"What, are you stoned?" Dean couldn't believe this. Okay, freaking dick-angel Zachariah catapulting his ass five years in the future—/that/ he could believe. Bobby was dead. Okay. Still believable. Painful, but believable. Chuck running inventory for the freaking end-of-the-world camp that he, himself, was running. Getting closer to unbelievable, but not yet.

But by no stretch of the imagination did Dean /ever/ think that their angel would end up like /this/.

Just as the thought entered his mind, the Cas-not-Cas's face slowly stretched into a lazy grin. "Uh, generally? Yeah." Fuck, even his /voice/ was different. It didn't hold the same gravel that it did in his time, the same sense of hope, the same undercurrent of angelic voice underlying Jimmy Novak's tone. /This wasn't Dean's Cas/.

Hoping his voice didn't sound as destructed as he felt, he gazed sadly at Cas-not-Cas. "What happened to you?"

The lazy smile on the man's rough face collapsed slightly, the corners of his mouth falling. "Life." He answered simply.

"Life?" Dean was incredulous. "Life? Dude, wings or not, you're an /angel/. 'Life' doesn't cause angels to start friggin' end-of-the-world orgies."

Cas—Dean could hardly even think of him as Cas, the angel he had left behind in his own timelime—slowly turned and made his way over to a wooden cabinet, body stiff and tense. Opening it, he grabbed an orange bottle—and upended some white pills into his mouth. He swallowed them dry before turning back to Dean, expression hard.

"Youre right. /Love/ does." With one final, scrutinizing glare, he turned again, heading in the direction he had sent the women when Dean came in. "If you'll excuse me, I have an orgy to participate in."

Dean was left alone in the middle of the room that smelt like sweat and sex and smoke.

The familiar although war-rugged, face shoved him into another unfamiliar room, slamming the door shut angrily. "What the hell was that?!" His voice was rougher, more commanding than his own—Dean almost didn't recognize it.

"You just killed a man in cold blood!" Dean spat back at Dean 2.0, fury rolling off him in waves. He couldn't believe it—he had just watched himself shoot one of his own soldiers in the head for /no reason/. Dean couldn't see how /any/ circumstances would turn him into something like /this/.

Dean 2.0's expression steeled itself. "We were in an open quarantine zone. Got ambushed by some Croats on the way out." Seeing that Dean was still seething, he let out a tired sigh and continued. "Croats. Croatoans. One of them infected Yeager."

From Dean's previous encounter with the Croatoan virus, he knew that it took /hours/ for the infected to show they had the virus even with a blood sample. He scoffed, not believing the other Dean. "Yeah? How do you know?"

Dean 2.0 scowled at the disbelieving tone in his younger self's voice. "'Cause after a few years of this, I know. I started seeing symptoms about a half an hour ago. Wasn't gonna be long before he flipped. I didn't see the point in troubling a good man with bad news."

Dean couldn't believe that either—he troubled a lot of /good men/ with the image of shooting their comrade in the head. "Seriously? 'Troubling a good man'? You just blew him away in front of your own people. Don't you think that freaked them out a little bit?"

The other Dean choked out a humourless laugh. "It's 2014." He wearily ran a hand down his face. "Plugging some Croat, it's called commonplace. Trading words with my friggin' clone—that might have freaked them out a little."

Okay, /that/ Dean could understand. If he saw a clone of Sam waltzing around, he would probably shoot first, ask questions later. "All right, look—"

He was interrupted before he could do something stupid, like actually /apologize/. To himself. "No, you look." His voice was angry again, thinly veiled rage creeping into his voice. "This isn't your time. It's mine. You don't make the decisions. I do. So, when I say stay in, you stay in." His voice was commanding, leaving no room for argument. Jesus /Christ/, what had happened to make Dean turn into… Into /this/?

He pressed the apology. "All right, man. I'm sorry. Look, I—I'm not trying to mess you—me—us up here."

