Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

-Do not go gentle into that good night, Dylan Thomas

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Chapter One

Cas was breathing.

He was alive.

Dean's own breath caught in his throat, choking him, as realization flooded his veins, his mind lagging as it processed everything. He still wasn't sure he wasn't dreaming—he prayed he was dreaming, that this was all a horrible, horrible nightmare. It had to be. Like his Hell nightmares he still had occasionally. But, even though it felt like it, Dean knew he wasn't in Hell. He knew because he was still in one piece. He did a double take, twice, to make sure he hadn't lost his mind, and wasn't hallucinating, or dreaming. This was really happening.

He put his hand in front of Cas's nose, and felt it. It was shallow and barely tangible, but it was there—just a slight huff of air, brushing against Dean's skin, warm compared to the night breeze. Dean's throat was dry, his voice cracked. He inhaled deeply.

Cas was alive. Barely, but it was enough. Barely alive was better than dead.

"Sam!" He looked up, searching for his brother, and began to peel off his outer jacket. He rolled it into a ball, and pressed it against Cas's wound. "Sammy!"

Dean was torn between survival mode, and looking for Sam. His instinct, beaten into him from childhood, demanded he go after Sam, look after Sam, make sure Sam was okay. Put Sam first, always, forever.

But. . . But. . . Cas needed him too. Cas needed him here.

Cas was alive now, but he needed a hospital if he was going to stay that way—Dean could feel his hot blood through the jacket that was quickly staining a bright red color. Cas wasn't healing; they were going to have to do this the human way.

Dean's heart was slamming against his ribcage. "Hold on, buddy, hold on," he whispered, trying to ignore the burn in his eyes. "We're gonna get you help. You're gonna be all right. Just hold on." Cas just had to hold on, keep fighting, keep his heart beating. Dean turned back to the house. "SAMMY!"

When Sam came barreling out that front door, relief washed through Dean. Sam was here, and he was okay. They could fix this. Sam began to run towards Dean, and then he paused halfway, staring at Cas, at Dean, with wide, wet eyes. Dean could hear him panting.

"He's alive," Dean said, voice cracking. "But he's not healing. He. . . he needs an ambulance."

Sam didn't even say anything. He was reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone, hands shaking, breathing shallow and rapid.

Dean turned back to Cas. Sam was on it, Sam was safe, Dean could focus all on Cas now. He saw the awful scorch marks, took in the sight of the broken, maimed limbs tattooed onto the ground. He knew. . . he knew Cas's wings didn't work anymore, and he knew the angels' wings had been damaged in the Fall. He'd seen Gadreel's, and Benjamin's. But, he had never really given consideration to what Cas's wings must look like. He hadn't wanted to think about it. It was a selfish endeavor. In his mind, Cas's wings were still as awe inspiring as the day they first met. They were still giant, and powerful, still able to call about storms, pull lighting from the sky, and still able to make even Dean believe in angels.

He couldn't ignore it now, couldn't continue to live in blissful ignorance. Cas never talked about it. So long as Cas didn't talk about it, Dean could ignore it. Because if it was important, if it was hurting him, Cas would say something, right?

Sometimes Dean wished he could punch himself.

He could barely hear Sam in the background. Sam rattled off the address they were at.

"My brother. . . he's been stabbed," Sam said. Hysteria clawed at his throat. "In the chest. . . He's unconscious, but breathing. . ." Sam was pacing, squishing mud underneath his boots. Dean winced, and ground his teeth together. That sound, coupled with Cas's rushing blood, made his stomach clench. They were too similar.

Dean kept pressing down, staunching the wound as best he could. He could feel it beneath him, though. Cas's already shallow breathing was becoming even shallower, more erratic. His lips were beginning to turn blue, his face pale—he wasn't getting enough oxygen.

Dean swallowed. He didn't have to think about it. He inhaled, then leaned forward. He pressed his lips to Cas's, and tried to ignore the stillness he felt. Tried to ignore the taste of blood and ash. He breathed in with all his might, as deeply as he could, until his chest began to ache, and he tried to focus on the task at hand: Breathe for Cas. Cas couldn't do it himself, but Dean could do it for him. The rest of the world faded away. This was the only thing that mattered. This was the most important thing in the World. He was a soldier, first and foremost, and he never backed away from a battle.

