Chapter Text
“No news on Cas,” Bobby tells Dean over the phone. He’s at the grocery store–even world-saving, apocalypse-averting heroes gotta eat–with his cell phone pinched in between his shoulder and ear. “Seems like he’s going out with a bang.” The last thing Cas-as-God got up to was leveling the Republican National Convention, and then nothing. “Radio silence,” Bobby says.
“Huh,” Dean grunts, scanning the frozen section for the cheapest thing that’ll keep he and Bobby and Sam fed. “Well, maybe he finally fizzled out? I mean, you’ve seen how he looks these days. He’s not exactly passing any physicals.” The last time a witness of one of Cas’ ‘strikes’ had caught him on camera, he’d been covered in sores, and his stomach had been…kicking? through his shirt. It made Dean’s heart jump into his throat–there was his friend, getting ridden around by whatever mud on the bottom of his shoe he swallowed from Purgatory.
“Maybe,” Bobby says, “but I wouldn’t be so sure. I’d hate to count our chickens.”
Dean inspects a bag of frozen fries and does some price-per-pound math in his head.
“I hate to say this, Bobby, but what if this is above our pay grade? I mean, killing God? Where do we even start for that one?”
“You don’t.” That doesn’t come from the phone, not from Bobby–the voice is behind him, and it belongs to Cas.
The new Cas.
“Cas,” Dean says, turning–slowly–to face him. He handles the new Cas like he’s doing hostage negotiations, talking slow and trying to keep things calm. He’s been a little ingratiating sometimes, even. Cas would show up every few days, until recently, just to Dean, to command him to bow before him and confess his love for his new God, and they’d go back and forth about it for a while, Dean pleading for his friend back and Cas insisting that it was better this way. And then Cas would say the same thing he said in the laboratory–”What’s the point if you don’t mean it?”--and shake his head with this immensely sad, almost pitying look on his face. Sometimes he’d bring something for Dean, too, which he’d present him with at the end, right before he vanished–food, or a new gun with a fancy inlay like Dean liked, or sometimes just wads of cash. And then he’d disappear, only to show back up a few days later.
So the sight of Cas itself wasn’t that weird, but the grocery store ambush was a new one.
“I have an offer for you,” Cas says, his voice smooth and freakishly even. “I am recreating the world. And I want you to join me in it.”
“Uh, Bobby–” Dean murmurs into the phone, but there’s no answer, and when he pulls it away from his ear, it’s a paperweight–the screen is a black void, riddled with cracks.
“It’s just you and I here, Dean. I wanted to speak privately.”
“Okay,” Dean says, holding his hands up. “Mission accomplished, man. You were saying?” How’s he going to get out of this one, one-on-one with New God in a Kroger?
“I have discovered how to maintain my vessel while carrying the souls,” Cas goes on. “I weeded out the Leviathan and crushed them. My powers are even stronger than ever, untainted by their scheming and complaints. I am shaping a new Earth in my image, a peaceful place where humanity will flourish and thrive and justice will rule.”
“...Alright,” Dean nods. “Good. Great. I saw you nuke the RNC, can’t say I’m mad about that one…”
Cas smiles, pleased.
“I thought you might like it,” he preens, not subtly.
Weird, Dean thinks instantly. Very weird. The gifts were a surprise, sure, but Dean figured they were some kind of amends, or maybe a bribe. Now, with Cas’ weird look of satisfaction at Dean’s reserved praise, it feels more like something on Animal Planet–a cat bringing its owner a dead mouse, a lioness killing an antelope for her mate.
“Lately, I have found myself wishing I had someone to share my powers with,” Cas continues–Dean tries not to think panicked thoughts, because who knows what Cas can see. “And every time I wished to have someone by my side, it was you I was thinking of. So I have come to propose that you join me as my bride.”
“Bride?” Dean repeats, his brain still catching up. He knows Cas doesn’t mean it in the girl way–he’s never been a dick to Dean about the whole gender thing, which he can’t say of all the angels or demons–but that doesn’t make it make any more fucking sense. “You want–are you proposing to me? Like, one knee, he-went-to-Jared proposing?”
