Hello to those that stumbled upon this, those craving answers, or just those just foolish enough to want to read this,

He didn't remember how I got there, covered in blood and tears, only one of which was my own. He didn't even remember why I was crying in the first place. I can tell you why. Every time I blinked, I could only see electric blue eyes. His whole body ached, but most of all, his heart. I could remember most of the fragments, even piece them together, a scream here, a splash of blood there. What he can't remember was the most important part- who the hell was Castiel? I'll do my best to explain to you.

This is what happened:

I should start at the beginning.

I've always been a part of this man's life, ever since he used to hunt monsters. I guess I did too. He's moved past that, but I still have all kinds of trouble with it. Sometimes, I find myself looking for monsters in places they aren't, and I have killed more than a few innocents in my time.

Please don't ask me to remember, He hates it when I bring up old memories like that. (But just between you and I, I've enjoyed every single person.)

Of the two of us, he's definitely been the one with the better shot at a normal life, and I would be lying if I told you I resented him for that.

Now that you know the background, I can move on to the main story.

It was an average, normal day, their first in a while. The man had woken up late, making his way to the kitchen slowly, making sure not to wake his sleeping partner. I couldn't see him yet today, but my heart beat faster even as I thought of him. He was wasted on this man, this man who used to wake up early, dress himself in federal suits, and play pretend. The man who used to sleep in motel beds and cots. He didn't need to anymore, not since my angel had fallen.

My angel slept quite late now that he was human, since he had fallen. I had been watching him for a while, even before that, since about when he had made his way into this other man's life. That was fine. The man let him sleep late, slipping out of bed quietly, which I approved of. Anything for my angel.

He had poured himself coffee, and sat down at their table, still blinking sleep from his eyes. The first morning light was making its way through their windows, and some birds were chirping outside. He found it pleasant, I found it unnecessary.

He was greeted a few moments later by a raven haired angel- my raven haired angel. My angel sat down, laughing and joking with him, his cheeks turning a rosy pink as he did. Light, but visible, the blush spread down his neck to his chest. I longed to stroke him, to hold him in my arms. The man combed his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, made one last quip, and stood up to go. A ring sparkled on his finger. He blew a kiss. A stab of jealousy.

Slinging his dark jacket over his shoulder, he began his walk to the market. I followed him, always following him, but don't worry. I made sure to stay just out of sight, at the very edge of his vision.

He made his way carefully through all of the aisles, picking out assorted foods, most of them junky. He seemed to be following a routine, the way he mechanically chose each item, placing them in a small cart. It was red, I remember that.

From there, he made his way to the counter. He paid for the food with a crumpled wad of fives, the one on the top had a tear on the upper right corner. I can remember that the cashier looked about twenty, maybe a college kid, and that his nametag said "Alfie." He seemed to be a good kid, but you can never tell these days.

Thank you for shopping at Giant.

The man took his groceries and left, carrying the bag in his left hand. He made his way back to his house, setting the groceries down to open the door, and setting down the food for good on the counter, once inside. The blue eyed man practically flew into the room to meet him, skidding across the floor to envelop him in an affectionate hug. But no, my angel couldn't fly anymore. The man chuckled, rubbing his deep black hair affectionately.

I loved this man. He was my angel.

Another stab of jealousy.

Dialogue. The men were speaking now. I could wait. The windowsill was covered in tiny dust bunnies. They hadn't swept in too long.

"Are you going to make me dinner out of pop tarts and beer?"

"Of course not, Angel. Don't be silly."

The two of them set to work in the kitchen then, grabbing other food and beginning to prepare it. They took out random foods, whatever was left in the fridge, really. The black haired man kissed his cheek as he passed once more, and he was happy.

I just wanted him to be happy. I swear.

They threw together the best dinner that they could, and this next bit gets a little bit fuzzy, but I remember that my angel cut his finger when he was chopping up an orange pepper. The blood welled up around the edges of the cut and spilled over, and my angel let out a short cry of pain, cradling his palm.

It was beautiful. I was transfixed. The way the deep red pooled around him, dripping down the curve of his hand and into the crevices of his bent palm was majestic. The whimpers of pain he was making were simply musical. I couldn't do more than stare in fascination.

Meanwhile, he began to make soothing noises, cooing softly to my raven haired angel, helping to bandage his finger, to hide the blood from me. He kissed away the tears in my angel's eyes, and he finished the dinner. This man did not cut himself, but I had a wish that he would do worse than that before the night was over. You can't tell anyone I told you that, though!

They ate dinner together, as they always did, and it was simply coated with small affectionate touches and gestures, as it always was.

They went to bed that night, curled up in each other's arms, but I made sure to stay awake until their labored breathing evened out. And that's when the fun started.

Pushing the blankets from the bed, I straddled my angel's waist, I looked down at his sleeping face for the last time. He would never need sleep again when I was done with him.

Slowly, I pulled the knife from the kitchen, unfortunately no longer covered in his blood, but I would soon cleanse it again soon enough. My angel stirred once more in his sleep, making a soft noise. I paused.

"Dean?"

He murmured this sleepily, his eyes flitting open briefly. When he saw me instead, his eyes, my angel's beautiful eyes, widened and he cried out once more, beginning to struggle, but "Dean" stayed asleep.

