Archive of Our Own

The thing is, Dean’s probably been bound for hell since he was four years old. 

He had those four years of being a normal kid, and then demons picked his brother to damn for life, and his mom to burn to death. And somewhere between the fire and his father’s burgeoning rage, he is assigned his great purpose. His baby brother is placed in his arms, and from that day on, Dean Winchester is his brother’s keeper. 

He doesn’t remember much of that night. Doesn’t remember much of the time before that really, either. Instead, it just blurs together into take care of Sammy and fire and where’s Mommy? 

But mostly it’s just take care of Sammy. 

Dean knows it’s his job. Even when he’s five and isn’t talking much, because they’re not at home anymore and Mommy’s not there to sing him to sleep and Dad doesn’t pick him up anymore, just sits there with several empty beers on the motel table. Dean looks over at Sammy, asleep in the crib they bring everywhere. When Sammy talks, it’s Dean’s name first. Well, he tries. Dee is all that comes out, and Dean thinks it’s okay, Dee’s gonna protect you. 

And it’s true. He’d do anything to keep his baby brother safe. 

But he thinks maybe Sammy protects him too. Not in the same way. But when Dean misses having a home or gets nervous about all of Dad’s new scary weapons, all he has to do is look at Sammy. Sammy will open his eyes and smile at him, and Dean will smile back. 

“Hey, Sammy,” he whispers, unable to be sad. 

~

Sammy turns into just Sam, even though Dean keeps the nickname alive. And then Sam goes off to college, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself. He would figure it’s about the same as when Mom died, except Sam’s not dead. He just chose to leave. 

Dean thought with it just being him and Dad things would be better - no more shouting matches - but he was wrong about that. Now Dad’s just angry, all the time; Dean tries not to piss him off, but it’s like Dad wants to be pissed off. Dad hits the things that make him angry - but he can’t hit Sam, nor does he want to. So he hits a lot more monsters than usual, he gets reckless; and sometimes he hits Dean. But at least it’s never sober, and generally it’s deserved. 

Dad and Mom and Sam all have their roles, their characters in a play. Mom’s the beautiful pure lifegiver, Dad’s the vengeful maniac, Sam the rebellious teenager. And Dean? He gets caught somewhere between the three. Trying to emulate Dad but stuck missing Mom; wanting to love Sam but getting to be his shield instead. The shield doesn’t care whether its knight is happy or sad or angry. It just stands in the way of danger and gets hit. That’s all it can do. 

What does the shield do when there’s nothing to protect? 

Eventually he learns to just be more efficient. He throws himself into hunts, maybe a little like Dad. They start taking separate cases when Dean’s twenty-four, to cover more ground. Dean has to patch up his own wounds, get himself food, but he’s been finding ways to get food since he was ten. He gets to drive the Impala while Dad gets a truck, which is awesome. The car’s the closest thing he has to home. 

He also discovers that he really likes sex. After a long day, it feels like being hugged. At first he’s a little wary, sleeping with random girls, because what if one of them is a shapeshifter or vampire? But after the first few times, he knows that will never be the case because he’ll know the signs. Because he’s a damn good hunter. 

Then one day, Dad sort of disappears. Well, not sort of. He straight up disappears, and Dean can’t reach him. 

Maybe Dean’s panicking and needs someone to help him, because Dad never goes silent for this long. Or maybe he just uses it as the excuse it is: to show up at Sam’s door. Maybe he can get him for one hunt. Just one more day. He’d give up his life for one more day with Sam. 

But the universe must be on his side for once, because Sam doesn’t just stay with him for one day. He stays a lot longer than that. 

~

Things are different with Sam around - different, but not bad. Not anywhere near bad. For the first time in a long time, Dean feels happy. Of course, it’s not that way for Sam. He’s lost his girlfriend and is kind of on a revenge trip - but whatever it takes to get him back with Dean. 

Dean knows that’s selfish of him. He doesn’t care. 

It’s not all sunshine and rainbows; they’re still looking for Dad. But every near-death experience, every unanswered call, is made better when he looks over to see Sam next to him. When Sam rolls his eyes at the music, when Sam pranks him back, when Sam gets bullheaded about the case they’re on or corrects Dean’s grammar. 

Things get crazier. Sam, it turns out, has some kind of freaky psychic powers. Dean dies, and then he doesn’t, and Dad dies instead and he’s pretty sure Dad sold his soul; but through it all Sam is here. Everything’s okay, as long as it’s him and Sam and the car. 

There’s a part of him that misses Dad like a limb. A part that needs orders, that needs to be told what to do - where to go, where to punch, where to stick the monsters until they die. 

There’s another part of him that thinks, guiltily, that this might be better. No Dad giving orders, just him and Sam deciding their own path. And it’s not like they’re alone, either; they’ve got Bobby, and Ellen and Jo and Ash, and other hunters at the Roadhouse. 

Dean’s lived a crazy life by most people’s standards, and this isn’t any better; but this might be the best his life has ever been. Doing everything with Sam by his side, so he can protect him. Going after the demon that killed Dad, and getting closer by the day, and doing it with other hunters. He and Sam have somewhere to belong. 

And then Sam dies. 

~

Sam tells him he had a choice. Bobby tells him he had a choice, everybody who finds out asks him why would you do that and don’t you care about yourself and do you want to go to hell? He doesn’t have an answer for any of those questions. He wishes they’d stop asking. 

But he doesn’t think he ever had a choice. 

Not since Sammy was put in his arms. 

That’s when his path was decided for him, when he became a big brother. Sam’s dead, what’s the quickest fix? How do you get him back? Sell your soul. Okay, done. It had all happened so fast, he hadn’t even really thought about it. 

On the upside, now this means he can eat as much red meat and drink as much alcohol as he wants without worrying about killing his heart or liver. He hates the idea of going out from something like that. He’d always known he was going to die on the job - now it’ll happen. Ripped apart by hellhounds, sure, what a way to go. Sounds bad, but it’s no worse than getting turned by a vampire, or getting possessed by a demon, or drained by a djinn. In a way, it’s better. 

It gets easier when he pretends he just has a terminal illness, or something. He has a set date for his death: a year to the day he killed Yellow Eyes. Easy to remember. He has a terminal disease, he’ll die, and then Sam will get the car. He’ll get everything, and keep doing Dean’s job. 

Sam keeps trying to save him, of course. That’s a thing. Dean knew the kid was going to feel this way, but he has to do everything in his power to keep Sam from saving him because it’ll nix the deal. That’s the one thing he can do to protect Sammy: make sure he does nothing. 

But the closer the deadline gets, the more Dean wishes Sam would do something. Not like he’s going to say it, because then Sam will end the deal and get himself killed. No one can save you because you don’t want to be saved, Sam says, and Dean can’t tell him how wrong he is. Yes, he wants to be saved. He’s got four months left - then three. Three months, and then he’ll be getting tortured every day. The worst pain he can imagine, probably. 

