Chapter Text

Laughlin Air Force Base
13th of September, 2005
Del Rio, Texas, United States of America

***

There was a rhythm to training that didn’t care how smart you were. Wake before dawn, run until your lungs begged for mercy, shower in under three minutes, shave until you bled, eat whatever they threw on your tray, and recite emergency protocols until they buried themselves in your sleep.

Castiel liked the rhythm. He liked knowing exactly what came next. He liked the predictability of checklists, the clarity of bullet points. It made the noise in his head quieter.

The classroom was where the real battle happened. Not in the air, not yet. That came later. But in these sterile, fluorescent-lit rooms with whiteboards and folding chairs, reputations formed like storm systems.

Castiel sat near the front, always. Not to impress anyone. He just didn’t want the sound of gum popping or poorly whispered jokes behind him.

He took notes with the kind of surgical precision that made even the instructors double-check their own material. He didn’t speak unless he was called on. When he was, he made it count.

And then came Dean Winchester.

Loud. Smirking. The kind of guy who walked into a room like the ceiling should part to make room for his ego.

He took the back row like it owed him something. Feet up, chair tilted back, sunglasses still on his face ten minutes into class.

Castiel clocked him the moment he entered. Not because he stood out, though he did, but because he carried himself like someone who’d already decided he was better than everyone else in the room. And Castiel, knew that this particular man, was going to be a problem.

They were paired together two days later for cockpit flow exercises. Castiel barely looked at him, kept his posture sharp, fingers on the laminated diagram like it was sacred text. Dean dropped into the chair beside him like they were at a diner.

"Look alive, Castiel," he drawled, sliding the checklist toward him, "Wouldn’t want your perfect record to get a wrinkle." Castiel didn’t reply. He adjusted the sheet until it aligned exactly with the table’s edge.

"You don’t take this seriously," he said, flatly.

Dean grinned like he’d been waiting for that.

"That why you hate me already?"

Castiel didn’t even blink. "I don’t hate you. I just prefer competence."

Dean leaned in like it was a flirtation. "You saying I’m not competent?"

"I’m saying," Castiel replied, eyes still on the diagram, "you treat this like it's a game. Games get people killed." That wiped the grin for a second. Just a second.

"Well," Dean said, recovering fast, "if we ever end up in the same aircraft, I’ll keep score."

In aerodynamics lectures, the pattern repeated.

The instructor would call on Castiel, he’d answer cleanly, precisely, and sit back down without fanfare. Then they’d call on Dean.

Once, when asked the difference between slip and skid, Dean answered, "One’s a mistake. The other’s a choice."

The class laughed, but the instructor didn’t.

"Castiel," he said. "Fix that." Castiel did, of course. Without even turning around. Dean didn’t say a word for the rest of the session, but Castiel could feel him staring at the back of his head like a heat source.

Sim days were worse. Everyone wanted to see who would crack. Dean flew like he was born to do it, reckless, fast, grinning at danger like it was an old friend.

Castiel, by contrast, flew like he was trying to outthink gravity itself. Cold precision. No wasted movement. No unnecessary flair.

When Dean came out of the simulator, sweating and laughing, someone clapped him on the shoulder.

"Damn, Winchester. That tower buzz was insane."

"Gotta keep ‘em guessing," Dean said, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Castiel stepped in next. His sim was flawless. Clean. No damage. No chaos. No one clapped when he walked out. But the instructor murmured something that sounded like approval, and Dean was waiting by the door when he did.

"You’re not bad," Dean said. "For someone who flies like a calculator with anxiety."

Castiel didn’t break stride. "You’re not good. For someone who thinks crashing with confidence is the same as skill."

Dean laughed, sharp and surprised. "Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you like me."

Test scores were posted outside the mess hall on a corkboard, like something out of a high school movie. Castiel didn’t care about the numbers. He already knew where he’d land. Top of the class again. Dean was mid-pack. Respectable. Not remarkable.

"Of course," Dean muttered, staring at the sheet.

Castiel stood just behind him. "You seem surprised," he said.

Dean turned slowly, smirk curling.

"Not surprised. Just curious how you sleep at night with all that self-righteousness weighing you down."

Castiel stared. "Soundly. You?"

"Like a rock," Dean said. "But I dream in color."

"That explains the poor impulse control."

"You’re not funny, Castiel."

"And you’re not subtle."

When they ran through emergency callouts, Dean volunteered to go first, voice booming like a movie hero.

"Mayday, mayday, this is Iron One, engine one failure—" The instructor cut him off.

"This isn’t a damn blockbuster, Winchester. Try again without the theater." Dean’s eyes flicked to Castiel briefly.

"Sorry. Must be all the time I spend around divas."

Castiel said nothing. He waited his turn. When he did the callout, it was perfect. Crisp, calm, unshakable.

"Anyone wondering what professionalism sounds like?" the instructor said. "That was it." Dean didn’t speak for ten whole minutes.

Their mid-term rankings were pinned up the next week. Dean came second. Castiel, as expected, was first.

Dean stared at the board longer than anyone else, jaw tight. Then he turned and found Castiel already looking at him.

"Keep this up," Dean said under his breath, "and you’re gonna have everyone eating out of your hand."

Castiel’s voice was low. "I don’t need them to."

Dean stepped closer. "Then why does it feel like you’re flying just to beat me?" Castiel hesitated. Because maybe… maybe he was. Just a little.

The instructors started watching them differently after that. Like they were waiting to see which one would snap first. One of them even joked, "Put Castiel and Dean in a two-seater, and you’ll either get brilliance or a black box." Castiel didn’t laugh. He didn’t even acknowledge it. He just kept studying. Flying. Climbing.

Dean kept smiling. Kept teasing. But the edge was always there now, underneath the jokes, the swagger, the charm. Like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to outrun Castiel, or crash into him at full speed.

And Castiel, for all his cold quiet, wasn’t sure either. Maybe this rivalry was fuel. Maybe it was fire. Maybe it was just the start of something they hadn’t named yet.

But it burned. And neither of them could stop looking at the smoke.

***

It was inevitable.

They’d been circling each other like wolves for months. Colliding in the classroom, sharpening against each other in simulations, locking eyes across hangars and exam scores.

It was only a matter of time before someone decided to put them in the same cockpit. Maybe it was a test. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe the instructors were bored and wanted to see if they’d crash or combust.

Dean showed up to the tarmac smirking like he already knew how it would go. "Try not to pass out from excitement, Castiel. I promise to go easy on you."

Castiel didn’t look up from the flight checklist. "If I wanted to ride with a reckless idiot, I’d get on a roller coaster."

"Good thing I fly better than I take insults," Dean said, climbing into the rear seat of the T-38 Talon like it was built for him.

"I’d debate that," Castiel muttered, strapping in up front.

Clear skies. Routine flight path. No live weapons. Just a standard two-hour sortie for formation flying, roll drills, and tandem coordination. A babysitting exercise. The kind of thing that made Castiel’s skin itch from predictability.

They barely spoke during the climb. Communication was clipped, professional, almost cold. When Dean called out altitude adjustments, Castiel responded with exactness. When Castiel led into the first slow roll, Dean followed a split-second late, on purpose, Castiel suspected.

By the time they hit the practice zone, the silence had grown heavy.

Dean broke it first.

"You always fly like there’s a funeral waiting on the other end?"

"You always talk like you’re auditioning for a beer commercial?"

"Better than sounding like a tax form."

"You’re behind me, Winchester. Try to act like you’re learning something."

Dean laughed through the comms. "Oh, I am. I’m learning how tight that stick is up your ass."

Castiel gritted his teeth. "Focus."

Dean fell quiet for a beat. Then, suddenly, he said, "Bet I can keep tighter formation than you."

"This isn’t a contest."

"Everything’s a contest."

"Dean—"

"C’mon, Cas," Dean said, voice all challenge and adrenaline, "Let’s see if the front seat can actually fly."

It spiraled fast.

What was supposed to be routine turned sharp. The turns tighter, the drops steeper. They pushed the Talon’s limits with every second, skimming altitude minimums and eating up airspace with loops that weren’t on the plan.

Castiel should have pulled back. Called it. Filed a warning. But Dean was behind him, pressing in, flying close enough to rattle his bones, and some part of Castiel wanted, needed, not to be the one who blinked.

Altitude warning. Ignored.

Speed check. Ignored.

They dove, banked, chased each other in the sky like gods playing chicken.

Then: "Talon Five, report status. You’ve deviated from flight corridor."

Silence. Castiel’s heart was pounding.

Dean’s voice came back over the radio, calm as ever. "Talon Five, just running a tighter drill. Back on course in sixty seconds."

And they were. Back in line, back on script, like nothing had happened.

But the debrief wasn’t forgiving.

They were called into the instructor’s office before they even unzipped their flight suits. The CO’s face was unreadable, with that undercurrent of lethal disappointment.

"You two think this is Top Gun?" he asked without raising his voice. "You think this is where we see who’s got the bigger ego? That was reckless, insubordinate, and about one wrong breath away from grounding both of you."

Dean stood with his hands in his pockets like he wasn’t taking it personally. Castiel stood straight, jaw locked, knowing it was his fault too.

"I should fail you both," the instructor continued. "But I won’t. Because some part of me wants to see how this ends."

They left the office in silence.

Outside, by the hangar, Castiel finally said, "That was unnecessary."

Dean leaned against the wall, brushing dust off his sleeve. "You didn’t say no."

"I shouldn’t have had to."

Dean looked at him then, really looked, and said, "You don’t actually hate me, do you?"

Castiel stared back, pulse still too fast. "I don’t know what I feel around you."

Dean’s smirk faltered.

Castiel turned to leave, boots heavy on the concrete. He didn’t stop walking when Dean called after him.

"You flew like hell up there, Cas."

He didn’t answer. But part of him wanted to turn back. Just to say, 'so did you.'

***

Everything started to change in the quiet moments.

Not during the drills or lectures or screaming wind of the jet, but in the seconds between, after takeoff, before debrief, when the adrenaline faded and all that was left was breath and sweat and the way their eyes didn’t look away fast enough.

Castiel didn’t notice it at first. Or maybe he did and refused to name it. Dean would brush past him in the locker room, make some offhand joke that should’ve slid off harmless, but didn’t. He would sit two chairs away during strategy briefings, pen tapping his teeth, gaze flicking sideways like it couldn’t help itself.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t even particularly civil. But something between them was loosening. Shifting.

Castiel found himself watching Dean when he wasn’t supposed to, studying the curl of his mouth mid-smirk, the way his fingers curled around his dog tags when he was bored.

And Dean… Dean started pulling punches. Not in the air, but in the way he spoke. Less biting, more amused. Still cocky, but it landed softer. Quieter.

Then came the night they ran drills after-hours. Voluntary sim training, a couple of cadets trickling in for extra reps. Dean showed up late, sleeves pushed up, eyes bright like he hadn’t been sleeping. Castiel was already in the sim booth, headset on, running formation exercises with robotic precision.

"You fly like you’re afraid of falling," Dean said afterward, sprawled across the bench outside the booth.

"And you fly like you’re hoping to," Castiel replied.

But it wasn’t an insult. Not anymore.

Dean tilted his head back against the wall, exhaled slowly. "You ever stop?"

Castiel blinked at him.

"Thinking. Working. Being better than everyone. You ever just… stop?"

Castiel sat down across from him. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then finally, he said, "No."

Dean laughed, tired and maybe a little sad.

"Didn’t think so."

They didn’t talk about it, whatever it was. Not directly. But things changed.

They started walking back from drills together. Arguing over aircraft specs, over tactics, over nothing. Sometimes they’d go to the mess hall after lights-out, just to steal leftover coffee and sit in companionable, irritable silence. It felt like orbit. Like two objects too stubborn to collide but too drawn to ever drift apart.

Castiel didn’t let himself think about why it mattered. Why Dean’s praise stuck in his chest like a splinter, or why his absence during a group sim felt like imbalance. He told himself it was still rivalry, that it was just a matter of respect. That he wasn’t hoping, on some level, for something more.

Until the day they fought.

It wasn’t about flying. Not really. It was after a team exercise where Castiel had taken control too early, overridden Dean’s decision without warning. The instructor let it slide, barely, but Dean didn’t.

"You don’t trust anyone but yourself," Dean snapped in the locker room, slamming his locker shut. "You don’t even fly with a partner. You fly with a shadow you control."

Castiel didn’t look at him. "Because trusting you means crashing."

Dean stepped forward. "Then why the hell do you keep looking at me like you’re waiting for something?"

The air between them cracked like pressure loss.

Castiel turned slowly. "I don’t know. Maybe because you keep offering it."

Dean looked stunned, like he hadn’t meant to say any of it out loud. He shook his head. "You always do this. Get close enough to feel real, then pull back like you’re made of goddamn glass."

"And you always turn everything into a fight because you’re terrified of being wrong."

The locker room was too quiet after that. They didn’t speak for two days. And then it didn’t matter anymore.

Graduation was two weeks away.

Everyone was buzzing, orders coming in, aircraft assignments pending, final evaluations on the line. It should have been the finish line. It should have been triumph.

But the officers called Castiel in.

He could feel it the moment he entered the room. Too quiet. Too formal. The silence of something already decided.

"We’ve completed your final background review," the officer said. "As part of standard protocol before assignment."

There was a file on the desk. Thick. Familiar in a way Castiel wished he could forget.

"We didn’t know," the officer continued, "about your father. About the incident when you were ten."

Castiel said nothing.

"The initial omission raised red flags. Once we dug deeper into the sealed juvenile records… the psychological evaluations from your foster placements… We had to bring it to review."

Still nothing.

"The board has determined that, given your history, your unresolved trauma, you are unfit for active flight status. Effective immediately, you’re being discharged."

The words landed gently. Like mercy disguised as a bullet.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even ask what aircraft he would have gotten. Didn’t ask if there was any way to fix it. He just stood, nodded, and walked out like the floor wasn’t shifting beneath him.

By the next day, his name was gone from the flight roster. His bunk was stripped clean. Locker empty. Uniform folded.

No explanation.

No goodbyes.

He had expected this. Not in words, not in full shape, but in the way a storm hangs on the horizon for days before it finally breaks.

Somewhere deep in his chest, he’d always known it wouldn’t end the way it should. He’d known from the first time he stepped into a flight suit and felt like an imposter beneath the stitching. From the way instructors paused at his file. From the whispers he sometimes caught but never chased.

Homicide’s a violent felony. Doesn’t matter how old you were when it happened. The military doesn’t hand out forgiveness for things like that, not even if you were ten. No waivers, no appeals, no second chances. Especially not for people like Castiel.

When you’re training to be an officer, when you’re trusted with millions of dollars of steel and sky, you’re supposed to be the kind of man whose record doesn’t flinch under scrutiny. Integrity, clearance, psychological stability, it’s non-negotiable.

And an uncharged involvement in a murder case, even if it happened decades ago, even if it came out of fear or confusion or survival, is a crack in the foundation they can’t afford to ignore.

They looked at Castiel and saw a liability.

A risk.

And he was always waiting for the other boot to fall. Always waiting for someone to open the wrong drawer, read the wrong page, say the wrong name.

And now it had come.

He sat alone in the dorm room he wouldn’t sleep in again, uniform laid flat on the bed like something dead. His bag half-zipped. The sunset bleeding through the window, touching everything with an impossible softness that felt cruel.

He stared at it blankly, unmoving, his hands resting on his knees like they didn’t belong to him. Every breath came with the weight of decision. Stay. Fight. Make them explain, make them see, tear the sky open with what he had left. Or leave now. Quietly. Clean. Before it became uglier than it already was.

Castiel lived his whole life trying to undo it, to become someone honorable. But the past always caught up. That was the truth of it. It didn’t matter how fast you flew.

He stood slowly, every movement deliberate, as if buying time by drawing it out. He touched the edge of the desk, the corner of the locker, the fading scrape on the wall he and Dean had made during a half-hearted argument about navigation routes. The silence around him was absolute. No footsteps. No pages turning. Just the ache of something ending.

Out the window, a plane cut across the sky. Not a metaphor. Not a sign. Just a reminder. Of what he almost had. Of what he’d almost been.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t do anything dramatic. He just turned away and started packing.

He knew Dean would notice. Knew someone would tell him. But he didn’t leave a note. Didn’t answer the knock at his door when it came too late that night. Didn’t turn around when he saw Dean across the tarmac, calling his name.

He just kept walking. And when the sky turned gold behind the aircraft hangars, Castiel disappeared into it.

Leaving Dean standing alone with every question he’d never get to ask.

Chapter Text

Present — 06:23 PM
16th of June, 2012
Del Rio, Texas, United States of America

***

The hangar air still smelled like hot metal and burnt fuel when Castiel walked out without looking back. Not at the jet, not at the officers still staring at the sky, and especially not at Dean.

The commotion had quieted behind him into a low thrum of disbelief and awe, but Castiel didn’t slow down. Not even when he passed the spot where Dean had tried to stop him. Not even when he heard his name called, once, behind him, soft, angry, familiar.

He didn’t answer.

The air base stretched out in front of him like it always had. Sterile, wide, and soulless. He moved through it like a ghost.

"Are you going to give me a ride home or are you gonna mope dramatically into the sunset?" Meg leaned against a beat-up blue sedan, a half-eaten lollipop in her mouth and her eyebrow cocked like she already knew the answer.

Castiel opened the passenger door. "I would," he replied, "if you stop staring at my car like it's a big pile of trash."

"Can't blame me," she said, climbing in ahead of him. "this car is crap."

The engine groaned alive. The silence between them wasn’t tense, it was practiced. Familiar. Meg didn’t ask why he didn’t wait for Dean. She never asked stupid questions she already knew the answers to.

They passed the base gates. A radio jingle played, then fizzled into static.

"You want to talk about the dogfight?" she said eventually, flicking her sunglasses down.

"No."

"You’re going to anyway."

Castiel stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. "I flew better than I’ve flown in years."

"You flew like a goddamn missile in love with gravity," Meg snorted. "Dean nearly swallowed his own dog tags."

"I didn’t do it for Dean."

"Yeah, and I don’t put eyeliner on to impress bartenders. Sure."

He didn’t rise to the bait. The desert highway unfurled like a burn mark in the distance. He let the wind through the cracked window slap against his face.

"Amara saw it too, you know," Meg said. "She basically called it art back there."

Castiel didn’t answer.

"She wants you, Clarence. And not just for the pretty flight pattern you burned into the sky. She’s offering you more than this, you know that."

"She’s offering me an escape."

"She’s offering you a way out. There’s a difference."

His hands tightened on the wheel. "I’m tired of trading one master for another."

Meg huffed, chewing her lollipop like it was the last one on earth. "It’s not a leash, Clarence. It’s a door. And maybe, just maybe, you should stop slamming them shut every time someone hands you a key."

He shook his head slowly. "You sound like Dean."

"Well, that explains the migraine," she muttered. Then, quieter, she continued, "He’s not your enemy, you know. Just because he didn’t fight the system doesn’t mean he’s part of it."

Castiel flinched.

Meg leaned her head against the window, watching the world blur. "Look. I’m not gonna play conscience. I’m the last person who should. But that offer? It’s sitting in front of you like a damn parachute. You can keep freefalling if you want, or you can pull the string."

He exhaled, long and slow.

They drove on in silence, until Meg said, too casually, "Hey, you pass my exit, I’m punching you in the ribs."

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t flinch either.

Just stared down the road, where the sky cracked open into something that almost looked like freedom.

The car slowed to a crawl in front of Meg’s building, a crooked stack of aging apartments leaning into the wind like it was tired of standing. She unbuckled her seatbelt with a dramatic sigh.

"Well," she said, twirling the lollipop stick between her fingers. "That was emotionally exhausting. Can’t wait to cry in the shower and pretend it’s the water."

Castiel let out a soft breath, barely a laugh.

She opened the door, paused, and leaned back in to press a kiss to his cheek, quick, familiar, almost careless. "Don’t screw yourself over out of guilt, Clarence. You’re not that noble."

Before he could say anything, she was gone, boots clicking against concrete, disappearing into the hallway without looking back.

He sat there for a moment, car engine idling like it was waiting for orders he wasn’t ready to give. Then, finally, he drove home.

***

The house was small. Unremarkable. The kind of place built for people who want quiet, not legacy.

He locked the door behind him and didn’t bother turning on the lights. The silence inside wrapped around him like something earned, not gifted.

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, boots still on, jacket hanging half-off his shoulders. The offer burned in his mind like afterimages on retinas. Amara’s voice when she handed him the envelope containing the offer. Calm and steady, like she hadn’t just changed the course of his life with a few words.

"You could fly again. You already proved you’re better than they ever let you be."

But he had made up his mind.

He wasn’t going to take it.

Because maybe… maybe they were right.

He stared down at his hands, calloused and still trembling faintly from the adrenaline that hadn’t quite drained. Fingers that had gripped the throttle like it was the only thing tethering him to himself.

'They were right to ground me.'

Because no matter how clean his record was, no matter how many hours of flight time he had or how well he’d memorized doctrine, the truth remained like a crack under the surface.

At ten years old, he had killed people. Not in self-defense, not by accident, but because he was told to.

Coerced. Trained.

He had looked a man in the eye and pulled the trigger because his father said, 'do it.'

And that didn’t go away just because he had learned to wear a uniform and follow a chain of command. That part of him, the part that obeyed without question, still existed. Had always existed, whispering under the surface every time he sat in a cockpit.

What if it came back during a mission? What if he flinched the wrong way? What if he froze up and cost someone else their life?

What if the next person at risk wasn’t a stranger… but Dean?

'I won’t risk them. I won’t risk him.'

Castiel pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until the pressure throbbed. He breathed slow, steady. Tried to hold onto that conviction like it would anchor him.

Then the knock at the door came just past midnight. Three short raps. Then silence.

He opened it without checking.

Dean stood there, hair tousled, t-shirt wrinkled like he’d left in a hurry. He had the look of someone who’d been pacing for hours before deciding to act.

They stared at each other for a moment. The porch light buzzed softly between them.

"Couldn’t sleep," Dean said finally. "Figured I’d come annoy you in person."

Castiel stepped aside. "I forgot you're pretty good at doing that."

Dean smirked but he looked relieved. He walked in like he’d been here before, which, technically, he had. Years ago. Back when they were still just cadets who hated each other slightly less than everyone else.

"Place still smells like soap and airplane fuel," Dean muttered, settling on the worn-out couch like it was muscle memory. "You never did learn how to make a place feel lived in."

Castiel stayed standing. "Maybe I wasn’t expecting to live in it."

Dean didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

"You remember that time we got chewed out by Colonel Harvelle for crashing the simulator?"

"You crashed it," Castiel corrected.

"You didn’t stop me."

"I warned you six times."

Dean shrugged, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Still the best fake landing I ever pulled off."

Castiel almost smiled. "We caught fire."

Dean laughed, an honest, short bark of a laugh. "Yeah. You smelled like burnt plastic for a week."

Silence drifted in again, this time softer. Easier.

Then Dean looked over, serious now. "You thinking about taking the deal?"

Castiel hesitated. "No."

Dean nodded, slowly. "Why not?"

"Because I don’t trust it. Because I don’t trust myself." He sat down finally, across from Dean. "Because I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not broken."

"You’re not broken."

"Then why was I the only one they kicked out?"

Dean looked away at that, jaw tight.

"I know I haven't entirely told you about what happened when I was ten, and I'm not planning to,” Castiel said, voice low. "But it scares the hell out of me. Because it followed me into every flight. Every training exercise. It’s not gone, Dean. It’s just quiet. And I don’t know what happens if it ever decides to speak again."

Dean was quiet for a long time. Then, softly, he said, "They’re not giving you back everything. Just a cockpit and a target."

Castiel looked at him.

"But if it’s enough to make you feel alive again, even for a second, then do it. Take it."

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady.

"I’ll be here when you land. No matter what."

The words hung there like heat in the air, too much, too bare, too kind. And so different from what Meg had said. Meg, sharp and fast and always pushing him to leap before thinking. She’d called it a door, a parachute. Dean called it what it was, a gamble.

Castiel sat back, breath shallow.

"I still don’t want to take it," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean nodded. Not angry. Not disappointed.

"Okay."

Just that.

Okay.

As if that answer didn’t make Castiel lesser in his eyes. As if not flying didn’t make him a coward.

As if he was still enough.

For the first time in a long while, Castiel didn’t feel like running. Just sitting there, with Dean’s quiet weight across the room, and the world outside still and dark.

The sky, for once, stayed silent.

And because of that, Castiel stood up too fast. The legs of the chair scraped harshly against the floor as he pushed it back. His body was stiff, like something inside him had snapped tight after spilling too much.

"Alright," he said. Not looking at Dean. "That’s enough. You should go."

Dean blinked. "Wait, what?"

"You should go." Castiel’s voice wasn’t angry, just distant. Dismissive. "I didn’t ask you to come here."

"No, but you opened the door," Dean shot back, rising to his feet too. "And you sure as hell didn’t mind bleeding all over the floor while I sat here."

"That was a mistake."

Dean stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"I didn’t mean to say all that," Castiel muttered, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "I don’t want you here. I didn’t ask for you."

"You just, what?" Dean laughed, incredulous. "You pour your damn soul out about why you won’t take the offer, and now I’m the problem?"

Castiel turned away. "I said go."

"No."

"I’m serious, Dean."

"So am I," Dean snapped. "You think you’re the only one walking around with scars? You think I was just killing time with you? That it didn’t mean something to me too?"

"It shouldn’t have."

"Well, it did. You think I didn’t notice when you just, disappeared?" Dean’s voice cracked around the edge. "No note. No call. You were gone before graduation week even started."

Castiel’s fists clenched. He didn’t look back. "That was the point."

"You didn’t even say goodbye, Cas."

Castiel finally turned around, and his expression was hard now. Cold.

"Why would I?" he said. "You had everything you wanted. Wings. A unit. A call sign. A future. What did you need a goodbye for?"

Dean flinched, but didn’t step back. "Because we were—" He stopped and exhaled. "Because we were getting close. Because it wasn’t just about beating each other anymore. It actually meant something."

"Something like what? Friendship?" Castiel said bitterly. "Don’t lie to yourself."

"Oh, I’m the liar now?"

"Yes." His voice rose. "Because what we had was a rivalry. Maybe with a little respect thrown in. But you don’t get to rewrite it now just because I broke in front of you."

Dean stepped forward, jaw tense. "You think I’m rewriting it? You think I don’t remember all those nights flying sim drills until one of us passed out? The way we pushed each other just to stay neck-and-neck?"

"That was competition," Castiel hissed. "Not connection."

Dean’s hands clenched into fists. "God, you’re so damn stubborn. I looked up to you, Cas. Even when I hated you. You made me better."

Castiel scoffed. "Well, I’m glad I could be your benchmark on the way to success."

"That’s not what I meant!"

"Isn’t it?" Castiel’s voice cracked now, the bitterness splintering into something sharp. "You got everything I wanted. You got to finish. You got to fly. You got to be free."

Dean went silent.

Castiel took a shaky breath and looked away again. "I was jealous of you. Every single minute as I packed all my things. I didn't want to watch you get everything I worked for. While I sat through interviews and board reviews and psych evals on my last day and heard the same thing over and over, 'we’re sorry, Castiel, but we can’t take the risk.'"

Dean’s shoulders dropped. "Cas…"

"I didn’t say goodbye," Castiel said, softer now. "Because it would’ve hurt too much."

There was a long pause between them.

Then Dean said, almost gently, "You could’ve told me."

"And what would you have done?" Castiel snapped, suddenly defensive again. "Flown slower to make me feel better? Given up your wings to stand in solidarity?"

"That’s not fair."

"It’s the truth."

Dean looked like he’d been slapped. He took a step back, eyes darkening. "You know what, man? You’re right. You didn’t ask me to come here. You never needed anyone, right? That was always your thing. Mr. Stone Wall. Mr. I-Fly-Alone."

Castiel opened his mouth, but closed it again.

"But I came anyway. Because I thought maybe, maybe, you wanted someone to see you for who you are, not what you did. I thought you wanted someone in your corner. Even if that someone used to be your rival."

Dean’s face twisted into something hurt. "But you don’t want that, do you? You just want to stew in it. Keep dragging that ten-year-old ghost around like a medal."

Castiel flinched. Hard. The room went silent.

Dean’s eyes widened slightly, like he just realized what he’d said a half-second too late.

"Cas—"

"Get out."

Dean’s breath caught.

Castiel’s voice was flat. "Now."

Dean hesitated, but Castiel had already turned his back again, body stiff, every muscle a wall. A fortress.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I didn’t mean—"

"Doesn’t matter."

"Cas."

Castiel opened the door. "Leave."

Dean looked at him for a long moment. Then, he walked out without another word.

He asked Dean to leave because if he stayed, if he kept looking at him like that, speaking with that calm certainty that always chipped at his resolve, Castiel knew he might start to believe him. He might start to hope again. And hope was dangerous.

Accepting Amara’s deal would mean opening the door. It would mean letting someone else pull the strings again.

Saying no was the only choice that still felt like his. The only thing in his life that hadn’t been dictated, forced, or stolen.

And if Dean stayed, Castiel was terrified he’d let go of that, too.

More than that, he didn’t want Dean to see him like this. Cracked open. Unsteady. All the sharp, disciplined edges he’d built around himself worn down to something raw.

Because it was one thing to lose control. It was another thing to do it in front of the one person whose opinion still cut the deepest.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Castiel stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched at his sides, chest rising and falling in shallow waves. The silence roared.

His cheek still stung from Meg’s kiss. His throat still burned from Dean’s words. And somewhere, beneath it all, his heart ached in a shape that looked far too much like regret.

Chapter Text

Six Flags Great Adventure
20th of June, 2012
Jackson Township, New Jersey, USA

***

Four days had passed since Castiel closed the door on Dean Winchester and everything that had come with him. His timing, his anger, his quiet confessions.

Castiel hadn’t heard from him since. No messages. No calls. No pounding on his door in the middle of the night with apologies wrapped in sarcasm or silence.

Just nothing.

A clean severance that didn’t feel clean at all. Castiel told himself that was good. That it was what he’d wanted. What he’d asked for.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was heavy, like something thick in the air that settled on Castiel’s shoulders whenever the stage lights dimmed and the backstage chatter quieted.

He threw away Amara’s offer on the second day. Crumpled the paper with steady fingers and dropped it into the hotel trash without a second thought. It felt anticlimactic, but final. That version of his life, the one that had been chasing him since childhood, had lost the right to haunt him.

Broadway rehearsals filled the silence, loud and chaotic and brilliant. There was something about a closing week that kept everyone raw, tempers flared, jokes landed too hard, and inside the dressing rooms, you could smell both sweat and sentiment.

The final performance of the tour ended in champagne, confetti, and a thunderous standing ovation. Castiel smiled until his cheeks hurt. Bowed, clapped others on the back, let them pull him into photographs he would never look at again.

Then someone said, "Six Flags. New Jersey. Next week. We’ve earned it," and no one disagreed.

They were going to New Jersey, no arguments, no excuses. One week of sun, stomach flips, and unfiltered joy before the real world dragged them all in different directions.

Castiel didn’t hesitate. Meg volunteered to come before he asked, because she always saw through him faster than anyone else. "If you’re planning to mope around and not enjoy yourself," she warned, tapping his chest, "I reserve the right to push you off a roller coaster."

Meg claimed the seat next to him in the van before anyone could blink, threw her arm over his shoulder and declared herself his date. Castiel didn’t fight it. She smelled like vodka and leather and freshly lit mischief, and if anyone could deflect the silence still living in his chest, it was her.

They met at the airport a day later, a whirl of duffel bags and half-buttoned jackets and Naomi trying to carry all her luggage by herself just to prove a point. Castiel wore sunglasses, hood up, looking vaguely like someone avoiding paparazzi, though no one there cared. Meg rolled her eyes as they got in line at security.

"God, you are so dramatic." Meg said, smiling as he teased Castiel. She wore cat-eye sunglasses and a neon hoodie that said “DON’T TOUCH ME I’M FAMOUS” in glitter. She handed him sour candy and insulted his posture. He didn’t answer. Just gave her the smallest, lopsided smile.

On the plane, they sat near the back. Meg shoved headphones into his lap. "Emergency show tunes. For when you remember the Air Force exists and start brooding again."

"I’m not brooding."

"You’re brooding in high definition."

The hotel was bright, carpeted in dizzying patterns, and smelled faintly of chlorine and waffle batter. Castiel and Meg checked in, ignoring the chorus of castmates loudly arguing over room arrangements and whether or not one of them actually needed four outfit changes per day. Their room faced the parking lot. Castiel didn’t mind. Meg said it fit his aesthetic.

The next morning came too fast, the hotel lobby buzzing with energy and caffeine. Naomi tossed him a lanyard with park tickets like it was a badge of honor. "Today, we ride everything. No fear. No regrets. Only screaming."

Meg leaned toward him. "She says that now, but I give it two hours before she’s crying over cotton candy."

They arrived at Six Flags in a van stuffed with castmates and bad musical covers on Bluetooth speakers. Castiel stepped into the sunlight, the smell of fried food and sunscreen already thick in the air. He was halfway through reading the map when he heard Naomi gasp.

"Holy crap," she said. "They came."

He turned and froze.

Dean.

Dean was at the front gate, leaning casually against a railing, sunglasses in his hand, a half-smile on his face as he talked to a few other pilots. One or two of them looked vaguely familiar from base events. Tall, sharp-featured, always looking like they belonged in a recruitment poster, but Castiel’s eyes only found Dean. He looked relaxed in jeans and a fitted tee under a bomber leather jacket, like someone who hadn’t spent the last week sitting in silence at the edge of a door.

And beside him, Anna Milton. One of their own castmates, arms linked with Dean like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Looks like Naomi invited that one guy with an awful mustache," Meg said softly. "And he brought the cavalry. And I’m guessing Anna brought Dean."

"Why would she—?"

"Because she’s not blind," Meg replied.

Castiel inhaled slowly. Steady. Controlled. "We should go in."

"Sure. Just pretend you didn’t almost trip over your own emotional trauma."

Inside, the park buzzed with the chaos of summer. Screams from coasters, kids running with melting ice cream, themed music playing over speakers. Their group scattered immediately, chasing rides and snacks and each other. Castiel stuck with Meg, quieter than usual. She didn’t press.

They hit the swings first, high above the park, wind in their faces. Meg shrieked with joy. Castiel just closed his eyes. On the ground again, they tried bumper cars, where Naomi drove like she was reenacting a demolition derby and one of their castmates somehow managed to spin in place the entire time. Castiel barely noticed Dean walking past their ring, laughing at something Anna said, until his eyes flicked to Castiel, for half a second. A glance. Nothing more. But it made Castiel’s chest tighten all over again.

Lunch brought the real gut punch.

The two groups merged at a picnic table, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Anna led Dean to the bench and dropped next to him with ease, already sliding a lemonade into his hand. Her arm brushed his once. Twice. No one noticed, except Castiel.

"Remember that photo?" Anna asked, laughing. "From the academy? With the mustache?"

Dean groaned. "You mean the legendary mustache."

"You looked like you lost a bet or something." Anna shot back, and the table exploded into laughter.

Castiel forced a smile as he picked at his fries, eyes flicking to them without meaning to. Dean didn’t pull away when Anna brushed his arm. He didn’t seem bothered when she leaned over to steal a bite of his funnel cake, her fingers brushing his. It was casual, familiar.

And it dug under Castiel’s skin like a splinter.

Meg noticed, of course. She always did. She reached for his lemonade without asking, took a long sip, and said under her breath, "You know what you look like right now?" she muttered, sipping from his lemonade.

He didn’t answer.

"A brooding protagonist in act two. Dark trench coat. Tension in the jaw. Watching his ex get cozy with someone else."

Castiel didn’t look up. "They’re not—"

"Sure," Meg said. "And I’m not enjoying this."

He glanced back at Dean, who was laughing again, sunlight catching his hair, his face open in a way Castiel hadn’t seen in weeks. It should’ve made him happy, but it didn’t.

"I don’t care who he’s with," Castiel muttered.

Meg offered him a napkin with a small, fake smile. "Wipe your denial. It’s showing."

They ended up in line for Kingda Ka, of course, with Naomi, Meg, and, somehow, Dean. The queue stretched forever, winding beneath fans and shade tarps, the air thick with heat and distant screams. Castiel stood behind Dean, watching as he chatted with one of the other castmates about how tame it looked.

"I mean, it’s cute," Dean said, arms folded, casual. "But I’ve pulled nine Gs in a pressurized suit. This’ll feel like getting pushed on a swing set."

"Guess we’ll see," someone joked.

Castiel stayed quiet. But he noticed the way Dean shifted his weight as the line crawled forward, the way his eyes lingered a little too long on the vertical climb ahead. He was playing it cool, smiling, teasing, mocking the ride before it had a chance to challenge him. The way Dean always did when he was trying to outrun his own nerves.

Castiel didn’t say anything. Just stepped into the front car when it was their turn and buckled in beside Dean like it didn’t matter.

"You ready, theatre boy?" Dean asked, flashing a grin.

"I thought this was supposed to be cute," Castiel replied.

Dean scoffed. "Still is."

The ride launched like a rocket. Screams tore from behind and above, wind blinding, stomachs lurching, the park dropping out beneath them in a blur of color and noise. Castiel didn’t scream. Dean did, but only for a second, then clamped his mouth shut, fists white-knuckled around the safety bar.

At the end, Dean stepped off the ride with a slow, theatrical groan. "Ten outta ten," he said loudly. "Would nap through it next time."

Castiel glanced sideways. Dean’s hair was flattened by wind, his face just a little pale. He said nothing.

Meg rejoined them from the exit ramp, eyes squinting behind her sunglasses. "You okay there, Maverick?"

Dean shot her a look. "Peachy."

She smirked. "You screamed louder than the toddler in row three."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Meg was already walking ahead, casually tossing, "Can’t fake it with people who know g-forces, honey."

Castiel bit back a laugh. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered, "I hate pilots-in-training. So smug."

"You raised her standards," Castiel said.

Dean grinned, crooked and brief. "Yeah, well. Now she’s your problem."

Castiel snorted. For a moment, everything was… almost fine.

That night, their group hit the hotel hot tub. It was packed, noisy, echoing with bad harmonies and clinking bottles. Anna was back beside Dean. Castiel leaned into a corner, sipping something overly sweet. Meg floated nearby, watching everyone with quiet amusement.

Dean looked over once, like he was going to say something. But he didn’t.

Meg murmured, "You should talk to him."

Castiel said nothing.

"Clarence."

Still nothing.

The trip blurred. Fireworks. Arcade games. Nighttime rides. Castiel and Dean existed on parallel tracks, close, but not touching.

On the last night, Castiel found himself alone near a quiet game booth. A kid was trying to win a stuffed bear with all the determination of a general in battle. He almost stepped in, almost.

Dean appeared beside him.

"He’s holding the dart wrong," Dean said softly.

"I know."

"You could help him."

"He’s not asking."

Dean looked at him. "You always do that. Stand back. Watch."

Castiel finally turned. "What do you want?"

Dean shrugged. "Just… wanted to say I’m sorry."

"For what?"

"For not calling. For not knocking again. For saying the wrong thing. Pick one."

Castiel looked away.

"I figured you didn’t want to hear it. But I still should’ve said it."

There was a long silence.

"I threw it away," Castiel said. "The offer."

"I know."

"I didn’t take it. I don’t think I ever wanted it, not really. Just… the idea of it."

Dean nodded. "I get that."

Castiel looked at him. "I didn’t want you to see me like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I care about what you think."

Dean exhaled.

"Even after all this?" he asked.

Castiel shrugged. "Especially after all this."

A beat passed. Then another.

Dean smiled softly. "So… you wanna win a stuffed bear?"

Castiel huffed and walked away from Dean, the smile on his face wide.

***

Back at the hotel, everything was quieter.

The sun had gone down hours ago, and the chaos of the amusement park gave way to hallway laughter, the hiss of showers, the murmur of television sets behind thin walls.

Castiel dropped his bag onto the bed and sat at the edge of it without taking off his shoes. Meg had peeled off earlier with a bottle of wine and the promise of a bath bomb, mumbling something about self-care and turning off the world for a bit.

The room smelled faintly of sweat, fabric softener, and the sugary residue of funnel cake. Castiel ran a hand through his hair, staring at the space in front of him like it held something he couldn’t name.

A soft knock at the door.

He didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he stood, crossed the short stretch of carpet, and opened it.

Dean stood there, still in his park clothes. His hair was a little messy, and his shoulders looked like they’d just come from holding up too much weight.

Neither of them said anything for a second.

Dean shifted his weight. "Hey."

Castiel leaned on the doorframe. "Hello, Dean."

"You free?"

Castiel blinked. "It’s nearly midnight."

"Yeah. Thought we could talk. If you’re not too tired."

Castiel didn’t move. But he stepped back and left the door open.

Dean entered without fanfare, letting it close behind him. He stood in the middle of the room for a beat, glancing at the two beds, the muted lamp, the unpacked suitcase in the corner. "Meg gone?"

"Probably passed out with her headphones on," Castiel said, sitting back down.

Dean nodded and sat on the opposite bed.

A long moment passed in silence. Not heavy this time. Just… tentative.

"You looked like you were having fun today," Castiel said finally.

Dean chuckled. "Yeah. I was pretending."

"I noticed."

"I figured."

Castiel tilted his head. "You hate roller coasters."

"I respect roller coasters," Dean corrected. "In the same way I respect nuclear warheads. But yeah. I hate ‘em."

"So why fake it?"

Dean leaned back on his hands. "Because everyone was having a good time. And I didn’t want to be the guy who ruins that."

Castiel looked at him, but he didn’t argue.

The room filled again with soft quiet. A car passed outside. Someone laughed down the hall.

Then Dean said, "I’m not heading back to base right away."

Castiel looked up.

"Taking a few days off," Dean added. "I’ve got… stuff."

"Stuff," Castiel repeated.

Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded card. He handed it across.

Castiel took it carefully. It was a wedding invitation. Beach ceremony. Tomorrow.

Samuel Winchester & Jessica Moore. 3:00 PM. Dress semi-formal, no shoes required.

Castiel stared at it.

"My brother’s getting married," Dean said.

Castiel blinked. He turned the card over in his hands.

"I’m going," Dean said. "Obviously. But Sam said I could bring someone. Thought I’d ask."

"Why not Anna?"

Dean looked confused for a second, then surprised. "What?"

"You could’ve invited her," Castiel said, keeping his voice even. "She seemed comfortable today. With you."

Dean was quiet for a beat. "Yeah, I guess she did."

Castiel didn’t look away.

Dean finally said, "She’s not the one I wanted to ask."

Something flickered in Castiel’s expression, too quick to catch if you didn’t know what to look for.

Dean added, "I know it’s short notice. I know you’ve got your cast, and your plans, and your whole future that doesn’t involve people like me showing up at your door."

"It’s not that," Castiel said, too quickly.

Dean looked at him. "Then what is it?"

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the card again, fingers curling slightly around it. "I don’t know if I’d fit there."

"It’s not a test," Dean said. "It’s a wedding. There’s cake and bad dancing and probably some cheap fireworks. You show up, eat, drink, survive, go home."

Castiel said nothing.

Dean’s voice softened. "I just thought it might be good. You and me. Not… fighting. You don’t have to stay. But if you want to, you can."

Castiel didn’t look at him. "I’ll think about it."

Dean nodded, slowly. "Okay."

He stood, ran a hand through his hair, and walked toward the door.

"Dean."

Dean paused, hand on the knob.

"Thank you," Castiel said.

Dean didn’t turn around. "Yeah. You too."

Then he was gone.

Castiel sat alone for a long time, the invitation resting on his knees like a weight he didn’t know how to lift.

Chapter Text

Long Beach Island
28th of June, 2012
Beach Haven, New Jersey, USA

***

Castiel didn’t sleep.

He lay on his side for a long time after Dean left, the folded wedding invitation still in his hand. It sat against his chest like it had weight, like it was heavier than it should be. He turned it over again and again in the dark, fingers tracing the edges of the cardstock until it started to fray.

He’d asked, why not Anna? And Dean had said, she’s not the one I wanted to ask.

Stupid. That was stupid.

That was the kind of answer that sat in the pit of your stomach and refused to move. It was vague and warm and reckless, the kind of sentence people said when they didn’t want to deal with the consequences of saying anything more honest.

At around 2 a.m., he got up. He didn’t turn on the lights. Just paced the floor, back and forth, his bare feet silent against the scratchy hotel carpet. The minibar hummed. The air conditioner clicked on, off. He could hear someone two rooms down laughing in their sleep.

It was easier, sometimes, to remember them back then. In the Academy.

When things were simpler, still sharp and painful, yes, but contained. Back then, Dean had been his rival. Nothing more. They’d sniped in the classroom, sparred in simulators, took every chance to one-up each other.

But every time Castiel thought he’d hated him, something small would ruin it. A stupid smile, or Dean passing him a note during a lecture that said, 'you’re the only one who got it right,' or a moment in the mess hall where their trays knocked together and Dean had said, "Sit with me, dumbass, or I’ll look like I don’t have friends."

They weren’t friends. Not really. But sometimes it had felt like they might be. Just barely.

At some point, light started bleeding in through the blinds. Gray morning haze, slow and uninvited. Castiel blinked against it and realized his fingers were still clenched.

By the time breakfast rolled around, the cast had regrouped in the lobby. Naomi was flopped across a sofa, hungover and cheerful. Someone had three croissants in their hands. The other was trying to organize Ubers.

"You’re staying behind?" Naomi asked when she noticed him without his bags.

Castiel nodded. "A cousin. In the area. Haven’t seen them in a while."

"Didn’t know you had family in Jersey," Anna muttered.

"Yeah, well," Castiel said, "they don’t advertise."

Meg squinted at him. Then pulled him into a hug before he could escape it.

"Don’t chicken out," she whispered in his ear.

"I’m not."

"Clarence."

"I said I’m not."

She let go, but gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him. Then she was gone, her duffel dragging behind her, her voice already chiming in with the others as they argued over bagels and playlists.

The hotel emptied quickly after that. Castiel stood in the lobby until the noise thinned out, until only the soft lounge music and the hum of the vending machines were left. He glanced at the card again. 3:00 PM. Beachside. No shoes required.

He walked.

Not toward the venue. Not yet. Just out.

Along the edge of the streets until they blurred into sidewalks, then gravel, then sand. His shoes hung from his hand. The wind was sharp, but not cruel. The sky had turned soft and pale, that muted blue that always felt like nostalgia before anything had even happened.

The invitation was still in his pocket. He didn’t look at it again.

He walked because it gave him an excuse to not decide. The beach stretched out beside him, footprints left behind in messy, tangled patterns. Children ran ahead of parents. Dogs barked at gulls. Somewhere, music drifted, soft and distant. The kind of music you only heard when something important was happening.

He followed it. Slowly. A rhythm pulling him forward, step by uncertain step.

It wasn’t until he crested the edge of a dune that he saw it.

White folding chairs. Twinkling lights strung between poles. People standing in clusters, dressed in light linen and soft colors. The waves rolled up behind it all like background noise, gentle and constant.

And Dean. Off to the side, near the front. Wearing a pale suit that didn’t quite hide the tension in his shoulders. He was grinning at something Sam had just said. It looked real.

Castiel stopped walking.

He stood there at the edge of it all, just far enough not to be noticed, the sea air whipping at the edges of his jacket.

He didn’t belong here. Not really.

These were Dean’s people. Dean’s brother. Dean’s world. Castiel was the question mark that hovered at the edge of every file, every mission report, every conversation that didn’t want to name what had happened all those years ago.

He should turn around. But his feet didn’t move.

Somewhere in the ceremony, laughter rippled. Dean said something under his breath that made the old man beside him elbow him in the ribs. Sam wiped his eyes. Jess grinned through her veil like she already knew the answer to every unasked question.

Castiel stayed where he was. Quiet. Just watching.

The ceremony ended in the kind of warmth that only late-afternoon sun and salt air could create. Sam kissed Jess, and it was soft and sure, like they’d done this a thousand times already. People cheered. Someone popped a champagne bottle too early. A dog barked.

Castiel had inched a little closer by then, not quite in the seating area but no longer hidden in the dunes. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head low. He could still walk away, still pretend this wasn’t happening. But then Dean looked up.

Their eyes met across the crowd.

Dean didn’t blink. He didn’t look surprised. Just relieved. Like he’d been scanning the horizon all afternoon and had finally found what he was looking for.

He didn’t wave or call out. He just moved. Stepped off the small platform, made his way through the smiling bodies and buffet lines and lawn games, and came to stand beside Castiel like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You came," Dean said quietly.

Castiel didn’t look at him right away. "I wasn’t going to."

"What changed your mind?"

Castiel’s mouth quirked. "You looked like you were having too much fun."

Dean laughed under his breath. "Jealous?"

"Maybe."

Dean turned toward him fully then, blinking. But Castiel just smiled, small and unbothered, like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in the conversation.

"C’mon," Dean said. "You should meet the bride and groom."

Castiel hesitated, then nodded. They walked together toward the reception tables set up under strings of gold lights. Jess was radiant up close, freckles and curls and glittering eyes. Sam looked nothing like Dean. Taller, softer, like he’d been made from different parts entirely, but the moment he saw Castiel, he grinned.

"So you’re the one," Jess said.

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "The one?"

"The one who made Dean look like he swallowed a firecracker all week."

Dean groaned. "Ignore her."

Castiel smiled faintly.

Jess extended a hand anyway. "Jessica Winchester. Sam’s better half."

"Castiel."

"She knows," Dean muttered. "Don’t let her innocent look fool you."

Jess ignored him. "Thanks for coming. It means a lot. Especially since I hear you’re hard to convince."

"Depends who’s asking," Castiel said, glancing at Dean.

Sam laughed. "Hope you like cake. And fireworks. And speeches that go on too long."

As if on cue, the sound of jet engines split the sky.

Everyone looked up. A pair of F-35s roared overhead in a tight formation, sunlight gleaming off the wings as they curved inland over the beach and disappeared behind the clouds.

The crowd cheered. Someone whistled.

Jess shaded her eyes and laughed. "Boys out playing with the tax money again."

Sam nudged her. "Respect the flyboys."

"I do! I just can’t believe some of them are in their twenties. That’s insane. I couldn’t even keep a houseplant alive at that age."

Dean snorted. "We don’t water jets, Jess."

"Could’ve fooled me."

The music kicked up then. Old jazz, something you could sway to. Couples filtered toward the sand-cleared area near the lights where a makeshift dance floor had been set up. Jess pulled Sam toward it with no warning, already moving to the rhythm. Sam followed like he didn’t even need to think.

Castiel and Dean lingered.

"We don’t have to," Dean said quickly. "If you don’t want—"

"Who's allergic to fun now, huh?" Castiel deadpanned.

Dean blinked again, then huffed a laugh. "Alright, smartass."

They walked toward the floor together, slow, easy. The kind of movement that came when silence wasn’t a threat anymore.

"I feel like," Castiel said, as they swayed in time with the music, "the world would be a better place if humans just sang and danced more."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "That a scientific opinion?"

"Something like that."

Dean looked over his shoulder, glanced at the band, and then, to Castiel’s complete surprise, started singing along softly with the next verse.

Castiel blinked.

"You’re kidding."

Dean shrugged, still swaying. "Took vocal classes in high school. Helps with breathing. Plus, Sam made me do Grease once."

Castiel stared at him. "You’re singing in public."

"Can’t be worse than the time you quoted Les Mis at an airfield."

"That was one time. And it was very windy."

Dean grinned. "Don’t deflect. You’re impressed."

"I’m reconsidering everything I know about you."

Dean leaned in a little. "Maybe that’s a good thing."

Castiel didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away either.

They danced until the lights turned amber and the sky deepened. Until plates were cleared and barefoot children ran through leftover flower petals. Until a woman with a clipboard started reminding people about checkout times and return buses.

Dean stepped away first. "I should help Sam get stuff back to the cars."

Castiel nodded. "Go. I’ll—" He hesitated. "I’ll walk back."

"The hotel’s like five minutes away."

"I know."

Dean gave him a look, then pressed his hand lightly to Castiel’s shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

Castiel lingered near the edge of the dunes again, hands in his pockets. The invitation was gone now, somewhere discarded, but he could still feel its shape. He wasn’t sure what he’d done tonight. Whether it was the right thing, or the brave thing, or just an emotional one.

He turned to start heading back toward the hotel, and found Sam standing a few feet behind him.

Castiel paused. "Did Dean send you?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope. This one’s all me."

They started walking together.

"Jess likes you," Sam said.

"She’s perceptive."

"She’s also never wrong about people."

They walked a few more steps in silence, the crunch of sand soft underfoot.

"Dean used to talk about you. Not in words he’d admit were compliments, but," Sam smiled, "he did."

Castiel looked away.

They walked in silence again for a while, the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled. The sand was cool under their feet now, moonlight casting soft shadows between the dunes. In the distance, the laughter and music of the reception were fading, replaced by the rhythmic hush of the waves and the quiet chirp of insects coming alive with the night.

It was Sam who broke the silence.

"You know… growing up, Dean used to act like everything was fine. Like carrying the weight of the world was just part of being him."

Castiel glanced at him. Sam had his hands in his pockets, head down as he walked, his voice low but clear.

"He ever tell you who our dad was?" Sam asked.

Castiel shook his head. "No. He never talked about family."

Sam gave a quiet laugh, almost like he wasn’t surprised. "Figures. Dean doesn’t bring him up much. You’d have to drag it out of him."

He stopped walking and looked out toward the water for a second before continuing. "Our dad was General John Winchester."

Castiel blinked, caught off guard. He'd thought about them being related, but he had never really asked Dean directly about it. He didn't want to seem like he was interested.

Sam gave a small nod, like he’d been waiting for that reaction. "Yeah. That one."

Castiel stared at the shoreline, silent.

"He was everything to the Air Force. Decorated, feared, respected. The kind of man who didn’t raise sons, he forged them. And Dean? Dean was the first draft."

Something tightened behind Castiel’s ribs.

"When our mom died, Dean was still a kid," Sam continued. "He never got the chance to be anything else after that. Our dad made sure he stayed on track. Made sure he would carry the name, the uniform, the legacy. Everything."

"And you?" Castiel asked quietly.

"I got out," Sam said. "Because of Dean. He took all of it. Every burden. Every ounce of pressure our father had. And he used it to build a wall around me. Got me out, into Stanford. Paid for what our dad refused to. Dean basically raised me all on his own. And he told me to leave and never look back. So I did."

Castiel looked down. The sand moved around his feet like it didn’t want to hold anyone in place.

"I thought he joined the Air Force because he wanted to," Castiel said eventually.

Sam looked at him. "He wanted to be a mechanic. Open his own shop. Fix things with his hands. Cars, bikes, planes, didn’t matter. But he never got to choose. He thought maybe, if he did it all right, if he flew the best, led the best, carried the name well enough, he could still make our dad proud. Even after he died."

Castiel’s throat tightened, but he didn’t speak.

"He never got to enjoy any of it," Sam added. "Not really. Not until you came along. You made the Academy tolerable for him, even if he’d never admit it. And last week? That was his first time at an actual amusement park."

Castiel turned toward him slowly, not entirely sure if Sam was joking or not.

"I’m serious," Sam said. "Dean told me about it. He didn’t know what to do with half the rides. Just followed you guys around like he was trying to play catch-up on a childhood he didn’t have."

Castiel said nothing, but the words hit hard.

It was funny. They both looked at each other like the other had it easier. But Dean and Castiel were the same. Raised for someone else’s purpose. Fighting something they didn’t choose. Afraid to take what they actually want.

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment. The wind brushed past them. The sea kept breathing.

"I never knew," he murmured.

"I didn’t think you did," Sam replied. "But I thought maybe… maybe it’s time someone told you."

They stood there for a while longer, side by side, the moon above them like a quiet witness. And Castiel thought, Dean and him were just two sides of the same damn coin.

"I’m not gonna tell you what to do," Sam said gently. "I think you’ve had enough of people doing that your whole life. But I’ll say this, people spend a lot of time waiting for clean answers. For certainty. You’re not gonna get it. Not in this world. Not with a guy like him."

Castiel stopped walking.

Sam turned toward him. "But if you’re looking for someone who’ll stay when it gets hard? Someone who’ll fight for you, even if it kills him? That’s Dean."

Castiel’s throat tightened.

"I don’t think he knows how to ask for that in return," Sam added. "But I think he’s hoping you’ll give it anyway."

Castiel didn’t speak. Then Sam gave a quiet nod and patted him on the shoulder.

"Goodnight, Castiel."

And then he turned and walked away, back toward the light.

Castiel stood alone under the stars, the sound of waves crashing just behind him, and for once, he didn’t try to outrun the feeling that was rising in his chest.

***

Castiel didn’t go back with the others.

The wedding had long since ended. The music faded. The lights dimmed. And when Sam gave him a gentle nod and a hand on the shoulder, Castiel only nodded back. No words. Just understanding.

As Castiel walked, he kept thinking about what Sam had said. "He never got to enjoy any of it."

Castiel hadn’t known. Not really. Hadn’t realized how much of Dean’s past was shaped by sacrifice. Not just the kind they sung about in operas or written in scripts, but the quiet, invisible kind that unfolded behind closed doors. The kind that looked like raising a younger brother alone when no one else would.

Castiel passed a shuttered store, the glass fogged from the inside. His reflection was faint, nearly gone. He didn’t look like himself tonight. Or maybe this was what he looked like, stripped of stage makeup and flightsuit, removed from the performances he’d used to survive, whether in uniform or onstage.

He thought about Dean on the tarmac the first time they met. How sharp he looked, how confident. But now, all Castiel could picture was the version Sam had described. The boy carrying a brother through grief, giving up everything he could’ve been, reshaping himself into what someone else needed.

And what did Castiel need?

He didn’t know. He’d spent so long being brilliant at what he did. Whether in the air or under stage lights, that he had forgotten how to just be with someone without performing. Without rivalries. Without roles.

Sam’s words still looped in his head, soft but immovable. 'He never got to enjoy any of it. Not really. Until you came along.'

Castiel didn’t know what to do with that.

It felt like something he’d wanted to hear. A truth he’d long hoped for. And yet now, it sat in him like a weight. He wasn’t sure if it was meant to comfort him or give him caution.

He remembered dancing. How it felt to hold Dean at arm’s length and know that the night would end eventually. That some music always does. And that afterward, everyone returns to what they were before.

Castiel reached the hotel corner and paused. The awning glowed, familiar and distant. A group of wedding guests sat just inside the lobby bar, their laughter bright and harmless. A cab idled by the curb, then pulled away. And still, he didn’t move.

He wasn’t ready to be alone with the silence of his room. Not tonight. Not after Sam had unknowingly opened a door he couldn’t close again.

Because now, Castiel couldn’t stop wondering whether Dean had smiled like that. Guarded, and half-buried for years. Whether he had ever been allowed to want something for himself.

And whether Castiel had made it harder.

He pressed his hands lightly to his head, let his eyes close, and didn’t ask himself the question he was most afraid of.

If Dean will be happier with someone who reminded him of peace, not pressure.

The hotel room was dim when he entered.

He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t need them. The glow from the terrace window was enough. The moonlight silvering the white sheets, the ripple of waves audible even through the glass. The same tide that had been there when they danced.

Castiel sat down on the edge of the bed, his jacket folded neatly beside him, the salt air clinging faintly to the sleeves.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the floor.

He should’ve felt something clearer by now. Relief. Certainty. Longing, even. But what sat with him wasn’t one thing, it was a tangle of everything. Sam’s voice, the warmth of Dean’s hand, the music still echoing faintly in his mind. The sharpness of silence after.