"Dean!"

I began to slowly trace his jawline with the flat of the blade, enjoying the slight whimpers it coaxed forth. He struggled some more, crying out for his love, but he still did not wake. My angel was powerless against me, just the way I liked, and his futile calling was only angering me.

I finally drew blood, a small cut across his cheekbone, and he cried out louder than the last. I paused at this. Dean was not waking up.

Slowly, I crawled my way up his body, lapping at the blood welling up along his cheekbone, enjoying the small whimpers of fear. He sounded delicious.

I sliced more and more, hearing his cries grow in volume and frequency as I did, relishing the fact that I was the one to make him cry out like that, relishing his panic. I never cut too deep, however. Oh no. I didn't want my angel to lose his stamina this early into the night.

This was heaven. His blood was nectar, his whimpers, the chorus of actual angels.

His arms were breeding lightly, his shoulders slightly more, but I really spent time on his face and neck. If it took a thousand cuts for him to say he loved me back, then a thousand cuts it would be.

I finally felt we needed that deeper connection. I sliced open his shirt, moving past his bloodied face, giving it a few bruises along the way for decoration.

Yes, purple was definitely his color.

But it was, unfortunately time for the main event. My angel's time with me was sadly drawing to a close. Don't worry, reader. I would cherish these moments forever.

My angel was past crying for his "Dean," and his eyes were glazed over. He still was making those delightful whimpers, but all of the fight seemed to have leaked out of him, along with most of his blood. This was delightful progress, and I felt a bit of pride, admiring my handiwork for a moment more.

Now, I began tracing around his stomach, not with the knife, but with one of my fingers. The soft feeling of his breathing was only bettered by his occasional whimpers of pain as my fingernail pushed too deep into his stomach. Beautiful. He was simply beautiful.

I was never much one for foreplay, so I got right into it, slicing deeper than before, watching the skin part before me with an unchecked fascination. Peeling back his skin was one of the most enjoyable feelings I've ever felt. The blood all just gushed to the surface, and the inside of his skin was smooth and wet, and his. I leaned down and kissed all along the edge of the cut.

There, all better.

I began to coo softly, a cruel imitation of his earlier comforting noises. Silent tears now streamed down my angel's cheeks, and I kissed those away too. His face was a pale white, under the caked on blood.

I love you.

When I finally reached his heart, the bed was dripping in red, we were swimming in it, him and Dean and everything. His eyes were open, wide and lifeless, his limbs sprawled haphazardly across the bed, and completely covered in cuts of all different sizes, and I could see his ring glint as well, in the moonlight. It bounced around the whole room, illuminating him, me, my crimes, all of it.

I'm sorry.

We were gushing red, swimming in it. My angel was dead, and I was dying inside. His heart lay beside me, and I lay on him. I would lay there with my angel until daylight broke upon us, and cops stormed the house, and found me there, sobbing over my angel's dead body.

I went without struggle. There was no point not to.

My lawyer ended up pleading insanity. I suppose it is for the best. The food is decent, and everything is white, but I can't help but wish for one more moment with my fallen angel.

Perhaps I was too hasty. Perhaps I should not have opened him up that quickly. I can only speculate now.

That is my story now.

I don't think you need to tell me who Castiel was anymore, my dear reader. I think I know. I never meant it to turn out that way. I suppose, sometimes, I just feel too much, and I need to make it stop. I didn't mean for it to be him, I never wanted it to be him. He was just there.

Jealousy and self hatred hatred are ugly things, reader. Don't ever succumb to them. Cherish your loved ones while they last, and in their final moments, let them know they are loved. Let your angels fly.

And now I remember everything

All the best,

-Dean Winchester

It was a quiet day. Charlie had been able to finish up her paperwork early, and so she decided to pay a visit to her girlfriend. She walked down the white halls, heels clicking on the markle. Finally she reached the door. Walking in, she saw Dorothy's back was to her, and she was hunched over something, like she was reading it. She walked over as quietly as she could.

"What's that?" Charlie rested her head on Dorothy's shoulder to better look at the object she was holding. It was a piece of paper, made out as a letter.

"Oh, nothing, just going through some of Dean's old writings," Dorothy said, re-folding up the letter and opening the drawer. "It always did seem to give him some closure…" Inside, there lay several dozen slips of paper, some of them fully thought out letters, others just two words repeated over and over.

Dorothy was the nurse assigned personally to Dean Winchester, and she had taken it upon herself to learn all there was to know about him, and most importantly, why he broke. Charlie doubted she'd find answers.

Charlie smiled a sad smile at that, looking into the padded room, where their longest residing patient sat, staring dully at the wall. His arms were wrapped in a straightjacket now, and his eyes were dulled more and more each year he spent with the knowledge of his own actions. He was a horrible, train wreck of a man, but everyone had a breaking point. Still… It never hurt to wonder what it was...

Dean's eyes still stared at the white wall, looking, but not seeing.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

•~•~•~•~•

Yes the "narrator" is Dean's self hatred and crazy pent up emotions that he never expressed.

So that's everything! I had the idea for this fic and just had to write it. Please let me know what you thought of it! I hate to fish for comments, but I'd love to hear if you thought if it was "good." Thanks!