A bad dream
Why do I have to fly
Over every town up and down the line?
I'll die in the clouds above
And you that I defend, I do not love
(***)
He was flying. No, scratch that; something else was flying and dragging Dean along with it. Judging by the sharp pain in his left shoulder, whatever it was held him there.
'Nothing like a plane, nothing like a plane,' Dean mumbled, but that didn't help. It was worse than a plane. He was starting to develop a tension head ache from squeezing his eyes shut too tightly, so he tried to slowly open them. Underneath he could see red. Down there was pain. Pain he had endured and caused. What felt like flames were licking at his feet.
His body was an illusion. His body was salted and burned on earth. Sam wouldn't have wanted to do that, but he would have listened to Bobby. Dean would have been afraid of dying, if it weren't for the fact that he was already dead.
Curious, Dean looked up. It was difficult to get a clear picture, but he thought he could definitely see feathers. Pure white feathers. Sometimes they brushed his face, even though his face wasn't there. Something powerful with wings, although he might be imagining that too. The wings; not the power. He hoped it was strong enough, because there were things after them. Things reaching from the blood red depths to take Dean back to where he belonged.
A whisper. Don't be scared; I'm here. It wasn't in the ears he didn't have, but deep inside his mind and it was comforting. Dean attempted to get a better look at the creature that was holding him. There was something bright blue there. The sky? Dean wondered. Water maybe. Suddenly, he thought it might be eyes.
'I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.'
(***)
I wake up
It's a bad dream
No one on my side
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired to be fighting
Guess I'm not the fighting kind
(***)
Gasping, Dean woke up.
He wanted to punch a hole in the wall. Punch until his fist was a bloody mess, but that wouldn't do anything except make him feel ridiculous in the morning. He'd wake up and look at the evidence of his girly, melodramatic outburst and be reminded of how stupid he was.
He wanted to drink, but that would probably make matters worse too, because who knows what the hell he would do when drunk. Or, more importantly, what he would remember. Stuff he didn't want to think about most likely.
He wanted to drive the Impala. Drive it way over the speed limit with Metallica blaring from the speakers. That wasn't exactly a healthy idea either. He was just depressed enough to plough it into a brick wall.
None of those things were remotely possible, not least because they meant he would need to leave Sam alone. His brother was sleeping in the next bed, but he slept light nowadays. Softly, Dean walked to the bathroom and closed the door. He met his own eyes in the mirror. He looked okay.
What a stupid fucking dream. He no more remembered Castiel saving him from hell than he remembered being born. The whole thing was pathetic. He looked at his hands. They didn't tremble. Maybe he should go back to sleep. As he splashed water into his face, he realised he didn't want to. He didn't want to sleep.
It wasn't because of the dreams either. He could handle the dreams. They were merely dreams, after all. Nothing to be scared of. The thing that frightened him was waking up. He didn't want to wake up. Because there was that split second where he didn't know and then he knew again. That second was killing him.
Otherwise, he felt fine. He looked okay and his hands didn't tremble. Sighing, Dean put his hands on the sink and leaned towards his reflection. He searched for something in his face that wasn't there. Something that should be there now he would never again experience the pleasure of looking in the mirror to find someone standing behind him, way too close for comfort.
You know what? No. No, he didn't want to punch or drink or drive. If he was brutally honest, then he had to admit that what he wanted most was to cry.
Clearly, he didn't love Castiel. Because if he had, wouldn't he then be actually crying instead of thinking about it all the damn time? He'd shed tears for so many people in his life. His mother, his father, Sam (he couldn't even count the times he'd cried like a little bitch over his baby brother), Bobby, Jo, Ellen, the souls he had torn apart in hell; the list was fucking endless. So, the only friend he'd made in the last years had up and died on him and his eyes were dry like sandpaper.
'Wake up, Dean. Wake the fuck up,' he said softly. He turned away from his reflection, because it didn't have the damn decency to look beaten or defeated or simply tired. God, he was so tired of going on. So fucking tired. Always going on. Fighting the good fight, except it didn't feel so good anymore.
Quietly, he opened the bathroom door and looked at Sam. Still asleep; good.
Dean didn't know how the hell they had gotten here. How had it come to this? One day they were two brothers looking for their father and the next day they were vessels and they were supposed to save the world and angels were dying. How the fuck did that happen?
(***)
When will I meet my fate?
Baby I'm a man; I was born to hate
And when will I meet my end?
In a better time you could be my friend
(***)
Castiel had met his fate. The thought made Dean chuckle. Not because they had already literally met Fate. Not because they were supposed to be Team Free Will. Because Sam and Bobby and he had met fate more times than he could count. And they kept coming back. Fate, death, whatever it was; they kept returning from it. Dean realised he couldn't remember how many times Sam had died. Five was a very conservative estimate. How typical was it of their lives that he couldn't remember how many times his baby brother had died?