He closed his eyes.

And there it was.

A different night. A different room.

Dean, sitting against a hallway wall, collar undone, hair mussed, sweat drying on his temple after a long day. Training exercises, exams, too many instructors barking from both sides of their heads. They were younger then. Sharper. Rougher around the edges. But even back then, Dean had looked at him like he was trying to figure out something too big to ask out loud.

It was a memory of them when Dean asked him.

“You ever stop?”

Castiel had blinked at him.

“Thinking. Working. Being better than everyone. You ever just… stop?”

He hadn’t known how to answer at first. The question felt like a joke. Like just another jab in the long list of things they used to throw at each other. But Dean had said it lightly, and there was a weight behind it, the kind Dean never let people see unless he was too tired to hide it.

And now, sitting in a quiet hotel room with the ocean at his back and Dean’s hands still etched into memory, he wasn’t so sure.

Back then, he hadn’t understood the tone.

The weariness in Dean’s voice. The quiet between the words. The way he’d said "being better than everyone" like it hurt. Like he was admitting something without saying it directly.

Like he wasn’t just talking about Castiel’s restlessness, but the distance it put between them.

The rivalry had always been there. Ever since they met. Sharp, electric, addictive. It had pushed them both higher, harder, faster. But maybe Dean was tired of always being on opposite sides. Maybe he had been for a long time.

Castiel remembered what he said, clear and simple.

"No."

Dean had laughed. He hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t explained. Just let the silence sit between them like it was enough. And Castiel, in all his precision, all his discipline, had let it go, like he always did.

Now, Castiel realized something else.

Maybe Dean had asked because he didn’t want to fight anymore. Maybe he was trying to find a place where the rivalry ended. Where they could just be… two people. No ranks. No competition. No armor. Maybe that night, all Dean wanted was a moment of stillness, with him.

And Castiel had missed it.

He stood and walked to the window, the glass cool beneath his fingertips. Outside, the waves rolled on, tireless. Gentle. Eternal.

He closed his eyes.

Tonight had been different. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just soft. And maybe Dean had been reaching again, quietly, without asking. Maybe today wasn’t just about the wedding or the music. Maybe it was another question.

You ever stop?

Not just the work. Not just the thinking.

But the wall between them.

Castiel leaned his forehead against the window, wondering if Dean was already sleeping. Then this crazy thought just popped up in his mind and now he couldn't go back to bed and sleep.

He didn’t even hesitate this time.

There had been so many moments before. So many nights when Castiel had stood in front of Dean’s door with his hand raised and never knocked. Not tonight. Not after the dance. Not after Sam’s words. Not after everything that had bloomed in the silence between them and refused to die.

His knuckles rapped once against the door. Firm. Immediate.

There was the sound of movement from inside. A pause. Then the creak of hinges and Dean blinking at him, barefoot in a T-shirt and worn plaid pants, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Cas?"

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He was still catching his breath, like he’d run the entire way from the shoreline up to this hallway. Maybe he had. Or maybe his heart had just never stopped racing since the moment Dean had looked at him under the lanterns and swayed without saying a word.

"I need to show you something," Castiel said.

Dean squinted. "It’s past midnight."

"I know."

"You been drinking?"

"No."

Dean leaned on the doorframe, one brow raised. "You sure? Because this feels like a post-wedding breakdown."

"I’m fine," Castiel said. "I just—I need to show you something. Tonight."

Dean blinked at him again. His hand scratched the back of his neck. He looked tired. Soft around the edges. Beautiful in the kind of way Castiel never let himself dwell on for too long.

"You’re not gonna tell me what it is?"

"No."

"You gonna kill me?"

"I would have done it already."

Dean huffed, amused despite himself. "Okay. Fair."

He glanced back into the room like he was checking for something, then pulled the door all the way open and stepped aside.

"Give me five. You better not be dragging me to another secret wedding."

Castiel didn’t smile. He waited.

Fifteen minutes later, they were on the road.

Dean drove, one arm slung lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting against the window. The lights of the coast faded behind them in a blur of soft yellow and intermittent green. The highways were mostly empty at this hour, save for the occasional semi or restless night driver. The '67 Chevy Imapala hummed beneath them like a ghost.

"You know," Dean said after a few miles, "if this ends with you showing me a cursed mirror in a haunted forest, I’m going to push you in first."

"I’m not showing you anything cursed."

"Well, now I’m disappointed."

Castiel didn’t rise to the bait. He hadn’t said a word since they got in the car.

Dean glanced at him sideways. "So… we gonna talk about it?"

"About what?"

"About how you showed up at my room like a ghost bride and told me to drive."

"I didn’t say drive."

"You looked like someone whose voice was going to crack if he said anything else. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like that. Even during combat drills."

Castiel pressed his hand flat against the window.

Dean’s voice softened. "You okay?"

"I don’t know."

"Okay." Dean nodded. "That’s fair."

They didn’t talk for a while after that. It was a few minutes before Dean spoke again.

"Should I be scared?"

"No."

"Well now I’m nervous."

They arrived just past 1:30 a.m.

The skating rink sat like a quiet shrine in the dark, glass panels faintly fogged, the fluorescent lights inside left dim but steady, like someone had forgotten to close properly. There were no cars in the lot. No signs of movement.

Dean pulled the car into a space near the entrance but didn’t shut off the engine.

"This it?"

Castiel nodded.

Dean gave him a long look. "You really gonna break into an ice rink in the middle of the night?"

"It’s not breaking in."

"You got a key?"

"No."

Dean threw his hands up. "So we’re breaking in."

"It’s not locked."

Dean narrowed his eyes, suspicious. But when Castiel got out of the car and started walking, he followed.

Sure enough, the side entrance clicked open under Castiel’s hand.

The air inside the rink was cold, still laced with the sterile, metallic scent of skate polish and faint pine-scented cleaner. Castiel’s breath misted faintly in front of him as he sat down on the wooden bench beside the rink, elbows on his knees, watching the figure out on the ice.

The girl moved like she was born on skates. Not performing, just gliding. Arms loose at her sides, hair tied back in a loose bun. There were no spotlights. No music. Just the low scrape of blades on ice and the kind of focus that said she’d done this every night for years.

Dean sat beside him, arms crossed loosely, one ankle resting over the other knee.

"She yours?" Dean asked after a beat. "Like, student? Protégé? Mysterious redheaded twin?"

"No," Castiel said.

Dean tilted his head. "So we drove across the city to stalk a stranger?"

"She’s not a stranger."

Dean raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. He knew that tone. He waited.

"Her name is Charlie Bradbury," Castiel said.

Dean looked over at him. "Dunno who that is, but okay. And what are we doing here?"

Castiel didn’t answer. He stared at the center of the ice, at the way Charlie’s blades whispered over it, and said nothing for a long time.

"My name isn’t Castiel," he said at last.

Dean blinked. "Are you having a stroke?"

"I mean, it is now. It has been. For years. But it wasn’t the name I was born with. My name used to be Jimmy Novak."

Dean leaned forward, frowning. "Okay…"

Dean turned toward him slowly and glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

Castiel’s fingers curled together. "It wasn’t for show. Or privacy. Or vanity. I changed it because I didn’t want to be found."

Dean said nothing. He didn’t move. Just sat there, letting Castiel speak.

"I was raised in Pontiac. Small town, tight streets, fences everyone painted the same shade of white like it made them feel safer."

That earned him a blink, but still no interruption. Castiel’s voice grew quieter.

"But they weren’t safe. Not from the man who lived in my house."

Dean’s brow furrowed slightly. Castiel didn’t look at him.

"My father was a serial killer."

The silence fractured like glass but Castiel didn’t let it stop him.

"Not just the kind you read about. The kind who killed for control. Power. Patterns. He had rules. Victim types. Schedules. And he made me help him clean."

Dean’s expression shifted slowly, not shocked, exactly. Just steady. Listening.

He went perfectly still. This isn’t something he can joke about. He wouldn’t cut Castiel off mid-sentence. He’d let him speak, watching every word like it might unravel everything he thought he knew about the man next to him.

"I didn’t understand what I was doing at first. I was a kid. But as I got older, I knew. I knew what the stains meant. I knew the names that showed up in the news."

Castiel’s jaw clenched.

"I wanted to stop him. I tried. But he put the knife in my hand instead."

Dean’s voice was rough. "Cas—"

"I didn’t have a choice," Castiel said, sharp and fast, before Dean could say anything else. "That’s what I told myself every time. Every time he made me watch. Every time I had to stand still, or press down, or stay quiet. He said if I didn’t, he’d kill me. He made me kill people, said he was giving me control."

Dean didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The only sound was Charlie’s blades in the distance.

Castiel exhaled slowly. "The night the FBI stormed our house, he was going to make me kill again. A man he’d been watching for weeks. A single father. Lived nearby. The kind of person you wouldn’t notice in a crowd."

He paused.

"Charlie's father." He turned, finally, to meet Dean’s eyes.

Dean blinked. Looked toward the figure on the ice, Charlie, arms out, skating backward into a soft turn.

"She was the same age as me," Castiel said. "Asleep upstairs when my father took hers from their house. Her father survived. The FBI came in our house, in the basement where it all happened, and my father was shot and killed."

Dean’s jaw tensed, his hands tightening over his knees.

"They didn’t charge me," Castiel said. "They said I was a victim. That I was too young. That I’d been manipulated."

"You were," Dean said quietly.

Castiel looked down. "But I still killed people."

"Because he made you. He was a monster. That’s not on you."

"I still did it."

Dean didn’t answer. Not right away.

"They put me in foster care," Castiel continued. "Group homes. I didn’t speak for a year. And when I turned seventeen, I legally changed my name. Left Pontiac. Left Jimmy Novak behind."

He glanced at Charlie again.

"She never knew. She didn’t recognize me when we met, years later. She came to a Broadway show. Said I looked familiar, but figured it was just because she saw me on stage. We had coffee. She made me laugh, even when I didn’t want to. And she never remembered that night. She was too young. Or maybe she blocked it out."

Dean was quiet. His gaze was somewhere distant now, still watching Charlie but not really seeing her.

Castiel folded his hands. "I joined the Academy because I wanted to be someone else. I wanted a name that stood for discipline. For precision. For control. I thought maybe if I could fly, I could leave the weight behind."

He drew in a breath.

"But eventually, they were able to pull out all my records. You know they wouldn't just overlook what happened. I was dismissed. Quietly. No appeal. No hearing. They said I was more of a danger to them than to the enemy."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Dean turned to him, expression unreadable.

"I didn’t want you to know what I’ve done," Castiel said. "Or what I carry. Or how close I came to being just like him."

The rink buzzed overhead. Charlie’s skates slowed as she glided toward the far end, unaware of the weight hanging over the two men watching her.

Castiel’s voice dropped lower.

"Because I didn’t want you to hate me more than you probably already do."

Dean said nothing.

He just stared ahead, jaw tight, shoulders unmoving.

And Castiel felt it, the cold, crawling fear in his gut. The silence that always came after a secret finally spilled, when you waited to see if everything you were afraid of losing was already gone.

He swallowed.

"I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you, Dean."

Dean shifted, slowly. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Jesus, Cas. You've been carrying all that this whole time?"

Castiel blinked.

Dean turned his head, looked him dead in the eye.

"I still prefer you," he said. "Jimmy or Castiel. You’re still you."

Castiel’s breath caught.

"You think this changes anything?" Dean went on. "You really thought I’d ditch you? After all that training? You owe me at least six breakfast runs."

Castiel exhaled sharply. "Dean—"

"I’m serious." Dean leaned in, elbows on his knees. "You’ve been punishing yourself your whole life. You never needed me to join in."

Castiel couldn’t look at him. His throat was too tight.

"Hey." Dean’s voice softened. "Guess we’re both screwed up. Kinda takes the pressure off, huh?"

Castiel felt the breath knock out of him. And for a moment, everything in him just stilled.

Castiel hadn’t planned to say anything. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe. For years, the weight of it had settled quietly into the corners of his life. Hidden beneath medals, lines from scripts, call signs, and coded rivalry. He had built a world that functioned only if no one ever asked about what came before.

But Dean… Dean had asked without meaning to. Not in words, but in the way he looked at Castiel during the dance. In the way he sat beside him tonight and didn’t flinch, didn’t press, didn’t run. And that scared Castiel more than anything. Because it made him want to be known. Truly. Fully. Even if it meant being ruined by the truth.

He hadn’t expected Dean to stay.

He hadn’t expected anything but silence and a quiet goodbye, maybe even disgust. But Dean just looked at him, and said he still preferred him.

Like he wasn’t broken.

Like he wasn’t someone to fear.

And somehow, that undid him more than hatred ever could.

Because the truth wasn’t just something Castiel needed to share, it was something he owed Dean. After all the fights, the rivalry, the things unsaid between them. If there was one person in the world who deserved to know the whole of him and still choose to stay…

It was Dean.

Then, Charlie turned on the ice, skated toward the edge, and then her head tilted. Her eyes landed on the two of them.

She slowed.

Then skated faster.

"Oh my God!" she shouted, leaping over the barrier like she’d done it a thousand times.

Castiel stood just in time for her to tackle him in a hug that nearly knocked him off the bench.

"Castiel! You didn’t tell me you were in town! And you showed up at my sanctuary like a drama king and didn’t even bring donuts—oh my god, who is this?"

Dean opened his mouth.

"This is Dean," Castiel said, still stunned from the hug.

Charlie grinned. "Hi Dean. You look like the kind of guy who gets arrested for joyriding a fighter jet."

Dean blinked. Then snorted. "That’s… not inaccurate."

Charlie pointed dramatically. "I like you."

She grabbed the bench and hoisted herself up. "Now which one of you is taking me out for pancakes because I just nailed a triple axel and I demand syrupy compensation."

Dean looked over at Castiel, dazed. "She always like this?"

"Always," Castiel murmured.

"Cool." Dean stood. "I like her."

Charlie grinned. "Good. Because I’m your new best friend now."

And somehow, just like that, the night didn’t feel heavy anymore.

Not cursed. Not broken.

Just… his.

***

They didn’t mean to go out that late.

It wasn’t planned, wasn’t logical, and it definitely wasn’t the kind of decision any of them would have made during their more responsible hours. But it was Charlie who started it. Flopped over the rink’s bench with her skates half-tied and a mischievous glint in her eyes, like a spark had caught somewhere behind her pupils.

"We’re not ending on abrupt introductions and everything," she said, untangling her hair from her scarf. "That’s not how this night dies."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "It’s past midnight."

"So?" Charlie shot back. "There’s a 2:30 a.m. curtain call at the community theatre. Some wild, genderbent version of Les Mis where Valjean is a woman, and Javert’s in leather."

Castiel blinked. "That doesn’t sound legal."

"Oh, it’s definitely not," she said, grinning. "But I know the director, and they let weirdos in free if we bring snacks."

Dean looked at Castiel like he was waiting for an adultier adult to step in. Castiel stared right back at him.

And then, unexpectedly, he smiled. It wasn’t sharp or distant or guarded. It was full, teeth barely showing, just enough to tilt his whole face toward light. "I’ll go," he said.

Dean blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yes," Castiel said simply. "I think I’d like to laugh at something. Legally or not."

So they went. Packed into Dean’s car again like it had become their second skin, Charlie tucked in the backseat talking nonstop about the worst musicals she’d ever seen, one of which, Castiel realized with growing horror, he’d performed in. Dean snorted when she mentioned it, and Castiel refused to make eye contact the rest of the drive.

The theater was a converted fire station, all creaky wood floors and exposed brick and twinkle lights draped like a joke over the rafters. They snuck in with a half-eaten box of donuts Charlie swore counted as payment. The usher, wearing a green mohawk and Doc Martens, waved them in like she didn’t even need to check.

The show was absurd. Beautifully absurd. Valjean stomped on stage in combat boots and fishnets. Javert sang his own theme like he was auditioning for Rock of Ages. Someone’s sword was clearly made of pool noodles.

Dean spent the entire first act whispering sarcastic commentary into Castiel’s shoulder.

"She’s not even French."

"Is that… is that a fog machine or a dying humidifier?"

"Oh God, they’re using a kazoo for the revolution theme."

Castiel tried to shush him but failed miserably after Javert belted "Stars" with a glittery cane and a visible tramp stamp. Charlie actually slid off her seat at one point from laughing too hard.

By intermission, Castiel was crying. He didn’t mean to be. It was from laughter, mostly. But something about sitting between Dean and Charlie, about the surreal mess of it all, about the warmth in his chest that didn’t come from stage lights or applause, just being there, it cracked something open.

They left before the second act, because Dean claimed he needed ice cream before he "died of interpretive suffering." Charlie agreed, dragging them toward an all-night ice cream place that had swings for chairs and played 2000s pop like it was still ironic.

Castiel got pistachio. Dean got rocky road. Charlie got whatever was purple and sprinkled with Pop Rocks. They ate outside under flickering neon, trading stories about terrible birthdays and worse costumes. Charlie told them about the time she dressed as a traffic cone and got mistaken for an actual street hazard. Dean talked about Sam accidentally setting fire to a plastic pool full of fireworks. Castiel confessed he once stage-managed a haunted house so realistic the mayor shut it down for "psychological disruption."

"I’m convinced anyone who hates musicals hates happiness," Castiel said between spoonfuls, dead serious.

Dean nearly choked. "Cas, you starred in Sweeney Todd with a chainsaw."

"And they loved it," Castiel replied coolly.

By 3:45 a.m., they were in a diner that smelled like syrup, old coffee, and regret. The waitress wore flamingo earrings and called everyone "darlin'" like it was a universal truth. Dean ordered pies. Castiel ordered pancakes. Charlie ordered waffles with "a side of pancake just for fun."

They talked about everything. About Castiel’s worst opening night. About the time Dean accidentally stole a colonel’s car because the key fob worked on two identical trucks. About Charlie’s dream to open a themed bookshop where every room was a different genre.

"Science fiction bathroom," she said proudly. "You enter through a wormhole and come out feeling existential."

Dean leaned on his elbows and asked Charlie how long she’d known Cas.

"Long enough to know he’s a complete disaster,” she said. "But he’s my disaster. I like him."

Castiel looked down at his plate, heart swelling in a way he didn’t have words for. He hadn’t known how much he’d missed this. Being known, not just respected or admired or obeyed. Known.

By the time they spilled out into the early morning air, it was nearly five. The sky was shifting. Navy bleeding into gray, a hint of peach pushing against the horizon like the world was waking up slow and soft.

They wandered toward the beach again, shoes in hand. Charlie walked ahead, arms wide, humming the worst song from the show they’d just watched.

Dean stayed beside him.

Neither of them spoke at first. Just the sound of waves, seagulls, Charlie’s humming turning into outright singing.

Then Dean said, quietly, "So… this was nice."

Castiel turned to him. "Yes."

"You okay?"

"I think I am."

Dean nudged him gently with his elbow. "That’s a new one."

Castiel smiled. "I’ll try to make it a habit."

Dean looked at him, that soft look again, the one that seemed to cut through every version of Castiel he tried to project. "You sure you’re not dying or anything?"

"Not in any urgent way."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

Castiel sighed, turning toward the ocean. "I just… don’t think I’ve let myself enjoy a day like this in years."

Dean was quiet again, just long enough for the waves to speak in their place.

"Cas," he said finally, "you don’t have to earn this. You don’t have to bleed for every good thing."

Castiel swallowed.

"It’s okay to let it in," Dean added, voice low. "You’re allowed to have things that make you happy."

Castiel nodded. He didn’t know how to say that he was trying.

Charlie came running back with three seashells and declared herself the Queen of Atlantis, which ended with her attempting to crown Castiel and Dean with wet sand and a crab claw. Dean retaliated with seaweed. Charlie declared war. Castiel picked up a piece of driftwood like a sword and declared himself the ghost of maritime vengeance.

They collapsed eventually, all three of them, breathless on the cold sand. Charlie curled up with her hoodie like a makeshift blanket. Dean lay back with his arms under his head, eyes on the pink light starting to spread above them. And Castiel… Castiel just watched them both.

Something stirred in him then. Quiet but undeniable.

He thought of Amara’s offer. The one he’d dismissed, once, as desperate and dangerous and unnecessary.

But now, he thought about it differently.

He thought about today. About the laughter, the warmth, the tiny moments he never believed he could have. About the way Dean looked at him. Not with pity, not with suspicion, but with something softer. Something real.

He thought, maybe being with Dean didn’t have to be a dream he kept buried beneath guilt and fear.

Maybe it could be something more.

Maybe, just maybe, he could say yes. Not for power. Not for revenge. Not even for survival. But to stay by Dean’s side. To fly again, not alone, not as someone reborn from shame, but as the man Dean had looked at and said, I still prefer you.

He lay back on the sand, blinking at the slow, glowing sky. Dean’s arm brushed against his.

Neither of them moved away.

Castiel closed his eyes.

And for the first time in a long, long while… he let himself imagine more.

Chapter Text

Nellis Air Force Base
29th of June, 2012
Las Vegas, Nevada, USA

***

The city outside was asleep, the skyline stretched like ink across a fog-washed window. Amara’s office was quiet, too quiet. No papers shuffled, no clocks ticked. The only sound was the hum of the air vent, the soft rustle of Castiel’s jacket as he stood across from her desk, still damp from the morning rain. He hadn’t even taken his coat off.

Amara didn’t look surprised to see him.

"Castiel," she said simply, hands folded atop the polished blackwood desk. There was no trace of triumph in her voice, only inevitability.

Castiel stood still, breathing slowly. "I took a few days."

"I know," she said and took some papers under her desk. She placed them in front of Castiel without missing a beat. "You just have to sign this and you're good to go."

Her tone sounded like a command, but Castiel didn’t let it distract him. His jaw tightened. "Before I agree to anything, I want to ask you something."

Amara nodded once, patiently.

"Why didn’t you come for me?" His voice was steady, but the weight behind it made the air in the room shift. "Why didn’t you look for me when I was a child? You’re my aunt. You knew about my father, Chuck. You knew who he was, what he was."

Amara’s lips parted, as if the question surprised her more than his presence did. But she wasn’t shaken. She looked down for a moment, then met his eyes. "Castiel… I didn’t know he had a son."

He blinked, his frown deepening.

"I mean it," she continued. "I cut all ties with your father a long time ago. Before he even tried to play god with people’s futures." She stood now, slowly, crossing around the desk with quiet authority. "Your father and I, our estrangement goes back further than you can imagine. Long before you were born. We were never meant to share anything but animosity."

She stopped in front of him.

"I only found out about you a few years ago. When your name came across my desk in a dismissal report. The file read ‘James Novak, known alias Jimmy,’ and I knew who you were even before I read about the incident. That's why I came to your doors offering a Pentagon job that you wholeheartedly declined."

Castiel’s eyes dropped, breath catching. A dismissal report. That was how she found out about him. Through bureaucratic afterthought.

"You read my file," he murmured.

"I read every word," she said. "Twice."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with all the years they’d never had. Castiel swallowed hard.

"I’m not here for sympathy," he said, his voice sharp now, slicing through the stillness like wind through a stormcloud. "I’m here to accept the offer."

Amara’s expression softened. "Of course."

"I want to earn it back," Castiel said. "The flight hours. The physical. The requalification. All of it. But I want you to assign me to another base."

Amara arched an eyebrow. "Avoiding anyone in particular?"

Castiel didn’t answer, not directly. He looked away, toward the window. "No one knows about it yet. That I’m doing this. That I said yes."

Amara tilted her head. "Do whatever you want, Castiel."

Castiel’s gaze returned to hers, and this time it was steadier. Firmer. “I want to get my wings back.”

Her smile was faint, almost wistful. "You better."

That made something twist in his chest. But he nodded.

"I’ll have a team assigned to start your prep. There’s a base in Nevada. It’ll give you what you need."

He inhaled slowly. "Good."

"You’re lucky," she replied without turning. "I started preparing the clearance the day your name landed on my desk again a few months ago."

Castiel blinked. "You what?"

She finally looked at him, her voice calm. "I had a feeling you’d come back." Her gaze was too knowing. "I pushed through the first wave of reinstatement paperwork. Quietly. It’s all ready now. Medical approval, clearance, security, everything. The only thing left is your own readiness."

Castiel stepped forward slightly, boots barely audible on the polished floor. "You assumed I’d say yes."

"No," Amara replied. "I believed you would find your way back. And I made sure the runway was clear when you did."

She stood now, moving to the window. Her reflection, fractured by rain, flickered beside the outline of clouds.

"You’re going to Nellis," she said. "Isolated enough that no one will ask questions. But the facilities are current. You’ll be sleeping on base, quarters are already assigned. Your training will be under full supervision. Simulators, flight hours, weapons systems, emergency protocols. Everything you lost. Everything you have to earn again.”

He nodded slowly, still reeling from how swiftly she’d moved while he’d been spiraling through doubt.

"You leave tonight," she added. "In two hours. A transport’s waiting."

Castiel stood in place, absorbing it all. The decision had always felt like it would cost him something he couldn’t afford. Time, pride, and grief. But now it came with something else: momentum. A new path. A direction that led him back to the sky… and, eventually, back to Dean.

Castiel exhaled slowly, the reality of it beginning to crystallize. He didn’t have time to say goodbye. Didn’t have the courage to.

"How long?" he asked.

Amara smiled faintly. "If anyone else asked me for wings back after four years, I’d say a month minimum. But you’re not anyone else, Castiel. You have ten days. You prove you’re ready, mentally, physically, emotionally, and you walk back into that world wearing what was taken from you.”

"Ten days." Castiel repeated. He took the papers from Amara's desk and read through everything, then signed it.

Amara nodded, then stepped aside, giving him the path to the door. He turned to go, but paused in the doorway. The dim corridor outside looked colder now, more uncertain. He glanced back at her, shadows framing his tired eyes.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Amara watched him for a long beat. "Don't make me regret it."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the night swallowed him whole.

***

He hadn’t slept at all.

Just stood at the edge of his bunk after landing in Nevada, staring at the locker with his new name painted on the door. The air had smelled of sand and metal. The desert wind outside the barracks carried no sound.

Day One had begun before the sun had even broken the mountains. Lieutenant Colonel Rufus Turner had met him at the flight line with a clipboard and a flat stare. "You’ve got a short leash and a lot to prove," he’d said. "Think you can catch up after four years grounded?"

Castiel hadn’t answered. But the man in front of him hadn’t argued either.

The first days had been the worst.

His body had resisted him at every turn, despite how good he performed in the dogfight wih Dean's squadron a few days back.

Muscle memory was a myth when it came to the flight simulator’s g-forces. Ejection drills left him breathless. His hands ached from holding the stick too tight. His heart raced at the sound of stall warnings he once would’ve silenced in half a breath. And every night, the silence of the barracks pressed in like a second skin.

He remembered sitting alone on Day Two, still in his undershirt, sweat-drenched and shaking, as a medic cleared him for hypoxia tolerance. He’d passed. Barely. They gave him water and a quiet pat on the back. No praise. No comfort.

He remembered not calling Dean. Leaving the phone off. Telling himself it was better this way.

By Day Four, things started to shift. He remembered walking onto the simulator floor, still sore but sharper. His reflexes were coming back. So was his focus. The complicated maneuvers they’d assigned him, terrain masking, radar cloaking, auto-trim disable scenarios, had started to feel less like puzzles and more like puzzles he’d already solved once, in another life.

At night, he dreamed of Dean.

Not full conversations. Just fragments. Dean’s voice during training exercises. The curve of a smile behind an ice cream cone. That unspoken thing that hung between them like a loaded gun. That feeling that hadn’t gone away even after Castiel had left without saying goodbye.

Day Five it rained. Not much, just enough to turn the air metallic and damp. He remembered standing alone at the targeting range, helmet tucked under his arm, the smell of ozone on his collar. Nine out of ten moving targets. High marks. Turner had approached him then.

"You’re good," he’d said, reluctantly. "Rust is wearing off."

Castiel hadn’t looked at him. "I never stopped studying."

"No one studies their way into sky instincts," he replied. "That’s either in your bones or it’s not."

The following day, they let him near a real aircraft. He remembered the weight of the flight suit, the familiarity of the checklist, the tremor in his fingers that disappeared the second he settled into the cockpit. The F-22 had gleamed in the rising sun like something sacred. As soon as he touched the throttle, everything else, the waiting, the ache, the guilt, fell away.

He remembered the way his heart steadied during takeoff. The hum of the engine like a lullaby. The way the world dropped out from under him as he climbed. It was the first time in four years he’d felt… whole.

The instructors spoke of him differently after that. There were nods in the hallways. Whispers in the mess. He knew they were watching. Knew some recognized his name from old logs or rumors. None of that mattered. All that mattered was the checklist. The clock. Ten days.

On Day Seven, he passed four simulations in a row, nighttime low-visibility, emergency fuel dump, radar lock escape, and blackout dive recovery. Turner had pulled him aside afterward, the wind tugging at his cap on the open deck.

"Mind telling me why you really came back?" he asked, arms folded.

Castiel had hesitated. He hadn’t said Dean’s name. He couldn’t. But he’d looked him dead in the eye and said, "To fly."

"That’s not what I meant."

Castiel’s throat tightened, but he didn’t answer. Turner didn’t press. He hadn’t asked Castiel again.

Day Eight tested everything. Eight crisis drills, two in the hypobaric chamber, three hours of advanced weapons systems and vertical dogfight maneuver assessments. He remembered missing a cue on his third run, delayed reaction to a jammed rudder simulation. Almost lost the whole day’s score. Almost shattered his momentum. The instructors had noted it, grim-faced.

In the shower that night, he remembered standing under scalding water until his skin flushed red. His hands against the tile. His body shaking, not from fatigue, but from holding too much in for too long. He had almost called Dean. Almost.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t, not yet.

He remembered Day Nine the way one remembers falling in love. Or dying.

Final qualification flight. No observers. No second chances.

He suited up before dawn. The aircraft waited in the hangar, already prepped. His name painted beneath the cockpit window. CAS COLLINS. He stared at it for a long time, one gloved hand brushing the lettering.

"You don’t get a redo," Turner had said at the foot of the ladder. "Pass this, and you’re back. Fail… and that’s it."

"I’m not failing," he’d said quietly.

The sky had welcomed him like it remembered him. He moved through every maneuver with purpose, control, and eerie silence. He didn’t just fly, he danced with the air. The sun broke the horizon during his final pass over the ridgeline. He banked perfectly into formation, simulated a disengage, and returned to base without a single deviation.

When he touched down, he saw the ground crew clapping through the cockpit glass.

Turner had met him with a small box. No fanfare. Just that glint of something in his eyes, pride, maybe.

"You earned them," he said, opening the lid.

The silver wings gleamed.

He remembered standing alone on the tarmac that evening, long after the crew had gone. Just him and the wind. The box clutched in his gloved hand. He hadn’t cried. He’d just breathed. For the first time in years, he had nothing left to prove. Except to one person.

On the last morning, Day Ten, he had no drills. No checklists. Just silence. The wind carried the distant sound of engines, somewhere overhead, but the ramp was otherwise still. He wore the wings now, clipped neatly to his chest. They felt heavy. Honest.

In his flight jacket’s pocket was a worn photograph someone had snapped at the hotel. Dean, grinning, hand around a beer, mid-laugh. His eyes were squinting at something Castiel had said, and the joy on his face was unguarded. Castiel had folded the edges from touching it too often.

He stared down at the photo now, standing at the edge of the airfield.

"I’m coming back," he whispered to it.

***

He remembered boarding the jet with no fanfare, no audience. Just a small duffel bag, the box with his wings tucked inside, and the hum of jet turbines in the distance like a welcome back home. The flight crew nodded at him without question. He strapped in, closed his eyes once before takeoff, and imagined the curve of Dean’s smile.

The next thing he remembered was landing at Laughlin, another strip of gray tarmac under open sky. But this one felt different. Quieter. Cleaner. There was no sign, no crowd. Just a man in a slate-colored uniform waiting at the edge of the hangar with a clipboard in one hand and an electronic tablet in the other.

"First Lieutenant Collins?" the man said as he approached.

"Yes," Castiel answered, adjusting the strap of his bag.

"You’ve been assigned a bird. They told me to walk you through it personally." The man gestured for him to follow. "It’s been held in reserve until your qualifications cleared. Unofficially, it’s a hell of a reward."

Castiel frowned faintly but said nothing. He followed through the wide concrete path between hangars, the smell of jet fuel still clinging to the wind. He expected an F-22 or maybe a heavily upgraded F-16. Something familiar. Something with history.

He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

Inside the next hangar stood a fighter jet unlike any he’d flown before. Sleek. Sharp. The skin of the aircraft shimmered with a matte obsidian finish, not standard black, but something deeper, so dark it seemed to swallow the light around it. The wings curved like talons, built with deadly elegance.

Castiel stopped cold.

The handler noticed. "Yeah. She’s the new model. Not public yet. Prototype designation is locked, but internally they’re calling it the F-47X."

He could only stare.

"She’s faster. Smarter. Adaptive AI interface. You can program it to recognize your voice, even pick up on cognitive response patterns mid-flight. Stealth capabilities have been doubled. Vertical takeoff options are integrated with neural command toggles."

The words barely registered. Castiel stepped forward like he was approaching something alive. The nose of the aircraft curved like it was built for speed alone, and the cockpit glass gleamed with layered tech woven into the frame.

He ran a hand over the wing’s edge.

"She responds well to experienced hands," the man added. "They didn’t want to assign her to just anyone. But your evaluations came back flawless. All ten days."

Castiel said nothing for a long moment.

"Does she have a name?"

The man grinned. "That’s your call."

His hand still rested on the hull. He could feel the thrum of quiet potential beneath the surface. The systems weren’t online yet, but the aircraft felt charged, like a sleeping animal waiting to take its first breath.

He thought of what it had taken to get here. The silence. The pain. The things he never said. Dean, standing just out of reach. The promise of something real. The sky, waiting.

He thought of the wings in his pocket. The photo. The voice in his head that whispered, You’re almost home.

He finally looked up at the handler.

"I’ll fly her."

"You’ll be the first," the man replied. "Get her airborne. Make her yours."

Castiel nodded.

For the first time since he was grounded, he didn’t feel like a man trying to reclaim a past. He felt like someone with a future. Something fast. Unseen. Something he could finally catch up to.

And when he took her up for the first time, when the wheels left the ground and the world fell away again, he didn’t feel like a ghost.

He felt real.

He felt ready.

And he knew, wherever Dean was, whatever came next, he wouldn’t be coming back empty-handed.

He’d be coming back with wings.

Chapter Text

Back to Square One
10th of July, 2012
Del Rio, Texas, United States of America

***

Castiel stood outside his assigned room, watching the ceiling in the dark, replaying the ten days in his head, engine roars, cracked knuckles, Turner’s voice, the thrum of the F-47’s control panel humming under his gloves. His wings were packed. His flight orders were tucked inside a folder on the nightstand.

The city outside was already stretching toward daylight when he buttoned up his coat and headed out.

He returned to the theater quietly. No announcement, no dramatic entrance, just a nod at the front of house staff and a brisk walk backstage. The others were still gathered for the final cast notes, breaking down the tour materials, half of them nursing hangovers from Six Flags and late-night margaritas. It felt like both yesterday and a hundred years ago. Like Castiel had already left and this was just the ghost of him retracing his own steps.

He said his greetings softly, helped move a few crates, even made them laugh once when Naomi asked if he was done sulking about getting soaked on the log ride.

"Naomi," he said, "I’ve been in dogfights where I came out drier."

"You came out what?" she asked with a snort.

"Don’t worry about it."

But his smile was forced, and she tilted her head like she knew it.

He kept his movements efficient. He collected his costume bags, his script with the tabs still intact, the jacket Charlie gave him for opening night in Chicago. The green one with the hidden inside pocket where he used to keep cough drops and crumpled post-it notes from Dean.

He made it through most of the clean-up without incident. Just as he turned the corner to retrieve the last of his personal items from the props room, he paused.

The door was cracked open. Voices inside. One familiar. One not unfamiliar.

Dean.

And Anna.

The tone wasn’t subtle. Neither were the breathless giggles, the sharp gasps, the unmistakable rhythm of desire.

Castiel froze.

He didn’t mean to stay. He didn’t want to hear it. But his body disobeyed.

Dean’s voice, low, warm, intimate, and sounded nothing like it did when they’d argued in the hotel.

Anna giggled again, something thumped, a chair or a wall, and Castiel didn’t need to see it to understand.

Shirts were gone. Skin was flushed. Mouths were on mouths.

And something in Castiel’s chest cracked open and swallowed everything inside it.

He turned.

He walked out without a sound.

The walls of the backstage hallway echoed with voices and laughter from the others as he moved quickly, shoving his last bag into his duffel. No one noticed the change in him. Not really. He kept his head down, adjusted his collar, and pretended the air didn’t taste like smoke and copper.

He was almost out when someone called his name.

“Cas!”

He paused. It was Naomi. And behind her, a small huddle. Garth and Kevin, even Alex, already holding a bottle of something suspicious.

"We’re heading to the Roadhouse!" Naomi said cheerfully. "One last tour hurrah. Come on. You’re not gonna ghost us like you did last time."

His hand tightened around the strap.

"Yeah," Kevin said. "Don’t be a little sad hermit. You’re not in the military anymore."

Castiel smiled faintly. "Actually, I—"

And then Dean appeared behind them, smirking, one arm slung casually over Anna’s shoulder. Her lipstick was mostly gone. Her neck was red.

Castiel’s throat tightened.

He lowered his gaze.

"Yeah, c’mon," Dean said, voice light. "We’ll get drinks. Laugh about Naomi's karaoke. Maybe get you to actually dance this time."

Castiel’s mouth moved before his brain did. "Sure. Just one drink."

They cheered. He was pulled toward them before he could think better of it.

And no one, not one of them, knew it was his birthday.

Or that he was leaving again in the morning.

The Roadhouse was loud, crowded, and glowing with neon warmth. Music blasted from the speakers, half the cast was already halfway to drunk, and Alex had claimed a corner booth with six shots lined up "for morale."

Castiel drank slowly. Quietly. He watched as Dean laughed with Anna near the bar, her hand resting too easily on his arm. He watched as she whispered something in his ear and he tilted his head toward her, almost shy. He watched them dance. Close, spinning, her hand on his waist, his mouth brushing her shoulder like it was muscle memory.

It was a level of comfort Castiel had never seen between them before.

He sipped his beer. Answered Kevin’s question about what it felt like to fly upside down. Dodged Garth’s attempt to toast him for no reason.

He didn’t know how long he lasted.

At one point, Alex handed him a cupcake from a tray on the bar, one of several Naomi had bribed the bartender into providing. "Eat something, Collins," she teased. "Before you become pure bourbon."

He smiled, lips barely parting. "Thanks."

No candles. No singing. It was just a cupcake. No one knew it meant anything.

Eventually, the crowd thinned. A few castmates spilled out onto the sidewalk, still giggling. Others began bartering for the last Ubers. Dean was still with Anna, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm draped over her like they’d been this way forever. He looked happy. Maybe not the same way he had looked in Castiel’s arms once, but maybe that had been Castiel’s mistake. Maybe that look had never meant what he thought.

It was almost midnight when Castiel quietly gathered his coat and slipped out.

He left his beer half-finished.

He left the cupcake untouched.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He walked home in silence, the city humming softly around him, the warmth from the Roadhouse long gone. The cold made him feel real again.

He didn’t expect anyone to be waiting.

But when he unlocked his apartment door, Charlie was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a birthday candle jammed into a slice of blueberry pie.

"I had to break in with an old bobby pin," she said cheerfully. "Happy birthday, loser."

He stared at her, eyes stinging.

"You remembered."

"Duh. You think I’m gonna forget the day you crash-landed into my life and ruined all my choreography with your tragic little heart?" she stood and crossed the room, handing him a fork.

He took it with shaking fingers.

"You were supposed to be in New York," he said softly.

"I left the tour a few days early," she said. "I got invited to that Russian skating exchange thing. I leave Tuesday. So I figured, one last Cas Day before I go."

He couldn’t speak. Not for a moment.

She kicked his foot gently. "You okay?"

He looked at her. Really looked. His best friend. The only person who never asked for more than he could give.

"No," he admitted.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

She nodded. "Okay."

They sat and ate pie in the dark.

And for just a moment, Castiel forgot what it felt like to lose things.

By dawn, his duffel was packed again. Charlie hugged him tightly at the door, promised to write from Moscow, and told him to stop being a martyr just once in his goddamn life.

"Next time you’re miserable," she said, "try telling someone."

He smiled faintly. "You’re someone."

"Damn right I am."

He kissed her cheek and walked away.

The sun was rising by the time he stepped onto the tarmac at Laughlin. The base was quiet, the air heavy with jet fuel and dew.

He walked straight through check-in, ID badge reactivated, orders confirmed. Every step felt heavier now. Not because of the weight, but because of everything he was carrying that no one else could see.

And then he saw Dean.

Standing across the flight line, in his own uniform. Hands in his pockets. Talking to another pilot.

Their eyes met.

Dean was surprised to see him, making him take a step forward.

Castiel didn’t stop.

He walked past him like he didn’t exist.

And for the first time since the academy, he didn’t look back.

***

The room was cold despite the Texas heat.

A dozen pilots sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the debriefing hall at Laughlin Air Force Base, every one of them alert, flight suits crisp, patches reflecting fluorescent light. The hum of the projector flickered across the wall as the mission coordinator tapped through briefing slides. Outside, the sun was already creeping toward noon, but inside, it might as well have been midnight.

Dean leaned back in his chair, arms folded, chewing absently on the inside of his cheek. His eyes, however, hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Not from the man sitting in the far-left row, third seat from the end.

Castiel.

He hadn’t been there yesterday. Or last week. Or the entire time Dean had been running missions out of Laughlin since his return. Yet here he was, wings glinting on his chest, posture straight, expression unreadable.

He hadn’t looked at Dean once.

Dean had stared enough for the both of them.

The room buzzed as the mission lead clicked to the next slide:

JOINT TRAINING OPERATION
UNITED KINGDOM PARTNERSHIP
1400 HOURS

"The Royal Air Force will be flying with us out of Brize Norton. Simulated multi-domain threat response, force-on-force dogfights, and integrated command trials. It’s a two-week deployment. First squadron will be wheels up by 1600 today."

Dean didn’t hear most of it. His brain was still buffering the image of Castiel sitting quietly in another squadron’s flight row, wearing a completely different unit patch than his.

"What the hell…" Dean muttered.

Next to him, Benny glanced sideways. "Something wrong?"

Dean’s jaw ticked. "Yeah."

Castiel, meanwhile, sat still, pen motionless against his notepad. He hadn’t written anything down. His jaw was tight. He knew Dean was watching. He always knew. but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t give him an inch.

By the time the briefing ended, and the pilots filtered out of the room in twos and threes, Castiel stood to leave without hesitation. He moved through the aisle like Dean wasn’t even there.

Dean stepped right in front of him.

"Hey."

Castiel stopped. Looked at Dean. Blinked once. "Captain."

"Oh, we’re doing ranks now?"

Castiel gave him nothing but silence.

Dean scoffed. "When did you get back?"

"A week ago."

"A week? You didn’t tell me?"

Castiel didn’t answer.

Dean’s voice sharpened. "Why are you in a different squadron?"

"I requested it."

"Why?"

Castiel turned his head slightly, like Dean wasn’t even worth a full rotation. "None of your business."

Dean laughed, short and bitter. "You always were full of crap."

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. "And you always think everything’s about you."

Dean stepped closer, voice low. "Don’t pretend this isn’t about me. I know you, Cas. What the hell happened? One minute we’re—whatever we were—and the next you’re giving me the silent treatment like we’re back in training."

Castiel’s mouth twitched, something close to rage pressing behind his teeth. "Is that what you call it? Whatever we were?" Dean went silent.

"Cas—"

"No," Castiel said, eyes sharp now. "I'm getting tired of this, Dean."

Dean’s expression flickered. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Before Castiel could answer, before he could decide whether to rip the truth out of his throat or let it rot, his name rang out down the hallway.

"First Lieutenant Collins. General Schneider wants you. Now."

He didn’t look back at Dean. He just walked away.

He found Amara waiting in her office with a file already open on her desk. She didn’t greet him. Didn’t ask how the reunion went. Just gestured toward the chair across from her and said, "The joint exercise is a cover."

Castiel sat down slowly. "A cover for what?"

She slid the file toward him. "Intelligence suspects that one of our allied factions in the region may be developing unauthorized nuclear payloads. Not state-sanctioned. Off-grid. If they succeed, it compromises the entire treaty structure we’ve built."

Castiel stared at the papers. His name was at the top of the operation order.

Primary: infiltration and internal data gathering.

Secondary: asset surveillance.

Tertiary: field report and emergency extraction planning.

"This… isn’t my job," he said, stunned. "This is deep operations. Intel clearance. This is—"

"I know what it is," Amara said.

"Is that why you agreed to temporarily put me back here? Because I'm disposable?"

Her gaze didn’t shift. "You’re clean. You just returned. You’re respected. Your placement in a different squadron gives you autonomy. And frankly… you’re not emotionally compromised."

He laughed, sharp and dry. "That’s not true."

She tilted her head. "You think I don’t know why you asked to be in a different unit from Captian Dean Winchester?"

He fell silent.

Amara leaned forward. "I didn’t pick you because you’re convenient. I picked you because you’re willing to do what others won’t. I picked you because you believe in protecting people. Even if it means being the villain."

He looked at her, anger crawling up his spine. "No. You picked me because I’m expendable."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

She looked at him then, not with malice, but with that distant, haunting gaze he hated. Like she saw everything he could be and none of what he was.

"You’ll save a lot of lives, Castiel," she said. "But only if you follow orders."

When he left her office, the sky outside had turned pale gray. He stood on the edge of the tarmac again, wind catching the edge of his coat. His jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack.

Dean found him again after a few minutes, cutting across the hangar floor with his jaw tight and footsteps heavier than they needed to be. Castiel was already halfway to his jet, visor tucked under his arm, squadron patch catching the edge of the fluorescent lights overhead.

"You gonna keep walking away every time I try to talk to you?"

Castiel didn’t stop.

Dean caught up beside him, breath short with irritation. "Dude, seriously? You’ve been back a week and didn’t say a damn thing to anyone. Not even to me."

Castiel didn’t respond. His steps remained steady.

Dean scoffed. "Right. Of course. Why talk when you can just disappear, then show up acting like the rest of us did something wrong?"

Still, nothing.

Dean stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "You do this every time. You vanish. No explanation. No word. Then you come back pissed off and cold, like someone betrayed you, but no one even knows what the hell happened."

Castiel finally met his eyes, icy and unreadable.

Dean frowned. "What did I do, huh? What exactly made you decide to hate me this time?"

There was silence. A long, sharp pause filled with the hum of the hangar and the low murmur of voices from the other end.

Then Castiel spoke, voice level.

"I don’t hate you, Dean."

Dean tilted his head, unconvinced. "Sure as hell feels like you do."

Castiel looked away. "Don’t flatter yourself."

Dean’s brows drew together. "Then what is it? Because I’m tired of guessing. I’m tired of you showing up and acting like I’m the problem when I’ve been right here the whole time."

Castiel’s jaw clenched. "You don’t get it."

"Then explain it," Dean snapped. "You think I’ve got time to play cold war games with you again? I don’t. You’re not in my squad. You’re not even talking to me like a damn person. Just, say what you need to say, Cas."

Castiel stared at him for a moment. And maybe, maybe for one breath, he considered saying it.

But then he shook his head.

"There’s nothing to say, Dean."

Dean’s voice raised into disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Castiel did everything to stop himself from flinching over Dean's voice. He figured he couldn't escape this mess anymore than he did before, so he looked at Dean once again, hiding every emotion in his face.

"There was never anything between us," Castiel said flatly.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"You’re not that hard to read, Dean," Castiel continued, shoulders taut. "Whatever this is, it's not friendship. It's not anything at all. I was just another name on your scoreboard."

Dean took a step back like the words physically struck him.

Castiel gave a half-smile, small and bitter. "You never needed a friend. You needed someone to compete with. Because that’s all your father ever taught you. Legacy over choice." He said, low and cold. "Because you were never capable of being anything but what your father told you to be. And I was stupid enough to think I could be the exception."

He hadn’t planned to say it.

The words had slipped out sharp and unfiltered, honed by sleepless nights and too many quiet miles between them. But as soon as Dean’s expression shifted, hurt folding into fury, silence tightening across his jaw, Castiel felt the weight of it land.

Dean stood there, frozen in place, like the ground beneath him had disappeared. His mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but nothing came out.

And Castiel, he walked away. The echo of his own voice haunted him more than Dean’s silence ever could.

Inside the cockpit minutes later, the world was quieter. The hiss of the canopy sealed him off from everything. Amara’s manipulation, Dean’s anger, his own festering self-disgust.

He didn’t say why he was angry. Didn’t confess what he’d seen. Didn’t let Dean carry any part of it.

Because the truth was uglier than blame.

The truth was, he hated Dean for letting it feel like something real.

But deeper than that, he hated himself more, for ever believing it was. For thinking Dean would understand. For misreading every shared glance, every lingering touch, every smile passed like a secret.

For thinking, just once, that he could be wanted.

That he could be chosen.

Legacy over choice.

He’d said it to wound Dean, but maybe it had always been a warning to himself.

By the time the F-47 lifted off the runway, slicing through night, Castiel left no part of himself behind. Only the silence of something that never was.

Chapter Text

En Route to Joint Exercise Airspace
11th of July, 2012
RAF Brize Norton
Carterton, Oxfordshire, OX18 3LX, UK

***

The world above 30,000 feet was mercifully empty.

No Dean. No ground crew. No one to see the way Castiel’s hands gripped the throttle like it might save him from himself.

The black-and-silver body of his F-47 glinted faintly in the moonlight as it tore through the night air. Below, the lights of England blurred into a faint haze, the ground distant, inconsequential.

The runway shimmered with late afternoon rain as the first of the American F-35 jets broke through the clouds. The sound of engines roared over the base, making even the seasoned ground crew glance up instinctively.

At the head of the formation, Castiel, banked his jet into the approach. His calm, precise movements set the tone for the rest of his squadron, a sharp, diamond formation led overall by Captain Michael Anders, callsign Prince.

One by one, their wheels kissed the slick tarmac, slowing to taxi speed as they moved toward the designated stands near the hangars.

Even after all these years, Castiel felt the same strange quiet settle over him as the canopy opened and the scent of jet fuel and rain hit him full in the face. He unbuckled, swung down the ladder, and joined his squadmates on the wet concrete.

Michael was already there, tall and composed, his uniform immaculate even after hours in the cockpit. He caught Castiel’s eye briefly, not unkindly, before turning back to watch the second wave of jets streaking in above them.

The other USAF squadrons were arriving now.

They came in louder, faster, Dean’s squadron. Even without looking, Castiel knew which one was Dean. His plane peeled slightly ahead of his formation, wheels hitting the tarmac with a flourish that screamed look at me even if no one did.

Castiel didn’t move. Didn’t turn. But he felt Dean’s presence anyway, like a sharp edge just behind his shoulder.

The last engines powered down. Silence fell on the runway.

At the edge of the hangars, the Royal Air Force pilots were already waiting.

A line of them stood at loose attention, their posture easy but confident. At their center was a man in his late 30s, his jumpsuit zipped to the neck and his gloves tucked neatly under one arm. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard and an unsettlingly easy grin. On his chest, stitched in white thread, was his name, N. Davies.

He stepped forward to meet Michael, extending a hand.

"Welcome to Brize Norton," Nick said, his British accent smooth and faintly amused. "Captain Anders, I presume?"

Michael shook his hand firmly. "Prince," he corrected simply.

Nick chuckled. "Ah. Of course. You Yanks and your callsigns." He turned his head just enough to glance at Castiel, then Dean, then the rest of the Americans. "Still, suits you lot just fine."

Michael introduced his squadron by rank and callsign, his voice clipped and precise. Castiel kept his gaze forward, answering only when his name came.

"First Lieutenant Collins. Ghost."

Nick’s grin widened faintly. "Fitting. Ghost. Prince. And the rest of your royal court." His eyes flicked to Dean for just a breath, enough for Castiel to see Dean bristle slightly before looking away.

Nick stepped back and gestured to the RAF pilots lined up behind him.

"And these are my angels," he said dryly. "Since you lot brought a Ghost and a Prince, seemed only fair we give you heaven to go with it."

His squadron smirked and shifted, relaxing slightly as Nick introduced them.

At his right was the tallest, a blond man with piercing eyes and an unshakable air of authority.

"Zacharia," Nick said.

Next, a wiry, grinning pilot stepped forward with a mock salute and a wink. "Gabriel," Nick added, his tone flat despite the younger man’s mischief.

Behind them, a dark-skinned pilot with a composed, calculating expression inclined his head politely. "Raphael."

Then a stocky, scowling man with arms crossed and a perpetually unimpressed look stepped up. "Balthazar."

Finally, at the end of the line stood a lanky, nervous-looking young man barely out of his teens, his helmet tucked awkwardly under his arm. He straightened a little too fast as Nick’s hand came down on his shoulder.

"And this," Nick said, softer than before, "is our rookie. Jack Kline. Still learning which way is up, but eager enough to make up for it."

Jack flushed, managing an earnest nod at the Americans. "Sir. Ma’am. Everyone."

Nick glanced back to Michael, then to the whole group.

"Well. You’ve got quarters waiting. Briefing’s in an hour. Try not to get lost before then, we’d hate to have to come find you. Questions?"

No one spoke.

Nick’s grin returned. "Didn’t think so. Welcome to Seraph Squadron. Let’s see if you live up to the myth."

As the RAF pilots dispersed to help with the equipment, Michael started issuing quiet instructions to his own team. Castiel lingered just long enough to catch Dean glancing his way, a hard, unreadable look that slid off Castiel’s calm exterior.

If Dean wanted to ignore him, Castiel could do the same.

They had work to do.

And as he followed Michael toward the hangars, boots echoing on wet concrete, Castiel thought to himself: let the skies sort the rest of it out.

***

The RAF barracks were old brick on the outside but clean and utilitarian within, long corridors lined with identical doors, the faint smell of bleach and boot polish clinging to the air.

The Americans followed a young RAF corporal up the stairwell to the second floor. His clipped steps echoed off the stone as he spoke without looking back.

"Seraph Squadron occupies the south wing. You lot have been assigned the east. Officers on the end caps. Shared head at the far wall. Any questions?"

Michael gave a curt shake of his head. "We’ll manage."

The corporal nodded, dropped off a small keyring, and left with a quick, "Briefing in an hour, sir," before disappearing down the stairwell.

Michael turned to his squadron. "Ten minutes to dump your gear. Meet me back here."

Castiel wordlessly peeled off into the far corner room. His boots were heavy against the floor as he entered and closed the door behind him.

The quarters were small but functional. A single bed, narrow wardrobe, steel-framed desk, and a window looking out over the flight line. His duffel hit the bed with a dull thump.

For a few seconds he just stood there, still in his flight suit, listening to the quiet hum of the base outside.

His gloves came off first, then his helmet. He set them neatly on the desk, then braced his hands against the edge of it and let his head hang for just a moment.

Behind the thin wall, he heard muffled voices. Dean’s laugh, short, sharp, sarcastic, cut through the others like it always did.

Castiel’s jaw tightened. He straightened, rolled his sleeves to the elbow, and set about unpacking his kit with precise, mechanical efficiency.

He didn’t hear the knock at first.

When it came again, louder, he turned toward the door.

It cracked open just enough for the narrow, nervous face of Jack Kline to peek inside. The rookie shifted his weight awkwardly in the doorway, his helmet tucked under his arm.

"Uh… sir?"

Castiel blinked at him, expression neutral.

Jack swallowed. "Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you. I just… I saw you land earlier. You fly real quiet."

There was a beat of silence.

"Thank you," Castiel said evenly.

Jack stood there another moment, clearly trying to summon the courage to say something else, before Nick’s voice barked down the corridor.

"Kline! Don’t hover. Ghost doesn’t bite, unless you ask nicely. Get moving!"

Jack flushed crimson and muttered a quiet, "Sorry, sir," before ducking out of sight, his boots pattering down the hall.

Castiel turned back to his desk, finishing the last of his unpacking.

On his way to the briefing room minutes later, he passed Dean in the corridor. Their shoulders brushing just enough to feel the heat radiating off each other. Dean didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at him.

And that hurt more than it should have.

***

The briefing room smelled faintly of coffee and rain-damp flight suits, the air thick with quiet tension and jet fuel still clinging to everyone’s skin.

The Americans filed in first. Michael at the head, his presence steady and unbothered. His squadron followed in neat order behind him. Castiel just a step behind, his face carefully impassive. Dean bringing up the rear with his usual slouch and glare, his squadron trailing in his wake.

On the other side of the room, the RAF pilots were already seated in a casual row, sprawled as though they owned the place. Nick sat at the center of his team’s table, legs crossed and hands folded loosely in his lap, looking for all the world like a man holding court rather than preparing for a joint operation.

Michael’s boots hit the floor sharp and decisive as he claimed a seat at the front. His pilots sat around him, Castiel dropping into a chair at the end of the row, silent as ever. Dean sat on the opposite side of the room, his eyes raking over the ceiling like he couldn’t care less who else was present.

Nick let the silence stretch just a little too long before speaking.

"Well," he began, voice smooth, "I must say, you lot made quite the entrance. Loud, fast… very American."

Michael didn’t so much as flinch. "And here I thought you’d appreciate precision."

Nick’s grin widened faintly. "Oh, we do. We also appreciate humility."

That earned a few quiet snickers from Gabriel and Zachariah. Even Raphael cracked the barest hint of a smirk.

Dean straightened in his chair, fixing Nick with a look sharp enough to cut glass, but Michael’s hand lifted just slightly, a silent warning not to bite.

Nick clapped his hands together once, rising to his feet with an easy, practiced grace.

"Right then. Let’s get to it."

He gestured at the projected map on the wall, airspace grids and waypoints already marked. His voice turned businesslike, though the edges of his amusement never quite disappeared.

"The exercise will consist of three sorties. We’ll lead the first with Seraph Squadron running intercept. You Americans will play aggressor. Then we’ll switch roles. Final sortie, mixed teams."

He paused, his eyes flitting deliberately to Castiel, then Dean, before he continued.

"We’ll see who can play nicely."

At the far end of the RAF table, Jack Kline sat forward on his elbows, his whole body practically buzzing with nervous energy.

"Sir—" he blurted, before Nick even finished.

Nick’s head tilted lazily in his direction. "Yes, Jack?"

Jack swallowed hard but pressed on anyway. "I… I just wanted to say it’s an honor to fly with the USAF. You guys… you’re legends."

That earned him a raised eyebrow from Gabriel and an audible groan from Zachariah.

Nick’s expression didn’t change, though his tone dripped dry amusement as he said, "Careful, rookie. Don’t inflate their egos any more than they already are."

Jack’s cheeks flushed, but he still risked a shy glance toward the Americans, his eyes catching on Castiel for just a second longer than the others before dropping again.

Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, he almost, almost softened at Jack’s nervous enthusiasm, before letting his eyes drift back to the table.

Dean, though, shot a sideways glance at Castiel the second Jack spoke. His green eyes narrowed just a fraction, his jaw tight.

Nick’s voice cut through the charged silence.

"All right. You’ve got thirty minutes to prep. We’ll see you on the tarmac."

The pilots began to file out in pairs and groups, boots echoing on the tile floor. Michael leaned close to his squad before he left, issuing quiet reminders about formation and comms.

