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Where Does The Good Go

Summary:

God is defeated and they’re finally free, but what is Dean supposed to do with that freedom when he’s constantly haunted by the memory of Cas and his sacrifice?

Beta read by Treezenith on tumblr who is super nice and you should all go check them out!! <3

Spoiler: this DOES have a happy ending, just gotta wade through the mountains of Dean’s depression to get there

Chapter Text

They’re free.  
 
Dean reflects on this fact as he leads their little party through the trees, Chuck’s pitiful cries fading steadily into indecipherable echoes behind them as they trudge their way back to the impala.  
 
Every breath feels like torture, like his ribs are caving inward and creating gaping punctures throughout his lungs, leaking hot sticky blood into places it shouldn’t be in his chest…but they’re free.  
 
Every beat of his heart feels painfully out of rhythm, like it might decide to give out at any moment and leave him crumbling to the ground…but they’re free.  
 
Sam has this concerned look on his face and keeps glancing over, only to look away quickly as if this will prevent Dean from noticing…but they’re free.  
 
So why doesn’t he feel better?  
 
Dean isn’t really sure what freedom is supposed to feel like -having never quite had it in the first place- but he knows it’s not supposed to feel like this, like he would rather use his newfound autonomy to crawl into some dark pit and bury himself there, to allow his skin to rot from his bones and take his pain along with it as it seeps into the wet, musty soil of the earth.  
 
But. They’re. Free.  
 
His little brother is free to finish school or to start a family, Jack is free to actually be a kid, and Dean…he’s free to stew, to wallow in his grief. For what feels like the first time in thirty years, he’s actually allowed a fucking minute to slow down and really feel all of the hurt that’s been accumulating -hell, he’s free to drown in it if he wants.  
 
The only thing Dean isn’t free from is the pain, and somewhere deep down, he thinks he might actually be grateful for that. He thinks, probably selfishly, that he might be relieved that there’s still at least one thing keeping him shackled, because what exactly is he without something dark and twisted wrapped tight around his ankles, dragging him slowly down with each step? What is he without the weight of forces out of his control, without orders from a father long dead, without the guilt of every sin he’s ever committed? No, release from that would be too much, too jarring all at once.  
 
Besides, nothing good ever comes without a price. Dean is physically free, sure, but he’s positive the horrible knotted ribbons of his own mind will never quite untangle, never let him be.  
 
But again, he deserves this.
He’s grateful for it.  
 
After all, why should he get to live peacefully if others, his friends, had to die for it? It doesn’t feel right, the idea of retirement, of movie nights and steak dinners and weekends relaxing when the people he loved wouldn’t be able to enjoy it with him. Sam would be there of course, and he assumes Jack as well, but they’re still missing a vital part of their little family, the glue that seemed to hold them all together.  
 
Castiel had once said that he wasn’t around to perch on Dean’s shoulder, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. The angel had always been around in some capacity, always came when Dean called, always offered every ounce of himself to whatever cause they’d dragged him into -now Dean feels his absence like hot coals in his stomach and winces at the sharp sting that runs beneath his skin. It’s like someone’s reached into his body and removed a vital organ, ripped it from its place in his nervous system and left him awake on the operating table, exposed and bleeding into himself.  
 
The pain is so intense that he thinks he might die from it, but he’ll die free, and that’s worth it…right?  
 
Or is it, because even if Dean lets his blood spill onto the frosty grass, even if he buries himself alive and lets his body rot into the earth, it won’t matter; he’s confident he’ll go straight back down to Hell when it's all over, but this time there won't be an Angel of the Lord to haul him back up.  
 
Cas wouldn’t even be waiting for him in Heaven, should he somehow miraculously land a spot there.  
 
