Map of the World: August 4

Don't look back.

—Day 1—

The blood is still fresh enough for his boots to leave a trail behind him as he makes his way through the remains of the city’s residential district, the occasional abandoned convenience store slotted between crumbling apartment buildings and elementary schools, narrow alleys choked with debris from overturned dumpsters and chunks of broken concrete, glass crunching beneath his feet. The roads here are nearly impassable, the blackened skeletons of long-forgotten cars slowly rotting to rust between jagged craters where the asphalt was ripped from the grey-brown earth below.

Following the hazily familiar length of a brick wall, he emerges into the courtyard of a burned out apartment building, lawn grown wild, a grey stone fountain pushes out of the chaos like a landmark as tangled vines creep up from the empty base. Bathed in the thin light of a cloud-choked sky, the world seems to be fading more with every moment that passes, sickly yellow-greens and muted browns melting into an unending grey, and Castiel crosses a silent lawn that stretches the length of the universe beneath the gaze of windows like lidless eyes.

In a tiny clearing of bare dirt broken by scrubby knots of dying grass, Castiel stumbles to a halt, and the slow crawl of time comes to a stop as he looks down at the end of his world.

Dropping heavily to his knees, Castiel tosses the blood-clotted knife to the ground beside his rifle before resting his fingers against the non-existent pulse, the fragile warmth of Dean’s skin already vanishing with the fading day. Reaching for his jaw, he ignores the dull grate of shattered bone as he carefully straightens his head and looks into the still, quiet face.

The fine lines of fighting an unwinnable war are smoothed away from the corners of his eyes and from beside the bloodless lips, still half-parted to take an unneeded breath. Lying on the undisturbed grass like the sacrificial victim he never wanted to be, Dean’s green eyes stare sightlessly into the stillness of the dying sky.

“You look good on your knees, little brother.”

Castiel observes pristine white-clad legs emerging from the gloom, shoes polished to a brilliant white gloss, but the instinctive hatred is muted, heat leached away like a half-forgotten memory that belonged to someone else entirely.

“I didn’t think you meant to survive,” Lucifer continues, coming to a stop beside Dean’s hip. “I know he didn’t mean you to.”

Castiel allows himself to brush his fingers one last time against Dean’s rapidly cooling cheek, the skin rough with stubble, before he gazes up at his Brother.

Lucifer wears Sam Winchester’s body with the casual entitlement of unquestioned ownership, hands shoved casually into his pockets as he studies Dean’s body with clinical interest. It’s only a container, however, no matter how well he’s learned to use it, a faint glow limning the lines of his body, a sketched suggestion of wings looming behind him fading in and out of view. The brown eyes are nothing like he remembers Sam’s: the cold of a heatless universe looks back, devoid of even the memory of light.

He’s aware of being the subject of the same chilling scrutiny, eyes flickering over him in undisguised curiosity. Looking down, he realizes in surprise that his hands are coated in still-drying blood, violent arcs splashed across his sleeves to the elbow and trailing down the faded material of his jeans in tacky blots.

Lucifer’s mouth quirks in amusement. “Didn’t feel like going quietly into the good night, I take it?”

Mouth dry, he licks his lips and tastes iron and copper, tacky-wet, the smell filling his nostrils more with every breath. Lucifer’s pitiless stare deepens, groping beneath his skin as it searches a body that is no longer a vessel, that houses something that is no longer an angel.

“Not that I expected anything less from you. Or him.” Lucifer looks down at Dean’s body, expression unreadable. “Sam knew he’d never stop fighting. I should have believed him.” The fondness in his voice is obscene, warmly approval and wistful regret in each word. He supposes, skin crawling sluggishly, it might even be genuine. “Why did you come to me now? To spare your life or end it?”

“Neither,” he replies. “I came for him.”

