The Thread

by tangledhair

Sam takes off and Dean decides life is overrated. His last goodbye prayer to Castiel is answered in an unexpected way. Dean/Castiel

"The Thread"

Synopsis: Sam takes off and Dean decides life is overrated. His last goodbye prayer to Castiel is answered in an unexpected way. Dean/Castiel

Trigger Warning: Suicidal ideation

This one-shot starts at the end of the Season 7, episode 6 "Slash Fiction." The opening script is from the show. The story takes place before the Season 7, episode 7 "The Mentalists." Also it's AU because I couldn't get the story to work with Emanuel. So just pretend something else happens later.

X

XIX

XIXIX

Sam was obviously pissed off. He said he was fine, but Sam was a shit liar.

Not like Dean.

Dean lied so well that Sam always bought it when he said he was fine. Or at the very least Sam always gave in when Dean said he was fine and stopped pressing for answers Dean didn't want to give.

Not like Dean.

Dean pressed and pressed and he was going to keep pressing until Sam caved. Sam did.

"Okay. You really want to know what's wrong?"

A warning light flashed, but Dean ignored it. He was too busy pressing for answers to consider he might not want them. Maybe there was something to Sam's policy of letting it go when Dean said he was fine.

But Dean was not overly burned with this wisdom in the present moment. He kept pressing for answers. "Yeah. Yeah, you know my motto: Here to help."

"Here to help," Sam repeated, like the words were bile in his mouth. "Kinda like you helped Amy?"

Fuck.

Dean took a breath, but what could he say?

Shit.

It's not like he could apologize for it. Not like he would.

Fuck.

"Listen, Sam…"

"Don't."

Fuck.

"Don't lie to me again."

Okay, that he could apologize for. He didn't regret what he'd done, but did regret lying about it. Kind of. He opened his mouth to say so.

Sam's eyes flashed. "You know—don't even talk to me."

There was something in his voice. To Dean it wasn't a warning light so much as a blazing siren, flashing lights, and a machete to the gut. Sam was going to leave.

Fuck. Not again. Not now.

Dean was going to fucking lose it if Sam walked out again.

But Sam didn't know. Didn't care. "Yeah, I can't. You know what, Dean? I can't."

You can't?

You can't.

Sam fucking can't?!

"You can't what?" he growled, because this was it. This was the moment, and Dean knew it.

Don't walk away, Sam. Not like this. Not again.

"I can't talk to you right now," Sam shot.

Fuck.

Fuck, not again.

"Dean, I can't even be around you right now!"

Not again, Sam. I can't do this again. I can't. There's gotta be another way.

"Okay, so…"

"So I think you should just go on without me."

Right.

Go on.

Without you.

Because that's something I can just do.

Dean's mind flashed back. He was standing by the smoking ruins of Bobby's house, hunted by the Leviathan, screaming into his cell, "You cannot be in that crater back there. I can't… If you're gone, I swear I am gonna strap my Beautiful Mind brother into the car and I'm gonna drive us off the pier."

Dean was holding on by a thread these days. Ellen and Jo dead. Again. Lisa and Ben gone. Cas killed off by his being-God bender. Sam's head a whole mess of crazy, and Dean having to constantly worry for him and care for him and clean up his messes. The weight of the whole universe was on his shoulders, and he was weary with self-loathing and guilt that was already twice gone what he could carry. And the alcohol wasn't working anymore. And he could handle lying to Sam if it meant keeping him safe, but he just couldn't do this again.

If Sam was walking away from him, again, after all the shit they'd gone through together… this was the moment.

I can't do this anymore.

But Sam said, "Go."

I can't.

"Alright."

I can't do this anymore.

And the thread broke. He looked at his brother and knew it would be for the last time. Because he was done. Overextended. Overloaded. Over it.

Dean had plenty of weapons to choose from, but he already knew which it was going to be. The only regret he felt was that he didn't have the strength to hang on until Sam got over it. It wasn't going to help the Hell hallucinations when he found out Dean had killed himself.

But there was nothing for it. He just couldn't do it anymore.

"Sorry, Sam."

XIXIX

He had six bottles of whiskey lined up in front of him.

Had.

Dean took a slug from the fourth, but came up dry. He peered into the bottle through the mouth, wondering if he'd already drained it. Nah, there was a bit left. He just hadn't knocked the bottle back high enough.