Dean stood, pushing his chair back with just a little more force than necessary, and stalked out with his own squadron, his shoulders stiff. He didn’t look back.

Castiel stayed seated for just a moment longer, gloves still folded neatly on the table. He could feel Nick’s eyes on him even as the room emptied.

"You fly quiet," Nick murmured finally, low enough no one else could hear.

Castiel didn’t answer, so Nick’s grin widened faintly. "I like quiet."

Castiel met his gaze at last, his expression as cold and unreadable as always. Then he rose to his feet and followed Michael out, his steps measured and steady.

In the hall, he passed Dean without so much as a glance. But as they brushed shoulders, the air between them was thick enough to choke on, tension sharp and raw, unspoken words hanging heavy in the space they refused to look at.

And somewhere behind them, Jack hurried to catch up with the rest of the RAF, still stealing wide-eyed glances at the Americans like he couldn’t quite believe he was really here.

The skies were waiting. And so was everything neither of them could bring themselves to say.

***

By the time the briefing broke up, the air outside had gone sharp and cold, the early evening sun bleeding low over the airfield as the Americans and Brits spilled out onto the tarmac.

The USAF's F-35s gleamed where they stood in neat rows, their matte skins catching streaks of gold. The RAF Typhoons and F-35s already idled nearby, sleek and predatory, like a pride of cats waiting to pounce.

Nick Davies stood at the edge of the hangar, one hand in his pocket, watching with that infuriating grin as the squadrons geared up.

"Don’t keep me waiting, Yanks," he called lazily as Castiel passed him, helmet tucked under his arm. "It’s poor form to leave a gentleman hanging."

Michael didn’t even glance at him as he walked past, issuing final instructions to his squad. Dean, though, he shot Nick a flat glare that promised nothing good before stalking toward his own plane.

Castiel didn’t look at either of them.

He climbed into his F-47 cockpit, the familiar hiss of hydraulics greeting him like a quiet homecoming. His hands moved automatically through the preflight checks, the ritual soothing his nerves even as the pit of his stomach twisted tighter.

The comms crackled to life as ground control handed them off to Seraph Squadron.

"Alright, my angels and their new American pets," Nick’s voice drawled over the frequency, smug and amused. "Let’s have some fun. Brits, take lead on this dance. Yanks, try to keep up."

A ripple of chuckles ran down the British side of the channel. Michael’s voice cut through calmly a second later.

"Formations in three. USAF ready."

"Seraph ready," Nick confirmed, somehow managing to make even those two words sound like a taunt.

The first sortie was set: mixed formations, blue team and red team, equal numbers from each squadron, everyone gunning for bloodless kills with their simulated combat systems.

Castiel eased his throttle forward, falling into position behind Michael and alongside Raphael. To his left, Jack’s Typhoon wobbled slightly as it lined up, too eager, too tense.

Dean’s F-35 slid into position opposite him, close enough Castiel could see the edge of Dean’s eyes glint under his visor before the canopy sealed them both away.

***

Altitude came fast. By the time they passed 20,000 feet, the horizon had already fallen away into streaks of orange and purple. The air up here was thin, cold, and alive with the deafening roar of jet engines and clipped voices on the comms.

Nick’s voice rose, dry and lazy even as his Typhoon banked into lead.

"Alright, Ghost, you’re with me. Rookie, try not to get yourself killed in the first five minutes. Prince, don’t lose your crown."

Michael ignored him. "Blue team, vector to 120 and climb. Red, split at 270. Watch your sixes."

Dean’s voice came on the comms for the first time, low and sharp.

"Copy that, Prince. Wouldn’t want to disappoint your court."

Michael didn’t rise to the bait, but Gabriel snorted a laugh somewhere behind them.

Jack piped up nervously.

"Uh, rookie copies. Following lead. Following… following lead. Yeah."

Nick sighed theatrically.

"Don’t sound so excited about it, Jack. Nobody likes a try-hard."

They hit the combat zone within minutes. Invisible grids in the air defined the playground. Warning lights on the dash blinked green as the exercise officially began.

Almost immediately, chaos bloomed.

Michael called the first maneuver, a sharp split and roll, Raphael diving left to bait while Castiel and Nick climbed. Gabriel was already chattering over the line as he swooped past a confused American in a tight loop.

"Man, I love flying against you guys. So predictable. Really scratches the itch."

Castiel stayed quiet, fingers steady on the throttle. Nick, just ahead of him, chuckled faintly.

"Careful, Ghost. Don’t let your teammates drag you down."

Below, Jack’s Typhoon wavered in the middle of the melee, hunting for a target. His comms were filled with nervous muttering, his nose weaving back and forth as he tried to keep his bearings.

"Jack, steady," Nick barked finally. "You’re flying like a drunk on a bicycle. Straighten up."

Jack didn’t respond fast enough, a simulated missile lock warning screamed through his cockpit, and seconds later his dash lights flipped red.

"Rookie’s out," Dean’s voice came flatly over the channel, and Jack groaned audibly.

"Sorry, sorry! Damn it, sorry, sir!"

Nick sighed again.

"Ah, well. Every angel needs to fall sometime."

Another ripple of laughter. Jack’s Typhoon veered out of the combat zone, visibly sulking.

But Castiel barely noticed.

Because Dean had just pulled behind him.

The lock warning buzzed faintly, not a full hit yet, just a teasing presence. Castiel banked hard right and climbed, trying to shake him.

Dean stayed glued to his tail.

"What’s the matter, Ghost?" Dean’s voice slid over the comms, dry and sharp. "Thought you’d haunt me better than this."

Castiel didn’t answer. He cut throttle just enough to let Dean overshoot, then rolled inverted and dropped behind him. Dean barked a curse over the line as Castiel’s lock warning lit up his dash instead.

"Nice," Gabriel crowed somewhere. "Didn’t know our Ghost had claws."

Nick’s laugh was quieter.

"Oh, he does. Just hides them under that quiet."

Dean dove, peeling away into a corkscrew to shake him. Castiel followed, matching his moves twist for twist, the two jets screaming through the melee like twin blades.

For the next three minutes, it was just them.

Dean and Castiel.

Everything else fell away.

They looped and rolled and climbed, cutting through the clouds like they were the only two pilots left alive. Every move Dean made, Castiel anticipated. Every countermove Castiel tried, Dean threw back at him harder.

On the ground, the observers would later say it was beautiful, watching the two of them duel was like watching fire and shadow dance.

Nick’s voice finally cut in again, half-amused, half-chiding.

"You boys done showing off yet? You’re making the rest of us look bad."

Dean didn’t reply. Neither did Castiel.

Because in that exact moment, Dean pulled a high-G climb and twisted into a split-S, his nose coming around fast, too fast. Castiel followed him into it, and for a fraction of a second, their planes crossed paths so close the proximity alarms screamed bloody murder in both cockpits.

Castiel’s lock light blinked. Dean’s did too. Neither fired.

For just a breath, everything went quiet.

And then Dean’s voice, low and ragged, cut through the static.

"You never were just another name, Cas."

Castiel’s fingers tightened on the stick.

But he didn’t, couldn’t, answer.

Instead, he cut throttle and rolled away, letting Dean’s lock light blink out as he climbed back toward altitude.

Nick’s voice, quiet and almost gleeful now, followed him all the way up.

"That’s it, Ghost. Run. Always running."

But Castiel stayed silent.

By the time the sortie ended and the warning lights on the dash flashed white to signal cease-fire, his hands were shaking.

He powered down the simulated weapons systems, his throat dry.

On the way back to base, the comms buzzed with chatter, Gabriel laughing about his “kill count,” Zachariah grumbling about American arrogance, Jack mumbling apologies to anyone who’d listen.

Dean didn’t say another word. And neither did Castiel.

The skies were quiet again. But in the quiet, his chest still ached.

Legacy over choice.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything anymore. But somewhere in his gut, he still felt the way Dean’s voice had cracked when he said his name. And it was a wound he wasn’t sure would ever close.

***

The roar of the jets still lingered in Castiel’s ears as his boots hit the tarmac.

The sun was gone now, replaced by sharp night air and the steady hum of generators powering the hangars. The USAF and RAF squadrons filed in one by one, helmets under their arms, their movements sharp and purposeful but laced with something heavier now, bruised pride, unspoken frustrations, quiet gloating.

Dean’s F-35 rolled into the next bay over. Castiel didn’t even glance at him. Not even when he felt those green eyes burning into his back as he climbed down the ladder.

Nick was waiting inside the hangar already, perched on a stack of crates like he’d been there all along. His Typhoon was still steaming behind him, his helmet dangling from one hand.

As Castiel passed, Nick leaned forward just enough to let his voice carry.

"Nice flying, Ghost," he drawled, his accent softening the jab only slightly. "Not quite good enough to win, but… pretty to watch all the same."

Castiel didn’t answer.

Nick’s grin widened. "What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or is it just that quiet comes easier when you’ve got nothing left to say?"

Still nothing.

Nick tilted his head, studying him as though trying to read the smallest crack in his composure.

"You know," Nick added, voice dropping lower as Castiel stepped past him, "I almost feel bad for him. Can’t decide if you’re punishing him or yourself more. Either way… hell of a show."

Castiel’s jaw tightened, but he kept walking.

The debriefing room was already half full by the time he arrived. The Americans clustered to one side of the long table, the Brits on the other. Michael stood at the front, his posture straight and unbothered even as he fielded Gabriel’s dramatic retelling of the sortie.

"…and then I swooped right past this poor sod who was still trying to figure out which way was up—" Gabriel was saying, making vague hand gestures as Jack sat stiffly nearby, staring at the table.

Zachariah snorted. "That poor sod being our very own rookie, of course."

Raphael added dryly, "Could’ve at least lasted longer than five minutes, Kline."

The chuckles were quiet but cutting.

Jack ducked his head further, his ears flaming red. "Yes, sir," he mumbled. "Sorry, sir."

Even Nick, leaning casually against the wall, didn’t bother to come to his defense. His smirk was faint but obvious, his silence saying more than words.

Michael spoke up then, his calm voice cutting through the noise. "Enough. Kline, learn from it. Next time you keep your head or you don’t fly."

Jack nodded miserably, his hands knotted together in his lap.

The room was loud tonight. Pilots bantering, cards slapping on a table, bursts of laughter ringing off the cinderblock walls. Castiel sat in the corner, hands resting on his knees, a mug of coffee long gone cold on the table in front of him.

He didn’t touch it.

He didn’t join in.

He just sat there, still as a stone, letting the noise wash over him like a wave he’d already decided not to fight.

They thought his silence meant he thought he was better than them.

Nick certainly did, Castiel could see it in the way the man smirked at him across the room, elbowing his squad mates, whispering something he didn’t bother to catch.

They didn’t understand. They never did.

It was easier this way.

He couldn’t afford to be seen as too close to anyone here. Not when he already knew what his real purpose was. Not when he already knew he was lying to all of them.

“This joint exercise is just a cover.”

Amara’s words still clung to him like oil on water. The mission wasn’t about drills or cooperation or diplomacy. It was about secrets, and about whether those secrets could kill thousands if left unchecked.

So he stayed quiet.

He stayed detached.

Because if they knew what he was really doing, what he was here to find, they’d hate him. And if they didn’t, if they thought he was just another pilot, then he’d be lying to them every time he smiled.

Not that he smiled much anymore.

Across the room, Dean sat at another table, his laugh sharp and bright in a way that cut through Castiel even from here. The sound of him surrounded by people who didn’t know how far they’d already fallen apart.

That hurt worse than Nick’s jabs. Worse than anything.

Castiel stared down at the mug, fingers curling loosely around the ceramic even though it was cold now.

It was better this way. Better to keep his silence, keep his head down, keep his mission in mind. Better not to let himself believe, even for a second, that he could still belong here.

That he could still belong with Dean.

The rest of the debrief passed in a haze of clipped observations, comments on formations, minor criticisms and minor victories. Through it all, Castiel kept his gaze forward, his hands folded neatly in front of him.

Dean didn’t say a word the entire time.

When it was over, the squadrons began to peel off, some heading straight to the barracks, others lingering in the hangar to talk shop or work on their jets.

Castiel found himself lingering longer than usual. His hands moved automatically over the inspection of his F-47, running along the sleek curve of its wingtip as though it could anchor him to something solid.

Somewhere across the hangar, Nick’s laugh rang out, smooth and mocking as ever.

"Careful there, rookie. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself climbing out next time."

Jack’s voice was small and defensive.

"I wasn’t that bad."

"Wasn’t that good either," Zachariah added bluntly.

"Honestly, Jack," Gabriel chimed in, "you’re lucky Ghost didn’t take you out himself just to put you out of your misery. Looked like you were begging for it."

More laughter.

Dean stood a little ways off, leaning against the nose of his jet, his arms crossed. His sharp green eyes flicked toward the group as Jack stiffened under their teasing.

And then, quietly, almost imperceptibly, Dean’s gaze shifted to Castiel.

Castiel exhaled slowly, his hand resting on the cold metal of his plane.

Then he moved.

He crossed the hangar without a word, boots clicking against the concrete. The group around Jack noticed him before Jack did, the laughter quieting as the Americans’ quietest and most implacable pilot came to a stop just a foot away.

Jack froze, staring up at him like he’d just been caught in the act of something terrible.

Castiel looked at him for a long, silent moment. Then he spoke, his voice even but softer than usual.

"You did fine."

Jack blinked, stunned. "…sir?"

Castiel tilted his head faintly. "You held formation. You listened to instructions. You didn’t panic when you were locked." His gaze drifted to Zachariah, then Gabriel, then Nick, sharp as broken glass. "Better than some when they were rookies."

Zachariah scowled faintly but didn’t argue.

Jack’s throat worked. "…Thank you, sir."

Castiel gave the faintest nod. "Don’t apologize for learning. That’s what we’re here for."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving the group in silence behind him.

Even Nick, for once, said nothing, though his faint smirk didn’t quite leave his face as he watched Castiel retreat back to his corner of the hangar.

Jack stared after him like he couldn’t quite believe it.

Later that night, the barracks were quiet.

Castiel sat on the edge of his bunk, staring out the window at the lights of the flight line beyond.

He wasn’t sure why he’d said anything. Why he’d even cared. But somewhere in his chest, he still felt the faintest echo of the way Jack had looked at him, nervous and hopeful and desperate to prove himself, and it reminded him of someone he used to know. Someone who once looked at him like that too. And he hated himself for thinking about it.

He reminded Castiel of himself, in a way that was almost painful.

The way Jack laughed a little too hard at every jab, shouldered every insult with a grin just a little too wide, it was the same mask Castiel had learned to wear all those years ago. The desperate need to be liked, to belong, to prove he wasn’t just a liability or a burden. Castiel saw it in the way Jack sat on the edge of every group but never truly in it, the way he glanced around after every joke as if waiting for someone to tell him he’d gone too far or hadn’t gone far enough.

That raw, unsteady ache of trying to be everything everyone wanted, and nothing he truly was, was a wound Castiel recognized as his own. And watching it play out in someone else… was worse than feeling it himself.

Across the hall, Dean’s door shut with a quiet click.

Castiel didn’t move.

He just sat there in the dark, listening to the silence between them grow heavier and heavier.

***

The sun hadn’t even fully risen when the squadrons gathered on the tarmac, breath steaming in the cold dawn air. The hangars loomed behind them like watchful giants, their jets lined up neatly in rows, engines gleaming and quiet.

Castiel stood at parade rest beside his F-47, helmet under his arm, his eyes on the horizon where a faint sliver of gold was breaking through gray.

Jack Kline stood further down the line, his posture stiff and uncertain but his chin just a little higher than yesterday. He’d barely slept, that much was obvious in the dark circles under his eyes, but his hands no longer trembled as he gripped his helmet.

He was determined to make today different.

Nick sauntered up a moment later, all easy swagger and sharp grin as always. His Typhoon waited behind him, a predator at rest.

"Morning, Yanks," he drawled, his voice slicing through the chilly air. "Hope you slept well, because you’ll need every ounce of energy just to keep up today."

Dean, leaning casually against the nose of his own jet, didn’t even bother to hide his smirk.

"You really never shut up, do you?" he called back. "Guess when you can’t fly fast, you gotta talk fast."

Nick’s grin widened dangerously. "Ah, Winchester. Always the charmer. Tell me, do you wake up every morning thinking, today’s the day I finally beat a Brit? Or is it just muscle memory by now?"

Dean pushed off the jet, his eyes flashing as he stalked closer.

"Better question," he shot back, "you wake up every morning thinking about me? ‘Cause you sure talk like it."

The hangar crew chuckled softly, but Michael’s calm voice cut through the rising tension before it boiled over.

"Enough."

Both men snapped back to something resembling professionalism, though the sharp glares they traded over their shoulders promised this wasn’t over.

Inside the briefing room, the morning sortie was outlined in clipped, precise words.

"Mixed pairs," Michael said simply, his finger tracing lines on the map projected behind him. "Seraph Squadron leads intercept. USAF fills support. Today’s focus is coordination under pressure."

Nick added, lazily but pointedly, "Which means no hotdogging. Even from you, Winchester."

Dean’s jaw tightened but he didn’t reply.

Michael’s eyes swept over the room, settling briefly on Castiel. "Ghost, you’re paired with Hunter."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Dean blinked, then barked a laugh. "You’ve gotta be kidding me."

Michael didn’t even blink. "I’m not."

Dean opened his mouth again, but Castiel cut him off before he could say more.

"Understood," he said flatly, already rising to leave.

Dean stared after him like he’d just lost some unspoken game, and hated it.

Jack, meanwhile, was paired with Gabriel. He sat a little straighter, trying to look more confident than he felt.

Nick clapped him on the shoulder on his way out. "Don’t trip over your own feet today, rookie. Try to make it at least ten minutes."

Jack flushed, but muttered a quiet, "Yes, sir," as the room cleared.

The engines screamed to life as the pairs taxied to the runway.

Castiel settled into his cockpit, the canopy sealing him off from everything but the quiet hum of the systems and the rising roar of jet turbines. His fingers flexed on the throttle as he glanced out to his right, where Dean’s F-35 rolled into place beside him.

Their eyes met for the briefest second through the glass before Dean’s gaze snapped forward again, his jaw tight.

Ground control cleared them one by one, and then the sky swallowed them whole.

Altitude came fast, the Channel glittering far below like shards of broken glass.

The pairs fell into formation. Michael and Raphael in the lead, Nick and Zachariah on their flank, Gabriel and Jack behind them, and finally Dean and Castiel bringing up the rear.

"Intercept begins in three," Michael’s voice came over comms, calm and even. "Stay sharp."

Dean’s voice followed a second later, low and edged.

"You hearing this, Cas? Don’t drag me down."

Castiel didn’t respond.

Nick’s chuckle crackled faintly on the line. "Oh, don’t worry, Winchester. Ghost won’t drag you down. He’s much better at leaving people behind entirely."

Dean bristled audibly. "Keep talking, Davies. You’ll eat those words soon enough."

"Promises, promises," Nick replied smoothly.

But then the exercise began in earnest, and all other noise dropped away.

Targets appeared on their HUDs, simulated enemy squadrons cutting through the grids like a knife. Michael called the first maneuver, and the air around them erupted into sharp rolls, dives, and climbs as each pair split and engaged.

Dean and Castiel moved as one at first, their movements eerily synchronized despite the cold silence between them. Dean’s voice cut through finally, tight with irritation.

"You gonna say anything back there or just brood all day?"

Castiel’s tone was flat, even.

"Focus on your six."

Dean cursed under his breath but obeyed.

Below them, Jack wavered, his Typhoon jittering as he overcorrected a roll, sending him spiraling just outside the grid for a split second.

Gabriel’s voice barked at him over comms.

"Jack, stay on me! Keep it tight, rookie, tight!"

"I’m trying—!" Jack shot back, but his voice cracked slightly under the strain.

Nick’s dry laugh followed. "That’s adorable. Really. Someone get the boy a pacifier."

Dean muttered, "God, you’re a dick," but Nick didn’t bother to answer.

Jack fought to stabilize, his nose wobbling but finally locking back into place on Gabriel’s wing.

Castiel watched it unfold below, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Then Dean’s voice cut in again, but softer now.

"…Hey. He’s holding it. Don’t let up on him."

And sure enough, Jack held.

By the time they reached the final phase of the exercise, the grid was a whirlwind of jets weaving and spinning like knives in a storm.

Michael called for mixed maneuvers, forcing the pairs into tighter, more dangerous coordination.

Castiel and Dean rolled together into a split-S, dropping below the melee to take a simulated shot at an enemy target. The lock-on screamed across both their dashes as they hit simultaneously.

"Splash one," Dean muttered.

Castiel didn’t answer, but his hands were steady, his movements precise.

And then Nick’s voice came again, soft, sharp, cutting.

"Impressive, Ghost. Almost makes you look human."

Dean cut in before Castiel could reply.

"Better than looking like an ass, huh, Davies?"

Nick chuckled darkly. "Oh, you’re cute when you’re defensive, Winchester."

Dean growled low in his throat.

But Castiel… he finally spoke.

"If you two are done measuring how small you are, perhaps we can complete the exercise."

The word was quiet, but the weight of it silenced even Nick.

For the next two minutes, the only sound was the scream of engines and the clipped calls of formation shifts.

When the exercise ended, Jack was still on Gabriel’s wing, his breathing hard but even, his Typhoon still in one piece.

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder as they turned back toward base.

"Not bad, rookie. Not bad at all."

Jack’s grin was breathless but genuine.

"Thanks."

Dean and Castiel stayed quiet all the way down.

On the tarmac, the crews moved to meet them, the smell of jet fuel thick in the air as canopies lifted and boots hit concrete.

Dean ripped off his helmet, his eyes catching Castiel’s for just a second before he looked away.

Castiel stood there, helmet in hand, his face calm but his chest tight.

Jack ran past a moment later, his helmet tucked under his arm, grinning like a fool.

"I did it," he said breathlessly to no one in particular. "I actually did it."

And for just a second, just long enough for Jack to see, Castiel’s lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile.

Jack froze, then smiled wider, his ears pink.

Dean saw it too.

Later, as the squadrons filed back to the barracks, Nick’s voice followed them lazily down the corridor.

"Well then. Seems even ghosts can warm up… eventually."

Castiel didn’t respond.

But Dean’s fist clenched at his side.

***

The base bar was a low-lit, wood-paneled holdover from some older era of military life. Its ceiling was lined with faded RAF pennants, and the smell of spilled beer and old polish hung in the air. The jukebox in the corner groaned through a Johnny Cash tune as the squadrons filtered in, still in their flight suits.

It had become something of a tradition, a quiet armistice after sorties. No ranks, no formalities, just pilots nursing drinks and licking their bruised egos.

Nick was already there when Castiel arrived, draped lazily on a barstool, a pint in one hand and that insufferable grin on his face.

"Well," he drawled as Castiel stepped through the door, "if it isn’t the man of the hour."

Castiel ignored him and headed for the end of the bar, planting himself on a stool farthest from the crowd.

Nick wasn’t deterred.

"You know," he called, loud enough for the room to hear, "you’re more fun to watch when you’re brooding. Like a bad romance novel. ‘The haunted Ghost, forever tortured by his feelings.’"

A ripple of laughter went through the RAF pilots. Even Gabriel smirked into his drink.

Dean came in a moment later, his eyes already dark with irritation. He scanned the room, his jaw tight when he saw Nick holding court and Castiel sitting off to the side.

Dean didn’t sit with him.

He joined Michael’s table instead, sliding into a chair and nursing his pint in silence while the others kept up a steady hum of banter.

Somewhere between the second and third round, Jack appeared, his cheeks pink and his hands twisting nervously at his sides.

Castiel looked up from his glass just in time to catch the kid standing awkwardly next to him.

"…Sir?" Jack began, his voice low, almost embarrassed.

Castiel raised an eyebrow.

Jack swallowed. "I just… wanted to say thanks. For earlier. You didn’t have to, but—" He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. "It meant a lot. So. Yeah."

He gave a shy smile and stood there like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or sit. Castiel considered him for a moment before nodding faintly.

"You flew better today," he said simply. "Don’t let them get in your head."

Jack’s grin widened just a little, and he ducked his head.

"Yes, sir."

Then he scampered back to his table, visibly lighter than when he’d come in.

Dean had watched the whole exchange from across the room, his fingers tight around his glass.

Later, when most of the RAF pilots had gotten loud and sloppy, Nick holding court at the center of it all, Dean finally stood, leaving his drink half-full.

He crossed the room toward Castiel with a predator’s focus, boots heavy on the worn floorboards.

Nick caught sight of him and called out lazily, "Careful, Winchester! Ghost might disappear if you get too close!"

Dean didn’t even flinch. He kept walking until he stood directly over Castiel’s table.

"Outside," he said.

Castiel didn’t look up.

"Now," Dean added, his voice sharp.

When Castiel finally stood, the quiet between them was heavier than the chatter filling the bar. They walked out together, the door swinging shut behind them and leaving the warmth and noise behind.

The night outside was cold and quiet, the runway lights blinking faintly in the distance.

Dean paced a few steps away, running a hand through his hair before turning back to face him.

"You think you’re clever, huh?" he started, his voice low and hard.

Castiel just stood there, still and silent.

Dean’s hands flexed at his sides.

"Acting like it doesn’t matter. Saying it was nothing. Walking away like you didn’t just—" He stopped, dragging in a sharp breath. "Like you didn’t just leave me standing there."

Castiel’s jaw tightened.

"There was nothing more to say," he replied flatly.

Dean's breath hitched, and for a second all he could do was stare at Castiel. He remembered the last thing Castiel said to him before they came here in Brize Norton. Then his mouth twisted into a bitter, humorless smile.

"You think you know me that well, huh?" His voice was low, sharp, like gravel under pressure. He stepped closer, eyes hard and wet all at once. "You think you’re the first person to figure out what my old man turned me into? The first to tell me I’m just some fucked-up little soldier boy with nothing real inside him?"

Dean’s fists clenched at his sides, but his voice cracked anyway.

"Well, congratulations, Cas. You cracked the code. Gold star for you. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you’re better than me. Like you didn’t sign up for this same goddamn war. Like you didn’t keep coming back to me even when you knew exactly who I was."

He shook his head, breathing hard now.

"You weren’t stupid for thinking you could be the exception, Cas. You were just a coward for walking away before you even fucking tried."

There was a beat of silence after that, heavy, brittle. Dean’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.

"So don’t you fucking dare put all of that on me. You can say a lot of things, Cas. But don't stand there and rewrite history just because it's easier. You don't get to insult me by calling it nothing."

Castiel didn’t flinch.

Dean’s voice cracked.

"Why’d you even bother, huh?" Dean’s voice was hoarse now, cracking just under the anger. He took another step closer, hands curled into fists at his sides, like he couldn’t figure out whether he wanted to punch Cas or grab him.

"Why say all that crap if you didn’t mean it? Why bother sticking up for the rookie if you’re just gonna keep being the same cold, miserable bastard to everyone else? You think I didn’t notice? You think nobody notices the way you sit there, silent, acting like you don’t give a damn about anyone or anything? So what was the point, Cas? What was the goddamn point of telling me about your old man, about what he did to you, about what you did, if you’re just gonna keep shutting everybody out? Huh?"

Dean’s voice was rising now, but it wasn’t just rage, it was hurt, thick and raw in his throat.

"Was that supposed to make me feel sorry for you? Was that supposed to explain why you never let anyone in? Or were you just—", he broke off, his breath coming faster now, chest heaving. His eyes burned into Castiel’s, bright and wet. "—just reminding me why nobody ever should?"

Dean swallowed hard, but his next words still cracked.

"You didn’t have to tell me, Cas. You didn’t have to tell me any of it. But you did. And now you act like it never even happened. Hell, you dropped the bomb and decided to ghost me for 10 fucking days."

For a moment, all he could do was shake his head, his voice falling to a low, bitter rasp.

"So why the hell did you even bother?"

For a moment, Castiel didn’t move.

Dean’s words hung in the air between them, heavy and hot, like the smoke and debris of a building that had finally collapsed under its own weight.

Castiel’s eyes didn’t leave Dean’s, but something behind them dimmed, like a light burning itself out.

His throat worked, but no sound came.

He wanted to tell Dean he was wrong. That telling him about his past had meant something, that it was the closest he’d come in years to letting someone see him. That sticking up for Jack wasn’t some calculated gesture, it was instinct, muscle memory, the one small part of him that still believed he could protect someone, even if he couldn’t protect himself. That he regret ever saying all those hurtful things to Dean. That he was sorry for not calling him when he was in Nevada.

But what good would saying it do?

The words would only catch in his chest, turning to ash before they ever reached the air.

So he did what he’d always done. What his father taught him to do. What Amara expected him to do.

He locked it down.

His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared. His hands folded neatly behind his back like he was standing at attention before a board of inquiry.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was low, flat, hollow.

"Because I thought you deserved to know why I am the way I am," he said.

He looked away then, gaze dropping to some fixed point on the wall, anywhere but Dean.

"I thought it was only fair you see who I really am. So you’d stop wasting your time."

There was a long, brittle silence, the kind that rang louder than shouting. Then he added, quiet and even, "And because Jack deserves better."

Dean froze, like the words had struck something he didn’t know was exposed. Something sharp flickered in his eyes, hurt, disbelief, anger.

His voice dropped to something low and dangerous, cracking at the edges.

"And I don’t?"

The words hung there, raw and naked.

Castiel swallowed.

"You never asked for better," he said finally.

Dean stared at him for a long moment, the air between them crackling with something dangerous and fragile.

Then he stepped closer, his voice dropping.

"Maybe I did."

Castiel’s breath hitched, but he held his ground.

Dean’s hand hovered like he wanted to reach for him, but at the last second he pulled it back, curling it into a fist instead.

"It never makes a difference, does it?" he muttered, his voice thick now. "You don’t let anyone in. You never did. You just close the damn door and shut the world out. Like none of us ever mattered. And I'm fucking glad to know nothing's changed."

Castiel looked away.

"I never meant for you to matter," he murmured.

Dean’s laugh this time was bitter and broken.

"Well. Guess you’re a hell of a liar, then."

He turned and walked away, his boots loud on the pavement, his shoulders stiff.

Castiel stood there alone under the stars, his chest aching like someone had carved it hollow.

When Castiel came back inside, the bar had quieted some. Jack was asleep in a corner booth, his head resting on folded arms. Gabriel and Zachariah were still bickering at the dartboard. Nick caught sight of Castiel and raised his glass, his grin slow and mocking.

"Well," he purred, "look who came crawling back. Everything alright out there?"

Castiel didn’t answer.

He just crossed to the far end of the bar, ordered a glass of water, and stared into it like it might hold all the answers he’d never given.

From across the room, Dean sat at his table, his eyes fixed on him like a challenge. Like a question he wasn’t ready to ask. And maybe, just maybe, Castiel wasn’t ready to answer.

The bar’s lights dimmed lower as the hours dragged on, the jukebox playing softer now, the clink of glasses growing rarer.

Jack stirred at one point and blinked blearily at Castiel.

"Sir?" he mumbled sleepily.

Castiel looked up.

Jack gave a small, crooked smile.

"Thanks again. For… you know."

Castiel’s lips twitched, something that might have been a smile.

"Get some sleep, Kline," he said softly.

Jack’s smile widened just a little before he nodded and closed his eyes again. Nick chuckled faintly at the scene from his table but didn’t comment.

And Dean… Dean just watched, his glass empty, his expression unreadable.

Chapter Text

The Unidentified Blip
15th of July, 2012
Carterton, Oxfordshire, OX18 3LX, UK

***

The morning sun broke across the airfield in thin slats of gold through the barracks windows. Castiel sat on the edge of his cot, fully dressed, boots polished, helmet on the floor at his feet. His squadron mates were already filing out for breakfast or their pre-flight checks.

His phone buzzed quietly in his hand. Amara’s name flashed on the screen. He stared at it for a beat before answering.

"Collins," she said softly.

Her voice was calm. Controlled.

"Any news?" she asked.

He didn’t need her to clarify what she meant.

"I'm working on it."

A pause. Then she said, "Do not forget why you’re here. The exercise is a cover. Nothing more. You have one job, and you don’t need to play hero to finish it."

Castiel gripped the edge of the mattress. His knuckles whitened.

"I know," he said.

Amara’s tone shifted slightly, faint amusement curling at the edges.

"Good. Because I trust you’ll remember what’s at stake when it counts."

Then she hung up.

Castiel stared at the black screen for a long moment before tucking the phone away.

***

The hangar was quiet at this hour. All steel shadows and the faint hum of generators. The rest of the base slept, pilots and crew dead to the world after a day of drills and drinking.

Castiel moved like smoke, barely a sound beneath his boots as he cut through the darkness. His badge let him past the first checkpoint, but after that it was all locked doors and dim corridors.

His hands stayed steady, even as his pulse climbed.

Amara’s words echoed in his mind. You’ll save lives, Castiel. But only if you follow orders.

And yet, every step he took deeper into restricted space felt like a betrayal. Not of her. Not even of Dean. Of himself.

The secured office he needed was just ahead, faint light leaking through the crack beneath the door. He dropped into a crouch, pulling a slim tool from his pocket to pick the lock. The pins gave way in seconds.

Inside, file cabinets, a humming terminal, hard drives stacked neatly on a steel shelf. Castiel slipped inside and began scanning the files on the desk for anything that looked like the payload specs Amara had described.

He didn’t notice the other presence in the room until the door shut quietly behind him.

"Well, well. Ghost in the flesh."

Castiel froze, spine stiffening at the sound of the voice behind him.

Nick.

Of course it was Nick.

Castiel turned slowly to find him leaning against the door, arms crossed lazily, though his eyes were sharp as knives.

"Didn’t peg you for the breaking-and-entering type," Nick drawled. His lips curled into that same mocking smirk he wore like a weapon. "But I gotta say, it suits you."

Castiel’s mind raced. If it had been Dean, he could have improvised. Lied, maybe even appealed to him. But Nick? Nick was dangerous. He wouldn’t hesitate to string Castiel up in front of every superior officer on base just to watch him burn.

"You didn’t see anything." Castiel said evenly. But Nick just chuckled darkly and stepped closer, shutting the distance between them.

"Oh, I saw plenty," he murmured. His voice dropped low, venomous now. "You know what your problem is, Ghost? You think nobody’s watching you just because you don’t talk. But I watch. And this?" he gestured around the room, "This looks… real bad."

Castiel held his ground, meeting Nick’s gaze without flinching.

"You don’t know what this is," he said flatly.

"Maybe not," Nick shot back. "And maybe I don’t even care. But I know the kind of man who sneaks into classified offices in the middle of the night. And I can make one call, and you’re off this base in handcuffs by morning."

The two stared each other down, the silence between them stretching, sharp and thin.

Then Nick’s smirk widened, cruel and knowing. "Unless…"

Castiel’s jaw tightened.

"Unless I don’t." Nick circled him, his presence predatory now.

Then Nick’s grin widened even more, slow and sharp, and he let out a low laugh that sent a chill down Castiel’s spine.

"You think I’m gonna turn you in?" he asked, almost gently. "Nah. Not tonight."

Castiel frowned, searching for the trap.

Nick leaned in, voice a whisper now, teeth flashing in the dark.

"Because watching you squirm? Watching you sweat every time you wonder if I’m gonna open my mouth? That’s a hell of a lot more fun."

He straightened, clapping Castiel mockingly on the shoulder.

"Sweet dreams, Ghost. Try not to disappoint me."

And then he was gone, slipping back into the hallway, humming to himself like he’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

Castiel stood alone for a long moment, jaw tight, hands still clenched at his sides.

He slipped back into the shadows and disappeared, the faintest whisper of air the only evidence he’d ever been there.

In the darkness of his bunk, Castiel sat at the small desk by the window, the sealed file from Amara in front of him, unopened.

The words still rang in his ears, "You’ll save a lot of lives, Castiel. But only if you follow orders."

He closed his eyes.

And wondered, for just a second, what it would mean to break them.

***

The morning sun spilled pale light through the briefing room windows, but Castiel felt no warmth from it.

He sat at his usual place, hands folded neatly on the table, eyes fixed on the projector screen at the front. On the surface, he was calm, every inch the disciplined officer he’d spent years becoming. But his jaw was locked, his shoulders just a little too stiff, his mind a little too loud.

Across the room, Nick lounged in his chair like he owned the place, legs sprawled, arms crossed, head tilted in lazy attention to the commander’s words. Every so often, Castiel could feel his gaze on him, not a glare, but something worse. Amused. Knowing.

When the commander called on him to speak, Castiel rose and delivered his report in the same even, clipped tone he always did. He didn’t stumble. He didn’t let his eyes drift to Nick. But he could feel the grin growing on Nick’s face with every word.

When he sat back down, he caught it, just a flash, a corner of a smirk and a faint shake of Nick’s head, like a man enjoying a private joke.

Castiel kept his expression neutral, but under the table his fingers curled into his palm until his knuckles ached.

Every second Nick stayed quiet felt like borrowed time. And sooner or later, the debt would come due.

***

The base at RAF Brize Norton was unusually still that morning after the briefing room.

Low clouds rolled in from the west, and a thin sheen of rain made the tarmac glisten. In the operations center, the usual murmur of radar chatter filled the air. Pilots and controllers moved at a steady rhythm, the kind of quiet routine that meant nothing was wrong, yet.

Castiel stood at the back of the room with Jack, watching the radar screens more out of habit than necessity. Jack’s knee bounced nervously as he leaned forward, his eyes darting between the displays.

"You don’t have to hover," Castiel told him, his voice flat but not unkind.

Jack grinned sheepishly but didn’t stop. "I just… wanna get it right this time, sir. Make up for last sortie, you know?"

Castiel didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes on the scope.

The calm held for another two minutes, and then it broke.

Jack’s sharp intake of breath caught everyone’s attention.

"Uh, control? I’ve got something on sweep three," he called.

One of the controllers glanced over. "Where?"

"Bearing 237, forty miles out," Jack replied, his voice rising a notch. "Altitude thirty-two thousand, speed steady… but we don’t have any notes on an inbound aircraft today, do we?"

The controller frowned, shaking his head. "Nothing scheduled. Try comms."

Jack leaned over the console, hitting the button. His voice, shaky but eager, crackled through the speakers.

"Unidentified aircraft, this is RAF Brize Norton control. State your call sign and intention, over."

Silence.

The faint hiss of static filled the room.

Jack pressed the button again, his voice firmer this time.

"Repeat, unidentified aircraft, you are entering controlled airspace. State your call sign and intention, over."

Nothing.

He looked at Castiel, eyes bright, almost excited now. "Sir? They’re not answering. Should I... should we go to ROE?"

Castiel didn’t move at first. His eyes narrowed on the blip on the radar, the quiet alarm bells in his head growing louder.

"Give it a few minutes," he said finally, his tone sharper than usual.

Jack blinked. "But sir—"

"Don’t take any action yet," Castiel cut in, his voice like a blade. "If they’re not answering, it doesn’t mean hostile. It could be comms failure, civilian pilot error—"

But Jack was already reaching for the controls. "We can’t just sit here, sir. If it’s a threat, we’re wasting time—"

"Jack—"

Too late.

Jack’s thumb pressed the confirmation switch, and the missile warning siren blared.

Every head in the room snapped toward the console as the controller swore.

"Missile launch confirmed!" someone shouted.

Castiel’s blood ran cold.

Jack turned toward him with a hesitant, almost proud look, but it faltered instantly when he saw Castiel’s expression.

"You—" Castiel started, but his voice caught. He spun toward the door, breaking into a full sprint.

"Get my jet ready!" he barked to the stunned ground crew outside as he tore across the tarmac.

Behind him, chaos erupted.

Dean had just stepped out of the mess when the alarms started. He jogged toward the operations center, his brow furrowed, and nearly collided with Jack coming out the door.

"Kline!" Dean barked. "What the hell’s going on?"

Jack’s face had gone pale.

"I… I thought— I thought it was hostile," he stammered.

Dean’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "You what?"

Jack swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "I fired. I already fired."

Dean froze for half a second before his hands fisted in Jack’s jacket, slamming him back against the wall.

"You son of a bitch," Dean hissed. "What. Did. You. Do?"

But before Jack could stammer out an answer, the roar of jet engines cut through the air.

Dean’s head snapped toward the runway just in time to see Castiel’s F-47 tearing down the tarmac, afterburners igniting like fire as it screamed into the sky.

The other pilots spilled out onto the tarmac, staring.

"What the hell’s he doing?" Gabriel muttered.

Dean’s chest went tight. He shoved Jack aside and turned on the nearest controller.

"Talk to me. What’s up there?" he demanded.

The controller’s face was stricken. "It’s… it’s a commercial liner," he said hoarsely. "Full of passengers. Civilian. They didn’t respond because they’re on the wrong comms frequency. They’re—"

Dean didn’t wait to hear the rest. He staggered back a step, eyes fixed on the sky.

The missile was already streaking away, white-hot, leaving a faint contrail in its wake.

And behind it, chasing it like a ghost through the clouds, Castiel’s jet.

***

The world compressed into a tunnel of sound and speed.

Castiel’s breathing was steady but sharp, his hands gripping the stick so tight it hurt. The missile gleamed ahead of him, a deadly silver spear already halfway to its target.

"Come on," he muttered to himself, forcing his jet faster, pushing the envelope as the airframe groaned.

The F-47’s alarms screamed as he approached overspeed limits, but he ignored them.

"Lock, damn it," he growled, flipping switches as his targeting system struggled to find purchase on the missile.

The civilian plane loomed ahead now, a wide-bodied Airbus with contrails spilling off its wingtips. He could see the sunlight glinting off its windows. He could see them.

The lock tone shrieked, then broke.

Too fast.

The missile was too fast.

He banked harder, lining up a shot, and fired anyway.

The interceptor streaked forward, but it missed, the missile slipping past it like a snake through water.

Castiel swore under his breath and pushed the throttle even harder. The Gs pressed him into his seat as the edge of his vision darkened.

But it wasn’t enough.

Ahead of him, the missile struck the underside of the Airbus.

The explosion tore through the quiet sky, a fireball blooming outward, fragments spiraling in all directions.

Castiel’s stomach dropped as he pulled back hard, but even then the shockwave hit him.

Shards of metal slammed into his jet, alarms wailing, his systems cutting out one by one. The canopy spiderwebbed with cracks as smoke filled the cockpit.

He didn’t even have time to eject before the right wing sheared off and the jet began to spin.

For a moment, just a moment, he thought of Dean.

Then the world went white.

***

On the tarmac, the silence was deafening.

The tower relayed the explosion over the comms, their voices numb.

The pilots stood in stunned silence, staring up at the sky as pieces of debris rained down far in the distance.

Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs as he scanned the horizon, desperate, wild.

"Did he eject?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

No answer.

He grabbed the nearest spotter by the collar.

"Did you see a chute? Tell me you saw a chute!"

But the man just shook his head, eyes wide, stunned into silence.

Dean shoved him away, his chest heaving.

Somewhere behind him, Jack had sunk to his knees, his hands over his face.

Dean turned his eyes back to the sky, his fists clenching at his sides.

"No," he muttered under his breath.

He stared at the smoke curling into the clouds, his breath coming faster now.

"No, no, no."

For the first time in years, his voice cracked.

"Don’t you dare leave me, Cas."

But the sky gave no answer.

Just smoke, and silence, and the faint echo of what had been.

***

The control tower was still ringing with alarms when Dean shoved the door open.

It was chaos, clipped British and American voices barking into headsets, papers strewn across the consoles, radar screens flashing with replay loops of the disaster.

Nobody stopped him as he strode across the floor like a storm, boots slamming against the tiles.

He didn’t need to look to know where Jack was.

The kid was slumped in a chair near the far wall, his helmet still dangling from his hands, his face pale as chalk.

Dean didn’t even slow down.

He grabbed Jack by the collar and yanked him out of the chair, slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the glass in the window.

"You little son of a bitch," Dean growled, his voice low and raw.

Jack’s eyes went wide, panicked.

"I—"

"You fired without clearance," Dean hissed. "You didn’t even wait. You didn’t think."

Jack’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no sound came out.

Dean pressed his forearm into the younger man’s chest, his face inches away.

"You just killed 200 civilians," he snarled. "And you… you…" His voice cracked then, just a little, and he pressed harder. "…and you took him down with them."

Jack flinched.

"I thought—" he finally stammered, his voice cracking. "I thought it was hostile! I thought if I just— if I just proved myself…"

Dean’s grip tightened.

"You don’t prove yourself by being a trigger-happy idiot," he spat. "You prove yourself by not getting people killed."

Someone finally moved to intervene, one of the RAF officers stepping forward, hand raised.

"Captain Winchester," he began carefully. "We need him alive for the investigation."

Dean froze for a long, dangerous moment.

Then, finally, he shoved Jack back into the chair and turned away, his hands shaking.

By the time the joint command officers arrived, the tower had gone quiet again, but the tension was worse now, thicker somehow, like everyone was just waiting for someone to snap.

Amara was there too. Of course she was.

She stood at the edge of the operations center, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

Dean caught her gaze once, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought he saw something flicker behind that cold calm.

But she said nothing.

The investigation began immediately.

Statements were taken. Radar logs reviewed. Missile telemetry plotted. Nobody could say definitively whether Castiel had ejected.

The spotters scanning the wreckage field reported seeing something drop from the spinning jet before it hit the water, but whether it was a chute, or just another piece of debris, nobody could confirm.

Dean paced outside the operations center for what felt like hours, chain-smoking and muttering under his breath.

Every few minutes he’d glance toward the horizon, like he expected to see Castiel’s jet limping back to base after all.

It never came.

Later that night, the pilots were ordered into the briefing room for an official debrief.

Jack sat at the end of the table, his head bowed, shoulders hunched. Nobody sat near him.

Dean leaned against the back wall, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles were white.

Nick stood at the front of the room, his normally even tone sharper than usual.

"This was a tragedy," he said plainly. "We lost one of our own today. And civilians, innocent civilians, died because of a reckless decision."

Jack flinched.

Nick's eyes swept the room.

"From this moment forward, nobody fires without clearance," he continued. "Nobody assumes. Nobody acts on their ego. We are here to protect, not to play hero."

Dean let out a bitter laugh under his breath, but said nothing.

Nick’s gaze landed on him for a beat longer than the others, but he didn’t say a word.

Then Nick dismissed them.

***

The base was quiet after curfew.

Dean stood outside on the tarmac, staring at the empty runway.

Somewhere far out to sea, a recovery ship was combing the wreckage field. Every few hours, a report would come back over the comms, nothing yet.

No sign of him.

Dean didn’t care what anyone else said. If there was no body… there was still a chance.

There had to be.

He took another drag off his cigarette, his eyes burning as he stared at the horizon.

"C’mon, Cas," he muttered under his breath. "Don’t… don’t do this to me, man. Not like this."

He remembered the look on Castiel’s face as he ran for the jet, calm, focused, like he’d already decided what he had to do.

Dean hated that look.

He hated that Castiel was always willing to throw himself into hell if it meant saving someone else. He hated how much it hurt to imagine never seeing him walk through that door again.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

"You stubborn son of a bitch," he whispered.

And he stayed there on the tarmac until the sun started to rise again, refusing to move, refusing to look away from the sky.

Because maybe, just maybe, if he stared long enough, Castiel would come back.

Chapter Text

Ashes and Fields
Upper Heyford, Oxfordshire, UK

***

There was smoke in his lungs and the taste of copper on his lips.

When Castiel woke, his first thought was, I’m alive.

His second was, Why?

The parachute lay in tatters across the wet grass, tangled around the ejection seat. The quiet groan of metal cooling in the dawn air was the only sound at first, that and his own breathing. Shallow. Rough.

His ribs ached. His head throbbed. His flight suit was torn and heavy against his frame.

But he was alive.

He lay still for a long time, staring up at the pale English sky, thin clouds streaked across it like scars. Then, finally, he sat up.

Around him stretched endless green fields, stitched together with hedgerows and stone walls. In the distance, a cluster of low cottages smoked gently in the morning chill. Sheep grazed nearby, unbothered by the crash of metal or man.

He dragged himself upright, boots sinking into the soft mud. Each breath still burned, but his hands worked automatically, unbuckling the harness, shaking free the remains of the chute, checking for his phone.

Gone.

Of course.

Castiel paused. He should have died up there. He should have ejected too late, or not at all. He should have gone down with that jet, just another name carved into some memorial. Instead, here he stood, alive in a world that seemed utterly indifferent to his survival.

He turned toward the nearest lane, his steps uneven at first. One foot in front of the other.

The lane was quiet and narrow, lined with low stone fences and overgrown grass. Every so often a car or tractor rattled by, and the drivers would slow, staring at him curiously, a man in a tattered flight suit limping through their morning routines.

No one stopped. Not yet. And maybe that was better.

Castiel kept his eyes forward, his breath fogging in the cold air. He could still hear it, the explosion. The scream of metal tearing apart in the sky. The silence in his comms headset.

Jack’s face.

Dean’s voice.

The horizon going up in flames.

He clenched his jaw and kept walking.

The first village appeared like something out of a postcard. Honey-colored cottages, a church steeple, cobblestone square.

Castiel stepped into the square slowly, unsure if he even belonged here. His boots left dark marks on the clean stones.

People glanced at him, some startled, some suspicious. He ignored them.

A boy on a bicycle rode past and stared openly. Castiel caught his own reflection in a shop window and understood why. His hair wild from wind and ejection, his jacket torn and smeared with soot, his eyes hollow.

For a brief second, he almost stopped. He almost turned back. But then he saw the sign.

Ministry of Defense Property: Authorized Personnel Only — 1 Mile

The faintest edge of a familiar insignia was carved into the corner.

It was here.

The site Amara had sent him to find. Somewhere past these quiet streets, past the fields and hedgerows.

Even now, even after all of this, the mission still waited.

He left the village behind and cut through the fields, his boots sinking into damp earth. Birds scattered overhead.

He hated how quiet it was. He hated how much space there was for his thoughts.

'It’s your fault.'

The voice came unbidden, low and cold.

'You were supposed to stop him.'

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms.

'You’re always too late.'

He thought of Dean’s face just before he took off. That mixture of anger and fear he couldn’t quite hide.

He thought of the way the others had stared after him. Like they were already writing his epitaph. He stumbled then, catching himself on a wooden fence.

'You should’ve died.'

Maybe. But he hadn’t. And that meant he still had something left to do.

It took another hour of walking before he saw it.

A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, stretching across the edge of a wood. On the other side, a series of low, flat buildings barely visible through the trees, painted in muted greens and browns.

A single dirt road led to a checkpoint gate.

From here, it looked abandoned, no guards, no cameras, no motion.

But he knew better.

He stood there for a long time, staring at it. The rumored off-grid cache. The unauthorized stockpile. Everything they weren’t supposed to have.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and leaned against the fence, his forehead resting against the cold metal.

He could feel it, the weight of everything pressing down on him now.

Jack’s mistake.

The civilians.

The wreckage.

Dean’s silence.

And now this.

He closed his eyes for a second, shutting it all out.

Somewhere far behind him, church bells rang in the village. It was almost beautiful. Almost enough to make him forget what he was here to do.

But he didn’t forget.

When he opened his eyes again, they were clear. The guilt was still there. The anger. The doubt. But underneath it all was the same quiet determination that had carried him into the sky this morning. If this was where it ended, then so be it. But he would see it through.

For the civilians.

For Dean.

For himself.

He pushed off the fence and started walking again, his steps slow but steady, his breath misting in the cold morning air.

One foot in front of the other.

The bell tower faded behind him.

The fields stretched out ahead.

***

The underground bunker was quiet.

Too quiet.

Castiel moved like a shadow through the corridors, boots silent on the linoleum. His ribs still ached from the crash, his breath still ragged, but his focus was sharp now, honed.

He knew what he was looking for.

Down two more flights of concrete stairs and past the security door he’d bypassed with a stolen card, he found it.

The chamber was vast and cold, lined with steel racks and floodlights. In the center of the room stood four sleek cylindrical devices, partially covered in plastic sheeting, faint warning symbols peeking through.

Nuclear payloads. Unauthorized. Off-grid.

Just like Amara said.

Castiel stood there for a long moment, the air heavy in his lungs, before he moved forward and peeled back a corner of the sheeting.

Each device had a serial number. Documentation. Signatures.

He found a clipboard with manifests and schematics and took quick photographs with the salvaged phone he’d picked up from an abandoned guard station earlier. Then, after a second’s hesitation, he tucked the actual clipboard under his arm as well.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to hang the whole operation out to dry.

He stared at it for another long moment before turning and slipping back out the way he came.

The muddy field outside was silent under the morning haze.

Castiel walked until the bunker was just a speck behind him. Then he stopped by an old wooden gate, resting one hand on the rough timber, and dialed the number Amara had given him.

She picked up on the first ring.

"You're alive," Amara said simply, but Castiel didn't reply.

"You were instructed to observe and report, not to engage. Yet you managed to destroy a jet, terrify an air base, and—"

"I have proof," Castiel interrupted coldly.

Amara fell silent.

"You want these people exposed? Here." He held the clipboard up even though she couldn’t see it. "Serial numbers. Photos. A complete inventory of everything in that facility. Enough to give the President everything he needs to confront them and shut them down."

Amara’s voice was a touch sharper now. "Then hand it over."

But Castiel didn’t move.

"No."

There was a pause on the line.

"I don’t think you understand the position you’re in, First Lieutenant Collins," Amara said, her voice like ice. "You don’t dictate terms to me."

Castiel’s jaw tightened.

"I said no, General Schneider. You already have what you wanted. Now I want something in return."

Amara’s laughter was soft, disbelieving. "What could you possibly want?"

"I want you," Castiel said, "to tell the President not to escalate. Not to engage with the UK publicly. No sabre-rattling. No threats of retaliation. You tell him to keep this quiet. Like an adult. Like a professional."

Amara’s voice darkened. "And why would I agree to that? Do you have any idea how long we’ve been waiting for the chance to pressure them on this?"

Castiel’s expression didn’t change.

"Because you know what happens if you don’t," he said simply. "It becomes a circus. It hardens their position. People die. That’s not strategy. That’s ego."

Amara said nothing, but he pressed on, each word deliberate.

"You don’t leak it to the press and humiliate them. You don’t corner them in front of the world, where they’re left with no choice but to lash out. You don’t rattle sabers and call it strength, because it’s not. It’s recklessness."

His grip tightened on the phone.

"You go to them quietly. You show them the evidence. You impose inspections. Oversight. You give them no choice but to dismantle what they’ve built. And you do it without lighting the match that burns everything down."

He let a breath out, slow but certain.

"Because real strength isn’t in how loud you can shout or how hard you can strike. It’s in knowing you could… and choosing not to. It’s in keeping the world from coming apart even when you’d have every excuse to let it."

Amara finally cut in, her voice sharper now, touched with disdain.

"You really do think you’re something righteous, don’t you?" she said. "You think restraint wins wars? You think quiet little agreements save nations?"

Her laugh was low, biting.

"Strength is about power, Castiel. It always has been. And if you think I’ll let you play priest in my war room, you’re—"

"You don’t have a choice," Castiel interrupted quietly.

Her breath caught faintly on the other end of the line.

"I’ve already proven they’re in violation. I have the evidence. It’s enough to bury them. And if you want that evidence to disappear into the ground with me, by all means, push me. But if you want it handed over, you’ll agree. Right here. Right now."

The silence that followed was long and cold. His fingers tightened on the clipboard.

"I don’t hand this over," he continued, "unless you agree to keep the President on the rails. No strikes. No leaks. No grandstanding."

For the first time, Amara sounded faintly amused.

"You really do think you’re someone," she murmured.

"I don’t care what you think I am," Castiel said.

There was another long silence on the line.

Then, finally, "Fine," Amara said, her tone clipped. "The White House will keep this quiet. For now. Send me the evidence."

Castiel didn’t move yet.

"I want it in writing," he said.

Amara let out a soft, sharp laugh. "Of course you do."

He heard her typing faintly in the background, then his phone buzzed. A short encrypted message appeared on the screen:

"POTUS authorized to keep UK matter contained. No escalation. Per agreement."

He stared at it for a moment, then finally tucked the clipboard under his arm and spoke into the phone.

"You’ll have it within the hour."

Then he hung up.

***

The sound of rotors reached him before the helicopter came into view.

Castiel stood in the same field, his flight suit still damp and torn, his boots sunk into the mud. The clipboard was tucked under his arm, his phone in his other hand.

When the rescue helicopter finally touched down, kicking up a cloud of dust and grass, the side door slid open, and Dean Winchester was standing there.

Dean didn’t say anything at first.

He just stared at Castiel, his expression unreadable through the haze.

Castiel climbed aboard without a word, his movements slow but deliberate. He handed the clipboard to the waiting intelligence officer sitting in the back, then sank into the nearest jumpseat.

Dean moved toward him, but Castiel kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

Amara’s agent took the clipboard and disappeared into the cockpit, and the helicopter lifted off, banking back toward Brize Norton.

Dean finally sat across from him, arms crossed, jaw tight. For one second, all he could do was sat there, staring.

Castiel’s hair was a mess, his flight suit torn, boots caked in mud. His shoulders were stiff, his expression unreadable. But he was alive.

Dean’s chest clenched, heat flooding his ribs, and he moved before he could stop himself. Castiel didn’t even look at him. Dean grabbed his arm anyway.

"Do you have any idea what you just pulled?!" Dean’s voice broke as it rose, hoarse with something he didn’t want to name. "You could’ve gotten yourself killed. What the hell were you thinking, Cas?!"

Still nothing.

Dean shoved him lightly in the chest, frustration spilling out of him. Castiel didn’t look up, his gaze was distant, glassy.

"I did what needed to be done," he said.

Dean studied him for a long moment, then leaned back in his seat, shaking his head.

"You always do," he muttered. Dean’s hands finally dropped, falling to his sides, the words leaving him like air from a punctured lung.

Castiel’s shoulders only tightened. His jaw flexed, his throat worked, and for a moment, something cracked in his eyes, just faintly. But then it was gone, sealed under that wall of quiet resignation.

The roar of the rotors filled the silence between them as the countryside rolled by below, and Castiel closed his eyes, letting the sound drown everything else out.

***

For the first time all day, he allowed himself to breathe.

Brize Norton was buzzing when they touched down, command vehicles circling, soldiers jogging across the tarmac. Word had spread of the morning’s incident, though no one seemed to know what really happened yet.

Castiel stepped off the chopper slowly, his legs stiff from hours of walking and adrenaline. Dean followed at a distance, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his expression caught somewhere between anger and worry.

Amara’s agent disappeared into one of the buildings with the evidence, and Castiel didn’t watch him go.

Instead, he stood at the edge of the landing pad, staring out across the airfield as the sun dipped behind a line of clouds.

He didn’t know if what he’d done was enough. He didn’t know if it would ever be enough. But he knew one thing. If it kept even one more innocent from getting caught in the crossfire, then it was worth it.

Dean finally came to stand beside him, silent for a long moment before speaking.

"You’re a real piece of work, Cas," he said, almost softly.

Castiel didn’t reply.

He just kept watching the horizon.

And Dean stood there on the tarmac, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, his heart hammering in his ribs.

Because for one terrible second this morning, he’d thought he’d lost him.

And now that he was back… he’d never felt farther away.

***

Later that evening, alone in his quarters, Castiel stood by the window, staring out at the village below.

The church bells rang faintly in the distance, slow and solemn.

He rested his head in his hands, the faint sound of bells carrying through the night air, and let himself feel just a little of what he’d been holding back.

The civilians. The crash. Jack. Dean. Amara. Himself.

All of it.