This was just another battle. Dean once faced off with the Devil and won. He talked God's sister out of destroying the World. This, this was nothing compared to that. He could do this. He had to do this.

He pulled Cas's chin down to open his airway more. Dean pressed his lips again, and breathed everything he had into Cas.

This isn't what I thought our first kiss would be like.

He pushed down those intrusive thoughts. They were toxic. They weren't going to help Cas right now. Cas was counting on him, Cas needed him, and Dean would not let him down. Not this time. Not again. He inhaled again, and pushed air into Cas's lungs, until he could see Cas's chest inflate.

Sam was beside him, on his knees. "The ambulance is coming," he said.

Dean nodded, but gave no other response. He had a mission, and he had to keep to it. Nothing else mattered. This was the most important mission he'd ever been on. He had to breathe for Cas, keep him alive, keep his heart beating.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, repeating those motions over and over again. He did it until it became routine, like it was the only thing he'd ever done. The rest of the world vanished, and this mission became his singular focus.

Eventually, he heard the ambulance siren. It grew louder and louder until it was deafening. It broke through the void of Dean's blood pounding in his ears, his breath rattling in his chest. The lights came into his peripheral, blotches of reds and blues that distorted everything, but Dean still kept at it. He kept breathing for Cas, kept his lips brushing Cas's. Sam was speaking to the paramedics. Dean heard their voices, but not their words—and then someone was pulling him away. Roughly, by the shoulders, he was pulled backwards.

"No!" Dean shouted, twisting, fighting. "No, get off! Let go of me!"

Cas needed him, Cas needed him, Cas needed him.

The hands let go, having succeeded in pulling Dean away, leaving him in the mud. It ran up his sides and sank through his shirt, chilling him to the bones. Dean wasn't sure what had made him so weak—damn it, he wasn't supposed to get overpowered by a person.

Dean was left just a few feet away, and he saw the paramedics kneeled in front of Cas, speaking loudly. A gurney was right beside them, lowered all the way to the ground. Dean was stock still, frozen like a statue, as they ran their fingers over and under Cas, gently over his wound. They pulled off Dean's jacket, now all red with just tiny specks of the original green peeking through, before they pressed it back—and then they were pulling him over to the gurney, while Sam was speaking, explaining.

"About twenty minutes ago," Sam said.

Dean swallowed. Had it really been twenty minutes? It seemed like an eternity ago. Twenty minutes was a long time for an ambulance to show up, wasn't it? Of course Cas had to pick a spot in the middle of goddamn nowhere to hide. A spot where help was miles away. A spot that took Dean days to drive to.

Dean kept watching the male paramedic.

He wanted to go back to Cas, but he couldn't move his bones.

"And the assailant?" the female paramedic asked. They loaded Cas into the back. The male paramedic had the blue bag over Cas's face and was squeezing it rapidly.

"Gone," Sam said, voice cracking. He looked briefly into the ambulance, and shook. His knees buckled. "Please, you have to help him."

"We'll do everything we can, sir," she said

Dean shook his head. He tried to speak, but he couldn't form the words. That wasn't enough. They needed to save Cas, make him better—Dean wouldn't accept anything less. He pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled. His muscles felt like jelly.

The male paramedic was still squeezing the blue oxygen bag. It crinkled like plastic every time.

Then, the female paramedic hopped back into the ambulance and she shut the door, cutting off his view of Cas. He only had sight of the bright red cross painted onto the back. The paint was chipped in some places, rusted in others.

Something in Dean's brain clicked.

"No!" he said, and he ran, sending shockwaves up his bones. The ambulance began to move, kicking up mud as the wheels turned, and it was moving away. "No!" It was going to leave without him. It couldn't leave without him—he had to be there, Cas needed him, Cas needed him there—

Sam's arms were around him, and Dean's feet were off the ground.

"Let me go, Sam!" he growled. The ambulance siren was screaming, the lights popping in the blackness—and then it turned a corner. "No!" He kicked his legs wildly, and dug his nails into the meat of Sam's arms. Sam groaned, but his grip only tightened, locking his fingers across Dean's chest.

"Put me down, Sam!" Dean jerked his head back and smashed it against Sam's neck. Sam swore, but his grip never lessened.