"I know." Dean 2.0 pours them two glasses of some sort of alcohol—it was in a grimy, unmarked bottle and Dean /really/ didn't feel like asking, taking it gratefully. He needed to be a lot more drunk than one shot of alcohol for /any/ of this.

"Say, what was the mission, anyway?" Honestly, he was curious, he knew he—even jaded terminator-Dean from the future—wouldn't willingly lose a man over something trivial.

Dean 2.0 strightened, a solemn look overtaking his familiar features. Wordlessly, he pulled something long and dark and shining from underneath his military-issue jacket—the Colt?

"The Colt?" Dean's voice mirrored the question he had thought.

"The Colt." His future-clone confirmed, tucking it back away.

"Where was it?" Dean saw his question sparked something inside of his future self, his eyes darkened with something that could be almost identified as determination.

"Everywhere. They've been moving it around. Took me five years, but...I finally got it. And tonight—tonight, I'm gonna kill the devil."

"So, a demon tells you where Satan's gonna be, and you just believe it?" Dean's disbelief was echoed in Risa's question—they were both looking at Dean 2.0 like there was something /seriously/ wrong in his head.

He shrugged in response to their question. "Oh, trust me, he wasn't lying." He sounded so damn /sure/ of himself.

Risa again echoed Dean's unspoken question—maybe they /did/ have a connection like she claimed. "And you know this how?"

Dean was surprised when the Cas-that-wasn't-Cas butted in with a desolate smile. "Our fearless leader, I'm afraid, is all too well schooled in the art of getting to the truth." There was /sadness/ and /desperation/ and /humourless sarcasm/ in his tone, and the pain that flashed through his eyes clued Dean in to what he had meant.

"Torture?" when his question was met with silence and another blaze of pain in Cas's eyes, he continued, incredulous. "Oh, so, we're—we're torturing again." When Dean 2.0—which he was now beginning to think had a /major/ glitch in his Terminator operating systems—tried to shut him up with a glare, he continued, his voice strained. "No, that's—that's good. Classy."

Cas-not-Cas burst out into a peal of hoarse laughter, the sound of a laugh that was not used often, if ever. It was strange to hear from the angel—mostly because /his/ Cas never showed emotion like that. When had he started thinking of Castiel in his time as /his/?

Both Dean and his double turned to stare at Cas. "What? I like past you." Dean 2.0's features hardened while Dean's softened—he almost understood the man. If he had to live with /this/ version of Cas, he would find a whole new world of appreciation for his nerdy little angel.

He reluctantly turned his attention back to his clone and Risa, talking about the plan.

When Cas-not-Cas and Risa left in order to gather things for the fucking /suicide mission/ Terminator-Dean was running tonight—he was pretty sure at this point that he was missing a large chunk of his programming—he turned in confusion and anger to him.

"Why are you taking me?" He couldn't understand that part. He was pretty sure that future-him knew that if he died, he would too. Wow, this past/future clone thing was /confusing/.

He was pissed when his clone brushed off the question. "Relax. You'll be fine. Zach's looking after you, right?"

"You know that's not what I meant. I want to know what's going on." He wasn't letting him dodge this question.

"Yeah, okay. You're coming because I want you to see something." He took an almost shaky, uncertain breath before continuing. "I want you to see our brother."

Sam? Wasn't Sam dead? He voiced his question, and his future self looked at him with hardened pain. "Sam didn't die in Detroit. He said 'yes'."

"'Yes?'" Dean was confused. He mulled the reply over before… Wait. /Wait/. "Wait. You mean—"

He felt the same pang of pain that his clone presumably felt, if the sharp intake of breath was any clue. "That's right. The big 'yes'. To the devil. Lucifer's wearing him to the prom."

The rest of the conversation blurred to Dean. He knew that terminator-Dean was trying to convince him to, when Zachariah sent him back to his own time, say yes to Michael. To stop this.

But he wouldn't. He just would find a way to keep Sam from accepting.