Chapter Text

The Aftermath
RAF Brize Norton
Carterton, Oxfordshire, OX18 3LX, UK

***

The room was too bright.

Too clean.

Too quiet.

Castiel stood at attention before the long table, hands clasped behind his back, flight suit stiff and still damp from being scrubbed clean after the crash.

Three officers sat behind the table. One British, one American, and one MOD civilian. Their nameplates gleamed. Their uniforms were immaculate.

Michael was seated in the row behind him, expression carved from stone. Dean sat two chairs down from him, arms crossed, green flight jacket zipped up to his throat.

Castiel didn’t look at either of them.

He kept his eyes fixed just above the heads of the men questioning him.

"…1st Lt Collins. Walk us through what you saw at 0732," the British officer began, voice clipped and even.

Castiel answered, calm and flat. "The RAF radar picked up an unidentified aircraft entering the airspace at low altitude. Attempts were made to establish comms, but there was no response. The flight plan didn’t match any known traffic. I was on the line with Lt. Kline when he ordered weapons hot."

"You didn’t stop him," the American colonel said, raising his eyebrows.

Castiel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t flinch. "I advised him to wait."

"And you—" The civilian leaned forward now, voice carrying a faint edge of disdain. "—decided it was your place to mount an unauthorized intercept? On your own? Without clearance?"

"I made a judgment call," Castiel replied.

Dean shifted in his seat at that. Michael shot him a look, warning him to stay quiet.

The civilian kept pressing.

"Your… ‘judgment call,’ as you put it, resulted in the loss of a fully operational sixth-generation fighter jet. And it failed. The missile still struck a civilian airliner. Two-hundred and eighty-three dead. So tell me, First Lieutenant, what exactly was your goal? Were you trying to play the hero? Or just make yourself feel better about your own inaction?"

Dean stood at that, chair scraping the floor.
But Michael’s hand shot out, gripping Dean’s sleeve, pulling him back down into his seat. His glare was sharp enough to cut glass.

"Sit. Down."

Dean did, but his jaw worked furiously, his hands fisting in his lap.

Castiel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe for a moment.

"My goal," he said evenly, "was to save lives. Nothing more. Nothing less."

The civilian scoffed faintly.

"And yet here we are, with two aircraft destroyed and nearly three hundred dead."

Castiel didn’t respond. The colonel leaned forward now, shuffling his papers.

"Lieutenant. You’re aware that standing rules of engagement exist for a reason. The chain of command exists for a reason. You went outside of both, and the consequences were catastrophic. If you’d waited for orders instead of taking matters into your own hands—"

"I waited," Castiel cut in, quietly but firmly.

That drew a faint hush over the room.

The colonel blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I waited," Castiel repeated. His blue eyes lifted now, locking with the colonel’s. Calm. Flat. Empty. "Longer than anyone else would have. Longer than I should have. If you’re looking for someone to blame, I suggest you start with whoever designed a radar system that can’t tell a passenger jet from a hostile target."

That hung in the air for a long, long moment.

Michael’s expression didn’t change. Dean’s, however, was tight with something fierce and raw, the kind of look that could’ve set the whole table on fire if he stared any harder.

The silence that followed his final answer was long. The civilian leaned back in her chair, folding her hands.

"That will be all for now, First Lieutenant Collins," she said coolly. "You are grounded, pending—"

But Castiel cut in, his quiet voice carrying across the table before she could finish. "That won’t be necessary."

The three at the table blinked at him.

Castiel reached up, undoing the velcro patch on his chest with deliberate care. His fingers were steady, even as something inside him twisted.

He set the silver wings insignia down on the table, neatly centered in front of them.

Michael’s jaw tensed faintly in the row behind him. Dean stiffened, muttering under his breath, "What the hell…" but didn’t move.

Castiel’s expression didn’t change.

"My reinstatement was never permanent," he said flatly, looking just past them. "It was authorized for a single operation. I’ve completed that mission. I won’t contest your findings. Or your reprimands. Or your judgment."

The colonel leaned forward, skeptical. "You’re voluntarily removing yourself from flight status?"

Castiel nodded once. "Yes, sir."

The civilian tilted her head, watching him.
"And what will you do now?" she asked faintly, almost curious.

But Castiel didn’t answer.

Because the truth, the thing that tightened in his chest even as he set his wings down, was that he didn’t know.

All he knew was that he couldn’t stomach keeping them.

Not after what happened.

Not after what he’d done.

He saluted crisply, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room without another word, leaving the silver wings gleaming on the table behind him.

The door to his quarters clicked shut behind him.

For the first time all day, the base fell silent.

Castiel stood in the middle of the small, spare room, still in his flight suit. Still smelling faintly of dust and jet fuel and smoke.

He stared down at his chest where the wings should’ve been.

The dark velcro patch was empty now. Bare.

He lifted his hand and pressed his fingers over the spot, as if some part of him could still feel the weight of the silver pin.

But there was nothing.

Just quiet.

And after everything, after the crash, after the inquiry, after leaving his wings behind, he realized how much of himself he’d left in that room too.

It was supposed to be temporary. He’d told himself that over and over, every night since Amara had handed him his reinstatement papers.

Temporary.

Just long enough to finish the mission. Just long enough to find the payloads.

But standing here now, with nothing left on his chest, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever really come back from this.

If there was even anything left to come back to.

His knees buckled, and he sank slowly onto the edge of the cot, hands falling into his lap.

For a long time, he just sat there, staring at the floor.

And then, finally, his head bowed. His shoulders hunched. His hand gripped the empty patch of his chest.

And quietly, alone, where no one could see him, he closed his eyes.

The faces came first.

He tried not to see them. Tried to close his eyes, but it didn’t help.

He saw the smoke curling up from the wreckage. The flashes of light at thirty thousand feet. The radar screen blinking and blinking as the plane disappeared.

And all he could hear were screams.

Not from the civilians, no, but from years ago.

From when he was ten.

When his father had handed him the knife.

"You’re gonna do it, boy. You’re gonna look them in the eye and you’re gonna do it. Because you’re my son. And my son don’t flinch."

Castiel had begged. Had sobbed, small and shaking and hollowed out by fear. But his father had forced the blade into his hand anyway, fingers pressing hard around his until the handle bit into his palm.

Castiel had thought that boy was dead. That he’d buried him long ago. But now here he was again, all these years later.

Blood on his hands. Civilians dead because he hadn’t been fast enough. Because he’d made the wrong call. Because he’d let Jack pull the trigger and hadn’t stopped him.

And it felt just like it had then, helpless. Dirty. Like the monster his father always said he’d been born to be.

He was ten again. Knife in his hands. His father’s voice in his ear.

"Don’t flinch."

Castiel’s hands gripped his knees, knuckles white, nails biting into his flight suit. His chest heaved, his throat burned, his breath coming shallow and ragged.

He pressed his palm against the empty space on his chest where his wings had been, as if he could still feel their weight.

But all he felt was nothing.

***

The corridor outside Castiel’s quarters was quiet.

Dean stood there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest.

He wasn’t sure why he’d followed him. He told himself it was just to make sure he’d actually made it back to his room. Told himself he was just checking in. But now he was here, he couldn’t bring himself to knock.

The faintest sound carried through the thin door. Not much. Just quiet, uneven breaths. A scrape of a boot against the floor. Something soft and broken, muffled by the walls.

Dean pressed his knuckles against the doorframe, resting his forehead on them. His jaw tightened as he closed his eyes.

He hated this.

Hated hearing him like that. Hated knowing he was in there tearing himself apart, and that there wasn’t a damn thing Dean could say to fix it.

For half a second, he raised his hand to knock. But it hovered there, an inch from the door, and didn’t move. Because this wasn’t something a few words could fix. Not this time.

Dean let his hand fall back to his side.

He exhaled through his nose, low and shaky, then pushed himself off the wall. And as he walked back down the corridor, he kept his eyes forward, but his mind stayed behind, with the man in that room.

Because as much as Dean wanted to go in there, and tell him it wasn’t his fault… he knew Castiel wouldn’t believe him.

***

The morning air was brisk and gray over RAF Brize Norton, the sky already heavy with clouds that promised rain. The flags on the runway snapped in the wind as the announcement came down.

"The remainder of the joint exercise was canceled."

Dean stood at the edge of the tarmac, arms crossed, jaw tight as the commander explained the decision to the assembled pilots. "Given the tragic civilian loss and mechanical failures, both sides have agreed to cut the exercise short. USAF personnel will return stateside by 1600 hours today."

And just like that, it was over.

Dean barely heard the rest. He stared at the ground, something sour twisting in his chest. Days of training, of bruises, of staring across briefing rooms at Castiel, and all of it just… done.

He should’ve felt relief.

Instead, he felt like he was watching something slip through his fingers. Again.

The squadron dispersed, pilots drifting back to quarters to pack their gear. Dean stood there a little longer, then made up his mind.

The first thing he was going to do when they hit US soil? Find Castiel. Talk to him. Make him understand that whatever this thing was between them, this quiet war, this push and pull, it couldn’t keep going like this.

But then he saw him.

Across the hangar, Castiel was already moving. A duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his flight suit zipped high, head down as he cut through the throng of pilots without a word.

Leaving.

Again.

Dean felt the heat rise in his chest, his hands curling into fists. He stormed after him, boots loud on the concrete.

"Hey!"

Castiel didn’t stop.

Dean quickened his pace, grabbing Castiel by the arm and spinning him around.

"You think you can just walk off again?" Dean barked.

Castiel’s face was blank, his eyes flat and tired as they met Dean’s.

"I have orders," Castiel said simply. His voice was quiet, calm, infuriating.

Dean let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"Of course you do. You always do, huh? Something more important. Somewhere else to be. Someone else to answer to."

Castiel just stood there, silent.

Dean’s chest heaved as all the words he’d swallowed for weeks finally broke loose.

"You know what, Cas? I’m done. I’m done chasing you, I’m done waiting for you to figure your shit out, and I’m done letting you make me feel like an idiot every time you walk away like this doesn’t matter."

His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.

"I’m tired, Cas. Tired of you pushing everyone away. Tired of you acting like you don’t need anyone, like you don’t need me, and still expecting me to be here when you decide you do."

Castiel flinched, just barely, but it was enough to make Dean’s chest ache.

"You don’t have to say it," Dean went on, his voice low now, almost breaking. "I get it. You don’t want this. You never did. Fine. You win."

Dean let him go, stepping back.

"You don’t have to push me away anymore. I’m gone."

For a second, Castiel just stood there, staring at him like he wanted to say something, but as always, the words never came.

Dean shook his head, his hands falling to his sides.

"Goodbye, Cas."

Then he turned and walked away, boots heavy on the hangar floor, leaving Castiel standing in silence behind him.

Castiel didn’t move.

He stood there, his duffel still slung over his shoulder, staring at the spot where Dean had stood just moments ago. The hangar suddenly felt cavernous, the noise of boots and shouting crews muffled by the rush of blood in his ears.

Maybe it was for the better.

That’s what he told himself, anyway. Over and over, like a mantra. Like if he said it enough times, he might actually believe it.

Dean deserved better than this, better than the half-truths, the silence, the mess that followed Castiel everywhere he went. Dean deserved someone who could stand still long enough to stay.

So he adjusted his grip on the strap of his duffel, straightened his shoulders, and forced his feet to move. One step. Then another. Away from the hangar. Away from Dean.

But each step felt heavier than the last.

As he passed through the exit, the sunlight hit his face, but it didn’t warm him.

In the quiet of the transport vehicle waiting outside, he sat alone, staring at his hands resting in his lap. They felt foreign now. Heavy. Useless.

Dean wasn’t going to be there anymore.

He’d known this day would come. Of course he had. Dean was too stubborn to wait forever, and Castiel… well, he’d never learned how to ask someone to stay.

So this was what he’d chosen, wasn’t it? To keep his distance so Dean wouldn’t have to watch him self-destruct.

But the ache in his chest didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like failure.

And as the vehicle pulled away from the base, leaving Dean, and whatever they’d almost been, behind in the dust, Castiel closed his eyes.

Maybe it was for the better.

But if it was, why did it hurt so much?

***

The safehouse was quiet.

Somewhere in the English countryside, miles from the base, miles from Dean, miles from anything that still felt like his. The lights were off, save for the faint orange glow of a single lamp in the corner, throwing long shadows across the barren room.

Castiel sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his duffel dropped in a corner and forgotten. He hadn’t bothered to take off his jacket, or even his boots.

He just sat there, staring at the floor.

All day, he’d done what was expected of him. Signed the transfer papers, handed off the evidence to Amara’s people, let himself be debriefed without so much as a word of protest. He’d nodded when they told him he’d done the right thing. He’d even convinced himself, for a little while, that walking away from Dean was right, too.

But now, in the quiet, with no one to watch him, it hit.

Like a punch to the ribs.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but it did nothing to stop the ache in his chest.

Dean’s voice still rang in his head. "I’m tired of you acting like you don’t need anyone… like you don’t need me… You don’t have to push me away anymore. I’m gone."

Gone.

He’d finally pushed too hard.

Castiel had told himself this was the only way. That Dean deserved better, that he couldn’t risk letting Dean get caught in the wreckage of his choices. But now all he could see was the look on Dean’s face as he’d walked away.

And he hated himself for how much it hurt.

The jacket finally slid from his shoulders, pooling on the floor at his feet. He sank forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.

The breath he let out shook.

It wasn’t fair, he thought. That someone like Dean had come into his life, and that he’d been too broken, too bound to his orders and his ghosts, to hold onto him.

It wasn’t fair, but then… nothing ever had been.

And now he was alone.

His chest felt hollow, his throat raw. His fingers dug into his hair. For the first time in years, Castiel Collins let himself break.

He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a sound.

But the tears still came, hot and silent, falling onto his hands as he sat there, alone in the dark, wishing more than anything that he’d just said the words when he had the chance.

Chapter Text

***

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Weeks had passed since he’d returned from England. The door still hung with the same chipped blue paint. The curtains still swayed faintly in the draft from the cracked kitchen window. On the surface, nothing had changed.

But Castiel felt like a stranger in his own skin.

Every morning he woke late. Sometimes not at all, just stayed in bed long after the sun set again. Some nights he didn’t sleep, just sat at the kitchen table with a bottle in front of him, staring at the dark until the bottle was empty. Then another.

The headlines had come and gone, of course. He’d seen them flash across the little TV in the corner of his living room.

"US Stands Firm Against Retaliation Over Civilian Aircraft Tragedy"

"Joint Statement from UK and US: Radar Malfunction to Blame"

"Pilot Error Officially Cleared in RAF Brize Norton Incident"

"The Pilots Involved Cleared of Negligence, Reassigned to Reserve Status"

He’d sat there the morning Amara called him, her voice as cool and remote as always.

"You delivered," she said simply. "You got the evidence we needed. You finished the mission. And in exchange…"

There had been a pause, long and quiet.

"We’re letting you go."

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say you saved lives. Just you’re done.

The phone had gone dead before he could even respond.

And just like that, his wings were gone. His uniform folded into a box at the back of the closet. His squadron returned to their lives, and his name was scrubbed from the manifest like he’d never been there at all.

He didn’t return to Laughlin.

He didn’t return to the theater.

He didn’t return to anything.

The days bled together in a haze of liquor and silence, broken only by the occasional buzz of his phone on the counter. A missed call from Meg. Another from Charlie. Another and another, until the screen filled with their names.

He ignored them all.

Until the knock on his door one rainy Thursday afternoon.

At first he thought he was imagining it, just the wind against the frame. But then it came again, sharper this time, insistent.

He didn’t move.

"Castiel!"

Her voice.

Another knock, harder now.

"I swear to God, if you don’t open this door, I will break it down!"

That finally got him moving.

He shuffled to the door, unlatched the lock, and cracked it just wide enough to see her. Charlie, dripping wet from the rain, red hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes blazing.

"Jesus," she muttered when she saw him. "You look like hell."

He said nothing, just stepped aside to let her in.

She marched past him, shedding her soaked jacket and tossing it over a chair. "You’ve been ignoring my calls," she said, spinning on him.

He didn’t argue.

"You’ve been ignoring everyone’s calls."

Still nothing.

Charlie’s hands went to her hips, her jaw tight. "You don’t get to do this, Castiel. You don’t get to just crawl into a hole and... and wallow in your misery and shut everybody out. Not after what you’ve been through. Not after everything."

At that, he finally looked at her.

"What do you want me to say, Charlie?" he asked quietly.

She faltered for just a second. "I want you to tell me what the hell happened over there. Because you’re not fine. You’re not okay. And you’re gonna keep rotting in this apartment unless you talk about it."

He almost told her to leave.

Almost.

But something in her eyes stopped him, something fierce and kind and unyielding. So he sat. And after a long silence, he spoke.

He told her everything.

The fight with Dean, every sharp word replaying in his mind. The look on Dean’s face when he’d finally walked away. The sound of the missile hitting the civilian aircraft. The fireball that lit up the sky. The screaming over the comms.

His hands shook as he spoke.

"I couldn’t stop it," he said hoarsely. "I tried, Charlie. I tried. But I—" He cut himself off, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes. "I wasn’t fast enough. All those people…"

Charlie’s jaw tightened, but she stayed quiet, letting him speak.

"I… I hurt him," Castiel said finally, his voice breaking. "Dean. I hurt him worse than anyone. And he’s gone. He’s not coming back. And maybe he’s better off."

Charlie exhaled slowly.

"You’re an idiot," she said finally, not unkindly.

He blinked at her.

"You think you’re the only one who’s hurt? You think Dean walked away from you without a second thought?" She shook her head. "You’re both idiots. Two grown men too proud to say what you actually mean to each other. And now you’re sitting here acting like misery’s some kind of penance."

He didn’t answer, and she sat beside him on the couch.

"You’re still punishing yourself," she said quietly.

He stiffened.

"You think I don’t know about your father?" she added, her voice soft now. "You think I don’t know what he did? What he made you do?"

Castiel froze, a faint tremor in his hands.

"I’ve known for a long time," she said. "You never told me. But I figured it out. And you’ve been carrying that guilt your whole damn life. And now here you are, adding more to it."

She looked at him then, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"You don’t think you deserve to be happy. That’s what all this is, isn’t it?"

He swallowed hard, staring at the floor.

Charlie reached over, taking one of his shaking hands in hers.

"I forgive you," she said simply.

He looked at her then, startled.

"For all of it. Every last thing you think you have to carry alone. I forgive you. And you need to start forgiving yourself."

His breath hitched, and she squeezed his hand tighter.

"You need help, Cas," she said gently. "And that’s okay. You can’t fix yourself overnight. But you can start. And you need to. For yourself. For the people who still care about you."

He didn’t answer at first, his throat too tight to speak. But after a long moment, he nodded once.

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"That’s my boy," she murmured.

Castiel let himself believe, just a little, that maybe he wasn’t beyond saving after all.

***

The rain hadn’t stopped since morning.

It slicked down the glass in long ribbons, casting the apartment in a watery half-light, the kind of gray that seemed to soak into the walls. Castiel stood at the window for a while, watching it pool in the street below.

Charlie was here.

That much he couldn’t quite believe, even now. She’d filled the silence he’d wrapped himself in for weeks. She’d opened the curtains, thrown out the empty bottles, made coffee she knew he wouldn’t drink.

She was still here. Sitting at the little table now, idly turning a chipped mug in her hands, pretending not to keep glancing over at him like she was making sure he hadn’t disappeared again.

She didn’t ask him anything else. Not yet. Not after he told her everything earlier, or at least, as much as he could.

It should have helped. Saying it out loud. Confessing to her how badly he’d ruined things with Dean, how ashamed he was of what happened in England, how much of the tragedy he carried like it was carved into him.

But the more he thought about it now, the more he let himself sit with it, the more he realized that nothing he’d told her came close to what he truly wanted to say.

He wanted to tell her what he wished he’d said to Dean. What he wished he could go back and undo.

If he’d just…

He lowered himself into the chair opposite Charlie. She watched him carefully but said nothing, only pushed his untouched coffee closer to him and then stared back down at hers.

If he’d just told Dean what he was feeling.

The thought made his chest ache.

If he’d just looked him in the eye that night, back at Brize Norton, and said all the things he wanted to tell Dean.

Maybe Dean wouldn’t have left.

Maybe he wouldn’t have walked away with that look on his face. That mix of anger and hurt and exhaustion, like he’d finally decided there was nothing left to fight for anymore.

Castiel pressed his palms flat to the table, staring at the grain in the wood.

If he hadn’t been so afraid of Dean walking away, maybe Dean wouldn’t have seen him as someone who's indifferent.

But he’d been a coward. He’d let every sharp word between them stand. He’d let every misunderstanding pile up until it felt impossible to dig himself out. He’d chosen silence because it was safer than saying he wanted Dean to stay.

And now Dean was gone.

And Charlie sat here, warm and steady and stubborn as ever, and he knew she understood even though he hadn’t said it. She always had.

She moved around his apartment like she’d always belonged here, like she’d already decided he wasn’t allowed to disappear completely, and he let her, because she was the only thing between him and the hollow quiet that waited when the door finally shut behind her.

For hours they didn’t speak. She stayed with him through the gray afternoon and into the long stretch of evening, picking at the food she’d ordered for them, talking softly to fill the silence, even though he barely responded.

Because every time he tried to speak, all he could think was, It didn’t have to be this way.

If he’d just been better. If he’d been honest. If he’d trusted Dean enough to believe he wouldn’t walk away if he knew the truth.

If he’d just opened his mouth and said what he’d been carrying since the first time Dean smiled at him. The kind of smile that lit up his whole face, like he’d forgotten what it felt like to be that alive, then maybe he wouldn’t be sitting here now, staring at the rain and wishing he could take it all back.

If he’d just been better.

Dean deserved someone better.

And the cruelest part of all of it, the part that made his hands tighten around his coffee mug until the crack of ceramic startled Charlie into looking up, was knowing that Dean would’ve stayed if he’d just asked.

He’d seen it in his eyes. That night at the airfield, when Dean had stood there waiting for him to say don’t go. And instead he’d said nothing at all.

The mug slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop against the leg of the table.

Charlie didn’t say anything, just reached down, picked it up, and set it back in front of him.

He looked at her.

And she didn’t say it outright, but he could see it in her face. 'You’re still here. You can still fix it. You just have to try.'

The rest of the evening passed slowly, quietly. Charlie sat with him until well after dark, her head resting on her hand as she scrolled through her phone, pretending not to keep glancing at him like she expected him to shatter. When she finally stood, she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before she left.

And then he was alone again.

He stood by the window long after she was gone, rain still falling in soft sheets. He raised a hand and pressed his palm to the glass.

If he’d just told Dean. If he’d just let himself believe he was worth staying for.

His eyes burned, but he didn’t look away from the wet street below. It didn’t have to be this way. And maybe, maybe it wasn’t too late to change that.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to imagine what it would sound like, to pick up the phone. To dial that familiar number. To hear Dean’s voice again.

Then he looked at the way where Charlie had gone.

She’d known all along.

The thought lodged somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and sharp, hours after she left.

Charlie. Bright, stubborn, infuriating Charlie, she’d looked him in the eye earlier that day and told him the thing he’d spent his whole life trying to bury.

'I know about your father.'

He hadn’t answered then. He hadn’t been able to. He just sat there, silent, while her words sank into him like stones.

She’d known who he was from the start. And that terrified him in a way he couldn’t put words to.

It wasn’t just that she knew what his father had done. All those nights he’d been forced into their basement with a knife in his shaking hands, the smell of copper in the air, his father’s voice in his ear telling him it was his birthright to spill blood. It wasn’t just that she’d guessed how those memories still lived under his skin, even now.

It was that she’d seen it in him.

In the way he never quite looked people in the eye. In the way his hands never stopped shaking when no one was watching. In the way he couldn’t let himself want something, or someone, without finding a way to ruin it first.

She’d seen through all of it.

Then she’d said it so simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world, 'I forgive you,' and he hadn’t realized until that moment just how much he’d needed to hear it, how much he’d been quietly starving for someone like her to look at him and not see a monster.

The words settled over him like sunlight through a crack in the clouds, warm and strange and almost unbearable, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt a little lighter, like some part of the weight he’d carried since childhood, since his father’s knife and his own silence, had been lifted just enough for him to breathe again.

He hadn’t even known that was what he’d been waiting for, but now he thought maybe he’d been waiting his whole life for someone like her to see all of him, and still say those words.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, staring down at his hands in his lap.

He thought of Dean again. Even when he smiled at him, that warm, infuriating, impossible smile, some part of Castiel still believed it was only a matter of time before he saw the truth.

That there was something broken inside of him. Something ugly.

And Dean didn’t deserve that.

So he’d pushed him away. Again and again. Until he left. And sitting here now, he realized Charlie had been right about that too.

He’d never allowed himself to be happy.

Not once.

Because he still believed he didn’t deserve it.

Because he thought love was a thing reserved for better men. Men who hadn’t been raised to kill, who didn’t carry ghosts with them into every room, who didn’t flinch from their own reflection.

And even when Dean stayed, longer than anyone else ever had, he still couldn’t let himself believe it would last.

He never said what he wanted to say. He never let himself feel what he wanted to feel. And when it finally ended, when Dean walked away, Castiel told himself it was inevitable. That this was just who he was.

But sitting here now, he couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

Charlie had been right.

It wasn’t his father’s fault anymore. It wasn’t the boy he’d been at ten years old, covered in someone else’s blood.

It was him.

He was the one who refused to let himself be happy.

And he didn’t know if it was too late to change that. But for the first time, he let himself hope, even just a little, that it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

***

The sky was the brightest thing Castiel had seen in weeks.

For so long he hadn’t bothered to open the blinds, hadn’t bothered to look outside, hadn’t bothered with much of anything at all. His apartment had grown stale and dim, a tomb of unwashed dishes and unopened letters and cold takeout cartons stacked by the door. But this morning, if you could call it morning at nearly noon, he woke up to find his chest aching worse than usual, and in a moment of something like rebellion against himself, he’d laced up his running shoes and stepped outside.

It was brisk. The kind of late-autumn air that tasted faintly of frost and car exhaust, sharp enough to wake him even when his mind wanted nothing more than to fall back into bed. The first block felt strange under his feet. The second felt easier. By the third his lungs burned, but in a way that reminded him he was alive.

He didn’t bother with a route. He just… ran.

And at the end of it, standing with his hands on his knees and his breath fogging in front of him, he pulled out his phone.

The last call in his log was still Dean.

Dean Winchester.
Five hours ago.
Unanswered.

He tried again.

It rang.
And rang.
And then, "This is Dean. Leave it short."

Beep.

He didn’t say anything. He just hung up.

Later that afternoon, he stood in front of Dean’s apartment.

The building looked different somehow, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was just the way the afternoon light hit it, dull and cold against the brick. Maybe it was the quiet, the fact that no music drifted down the hall, no familiar scuff of boots on the stairwell. He climbed anyway. Two flights. Familiar steps.

He knocked on the door. No answer. So he tried again. Louder this time.

Still nothing.

When he finally, reluctantly, turned the knob, he felt something in his chest crack.

The apartment was empty.

Not just messy, not just lived-in and abandoned for the day, empty.

The windows were bare. The walls stripped of pictures and shelves. The faint echo of his own breath came back to him as he stepped inside and looked around, searching for something, anything, that might say Dean had just left in a hurry. A jacket tossed over a chair. A beer bottle on the counter. A note.

Nothing.

He opened the closet. Empty hangers swayed in silence.

Dean was gone. It looked like he hadn't been here since Castiel left the Academy, which had been years ago, and he hadn't even known.

The weight of it came slowly, like water filling his lungs. Castiel stepped back out of the apartment, closed the door behind him as quietly as if Dean might still be listening, and sat on the stairs with his head in his hands.

***

It was a long walk home.

On his way, he tried again. Another call. Another voicemail. He left one this time.

"Dean," he murmured, his voice rough. "It’s me. Just… call me back."

When he got home, he sat at his kitchen table, staring at his phone. Eventually he scrolled through his contacts and found one more number to try.

Anna.

She picked up after two rings.

"Cas," she said, surprised. "Wow. Uh, hey. Long time."

"Yes," he said. He realized he hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. Maybe longer.

"What’s up?"

"I…" he started, then trailed off. "I’m looking for Dean."

There was a pause. Then a soft laugh, small, bitter.

"I don’t know where he is, Cas," Anna said. "We haven’t been together in a long time."

Castiel closed his eyes. "But you—he used to—"

"Yeah," she said gently. "But we’re done. Haven’t even talked in… God, over a month now. Sorry."

He let out a shaky breath. "No. Don’t apologize. Thank you anyway."

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

Then the line went dead.

He thought of calling Meg next.

She’d always had a sharp tongue and sharp eyes and seemed to know things about Dean he didn’t. But when he called her, it rang through to voicemail almost immediately, and her recorded message cut him off halfway through trying to leave something coherent. He tried again an hour later and got the same thing.

Later that evening, she sent him a short text.

'At the Academy. Swamped. Sorry, Clarence. Can’t talk.'

And that was it.

He didn’t sleep that night.

At one point he even found himself standing outside Sam’s law office downtown. But it was late, and the lights were off, and the building locked. He didn’t even know if Sam still worked there anymore, he didn’t even have Sam’s number to try, or Jess's.

He sat on the curb across the street for almost an hour before finally walking home again.

The next morning he woke to another grey sky and another unanswered voicemail.

He stared at his phone, then at the cracked ceiling above him, and wondered what he was supposed to do now.

Where do you look for someone who doesn’t want to be found?

Where do you go when everyone you thought you could lean on is suddenly too far away to reach?

The questions hung heavy in his chest. He pulled on his jacket anyway and went outside again, into the cold air, running on nothing but habit and stubbornness.

Maybe tomorrow he’d try again.

Maybe tomorrow Dean would pick up.

Maybe.

***

The smell of the theatre hit him the moment he pushed open the door.

That familiar mix of sawdust and paint and old velvet curtains. Even after all these months, it hadn’t changed. The same scuffed floorboards, the same faint echo of footsteps in the empty house. It was like stepping into someone else’s memory. A place that belonged to another version of himself, someone who hadn’t yet learned how much a single choice could unravel him.

Still, here he was.

When Jody, the theatre manager, had called, asking if he’d be willing to help with a new project, something small, just a workshop of a script-in-progress, he’d almost said no. He hadn’t set foot here since… since he saw Dean with Anna.

But something in Jody's voice had sounded so hopeful. Like she still believed he could do this.

And he wasn’t ready to believe otherwise. Not yet.

So now he stood backstage, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the taped outlines of set pieces on the floor as a few actors milled about onstage, reading lines.

He couldn’t shake the thought of Dean.

Castiel pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced down at the screen. Still nothing. No missed calls, no texts.

He’d tried leaving another voicemail yesterday. Nothing.

And now he was here, trying to pretend his life was moving forward while his heart still felt rooted in the past.

"Hey, Collins."

He turned to see Naomi, one of the stage managers, walking over with a clipboard in hand. She looked him up and down, then grinned faintly. "Didn’t think we’d see you back here."

"Neither did I," he admitted.

"Well, welcome back anyway," she said. "You’re in good hands. You remember Alex? She’s directing this one."

Castiel nodded and offered Alex a quiet hello as she walked by. The warmth in her eyes reminded him, painfully, of all the reasons he used to love this place.

For the next hour or so, he tried to lose himself in the work. Reading through his sides. Taking notes. Listening to Alex's feedback. But whenever there was a lull, his mind wandered.

To the list Charlie had left him on the kitchen table.

To the job search tabs still open on his laptop.

To the empty silence on the other end of Dean’s line.

During a break, he ducked outside to the alley behind the theatre and sat on the cold concrete steps, phone in one hand, the folded paper of Charlie’s list in the other.

It was only his second day back, and already the exhaustion felt heavier than he’d expected. Like his body was here but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

His thumb traced the first name on the list. A therapist in town Charlie swore by. Someone who wouldn’t "bullshit you with inspirational quotes," she’d said.

Castiel wasn’t sure if he believed it would help.

But then again, he wasn’t sure of much anymore.

He set the list back in his coat pocket and stared at his phone. Opened his call log. Stared at Dean’s name at the top.

How many voicemails now? Five? Six?

He wondered if Dean even listened to them. Or if he just saw the name, sighed, and let it ring out.

He didn’t leave a message this time. Just let the line ring until it went to voicemail, then hung up.

The alley was quiet. Just the distant hum of traffic at the corner. Somewhere behind him, the muffled sound of Alex calling the cast back inside. He stayed a moment longer before finally standing up and heading back in.

The afternoon passed in fits and starts.

He delivered his lines, took his notes, tried to pretend the hollow ache in his chest wasn’t there.

When the workshop wrapped for the day, Naomi gave him a reassuring smile as she handed him the updated schedule for next week.

"Don’t be a stranger this time, Collins," she teased lightly. "We’re glad you’re back."

He nodded and said nothing.

By the time he stepped outside into the crisp evening air, the sky was streaked with gold and pink.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

For a moment his heart leapt, until he saw the name on the screen.

Charlie.

'You call anyone yet?'

He stared at the text for a long moment before typing back.

'Not yet. Tomorrow maybe.'

Her reply came almost immediately.

'Don’t chicken out. Proud of you for today though.'

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and started walking.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d try again.

With the list. With the job hunt. With Dean.

Even if it hurt.

Even if he wasn’t sure what good it would do.

Even if tomorrow was just another day of leaving voicemails no one answered. Because for now, that was all he had. And for now, it would have to be enough.

***

The next morning, Castiel arrived at the theatre early.

The smell of it still pulled at his memory, fresh paint, dust, faint traces of wood polish and old velvet curtains. The house lights were still dim, the stage dark, but he’d been told to come in anyway. Jody, the theatre manager, wanted to speak to him.

She found him in the wings, already sitting on one of the folding chairs with his hands clasped loosely between his knees.

"Morning, Castiel," she said as she walked up, her boots clicking on the stage floor. She carried a slim leather folder under her arm.

He nodded in greeting. "You wanted to see me?"

Jody set the folder down on the table and leaned against it, folding her arms. "You’re early."

"Old habits," he murmured.

Her smile was faint, but kind. "Good to see you back in here," she said. "You looked steady yesterday. Little quiet, but steady."

"Thank you," Castiel replied.

For a moment, she just watched him. Then she pushed the folder toward him.

"I’ve been holding this," she said.

Castiel frowned faintly, glancing at the folder but not opening it yet. "What is it?"

"A contract," Jody said simply. "Broadway. New York. They called last week looking for you. Said they’d seen you in a regional here a while back, and they’ve got a slot open in a revival. They asked if I thought you’d be interested."

He stared at her, taken aback. "Broadway?" he repeated quietly.

"Mm-hm," she said, watching his reaction closely. "New York. Full union contract, good pay. Three months’ run, with an option to extend."

Castiel didn’t answer at first. He reached out and finally flipped the folder open, reading the letter inside. There it was, in black and white. His name, the dates, the producer’s name scribbled in ink at the bottom.

A Broadway contract.

After all this time.

"I thought you might not be ready," Jody said, softer now. "But I figured you deserved the choice."

He kept reading the words on the page, though they blurred a little the longer he stared.

It should have felt like a triumph. A chance to return to something he’d once loved. The kind of opportunity younger actors in the company would kill for.

But instead he just felt… unsteady.

Dean’s name flashed unbidden in his mind, the echo of another voicemail he’d left last night still lingering on his tongue.

And Charlie’s list of therapists was still sitting on his back pocket, folded and waiting.

Could he do this? Leave everything unresolved here, pack up, and head to New York? Did he even deserve to?

Jody’s voice cut gently through his thoughts.

"You don’t have to give me an answer today," she said. "But they’ll want to hear from you by the end of the week. So sleep on it. Think about what you want, Cas. Not what anyone else wants. You."

She gave him one more look, steady and knowing, then pushed off the table and left him standing there with the contract still open in his hands.

Later, he sat on the steps outside the theatre, staring at his phone screen.

Dean’s name was still there at the top of his call log. He wondered what Dean would say if he knew. If he’d even care. The thought stung, sharper than he expected. He glanced down at the contract again. And then at the folded scrap of paper he’d brought from home, Charlie’s list.

Three names. Three numbers. And a future he couldn’t quite see yet.

Castiel let out a long breath, leaned his elbows on his knees, and let the morning sun warm his back as he closed his eyes.

Maybe it wasn’t about having all the answers yet. Maybe it was just about deciding which step to take first.

***

Castiel was still staring at the Broadway contract on his kitchen table when his phone rang.

For a fleeting second he thought it might be Dean. His heart jumped anyway. But the name flashing on the screen wasn’t Dean.

It was Meg.

He hesitated, then answered.

"Hello," he said, his voice rasping slightly.

"Well, look who’s alive," Meg drawled on the other end. "Starting to think you fell off the map, Clarence. What gives?"

Castiel closed his eyes and exhaled. Her voice, sharp as ever, still carried something like warmth beneath it.

"I… could say the same of you," he replied.

There was a brief silence, then a laugh. "Touché. Been busy at the Academy. They’ve been running us into the ground since the joint exercise with the Brits. But… you wanna catch up?"

He opened his eyes again, staring at the folded Broadway contract as if it were accusing him.

"Yes," he said finally. "I’d like that."

"Good. Meet me at the Roadhouse? Tomorrow night?"

He hadn’t set foot near Laughlin in weeks. Not since the accident. Not since he turned in his wings.

But he found himself saying, "All right."

"Don’t be late," Meg said lightly. "Or I’ll make you buy the first round."

***

The Roadhouse was loud when he pushed through the door.

It always was.

A haze of cigarette smoke hung near the rafters, the jukebox was blaring something twangy and defiant, and pilots crowded the bar, their uniforms half-undone, laughing and leaning close to one another.

For a moment Castiel just stood in the doorway, letting the sound and heat wash over him.

Then he spotted Meg at a high table near the back, swirling something amber in a lowball glass.

She raised a hand when she saw him. "Well, if it isn’t the prodigal angel," she called.

He made his way over and took the seat across from her.

She gave him a long, appraising look. "You look better," she said finally. "Still broody, but at least you’re not hiding in a cave anymore."

Castiel huffed out a faint, humorless laugh. "That’s… generous of you."

Meg smirked, then leaned forward. "So tell me. What the hell’s been going on? Last I saw you was before the joint exercise. Then the civilian incident happened, you dropped off the face of the earth, nobody knew where you went. You… okay?"

He looked down at the table, tracing the condensation ring his glass was leaving.

"I…" he started, then stopped, gathering the words. "I turned in my wings," he said finally, quiet but firm.

Meg’s smirk faltered. For a rare moment, her sharpness softened into something more like sympathy.

"I figured," she said gently. "After what happened…"

She didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t make her.

"I couldn’t stay," he murmured. "Not after…"

Her dark eyes held his for a long moment, and then she leaned back in her chair and downed the rest of her drink.

"Yeah," she said finally. "I get it."

They sat in silence for a few beats before he spoke again.

"Have you… seen Dean?" he asked, and there was no way to keep the rawness out of his voice.

Meg tilted her head, watching him carefully.

"No," she said. "Not since before the exercise either. He’s not at Laughlin anymore as far as I know. Nobody’s seen him around base."

Castiel felt the faint sting of that settle under his ribs.

"He could’ve been temporarily reassigned," Meg added with a shrug. "Happens all the time. Short-term mission, other base. I don’t know the details, they don’t exactly cc me on his orders."

Castiel nodded faintly, though his jaw tightened despite himself.

Meg watched him another beat, then smirked again, but this time it was softer, almost conspiratorial.

"You might get lucky, though," she said.

He looked up at her, puzzled.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

"USAF Birthday Ball’s coming up," she said with a little gleam in her eye. "Big deal, you know. Whole base turns out. Dress blues, speeches, dancing, all that crap. Even the ones on temporary assignments try to make it back for it."

His breath hitched before he could stop himself. Meg grinned faintly at the flicker of hope she caught on his face.

"You should come," she said simply. "I’ll even save you a dance. You’ll look good in a tux again, Clarence. But more importantly…"

Her eyes sharpened just slightly.

"…Dean might show. And then you can finally stop haunting his voicemail and tell him whatever it is you’ve been dying to say."

Castiel’s fingers tightened around his glass, but he didn’t look away.

"Maybe," he said quietly.

Meg raised her new drink to him in a little toast.

"No maybe about it, Clarence," she said, smirking. "You’ll come. I’ll even drag you there myself if I have to. One night. No running away this time."

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"One night," he agreed.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself imagine it, stepping into the ballroom, scanning the crowd, and finding Dean there, waiting.

Even if just for a moment, that thought was enough to carry him through the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

The Illusion of Unity
September 2012
Texas, USA

***

The dress blues still fit.

Barely.

Castiel had stood in front of his bedroom mirror earlier that afternoon, fastening each button with stiff, deliberate fingers. The uniform hung a little differently on him now. He was thinner than he’d been during his flying days, and there was a weight in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

Still, it fit.

And so he wore it.

Meg had texted him that morning: Don’t bail, Clarence. See you at 1900. Shine your shoes.

So he shined his shoes. He combed his hair. He straightened his tie.

And now, standing just inside the ballroom doors, he felt more out of place than ever.

The room was already full, packed with airmen and officers, their uniforms crisp and gleaming under the chandeliers. The faint scent of aftershave and polished brass hung in the air, mingling with the sound of laughter, glasses clinking, and the low murmur of a string quartet tucked into one corner.

Castiel stood there for a long moment, adjusting his cuffs, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering in his chest.

He’d told himself he was only coming because of Meg. To keep a promise. To prove to himself he could still show his face among them.

But the truth was plain enough, even to him.

He was here for Dean.

"Clarence!"

He turned just in time to see Meg weaving through the crowd, already holding a drink in one hand, her black cocktail dress cut sharp and elegant. She grinned as she reached him, looking him up and down with obvious approval.

"Well damn," she said. "Didn’t think you’d actually show. But look at you. Clean up nice."

"You said you’d drag me if I didn’t," he replied dryly.

She laughed and hooked her arm through his, steering him into the room.

"That I did," she said. "Come on. Drinks first. Then we can stand around and pretend we care about the speeches like everyone else."

He let her guide him through the throng toward the bar at the far side of the room. Officers and their partners milled about in groups, some already claiming tables near the dance floor.

He kept his head high, but his eyes kept moving, scanning the crowd, searching faces.

Dean wasn’t there.

Not yet.

Meg noticed.

"Relax," she said under her breath as she handed him a glass of whiskey. "He’s probably just running late. He does that. Always liked making an entrance, remember?"

Castiel stared down into the amber liquid, then nodded faintly.

The lights dimmed slightly as the announcer called everyone to attention. A general took the stage, beginning the opening remarks. He was surprised it wasn't Amara up there. But then again, he never really knew her. Everyone in the room stood for the anthem, then raised their glasses for the first toast.

Castiel went through the motions, standing, toasting, sitting again. But the words passed over him like water.

All he could think about was whether Dean would walk through those doors before the night was over.

The dinner was served. Chicken and vegetables, with a bland dessert that nobody seemed particularly interested in.

Meg kept him company, making snide comments under her breath about the speeches, stealing sips from his glass when hers ran dry, tugging him into a short dance when the music started up.

"You’re stiff as hell," she teased as he turned her on the dance floor.

"I haven’t danced in a while," he replied evenly.

"Well, you’re doing fine now," she said with a grin. Then, more softly, "And for the record… I’m glad you came, Clarence. Whatever happens."

He only nodded.

And then the music shifted, and she excused herself to the bar, leaving him standing there alone.

He drifted to the edge of the dance floor, nursing what was left of his drink.

Scanning the crowd.

Waiting.

Hoping.

And then, the doors opened again.

And there he was.

Dean.

He stepped inside like he owned the place, his dress blues immaculate, his chest full of ribbons that gleamed under the lights. His hair was neat, his eyes sharp as he scanned the room, nodding in casual greeting to someone on his way in.

Castiel froze.

For a moment all the sound in the room seemed to fall away.

Dean hadn’t seen him yet.

Castiel’s fingers tightened around his glass, and he felt his breath catch in his chest.

Meg appeared at his side again, following his line of sight. When she saw Dean, she smirked faintly.

"Told you," she murmured. "He always shows."

Castiel swallowed hard.

Dean moved deeper into the room, shaking hands, clapping someone on the shoulder. Smiling faintly at a joke someone told him.

But his eyes kept sweeping the crowd, almost as if he was looking for someone too.

Castiel’s pulse roared in his ears. He set his empty glass down on the nearest table and straightened his jacket.

Meg caught his sleeve before he could move.

"Hey," she said softly, but firmly. "Take a breath, Clarence. Don’t… don’t screw this up by thinking too hard about it. Just go."

He nodded once.

And then he stepped away from her and started walking.

Each step felt heavier than the last, but he kept moving, threading his way through the crowd toward the man who’d haunted his thoughts for weeks.

Dean had just finished shaking another pilot’s hand when he finally looked up, and his eyes landed on Castiel.

For a second, Dean went still.

And then something faint, something almost like a smile, tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Castiel stopped a few paces away, his hands at his sides, his throat tight.

"Dean," he said, his voice quiet but sure.

Dean looked at him for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"Cas," he said.

And just like that, all the noise of the room rushed back in.

But this time, Castiel didn’t notice it.

Not when Dean was standing there, close enough to touch.

Dean glanced toward the stage at the far end of the ballroom. Someone in service dress was already stepping up to the podium, tapping the mic.

Dean muttered something under his breath, then shot Castiel a rueful look, half apology, half resignation, and straightened his jacket.

"I’ve gotta do this thing," he said quietly, and there was something in his eyes Castiel couldn’t quite name. Weariness, maybe. Or a kind of heavy duty that he couldn’t quite put down.

Castiel only nodded. He didn’t trust his voice to answer anyway.

Dean gave him one more glance, faintly wry, then moved off toward the stage with long, steady strides, the crowd parting almost unconsciously for him as he went.

Castiel stood rooted to the spot for a moment, watching him go, the bright lights catching the edges of Dean’s ribbons and insignia until he looked like something just a little untouchable.

Then a voice called his name, "Castiel!" and he turned to see Sam Winchester waving him over from one of the tables near the edge of the dance floor. Jessica was seated next to him, in a pale champagne-colored gown, her arm looped lightly through Sam’s, her smile warm as always.

Castiel looked back to find Meg but she'd gone off somewhere, probably drinking every glass of champagne in sight. So, Castiel allowed himself to drift toward them, grateful in some distant way not to be left standing alone like a fool in the middle of the room.

Sam stood as he approached and clasped his shoulder briefly, in that careful, quiet way of his.

"Good to see you, Cas," he said.

Jessica chimed in warmly, "You clean up nice. Sit, we saved you a chair."

He sat.

Jessica poured him a splash of wine before he could even reach for the carafe, and Sam asked him about the ceremony so far, and for a few minutes Castiel managed to pretend he was fully present, that he wasn’t watching the stage out of the corner of his eye, wasn’t counting every second Dean spent up there before the inevitable speech came.

The general at the podium was already finishing his introduction when Dean took the final steps up. The applause rose, polite but substantial, and Dean stood at the lectern and adjusted the mic.

There was no smile on his face, but he carried himself with the same quiet confidence he always did. His voice filled the room.

"Thank you, General," he said, his tone clipped and even, but not cold. "And thank you to everyone here tonight. I’m honored to say a few words." He paused, eyes sweeping the crowd as though he were taking measure of everyone present, then continued.

"Most of you knew my father, General John Winchester. You knew his record, his command, his leadership. Some of you even served under him, or alongside him. And you know that his presence, his influence, still lingers in these halls. For better or worse."

That got a soft ripple of laughter in the room, though there was an undertone of respect beneath it.

Castiel felt something heavy settle in his chest as he watched Dean speak, watched his hands rest on either side of the lectern, watched his gaze steady itself. This was a man carrying a weight that no one else could quite understand, but he carried it anyway.

And Castiel couldn’t look away. Not even when a shadow fell across the table and a sharp British voice cut into his thoughts.

"Well, well," the voice drawled just behind him. "If it isn’t the great Ghost himself. I wondered if you’d have the stones to show your face here, mate."

Castiel turned his head slowly, already knowing who he’d see.

Nick.

Wing Commander Nick Davies, Royal Air Force.

He was dressed to regulation in RAF No. 1 dress blues, medals gleaming, hair meticulously combed. And his smile was pure malice, thin and sharp as a blade.

Seeing him here tonight had been a blow he hadn’t prepared for, though he supposed he should have.

He lifted his gaze, scanning the room, and only now did he truly see it for what it was. It wasn’t just the Air Force gathered here. Not just Americans. There were NATO uniforms everywhere. RAF blues, Luftwaffe grey, the dark navy of the Italians, the Belgians, the Canadians. A dozen languages humming under the quiet music and chatter, all of them dressed up now, medals polished, smiles polite, playing their part in the illusion of unity.

Castiel’s jaw tightened. "Nick," he said flatly.

Nick let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as though amused by the understatement. He leaned forward slightly, planting one hand on the back of Castiel’s chair.

"You know, I still remember the look on your face that night. Wandering around Brize Norton like you owned the bloody place. Thought you were clever, didn’t you?"

Jessica glanced between them uncertainly, and Sam’s brow furrowed, clearly picking up on the tension. Castiel didn’t move. "What do you want, Davies?"

"Oh, nothing," Nick said lightly, but his eyes glittered. "Just thought I’d say how much I enjoyed watching you. After all, you and I both know what you were looking for that night. Snooping through the wrong doors, checking flight records, trying to get your hands on the nuclear payload evidence." He clicked his tongue and straightened, his smile cold. "You found it, didn’t you? But the USAF cleaned up your little mess before America could make it public. Got your President to back down, even after the Brize Norton incident. Pity."

Castiel felt his stomach turn, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. Jessica and Sam were watching him now, confused, concerned.

Nick’s voice dropped lower, just for him.

"You know," Nick murmured, "putting Jack in the control room that morning was no accident. I put him there, knowing damn well he'd make a mistake. Watched him panic when that blip came up on radar. Watched him fire the missile, thinking it was a hostile. Watched the smoke in the sky when the civvy plane went down. Two hundred and eighty-three dead, just like that. And you lot still ruled it a radar malfunction. Bloody convenient, wasn’t it? Convenient enough to stop London and Washington from tearing each other apart."

Castiel’s fingers curled into fists under the table.

Nick went on, voice dark with something ugly and bitter. "You want to know why I didn’t turn you in that night? Why I let you wander around that base unchallenged? Because I thought, just maybe, you’d find what you were looking for. Something big enough, damning enough, to finally force everyone’s hand. Start a war that should’ve been started years ago. But somehow you managed to stop it, didn’t you? No spark, no fire. And now here we are, still smiling at each other like good little allies."

Castiel swallowed hard. He could feel the weight of Sam’s eyes on him, Jessica’s gentle hand hovering near his arm like she wanted to reach for him but wasn’t sure if she should.

And Nick’s smile sharpened even further.

"Maybe next time," he said softly, as though it were almost a joke. "Maybe next time the Yanks elect some idiot who actually listens to ‘wise counsel.’ Someone dumb enough to press the button when we tell him to. Maybe next time your dear Commander-in-Chief won’t bother cleaning up your mistakes. Mm?"

The words landed like blows. Castiel stared at him, something hot and bitter and dangerous rising in his chest. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like ice.

"You’re a coward," he said.

Nick’s smile didn’t falter, though his eyes hardened. "And you’re a failure," he replied.

Castiel stood. Sam started to say something, but Castiel didn’t hear it. He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping against the polished floor, and walked away without another word.

The noise of the ballroom washed over him. Laughter, clinking glasses, applause as Dean’s speech came to a close, but it all blurred together, meaningless, like static. He kept his head down as he made his way to the edge of the room, past the bar, past the servers, down the short corridor that led to the men’s room.

The bathroom was empty when he pushed through the door. Bright light, polished tile, the faint hum of a fan.

He gripped the edge of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.

Nick’s words rang in his head.

'You're a failure.'

He shut his eyes, trying to force them out, but the images came anyway. Jack’s stricken face as he pressed the button, the radar blip vanishing, the black plume of smoke curling up from the horizon, the news headlines the next morning listing names and ages of civilians who would never come home.

Two hundred and eighty-three dead.

And for what?

He opened his eyes and glared at his own reflection, the stranger staring back at him in dress blues and a stiff collar and eyes that burned with impotent rage.

He hated himself for failing.

He hated Nick for being right.

And he hated that even now, he still didn’t know how to fix it.

His hand slammed against the mirror before he even realized what he was doing.

The glass cracked under his fist with a sickening sound, spiderweb fractures radiating outward in a sudden, silent bloom. A shard dropped into the sink and clattered against the porcelain.

His knuckles were bleeding. Bright red against pale skin, already swelling, already bruising.

He stared at it, chest heaving, his reflection shattered into a hundred crooked pieces, none of them quite whole.

The noise of the ballroom was distant now, muffled by the door and the roaring in his ears. He stood there, gripping the sink with his uninjured hand, feeling the sting of the cut and the slow, hot trickle of blood down his wrist.

And for just a moment, he let himself close his eyes and imagine a different version of this night. One where he’d succeeded in saving the Airbus from being blown up, one where the truth about Nick's schemes had come out, one where he could have looked Dean in the eye without shame.

But when he opened them again, the mirror was still broken.

And so was he.

Chapter Text

***

Castiel stood there for what felt like hours, staring at his fractured reflection, his blood running in thin red rivulets across his knuckles, dripping into the sink. The sting was sharp, almost welcome. He let out a shaky breath and pressed his uninjured palm flat against the counter, trying to steady himself.

The door behind him creaked open.

He didn’t look up at first, assuming it was some other airman stumbling in. But then the door closed quietly instead of slamming, and a familiar voice broke the silence.

"Cas?"

Castiel stiffened.

He glanced up in the mirror, what was left of it, and saw Dean standing just inside the door, still in his immaculate dress blues, his tie a little loose now, his brow furrowed. Dean took a few steps closer, his boots echoing against the tile.

"What the hell did you do?" Dean muttered when his eyes landed on Castiel’s hand.

Castiel said nothing. He turned back to the sink, as though there were anything to clean that hadn’t already been ruined.

Dean came closer, his voice lower now, but sharper too. "Look at me."

Castiel’s jaw tightened, but he did.

Dean stopped just behind him, his eyes catching on the shattered mirror, then on the blood smeared across the white porcelain, and finally on Castiel’s face.

"What happened?" Dean asked evenly.

For a long moment, Castiel didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to speak, didn’t trust that his voice wouldn’t crack and betray everything churning inside him.

But Dean didn’t let it go. He reached out and grabbed Castiel’s wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough to hold it up so he could see the damage better. Blood was already drying in dark streaks around the bruising.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean muttered, softer this time, more to himself than to Cas. He set Castiel’s hand back down and reached for the stack of paper towels, wetting one under the tap.

Castiel watched him work in silence as Dean began blotting the blood away, his movements brusque but careful.

"You’re lucky you didn’t cut a tendon," Dean said under his breath. "You’d think a guy smart enough to quote treaties from memory wouldn’t be dumb enough to do this."

"That’s not what this is about," Castiel said quietly.

Dean paused, looking up at him through his lashes.

"Then what’s it about?" Dean asked.

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He let Dean wrap the paper towel around his knuckles, tying it off as a makeshift bandage. The sting of the pressure almost helped him focus.

Dean stayed quiet after that, just standing there in the narrow bathroom with him, the faint sounds of laughter and music still drifting in through the door.

When Castiel finally spoke, his voice was low and raw.

"Do you ever wonder," he murmured, "how many of the people in that room would set the world on fire if they thought it served them?"

Dean’s hands stilled.

"I’ve seen the way they smile at each other," Castiel went on, his eyes fixed on the broken glass. "The way they talk about unity. About honor. But it’s all just… theater. Every last bit of it. You can’t imagine what I’ve seen, what I know, and still believe that any of them actually care about the cost."

Dean studied him for a long moment. His jaw worked, but he didn’t say anything.

Finally he dropped the towel in the sink, leaned back against the counter, and crossed his arms.

"I can’t say you’re wrong," Dean said finally, his voice quiet but steady. "But you still don’t get to tear yourself apart over it."

Castiel gave a humorless laugh. "Then who else will?"

Dean met his gaze evenly, and for the first time tonight, his voice softened, not with pity, but with something else Castiel couldn’t name.

"You’re not alone in this, Cas. Whether you like it or not."

For a moment, Castiel just stared at him, unsure how to respond.

Dean reached out, gripping his shoulder firmly, and gave it a small squeeze before letting go.

"C’mon," he said, nodding toward the door. "Let’s get that hand looked at before you bleed all over the ballroom floor."

Castiel didn’t move at first. But after a beat, he straightened his jacket, squared his shoulders, and followed Dean out of the bathroom.

And though the mirror behind him was still broken, the pieces didn’t seem quite as sharp anymore.

***

Dean led him down the corridor in silence, his grip steady on Castiel’s elbow as they left the garish lights and muffled laughter of the ballroom behind. Castiel didn’t argue. The paper towel wrapped around his hand was already damp with blood, and every step away from the music felt like another breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The clinic was dark when they reached it. A polite little sign on the door:

CLOSED FOR THE BALL - IN CASE OF EMERGENCY: CONTACT THE HOTEL MANAGER

It mocked them in neat black letters. Dean rattled the handle anyway, then huffed under his breath when it budged.

Dean muttered, "Why would they close the damn clinic for a party?" He didn't look back at Castiel and just went inside the quiet room.

Castiel followed without protest, his footsteps quiet.

The faint smell of stale coffee and antiseptic greeted them. The room was small, with a few metal chairs, a table littered with forgotten mugs, and a single sink under a cabinet. Dean flicked on the overhead light, making everything look harsher somehow, and strode over to the cabinet.

The kit was right where he’d said it would be, a battered green box that clattered as he set it down on the counter and popped it open. He worked quickly, his shoulders tense, pulling out gauze and disinfectant like it was second nature.

"Sit," Dean ordered, nodding at the edge of the counter next to the sink.

Castiel obeyed. He eased himself up onto the counter and sat there, legs dangling, watching Dean’s hands move with practiced efficiency. Even now, especially now, there was something hypnotic about the way Dean focused when he was fixing something broken.

Dean glanced up at him finally, jerking his chin. "Hand."

Castiel extended it without a word.

Dean unwrapped the makeshift paper towel bandage, wincing at the sight of the gash across his knuckles. "Damn, Cas," he murmured. "You really did a number on yourself this time."

The antiseptic stung when Dean dabbed it over the wound, but Castiel didn’t flinch. He just watched Dean work, watched the furrow in his brow, the way his fingers moved with quiet care even though his jaw was tight with frustration.

And something inside Castiel cracked open a little more. Because this, this quiet, steady presence, was everything he’d missed. Everything he’d pushed away at Brize Norton.

Dean finally looked up at him, his green eyes sharp but not unkind. "You wanna tell me what pissed you off bad enough to smash a mirror with your bare hand?" he asked quietly.

Castiel hesitated. His throat felt tight.

He remembered the crowd of pilots and officers milling about, laughing and drinking beneath the glittering chandeliers outside. They didn’t know. Of course they didn’t. Dean too. None of them knew what Nick had done.

Castiel’s jaw tightened.

Nick's schemes, they made him sick.

He had promised himself the night Charlie came, when she left his apartment, that he’d talk to Dean. That he’d finally tell him everything. How much he meant, how he’d kept himself miserable for no reason at all except fear.

But now…

Now there were bigger things to consider.

He stared at Dean's eyes for a moment. Castiel’s chest ached at the sight of him, but the words he’d rehearsed in his head seemed selfish now. Petty.

