Title lifted from Kate Nash's "Don't You Want to Share the Guilt?" Contains: major character death, dubious consent, rough sex, and non explicit references to depression
The worst days are when Castiel calls. His rough voice has gone whispery with emotion and there are thick silences between his words; how belittling to ask a human for help when you were an Angel of the Lord once. Especially from an unemployed 19 year old. "Have you found anything?" asks Castiel, voice cracking with static.
Kevin runs his fingers over the singing angel tablet, and then dumps more whiskey into his coffee. Bottle's empty. He'll have to brave the store for more. More of what makes this bearable.
"I'm sorry," he throws out, aimlessly, because he's discovered the only emptier words than I'm sorry are I love you.
Somewhere, he can feel his mom ragging on him for nihilism and cynicism, and where exactly in life is that attitude going to get you, mister? Kevin takes a gulp. On the line, Castiel is judging as the tablet itself; Kevin drains the rest of his coffee and doesn't choke on it. "If you find anything," Castiel says again. And again.
Castiel disconnects, leaving Kevin alone in the apartment again.
Kevin doesn't read the angel tablet. He sits in this empty apartment and reminds himself with every sharp mouthful of booze to stop contorting to peer over his shoulder for Crowley. Or any demon, really. The Gates of Hell are shut, and the King is dead; Kevin is the victor, and here is his prize:
The whole apartment is still colored with bright Devil's Traps and laced with salt and holy water. Every time Kevin checks the traps, he feels his mother dousing him.
Kevin breathes out, wishing to be soaked again. Just once. Because this isn't fucking fair. It's not fair at all, here he is drinking down booze like Prohibition's around the corner, and his mom and Sam are both dead. Sunlight slants through the musty curtains, and it leaves Kevin sun-bleached, and he lifts the ratty copy of Matilda he'd stolen from the community library.
Girl discovers magical reading powers and does good things with them. No death involved.
Kevin cracks open the book and tries to drown out the song of the tablet that sounds too much like the lullabies he remembers his mother crooning. That's the bitch of the thing. He drags his eyes over the printed words, but can't keep himself from glancing at the stupid rock. Drawn to it. Like Sam and Dean orbited each other while Sam was breathing. Kevin can fight it now, the compulsion. It's not as strong as when he stole his mom's car and drove and drove. Now, his fingers tremble and symbols glimmer gold behind his eyelids, but he keeps his grip on Matilda white-knuckled.
Above, Heaven is locked tight, and here, angels fight for scraps. And Kevin Tran reads Matilda while Rome burns.
His bedroom door flings open, and Kevin startles awake with a yell, fumbling for Sam's knife on his bedside table. Dean smirks in the doorway, dull-eyed and haggard. Asshole avoided all the traps like normal.
The moon judges them through the window.
"Find anything?" asks Dean as he sheds his jacket and pretenses. Kevin doesn't have time to budge over before Dean is on him, teeth at Kevin's neck. He bares it for Dean as Dean pulls away Kevin's boxers.
"I can't—" He sucks in a breath as Dean bites harder—at the very least, there will be perfect bruises in the morning—"Can't make heads or tails of it."
Close to the truth, anyway. Dean pulls back enough to roll Kevin onto his stomach, before Dean sinks teeth into Kevin's pulse point. Dean's jeans rub against the back of Kevin's thighs, and heat washes over Kevin, makes him finally harden against the sheets. He swallows, screwing his eyes shut as he arches back against Dean.
The first time, Dean had fallen into Kevin's room, reeking of drink and road. "Did you know?" he rasped, lurching into Kevin's space with certainty. Like Kevin would let him. Kevin had. "Did you know?"
Sam, two days in the grave, probably flinched on Kevin's behalf. Instead, Kevin hadn't moved. He'd let Dean paw at Kevin's collar with shaking hands. "I didn't know. God, Dean—I swear I—" Kevin couldn't finish as Dean slammed his mouth against Kevin's.
"I can't bring him back," Dean whispered over Kevin's ragged breathing. "He's just-he's just gone."
Kevin shook his head. He didn't know, but he should have known. Dean pulled Kevin in with grasping hands, and Kevin threw an arm over his eyes while Dean fucked him. Only to live to regret that, too. A common theme, these days. That night, Kevin really should have looked Dean straight in the eye.
It was the only time Dean fucked him face-to-face.
Now, Kevin spreads his legs for Dean's denim, making Dean laugh. "Yeah, you want it," Dean mutters, breath heavy and wet on Kevin's neck.