“In a sense,” Cas nods, though it’s clear he misses the last part. “Gods have always taken spouses–humans, fellow gods, whatever struck their fancy. Now that my reign is secured, and my power has increased, I have sought you out to join me. I have found a home that would please you, and made it ready for you. I would be at your service. And Sam, and Bobby, they would be provided for as well. You would never have to battle another monster, or endure another inconvenience, you would never be sick or tired or hungry. You would want for nothing.”
“And in return?” Dean asks. He’s not seriously thinking of saying yes–is he? “What, wifely duties? The life monastic? You wanna lock me in a tower and Rapunzel me?”
Cas cocks his head, a parody of the way he used to that makes Dean’s skin crawl.
“If you felt inclined to pray to me, I would not complain. As I am something of a jealous God, I would keep you to myself, but you could take visitors.” He smiles. “You will come to truly love me in due time, Dean. Perhaps once you experience the life you deserve. Once I show you the kind of God I am.”
Dean thinks about it. He thinks about what he told Bobby early on, how you don’t step to God unless you wanna get stepped on. And then he thinks about Bobby and Sam, back home, about Sam’s visions.
“You could fix Sam?” he asks. “Put the wall back up in his brain?”
“I could make it as if he’d never been to Hell at all,” Cas replies evenly. “I could resolve every problem you’ve ever had. Every problem he’s ever had.”
“And you’d really do it?”
“I would if you asked.”
Dean takes a deep breath. If Cas is being straight with him, it sounds like a good-enough deal–lap of luxury, Bobby and Sam safe and provided for, no more hunting. Plus, it’s entirely possible that this is one of those non-question questions.
“And what if I turn you down?” he asks, thinking he might basically know the answer.
Cas’ face darkens for a moment–it’s just a flash, but it’s enough to send Dean’s heart to his bootsoles.
“I am tired of waiting,” he says finally. “Being God is lonely work.”
That can’t be good, Dean thinks. He’s not getting the sense that Cas is going to take kindly to rejection.
“You gonna let me call Bobby and Sam and tell them where I am?”
“I will appear to them,” Cas replies. “Or perhaps you can take them as visitors at your new home. They will understand, especially once they reap the rewards.”
Dean considers the bag of frozen fries in his hand. What’s he going to go back to, exactly? His brother off the deep end, shit food, hunting forever, no best friend, no way out? Sure, Cas could be lying, but why would he? If he wanted to, he could snap his fingers and have Dean however he wanted–teleported to some dank cell somewhere, hogtied in a torture dungeon, exploded in bits all over the grocery store refrigerators, whatever, without the need for this whole song and dance. Maybe it’s legit, he thinks, and if not, what’s his out?
“Alright,” he says finally. “Yeah. Do it.”
Cas’ smile is downright beatific, which is especially freaky, given the circumstances.
“You won’t regret this, Dean,” he beams. “Come.” He extends his hand across the space between them and presses two fingers against Dean’s forehead, the way he used to teleport them back when he was a rank-and-file angel, before his little promotion.
When Dean opens his eyes again, he’s in a sunlit living room. The walls are wood-paneled, and the floor is wood, too, both rich, deep brown. There are two huge French doors, wood and glass, that look out onto a generous yard and a lake with a dock. There’s a couch, and a TV, and a coffee table, and a fireplace with a big stone chimney.
“This is my house?” he asks. It’s nice–comfortable and warm, and the lake is the cherry on top.
“I prefer to think of it as ours,” Cas says a little haughtily, “but yes, it is. I chose it for you.”
For a second, Dean wonders what happened to the original owners, but then he decides to try not to worry about that–he’s just guessing, here, but he assumes Cas didn’t go through a realtor to get his hands on this place.
“I like it,” Dean says sincerely. Better to make an investment in good will with Cas while he can, he thinks, walking around the room. He inspects the bookshelf built into one wall, full of sci-fi and classic fantasy. “Did they already have these?”
Cas shakes his head.
“I thought you’d enjoy those,” he says, a little smug. “There are a few first-editions. Some are signed. Unfortunately, most of your favorite authors have died, but those who have not have signed their books for you.”
