Dean opened his eyes and blinked a few times, then groaned for good measure. He felt disoriented, groggy, like he'd been plucked suddenly from a very deep sleep. He tried to sit up, then realised he was already standing.

He rubbed at his face, feeling the rough stubble under his fingers. He was sure he had shaved recently, but things had been a little nuts, so maybe he'd lost a few days here or there. It wasn't the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him.

Dean looked around, peering through the dim light at his surroundings. The walls were bare stone, dank and medieval looking, that seemed to flow into a floor and ceiling with barely a break. There didn't seem to be much to look at…

He blinked.

There was a wooden chair in the corner. A cot with a sheet and blanket. A window with stained glass. Had that been there the whole time? He squinted at the glass and it was like the details were rushing to fill themselves in before he noticed they were missing. Pictures had suddenly always been there, a tableau depicting demons and angels and… his life, in coloured glass.

The house in Lawrence. The lady in white. Bloody mary. Lucifer. Dick Roman. The bunker. Sunlight illuminated them from behind and the whole thing was duplicated on the floor, across Dean's chest. Mom, Lisa, Bobby, Sam, Cassie, Pamela, Crowley, Dad, Ben, Lillith, Gabriel… Anyone that had ever been a part of Dean's life was there. Cas had a whole panel, the sunlight spilling out around him, his too-blue eyes faithfully recreated and shining bright.

Dean swallowed.

"It can be overwhelming, I know," said a voice. It was soft and feminine and full.

Dean turned to face her. The room was smooth white plaster now, dotted here and there with simple wooden picture frames. One held a photo of Sam. One of Dean stood by the Impala. One of a half naked woman, the identity of which he couldn't place. He didn't wonder how they got there. They had always been there.

The girl seemed tall, but when he looked closely she was of medium height and build. Her blonde… brown hair fell to her shoulders. She wore a simple, sky-blue dress. She was ancient and new.

"What is this?" he asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

"It's a waiting room," she said softly, a placid smile on her pink lips.

"Right, and what are we waiting for exactly?"

"A decision. We thought we had one already, but recent events being what they were…" she shrugged. "You know how it is."

"No, actually, I don't. What the hell is going on?"said Dean. He had said it demandingly, but it came out meek and afraid.

"What do you remember?"

"Yes," Dean said.

Michael smirked. He took a moment to bask in his victory, watching his vessel closely. Dean was standing still, glaring at him, waiting. He didn't bother keeping himself safe from the flames and his skin began to blister, his clothes charring away. Angrily, Michael made a fist and the flames blew themselves out.

"Don't be stupid, Dean. This will be much easier if you learn to work as a team."

"Screw you," said Dean.

Michael sighed, but his exasperation did not last for long. He finally had his vessel. His one true vessel, tailored for him throughout the ages. He was going to enjoy this, whether Dean liked it or not.

Michael closed his eyes and opened his mouth, letting the blinding manifestation of his Grace out of its shell, which crumpled to the ground. Dead or worse, Michael didn't spare him a thought, so focused was he on Dean. His Grace circled Dean, the light licking at him as if savouring his flavour. As it circled it healed his wounds, and turned the scorched fabric of his flannel shirt and old jeans into a well fitted suit. Then it snaked into his unresisting mouth, and became him.

Dean's body went suddenly, perfectly still. His eyes were glassy and his jaw slack. He stood like this for ten long minutes, whilst inside was rage and tumult.

"Don't say yes!" shouted Cas, straining against his chains in his desperation to see Dean's face on the screen. His broken arm sent spasms of pain through him, but he ignored them. Dean had to know that nothing was worth this, he wasn't worth this.

"Whatever you do, don't say yes!" Cas cried.

The phone went dead and he crumpled to his knees, arms jerked uncomfortably in the air. He knelt like that for a while, enveloped by fear and guilt and pain. His jailor, some underling of Michaels desperate for promotion, walked away in disgust.

When he was sure he was alone, Cas raised his head, looking critically at his surroundings. He was in a small room, not intended as a cell but hastily retrofitted with iron chains and bars across the window. He was on Earth, he assumed, as the pale light of dawn pooled on the dirty floor.

Cas took a closer look at his chains. They were definitely iron, the links thick and strong. They had been bolted to the ceiling… He grinned. They had been bolted to the ceiling with cheap bolts, bolts that were barely deep enough to bite into anything but plaster.

He braced himself, thinking only of Dean, then pulled. He gritted his teeth against the pain but kept going, gratified as the chains shifted a little and he was showered with plaster dust. He grimaced, shoulders straining, broken arm getting increasingly more mangled, continued to pull with all his strength… Until finally, with an almighty clatter, the bolts tore free and the chains fell to the ground.

The sound brought his jailor back, who squinted into the dim room in alarm.

"What the hell are you doing in there?" he said, peering through the small slot.