Because none of this was over. Nick was still out there, and Amara, the only person who might know what strings were still being pulled, had disappeared without a word.

"Nick happened," he started, but the words died in his mouth. He can't tell Dean what their conversation earlier was about. Even if he is no longer a fighter pilot, he’s still bound by security laws and non-disclosure rules for any classified information he learned while serving.

"What did he do this time?" Dean asked. Castiel blinked at him, caught off guard by the abrupt question.

"You know how he is." Castiel casually answered, hoping Dean wouldn't press even more. He decided to change subject and said, "I called you multiple times, Dean. But it always went to voicemail."

Dean paused, his hands stilling on the gauze. His eyes flicked up. "Yeah," he said after a beat. "Lost my phone. Just got a new one. Didn’t have your number anymore."

Castiel stared at him, something sharp and hollow twisting in his chest.

"I came to your apartment," he admitted quietly. "After… everything. But you weren’t there. You hadn’t been there for years."

Dean’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t look away. "That place was a dump. I needed to find somewhere… better. And you never asked. So I didn’t think it mattered enough to mention."

The words stung. Not because they were cruel, but because they were true.

Dean finished wrapping the bandage and secured it with a piece of tape. His fingers lingered on Castiel’s for a moment before he let go.

"There," Dean said gruffly. "All patched up."

But Castiel didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at the bandage, the words he’d carried for years finally pressing against the back of his teeth, demanding to be spoken. But he pushed everything down and cleared his throat.

"Have you seen General Amara tonight?"

"She’s not here," Dean said after a beat. "She wasn’t on the guest list."

Castiel frowned. Dean's serene face suddenly turned impassive, almost empty. He squinted at Castiel.

"Why’re you suddenly asking about her? Thought you made it pretty damn clear you were done with all this after Brize Norton. Turned down your wings, told everyone to go to hell, walked off into your theatre sunset, remember?"

Castiel swallowed, forcing down the bitterness, ignoring the shift in Dean's mood, "I just… need to speak with her."

Dean tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "And why's that?"

"That’s classified," Castiel said tightly.

Dean’s brow rose. He huffed a humorless laugh and looked down at his own hands.

"Funny. You’re not the only one who’s heard classified whispers, Cas. I know about Brize Norton."

Castiel stiffened.

"What?"

He never thought Amara would let anyone else in her so called special operation, given how dangerous and reckless it was. But he figured she needed manpower to fight something this big. He just didn't think Dean would be one of them.

Dean glanced back up at him, his green eyes sharp now, stripped of the easy warmth from moments ago. "I got yanked off my squadron and reassigned to a temporary rotation a few weeks ago." Dean admitted. He hesitated, then added, "Amara’s orders. She sent me out there to keep an eye on the U.K. airspace in case Nick or whoever he’s working with made another move. And she took the fall for you, Cas. That’s why she’s not here tonight. She got reassigned, too."

The floor seemed to tilt under Castiel’s feet. He gripped the edge of the counter. He remembered what Meg told her yesterday. 'He’s not at Laughlin anymore as far as I know. Nobody’s seen him around base.'

Castiel tried to shake the uneasiness in his throat and asked Dean. "She… took the fall?"

Dean nodded grimly.

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, a familiar wave of guilt crashing over him. "I didn’t know," he murmured.

Dean shrugged one shoulder, but his jaw was tight. "Didn’t think you did."

For a long moment they stood there in silence, the buzz of the party outside the clinic dull and distant. Castiel’s throat worked. Then, quietly, he said, "I found out what Nick was really doing. Well, I didn't exactly find out about it. He told me. Earlier. Why he let me find the payload. Why he put Jack in that control room.”

Dean’s head snapped up.

Castiel met his gaze, his voice low and even. "He wanted a war. Between the U.S. and the U.K. That civilian plane… he wanted those deaths on my hands, to push Washington into retaliation. But they didn’t bite. And the nuclear payload evidence, I handed it over to Amara when she agreed to keep the President on a leash, so he wouldn't escalate. Nick didn’t get what he wanted, but he’s still out there.”

Dean cursed softly under his breath, running a hand down his face. "Son of a bitch."

"I need to find Amara," Castiel said, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "I need to help. There’s more to this. There’s always more. And she’s the only one who might have answers."

Dean turned fully to him, his expression hardening. "No."

Castiel blinked.

Dean stepped closer, his voice low but fierce. "No, Cas. You’re not getting back in the middle of this. You almost died trying to save that civvy plane from Jack’s missile. You don’t—you don’t know what it was like watching you on the tarmac after. Thinking you weren’t gonna make it."

Castiel opened his mouth to argue, but Dean kept going.

"You’ve done enough," he said, softer now, but no less firm. "You’ve already paid for their mess. Let it go. Let her handle it."

Castiel shook his head slowly. "I can’t, Dean."

"Yes, you can," Dean shot back.

"I don't want to," Castiel said again, his voice quiet but resolute. "I can’t just stand here and pretend everything’s fine while she takes the fall for me. While Nick keeps scheming. I owe her more than that. I owe you more than that."

Dean’s breath hitched at that, and for the briefest moment his hard expression cracked, something raw flashing in his eyes before he schooled it again.

Castiel felt his chest ache all over again. Not just from guilt, not just from the burden of what he knew, but from the weight of everything he still hadn’t said. How much he’d wanted to tell Dean that he meant everything, how much he hated himself for shutting him out, how much he’d ached to believe he deserved even a sliver of happiness.

But now wasn’t the time.

"Please," Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just… tell me where she is."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, his jaw working, his fingers flexing at his sides. Finally, he exhaled slowly through his nose, a muscle in his cheek ticking.

"Fine," he said at last. "I’ll take you to her. But after that, you’re done. You hear me? No more throwing yourself in front of missiles for people who don’t give a damn whether you live or die."

Castiel gave him the faintest of smiles. "I hear you."

Dean shook his head, muttering something under his breath, "Let’s go," he said gruffly, already turning toward the door.

Castiel followed, his heart heavy and light all at once. Guilt and duty still knotted in his chest, but Dean’s presence at his side cutting through the fog.

Later, he thought, as they stepped out into the cool night air.

Later, when this was all over, he’d tell Dean everything.

For now, there's work to do.

Chapter Text

***

The road stretched long and black ahead of them, a ribbon of moonlight and shadow winding through empty fields. The hum of the Impala’s engine was the only sound, low and steady, filling the silence between them like water into a broken glass.

Castiel sat rigid in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the blur of highway beyond the windshield. One hand rested in his lap, fingers curled loosely, the white bandage stark against his skin. The faint sting in his knuckles was almost welcome.

Dean hadn’t said much since they left the ballroom.

Not that there was much left to say.

The air between them was thick with unspoken words, same as it always was. Castiel could still feel Dean’s fingers on his hand from earlier, the quiet care in the way he’d wrapped his wounds. And it stung, the way Dean could still be gentle with him even after everything Castiel had done to make him stop caring.

Castiel remembered his gaze from earlier. Brief, sharp, and impossible to read as he’d patched up his hand in the clinic, as though each dab of antiseptic was just another thing Dean resented him for. Or maybe another thing Dean couldn’t stop himself from caring about.

Castiel hated that about him.

Hated how much he cared.

Hated how much he still wanted Dean to.

The tires hummed over the asphalt. Dean’s hands stayed locked on the wheel, his knuckles tight, his shoulders stiff. The faint glow of the dashboard lit his face in harsh planes and shadows.

Castiel swallowed down the words that threatened to rise.

He wanted to tell him not to do this. To turn the car around. To leave him to his own choices. But the thought of saying it, of pushing Dean even further away, left his throat dry and his chest tight.

Instead, he stared out the window and let the cold night blur into nothing, letting the dark swallow his words before they could start another fight.

He didn’t understand what Dean thought he was accomplishing here. Amara wouldn’t just let Castiel walk away. Not now. Not when Nick was still out there and the world was still teetering on the edge.

And yet…

Some small, reckless part of him wanted to believe Dean could actually fix this. That same part of him that had believed, once, that Dean could fix him.

The thought made his chest ache.

***

They pulled through the base’s side gate just past two in the morning.

The administrative building ahead of them was dark and silent, the windows black. No guards, no lights, no sound. Just a single figure standing outside under the faint spill of moonlight.

Amara was waiting for them.

She stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind her back, her uniform crisp, her hair pulled into a smooth knot. She didn’t look at the car as it pulled up, she didn’t need to. She already knew who it was.

Dean killed the engine, the quiet sudden and jarring, and got out without looking at him.

Castiel followed.

The air was sharp with cold. His shoes crunched softly over the gravel as he stepped up to her side.

Amara didn’t move when they approached, but her eyes glinted like glass in the dim light. Her gaze swept over them both, her lips curved faintly.

"Gentlemen," she said evenly, her dark eyes gleaming.

Castiel wasted no time. He stepped forward, his voice even but clipped.

"I need answers," he said.

Amara tilted her head, watching him with quiet curiosity. Then one of her brows arched, not mockery exactly, but close.

"I spoke to Nick," Castiel continued. "At the ball. He told me something about the payload and the incident. That it wasn’t just about containment. That it was… bait. That the entire thing was staged to trigger a response."

Amara's hands flexed slightly behind her back. A tell. Subtle, but he saw it. And for the first time, her expression wavered just slightly.

"I see," she murmured.

"Is it true?" Castiel pressed. "Was that the real objective? Because if it was, then everything I did at Brize Norton—" He cut himself off, clenching his jaw.

Amara let out a soft breath and looked away briefly, toward the dark expanse of runway beyond them.

"He might not be wrong," she admitted. "But what I don’t understand is why he would tell you that. Why he would let you walk away with it. That doesn’t sound like him."

Castiel’s throat tightened. "He wanted me to know. That’s what worries me."

Amara’s gaze returned to his, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, silence settled thick around them. Dean stayed a step back, his arms crossed tight, his glare fixed on her.

Then Castiel straightened his shoulders and said, quietly but firmly, "If what he told me is true, then there’s still work to be done. And I intend to finish it. Put me back in. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it."

Dean stiffened at his side.

"No," Dean said suddenly, sharply.

Both Castiel and Amara looked at him.

"Captain Winchester," she said, her tone dry. "You’re punctual. I’ll give you that."

Dean walked and stopped a few feet in front of her, his shoulders squaring. "We had a deal."

Amara raised a brow.

Dean’s voice dropped lower, harder. "You told me if I took his place, you’d leave him out of it. You’d let him go."

Castiel froze. His stomach churned, and he turned fully to Dean sharply, his pulse thudding in his ears.

"What?"

Dean didn’t look at him. His glare stayed locked on Amara.

Castiel stepped closer, his hand curling into a fist. "What did you do?"

But Amara’s faint smile didn’t falter.

"I told you I’d consider your offer," she said evenly. "That’s all. But circumstances have changed."

Dean’s breath hitched, his fists tightening at his sides. "Changed how?"

Amara’s gaze swept over them both, cool and assessing.

"I don’t have the luxury of letting capable assets walk away anymore," she said simply. "I need everyone I can get. Him included. You want to take on more? Fine. I’ll take you both. But don’t think you can bargain one soldier’s life for another’s. I don’t run a charity."

Dean’s face went red with anger. He took a step forward. "That wasn’t the deal—"

"There was no deal," Amara cut in sharply, her voice cracking like a whip. "There was an offer. And now it’s off the table."

Dean glared at her like he might actually hit her.

But Castiel just… stared at him.

All the breath seemed to leave his lungs at once.

"You went to her," he said quietly, the words tasting like ash. "Behind my back. You… what? You thought you could fix everything by throwing yourself into the fire for me?"

Dean turned to him finally, and Castiel could see the truth in his eyes even before he spoke. There was no shame in them. Just quiet, furious determination.

"I couldn’t just stand there and let her drag you back into this," Dean ground out. "I couldn’t watch you break yourself apart again for people who don’t even deserve it."

Castiel stared at him, his pulse thudding hard in his ears, his breath sharp.

"You don’t get to make that choice for me," he said, his voice low but shaking.

Dean flinched but didn’t back down.

"You already made it once," Dean shot back. "You already threw everything away. You think you’re the only one who gets to carry that kind of weight? Well, guess what, Cas? You’re not."

Castiel’s fists trembled at his sides.

"You arrogant son of a bitch," he spat. "You think this is about saving me? You think this is about being some kind of martyr? You have no idea what you’ve just done."

Dean’s jaw tightened, his glare fierce. "Yeah? Then why don’t you enlighten me?"

Something cracked open inside him at that, sharp and hollow.

Castiel didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because he didn’t have the words for what it felt like. To watch Dean offer himself up like a lamb to slaughter. To realize that after everything, after all the walls he’d built, Dean still cared enough to try and save him.

Even when he didn’t deserve it.

And it made him want to scream.

Amara watched them both with thinly veiled amusement.

"If you two are done," she said coolly, "I suggest you both get some sleep. We have work to do tomorrow."

Dean didn’t take his eyes off Castiel, and Castiel didn’t take his eyes off Dean. Neither of them spoke as they turned and walked back to the car. The Impala’s doors shut with two sharp clicks, and Dean started the engine without a word.

Castiel stared straight ahead, his fists tight in his lap, his thoughts an impossible knot of anger, grief, and something that felt far too much like love.

He hated Dean for what he’d done. For thinking he could fix everything. For believing Castiel was worth saving.

He hated himself more for wanting to believe it, too.

The Impala rolled forward, headlights cutting through the empty road, and the dark swallowed the base behind them.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence said enough.

But it was heavier than anything Castiel had ever felt.

And through it all, he couldn’t decide what hurt more. The fact that Amara refused to let him go… or the fact that Dean had tried anyway.

Chapter Text

Debt of Honor
A few weeks ago at
Brize Norton, Carterton, Oxfordshire, UK

***

The morning at Brize Norton was bleak and gray, and so was Dean.

His boots thudded against the cold tarmac as he walked away from the hangar, each step heavier than the last. He didn’t look back, couldn’t. Not at Castiel. Not at the hangar doors he’d left him standing in front of, his duffel on his shoulder, his face blank and tired.

Dean’s fists clenched at his sides as the words he’d thrown at him only minutes ago echoed in his head. 'I’m done waiting for you. I’m done chasing you.'

And he meant it. Didn’t he?

He stopped just shy of the transport trucks, the distant sound of jet engines filling the silence in his chest.

It wasn’t enough.

For weeks, hell, years, he’d watched Castiel eat himself alive for orders he didn’t even believe in. Saw the way his shoulders never really lowered, the way his jaw stayed tight. And Dean had thought he could wait him out, thought if he just stayed long enough, stubborn enough, Cas would finally let him in.

But this? Watching him walk away again, like everything between them was just another piece of collateral damage?

Dean couldn’t do it anymore.

But he couldn’t just let him go, either.

His eyes darted to the command offices at the far end of the runway, and before he could think better of it, he turned and headed for them.

***

Amara didn’t look surprised to see him.

She was in a quiet corner office, her uniform immaculate, her gaze cool and sharp as ever.

"You’ve come to yell at me," she said simply, not even looking up from the papers in front of her.

"Damn right I have," Dean growled, slamming the door shut behind him.

That finally earned him a raised brow.

He took two steps closer to her desk, planting his hands flat on it. "What the hell did you send him into? Whatever it was, you broke him. And you’re just letting him twist in the wind like he didn’t almost die cleaning up your mess."

Amara studied him for a long moment, then set her pen down.

"You care about him," she said evenly. Not a question.

Dean’s jaw tightened. "This isn't about me, Amara. So tell me. What kind of op makes a guy like him turn in his wings in front of the whole damn squadron?"

For the first time, something flickered in her expression. Not quite guilt, but close.

"It was never supposed to go that far," she said softly. "But it did. And he made the call to give it all up. He handed in his evidence. Protected everyone else. Even that silly kid named Jack."

Dean felt his chest tighten. "And you let him."

Amara’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Do you think he would have let me stop him?"

Dean shook his head, stepping back, running a hand through his hair.

"You’re gonna send him back," he said finally. "Aren’t you?"

Her silence was answer enough.

Dean let out a bitter laugh. "Of course. Because he’s good at following orders. And you’re good at giving ‘em. Doesn’t matter what it does to him."

Amara stood then, folding her hands behind her back, and met his glare with one of her own. "You think I want him to keep carrying this? I don’t. But I don’t have anyone else. He’s the only one who’s ever delivered when it mattered."

Dean swallowed hard, his stomach sour.

"You don’t need him," he said at last.

Amara raised a brow. "No?"

"You need someone to finish what he started. You need a name to put on the papers, someone to take the hit if it all goes sideways. That doesn’t have to be him."

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you suggesting, Captain?"

Dean straightened his shoulders, the decision solidifying in his chest.

"Use me."

Amara blinked.

"You still need him," Dean went on, his voice steady now. "Fine. Keep him on your damn reserve. Let him think he’s done. Let him go back to whatever life he was trying to have before you ruined it. But the next mission? The next dirty job you need done? You call me. You don’t tell him. You don’t even let him know it was an option. I’ll take it. Not him."

Amara’s lips parted just slightly, then curved into the faintest of smiles.

"You’d really do that for him," she murmured.

Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

"You don't know half of it," he said simply.

Amara regarded him for a long moment, then finally inclined her head. "Very well. I’ll have your orders drawn up before you land stateside." She let that sink in for a minute before she continued, "Prove your usefulness, Dean. I chose Castiel to do this for a reason. He was at the top of his class, beat you in every way that mattered, and more. Do that, and maybe I’ll consider your offer. Do that, and he’ll be informed that his dismissal is final, and his name will stay clear of any future files."

Dean exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing just enough to hurt differently now.

"Say whatever you want about me, Amara. I don't really care why you picked him. Just care that when this is over, he’s done for good. You stick to your word." he said, his voice low.

Amara only nodded.

Dean turned and left without another word.

***

The jet hummed beneath his boots as he climbed aboard half an hour later. His squadron was already seated, their chatter muted, the weight of the exercise’s cancellation still thick in the air.

Dean dropped into his seat by the window, the tarmac lights blurring as the engines roared to life.

He didn’t look for Castiel again. Didn’t try to catch one last glimpse of him on the runway.

He just leaned back, closed his eyes, and let himself believe, for just a little while, that this time, he’d done the right thing.

Even if Cas never knew it. Even if Cas never forgave him for walking away. Because some things you didn’t do for thanks. You did them because you couldn’t stand to see the person you love break under the weight of someone else’s war.

And Dean? He’d been carrying other people’s wars his whole damn life.

One more wouldn’t kill him.

Not yet.

***

The barracks were quiet when he got back to Laughlin.

Dean slung his duffel over his shoulder and stepped into his room, dropping the bag onto the stripped bed with a dull thud. The air smelled like detergent and dust, faint and familiar, but it didn’t feel like home anymore.

Not after Brize Norton.

Not after him.

Dean stood there for a moment, staring at the blank wall above his cot, before he finally sat down on the edge of the bed. His fingers dug into his knees, jaw tight, as his mind ran in endless, bitter circles.

The words he’d thrown at Castiel in the hangar still burned in his chest. He wanted to believe that was true.

That he could just… stop. Walk away.

But then why was he still here? Why did his chest still ache every time he closed his eyes and saw the look on Cas’s face as he walked away?

A knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts.

Dean got up, tugging the door open with more force than necessary.

A young airman stood there, holding a sealed folder with Amara’s name stamped across it.

"Captain Winchester?" the kid asked.

Dean grunted. "Yeah."

"Message from Command, sir."

Dean took the folder, muttered his thanks, and shut the door again.

He sat back down on the bed, staring at the neat black letters as if they might burn through his hands. Then, slowly, he tore it open.

Inside was a single sheet of orders.

Effective immediately: Captain Dean Winchester is reassigned to a classified temporary rotation in support of Operation Black Sky under the direct authority of General Amara Schneider. Duration indefinite. Squadron replacement approved.

Dean let out a humorless laugh and dropped the page onto the bedspread.

So that was that.

His squadron already had his replacement. His name already scratched off the roll.

He’d known this was coming. He’d made sure of it, after all. He was the one who made the offer, who stood in that cold office at Brize Norton and told Amara to take him instead.

Still, seeing it in black and white made it real in a way that settled heavy in his chest.

He sat there for a long time, just staring at the orders.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he stood, grabbed his keys off the dresser, and left.

***

Sam’s house was warm and golden when Dean pulled up.

The windows glowed against the dark night, and even from the driveway he could hear faint music coming from somewhere inside, mixed with the clink of dishes.

For a second he almost put the car back in reverse and drove off.

But he didn’t.

He climbed the porch steps and knocked.

The door opened after a moment, and there was Sam. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a T-shirt, a beer already in his hand. He blinked in mild surprise before his mouth quirked into a smile.

"Hey," Sam said. "Didn’t expect to see you back already."

Dean forced a grin. "Yeah. Guess the Brits didn’t wanna keep me around longer than they had to."

Sam stepped aside, gesturing him in. "Jess is already upstairs sleeping. Long day at work," he said quietly, as if that explained the hush in the house.

Dean nodded faintly as he stepped inside. The familiar smell of the place, takeout and faint lavender and something sweet baking earlier, hit him like a memory he didn’t know he missed.

The living room was warm, cluttered with books and little things that were so Sam. Dean stood awkwardly in the entryway for a second, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, before Sam tilted his head toward the couch.

"C’mon," Sam said. "Sit down. You want a beer?"

"Yeah," Dean muttered.

Sam disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with another bottle, which he handed over before sitting back on the couch. Dean dropped into the corner opposite him and twisted the cap off with a sharp hiss.

They sat there for a while, talking about nothing that really mattered. A couple of headlines, an old story about their dad that still made Sam shake his head in disbelief, some new neighbor who apparently mowed their lawn twice a day.

Dean didn’t say much. He just let Sam talk, let the sound of his brother’s voice fill up the silence that had been eating at him since Brize Norton.

At some point, Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and studied him for a beat.

"You’re quiet," Sam said finally.

Dean smirked faintly. "That’s new to you?"

"You’re… different quiet," Sam replied. "Something happen over there?"

Dean stared down at his bottle, rolling it between his palms. He knew Sam would hear about the Airbus incident sooner or later, but he decided to spare him the details and let this moment of peace lingered for a few more minutes.

"I’m fine," he said after a beat.

Sam let that sit for a while before trying again.

"You gonna see him again?"

Dean froze.

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept staring at the beer, watching the condensation bead and drip onto his fingers.

"Don’t know," he said finally, his voice lower now.

Sam nodded slowly. "Well… if you want to talk about it, you know…"

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. I know."

The corner of Sam’s mouth quirked up. He reached over and clapped Dean lightly on the shoulder, a wordless gesture of reassurance that sat heavy in Dean’s chest.

They sat like that for a little longer, the muted tick of the clock filling the spaces where words didn’t quite fit.

When Dean stood to leave, Sam followed him to the door.

"You gonna be okay?" Sam asked softly.

Dean forced a smirk, even though his throat felt tight. "When am I not?"

Sam shook his head but didn’t press. "Be careful out there, alright?"

Dean nodded, squeezing his brother’s shoulder once before stepping outside into the quiet night.

The Impala was waiting, the glow of the orders still visible where they sat on the passenger seat.

Dean climbed in, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb without looking back at the warm little house behind him.

Even though he could still see the faint glow of the upstairs window, where Jess was probably curled up fast asleep, and Sam still standing there in the doorway, watching him go.

Whatever came next, it was his to carry.

Not theirs.

And not Castiel’s.

***

It was always night wherever they sent him.

Dean stood on a rooftop halfway around the world, the desert wind tugging at his collar, the faint glow of city lights stretching out below him. The air was dry, full of dust and diesel, and the quiet was heavy in his chest.

He tightened his gloves, adjusted the strap of the rifle across his back, and leaned against the low wall as he waited for the signal.

This was his job now. His penance. His choice.

Amara sent him where no one else wanted to go, to clean up messes no one wanted to admit were there. Shadow missions, black skies, no thanks and no questions.

It suited him just fine.

Most days.

Because most days, the quiet was better than the alternative.

But tonight, standing there, watching the lights flicker below, all he could think about was him.

He’d catch himself sometimes, in the middle of a briefing or climbing out of a bird in some nameless desert airstrip, thinking about that damn look on Cas’s face the last time he’d seen him.

Like Dean had cut him open without meaning to.

Like he didn’t know how to stop caring.

Dean hated how much he wanted to see him again.

Hated how much he wanted to go back to Laughlin, walk through those old gates, hear his squadron laughing in the hangars, and grab a beer with the guys at the Roadhouse like nothing had changed.

It was stupid. Sentimental. Weak.

But the thought kept creeping in, all the same.

When the nights got too long, or the missions got too quiet, he’d close his eyes and picture it, the familiar smell of jet fuel and sawdust, the clink of bottles at the Roadhouse bar, someone telling a bad joke over the jukebox while his squadron heckled him from a corner booth.

And Cas.

Cas sitting at the bar with his sleeves rolled, fingers curled around a bottle, pretending not to watch Dean from the corner of his eye.

Dean let himself imagine it for just a second.

Then he’d push it down and focus on the next target, the next extraction, the next clean-up.

Weeks bled together like that. Mission after mission, city after city.

The only constants were his orders and his silence.

But somewhere deep down, the idea of going back stayed alive, a little ember he didn’t let himself blow out completely.

He just needed a reason.

Any excuse.

***

The mission wrapped on a Tuesday.

Dean dropped his duffel on the floor of the forward base barracks, stripped his gloves off, and finally let himself exhale. Another job done. Another list of names no one would ever read.

In the next room, a couple of airmen were talking over a tinny radio broadcast. Dean only half-listened as he sat on the edge of his cot, rubbing a hand over his face.

"—and don’t forget," one of them said with a laugh, "next week’s the big one. Birthday Ball’s coming up. You bringing anyone?"

Dean froze.

The Birthday Ball.

Of course.

It came every year, like clockwork, another excuse for the brass to dress up and drink and pretend everything was fine.

He hadn’t even thought about it.

But now…

Dean let the corners of his mouth curl up into something halfway between a grin and a grimace.

"Well," he muttered to himself under his breath, leaning back on his cot. "Guess I’ve got a reason now."

Because no matter what Amara said, no matter what Cas thought, he wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

Dean reached into his bag, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling through flights.

If anyone asked, he’d say he was just showing up for the Ball. Just paying his respects.

But he knew the truth.

He was going back to see Cas.

And maybe, this time he’d finally figure out what the hell to say.

***

The hotel venue where the ball always takes place hadn't change.

Dean pulled the Impala through the gates slow, headlights sweeping over the same checkpoint where he’d signed himself out years ago. The same faint smell of heat and dust. The same faint knot in his stomach.

He didn’t even know why he was here.

Well, he knew. He just didn’t feel like saying it out loud yet.

The Birthday Ball was as good an excuse as any. Every airman worth his dress blues showed up, at least to make nice with the brass. But Dean hadn’t cared about dress blues in months. Not since he took Amara’s black-sky missions and stopped seeing his squadron, stopped drinking at the Roadhouse, stopped pretending he had anything left to come back to.

And yet here he was.

Coming back anyway.

The parking lot outside the ballroom was already filling up. Even from here, Dean could hear laughter spilling out the open doors, the faint strains of a band tuning up, the clink of glasses and heels on polished tile.

He sat in the car for a second longer, gripping the wheel tighter than he needed to.

He could picture him already.

Cas.

And now?

Now Dean didn’t even know what he wanted to say to him.

***

The doors were heavy and gold and exactly like he remembered.

Dean straightened his jacket, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside.

The familiar scent of cologne and champagne and wax polish hit him all at once, and for a second he almost turned around.

But then he spotted the squadron first, his old squadron, crowded near the back table, laughing and knocking beers against the edge. Someone called his name when they saw him, and before he could help himself, he grinned and walked over.

It felt good. For a minute.

There were handshakes and claps on the back and somebody even shoved a cold beer into his hand before he could say no. He took a long drink anyway, letting the sound of them fill up the quiet in his head.

It was almost like nothing had changed.

Almost.

But it had.

Because his eyes kept drifting toward the far side of the room.

Then he saw him.

Cas.

And everything else went still.

Cas stood near the edge of the dance floor, just where Dean knew he would be. His dress blues were immaculate, his jacket sharp at the shoulders, but his eyes, even from here, Dean could see the faint exhaustion in them that weighed him for the past few weeks.

He was talking to someone. Meg, by the look of it, but his eyes weren’t on her.

They were on Dean.

Just like always.

Something in Dean’s chest tightened, sharp and hot.

It was almost cruel, the way it happened. After weeks of silence and dust and desert air, after mission after mission where he’d promised himself he’d forget, after all the reasons he gave himself not to come back. All it took was Cas standing there for it all to come rushing back.

And then, just barely, Dean felt the corner of his mouth tug upward.

Not a smile. Not really. But close.

Cas stopped a few paces away. Dean could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. And when he spoke, quiet but sure, Dean thought maybe the whole room leaned closer to hear.

"Dean."

The sound of it cracked something open in him.

Dean held his gaze, just for a beat longer than he should have, and inclined his head slightly.

"Cas."

He didn’t trust himself to say more than that.

For a moment, all the noise of the ballroom dropped away.

All he could see was Cas. Close enough to touch, close enough to say all the things he’d rehearsed and swallowed and buried.

But then he heard the faint feedback of a microphone being tapped. His eyes flicked toward the stage at the far end of the room, where a general in full dress uniform was already standing at the podium.

Duty called. It always did.

Dean muttered something under his breath, something halfway between a curse and an apology, then looked at Cas.

"I’ve gotta do this thing," he said quietly, his voice carrying just enough weariness to let Cas hear it.

Cas only nodded, his throat working faintly. He didn’t say anything, and Dean didn’t blame him.

Dean kept his head high as he climbed the steps, but his chest still felt heavy with the weight of the man still standing behind him, watching him go.

He stood at the lectern, fingers curled lightly on the wood, his voice carrying steady and even through the ballroom.

The words he’d prepared days ago rolled off his tongue by rote. His father, General John Winchester's legacy, the squadron’s strength, the meaning of service.

It was just another speech.

But his eyes kept drifting back to the table near the edge of the dance floor, where Cas sat between Sam and Jess, a faint shadow in the soft light.

For a while, Cas stayed still, listening. But then something shifted.

Dean caught it out of the corner of his eye. Cas’s hand tightening slightly on his thigh, his eyes darkening, and then… movement.

Before Dean even realized what he was seeing, Cas was pushing back his chair, and slipping through the crowd toward the far exit.

Dean’s chest tightened.

Something wasn’t right.

He barely registered finishing his closing line, the polite applause rising as he stepped down from the stage.

His mind was already on Cas.

The bathrooms were quiet at this end of the hall, tucked away from the party. Dean reached for the handle and eased the door open just in time to hear the faint creak of the hinge echo through the tiled room.

The sharp scent of blood hit him almost immediately.

And there he was.

Cas, standing at the sink, his hand dripping red over porcelain, his shoulders tense and still.

Dean froze for a half-second in the doorway, taking in the shattered mirror, the jagged glass in the sink, the way Cas didn’t even bother to look up.

Calling his name was all it took for Cas to stiffen, his jaw tightening as he finally glanced up in the fractured reflection.

Dean remembered gripping his wrist, feeling the blood slick and warm between his fingers, muttering under his breath as he cleaned and bandaged the gash.

He remembered taking Cas to the clinic. Cas sitting on the counter as he cleaned and bandaged his injured hand. He remembered how he couldn’t bring himself to look up and meet Cas’s eyes because he didn’t trust himself not to kiss him right then and there.

Dean had asked Cas what happened, why he’d even think of smashing a mirror with his bare hand. And when he heard Nick’s name come out of Cas’s mouth, he knew he’d been right to make that offer to Amara. Dean wouldn’t let him get crushed in the middle of all of it again.

He figured that if he didn’t press about what Nick had done to piss him off, maybe Cas would let it go. So he just listened to him talk. About how he’d waited for Dean to return his calls. How he’d even gone to Dean’s old apartment and found it empty. Dean silently cursed himself.

He told Cas he’d lost his phone. That part was true. But when he’d said he didn’t have Cas’s number anymore, that was a lie. He still remembered it. It lived in the back of his mind every waking hour. He couldn’t admit that he’d memorized it, that it took everything in him not to call Cas every damn minute of every day, because then Cas would know just how much Dean missed him when he was far away.

He hadn’t told Cas about moving out of his old apartment. It never occurred to him that maybe Cas had wanted to know. And partly because, if he told him, he’d be letting himself hope, hope to find Cas standing there at the door one day.

He let it all settle in his head for what felt like forever. Cas had called him multiple times. Had come looking for him. The thought made Dean hope for something he knew he couldn’t have, so he shook it off. But still, the question lingered: Why?

When Dean finished patching him up, he stepped away and leaned against the counter across from Cas. He couldn’t stand being near him anymore, it felt like just being close was enough to make him fall to his knees. Because deep down, it hurt just to be near him and not be able to hold him.

Then Dean only had a minute to collect himself before Cas asked about Amara.

This time, Dean knew he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Cas had his part in this war, whether Dean liked it or not. But still, he dismissed him at first, fear eating at his chest over what Cas might want from her.

It shifted the whole mood, and Dean knew Cas felt it too, as he watched him swallow down the bitterness in his throat.

He told Cas he’d done enough, that he should let Amara handle it. Hell, if he could have chained Cas down to stop him from looking for her, he would’ve. But Dean saw the determination in his face. Saw how it softened when Cas said he owed him more than anything.

It cracked the solid wall Dean had built around himself. Something raw flashed in his eyes before he could school it away.

He watched Cas practically beg him to say where Amara was. And for a long moment, Dean just stood there, staring. He knew Cas wouldn’t back down. And if he didn’t tell him, Cas would just find another way. That was just who he was.

So he decided to drive him to her. A base far off in the eastern region. Dean knew Cas couldn’t undo anything if Amara said no. His deal with her still stood. He thought he had nothing to worry about.

But as he watched Cas talk to Amara when they arrived, he couldn’t help but feel worried, just for a second, that Cas might actually convince her to take him back.

So he’d said no. But then Amara had stepped in, talking about not honoring Dean’s offer anymore.

It had taken everything in him not to hit her right there in front of Cas. The anger was almost too much to hold back. Still, he’d tried to explain himself to Cas, hoping he’d understand, hoping he wouldn’t throw it all away.

But deep down, Dean knew he’d failed.

The ride home after that was silent. So heavy that Dean could barely breathe.

He thought about the missions he’d done for Amara, the ones he’d taken in Cas’s place. He thought about the hurt in Cas’s eyes when he found out what Dean had done. He thought about the future, looming ahead of them both like a storm.

And for just a moment, Dean let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he’d still find a way to keep him safe.

Chapter Text

***

The ride back to Laughlin was brutal.

The Impala growled low in the dark, the tires humming over asphalt, but the silence between them was louder than anything. Dean gripped the wheel like it was the only thing holding him together, his knuckles aching.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cas sat rigid in the passenger seat, his hands folded tight in his lap, his jaw tight enough to crack.

Dean wanted to say something. Anything. But what the hell could he say?

'Sorry I traded myself for you and then screwed it up anyway?'

'Sorry you saw me fail?'

'Sorry I can’t stop trying to keep you out of this even though you keep running straight back into the fire?'

He swallowed down the words and focused on the road instead.

When they finally pulled into the base parking lot, Dean cut the engine but didn’t move to get out. His hands stayed on the wheel, his head bowed for just a second too long.

He heard Cas exhale beside him, sharp and shallow, before the door creaked open and slammed shut.

Dean stared at the empty seat. His chest ached. With a muttered curse, he got out and followed.

He caught up to him just outside the barracks.

"Cas," he called, his voice low but firm.

Cas didn’t stop walking.

"Cas."

Finally, he grabbed his arm.

Cas froze, his shoulders stiff, but didn’t turn around.

Dean stepped closer, his fingers still wrapped around the fabric of his sleeve.

"You can’t keep doing this," Dean said quietly, his voice rough. "You can’t keep running toward this thing like it’s yours to fix. I told you—"

Cas finally turned.

And something in his expression made Dean stop cold. It wasn’t just anger. It wasn’t just hurt. It was something raw.

"You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do," Cas bit out, his voice tight, low, shaking just slightly. "You don’t get to make deals behind my back and then act like I’m some burden you have to carry."

Dean stared at him, his chest heaving, but he didn’t let go.

"You think I did all that because I thought you were a burden?" Dean shot back, his voice cracking halfway through. "You think I—"

But the words died in his throat, because Cas was looking at him like he’d already heard every excuse before.

And then, before Dean could blink, before he could even think, Cas grabbed him by the collar and pulled him forward.

Their mouths crashed together, hard and desperate.

Dean froze for a fraction of a second, his breath catching, and then he was kissing him back, his hands coming up to fist in Cas’s jacket, dragging him closer like he’d been waiting years for this.

The world around them went quiet.

The faint hum of floodlights, the muffled laughter from some far-off barrack, the cool desert wind, it all faded under the heat of Cas’s mouth on his.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t soft.

It was years of tension and guilt and want finally spilling over.

When Cas finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, Dean’s hands were still in his jacket, his forehead resting against Cas’s as they both stood there, gasping.

Dean let out a shaky laugh, quiet and a little bitter.

"Guess that’s one way to get me to shut up," he murmured.

Cas huffed through his nose, but his lips curved faintly, like he almost wanted to smile.

Dean’s grip on him loosened, but he didn’t let go completely. Because for the first time in months, maybe longer, it didn’t feel like he had to.

Then Cas finally let go first. He stepped back, just far enough for the night air to creep between them again. Dean swallowed hard and shoved his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching back out.

Cas didn’t look at him.

Didn’t say a damn thing, either.

Dean huffed softly, the sound flat in the quiet. "Took you long enough," he muttered. It was a weak joke, and it fell dead between them.

Cas just stared at the ground, his jaw tight, his shoulders squared like he was bracing for impact.

Dean wanted to say something. Wanted to cut through the silence and tell him it was okay, that he didn’t regret it, that maybe he’d been waiting for this longer than he even realized.

But the words sat heavy in his chest, too big to get out.

So he didn’t say them.

Instead, he turned and started walking toward the barracks door.

"C’mon," he called over his shoulder, voice rougher than he meant it to be. "It’s late."

He didn’t have to look back to know Cas was following him.

***

His room felt colder than it had before.

Dean dropped his jacket on the chair, kicked his boots off, and sat on the edge of the bed. Cas stood just inside the door for a second before finally leaning back against the wall, crossing his arms like he was trying to keep himself together.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, willing himself to calm the hell down. His heart was still hammering like he’d just been in a dogfight.

"Look," he started, his voice low, uneven. "About what just happened…"

Cas finally glanced up.

Dean met his eyes for a second before looking away.

"I’m not… mad. Or whatever you’re thinking. You don’t gotta… apologize."

Cas didn’t answer, but something in his expression softened.

Dean let out a shaky breath.

"I’m not saying I—" He stopped himself, scowled at the floor, then forced the words out anyway. "I’m not saying I didn’t want it. Because I did."

The admission hung heavy in the air.

Cas stared at him for a long moment before finally speaking. His voice was quiet, but steady.

"I wasn’t going to apologize, Dean," he said simply.

Dean froze, then let out something between a huff and a laugh. "Okay."

Cas straightened slightly, finally stepping away from the wall, and for a second Dean thought he was going to say something again. But instead he just walked over and sat down next to him on the bed, close enough for their knees to brush.

Dean stayed staring at the floor.

"You scare the hell outta me sometimes, Cas," he said quietly.

Cas’s head tilted faintly, but he didn’t move away. Dean finally turned to look at him, and his voice dropped even lower.

"You keep throwing yourself into the fire like you don’t care if you come back out," Dean went on, his throat tight. "And I can’t—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "I can’t just watch that happen anymore. So yeah. Maybe I did make deals behind your back. Maybe I did lie about it. But you’ve gotta know… it wasn’t because you're a budren."

Cas’s mouth twitched faintly, like he almost wanted to smile. But instead, he reached over, his fingers brushing the back of Dean’s hand before curling around it.

Dean let him.

For a long moment, they just sat there in the quiet, their hands loosely linked, the faint buzz of base lights humming outside the window.

Then Cas finally spoke up, "The deal. With Amara. You think you’re so clever, keeping me out of it, shouldering it all yourself. You think that’s what I wanted?"

Dean glared at the floor, jaw tight.

"Didn’t figure it mattered what you wanted," he muttered.

"Well, it does," Cas shot back.

Dean looked up at that, really looked, and for the first time all night, Cas’s eyes didn’t look cold. They looked… hurt.

"I’ve been chasing you for weeks," Cas said, his voice rough now. "Calling you. Looking for you. And then I just found out about your deal with her tonight. You made me think—" He broke off, "You made me think you didn’t want me there anymore."

Dean blinked, the words hitting him square in the chest.

"That’s not—" he started, but Cas cut him off.

"You don’t get to decide for me," Cas said, quieter now but no less intense. "You don’t get to decide I’m not worth the risk. That I’m not… worth you staying."

Dean swallowed hard.

"Cas…" he said, and this time his voice cracked.

Cas just stared at him, his chest rising and falling fast, like saying it had cost him more than he wanted to admit.

Dean sat there for a moment, stunned. Then he finally forced the words out.

"I didn’t stay away because you weren’t worth it," he said. "I stayed away because you are. And I didn’t… I didn’t know if I could handle watching you get dragged through the mud again. I didn’t know if I could handle watching you fall and not being able to stop it."

Cas’s expression softened faintly, though his shoulders didn’t relax. Dean let out a breath and shook his head.

"Maybe I screwed this up," he said quietly. "But you’ve gotta know… it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It was the opposite."

For a moment, the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the lights outside. Then Cas held Dean's hand tighter.

"You’re an idiot," Cas said softly, almost fond.

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, even though his throat felt tight.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."

For a moment, Dean just let the silence sit between them. He couldn’t quite believe this was really happening. His heartbeat was loud in his ears as Cas’s fingers stayed curled around his.

Then, almost before he even realized he was saying it, the question that had been sitting in his chest for hours finally broke out.

"You mind telling me why you came looking for me?"

Cas stiffened slightly, and Dean felt his fingers twitch just faintly against his.

For a beat, Cas didn’t answer. Just stared down at where their hands were joined, like he could see something there Dean couldn’t.

Then finally, his voice came, low and hoarse.

"I…" Cas faltered, then tried again, steadier this time. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Dean’s eyes narrowed just slightly, though his chest was already tightening. He leaned back on the bedframe and folded his arms, waiting.

Cas swallowed hard. Dean could see the pulse at his throat, see the way his shoulders tightened, but then he forced the words out anyway.

"That morning," Cas began, "at Brize Norton… you said you were done. That you were tired of me pushing you away. Of… never saying what I wanted."

Dean didn’t move. But his jaw ticked faintly, and he knew Cas could see it.

"And you were right," Cas continued, his voice cracking now. "You were right about all of it. I was afraid. I am afraid. Of you. Of what you make me feel. Of… wanting something I don’t deserve."

Dean’s throat worked, but he didn’t say a word.

"My whole life," Cas said, staring down at his lap now, "I was taught that love was weakness. That it was dangerous. That if you let yourself feel it, you’d only hurt yourself. Or worse, someone else. So I learned to hide it. To pretend I didn’t want anything. To push it away when it got too close. To push you away."

Dean’s breath caught faintly.

"I thought," Cas murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, "that if I kept my distance, you’d be safe. From me. From everything I carry. But all I did was hurt you anyway."

Dean swallowed hard, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Then Cas finally looked up, and Dean hated how much shame was written on his face.

"I don’t want to push you away anymore," Cas said simply. "Not if there’s still even a chance you’d stay."

Dean let the words settle, heavy in the air, before Cas drew in another shaky breath and added, lower now, rawer.

"And I don’t hate you. God, I never hated you, Dean. How could I? It’s just that… I’ve been terrified. And I don’t know how to let you in, and I love you more than I can stand. But even after all of that, I still kept coming back. I just… never knew how to quit you."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, his heart hammering. His throat burned.

"Say that again," Dean said finally, his voice low. Not a demand, more like a plea.

Cas’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. "I don’t want to push you away anymore," he repeated, his voice steadier this time. "Because you mean so much to me, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes for a beat, like the words physically hit him.

When he opened them again, his jaw was tight and his eyes shone with something he wasn’t ready to name.

"Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that?"

Castiel felt his own chest clench.

Dean huffed out something like a laugh, though it was more bitter than light. "You don’t get it, Cas. You never did. You think you’re the only one who was scared? You think you’re the only one carrying around a load of crap? You think I wanted to walk away that day? Jesus Christ…"

Dean shook his head and finally reached up, cupping Castiel’s jaw with one hand, rough and warm. His thumb brushed the edge of his cheekbone almost absently, and his voice dropped to something softer, heavier.

"I waited, man," Dean murmured. "I waited for you. As long as I could. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t stop me. I thought…" He trailed off, swallowing hard, and his eyes darted away for the first time, like even now it was hard for him to admit. "I thought maybe you didn’t feel the same."

"I did," Castiel said quickly. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "I did. I do."

Dean’s eyes snapped back to his, and for the first time all night, maybe for the first time in years, Castiel let himself hold that gaze and not flinch. Not look away.

Dean exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping a little like some of his tension had finally bled off. His thumb swept over Castiel’s cheek again, gentler this time.

"Goddammit, Cas," Dean murmured, but it sounded more like a benediction than a curse.

Then, without another word, Dean leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Castiel’s.

It wasn’t a kiss.

But it was something.

Something real, something unspoken and undeniable, something that hummed like a live wire in the quiet room as the faint sound of laughters from the hangar filtered through the door.

Dean’s free hand found Castiel’s uninjured one and held it loosely, his thumb brushing over the gauze bandage in a quiet, grounding rhythm.

They stayed like that for a long moment, foreheads touching, breath mingling.

Finally Dean pulled back just enough to look at him again, and there was a faint smirk tugging at his lips now, though his eyes stayed soft.

"You’ve got the worst damn timing, you know that?" he said quietly.

Castiel huffed out the faintest laugh. "So I’ve been told."

Dean let out a breath, low and rough.

"You know," he said, "I wasn’t gonna say anything. Not tonight. Not ever, probably."

Castiel tilted his head faintly. "Why?"

Dean gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "Because I figured… you and Meg..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "You two always seemed… close. Like there was something there. And hell, you never gave me any reason to think—"

He stopped himself, scrubbing a hand over his face. His voice dropped lower, almost bitter. "I didn't think you're into guys."

Castiel blinked at him, startled. "What?"

Dean let out a broken laugh. "C’mon, Cas. Don’t play dumb. You never—You never looked at me like that. Not really. And I sure as hell didn’t wanna make things weird if you didn’t feel the same."

Castiel stiffened slightly, his gaze dropping.

Castiel stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head faintly. "Dean," he said quietly, "you don’t know what I feel."

Dean looked at him then, really looked, his eyes dark and a little wounded. "Then why didn’t you ever say anything? Why’d you let me walk away back then?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and heavy.

Castiel lowered his gaze to his lap. "Well, you never said anything either. I can't read minds, Dean. And... because I was afraid," he admitted. "Afraid of what it would mean. Afraid of what it would cost you to stay with me."

Dean’s jaw tightened. "You think it didn’t cost me to leave?"

That silenced him.

"That night at the theatre. When you saw me with Anna. From the way you acted, I knew you did see us. And you didn’t even look at me after that." Dean pressed.

Castiel swallowed hard, the memory sharp in his chest, the rehearsal hall, Anna pressed close to Dean, her hand on his chest, his head bent to hers. The sight had hollowed him out.

"You seemed happy," Castiel said finally, his voice low. "You were with her. I didn’t think…" His words faltered.

Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. "You didn’t think what?"

"That you…" Castiel’s throat tightened, but he forced the words out. "That you could feel the same. About me."

Dean stared at him, stunned into silence.

"I saw you with her," Castiel continued quietly. "And I thought… of course. Why wouldn’t you? She’s beautiful. She’s kind. She’s everything I’m not. And I told myself… you’d never feel that way about someone like me."

Dean let out a shaky breath, dragging both hands over his face.

"Jesus Christ, Cas," he muttered, his voice breaking. "That wasn’t… that wasn’t anything. Anna and me… that was just me trying to forget how bad I wanted you."

Castiel froze, his heart hammering in his chest.

Dean dropped his hands, meeting his eyes now, raw and unguarded.

"I was with her," Dean said bitterly, "because I couldn’t have you. Or at least, I thought I couldn’t. You shut me out, over and over, and I told myself I had to move on. That I was imagining everything. But you…"

Castiel stared at him, unable to speak.

He shook his head, his hands clenching into fists. "You made everything at the Academy tolerable, Cas. You made me feel like—like I wasn’t just John Winchester's son. Like I was more than the damn uniform. But every time I got too close, you’d push me away. So yeah. I gave up and didn't tell you. I figured you didn’t want me. And then when you saw me with her… you looked at me like I’d just proved you right."

Castiel’s chest ached, each word hitting like a blow.

Dean let out a ragged breath, his voice softer now, but no less raw. "But you’re wrong, Cas. About all of it. There’s never been anyone else. Not really. There’s only ever been you."

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The words hung between them, heavy and fragile.

Then Castiel reached out, slow and deliberate, and laid his uninjured hand over Dean’s. Dean froze for a second, then looked down at their joined hands, then up at Castiel’s face.

"I wanted to tell you. Every damn time we were stuck in those hangars, or running drills, or even just sitting across from each other at the mess. I wanted to tell you. But every time I tried, I’d see the way you’d clam up whenever we got too close, and I thought… what’s the point? He doesn’t want me like that. I’m just… some guy who makes his life harder."

Castiel closed his eyes, his chest tight.

Dean huffed another bitter laugh. "And hell, I don’t even know how to be… this. I don’t even know what to call it. Just knew I couldn’t stop looking at you. Couldn’t stop… hoping you’d look back."

Castiel finally turned toward him, his voice low and steady now. "I’ve always been looking, Dean."

Dean froze. His eyes flicked over to Castiel’s, searching.

"You hid it well," Dean said eventually, his voice rough.

"So did you," Castiel replied.

That pulled a faint, pained smile from Dean. He let out a shaky breath and dropped his head into his hands. "God, we’re a pair, huh? Two idiots who didn’t know how to say what they wanted."

Castiel allowed himself the smallest smile. "Seems that way."

They sat in silence for a while, the kind of silence that no longer asked to be filled.

Dean finally straightened, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "So, you're really not with Meg?"

"No," Castiel said simply. "She’s a friend. Nothing more."

Dean let that sink in, his shoulders loosening just a little.

"Now would you please take me back to the hotel so I can get my car and go home?"

Cas's voice was even. Irritatingly even. Like they hadn’t just, well. Whatever that was.

Dean blinked. He glanced over at him, brows pulling together.

"Your—what?"

Cas just gave him a look. That classic Castiel look, the one that managed to make him feel like an idiot and a child at the same time.

Dean’s jaw tightened. "Your car. Right. You drove to the ball."

"Yes," Cas said dryly. "At the hotel. Where you did not take me just now."

Dean huffed, dragging a hand down his face. "Well, excuse me for having a lot on my damn mind."

Cas didn’t answer. Just sat there, his arms folded, staring straight ahead like he was trying not to smile.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You know, you could’ve mentioned it before we pulled into town."

"I thought you knew."

"You thought I knew?"

"I thought—" Cas finally turned his head to glance at him, one brow raised, "that you’re smarter than you look."

Dean snorted. "Wow. Okay. Guess you’re feeling real brave all of a sudden."

He stood and took the keys he put on the table near his bed, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth despite himself.

Cas didn’t say anything. But Dean caught the way his shoulders relaxed just a little out of the corner of his eye.

The drive back to the hotel was… awkward.

Awkward in the way only Cas could make it.

Dean tried turning the radio on at one point, but it was tuned to some staticky easy listening station, and after two bars of a sad love song he switched it back off.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel, glancing over at Cas now and then. Cas kept staring out the passenger-side window like the passing neon signs were the most interesting thing in the world.

Finally, Dean cleared his throat.

"You always this chatty after you… pour your heart out to a guy?" he muttered.

Cas didn’t miss a beat. "You always this awkward afterward?"

Dean barked a sharp laugh despite himself. "Touché."

By the time they pulled into the hotel parking lot, the silence was thick again. Not bad exactly, just… heavy.

Dean rolled into a space next to Cas’s car and killed the engine.

Neither of them moved at first.

Dean tapped the wheel idly with his thumbs. "So…"

Cas opened his door without looking at him. "We’ve got work tomorrow," he said simply.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Thanks for the reminder."

Cas was halfway out of the car when Dean called after him.

"Hey, Cas."

Cas paused, looking back at him.

Dean wanted to say something, anything, to untangle the mess of feelings still clawing at his chest. But the words just… didn’t come.

So he settled for a faint, crooked smile.

"Get some sleep."

Cas just gave a tiny nod before shutting the door behind him and walking over to his own car.

Dean watched him go, leaning back in his seat with a quiet sigh.

He could still feel the weight of Cas’s hands on him, his soft lips on his. The faint echo of his voice, low and raw, 'I love you more than I can stand.'

Dean closed his eyes, rubbed his thumb over the steering wheel.

Yeah.

They’d figure the rest out tomorrow.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

***

The knock on his door came at 0630 sharp.

Dean was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bunk with his head in his hands. He’d slept, sure. Maybe a couple hours, but it hadn’t done much good. His brain hadn’t stopped replaying last night on a loop. The kiss, Cas’s words, the look in his eyes when he’d confessed to him.

Dean dragged a hand down his face and
stood, rolling his shoulders, shaking himself loose before crossing the room. He pulled the door open.

Sure enough, it was Cas.

Pressed blues, neat tie, that same unreadable expression that had made Dean want to punch and kiss him all at once last night.

He cleared his throat and stepped back to let him in.

Cas didn’t say anything as he walked past, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t look at Dean, either.

"Morning," Dean muttered.

"Morning," Cas replied evenly.

That was it.

Dean shut the door and leaned against it for a second, watching Cas move to stand near the window. Like last night had been some kind of fever dream.

Dean almost wanted to laugh. Of course he’d be the one to act like nothing happened. Of course he’d keep it locked down like that.

But hell, maybe that was better.

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. "Amara call you too?"

Cas finally looked over at him, giving a single stiff nod. "She said she has a new assignment. Both of us."

"Figures," Dean said. He straightened and started grabbing his jacket. "Guess we’d better not keep her waiting."

The air outside was crisp for Laughlin, early morning desert chill, and the base was already starting to buzz.

Dean led the way to the hangar where Amara kept her "field office." Neither of them spoke as they walked, but Dean could feel Cas a step behind him the whole time, steady and quiet, like a shadow he couldn’t shake even if he wanted to.

Not that he wanted to.

He flexed his hands a little at his sides. Last night had thrown him off more than he wanted to admit. The words Cas had said, the way his fingers had curled around Dean’s in his room like he didn’t want to let go, it was still rattling around in his chest, refusing to settle.

And now? Just… nothing.

Dean stole a glance back at him as they neared the hangar. Cas’s face was as blank as ever. His eyes straight ahead. The guy was a damn master at acting like nothing had happened.

Fine. Dean could play that game too.

Amara was waiting inside, as usual.

She stood at the far end of the table, perfectly composed in a dark suit, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth when she saw them walk in.

"Gentlemen," she greeted smoothly. "You’re early."

Dean just grunted. Cas gave her a polite nod.

"Sit," she said, motioning to the two chairs opposite her.

They sat.

Amara took her time looking between them, as if she could feel the weight in the air and was enjoying every second of it.

Dean resisted the urge to fidget.

"You’ve both been selected for a joint operation," she began briskly, glancing down at a folder. "It’s sensitive. It’s dangerous. And it’s classified at the highest level. I trust you both understand the stakes."

Dean exchanged a glance with Cas, who was already sitting up straighter, his jaw set.

Yeah. Of course he understood.

Amara continued. "Intelligence suggests Nick’s network has been moving assets through an unsecured route in the Mediterranean. We believe this may be the last chance to intercept before the trail goes cold. You’ll be inserted quietly, observe and report, and if necessary, eliminate."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So what you’re saying is you need two of your best."

Amara’s smirk deepened just a hair. "Exactly. And unfortunately, that means the two of you will have to figure out how to work together without killing each other."

Dean shot her a flat look.

She handed them each a slim folder. "Details are inside. You leave at 2200 tonight. Pack light."

Dean flipped his folder open and scanned the contents, but his mind was already spinning.

Another op. Another chance to keep Cas out of harm’s way, or at least to watch his six himself. That was something.

He closed the folder and stood. Cas did the same.

Amara’s voice followed them as they reached the door. "And gentlemen—"

They both turned.

"Try not to let… personal matters interfere this time," she said lightly, though her eyes glinted with something sharp.

Dean’s ears burned, but he said nothing. Just gave her a tight nod and pushed the door open.

Outside, the morning sun was higher now, washing the tarmac in bright light.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking. Cas fell into step beside him, silent.

Finally, Dean muttered, "Guess we’re really doing this, huh."

Cas didn’t look at him. "It appears so."

Dean huffed a short laugh. "Figures. No rest for the wicked."

They walked a few more paces in silence before Dean risked a glance at him.

"Look," he said gruffly. "About last night…"

Cas finally turned his head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

Dean swallowed.

"We’ll… figure it out. After," he said, softer now. "One thing at a time, yeah?"

For a long moment, Cas just stared at him. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

Dean let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

One thing at a time.

He could live with that.

For now.

***

The bunk creaked when Dean sat down.

The barracks were quiet at this hour. Most of the guys were either still out at the Roadhouse or passed out already. He liked it better this way. No noise, no forced conversation, just the low hum of the heater and the faint scent of antiseptic and detergent in the air.

His pack was already half-zipped at the foot of the bed. Orders said "pack light," but hell, he didn’t need much anyway. His helmet bag was already packed at the foot of the bed, next to his flight suit and gloves.

Dean sat there for a long time without moving.

The folder Amara gave him was still sitting on the pillow. He’d read it twice already. He didn’t need to read it again.

Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.

One thing at a time.

That’s what he’d told Cas earlier. That’s what he kept telling himself.

But damn if it wasn’t harder to believe in the dark, when the only thing filling the silence was the memory of Cas’s lips last night.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, let out a breath.

They couldn’t do this now. Not with what was coming. And if he let himself think too hard about it. About what it would mean if they didn’t make it back this time. It would just screw him up worse.

So he didn’t think about it.

He thought about the mission. The coordinates. The plan. He thought about Nick’s smug face when they finally cornered him. He thought about making damn sure Cas came home.

One thing at a time.

When his alarm buzzed at 2100, Dean was already lacing up his boots.

***

The air on the flight line was cold and sharp at night.

The row of jets sat waiting under floodlights at the far end of the tarmac, canopies up, crew chiefs bustling around with checklists and ladders and glow sticks.

Dean walked across the concrete, helmet bag slung over his shoulder. Cas fell into step beside him, silent, his own bag in hand, visor gleaming faintly in the light.

Neither of them spoke.

Dean stole a glance at him as they neared their aircraft. Cas’s face was perfectly calm, as usual, but Dean knew better. He could see the way his fingers flexed around the strap of his bag, like he was holding something in.

The crew chief gave him a thumbs-up as he reached his bird, an F-35, gleaming darkly under the lights. The fuel lines had already been disconnected, the covers pulled, the chocks set.

"All set, Captain Winchester," the chief said.

Dean nodded. "Appreciate it."

He climbed the ladder and swung into the seat, letting muscle memory take over as he strapped in, adjusted his harness, and settled his helmet on.

The world got quieter the second the visor came down.

