Fic | Souvenirs From The Edge of the Highway | SPN | 5/5

[siehn]

Masterpost

Cas focused on them and they raised their eyes from the knife sticking out of his chest, identical looks of shock on each of their faces. It passed quickly and the angel watched as so many other emotions followed: denial, disbelief, horror, anger, pain, sorrow, guilt, and finally loss. The rush of affection cut through the burning agony of his Grace being ripped from his vessel for a moment. It was enough. He’d chosen and he had few regrets.

“Castiel,” Dean said, and his voice cracked. There were clear tracks down Dean’s face, through the dirt and grime on his cheeks, and Cas was surprised to see them there. He reached out to brush his thumb across the wet spot, and stared down at it. He’d never seen Dean cry for anyone other than himself, and it was strange.

“You fucking bastard!” Dean growled suddenly, his grip on the angel slipping and he sank to his knees beside his brother, one hand reaching out to grip a fistful of feathers roughly. “You aren’t allowed to--”

“I…Had to do this, Dean,” he managed, gasping the words through the pain. “I could not,” he paused, couldn’t help but reach out, tangle his fingers in Dean’s hair, and watch as those green-gold eyes slid closed as he leaned into it. “Watch you sa-sacrifice yourself. I…I will not lose you. Either of you.” Sam’s fingers tangled with Castiel’s in Dean’s hair, and the angel closed his eyes. He had no time. “You taught me, Dean,” he gasped out; everything was fading around him, turning black, and he could hear the screams of the damned getting louder. “Remember? Anything—“

“Cas!” They shouted his name in unison, but it drifted off into the wind, useless. The meat suit was all that was left; an empty shell with sightless eyes, sprawled behind them in a mess of black feathers, between the huge imprint of two scorched wings that had always meant protection to them. Azazel was gone, too, purged from his vessel: gone, and the cemetery was empty except for the brothers and the dead.

Sam groaned out loud like a wounded animal and dropped his head to Dean’s shoulder. Dean just stared sightlessly at the pale corpse, listless in his brother’s arms for a long moment.

“Fuck. Cas,” he said and it was almost a sob. He trembled violently, and his eyes turned gold. Sam didn’t so much as flinch when he felt skin and clothes and bone shift beneath him. He buried his face in thick, white neck fur, closing his eyes against the prickle of heat in his eyes. He clung to the massive, grey wolf and didn’t bother to move. Castiel had been family, pack; they were allowed to grieve.

Dean raised his head, whining low and sad as he studied the body of his pack-mate, and leaned into his brother’s embrace. Castiel was…Cas had given up everything for them, and Dean knew that Hell would have no mercy on an angel of the Lord, and Heaven was beyond them all.

He raised his head high and howled his grief to the skies, silently promising their angel he would find a way to get him out.

“C’mon, Dean. We should…We should go,” Sam finally said sometime later, and his voice had gone hoarse.

Dean whined, looking up as Sam stood and stared down at him. He took the hand his brother offered as a human, let him tug him to his feet and into a bone-crushing hug.

“I’m sorry, man,” Sam whispered, and Dean just let his forehead fall against Sam’s shoulder for a moment.

“Me too, Sammy,” he breathed, swallowing hard. “Me, too.” He let go, stepped back, and regarded his brother closely for a long minute. Sam just let him look, knew he needed it, then clapped him on the back, and wandered off to gather enough wood for a pyre. The angel had given them back to each other; the least they could do was give his vessel a proper funeral. Cas had made them promise, once, and they weren’t in the habit of breaking promises to angels no matter how bad Dean just wanted to wrap the body up and save it for when they got Cas back.

“Dean,” Sam called over the pile of wood they’d built up. “You can’t-- Promise me you’ll never do that again.”

“You know I can’t promise that, Sam,” he answered as he held a hand out and Sam patted himself down until he managed to come up with a muddy package of matches. Dean had a small vial of salt; it would be enough. “Besides,” he added, glancing sideways at him, “You would do the same damn thing.”

Sam had no answer for that, and stood in silence instead. Both of them were exhausted and empty and blank, but Dean still paused before lighting the match and nudged his brother’s shoulder affectionately. Sam looked over, a question in his eyes.

“It’s all about the pack, Sammy. Family,” he added, holding Sam’s gaze. “Anything,” he said firmly, a half-growl in his voice, and reached over to squeeze his brother’s shoulder briefly before he slid the match, and watched it catch. Sam poured the salt, and Dean let the flame fall onto the pyre. The dried wood caught easily.

Sam nodded slowly, reached down to tangle their fingers together and stared hard at their entwined hands for a moment. He swallowed and tightened his grip as they watched the body of their best friend burn. They both knew they should get out of there before someone noticed the smoke, but they couldn’t just leave, had to bear witness to this, at least.

“Anything,” Sam finally agreed roughly, looking back up at Dean with a new sort of conviction. Dean nodded. They could do it, make it, because they were Winchesters and brothers and pack; there wasn’t anything they wouldn’t do for each other, and that made them stronger than whatever waited in the dark.