"Wouldn't you like to know," replied Cas. He was still breathing heavily and in incredible pain, but he got to his feet in silence.

The angel unlocked the cell door and stepped inside. His jaw dropped as he finally saw what Cas had done, but it was too late. Cas jerked his good arm and the chain that hung from it whipped up and caught the guard across the face, knocking him to the ground. His blade skittered across the floor and Cas seized it, plunging it into the angel's chest without a second thought.

Cas shielded his eyes as the bright light of death filled the room, then patted down the body in search of keys. Quickly he freed himself from the chains, pocketed the keys, and grasped the blade firmly in his good hand. His face set in grim determination, he marched from his cell.

Dean stood alone in the middle of the empty warehouse, a circle of scorch marks around him and the ashy remains of his old clothes at his feet. He made a jerky movement with an arm, raising it a few inches before it stopped abruptly.

His foot lifted as if to take a step, his balance shifted, and he tumbled to the ground.

"Stop… Fighting… Me…" Michael said through gritted teeth.

"Never," Dean spat.

They got to their feet, moving like a toddler, a puppet with half its strings cut.

"I am an Archangel. I am God's favourite son. I am ancient and infinite. You think you, boy, can resist me?" said Michael internally. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

"Go to hell, asshat," replied Dean. Not so eloquent, perhaps, but it got the point across. He didn't have the concentration to spare on witty repartee.

Michael roared inside Dean's head. The force of it hit him, a shockwave like a freight train, and he felt his consciousness waver. Mentally he staggered, forcing himself to stay in control, but he knew he was weakened.

Michael roared again, the full raw power of a celestial being hitting Dean's tiny human mind from all sides. It was no use. Dean slipped away.

Michael grinned. He flexed his fingers experimentally. He brushed the dust from his suit, adjusted his tie, then disappeared, leaving the warehouse in echoing silence.

Cas fought his way through a veritable battalion of lesser angels, hacking and slashing and ducking and killing. He was cut and bruised and thrown around like a rag doll but he could barely feel it. In his mind danced visions of Dean, dead or wounded or worse; controlled by Michael. He couldn't let that happen, no matter the cost.

He didn't look at their faces, didn't let himself feel anything but rage and fear for Dean as their bodies hit the ground. He made it out of the makeshift cell, made it down a long corridor, made it into what looked like a foyer. Was he in an abandoned hotel? It didn't matter. He didn't care.

Another angel stepped into his path and he flew at it, screaming with fury. His stolen blade plunged towards its heart but it sidestepped him with ease. Cas tried again and once again he missed. The angel laughed and Cas' blood ran cold at the familiar sound.

"I have to say, I'm impressed with you, Castiel," said the angel.

No, no no no GOD NO, Cas thought. He looked up into the face of his attacker.

The freckles were the first thing he noticed. He had always thought of them like skin stars. He forced himself to look past them, up into the deep green eyes he held so dear. They were Dean's, but he couldn't see Dean behind them. He sagged.

"M… Michael?"

Michael looked at him with an arrogant, superior expression that looked ugly on Dean's face.

"It's too bad," he said, running a thumb along the edge of his blade. "He was in love with you."

"He… he loves me?" repeated Cas, disbelievingly. His heart leapt involuntarily, but he pushed it down.

"What's the matter, Castiel? You didn't know?" replied Michael, thoroughly enjoying himself. He had never felt so whole, so energised. Castiel's pain invigorated him. "It's like a fucking soap opera in here," he added.

Cas stood up straighter, defiance in his eyes.

"You will lose," he said firmly. "Dean will see he was wrong and take control."

Michael's face twisted in anger. There was a thunderclap and a bolt of lightning as he unfurled his wings and spread his arms, bearing down on Castiel in his ripped and bloody trenchcoat.

"Look at me!" he yelled. "I am the most powerful being in the universe!" Another clap of thunder rolled, as if to emphasise his point. Lightning sent shadows flickering around the foyer as Michael grabbed Castiel by the throat.

"You actually think a dire thing like love will win?" he said, with a low, incredulous chuckle.

"The same thing won't happen as Sam did with Lucifer," said the archangel, lifting Castiel into the air. "Not this time."

"He is strong," choked out Cas. "You've been witness to that."

Michael let go and Cas dropped unceremoniously to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath. He folded his hands behind his back and took a few steps away, like he couldn't stand to be near his baby brother.

"You've been with the humans too long, Castiel. You know how weak they are," he said, as if daring Cas to contradict him.

"I know everything in this tiny, insignificant brain. Every moment you two shared that he kept locked away. Every touch he tried to forget…"

"Stop it," choked Cas, struggling to sit up properly.

"Every time you let him down that he just can't quite let go of…" continued Michael, tauntingly.

"Stop it!" shouted Cas, getting to his feet.

Michael turned back to face Castiel. He smirked, turning his suit into familiar jeans and leather jacket, just because he knew it would hurt.

