Author: Mistofstars

Pairing: Dean Winchester / Castiel (hinted, subtle)

Spoilers: for season 7 and the end of season 6 if you haven't seen those

Disclaimer: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel and Bobby are not mine – they belong to the writers and creators of Supernatural. All of this is made up, I don't make money with it.

Warnings: drama, sappy, angst, kind-of-alcoholic-Dean

Author's note: Well, Bobby didn't believe Dean was feeling fine after Cas' death, Sam was worried about him drinking so much, and Dean said something like he couldn't trust anyone anymore "after Cas"... so... I started pondering about how he dealt with Cas' death, and here's the result! The lyrics are from Vast's "I'm too good"

*Xxx You were nowhere to be found xxX*

In my dreams, I was lost

and you where nowhere to be found

In my dreams, I cried out

You where nowhere to be found

He saw it all over again - the dream, which came to him ever so often recently: The body Castiel used to live in, now inhabited by countless ancient monsters, one sort they hadn't come across before – Leviathans. The obsessed vessel stumbling outside, black streams of something dripping down his head and face and hands – he, Sam and Bobby had just arrived in time to see the creature walk into the lake, arms wide spread. But in his dreams, sometimes Dean was able to stop the being, that wasn't Castiel anymore, holding it by the arm. And he heard himself trying to reason with the thing, trying to get through to a part he hoped was still Cas. Sometimes the creature just smiled wickedly at him, in other dreams the smile faded away, something broke in Castiel's gaze, because it was Castiel again, and Dean heard Castiel saying his name, over and over again, sounding helpless and remorseful. They never had a happy ending, those dreams.

And every time Dean awoke, he felt bile and anger rising up within his throat. After every of these nightly encounters with the reflection of the angel he had known, Dean wanted to smash something, he wanted to scream out all the wrath boiling within him. What he did instead, was seizing the first available bottle of beer or whiskey, anything he could get to numb himself. This time, there was no difference – Dean woke up with a start, sitting up as if someone had called him, and in his head he still heard Cas saying his name. He saw Sam at the table with his laptop, looking over at him with a concerned frown as Dean grabbed the liquor bottle way too casually. Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam's disapproving expression, and he set down the bottle and huffed annoyed.

"What the fuck do you know?", he mumbled, continuing to take a few more gulps of the wonderfully aching liquid. It burnt in his throat, and somehow it eased the constricting pain in his chest, cleared his mind. He was really getting tired of Sam's overprotection and his concern. He knew he had a problem, but hell, they always had problems, and during the years the sons of guns were just accumulating. Just one more thing, right? Dean knew he was behaving like an ass, it was tiring to always avoid a talk about the issue with Sam.

"Yeah, Dean, that' rich. If you just talked to me about whatever it is, that's bothering you, I could know what's wrong with you. But you're not talking, and all I see is you drinking yourself to death. So, yeah, eat me", Sam retorted, giving Dean an evil eye. Dean sighed and reclined on Bobby's old couch again, the bottle in his hand – the other he placed on his forehead, massaging his scalp with a pained frown. It must have been a Thursday, it was always worst on Thursdays.

When Castiel had still been among the living, and it had been a Thursday and the angel was with them, Dean had almost felt high, so happy and satisfied had he felt. It had been a warming emotion, similar to a beam of light, stroking his mind fleetingly, pulsating in his heart like a vague but vivid notion. He had never spoken about it to anyone, but he assumed Castiel had been right about this "profound bond"-thing between them: Ever since the angel had raised him from perdition, Dean's Thursdays had never felt the way they had before. Castiel, the angel of Thursday... Now that he was gone, all Dean felt on this day of the week, was pain, a dulling, blinding pain, worse than a headache, because it ate up the slightest ounce of happiness in Dean's soul.

"He's gone, Sam, and I miss him", Dean confessed at last, and it relieved the tension between the brothers immensely. Dean could hear the silence of the night outside on Bobby's junkyard, a few nocturnal birds chirping in the distance. The wind coming through the half-opened window felt soothing, like a solacing blanket on Dean's skin. He put the pleasant cool bottle against his forehead, eyelids closed. The images of Castiel didn't go away, and he knew they'd stay for a few more hours.

"You mean Cas?", Sam asked carefully, realizing this was a rare moment, Dean finally opening up to him. Dean just nodded and let out another wrecked sigh. The pain in his head was throbbing by now and he groaned irritated. In the end he lay down again, resting his back against the couch. He gave Sam one of those long stares during which he mused whether he was supposed to say more or to suppress the outburst again. Then again he decided it wasn't fair to leave Sam in the dark for much longer.

"Yeah... I still have those fucked up nightmares, and I really don't feel good on Thursdays. I've got these headaches and my whole body feels, I don't know, as if someone has skinned me. It just sucks..."

"But that's just physical, right? I mean, you've had worse bruises and fractures and who knows what else."

Dean nodded and took another slug of alcohol. A melancholic smile came to his lips and he clicked his tongue, overwhelmed with frustration and a feel of powerlessness. Castiel was not coming back, he was gone. No matter how much he prayed to him, no matter how much he wished for it – he remained gone.

"You know, we've had a lot of deaths within the last years, and you could think I'd be accustomed to it by now. But when it comes to Cas...", Dean shrugged his shoulders and gave Sam a sad smile, on the verge of tears. "I don't know, I just don't get over it. I mean, I feel like I've let him down."

