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It's always harder the second time, Castiel thinks.
Going to Hell that first time so long ago, on that Heavenly mission to find Dean, had set his Grace singing with resonating nerves of anticipation and terror. Yet he had been content with his mission, Castiel remembers, for it was Heaven's will and he had led his brothers and sisters with him to the fiery battlefield.
The mission had been long and wearied his Grace, but he had faith in Heaven's will.
Entering Hell to retrieve Sam's soul had been different. He'd been tortured by the very kin that had fought alongside him, fallen, died, and been resurrected during the sparse two years between Dean's salvation and Sam's sacrifice. He had known what he would have to face, what hardships he'd have to endure alone, and he would be facing his brothers themselves in order to succeed. Knowing what would come had made it more difficult. And as such, Castiel had entered Hell for the purpose of saving a Winchester's soul for the second time with no little trepidation, and an even greater amount of fear; the loss of Heaven's overwhelming might replaced by a fierce faith in the happiness of the Winchesters.
It's like that now. Castiel may be in better shape than he was not so long ago, but already he can feel the second stolen Grace swelling in his veins. He may have even less time left than before; a sort of tolerance to the effectiveness of another angel's Grace hastening his second time of dying.
He doesn't know what might happen. His circumstances are unprecedented.
The first time dying from the corruption of Grace had been new; he'd known what to expect beforehand in a sort of detached, unrealistic way, but he hadn't known exactly how it would feel, swallowing blood saturated with poisonous Grace back, or debilitating agony that shuddered through his core, near the end. He knows now which is enough for him to hesitate.
Castiel is uncertain if he is brave enough to go through it again.
Yet as before, he will persevere. He has faith in his human charges, the Winchesters, who are now his earthly family. He will suffer the agonies of tainted Grace, face his yet-again impending death, if only to save them one more time. And his fear, his desperate terror at what will surely be months of wracking pain, it will all be worth it.
One more time becomes his mantra.
Save one more brother, one more sister.
Save the Winchesters one more time. Serve them how they want; heal them, help on a case, if only to be useful one more time.
Drive just one more mile, walk just one more step.
Breath through one more night.
See Dean's smile, one more time.
Castiel has a sort of time-frame now that he can use for reference. He is able to sense when his body might begin to fail, and quietly removes himself from Heaven's side without fuss. Hannah looks at him with sad, pitying eyes when he bids her farewell, but does not try to force him to stay, or to consume another sibling's Grace. He does not want another member of his family's death on his aching shoulders, nor does he think he can repeat the cycle a third time.
He lets himself take pride in believing that he has helped his sister as much as he could, guided her natural compassion into fruition without taking away her agency.
Hannah will make a good leader, Castiel thinks, once I am gone.
He tries to find somewhere more remote than the previous time to wait out his death. It needs to be warded from demons and angels; not for his own safety, but because he isn't certain Hannah won't change her mind and try to help, nor does he want a repeat of Crowley's intervention. If he could, he'd want to die somewhere feeling safe and beloved, but heaven is no home for him anymore, and he will not burden the Winchesters with his death. Castiel had already said goodbye to Sam and Dean, in roundabout sort of way, informing them that a mission required he not be able to contact them for quite some time, and that if they urgently needed him, to contact Hannah who would let them know where he was.
Castiel feels only slight guilt over this white lie, but is happy when he thinks of Dean's affectionate goodbye and promise to see him soon. They'd not been able to speak long, as the Winchesters were driving back from a case, but the warmth of their voices and the short, fond conversation he'd had with the brothers is a good last memory. He'd left instructions with Hannah, to tell them once he was gone.
He decides to go to Montana, where Rufus's cabin was. It looks as it does when he remembered it last through a fog of insanity, but holds the memory of Dean's bequeathing of forgiveness before the entire Purgatory fiasco. It is also well warded, which helps as he is not sure if he is able to easily paint a whole set of sigils across the property anymore. It becomes a matter of adding and removing some to allow his access, though his Grace is now so unwieldy he is uncertain if the sigils will even recognise him as an angel.
Just as Castiel adds a last ward to the wall of the bedroom, his Grace suddenly peaks with spurts of paralysing pain, and he falls to the floor, convulsing.
Flashes of light dance behind tightly-clenched eyes as his center throbs with agony. His whole body shudders against the wooden planks, and he is dimly aware of the taste of metal at the back of his throat. As painful as this is, Castiel knows this is not the worst he will feel in the limited time he has left. Weeks, or even days.
