The sun had set long ago and the only light in the motel's room came in the form of a dingy yellow glow emanated from the two beside lamps. As he squinted at the numerous spread sheets, maps, and journal laid out on his bed, Dean wished he could blame the shitty lighting on his headache. It'd grown increasingly worse despite the fact that he'd down more than the prescribed amounts of Tylenol, Advil, and Excedrin. The pain, coupled with the excessive amounts of medication had done nothing to help his already unsettled stomach.
"Dean."
The low, raspy voice broke though the hunter's self assessment but he refused to look up from his work. He wasn't in the mood for some philosophical debate or a discussion on the hidden meaning in cartoons. Secondly though, Dean didn't want to risk spewing what little of his dinner he'd consumer on the bed's comforter.
"Dean."
Flipping a page in John's journal the hunter kept his eyes fixated on a paragraph debunking unicorns.
"DEAN!"
"Wadda ya want Cas?!" The sudden outburst and jerk of his head in Castiel's direction resulted in the throbbing in his head to intensify and his stomach to lurch. "What is so God damn important?!"
"God has not damned the topic of discussion Dean. That aside, you require rest."
"I'm fine." Short, simple, to the point. That was all he could handle and the sigh that he heard in response indicated that Castiel wasn't satisfied with his reply.
"You have not slept in nearly four days Dean. You have barely eaten, or drank anything aside from coffee and if I recall correctly, coffee is not a sufficient source of hydration. Based on my observations, you are not fine."
Muscles tensed visibly in the hunter's hunched shoulders, which just added to his overall discomfort. Thing was though, Cas was right. Spot on in his 'observations'. Dean had spent a lifetime shouldering though anything his mind and body threw at him. Dad had never accepted weakness. As a result Dean had learned to keep his mouth shut and to refuse any help that came his way. But then, he'd stumbled into a revived friendship with his overly chick flick moment prone brother and this damn angel. The damn angel who seemed to have deemed it his personal mission to pay far to close attention to the habits and behaviors of the humans of this earth, especially he, himself, the eldest of the Winchester brothers. And , although he'd never admit it, Dean didn't mind usually. This, though, was an instant outside of usually.
"We've been working on a case, of course I haven't slept or eaten or whatever the hell else you said." His tone remained clipped, defensive.
Yet Cas responded in the same even tone, fixating his eyes on Dean's. "And we completed this case this afternoon. Your general response to this is to consume as many burgers as possible and sleep. It is now nearly midnight and you have done neither of those things. You are looking for another case. Why is that?"
"No reason."
Castiel was not deterred from his mission. "There was always a reason for why beings act the way that they do Dean. So why?"
"Cas…" Dean's tone was dangerously low, his expression matching his voice.
"Yes Dean? Are you about to answer my question?"
"CAS! FOR THE LOVE OF-" In a flourish the journal was slammed shut and the maps and other assorted reports were shoved from his bed. A flutter of paper confirmed their arrival to the floor and a thud announced the journal's landing as well. "Alright, look," a waved hand gestured over the pile of reading material, "If I stop researching and go to sleep with you stop with your nagging?!"
What could have been a ghost a smug smile tugged at the corners of the angel's mouth. "I will cease asking you questions, yes."
Before long the hunter lay beneath the thin blankets of the motel's bed, the anemic glow of the lamps gone for the time being. All the remained was the blue tinged halo emitted from Cas' reading light, which had been bought a few months back when Cas had been denied by one too many motels to use a candle. And try as he might to distract himself with this now humorous memory, the war Dean had waged against his heavy eyelids for the past four days came to an end.
~.~.~.~.~
No more than an hour later, the hunter jolted awake and rushed into the motel's bathroom. Nausea overwhelmed him and the sound of his violent retching filled the air, air that was soon tainted by the putrid stench of vomit. Dean closed his eyes, willing his stomach to settle and for the throbbing in his head to cease but he was instead assaulted by the images that had yanked him from sleep.
Hell hounds snarling. The full weight of the unseen beasts slamming into his chest. Teeth snapping, gnashing, sinking into his left thigh, crushing the bones beneath, causing them to splinter under the immense pressure of his assailants bite.
Once more his stomach lurched and Dean clutched the toilet's bowl, white knuckles highlighted against his flushed skin. The bile burned his throat and nose, and caused his eye to water. His lids closed once more.
Isolation, suspended in chains that were pulled taught against his limbs. He had resisted. He had fought against the separation of bones, cartilage and ligaments. Against the radiating agony, and all of it for the life of his little brother.
Dry heaves had claimed him now. His headache reached a new level of intensity. The light stung his eyes, as well as the sweat that poured from his brow.
But…that drive behind his resistance only lasted so long. He could get off the rack they had said. He could leave the rack as long as he tortured souls. For thirty years he had told them no, but he'd given in. When he tortured though, his disgust morphed into tolerance and finally into a love for his work. The broken souls, their screams, dismembered spiritual bodies, the methods he'd used to kill them….all displayed before him.
Muscles shaking, Dean dropped head, breath coming in uneven gasps. As the traces of the nightmare faded away, the predictable train of thought followed. All of that fear, the loneliness, and pain had been taken out on his victims. He had begun this task with reluctance. That reluctance had morphed into acceptance, that acceptance into enjoyment. It had come to the point where he had loved it. That was the fact that he couldn't stand. As he came to realization of what he'd done self loathing snaked its way into his mind.
Dean had turned to his go to's: hunting, sex, and alcohol but they had proved ineffective. Nothing could dull the guilt and hate for long and even when It did, he was reminded of his actions every time he closed his eyes. He released the toilet's bowl from his grip, straightening his back cautiously, than his legs until he was standing, his right hand pressed a against the wall for support. There was no use in dwelling on it. Thinking about emotions, analyzing them…it didn't do anything. Nothing productive that was.
He took a careful step, then another, abandoning the wall to make his way over to the small vanity. Had he been one who prayed, he would've asked the Lord above for mouthwash. for each time he swallowed the residual taste of bile burned his throat. Once he reached the sink, Dean cast a glance at the mirror. There he was in all of his scared shitless glory but there was also…Cas. The angel stood in the doorway between the motel's main room and the bathroom, hands shoved deep into his trench coat pockets.
"As I said…you are not alright Dean."
Those eight words roused something in the hunter and he spun. The punch he'd sent never made contact with Castiel's face, instead all the force Dean could muster was caught in his target's raised hand. Cas' fingers closed around Dean's fist. The hunter struggled for a moment against the cool fingers that had enclosed his but the resistance against his hand never wavered.
But he couldn't give up. Tensing the muscles in his shoulders the hunter tried to throw punch after punch but the angel remained steadfast. With each attempt the adrenaline that had prepared him to defend himself diminished. Blood that had rushed to his face, which had pounded in his ears, slowly returned to his core.