Cas was gone for good, to a place Dean had no possible way of reaching or contacting. There would be no more late nights watching old westerns together in the Dean Cave, no more awkward meals at diners (that could’ve absolutely been considered dates, now that he really thinks about it) where Cas would simply watch as Dean inhaled the largest burger on the menu. No more hunts, no more snarky comments, no more appearing out of nowhere and scaring the shit out of him when he went to the kitchen for a beer at midnight because he couldn’t sleep. No more lectures about his liver, no more healing his liver when he’s too wasted to push the angel’s warm and steady hands away. No more of the gazes that he only now realized had been soft, no more “Hello, Dean”’s, no more irritated sigh and roll of sky-blue eyes as Dean made some dumb joke.  
 
But he’s free. Cas had traded his very fucking existence to give Dean a chance at what he’d been fighting tooth and nail for, but now…

During a car ride that felt like entire lifetimes ago, Castiel had asked him what he would rather have: peace or freedom. He hadn’t known what to say then, but now the decision was obvious, repeating over and over in the back of his mind as if he might still be able to answer and have it mean anything at all.  
 
No one speaks when they finally reach the car. No one speaks on the quiet six hour drive back to Lebanon, and no one speaks as the towns they pass through slowly bloom back to life, people going about their shopping and errands as if the last few days had never happened, as if they hadn’t been wiped off the face of the earth.  
 
Dean can only assume that Amara has returned to Heaven, having absorbed Chuck’s powers, and is working to restore the balance her brother had destroyed. He briefly wonders how this all works, wonders exactly how many people are going to be brought back (what about Adam? Michael?), but his mind feels wrung like a damp washcloth and all he can truly focus on is making sure he stays within the lines on the road.

The last thing they needed was to save the world yet again, only to die in a horrifically fiery car crash because Dean was too busy feeling sorry for himself.  
 
He’d been looking forward to going home, to crawling under the covers with a drink and staying there until some necessary bodily function forced him up again, but he only gets halfway down the bunker’s main staircase before another wave of nausea-inducing sorrow makes his blood run cold.  
 
It’s the same bunker it’s always been -same dim lighting, same temperature (exactly 64 degrees, just the way Sam likes it), same muted colors and simplistic furniture- and yet everything about it feels somehow foreign. It looks like their home the way that an Ikea stage looks like a bedroom…all for show. Everything feels gray and empty now, like the joy and personality had been sucked from everything they’d ever owned.  
 
Dean wants to sob. He wants to sink to his knees and mourn what they’d lost here, the first home they’d truly known since Sam was a baby, the first place they’d been able to make real memories in, the place their mother had stayed, where Cas had…he finishes his trek down the stairs and grabs a shot glass from the kitchen instead.  
 
Sam is the first to break the silence as both he and Jack watch Dean grab a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, pause in front of the glass he’d just gotten out, then change his mind and take a long swig straight from the bottle. He squeezes his eyes shut and grunts a little at the burn in his throat, then goes back for another drink.  
 
“So…what are we supposed to do now? I mean, do we just…go back to hunting? Will there even be things to hunt?”  
 
Jack stares at Dean expectantly like a soldier waiting for orders, and Dean feels his stomach twist uncomfortably at the sight. He’s always seen too much of himself in the kid, has always squirmed a little under the trust and absolute loyalty in Jack’s eyes -it’s too much like the way he viewed his own father for so long, the father who’d abandoned him and shouldered him with more responsibility than a kid should ever have to handle, a man who could barely look at him because Dean too closely resembled the love he’d lost.  
 
Same eyes, John had said. Always the eyes.  
 
He’d always sworn never to be like his father, that if he ever managed to have children of his own, he’d do things differently; Dean isn’t an idiot, and he knows that he’s repeating a cycle he’d promised to break as he turns his shoulder to them, uses his own flank like a shield and hides within himself.  
 
“Do whatever you want,” comes out in a grumble shakier than he’d like to admit, and he catches Sam glance over at Jack in his peripheral. He takes another big gulp and waits impatiently for the buzz.  
 
“Jack, you mind giving us a minute?”  
 
The kid nods, expression sombre, and then Sam crosses the kitchen, leans his back against the fridge and awkwardly sticks his thumbs in his pockets like he’s not sure what to do with his hands.  
 
