Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time man-in-charge Cas shows up at Bobby's place after that shitshow that was the Purgatory mess, Dean promptly flips the fuck out and shoots him.

Not that shooting him does much, considering Cas is basically god now, at least according to him (and Dean's inclined to believe him, given the everything about this new version of him). Cas simply looks down at his chest where his clothes now have a bullet hole, calm as anything, and then back up at Dean. His expression is blank, placid. Unconcerned. Powerful. Still seeing Dean as nothing more than an ant poking at a boot.

"Did you think that would accomplish anything?" Cas asks, head tilting in a mockery of a gesture that was once so familiar to Dean.

Dean, still pointing his gun at the chest of someone who not too long ago was his best friend, clenches his jaw. "No," Dean says tightly. "You made your standpoint pretty damn clear, last we talked."

And he did, oh boy did he ever. You will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you. The splatter of an archangel getting torn down to atoms. Sam's mind crumbling to pieces. Yeah, Dean knows exactly where Cas falls now, and it sure as hell isn't on their side.

Cas doesn't ask why he shot him if he knew it would accomplish nothing, not like the old Cas would've. Always curious, always confused, always interested to learn the 'strange' ways of humans, and Dean in particular. No, this new Cas doesn't give a crap. This new Cas sees Dean as nothing more than a tiny creature, so far beneath him in power and importance alike.

"Why are you here?" Dean asks. He doesn't lower his gun. He knows it won't do anything, but it feels wrong to put it down when faced with such a gigantic threat. He's all too aware of the house behind him, where Bobby and Sam are, infinitely vulnerable against a being like Castiel. Sam, who is barely keeping his shit together. Sam, who is constantly one moment away from losing his grip on reality over and over again. Sam, who Dean can never fucking protect no matter how hard he tries.

Cas doesn't answer him. He looks around the junkyard almost idly, and then back to Dean. It aches, the way he looks at him. None of the familiarity or care or protectiveness. None of the stuff Dean was always too chickenshit to put a name to. It hurts more than Dean can—or will—describe, to lose all that. It makes him want to scream. Makes him want to bash his fist against a wall until the pain of crunching bones is all he can feel.

Between one blink and the next, Cas is gone again, without another word. And without the flutter of wings.

He pops back up again a week or so later, apparently making a pitstop as Singer Salvage Yard in between all the murder and mayhem he's causing across the country. Dean shoots him, again, because it feels wrong not to, and again Cas spares his torn clothes nothing more than a brief glance before looking back to Dean with the stupid fucking calm expression, like nothing Dean could do would ever be worth any level of irritation from him.

"The impala is looking better," Castiel comments vaguely, looking Dean's baby over. Up until a couple moments ago, Dean had been working on her. It's slow going; she took a lot of damage in Sam's attempt to get to them, and actually Dean finds himself a little...grateful, for it. If the impala wasn't beaten to high hell then Dean wouldn't be able to work on fixing her, wouldn't have the familiarity of it, and he might go slightly batshit.

He needs something to focus on. And he needs a purpose to leave the house, because leaving Sam without one makes him feel like absolute shit. At least this way, he can get a little bit of a breather with an actual reason behind it.

(Sam is losing himself more and more, bit by bit, with every day that passes. He spaces out, has flashbacks, screams at things that only he can see, talks to people who aren't there. Cas destroyed his mind. Did that before getting high on Purgatory power, even, and then left them with the fallout. And Dean would do absolutely anything for Sam, but being around that much crazy, spending all his time with his brother who is broken and he can't fix it, is going to drive him mad right alongside the kid. So, a breather is necessary.)

Cas steps forward, ignoring—or maybe not even noticing—the way Dean goes rigid at his approach. Cas doesn't even look at him, instead examining the engine Dean has been painstakingly putting back together, bit by bit. He might not be able to fix Sam or Cas or fucking anything else in their screwed up world, but his baby he can fix. He can do that much.

"Human inventions will never fail to amaze," Cas muses.

Dean scowls at the ground, ignoring the fact that his eyes sting. It's not fair of him to say shit like that, to give a glimmer of the old Cas but so horrifically wrong. Cas shouldn't sound like he's praising a puppy for a neat trick. He should sound—actually amazed, like human inventions are a marvel, the way he used to. An angel who fell in love with humanity, not a god who sees them as trained monkeys.

"What do you want?" Dean asks through gritted teeth. He doesn't actually expect a response, and he doesn't get one. He feels Cas' eyes on him; once so steadying, now nothing but an inherent threat. God's attention is not something you want to have, especially not one who's proven their willingness to murder people they don't like.

When Dean looks back up, a long minute later, he finds that, once again, Cas is gone.

The third time Cas shows up, he does it when Sam is around, and that promptly goes tits up.

Sam is sitting on the ground next to the impala while Dean works on getting a particularly stubborn dent out of the frame. It's a good day, relatively; Sam hasn't had any screaming fits, hasn't lost himself in his own mind. Hasn't tried to hurt himself, or them. He's not completely present—very rarely is, these days—but he's aware enough to hand Dean the tools he asks for, when he asks for them.

It's a good day. It's a good day. And then Cas blinks into existence beside the impala and, with one look, sends Sam spiraling.

Dean doesn't have time to say anything to Cas, can't do anything but rush to his brother's side as Sam screams, eyes wide with fear, scrambling backwards and digging his nails into his arms, leaving deep scratches behind. His eyes dart around wildly as hallucinations come crashing in, triggered by the face of a man who was supposed to be their best friend, and instead ruined Sam completely.