Hot tears raced down Dean's fact. Salt rested on his lips, and snot began to drip from his nose. He couldn't see the flashing lights anymore, and the siren grew fainter and fainter, and after a few seconds, Dean couldn't hear it at all.

His muscles turned to jelly, the fight leaving him in one giant exhalation.

Sam put him gently on the ground, and Dean didn't have the strength to hold himself upright. He curled onto the wet, cold ground and cried, sobs ravaging his chest, shudders shaking each one of his bones. Sam kneeled beside him.

"He's gonna be okay, Dean," Sam said softly. "He's alive, he's in good hands, he's gonna be okay." Sam swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing all the way down his throat. He looked behind him, at where Cas had just lay—the spot right above, where there was nothing but night air. "Mom's gone," he said.

Dean cried harder. He dug his nails into the dirt. Why? Why? Why couldn't they ever catch a break? Why couldn't they be happy more than five minutes before some shitstorm came in and blew it all away? Mom was trapped in some bad Mad Max remake, with Lucifer, and the devil's baby was born—

Dean swallowed, gulping for air. He looked back at the house.

"Where is it?" he asked, barely audible. His throat was raw.

Sam paused. "Gone," he said. "I saw it—in the nursery, but it disappeared. Dean. . . it's. . . it's not a baby. It was full grown."

Dean closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He held it for a moment, and felt like his lungs would burst. He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. It was difficult. He arms trembled the entire time, almost not enough to support his weight. He couldn't get the scream of the siren out of his head, couldn't wash the taste of ash and blood off his lips. Lead was wrapped around his heart, dragging it down into the pit of his stomach. There was a hole in his soul, a black hole that was sucking in everything, leaving him feeling numb.

"Come on," Sam said. He stuck out his hand. Dean stared at it, and time seemed to go on forever, before he found the strength inside him to reach out. Sam's grip was warm and tight. He pulled Dean to his feet. Dean's knees buckled, but Sam kept him steady. He put his other hand on Dean's opposite shoulder.

Sam's eyes were glassy and red-rimmed.

"What do we do now?" Dean asked. He looked down the road where the ambulance had vanished. His feet still wanted to race down that beaten path. He'd follow it to the ends of the Earth, if he had to. Cas was in there. Cas needed him.

Sam seemed to be reading his mind. "There's not anything we can do for Cas right now," he said. "The Nephilim is gone. . . Kelly. . . she's dead."

Dean nodded. They had been expecting that, partially at least. Birthing Lucifer's kid wasn't something that could probably be survivable. Dean felt bad for her. He genuinely did. She got a raw deal—her boyfriend gets possessed by Satan, and she gets knocked up with a creature that's the first of its kind: an archangel/human hybrid. She hadn't deserved that. Dean really had hoped they could have saved her.

Dean sniffed. His lip trembled.

Who was he kidding? He couldn't save anyone. Not his brother, not his Mom, not Cas. What was he even thinking, that he could save Lucifer's baby mama? He couldn't even save himself.

Kelly hadn't deserved that.

He understood the question in Sam's eyes. "I think we should bury her," he said.

Sam looked at him in confusion. "You're not worried about. . . vengeful spirits?"

Dean swallowed. That was always a risk in their lives. That's why hunters cremated their dead. Spirits were tied to their bones.

But, Dean couldn't explain it. There was so much wrong with this situation. Part of him wanted to give Kelly's body to her family—they deserved their closure. But another part of him, something deep in whatever was left of his soul, felt burying her was right.

"I'm not worried," he said.

Sam looked at him dubiously. "You sure you're up for digging a grave?"

Dean wasn't. Every part of him hurt. But it needed to be done. And he needed to be doing something.

"The Nephilim's gone, Mom. . ." Dean didn't even want to think about Mom yet. So many worse case scenarios were coursing through his head. Dean pushed that thought away. He had to deal with one crisis at a time, with the ones he could actually do something about first. "And Cas. . . he's with people who can help him. This. . . this we can do. It's what we have to do."

Sam paused for a moment, then nodded.

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They always kept shovels in the trunk of the Impala, along with their other weaponry. Dean pulled out the two shovels while Sam brought down Kelly's body, wrapped in a bedsheet. Sam laid her carefully on the ground. Dean stared at the white sheet. There was a body underneath them. One they were going to bury. But Dean knew who they were burying, and felt a hot pang of guilt, because he was grateful about who they weren't burying.