It has begun.
At first, the seizures are infrequent, and he remains conscious throughout. He is getting more and more human as the Grace becomes more and more corrupt, so Castiel is at least able to retain some control over his body and make sure he doesn't injure himself too badly during the fall or during his convulsions. He makes sure to sleep and eat and drink to offset the inevitable exhaustion, and is even able to occupy himself with books when there is a reprieve. He takes care to breath slowly and deeply after each coughing fit, and to spit out the blood at accumulates at the back of this throat. He wryly smiles at the thought of him trying to prolong his life when he is going to die, and so soon, but at least it will be as comfortable as he can make it.
It soon worsens.
He has been at the cabin for almost a week before each of his fits are preluded by swimming darkness, and wakes to find gashes and bruises from where he hit the side of a table, or fell harshly onto the floor. He sprains a wrist one time, but hardly notices or cares because the heated thrum of his Grace overwhelms what pain he does feel from it.
He wraps it up as to not exacerbate the injury any further, and relocates most of his time to the bed or the couch, where it is safer.
Not long after, Castiel's Grace starts to pulsate in increasing intensity even when he is not suffering from an episode. Sometimes he can only distinguish between his seizures and constant pain by the periods of unconsciousness that befall the former.
It is a sign of how far gone he is when he would rather undergo a more serious seizure and slip into blissful unawareness than remain awake and fetal in pain.
He has been in the cabin for almost 11 days, by Castiel's estimation, although it feels much longer. He hasn't been able to move from the couch for the past three, thanking his absent-Father that use of the bathroom is still unnecessary despite his deterioration, because he would most likely have fallen and injured his head on the side of the sink otherwise.
His Grace throbs in his chest and where his wings once were, but it is slower and more distant. Castiel knows that this means he hasn't got long left, but the decrease in agony means he almost welcomes it. He feels oddly content,though it may just be the lack of oxygen making him light-headed and woozy. He thinks his lips may have a blue tinge to them by how shallow his breaths are and how little they fill up his lungs, but the burn in his chest makes it hard to tell.
When a fit starts, it only shudders through his exhausted muscles instead of seizing his entire body. It feels like even his vessel is drifting apart.
Each time he comes to afterwards, the world looks slightly less distinct but he is at least able to see light and the silhouette of shapes, though soon his eyes would fail him. Sam once told him that when a person dies, the other senses disappear until the last sense to leave them is their hearing.
He hopes to do one last thing before he dies. Castiel hadn't planned on this, but his death is so imminent he wishes to be selfish one final time.
With trembling hands, Castiel picks up his cell and switches it on. He had not wanted the Winchesters to be able to contact him but now his resolve fails. There a two texts from Dean and a missed call from Sam, the call made a week ago and the last text sent five days ago. Castiel holds the phone up to his face, vision too deteriorated to see the messages from afar.
Who knew ghosts could be such a pain in the ass??
Sam called to ask you bout some stuff but guess the idiot forgot you're busy haha
hope your hunt's going better than ours.
hey Cas,
know we're not supposed to contact you on your top-secret mission,
but hope you're cool.
Sam misses you.
Dean
Castiel delights in the fact that the brothers sought to reach out to him despite his absence and a warmth eases the pain in his chest. He blearily types out a reply, saying,
I will miss you too.
He hits send.
Then, before he loses his nerve, writes and sends in rapid succession,
I have never wanted to leave you, I hope you know that.
Please forgive me, Dean.
I love you
The last text is sent just as Castiel begins to cough, the force of it bowing his back. The sound reverberates in his head and make his ears ring dully. He lies back onto the lumpy couch with its misshapen pillows, panting with exertion, a small trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. He wipes at it and swallows the blood he's just coughed up. It tastes metallic and unpleasant, and he should really try to get rid of the taste but he can't seem to make the effort to get up. He tries to place the phone onto a nearby surface, but his arms shake and it drops to the floor instead.
Castiel is very tired.
He feels lighter, somehow, for having confessed. He's not afraid that his affections are not reciprocated, because he knows they are. They've never said anything, never acted upon their feelings, but they know it's there in the small gestures. When Dean lets Cas choose the music, even though he's the one driving. When Castiel bandages a freshly-healed cut so that Dean remembers he is cared for.