He flexed his gloved hands over the throttle and stick and glanced to his right. Cas was already strapped into his own jet, canopy still open, the faint light catching his profile.

Even now, even here, Dean still couldn’t stop looking at him.

The radios crackled to life as the tower cleared them for taxi.

Dean’s canopy came down with a satisfying hiss and click, sealing him inside. The engine hummed, then roared, and the jet began to roll.

"Two-ship is taxiing," he called into the radio, his voice steady.

Cas’s calm reply followed half a beat later, "Copy. Two-ship taxi."

The wheels bumped over seams in the concrete as they followed the yellow line toward the end of the runway.

Dean kept his eyes on the lights ahead, but he knew Cas’s jet was right there in his peripheral vision, keeping perfect formation even at a crawl.

That was Cas all over. Solid. Steady. The one guy Dean would trust with his six over anyone else.

And the one guy he couldn’t afford to lose.

The tower cleared them for takeoff.

Dean eased the throttle forward, feeling the familiar weight of the acceleration press him back into his seat as the nose lifted and the wheels left the ground.

The desert lights fell away below them, and the black sky opened up ahead, vast and quiet and full of stars.

Radio silence from here on out.

Dean settled into the climb, his breath loud in the mask.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cas’s jet slip into position off his right wing, his lights flashing once as he tucked into place.

Dean’s grip tightened on the stick just slightly.

One thing at a time.

He’d get them both through this. He always did.

For now, the mission came first.

Always the mission.

***

Altitude thirty thousand. Airspeed just shy of Mach 1.

Dean adjusted his throttle and let his eyes sweep the dark horizon.

The Mediterranean stretched below them. Black water glittering faintly under the moon. But it wasn’t the ocean he cared about. It was what was supposed to be out here tonight: a rogue transport slipping through contested airspace, carrying God only knew what kind of payload and God only knew who.

He glanced at his right wing. Cas was still there, a steady silhouette in the dark, lights blinking in perfect rhythm.

Dean pressed his mic.

"Raptor One, status?" he called, his voice low.

Cas’s reply came after a beat, "Holding at angels three-zero. All systems green. No contact yet."

Dean huffed softly behind his mask. Of course he was calm.

The two of them had been holding station for almost forty minutes, radar quiet. Dean had started to think maybe intel was wrong, again.

Then the scope lit up.

A faint blip appeared at two o’clock, closing fast.

Dean’s heart jumped into gear.

"Contact," he barked into the mic. "Two o’clock. Looks like one… no—two bogeys, low, fast."

"Copy," Cas replied instantly.

Dean’s fingers tightened on the stick. He banked right, bringing the F-35 into a shallow turn, the nose swinging toward the new blip. Cas fell into formation beside him, fluid and exact as ever.

The bogeys didn’t squawk any codes. No transponders. No lights.

Dean’s lip curled. "Classic," he muttered under his breath.

The tension built in his chest as they closed the gap. Radar painted them clearly now, two sleek fighters, origin unconfirmed, running dark. Definitely not civilians.

Dean toggled his weapons systems hot, but kept his thumb off the trigger.

He keyed his mic.

"Unidentified aircraft, this is U.S. Air Force. You are in restricted airspace. Change course and identify, or you will be engaged."

No response.

Dean tried again, louder. "Unidentified aircraft, acknowledge."

Nothing.

Then the two bogeys split wide, one peeling left, the other diving low.

"Shit," Dean hissed. "They’re not running."

He shoved the throttle forward, feeling the Gs press him back into the seat. "I’ll take lead. Cas, you’ve got the left one."

"Copy," came the calm reply.

Dean locked onto the lead bogey, eyes narrowing as his HUD lit up. The enemy plane was fast and slippery, but Dean stuck on his tail, waiting for a clean tone.

Below and to his left, he caught a flash of light, a flare.

Dean’s gut went cold.

Cas’s jet.

The left bogey had cut low, then pulled a tight climb behind Cas and let loose a missile. Cas broke hard right, countermeasures spraying in a glittering arc, but the missile stayed locked.

"Cas! Break left! Now!" Dean barked.

He didn’t wait to see if Cas obeyed.

Dean yanked his stick back, rolled inverted, and dove straight down into the pocket behind Cas’s attacker.

The world blurred, sky and sea flipping over in streaks of black and silver, as the Gs crushed his chest.

Dean gritted his teeth and kept his thumb hovering over the trigger, waiting for tone.

The enemy fighter lit up his HUD. The tone screamed.

Dean fired.

The missile streaked ahead, a white-hot lance in the dark. It caught the bogey mid-climb and blossomed into a fiery bloom of light that tore across the black sky.

"Splash one," Dean growled into the mic, his voice sharp and breathless.

He banked hard and leveled out, eyes immediately searching for Cas.

There he was, low but steady, smoke curling faintly from his wingtip flares, still flying.

Dean exhaled slowly, his pulse still pounding.

"You good?" he called.

A pause, then Cas’s even voice, "I’m fine. You didn’t have to—"

Dean cut him off. "Don’t even start."

A long silence on the radio. Then finally, quietly, "Thank you."

Dean didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip on the stick and forced himself to focus on the second bogey still somewhere out here in the dark.

He’d process the rest later.

Right now, there was still work to do.

Dean’s eyes swept the black sky.

The second bogey was already bugging out, diving low, running full throttle back toward international waters. Radar confirmed it: the blip growing smaller, then slipping off the edge of the scope.

Dean’s finger hovered over the trigger anyway, but he didn’t have tone anymore.

Coward.

He stayed on course a few seconds longer, staring into the empty dark, then finally eased off the throttle and let his shoulders drop an inch.

"Lead to Raptor Two," he called, his voice rough over the mic. "Second bogey’s bugged out. RTB."

There was a pause. Then Cas’s voice came back, calm, clipped, "Copy. RTB."

Dean switched to the return frequency, called their heading and intentions back to tower, and banked south.

The flight back was quiet.

Dean kept his eyes forward, the faint lights of Laughlin glittering on the horizon as they descended.

Below him, he could see Cas’s jet tucked in a few hundred feet off his wingtip, steady and precise as ever. You wouldn’t even know how close he’d come tonight, if you didn’t know what to look for.

Dean knew what to look for.

And it made his hands tighten on the stick every time the memory of that damn flare lit up in his head.

The runway came up fast.

Dean eased the jet down, tires screeching faintly as they hit asphalt. The parachute deployed, dragging him back, and the jet rattled to a stop as he steered onto the taxiway.

He could see Cas’s jet roll to a stop at the far end of the apron, ground crew already moving toward him.

Dean popped the canopy and ripped his helmet off as the ladder came up. He climbed down, feeling the desert air hit his sweat-damp skin, and tossed the helmet to a waiting airman.

He barely heard the words, "Good work, sir," "Welcome back, Captain," as he walked toward Cas’s plane.

Cas was already standing on the tarmac, helmet in one hand, the faint red and white lights catching on his wings.

For a long moment, Dean just stopped a few paces away and looked at him.

Cas finally turned his head, meeting his eyes.

Dean let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was up there?" Dean asked, his voice low but sharp.

Cas’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

"I had him," he said quietly.

Dean barked a humorless laugh. "You had him? Cas, that missile almost had you."

Cas’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

Dean took another step closer, his boots crunching on the tarmac. "You don’t just… you don’t pull a stunt like that without calling it. Not with someone on your wing."

Cas met his gaze evenly. "And you don’t dive into a missile’s path without thinking. Not when you’re lead."

Dean froze at that, his chest tightening.

He glanced away, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Yeah," he muttered finally. "Maybe we’re both idiots."

He looked back up at Cas then, and the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Cas didn’t smile back, but his shoulders loosened just slightly.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. The faint roar of another jet landing somewhere down the runway filled the silence between them.

Finally, Dean let out a breath and shook his head.

"You did good, Cas," he said softly.

Cas’s eyes flicked to him, surprised.

Dean smirked faintly. "Don’t let it go to your head."

That finally earned him the faintest of huffs, not quite a laugh, but close enough.

Dean stepped past him then, clapping him lightly on the shoulder as he passed.

"C’mon," he said over his shoulder. "Debrief in twenty. We can figure out which one of us was the bigger idiot later."

Cas fell into step behind him without a word.

***

The ready room was too damn bright.

Dean sat in the back row, arms crossed, trying not to grind his teeth as the projector whirred and the radar playback scrolled across the screen.

The debrief officer droned on from the podium, words like engagement window, rules of engagement, and failure to identify washing over him.

A few seats down, Cas sat perfectly straight in his flight suit, still looking calm and composed, like he hadn’t nearly gotten himself blown out of the sky less than an hour ago.

Dean caught himself glancing at him again, then looked away.

On the screen, the heat signatures of the two bogeys split. Dean’s own flight path swung right. Cas’s swung left. Dean’s stomach tightened when he saw the flare bloom bright on the feed.

He clenched his jaw.

The briefing wrapped up with the usual lecture about discipline, airspace treaties, and how "this incident will be documented and reported up the chain."

Dean didn’t hear most of it.

He was still watching Cas out of the corner of his eye, still thinking about the way he’d looked standing on the tarmac, helmet under his arm, jaw set, like nothing had happened.

Like he didn’t even care he’d almost died.

***

When the lights came up, the other pilots shuffled out first, most of them yawning, some muttering about beers at the Roadhouse.

One of the guys, Jesse, clapped Dean on the shoulder as he passed.

"Hell of a move out there, Winchester," he said with a grin. "Didn’t know you had it in you. Or maybe you were just showing off for your wingman."

That earned a low chuckle from a couple others.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, hilarious. Don’t quit your day job."

Jesse smirked. "Hey, just sayin’. The way you two stick to each other up there? Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re writing each other love notes in your HUDs."

Dean flipped him off without even looking. "Go home, Jesse."

That got a laugh from the room.

When the last of them filtered out, Dean stood, running a hand down his face.

He glanced toward the front row. Cas was still sitting there, alone now, staring at the empty podium like he was still somewhere else.

Dean hesitated for half a second, then walked down the aisle and stopped next to him.

"You just gonna sit here all night?" Dean muttered.

Cas blinked up at him, then shook his head and stood.

Dean didn’t say anything else as they left the ready room together.

The hallway was quiet this late, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly.

They walked in silence until they hit the end of the corridor, where the ready room split off into offices and a row of vending machines.

Dean stopped, leaning a shoulder against the wall. Cas stopped too, looking at him expectantly.

For a long moment, Dean didn’t speak.

Then he finally said it, "You scared the crap out of me tonight, you know that?"

Cas’s brow furrowed slightly.

Dean huffed a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I know. Big shock, right? Me, caring whether you come back in one piece. Who’d’ve thought."

Cas’s mouth opened, but Dean cut him off.

"You know what, Cas?" He said quietly. "I can handle a lot of things. But watching you up there, pulling stunts like that, and thinking I’m about to watch you burn in—"

He stopped himself, shaking his head.

Cas just watched him, quiet, unreadable.

Dean forced out a breath. "Just… don’t do that again. Alright? Don’t make me do that again."

For a long beat, Cas didn’t answer.

Then, softer now, he said, "You didn’t have to save me."

Dean’s jaw tightened.

"Yeah," he said gruffly. "I did."

Another long silence.

Then, almost too quiet to hear, Cas murmured, "You’re not supposed to care this much, Dean."

Dean let out a short laugh, humorless and sharp. "Yeah," he muttered. "Tell me something I don’t know."

Their eyes met, and for a second the air between them felt heavy enough to drown in.

Dean swallowed hard, then pushed off the wall.

"C’mon," he said, voice rough. "You still owe me a drink for saving your ass."

Cas didn’t move right away. But then he followed, falling into step beside Dean as they headed down the hall, quiet, steady, and just close enough for Dean to feel the warmth of him there.

***

Everyone had just gotten back to base from the Roadhouse, and Castiel was already marching to his quarters.

Dean caught up to him outside the hangar.

Cas had already stripped out of his harness and flight gear, standing there on the concrete in his undershirt, wiping his hands with a rag like nothing in the world had changed. Like he hadn’t just scared the hell out of Dean up there. Like he hadn’t told Dean—

"Hey."

Cas stopped and turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Dean’s eyes.

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels. The words stuck for a second, then came out sharper than he meant.

"You’re really just gonna… act like nothing happened?"

Cas didn’t flinch, but he didn’t answer right away either. He set the rag down on the workbench beside him and leaned his weight against the edge of it.

Dean stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I mean, Jesus, Cas. You said all that stuff, you fucking kissed me—" he stopped himself, jaw tight, "—and then you just… what? Go quiet on me?"

Cas finally spoke, his tone calm but flat.

"Dean. We can’t afford to make this about us right now."

Dean blinked at him, thrown.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Cas looked down at his hands, then back up, and Dean saw it, just for a second, the cracks under the surface.

"It means," Cas said quietly, "we have a mission. And until it’s finished… until Nick is stopped… I can’t let this—" he gestured vaguely between them, "get in the way of what needs to be done."

Dean stared at him.

"That’s bullshit," he said finally, though his voice came out softer than he meant.

Cas held his gaze anyway. "It’s necessary."

Dean felt something hot and bitter rise in his chest, but he swallowed it back. Because as much as he hated it… Cas wasn’t wrong. Not completely.

Dean dropped his eyes, shaking his head. "You finally… you finally let me in. Just a little. And now you want to shove me back out and lock the damn door again. You got no idea how much I…"

He trailed off. Couldn’t finish it.

When he looked up again, Cas’s expression had softened.

"I’m not locking you out," he said quietly.

Dean huffed a short, humorless laugh and muttered under his breath, "Feels like it."

But he didn’t push it.

Because for the first time in years, Cas had finally let him in, even just a crack, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to slam it shut. Not yet.

So he let it go.

For now.

The silence in the hangar stretched between them, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the overhead lights and the tick of cooling metal from the planes outside.

Cas hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the workbench, hands curled loosely at his sides, staring at Dean like he was trying to memorize him and push him away at the same time.

Dean shook his head and started to turn.

"Dean."

Dean froze, the quiet weight of his name hanging in the air.

When he turned back, Cas was already moving.

Dean barely had time to process the flash of something raw in Cas’s eyes before Cas crossed the space between them in two long strides. His hand curled into Dean’s jacket, rough and unsteady.

And then his mouth was on Dean’s.

Again.

Dean’s breath caught, his eyes flying wide for half a second before instinct took over. He grabbed fistfuls of Cas’s shirt and yanked him closer, kissing back like he’d been holding his breath for years and finally, finally got to exhale.

He could feel the tension in Cas’s shoulders, the way his fingers dug into Dean’s jacket like he was afraid Dean would slip away if he let go.

Dean broke the kiss just long enough to mutter against his lips, voice hoarse, "Thought you said we couldn’t—"

But Cas cut him off with another kiss, harder this time, and Dean stopped trying to talk.

He didn’t care anymore.

Not about the mission. Not about Nick. Not about the goddamn chain of command.

Just Cas.

The press of his chest. The warmth of his breath. The quiet, shaky sound he made when Dean slid a hand up to his jaw and tilted his head just enough to deepen the kiss.

Dean wanted to tell him everything right then, all the things he’d never said.

That he was tired of pretending.

That he didn’t care if it was selfish.

That Cas was the one thing in his screwed-up world that still made him want to fight.

But the words caught in his throat and stayed there.

So instead, he poured it all into the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, Cas didn’t let go of his jacket right away. He just stayed close, forehead resting against Dean’s, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Dean swallowed hard, his hands still curled in the fabric of Cas’s shirt.

"Guess you’re not locking me out after all," Dean murmured, a faint, breathless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Cas huffed a quiet laugh, and for the first time all night, it almost sounded like relief.

Dean closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against Cas’s.

They were still standing there when one of the younger pilots came jogging out of the operations office, waving a tablet.

"Captain Winchester! Sir—you’d better see this."

Dean shot Cas a look before taking one step back away from him, taking the tablet.

The screen showed a breaking news feed. Red banners scrolling across the bottom, aerial footage of smoke and flames billowing from what was clearly a military airfield.

The headline made Dean’s stomach drop.

"U.K. AIR BASE DESTROYED — DOZENS DEAD — SOURCES BLAME U.S. AIR FORCE"

Dean just stood there, staring at it.

The reporter’s voice droned on, "…unnamed British defense officials claim the strike originated from U.S. jets operating in European airspace earlier this week, though Pentagon representatives have declined to comment…"

Dean felt his fingers clench tight around the tablet. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. He handed the tablet back to the pilot without a word, then looked at Cas.

And in that moment, Dean knew two things for sure.

One, Nick had just played them.

And two, whatever happened next, he wasn’t letting Cas take the fall for it.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

***

Dean didn’t remember leaving the hangar.

One minute, he and Cas were standing there, staring at the tablet in his hands, bright red graphics screaming, BREAKING: THIRD RAF BASE DESTROYED IN THE UK. and the next, Dean was shoving through the double doors of the operations center like the floor beneath his boots was on fire.

The hallway outside the mess smelled like burned coffee and too much bleach. Everything was too bright, too sterile, too wrong. He didn’t even look to see if Cas was behind him, he didn’t have to.

They didn’t speak as they stormed down the hall, past young airmen who flattened themselves against the walls at the sight of them, wide-eyed.

The news was everywhere.

On every screen, every phone, every pair of headphones. Images of RAF paramedics carrying bodies out of smoking hangars, crowds outside Parliament chanting for blood, talking heads debating whether this meant the end of the "special relationship" with the United States.

Dean caught just enough of a TV in the corner to hear one line.

"A spokesman for the families of the victims has called the strikes 'a deliberate slaughter by the Americans' and demanded arrests of the USAF commanders responsible."

His stomach twisted like he’d swallowed glass.

By the time they shoved through the final security door and into Amara’s office, he felt like the walls themselves were pressing in, squeezing every ounce of air from his lungs.

Amara was waiting for them, leaning against her desk like she’d expected this. Which she probably had.

"You see it?" Dean barked. No preamble. No salute. His fists were already clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Amara gave him one of her calm, unreadable looks. God, he hated that. "Of course I see it," she said evenly. "The whole damn world sees it."

Dean stalked forward until he was practically nose to nose with her, jabbing a finger at the TV still playing behind her desk, now showing slow-motion drone footage of the ruined base, the caption beneath it screaming.

US AIR FORCE STRIKES ON ALLY CONTINUE — DEATH TOLL: 58

"This is on your watch," Dean said, his voice low but shaking with fury. "You knew something was going down, and you didn’t stop it. Now look!"

Her eyes darkened slightly, but she didn’t flinch. "You think I don’t know that, Captain? You think I don’t know exactly how this looks?"

Dean ground his teeth, but before he could spit another word, Cas stepped up behind him. His presence, steady, quiet, and was enough to keep Dean from completely losing it.

"Then tell us what you do know," Cas said. His voice was softer, but it carried more weight than Dean’s shouting ever could. "Did he do this?" Dean's eyes gazed at him, knowing damn well who Cas was talking about.

For the first time, Amara’s expression cracked, just a little. Her lips pressed together like she was holding back something sharp.

"I can’t tell you yet," she said finally. "Not now. Not while all eyes are on us. Not while every line we have is tapped and every whisper leaks to the press. If I so much as breathe the wrong name, we’ll lose what little advantage we still have."

Dean barked a humorless laugh. "Oh, yeah, because we’re sitting pretty right now. Bases blown to hell, our own guys getting strung up by the press, protests outside the Pentagon. Hell of an advantage."

Amara ignored him. She turned slightly, looking at Cas instead.

"I need you two to go to the UK," she said. "Tonight. Quietly. Your mission brief will come when it can come. But you are the only ones I trust to handle this. Do you understand?"

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but at that exact second, the big flat-screen TV mounted on her wall changed. The news anchor’s face was pale, solemn.

"And in breaking developments just minutes ago, what appears to be a leaked audio recording of USAF pilots surfaced on social media and has already gone viral, sparking even more outrage across the United Kingdom…"

Dean froze.

The anchor kept talking, but it was the sound that cut through him, tinny at first, then clearer as the studio played it. Male voices, laughing, joking, their words horrible.

"—bet I can hit that hangar before you do. Winner buys the first round back in the States."

"Hey, make sure the cameras get my good side when we light this place up!"

"God, I love the smell of kerosene and burning Brits in the morning."

The sound of laughter. Muffled, but cruel.

Dean’s stomach dropped out. His ears rang.

He knew.

He knew that wasn’t them. Nobody he knew, nobody in his squadron, nobody he’d ever flown with would say that shit.

But he could already feel the damage being done in real time.

Cas’s shoulders stiffened beside him, his eyes narrowing at the screen.

Amara’s face was a mask of fury now, her nails digging into the edge of her desk.

"And there it is," she murmured.

Dean rounded on her. "That’s a fake. You know that. We all know that. So do something about it!"

"I can’t."

That stopped him cold.

"What the hell do you mean, you can’t?" he demanded.

Amara straightened slowly, her gaze cold and hard now.

"I’ve already been ordered off this case," she said. "They’ve made me the scapegoat. Again."

The door behind them opened. Too fast, too loud.

Dean spun around just in time to see two MPs in full dress storm in, flanking a stiff, gray-haired officer with a clipboard.

"General Amara Scheiner," the officer said curtly. "You’re being placed under arrest, pending investigation."

Dean moved without thinking. "Hey—"

Two more MPs stepped between him and Amara, hands already on their holsters.

Amara held up a hand.

"Don’t," she said quietly, more to Dean than anyone else. "This isn’t your fight. Not yet."

The officer snapped cuffs onto her wrists, reciting some boilerplate about dereliction of duty and obstruction of justice. She didn’t flinch.

Dean just stood there, chest heaving, powerless to stop it as they led her out the door.

The office felt emptier without her in it.

Dean ran both hands down his face, pressing his palms into his eyes until all he could see were red sparks.

"This is bullshit," he muttered.

Beside him, Cas’s voice was quiet. "She was right about one thing."

Dean dropped his hands. "What?"

Cas’s eyes met his. They were still as blue and unreadable as ever, but there was a faint edge of steel beneath them.

"This isn’t over," Cas said simply.

They left the office without another word. The hallway outside was chaos, officers shouting into phones, screens blaring headlines, young airmen scurrying around with stacks of papers like ants after someone kicked the mound.

Dean pushed through it all on autopilot, Cas just behind him.

He didn’t stop until they were outside, where the night air was cold and sharp, smelling faintly of jet fuel and rain.

Somewhere off in the distance, he could still hear the faint roar of engines on the flight line, though no one was going anywhere tonight. Not in this storm.

Dean leaned against the railing overlooking the tarmac, staring out into the dark.

"This whole damn thing’s falling apart," he muttered.

Cas came to stand next to him. For a long time, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, he said, "Not if we can help it."

Dean snorted softly. "What makes you so sure?"

Cas’s shoulder brushed his. Not much, just enough to feel solid. Real.

"Because we still have a mission," Cas said. "And because we still have each other."

Dean didn’t look at him. But he felt his chest tighten all the same.

He stayed like that for a long time, staring into the night, listening to the distant sounds of thunder rolling in from the horizon, and somewhere behind it, the faint echo of laughter from that forged recording still playing in his head.

***

The next morning, the cafeteria was packed.

Dean sat at the edge of one of the long metal tables, his half-eaten tray of scrambled eggs and toast forgotten in front of him, and watched the TV above the coffee station like everyone else.

CNN was running the same loop it had been all night. USAF DENIES RESPONSIBILITY FOR DEADLY UK BASE STRIKES — INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY.

A grainy photo of the wreckage filled the screen. Then came the stock footage of Pentagon press conferences, the official seal gleaming behind some clean-cut spokesman in a navy suit.

"We categorically deny any intentional strike on our UK partners," the man droned, reading from his notes. "These accusations are unfounded. At this time, we are cooperating fully with UK authorities to investigate this tragic incident. We urge the public not to jump to conclusions until all facts are known."

Dean shoved his fork through the eggs like they’d personally offended him.

"Unfounded, my ass," he muttered.

Beside him, Cas didn’t look away from the screen. His tray was untouched, his hands folded neatly in front of him like he was at church.

The spokespeople kept talking. One from the State Department now, her voice cool and measured as she called for "calm and restraint on all sides." Dean could practically see the sweat running down the back of her neck through the screen.

On another channel further down the row of TVs, a different press briefing was playing. This one was all brass. USAF leadership at the Pentagon, straight-faced, ordering all personnel to "refrain from speaking to the media" and to "stay on-script" if approached by press.

Dean scoffed.

Stay on-script.

Sure. Because that had worked too damn well so far.

Around the cafeteria, you could feel the tension in the air like static. Most people pretended to eat, heads bowed, but every so often someone’s eyes would flick nervously toward the door, like they were waiting for MPs to come drag them out by their collars.

Dean’s phone buzzed.

A message from command. Short.

ALL BLACK SKY OPS PERSONNEL — DO NOT SPEAK TO PRESS. REMAIN ON STATION. WAIT FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTION.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket without replying.

***

They were halfway through coffee when the MPs finally showed up.

Dean knew the guys by sight. Base security, not CID, not yet, but they still carried themselves like they were herding prisoners.

"All ops personnel. Let’s go," one barked from the doorway. "Inspector General’s here. Time for your interviews."

Dean exchanged a glance with Cas. His stomach twisted, but he pushed back from the table and followed.

The next few hours blurred into a haze of beige briefing rooms and stiff-backed chairs.

USAF Inspector General. DIA. CIA.

All of them in dark suits with dead eyes and clipboards, combing through flight logs, radar data, voice comms, trying to stitch together a narrative that didn’t make sense.

Dean sat in one chair for almost two hours while some DIA prick with a tie too tight asked him to walk through every second of their Mediterranean mission. What time they launched, what route they flew, who had comms, who dropped what.

"We were over the Med the whole damn time," Dean said for what felt like the hundredth time. "We didn’t even touch UK airspace. You got the radar tapes, check ‘em."

The agent scribbled something down. His tone stayed flat. "Funny thing. We did check them. And… some of your squadron’s transponders pinged over Norfolk around the same window as the strike. Care to explain?"

Dean froze.

"That’s impossible," he said.

The guy didn’t look up from his notes.

Dean left that room feeling like the air had gotten ten degrees colder.

Cas was waiting for him outside. His tie was slightly askew, a rare tell that something had rattled him too.

"They’re saying we were in two places at once," Cas said, voice low.

Dean let out a humorless laugh. "Guess Nick really did his homework."

Cas’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything else.

Behind the scenes, word filtered down through the base like a virus. Quiet, whispered updates about how the U.S. and UK governments were now locked in tense talks, both sides demanding proof, neither side willing to back down.

Some Black Sky op member mentioned that Nick, though nobody dared say his name above a murmur, had already leaked more "evidence" to the press. That maybe the alliance wasn’t gonna survive this one.

Dean didn’t need the whispers to see it for himself.

That afternoon, they heard the UK response.

A memo from command flashed on everyone’s phones at once, like a gunshot.

Effective immediately: all USAF flight operations suspended over UK airspace. RAF & UK military will secure all US-operated bases in UK. All US personnel confined to base until further notice. RAF military police will conduct on-site inspections. Cooperate fully. Do not interfere.

Dean stared at the words on the screen, trying to process them.

All flights grounded.

Bases locked down.

British MPs kicking down doors and rifling through lockers.

They weren’t allies anymore.

Not really.

Not tonight.

***

By evening, the protests started.

Dean stood at the edge of the tarmac outside the barracks, arms crossed against the chill wind, and watched through the huge TV screen, as hundreds, maybe thousands, of British civilians gathered outside some U.S. base gate stationed in UK, waving signs and shouting.

The news called it "a peaceful demonstration."

Didn’t sound peaceful to Dean. He could hear them even from here.

"Murderers!"

"Go home, Yanks!"

"Get off our soil!"

The MPs at the gate stood at attention, rifles slung but not raised. Yet.

Dean flexed his hands and turned away.

Cas was waiting by the hangar. He was already out of his uniform jacket, dressed in dark civilian layers, preparing for the next move.

Dean joined him in silence.

"You ready?" Cas asked quietly.

Dean glanced back once more at the TV screen, at the crowd, the signs, the flashing cameras just beyond the base's fence line. Then up at the sky, where no planes were flying.

He let out a breath and nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "Let’s get the hell outta here."

Cas gave a faint nod and started walking toward the unmarked car idling by the gate. Dean fell into step beside him.

No goodbyes.

No way back.

Just the two of them, heading straight into the storm.

Chapter Text

***

The night air smelled like wet asphalt and smoke when Dean slid into the driver’s seat.

It was a nondescript black sedan, civilian plates, no markings, parked just outside the base gate where the MPs had reluctantly let them through. Nobody saluted as they left. Nobody even looked at them.

Good.

Dean turned the key and the engine purred to life. He adjusted the mirror, catching sight of Cas in the passenger seat, already staring out the window at the blur of streetlights and fences.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

The roads outside the base were quiet at this hour. Too quiet. Dean hated how fast the whole world had turned on its head. Less than forty-eight hours ago, they were still allies. Now… he wasn’t sure what they were anymore.

The note Amara had slipped them before her arrest was tucked in Dean’s pocket. One line, scrawled in her perfect handwriting.

'221 Pryor Lane. No questions. Trust him.'

Dean wasn’t sure who the hell him was. But Amara hadn’t given them much choice.

***

They pulled onto Pryor Lane about an hour later.

It was some forgotten industrial district on the outskirts of the city, rows of brick warehouses and faded shop fronts all shuttered for the night. A single streetlamp buzzed over the cracked sidewalk in front of number 221.

Dean parked across the street, killed the engine, and leaned back for a second.

"Looks like a dump," he muttered.

Cas didn’t flinch. "So do most good safehouses."

Dean shot him a sideways look. "That supposed to be wisdom or something?"

Cas blinked at him. "It’s supposed to be true."

Dean snorted, shook his head, and got out of the car.

The door to 221 opened before they even knocked.

"'Bout damn time," came a voice from inside.

Ash.

Dean hadn’t seen the guy in years, not since Kandahar, when Ash had been running some shadow ops out of a bar that doubled as his office. He didn’t look like he’d changed much. Wild blond hair sticking up in all directions, stained hoodie and torn jeans, and a half-burned cigarette dangling from his fingers.

Dean raised his brows as he stepped inside. "Ash. Well, hell. You still alive. Color me shocked."

Ash grinned, all teeth. "Ain’t easy to kill genius, brother."

Cas followed Dean in, closing the door behind them. His eyes roamed the cluttered little office space. Mismatched monitors stacked in a corner, cables snaking across the floor, empty beer cans lined up on a shelf like trophies.

Ash flopped into a creaky office chair, propped his boots on the desk, and took a long drag of his cigarette.

"Well," he said, blowing out smoke, "you two are lookin’ downright constipated. Guess that means you got Amara’s little note."

Dean leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "Yeah. We got it. Now how ‘bout you tell us why the hell we’re sneaking around like spies in our own damn country?"

Ash chuckled. "Because your real names, hotshot, are plastered all over every no-fly list, watch list, and damn near every bulletin board from here to Parliament. You show your pretty faces at immigration in uniform, you’re done. Poof. Cuffed. Game over."

Dean’s jaw tightened. "So what, you’re saying we’re ghosts now?"

"Bingo." Ash stubbed his cigarette out on the corner of the desk, then rummaged around in a drawer. "And if you wanna stay ghosts, you’re gonna need these."

He tossed two slim, leather-bound booklets onto the desk.

Dean snatched them up. Civilian passports. Forged.

He flipped his open. The name on the inside made his lip curl.

Jensen Ross.

"Really?" he muttered.

Ash just grinned. "Hey, you try makin’ up hundreds of aliases on the fly and see if you can stay creative. You don’t like it? Too bad. You’re Jensen now. And your boyfriend over there—"

"I’m not—" Dean started, but Cas cut him off with his usual deadpan.

"What name?" Cas asked.

Ash smirked. "Dimitri Tippens. Congrats, Mr. Tippens. You two newlyweds enjoy your honeymoon flight."

Dean groaned. "You’re a dick."

Ash only laughed, then he opened a battered duffel on the floor and kicked it toward them.

"Clothes," he said. "Civilian. No uniforms, no insignia, nothing that screams ‘military.’ You show up lookin’ like you just marched outta the Pentagon, you’re gonna light up every flag on the board. Blend. In."

Dean crouched down and pawed through the contents. Dark jeans, plain jackets, collared shirts, all perfectly unremarkable.

"No weapons?" he asked, looking up.

Ash snorted. "Yeah, lemme just sneak you through UK customs with a rifle slung over your shoulder. You’ll find what you need waitin’ for you at the London safehouse. Which, by the way…"

He stood and ambled over to a map tacked to the wall, stabbing a finger at the center of London.

"…is here. Some of Amara’s handpicked ops already beat you to it. You’ll meet ‘em there. You get in, you keep your heads down, and you wait for instructions. Simple as that."

Dean exchanged a look with Cas.

"Simple, huh?" Dean muttered.

Ash grinned again. "Hell yeah. And when has anything y’all touched ever been simple?"

Dean didn’t know how long they stood there, poring over the details. Ash rattled off the flight info, commercial, red-eye, Heathrow arrival, and handed them each a slim envelope with fake boarding passes, ID cards, and some British pounds "to look legit."

"Your flight’s in six hours," Ash said finally, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "I suggest you get movin’. Don’t bother comin’ back here. I was never here, and neither were you."

Dean shoved his new passport into his jacket and picked up the duffel bag. "You’re a real ray of sunshine, Ash. Don’t change."

Ash flashed him a two-finger salute. "Don’t plan to. Now go save the damn world or whatever."

Cas gave Ash a curt nod as they turned to leave. "Thank you," he said simply.

Ash winked. "Don’t thank me yet, brother. Just don’t screw it up."

***

The night was colder when they stepped back outside.

Dean adjusted the strap of the duffel on his shoulder as they walked to the car. The streets were still quiet, just the hum of distant traffic and the faint glow of the city on the horizon.

He didn’t say anything until they were inside, engine humming, pulling back onto the road.

Then he glanced at Cas, who was already studying his own forged passport like it was a puzzle he meant to solve.

"Dimitri Tippens," Dean said, smirking faintly. "You don’t look like a Dimitri to me."

Cas arched an eyebrow, unamused. "And you don’t look like a Jensen."

Dean barked a short laugh, shaking his head. "Fair point."

They drove in silence for a few miles, the city lights sliding by in streaks of gold and white.

Finally, Dean reached over and nudged Cas’s arm lightly.

"You ready for this, Dimitri?"

Cas didn’t look at him, but the faintest curve of his lips betrayed him.

"Yes," he said. "Are you, Jensen?"

Dean grinned.

"Hell yeah," he said. "Let’s go piss off a whole damn country."

***

The departures board at Dulles was a blur of cities and flight numbers, blinking red and gold as the PA announced another delay somewhere in the background.

Dean adjusted the strap of his duffel and kept his head down.

It felt wrong walking through an airport like this. Not in uniform, no insignia, no orders stamped in triplicate. Just jeans, a black jacket, and a fake name printed in black ink on a forged passport he couldn’t stop touching in his pocket.

Beside him, Cas moved like he belonged here. Or maybe it just looked that way because Cas never fidgeted, never paced, never let his eyes give him away.

Dean hated that about him sometimes.

The line at security was longer than Dean expected for a late-night red-eye. Tourists mostly, and business types staring at their phones, dragging rolling bags behind them. Nobody looked up when Dean and Cas stepped into line, but Dean still felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck as the metal detector loomed closer.

The little TSA agent at the podium gave him a bored look and held out her hand.

"Passport and boarding pass," she said.

Dean handed them over without meeting her eye.

She flipped open his passport. "Jensen Ross?"

Dean forced a small smile, like he’d heard the name before. "Yeah. That’s me."

The agent gave him one last glance, then nodded and waved him through.

He exhaled slowly as he slipped his boots into the tray and shoved his bag onto the conveyor belt.

Cas was behind him.

"Dimitri Tippens," Cas said flatly when his turn came.

Dean fought the urge to smirk.

They made it through without incident, but Dean still didn’t breathe easy until they were sitting at their gate with two hours to kill before boarding.

It was quiet here, tucked into a corner far from the big windows, the kind of quiet that always felt too thin. Somewhere over by the newsstand, a TV played yet another panel of talking heads debating the "US–UK crisis." Dean tried not to listen.

Cas sat next to him, hands folded in his lap, watching people drift by.

"You nervous?" Dean asked, keeping his voice low.

Cas didn’t look at him. "Should I be?"

Dean let out a short laugh. "Guess that’s one way to answer."

Cas finally turned his head, expression even. "Are you?"

Dean leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out. "Nah," he said. Then, after a beat, added, "Maybe a little."

Cas hummed softly and went back to watching the crowd.

Dean fiddled with his passport. "You ever been to London before?"

"No."

Dean glanced at him. "You’re not missing much. Fog. Tourists. Bad food."

Cas’s mouth quirked faintly, like he was holding back some quiet comment.

Dean smirked, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The plane was half-empty, which helped.

Dean dropped into his aisle seat and shoved his bag under the seat in front of him, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

Cas slid into the window seat beside him, settling without a word. He didn’t even glance out the window as the jet taxied, the lights of the tarmac blurring past in streaks of gold.

Dean kept his eyes straight ahead.

It was easy to pretend, for a minute, that this was just another mission. That the whole world wasn’t ready to burn down around them.

The seatbelt sign chimed. The engines roared. The runway fell away.

Dean exhaled.

They were somewhere over the Atlantic when Dean finally broke the silence.

"You think Amara’s still running this thing from lockup?" he murmured.

Cas didn’t move for a long moment. Then, he said, "If she can, she will."

Dean nodded faintly.

"She trusted you," Cas added.

Dean glanced over. Cas’s eyes were fixed on the dark nothing outside the window. His profile was lit faintly by the overhead light.

"She trusted us," Dean corrected.

Cas didn’t answer.

***

Customs at Heathrow was hell.

Dean followed Cas through the snaking line, passport in hand, heart hammering. One wrong word, one wrong look, and the whole thing would fall apart right here.

When he reached the counter, the officer barely looked up.

"Name?"

"Jensen Ross," Dean said evenly.

The officer flipped through the pages, scanned something, then waved him on.

That was it.

Just like that, he was inside.

The arrivals hall smelled like coffee and floor polish.

Dean and Cas stepped into the crush of bodies, the noise of rolling suitcases and overlapping announcements. Nobody was waiting for them.

Dean checked his phone. Nothing.

He glanced at Cas. "So. You got any bright ideas?"

Cas was already moving toward the exit.

Dean jogged to catch up. "Hey, hold up."

"We can’t linger here," Cas said calmly. "It’s too exposed. We’ll find somewhere to wait until they make contact."

Dean grumbled, but he followed.

They ended up at some nameless business hotel on a side street near Paddington.

It wasn’t much, faded carpet, sterile white walls, a clerk who didn’t bother looking at them as he handed over a keycard, but it was quiet, and nobody asked questions.

Dean dropped his bag onto one of the twin beds and flopped down beside it, kicking off his boots.

"Well," he said, staring up at the ceiling. "This blows."

Cas sat down on the other bed, unbuttoning his jacket. "We knew this wouldn’t be pleasant."

Dean rolled his head to look at him. "Yeah, but come on. No guns, no gear, no backup, no plan? Feels like we’re just asking to get screwed."

Cas just gave him a level look. "We have a plan. We wait."

Dean groaned and covered his eyes with his arm.

He heard the faint sound of Cas’s bag unzipping, the rustle of fabric. When he peeked out, Cas was sitting there in his undershirt, methodically folding his jacket and laying it on the chair.

Dean couldn’t help but smirk faintly.

"You’re like a damn robot sometimes," he said.

Cas didn’t look up. "And yet you keep working with me."

Dean chuckled softly. "Guess I’m a glutton for punishment."

For the first time, Cas’s mouth curved into something just shy of a smile.

Dean watched him for another beat, then let his head fall back against the mattress.

Outside, the muffled sounds of London traffic drifted up through the window, sirens and car horns, the faint echo of voices calling in the distance.

For now, all they could do was wait.

***

The hotel room was too quiet.

Dean lay on his back on the narrow mattress, staring at the ceiling, the faint yellow glow of the streetlight outside striping across the wall. He could hear Cas breathing on the other bed, steady, even, but somehow it still didn’t make the place feel any less empty.

The duffel was still by the door. He hadn’t even bothered to peel off his jacket.

Across the room, Cas sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He hadn’t moved much since they got here, except to shrug out of his jacket and set it neatly on the chair.

Dean let out a quiet sigh and pushed himself upright.

"You ever gonna lie down?" he asked. His voice was low, almost lost in the hush of the room.

Cas looked over at him, blue eyes faint in the dark. "I’m fine."

Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, resting his arms on his knees. He studied Cas for a long moment.

"You know," he said, "you’re allowed to be human sometimes."

Cas’s mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. "You’re one to talk."

Dean chuckled under his breath.

The silence stretched again. The clock ticked somewhere in the corner.

And then, without really thinking about it, Dean stood and crossed the room. Cas didn’t move when Dean stopped in front of him. He just looked up, steady as ever.

Dean’s throat felt dry.

"You look like hell," he said, but it came out soft.

Cas only tilted his head slightly. "You don’t look much better."

Dean huffed a laugh, then reached out, fingers brushing the collar of Cas’s shirt, then smoothing down the fabric as though that made any kind of difference.

Cas stayed perfectly still.

Dean let his hand linger, feeling the faint warmth beneath the thin fabric.

It was Cas who broke the silence this time. "You should sleep," he murmured.

Dean swallowed, and his thumb caught on the edge of the collar. "Not really tired," he said.

Another stretch of quiet.

And then Cas shifted slightly, the faintest lean forward, enough that Dean caught the suggestion of breath against his neck.

Dean’s chest tightened.

His hand moved almost without him thinking, curling around the back of Cas’s neck, fingers sliding into the short hair there.

Cas’s breath hitched, quiet but noticeable.

Dean didn’t close the distance all at once. Just lingered there, close enough to feel the warmth, close enough that his own heart sounded too loud in his ears.

Finally, Cas’s hand came up, fingers resting lightly on Dean’s side, and the tension between them broke.

Dean pressed his lips to Cas’s.

It wasn’t hard or desperate like he thought it would be. It was quiet. Careful. Like a secret they weren’t ready to share with anyone else.

When he finally pulled back, Cas’s eyes were still closed, his hand still at Dean’s side.

Dean let out a shaky breath.

"Better," he murmured.

Cas’s lips curved faintly, and he opened his eyes.

Dean gave his neck a squeeze before stepping back. "Now," he added, with something like a grin, "get some damn sleep."

***

Dean didn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he woke, the light coming through the blinds was weak and gray, and Cas was already up, sitting in the chair by the window.

The faint smell of coffee filled the room.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Morning already?" he mumbled.

Cas glanced over. "Barely."

Dean sat up, stretching, and caught the faintest hint of a smile on Cas’s face before he looked back out the window.

Before Dean could say anything, there was a soft knock at the door.

Both of them went still for half a second.

Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, already reaching for the knife he’d hidden in his bag.

Cas moved to the door and peered through the peephole.

"It’s them," he said quietly.

Dean stayed close as Cas unlocked the door.

A woman in civilian clothes stepped in. Tall, blonde-haired, her expression clipped and efficient.

"You’re Ross and Tippens?" she asked, scanning them both.

Dean arched a brow. "That’s us."

She nodded briskly. "I’m Jo Harvelle. Safehouse sent me. Get your things. We don’t have much time."

Dean grabbed the duffel while Cas retrieved his jacket.

Jo didn’t wait for them to ask questions. Just led them out of the hotel and into a waiting sedan parked half a block away.

The streets were still quiet this early, but already a few protest signs and flags were visible outside another US-run building down the block.

Dean slid into the back seat beside Cas, keeping his head low as the car pulled into traffic.

Jo didn’t look at them as she drove.

"City’s hot," she said shortly. "RAF and Met are still crawling all over the US bases, press is circling, and the embassy’s no help. You’re to stay out of sight until we say otherwise."

Dean glanced at Cas. Cas’s expression hadn’t changed.

"Where are we going?" Dean asked finally.

Jo’s eyes flicked up to the mirror. "Southwark. Safehouse is buried deep. You won’t leave it unless told."

Dean leaned back, watching the London streets blur by, black cabs and red buses, rows of brick buildings with Union Jacks fluttering in the damp air.

The protests were worse closer to the city center, crowds waving signs, yelling at the police cordons outside the embassy.

Dean caught sight of one placard: YANKS GO HOME.

Jo noticed him looking. "Don’t worry," she said dryly. "They don’t know you’re here yet. Let’s keep it that way."

Dean smirked faintly. "That’s the plan."

The rest of the ride passed in tense silence.

By the time the car finally rolled to a stop in a narrow alley behind an old, nondescript building, Dean was itching to get out.

Jo killed the engine and turned to them.

"You wait here until someone from inside opens up," she said. "Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t make noise."

Dean nodded once.

Jo climbed out, knocked twice on the back door, and disappeared inside.

Dean stayed sitting, his hand brushing against Cas’s in the dark of the back seat.

Cas didn’t move it away.

They sat there quietly, two ghosts in a city that didn’t want them, waiting for the next chapter to start.

Chapter Text

***

The safehouse didn’t look like much from the outside.

Just another weathered London terrace, tucked into a narrow street so quiet you’d almost miss it. But the moment Dean stepped through the door, he could feel the weight of eyes watching.

No greetings. No names. Just a heavy steel door clanking shut behind him, and a hallway lined with reinforced glass and cameras.

A man in a tactical vest met them at the entrance, glanced at the envelopes Jo handed over, and gave a brisk nod.

"You’re cleared," he said. "Follow me."

Dean kept close on his heels as they wound through tight, low corridors, every surface painted in that dull government beige. Cas followed silently behind him, boots echoing faintly on the linoleum.

Their guide finally stopped outside a row of small, identical doors.

"Room six," he said, handing Dean a keycard. "Other end of the hall is the briefing room. Be there in ten. Don’t be late."

Dean took the keycard without a word.

Inside, the room was just big enough for two single beds, a pair of chairs, and a battered wardrobe. No windows. Just a faint hum of recycled air and the muffled sound of footsteps somewhere beyond the wall.

Dean dropped his bag on the bed closest to the door.

"Well," he muttered, "four stars it ain’t."

Cas set his duffel down on the other bed and sat. He didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

Dean watched him for a beat, then clapped his hands. "Alright," he said, forcing a little levity into his tone. "Come on, sunshine. Let’s go meet the welcoming committee."

Cas looked up at him, faintly unimpressed. But he stood.

The briefing room was colder than the hallway.

Dean pushed the door open and stepped into a space lined with maps and monitors. A few other operatives were already gathered around the table, talking in low voices, their faces blurred by fatigue and fluorescent light.

One of them caught Dean’s eye, a blond kid, young, lean, wearing an RAF jacket unzipped over a plain black shirt.

He looked up when Dean and Cas entered.

And froze.

Dean frowned, trying to place him. Then it hit him like a punch in the gut.

The kid smiled faintly, though there was no real humor in it.

"Hello."

Dean blinked.

"Jack Kline," the kid added, stepping forward and offering a hand.

Dean took it slowly. The name rang a bell, of course. RAF pilot, joint exercises with UK last summer. But the memory that really stuck was the look on his face after that missile had left its rail and streaked into the Airbus, his face when he slammed him on the wall and almost choked him to death.

Dean glanced at Cas, who was watching Jack with a clear surprise in his eyes.

"Jack," Cas said quietly.

Jack flinched just barely, but his voice stayed even.

"Hello, sir." He smiled awkwardly and continued, "I know my face is the last thing you wanted to see here in this room. But I have my reasons, just as you do. I hope that won't be a problem, sir."

Dean shook his head slightly, trying to shake the memory. The plume of smoke rising, the panic in the control tower, the sound of screams over the radio, and Cas's jet on fire spiralling in the air.

Jack caught his eye again.

"I didn’t know what it was. Not then. The command came down. I swear to God, it did. Green light. Sir Castiel didn't see it. So I pressed the button. And then I looked up," he said, his tone dropping. "And I saw him. Commander Nick. Standing just outside the tower. Smiling at me."

The venom in his voice was unmistakable.

Dean felt his own stomach turn.

Jack glanced down, jaw tight.

"That’s when I knew," he said. "I was just another pawn in his little game."

Dean folded his arms, leaning against the table.

"So what’re you doing here, then?"

"Dean," Cas glared at him, warning him not to say anything stupid. Dean just shrugged his shoulders.

Jack looked up, meeting his eyes with something hard and bright.

"After you pulled out of Brize Norton when they shut the exercise down, I went to her. Amara. Told her I wanted in. Didn’t care what it cost. Somebody had to make that son of a bitch pay. And nobody over here was gonna do it."

Dean felt his chest tighten.

Jack smirked humorlessly.

"She told me to keep quiet. Work behind the curtain. Feed her intel. So that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve got access. I’ve got contacts underground. And I’ve been hacking every Ministry server I can get my hands on since the day she said yes."

Dean exchanged a glance with Cas.

"You're a hacker?" Dean asked, but Jack's attention was all on Cas like he's the only one who can give him the validation he desperately needs.

Cas tilted his head, studying Jack. "So you’re on our side."

Jack’s smirk faded, replaced by something more solemn.

"I’m on the right side, sir," he said. "Nick’s gonna burn. That’s all I care about."

Dean let out a breath, dragging a hand over his face.

"Well," he said finally, "hell. You’re already more useful than half the brass back home, so welcome to the party, kid."

Jack actually let out a soft laugh at that, just a huff of air, but it broke some of the tension.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder.

"Now," Dean added, straightening, "you got anything stronger than bad memories and a grudge? Or we just going in there with that?"

Jack raised an eyebrow, then tapped the side of his temple.

"I’ve got more than you think, sir," he said.

Dean smirked faintly.

"Good," he said. "Then let’s go see what the hell we’re actually working with."

At that moment, the door opened again and one of the other operatives stuck his head in.

"The others are coming in, be ready," he said.

Jack gave Dean and Cas a quick nod, then finally walked to where the chairs are. Dean fell into step beside Cas as they found their seats.

"Think we can trust him?" Dean murmured.

Cas’s expression stayed neutral.

"For now," he said quietly, "we don’t have much choice."

Dean grunted.

"Story of our lives."

Then the other member of Amara's op stepped into the briefing room. Dean watched them from the corner and thought, whatever came next, Dean figured they’d find out soon enough.

***

Dean leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, as the lights dimmed and the big wall monitor blinked to life at the head of the briefing room.

The safehouse team was already assembled, shuffling papers, murmuring to each other, shoving pins into a big map of London and the Midlands spread across the table.

Jack sat two chairs down from him, already leaning forward, focused. Cas sat on Dean’s right, calm as ever, though Dean caught the faint tension in his shoulders.

A woman in a dark suit, Jo, the one who’d driven them here, stood at the front of the room, arms folded.

"Everyone settle down," she said, her voice carrying just enough steel to shut people up. "We’re on the clock."

Dean straightened.

Jo turned toward the screen, where a photograph appeared, grainy CCTV of a middle-aged man being hustled into the back of a black SUV by what looked like private security in plain clothes.

"Bobby Singer," Jo said. "Member of Parliament. Senior defense advisor to the Prime Minister. And, until four days ago, the most vocal voice in Westminster warning against Nick’s manipulation of UK policy and military assets."

Dean squinted at the photo.

Bobby didn’t look much like what Dean expected. Thinning gray hair under a battered flat cap, a bushy beard, a sharp look in his eye even though two guys were trying to shove him into a car.

Jo clicked to another slide, an older news photo of Bobby at a podium, pointing at a chart of defense budgets.

"Bobby was one of the few in government to see through Nick early," Jo continued. "He called for patience, warned against rushing to blame the Americans for the Airbus incident and the UK base attack. You might’ve seen him on Sky News last month."

Dean remembered now, some MP yelling at reporters that they were 'playing into the bastard’s hands' by scapegoating the USAF.

"Bobby’s also the one," Jo added, "who’s been feeding General Amara’s network intelligence for the past six months."

Dean raised a brow.

So Bobby wasn’t just some loudmouth politician.

Jo tapped the map with a pointer.

"Everything General Amara’s team did in the Med was based on Singer’s intel. The leaks about the arms shipments. All came from him."

Dean leaned forward now, frowning.

"But then," Jo said, "General Amara got word Bobby’d been arrested. At least, that’s what the official line was. Picked up on a 'national security warrant.' We’ve since confirmed. It wasn’t official channels. No charge sheet. No booking. He just… disappeared."

The room fell quiet.

Dean glanced at Cas, who was staring at the map, his jaw set.

Jack spoke up next to him.

"Nick," Jack said. The word dropped like a stone.

Jo gave a sharp nod.

"Most likely. Nick discovered Bobby was working with General Amara and leaked just enough about the Med op to him to set the whole chain reaction in motion. He used them, Bobby and General Amara both, as pawns to spark the crisis we’re in now."

Dean’s stomach sank.

"So he’s been playing all of us," Dean muttered.

Jack gave a humorless laugh. "That’s what he does."

Jo went on.

"We believe Bobby is still alive. Nick would keep him breathing, Bobby knows far too much about Nick’s networks, about his people, his plans, his fallback options. He won’t kill him unless he has no choice."

She clicked to another slide, a blurry satellite image of a black site just outside London.

"We don't know where they’re holding him, yet. One of our intel says he's here, but we're still trying to verify that. Just expect that the security’s heavy. We can’t risk a full incursion. It has to be quiet."

Dean studied the image.

"How quiet?" he asked.

Jo leveled her gaze at him. "Your team quiet. In and out before the press smells anything. That’s why you’re here."

Dean let out a low whistle.

Jack leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Figures," he said.

Dean glanced at him.

Jack caught his look and shook his head.

"You’re wondering why I care," Jack said. "Why I’m even here, when it’s your country getting the blame."

Dean raised a brow. "Not exactly wondering. Just waiting for you to spill."

"Stop it, Dean," Cas said, and Jack’s mouth quirked bitterly looking at him dead in the eyes.

"You saw me push the button," he said. "At Brize. You think I haven’t seen that over and over in my head since that day? Did you know I was supposed to go into Cyberspace Ops? But Commander Nick had other plans, going on and on about how great it would be to be a fighter pilot, kept talking to me into applying. I was too naive to believe his words. Look where that got me."

Dean and Cas stayed quiet. They both stared at him for a long moment. Then Dean let a faint smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

"Alright, kid," he said, raising both his arms as surrender.

Jack huffed a quiet laugh.

Cas finally spoke up again, his voice calm but cutting.

"Then let’s not waste time," he said. "If Bobby Singer is key to stopping this before it escalates, we can’t afford to leave him where he is."

Jo gave him a nod.

"You’ll have full details on the op by tomorrow morning. For tonight, get some sleep. We’ll finalize infiltration routes, exfil options, and civilian cover stories before sunrise. Don’t get comfortable. You won’t be here long."

Dean stood, cracking his neck.

"Wouldn’t dream of it," he said.

Jack shot him a look as they filed out.

"Sir," Jack called after him.

Dean glanced back.

Jack’s expression softened just slightly.

"Glad you’re on this," Jack said quietly.

Dean just nodded. "You too, kid."

Beside him, Cas gave Jack a faint nod of acknowledgment.

As they headed back to their room, Dean let himself exhale for the first time since the briefing started.

He knew better than to trust hope, not yet. But if there was anyone worth saving in this mess, it sounded like Bobby Singer was it.

And Nick?

Dean clenched his fists.

Nick was gonna pay for every damn move he’d made.

One way or another.

***

The hum of the safehouse never really stopped. Even in the dead of night, you could hear it, ventilation rattling, faint footsteps down the hall, voices murmuring behind closed doors.

Dean was sitting at the little desk in their room, one boot up on the chair, poking at the half-cold cup of tea someone had left him earlier. Cas was on the other bed, his jacket draped over the back of the chair, reading something on a folder he wouldn’t let Dean see.

That was when the door burst open.

Jack stood there, flushed, hair sticking up, a laptop clutched under his arm.

"You two," he said, breathless. "Briefing room. Now."

Dean set the cup down, already on his feet. Cas rose a beat later.

"What is it?" Dean demanded.

Jack’s eyes were hard. "MI6. Someone thought they could hide this behind a firewall. They were wrong."

The briefing room lights stung Dean’s eyes after the dark hallway.

Jack dropped his laptop on the table, spun it around, and jabbed the trackpad.

A document filled the screen, a scanned memo stamped with a bold red SECRET.

Dean squinted.

"Tonight, 0200," Jack read aloud, his voice clipped. "Operation Iron Veil. Tasked SAS and MoD to execute a targeted search and seizure of USAF assets at RAF Lakenheath. Claiming credible intelligence that the Americans are stockpiling illegal WMDs on British soil."

Dean felt his stomach drop.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Jack looked up, jaw tight. "This just got pushed to the Cabinet. They’re going through with it."

Cas stepped forward, scanning the text. His eyes narrowed.

"Lakenheath?" he said.

Jack nodded.

Dean ran a hand through his hair.

"That’s a goddamn fighter base," Dean said. "The only thing we’ve got there is jets and some old maintenance sheds. No WMDs. Not even close."

"That’s the point," Cas snapped. "Nick planted something there. He has to have. Something MI6 picked up just enough to justify this raid. It’s textbook. Give them a whiff of something that looks real, wait for them to find it, and watch the whole alliance collapse."

Dean’s blood ran cold.

"He wants them to find it," Dean realized, his voice low.

Jack jabbed a finger at the screen. "Exactly. They find whatever he left there, the British government goes public. Headlines tomorrow morning say the Yanks were hiding bioweapons under their allies’ noses. And every base the U.S. still have on this island gets torched. Game over."

Dean sank into a chair, his fingers curling into fists.

Cas spoke again, calm but edged with steel.

"Bobby Singer is the only one who can prove this is Nick’s operation," Cas said. "But we don’t have him yet."

Jack nodded grimly.

"And by the time we do," he said, "it won’t matter. Because by then the pictures will already be in the papers, the whole country’ll be calling for blood."

Dean exhaled, leaning back. "So what you’re telling me," he said slowly, "is that our first job isn’t Bobby."

Jack’s gaze met his, unflinching.

"No, sir," Jack said. "It’s getting to Lakenheath before the SAS does and pulling whatever Nick stashed there before they lay eyes on it."

Dean rubbed at his jaw. His heart was hammering.

"And we’ve got…" he glanced at the clock on the wall, 2240 hours. "…three and a half hours."

Jack shut the laptop with a snap.

"That’s plenty," he said flatly, though his tone said otherwise.

Cas folded his arms, his eyes locked on the floor as he thought.

Dean pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair.

"Well then," Dean said, forcing the faintest smirk. "What the hell are we waiting for?"

Jack looked faintly relieved, though his mouth stayed tight.

"I’ll get you the route," he said. "We’ll need civilian transport as close to Thetford as we can get without being spotted, then move on foot. I can forge a local delivery manifest to get you through the gates if anyone stops you."

Dean shot Cas a glance.

Cas just nodded once. "We’ll need to move fast," he said.

Jack already had his laptop open again, fingers flying.

Dean rolled his shoulders and let out a long breath, already feeling the familiar buzz of adrenaline setting in.

Whatever it took. Whatever it cost.

Nick wasn’t winning tonight.

Not if Dean had anything to say about it.

Chapter Text

***

The door to the briefing room swung shut behind Cas, his footsteps fading down the hall as he headed back to his quarters. One by one, the others followed, the quiet murmur of boots and clipped voices fading into silence. Dean stayed behind, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching Jack still hunched over his laptop at the head of the table.

The kid didn’t even look up as Dean approached, fingers still moving over the keys.