So, yes, he wants to be saved. Who wouldn’t? 

But he can’t. No one can save him, because that would mean Sam dies. 

This has been his purpose the whole time. Sacrifice himself for Sam. It’s not like he’s done anything great with his life. He saves people, but then that’s just the right thing to do; help someone out of a tragedy by getting rid of the thing that’s causing them pain. And every once in a while, he gets to give a hot woman an orgasm. He isn’t a person so much as he’s just a weapon with a purpose; and without Sam, what value is there to his life? 

Sam will die one day. Everybody dies. But Dean won’t have to be around to see it. 

At the end they hunt down Lilith. It gives Dean some last sliver of hope, that maybe he and Sam can just scrape by. They’ve done it before; wouldn’t that be an ego boost? Dean saves his brother with a demon deal and gets out of it at the last minute. Awesome. 

Deep down he knows it’s not going to happen like that, though. Once he starts getting the dreams, he knows it for sure; once he starts seeing demons’ faces. They look horrifying. That’s what he’s going to see forever, and once he’s down there long enough, then - then - 

He doesn’t think about it. 

Instead he tries to distract Sam by being as ridiculous as possible. He chews with his mouth open and feels a speck of happiness at the disgusted look that crosses Sam’s face. He flirts shamelessly and gives Sam a jagged haircut in his sleep and sings Bon Jovi off-key. 

One day it hits him. 

He’s not just dying, he’s not even just going to hell, he’s never going to see Sam again. Because there’s no way Sam is going to hell, he doesn’t belong there. Dean’s going to die in a week, in five days, in four, and he’ll never see the kid again. He’s gonna be without him for the rest of time. But he guesses that’s the price he pays, right? He’s his brother’s keeper. That’s what this means. Sam gets to live, Dean gets to die and get tortured. Forever. 

It’s not fair, whispers a small traitorous voice as the clock strikes midnight. It’s just not fair. 

The last thing he sees is Sam pinned against the wall, shouting his name. And then, the very next second, he gets what’s coming to him: the worst pain he’s ever felt, in his arms, in his side where he’s strung up by hooks.And there’s nothing but that: the pain, and the inky black void around him. 

And no Sam. 

~

It turns out Dean shouldn’t have panicked when he arrived in hell. He should have been grateful, because he never feels that good again. 

Bela never crosses his mind, even though she’s here too. Hell exposes the worst parts about everyone, so Dean supposes it makes him selfish. All he can think about is himself. There are knives in his stomach, and he can see his liver until he can’t, because around that point his eyes are gone. But never the ears. Dean’s hearing always remains intact. 

Even if it’s just one ear. 

He remembers how he used to think about hell. The worst pain imaginable. Sure. He supposes he was right. Really nothing does it justice. Hell is, for lack of a better word, smart. At the end of every day he’s healed, so he knows how it feels to be okay. For precisely one second. Every other second he is flayed alive. Soon enough the healing becomes torture. You wait for the day to end, so you feel okay - and the moment that you feel okay the only thing you know is the terror of anticipation. 

He tries to think, at the beginning, about what his life was like on earth. Burgers and sex and rock ‘n roll. It all feels so distant. So useless. What he does remember is the killing. Vampires and werewolves and ghosts. Bodies burning, the smell of acrid flesh. A knife sunk deep between ribs. Screaming. 

It’s like the universe wants him to feel the way those monsters felt. Animals that he hunted, that he flayed alive. Winchesters don’t cry. Men don’t cry. Hunters don’t cry. But he does. He screams for help that won’t come, and receives nothing but ugly laughter. 

~

If your dad came down to rescue you, he would catch one glimpse of you and leave you here. 

That’s the theme of today, seven years in. John Winchester and organ rearrangement. The two are paired: physical and psychological torture. Ruby said to him once, the worst part of hell happens in your own head. Dean laughed at her. Maybe if you’re in therapy. But it’s true. Dean’s pretty sure it’s the reason he’s allowed to keep his hearing most of the time. 

That demon Alastair showed up about six months in. He let Dean get used to it first. Then he made hell worse. Make him wish for the hell he used to have, which was already bad enough. Pre-game for torture. 

Very quickly Dean starts to think of Alastair as the devil. He doesn’t really believe in the devil; but if he exists, Dean knows he’d rather have Satan torture him. 

He wishes he could go back to just getting burned alive. Now he gets his heart and kidney swapped while hearing all about how his dad wouldn’t want to save him. Right, of course, because he doesn’t want to be saved. I do, I do want to be saved, he tries to say but it gets caught somewhere in his chest as it’s zippered open. 

The physics of hell make no sense, but that means torture can look like whatever the torturer wants. And Alastair knows everything about Dean. So, he can choose to make his voice sound like anyone. When Dean’s eyes are gone, he can’t tell the difference. Sam tells Dean that now that Dean’s in hell, he’s not held back anymore. Dad tells him he’s a disappointment if he’s just going to cry like a bitch down here. Mom used to make him blueberry pie. Now she tells him he wanted to be tortured. He asked for it. 

And somehow Dean can never accept it. He’s never allowed to go insane. He just has to process it and take the pain like he was trained to do. 

~

After ten years, Dean gets to be healed for more than a few seconds. Like it’s a birthday present, or something. But nothing down here happens without a reason. 

Alastair slithers up next to him - like, literally slithers, because he’s taking the form of a two-headed snake today - and one tongue flicks Dean’s ear when he says, “you know, this can end any time you want.” 

“You’re lying,” Dean says, voice shaking. “This is - just more torture. Get on with it already.” 

“Oh, I wish I was lying,” the demon continues, “the sounds you make, oh, I’d love to keep you on the rack for eternity. As promised. But…” The tongue withdraws as Alastair slithers around to hover in front of him. “There’s a special deal offered to just a few people. If you want, right now, you can get off the rack. Just waltz right off. No more torture, I pinky promise.” 

Right, and the price is sure to be horrifying. 

But Dean can’t deny that after ten years, that sounds amazing. Wonderful. Fantastic. 

Improbable. 

“Y-yeah,” he says, “what’s the cost?” 

“Oh, just pick up the razor -” Alastair is back in his humanoid form, the worst one: it’s like the black smoke tried to fit itself inside a soul and it fits painfully, with green cracks that ooze viscous liquid. He’s holding a knife. “Like I’m doing right now. And instead of being on the rack, you’ll just be…in my place.” 

He smiles as he says it. An awful smile, filled with rotted fangs. 

So, torture someone else. 

Now, that someone else could just be Adolf Hitler. Dean would be more than fine with that. But given what his time has been like down here, it’s likely to be someone a lot more innocent.

And he’d have to do to them what’s happening to him. Rip out their eyeballs, strip their skin off, remove their organs and everything the demons haven’t thought of yet. 