Lucifer hesitates only a moment before his lips stretch in a humorless smirk. “Humanity has so many meaningless customs, it’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t have thought you, of all people, would be susceptible to that.” He waves a hand at Dean’s body before making a show of stepping back. “Your last words to the dirt, if you must. I’ll even burn the body for you after you’re done.” He smirks down at him. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you.” As if they belonged to someone else entirely, he watches his own bloody fingers close the dulled green eyes that had once housed the last light left in all the world, quenched by a single bullet that didn’t succeed and a broken neck that did. Closing his eyes, he presses his hand to Dean’s forehead, where even the last ghost of warmth has fled, skin cool and rubbery: I’m sorry. “Go ahead.”

Still smirking, Lucifer looks down at Dean’s body, and fire burst from the ground to engulf Dean’s body and shooting upward, dancing red-orange flames licking at the dark sky for a few long moments, searing air burning across his face in a flash of heat, and vanishing before he remembers to breathe. Blinking, he waits for the spots to fade from his vision to see the blackened, charred ground surrounding ash in the shape of Dean’s body, already crumbling to join the earth from which it came.

“I promised Sam they’d be together in the end,” Lucifer tells him, shrugging to rearrange his still immaculate coat. “Don’t worry, Cas, he’ll be fine. From what I understand, he had a pretty good time the first time. He’ll adapt.”

“No,” Castiel answers. “He won’t.”

Lucifer looks up from his sleeve, a pitying smile freezing on his lips, eyebrows knitting together in dawning confusion. “What—where is he?”

“How would I know?” he answers curiously. “Slaughtering the reapers was possibly a miscalculation on your part. Without their guidance, it’s very easy to get lost.”

The brown eyes jerk up to meet Castiel’s, almost incandescent with fury. “What did you do?”

“What could I possibly do? In case you’ve forgotten, I Fell.” Castiel watches in reluctant fascination at the sudden flush across Lucifer’s cheeks, hands clenching into fists at his sides, and wonders if it’s too much to ask to actually see him stamp his foot.

“What. Did. You. Do.” Abruptly, Lucifer’s hand closes around his throat, impossibly hot fingers burning into his skin as he’s jerked to his feet. “I’ve waited a long time for this, Castiel. The Host is long gone and lost their claim. He’s mine.”

Castiel smiles into the enraged brown eyes. “He’ll never be yours.”

Lucifer’s hand tightens, cutting off the last trickle of air, and Castiel’s feet hang inches above the ground, lungs burning as he gasps helplessly, fingers too slick to get purchase on Lucifer’s wrist. Distantly, he can sense Lucifer pushing around the edges of his mind, poking, pressing, searching for a way inside, rage growing exponentially at finding each connection burned away, sealed shut to encase the mind of an angel in a human form. As black spots begin to consume his vision, Castiel clings doggedly to consciousness, reaching back to the gun at the small of his back and wonders if he’ll have to resort to shooting Lucifer to break his concentration. It’s not an unattractive possibility; generally, angels don’t feel pain as humans do, but Lucifer’s spent enough time in this particular vessel to have developed a sympathetic response to it.

Then he’s abruptly sprawled across the grass, starved lungs dragging in sulfur and rose tainted air with every gasping, coughing breath. Raising a hand to his swelling throat as he eases himself upright, he traces the beginnings of new blisters rising up on the skin in the shape of Lucifer’s fingers and swallows experimentally before looking up.

“I would ask if you have any further questions, but—”

“What did they do to you before they left?” Lucifer asks, staring down at him.

Castiel stiffens. “I Fell.”

“The methods of discipline in the Host have changed since I was among them,” he observes. “Enslave the infinite to rotting dirt. It would have been kinder to kill you. Fill me in—is that what the Host calls love these days?”

“You were in that cage for far too long,” Castiel replies harshly. “Love has never been kind, and the Host least of all.”

“You could have come to me.” Lucifer’s mouth quirks at his expression as he drops into a crouch in front of him. “I left the Host and you Fell, but that doesn’t make you any less my Brother.”

