Rock Salt And Feathers ~ Grave Casualties

Down On This Killing Floor By Infernallysly
Home ~ Grave Casualties
Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: I own nothing. I wish I did, but I don't. Summary: Sam is on the run from the armies of heaven. Warning: Moderate language, character death Notes: Title from The Lemon Song by Led Zeppelin.
"Your loyalty to your brother is marring your judgement," said Castiel. Dean didn't bother denying it. The angel clearly didn't know shit about love. "You know what this means. They won't stop, they won't hesitate to come after me just because you're here. You could go back to Castiel, say you couldn't stop me-" "I know, Sam. But you don't get rid of me that easy. I'm not picking those sanctimonious dicks over you." "If God has a plan for you, Dean, you're screwing with his tactics." "He's a big guy. I'm sure he can handle himself. Besides," he continues, gesturing, "if there is some all-powerful puppet-master up there, he sure has a sick sense of humour." Sam follows his gaze to the bloody mess on the floor, the one that used to be a person. "I guess so," he says, though he sounds unconvinced. "Come on then," says Dean, eyeing the blood on Sammy's hands, which is making him uncomfortable (though it's not as if it's the first time). "Let's clean this shit up." Castiel has seen more mornings and evenings than the human mind could contemplate, has walked on a thousand battlefields, has slain demons and humans alike without flinching and has experienced horrors that would surely have driven him mad if he were not so devout. It was not always obvious why his orders were right, but he put aside his hesitance and trusted that eventually all would become clear. He has never felt the reluctance he does on this morning, though, and that confuses him – at least, he tells himself that it is confusing, but there is something in the back of his mind that teases and troubles him, saying you know why, repeating until he cannot drive it out. He does know why. A disrespectful cynic on a tiny blue-green spot in the vast beauty of his Father's endless cosmos. That is what shakes his faith, and it is ridiculous. "Is it necessary?" "He has become a liability. His usefulness is past." Castiel has met good men and desperate men, men who were ruthless and savage and men whose benevolence shone out to him like a beacon. By every measure he has known, there are many better men than Dean, but he has never longed for their approval. He remembers the first time he told Dean a joke. Dean had smiled and told him it wasn't bad for an angel. Castiel is not sure whether he liked that response or not. He wishes that he could have made a better joke. But then Dean might have laughed warmly and given him that achingly beautiful smile, the kind he has when he's proud of Sam, and then Castiel would not have the strength to do what he must. It is fortunate that Dean does not think of him as a friend. "You're lucky I haven't ground you to dust yet, boy," said Uriel, but Dean knew no angel would risk falling just for that, so he only smirked. "We can't run forever, Dean." Sam is impatient. That was Dean, once, before experience had chipped away at his bravado. "We have to fight them. It's the only way." "Are you even listenin' to yourself? You want to take on the freakin' warriors of God? It's suicide." Sam shrugs. "Maybe for you." Dean stares. Part of him can't believe it's still Sam speaking. "I'm so strong now, I can win, I know it!" "Slaughtering angels, now, is it? Where the hell you getting this shit from?" Where the hell is my brother, he was about to say. "You don't have a better plan." "It don't matter. We are not putting ourselves out there to be killed!" "Dean-" "No. We are not discussing this." Sam was quiet, but he wasn't happy. Dean knew he'd rather go down fighting than wait and hide, but that would be one hell of a short fight, even if Sam wouldn't admit it. "Look after your brother!" his dad called as he rushed out the door. Dean groaned. Stuck with Sammy again. Gone. Sam's up and left and damn, how stupid can that boy get? He can't have gone far; Dean just has to find him. A lump rises in his throat but he ignores it. He runs to his car, though in this weather it'll barely start. If only Sam had listened. But when did he ever listen recently? "I put salt on the windows, like you always say," Sammy told him with a grin, "but turned out it was just a cat." Dean rolled his eyes and went to make Pop Tarts. Dean finds him. Bastards didn't even draw blood. Sam's lying in the half-melted mush, face-down, perfectly whole, the soul burned straight out of him. Could be sleeping, thinks Dean for a stupid, stupid moment. Dean's holding him, crying, cursing, beating the frozen ground as if it could give him his brother back, but what tears him to pieces is he knew. Sammy knew this would happen. He still left. "Dean." And that's the last voice he wanted to hear. "How can we trust him?" asked Bobby. "We don't know jack about him." Dean shrugged. Ripping him out of hell gave Cas a thumbs up from him. Dean stands to face him. He doesn't have words. The fight's been knocked out of him. Tears drip silently down his cheeks; usually he'd be ashamed, would turn away, but he doesn't have a little brother to be strong for now. Castiel stands and watches him intently. "Come on then, you son of a bitch!" Dean forces out eventually, though he knows he sounds more pleading than spiteful. Castiel steps forward. Dean knows what's next; otherwise he would mistake his determination for sadness. "You are a good man, Dean," says Castiel, and that is not what he expected to hear, not at all, but neither Castiel's words nor the quickly forming tears in his age-old eyes (and Dean taught him to cry) dull the sharp, slicing pain as he presses his fingers to Dean's forehead for the final time. Dean slumps on the ground. "Don't be scared, Dean," his mother whispered. "The angels are watching over you." Castiel looks down at Dean's body, then up to the sky, and prays harder than he knew he could.
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