The idea is revolting. Even after ten years of this. 

Dean knows what’s going to happen next. Alastair has the knife in hand. The second he says no, it’s going right back to regularly scheduled programming. 

End his own torture, or start someone else’s? 

Maybe it’s just that this is the longest he’s been without pain for ten years, but at this moment, he almost remembers what it was like to be human. He remembers Mom sweeping hair out of his face. He remembers Sam laughing at the stupid beer glue prank. 

“Fuck off,” he says evenly, and then spits in Alastair’s face. 

The knife falls through Dean’s throat. 

That day is the worst one he’s had so far. His throat is slashed, so he can’t even scream properly; and after a few hours of the usual bits, a branding iron is set to the inside of his mouth. And then he’s set on fire with lighter fluid. 

“There’s some poetic irony in that,” he hears Alastair saying, “don’t you think?” 

It takes him way too long to realize what the demon is talking about. Then he remembers. Oh, yeah, he used to do that to corpses. 

~

Dean has been in hell for eleven years. Then twelve. Thirteen. He wishes he didn’t get to know. But Alastair tells him. He is given the offer every day. He says no and is rewarded. Electrocution. Knives shoved down his throat. Broiling. Rape by hot poker. Lungs removed first. 

Then the day comes that he’s been in hell longer than he was alive. Twenty-nine years and two months. He tries not to think about it. He tries to picture Sam’s face, and - and - 

He can’t do it. 

It’s been a particularly awful day: more skinning, which is pretty typical, except that it’s agonizingly slow. Death by a thousand cuts. 

“Wanna get off the rack yet?” Alastair says, sounding almost bored, when everything is completely gone. 

It’s gone, but Dean’s still not healed. It hasn’t happened and it usually happens by now. Every one of his cells is on fire, and he doesn’t have a tongue, and he can’t breathe, and oh god, what if it never happens? He hates getting torn into anew, but he - he’s gotten so used to being healed, he’d never thought that would be taken away from him too. 

He imagines for a moment that he’ll just be left like this forever -  

Then it happens; he’s whole again. He’s so relieved he just starts sobbing. 

“You did hear me, didn’t you?” comes the voice, nails on a chalkboard. “Going once -” 

“N-no,” Dean manages to whisper. 

“You sure?” Alastair asks, and Dean wants to scream. He wants to kill the bastard. He wants to kill someone, because of all the days to get the offer twice - 

But that’s part of the torture. So this is the part where Dean has to resist. 

“It’s sad, really,” Alastair remarks. He picks up the razor, and Dean flinches. “You keep saying no because you really don’t want to believe you belong down here. But you do, don’t you?” The demon starts twirling the razor delicately. “You knew that. It’s why you signed your soul over to us.” 

It’s true, but Alastair didn’t come up with that one. What Dean has learned is that demons don’t lie. They tell the truths that hurt. Dean knows that he is a weapon. He knows that his life was useless. He knows that his dad would be disappointed in him. He knows he belongs in hell. He already knew all that. Hell just tells him right to his face. 

“Going twice -” 

Alastair asked him twice in one day. He’s really going for it. So Dean says, “Eat shit, you son of a bitch.” 

His lips barely move. But he says it. For that one moment, he feels like a shadow of his old self. Whoever that was. 

“Suit yourself,” Alastair says, and then he starts in again. 

~

Each day brings with it a new wonder. A new horror. Education. 

Dean learns how Sam really just wanted to be free of him. He learns forms of torture invented by the Sumerians. By Auschwitz. Torture invented on plantations in Georgia and torture invented at the foot of Mount Olympus. He learns how every random person he met saw him. He is pathetic. He is desperate. He is cruel. 

You can stop feeling pain, and start dishing it out. Wouldn’t that feel good? 

Yes, it would. 

You’re not a good person. You use this idea of saving people to give yourself an excuse to beat some monster to death. There are only other monsters around you. After all, you’re here, aren’t you? 

He is. 

You weren’t good enough for your daddy. You let Sam die. But if you say yes, you can be good at this. I know you can. 

He’s been in hell for thirty years and two months and four days when Alastair pauses, Dean’s liver in his hands, and says, “You ever wonder what mommy dearest would think of you?”

Dean can do nothing but gasp up at him like a gutted fish. 

“You never stopped searching for one gentle touch that felt like hers,” the demon says. “And you couldn’t find it. Poor thing. What did she used to tell you? Angels were watching over you?” He puts a gnarled hand on Dean’s sliced-open cheek. Dean shudders, but he can’t get away. “And then her baby boy went and got himself sent to hell, on purpose.” 

He sinks the razor into Dean’s thigh. 

Dean has not thought of this angle yet. Or, well, he has, but Alastair hasn’t voiced it. Now the floodgates are open. He knows he is pathetic and desperate and crying for help and everything his dad would hate; but he’s also a monster and he’s in hell because he asked for it. If his mom saw him like this she wouldn’t try to save him. 

As the razor scrapes away, Dean searches desperately for that voice telling him to say no. 

It’s not there. 

He has spent thirty years learning that nobody cares about him. Maybe the lesson has finally sunk in. 

The day ends as usual. The final cut made is a needle to his eye. Then Dean is healed, and he can’t even muster the strength to scream or yell. He thinks about how his mom used to sing the Beatles and he cries quietly.  

“Well?” Alastair says, and he’s already picking up the knife again, “I think I know the drill. You want to keep getting hurt, don’t you?” 

“Stop,” Dean says, in the most pitiful whimper he’s ever heard. “Stop it. I’ll…I’ll -” 

He can’t bring himself to say it. 

The razor stops an inch above his throat. Dean knows how it’s going to feel, and he doesn’t want it, he just doesn’t want to get hurt anymore. He wants the pain to stop. He wants his mom.

“Go on,” says the demon, and Dean can hear the satisfaction in his voice. 

Don’t give this to him, it’s what he wants. Do what Dad would want - 

I’m not good enough for my dad anyway. 

“Yes,” Dean whispers, barely a sound. He closes his eyes, feeling as though he’s sold his soul a second time, and a tear slips out. “I’ll - get off the rack. I’ll do it.” 

There’s silence for a long, long time. The razor doesn’t fall. 

“Say it again,” Alastair says, and this asshole. “I’m not quite sure I believe my ears.” 

You can say no. You can take it back. 

Except Dean knows if he doesn’t say it today, he’ll say it five days from now. What’s eternity compared to that? 

“I’ll get off the rack,” Dean says, voice shaking. “I’ll - I’ll - I’ll pick up your razor.” 

An awful grin stretches Alastair’s unnatural demon face. 

“I knew you’d come to your senses,” he says, and just like that, the hooks and chains are gone. “Welcome to paradise.” 

~

Dean is in shock at the lack of pain. The point of hell is pain, the point of him is pain. It’s not possible to be without pain. He’s afraid and uneasy as he wanders freely through hell, passing demons he’s surely exorcised himself over the years. 

