Title: Prologue: Sing the Anthem of the Angels
Author: SxyMo0finMan
Rating: M for a suicide attempt.
Warning: Suicide attempt and Hinted Character Death
Word Count: 2,932
Summary: Dean is in a world of grief. He's suffering, he's hurting, and no amount of alcohol can ease his pain. All he sees in front of him is an endless loveless lifetime after losing the love of his life, Castiel. And it's all his fault. Finding solace in his gun, he tries to end it all, but even fails at that, leaving himself there for Sam to find; a broken and bloody mess.
Author's Note: HOLY SHIT, GUYS, I AM SO SORRY! I AM SUCH A SADIST AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TURN IT OFF! I was listening to Anthem of the Angels by Breaking Benjamin, hence the title to this prologue, yes prologue. There's more. The second installment will still be depressing as shit, but it ends bittersweet. I'll give you the downlow on that one, too. It's a year after this incident, and it should answer your questions as to just what Dean had done. I'm going to apologize one more time, but I'm a sucker for these gut wrenching stories. If I can make you cry or move you, then I am doing my job as an author. This is just another test. I hope you errrrmmmm…. enjoy? If you want to kill me afterwards, then that's okay, too. I would understand :D
PS: this was the fastest fic I have ever written.
Dean crashes in through his front door, staggering into the foyer, already drunk. He looks around the once pleasant area, now all full with painful memories and wasted dreams. Pulling an arm free from his leather jacket, he makes his way into the dining room. Before he can even get through the walkway, he spots the line of photos on the wall and stops.
His breath hitches in his chest. He can't breathe, the breath locked inside of his chest burning and crushing him at the same time. It all escapes in a rush and he's back to a blubbering mess. Staring back at him from the golden frames is a world he used to know, a place of happiness with a loving boyfriend who will no longer laugh at his tactless jokes or his misplaced admiration. And it's all his fault.
Dean rips the jacket from around his arms, tossing it to the floor. He wipes angrily at his eyes, their faces blurring in his anguish. He lets out an inhuman noise and knocks the photo from the wall, the glass shattering on impact. Looking down at the shattered wreckage of his life, Dean realizes his mistake. He didn't mean it, didn't mean to break his love any further. The cool blue eyes stare up at him with their endless mirth, mocking him, laughing at him. Even his own visage is twisting into something of malice, a pointed barb of what used to be and never will be.
He's on his knees, glass piercing through his worn jeans, but he doesn't care. Dean doesn't even feel it. The tiny pinpricks of glass to his kneecaps is nothing compared to how he feels now. He can still hear the endless beeping in his ears, the screaming as the monitors flat line and his world whites out with a final expulsion of breath and flutter of eyelids. Oh God, Cas, he's sorry. Dean picks the large chunks of glass out from the broken frame, wipes the rest of it away from his lover's face, and brings the picture up to his chest. He rocks back and forth in place, whispering "I'm sorry, oh God, I'm sorry," over and over again, an endless litany of his guilt.
The Winchester doesn't know how long he's been sitting there, but it feels like ages. He's parched, his lips cracked and dry, his throat on fire. All of his fluids have escaped him through his eyes, and it's never ending. He takes a shuddering breath and holds the frame tighter, the image within crushed against his chest. Maybe if he holds the memory of their embrace closer to his aching heart, it will make the pain go away. He wishes upon a thousand stars that the truth he knows is just the lie he's created in his mind to torment himself. He wishes that this is all a bad dream, that he'll pinch his arm and wake up. That Cas will be breathing, smiling, laughing, loving him again. Needless to say, the pinch doesn't wake him up, the imagined embrace doesn't ease the palpitating bloody mass that is his heart.
A whimper bubbles up his throat and out before Dean can take it all back. He's trying to not be reduced to screaming again. He'd made a mess of things at that place, had cursed the white walls to hell and back, had struck out at the person closest to him, a man with a doctorate in medicine in a bright white coat that had had the unfortunate duty of trying to quell the oncoming storm. All of it to get the noise out of his head, to have them turn it off and fix it. To have them bring the life back into now pallid cheeks, the cuts and bruisings on forehead, jaw, chin, and chest standing out so much more against the gray backdrop of bloodless flesh. He's cold, God, he's cold. Warm him up again, please. Just warm him up again.
The more he sits there and thinks, the more his world heaves and turns. Nothing's right anymore. It's all upside down and topsy-turvy. Each breath feels like there's glass caught in his trachea, rending his insides so that he's drowning in his own blood. He coughs, clears his throat, and stands on wooden legs. Dean hurts too much, feels too much. He needs to blot it out, drown it with an endless amber sea of Jim and Jack.
The trek into the kitchen is long and never ending, the picture still clutched to his chest, pressing tiny flecks of glass into his red and black checked shirt. He's suspended, trapped, on this endless wave of grief, the familiar surroundings of his humble abode, the cinnamon walls with light coffee accents, the warm, tan furniture, the cool cream of metal and steel appliances, twist into a pinprick of light in an otherwise dark tunnel. Before he knows it, Deans in front of the liquor cabinet, the honeyed doors flung open, the picture now forgotten on the gray marbled countertop as he goes on his hunting expedition for the friendly comfort of his old friends.
