I Kissed My Angel After The Fight, And Made Him Mine In The Backseat

The blackness was absolute, a suffocating velvet that pressed in from all sides. It wasn’t just dark; it was an absence of everything. No light, no sound, no feeling except a profound, bone-deep cold that had nothing to do with temperature. It was the cold of oblivion, the chilling certainty of being utterly and eternally alone. He tried to call out, to scream Sam’s name, his own, anyone’s, but his throat was sealed. The silence was a physical weight, crushing his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs until his vision swam with nonexistent stars. This was it. The Empty. The final, meaningless end he had bargained for, and it had finally come back to claim its due.

A hand closed around his shoulder, firm and warm, and the crushing weight vanished. Dean’s eyes flew open, his own ragged gasp the first sound he heard. He was tangled in his sheets, his t-shirt soaked with sweat that was now cold against his skin in the pre-dawn chill of the bedroom. The darkness here was different; it was soft, broken by the faint grey light filtering through the reinforced windows. It was real.

Castiel was sitting on the edge of the bed, his form a solid silhouette against the window. His hand was still on Dean’s shoulder, a grounding anchor in the turbulent wake of the nightmare. He didn’t speak, just watched Dean with those impossibly blue eyes, already filled with a knowing sorrow. He’d seen this before. He knew where Dean’s mind went when the walls came down in his sleep.

Dean swallowed, the sound rough in the quiet room. He pushed himself up, leaning back against the rough-hewn wooden headboard. Castiel’s hand slid from his shoulder to his back, rubbing slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades. The simple, rhythmic pressure was enough to chase the last of the phantom cold away, to slow the frantic hammering of his heart.

Without a word, Castiel stood and left the room. Dean listened to his soft footsteps on the old floorboards, the familiar creak of the third stair, the quiet clink of ceramic in the kitchen. It was a ritual as ingrained as cleaning his guns. A few minutes later, Castiel returned, a steaming mug in each hand. He passed one to Dean, his fingers brushing against Dean’s. The contact was brief, but it sent a current of warmth through him that had nothing to do with the coffee.

Dean wrapped his hands around the heavy ceramic, letting the heat seep into his palms. The bitter, rich smell of the coffee filled the air, a scent of normalcy, of morning, of being alive. He took a long sip, the heat scalding his throat in a welcome, grounding way. Castiel sat beside him again, close enough that their knees touched, sipping his own coffee with that strange, focused stillness he always had. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full of everything that went unsaid, a shared space built from years of loss and loyalty. It was a fragile peace, Dean knew, a quiet moment stolen between storms, but with Castiel’s solid presence beside him, it was enough.

The shrill, piercing ring of the satellite phone cut through the quiet like a blade. It was a sound Dean hadn’t heard in months, a sound that belonged to a different life. He flinched, the coffee mug rattling in its saucer on the bedside table. Every muscle in his body went rigid, the fragile peace of the morning shattered into a million pieces.

Castiel’s head tilted, his expression unchanging, but Dean saw the shift in his eyes. The quiet observer was gone, replaced by the soldier. He reached into the top drawer of the nightstand and pulled out the phone, holding it out to Dean.

Dean stared at it for a long second, the insistent ringing a physical assault. He finally snatched it, his thumb jabbing the answer button. "What?" he bit out.

"Dean? Hey, man, it's Garth." The voice on the other end was tinny and strained with static and worry. "Sorry to call, I know you're off the grid, but… we got something weird out here. Real weird."

Dean closed his eyes, his jaw tight. He could feel Castiel’s gaze on him, steady and patient. "How weird, Garth?"

"Montana. Little ghost town called Penance. Three bodies in three weeks. Drained. Not of blood, man, it's… weirder. Cops are clueless. The vics look like they just gave up. And there are these symbols… all over. Looks like a ritual, but it ain't in any book I've ever seen. It's not our usual gig."

Dean’s knuckles were white where he gripped the phone. He looked out the window at the dew-covered fields, at the solid line of the fence he’d repaired himself, at the life he was trying to build on the ashes of the old one. "Send me the details," he said, his voice flat. He ended the call without waiting for a reply and tossed the phone back onto the bed.

"No," he said, more to himself than to Castiel. "We're done. Someone else can handle it."

He stood up and walked to the window, bracing his hands on the frame. He could feel the old life clawing at him, the pull of the road, the hunt, the inevitable loss that came with it. He didn’t want it. He wanted this. He wanted quiet mornings and bad coffee and the solid weight of Castiel beside him.