They’re all looking at him. He tries not to look at them, or else risk being buried under the weight of his shame. But then he decides he doesn’t care. 

Dean follows Alastair until they’ve arrived, much further down into hell. He freezes in place at the sight of his first victim. A terrified girl, probably not more than twenty. 

“Mom!” she’s screaming. “I want my mom, I - I -”

This is torture. 

Her gaze meets Dean’s. He doesn’t know why she’s looking at him and not at Alastair before he realizes he still must look like a human being. 

“Help me,” she gasps. “Get me out of here!” 

There’s a tray of torture implements next to him. One of Alastair’s slimy hands lands on his shoulder, as if sensing his hesitation. The razor is pressed into his open palm. 

Then the girl starts screaming in earnest. She’s connected the dots. 

“Wait,” Dean says, and now that he’s off the rack, it’s like he’s come to his senses. “I don’t -” 

“Ah, ah,” Alastair says, hand on Dean’s shoulder tightening to the point of pain. “Remember, Dean, you get this deal for one reason, and one reason only. You don’t pick up the razor -” He slides a knife down Dean’s arm, drawing blood all the way in a perfect line. The soft skin at the crook of his elbow opens neatly. “We keep having fun.” 

Dean looks at his arm, and at the terrified girl. 

She’s here probably the same way as him; but he’s an awful person. It’s either her, or him, and after thirty years, Dean would much rather it be her. 

He takes the razor from Alastair. 

Dean becomes aware that there are other demons watching him like vultures. 

“Very good,” Alastair says. He turns Dean’s face back toward the rack. “Now, now, don’t look at them. Focus on her. Don’t start easy, either; don’t start slow. You’ve got to shock her into it. After all, it’s her first day in hell.” 

How can I do this, Dean thinks, but as he lifts the razor he thinks of fucking course I can do this. It feels like killing a vampire. It feels like his dad teaching him how to shoot a gun. And he knows what will hurt the most, because he’s spent thirty years getting it done to him. Doesn’t take much effort to cut directly into her abdomen. Right around the ribs. 

She screams like she didn't choose to. Like it was ripped out of her. No sound has ever been so satisfying, and Dean has never hated himself so much. 

Gradually, the demon crowd disperses. 

This is Dean’s new life. The next stage of hell. Alastair was right; he’s made for this. He was trained to do two things: take pain and dish it out, and he’s taken enough. He cuts his way into innocent people, and all the while he thinks he’s cutting into himself. It feels good.

Alastair teaches him every trick in the book. At first the demon has to goad him into it. When I’m doing organs, I usually take the intestines first. Then he hovers just over Dean’s shoulder, whispering encouragement. I’d take a piece off the brain, right…yes, there you go. 

After five years, Dean’s coming up with new ideas on his own. 

Finally, the demon stops babysitting him and finds some new victim to torment, which apparently means Dean’s become good enough. He drops by every now and then, just to keep offering pointers. Or maybe just to remind him where he is. 

Dean is all too aware of where he is. So he keeps cutting. And cutting. And cutting. 

And one day, there’s a light. 

It’s remarkable mostly because he hasn’t seen light in forty years. He forgot what it looked like, but he’s right in the middle of cutting some boy’s eye out when it dawns in the distance, like the sun’s coming out. 

He hears demons screaming in the distance. 

He’s going to die. Finally. Dean lowers the knife, keeping it pressed to the inside of his palm, and if it cuts into him, so what? Blood drips from his fingers. 

Then his vision goes white. 

~

Getting thrown back into the past is a disjointed experience. He’s lived forty years in hell. But he’s out of hell, and he’s still twenty-nine. He does not feel real. He feels like this is a dream and hell is real. 

He’s out of hell, but he is not alive. 

He goes through the motions. Find out where you are. Get water. Steal a car. Call Sammy. Call Bobby. It’s everything he used to do, but now it feels like he’s playing at being his old self. He is a twisted soul thrown back into a corpse. It makes him angry. It makes him afraid. 

Sam must have gotten him out, the bastard. 

Sam didn’t get him out. 

But it’s such a relief to see him, and if Sam didn’t get him out that’s good, because it means Sam didn’t sell his soul. 

Sam marches toward him, and there’s a split second where Dean thinks Sam is about to attack him. But it doesn’t happen. His brother’s arms go around him - oh, right, a hug - and Dean thinks something he hasn’t thought for years: maybe Sammy protects me, too. 

~

The actual answer is a lot worse. A fucking angel got him out of hell. 

He’d say it makes no sense, except for that flash of light at the end. And the wings. But he hates that it makes sense, because of what it means. Angels got him out of hell. 

That’s got to mean the angels want something from him. No one gets raised from hell for no reason, especially not someone who tortured souls. And if he’s angry at them, if he acts like an asshole, then that’s what they get for taking a monster out of hell. 

I hate you, is all he can think about stupid righteous Castiel, I hate the whole lot of you, and sure, I hate God while I’m at it. If you were coming to get me all along, why didn’t you come sooner? 

~

The thing is, Dean doesn’t remember his rescue from hell. Not really. 

Maybe that’s another part of his punishment up here. Another reason it’s too good to be true. No one wants him to relax. And fine, that’s more than he deserves. 

But he wishes he could remember. 

The situation with Anna and Alastair coming back sends him into a rather creative spiel of nightmares: he cuts Sam’s ribs out, one by one. Alastair watches him have sex with Anna. Cas decides Dean isn’t doing enough to stop the apocalypse and puts a hand on his forehead; the next thing he knows, he’s back on the rack, and Dad is burning him alive. 

“You know, I tried with you, Dean,” he says, sounding fucking disappointed. “But you just weren’t strong enough.” 

Get me out of here, Dean thinks, someone, someone get me out of here - 

The dream switches suddenly, he has a knife in Dad’s guts when a light dawns on the horizon. It comes closer and closer. He lowers the knife, from - not Dad. That’s changed, too. It’s his last victim. Blood drips from his fingers. Demons are screaming in the distance, the light gets closer, and he gets ready for his vision to white out. 

That’s not what happens. 

The light takes the form of a being so much larger than him; like, indescribably larger. He can’t make out its exact shape. But it’s light, like the sun entered hell, and it’s coming closer. 

Then it stops, like it’s studying him. 

“You’re here to kill me,” Dean says, dropping his blade. “So do it!” 

YOU MISUNDERSTAND ME, a voice declares. It’s enough to shatter glass and cause earthquakes. Here, it makes Dean fall to his knees. I AM NOT HERE TO KILL YOU. 

Then what? Then what? Torture him? He just wants it to be over. He’ll fight against more torture, but he doesn’t think he’s strong enough for that. He shakes like a cornered rabbit. 

I AM TAKING YOU WITH ME. 

