mclachland

When he comes to, Dean's slumped over in the most uncomfortable chair he's ever sat in. He winces and shifts, eyes opening. Everything's so bright, jumpy, like television snow, but it all melts and settles as he adjusts. He feels no pain. He reaches up and brushes his fingers over his cheek, feels the perfect swell of it, the bone whole beneath his touch. His arm is working again, his breathing easy as pie.

He looks around.

The first thing he sees is Castiel, crumpled in a heap at his feet, the fabric of the trench coat stained red, spilling over onto the marble and staining it. His eyes are closed. He's not moving. The gaping holes in his throat and chest made sure of that.

Numb, he drags his gaze away from Castiel to where the Metatron stands, eyes wide, like he can't believe that Dean still managed to make it into the hot seat.

Chilled, shivering, he points at the Metatron. "Don't move."

At his words, the Metatron slams prostrate into the marble floor, and Dean stands, picking up the stained blade on his way. He has to step over Castiel, a move that makes him nauseous, but it brings him to the stairs, and to the Metatron.

"Go ahead," the Metatron spits, writhing against invisible bonds. "Prove just what you are. Show everyone what a beast you are."

Dean looks at the blade, at the dark red spatters, at the sharp point, and thoughtfully turns it in his hand to he's study the pommel. It's nice, heavy. Good solid weight.

"The only beast I see here," he says softly, "is you."

He brings down the pommel hard. It splits the vessel's head like a watermelon, sinking through brain matter and tissue, sinew sliding against the metal and becoming tangled. He withdraws it and brings it down again, watching as the brain tears at the core and breaks into pieces, raw cauliflower beneath the unforgiving gavel in his hand. It cracks against the wall of the skull, fracturing bone and forcing it out through the face.

He brings it down again.

Again. And again. Until there's nothing left of the head, until he's covered in ichor and brain matter, bits of bone and tissue, until the sweater vest isn't yellow anymore, but red. There's enough of a neck to impale, though. And he does. Again. And again.

He has no need for a Voice of God.

God's speaking for Himself, now.

Panting, he wipes the blood from his face, smearing it, and drops the blade to the floor. He's too everywhere, too scattered, head dropping back and breathing for a minute. It's done. It's finished.

He never met Jesus, but Dean would bet that Jesus wouldn't have approved of any of this, justice be damned. Whatever. There you go, Jesus. A little gift from your pal, Dean.

"dea...n…"

"Cas!" He gets his second wind, scrambling to his feet and rushing for the platform, taking the stairs two at a time and dropping to his knees hard, hefting Castiel up so that he's lying half against Dean's chest and mostly against Dean's legs. "Fuck, Cas, hang on. Don't move your hand, just tell me what to do. How do I fix it?"

"did… w..in…?" The light in Castiel's eyes and mouth is growing brighter and brighter, and Dean slaps a hand over Castiel's mouth, using his other to cover his throat. "di…d…"

"Cas, shut the fuck up, we won. You need to tell me how to fix this. I'm God! I can fix this now! You just have to tell me how!" When he gets no answer, he smacks Castiel across the face. "Cas! That's an order! You love those, remember? I order you to tell me how to fix this! You did this once for me and I'm gonna return the favor. Come on, Cas, throw me a bone here."

Nothing.

No.

No, he won't accept this.

"Cas!" He shouts, voice cracking, and he buries his face in hair that smells of mountain air and blood. "You gotta wake up, Cas. I need you to wake up. We're going to fucking Hawaii, remember? Those hermit crabs aren't gonna free themselves, man, so wake up!"

But Castiel doesn't wake up. Castiel's not going to wake up.

How.

How can he have all this power and not be able to bring one person back to life?

How could they have won, and still lose?

Dean would pray to God, except God's a fake.

He drifts in and out, lying there with Castiel's body, a body that belonged to Castiel alone in the end, beautiful and somehow completely different from Jimmy Novak. It fits so well in his arms, so comfortably against him, and he pictures how they were going to lie like this in a hammock, between two palm trees overlooking the Pacific. Or warm on a beach, flinging sea shells the color of Castiel's skin at each other, laughing about the previous night's arrest and how many more shops they would have to hit before Castiel was nicknamed 'The Crab Bandit' by the news media.

"Dean!"

He clutches Castiel a little tighter. "Not now, Sammy."

The footsteps echo somehow, the sound hanging in the air like a dead thing. The temple is a funeral parlor now, dead bodies everywhere.

"Oh, Dean," Sam whispers from somewhere above him. Dean can feel the heat from his legs as Sam sits down next to him, placing a gentle hand on Dean's arm. Comforting. Solace. "We were fighting for… forever. They just kept coming. We lost so many, Dean. The garrison. Rose. Gabriel. Mora. Bobby's barely hanging on. Then… it just stopped. They all stopped. It was like someone hit a switch. I can't -- Dean… Dean, god, look at me, please?"

Dean didn't think he had any more tears to cry. He'd been wrong, as per usual.

"Sam." He rolls a little so he can look up at Sam, drawn by the endless parade of tears down Sam's face. "Cas… Cas --"

"He kept me safe." The words are barely audible, but Dean feels them with the accuracy of a bullet. "He kept me safe the whole time."

Dean's going to drown. "I'm God, Sammy. Why can't I fix this? Why don't I know how?"

"Because you were supposed to be taught."

Sam turns at the newest addition to the conversation, but Dean rolls back and buries his face into Castiel's hair. The blood is drying, goopy and caked and rubbing the skin of his cheek rough. He can't look. He can't look or else he just might destroy everything.

"Oh, Castiel," Raguel murmurs, taking the spot next to Castiel. Dean glances up and nearly starts sobbing at the look of sheer loss on Raguel's face. "The Son of God, dead for love of Humanity. That is what your books say. For love. Always to die for love."

"Did he… How big was the blast?" Sam inquires inanely, and Dean stares at him in horror.

"Jesus Christ, Sam!" What the fuck kind of question is th --

Wait.

Dean glances down at Castiel's body.

There'd been no blast. None that he knows of.

"Look, a body can be brought back easily, or another can be remade, or someone else's body can be used. Hell, provided it happened recently enough, their body could be used again. A soul, however, is what really matters. A soul still has a chance of living."

Fuck, he's a dumbass.

He pulls himself up and pushes Sam back, kneeling beside Castiel's prone form, Castiel's hand still clapped over his throat, holding his grace and soul in. Even in death, he's smarter than Dean would ever be in life.

"Okay," he murmurs to himself, rubbing his hands together. "Okay. Shit."

Healing Castiel's body doesn't seem like it'll work; the Grace is already half-way gone. No, he needs to forge something new. Sea shells from Hawaii sound about right. And maybe something from the star rivers above Bobby's front porch. Or a stone from a distant planet.

He uses all of them, filling up the emptiness and buoying everything that's still in there, throwing in a little of the Winchester magic and sheer dumb luck for good measure. If he had duct tape lying around, he'd use that too. Can't be too careful.

And he waits.

And waits.

And --

He's already crying like a little girl with a skinned knee by the time Castiel's fingers twitch, but he still manages to say through his sobs, "Rejoice, favored one, and do not fear, for your prayers are heard, and I have finally found you."

Eyes still closed, Castiel smiles. "Dean, shut up."

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