Dean was still finding sick humour in Chuck telling him to hoard toilet paper like it was friggin' /gold/ when he saw a flash of orange from the corner of his eye. "Let me see those." He gestured to the bright bottle of pills Cas—he had to think of him as Cas at this point—was holding.

"You want some?" Cas offered out the bottle, taking his eyes off the road momentarily.

"Amphetamines?" Cas, /his angel/, was organizing orgies and drugging out and Dean felt like he was to blame, even though this wasn't his Cas. Not yet.

"It's the perfect antidote to that absinthe." Cas grinned at him, a slightly crazed, mad look, and Dean figured the drugs were already kicking in. Or he had already been stoned before they left, which was probably more likely.

"Mmm. Don't get me wrong, Cas. I, uh. I'm happy that the stick is out of your ass, but—what's going on—w-with the drugs and the orgies and the love-guru crap?" He couldn't see his angel doing any of that. He didn't /want/ to see his angel doing any of that. Despite trying to get Cas to enjoy the perks of rebelling against Heaven, even /he/ thought this was a bit much.

Dean was startled when Cas's body started shaking in laughter. Cynical, drug-induced laughter, but laughter all the same. "What's so funny?"

His reply was accompanied with a cease of laughter, and a small, sad flicker of a smile. "Dean, I'm not an angel anymore."

"What?" How could Cas /not/ be an angel? That's what he was! He was, fundamentally, an angel. And even when his mojo was drained, he was still an angel. Less of one, yeah, maybe—but still an angel.

"Yeah. I went mortal." He could tell Cas was trying, really trying, to keep his tone light. He could also tell that it hurt him to explain this out loud. But Dean didn't understand how this could have happened, so he pressed the issue.

"What do you mean? How?" He asked incredulously.

"I think it had something to do with the other angels leaving. But when they bailed, my mojo just kind of" Cas made a noise that sounded suspiciously like 'psshhew' before continuing, "drained away. And now, you know, I'm practically human. I mean, Dean, I'm all but useless. Last year, broke my foot, laid up for two months."

"Wow." He wanted to tell Cas that he /wasn't/ useless, but didn't know how to phrase it. He was shocked—Cas was a human?

"Yeah." Cas replied simply.

"So, you're human. Well, welcome to the club." He tried to make light of it. He /would not/ let this happen to his Cas.

"Thanks. Except I used to belong to a much better club." His voice sounded so… Sad, so /broken/. "And now I'm powerless. I'm hapless, I'm hopeless. I mean, why the hell not bury myself in women and decadence, right? It's the end, baby. That's what decadence is for. Why not bang a few gongs before the lights go out? But then that's, that's just how I roll."

"That's just how you roll? Cas, man…" He shifted in his seat, turning fully to the man his angel had turned into. "Im not gonna let this happen to any of you. To you, to Sam… I wont let this happen."

Cas's eyes left the road as he turned to Dean. His eyes reflected the agony in his voice. "Thank you, Dean." Oh, /God/. He sounded so much like his Cas that it absolutely /ached/.

Cas's hands suddenly left the wheel, the road straight enough that the truck wouldn't veer in a different direction. The angel's—the /man's/—hands suddenly fisted themselves into the front of Dean's jacket, his rugged, familiar-yet-unfamiliar face hardened by years of being human, of fighting against the Croatoans, closing the space between them.

Dean's mouth was overtaken by the other man's, his lips rough and cracked, his mouth full of the taste of medicine and smoke and alcohol and there was /nothing/ angelic about this kiss, about Cas, not anymore. Dean didn't hesitate, didn't resist; falling into the kiss because /Cas/—jaded, druggie, broken Cas—was there; was warm and against him and he didn't /care/ that this wasn't supposed to be happening, didn't /care/ that this wasn't /his/ Cas. He poured everything he was feeling into Cas's mouth—the fear, the pain, the worry, the despair, the heat and budding almost-love he was feeling for his flightless angel—and Cas just /took it/. He took the roughness of the kiss—the biting and groaning and violent way Dean was domineering over him. He took it when the tears came—from both him and Dean—and cradled Dean's cheek with a gentleness he had never felt from someone that mean /so much/ to him.