Lucifer extends a hand, palm warm and unexpectedly soft—it’s been years since Sam’s body was that of a hunter, years since he held a gun or a knife and had to use them—fingers curving against his cheek. Lucifer’s Grace washes over his skin, honey-thick as it soaks into him, searching deeper than irrelevant barriers of flesh and bone; closing his eyes at the slowly spreading warmth, he can pretend for a moment that he never left this for a world of harsh angles and finite surfaces, stark planes of defined space and sharp limits and glaring brightness, the misery and pain and constant, unending work required for simple existence, and he’s so tired. He doesn’t remember a time that he wasn’t.

“They trapped you in there,” Lucifer whispers, sounding startled, and Castiel jerks back from the drugging touch, scrabbling desperately at the grass, the absence of Grace like physical pain, bone deep, impossible to ever heal or forget. “Even Hell shows more mercy than that.”

“Mercy can only be freely given,” he answers roughly. “It can’t be bought.”

“Mercy is an illusion. This is an offer. I can still help you.”

Castiel snorts and regrets it as it sets off another round of coughing, the taste of rotting flora filling his mouth. “If I fall upon my knees and worship you, yes. You should acquire new material.”

“That’s not the worst idea I’ve heard today.” Lucifer grins at him
with a flash of too-white teeth. “I can’t give you back your Grace, per se—”

“How surprising.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes and stands up. “—but I can offer you a place at my side in Hell.” He gestures vaguely. “You know, the usual. At my left hand, raised above all others for all eternity, on Earth as it is in Hell.”

It’s the end of the world and the death of Dean Winchester, and there was never a time that he expected to bear witness to either one. Staring between the crumbling remains of the man he Fell for and was willing to die for and the Brother who killed him, he wonders why that was not payment enough for whatever transgressions he’s committed. Apparently, he also has to be propositioned by Lucifer himself before he’s done.

“Or all the kingdoms of the earth, if you really like crawling in the dirt with them,” Lucifer adds with a moue of distaste. “I can’t decide; which one would you choose?”

“‘All this power will I give thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomsoever I will I give it.’” Lucifer grins at him, and all at once, it clicks into place. “You want me to worship you?”

“You look very good on your knees, little Brother. I think I like it.” The grin widens as Lucifer crouches before him again, fingers tilting his chin up, and warm tendrils of Grace burrow enticingly beneath the surface of his skin, a reminder: and you can have this, too. The almost invisible glow of Lucifer’s true form pushes itself against the confines of his vessel, bathing him in the brilliance of Morningstar’s light, the wide sweep of wings blotting out the entire world. “Wearing a meatsuit doesn’t change what you were created to be. You were meant to kneel in worship of someone. When I’m done with you, you’ll do it for me.”

Castiel can’t feel the ground below him, the crisp evening air, or his own body; there’s only Morningstar, an archangel as far above him as a human from a single cell, and once upon a time, he might very well have done just that.

“You’ll want to,” Lucifer promises, breath hot against his cheek. “You will. I’ll teach you. And then I’ll send you to Earth, and you’ll teach all of humanity to want it, too.”

“You want to be their God.”

Lucifer shrugs, amused. “Why not?”

Prophecy’s proved itself useless more times than he can possibly count, but never more than at this moment; it spoke of prophets and righteous men and the Apocalypse that would decide the fate of all Creation and somehow missing entirely there were worse things than the end of the world. There was the possibility of Lucifer creating one in his own image.

“You don’t need me to help you become their God.”

“Maybe I just want it.” Lucifer smiles at him. “What do you want, Castiel?”

Castiel thinks: I want Dean to be alive, and Sam Winchester to be free of you. I want the world not to have ended and the Apocalypse never to have begun. I want to have died tonight or died when I Fell or died when I rebelled. I want to go back to before the moment I Fell, when the Host condemned me, and tell myself that it doesn’t matter what I choose, that we will always, always lose.

“I want,” he says, looking into Lucifer’s eyes, “to have told the Host they could fuck themselves before I Fell.”

Lucifer’s smile vanishes.

“That,” Castiel adds thoughtfully, “still bothers me sometimes.”