Too drunk to drink.

"And that's when my drinking problem started," he said aloud, barking out something like a laugh.

"Get it?" he shouted at the mural of the frontiersman on the motel wall. "Because I'm having trouble drinking." The frontiersman was unimpressed.

"No sense of humor," he muttered, tipping the bottle up til it was vertical above him. Two big gulps should have emptied it, but then he was inhaling whiskey straight from the bottle. Dean jerked back in a coughing fit, toppling his chair over backwards. He hit his head on the nightstand, landed in a choking, coughing heap on the floor.

"Shut up," he said to the frontiersman. Smug bastard.

He held up the fourth bottle to the light. Empty now. He tossed it aside and crawled to his feet. Two more to go. Dean figured six bottles of whiskey would shut the pain up entirely. Numb the swarming, festering hell in his heart. Let the bullet slide smoothly into his brain. Any less and he wouldn't get the peaceful death he told himself he deserved. Any more and he might pass out before he got around to his peaceful death. And then he'd have to do it all over again.

Dean staggered to the table and grabbed up the fifth bottle. God, he was close. He was itching for it. Dying for it. Dying to die.

Thank God, he wanted to cry. Cry out to the heavens. Rejoice in the relief of it all. Revel in the crushing agony of it.

But then again, fuck God.

"You heard me," he said to the painting. "Fuck God." What had God ever done for him? "Nothing," he said, and it didn't even matter if it was a lie because fuck God.

He opened the bottle and chugged a quarter of it down. "It goes down better the more you drink," he told the frontiersman. "Every hunter knows that."

He pointed the bottle accusingly at the painting. "You know what your problem is?" he said, backing up for space to give the bastard a good what-for. But the bed caught him by surprise from behind and he toppled backwards onto it.

You're a falling down, sloppy, drunken mess.

Good.

You're spilling whiskey all over the bed.

Fuck.

Dean pushed himself up. Put the half-empty bottle on the floor. Scrubbed his hands over his face. Sat down on the soggy bedspread. It stank of whiskey and despair. It didn't matter. They'd have to scrap the whole bed after he splashed his occipital lobe across it. They probably wouldn't even notice the whiskey he spilled.

He reached down and grabbed the bottle. Drank some more. "Did I tell you about Cas?" he asked the painting. "He was my best friend. And he didn't trust me when he needed to. And then he betrayed me. And then I saved his life. And then he died anyway."

He poured out a shot onto the carpet, in Castiel's honor.

"Dear Castiel," he said for old time's sake. "I'll be with you soon, bud. I hope you're waiting for me. I'm coming. We'll hang out in some Heaven dive bar. Have some burgers and beer. Just you and me, Cas. Just where we should be. So if you can hear me, Castiel, just… just hang on for me."

"Dean," said Castiel.

"Fuck!" Dean jumped up, tripped over himself and fell heavily over the side of the bed.

He scrambled to his feet, shaking.

Unraveling at the seams.

"Cas?"

"Dean."

"Cas! Jesus fuck. How the fuck. How the God in Hell fuck."

Castiel averted his eyes, blinking uncomfortably. "There is no need to use that language," he said.

"Ha!"

The laugh squeezed out of his heart like there was still joy left in it. And then Dean's arms closed around Cas in what started out as a pounding, slapping hug, but quickly devolved into Dean shuddering as he squeezed the Angel to him like the lifeline that he was.

Cas patted his back tentatively, but when Dean didn't stop hugging him he sighed and relaxed into it.

"You prayed for me and so I came. What do you need? I will help you."

"Shut up, Cas," Dean breathed. Because there was nothing Cas could do that was better than this. Being here. Being alive. "You're not dead."

"Ah. No."

Dean stepped back. "Do you mind telling me why?" he accused.

Castiel paused. "I don't see how that is relevant to the matter at hand. I will help you if you tell me what you need."

"What I need," Dean repeated drunkenly. He couldn't think of a damn thing. And then he remembered why. He didn't have a future to need anything for. He stared down at the gun on the pillow. He stared at the sixth bottle waiting for him on the table.

"Oh," he said, and sat down heavily. "I guess I just wanted to say goodbye."

"Where are you going?"

Right. Good question.

