Of course he doesn't spend the next four days sleeping and of course his little brother's got a handful of good reasons to cry his way through this, which he does. Dean sees this in the swollen redness of Sam's eyes when they fleetingly meet Dean and his own blood-shot stare. Like two sides of a coin, the reason for this comes down to one fucking thing, motivations differing as far as only differences go.
Dean wants his camel-jawed hand back. His rightful bride, his ribs, his blood. It's all his, it's all him. And he doesn't understand how he could ever let that go. He misses it. Misses dearly. He spends the time which does not flow needing and thinking how to get it back with the same intensity he used to sit and think of ways to get rid of the Mark not that long ago. How foolish it was to be hopeful. How repugnant it feels now. From the inside of his room, echoes a bitter, venomous laugh. How even dared he.
There is a difference between want and need. He needed it to gank Abaddon. He's had and enjoyed it when he was dead and there was nothing left to need, he's had it ripped away from him like skin (and it hasn't healed yet). He's spent, what, years without it trying to cope, to re-adapt, to live, all to no avail. He wouldn't get pure (because there was never anything clean in him to begin with, no matter how much rust and blood and dirt, he'll scratch off, there still will be filth underneath, he reminds himself). He tried to atone, but the peace of other people is never his.
He's killed the father of his bride and now it's solely, entirely his. He doesn't need it. He wants it. He accepts this truth, finally. It makes all the difference and all the order in the world. He wants it, he wants it, he wants it. He gave it away because he wants it. He doesn't know how long will that last, this final act of self-salvation of his.
Cas has it.
Cas isn't here. Cas is almost never here.
That's why he has it. That's why he isn't here. Or maybe it isn't.
Either way, because Dean still hates himself, he doesn't call him. At this point whether the hatred comes from wanting to call or not doing it, is open for discussion. One Dean doesn't want to have what himself. What he wants is his blade.
His, somewhere in Castiel's hand, maybe still, maybe in the past. But if there's someone who knows the now, it's him and Dean won't call him although he's had the damn phone in hand eleven times just today and yes, he counts.
He counts the futile shakes of his hand and all the things it misses.
At 3.27, AM, he texts:
is it safe
but he doesn't even know if he means safe from him, safe from Cas, the general safe, or how you ask about a person that can get hurt. It feels like his body wrote the text for him and omitted any judgment on the conscious parts of the brain (or whatever he's got left of those, he muses). Intuition votes that what he had in mind was, in fact, don't let anyone hurt it.
3.29
how are you Dean?
Now this is something that does not hold his interest. Dean knows the question is way heavier than the words suggest. Even normally he wouldn't feel inclined to open that wound, but now? Now he doesn't care. In all honesty, he only feels in the way that he wants to know if. it's. safe. He tosses his phone aside. Tries to sleep, senses tired and frustrated with the ripe stench of the room, of himself. Wants to dream of better things.
He dreams of Hell. But if it's future or past, he can't discern. Reeks like home. So it's okay.