God, but Kevin does. Bad enough he whimpers into the pillow and ruts against the sheets. Every few weeks, Dean swings by for an hour or two to see Kevin, like some sort of obligational pitstop. Dean's the only one that stops by. It isn't like Kevin has friends or family anymore.
He's got a rock that sings like his mom, an ex-angel who needs Kevin to read, bottles of whiskey, and a fellow survivor to fuck.
Kevin tenses at the distinctive sound of Dean gathering spit. Kevin's cock is so on board with the sound though, so fucking ready, and Kevin's stomach twists with hot humiliation, tears prickling as Dean laughs awkwardly around his mouthful, a soothing hand rubbing over Kevin's ass.
Then Dean spits down Kevin's crease.
"Come on," Kevin keens, "Come on, come on—" He's babbling as Dean spits again, and it's trailing down, over Kevin's balls, and Kevin can't breathe—
Dean comes on by jamming a finger into Kevin. Kevin's body seizes up, broken painsound escaping before he can suck it back in with everything else, and God—he's gotta, gotta relax or Dean will stop, Dean will leave. Kevin grits out as Dean hesitates, "—fucking move. Come on, don't be a—" Kevin lets out a sound that absolutely isn't a whimper. "Don't be a fucking pussy! Give it to me!"
With a growl that almost makes Kevin tense up again, Dean shoves in another finger—too much, too fast, holy fuck—and Kevin's vision explodes with dark spots as he cries out, fisting the sheets. Faraway, he feels he's not hard anymore, dick limp against his thigh, so he rocks back onto Dean's toothick fingers and fucks his cock against the sheets. "You're shaking," Dean points out, gruffly, as if he could worry about Kevin, the boy that killed his brother, "You good?"
"Please, Dean. Please please please. I want it," and it's stupid, stupid, shit phrases he picked up from the porn Dean left him, but it works, because Dean is easy, and Kevin says anything that'll make Dean stay, and finally Kevin's dick thickens again, slick dripping down the tip.
Dean doesn't hesitate again. He spits into his palm this time, wets his dick with it, and Kevin—Kevin takes a deep breath—doesn't tense. But he loses it when Dean rams in. Dean makes room for himself inside Kevin, and Kevin screams, and his vision goes black, and when he comes back, drags his consciousness back to Dean, Dean has a firm, nearly chafing grip, on Kevin's cock and he jacks Kevin as fast as they're fucking.
Kevin spreads his legs for the contact, for the fire, for this pain that will be the only thing Kevin will feel until the next time Dean comes back to him.
Dean comes before Kevin does, hot inside of Kevin, so it can drip out, so Kevin can't forget, and Kevin wonders, wonders with that sick stomach twist, did Sam and Dean do this?
Is that why Dean is here, because Sam isn't? Of course that's why.
Then Dean thumbs over Kevin's slit, and Kevin's coming all over the sheets he probably won't get around to cleaning tonight.
Dean wipes his hand off on Kevin's thigh, then strokes gentle, calloused fingers over the marks on Kevin's neck. Kevin curls into his bed, trying to control his breathing. "Kev," Dean murmurs, sounds almost like Crowley, that stupid name, and Kevin shudders, tells himself it's because he wants Dean to keep touching him. "Thank you." Dean presses his mouth to Kevin's temple, and then—
then Dean remembers that he can't stand to look at Sam's murderer.
The Impala roars to life long before Kevin can bring himself to move.
Kevin sleeps the stop-stall-stop-stall sleep of a half-broke-down car. Come dried tacky on his skin, and the room reeks of sweat and maybe blood; Kevin should really check himself out. See if Dean tore him open. He shuts his eyes against the sun burning through the curtains.
Gold symbols glitter just out of reach, so fucking close he can taste the ancient dust of them, curl his tongue around the words, can nearly grasp the meaning in his outstretched hands. Kevin jolts with a strangled cry as Dean's bruises flare hot. He forces himself up, despite the shaking—did Dean tear him? Would Kevin deserve it if he did?—and the pain forces the symbols back. Forces the tablet back. Shower, he needs a shower. Don't think about the rock.
Don't think about the rock.
The water streams down over his body as he uses one arm to brace himself against the shower wall. Steam coats everything, thick as hell, and the heat rolling over him has Kevin relaxing in tiny waves. Maybe next time he'll tell Dean no. Tell Dean to fuck off. Tell Dean to bottom for once. Tell Dean to look him in the eyes. Kevin flinches as he presses his nail into the purpleblack bruise on his hip.