Cas watches dispassionately as Dean wraps his arms tightly around his brother, ignoring the way Sam begs for him—for someone who's not actually there—to stop, arms steel bands around him to keep him from hurting himself any more than he already has.

By the time Sam has calmed down through sheer exhaustion, merely trembling in Dean's grip and mumbling out pleas from time to time, Cas is gone. Dean doesn't know when he left, and he doesn't care. They all have their priorities, and Dean's will always be Sam.

"How does your brother fare?"

Dean jumps, cursing loudly, whirling around to face Cas head on. He didn't hear Cas arrive, because of course he didn't. His gun is just a foot away, sitting on the table with the rest of his tools, but he doesn't bother going for it. What would be the point? Doesn't accomplish jackshit.

"Why do you keep coming here?" Dean asks in return. He doesn't understand it. Cas clearly doesn't give a shit about any of them anymore, but he keeps coming back, keeps engaging with Dean, even in such a minor capacity. It doesn't make any fucking sense.

There's a part of Dean that wants to believe it's because Cas does still care for him, underneath...everything. That there's still some of the Cas he—considered family in there somewhere. But he can't let himself get caught up in that idea. It's bullshit, and it's useless, and all it will do is hurt him even more. Dean Winchester doesn't get good things, nothing that will last. And now all the stuff with Cas is over, too. All that's left is an overpowered being with a vague interest in the shit Dean gets up to, that's all.

"I find I desire your company," Cas says plainly, and Dean blinks at him.

"I—what?"

Cas tilts his head. The gesture aches. "We were very close, before I ascended. You, your brother, Bobby Singer—you were...favored pets, I believe. My humans. Even if you bite the hand that feeds you."

Anger flares in Dean's gut, hot and potent. "Right, sure, it was definitely all us, we were the ones in the wrong. Right. Fucking..." He turns away, trying to breathe. He's so angry his entire body is vibrating with it. None of this is fair. None of his life is ever fucking fair.

He's so tired of it all. He's so tired of Cas flitting around murdering people, and Sam losing his grip on reality, and the dead look in Bobby's eyes whenever he looks at them. He's so tired of having to keep going when everything is so rigged against them. Haven't they suffered enough? Haven't they been through enough? Hasn't Dean lost enough?

"Do you even care?" Dean asks. He half expects there to be no answer, expects Cas to have already left, just like he always does. Like everyone always does.

Instead, Cas replies, still in that mild fucking tone of his, like he's so far above Dean and his trivial little issues. "About what, in particular?"

"About Sam," Dean hisses, turning back around to glare at Cas. Cas meets his rage with nothing, with absolutely nothing. "You asked how he fares—why ask, unless you actually give a crap?"

Cas hums, nearly thoughtful. "An interesting question," he says. "If you knew a gerbil was injured, would you truly care about its status? Would it matter overly much to you?"

Dean smiles humorlessly. A gerbil. Someone Cas once defended with his life, and now calls him a gerbil.

Before he can come up with something to say in response to that, Cas is gone, blinking out of existence right in front of him. And there's nothing for Dean to do except sigh, bone-deep tired, and continue working on his car.

Dean's drunk off his ass, the next time Cas shows up. He's sitting on the porch of Bobby's house, doing his best to finish the bottle in his hand. He doesn't remember what kind of alcohol it is by this point, and doesn't much care. It's doing its job—its job being making Dean forget, at least for a few moments, about the utter crap show that is his life these days.

Sam had a massively bad day, tried to off himself.

Dean is starting to wonder if it wouldn't be kinder to let him.

But then, Dean's a selfish bastard—he doesn't think he could do this without Sam, even the fractured version of Sam. If Sam died, if he succumbed to all his crazy, then Dean would follow him right over, no question. Dean is...he's tired. He's done. He needs a win, and there's absolutely none coming. Definitely not one for Sam. This is their new normal. Praise the new god, leading them into a shiny new age. Woo.

Cas appears in front of Dean at the bottom of the porch steps, and Dean blinks blearily at him. He takes another swig from the bottle, relishing the faint burn as it goes down.

"Hello, Dean," Cas says in that gravelly voice Dean knows so damn well, and against his will his eyes prick with tears.

Dean looks at him, and then blinks. There are...cuts, or sores, or blisters, or something of that kind on Cas' face. Not a lot of them, but around his hairline, his jaw. A couple on his hands. They look painful. They seem so out of place, on such an all-powerful being.

"What happened to you?" Dean asks. His words slur slightly, blurry around the edges.

Cas looks down at his hands, examining the sores. There's a faint furrow between his eyebrows, the most emotion Dean thinks he's seen on Cas' face in...a long fucking time, Dean doesn't even know. It pulls at something in Dean's chest, something Dean won't let see the light of day, not any more. It'll only end in so much pain.

"I am...still figuring that out," Cas says slowly. He almost sounds concerned. The look in his eyes—it's something nearly manic. Dean doesn't know what to do with any of it.

Before he can stop himself, he says, "I'm here, Cas. We're right fucking here."

Cas looks at him. There's something weighted in his gaze. He opens his mouth to speak, the moment frozen around them, and then closes it without saying anything. Dean pretends he doesn't feel overwhelmingly disappointed.

"I—need to go," Cas says. His eyes are a little wide, his voice actually stutters. When he vanishes, it feels like running away.

It's something. Dean doesn't know what, can't possibly comprehend what it means right now, but it's something.

For now, it'll have to be enough.