The bottle's in his hand now, and his lips seek out his much needed elixir of mind numbing life. Dean swishes the cool liquid in his mouth, swallows it on down, and lets it warm him from the inside out. He welcomes the burn, relishes in it with a quiet hiss of air from in between his clenched teeth. Without his own volition, his eyes lock onto the picture again. He's lost in a sea of blue, lets it pull and push him so that he's dizzy in the frothy depths. His fingers reach, shaking, and run against the glossy paper over a dark shock of hair. Dean closes his eyes and dreams, imagines that he's touching soft, wispy strands of hair that smell like sandalwood instead of nothing more than a photograph.
An eerie calm settles over. He's resigned, he'd made a promise, one that he intends to keep. He presses his lips to two fingers before touching those fingers to Castiel's cool visage. With staggered motions, he sets the whiskey bottle on the countertop, wiping the sweat and condensation on his jeans, before reaching for the second drawer to the left. Dean doesn't have to search long because it's there, the flash of nickel-plated silver in the light calming, an offering of salvation from this torment.
He cradles a Colt 1911 A1 .45 caliber gun, the weight of it heavy in his shaking hands. Dean turns it over and admires its ivory grips and delicate engravings for what will be the last time. He checks the sights, unclips the magazine. There's a box of bullets towards the back of the drawer and he digs them out, shaking out just one solitary, shining bit of copper and nestles it in the clip. Dean feels at ease when the magazine snicks back into place.
He remembers when he'd purchased this gun. It had been a problem, had caused a fight with Castiel. But nonetheless, it had been a fight he had won. It was strictly for protection, mostly for show. Come on, how was he supposed to pass up this thing of beauty when he was from a long line of gun enthusiasts? Castiel had wavered, had let him keep it. Who would have thought that this blessed piece of lethal weaponry would be his saving grace? Where Cas has gone, he will follow. They will chase the dark together, he'll make sure of that.
There's a notepad in the drawer. He spies it and hesitates for a moment. Should he do it? Should he write down his last thoughts, a message to Sam? Oh, Sammy. How he's forgotten. Sam will be alone without him. There dad is gone, their mom dead. There'll be nothing left for him. Well, not nothing. There's always Jess to keep him up and moving. He'll be fine, he'll understand.
Dean lifts the yellow pad of paper, marred only by blue lines, from its confines, tossing it haphazardly onto the countertop. He digs through another drawer for a pen, gouges it into the top right corner and scribbles a deep wound into the paper to see if there's any ink left. When he's satisfied, Dean writes down a couple sentences, a man of few words and many feelings, and stands back to admire his work, swaying slightly in place. It's sweet, it's simple; it'll do. He caps the pen and tosses it back into the depths of a drawer before slamming it shut.
Gathering his newfound possessions into his arms, the bottle of Jack, the gun, the notepad, he makes his way into the dining room. It was a place of fond memories, of Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, of birthday wishes and gleeful singing. Why not spend his last moments in this place, his last moments before it all spills out in a spray of carnage? Dean sets the gun carefully down on the cherry wood surface. It's loaded, it's fragile; it's everything that he needs. The notepad is carefully lined up with the edge of the table, clearly visible from the doorway. He moves a chair out from the table, turns it around so that he can look down the hallway and to the front door. Dean doesn't care that what he's doing is cruel, he just cares about the release. The need to be free from this iron cage.
His bones creak and moan as he lowers himself into the chair, collapsing onto the plush off-white seat, liquor sloshing inside its glass confines. He takes another swig before setting it on the floor in line with the chair's front leg. Everything is methodical, thought out, and yet he's shaking, vibrating with the anticipation for the end. Dean sits there for a moment, head resting in his hands as he processes his muddled thoughts. Is he going to do this? You bet. Any regrets? Only Sam.
The thought of Sam is almost enough to still his hand, but then he starts thinking again. Starts thinking about the days, months, and years without Castiel, the endlessness of a loveless lifetime. Dean sends out a silent apology to his younger brother and twists just enough to grab his Colt. It's cold in his hands, searing his skin with the impression of its engravings. He's shaking, he can't stop, can't steady his hand as he slowly repositions the gun and raises it to his temple. The metal bites into his skull as he pushes it further against his skin to quell his tremors. There's a satisfying click as he cocks the hammer. The moment is about to come into fruition. He opens hunter green eyes and looks towards the door, swallows hard, and lets out a shuddering breath. This is it, this is the end.
And then Dean fires the gun.
Sam finds him the next day. The younger Winchester walks into the house, a sense of foreboding taking over him as he inches further down the foyer. He sees a yellow pad of paper on the table through the archway, the side of a chair turned to face the wrong way. It's when he steps into the dining room that he realizes his worst nightmare has come true. Sam's eyes jump from the gun on the floor to the once insignificant piece of paper, now blazoned with a message of grief, the words swimming together in his frantic mind until they finally piece together enough for him to understand: I'm a coward, Sammy. I can't do this without him.