His stomach heaves, but nothing comes up. Just outside his vision, the tablet hums like his mom, soothing and alluring: read me and all will be well, read me and be the arbiter of your own destiny, read me so your eyes will be opened and you will be like God .
Kevin presses his forehead against the shower wall, water pounding onto his raw, exposed flesh, and the tablet's comforting song pulling at his marionette strings.
He slides on his softest pair of boxers as slow as he can, the fabric rubbing harsh against his skin, and he can't bear to put on anything else.
His phone rings, startling the tablet into silence—"Hello?" he rasps.
"Kevin?" Castiel's voice is threadbare. "Have you found anything? How are you?"
Kevin sucks on his teeth to hold in the gurgle of alarming laughter. Castiel is awful at pretending he cares about anything other than his own mistakes. But Kevin can understand that. What has mattered to him, apart from his own survival? And here he is. A survivor. "Nothing. Sorry, Cas. I can't make any sense of it."
"I see. It's possible Metatron encoded the tablet to ensure the angels' secrets remained from the hands of man." The last few threads of Castiel's voice sever, and Kevin counts the places where the skin around his nails has broken. Seven on the left. Eight on the right. Riot yips comfortingly in the background.
It's strange to envision a former angel walking a dog Dean stole from Sam's ex. Kevin chews at his lip, tears it open again, and sucks on the wound. "Maybe…" He swallows down the blood, and he finally, finally glances at the tablet that practically glows under his attention. "Maybe this isn't so bad? I mean, the last two times I read a tablet without understanding the fine print, people died—" There, it's out, can't suck it back in. He's released the truth like a flock of crows—now, now maybe someone will understand, will understand why Kevin can't translate—why Kevin needs Dean—
Castiel growls. "People are dying now, Kevin. We need to re-open Heaven, whatever the cost. What happened with Sam, that was—unfortunate."
Ah, yes. Kevin had forgotten: honor and duty and redemption, and all that. What else could possibly matter? Redemption is a lie that Castiel mistakes for transcendent truth. He says, "I get it. I'll keep trying." Kevin tears his gaze away from the tablet. "Take care of yourself."
He disconnects as Castiel calls out—"Kevin!"
Two days later finds Kevin stepping out of his apartment. The sun shines down on his ashen skin, and he checks again that the worst of the bruises are covered. No need to make anybody ask any questions about him. Kevin weaves through the narrow streets, purposeful, without letting anybody look him in the eyes. Big cities, for all their people, are easier to lose yourself in.
And what is he, but lost?
The tiny park is all but deserted now with nearly all the children at school. He plants himself on the grass, sprawling out like a particularly unruly patch of weeds. People jogging with dogs flash past him, and Kevin watches the lurch of dark-bottomed clouds above. He blows out a slow breath.
Outside smells strange—like wet and grass and fresh, nothing like the dust of the houseboat, or his stale sweat in the sheets. Nothing like sulphur or blood. Kevin casts his gaze around for the familiar suited figure (who has never and will never stop dogging him) and as ever, he sees nothing. Freedom is, at once, achieved and out of reach.
Kevin flings an arm over his eyes, can feel himself shaking, and, somewhere, the tablet is crying out for him with his mother's voice.
He'd tried to chuck the thing into the ocean. It hadn't even left the dip of his palm before Kevin heaved it back, cradling it to his chest like he should've done more with his mom.
He won't go crawling back. Won't grovel to a fucking murderous rock.
Maybe he should go back to school. Now that Crowley's gone. Or he could get a job. Do something useful with his life that isn't lying to people, fighting a stone, and fucking Dean. Even as he'd feverishly translated the Trials, Kevin hadn't stopped to think about after. Not really. For all he'd sprinted toward the finish line, he hadn't understood what he was running toward. Maybe if he'd treated it as a marathon, understood the price of miracles—maybe Sam would be—but then, Sam had shot past everybody anyway. Fucking hypocrite.
Now, Kevin is the one living with Sam's blood on his hands. The one living with Dean's hatred and Castiel's guilt. Living without his mother. Living with himself.
Faraway, thunder sounds, and Kevin leaves before he can be caught in the downpour.
Garth invites himself into Kevin's apartment like he belongs there, with his sheepish grin that's funny now he's a wolf. "Kevin!" Garth wraps arms around Kevin, squeezing him hard enough Kevin loses his breath. "I missed you, compadre!"
So easy. Like it's not Garth's fault Kevin's mom is dead. "What are you doing here?" His voice is sharp enough he cuts himself with it.
This is the first time in months anybody has looked happy to see him.
