Disclaimer: not mine, just playing.

A/N: I wrote this a long time ago and I just found it again. I cleaned it up a bit, added some stuff, took away some stuff, and thought I might as well post it even if it isn't all that good – expect some newer stuff in the next few days.

Warnings for drug use.

Concrit very welcome.

##

'All the black inside me
Is slowly seeping from the bone
Everything I cherish
Is slowly dying or it's gone.'
- 'Pyro' – Kings of Leon.

Cas opens his medicine drawer. Most of the bottles are empty now, but he doesn't suppose that matters anymore. He's not even sure what some of them were.

He pops a couple of whatever's left; swallows them dry and shoves the bottle into his pocket. He'll need a couple more soon, nothing lasts as long as it used to.

The containers jostle together as he slams the drawer shut. The death rattle of Castiel – of the life he used to have.

"You like him better than me?" Dean, his Dean not Past-Dean, followed him back from the meeting. Cas doesn't know why, Dean doesn't care about what Cas does anymore as long as he follows orders.

It all sounds so familiar. It sounds like absent fathers expecting the same of them both.

"I like Past-Me better than Now-Me. It stands to reason that I'd feel the same about you." Cas says, finally turning to look at Dean.

Dean frowns, annoyed. Cas thinks that might be the first real emotion he's seen on Dean's face in months. Usually he's either completely emotionless, or he fakes it for the others – Cas thinks the faking is more painful to look at.

Since Bobby, Cas realises. No real emotion since Bobby's death. Bobby did not die a hero's death, no matter what Dean says, he didn't even die a Hunters death. Dean shut down after that; became their Fearless Leader. But, Cas thinks that there wasn't much left alive in Dean to die anyway.

He presses a hand into his pocket and plays with the medicine bottle.

Cas doesn't feel much these days.

Dean doesn't feel much either, but he doesn't use medication.

"How do you do it?" Cas asks. Dean hasn't always been so confusing to Cas. He hasn't always been a question.

Cas still remembers pulling Dean from Hell, remembers knowing everything of Dean, knowing him inside and out because Cas had been the one to put him back together, piece by piece. Cas wonders if Castiel's handprint is fading as quickly as Castiel himself did.

Dean shakes his head. "I've lost everything. Everyone." He answers, though Cas doesn't know what kind of answer that is and he can't seem to think enough to make any sense of it. Their words are disjointed, like they're having two completely different conversations, like they're not even in the same room.

Dean's shoulders slump. He looks tired, his default look these days, and he turns to leave.

"Everyone?" Cas reaches out, grabs Dean's arm. Dean's jacket feels worn, but tough under his palm. Like Dean himself. "I'm still here Dean." He says.

Dean sighs, reaches into Cas' pocket, grabs the bottle.

Dean looks down into blown pupils and Cas looks up into hard, green irises.

"You're not here at all Cas." Dean says. "I know it's my fault. All of this is my fault." He adds quietly. He shakes the bottle and Cas flinches at the sound of the pills rattling like a machine gun inside. "After this mission everything will be better." He shoves the bottle back into Cas' pocket where it came from.

Cas almost wishes he could feel something about Dean finally being so close to him. Dean's breath hits his face. His scent, now consisting mostly of blood and desperation, invades Cas' nose. Dean's fingers touch his jaw.

Dean tends to keep his distance now.

Cas takes his hand off Dean's arm, allows him to turn, to get two steps closer to the beaded curtain.

"I was a soldier in Heaven for thousands of years, Dean." Cas says. "I know a suicide mission when I see one."

Dean stops and Cas moves up behind him, as close as he can get without actually touching Dean.

Dean doesn't say anything, but he breathes. Cas can see his shoulders rising and falling. If he concentrates hard he can still feel Dean's chest expanding and contracting, quick panting breaths, muscles stretching, bones moving under Cas' hands. But that was so long ago. Thinking about such things always gives him a headache. It's easier not to remember.

"You don't have to..." Dean swallows, tense and still.

"I've died for you before Dean." Cas says. "Please don't fail this time."

"I won't." Dean promises.

But Cas knows he will fail utterly. It doesn't matter if it's Lucifer in there, Dean will always see Sam - not for long, only for a moment. But, a moment's hesitation is always enough. Cas will not be the only one to die tomorrow.

Cas wants to hate him for it, but he doesn't feel much these days.

Cas raises a hand, rests it on Dean's bicep where he knows Castiel's handprint is, or was. "Goodbye, Dean."

Dean stiffens for a moment and then walks away.

Cas isn't alone for long, just long enough to take a breath and shove his memories into the back of his head, where they itch and twist, but where he can mostly ignore them with a little help from his bottle of pills.

Past-Dean steps into his cabin just a minute or two after his counterpart has left.

Cas likes looking at Past-Dean, even though he is obviously not of this time and makes the back of his neck ache a little, he reminds Cas of why he rebelled in the first place. He is, quite literally, what his Dean used to be.

"The asshole said I should ride with you." He says.

"You realise you just called yourself an asshole." Cas smiles. It feels more real than his usual smiles, but hurts just as much.

"That... That is not me." Past-Dean insists, pointing out the doorway. "That will never be me."

Cas' smile turns wry and somewhat bitter, he hopes Past-Dean is learning something by being here. "I really hope so."

Past-Dean looks at him. Really looks at him. The way his Dean doesn't anymore. Like he is really seeing what Cas has become and hates it, like he is sad, like he is angry, but refuses to turn away because he wants to know why.

His Dean doesn't even feel anger anymore. There is only resignation.

Past-Dean is frowning as he watches Cas grab a bottle of whiskey and the gun Dean gave him to make him feel slightly less useless, even though Bobby had been the one to show him how to use it.

"Why the hell do you still follow him?" Past-Dean asks, his voice dripping with disdain for his future self.

Cas laughs humourlessly, the kind that hurts his chest and stretches his face painfully. "Where else would I go?"

Cas taps his pocket, feels the medicine bottle still sitting there comfortably. He thinks briefly about taking it out, putting it away and going to his death with some semblance of clarity, but decides against it.

What difference would it make now?

He hears Past-Dean sigh, feels his eyes on his back.

"Besides, I still..." Cas turns, looks into Past-Dean's face. His eyes are tired, but still bright and alive, vital in the way his Dean isn't anymore.

"What?" Past-Dean asks.

Cas sighs. "Even if I did have somewhere else to go, I would never leave him. Come on." Cas leaves the cabin and a moment later he hears Past-Dean following.

Cas hates this mortal life. He hates what this world has become. He hates that people are not people, but croates – zombie-like creatures of death. He hates Dean. But more than any of this, he hates himself.

The problem… Is that he will always love Dean even more than that, and he's not even sure that's possible.

Cas gets into his truck, reaches into his pocket and throws another pill down his throat with a swallow of whiskey.

Cas is going to die tomorrow, but thankfully, he doesn't feel much these days.