Yet, at least.

Dean bit his lip. He couldn't think about that now. He pushed it all out of his mind—Cas and Mom, alternative universes and if they were okay or not—to focus on the task at hand.

He broke ground first.

It was slow, monotonous work. But it gave Dean a singular focus. He and Sam didn't speak. They worked as fast as they could, just the sound of sifting dirt, and their laborious breathing. The sun began to rise, straight into Dean's eyes.

By the time they were finished, they were both drenched in sweat, and Dean hurt worse than he ever had before. They gently put Kelly into the ground, and began to fill the dirt back in. When they put the last of the dirt in, when Kelly's grave was complete, Dean sighed. He looked behind him, to where the wing marks were scorched on the ground, like twisted tattoos.

His task finished, Dean know couldn't do anything but panic and worry. His stomach was empty, but nausea still churned in his gut, bile burned at the back of his throat. He had been able to put it all out of his mind for a while. For long enough to finish giving Kelly a proper burial—it was the only thing he could actually do something about, and now it was done.

Sam was leaning against the shovel handle, panting. Oranges danced across his face, making the sheen of sweat on his forehead shine.

"Let's go," Dean said. He stared at the dirt mound, and cursed God. "Cas needs us."

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Sam drove. He knew what hospital Cas had been taken to from speaking to the paramedic, but also, Dean didn't think he could be trusted to drive. Normally driving cleared his mind, but his anxiety had skyrocketed. He was shaking, and he couldn't stop. The hair on his arms and nape of neck were ramrod straight. There was a constant burn behind his eyes.

They didn't speak. Dean looked out the window, watched the passing scenery turn to a blur of greens and blues, as the sun continued to ascend in the sky.

What the hell were they going to do? The Nephilim was out there somewhere, on the loose, with unimaginable power at its fingertips. Mom was trapped somewhere Dean literally could not go-an entire new world. Crowley and Rowena were dead. And Cas—

Dean didn't even know what state Cas was in. Everything had happened all so fast—his eyes glowed that bright white, and his wings had burned into the ground, and there had been so, so much blood—

But he was still breathing. His heart had still been beating. He'd been alive. He took an angel blade to the chest, and lived.

Dean didn't know what the hell had happened.

He had to see Cas as soon as possible.

The car drive seemed to take forever, even though Sam was speeding—Mister Goody Two shoes. Sam's fingers were white knuckling the steering wheel. His phone GPS was rattling off directions in its monotonous, robotic voice. Sam took the turns too fast, and definitely didn't wait three full seconds at stop signs before crossing through the intersection.

They made it to the hospital in just under half an hour. Dean looked at the clock. It was just after eight in the morning. He had no idea how much time had passed between now and that moment when that blade pierced Cas's chest, and everything went from double shit to quadruple shit. It seemed like forever ago. Dean's mind was still in a bit of a fugue. It almost felt like he wasn't really in control of his body.

Sam pulled into a parking space catawampus, but Dean didn't care. The only spot Sam could find was in the very back, at least two hundred yards away from the Emergency Room entrance.

As soon as Sam set the gear shift, Dean was out of the car, and racing.

"Dean!" Sam called, but Dean kept running. Each step was a step closer to Cas.

He burst into the entrance, Sam at his heels. The air conditioning hit him like a slap in the face, and Dean took in the sight in front of him. Overworked nurses, exhausted loved ones, sick children curled into their mother's neck. The information desk was right in the center of it all, doctors and nurses scattering around it. Gargled nonsense came over the PA system, speaking in codes, calling for doctors.

Suddenly, Dean couldn't move. His feet were glued to the tiled floor. Sam pushed past him and went to the information station.

"My brother was brought in here," Sam said, the panic returning to his voice.

Dean swallowed. Sam's words rang in his head. Brother.

Cas was their family. He had been for years. Dean wasn't sure when Cas became something more than reluctant ally, or Dean's best friend, and after that, becoming—becoming-

The change had been gradual, subtle—but Cas was a part of Dean's life now. Somehow, the nerdy guy with wings shoved his way into Dean's heart, and nestled right next to Sam; had become as important to Dean as Sam. And Dean knew—he knew—that he didn't always convey the sentiment to Cas. But Cas had to know, right? Cas was a royal dumbass, but he was smart. Like, super smart. Smarter than Dean. He knew like, every language every spoken, and quantum physics, and all sort of complicated spell work. He was smart. Cas had to know.