"I guess I'm not sure. I'm trying not to think too hard on that one, you know?"

Cas stared at him. "No. I do not understand."

"Up or down, Cas," growled Dean. "Look, why didn't you come back? You want to be all secretive about how you survived, fine. But we thought you were dead all this time. The Leviathan said they killed you."

"No, they didn't."

"And you couldn't call to tell us that?!"

Cas looked away.

"Well?!"

"I… wasn't sure you could forgive me for what I did. So I vowed to stay away. At least until I knew for sure."

"Knew what?"

Cas walked to the window. "If you still wanted me." He brushed the curtain back with his fingers and peered out. "I had thought when you prayed for me just now, that maybe… but…"

He sucked in his breath and when he turned back, the sadness that had dragged his shoulders down at the window was replaced by stoic resolution. He stepped forward to stand boldly before Dean, the drunken, suicidal mess slumped on the bed.

"But that is clearly not the case if your intention was to say goodbye to me."

Castiel stuck out his hand for a handshake. Dean stared at it.

"I promise to avoid you in the future," Cas said. "I'll stay out of your way. Sam's too." Cas looked around. "Where is Sam? He is going with you, isn't he?"

His hand was still hovering in front of Dean's face. Dean took it, but he didn't shake it. And he didn't let go.

"Sam's gone, Cas."

"Gone?"

"He left again."

"And so now you're going… you're going to go find him." It wasn't quite a question.

"No, Cas. I'm going to shoot myself in the head."

Castiel met and held Dean's eye, searching for something. Dean didn't look away. He had nothing to hide. Nothing to apologize for. This was the logical conclusion. If they hadn't all seen this coming, they sure as hell should have.

"You were praying for me," Cas said.

"Just to say I was on my way to join you," Dean responded.

They were still holding hands in a bizarre farewell pantomime.

"On your way to join me," Cas repeated.

"Because you were dead."

"I wasn't."

"But I thought you were," Dean growled. He was losing his patience with this. Where was that sixth bottle?

Castiel furrowed his brow. "You do know that that's not how it works when Angels die, right?"

Dean started to jerk his hand away, but Castiel tugged back, pulled him up to standing.

"Cas."

Cas just looked at him.

"Cas, what did I tell you about personal space?"

"You intended to join me," Castiel said again. "Join me."

"Cas, look."

"You do still want me."

And then his face was pressed against Dean's, mouth against mouth. Dean's eyes went wide, body tensed in confusion and alarm.

Personal space, Cas, he tried to say but couldn't because just then the Angel seemed to remember what he had learned from the pizza man. Suddenly his face wasn't mashed against Dean's. Suddenly he was kissing Dean – well – and all thoughts about personal space were gone.

Cas snaked one arm around Dean's lower back and pulled the Hunter roughly to him. And then his other hand was thumbing the sensitive spot on Dean's neck and he groaned into the Angel's mouth. Dean's right hand was squashed between their bodies where he had been holding Castiel's. His left was flailing uselessly at his side. Until Castiel opened his mouth and their tongues met.

Something else entirely broke inside Dean. This wasn't the last thread holding on. It was the last thread holding him back.

Dean shoved Castiel backward. He hit the wall with a thud. An instant later Dean's body hit Cas, pinning the Angel, hands groping, mouth kissing with tongue and teeth, growling as he rutted against him. The painting of the frontiersman knocked off its hinge and fell to the floor with a clatter.

"Dean," Cas breathed.

"Shut up, Cas."

"Dean, I want you to be naked."

Dean blinked. He pulled back and looked at Castiel, hair mussed, pupils blown wide, mouth actively yearning back toward Dean's. Dean was rock hard at the sight.

"Cas, that is an excellent idea."

Castiel nodded and touched Dean's forehead, and quicker than you could say Leftoverture, Dean was stark naked.

"Uh."

Castiel gave him a once-over. "Yes, that is much better." He pulled Dean back to him, pressing wanting kisses to Dean's mouth, which was hanging open in disbelief.

"Cas. You can't just—"

Cas reached down and grasped him firmly, and Dean shut up. I guess he can just.

"At least get naked with me," he growled. Whimpered, maybe. No, that was definitely a growl. I don't whimper.

The Angel looked at him curiously. "If that is what you want," he said. He stroked his hand twice along Dean's shaft, then reached down to cup his crown jewels.