So, maybe he was agonising over nothing here, because Castiel might pop up again in a couple of days as if nothing had happened. Was that why he had kept his trench coat? To give it back to Castiel when he came back? Dean was so messed up that he didn't even know whether Castiel coming back would be a good thing or not. Not that it made a difference: something in his gut told him this was the real deal. No comebacks for Castiel. Not this time.
He was aware that he was a fucking idiot, because it had only been a matter of time until one of them died and didn't come back. It was a testament to what an enormous dick he was that he hadn't considered that it might be Castiel.
'Cry, dammit,' Dean growled. He checked to see whether Sam was still under: yes.
Some of this shit needed out and Sam or Bobby weren't going to help him with it. By the looks of it, they had moved on already. This was fine, because no matter what Bobby had said about Castiel being friends with them, that wasn't true anyway. Castiel had been Dean's friend much more than he had ever been Bobby or Sam's friend.
And wasn't friend a fucking pathetic word? People say stuff like 'just a friend' and Castiel had not been just a friend. No, definitely not just a friend.
(***)
Where do we go?
I don't even know
My strange old face
And I'm thinking about those days
And I'm thinking about those days
(***)
As he stared hard at himself, he wondered where Castiel was now. Heaven, hell, purgatory, angel prison? Dean pictured him not as some floaty, shiny soul thingy, but as his vessel Jimmy Novak had looked. With the stubble, the boring ties and his stupid coat. Even though that coat had been left behind in the lake, – and was now in Dean's possession - when Dean imagined Castiel wherever he was, he was wearing the coat. The coat that made him look like a holy tax accountant.
Interesting thought: if the Winchester family wasn't in the habit of playing fast and loose with death, maybe Castiel would still be up in heaven doing his thing. Dean would be dead, but he was strangely fine with that. Another Winchester family trait; they were always sacrificing their own lives to keep other members of the family alive.
That was what Castiel was: family. And not once had Dean taken the opportunity to tell him.
Except for that time when Castiel wasn't Castiel at all. Not-Castiel had been right about Dean's little 'I don't want to lose you too' speech. Not because it wasn't true, but because Dean had only said it to try and talk him down. Why hadn't he said that when he had the chance? He appreciated Castiel. Sure, he was oblivious to a fault and annoying as hell, but Dean loved him.
With bitter regret, he thought about the one time when they had been pretty sure Castiel would bite the dust and Dean hadn't done or said anything meaningful. He had dragged him to a brothel, though the poor guy had obviously been scared out of his mind in the place and not in the least interested in losing his virginity. Fuck, Dean thought, I was such a douchy friend.
He could have told him... He should have told Castiel how much he meant to him. How much his faith and trust had helped. How sometimes when he had felt sick and tired of it all like he did now and Sam, no matter how much he loved Sam, simply wasn't good enough a reason to keep going, he had thought about Castiel.
Castiel, who had confided in him that he didn't know what was right and wrong anymore. Castiel, who had doubts, but who rarely doubted Dean. Castiel, who was tough on him, but who was always on his side, even when Dean wasn't on his side. Castiel, who believed in Dean when Dean didn't deserve it.
But instead he had whined and moaned and bitched and done everything possible to be the douchiest friend imaginable.
And now, what was there left?
(***)
I wake up
It's a bad dream
No one on my side
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired to be fighting
Guess I'm not the fighting kind
Wouldn't mind it if you were by my side
But you're long gone
Yeah, you're long gone now
(***)
His legs wobbled and he had to steady himself against the wall. Carefully, he sat down on the edge of the bath tub. A rare luxury in the motels they frequented. He rubbed at a spot where a chip of porcelain was missing and rust had formed.
So, what the hell was he going to do now that Castiel was gone? Go on, like he always did. Fight. Survive.
He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, not worrying about mould, which he probably should be worrying about. The smooth and cold surface was soothing. Taking a deep breath, he sat up straight. He stared at the bleak interior of the bathroom. He listened to Sam's shallow breathing. He started to cry.
Silently, he kept brushing his sleeve across his face, but more kept coming. His feet grew cold and his ass was freezing by the time he was done.
He got to his feet and approached the mirror. Pleased, he studied his appearance. His eyes were red and swollen. He looked awful. He looked down at his hands and discovered to his satisfaction that they were trembling.
Tiptoeing past Sam, he climbed back into bed. This was his life without Castiel. All he had left was a second every morning when he woke up and he didn't remember that Cas was gone. The transition from one nightmare to the next. There was no waking up from the bad dream that was his life.
The end.
(***)
Song lyrics are from A bad dream by Keane.