Sometime later, perhaps minutes or maybe seconds, Castiel hears what sounds like an angry bee through the fog clouding his head. It is another imperceptible period of time later that he realises it is not in fact a trapped bee, but his cell vibrating insistently on the floor. He turns his head towards the floor and squints at the lit-up screen, but all he can distinguish is the shape of the cell and not the name on the screen.
Just as he reaches a weak arm out, the vibrations stop. It seems the person on the other end (Dean, his mind supplies helpfully) has stopped calling, possibly because it's been left unanswered. Castiel feels a dim disappointment for all of eight seconds, before the vibrations begin again.
He stretches a little further, feeling the movement sparking flares of pain up and down through his body, before grabbing the shaking device with shaky hands and swiping the screen to answer.
'Yes?'
Castiel's voice is croaky and weak from coughing and muffling his moans of pain, but apparently it is clear enough for the recipient to hear. He hears fumbling, before hearing that beloved voice.
'Shit! Cas, that you, buddy?'
Castiel sighs a breath of relief, although his body aches, his Grace singes his very nerves, and the world is starting to look so very dim, the sound of Dean's voice makes him feel like he could fly despite the dead weight of burning wings on his back.
'Hello, Dean.'
There's a shaky laugh. 'Goddammit, Cas,' mutters Dean, 'you scared the crap out of me! You okay? You'd better pick up next time, if you're gonna send me those kind of texts.'
Castiel tries to keep his voice steady as he lies, 'I'm fine, Dean.'
Dean seems to be able to hear the deceit in his voice. 'Bullshit, Cas, don't you start lying to me! I know your Grace is fucking up again. I'm coming to help; where are you?'
He doesn't notice, can't even feel it, as a tear slips out of his eye. 'It's manageable,' he tells Dean, 'I'm in a motel in Indiana, recuperating for a while.' His arm aches from holding the cell up to his ear, so he fumbles and puts it on the table, hitting the speaker option as he does so. He loses control the last inch or so and the phone clatters onto the surface, but it isn't that loud, the sound of Dean's breaths and gusts of wind rushing past filling the room. He must be on the road.
When Dean doesn't speak, Castiel tries again. 'Dean, I'm somewhere safe, and warded. There's no need for you to come.'
There's just Dean's harsh breathing for a few seconds, before he begins to speak, tense and getting increasingly louder. 'You are such a fucking liar, Cas! I know what's going on, and I know you're not okay, dammit! Your fucking Grace is fucking burning you out, and you're fucking lying to me because you don't want to make me fucking worried?!'
Castiel is shocked, unable to comprehend how Dean knows and tries to interject - but Dean cuts him off, continuing, 'well, fuck you, Cas, I am really fucking worried, and you lying to me ain't gonna fix anything, but you know what -'
There's the sound of thudding through the phone, echoed somehow (Castiel didn't know that the cell had that function) -
And Dean bursts through the front door, panting.
Dean stalks up to the couch, each angry step making Castiel shake with guilt as they are played back through the phone.
He stops, and then Dean jabs at his phone, ending the call. Silence fills the room, other than Dean's growling breaths.
Castiel can't see it, but he can certainly feel the full force of Dean Winchester's wrath.
Dean crouches next to the couch, and grabs Castiel's jaw, not with brutish force but harsh enough so Castiel knows just how angry he is, and turns his head until they are staring at each other.
Speaking just as tersely, but enunciating slowly enough to impress the full importance of his words, 'but you know what,' Dean repeats, 'I'm going to fucking fix you this time, because this time you're the one who thinks that they don't deserve to be saved.'
Dean's thumb rubs circles at the corner of his mouth, the gentle movement contrasting with the intense strength of his gaze; but Castiel has never felt so loved than in those two moments.
'And you do, Cas,' Dean murmurs now, puffs of breath chilling the tear tracks on Castiel's face, 'you do. You deserved to be saved so fucking much, okay? 'Cos you saved me; you saved me when no one else but Sammy thought I was worth anything, and I loved you for it. Hell, I still fucking do, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you get away from me again,' Dean pulls Castiel to him, where the dying angel buries his face into Dean's neck, 'you hear me? You fucking idiot.'
