Fighting the Good Fight: His Righteous Man
I'm sorry I've been gone, but I don't really have time to explain and apologize right now. Check out my author bio thingie if you want an update on why I'm AWOL. Love you guys a lot though, thanks for sticking with me even though I'm dumb and haven't uploaded in like four months.
I'm sorry, this is gonna be a long A/N. You can skip it if you want, but please check the trigger warning below in case it applies.
TRIGGER WARNING: Not very in detail, but this is about Dean having depression and having suicidal thoughts, and Cas doing his damnedest to help.
So this is a little one-shot that was actually supposed to be a fluffy little bit about Dean using the handprints on his shoulders for comfort when he was feeling lonely without Cas, but for some reason it turned a lot darker, I'm not sure why.
I don't like to romanticize depression or thoughts of suicide, and I think it's wrong and hurtful when anyone does. But I feel like I need to express how important it is, how much it means to someone, to have another person support you when you don't feel strong, to give you a reason to stay, to have a plan for when they just can't be there. It's really important, and it means the world. That's what this fic is getting at, and I hope it gets my message across, even if it's not refined. I'm posting my first draft because I think it's important for this to be the first thing that came to mind, and not try to make it into something polite and censored. I need it to be rough and dirty and not clean around the edges, and i hope you can forgive that.
As you've probably gathered, this fic implies that the marks remained on Dean's shoulders, even though they disappeared at some point in the show. Don't remember when or why, but they're here for the purpose of this fic.
Dean was missing him.
God, was he missing him bad.
He said it'd only be a day or two, just long enough for him to help with the mending of Heaven and deal with the influx of souls.
But it was times like these when Dean ached for his best friend, the only one who could help him forget all the bad he had done, remember why he deserved to still be here, and not drown in a bottle, or worse.
Things had gotten worse over the most recent weeks, coming back from… that. He could see the flash of distrust in Sammy's eyes whenever he did something remotely out of the ordinary, the fear, the fear that maybe it just wasn't all gone yet.
But somehow, somehow Cas trusted him, wholeheartedly. Cas had believed in him enough that when things were at their worst, he still would give it all up, all of it, for a single human. Just a man.
He knew he couldn't do it, couldn't ever leave Sammy, or Cas. Not now, not after everything they'd gone through. But it was hard to remind himself when Cas wasn't there. So he went to the bathroom mirror, just like Cas made him promise the first time he had to intervene.
"Dean. Dean! What are you doing!?" Cas cried out, by his side in less than an instant.
"Stay away from me Cas! I don't wanna hurt you, not ever again!" Cas froze, looking into Dean's shattered emerald eyes, and saw just how lost, how worn down, his best friend had become. His Righteous Man was only a trace left in the marks on Dean's shoulders, the shoulders of what was now a scared little boy that had the weight of the world resting upon him. Cas had one shot at this.
In another whisper of a moment, Dean's wrists were in his hands and he tossed aside the pills and the bottle. He made them disappear, to be doubly sure, while a shaking Dean collapsed in his arms, body wracking with sobs.
"Why won't you let me go, Cas?! All I do is hurt, I've told Sammy and I'm telling you, I'm poison! Everyone I've ever loved, nearly everyone I've ever met, is dead, or worse, and it's all my fault!" he cried, as Cas kneeled on the floor with Dean pulled to his chest.
"But it's not. All you've ever done in this world has been with the right intentions, with a good heart, Dean Winchester. Even when your soul was twisted by the Mark and you came back the way you did… you were still a good man, at the heart of you, and that is why you came away from it, why you're here now, and why you deserve to stay here. You deserve to live, Dean Winchester. You are a Righteous Man indeed, and I would not have pulled you from Hell if you hadn't been. You chose free will when all that was in front of you was not the right thing to do, because you are a good, and righteous man." Cas stared determinedly onwards, searching Dean's gaze as he spoke, refusing to let Dean waver. The edge of the handprint on his left shoulder was just barely exposed by his t-shirt. Cas reached out and pushed the sleeve upwards to fully reveal the handprint, and laid his hand to fit perfectly overtop of it.
"When you feel the way you feel right now, if I'm not there, or Sam, you have to promise me something, Dean. I am not good at anything human, as you know, possibly better than anyone. But I believe, in times such as these, humans need a… backup. A plan. I want you to remember our plan, okay?" Dean nodded, hiccuping. "When you feel as though you can't remember why, you are to look at these, you are to see them and remember that I will not let you go, that you are loved deeply, and that you deserve life. Do you understand?" he said, and held Dean's gaze once more. Dean nodded. Cas pulled him close and hugged him fiercely, in a way Dean had never experienced with the angel. It was so painted with emotion, so saturated with it, that Dean could only say it was very human of his angel.
"I promise, Cas. I promise."
Even with a promise, he couldn't forget his wrongs, he couldn't forgive himself, not right away. And he had nights where he was as low as he could get, but Cas was always there in a heartbeat as soon as he prayed, no matter what. Which is why Dean denied himself right now, why he refused to pray. He needed to trust Cas and believe in himself for once, and believe that what Cas said was true- he deserved a shot at being here, at righting the wrongs, at doing the best he could for as long as he could, fighting the good fight with his angel.
So he wiped the grime from the motel bathroom mirror, peeled upwards and off his shirt, and laid his hand over the mark his angel left on his shoulders.
His angel had raised him from perdition, and hadn't ever stopped since.