“You okay?” He asks it so casually, like Dean had just gotten a disappointingly wrong order from Taco Bell or something, and he feels a hot anger begin to simmer from somewhere deep in his chest.  
 
Is he okay? After everything that had just happened, Sam had the fucking balls to ask if he was okay? The real question was why Sam didn’t seem less okay, how he and Jack could continue like their entire world hadn’t just been turned on its ass for the past week, like something they’d been calling The Darkness wasn’t the new God, like Cas wasn’t-

“Oh, peachy,” he snaps, and focuses on picking at a hangnail.  
 
It’s been years since he’s gotten a hangnail. It’s been years since his hands have looked so calloused, since the skin stretching over his knuckles has stayed bloody and broken this long, since his lip has stung from being split. It’s been years.  
 
This is the part where Sam is supposed to sigh or roll his eyes or storm off after telling Dean to come find him when he’s done being an asshole, but he just shakes his head and murmurs, “No you’re not,” in what might be the softest tone Dean’s ever heard. He’s not sure if it makes him want to throw his arms around his brother’s shoulders and cry until he can’t breathe or land a punch straight to his jaw.  
 
He decides on the secret third option of a short humorless chuckle, pours a bit of whiskey into the unused glass and hands it over. “No,” he sighs. “Guess I’m not.”  
 
Sam downs the shot with a cringe and hisses, “You wanna talk about it?”  
 
He really doesn’t, but he’s also not even sure where he’d start if he did.  
 
He’d never actually told Sam everything about that day. He and Jack knew that Cas had made a deal with the Empty and sacrificed himself to save Dean’s life, but that was all he’d offered in terms of information. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to explain everything or thought Sam would be the kind of guy to be a douche about it, but the world had literally been ending and he knew that if he let himself think about it too much, he might not be able to put himself back together. Besides, looking a kid in the eyes and explaining that his father was dead was difficult enough.  
 
“Cas should be here,” is what he finally manages to spit out, and Sam nods.  
 
“I know.”  
 
“No, you don’t know! It’s not fair. Cas, he…he gave everything for us, man. Fuckin’ everything.” He finally feels the start of warm fuzz behind his eyes and over the bridge of his nose and takes another long gulp (he needs to be as drunk as possible as soon as possible if he has any hope of actually sleeping tonight).  
 
The kitchen lights flicker and hum overhead as a tense silence falls between them, Dean too choked to say anything else and Sam clearly struggling to understand the hidden meaning behind his outburst.  
 
It reminds him a little of Cas, the lights flickering. He remembers the sparks that fell around the angel’s shoulders as he strolled into the barn that first night, how confident he’d seemed and how, curiously, Dean hadn’t been afraid. He’d plunged that dagger into Cas’ chest because he knew it was the logical thing to do, because despite his unusual lack of fear, they didn’t actually know what kind of thing they were dealing with. He understands now, or at least he thinks he does, that it was because Cas had saved him. They’d already met once before, and even if Dean couldn’t remember it, his body apparently had. Maybe that’s why he’d trusted Cas so easily, even when every instinct screamed for him not to -his subconscious had already deemed the angel safe.  
 
It’s a long time before Sam finally looks at him again, face drained and defeated, and mumbles, “Dean…what can I do?”  
 
That was the question, wasn’t it? He closes his eyes. “Nothing.”  
 
It’s the truth, but he wishes it were a lie. He wishes more than anything that there was some secret action, some specific words Sam could offer that would fix it all and make them both feel better, but there was no fixing this.  
 
“You can’t do a damn thing…and neither can I. You want any more of this?”  
 
He angles the bottle, liquid inside sloshing, and pushes himself up from the counter when his brother shakes his head.  
 
“Okay. I’m gonna go pass out.”  
 
“Dean-“  

“Sammy, it’s been a very, very long thirty-seven years. We just beat up God and then drove for like six hours straight, so I’m gonna chug this whole damn bottle and then I’m gonna go the fuck to bed, because I need to. Please.”  
 
Sam frowns but doesn’t try to stop him as he turns on his heel and heads toward the main hall of bedrooms. He drags one hand along the wall as he goes, feels the little blemishes in the concrete and lets his fingertips dip into them.  
 
