It all hit him at once, like a punch in the face.
It was the end.
Dean, sitting on the edge of the ten-billionth motel bed he'd ever slept in, could not remove his thoughts from the dismal reverie of the impending.
The apocalypse.
At first, when he had found out that it was coming-the end was coming-he would laugh. The whole world going up in flames and little red cartoon demons poking with cartoon tridents. Of course the world was not ending. Sammy was there with him, and Bobby, and Cas, so what an insane idea to think that it could all be over just like that. If his world ever really ended, he knew he would be alone, and so far so good.
The mattress was hard and cold, and the blankets were short and itchy. Any other night, he may have gone to bed. God knows he was used to crappy beds. But the idea that the apocalypse could ever really happen-or was happening-haunted him. He was hunched, head down, and staring at his palms. Sweaty, shaky. He scoffed and shut his eyes, but to no avail. He was terrified.
The first tear surprised him, but once the flood gates opened there was no stopping it. Silent tears fell from Dean's eyes, one by one, hitting his trousers, his hands, the gross old carpet of the motel room. What would happen to Sammy? What they couldn't do anything about it? What if he failed? What if they were all taken away from him, every goddamn person he had ever known, the end of all things? What if he was actually alone?
Head bent, tears continued to flow until he noticed how hard he really was crying; his breath was heaving, there was snot coming out of his nose, and he felt like he was about three years old again, only this time his mother was not there. Sammy wasn't there. His father wasn't there. He shook his head, exhaling and desperate and full to the brim of every self-loathing, terrified thought he'd ever had.
"Dean."
Dean sat bolt upright and wheeled around, startled and embarrassed and ready to kill Sammy if he ever mentioned this again-
Standing before him, though, was not his brother, but the familiar face of what he liked to think of as his guardian angel. Dean was amazed at how quickly his thoughts transformed from bleak to at least somewhat hopeful. Dean raised his eyebrows, surprised at Castiel's unusual greeting. He could vividly recall every "Hello Dean" he'd ever heard, but this time, Cas seemed different.
And just as that thought crossed Dean's mind, Cas crossed the room in one swift step and placed his hand on Dean's back. Dean glanced up at him for a moment, his head at Cas' waist height while he sat. Castiel, apparently noticing this odd stance, took a seat beside Dean on the ugly, itchy blanket on the cold hard bed that Dean thought suddenly didn't feel so itchy or cold or hard. The warm indent of Castiel's weight on the bed was bizarrely reassuring to Dean, who sat beside the angel, teary-eyed and embarrassed. Dean noticed the weird brown trench coat to which he had grown accustomed smelled vaguely like the earth after a thunderstorm in Lawrence.
"Cas?" Dean asked, his voice husky from tears. Cas offered a reassuring albeit awkwardly crooked smile. The weight of his still, heavy hand on his shoulder was more soothing than Dean was willing to admit to himself. He bowed his head again, staring at his feet, and concentrated on breathing deeply. God forbid he cry in front of the angel. Cas just sat there, though, steady and kind and strange, watching Dean, saying nothing and not needing to. Dean inhaled deeply and sat up.
"What brings you down here?" he asked, embarrassed that his voice wasn't yet back to normal. He cleared his throat. Castiel said nothing, removing his hand from Dean's shoulder and looked forward introspectively. Dean, though poised to make a snide remark about Cas' mannerisms, studied the dark hair that was never very well-kept and the hard-lined mouth and the deep blue eyes in combination with his long intertwined fingers. It occurred to Dean how, even though he was looking at a vessel, this Cas was the picture of reliability. Sure, he could be hard to reach, but Dean, smiling to himself, knew that if he were ever really in need of Cas, he would be there. Cas glanced back when he noticed Dean smiling and mirrored him.
"You're scared," Cas deadpanned quietly. His eyes darted to Dean's shaking hands.
"Yeah," Dean replied. "Yeah, I am." He grasped his hands together tightly.
"You will never be alone," Castiel replied without missing a beat. He placed his hand on Dean's and felt Dean's tense muscles relax. The tears, it seemed, couldn't really be stopped. Dean's eyes welled quickly and several tears landed on Cas' hand. They sat like that for several minutes, Cas allowing Dean to very gradually inch closer and closer until his head rested on Cas' shoulder as the tears subsided. Dean, looking off into space, his cheeks blotchy and his throat sore, felt as though Cas had taken the weight of the world off his shoulders. Still, constant, kind, reliable, and strange.
"If you say a word about this to Sammy," he said suddenly, his voice incredibly throaty. Cas laughed once, leaning his head on Dean's. Slowly, gently, he muttered, "Do not worry."
And just like that, Dean was alone again in ugly motel room with a wet face and the memory of a warm hand on his. He blinked several times, cleared his throat again and stood up. He wiped his face and felt that, just maybe, the room looked a little brighter. Dean fell back into the hard, cold mattress (that was actually pretty alright once you got used to it) and, for whatever reason, felt he might be capable of taking on the world. The itchy blanket was actually kind of soft, and the motel room wasn't quite as drafty as he had thought. As he drifted off into easy sleep for the first time in months, he was quite positive that, when the shit hits the fan and all hell breaks loose, at least he'd always have his kind, reliable, steady, strange Cas.