Right?

Dean's throat swelled with emotion.

Maybe. . . maybe Cas didn't know. Cas was worse than Dean at the whole. . . feelings, thing.

Fuck.

When Cas was all better—because he would be all better, he had to be—Dean would tell him. He would make sure Cas understood, loud and clear. Because Cas would be better. He would. He'd come back from worse.

Dean finally managed to move his legs, and walk up to the desk next to same. Sam was rattling off all the information he could, while the nurse typed everything into a computer.

"I don't how long ago," Sam said, running his hands through his hair. Dean noticed Sam still had tear tracks on his face, shining in the harsh overhead light. "He was—he was the stabbing—"

Something about the word made the nurse's face drain. She stopped typing for a moment. Dean could read her micro-expression, and a thousand things seemed to flash on her face in an instant before she schooled it back into her professional indifference. Her eyes lingered on them for an uncomfortable amount of time, and she swallowed thickly.

"Oh," she said. Her voice betrayed her expression. "He's still in surgery."

Dean wasn't sure why he was surprised. Of course Cas would need surgery—he had two holes in his chest.

But, Cas shouldn't need surgery. He was an angel. He should be healing. He'd been hurt by angel blades before, and healed up just fine. Not even a scar was left behind.

The images of those awful, black impression marks were scored into his mind.

The nurse continued speaking to Sam. No, she didn't have an estimate for when Cas would be out. Yes, he was getting the best care possible. Dr. Whoever was the best surgeon in the state. The words were meaningless to Dean.

The nurse smiled at them. It was strained. She was worried.

"I'll let the doctor know you're here," she said. "And I'll update you as soon as I have news. Take a seat, please."

Sam thanked her. Dean felt like the ocean was roaring in his ears. Sam grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him towards a chair. Sam forced Dean to sit down. The chair was uncomfortable. Hard, at an exact ninety degree angle. It creaked with very little movement. There was a clock on the wall across from him, an old style analog. Dean watched the second hand. It seemed to stop and linger in one spot for an elongated movement. It was just a little after eight am.

Sam sat next to him. The chair was too short for him—his knees were practically pushed into his chest. Dean couldn't look at him directly. Just out of the corner of his eye.

There was a television playing a children's cartoon. It was something stupid—a show where different animal friends worked together to solve problems. There was a turtle, and a duck, and Guinea pig and they sang.

The sick children were invested, interrupting the godawful singing with the occasional thick, wet cough that made Dean wince in sympathy. Their mothers wouldn't stop staring at Dean and Sam.

The clock ticked by, slowly. Nurses and doctors entered and exited. Patients were called back, more came in. Seats were filled, and the air was thick and uncomfortable with illness.

There was a goddamn marathon of that stupid animal show. He soon had the stupid theme song stuck in his head—something stupid, and childish, about teamwork, and overcoming one's weaknesses by combining individual strengths.

And at the end of the episode, they solved their problem, saved whoever it was they went out to save, and got to go back home. And no one was hurt, or dead, or dying, or trapped in another dimension with Lucifer, in an Apocalyptic wasteland that Dean could never, ever hope reach.

Dean hated them.

Trapped in that sterile, white room was like being trapped in Hell again. Time moved like it did in Hell, dragging on and on, single minutes lasting eternity. Dean began to play a game with himself, where he refused to look at the clock until he was positive a certain amount of time had passed. Dean set it for twenty minutes. He wouldn't look at the clock until twenty minutes had passed, and he would be so certain that it had been twenty minutes, and he would look at the clock—only to be devastated to learn that it had maybe only been two or three minutes.

Eventually, finally. . . finally, a doctor came out, dressed in scrubs, the scrub cap still on his head. He called for the Wilson family, because Sam thankfully still had enough sense in him not to give their real names. Dean and Sam jumped to their feet like they were filled with springs instead of bone.

"That's us," Sam said. Dean was still struggling to find his voice. "We're his brothers. Is he okay?"

The doctor, an older, African-American man, had deep lines in his faces, ones born of worry and stress, sleepless nights, and on-call shifts. He introduced himself as Dr. Whitaker. He had a firm handshake.

"Why don't we go somewhere more private to talk?" he said.