Getting to his feet, Lucifer stares down at him. “It would be a waste to put you on the rack for eternity, but the entertainment value might very well make up for that.”

“You don’t put an angel on the rack,” Castiel answers. “You suborn them or kill them.”

Lucifer smirks. “You’re not an angel, and I rule in Hell. I can do anything I want.”

“You reign in Hell,” Castiel corrects him, watching the smirk fade into nothing. “Our Brethren rule it, and I don’t think they would let you.”

The backhand isn’t just physical, fingers of Grace ripping through him in jagged blades like being skinned alive a hundred times—a thousand—as time twists slower and speeds up, seconds like hours, like days, like years, like eternity, but it’s nothing at all. Dean suffered worse on the rack, and even more when he left it; Castiel has lived in this human body alone for two years. It’s nothing, no deeper than flesh and blood and bone, an illusion of biology, a reminder how long Lucifer has been absent from the Host, how much he’s missed, unaware of the discipline the Host once meted out to bring a recalcitrant angel to heel and make him betray his own charge. Nothing Lucifer could possibly do could match the crawling horror of that.

When it vanishes, aftershocks still sparking from every nerve, Castiel is spitting blood onto the dusty ground, fingers knuckle deep in the dirt, throat so raw even breathing hurts. Prolonged screaming can have that effect.

“Are you—” He winces at the sound of his own voice and tries again. “Are you done yet? I have better things to do than indulge your temper tantrum.”

“Even for Dean’s brother?”

He looks at Lucifer, surprised. “What?”

“I could set him free,” Lucifer answers. “All you have to do is say yes.”

“Even if you offered to end the Apocalypse and crawl back into your cage in Hell,” Castiel answers breathlessly. “To know you want it would be reason enough to say no.”

Lucifer is so still he could be a figure carved in marble. “That’s your answer?”

“I thought that was clear, but to observe the formalities: get thee hence. Be gone. Go away.” Castiel grins, feeling his lips crack and tasting fresh blood on his tongue. “Fuck yourself.”

Getting unsteadily to his feet, he tests his balance on legs gone stiff and numb, but the prickling eases enough to move. Turning his back on Lucifer, he retrieves his weapons and starts back through the tangled greenery, aware of the eyes burning into his back with every step he takes.

“Even for you,” Lucifer says from behind him, “that’s a very stupid choice.”

“I paid for the right to make it.” In so many ways.

“You think I’m just going to let you walk away?” Lucifer asks curiously just as he reaches the mouth of the alley.

Castiel swallows before turning around, gazing at Lucifer over the shadowy mound of Dean’s body. “Yes.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Imagine my relief.”

Lucifer studies him coolly. “Do you want to know the reason I’m going to spare your life today?”

“I don’t care.” He wonders if Lucifer has ever understood what it means to be tired, so tired that even caring is an effort. Everything left in him is already fully engaged; there’s nothing left for this. “Is there anything else?”

“You’ve corrupted yourself so much already,” Lucifer says softly, voice perfectly clear in his ear. “I suppose the question is how long it will take for you to hate yourself more than you hate me.”

Castiel sucks in a breath.

“Let’s find out.”

The sense of demons vanishes with the sudden absence of Lucifer, leaving him almost entirely alone in a slowly rotting city.

Leaning against the wet brick just inside the alley, he closes his eyes, concentrating, but there’s no sense of any demons or even Croatoans close enough to be a threat. Satisfied for now, he retraces his steps to where he left the jeep, aware of that sense of absence beginning to grow, and something else as well, like an itch beneath the surface of his skin. It could be his imagination, but he’s never had one of those before, so he doubts it manifested today just to fuck with him.

Quickening his pace, he emerges into a deserted parking lot, a mess of half-destroyed asphalt and the twisted remains of vehicles, picking his way between them to his jeep huddled against the crumbling remains of a strip mall. The late grey of afternoon is far too still, not even a breeze to stir the rotting remains of the trees, but it’s not just that; half-way across the parking lot, he catches himself in a jog, urgency bubbling up stronger with every breath.