Garth finally steps back, big doe eyes on Kevin's face, like Kevin is the predator here. Probably true. "I wanted to apologize. For—for leaving your mom. And you. Have you heard anything about her? I can help you find her. My nose is a lot better now, I could—"
"No. I can't find mom. Anybody that knew anything is dead or sealed downstairs." Kevin shakes his head over and over, and Garth blurs in his vision. "She's just gone."
When Garth goes to hug him again, Kevin lets him. He leans into these unfamiliar, gentle hands, and his face is covered in tears and snot, like something in him finally bursts. But there is something twisting in his stomach, something red and awful that makes itself known as Garth murmurs little growly nothings. "It's your fault!" It tears free, makes Garth let go.
Garth stares down at him, face crumpling like a used tissue. There's something in his eyes now, something that banished that fun-loving gleam. Fucking good. "Kev—I'm sorry—" Again, Garth's voice tangled and small, but Kevin can smell that old cologne, that British lilt—Kev is Crowley's.
"You were supposed to protect her!" Kevin fists Garth's collar. So tight his fingers go numb. "And now she's dead! She's dead because of you!" It isn't fair, but nothing is.
But he looses his grip, forces himself to turn away, and then he presses his palms into his eyes. Garth squeezes Kevin's shoulder, fingers soft and warm. "Kevin... I shouldn't have run off when I did. I can't bring her back. I'm sorry. But I'm here now, since you seem like you need a friend."
Kevin shakes his head, keeps shaking his head, like he can make all of this go away. It never works. The only thing Kevin's ever managed to banish were the demons, and that was by proxy. Garth stays. Stupid Garth, who's only around when you don't want him. "Kev, what happened with Sam, it wasn't your fault. You know that."
Kevin stiffens, all the air thickening in his lungs till its heavy as hot tar. "Get out," he pushes it out, liberates it from somewhere deep, "Get out, Garth! Go back to your stupid family and wife. Get out!"
He whirls on Garth, so Garth knows Kevin means business. And mostly Garth looks like Kevin's kicked him, which is great. Kevin shoves Garth's chest once, right over his heart.
But Garth leaves with one tearwet glance behind him. Kevin is the monster, but they all knew that already. The silence Garth leaves is heavy as Sam's funeral, and Kevin tries to muster more tears, but they stay firmly in his throat—and then the tablet sings his mom's song, so soothing. Like she could be here, her fingers carding through his hair, telling Kevin to breathe. Telling him he can apologize to Garth later. Garth will forgive.
Kevin obeys. He finally bends his head to the angel tablet, muscles uncoiling, and the song soars louder, louder, and he feels her there, his mom, with her breath ghosting behind him, and Kevin reads around the tears and pretends he can smell her—dry cleaning and coffee.
The tablet sucks him in until everything is dancing marks, the feeling of potent knowledge just outside his reach, that familiar building pressure in his temples. But the symbols beget more symbols, not English. Kevin squints, digging deeper to find more, but the tablet, for all its calling, gives him nothing. Nothing useful, anyway.
Relief is the illusion of his mom's hands on his nape. Relief is the little squiggles he can't comprehend. Kevin isn't going to doom anyone else. No matter what. Screw Heaven and Metatron and Cas and Dean. Kevin won't be responsible for things he doesn't understand again.
All in all, the tablet doesn't make a bad pillow. It even sings him to sleep.
Dean arrives with bags of groceries. There are cucumbers and radishes and oranges and red pears nearly spilling out of one of the bags. He lights up at Kevin's smile, holding out the plastic bags like offerings, and Kevin accepts them with grasping hands. "I—wow—thanks, Dean."
Fingers curl into his hair, then Dean is kissing him. No hint of teeth. Slow, easing Kevin open instead of forcing himself inside, and Kevin can't clutch Dean with already overflowing hands. "I brought beer," Dean pulls back to say, but Kevin has already tasted it hops Dean's tongue, bitter but not the overpowering master of other visits. Not that Kevin can blame Dean for needing drink to be around him. Most of the time, Kevin needs drink to stand himself. "Beer and Game of Thrones. Put that shit away, yeah?" He nods at the groceries in Kevin's hands.
Any gift from Dean would have to be shit. But Dean's never showed up just to hang out before. If Kevin suspects another motive, he pushes away his doubts as he shelves the groceries. Best to enjoy what he can.