"Yes, God, Cas, yes please."

He was definitely whimpering.

He lost track of events for a moment, but he wasn't too fussed by Castiel's succinctness because when he opened his eyes again Cas was naked too and who the hell cares if he had to skip the 'ripping clothes off' part to get there?!

He pressed his body back into Castiel's, heat and brick muscles and rock hard manhood full flush against him. He had never realized that Cas felt like a human statue—wrought from stone and flesh into a perfect being. Who was naked. And rutting up against Dean like he deserved it.

Dean shoved the thought away. He didn't care if he didn't deserve it. He wasn't giving this up. Not tonight. Not on his last night…

Cas was looking at him. "Where did you go just now?"

"Nevermind," Dean said. He grabbed Castiel's shoulders and turned him around, shoved him back onto the bed. Dean was standing over Castiel, looking down for all the world like he was in charge of what was about to happen.

"This bed is wet."

"I poured some whiskey out in your honor."

Castiel's gaze softened. "You did that for me?"

He was touched. Dean cracked the barest of smiles. He was touched that Cas was touched. Hell, it was just whiskey.

"Enough of the Lifetime Channel," Dean barked defensively. "I've got other plans for you tonight."

He lowered his body onto the Angel's with very specific plans for what came next. Dean was good at this. Castiel was in for a ride. But Castiel had plans as well, and a few tricks up his sleeve that would never have occurred to Dean. Or likely to any human person.

Dean was surprised, but he was not disappointed.

XIXIX

Wrapped in limbs and whiskey sheets and body sweat and man and statue Angel and drifting in a post-sex fog had very nearly numbed out the entirety of Dean's life. It would be time soon, which was a nice thing to know. It was almost over, and then Dean could rest.

Castiel was talking. Had been for some time. Eventually it occurred to Dean to listen.

"… and Sam will join us when he realizes he should come back. But until then we should keep hunting. The Leviathan will not keep a low profile forever. They are older than time. I am sure they have a plan by now."

"What are you talking about, Cas?"

"Our partnership."

"Our what?"

Castiel furrowed his brow. "I assumed you would want to call it a partnership. You shy away from sentimentality due to your limited emotional intelligence and poor ability to cope with romantic demonstrations."

"What?!"

"But if you would prefer we can call ourselves boyfriends."

"Boyfriends! Cas!" Dean shot up to sitting, untangling himself from limbs and the satiated fog.

"Yes, see? That's exactly what I meant. We will say partnership. They do not use that term on the Lifetime Channel."

"Cas, we're not going to be partners."

Castiel blinked. "But you prayed for me."

"Because I'm about to kill myself. Cas, I told you that."

"But… you were going to. And then you prayed for me. And now we're together."

Dean felt disgusted with himself. He didn't think Cas of all people… Angels… would have mistaken what this was. But here he was on his last night on earth, still screwing over the people he loved.

"I didn't lie to you," he said to Cas, but really he was trying to convince himself. "I was honest with you about this. I'm done. I just can't… I can't anymore."

He stalked across the room and grabbed the sixth bottle, twisting it open and turning it up into his mouth. These past hours with Cas had numbed the pain. Dean had been ready. But now this, spiking him back into reality. And the first five bottles were wearing off… He'd just have to drink fast and make do.

Dean took several large swallows. And then several more.

Cas was behind him, reaching around him, arms and body pressed against him, disarming him emotionally, divesting him of the bottle.

"Why are you doing this, Dean?" he asked into his ear.

Dean leaned into it. "I'm so tired, Cas. And I'm so tired of being so tired."

One hand slid around his torso and held him close. The other slid up into his hair, caressing his head with gentle fingers.

"Come to bed," he said.

"No, Cas. You should leave. I'm going to finish this bottle, and that's the last thing I'm going to do."

But again Cas said, "Come to bed," and led Dean back into the refuge of body and limbs and whiskey sheets. A haunting melody ghosted through his mind, in the arms of the angel, and as much as he needed to, Dean didn't have the strength to resist him.

"Why are you so tired, Dean?" Cas asked into his hair, lips pressed against his scalp.

Dean sighed deeply. He didn't have the strength for this either. "We keep saving the world, Cas. But the world just keeps needing more saving."

