A/N: I was inspired to write this in a rage in which I nearly murdered my computer and desperately searched for signs of episode 17 to confirm that Castiel would not desert the Sucrette. I was not disappointed.

Disclaimer: I don't own My Candy Love. And if I did, I would have done a lot worse to Deborah at the end of her charade. I used to respect her too…before she turned into a real bitch.

It's Called a Misery Phase

Clenching his fist, the plane ticket crumpling into a tiny, pathetic ball within his grip, Castiel wished it was far more durable, because then he would get more satisfaction out of completely and utterly destroying it. Looking back on everything now, he kept his eyes tightly closed to stop the useless ache from beseeching itself on his skin. He never thought he would see himself crying at the age of seventeen, when it had been so incredibly rare even when he was younger, but there he lay, splayed out on the bed in a dark room with the haunting memory of a girl's relentless tears as she claimed her actions for him, and only him. He'd stood there and thrown the words back in her face like some heartless bastard who believed that they were only empty air.

How could he have known? Deborah…he'd thought she was perfect. He'd been, taboo on the word now, in love with her—and she'd abused it. Now she would be long gone, and after all that had happened, he would still miss her. At least, he would miss the memory of who he thought she'd been. Could he blame himself? Everyone had seen it the same way, but shouldn't he have known, being so close and totally blind?

He wondered where she was right now—not Deborah, but the girl he'd broken. The girl whose tear-streaked face had ripped a part of his mind and body away from him and taken it with her. He wanted to fix what he'd done, but there just wasn't a way to do it. Next they saw her, everyone else would cry and apologize; Castiel would stand in the background, unable to fathom why she would even look at him. And she wouldn't. Too ignorant to stand by her and see what was really going on, while his best friend took his place because of that one stupid decision? Could he ever stop regretting it?

No. Not ever. His hand shook with the force he exerted on the ticket in his hand, and he wished it would burn in a blaze of fire, as if he'd let a lit match fall in a puddle of gasoline at a gas station. He rolled off the bed, onto his feet, stomped over to the desk, and slammed the hand with the paper down so that the wood splintered underneath with a resounding crack. He screamed with rage and threw a fist into the wall, which crumbled in a four-inch hole around his fingers. He punched it again and again, until both his hands were bloody. And still he continued, relishing that no one was there to stop him.

A whine emanated from somewhere behind him, and he dropped them to his sides, breathing hard. A tender lick greeted the hand that had held the plane pass; Castiel hissed with pain as Demon's saliva met with a fresh wound. The dog gazed at him with steady, sad eyes, like the misery in the room was palpable.

Castiel let the paper flutter to the ground and knelt next to Demon, scratching him behind the ears, yet with none of the vigor of a man greeted with his best friend. As if with a touch he could feel his pain, Demon nuzzled Castiel's hand with another whine. He wrapped an arm around the canine's neck and sat down, right there, without even the comfort of seeing the half-moon that night, behind the window's drawn curtains.

He couldn't stop missing her, wishing he could make those tears cease, retreat, be forgotten. Maybe, after everything he'd put her through, it was time to let go.

But he never would.

She lay there, wrapped in white sheets smelling of fresh linen with a steaming mug of something in her hand—her mother had left it on the nightstand, or so she assumed as she breathed in its sweet smell. Her cell phone had woken her up, exploding with "I'm so sorry" texts and "please forgive me" voicemails. She didn't answer a single one of them, but she wasn't mad. After silencing them, turning the screen black, she was still, having split the curtains, curled in the window bed with a soft, spring-induced chill kissing her cheeks.

With the plan Rosalya had concocted revealing Deborah's true nature now burning through the student body like wildfire (she was sure), she couldn't find herself happy enough to even smile. A certain red-haired temperamental boy clouded her discretion, her mind, and her soul; there wasn't a thing she could and would do to stop thinking of all the good times they had before it all went crashing to the ground and burned a hole into the earth they'd come together on. Once, it had been them, rising against perilous winds to find the one thing that broke, shattered, and destroyed so many people. They'd been close enough to see stars above the clouds, but before her hand could brush against them a demon in the shrouded grey took them by the ankles and tore them apart, pitching them down like fallen angels.

She scowled at the words that twirled in her head. She hated making mental poetry, though it was something she did out of stress. Of course it didn't rhyme, but there are no rules that say as much.

She was going to have to fix what had happened between them, since she knew she would grow depressed and fat and…she shuddered…record her poems if she had to live without even one of his arrogant smirks.

But firstly, she was going to give him a big whack on the head.

And then maybe a big, sob-filled hug.

AWWWWW…

AWWWWWW…

AWWWWWWW…

AWWWWWWWW…

AWWWWWWWWW…

Look! I made stairs.