"You know," Dean said flatly, "you didn’t have to stick around. Briefing’s over."

Jack glanced up at him, dark circles under his eyes, then back to his screen. "Yeah. I know."

Dean took a step closer, folding his arms tighter. "What I don’t know," he said, his voice low, "is if you’re actually on our side this time. Or if you’re gonna pull another Brize Norton stunt when it counts."

That got Jack’s attention.

He stopped typing and slowly closed the laptop, his hands resting on the lid. His gaze met Dean’s, cold and tired at the same time.

"You’re right to be suspicious," Jack said after a beat. His tone wasn’t defensive, just blunt. Honest, in a way that caught Dean a little off guard. "I would be, too. Especially after… Brize."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Damn right."

Jack let out something like a laugh, bitter and humorless. "You think I don’t remember?" His voice was quiet now. "I’ve got two hundred eighty-three deaths sitting on my conscience because of what I did in that control room. You don’t have to remind me, sir."

Dean’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I deserved every dirty look you gave me," Jack went on, "and worse. I get it. I screwed up. Sir Castiel…" His voice faltered for just a second. "He had to turn in his wings because of me. I’ll never forget that. I’ll never stop being sorry for it."

Dean looked away for a second, something tight in his chest. He forced himself to stay sharp.

"You talk a good game," Dean said finally. "But you’re still here. Still in Amara’s good graces somehow. That doesn’t make any sense."

Jack’s expression hardened at that, his jaw tight. "General Amara gave me the benefit of the doubt," he said. "I proved myself to her before she even let me in this safehouse. Jo and the others? They knew about what happened, so they hated my guts at first. Treated me like I was poison. Can’t blame them, either. But I put my neck on the line for them. Again and again. Took bullets that weren’t meant for me. Saved lives. And eventually… they stopped looking at me like I was some spy sent by Nick. Started seeing me as an ally. Maybe even a friend.”

Dean’s eyes searched his face, still skeptical but quiet now.

Jack’s voice softened, though the bitterness didn’t completely leave. "So yeah, you’re right not to trust me yet. But I’m here. And whether you believe it or not… I’m on your side, sir. I want Nick brought down just as bad as you do. More, maybe."

He opened his laptop again and started typing like the conversation was over. "That’s all I can promise you, sir. My help. Nothing more."

Dean stood there for a long moment, watching him, the sound of the keys filling the silence.

"Fine," Dean muttered finally, though there was no conviction in it. "We’ll see."

Jack didn’t look up. But his fingers stilled just long enough to say, quietly, "You will."

***

Dean leaned against the cool stone wall of the hallway outside his room, staring down at the floor. The faint hum of conversation from elsewhere in the safehouse barely reached him, muffled by thick doors and heavier thoughts.

He’d been working for Amara long enough now to know better than to question the mission too loudly. Operation Black Sky, that was his only focus for weeks. Stop Nick. Tear down everything he’d built before he could finish whatever hell he was planning. He’d run missions in the dark, followed orders he didn’t always understand, and trusted that Amara had her reasons.

But yesterday, when she sent him and Cas to the UK, that trust had started to fray at the edges.

Jo Harvelle. Her ragtag team here at the London safehouse. People he’d never even heard of until Ash dropped them into his lap with little more than a "they’re on our side" and a nod.

Dean had met Jo and her team barely four hours ago. And already, he was expected to trust them? To trust Jack, of all people?

He dragged a hand down his face, pushing off the wall. The safehouse still felt foreign to him, like stepping into someone else’s war. Every corner of it whispered that he was the outsider here.

But as the hours passed, he’d started to see it. Little things that added up. The quiet discipline in Jo’s team. The way they moved like they’d been doing this for years, all in sync. The scars, the notes pinned on the walls, the careful plans written and re-written. They had been fighting Nick. Right here, under everyone’s nose. And Amara had trusted them with it.

Dean exhaled slowly, crossing his arms as he stood outside his door.

He was still skeptical, he’d probably always be skeptical, but maybe… maybe that was the point. Jo and her team didn’t need him to believe in them right away. They just needed him to fight alongside them long enough to see it for himself.

And, hell, if Amara trusted them? That had to count for something.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted when one of Jo's men came up to him and said they still have to wait for the mission to be officially approved before they can proceed, so Dean finally pushed off the wall and headed toward the mess hall. He needed coffee or something stronger, but he settled for the bitter smell wafting from a carafe in the corner. The safehouse was busy now, most of Jo’s team already preparing for the upcoming mission.

He poured himself a mug and was halfway through his first sip when someone cleared their throat behind him.

Dean glanced over his shoulder.

The guy leaning against the doorway was tall, broad, with a shaved head and a sharp, cold stare. He didn’t bother hiding the way his eyes raked Dean up and down, full of judgment.

"Winchester," the man said flatly.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "That’s me. And you are?"

"Walker," the man replied. "Gordon Walker. Jo’s second."

Dean gave him a curt nod. "Right. Heard the name. Can I help you with somethin’?"

Gordon stepped into the room, his boots heavy on the tile. "Yeah," he said, voice low but edged with something bitter. "You can tell me what the hell you and your boyfriend think you’re doing here."

Dean froze mid-sip. He lowered the mug slowly and turned to face him fully. "Come again?"

Gordon’s jaw flexed. "You and Collins. Showing up out of nowhere, acting like you’re calling the shots on our mission. You think you can just waltz in here and take over? We’ve been running this op for months. Without you. Without Amara’s ‘golden boys.’"

Dean’s mouth curled into a faint smirk. "Didn’t realize keeping score was part of the mission brief."

But Gordon wasn’t amused. He took another step closer, his voice rising. "Don’t play smart with me. You think you’ve earned this? You don’t know the first damn thing about what we’ve been through here. You’ve been sitting on your asses across the ocean while we bled for this. And now what, you just drop in and take command? Like you’ve got the right?"

Dean didn’t flinch. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make his point.

When he finally spoke, his tone was calm. Controlled.

"Look, man. I get it. You’ve been grinding this out on the ground here while me and Cas were on the other side. And yeah, that sucks. But Amara sent us here for a reason. We didn’t ask for this gig, but we sure as hell aren’t walking away from it, either."

Gordon scoffed. "Yeah. Right. Two grounded fighter pilots who got their wings clipped. Big damn heroes."

That one actually stung a little. Dean’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug. But still, he didn’t rise to it.

"You really think that’s all we are?" Dean asked, his voice dropping low. "Grounded fighter pilots?"

Gordon sneered. "Am I wrong?"

Dean set the mug down with a quiet clink and took a deliberate step closer to him.

"You don’t have a clue who you’re talking to, Walker," he said evenly. "You think Amara sent us here because she likes our pretty faces? Both me and Cas trained black-ops back at the academy. We’ve run more covert missions than you’ve had hot meals in this place."

Something flickered in Gordon’s expression then, though he tried to cover it with another scoff.

Dean held his gaze, unflinching.

"You’ve been fighting your war here," Dean continued. "Fine. Respect. But don’t you dare think you’re the only one who’s bled for this. We’ve been fighting the same bastard you have. Same stakes. Same hell waiting if we lose. You think we don’t care? You think we don’t belong here?"

He took one more step forward, now close enough that Gordon had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"We do. Just like you."

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the overhead lights. Gordon’s hands flexed at his sides, his glare sharp, but not as certain as before.

Dean finally stepped back and picked up his mug again. "Now. You can keep being pissed about it. Or you can do your damn job."

He turned and walked toward the door without another word.

Behind him, Gordon didn’t follow.

Dean stepped out into the cool night air, letting the door swing shut behind him. The safehouse grounds were quiet now, the only sound a faint breeze rustling through the hedges along the walk. He took a long breath, letting the tension drain out of his shoulders as he sipped what was left of his coffee.

He didn’t even flinch when he heard footsteps approaching from his left.

Cas appeared out of the shadows, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. His expression was calm but curious, the faint crease in his brow the only sign he’d noticed anything amiss.

"You were in there a while," Cas said softly.

Dean kept his eyes on the dark sky above. "Yeah," he murmured.

Cas stopped a few feet away and tilted his head, studying Dean in that quiet way he had, like he could see through every wall Dean tried to put up.

"What happened?" Cas asked.

Dean let out a breath, a faint chuckle slipping out at the end. "Ah, you know. Pep talk."

Cas’s brow furrowed slightly, unconvinced.

Dean finally dropped his gaze to meet Cas’s. "Gordon Walker," he admitted. "Jo’s second. Decided to let me know exactly how much he doesn’t want us here."

Cas just nodded, as if he’d expected as much. "He confronted you."

Dean snorted faintly. "That’s one way to put it. He’s pissed. Thinks we’re stepping on their toes. Says we’ve been sitting on our asses while they’ve been fighting the good fight here."

"And you?" Cas asked quietly.

Dean took another long sip of coffee before answering. "Told him he’s not wrong to be angry. But he doesn’t know the whole damn story. Doesn’t know us."

Cas’s gaze softened just a little.

Dean shrugged, trying to play it off. "Guy’s bitter. Envious, maybe. He’ll get over it. Or he won’t. Doesn’t change what we gotta do."

For a moment, Cas said nothing. Then he stepped closer, close enough that his shoulder brushed against Dean’s. He looked out at the sky with him, hands still buried in his pockets.

"You handled it well," Cas murmured finally.

Dean huffed out a quiet laugh. "Didn’t punch him, if that’s what you mean."

"That’s what I mean," Cas said evenly, though the corner of his mouth twitched just enough to give him away.

Dean glanced sideways at him, smirking faintly, before turning back to the stars. The two of them stood there for a while in silence, the weight between them heavy but not suffocating, each lost in his own thoughts.

Eventually Dean muttered, half to himself, "We’ll prove it. To all of ’em. Just like we always do."

Cas didn’t answer, but the quiet nod he gave was enough.

***

Dean wasn’t sure which was stranger. The fact that Amara somehow got word out from her holding cell, or the fact that he didn’t even care how she’d pulled it off.

All that mattered was what Jo was holding now. A stamped, official-looking communique on safehouse letterhead.

"Authorization for the Operation Blackout," she read aloud, tapping the paper against her palm. "Signed by General Amara, approved by Joint Ops."

She looked up at Dean and Cas with a faint, humorless smile.

"Well," she said, "looks like you two just officially got yourselves your own war."

Dean smirked faintly and glanced at Cas, who was already shrugging into his jacket.

"Let’s get to work." Dean said.

Jo nodded sharply. "You’ve got full access to my people and the safehouse kit. Pick who you want. But keep it lean, the more boots you put on the ground, the easier it’ll be to spot you."

Dean turned to Jack. "And you?"

Jack leaned casually against the wall, his laptop already open. "Don’t worry about me, sir," he said. "I’ll get you your window. UK strike team’s wheels-up in two hours. I’ll give you three before they even leave the tarmac."

Dean gave him a sharp look.

"You can really do that?"

Jack flashed a grin, fingers already flying over the keyboard. "By the time I’m done, they’ll think their own Director told them to stand down. Go, sir. Assemble your team."

Dean didn’t need to be told twice.

In the end, they kept it tight.

Jo herself, seasoned, quiet, deadly with a suppressed MP5.

Two of her operators, Caleb, tall and lean with night-vision optics already strapped to his helmet, and Ian, wiry with a medic patch on his shoulder and a silenced carbine slung across his chest.

And then of course, Dean and Cas.

Dean gave the roster a final glance, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. Clean, tight, efficient. Jo, Caleb, Ian. Him and Cas. That was enough.

They met back in the armory to kit up, and by the time Dean was tightening the last strap on his vest, he could feel eyes on him.

He didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

Gordon was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that same bitter glare fixed on him like a sniper scope.

Dean finished his check and finally glanced over. "Something you wanna say, Walker?"

Gordon pushed off the door and stalked into the room, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. His eyes flicked to the roster sticking out of Dean’s pocket and then back to Dean’s face.

"You passed me over," he said flatly.

Dean gave a faint shrug and went back to loading mags into his vest. "I picked the people I needed."

"You didn’t pick me."

Dean didn’t even look up this time. "Nope."

Gordon’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice dropping low and sharp. "You’ve been here five minutes, Winchester. I’ve been bleeding for this op for months. And you’re telling me you don’t need me?"

Dean let the last mag click into place before straightening and finally meeting his glare. His voice was calm, but there was steel under it.

"You think this is about you?" Dean asked.

Gordon’s jaw tightened.

Dean shook his head faintly. "It’s not. Amara handed me this mission. Not you. Not Jo. Me. And she gave me specific orders. Caleb and Ian know the route better than you do. Jo’s got seniority and command experience in the field. Cas and I…" He smirked faintly, but there was no humor in it. "…you already made it pretty clear what you think we bring to the table."

Gordon scoffed. "Two grounded pilots who lucked into black ops assignments. Yeah. Real elite."

Dean stepped closer, close enough that Gordon had to tilt his chin just slightly to meet his eyes.

"You don’t know half of what we’ve done," Dean said, low and even. "We trained for this back when you were still learning how to lace your boots. And if Amara thought I needed you for this mission, trust me, your name would be on my list. But it’s not. Because she gave me my orders. Just like she gave you yours. So here’s what you’re gonna do, Walker,"

Dean jabbed a finger into his chest, just hard enough to make his point.

"You’re gonna stay here. You’re gonna keep this safehouse locked down while we’re out there. And you’re gonna be ready when we bring hell back through that door. That’s your job tonight. Not mine. Not Jo’s. Yours. Got it?"

Gordon’s jaw worked, but no words came out. Not at first. Finally he stepped back, his glare softening just enough to register as something closer to bitter acceptance.

"Fine," he muttered. "But if you screw this up…"

Dean cut him off with a humorless smirk. "You’ll be here to tell me all about it. Don’t worry."

Without waiting for a reply, Dean turned back to the table, picked up his rifle, and slung it over his shoulder. Cas was already waiting by the door, quiet and steady, his coat already buttoned.

As Dean passed Gordon on his way out, he clapped a hand on his shoulder, not gentle, but not cruel either.

"Keep the lights on, Walker," he said. "We’ll handle the rest."

Gordon stayed where he was, staring after them as they left, his fists still curling at his sides. But he didn’t say another word.

Dean now stood outside the armory with Cas, checking mags and pulling webbing tight across his chest.

"You ready for this?" Dean asked quietly, sliding a knife into a sheath at his thigh.

Cas adjusted the strap on his chest rig, his expression calm but unyielding. "I don’t see that we have a choice," he said.

Dean huffed softly. "That’s not what I asked."

Cas finally looked up at him, and for a moment Dean caught the faintest spark in those blue eyes.

"I was ready," Cas said simply, "the moment Nick made this personal."

Dean nodded, letting that sit between them for a beat before strapping on his gloves.

Jo briefed them quickly at the table, pointing to a satellite map of RAF Lakenheath spread on the screen.

"This is the target building," she said, tapping a long maintenance shed tucked near the south end of the airfield. "Our intel says whatever Nick planted is inside. No confirmation on what form it’s in, canisters, containers, whatever, so be ready to adapt. We go in under local delivery cover, exfil the package, and disappear before dawn."

She glanced at Dean.

"You’re leading the strike team, Winchester. I’ll take point. Cas will handle perimeter and overwatch. Caleb and Ian will shadow and carry the load once you’ve secured it."

Dean nodded once. "Fine by me."

Jack’s voice called from the corner.

"And you’re welcome," he added, without looking up from his laptop. "Orders just came down to the MoD to ‘pause’ the raid. They’re calling it ‘intelligence under review.’ You’ve got a three-hour head start. Don’t waste it."

Dean looked at Jack, his mind drifting back to their conversation earlier. He figured they needed all the help they could get, and the kid had offered his without skipping a beat. The least Dean could do was give him the benefit of the doubt, too. So he grinned faintly at him and said, "Hell of a hacker you turned out to be, kid."

Jack shot him a wry look. "Don’t sound so surprised, sir."

By the time they were loaded into the unmarked box truck, the city streets were slick with mist and empty of life.

Dean sat on one side of the truck bed, his rifle across his knees, Cas across from him checking his own weapon with mechanical precision.

Jo stood near the door, speaking low into her comms as Caleb and Ian double-checked the crates they’d use as props if anyone stopped them at the gate.

Dean reached up and adjusted his earpiece, his pulse already quickening.

Three hours. That was all they had.

He looked at Cas, who caught his eye and gave the faintest nod.

Dean smirked faintly.

"Let’s go steal a goddamn bioweapon," he muttered.

***

The drive to Suffolk felt longer than it was.

The closer they got to the base, the quieter the truck got, the silence broken only by the occasional scratch of Jo’s radio and the faint sound of Jack’s updates through the comms.

Dean watched through a crack in the panel as the faint outline of the airfield fences came into view.

The gatehouse was manned, as expected, but Jack’s forged manifest and Jo’s cool confidence got them waved through without a hitch.

They rolled slowly down the flight line, past rows of silent F-15s gleaming faintly under the sodium lights, until they finally reached the far south end.

The truck stopped in the shadow of the maintenance sheds. Jo slid the door open just enough to peer out, then looked back at Dean.

"Go," she said.

Dean dropped out first, rifle up, boots crunching softly on the tarmac.

Cas and Jo followed, then Caleb and Ian.

They moved fast, low, hugging the wall of the shed until they reached the side door.

Dean tried the handle, locked.

Jo produced a slim set of picks, crouched, and had it open in under twenty seconds.

Inside, the air was cold and smelled faintly of oil and dust.

They swept the space quickly, rows of crates, tool benches, and an ominous-looking steel container at the far end, marked with hazard stripes and a faded biohazard symbol.

Dean’s gut churned at the sight.

"That it?" Caleb murmured behind him.

Dean nodded grimly. "That’s it."

He and Cas approached first, weapons up, scanning the area as Jo popped the latches on the container and peered inside.

Four matte black canisters, sealed and humming faintly.

Jo let out a low breath.

"That’s our package," she confirmed.

Dean motioned to Caleb and Ian, who immediately started lifting the canisters into padded cases they’d brought along.

"Move it," Dean hissed. "We’ve got two hours left and I don’t wanna see how pissed the Brits get if they catch us standing here with these."

They worked fast, quiet, the cases sealed and strapped down in minutes.

Dean gave one last look around the shed before nodding.

"Alright," he said into the comms. "We’re green. Everyone out."

They slipped back out into the night one by one, blending back into the shadows and the waiting truck.

Dean climbed in last, crouched by the door with his rifle at the ready until they cleared the perimeter and the gate was shrinking behind them.

Only when the lights of the base faded from view did Dean finally let out the breath he’d been holding. Jo caught his eye from across the truck and gave him a faint nod of respect. Cas sat down next to him, quiet but steady, his gloved hand brushing just barely against Dean’s.

Dean didn’t move it away.

They’d made it. For now.

But as the truck rattled back toward London, Dean couldn’t help but think of Bobby, still out there, still in Nick’s hands.

And if Nick was willing to go this far just to frame them, Dean could only imagine what he had planned next.

***

The safehouse was quiet in the early hours, but no one was asleep. Not anymore.

Dean sat at the end of their bed, boots already on, staring at his hands. Cas stood by the little window, silent as usual, his figure a dark silhouette against the faint London glow.

They’d done it, smuggled the bioweapons right out from under the UK’s nose. Jack had gotten word that morning that the canisters were already en route to a NATO lab in Brussels, where they could be verified and destroyed before the press ever caught a whiff of what Nick had planted.

But it hadn’t been enough.

The strikes resumed at dawn. RAF Tornados screaming overhead, air-raid sirens in Suffolk, more footage on Sky News of "illegal American stockpiles" and "retaliatory precision strikes." The public still wanted blood, and Nick was still pulling the strings from somewhere inside his fortified little command post.

Dean rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the faint sting of stubble and exhaustion.

Jo knocked once before letting herself in. Jack followed close behind, his laptop slung under his arm, his face tight.

Dean stood, squaring his shoulders.

"Well?" he said.

Jo wasted no time.

"Orders from General Amara," she said, handing over two folders. "Final missions."

Dean flipped the first one open. A satellite map and a few grainy surveillance stills greeted him. Some kind of urban compound near Westminster, ringed by fencing and spotlights.

"That’s him," Jo said. "Nick. Command center in central London. MI6 loyalists and SAS all over it. Fortified, but not impenetrable."

Dean’s mouth tightened into a thin line.

"You’ll lead the strike team personally," Jo continued. "General Amara handpicked the squad for you. Hardened special ops, not safehouse regulars. Jack’s staying on your flank for intel support. He’s already mapped blind spots, guard rotations, and a service tunnel that cuts underneath the perimeter. You’ll split into two groups. One to create a distraction. Vehicle bombs, noise, to draw security outward, and you, Jack, and your team will slip through the tunnel."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Jack, who gave him the faintest nod. Dean set the folder down, feeling his pulse steady. Finally. Finally he’d get to put his hands on Nick and end this.

He opened the second folder, and his stomach sank a little.

This one was worse.

It was Cas’s mission.

Cas stepped forward without a word, his eyes scanning the page. Dean watched his face as Jo briefed him.

"Bobby’s alive," Joanna confirmed. "We know where, MI6 black site outside Cardiff. Nick’s people moved him there as soon as the Med op blew up in the press. But Cardiff’s under the Ministry’s ‘shoot-on-sight’ orders now. Any unauthorized aircraft in Welsh or western English airspace gets intercepted and destroyed before it’s even on approach."

Dean felt his fists clench at his sides.

Jo kept going, her tone even.

"That’s why this has to be coordinated. We’ll be gathering allied assets and a specially-modified stealth transport for your assault group. The black site is heavily defended, but not built to repel an air-to-ground incursion. You’ll split your team in two. An assault element in the transport that’ll land just outside the compound under cover of night, and a pair of F-22s running EMCON and decoy maneuvers to lure interceptors away from your actual flight path."

Dean cut in. "And you’re telling me we’ve got those assets just… waiting?"

Jo’s faint smile was almost sad.

"You’d be surprised what doors General Amara can still open," she said.

Dean swallowed hard.

Cas finally looked up from the folder, his eyes clear and calm. "When?" he asked.

Jo didn’t hesitate. "Tonight. Both of you."

Dean ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his teeth.

Tonight.

***

The team assembled quickly after that, grim faces, quiet nods of acknowledgment as Jo laid out final assignments. Jack busied himself in the corner, a tangle of wires and screens glowing faint blue in the dark.

Dean caught Cas’s gaze more than once across the room, both of them saying nothing but knowing exactly what the other was thinking.

When the briefing broke, Dean grabbed Cas’s elbow and steered him back to their room.

He shut the door behind them and leaned against it for a second, letting himself really look at Cas for the first time since Jo had laid it all out.

Cas stood near the bed, his jacket slung over one shoulder, his brow furrowed slightly in thought.

"You okay?" Dean finally asked.

Cas turned, his blue eyes catching the light.

"I will be," he said simply.

Dean crossed the room in two strides and cupped the back of Cas’s neck, leaning his forehead against his.

"You’re gonna come back," Dean murmured. "No matter what. You hear me?"

Cas’s hand came up to rest against Dean’s chest, steady and warm.

"You, too," he replied.

Dean let out a shaky breath, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Guess we’re both stubborn bastards," he said.

Cas’s faint smile matched his.

Dean kissed him then, hard and desperate, like it might be the last time, and Cas kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers curling in Dean’s shirt like he’d never let go.

For a while, the only sound in the room was quiet breathing and the faint rustle of fabric.

Dean pressed his face into Cas’s shoulder, holding him close.

"You come back," Dean said again, softer this time.

Cas’s hand slid to the back of his neck, reassuring and firm. "So do you."

Dean huffed quietly. "Deal."

They stayed like that until Jo knocked, reminding them it was time to gear up.

An hour later, the safehouse was alive with activity.

Dean stood with his strike team at one end of the garage, Cas at the other with his own group, everyone checking weapons, radios, and packs.

Jack moved between them, handing Dean a slim tablet.

"Blind spots, updated guard shifts, tunnel schematics," Jack said briskly. "You follow this, you’ll have fifteen minutes inside before the perimeter rotates. After that, you’re on your own."

Dean nodded. "Got it."

Jack hesitated for a second, then added, "Sir, please don't screw this up."

Dean snorted. "Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, kid."

He caught Cas’s eye one last time as they loaded into separate vehicles. Cas stood straight-backed, his black jacket catching faint light, his team already climbing into the stealth transport behind him.

Dean crossed to him, grabbed his wrist, and squeezed.

"See you after," Dean murmured.

Cas met his gaze and held it.

"You’d better," Cas said.

Dean’s smirk softened. "Yeah," he said. "No matter what."

Cas’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes, but it was enough. Dean gave his hand one last squeeze before stepping back.

Jo called, "Winchester! Let’s move!"

Dean turned, hoisted his rifle, and headed for the truck that would take him into the tunnel.

But he didn’t stop glancing back, not until Cas was out of sight.

***

The city was alive and hostile as they moved out, sirens in the distance, protestors in the streets, searchlights sweeping the river.

Dean’s hands flexed over his rifle as the truck bounced over cobblestones, Jack crouched next to him with a tablet, murmuring updates about guard rotations and camera feeds.

Ahead of them, another truck loaded with explosives for the distraction team rolled into position near the edge of Nick’s compound.

Dean could already see the faint glow of spotlights in the distance, Nick’s command post, ringed by fences and shadows and armed men.

Tonight it would all come to an end.

He’d make damn sure of it.

For Cas.

For Bobby.

For everyone Nick had used and broken and betrayed.

Dean flexed his jaw, feeling the weight of it settle over him.

"No matter what," he murmured to himself.

He wasn’t about to break that promise.

Not tonight.

Chapter Text

***

Castiel’s world was darkness and red lights as the stealth transport climbed through the low clouds over London.

The roar of the engines was muffled in the cabin, but it thrummed through his boots, through his ribs, steady and unrelenting. Around him, Jo, Caleb, Ian and three others in his assault team sat in silence, each man and woman checking their weapons for the dozenth time, faces hard in the dim glow.

Even Jo’s second, Gordon, was here. Castiel thought about what Dean had told him last night. How the man had made it clear he didn’t want either of them here. And looking at Gordon now, glaring at him, Castiel figured Dean was right. But he just shrugged the thought away and focused on what was happening now.

He didn’t need to check his own rifle again. Every part of it was already familiar under his fingers, cleaned, loaded, ready. He kept his hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes fixed on the floor between his boots.

When they’d split from the others back at the airfield, he’d watched the two F-22s taxi to the far end of the runway, sleek, predatory, lethal. The pilots who’d volunteered for the decoy mission would already be climbing over the Channel by now, running full EMCON, baiting RAF interceptors away from their true path. Their job was to be seen, to get lit up on someone’s scope, to draw as much attention as they could.

His job was to disappear. And that suited him just fine.

He shifted slightly in his harness as the plane banked, angling southwest.

It had been years since he’d flown into a combat zone like this. Not since the academy.

Most pilots never saw this side of it.

He remembered the morning they’d been called into the briefing hall, only a handful of cadets, the top of their class. They’d all thought it was some honor, some distinction.

Special Operations Pilot Training.

It wasn’t mandatory. Not even offered to most. But when they told him, he said yes. Even then, before he understood how much it would hurt, he said yes. He wasn’t even surprised to see Dean in the same training room, sitting just a few seats away.

They’d handed him rifles instead of checklists. Made him crawl through mud instead of metal. Taught him how to move quiet, how to shoot straight, how to kill without leaving a mark.

They called it "broadening his skill set."

He called it preparing to be used.

And here he was, sitting in the red-lit belly of a stealth transport, wearing black webbing instead of a flight suit, about to storm a black site deep in hostile territory.

Perhaps it was right to have said yes. Perhaps this was what he was always meant to do.

Castiel couldn’t help thinking about Jack as he sat quietly in his seat, still a little stunned to see him at the safehouse.

He’d half-expected Jack to be holed up somewhere, far from everything, after the Airbus incident. He’d felt awful about what happened, blaming himself more than he’d admit, but seeing the kid up and moving, even smiling faintly, eased something heavy in his chest. What surprised him more was learning Jack was a hacker, originally bound for UK's Cyberspace Ops. That little revelation made Cas grin despite himself, of course Jack would’ve been good at that too.

He was lucky to have Jack on his team now, though, he’d never doubted him, not for a second. If anything, it only deepened his anger toward Nick for what he’d done to this kid.

He thought of Dean next.

Dean would be moving through the tunnels by now, cutting closer to Nick with every second.

For just a moment, he let himself imagine Dean’s hands, strong, warm, always a little rough, gripping his shoulders the way they had before they’d split up. The low murmur of his voice, the faint smirk that never quite reached his eyes when he was worried.

'You come back. No matter what.'

Castiel exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment. He’d never been good at promises. But this one he intended to keep.

For Dean.

For Bobby.

For the little fragments of loyalty and decency still left in this crumbling alliance.

The plane’s comm crackled.

"Approach in two. Decoy team reports RAF interceptors have broken east. Path is clear. Drop in two."

Castiel opened his eyes.

He rose, unbuckled, and slung his rifle across his chest. Around him, his team did the same, quiet, efficient, no wasted motion.

Jo met his gaze from across the cabin and gave a single, sharp nod.

He nodded back, moving toward the ramp as the light over the door shifted from red to amber.

Through the slits of the loading bay, he caught glimpses of the ground below, rolling black fields, faint ribbons of light, the glow of Cardiff in the far distance.

The black site would be waiting for them. Fences. Spotlights. Armed guards. And Bobby somewhere inside.

The light above the ramp turned green with a sharp buzz.

The loadmaster’s voice came through the comm, flat and steady.

"Go. Go. Go."

The ramp dropped with a shuddering groan, and cold night air howled into the cabin. The roar of the engines became a deafening rush behind them.

Castiel didn’t hesitate.

He stepped forward into the wind, boots thudding on the ramp’s edge before he dropped into open air.

The black fields rose to meet him in silence, his parachute snapping open with a hard jolt. The sudden drag wrenched at his harness, and the wind screamed past his ears as he angled into his descent.

Above him, Jo and the others followed one by one, dark shapes spilling from the plane, canopies blossoming like shadows against the stars. Below, the compound loomed, fences gleaming faintly under sweeping spotlights, watchtowers cutting sharp silhouettes against the faint glow of the horizon.

Castiel tightened his grip on the toggles, adjusting his line to the rally point just outside the perimeter.

This was it.

No second chances. No room for mistakes.

He fixed his eyes on the ground and forced his breathing steady.

Somewhere in that maze of concrete and lights, Bobby was waiting. And tonight, he was going to bring him home.

The ground came fast, dark and uneven beneath him.

Castiel flared the chute at just the right moment, boots hitting the field with a controlled roll, the impact rattling up through his knees. The parachute collapsed into the grass behind him, and in a fluid motion he unclipped the harness and yanked the fabric into a bundle.

Around him, the others touched down one by one, shadows converging silently in the darkness. Jo was already moving as she stripped out of her rig, her MP5 coming up to a ready position without a word.

Castiel knelt, fingers to his earpiece, and whispered, "All teams down. Rally point secured."

A soft crackle of acknowledgment came back from the comm, and then nothing. Just the faint wind rippling across the field and the distant hum of the compound’s generators.

Jo crouched at his side, her eyes cutting toward the perimeter.

"Spotlights are on a lazy sweep," she murmured. "We’ve got a window."

Castiel nodded once and rose to a low crouch, rifle ready.

"Move."

The team fell in behind him, black shapes melting into the grass.

They moved fast and low, weaving through the open field, keeping to the uneven shadows. The scent of mud and ozone hung heavy in the night air.

The perimeter grew sharper with every step, chain-link fences strung with razor wire, security lights painting bright cones of white across the barren yard inside.

At fifty meters out, Castiel dropped to a knee, raising a fist. The squad froze, flattening into the grass.

Through his scope, he scanned the fence line. Two guards ambled along the inside, their rifles slung carelessly, more bored than alert. The tower to the east was manned, but the light swept too high to catch them.

Jo crawled up beside him and whispered,

"We can cut here. Between sweeps."

Castiel adjusted his grip on his rifle and gave her a curt nod.

"Do it."

Jo slipped forward with the breaching kit, her silhouette merging with the fence. The faint hiss of the cutter was barely audible, tiny sparks winking as the steel gave way.

Castiel’s team waited in tense silence, rifles trained on the guards, every breath controlled.

Jo glanced back when the last strand of wire fell away.

"We’re in."

Castiel rose just enough to meet her eyes and murmured one word, "Go."

One by one, they slipped through the gap in the fence and into the compound’s shadow.

The black site lay ahead of them now, a squat concrete fortress lit by pale security floods, its dark windows hiding whatever waited inside.

Castiel tightened his grip on his rifle, eyes cold, movements deliberate.

The air inside the fence was sharper somehow, colder, smelling faintly of oil and dust.

Castiel kept low, his boots silent on the cracked pavement as he led the team toward the eastern side of the building. The guards were predictable, their routes rehearsed, their movements lazy in the comfort of routine.

Good.

They rounded the corner of a supply shed and pressed into the shadows at the base of the main structure. From here, the black site loomed above them, all unmarked concrete and barred windows.

Jo was already at his shoulder, a faint grin flashing as she gestured to a narrow service door ahead. "Unmanned. Cameras don’t even cover it. Someone got sloppy."

Castiel raised two fingers, signaling the rest of the team forward. Gordon, Caleb and Ian stacked on the door, rifles raised, while Jo crouched by the panel, pulling a small black device from her pack.

The faint click and whine of the lock override filled the quiet night.

"Ten seconds," Jo murmured, fingers flying over the keypad.

Castiel’s eyes never left the corners of the yard. One guard was smoking near the tower, oblivious. Another’s silhouette passed briefly in the upper window and disappeared.

Jo’s device beeped green.

"Clear," she said, already stepping back.

Castiel was first through the door, rifle raised.

The hallway beyond was sterile concrete and buzzing fluorescents, empty except for a few crates stacked against the far wall. The team filed in silently, weapons at the ready, fanning out to clear the corners.

"Gordon. Caleb. Hold the exit," Castiel ordered softly, his voice low but firm.

The two men nodded, moving to cover the door. He and Jo pushed deeper, navigating the maze of narrow corridors and sharp turns.

Castiel’s earpiece crackled faintly. Jack’s voice, hushed and steady, bled through.

"You’re inside. Good. Cameras are looping for another six minutes. After that you’re on your own."

"Understood," Castiel replied, already scanning the door ahead. A security office, unmanned. Its interior walls lined with monitor screens, all showing static.

Jo slipped inside and crouched at the terminal. "Give me a second to pull what I can. Might tell us where they’re keeping him."

Castiel stayed at the door, keeping watch down the corridor.

The building felt wrong somehow, too quiet. No footsteps, no chatter over radios. Just the faint hum of lights and distant machinery.

Jo’s fingers flew across the keyboard. "They’ve got a sublevel. Access through that stairwell we passed. Room 3A. Looks like they’ve got him down there."

Castiel nodded once. "Good. Let’s move."

They retraced their steps, every corner cleared, every angle checked twice. When they reached the stairwell, Jo paused and tilted her head at him, smirk faint but sharp.

"After you," she murmured.

He led the way, boots silent on the metal steps as they descended into the dim, claustrophobic sublevel.

The corridors grew narrower, colder. The sterile hum of fluorescent lights overhead did nothing to warm the concrete maze. Castiel’s grip on his rifle stayed firm, his breathing steady, but in the pit of his stomach something began to turn.

Jo was just behind him, her MP5 ready, the others too, Caleb and Ian covering the rear. Gordon lingered behind them all, his silence thick with tension, but Castiel didn’t waste thought on him.

Every hallway looked the same. Every door they passed was locked and unmarked.

And still, nothing.

No alarms. No resistance.

They’d been inside for nearly ten minutes, and it was… too easy.

At the next junction, Castiel held up a hand, signaling a halt. The team pressed to the walls, rifles raised, eyes sharp.

Jo edged closer to him, her voice barely above a whisper. "You feel that?"

He nodded faintly. "Quiet. Too quiet."

She glanced around, then gave a sharp gesture forward. "Keep moving. Intel said sub-level two. Holding cells."

Castiel didn’t argue. He swung left at the junction, the team following in tight formation. They descended another flight of steel stairs, boots barely making a sound.

At the base of the stairwell, a reinforced door loomed. This one wasn’t locked. Castiel hesitated just a second before pulling it open.

Inside, rows of cells stretched down both sides of the long hall, each one dark and silent.

The team swept in, fanning out. Caleb checked each cell one by one. Ian followed, covering him. Jo moved toward the far end, scanning the corners. Gordon and the others stayed near the door, standing on guard.

Empty.

All of it.

Every cell. Every room.

Empty.

Castiel’s throat tightened.

Caleb cursed under his breath, slamming the butt of his rifle against one of the cell doors. "Clear," he spat, his frustration echoing in the sterile space.

Jo turned back to Castiel, her eyes narrowing. "He’s not here."

The words hit him like ice water.

No.

He stepped toward the far cell, gripping the bars tight as he looked inside at nothing but bare concrete. His mind was already working, already running through possibilities.

Bad intel? A transfer? A mistake?

The thought formed in his head just as the lights overhead cut out, plunging the hall into darkness.

And then they came on again, red this time.

An alarm blared somewhere above them. The sound of boots thundered down the stairwell behind them. Castiel swung around just as the first muzzle flashes lit up the darkness.

"Contact!" Caleb barked, already firing back.

Figures in black poured through the door, too many, too fast. They weren’t guards. They moved like operators, trained and deliberate, cutting off the exit before the team could even regroup. Castiel dove to cover, squeezing off a burst that dropped one of the attackers. Jo was already yelling for Caleb, Ian and the others to fall back, her voice sharp over the chaos.

But there was nowhere to fall back to.

Trapped.

They were trapped.

The sinking feeling in his gut hardened into cold, furious clarity. The black site hadn’t been waiting to hold Bobby Singer.

It had been waiting for them.

Castiel ducked behind a corner as rounds sparked off the concrete around him, breathing hard. His mind was already moving, already planning.

They’d been fed bad intel. Or worse, Nick had fed it to them himself.

Bobby wasn’t here.

And now they were surrounded, outnumbered, cut off.

They were pinned, nowhere to move, and every exit was cut off by enemy fire. Gritting his teeth, he yanked his radio up and barked, "Jack, come in! Jack, do you copy?"

But all he got was a harsh hiss of static. Again he tried, louder this time, desperation creeping into his voice, nothing but dead air. The signal was jammed. He cursed under his breath, feeling the knot of frustration tighten in his chest.

Castiel slammed a fresh mag into his rifle and glanced at Jo across the corridor. Her jaw was set, her eyes dark with realization.

"This was never about Bobby," she shouted over the gunfire.

Castiel’s voice was low but full of steel.

"No," he agreed. "It’s about us."

He risked a glance toward the stairwell. More black-clad figures poured in, pinning them deeper into the cell block.

He thought, briefly, of Dean.

'You come back. No matter what.'

His grip tightened on his rifle. He intended to keep that promise. But first, he’d have to find a way to get his team out alive. Even if it meant fighting their way through hell itself.

The deafening crack of gunfire filled the block, punctuated by the sharp clang of bullets striking steel and concrete. Chips of masonry rained down as another burst tore through the corner of Castiel’s cover.

He ducked lower, his chest heaving, his ears ringing. Across the row of cells, Jo fired in controlled bursts, keeping the attackers pinned on the stairwell landing. Caleb crouched beside her, his optics glowing faint green, scanning for targets through the haze. Ian was already bleeding from a graze to his upper arm, but he stayed on his feet, pressing his back against the bars of an empty cell and firing from the hip.

"Cas!" Jo shouted between volleys. "We’re boxed in! Suggestions?"

Castiel’s eyes darted around the cell block, taking in every detail he could through the chaos. The red lights. The stairwell. The endless row of cells.

Then his gaze caught on something.

A service hatch. Low to the ground, half-hidden behind the legs of a toppled guard.

He didn’t waste a second.

"On me!" he barked, his voice cutting through the din like a whip. "We’re moving! Caleb, cover fire. Jo, Ian—drag the wounded. Gordon—"

He risked a glance over his shoulder. Gordon was crouched by the door, face grim, rifle barking every few seconds.

"Gordon, you’re rear guard. Let’s go!"

Jo didn’t even hesitate, grabbing Ian by his vest and yanking him toward the far wall. Caleb popped up, unloading a blistering spray into the stairwell, forcing the attackers to duck back into cover.

Castiel was already moving, dropping to one knee by the hatch. He wrenched it open, revealing a narrow crawlspace lined with pipes and dim emergency lights. It wasn’t on any schematic he’d seen, but that was exactly the kind of oversight this place would have.

"Down here!" he ordered, motioning Jo through first.

She swung her MP5 onto her back and dropped into the crawlspace without argument. Ian followed, wincing as he slid down. Caleb was next, laying down another burst of cover fire before disappearing into the dark.

That left Gordon.

Gordon met his eyes across the corridor, lips curling in a snarl even as he laid down another controlled burst.

"You better know what you’re doing, Collins," he growled.

Castiel stared back, unflinching.

"I do," he said flatly. Gordon gave a bitter little laugh, then shoved off the wall and dove for the hatch.

Castiel was the last one through, his boots scraping on the steel lip as he dropped into the crawlspace. He reached up and wrenched the hatch shut behind him, muffling the sound of gunfire above.

The space was tight, hot, and stank of metal and damp concrete. Jo was already a few meters ahead, moving fast on her hands and knees. Caleb, Ian and the others followed, Gordon close behind, muttering curses under his breath.

Castiel took up the rear, rifle slung and one hand pressed to the ceiling to steady himself as they crawled through the maze of pipes.

The sound of boots thundering overhead was still audible, distant but moving.

"They’ll sweep the sublevels next," Jo hissed over her shoulder. "How far do you think this goes?"

"Far enough," Castiel replied evenly.

But his mind was already working ahead.

They’d been trapped once tonight. That wouldn’t happen again.

He reached for the small tablet tucked into his vest, powering up its dim display as he crawled. A quick scan of the emergency schematics confirmed what he hoped, this service tunnel snaked beneath the compound and connected to an access hatch outside the perimeter fence.

One exit. No guarantees it wasn’t also covered.

But better than waiting to be slaughtered like rats in a cage.

He shoved the tablet back into his vest and called ahead quietly, "We’ve got one chance to get clear. When we surface, fan out and make for the treeline. Caleb, smoke charges. Jo, prep a beacon. We’ll call for evac once we’re clear."

Jo gave a quick, tight nod, her voice low but full of steel. "Copy that."

The team pressed on through the darkness, every breath loud in the cramped space, every scrape of boot on steel echoing down the line.

Castiel kept his eyes forward, his mind already ahead of them, already thinking three moves beyond this one.

They’d walked into Nick’s trap tonight. But Castiel would see them out alive. He hadn’t promised Dean anything less. And he never broke his promises.

The crawlspace ended in a rusted, bolted hatch, half-hidden behind a thicket of pipes. Castiel ran his gloved fingers along the edges, finding the release latches and working them loose one by one. Above them, the muffled pounding of boots and the bark of distant orders told him their window was closing.

"Smoke," he ordered quietly.

Caleb pulled two canisters from his pack and cracked them, pale gray clouds already hissing out as he shoved them toward the junction behind them. The crawlspace quickly filled with a stifling, acrid haze that would cover their tracks for a few precious seconds if anyone came down here.

"Beacon," Castiel added, glancing back.

Jo already had it in her hand, a small black cylinder with a blinking infrared light. She clipped it to her vest. "Set for 30. If we make it to the tree line, I’ll trigger it."

Castiel nodded once, then gave the hatch a final shove. It groaned, then swung open into a world of wet grass and moonlight.

Fresh air rushed into the crawlspace.

He was the first through.

The ground above was uneven, a shallow depression just outside the perimeter fence, half-hidden by overgrown weeds and mud. In the distance, spotlights still swept the compound, but no one had eyes on this corner yet.

He rose into a crouch, scanning the darkness. Beyond the fence stretched an expanse of black woods, dense and silent. That was their way out.

The rest of the team followed one by one, emerging fast and low. Jo was already raising her suppressed MP5 toward the fence. Caleb slipped a pair of wire cutters from his belt and went to work on the razor coil.

The first section peeled back silently.

"Go," Castiel hissed.

Jo slipped through first, then Ian, then Gordon and the others. Caleb crawled through next, pulling the last strands of wire aside for Castiel before following.

They were just starting to move when the alarms started.

A klaxon blared, loud and shrill, and behind them the floodlights swung wildly across the grounds, beams crisscrossing like angry fingers.

"Contact north perimeter!" a voice shouted from somewhere behind the fence.

"Move!" Castiel ordered.

They bolted for the tree line, boots pounding mud and wet grass, the air alive with shouted orders and the staccato crack of rifles behind them.

Bullets tore up the ground, sending up sprays of earth and grass. Caleb threw another smoke canister over his shoulder without breaking stride. Jo’s beacon blinked alive on her vest, broadcasting their position to whatever friendly asset Amara still had in the sky.

But there was no time to wait for evac yet.

Just run.

The first trees closed around them, the undergrowth swallowing them in shadow. Castiel led them deeper, weaving through brambles and roots, his mind already working through the next steps.

By the time the shouting behind them began to fade, and the gunfire became no more than distant pops in the night, they were a full kilometer into the woods.

Castiel finally raised a fist, signaling them to stop.

They sank to their knees behind a fallen tree, each of them panting, the silence between them ragged but whole.

No one dead.

Jo was the first to break the silence. "We clear?"

Castiel scanned the dark canopy above them. Somewhere high up, he thought he heard the faint thrum of rotors in the distance, friendly, he hoped.

He nodded. "For now."

Caleb was already unpacking a comms dish, angling it up through a gap in the leaves. Ian tore off his gloves and started tending to his own wound. Gordon leaned against the tree, staring off into the darkness with a scowl.

But Castiel stayed on one knee, his rifle across his lap, his breathing steady again.

This had been a disaster.

They hadn’t gotten Bobby.

He was still out there, still Nick’s prisoner, or worse, and now they’d tipped their hand. Nick would know exactly who was coming for him.

Castiel let his eyes drift shut for a moment. He could still see Bobby’s face in his mind, beaten but defiant in the grainy surveillance photo they’d been given. He could still hear Dean’s voice before they’d split up. He intended to keep his promise to him. But coming back wasn’t enough. Not yet.

He opened his eyes, looking out into the endless dark of the woods, and thought of Bobby. Somewhere out there, maybe alive, maybe already moved to another black site, maybe tortured for information.

They couldn’t stop now. If Bobby was alive, he would find him. If this mission hadn’t ended clean, then the next one would. Somewhere, somehow, there was still a way to make this right.

He swore it quietly to himself, gripping his rifle tighter as he stared into the darkness, 'We’re not done yet.'

The woods were quiet now, but only because the enemy was regrouping somewhere behind them. Castiel’s team huddled low behind a fallen tree, breathing hard, weapons trained on the blackness beyond.

Castiel glanced to his right and saw Gordon crouched over a figure on the ground, a black-clad operative, zip-tied at the wrists and gagged. The man thrashed once, but Gordon drove a knee into his back to keep him still.

Jo noticed Castiel’s look and smirked faintly.

"Thought you could use a souvenir," she said under her breath.

Castiel didn’t return her smirk. He stood, wiping mud from his gloves as he stepped toward the captive.

The man glared up at him through the shadows of his balaclava, chest heaving.

Castiel knelt, quiet and deliberate, and ripped the gag away.

The operative spat mud and snarled. "You’re dead men. All of you."

Castiel stared at him, unblinking.

"Where is Bobby Singer?" he asked calmly.

The man laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Singer? You think he’s here? You’re dumber than I thought."

Gordon pressed his knee harder into the man’s back, earning a grunt of pain.

Jo crouched nearby, rifle resting casually on her knees. "You wanna try that again? Before our friend here decides to stop being polite?"

But Castiel’s voice was already cutting through hers, low, even, terrifying in its calmness.

"You know who sent me," he said.

The man’s laugh faltered slightly at the edges.

"You know," Castiel continued, leaning closer, "what happens to people who make me come back empty-handed."

The operative tried to hold his stare. But there was a flicker now, a shadow of unease.

"Where?" Castiel repeated.

When the man said nothing, Castiel’s hand shot out and curled around the back of his neck, fingers digging into the pressure points with a cold precision learned long before he ever wore a uniform.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make a threat. He just leaned in close enough that the man could feel his breath against his ear.

"You think you’re the first one to beg?" Castiel murmured. "You’re not."

The man’s breath hitched, just slightly.

"Where?" Castiel said again, no louder, but this time his thumb pressed into the base of the man’s skull, sharp and sudden, a place most people didn’t even know could hurt that much.

The operative let out a hiss through gritted teeth. "…Convoy. Moved north. Manchester outskirts. Grey Row. That’s the designation."

Castiel tightened his grip a little more.

"Is he alive?"

The man coughed, spitting mud, but nodded faintly.

Jo felt her smirk falter as she watched Castiel’s fingers dig into the base of the man’s skull, just below the ridge of bone. Most people didn’t realize how vulnerable that spot was, but she did.

Pressing there could cut off blood flow to the brain, send lightning pain through the nerves, even make someone black out if held long enough. It wasn’t just painful, it was dangerous.

Jo swallowed and glanced at the captive’s face, already slick with sweat and fear, and thought grimly that Castiel didn’t even need to break anything to make a man talk.

"For now. But even if you catch up…" he sneered weakly, "…Singer won’t last the week. Not after what he did."

Castiel’s fingers stayed on his neck a moment longer. Long enough for the man to feel the quiet weight of what could happen next.

Then, at last, Castiel released him and stood.

Jo’s smirk was gone now. She watched Castiel carefully as he adjusted his rifle and gave a single nod.

"Grey Row," he said.

And without another word, he turned his back on the whimpering captive and walked away.

Jo gave a low whistle, rising to her feet. "Grey Row. That checks out. Heard of it, unmarked military site out past Salford. Locals think it’s just an abandoned depot."

Castiel nodded once. "Then that’s where we’re going."

Gordon looked down at the man one last time, then hoisted the operative to his knees, shoving him back down behind the tree. The man cursed at them, but Castiel didn’t even glance back.

"Leave him," Castiel said quietly.

Jo raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Could put a bullet in him. Quieter that way."

"No," Castiel said. His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the iron in it. "He’s not worth it."

Jo exchanged a look with Gordon, then gave a little shrug.

Castiel adjusted his rifle sling and scanned the tree line, already plotting their route in his head.

This wasn’t over. Not yet.

And thanks to the terrified man now zip-tied in the mud behind him, he knew exactly where to go next.

The woods pressed in around them, damp and cold, each breath fogging faintly in the moonlight. The team moved in silence, weaving through the undergrowth toward a secondary rally point where Jack had promised to route an evac for them.

Castiel took up the rear, rifle slung across his chest, boots crunching softly over leaves. Every step forward felt heavier than the last.

Bobby wasn’t here.

He’d led them straight into Nick’s trap, and now he had his team, his responsibility, bleeding and bruised in hostile territory.

Ahead, Jo paused at a clearing and raised a hand, signaling the all-clear. Caleb and Ian dropped into a crouch by a rotting log, checking their ammo. Gordon just stood there, silent, arms folded.

Castiel hung back, adjusting his comms pack, fingers moving almost automatically as he cycled through the encrypted channels.

He hesitated.

Dean.

He could picture him even now, moving through the dark tunnels of Nick’s compound miles away. Focused. Steady. A storm of quiet violence just waiting for the right moment to strike.

And if he heard what had happened here...

Castiel’s hand tightened briefly on the handset. He couldn’t risk it. Dean didn’t need to know. Not yet.

Still… he trusted Dean enough to tell him he was alive.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

He switched to a secure burst channel and keyed the mic, his voice low and even, "One actual to Two. Package not here. Pursuing alternate lead. Continue with your objective. Will advise."

The message sent with a soft click of static. No need to wait for acknowledgment. Dean would get it.

Castiel clipped the handset back to his vest and looked up at the dark canopy overhead.

He didn’t allow himself to think about what might happen if Dean’s mission went sideways too.

For now, he focused on the one thing he could still control.

Find Bobby.

Make this right.

Jo’s quiet voice cut through the night.

"Evac bird’s five out. You coming, Cas?"

Castiel glanced at her, then at the woods ahead, toward Manchester, toward Grey Row, toward whatever trap or salvation waited for them next.

He nodded once.

"I’m coming," he said.

And then he started forward.

***

The storm over Manchester broke just as the bird pulled off, fat sheets of rain turning the windows into rippling glass. The Grey Row facility lay ahead, a black skeleton of fences and sodium lights rising from the mudflats, tucked behind a half-abandoned industrial park.

Castiel sat in the back seat, his gloved hand gripping the rifle across his lap, his eyes fixed on the gates in the distance.

Jo's voice echoed form behind, she's holding a slim tablet that looked like the one Jack gave Dean before they separated.

"That’s the place. It looks like no more convoys have come or gone since Singer arrived. Heat signatures match. He’s there."

Castiel only nodded at her.

Jo sat again in silence, her jaw tight, MP5 already resting against her thigh. Gordon sat behind her, still simmering, but even he seemed to feel the weight of what they were about to do. In the back, Caleb and Ian checked their kits. Caleb caught Castiel’s eye in the rearview and gave a faint nod, calm as ever.

It should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

The bird hover to a stop in the shadows of a crumbling warehouse two blocks from the compound. The team disembarked quickly, hoods up against the rain, weapons shouldered.

The perimeter was even more exposed than the black site, tall fencing, razor wire, a few guard towers. But fewer patrols. Sloppier security.

Nick thought he’d already won.

They made it through the fence without incident, cutting through the wire and slipping across the open ground in darkness and rain.

Inside, they moved like ghosts, a silent, practiced rhythm. Jo took point. Castiel stayed center. Gordon and Caleb flanked, Ian keeping low.

It didn’t take long to find the holding cells.

They turned a corner into a dim, concrete corridor lined with barred doors, and there he was.

Bobby.

Slumped in a chair, wrists chained to a table, battered but alive, his head lifting weakly as they burst through the door.

Castiel strode forward, ignoring the sharp crack of a startled guard’s rifle as Jo and Caleb dispatched him cleanly.

"Bobby," Castiel said low, already crouching to check him.

Bobby squinted up at him through the swelling around his eyes. And then, hoarse, he said, "…Took you guys long enough."

Castiel felt something ease in his chest at the sound of that voice.

Jo covered the door. "We don’t have long. Wrap it up."

Ian was already at the chains, cutting Bobby loose.

And then, the first shots rang out from down the corridor.

"Contact!" Gordon barked.

The hallway behind them erupted in gunfire. Shadows moved at the far end, muzzle flashes lighting the walls.

"Out the side!" Castiel snapped, dragging Bobby to his feet.

Caleb and Ian each took an arm, half-carrying him as Jo laid down suppressing fire.

The side door burst open into another rain-soaked yard.

They made it to the fence when the second wave hit.

Figures in black poured out of the shadows, shouting over the storm. Bullets ripped into the mud around them, sparking off the wire.

"Caleb!" Castiel shouted, turning as the tall man swung his rifle up and cut down two of them in quick succession.

But there were too many.

The crack of a rifle split the night, and Caleb stumbled.

A blossom of dark red bloomed across his chest as he crumpled against the fence.

Jo was screaming his name, dragging him by his vest even as he gasped, blood bubbling between his lips.

"Go," he coughed, his eyes glassy. "Go—"

But there was no time. The next volley of gunfire forced them back, Bobby sagging between Castiel and Ian as they pushed through the cut in the fence.

Jo stayed behind long enough to fire a few last wild shots before following, her face set and unreadable.

By the time they made it back to the bird, Caleb was gone.

Castiel sat in the back, Bobby slumped against him, rain still dripping from his hair and coat. No one spoke as Jo shouted at the pilot to gun the engine and tore away from the dark silhouette of Grey Row.

He looked down at Bobby, who blinked up at him blearily.

"You got me out," Bobby murmured.

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, thinking of the man they’d left behind in the mud.

Finally, his voice low, "Yes," he said.

But it didn’t feel like a victory.

Not with Caleb's blood still on his gloves.

And not with Nick still out there.

***

The safehouse in London was quiet when they came back.

Rain still clung to them as they filed inside, boots heavy on the tile, the faint smell of cordite and wet earth following them down the hallway.

Jo was the last to come through the door, her MP5 still slung across her chest, face unreadable.

Someone, one of the locals, shut the door behind them without a word.

Ian helped Bobby to a chair in the kitchen. He was pale, bruised, but breathing on his own.

Castiel stood by the counter, stripping off his gloves. His hands were stained dark where Caleb's blood had soaked through. He stared at them for a long moment, then tossed them into the sink.

The others peeled away, Gordon muttering something bitter under his breath as he disappeared down the hall, Jo silently pulling the door to the storage room closed behind her. Ian crouched by Bobby, checking his vitals, murmuring softly. But Castiel stayed where he was, staring down at the wood grain of the counter.

Caleb was gone.

They’d gotten Bobby out, but it hadn’t felt like a win.

Not at that cost.

He flexed his hands against the counter’s edge until his knuckles ached.

And then the comms crackled on the table.

Static hissed, and then a familiar voice broke through the noise, quiet, quick, measured.

"—repeat, confirmed. Nick’s position verified. Command center London, sub-level three. He’s barricaded with remaining SAS and MI6 security. Winchester’s squad is moving, but resistance is heavier than expected."

Jack.

Castiel’s hand tightened on the table's edge.

He pressed the mic close to his mouth. "Status of Winchester’s team?"

A pause. Crackle of keys, faint chatter in the background.

"Pinned outside the inner room," Jack said. "One of their decoy charges misfired and drew more guards inward. Dean’s still leading, but it’s ugly. They need help, sir."

Castiel’s heart thudded once, hard.

He didn’t wait for the rest. He was already shrugging back into his webbing, slamming a fresh mag into his rifle.

Ian looked up from Bobby, frowning. "Cas, what are you doing? You just got back."

Castiel met his eyes.

"Dean’s in trouble," he said simply.

Jo appeared in the doorway, her eyes red but her tone sharp. "We’re in no shape to—"

"I didn’t ask," Castiel cut in, quiet but final.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and turned for the door.

"Watch Bobby. Patch him up. And keep your comms open."

Jo stared at him for a long moment, then gave a single, resigned nod.

***

The transport descended hard into a deserted industrial park on the outskirts, landing gear screeching against the cracked concrete.

As soon as the ramp lowered, Castiel walked down into the night, alone.

The pilot didn’t say anything, just hauled the ramp back up and banked the bird away into the dark.

Waiting in the shadows ahead was a civilian-marked truck, keys left in the dash. Castiel climbed behind the wheel without a word, mud slick on his gloves, rifle propped against the passenger seat.

This was off the books, but he didn't care.

By the time he reached the perimeter of Nick’s command center, the sky was bleeding stormlight, the compound lit faintly by sodium lamps and distant firelight.

He remembered Jack’s voice before he left the safehouse, crackled in the comms, low and urgent.

"Winchester breached sub-level three. They’re close. But Nick’s got last-stand security locking it down. Sensors tripped. Blast doors closing. If you’re gonna help, you need to move. Now."

He kept those words in mind and slid out of the truck and into the alleys behind the compound, crouching low behind a dark van as he surveyed the rear entrance.

Through the smoke and faint alarms, he could already hear the fight somewhere below, muffled bursts of gunfire, the deep thump of detonations shaking the ground under his boots.

Dean was close.

He moved.

A silenced charge made short work of the rear door. The metal groaned faintly as it buckled and swung in. The corridor beyond was chaos, alarms flashing, water dripping from ruptured pipes, overturned desks and streaks of blood marking the path.