Pausing at the door of the jeep, Castiel hesitates briefly, and a surge of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make his hands shake, don’t stop, as clear as if the words were spoken in his ear, don’t look back.

Only Orpheus was stupid enough not to listen to warnings delivered without ambiguity; it’s too rare to get one of those to discard with impunity.

I don’t want to hurt you.

Castiel stiffens, turning to search the empty parking lot. “What?”

There’s nothing but the lack of breeze to answer him.

Pulling the door open, he climbs inside, turning the key automatically. “Don’t say anything,” he manages, hearing the tremor in his voice as he begins to back out into the nearest clear street. “Not yet.”

The silence that answers him is both accusing and wary, which is as much as he could have expected. Turning his attention to the road, he concentrates on driving, the city limits like a flashing beacon screaming along every nerve, get there, get out now, and he’s not, not, not high enough for this.

Imagination, he thinks: long term drug use, of course: insanity, very likely: trauma, who could blame him. But he’s not Orpheus, ascending from the underworld unable to follow a single, unambiguous warning: he doesn’t look back.

---

As if to underline the insanity argument, the feeling vanishes upon passing the broken city limits sign, and Castiel swerves for the side of the road and puts the jeep in park before dropping his head onto the steering wheel and dragging in a full breath like someone drowning just reaching air.

He’s not sure how long it is before there’s the sound of impatient shifting from the floorboard of the passenger side seat, but it’s enough to remind him he’s not actually alone, no matter how much he might wish to the contrary. Lifting his head, he looks down at the Dean Winchester glaring at him from the floor of the jeep, cellphone still clutched in one hand. Castiel wonders what exactly it will take to convince him that even if there were any working cellphone towers within five hundred miles of their current location, he doesn’t believe they reach alternate worlds. Or at least, not very often.

“Can I get up now,” Dean asks warily. “What the hell—”

“I’m not nearly high enough for this,” Castiel tells him, dropping his head back against the headrest. “It was a mistake to abstain, it seems. Yes, you can get up.”

Climbing into the seat, Dean belatedly tucks his phone into his jacket, and Castiel finds himself tempted to reach across the cabin of the jeep and poke him, just on the off-chance this really is an extended hallucination.

It’s a lovely thought, but it implies that his life will ever, even in this small way, be that simple.

“Cas?” Less suspicious, still wary, but now threaded with worry. Castiel feels his throat tighten, filling with everything, a range of horror and grief and hilarity and utter disbelief. Leaning on the wheel, he bursts into laughter, vomited out in great, painful gusts that scrape his throat raw and make his stomach ache; this happened, this is happening, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do now. He never thought beyond tonight; there was never going to be anything to think about.

Alarm joins the medley of emotions emanating from the other side of the jeep, which just adds to the hilarity—helpless, breathless, painful, it hurts—and it doesn’t seem to want to stop. Gasping against the wheel, Castiel tries to calm himself, but focus is beyond him right now; it’s all he can do to get enough breath not to pass out.

“Cas.” A warm hand touches his shoulder, tentative before the grip tightens, and he freezes, laughter dying in his chest. When he turns his head, Dean is half-way across the seat, green eyes dark with—yes, worry, how strange, how… He’s not sure. “You need me to drive?”

Castiel imagines Dean driving into Chitaqua, and abruptly, he’s more sober than he’s ever been in his not quite human life.

“No.” Straightening, he feels the hand fall away—almost reluctantly, he thinks, but that can’t be right—and looks at Dean as he settles back into the passenger seat. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for anyone at the camp to see you.” For so many reasons, and none of which he thinks Dean needs to know, for his own sanity.

Dean frowns, opening his mouth to argue, but as this is a night of impossibilities, he closes his mouth again and nods reluctantly. “Right. So we’re going to Chitaqua?”

“Yes.” If Castiel could think of another option, he’d take it, but unfortunately, there isn’t one. Before Dean can begin to ask any unanswerable questions—the number of which are legion—he says, “You were returned to your correct timeline after Dean died. How long ago was that for you?”