They sprawl on the couch, Dean's arm thrown over Kevin's shoulders as the opening theme sounds, and Kevin drinks the beer despite his preference of hard liquor. Something warm curls on his chest, like that oversized tabby his Aunt Tammy used to have. Crookshanks would lay across Kevin purring thickly, this soothing rumble that always made Kevin sleepy. The specter cat yawns loudly as Dean curls blunt fingertips into Kevin's shirt.
Partway through episode three, Dean says, "Cas said you were having problems reading the tablet. You missing a decoder ring or something?"
Kevin tenses against Dean's side. Wants to yank the happywarm cat off his chest, but it's gone already with a knowing yowl. "I can't understand anything yet," he murmurs, under the noise of the show, without looking away from the train-wreck on screen. "Sorry."
"Do you need anything? Food? Uppers? We need to open up Heaven, Kev." Dean pauses the stupid show and forgets that it was Kevin with the demon tablet in the abandoned church that killed his brother.
"Where's Cas, anyway?" Kevin asks, pulling away.
"With the dog at the bunker." Dean takes a sour sip of beer with that sharp pinched look he gets whenever Kevin mentions Riot, and the couch can't swallow Kevin up like he wants. "You sure you wanna stay here and not there?"
Kevin nods. "Not like I have to worry about Crowley anymore."
Not like Kevin has much to worry about anymore. He leans back against Dean and drains the rest of his beer. Doesn't tell Dean about Garth or the tablet using his mom's visage. No, instead Kevin presses his hoppy lips to the iron-like stubble at Dean's jaw, and Dean hoists Kevin into his lap like Kevin's made of nothing heavier than air, and maybe that's right too. When Kevin slams his mouth against Dean's, he exorcises the gentleness of the afternoon. Regains his footing in what they have, where kindness has no place.
For a second, Kevin sees something—some flash of horror in Dean's eyes, like Dean will push him away, but, as ever, Dean takes him up on the offer. Dean will always take what Kevin gives. Just as Kevin takes what Dean gives. It's how they float merrily along, or something like it.
Kevin never protests as Dean fucks him face down with spit dribbling down his balls.
Kevin wakes alone and eats a banana for breakfast. Rain slides down the windows. The fat drops on the roof are loud enough to rouse the hangover, and Kevin sits at his table and watches the water on the glass as his head pounds and pounds.
There is something heavy in the air, like that electric prickle before an orange-sky storm, and he is sluggish with expectation. Bed is warm, for all it reeks of sweat and pathetic need. Kevin slides back under the covers, but can't escape the waiting in the air. Still, the warmth sucks him under. His body uncoils from Dean's memory, and he sinks further into bed.
Sleep might take him, or maybe he merely stares at the ceiling, but Kevin has the sense time passes. Passes him on by. In another life, he could call his mom for advice about a getting a minor, or talk to Channing about whether it's acceptable to ease up on his cello practice. In another life, Sam wouldn't be in Heaven, and Kevin wouldn't drip constantly with Sam's blood, the iron always sharp on his tongue. His breathing is choppy but distant. Kevin stares unblinking at the ceiling.
The comforter weighs Kevin down, down, maybe he'll sink into the floor, into the distant pits of Hell Kevin made unreachable; Kevin feels like he couldn't get up if he wanted to. Movement sluggish, he lifts his hand to press a nail into that mottled bruise Dean left on Kevin's forearm—the bloom of pain is muted but real. Lets Kevin breathe, and he curls in on himself under the blankets that smell like Dean and Kevin's fucking. Reminds him of feeling. Of Dean's touch mapping out his skin. Of Dean's mouth and that flash of a smile—Kevin drifts from the memory.
(Dean isn't here. Dean doesn't give a shit about him. Because Kevin is both useless and a murderer. Best to remember that. Can't ever forget.)
The rain can't sustain itself; the pitter-patter fades to an occasional plop, and Kevin remains under the covers. He should read, should eat, should shower, should apologize to Garth, should heed the tablet's cry for Cas and Dean and his mom's specter. Instead, his eyes shut, and he listens to the beat of his blood and the eventual steadiness of his breath.
Kevin is finally roused by the bell. Outside, the sky is purple and red splashes of violence, and Kevin pulls himself out of bed as fast as he can with Dean's bruises tugging at his skin and all Kevin's memories weighing him down. He peers out the peephole, expecting Garth or Cas. Instead, a tall and sharp-featured man waits. Kevin's never seen this man before—he backpedals, reaching for the gun he keeps propped against the wall. Kevin backs right into the man's hands. "Kevin Tran. I am—" His voice carries a weight Kevin can't understand. "I am truly sorry."
His palm presses flat to Kevin's forehead and—