"But that is not why you are so tired," he said. And it wasn't. Dean could deal with that. Had been dealing with that his whole life. But of course there was more.

"I keep saving everyone, Cas. But it's never enough. Ellen and Jo. You. I save you and it's not enough. I lose everyone."

"I'm here."

"Sam's not," Dean argued, and then mentally winced at how that might sound at the current moment, while Dean was curled up naked with a lover. He didn't mean it that way. And luckily, Castiel was still trying to master single entendres, and didn't take it that way.

"Sam will come back. He always does."

"I know."

"Then why can't you wait for him?"

Dean bristled. "Wait for what? For him to tell me again how awful I am? I already know it. For him to rage hatred at me? What's the point? Even after he gets past it, it's going to be more of the crazy, the visions, watching him fall apart piece by piece. I can't keep…. caring so much, Cas."

Dean fell silent. Cas was silent with him. They lay that way for a long while.

Finally, Dean said, "It's time, Cas. You should go."

"No."

"Cas, I'm not—"

"No, Dean, it is not your time. I know you are weary, but you still have more work to do before you're done. So I will stay here with you and ease your pain. Tomorrow you will keep hunting. And when you find Sam, you will go back to your partnership with him. And I will go on my way."

Dean shifted around to look Cas in the eye. "I thought you wanted to stay and be my partner."

Cas smiled. "I do. But I am not what you need right now. I was wrong in my assumptions. You want me, but not for a partnership. You already have a partner."

"Sam's gone."

"You will see him again."

"He won't talk to me."

"You will talk to him."

"The hell I will."

"You will," Cas said, smoothing his hand over Dean's head again, and for a fleeting moment, Dean felt that he was being ordered, straight into his soul, to talk to Sam the next time they crossed paths.

"I'm done, Cas. I told you that. I just want some peace."

"There'll be peace when you are done," Cas said, still stroking Dean's hair. "Lay your weary head to rest."

Dean felt a calming fog drift over him as Castiel's fingers caressed his scalp. "I love that song," he murmured.

"What song?"

XIXIX

Dean woke slowly, stretched languorously, and looked blearily around the room. The frontiersman painting was lying broken on the floor.

Smug bastard, Dean thought.

He pulled himself to sitting, confused, and made a closer survey of the room. It didn't seem right. First of all, he was naked. He never slept naked unless he was with someone.

Something like a memory tugged at his brain for an instant, but then was gone.

He glanced around. There. His clothes were folded neatly on the dresser. Why did I fold my clothes? That wasn't like him at all. He'd have to have been quite wasted to do that without remembering, but why would he fold his clothes if he was that wasted? And why was he that wasted to begin with?

Oh.

Right.

He turned around. His gun was still on the pillow. He turned to the table. Six empty bottles, lined neatly. And his brains still inside his head.

Dean tried to feel disappointed, but all he felt was relieved.

Rested.

Better.

Whatever happened last night was apparently just what he needed. The ache in his heart had eased a bit. The weight of the world was just a little bit lighter. His stubborn concerns less daunting. Hell, if he saw Sam, he'd probably even walk right up to him and tell him that killing Amy was the right thing to do and he did it because Sam couldn't. That's what partners did.

Partners.

A memory tugged again, but then slipped away.

Dean stretched his arms up over his head. His spine cracked happily, but he got a whiff of his armpit. God, he needed a shower. He stank like spilled whiskey and man sweat. He'd better shower and get on the road. He should pay for the damage he did to the room. And check in with Bobby. And never, ever, ever tell anyone how close he had been to offing himself.

He'd just have to thank God he hadn't done it.

But then again, fuck God.

Dean scrubbed his fingers through his hair, caressing his scalp like… like… Nothing. He blew out a breath and looked down at the frontiersman.

"Fine, I take it back," he said. "I'm sorry for saying fuck God."

What was that guy's problem, anyway?

"You're losing it, Dean," he said to himself. Apologizing to a painting when he should be apologizing to Sam.

Fuck.

Fine, I'll do it.

Dean showered and packed up the room. He left a wad of cash at the front desk and hit the road. He'd find a job. And he'd keep hunting. And when he saw Sam he'd talk to him. And life would continue on.

"Carry on, my wayward son," he told himself, and smirked.

He loved that song.

XIXIX

XIX

X