"He is poison, Castiel, and you know it," Michael smirked, gratified to see the pain behind Cas' eyes.

"How does it feel, knowing you were his demise?"

Cas looked away, unable to bear the twisted vision in front of him. He shook his head.

"Lucifer is gone. What's the point of all this?" He sounded desperate, pleading, tired.

Michael snorted derisively, folding his arms, the fitted suit melting back into existence.

"You don't know anything, do you? I have my true vessel! Now I can finally do what I was created to do!" he said.

Cas took a step back, shaking his head.

"You're insane," he said.

"Not insane," said Michael, raising a condescending finger. "A strategist."

The archangel took a step closer, gearing himself up to fight. "Now, any last words?"

Cas glared, hatred rolling off him in waves. "Bite me," he said. He didn't move.

Michael stared down at him. Castiel was a mess; one arm hung limply at his side, his clothes were torn and bloody and his face was littered with cuts and bruises. He was pathetic. Michael clenched his fist and Cas collapsed once more.

"I take it back," he said. "You are not impressive in the least."

Cas spat blood, but did not make any effort to get up.

"Fight me, Castiel!" yelled Michael, infuriated. "Have you given up? Don't want to hurt your precious human?" He snorted. "You loved him too much, and now you can't let him go."

Michael sighed. Fine.

"Because I am the righteous, I will make it quick," he said, advancing on Cas.

"Dean…" said Cas, rolling painfully onto all fours. "I know you're in there. I know I've let you down. Please forgive me."

Michael punched him, sending him crashing to the floor, then pulled him back up by his collar. He raised his angel blade, poised it to plunge into Castiel's weak heart.

"Dean, please," gasped Cas. He looked up into the eyes he knew so well, a mere inch from his own.

"I love you."

Something shifted inside Michael. His heart was thumping fit to burst. He dropped the blade and clutched at his chest, eyes wild.

"This… can't be happening," he gasped. Behind his eyes flickered a barrage of memories; every moment that Dean and Cas had spent together, every touch that Dean had cherished and locked away, every time that Dean had let Cas down that he couldn't quite forget, no matter how many times Cas forgave him…

"No! I don't understand!" shouted Michael, clutching at his head as the unwanted assault of memories continued. He couldn't stop them. He was all powerful, why couldn't he stop them?!

It's because you sons of bitches don't have what we have, said Dean.

"No! I am stronger than Lucifer! You can't kill me!" yelled Michael.

We've got family, continued Dean. And that's what will always make us better than you.

Michael grabbed desperately for his blade, raising it for the last time. He had to stop this. Now.

Cas looked into Dean's twisted face, his own full of faith and love, willing him to victory.

The blade came down and Cas did not flinch, eyes locked with Dean's to the last.

Dean gasped as the blade plunged deep into his own stomach. Blue light exploded from his eyes and mouth and he slumped forwards into Cas' arms.

"Dean!" said Cas. This was not happening. This could not be happening. No. No. No.

As gently as he could Cas lay Dean down beside him. He placed one hand on his stomach and willed it to heal. He gathered everything he had, every trace of his Grace that still lingered in his useless human form, and poured it into Dean.

"Come on, COME ON!"

Dean lay in Cas' arms, still and lifeless in his well fitting suit.

"I don't understand," said Cas, cupping Dean's face as gently as he could, as if he could break him more. He let out a loud, dry sob and clutched Dean close in his arms.

"Bring him back, you son of a bitch!" he yelled to the rafters. "You brought me back!"

"Dean!" he said desperately, as if sheer force of love and will could make this not have happened. He placed a soft, clumsy kiss on Dean's still-warm lips.

"...Dean?"

The silence was deafening.

"What do you remember?"

Dean shook his head to try and clear it. He rubbed his face, then looked down in confusion at his wet fingers. When had he started crying?

"It can be overwhelming, I know," the girl said again. It didn't really help. His heart was too heavy.

There was a gentle knock at the door and the girl answered it.

"I'll be back in a moment," she said, and stepped outside. As the door closed the edges dissolved until there was nothing but bare wall. It had always been bare wall.

Dean turned around, not really sure what to do with himself. He examined the pictures on the walls, recognising them as stills of the memories he had used against Michael. A small smile pulled at his lips. At least he had won. Cas was alive and he had won. Cas loved him and he had won.

"Are you ready to go?" asked the girl.

Dean turned around. She had her hand stretched out to him and he took it. She led him out of the room.

There is a lady on Tumblr called linneart and about a year ago (I know) she drew the comic that inspired this fanfic. You can read it here. linneart dot tumblr

post/83944591326

I didn't necessarily plan for the fic to turn out this way but I'm glad it did. Thank you Linnea for inspiring me to write and for sharing your art with all of us.

Thank you all for supporting me, it means a lot.

This isn't necessarily the end...