Dean gives him a startled look. “About three years, I guess. How did you—never mind, special angel power?”

“Human aging is erratic, but I know the progression of Dean’s,” Castiel answers quickly, not wanting to encourage that line of questioning; more importantly, he doesn’t like the way Dean answered him. “You don’t know for certain?”

Dean’s eyes widen in alarm, and he likes that even less. “I was on a job, I think—”

“You don’t remember?” Leaning back against his seat, Castiel swallows, trying to decide how to elicit further information without alarming Dean further. Zachariah is sadistic, but generally, there is some form of logic, however twisted. “Why did the Host send you this time?” Literally to watch the end of the world: that’s not sadism, that’s insanity.

“I don’t—I don’t think they did.”

Castiel stills. “They didn’t?”

“Zachariah’s dead.” What an unexpected and gratifying piece of information to have. “The Host—” Dean’s eyes skip to him and then away, focusing on the dashboard. “They’re kind of distracted right now. It’s complicated. We won the Apocalypse, by the way.”

“Congratulations. We didn’t.”

Castiel hadn’t realized reality could mimic the effects of a particular unpleasant acid trip with such devastating accuracy.

“Cas, what’s going on? Why am I here again?”

“Perhaps we should start with everything you remember about your arrival here?” Dean looks as if he wants to protest. “And everything that you can remember of what happened before that.”

Dean snorts. “What, the last three years?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, ignoring Dean’s annoyance at being taken literally and putting the jeep into drive. “Let’s start there.”

---

Dean reluctantly agrees to hide in the back of the jeep when they’re five miles from Chitaqua and beyond the perimeter of the local patrol. Once they reach the camp, Castiel listens to his own voice coolly summarizing a somewhat edited version of the night’s disastrous events to the watch, hyperaware of Dean listening to every word he says.

The garage is unsurprisingly deserted, and as it’s well after dusk, it’s simply a matter of walking the distance to his cabin with the protection of darkness obscuring the identity of the person with him. If anyone happens to see them, no one will assume something as incidental as a terrible mission with a high death count will interfere with his pursuit of pleasure.

Castiel takes only enough time to wash away the worst of the blood, leaving the ruined jacket and overshirt on the floor of the bathroom before returning to the small living room to find Dean Winchester—how it this happening, why is this happening—sitting on his couch, hunched and staring at nothing. Just looking at him is jarring despite the fact that Castiel blocked the migraine-inducing resonance of a person so dramatically displaced in time and space. He’s grateful that he bothered to learn that trick the first time this Dean was here, even though he never expected to have any need to use it again.

He isn’t sure how long he stands numbly at the door of the bathroom before Dean’s head snaps up, green eyes narrowing in fury as he gets to his feet.

“What the hell was that about?”

The sense of the question eludes him even as Dean stalks toward him, still talking at a dangerously high volume, dissonance in every particular; jeans and t-shirt and jacket, newer boots, unarmed, younger in more than years, but all of it pales before the body memory of Dean’s cooling body before Lucifer burned it into ash and dust.

“—didn’t tell them he was dead! Why did you…” He has no idea what Dean is saying to him, only that it abruptly comes to a stop, and Dean’s staring at him from only a foot away with an expression that Castiel can’t remember how to interpret. “Cas?”

Castiel crosses to the couch, leaning over the arm enough to retrieve the mostly-full bottle he never expected to finish, because he hadn’t expected to survive tonight; because he’d never expected to survive the end of the world; because no one survived Dean Winchester and he has no idea how it feels to be the first.

“Cas?” Dean’s still standing in the middle of the room where Castiel left him, and it’s possible that this is what sympathy looks like on Dean Winchester’s face; it might be the strangest thing he’s seen this night, but the competition is so high he can’t be certain. “Cas, what happened back there?”

“I had to—” he pauses to concentrate on the surprisingly difficult task of unclenching fingers gone numb from their clutch on the neck of the bottle. “I had to see to his body.”