Castiel came to stand behind him, not touching, but his presence was a warmth at Dean’s back. "People are dying, Dean," he said, his voice low and even. It wasn’t an accusation or a command, just a statement of fact. "They are afraid, and they are being killed by something we might be able to stop."

"And what if we can't?" Dean shot back, turning to face him. The frustration and fear were a hot knot in his gut. "What if we go out there and something happens? To you?" The unspoken words hung between them: Again. I can't lose you again.

Castiel’s expression softened. He took a small step closer, his gaze unwavering. "We have faced worse. We have faced everything. We do this together. It is who we are."

Dean looked into those blue eyes, seeing the unshakeable conviction, the devotion that had pulled him from Hell and followed him through the end of the world. It was that simple for Cas. People needed help, so they would help. And Dean knew he was right. He let out a long, shuddering breath, the fight going out of him. The peace was already broken. All they could do now was see the fight through.

"Fine," he finally managed, the word tasting like defeat and resignation. He moved past Castiel, his shoulder brushing the angel’s arm. "Pack your stuff. I'll get the car."

In the barn, the smell of oil and old leather greeted him like a long-lost, unwelcome friend. He lifted the false bottom of the Impala’s trunk, revealing the neat rows of weapons. The familiar weight of the Colt, the smooth wood of a sawed-off shotgun, the cold steel of the angel blades—it was a grim comfort, a return to the man he would always be. He worked methodically, the practiced motions a bleak sort of meditation, preparing his warhorse for one more ride into the storm.

The familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine was a low thrum in Dean’s bones, a song he’d known his entire life. It used to be a comfort. Now, it just felt like a cage, speeding him back toward a life he’d desperately tried to escape. Miles of cracked asphalt unspooled before them, cutting through the vast, empty plains of Wyoming. He’d been driving for hours, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

Beside him, Castiel was a pillar of stillness. He hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the farmhouse, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was a shared space, comfortable and lived-in. Dean could feel the angel’s presence like a low hum of energy, a steady warmth that kept the worst of the churning anxiety in his gut at bay.

The classic rock station Dean had found started to dissolve into static. Before Dean could even think to reach for the dial, Castiel leaned forward. His movements were economical and precise as he turned the knob, his long fingers searching for a clear signal. The car filled with the clean, mournful sound of a guitar solo. Castiel’s hand retreated, his knuckles brushing against the worn denim of Dean’s knee. The touch was accidental, fleeting, but a jolt went through Dean all the same. He relaxed his death grip on the wheel, just a fraction.

A few more miles passed in silence. Dean reached into the crumpled paper bag on the seat between them and pulled out a piece of beef jerky. He bit off a piece, chewing with a grim focus, before holding the rest out toward Castiel. He didn’t look away from the road. He didn’t have to. He felt Castiel’s fingers close around the jerky, the brief, warm press of his skin against Dean’s.

“These symbols,” Dean said finally, his voice rough. “Garth said they weren’t in the lore.”

Castiel turned his head, his blue eyes intense even in the shadowed interior of the car. “His photographs were of poor quality, but I could discern the basic structure. They appeared to be a bastardization of Enochian sigils. As if someone with a rudimentary knowledge was attempting to twist their purpose.”

“Twist it how?”

“Enochian is the language of creation, of order. These symbols felt like the opposite. They felt like… entropy. Like a deliberate unraveling.” Castiel’s gaze went back to the road, but his brow was furrowed in thought.

“And the vics?” Dean pressed, the words tasting bitter. “Drained of hope? What the hell kind of monster feeds on an emotion?”

“One that targets the soul,” Castiel answered, his voice low and serious. “Or the animating force of a person. Hope, despair, love… to certain entities, these are potent sources of energy. This is not a simple psychic parasite. It feels older.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. Older was never good. He hated this, hated the cold dread seeping into the comfortable warmth of the car. He hated that he’d dragged Castiel right back into the heart of it. He risked a glance at the angel. Castiel was watching the passing landscape, his expression unreadable, but Dean knew. He knew Cas felt the tension coiling inside him. The angel’s unwavering presence was the only thing keeping him from turning the car around and flooring it back to the false safety of their farm. He was Dean’s anchor, and his greatest vulnerability, and they were driving straight into the storm.