The shock takes a few seconds to register. Taking you with me isn’t possible. It’s make-believe. The thing is lying. Dean is a monster here; it’s time for his death. 

The thing is not lying. The light takes the shape of a giant claw and moves for him. 

Dean scrambles backward, panic seizing him. 

“No,” he shouts, “NO! Take -” He looks desperately at the boy to his left, chest open, blood spilled all over the chains. Spilled on Dean’s hands. “Take him! He deserves it! He -” 

Too late. The light surrounds him, and against his will he is lifted out of the blood and viscera, and away from the darkness, and away from the chains and the rack. The screaming of demons and tormented souls falls far behind, and somewhere he stops struggling. All he knows is the light that wraps around him completely and shields him from hell as they soar upward. 

For a moment, just one singular second, he feels safe. 

Dean’s eyes jolt open in the dark. He has to remember where he is: motel room. Out of habit, he looks at the other bed. No Sam. Instead Cas is standing above him, one hand outstretched like he’s about to zap Dean back in time again. 

“Dude,” Dean says, “I do not want Back To The Future part two.” 

Cas doesn’t understand that. Dean didn’t expect him to. Half the time he says that shit because he likes seeing these smug sons of bitches look confused. 

The angel doesn’t say anything. Out of his dream, Dean realizes what he remembered. The rescue. He’d thought it was just the light; but he’d, he’d fully begged the bastard not to save him.

I hate you, he thinks again, even as he remembers feeling safe. 

“I thought you wanted to remember,” Cas says. 

“What? You -” Dean struggles to process that. “You made me remember? Just now?” 

He’s not sure whether to feel grateful or violated. He doesn’t want Cas walking around in his dreams - he feels small at the thought of it. 

“You prayed for it,” Cas says, looking confused. 

“I…I definitely did not,” Dean snaps. “I guess I wished I -” He scowls. “That’s what counts as praying to you bastards? You read my mind, is that it?” 

“You prayed for it,” Cas says again, like a broken record. 

I am taking you with me echoes in Dean’s head, and he tries to match that with Cas’ stern, unfeeling appearance. It matches up pretty well. 

He shifts uncomfortably. 

“So you get it, don’t you,” he says bitterly. “I didn’t ask to be saved.” 

Cas almost looks uncomfortable, himself. “It was not up to you.” 

“Yeah, well.” Dean looks away from him, pulls his knees up to his chest like that’ll protect him from what he feels right now. “You saw what I was doing.” 

“You think you belong there,” Cas says, and for some reason that pisses Dean off. 

“Yeah, you think I fucking -” he whirls on the angel, who hasn’t moved at all. “Yes. You threatened to throw me back in. Uriel threatened to throw me back in, as recently as yesterday. I sold my fucking soul to get down there and then I wasn’t even strong enough to keep taking the pain. So, so I don’t know where you get off trying to convince me I didn’t belong there.” 

Cas’ expression changes, almost imperceptibly.

“That’s the demon talking,” he says. 

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. Yes? No shit, Sherlock? Which he guesses is him admitting Alastair was right. Maybe he was. Is. If he’s still alive. 

“I don’t even want to look at you after what you tried to pull with Anna,” Dean says, turning back to stare at his knees. “Get out of here.” 

A hand lands on his shoulder, right over the fucking mark. Dean jolts. When he looks up, Cas is closer, and there’s…almost a kind expression on his face. 

“Your mother would not hate you for what you did in hell,” he says. 

It’s - all this shit together: the audacity of Cas to say something like that when it’s the thing that finally broke him, the gentle touch, the mention of his mom, and Dean explodes. 

“GET OUT!” he yells, voice sounding more raw than angry. 

Cas vanishes. 

When Sam comes back, he finds Dean in the bathroom, Jack Daniels bottle half empty. He doesn’t say anything. He takes the bottle away from him, gets him off the floor, and makes him lie down. 

But he doesn’t pour the alcohol down the drain. Dean thinks, Sam must be thinking of Dad, the way he used to drink. Sam knows I’m going to freak out on him if I don’t have any. 

Neither of them go back to sleep. 

~

“For what it’s worth, I would give anything not to have you do this,” Cas says, and Dean wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to hurt someone. 

Alastair. Torture Alastair. Exactly the thing that Dean wants; except he doesn’t because he knows it won’t work, the demon practically enjoys the shit, and because it’ll just be the two of them in there so he’ll be free to say whatever he wants to Dean. Whatever will hurt the most. 

And Dean will have to give up the facade. He’ll have to become the monster he is.  

“You know,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, “that really doesn’t make it any better.” 

“I know,” Cas says quietly. 

The angel’s hand lands on his shoulder. Dean flinches, spins around. Ready to fight. 

“You really don’t like to get people’s consent before you lay hands, do you,” he spits out. 

“My…apologies,” Cas says stiffly, something odd in his eyes. “I just wanted to let you know, before you…do this, that what you did in hell is not who you are.” 

Dean hates him even more now, for trying some bullshit attempt at comfort, right before he goes in there. He hates him so much he shoves him, physically.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, hating the bitter tone that’s possessed his voice. “I chose to go down there, Castiel, I chose it, for myself. Hell owns my soul forever, in case you forgot. That dick you’ve got waiting in there, he’ll be waiting for me the second I die. I don’t want you to lie to me, if you’re gonna make me do it, then just - just -”

The anger has turned, inexplicably, to grief so sudden that he feels his throat well up, and he stops talking. 

“I can’t change what you have to do,” Cas says, his voice as firm as Dean’s isn’t. “But you should know that hell does not own your soul.” 

“Really?” Dean says with a bitter laugh. “Even - even if you’ve managed to pull some heavenly magic trick, I know where I belong.” He jabs a finger into Cas’ chest. “And Alastair knew that. He knows everything about me, apparently.” 

Cas grabs Dean’s wrist. Dean freezes. He’s lost the flight part of fight or flight, and all he knows these days is lashing out. But right now, he just goes limp. 

“I also know everything about you,” Cas says, lowering Dean’s wrist gently back to his side. “I put your body back together. You don’t belong to hell.” 

Dean has nothing to say to that. 

He steps away, not wanting to look at the angel anymore, this creature that makes him feel flayed open and angry and safe all at once. It’s like Cas is always trying to give him hope right before it’s taken away. 

It’s a little like having your body healed right before it’s taken apart again. 

“Fuck you,” he says, and walks back into hell. 

~

He is getting his dick shredded by a blender, Alastair laughing in front of his face. 

“This is what happens when you try to run away. You need to remember what you are.” 

He falls asleep into a dream: beeping means he’s in a hospital bed. Sam is talking in a low voice. Or, wait, no - it’s the other way around. Hell was the dream. This is real life. 

Real life where him jumping off the rack meant not only people down there get hurt, but people up here, too. He doomed everybody. 