Just days ago, Cas had been half-dragging him through these halls, arm wrapped securely around his waist as desperate I’ve got you’s and Hold on, Dean’s fell in delicate whispers from his lips.  
 
Just days ago, Dean had hovered outside the angel’s door, fist raised to knock, but had eventually chickened out and gone back to his own room. Weeks before that he’d wandered these halls like a ghost, pissed and secretly worried because Cas was apparently too pissed at him to pick up the damn phone, and for years before any of that, Dean had wondered night after night what it might feel like to ask Castiel stay.  
 
The whole time, he always figured Cas knew what he meant to them -to him. Then again, maybe he should’ve known better than to assume something like that. Cas had never been very good at reading between the lines (and when he did, it was almost always misconstrued), and unfortunately ‘between the lines’ was really the only way Dean knows how to communicate -subtle clues, hints to what he really means hidden behind other words because he’s too much of a coward to say the real thing. “I need you,” meant something along the lines of I love you, don’t go, and “You’re our brother,” was really more like I can’t imagine living without you.  
 
He’d thought Cas understood, but then he’d said “The one thing I want…it’s something I know I can’t have,” and Dean knew that he’d interpreted “I need you” as I keep you because you’re useful to me, and “You’re our brother” as You’re family, but that’s it.  
 
Billie’s scythe had left long jagged scrapes along the wall; Dean lets his fingers brush over those too.  
 
He’d stood in front of God that morning and declared No, I’m not what you say I am. I am not just a killer. But was that really true? Billie was already dead, or she’d be at the top of Dean’s to-do list. She’d put them in that position, she’d forced Cas to honor that deal, to…to…

He can’t bear to think the rest. It’s hard enough knowing that Cas’ one true moment of joy was just telling Dean how he felt. How long had he known what those feelings meant, and how long had he been keeping them locked inside? Weeks? Months? Years? Without Billie’s influence, would he have ever said anything, or would he have opted to stay silently miserable for the rest of their lives, taking whatever half-assed morsels of affection he could get? Dean’s not sure which idea he hates more -that Cas had to be on his deathbed to feel like he could confess his true feelings, or that he might never have brought them up at all if they hadn't been put in that position in the first place.  
 
Knowing that Cas loved him, that his best friend was willing to throw it all away, even his own life so that Dean could have a shot at one -it haunts him. Since that day, it’s followed him around like a vengeful spirit, like it knows his history and whispers I’m the one ghost you can’t salt and burn away.  
 
He pauses a few doors down from his own and brings the bottle to his lips again. He hasn’t been in this room since first offering it to Cas years ago in a shitty attempt to make up for sending him away.  
 
Another mistake.  
 
Had he loved Dean then, or had it come sometime after? He tries to dig through his memory, to pinpoint some exact instance where friendship had evolved to something more. Had it been obvious and he’d just been oblivious to it? People (especially Crowley) had made comments here and there throughout the years, but he’d just assumed they were trying to get under his skin somehow.  
 
He hasn’t been in this room since giving it away like a present, hadn’t wanted it to seem like he thought he had some kind of right to the space just because it was under his roof. He knew it had been a long time since Cas had something like this, something that was all his own, and while he never expected it to hold a candle to literal Heaven, Dean had hoped it could eventually be something to call home…something permanent to prove they wanted him around without actually saying I want you around.  
 
He hasn’t been in this room in years. Had Cas even used it? He hadn’t needed to sleep, but maybe he’d decorated or something? Dean can almost see it -a small reading lamp on the bedside table with a few dusty books stacked under its warm yellow light, maybe an extra shirt or two tucked in a drawer. Cas hadn’t been flashy, had never really owned much; he fit right in with the Winchesters that way, always traveling light, never truly settling anywhere.  
 
But he could’ve settled here. He might’ve.  
 
