Midnight in Purgatory
Dean startles awake, screaming, thrashing about, feeling something rough scraping against his back as something strong tightens against his chest. His feet slip off of a thin surface and suddenly he's suspended fifty feet above solid ground, ropes cutting harshly into his stomach and legs, and then he remembers where he is. And then, seconds later, he remembers why the throbbing, empty ache in his chest is worse than the searing ropes binding himself to a tall oak tree in the middle of a forest in Purgatory.
He sucks in a sharp breath and tenses, and then slowly, very slowly, he lifts his right foot behind himself and feels for the tree branch he just slipped off of. Feeling its rough edge against the toe of his shoe he kicks back just a little bit further, and exhales in relief when he gets a solid foothold on the limb. He very carefully does the same with his left foot, and once he finally gets himself safely back up on the branch again he collapses against the side of the tree, shaking and cursing and gripping the bark until it cuts into his calloused palms.
For almost an hour, Dean can't move from that spot. He breathes slowly in and even more slowly out, eyes unfocused as he stares blankly off into the surrounding forest. There's no sound of crickets, no sound of wind through the leaves, no sound of anything at all save for the rapid hammering of his heart.
He's painfully aware of how alone he is, and if he hadn't just been jolted out of a miserable nightmare by almost falling out of his bed for that night, then he'd most certainly be concentrating solely on the despair and hopelessness that has constantly threatened to consume him since the day's end.
As it is, he is alone and terrified, but he's alive.
Everything is still. Everything is quiet. Everything is dark save for small patches of light coming in from dim stars above. Dean is completely and utterly alone.
It takes a while but eventually he loosens the tense muscles in his legs, bending them to get the blood rushing back through his veins. He sits down on the branch and tightens the ropes he'd tied around himself before he went to sleep a few hours prior. He makes sure that they're extra tight this time around, wincing as they cut into his chest and his breath is momentarily cut off. He groans in frustration and tips his head back, staring up into the interweaving branches above as he loses himself in thought.
Dean has been in Purgatory for three months now. Three months and nine days, to be exact. Every day he struggles to get back to Sam, and every day he is constantly reminded of the monsters of his past and the shortcomings of his present.
Until recently, things hadn't been so bad. Sure, there was the whole fact that every day he'd have to confront a nightmare from his past come back to haunt him. And sure, every day he couldn't get back to Sam he'd crack a little bit more and feel just a little less human. But until very recently, he'd had Castiel by his side. That had been enough to keep Dean going, despite all else.
He is alone now, and he's not sure if he cares that he's alive.
"God damn it!" Dean kicks the tree branch, angry and tired and downright miserable, wanting to feel the bite of bark scraping against his foot. All he feels is a dull thump as his shoe takes the brunt of the impact. He does it again, and again, and again until a throb settles into the back of his heel and begins to run up his leg. He bites his tongue to keep from screaming out his frustration, and slams his head back against the tree. Seeing stars momentarily, he blinks to clear his vision as a throbbing lump forms where he'd made the impact. He bites the inside of his cheeks and then grits his teeth against the metallic taste in his mouth, remembering the taste of blood as he flew to the ground earlier the day before, attacked from behind by a monster that was too horrendous for his mind to comprehend, and within moments he'd blacked out.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck!" Dean clenched his fists, slamming his head once more against the tree behind him, kicking the branch with all his might and spitting the all-too-familiar taste of bile and revulsion out of his mouth.
He knows what Castiel would say, if he were there. He'd tell Dean that he was only making matters worse for himself, and that he needed to remember that he shouldn't be so loud for fear of what could hear him. He'd say that Dean needs to concentrate on survival, and getting back to Sam. That is was Castiel's job to protect Dean, at all costs.
Dean hated Castiel for that. Dean hated how much he depended on Castiel, how much he needed Castiel despite the fact that he never wanted to need anyone. Dean hated that Castiel was the only thing that kept him holding on for three months and eight days when all Dean wanted was to collapse and wait for the world to end.
Dean hated that Castiel was so willing to die for him, and that he had.
Dean hates himself even more for letting it happen.
He had woken up late in the evening after the attack, as the blood-red sky began to darken into inky shades of blue with the tiny lights of millions of stars lighting up the tall grass around him. "Cas? Cas! Castiel!" He had shouted for him until his voice was hoarse, wading through a sea of swaying grass and cattails until he'd stumbled upon the angel he'd been searching for. "Cas," he had grit out, falling to his knees and reaching for the man with shaking hands. "Cas, don't you die on me."
But it had been too late. The light of the moon and twinkling of the stars shone pale upon the angel's face, illuminating the cuts and bruises that he had sustained in battle. His trenchcoat had been ripped to shreds and his white dress shirt stained with patches of red. His tie was missing, and there was a gash below his collarbone right where its knot would have been resting.
Dean had bit back a scream at the sight, doubling over in anguish and crying broken, tearless sobs as he cradled the angel's head in his lap. "I'm sorry Cas. I'm so sorry, Castiel," he repeated and repeated until he could no longer understand the noises spilling from his mouth.
It seemed like an eternity later that he stopped, just listening to the tall grass swaying and the blood pounding in his ears as he held the angel's limp body in his arms. He rested his forehead against Castiel's, dirt mixing with blood mixing with tears as he sat there, pretending that the wind that was blowing across his face was really breath from the figure beneath him. Dean let out another strangled sob, pressing a kiss to Castiel's forehead.
And then, suddenly, a noise from across the field pricked his ears. His head snapped up , all of his senses on full alert. He clutched Castiel protectively to his chest, momentarily forgetting that the gesture was for naught, and then he heard it again. The noise had seemed to draw a bit nearer, and Dean's heart thundered in his chest. All of his senses told him to brace himself for battle, to rip apart the fucking son of a bitch that killed his Cas. But then, as if Castiel were still there with him in that dark field smack in the middle of Purgatory, he had heard the angel's voice of reason clearly in his head, "Run, Dean."
And so he had. Dean Winchester had ran as fast as he ever had in his life. He ran from the field, from the monster, from Castiel's body lying cold and abandoned amongst the swaying grass, hot tears falling fast and heavy as he fled.
That's what he had been dreaming about that night, before he had awoken to tree bark scraping against his back and ropes chewing into his skin. An empty field lit up by stars, and the absence of a tie amongst a tattered pile of beige and white.