Sam takes his hand. Sam did that once, when Dean was fourteen and had broken his leg. Sam’s little hand fit around his, and it was cute how little Sammy thought he could protect him. 

Now Sam’s hand isn’t small. But it means the same thing. 

Sam can’t protect him, because Sam wasn’t able to stop him from getting off the rack. 

~

Get in there and heal him. 

I can’t. 

Alastair could have been lying. 

No, he wasn’t. 

Dean doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but also he does know what they’re talking about. Alastair wasn’t lying, because in hell, the worst things he told Dean were true. 

He thought he was in hell forever. He knew his entire purpose was pain, he just didn’t think it meant literally everyone’s. Why didn’t God come and get him sooner? 

What would Sammy think if he could see you right now? I haven’t even started to carve, and you’re already a mess. 

Now it’s my turn to carve. 

Mary’s baby boy went to hell on purpose. 

He woken up yet? 

Yeah. A little. He’s not talking, though. 

How’s he doing, I don’t know. Emotionally? 

I don’t know, Bobby. But I’ll be here. 

I know you will, Sam. I just want that kid to have a break, is all. 

Do you think anyone cares that you’re in hell, right now? Really? They knew you wanted it. 

Nobody can save you because you don’t want to be saved. 

Dean? 

It’s harder to ignore Sam now. He’s too insistent, and whatever drugs are in Dean’s system must be wearing off. 

He opens his eyes. There’s an intense look to Sam these days, something manic. It’s not there now. He’s just Sammy. 

“Alastair’s dead,” Sam says. “He’s dead.” Like he knows that’s what Dean wants to hear first. 

Good, Dean thinks, but he doesn’t really believe Sam. There’s no way. Even if the angels killed him, he’s still here. He stays alive in the part of Dean that knows he’s a monster. 

“No,” he whispers. “He’s not.” 

Sam frowns. “He’s dead, I…saw him die.” 

“No, he…” Dean has to let him know. Has to impress on Sam how powerful Alastair truly is. It takes a lot of effort, but he raises a shaking finger and taps his own temple. “In here.” 

“Okay, Dean.” Sam takes his hand and lowers it back down to the mattress. “Okay.” 

~

Cas shows up. Dean does not want to see him. He hears the real truth from him: Alastair wasn’t lying. He broke the first seal. That’s what the demon was taunting him about, it’s why he cared so badly and why all the other demons lined up to watch. They knew what it meant. 

But him being a righteous man, that’s what Dean’s so hung up about. 

He’s not righteous. Cas is wrong. He was meant to be in hell. Sure, it sucked at the beginning. It really, really sucked. But he doesn’t get to feel bad about that part, because he took Alastair’s deal. He enjoyed torturing. He’s anything but righteous. 

Then he learns that Alastair wasn’t killing angels. Angels were killing angels, meaning a civil war. So all this shit was for nothing. He got sent back to hell for a day, for nothing. 

“Leave,” he tells Cas after that particular nugget of information. “You know what you did.” 

He sinks back into dreams. This time he’s cutting Cas’ wings off with a bloody knife. Cas says, I shouldn’t have saved you. Cas says, this is the best you deserve. 

~

Dean can almost talk normally, so he’s supposed to be discharged in a couple days. That means back to trying to stop the apocalypse. Because he fucking started it, so he has to fix it. 

There is not enough good he can do to make up for this. 

He sits with his options. He won’t be able to stop the apocalypse. He can’t send himself back to hell. Sam would get crazier than he already is. A quick fix is in order. 

There is no one here. Dean stole some cigarettes, earlier. He makes sure he’s alone before lighting one and lifting a corner of his hospital gown. He hates wearing that thing. Anyone could come in and stab him wherever they want. He lifts it, and burns the inside of his thigh. 

It hurts. He can imagine Alastair is doing it. He wants to scream. 

And it’s exactly what he deserves. 

He’s going for it again when Castiel is suddenly there. He yanks the lit cigarette right out of Dean’s hand. It doesn’t leave a mark on him. 

“What are you doing?” Cas snarls, furious. 

“What does it look like,” Dean says flatly. “What I deserve.” 

Cas looks caught somewhere between fury and confusion. 

“I don’t understand,” he says. “But you cannot do that. You already have injuries that are too numerous to count.” 

“Yeah, I forgot, you need me top notch to stop the apocalypse.” Talking hurts right now, but that’s more pain, too, so Dean keeps at it. “Thought angels could heal anyone they wanted.” 

A spasm of something passes over Cas’ face. “I haven’t secured permission for that.”

“So they want me to be hurt,” Dean says. “That it?” 

“Heaven…believes your injuries will give you the strength to go on,” Cas says. “That remembering will give you strength.” 

Before this torture session, Dean would’ve shouted at him. Pushed him. Lashed out. That impulse is gone now, so he just slumps his shoulders where he’s sitting sideways on the bed. 

“Yeah,” he says, looking at the floor. “Because that’s done me such a great job so far.” 

Cas doesn’t really seem to know what to say to that. Dean’s glad. He doesn’t want any more of the angel’s poor attempts at sympathy and comfort. Cas is a soldier, so he probably doesn’t know how to turn that into kindness. Sort of like Dean. 

“You cannot keep hurting yourself,” the angel says at last. “I won’t allow it.” 

That finally pisses him off enough to stand up and stare at the dude face to face. 

“Oh, you won’t allow it,” Dean says bitterly. “But you put me in there. You told me good things happen, but I knew there was some ulterior motive. I knew it. You want me to torture other people so bad, you should’ve left me there.” 

Cas’ expression now shows the most emotion Dean’s ever seen from him - and fitting, that the emotion in question just looks like he’s been stabbed. 

Good. 

“It wasn’t heaven’s will,” Cas says. “It was Uriel.” 

“Yeah, you keep saying that. But if you get another order like that, you’ll follow it all over again.” Dean turns away. “Get out of here.” 

“No,” Cas says, to his surprise. 

Dean spins back on him, the sudden motion jarring his ribs. “No?”

“No,” Cas says again. He sure likes repeating himself. “The human psyche is confusing. But you usually ask me to leave when you feel particularly vulnerable.” 

Oh, now Dean really hates him. 

“So, leave,” he says. 

Cas frowns. “I don’t know what to do, to make you feel better.” 

“Oh, you know what you can do?” Dean spreads his arms wide. “Kill me. Send me back.” 

Cas rears back as if he’s been hit. “Kill you? That’s not - I -” 

Dean’s almost impressed with himself. The angel’s at a genuine loss for words. 

Then Cas’ face screws up in anger. “No. It was the will of heaven that got you out. You are not returning to hell. I do not care if you don’t see value in your own life, you won’t go back.”

Dean scoffs at him.  

“You are so confusing,” Cas says. “You have nightmares about hell. Why do you keep asking to go back?”