Dean raises a hand to rest on the knob and pauses just before his fingers hit the shiny metal, then curls them into a tight fist and lets it drop heavily at his side instead. Maybe it’s not logical, or maybe it’s just an excuse to spare himself more pain, but this is still Cas’ room. He should still be allowed that privacy, no matter how long he’s gone.  
 
A small voice in the back of his mind says forever, he’s gone forever, and Dean takes another long drink as he stumbles teary-eyed to his own door.  
 
His room is just the way he left it -hastily made bed with blankets strewn messily over the mattress, dirty clothes shoved into a pile in the corner for the next time he got around to doing laundry, a single record laying safely in its case next to the little player on the dresser.  
 
Dean crosses the room, briefly sets the whiskey aside and slips the record onto the turntable with shaky hands. There’s a bit of crackly static as he quickly reunites with his drink and falls onto the bed with all of his weight, springs creaking and straining in protest along with the beginning notes of a song he’s not familiar with. It’s an album that was gifted to him by Sam for one Christmas or another, some small seventies band that he’s never heard of and can already tell isn’t his taste, but it serves as decent background noise as Dean stares blankly at the ceiling.  
 
It’s almost funny. They’d defeated God -Chuck- like it was a fucking milk run and now he’s just laying buzzed in bed like any other night.  
 
It’s not any other night though.  
 
On any other night, Dean would call out through a prayer (though he’d deny that’s what it was); sometimes Cas would answer, sometimes he wouldn’t. When he did, it was usually because he was only rooms away or holed up in the library somewhere while they slept. He’d stroll into Dean’s room, messy haired and frustrated at being interrupted, but he would say “What is it, Dean?” so fucking softly. And depending on exactly how drunk Dean was, Cas would sigh and lay a tentative hand across his belly with the slightest hint of pressure, never quite meeting his eyes as what little grace remained flowed through his veins like a cooling aloe and gently settled a stomach he hadn’t even realized was upset.  
 
You have to stop,” he’d say, and Dean would scoff and roll his eyes, maybe paw Cas’ hand away if he was sober enough.  

M’fine,” he’d slur, “Got you lookin’ out for me.”  
 
Cas’ cheeks would turn a little pinker and he’d roll his eyes right back. “Looking out for your liver, maybe.”  
 
And to anyone else, his tone would’ve sounded flat and uncaring, but Dean had gotten good at reading him -in fact, he might’ve been the only person in the whole world that knew when the angel was trying to be light hearted. He would laugh and Cas would offer a little amused smile, and for a single beautiful moment Dean would feel like his body was made of pure light.  
 
That was any other night, but not this one. No angel would come if he called now, and Dean is fairly certain Cas wouldn’t even hear it if he tried. He closes his eyes anyway and lets his mind fall blank, pictures it as a vast abyss of inky darkness as he sends out a desperate message.  
 
Cas, if you can hear this…I’m prayin’ alright? That’s what this is. A fucking prayer, and you know how I feel about those. Just…come home, man, if you can. Need you to come home.  
 
He waits for a moment, listens for the familiar beat of wings (though Cas hasn’t actually been able to use them in years), peeks through the lashes of one eye with the hope that all of this will have been some kind of bad dream and Cas will be standing ominously behind him as usual. He hadn’t actually believed it would work and isn’t surprised when he finds himself still alone, but a hot tear rolls its way down his cheek and plops onto the pillow regardless.  
 
The worst part is that he’s not alone, not really. He could open his door, walk a few feet down the hall and talk to Sam or Jack. He knows they would readily listen, let him go on for hours if he really needed to, do anything to help him feel better. Dean knows he has support, and that’s the problem.  
 
It hadn’t been so hard during Sammy’s Stanford days. If he’d gotten into it with his old man again or was feeling particularly lonely, he could just hide away for a few days and drown his sorrows in beer and beautiful women until he felt better enough to go crawling back to their motel. Now Sam is actually around to keep tabs on him, there’s a child living under their roof and honestly? He isn’t twenty-four anymore; he prefers getting drunk off his ass in his own home now, and one-night stands don’t exactly hold the same appeal as they used to.  
 
He sighs. Maybe Claire had been entirely right in giving him the nickname of “Old Man.”  
 