“Shit.” Dean closes his eyes briefly, anger draining away. “I forgot—that was only an hour ago here. Are you…”

Mercifully, he cuts himself off before the word ‘okay’ can be added; the novelty of a Dean Winchester editing himself in any way is fascinating.

“It took longer than expected. Lucifer distracted me soon after I found him.”

“Lucifer?” Dean takes a step toward him. “He was there?”

Castiel nods slowly, tipping his head back to gaze blindly at the ceiling. “I should have anticipated that. He wouldn’t be able to resist gloating over the body.”

Perhaps it was for Sam Winchester’s benefit: a belated punishment for resisting him for so very long. Lucifer would enjoy that very much. Twisting off the lid, Castiel takes a blind drink, but the anticipated burn of alcohol is entirely absent; all he can taste is smoke and death. Wiping his mouth, he blinks in surprise at the presence of this Dean less than a foot away, looking worried. Wariness he knows how to deal with; worry he can’t, and doesn’t want to.

Smiling up at him, he extends the almost-empty bottle. “Would you like some? I’m sure I have more somewhere—”

“Cas.” Ignoring him, Castiel starts to take another drink before the bottle is abruptly jerked out of his hand. “Cas,” he says urgently, then frowns, green eyes dropping lower and narrowing. “What the hell happened to your neck?”

Reaching up, Castiel winces at the first touch against the blistered skin of his throat. “I forgot about that.”

“Lucifer did that.” Before Castiel can respond to the obvious, Dean’s fingers close over his chin, jerking his head up. “Jesus. Where’s your first aid kit?”

“It doesn’t hurt.” It hurts, but everything hurts, so it is not as if it’s a distraction. “He has always had poor impulse control. It’s like dealing with a spoilt child.”

Dean cocks his head, peering into his eyes. “Cas, you tracking?”

“That is my first bottle.”

“Not what I meant.”

“He burned Dean’s body.” There’s not enough alcohol in the house for this. Dean opens his mouth then stops, going still. “Patience is a virtue, did you know that?”

Dean swallows, nodding tightly. “I’ve heard.”

“It may be the only virtue I still possess.” He searches Dean’s face. “Can I have the bottle now?”

“Cas—” Dean unexpectedly reaches out, grabbing his wrist and almost jerking him off-balance, turning it over to reveal a still oozing wound he doesn’t quite remember getting. “Cas, I was there when you were fighting. Is there anything else?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dean stands up, letting go of his hand. “Where. Is. The fucking first aid kit?”

He makes an effort to focus. “Under the sink in the kitchen.”

When Dean returns, there’s a grim set to his mouth that discourages commentary, seating himself on the couch and doing a quick inventory of the kit with an expression of reluctant satisfaction before taking out the gauze and tape, alcohol and a small tube of antibiotic added to the pile as well as a small pair of scissors.

“Give me your hand,” Dean says firmly, in almost the exact voice that Castiel’s conditioned to disobey on principle. It’s not quite, though, and the delay simply means Dean reaches over himself, taking Castiel by the wrist and setting his hand palm-up on one knee. Head tilted, Dean cleans away the remaining blood with unexpected care, wiping a thin layer of unneeded antibiotic over the cuts before bandaging it neatly, tape secured with practiced ease.

“Heads up,” Dean says softly, but the callused fingers are already on his chin, tipping his head back against the couch. It’s easier to let him do it than protest the necessity. There’s a faint sense of pressure down the sensitized skin, and from his peripheral vision, he sees Dean’s mouth quirk in recognition. “First degree Grace burn. The things you learn from being dragged out of Hell by an angel.”

“That was a manifestation of my Grace marking your soul,” Castiel answers, feeling his lips stretching into a faint smile when Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s not an actual physical injury to my body. It’ll be gone before dawn.”

“So what was he trying to do to your true form in there?”

Dean’s very smart. “There was nothing he could do, unless he wished to kill me. The Host, to his dissatisfaction, already destroyed far too much themselves trapping me in here.”