They jumped apart when the truck swerved violently, a loud and hoarse "Shit!" escaping from Cas's swollen and kiss-reddened mouth.

When Cas had gotten the car back under control it was as silent as death between them, tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Dean's voice broke the silence. "What—" he coughed, his voice husky and rough, cracking as he spoke. "What was that?"

The look on the other man's face was stiff, giving no emotion away. His voice, though, was wrecked, full of sorrow and pain and /love/. "Something I should have done a very long time ago."

Dean finally persuaded his future clone to give him some answers. And so when his battle-broken voice explained that there should be Croats everywhere, Dean realized just what he was saying—that this was a trap. When his realization was confirmed, he said in alarm, "Well, then we can't go through the front!"

"Oh, we're not. They are. They're the decoys. You and me, we're going in through the back."

Decoys. Decoys? That meant that… "You're gonna feed your friends into a meat grinder? Cas, too? You want to use their deaths as a diversion?" There was no freaking way that he was going to let him be the death of Cas. This being his timeline or not, that was /not/ happening, not on his watch. And when Dean 2.0 looked away, he knew he had hit it right on the head. "Oh, man, something is broken in you. You're making decisions that I would never make. I wouldn't sacrifice my friends." It was official—Terminator-Dean had a few freaking /major/ programming errors. He lashed out in anger. "These people count on you! They trust you! They—"

He was interrupted, fury etched into the other man's every feature. "They trust me to kill the devil and to save the world and that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"No. Not like this, you're not. I'm not gonna let you." He snagged his gun up off the ground. Not that many bullets—every single one needed to be a kill shot or he was dead.

He darted off after the direction he had seen Cas go in.

He couldn't be too late to save Cas. Sam was gone here, but he could still save Cas.

Dean followed the sounds of gunshots, which were becoming more and more infrequent, and that worried him. He rounded a corner to be greeted with a sight that caused his heart to leap into this throat—Cas and Risa surrounded by a small group of Croats, and if them beating on their opponents with the butts of their guns was any indication, they were out of ammo. The Croats hadn't spotted Dean yet, and he used that to his advantage—carefully aiming at each one, dropping them all with efficient headshots.

When the last one was down, Risa sank to her knees and looked up at Cas. As Dean rushed over, he heard her say in a trembling voice, "Kill me. We both know I got infected."

Dean called out at this, and they turned in unison to his voice. "Dean?" Cas called warily. Shit. He had known it was a trap.

He shook his head as he came to a halt beside them. "Dean-clone." He replied. He looked down at Risa. "Youre infected?"

She nodded and, after a brief moment of promises and apologies, he handed her his gun. They walked back the way Dean had came, turning the corner again. Dean panicked when he saw Cas was limping, his face contorted in pain that he was unsuccessfully trying to hide.

"Cas? Cas!?" Dean ignored the gunshot behind them, signaling the death of the dark-haired woman. "Cas, man, are you hurt?" Cas shook his head, wincing, before stumbling. He would have fallen if Dean hadn't reacted quickly, arms wrapping around the thin frame of the battle-worn man.

Dean hadn't noticed the blood sticking Cas's shirt to his side earlier—but now he did. The stain was spreading faster than it should have been, and it worried him. He eased Cas down onto the ground gently, concern and fear flooding his eyes. "Cas, man, im going to move your shirt to look at this. If it hurts, squeeze my hand, okay?" He gripped the man's hand in his as he used his free hand to pull back the sticky, bloody mess on his abdomen. Cas was squeezing the life out of his hand, little cries of pain being torn from his throat.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the damage. It looked like Cas's internal organs were in danger of almost spilling out. Shit, shit /shit/. He couldn't bring Cas back from this. He couldn't hold back the dry sob that heaved itself up from his very /soul/. He lost /everyone/ in this timeline.