Just as he thinks of her, his phone pings with a message from Sam saying that he’d just gotten off the phone with Jody, who’d reported that she, Donna and the girls were alive and safe. He sends back a simple that’s great! and shoves the phone under his pillow.  
 
He should check in with them, Claire especially, but he’s not sure he has it in him to face her. She’d finally somewhat forgiven Cas for what had happened with her parents, even started treating him like a sort of father figure -how is he supposed to break the news that now the angel who wore her father’s face was dead too?  
 
Admittedly, Dean sees himself in Claire too, probably more so than Jack. Jack had the privilege of having Castiel for a father, a good influence quite literally hovering at his shoulder. Claire had a difficult past and while Cas had done his best to be there for her, she’d been alone for a long time. He sees it in her eyes sometimes, the pain that goes unaddressed. He sees it in the empty bottles she tries to hide when they visit, sees it in the edgy leather she sports and the way she grips Kaia’s hand like she’s afraid of being abandoned again.  
 
She’d already grieved two parents, and now Dean was supposed to make it a third? Why did that responsibility have to fall to him? What was she to him, anyway? No one, just some kid.  
 
He shakes his head a little at the thought and leans up to take another drink.  
 
No, Claire isn’t just some kid, she’s Cas’ kid. Or at least, that’s how Cas had thought of her anyway, which means Dean has at least some obligation to be there for her, right? She had Jody and Donna of course, but she deserved to know just how many people were in her corner.  
 
He pulls his phone out again and starts another message.  
 
Dean: Hey kid - you free for a phone call tomorrow? There’s some stuff we should talk about.  
 
Her response is nearly immediate, and Dean tries not to feel too warmed by that. He’s only going to give her bad news, and then she’ll probably hate him forever, especially after finding out that it was all his fault.  
 
Claire: my schedule is kinda full, but I guess I can squeeze you in. What time?  
 
Dean: Whenever works for you.
 
Claire: k…1? I don’t get up before noon.  
 
Dean: Thought your schedule was full?  
 
Claire: it is. With sleeping. Does 1 work or not?  
 
Dean: Sounds good. Talk to you tomorrow kiddo  

Claire: not a kid  

He’d almost forgotten how much he actually likes talking to her, which only makes his heart feel heavier as he tries to plan out what to say.  
 
He’d killed her father. Again. If Cas hadn’t needed a human vessel to contact him all those years ago, Jimmy Novak would be alive and well now. Dean hadn’t deserved her forgiveness in the first place, and yet somehow she’d granted it and allowed him to be part of her life, if only in fleeting and inconsistent snippets. He knows he won’t get it again, because if he were in her shoes, looking at the monster who’d let the most devout and loyal creature alive be sucked into his own eternal version of hell…well, he wouldn’t forgive himself either.  
 
He recites a few sentences in his head, dulled by the fuzz and dizziness behind his eyes, until he finally gives up and tosses the bottle of whiskey somewhere off to his left, expecting to hear the usual thunk of glass hitting carpet. It smacks the nightstand instead, wobbling the lamp there, and Dean scrambles awkwardly to stop what’s left of the alcohol from drizzling out onto the floor.  
 
It’s a new nightstand, only a few months old. He still isn’t used to it being there, and he’s not sure why he bought it either -it’s not like he shares the room with anyone or has nearly enough junk to need two nightstands. It had just felt right in the moment, like it was logical that going forward, there should be two. There’s nothing on it, save for the lamp, and nothing in its drawer or little storage cabinet. It serves no real purpose other than just being there, and yet he’d bought and kept it anyway.  
 
He rolls over, dragging the comforter along with him and over his shoulders until he lay curled in it, one half of his face pressed firmly into the pillow. He’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep tonight, but the whiskey was finally doing its job, and before long he feels his mind drifting into the hazy stage between consciousness and sleep.  
 
In his dreamy, drunken, barely lucid state, Dean can almost feel Cas sitting beside him, hand pressed to his stomach.  
 
He can almost hear, “You have to stop.