“Fuck them.” Sitting back, he cocks his head. “You get you’re in shock right now, right?”

Oh. “Is that what this is?”

“Yeah.” Dean licks his lips. “Cas, you need to lie down or something.”

“I need that bottle.”

“Drinking isn’t going to help.”

“Nothing is going to help!” he snaps before he can think better of it. “I want it anyway.”

Dean visibly counts to ten before he gets up, grabbing the bottle and shoving it into his hand. Being silently judged by Dean Winchester is at least familiar when at this moment, nothing else is. Finishing it takes only a moment; surely there’s more here somewhere.

“Why’d you do that to your hand?” Dean asks, settling beside him again; a hunter even now, eliciting information from the most useless of witnesses at the most pointless of all times. “Cas?”

“I don’t remember.” Reaching over, Dean takes the empty bottle from his hand, leaning over to set in on the floor. When he straightens, he’s holding—a full one. “Where—”

“You gave me the grand tour the first time I was here, remember? Bathroom in the bedroom, food nowhere, drugs everywhere, Jim Beam under the table, take whatever I wanted. I paid attention.” Dean waggles the bottle enticingly. “Who’s your supplier, anyway?”

“Payment for services rendered,” he answers distractedly, reaching for the bottle, which Dean immediately raises just out of reach. “Give me that.”

“Make it worth my while,” Dean answers. “What happened with Lucifer?”

“What always happens with Lucifer? He made ridiculous threats and even more ridiculous offers. I declined and left.”

“And he just let you.”

“I wasn’t interested enough to hear his explanation. Can I have the bottle now?” Dean’s mouth tightens, but before he can answer, Castiel retrieves it himself, twisting off the top and taking a long drink, waiting for something—anything—to happen, but while his mind remains distressingly unorganized, there’s no appreciable difference in outlook yet. Sliding to the floor, he pulls a box from under the couch, wondering where his lighter is. “Do you have a lighter?”

Dean stares at him. “What?”

“A lighter?” Flipping open the box, Castiel retrieves one of the baggies, weighing it thoughtfully in one hand. “I’ll share, of course.”

“Seriously?” Dean asks incredulously. “You’re doing that shit now?”

“I don’t know if you are aware of this, but Lucifer won the Apocalypse,” he answers flatly. “The world is over. Now is all we have left.”

For a few long moments, Dean is silent. “Lucifer won,” he echoes quietly. “I forgot about that, too.”

“I am endeavoring to achieve the same.” He fumbles the bag, almost dropping it, hands oddly clumsy. “As this is the first time the world has ended, there’s a lack of reliable information on the exact progression of events. This wasn’t—” supposed to happen, he thinks. For a second, he can’t see anything but Dean’s body cooling in the grey afternoon, air choked with the smell of roses. “I don’t know how long we have.”

“Then we gotta get out of here,” Dean starts, trailing off in belated realization of how ridiculous that is.

Castiel says it anyway. “Dean, where on this world do you think we can go?”

Abruptly, Dean slides down beside him, pulling a lighter from his pocket and dropping it in his lap before taking the box and removing the papers. Spreading out one translucent-white square on the lid, he holds out his hand. “Give me that. How long do we have?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel loosens his hold enough to obediently drop the bag in Dean’s hands, watching as Dean expertly rolls the joint before licking the edge to seal it shut. “Perhaps before morning. The wards won’t survive for very long against his entire army.” Or they’ll run out of food waiting to die; it could go either way.

Picking up the lighter, Dean flips it absently in one hand, eyes fixed on the doorway, beads stirring faintly from an unexpected breeze. “That’s why you didn’t tell them.”

“All we have is now,” Castiel whispers, picking up the finished joint and almost dropping it; distantly, he realizes his hands are shaking. “They should have that much, at least.”

“Hold up.” Plucking the joint from his hand, Dean tucks it between his own lips and lights it before handing it back. “Give me a second. I’ll get another couple of bottles.”