Castiel kept his rifle raised and his pace steady, slipping through the carnage like a shadow.

Down two flights, past a barricade littered with bodies, British loyalists and what was left of a decoy squad.

And then the noise sharpened.

Dean’s squad was pinned in a wide hall outside the command room, crouched behind improvised cover, muzzle flashes cutting through smoke thick enough to choke on.

At the corner of the doorway, Dean.

Pressed against the wall, rifle raised, barking orders through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse but alive.

Castiel’s chest tightened at the sight of him.

Dean was alive.

Still fighting.

Still keeping his promise.

Castiel didn’t call his name. Didn’t announce himself. He stepped into the hall, rifle already up, and opened fire. The first SAS loyalist dropped before he even saw him. A second swung his barrel toward Dean, clean line of sight. Castiel’s shot was clean, center mass, and the man folded soundlessly into the smoke.

Dean didn’t even flinch, just glanced over his shoulder, caught sight of Castiel striding toward him through the haze, and barked a wild, breathless voice.

"You son of a bitch. What the fuck are you doing here?!" Dean shouted over the noise, teeth gritted despite the grime streaking his face.

Castiel took a knee behind the next barricade, reloading as calm as if nothing had happened, his voice low and flat.

"You’re welcome."

Dean was still pissed, but for a split second his eyes softened, even in the middle of hell.

The two of them fell into step, covering each other without a word.

One by one, the defenders fell back.

One of Dean’s men planted a charge on the blast door while Castiel covered the hall, smoke curling up from the barrel of his rifle.

Dean dropped down beside him, his chest heaving, sweat and soot clinging to his jaw.

"You didn’t have to come," Dean muttered, his smirk faint but real.

"I did," Castiel said simply, his eyes fixed on the door.

Dean glanced at him then, something hot and fierce flickering behind the green.

"…Yeah," Dean murmured finally, quieter now, almost private. "Guess you did."

The blast door gave way with a roar, the metal screeching as it tore free.

Smoke poured into the command room beyond, the dim light of monitors and map screens throwing eerie shadows across the walls.

And at the far end of the room, Nick.

He stood behind his desk, a pistol in his hand, his smile sharp and cruel even as the barrel shook slightly.

Dean and Castiel moved as one, rifles trained on him, every step deliberate.

The rest of the room fell into place around them, their squads holding the perimeter, weapons at the ready.

Nick’s smile faltered when he saw Castiel beside Dean. Castiel felt the faintest hum of tension in the air, but it didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

Dean was here.

He was here.

And this time, they weren’t leaving until it was done.

Chapter Text

A few hours ago in the tunnel...

***

Dean crouched low, his shoulder pressed to the damp concrete wall, breathing through his teeth to keep quiet.

The tunnel was darker than he’d expected. One of those old service routes, probably laid down before the war, full of dust and echoes. Their boots barely made a sound on the cracked floor as the strike team crept forward in single file, rifles at the ready, eyes sharp.

The smell of old earth and grease clung to everything, and the faint hiss of water dripping somewhere ahead kept time with his heartbeat.

Jack’s voice was in his ear, low and calm over the encrypted line.

"Two more turns and you’re under the inner sanctum," Jack murmured. "Guards above are already moving toward the distraction. Charges going… now."

A faint, muffled boom rolled through the tunnel a second later.

The ceiling dusted down grit and plaster.

Dean smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Good work, kid."

"Just keep moving, sir. He’s in there."

Dean adjusted his grip on his rifle and signaled his squad forward.

Yeah. Nick was in there. And tonight, it ended.

They moved fast but cautious, cutting through the darkness with their rifle lights turned low. The air got colder the deeper they went, the hum of generators growing louder overhead.

By the time they reached the next turn, Dean’s earpiece crackled faintly, another voice cutting through the line, clipped and calm despite the noise of gunfire in the background.

"One Actual to Two," came Castiel’s voice. "Package not here. Pursuing alternate lead. Continue with your objective. Will advise."

Dean froze mid-step.

The squad leader behind him almost bumped into him, whispering a sharp, "Sir?"

But Dean didn’t move yet. His eyes narrowed, his mind racing.

Package not here? What the hell did that mean?

His throat felt dry all of a sudden, his free hand tightening on his rifle stock.

Cas was still alive, Dean clung to that first, but pursuing alternate lead? Why? Why wasn’t Bobby where he was supposed to be? And what had gone so wrong on Cas’s side that his calm, no-nonsense tone sounded… different?

He swallowed hard and forced himself to keep moving, waving the squad forward.

Cas was alive. That was what mattered. But Dean couldn’t shake the knot in his gut, the creeping dread at the edges of his mind that everything about this mission was veering sideways, fast.

And then the knot in his gut twisted tighter.

Because as they neared the final junction, Jack’s voice cut back in, sharp and uneasy now.

"Uh… sir. Decoy charge three misfired. Didn’t take down the east wing like it was supposed to. Hearing chatter— enemy reinforcements pulling back inward toward you instead of being drawn out. They’re flooding the lower levels. I… I’m sorry."

Dean’s stomach sank.

The plan. The whole goddamn plan depended on those guards being pulled away from him, not toward him.

He swore under his breath, low and bitter, and signaled his team to close ranks.

By the time they reached the last junction, Dean could already feel the tension rising in his chest, that tight coil that only came right before a fight.

Jack’s voice came through one last time, strained.

"Your window’s closing. SAS and MI6 reinforcements are inbound to the compound above. You’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before all hell comes down on you."

"Copy," Dean muttered, though his voice was harder now, more clipped.

Fifteen minutes. And now twice the number of guards were headed his way.

They reached the final turn, and Dean raised a fist. The squad froze.

He peeked around the corner. and his stomach dropped.

Two heavy barricades had been hastily thrown up in the wide corridor outside the command room. Shadows moved behind them, rifles glinting faintly in the dim light. And then the first shots rang out.

A storm of lead chewed into the wall where his head had just been.

"Contact front!" one of his men barked.

Dean ducked back, swearing.

"Pin down those bastards! Push to the left wall!"

The team surged forward, peppering the barricades with fire as they scrambled for cover. Dean pressed himself into a corner, dust raining down from the ceiling as rounds chewed into the concrete around them.

He popped up just long enough to return fire, barking orders into the chaos.

It was bad. Too many on the other side. Too well-dug-in.

Dean’s ears rang from the noise, his pulse hammering in his throat. He forced himself to focus on the here and now, but Cas’s words still haunted him. 'Package not here. Pursuing alternate lead.' Why? What had happened on his end? Why was Bobby moved? And why was his team also getting pinned here, trapped like rats?

Dean ducked back as a round sparked off the wall near his head, his breath coming fast.

Cas was alive. He was moving. He said he’d advise. But no matter how hard Dean tried to push it down, he couldn’t shake the thought that they were both in too deep this time, that Nick had played them just enough to turn their own plan inside out.

And if Cas didn’t make it back…

Dean clenched his teeth, his jaw so tight it ached, and fired another burst toward the barricades.

The team surged forward, peppering the barricades with fire as they scrambled for cover. Dean pressed himself into a corner and laid down rounds whenever he could, shouting orders into the chaos.

They were pinned.

He could see it in his team’s faces, the creeping doubt, the grind of attrition.

And then the sound of another breach. The far door blew open with a sharp crack, smoke curling in.

Dean blinked once.

And then he saw him.

Cas.

Cool and calm as ever, moving through the haze like it didn’t touch him, rifle steady in his hands.

Dean felt a rush of relief so sharp it almost hurt his chest. Cas glanced over, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. And just like that, the balance shifted. Their squad moved as one now, leapfrogging through the haze, cutting down the defenders one barricade at a time.

Dean dropped to a knee behind a crate to reload, shouting over the din. "Keep up the pressure! On my mark, breach the door!"

He was too focused to notice the SAS man to his right until it was almost too late, a flash of movement in the smoke, a rifle rising toward him.

Dean spun, but he was half a second behind.

And then the man crumpled to the floor before he could fire, blood already blooming across his vest.

Dean turned his head just in time to see Cas lower his rifle, his expression flat, cold, unflinching.

Not even a flicker of regret in his eyes.

Dean stared for a second, then gave him the faintest, tightest nod. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to. He just turned back toward the door and kept moving.

The breach charge went off, and the last barrier fell.

Smoke rolled into the command room, choking and thick, the air heavy with the scent of burning wires and concrete dust.

Dean was the first through the door, sweeping left, his rifle trained on the figure at the far end of the room.

Nick stood behind his massive desk, his jacket off, sleeves rolled, a pistol in his hand.

His smile was sharp and slow, like a wolf’s.

"Well," Nick said, his voice carrying even over the alarms. "Isn’t that sweet. You two finally made it. I was starting to think you’d given up."

Dean stalked closer, Cas flanking him on the right.

"You’re done, Nick," Dean growled. "Game’s over. Drop it."

Nick chuckled, the sound dry and humorless.

"Oh, Dean. Still so righteous. Still playing the hero."

Dean’s finger tightened on the trigger, but Nick only raised his pistol and pointed it to them.

"You really don’t get it, do you?" Nick murmured, tilting his head slightly.

Dean barked a sharp laugh. "Oh, I get it just fine. You’re a bitter little man with a chip on his shoulder and no one left to give a damn. That about sum it up?"

Nick’s smile widened, but his eyes were dead.

"I’m tired," he said simply. "Tired of watching this country crawl behind yours like a dog on a leash. Tired of pretending we’re equals when you’ve treated us like servants for decades. You talk about allies, but we’re nothing but shadows under your boots."

Dean sneered. "So you blew up your own people just to make a point? You slaughtered innocents just to feel big?"

Nick’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed quiet. "It’s called pride, Dean. Something you wouldn’t understand. But maybe now your precious alliance will finally fall apart. Maybe now you’ll see what it feels like to stand alone."

Dean shook his head, disgust curling in his chest. "You’re pathetic."

Nick just grinned, and it made Dean want to punch his teeth down his throat. But then Nick slowly raised his other hand, and Dean’s stomach clenched.

Because in his left palm was a black box, small, unmarked, with a single red button gleaming under the dim light.

Nick’s smile curled into something sharp as he caught their eyes flick down to it.

"You really thought you had me cornered," he sneered. "You two… heroes. Crawling halfway across the world just to back me into a corner like some rat. But you never stopped to think I’d have teeth, did you?"

Dean’s jaw tightened. He risked a glance at Cas, who remained silent, his rifle trained on Nick’s chest, his face blank as stone.

Nick tapped the button idly with his thumb, grinning wider.

"One press," he said softly, "and this whole command center disappears. Gone. Every man and woman in this building burns for your arrogance."

Dean gritted his teeth. "You’re bluffing."

Nick chuckled low in his throat. "Am I? You think I didn’t know you were coming?"

Dean froze. Something cold slid into his gut.

Nick’s eyes glinted as he leaned on the desk.

"I’ve had a spy sitting in that sanctimonious witch’s team from the start. Feeding me every detail. Your rescue mission. Your safehouse. Every move you’ve made since you touched down. All of it."

Dean’s mouth went dry.

Jack’s voice had gone quiet on comms halfway through their infiltration. No chatter. No updates.

Like he’d just… disappeared.

Dean’s rifle faltered slightly.

Nick’s grin widened cruelly.

And then the door on their left opened, and one of Nick’s men shoved a figure forward into the room, hands bound, a gun pressed into his temple.

Jack.

His laptop was gone. His face was bruised, his lip split, but his eyes darted desperately to Dean and Cas the second he stumbled in.

Dean felt something bitter and hot rise in his throat.

"Kid…"

But Nick only laughed, low, mocking.

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Winchester. He’s useless to me now. Always was, really. Ever since Brize Norton. Anyway, I couldn’t just leave him outside, helping you out with his pain-in-the-ass hacking skills, could I?"

Dean flinched at the name. Brize Norton, the airbus incident.

Nick straightened, his sneer cutting deeper. He motioned to the man holding a gun to Jack’s temple, and a second later, Jack was thrown beside Cas, his breathing ragged, like he couldn’t get enough air, his eyes full of tears, regret, and apology. Now the man raised his gun again, aiming it at Dean’s group.

"Your real problem," he continued, "isn’t the kid." He tilted his head and continued, "Your real problem… is the one who’s been standing behind you this whole time. The one who told me you were coming for Singer. The one who made sure Bobby was long gone before you even landed at that black site. The one who told me exactly what you planned for tonight so I could prepare a proper welcome."

Dean’s eyes narrowed and Nick’s smile twisted.

"You should thank Gordon," he said.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

Of course.

Gordon.

The bitter second who’d hated them the moment they arrived. Who’d seethed every time Amara trusted them. Who’d been at Bobby’s side while they were here.

Nick leaned back and let out a harsh, mirthless laugh.

"All I had to do was promise him what he thought he was owed. He was all too eager to sell you both out. To make sure when the news broke tomorrow, it would all look like another American ploy. The big bad Americans, killing poor, well-respected Wing Commander Davies. How dare you, right?"

Dean’s hands tightened on his rifle.

But Castiel spoke first, his voice low, dangerous.

"We’ve got Bobby now."

Nick froze for the first time. His eyes narrowed.

Castiel tilted his head, faint mockery in his tone.

"You planned so carefully, and yet you still failed. Bobby’s alive. Safe."

But then Nick’s grin crept back, slow and cruel.

"You think so?" he hissed. "You really think Gordon would just sit there and babysit? He’s there right now, finishing the job. And when you two die here, no one’s left to stop him."

For the first time, Dean saw Castiel’s composure falter, his eyes flashing with sudden panic.

And that was when it really hit Dean, how bad this had gotten. Watching Castiel, of all people, lose his grip for even a second made the whole damn thing feel like it was already over.

The plan they’d built, the one they’d staked everything on, was coming apart at the seams right in front of him, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

For the first time in a long time, Dean felt helpless, like all he could do was stand there and watch it burn.

***

The safehouse was quiet now, save for the faint creak of old pipes and the low murmur of someone moving crates in the next room. Outside, London’s rain came down in sheets, running in silvery rivers down the cracked window. Gordon stood at the edge of the room, leaning against the cold brick wall with his arms folded, his rifle propped against the table next to him.

He watched Castiel disappear through the front door, trench coat flaring behind him like a ghost, heading out into the storm to chase after Dean Winchester.

He still remembered the moment Amara had delivered the orders months ago, standing in the briefing room with her calm, measured voice cutting through the low murmur of the others. "Captain Dean Winchester and 1st Lieutenant Castiel Collins will take point on this operation," she’d said, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a complete insult. Gordon had stood there, fists clenching behind his back, feeling his blood boil as the others exchanged uneasy glances.

An outsider. A damn outsider, wearing that trench coat and that blank stare, walking in here like he owned the place. And Dean, some American cowboy who thought his name meant something. Didn’t Amara realize how fragile the whole plan was already? How every moving part had to stay perfectly balanced? Putting those two at the head of the team threatened everything Nick had built… everything Gordon had sacrificed. That was the moment he’d decided, quietly and firmly, that if the mission fell apart, he’d make sure the blame landed squarely on their shoulders.

For the first time in weeks, Gordon allowed himself a small, thin smile.

It had worked.

The plan had worked.

They’d come back from Grey Row alive, dragging Bobby Singer with them, battered but breathing, all of them thinking they’d pulled off a miracle. Nobody suspected a thing. Not even Castiel. And if Castiel didn’t suspect you, you were golden.

He shifted his weight and let his hands slide into his pockets, fingers brushing against the little encrypted comm chip buried in his jacket lining.

'They had no idea who you really were. None of them ever do.'

Across the room, Jo passed by, her rifle slung casually over her shoulder, her boots leaving muddy prints on the concrete floor. She glanced at him for half a second, offered a tight nod, and kept going.

Gordon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

If she knew, if any of them knew, what he’d done to get here, they’d tear him apart where he stood.

But they didn’t.

And they never would.

Later, when the others were tending to Singer and patching up their wounds, Gordon slipped into one of the smaller side rooms. He closed the door softly behind him and leaned back against it, letting out a long breath.

His hands trembled as he pulled out the worn, creased photograph he always kept tucked into his shirt. The edges were frayed, the surface smudged and faded, but her face was still clear enough to see, Ella Walker, smiling shyly at the camera in her Sunday dress, sunlight catching in her hair.

His little sister.

She would’ve been twenty-one this year.

He gripped the photo so tightly it crumpled in his fist, his mind going back to that night.

He could still smell the smoke.

Gordon was nineteen, home from his first tour and visiting his family in a little village they’d moved to while he was gone, his mother thought it’d be safer than staying stateside in D.C., after all the unrest.

It wasn’t.

He’d been out back helping Ella hang laundry when the sound of helicopters cut through the air. Then the mortars came screaming down from nowhere.

Everything happened fast. Too fast.

The roof collapsed, the house burned, and the streets were filled with screaming neighbors as American soldiers in desert camo stormed through, kicking in doors, dragging people into the open at gunpoint.

They called it a counter-insurgency raid.

Collateral damage, they said later.

Gordon’s mother died instantly in the first blast.

Ella survived long enough for him to drag her into the alley behind the house, her little body shaking in his arms, her chest torn open, her breath wet and weak.

The last thing she said to him was his name. Just his name.

When the soldiers finally cleared out, Gordon sat there in the dust holding her body, staring at the stars overhead.

And that was the night he decided he didn’t give a damn about the Stars and Stripes anymore.

Later, when Nick found him, Gordon was already half-feral, drifting through back alleys and black markets, making a living however he could.

Nick sat across from him in a dark café and slid a folder across the table.

"You want justice for her? For what they took from you?" Nick asked, his voice slick, full of quiet promise.

"You help me bring this country to its knees, Gordon… and I’ll give you all the justice you can stomach."

And here he was.

Gordon slipped the photo back into his shirt and straightened, his jaw tight.

Tonight was the night he finished the job.

Bobby Singer was alive, but that was only temporary.

Nick had made it very clear. Singer wasn’t supposed to leave Grey Row breathing. Gordon’s failure there had already cost them Caleb.

He thought of Caleb, the way he’d gone down in the mud, clutching his gut, screaming as Nick’s men cut him down while the rest of the team scrambled to drag Singer out. Ian had been the one to reach him too late, to see the light go out of his eyes.

Ian would never forgive that.

Good thing Ian didn’t know who’d tipped Nick off about Grey Row in the first place.

Good thing none of them did.

The safehouse was quiet as he made his way upstairs. He kept his steps slow, deliberate, just another soldier doing his rounds.

The door to Bobby’s room was cracked open just enough for him to see the older man lying on the cot, half-asleep, hooked up to an IV.

No guards. Not here. Not with everyone else too busy worrying about Dean and Castiel out there somewhere.

Gordon slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

The knife came out of his boot sheath without a sound.

He stood over Singer for a long moment, watching the man breathe.

"Sorry, old man," he murmured under his breath. "Orders are orders."

He raised the knife.

But then,

"Gordon?"

Jo’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

She stood in the doorway, rifle half-raised, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene, the knife in Gordon’s hand, his posture, the look on his face.

Behind her, Ian appeared a second later and froze.

Gordon cursed under his breath and lunged.

Jo sidestepped and swung her rifle like a bat, catching his shoulder hard, but Gordon was faster and stronger than either of them expected. He drove her back into the wall and pinned her there, knife flashing.

Then Ian was on him, grabbing his arm and wrenching it away from Bobby. The three of them went down in a tangle of limbs, the knife skittering across the floor.

Ian’s fist connected with Gordon’s jaw, but Gordon slammed an elbow into Ian’s ribs, making him stagger.

"You son of a bitch—" Ian snarled, realization dawning in his eyes.

"You tipped them off," Ian growled, his voice thick with rage and disbelief. "The black site. Grey Row. Caleb. It was you. YOU."

"That kid was dead the second he signed up," Gordon spat back, shoving Ian off him.

Jo struggled back to her feet, blood running down the side of her face. She raised her sidearm, but Ian was already moving, grabbing Gordon by the vest and slamming him back against the wall.

"You killed him!" Ian shouted, his voice cracking. "You killed Caleb!"

Gordon’s only response was a humorless laugh, even as Ian pressed his forearm against his throat.

"You don’t get it," Gordon had snarled as Ian wrestled him back. "You’re all fighting for a flag that doesn’t give a damn about you. You’re cannon fodder. All of you. Just like my sister."

Jo’s voice, sharp and incredulous, "Your what?"

"Collateral damage," Gordon had spat, baring his teeth. "She was fourteen when your great American heroes bombed my street. Fourteen. And you think I’m the monster here?"

"You sold us out," Ian had shot back, rage boiling over. "You sold out Caleb. You sold out Bobby. You sold out all of us."

Gordon’s lips had curled into a bitter smile then, even as Ian shoved him hard against the wall.

"And you’ll all die for nothing," Gordon had whispered. "Just like she did." He gritted his teeth and continued, "Nick promised me justice," Gordon hissed through gritted teeth. "None of you know what real loss feels like."

"Neither did Caleb," Ian shot back.

And then, in one brutal motion, Ian drew his sidearm and fired point-blank into Gordon’s chest.

The silence after the gunshot was deafening.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the quiet drip-drip of rainwater seeping through the cracked window, the faint static hiss of an abandoned comm still transmitting somewhere in the corner.

Ian stood over Gordon’s body, his chest heaving, pistol still raised.

Jo leaned heavily against the wall, sliding down until she sat on the floor. Her breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, her rifle lying beside her.

Her forearm burned where the blade had cut her. She could already feel the warm stickiness of blood soaking through her sleeve.

But she couldn’t take her eyes off Gordon.

He was lying at an angle on the floor, his lifeless stare fixed on the ceiling, a faint trickle of blood spreading beneath him. For the first time since she’d met him, Gordon looked… small.

Not the towering presence who always stood a little straighter than the rest of them. Not the soldier who always seemed a little too calm under fire.

Now he was just another corpse on another dirty floor.

And yet even now, Jo felt no triumph.

No relief.

Only anger, and a hollow, bitter ache in her chest.

The pieces fell into place now, one after another, and each one hurt worse than the last.

All those times Gordon had "scouted ahead" and conveniently disappeared before they were ambushed. The missions that went sideways for no reason anyone could figure out.

Caleb.

Jo flinched as the memory flashed through her mind, Caleb falling in the mud in Grey Row, his eyes wide and scared, his hands clamped uselessly over his stomach as the blood poured through his fingers.

She remembered Ian screaming his name, dragging him behind cover, promising him they’d get him home.

But they hadn’t.

And now she knew why.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her arm to stem the bleeding.

"You bastard," she muttered under her breath, looking at Gordon’s body. "You killed him. You killed all of us, just a little at a time."

Ian finally lowered his pistol, though his fingers were still white-knuckled around the grip.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, staring down at the man he’d called his teammate for months.

He thought of all the times Gordon had clapped him on the shoulder before a drop. All the nights they’d shared smokes outside a safehouse. All the moments he’d thought, 'at least one of us here still gets it.'

What a damn fool he’d been.

His voice was hoarse when it finally came out.

"You…" he started, but the words caught in his throat.

"You’re the reason Caleb’s dead," he finally forced out, his tone sharp as broken glass.

The memory of Caleb’s face, bloodied, confused, in pain, twisted like a knife in his gut.

"You fed them everything. Every op. Every name. All so your boss could pat you on the head and tell you ‘well done,’ huh? You piece of—"

He cut himself off, his jaw tightening so hard it ached.

He wanted to kick the body. Spit on it.

But that would almost feel like letting Gordon off easy.

But Gordon hadn’t gone down quietly.

Ian replayed the final moments in his head, and it made his stomach churn. The knife glinting in Gordon’s hand as he moved toward Bobby’s bed. The way he’d turned, eyes hard and cold as Ian and Jo confronted him.

No remorse.

No apology.

Just venom.

Jo forced herself to her feet, wincing at the pain in her arm, but she couldn’t stay still any longer.

Her thoughts raced as she glanced at Bobby, still unconscious on the cot, oblivious to how close he’d come to dying again.

Nick would twist this.

Use it against Dean and Castiel, just like he used everything else.

Her hands tightened on her comms as she keyed it up, her breath hitching.

"If they don’t know already," she murmured, half to herself, "they’re gonna find out the hard way."

Jo pressed the comms to her lips, her voice low and unsteady as she tried to raise them.

At first all she got was static. Then, finally, a faint, ragged signal cut through.

"—Cas…" she started, her throat tight. "Don’t… worry about Singer. Gordon… tried… Bobby— but Ian… took him out. Gordon’s dead. Singer’s fine. You… focus on finishing this."

Her breath trembled as she pulled the comms away, leaning back against the wall. Ian sank down next to her, still gripping his pistol, his knuckles bloody, his eyes blank.

They didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

***

On the other end of the comms, Dean let out a shaky breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding when Jo’s voice crackled through his earpiece.

He closed his eyes briefly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Beside him, Castiel’s grip tightened on his rifle, his eyes narrowing, his jaw setting into that cold, terrifying calm Dean had come to recognize over the years.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

Dean adjusted his grip on his weapon, casting a glance at Cas as they stood in front of Nick.

"Oh, Castiel. I'm surprised you’re still alive." His eyes flicked between them. "But I figure that’s just luck."

Cas let out a quiet laugh, no humor in it at all.

"Yeah? Funny thing about luck," Cas said. He straightened, then his grin dropped.

"You’re fresh out of it."

Nick’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

That was when Dean spoke. His voice was low and even, but it cut through the air like a blade.

"Gordon’s dead."

Nick froze for a heartbeat. His mask slipped, just for a second, before he forced it back on.

"Dead?" Nick said, feigning calm. "Well. That’s… unfortunate. Accidents happen in the field."

Dean snorted and leaned in close enough for Nick to feel his breath.

"Wasn’t no accident," Dean growled. "Your little mole tried to finish what you started. Tried to put a knife in Singer’s ribs. Didn’t work out too good for him."

Nick’s lip twitched.

Dean went on anyway, relentless.

"Jo and Ian caught him. And then Ian…" Dean mimed a gun with his fingers, cocked it at Nick’s forehead, and dropped his thumb. "…took care of business. Quick and clean."

Nick’s jaw tightened.

Castiel’s eyes never left him, cold, unblinking, his hands resting lightly on the rifle slung across his chest.

"Bobby Singer is alive," Castiel said quietly. "And he’ll stay that way."

Nick tried to laugh it off, a dry, brittle sound. "You really think you’ve won something here? One dead spy and a washed-up old man?"

Dean leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"Oh, we won plenty. You sent one of yours into our house, and now he’s bleeding out on the floor where he belongs. You want to keep sending guys? Go ahead. We’ll keep burying them."

Nick’s smile was gone now.

Castiel spoke one last time, his tone colder than steel.

"You’ve lost," he said quietly.

Nick’s thumb hovered over the button.

But Dean was already shifting forward now too, green eyes locked on Nick, voice low and venomous.

"Drop the goddamn box, Nick."

Nick’s sneer faltered as both rifles trained squarely on his chest, twin predators closing in.

Dean bared his teeth in a grim smile.

"You’re done."

Nick’s sneer didn’t last.

But he still didn’t drop the box.

In fact, his thumb tightened.

"You really think you’re fast enough?" Nick hissed, his voice shaking but his eyes wild. "You think you can stop me before I press it? Go ahead. Try me. Let’s see if you’re really that good."

Dean’s jaw flexed. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

Castiel didn’t move, his rifle steady, his eyes locked on Nick’s.

Nick’s thumb pressed.

And in the same instant Castiel moved.

His rifle clattered to the floor as he lunged, crossing the space between them like a shadow, faster than Nick’s reflexes could ever be.

Dean fired at the same time. A single, sharp crack, the round splintering the corner of the desk and jerking Nick’s arm just enough off center. Another shot was fired from one of Dean's men and Nick’s loyalist fell to the floor with a heavy thud.

The button didn’t depress.

And then Castiel was on him.

He slammed into Nick like a hammer, driving him back against the wall. One gloved hand closed around Nick’s wrist and wrenched it sideways with a sickening pop. The little black box skittered to the floor and spun under the desk.

Nick let out a strangled cry as his pistol clattered uselessly to the ground.

Dean was already vaulting the desk, kicking the pistol out of reach, his rifle slung now as he grabbed Nick’s other arm and twisted it behind his back.

Nick’s knees buckled under them as the two men forced him face-down onto the floor, his cheek scraping against the cold concrete.

Dean knelt on his back, growling through gritted teeth.

"You think you can play us, huh? You think you’re smarter than everyone else? You think we wouldn’t see through your pathetic little power trip?"

Nick struggled weakly, but Castiel’s knee pinned his broken arm against the floor and Nick went still with a sharp gasp of pain.

Dean leaned down close, his voice low and venomous.

"You’re done, Nick. You hear me? It’s over."

Nick only laughed weakly, the sound more like a wheeze. His eyes stayed locked on Cas. But even with him pinned down, even with the room full of armed soldiers and no way out, Nick’s smile never faded.

"You really think you’ve won?" he said softly, his voice venomous now. His gaze flicked between Dean and Cas. "You’re just replacing one tyrant with another."

Dean didn’t flinch. He just leaned in, his voice low and steady.

"Maybe," he said. "But at least it won’t be you."

Nick’s smile finally faltered, just a little, as they cuffed his hands behind his back and dragged him out from behind the desk.

Dean watched him go, his heart still hammering, his hands still tight around his rifle. Then his eyes fell on Jack, who was now being carried outside by his men to be checked by a medic.

And when he felt Cas’s shoulder brush his as they stood there in the haze of the ruined room, Dean let himself breathe again.

Just a little.

***

The clatter of Nick’s boots faded as the squad hauled him down the long corridor, his venom still lingering in the air like smoke.

Dean stood there a little longer, staring at the wreck of the command room. Paper fluttered down from where a stray bullet had chewed through a map board. Somewhere deeper in the building, an alarm kept wailing, shrill and pointless now.

He finally lowered his rifle and slung it over his shoulder, rolling his neck with a low crack.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Cas standing by the door, his expression unreadable.

Most of the team had already gone ahead, escorting Nick topside. The hallway beyond the room was empty except for the two of them.

Dean stepped out into the corridor, and Cas fell in silently beside him.

They walked for a few paces like that, their boots echoing off the concrete walls, the weight of it all hanging heavy between them.

Dean glanced sideways, his lips quirking faintly despite the adrenaline still thrumming through his blood.

Dean’s eyes flicked to Cas. He was standing near him, speaking low into his earpiece, his posture stiff. After a moment, Cas straightened and turned back toward him.

"They’ve secured the safehouse," Cas said evenly. "Jo confirms Bobby is stable. Ian took care of Gordon before he could finish the job."

Dean exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. "So he really was dirty all along."

Cas’s jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded. "He fed Nick everything. Bobby’s transfer. The timeline. Even the decoy mission."

Dean spat onto the floor and shook his head, a humorless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Son of a bitch. Always had a bad feeling about him."

"He’s dead now," Cas said simply. "It’s over."

Dean let out a bitter little chuckle at that. "Guess Ian earned himself a drink. Hell, a whole damn bottle."

Cas didn’t smile. Then he hesitated, just long enough for Dean to notice.

Dean’s eyes cut sideways to him. "…What?"

Cas’s gaze stayed forward, his voice low. "Caleb didn’t make it."

For a moment, Dean just stared. No sound, no movement. Just that quiet, sharp breath through his nose. He dropped his eyes again and scrubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Damn it," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Cas didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, solid and silent at Dean’s side, as the weight of the name settled between them.

Dean watched him for a moment, then cleared his throat and nodded toward the comm in Cas’s hand. "Safehouse okay?"

Cas glanced down at it, then met Dean’s eyes.

"They’re shaken. But they’ll hold."

Dean grunted, looking over at where Nick had gone.

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "Guess now it’s just him we gotta worry about."

Cas followed his gaze, silent, but the faint hard edge in his eyes was all the answer Dean needed.

"Kinda brutal there, Cas," he muttered.

Castiel didn’t look at him.

"He was going to press it," was all he said.

Dean’s smirk faded. His jaw tightened, his gaze falling to the floor ahead of them. He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah," he admitted. "He was."

Cas didn’t look away. Dean just exhaled slowly, the sound more like a sigh than anything else. For a moment, Cas said nothing. Then his lips pressed into something that might’ve been a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"It's good to see you, Dean."

Dean huffed softly at that, and they fell into silence again.

A little further down the hall, Dean stopped and leaned back against the wall, finally letting himself relax just enough to feel how sore his muscles were.

He dropped his rifle to the floor, running a hand over his face.

Cas stood a few feet away, watching him in that quiet way of his.

Dean looked up at him, and for the first time tonight, allowed a little softness into his voice.

"You didn’t have to come back for me, you know."

Cas tilted his head faintly, like the thought confused him.

"Don't even start," he said.

Dean’s throat worked around the words he didn’t say, didn’t even know how to say, and instead he just shook his head with a faint chuckle.

"You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?"

That earned him the ghost of a smirk from Cas, and the smallest shrug.

"I’ve heard."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then straightened and took a step closer.

He reached out, catching Cas by the front of his vest, and tugged him forward just enough to close the space between them.

"Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again," he murmured, his voice low.

Cas’s eyes softened, though his tone stayed steady.

"You would have done the same."

Dean didn’t argue. He just stood there, his hand still curled in Cas’s vest, feeling the warmth of him even through all the layers of Kevlar and grit and blood.

And when Cas finally reached up and placed his own hand over Dean’s, steady and grounding, Dean let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

For a long time they didn’t say anything, just stood there in the quiet, letting the din of the world fade away behind them.

Finally Dean pulled back, giving Cas’s vest one last tug before letting go.

"You good?" he asked, his voice rough but honest.

Cas nodded.

"You?"

Dean managed a faint grin.

"Not yet," he said. "But I will be. When this is really over."

Cas’s mouth quirked just slightly, something knowing and tired in his eyes.

"It’s almost over."

Dean gave a little snort, shaking his head.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Almost."

He slung his rifle back over his shoulder, stepping back into the middle of the corridor and glancing toward the stairwell where the others had taken Nick.

Then he glanced back at Cas and gave him a look that was sharp and warm all at once.

"C’mon," he said. "Let’s finish this thing. Then you and me, we’re buying the first round."

Cas inclined his head, the corners of his mouth curling just enough to count as a smile.

"Deal," he said.

And side by side, they walked into the stairwell, the echoes of their boots fading into the quiet.

Together.

Always.

***

Dean followed Cas out of the corridor, still feeling the warmth of his vest against his palm.

The stairwell ahead buzzed with voices and boots, their team, moving Nick up toward the surface under heavy guard. The compound was still a warzone, alarms howling, more reinforcements scrambling in the distance, but their job was done.

Or so Dean thought.

Nick was halfway up the stairs, his hands cuffed behind his back, two soldiers gripping each arm as they hauled him forward. His eyes caught Dean’s across the crowd, and for just a second, Dean thought he saw something there, not fear, not anger. Something colder.

And then it happened.

Quick as a snake, Nick dipped sideways, his fingers closing around something on the floor, a fallen sidearm from one of the guards who’d been hit in the chaos.

The whole world seemed to slow down.

Dean shouted, "Gun! He’s got a—!"

But Nick was already turning, the pistol coming up, his eyes locked squarely on Dean.

Dean’s breath hitched. He tried to move, to dive, to raise his own rifle, but it was too fast, too sudden.

And then Cas moved.

In one sharp, instinctive motion, Cas stepped in front of him, broad shoulders shielding Dean’s chest just as the shot rang out.

The sound was deafening in the narrow stairwell.

Dean felt the impact through Cas more than he heard it, saw his body jerk as the bullet punched into his vest, right over his heart.

"Cas!" Dean’s voice cracked, raw and panicked.

Cas stumbled back into him, his weight heavy, his rifle clattering to the floor as his knees buckled. Dean caught him on instinct, his hands gripping his arms as they both dropped to one knee.

Blood was already soaking through the black vest, dark and spreading fast.

Dean’s mind went white.

He barely registered the rest of the team tackling Nick to the ground, ripping the pistol from his grip and pinning him there with furious shouts.

All Dean could see was Cas, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he sagged against Dean’s chest.

"Hey, hey—no, no, no, Cas—stay with me," Dean was saying, barely aware of the words as he pressed his hand to the wound. His gloves came away slick with blood.

The medic was already pushing through the chaos, barking orders, dropping to her knees beside them.

"Let him go, sir."

But Dean didn’t want to let go.

He couldn’t.

"Dean," Cas rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

Dean’s throat closed up, and he forced out something that sounded like, "Don’t talk. Just—don’t. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine."

Cas managed the faintest smirk before his eyes slid shut again.

It felt like his whole chest split apart, like his ribs couldn’t hold it in. Dean stayed there, he didn't budge, arms locked around Cas. The medic muttered a curse and motioned for help, and it took two men to pull Dean up and off of him, prying his hands free. Together they pulled him back, tearing him away from Cas’s side.

The medic and another soldier lifted Cas onto a stretcher, strapping him down as they called for medivac.

Dean stood there, frozen, hands still stained red, his breath coming too fast, his rifle dangling uselessly at his side.

And then his eyes snapped up to Nick, still on the floor, pinned, but his head turned just enough to meet Dean’s gaze.

And he smiled.

Something inside Dean snapped.

He stormed forward, shoving one of the guards out of the way, grabbing Nick by the collar and hauling him halfway off the ground.

Nick didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just stared at him with that same sick little smile, even as Dean slammed him into the wall hard enough to rattle the concrete.

Dean’s free hand went for his sidearm.

It would’ve been so easy.

One shot. That’s all it would take.

But just as his finger tightened on the trigger, he heard another voice, sharp, urgent, crackle in his earpiece.

"Don’t let him win, Dean."

Jack’s voice.

Dean froze, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached.

Nick was still smiling, and that somehow made it worse, made Dean want it even more.

But he forced himself to stop.

He forced himself to breathe.

And with a guttural snarl, he shoved Nick back into the arms of the waiting guards.

"Get him out of my sight," Dean growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The soldiers nodded and dragged Nick away, his cuffs biting into his wrists, his smile finally fading as they marched him up the stairs.

Dean didn’t watch.

He turned back toward the stretcher just as the medics carried Cas past him toward the landing zone, already radioing ahead to the hospital.

Dean followed at a jog, his rifle bouncing against his chest, his blood still on his hands, his chest tight and aching.

When they reached the landing pad, the medics were already loading Cas into the waiting bird, the rotors whining as they spun up.

Dean climbed in after them without asking permission, gripping the edge of the stretcher as they lifted off into the night.

Cas’s face was pale under the harsh cabin lights, his breath still shallow but steady enough to keep Dean’s heart beating.

Dean leaned close, his voice low but firm, right next to his ear.

"If you die, I swear to God, I’m dragging you back just to make you regret it," he said.

His hand stayed wrapped tight around Cas’s arm as the medivac cut through the dark.

No more promises. No more words.

Just that.

Chapter Text

***

Dean paced the hospital corridor like his boots were on fire.

The antiseptic smell was enough to choke him.

So was the silence.

Every time he passed the little window into Cas’s room, he caught a glimpse of him lying there, chest bandaged, pale as the sheets, the monitors beeping steadily, cruel in their indifference.

Dean couldn’t stay inside for long. It was too still, too quiet, too much. So he kept pacing. Up and down the hall, hands shoved in his pockets, head down.

And as the hours stretched into days, the world outside moved on.

The morning after the raid, Bobby Singer was transferred to another safehouse. Dean hadn’t been there, he’d been here, but he’d seen the report on the little TV bolted to the wall of the waiting room.

Bobby, looking like hell but still sharp as a blade, stepping in front of cameras with MPs at his elbows, telling the world what Nick really was.

Dean remembered hearing Bobby’s voice on the broadcast, "Nick’s been pulling the strings for months. Planting evidence, faking comms, framing our allies. And the people paying the price for his pride are innocent. Every last one of ‘em."

It had taken everything Dean had not to drive straight to Nick’s cell and finish what he’d started.

Instead, he stayed here. With Cas.

The next day, Jack leaked everything.

Dean had been sitting in the chair by Cas’s bed when his phone buzzed, and he saw the headline.

"Leaked MI6 Memos Reveal UK Official’s Plot to Frame USAF in RAF Attack."

It was all over the networks within minutes, the forged comms tapes, the planted bioweapons, the falsified radar data. Everything.

Jack even sent him a little text afterward: Told you we’d make him eat it. Don’t worry about here, sir. Watch your man.

Dean stared at that message for a long time before tucking the phone back into his pocket.

Cas hadn’t moved. Dean stayed anyway.

By the third day, Parliament had halted the strikes and detained Nick as a traitor.

Dean saw the footage of Nick being marched through the halls of Westminster in cuffs, his smug little smile finally gone.

Dean didn’t smile, though.

Not yet.

Not until Cas woke up.

On the fourth day, Amara was reinstated and released.

She even called him, well, ordered someone to call him, and left a message thanking them both. Dean didn’t even bother listening to the whole thing. He was too busy holding Cas’s hand, watching the monitors tick steady and slow, waiting for those damn blue eyes to open.

The doctors told him they’d done everything they could. That the bullet hadn’t hit anything fatal. That Cas just needed time.

Dean didn’t care about their damn charts.

He just kept showing up. Every morning, he’d take the same seat by the bed. Pull the same chair up close. Sit there and watch him breathe. Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he didn’t.

But he stayed.

It was on the fifth morning that it finally happened.

Dean had dozed off, his head resting on folded arms on the edge of the bed. The sunlight through the window had just started to warm his back when he felt the faintest pressure against his fingers.

He blinked awake, groggy, and sat up.

And froze.

Because Cas’s fingers were moving, clumsy and weak but moving, against his own.

Dean’s heart stopped and stuttered all at once.

"Cas?" he croaked.

It took a second.

Then Cas’s eyes cracked open, just a little, the blue of them dulled but there.

And Dean… laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was breathless and sharp and almost broke into a sob.

"Hey," he said, grinning like an idiot through wet eyes. "There you are."

Cas blinked at him, his mouth tugging faintly upward even as his eyelids drooped again.

"You came back," Dean whispered, his hand still gripping Cas’s tightly.

Cas’s voice was barely a rasp, but it was there.

"Always."

Dean dropped his forehead against Cas’s shoulder and let himself breathe for the first time in days.

Dean didn’t know how long he sat there with his head on Cas’s shoulder, but by the time he finally sat up straight, the sun was already slanting warm through the blinds. Cas had drifted back into a light sleep, his chest rising steady under the sheets, but his color looked better now. His hand still lay loosely in Dean’s, and Dean hadn’t let go since the moment those eyes had opened.

For the first time in what felt like years, Dean let himself lean back in his chair and just… breathe.

He must’ve nodded off again, because the next thing he knew, there was a soft knock at the door.

Dean jerked awake, blinking, his hand automatically squeezing Cas’s before he looked up.

Amara stood in the doorway, immaculate in a dark suit, her hair swept back, her expression warm but faintly amused. Behind her, Jack leaned in awkwardly, a faint grin on his face, and Bobby brought up the rear, looking as grumpy and solid as ever.

"Well," Bobby said, eyeing Dean. "You look like hell."

Dean barked a laugh despite himself, rubbing at his neck. "Yeah, well. You’re welcome."

Amara smiled faintly as she stepped into the room, her heels quiet on the tile. "He’s awake?"

Dean nodded, glancing back at Cas. "For a minute. Enough to scare the crap outta me, then he passed back out."

Jack let out a soft breath and leaned against the wall, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

"I told you he’d pull through," Jack said.

Dean smirked wryly at him. "Yeah. You’re still a cocky little shit, you know that?"

Jack just grinned.

Bobby pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed, settling into it with a grunt. He looked Cas over with a professional eye, then gave Dean a sharp nod. "He’s tougher than he looks. You boys did good."

Dean didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he just nodded back.

Amara stayed quiet for a while, watching Cas sleep. Then she finally turned to Dean, her voice low but carrying.

"You saved more than just him," she said. "You saved all of us. The alliance. The fragile little threads holding this mess together."

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "We just… did what we had to do."

Her smile deepened just a little. "And not everyone would’ve."

Dean let that hang in the air for a moment before he straightened, folding his arms over his chest and meeting her gaze squarely. His voice stayed level, calm, but his eyes were hard.

"You knew," he said. "Didn’t you? About Gordon. About someone feeding Nick intel. You just didn’t know who yet."

Amara didn’t flinch. Instead, she inclined her head slightly, almost like she was impressed.

"That’s half the reason I needed you and Castiel leading those missions," she admitted. "I trusted my London safehouse team, but even trust isn’t absolute in this line of work. I couldn’t risk leaving command in the hands of someone already compromised. You two… you were my way of finding the cracks while still getting the job done."

Dean exhaled through his nose, shaking his head faintly. "Hell of a gamble."

"Perhaps," Amara replied softly. "But a necessary one. And you proved me right. Gordon’s death isn’t just the end of a traitor, it’s the end of a hole in my shield I couldn’t afford."

She studied him for a moment longer, her dark eyes shining faintly in the dim light.

"So thank you, Dean," she said at last, her tone quiet but weighted. "For seeing it through. For meeting the ends I couldn’t have, and for holding the line even when I left you in the dark."

Dean didn’t say anything at first. He just gave a faint, dry huff of a laugh, and glanced at Cas asleep on the cot.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Somebody’s gotta."

Jack pushed off the wall, pulling a small tablet out of his bag and flipping it on. "Figured you’d wanna see this," he said, holding it out to Dean.

Dean took it and squinted at the screen. Headlines scrolled past, one after another:

"Parliament Suspends Airstrikes as Evidence of Treason Emerges"

"US–UK Alliance Stabilized After Singer Testimony"

"Nick’s Covert Plot Uncovered: RAF Wing Commander Arrested for Treason"

"General Amara Scheider Reinstated, Promises ‘Renewed Partnership’"

Dean scrolled through them slowly, letting each one sink in.

Bobby leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "World owes you two more than it’ll ever know."

Dean glanced down at Cas, his voice quieter now. "The world just got lucky."

Bobby smirked faintly but didn’t push.

Amara finally straightened, smoothing an invisible crease from her sleeve. "I’ll leave you to him," she said. "When he’s stronger, we’ll talk about the next steps. But for now, rest. Both of you."

Jack gave Dean a little salute as he followed Amara out, and even Bobby didn’t bother with another snarky comment before heading after them.

When the door closed, the room was quiet again.

Dean set the tablet down on the table, leaned forward, and rubbed his hands over his face.

It was finally over.

For now.

He stayed like that for a minute, just breathing, before he heard a soft, dry rasp from the bed.

"You… still here?"

Dean’s head shot up, and his chest gave that stupid little ache again when he saw Cas looking at him through half-lidded eyes, faintly amused despite the oxygen tube under his nose.

Dean let out a shaky laugh and stood, leaning over him.

"Yeah," Dean said gruffly. "Still here."

Cas’s fingers twitched toward him, and Dean caught his hand without even thinking.

"Good," Cas murmured, his eyes already fluttering shut again.

Dean smiled faintly, squeezing his hand.

"Always," Dean said softly, and this time he didn’t bother hiding how much he meant it.

He sat back down, still holding Cas’s hand, and for the first time in days let himself close his eyes too.

The next morning, Dean sat by Cas’s bed with his feet kicked up on the edge of the chair and a paper cup of bad coffee cooling in his hand.

Cas was awake now, not all the way, not Cas awake, but enough to keep his eyes open for longer stretches, enough to rasp out a few dry, cutting comments when Dean hovered too much. That was how Dean knew he was getting better.

The knock on the door was brisk, almost impatient.

Dean looked up and frowned. "Yeah?"

The door swung open without waiting for his answer, and two women swept in like they owned the place.

Charlie Bradbury, all freckles and a too-big hoodie, holding a giant get-well balloon in one hand and a tablet in the other, grinned when she saw Dean’s face.

Behind her came Meg Masters, sunglasses perched on her head, leather jacket over hospital-inappropriate stilettos, smirking like she’d just won a bet.

"Well, well," Meg purred. "If it isn’t Loverboy keeping vigil. Who could’ve guessed."

Dean groaned and rubbed his face with one hand. "Oh, great."

Charlie ignored him and beelined straight for Cas, who was now blinking at them both in mild confusion.

"Hey, big guy," Charlie chirped, setting the balloon next to his bed and leaning over to pat his arm. "You look like shit. But better than the last guy I saw in this room, so you’re already ahead."

Cas blinked once, then rasped, "Charlie."

Dean actually saw the corner of his mouth twitch up, just barely, as she grinned at him.

"That’s me. Don’t worry, I brought you something."

She flipped her tablet around and showed him the home screen, which was already scrolling through what looked like pages of media files.

"Adorable cat videos," she said. "And a few really creative memes about Nick getting his ass handed to him. I thought you could use both."

Cas made a low, weak sound that might’ve been a laugh.

Meg leaned lazily against the wall, crossing her arms. "You boys really know how to drag out the drama. You couldn’t just cuff the bastard quietly and go home? Had to add blood and sirens?"

Dean shot her a look. "You’re welcome."

She just smirked and sauntered closer, reaching down to adjust Cas’s pillow with surprising gentleness.

"Don’t let him guilt-trip you," Meg told Cas lightly. "He's been pacing this hallway like a caged tiger for days. You’d think he took the bullet himself."

"Meg," Cas murmured hoarsely, his eyes on her now.

Meg raised an eyebrow and let a real, warm smile soften her face for just a second. "Yeah, Clarence. It’s me."

She patted his arm once, then straightened.

Dean stood awkwardly by the bed while the two women bantered at each other, trading quips and barbs like they’d never left.

Somewhere deep down, he was grateful they came.

He’d been so wrapped up in his own quiet panic, sitting by this bed night after night, he’d forgotten how much light they could bring into a room.

Charlie plopped into the chair on the other side of the bed, cracking her knuckles.

"Well, you just focus on healing up," she told Cas. "Meg and I will keep the world from falling apart till you’re back on your feet. And hey, Dean will still be here pretending not to stare at you while you sleep."

Dean groaned and threw his hands up. "Oh shut up."

Cas’s lips twitched faintly into something almost like a smile.

Meg smirked at Dean. "You’re cute when you’re flustered."

Dean turned and pointed at the door. "Both of you. Out."

Charlie just laughed and leaned back in her chair, ignoring him completely.

Eventually the two of them left, after more teasing, after Meg fussed unnecessarily with Cas’s blanket, after Charlie made Dean promise to text updates every few hours.

Dean dropped back into his chair, shaking his head.

Cas turned his head slightly to look at him, his voice a low whisper.

"They care about you too."

Dean froze at that, caught off guard. Then he let out a quiet breath, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Guess they do."

Cas’s hand found his under the sheets, weak but deliberate.

And Dean held on, watching his face, not caring about anything else right now but that faint smile still playing at the edges of Cas’s lips.

***

The room was quiet again.

Charlie and Meg’s laughter still seemed to echo faintly in Dean’s head even after they left, replaced now by the soft beep of the heart monitor and the occasional hum of the air vent above.

Dean sat back in the chair, boots kicked up on the edge of Cas’s bedframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

Cas was awake again, eyes open just enough to catch Dean staring, and, of course, to call him out on it.

"You’re… doing it again," Cas rasped, voice still dry as the Sahara.

Dean blinked and leaned forward with an exaggerated frown. "Doing what again?"

"Hovering."

Dean snorted. "Hovering? I’m sitting here like a perfectly normal, concerned party. There’s no hovering involved."

Cas gave him a look. A full-on Cas look, the one that said, 'you’re full of shit and you know it.'

Dean rolled his eyes and leaned back again, throwing his hands up. "Fine. I’m hovering. Big deal. Sue me."

Cas let his eyelids drift shut again, but the corner of his mouth tugged faintly upward.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Dean picking idly at the edge of his jacket sleeve, listening to the faint bustle of nurses outside.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out quieter than he meant it to.

"You know… when you went down like that—"

Cas opened one eye lazily at him.

Dean swallowed the rest of the thought and shook his head.

"—you scared the ever-living hell outta me, man."

That faint smile curved just a little wider.

"Not my… intention," Cas murmured.

Dean snorted softly and leaned forward again, resting his arms on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, well, mission failed on that one, soldier. You gotta quit taking bullets meant for me. Not a healthy habit."

"Could say… the same… about you," Cas whispered back, his tone just dry enough to make Dean huff out a laugh.

Dean stayed quiet for a minute, staring down at Cas’s hand resting on the sheets. Without thinking too much, he slid his own over it, fingers curling gently around his.

"You know," Dean said finally, "I’ve been thinking about it. When all this crap’s over… I’m out."

Cas’s brow furrowed faintly.

Dean pressed on, voice firmer now.

"The Air Force. The ops. The whole damn circus. I’m out. Done. I figure… maybe you and me can figure out somethin’ else. Somethin’ quieter. Somethin’… better."

Cas opened his eyes fully now, staring at Dean with a look he couldn’t quite name, surprise, sure. But softer than that, too.

Dean gave him a crooked little smile.

"I mean… somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t keep jumping in front of bullets every chance you get. Might as well be me."

A faint laugh, a real laugh, escaped Cas then, weak but warm.

"Dean," he murmured, shaking his head slightly like he couldn’t believe him.

Dean squeezed his hand gently, leaning in closer now.

"And," he added, quieter, "'cause I… don’t really feel like letting you walk away again. Not now. Not ever."

Cas’s breath hitched just slightly, his blue eyes catching the light.

Dean swallowed hard, searching his face, then finally, finally, said it.

"I love you, Cas."

The words sat between them for a second. Heavy and right.

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, and smiled. "Yeah. There it is. Not taking it back, so don’t bother asking."

Cas’s fingers weakly tightened around his, and his faint smile softened into something Dean thought he could spend the rest of his damn life memorizing.

"I know," Cas whispered, and Dean laughed again, low and quiet.

"Yeah, you do. Cocky bastard."

Later, as Cas drifted back to sleep, Dean stayed there, still holding his hand, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

For the first time in years, Dean felt… grounded.

Not to the job. Not to the uniform.

But here.

With him.

Exactly where he belonged.

Chapter Text

***

It had been a hell of a thing to walk off the flight line and not look back.

Dean didn’t think it’d feel right at first.

Didn’t think he’d know what to do with himself once he handed over his wings, turned in his uniform, and signed the last piece of paper at that sterile little desk.

But a few weeks later, he stood in the middle of his own shop, oil under his nails, the smell of grease and gasoline thick in the air, a beat-up Mustang on the lift, and realized he didn’t miss it. Not really.

He’d spent his whole damn life looking up. Chasing something he couldn’t name.

But it turned out what he really wanted was here. Feet planted on the ground. Cas’s voice echoing from the other room, calling him to dinner when he forgot the time.

And hell, sometimes he still found himself looking up. Watching contrails cutting across the evening sky. But now it wasn’t because he wanted to be up there. Now it was because he knew where he belonged.

But despite everything, Dean couldn’t stop thinking about that day.

Standing with Cas at Caleb’s funeral, the cold wind biting through his coat, the sound of dirt hitting the coffin still echoing in his ears. Cas had barely said a word, just stood there stiff and pale, his arm still in a sling, his eyes fixed on the ground.

Even after he was discharged from the hospital, he hadn’t been the same. Dean kept catching him staring off into nothing, quiet in a way that scared him more than any injury ever could. It felt like something between them had cracked that day, and no matter how hard Dean tried, he didn’t know if it would ever go back to the way it was.

Still… Dean had to give it to him. Cas was pulling himself together, piece by piece, despite everything. Even now, when most men would’ve stayed down, Cas kept moving forward.

And these days, Dean lived with Cas in a little apartment above the shop. Cas kept talking about finding a house one day, something with a garden, he said, though Dean was still trying to picture Cas in gardening gloves, but for now this worked.

Cas was still performing. Still rehearsing.

Broadway, of all places.

Dean never thought he’d find himself sitting in a theater, but here he was. Front row, sometimes. Standing in the back if he got in late, just to watch Cas on stage.

There was something different about him there, the way he stood under those lights, calm and commanding all at once.

Dean hadn’t even gone to Cas’s rehearsals back when they first started this thing. Too wrapped up in his own head, maybe. Too much of a coward to let himself care.

But now?

Now he showed up every chance he got.

Cas would always catch his eye at some point during rehearsal, his mouth twitching into the faintest smile, and Dean would grin back like an idiot, because yeah, this was theirs now.

Tonight, though, they weren’t at the shop. Or the apartment. Or the theater.

Tonight they were here.

The Roadhouse.

Dean leaned against the bar, a bottle of beer sweating in his hand, and watched the place fill up with laughter and music.

Pilots on one side of the room, loud, laughing, still throwing paper airplanes like overgrown kids. Theater people on the other, flamboyant, bright, dramatic in ways that made the pilots stare.

And right there in the middle was Cas.

Dean couldn’t help but smile, watching him. The way Cas moved so easily between the two worlds. How he belonged in both of them.

And how somehow, impossibly, he’d chosen Dean.

Dean’s eyes drifted to the far corner of the room, to that same old table where it all started.

All those months ago.

He still remembered the shock of seeing Cas again after all those years. Sitting there with his castmates, laughing at something Dean didn’t hear, looking just as untouchable as he always had. Dean remembered the way his heart had dropped to his boots.

And now he wondered, what if Cas’s group hadn’t come to the Roadhouse that night?

What if Dean hadn’t shown up?

What if Cas had never agreed to that damn dogfight?

Would they have gone the rest of their lives circling each other and never crossing paths again?

Dean stared at Cas from across the room, his heart catching just a little in his chest.

Yeah.

They could’ve missed all this.

They could’ve missed everything.

But they didn’t.

Dean caught Cas’s eye then, and Cas tilted his head, one corner of his mouth curling into that soft, knowing smile Dean would never stop chasing.

Dean raised his bottle in a quiet toast and thought to himself.

The sky’s not so boundless after all.

Not when you know where it ends.

Not when it ends here.

With him.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Thank you so much for reading Boundless Sky.

This was a story about finding your way back, to the ground, to the people who matter, to yourself.

Dean and Cas have always been about second chances, about learning you don’t have to carry the whole world on your shoulders alone.

My heartfelt thanks to the cast, the fandom, and everyone in between. I wouldn’t be here without you. I truly appreciate everything this community has shared with me, the light and inspiration this journey has brought. It’s an honor to be part of something so meaningful.

And if this fic made you smile, ache, or believe even a little more in love worth fighting for, then it’s done what I hoped it would.

To everyone who’s ever wondered where they belong, you deserve to find your own sky, too.

With love,
Jae Frell

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Hey, it’s me again!

I know I already shared my acknowledgements and all that, but I just really want to say, I’d love to make friends with all of you!!!

I mentioned at the start of this fic that I only finished watching SPN last March, and honestly? I only have one online friend who loves SPN too (shoutout to Ski XD what’s up, bro!), but she doesn’t read fanfics, which is… tragic, I know (good for her ig haha)

So basically, I’d really love to have someone to talk to about AO3 Destiel fics. (And funny enough… I haven’t actually read any yet, even though I wrote one lol) I have three saved in my bookmarks,, Twist and Shout, 91 Whiskey, and Revisions, but I’ve been too scared to touch them since I joined AO3 back in March. Don’t judge me, okay?! XD I guess the fact that Destiel never went canon in the show just made me feel like reading fics would hurt too much, and I wasn’t ready to put myself through that.

But now? I do want to read all the Destiel fics I can get my hands on,, because it feels like a way to keep them alive in my head forever lol

So if you wanna be friends and scream about SPN and Destiel fics (or just anything, really), feel free to send me a DM! My main account is on Twitter: @lauvyoudean. Or if you’re more active on TikTok, IG, or any other social media, let me know in the comments and I’ll drop mine too!

And one last thing, should I make a part two? XD

THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN!!! <333