His voice broke and he looked away, feeling embarrassed and stupid. His face felt overheated and feverish when he wiped one hand over it, attempting to brush all possible tears away, including his tiredness.

"What he did was wrong, Dean. Now we've got a whole globe full of Leviathans we've got to deal with", Sam reasoned, and his voice was soft, filled with sympathy – when Dean recognized this, he was uncertain whether he wanted to yell at Sam for it or whether he wanted to burst out in tears. He didn't want to have his pity, all he wanted was Cas back.

"I know, and I won't justify his behaviour, but I think he was just trying to help, taking on too big a task for him. Whatever... I'm just tired and fucking angry. Angry about him not listening to us, angry about him leaving, and angry about what he did to you – I mean, now you're hallucinating and you're insane, and, you're right, we have to deal with the shit he left behind, wilfully or not."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. Dean tried to calm himself, but the seething anger inside just didn't go away. Oh, he could think of thousand furious things he wanted to say to Cas' face – had there been a possibility to ever see him again. And on the other hand, there were those other things he wanted to tell him, complicated and heart-wrenching things that had been on the tip of his tongue for far too long. But there was no chance to get those words out either. Cas remained gone.

"However... you miss him?", Sam eventually asked carefully, obtaining a deadly glare from Dean. It took a few seconds, then Dean gave up his farce and heaved a long nervous sigh. His head was hammering by now, the pain a constant annoying companion. While he continued to massage his temple with closed lids, he listened to himself mumbling half-incoherent and hardly audible sentences.

"It's kinda funny, you know... When he was this mutated angel-god-thing, I really thought I hated him. Turns out, after all I'd rather have him around – no matter if he's high on souls or just a dick, or just himself. I don't know... I always thought he'd stick around, and now he's just gone...And all the arguments we had seem sort of needless now..."

"That's the thing about grief. You just wish things had run in another direction, but that won't fix it either. You know, I'm not an expert, but I think it would do you good if you stopped pondering about missed chances and where it all went wrong. It's like you said, he's gone", Sam answered quietly, probably trying to cheer Dean up.

Dean sighed again, deciding this was going too far – if he continued talking with Sam about Cas, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to maintain his big-brother-never-cries-image. The bitter mourning tearing at him was just too deep to talk about it for long. And the headache was not bettering, so he got up and slapped Sam's shoulder, the other hand holding the bottle of whiskey.

"Well said, Sherlock. But that's not helping... Gotta go get some fresh air", he retorted, and he ignored Sam's worried look when he slightly staggered outside, still inebriated from his last session a few hours before. By instinct he walked down the junkyard to the Impala, breathing in the spicy fresh air of the night. The car was covered with raindrops and the night-sky was clearing, a few scattered clouds like wisps of smoke revealing some silvery stars. Dean stopped near the trunk of the Impala, his head tilted back. He took a long gulp from the bottle, feeling tears welling up in his eyes when he observed the empty sky. No Heaven he could confide in, no angels there caring about his troubles.

He remembered standing here so many other nights before, praying to Cas, to get his feathery ass down here and help them, to answer his questions. So many nights, in which he had been helpless and clueless, the angel the only hope he had left. How often had he relied on his aid... These days it was useless to pray, though he needed Cas more than ever. The unsolved difficulties with fighting the Leviathans showed Dean even more how dearly Castiel was being missed. Not to mention the fact he needed the angel for himself more than he had ever realized. And now it was too late.

Dean was quite drunk and emotionally wrecked when he opened the trunk of the Impala, his eyes catching a glimpse of the blood-smeared dirty trench coat Castiel used to wear. With damp fingers he grasped it, feeling the soft silky-smooth texture under his fingertips. His breathing faltered. The coat was cold, but Dean brought it to his chest nonetheless. In a moment of weakness he allowed himself to bury his face in the fabric, inhaling a whiff of the scent he had always connected with Cas (even if it had most probably been a remnant of his human vessel's odour). The pain in his chest seemed intensified, and before Dean knew it he was crying like a baby, soaking the coat with his tears. The choked sobs escaping his throat weren't something he was proud of, but at the moment he really didn't give a damn. He missed Cas so much it hurt. He wondered if there'd ever come a day when he wouldn't need to drink himself to sleep, when the nightmares would stop, or the daydreams and memories of Cas would eventually end.

A part of him never wanted to let go of the ache, because it was still better than nothing. He didn't want to forget Cas, even if that meant each day was a heartbreaking strenuous torture for him. Dean knew his behaviour was self-destructive, but he knew of no other way to cope with this disaster. He couldn't make Sam or Bobby understand, because they weren't aware of the magnitude of feelings he had for Cas, and what was the point of telling them now?

When he felt he had cried out enough grief for tonight, he folded the coat together tenderly, placing it back in the trunk of the Impala. His eyes were red from crying, but Dean was able to form a little smile now, happier memories of him and Cas floating back to his mind. He stroked over the fabric lovingly, trying to remember the way Castiel used to look at him, the way he used to smile. He bit his bottom lip, then he took a deep breath.

"Dumb son of a bitch", he said half jokingly, half gloomily.

When he shut the trunk it seemed like a closure to him for this night, but he returned many other nights, doing the same thing: Holding the trench coat in his hands after another nightmare, finding solace in embracing the texture that still smelt of Cas. And against all reason, a part of him kept hoping that perhaps someday Castiel might return to them. To him.

THE END