Cas, dear Cas, with his pale, sweat slicked face, smiled weakly up at him. "That bad, Doc?" he coughed feebly, blood gracing his lips. "Don't worry about me. Im still…" another cough, stronger this time, which derailed into a groan of pain. "im.. Im waiting at home for you. Im still back there. You can still…"

Dean leaned his head down, forehead pressed against the other man's. "Cas. Don't talk. Let me get you out of here, maybe I can still—"

"Oh, stop that, Dean." His eyes screwed up in the effort to focus on Dean's face. When Cas's electric blue eyes, glazed with pain and sorrow met his, he couldn't stop the rush of emotion, his tears mixing with the blood and sweat on his angel's face. "You.. You know now that you can stop this."

"Please, Cas, don't make me watch you die. /Please/…" He begged. He was on his knees, cradling the dying man that he was, at this point, pretty sure he /loved/.

"Sorry, Dean, don't think I can heal this one…" An odd smile stole across his features for a moment before his face collapsed back into pain. "You were right, you know?"

"About what?" Dean was hardly listening at this point, the feeling of total /loss/ so strong it was almost overbearing.

Cas coughed out a laugh, blood staining his lips a vibrant red. "Pie was… Fucking awesome."

When Cas's chest collapsed and didn't rise again, Dean bit back a sob. Shit—

There was a flash of light, of heat, of a wind that he /knew/ couldn't be just random, and his skin /burned/. The light was gone, everything was gone, there was /nothing/.

Dean woke up on the floor of the hotel room he had been in before—he paused, looking around. He was dizzy, but he /knew/ he was back in his own time. His theory was supported by the loud cough coming from the corner of the room. He lifted his head. Zachariah sat there, picking at his nails and for all the world, he looked /bored/.

Dean's fury worked past the dizziness he was feeling, and he spat out vehemently, "Well, if it isn't the ghost of Christmas screw you."

Zachariah sighed almost reprimandingly and looked up at Dean. "Enough. Dean, enough. You saw it, right? You saw what happens. You're the only person who can prove the devil wrong. Just say yes." His tone would have been apologetic if it wasn't so steely, so harsh.

"How do I know that this whole thing isn't one of your tricks? Huh? Some angel hocus-pocus?" Dean hoped it was. He /really/ hoped it was; the death of Castiel—angel, mortal; his or otherwise—still to fresh to prod at.

"The time for tricks is over. I hope youve learned your lesson. Give yourself to Michael. Say yes and we can strike. Before Lucifer gets to Sam. Before billions die."

Noting with relief that Zachariah hadn't answered his question, so maybe it didn't happen, Dean fired back an unbelievably easy negative before clambering to his feet and giving the angel a glare that could ignite a fire. "Oh, I've learned a lesson, all right. Just not the one you wanted to teach." He wasn't going to let that future happen. Ever.

Zachariah cried fervently, "Well, I'll just have to teach it again! Because I got you now, boy, and I'm never letting you—"

With a quiet rush of feathers, Dean was gone.

It was dark, the road in front of him illuminated by yellow-tinted streetlamps. He turned and his heart leapt into his throat—Castiel was standing next to him, tie backwards and trenchcoat lopsided. /His/ Cas. His angel. Alive.

"That's pretty nice timing, Cas." He managed to choke out, his voice betraying his turmoil of emotion.

"We had an appointment." Cas replied simply, a small smile gracing his face. And innocent smile. A /Cas/ smile. Dean burned with longing and, before he could change his mind, strode over to the angel and wrapped him in a hug.

He smelled like Cas. He inhaled, washing away the memory of blood and sweat and pain and /death/, storing the memory of /this/ Cas—warm and breathing and /alive/—into his mind. Cas stiffened in confusion before slowly melting into the hug, arms slowly wrapping around Dean.
"Dean?" The angel sounded worried.

Dean pulled back slowly, cherishing the look of confusion on his face, the way his head tilted. His Cas.

"Don't ever change."