"DEAN?" Sam screams. Oh God, where is he? Maybe he can stop him, maybe it's not too late. He turns on his heel and rushes back out into the foyer, heading for the stairs. In his moment of panic, Sam hasn't seen the trail of blood droplets from the dining room into the kitchen, had only thought that maybe his brother is upstairs drowning in his guilt. Please let him be alive. He's screaming and screaming, taking the stairs two at a time, trying to keep the panic from crushing him alive.
Sam's made it halfway up the white carpeted, hickory steps when he hears his name echoed from downstairs. All the tension runs from his shoulders as he turns around and heads back down the staircase, feet barely touching the ground in his haste. Dean's alive. It's okay, it's going to be okay.
He only stops running when he finds himself in the kitchen, his hand flying to the wooded archway to keep himself from collapsing, his brother's name tumbling from numb lips. Sam staggers further into the room, falling to his knees and crawling to Dean. There's blood everywhere. It's steadily weeping from a bullet wound, a divot in his flesh where the round had sliced through skin but not bone. Crimson stains starch white skin, pools in the dark wool of Dean's shirt making it even darker. There are burns on Dean's temple, the skin marred a sickening smattering of black and red.
Sam's scrambling at what to do. He reaches forward and widens one of Dean's eyes, laughs in breathless mirth when Dean moves his head out of reach and swats weakly at Sam's hand. It's only then that Sam realizes the wetness to his knees. He hesitates to look down, afraid that he's soaked in his brother's blood, like some sacrificial lamb, but it's only liquor. There's an over turned bottle next to Dean's hand, next to that a broken photo of him and Castiel smiling at the camera.
Dean's head rolls forward on its axis as Sam moves away from him. He clenches and unclenches numb fingers. They're stiff, hard to move. It feels like he's frozen. This shouldn't be happening, he shouldn't be here. Why is he breathing? Why couldn't he have ended it? At the last second he had flinched, had sent the bullet skidding across his skull and into the ceiling above. There had been a loud noise—there's still a ringing in his ears—and he had blacked out. When he had awoken, there was a sticky ooze coating his neck, but he didn't know what it was. With wooden limbs, he had climbed from his seat, grabbed the bottle loosely by the neck and stiffly walked into the kitchen only to collapse in the corner, the hard knob on the cabinet's front unforgiving in his spine. Reaching up, he had grabbed the broken frame, had cradled the photo to his chest as he let the darkness come again.
Something is pressed to his skull and he's brought back to the present. Sam's face blurs and twists, it's dark around the edges. He tries to pull away, but Sam holds his head in place with gentle hands.
"No, Dean," Sam whispers as if talking to a bouncing babe. "Here, hold this to your head."
Dean reaches up and holds what has to be the kitchen towel to his wound. He wants to protest, to tell Sammy to get something else. This was Cas's. He doesn't want to ruin it with his blood. But Sammy is scared, frantically dialing on his phone and speaking to someone on the other line. Sammy is shaking, eyes red rimmed and full of unshed tears. Why? He didn't mean to hurt him. He had only wanted to ease the pain. Dean reaches out with his free hand, clasps Sam's knee and squeezes. He's sorry. He didn't mean it. He is hurting.
Sam hangs up the phone. He's called the nearest hospital, ironically the one that had started it all. He's alerted them that he's bringing in a gunshot victim, one that's still alive and barely lucid. With Herculean effort, he makes it to his feet. He hooks his hands under Dean's armpits and tries to raise his brother from his perch on the floor. It's no use, he's dead weight, but Sam isn't giving up.
"Come on, Dean, you gotta help me," Sam says through gritted teeth. It takes a moment for Dean to respond, but he starts pushing his protesting body off the floor and into his brother's arms. He allows Sam to manhandle him, the younger Winchester moving to his side to sling an arm over his shoulder and support his weight. He feels so heavy. Can't get his feet to move, but together they're staggering across the floor, Sam weighted down with his useless body. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, voice weak and clogged from his thickening tongue.
"Keep that pressed to your head," Sam orders and Dean complies, keeping the reddening towel loosely pressed to his damaged head.
"I couldn't do it," Dean finds himself whispering as he stares ahead, the house stretching on and on for an eternity. He can barely walk, can barely keep himself moving, but he has to. Has to keep Sammy happy. "I flinched, I couldn't do it."
Sam ignores him, doesn't let the words pierce through his hastily thrown on armor, armor made from paper instead of steel. The bite of Dean's meaning pierces through, slices him open, but he can't fall apart. He's got to be strong, has to get Dean to help. As the two stagger along, Sam now basically dragging Dean across the wood flooring, he ignores the multiple mumbled I'm sorries, the whispered Cas's, the garbled I couldn't do its. With steely determination, he gets Dean through the door and towards his salvation, the saving grace of modern medication.