Oh, great, now he has to tell him, because the guy just refuses to leave. 

“I’ve told you,” Dean says, his voice shaking. “I belong there. Maybe you don’t get why. I made that deal, and then when I was there - I did -” Don’t cry. Don’t cry in front of the angel. “I’m not - human. Not anymore. Maybe not to begin with.”

“You’re not human?” Cas echoes. 

Finally he’s struck a nerve. Maybe if Dean presses on it, Cas will hurt him. 

“Nope,” Dean says. “You saw what everybody looked like. Bloody torsos. And then when I got off, well. Just - just send me back. Don’t make me pretend to be a human being anymore, cause I’m not -” 

He’s interrupted by Cas’ hands seizing both his shoulders. 

“How can you say that?” the angel snaps, shaking Dean roughly. Good, keep going. Slam my head into the wall. Break my arm. “How can you hate yourself so much? How don’t you understand? You are the most human person I’ve ever met.” 

It sounds like Bobby saying, do you got that low an opinion of yourself? 

“W-what -” Dean swallows. “What do you mean?” 

Cas’ hands tighten on his shoulders; then loosen, as if he’s suddenly realized the implied violence of it. His hands rest there on Dean’s biceps, like he’s finally figured out the right amount of pressure. 

“You are constantly saying things that I - don’t understand,” Cas says. “Back to the future. Robert Plant. Constantine. Brad Pitt. You sleep with women to escape yourself, you play loud music to make your brother angry - and none of it makes any sense but it also makes - it makes -” 

Dean just stares at him. He’s out of words, and he still hates himself, but he really wants to hear what Cas is going to say next. 

“It makes me want,” Cas says, “to be human.” Then he seems to think about that. “No. Not…what do you people say? Literally. I don’t mean ‘to be a human,’ literally. But you make me want to understand. I want to know what I’m missing.” 

His piece apparently said, he takes a step back. 

Dean doesn’t know what to do with all that. He doesn’t know what the stupid angel is talking about. Maybe he liked all that shit, past tense. But even then it was a facade. Distracting him from the real point to his life: take pain, cause it. Hell just pulled off the mask. 

He needs to sit down. 

Maybe Cas knew that, maybe it’s why he stepped back. Strange amount of intelligence from him. Dean takes a step forward. Then he sits on the bed again. 

Cas sits across from him in the chair. 

Dean’s not human, and he’s not good. He went to hell, and he started torturing people; and he still hates what was done to him, like he deserves to. He doesn’t deserve to feel bad for what happened to him. He did it to others. 

And Castiel the unfeeling angel is saying Dean joking about a movie that gets way too close to incest territory makes him want to be human. 

You don’t get it, he wants to say. You should go talk to other humans. 

“I don’t remember saying half of that shit,” he says out loud. 

“It’s irritating,” Cas says, and if Dean was feeling any better he might crack a smile. “I don’t understand it. It’s like you want me to feel stupid. But I want to understand it.” 

“Why?” Dean demands. 

“I do not have…feelings,” Cas says. “I don’t have things that I like. That’s the way things are. It can’t be changed. But now I…” 

He trails off. Now he wants to have that, after talking to Dean. For some reason. 

Dean folds his arms over his midsection. “That’s what I’m trying to get. Why?  Why me? I’m a piece of shit. Like, literally shit, like you pulled me out of the gutter -” 

“And you didn’t belong in the gutter,” Cas says. 

“And I’ve been trying to tell you I did.” It is really hurting to talk now. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten off the rack. Otherwise I wouldn’t have sold my soul.” 

He expects Cas to throw back another retort. He doesn’t say anything. He looks at Dean for a long time, so long that Dean starts to get uncomfortable. It’s like Cas is looking at his soul. 

Then he gets up, abruptly, so fast Dean flinches. 

“I am going to make you understand,” Cas says, like it’s a threat. “So listen to me. You went to hell because you loved your brother, and what you did never diminished your soul’s brilliance.”

“No,” Dean shoots back, his voice cracking. 

“Yes,” Cas says again. His expression gets marginally less severe. “Making you feel like you belonged there was part of the torture, Dean. It wasn’t true.” 

“Bullshit,” Dean says. This is worse than having his body ripped apart. It’s worse than knives. It’s like Cas is cracking him open with every stilted phrase. 

“It was,” Cas says emphatically. He sits down next to Dean. “They needed you to break as fast as possible. It depended on you believing that you deserved to be in hell. Alastair understood you very well. He figured that out.”

“Yeah, because I’m a weapon,” Dean says. He can’t handle it in his chest, whatever this feeling is. Like something’s trying to get out. “So all I needed was some encouragement to -” 

“No,” Cas says firmly. “No,” he adds, softer. “You believe that you’re a weapon, because it’s how you were raised. You didn’t want to be a hunter. You wanted your father to hold you.” 

“How dare you,” Dean spits. “You don’t know that, you don’t know me -” 

“Yes, I do,” Cas says. “I know everything about you.” 

Dean hates him. He wants him to shut up and he wants him to keep talking and he wants - he wants - 

He doesn’t know what he wants. 

“I’m not saying any of this correctly,” Cas says. “I wish Sam was here. But you -” He seems to think for a moment, hands in his lap. 

Then he turns to look at Dean again, and Dean cannot look away. He’s trapped. 

“You are not a monster,” Cas says, forcefully, like he’s trying to beam the words right into Dean’s skull. “You were just hurt, very very badly. And the seal would not have broken if you were deserving of hell.” 

Dean can’t process that. 

Like, he literally can’t. All he’s aware of are the words bouncing around: you asked to be here versus you were just hurt very badly. And if he’s supposed to believe that, then he wasn’t supposed to be there, which means - which means - 

He can’t think about it. 

But he guesses he already is, because his body is having physical reactions that his brain can’t stop. His hands are shaking like he’s had too much to drink. His bottom lip is trembling. 

You belong in hell, and he still knows it’s true, he knows it, but Cas is an angel. He wouldn’t lie to Dean about the seal. He wouldn’t lie to Dean about any of this, because the guy isn’t really capable of that, so if him being the righteous man is true then - 

It’s not fair, he remembers thinking before he went to hell. 

“Oh, god,” he says, the words choked out of him. “Oh god. I can’t - I -” 

He feels too big for his body, a nuclear reaction building in his chest. It explodes, and not in a rush of anger like he was expecting.

Instead, violent sobs burst out of him. He rocks forward and is swallowed by his grief.  

Dean can’t put a name to what he feels - somewhere between the way he felt when Alastair ripped his heart out and the way he felt when he realized his mom was dead. He hates himself at the same time as he realizes, with full clarity, how horrible his time in hell truly was. He saves people, he helps people, except in this case it was him who needed to be saved. 

Breaking the seal meant making him believe he belonged in hell. And the torture was as horrific as it could possibly be, because the demons were on a time crunch. 