Cas takes one of Grady Hendrix’s book off the shelf–We Sold Our Souls, which Sam got Dean for Christmas a few years ago. It’s Dean’s copy; he recognizes it by the ThriftBooks sticker on the back. Cas opens it up to the title page, which says, “Hail, Dean! Your God boyfriend sure does go above and beyond. Enjoy! -Grady” in a swooping handwriting. (The guy seems to have had a pretty good sense of humor about the whole thing, which Dean respects.) There’s a big Baphomet stamp next to it. It’s weird, but funny, and also kind of flattering.
“Wow.” Dean raises his eyebrows. “Thanks, Cas. Is this, uh–you want me to bow now?”
He meant it as a joke, but it doesn’t land. Cas narrows his eyes.
“Your devotion to me is not a joke,” he says curtly, putting the book away. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
Cas takes him through the other rooms–big kitchen with the newest appliances, granite countertops, convection oven. There’s a fridge stocked with El Sol, a bar cart of barrel-aged reserve whiskeys, a pantry full of his favorite snacks. A pie in the oven, miraculously thirty minutes from being done–just long enough to finish the tour before digging in.
There’s a dining room with a nice, solid wood table; a game room with a pool table and dartboard; another sitting room with even more books and overstuffed chairs.
Three guest bedrooms, each with their own en suite, and Dean’s bedroom–huge bed, memory foam, the softest sheets he’s ever touched. A balcony overlooking the lake, with two little chairs. A bathroom with an enormous tub and a separate shower, fluffy towels, a beautiful warm bathrobe already waiting on the back of the door.
“So, you’re going to be shacking up here?” Dean asks–the sight of the bed made him remember some of Cas’ more worrying word choices, “bride” and “spouse” among them, not to mention the fact that Cas had had no comment on Dean’s half-joking invocation of “wifely duties.”
And, look. Dean’s not going to lie. He’s had what he might call “impure thoughts” about Cas before. Who could blame him? All that angelic power, those ruffled good looks, that gravelly voice–Cas was hot. Dean had basically said as much to Sam, one of the times Cas was MIA (something to the lines of “Women’d remember him, you know, ‘cause of how he looks”) and Sam, who’d been known to like a few guys and should have known what he was talking about, said in his trademark ‘judging you’ tone, “Uh, okay, Dean.” But Dean knew he was right. Cas was hot.
But this new Cas, God Cas, is–scary. Same face, same body, but a lot more killing, at least as far as Dean knows. And a much more entitled attitude. Dean’s once again aware that if Cas wanted to, he could have him anywhere and any way he wanted–maybe that was technically the same of old Cas, who was more powerful than Dean then, too, but he wouldn’t have done that.
This new Cas–Dean’s not sure.
“I do not need sleep,” Cas says, as if Dean needs reminding that he’s not human. “But I will be here when my responsibilities do not call me away.”
“Right,” Dean nods. “Responsibilities like…?”
“Like bringing about our new world.” Our new world–if Dean were more predisposed to megalomania, he’d like the sound of that. “There are angels that need to receive instructions, prophets that need revelation. Not to mention nonbelievers and heretics that must be made examples of. But if you need me, I will come to you.”
Dean nods again. It’s still sinking into his brain that two hours ago, he was going to the grocery store for a few staples while Bobby kept an ear to the ground on Cas and dug through research to help Sam, and now he’s been Beauty and the Beast-ed by his best friend, who is also God and appears to be counting on Dean developing Stockholm Syndrome.
“Super,” he agrees. “Okay. Well–this place is great, Cas, really. Thank you.”
Cas looks pleased.
“Your car is downstairs, by the way. In the garage,” he adds. “I assume you’ll want some time by yourself to settle in. I will give revelation to Bobby and Sam that you are mine and return shortly.”
That you are mine. Jesus, Dean thinks, give a guy some fucking warning. He thinks he was able to successfully keep his emotions–primarily mild panic, confusion, slight fear–off of his face, and when Cas doesn’t say anything admonishing and vanishes, he figures he did a pretty good job.
“Right,” Dean says, even though he’s alone–he figures Cas can see him, anyway. “Thanks, Cas.”