Chapter Text
"There's one thing," Cas says, pulling Dean's eyes to him, "that she's afraid of. There's one thing, strong enough to stop her."
Over his shoulder, the painted on sigil flashes red again, spluttering like an old motor. Dean spreads his hands, gesturing at the absolutely fuck-all number of other options they have to choose from.
“I'm all ears,” he says. “Cas, if you’ve got a bead on her, it’s time to share with the class.”
Cas smiles. It’s not really— it’s not really a smile, smile. It’s something else. Something Dean’ll unpack later.
“When Jack was dying,” he starts, “I made a deal, to save him.”
“You—” Dean flinches. “You what? When? How? Are you—” He pushes forwards, grabs at Cas’ sleeve. “Cas—”
“It’s alright,” Cas says, and looks down at Dean’s hand. Dean does the same, watching his fingers curl against the fabric. He could pull away, should pull away, but he can’t shake the feeling that if he does, Cas might fly away. Might do something stupid. He swallows, and Cas very gently covers his hand with his own, tentative like he expects Dean to throw it off. “I’m not in any immediate danger. Not any more than you, at least.”
Dean’s fingers clench. “Feels like you’re leading up to something.”
“Mm,” Cas says. With his head bowed, it’s hard to read his expression; Dean sees the twitch of his brow, the slight downward pull of his mouth, but anything else…
He ducks his head, tries to find Cas’ eye. “Cas?”
Cas is looking at him, then, his gaze on high-beam, and Dean's seen that face before. Fuck if he wants to see it now.
“That’s not gonna hold,” he says, breaking away from Cas and forcing his gaze to the sigil. He strides to the back of the room, the cupboard they keep their supplies in. “There’s gotta be something in here we can use to strengthen the spell, something we can use to get out of here, I don’t know, Sam’s gotta have— gotta have reaper-repellent, or something…”
He drops to his knees, pulling open the cupboard doors and surveying the insides, the bottles and boxes of ingredients, ceremonial daggers and spell bowls that came from Target only to be sigiled up by a Sharpie-happy Sam. Budget-friendly spell-casters, that’s them. “I just need to— I just need to think, for a second. I just need to think.”
“Dean,” Cas says. Dean ignores him, focuses on rifling through their gear some more. The clattering is almost enough to hide the sound of his footsteps crossing the room, but it’s not up to masking the hand he puts on Dean’s shoulder, or the warmth when he crouches beside him. “Dean.”
Dean shakes him off. “Save it.”
“Dean.”
His palm is warm. It curls around Dean’s shoulder, holds fast, and it’s only in comparison to that steadiness that Dean becomes aware of the fact that he’s shaking.
“I’m not doing this,” Dean says, looking ahead. “I’m not doing this with you, Cas.”
“Hear me out,” Cas urges, soft but sure. “Just hear me out, Dean. I can save you.”
Dean braces himself, elbows on his knees, fingernails in his palms. He ducks his head, shakes it, tries to clear.
“When Jack was dying,” Cas says again, his hand still on Dean’s shoulder, his pinkie edging close to Dean’s collar, to his skin. “I made a deal.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says, refusing to look at him. “Any sentence that starts like that, I don’t care. It’s not happening. Take it off the board, Cas.”
“I’m sorry,” Cas says, and squeezes his shoulder. “I can’t.”
“Cas,” Dean says, looking over at him. Another thud echoes through the room, he feels it in his skull, in Cas’ hand. He just needs to think. He just needs a, a fucking minute, some way to get them out of this. There’s got to be a way to get them out of this—