The things that happened to him, all the things that Alastair and the other demons told him, rush back in a flood. He is skinned alive, his nerves are plucked like strings, he is told that nobody loves him and it is so, so awful. 

He was hurt and he’s admitting he was hurt and he feels like it’s going to kill him. He can’t stop sobbing, even though he wants to, because what would his dad think if he saw Dean like this? He hasn’t cried like this in his life. He hasn’t cried like this since the first thirty years in hell. 

Eventually he becomes aware of a few things: mainly that he’s weeping into Cas’ big coat, and if that isn’t the worst shame he’s ever felt. Not only is he a sobbing wreck in front of an angel of God, he’s now crying on him. Snot and tears and everything. 

He wants to pull away; then he realizes he’s not just leaning on Cas. The angel has an arm around his shoulder. The other hand is on top of Dean’s head, like a benediction. 

“Shhh,” says the low voice. “Shh. Everything will be okay.” 

The words come out awkward. This whole thing feels like it’s an experiment on Cas’ part. But instead of laughing, Dean just cries harder. Now, though, his breakdown takes a different turn. He cries in relief. Someone cared enough to get him out of hell. 

Cas saw him torturing souls, and he’s still doing this. 

Dean doesn’t know how long they stay there. It feels like he’s disappeared into a little pocket in time where he’s allowed to do this as long as he wants. He lets his self-hatred and self-loathing pour out of him. Cas pets Dean’s head a little aggressively, like he’s not sure what to do with his hand, and rocks him back and forth.

Over time, the flood of sobs dies down to a thunderstorm, then to a drizzle. And in the aftermath, he feels drained. All the pain has gone out of him and left him numb in its wake. 

Eventually Dean recovers himself enough to pull back. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice wrecked. “Thanks. Uh. I guess. But you shouldn’t -” 

“You needed it,” Cas says, looking fairly confident. He’s probably right. He knows everything about Dean. So he knows how much Dean craves something like this all the time. 

“Sure, I -” Dean can feel himself turn red. This is mortifying. “If you say so.” 

“I promise I won’t tell Sam,” Cas says. 

It’s almost funny. Dean manages the ghost of a smile. 

“You know, you killed Uriel,” he says. “You’ll have to get funnier now.” 

Cas scowls at him, so Dean knows he doesn’t get it. So he’s back to being irritating. 

“I still have to do it,” he says. “Don’t I? I have to stop the apocalypse.” 

“Yes,” Cas says. So he’ll give him an awkward sort-of hug, but the heavenly mission continues. “But you won’t be alone.” 

Dean was alone for forty years. Maybe that’ll be okay. More of his old life. Fight a shit ton of creatures who want to kill him. With Sam at his side. And with Cas, maybe. 

“Do you believe me yet?” the angel asks. “That you didn’t belong in hell?” 

Dean sighs. “I don’t know. Tell me for forty years. Then maybe.” 

That something crosses through Cas’ eyes again, and Dean is starting to figure out what it is: a cross between sadness and righteous determination. 

“I will endeavor to do that,” Cas says, like he’s swearing an oath. 

Dean’s not going to cry again. He’s just not. “Whatever you say.” 

Cas studies him for another moment. Then he says, “get in bed.” 

Not gonna buy me dinner first? is what old Dean would say. New Dean says, “I don’t want to sleep.” 

“You should still rest,” Cas says. “You haven’t been resting enough.” 

He stands up so Dean can lift the covers and get into bed. The angel’s right, he’s dead tired. Except - even after this, he knows what he’ll say if he shuts his eyes. 

Cas sits down next to him. He tucks him in, scratchy hospital blanket pulled up to his chin. Dean swallows past a lump in his throat. 

“You don’t get my pop culture shit,” he says. “But you know how to do all this?” 

“I’m pulling from my vessel’s memories,” Cas says by way of explanation. “He did this for his daughter.” 

Well, that’s a whole can of ethical soup Dean’s not going to open right now. 

“I’m going to do something,” Cas says, and he looks nervous now. “Don’t be afraid.” 

“Okay, Linus, what do you mean -” 

Cas’ hand slides around to touch Dean’s cheek very gently, exactly like Mom used to do. Something lights up under his palm, and then the something gets under Dean’s skin. It’s like being really high. His ribs are whole. His bruises go away. His throat stops being sandpaper. It’s like hell, except hell was immediate. This is gradual, slow healing that feels like being held. 

Then it recedes. There’s a glow that goes with Cas’ hand as he pulls it back. 

“I don’t know who Linus is,” the angel says. 

Dean has to chuckle at that. Just a little one, because he’s in shock that Cas healed him. 

“Thought you said you didn’t have permission,” he says. 

“I decided I don’t care,” Cas says. 

That’s what Anna decided too, and suddenly Dean is scared for him. He doesn’t want to put the angel in trouble because of his own shit. 

“Careful,” he says. “Don’t break heaven just because I’m a coward.” 

“I will not ‘break heaven,’” Cas says. “You had already started to heal. And,” there’s something old and wise in his expression. “You are not a coward. Hell hurt you.” 

Very matter of fact, somewhere between cold hard facts and an attempt at therapy. Dean hates the idea of therapy. And he hates the way it makes him feel when Cas says stuff like this.

“Whatever,” he says. “You can go, if you want. I might not sleep, but I promise I’ll shut my eyes.” 

“I’ll take your dreams away,” Cas says. 

Dean feels small at that. Like a child. 

“Oh,” he says. “You - you can do that?” He thinks he means you would do that? 

“Just this once,” Cas says. 

Dean’s lip trembles. This time he stops it. 

“Don’t make a habit of it,” he says. “I have a reputation.” 

“I won’t be here often enough to make a habit of it.” 

Right. Because there’s a whole apocalypse, and Cas has other shit to do. 

“Okay. Go ahead.” 

He realizes he’s still wound tight at the thought of sleep. Seven months, and he doesn’t like going to sleep the way he used to. Used to be, he slept like the dead. Now he sleeps holding his gun, and he gets maybe three hours. And there’s no gun in here because it’s a hospital. 

Cas gets off the bed then and sits on the chair, which is now right next to the bed. So close Cas can just reach an arm out and touch him from there if he wants. And he does. A hand lands on Dean’s forehead. 

I’m safe, is all Dean can think. Someone’s looking out for me. 

“My mom used to say angels were watching over me,” he says, his voice shaky as he remembers Alastair’s words. “Was that you?” 

“It is now,” Cas says. Then, his hand sweeping once over Dean’s hair, “Go to sleep.” 

Dean’s sure he’s going to wake up in hell when he closes his eyes. But for now, this is a welcome diversion. 

Cas doesn’t put him to sleep. He’s lulled there within a few seconds, the darkened room and Cas’ presence and his exhaustion doing all the work. 

When he dreams, his mom cuts him a slice of blueberry pie.