They stay there a while, Castiel breathing in the long-car-journey smell of Dean's jacket and fresh sweat, probably from running up to the cabin, and trying to understand how this perfect man was here, how this stunning soul loved him back and had actually told him. Dean's pulse thumps erratically by his head, hastened by adrenaline and terror that he might have been too late. That he might have arrived only moments later, and found Castiel lifeless on the couch, wings etched into the floor and cell phone vibrating for a call that would never be answered.
Dean's breath shudders as if he too were imagining the worst of what he could have seen, and where Castiel holds Dean like a lifeline, he can feel the man trembling. A hand settles on his head and another wraps around his thin waist, rough but firm as it clutches Castiel to him.
Suddenly Castiel feels such overwhelming regret at his actions. He begins to sob, and grips tighter onto the back of Dean's neck and jacket. From the way the Winchester shakes, and the sharpness of his exhales, Castiel thinks Dean is crying too.
Castiel keeps his head buried in Dean's next only a few minutes longer, tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt. For despite renewed vigor from Dean's arrival, Castiel remains in bad shape. When his hands drop from Dean in tiredness, he pulls away to find that his vision has deteriorated so much that even from so close, Dean's face is dimmed.
Something in the expression of his face must have sparked remembrance in Dean, for he helps Castiel lie down. A hand blocks out the light as it lifts sweaty bangs from Castiel's forehead, before moving to stroke his hair. It pets him gently, once, twice, then removes itself. Dean reaches around his neck and brings out something small, that glows with ebbing blue light.
Castiel can't quite see what it is, but the light makes his gut twist and not in that wrenching pain of his seizures. He tries to moisten dry lips as he tries to ask, 'Is - is that-?'
Dean head moves up and down - oh, he's nodding, Castiel almost couldn't tell - and says hoarsely, 'yeah, Cas, yeah. It's yours,' and then in answer to an unasked question, 'I'm sorry it took us a real long time to get it too, which is why I'm so late.'
There's the sound of a nervous gulp, as if Dean was afraid of the answer to his next question. 'Do you want it back, Cas?'
Castiel manages to focus his eyes on Dean's long enough to give his best impression of a disbelieving gaze.
Dean laughs self-consciously. 'Yeah, yeah, I know, Cas, stupid question. But I learnt my lesson about assuming things like this. I wouldn't've forced you to take something you didn't want, not after...' he trails off, thinking of a time when a member of their family was killed because it it.
'Yes, Dean, I do want it,' Castiel makes sure to say as clearly as possible.
'Good,' he replies, 'good.' But the relief in his voice is bright like the sun. Dean fumbles with the bright light, then holds it up to his face carefully. Castiel can see it now, his Grace pulsing gently at the bottom of a small vial. There's not a lot, but its enough.
'Open your mouth', Dean instructs, and Castiel does. Dean holds the vial to his mouth, a finger brushing against Castiel's lower lip. He can only see light now, almost overwhelming, so he shuts his eyes as Dean tips the small jar forwards and his Grace flows into his mouth and enters his core -
And the light intensifies, but its only inside of him --
As it enters the human vessel his body begins to arch upwards and his muscles begin to clench -
Light is pouring out of him, out of his eyes and mouth and ears and fingers and chest -
And he shouts, desperately before it happens -
'Close your eyes, Dean! Close your eyes-!'
And there is nothing but light and the stars and the universe and the brightness of Dean's soul.
Castiel opens his eyes sometime later. He looks around in wonder, realising just how close he'd come to death from the great disparity between the clarity of his vision now and what he can remember from before. Dean appears at his side moments later, green eyes bright with joy.
Castiel smiles back, and opens his mouth to say, 'Hello De-umpf!'
Dean doesn't wait for the customary greeting to end before pulling Castiel forwards and sealing his open mouth to his. Dean's hands twist in the dark locks at the back of Castiel's head, the pressure grounding.
They kiss languorously, as if they have all the time in the world, identical smiles on each others faces.
They kiss until Dean's phone has been buzzing intermittently for the last few minutes. Castiel finally pulls away and opens his eyes to look at Dean's face, eyes closed and relaxed with contentment and innocent in his happiness. Castiel revels in the thought that he did that, before nudging him to remind him, 'Dean, phone.'
Dean opens his eyes and grumbles, 'yeah, yeah, spoilsport,' but his shy smile lets Castiel know that he's not really mad.
Dean reaches into his pocket, unlocks his phone and scans it, reading. His expression suddenly drops.
'Shit!' he exclaims, 'I left Sam at the gas station!'