Originally posted on tumblr.
Exhaustion fills every inch of his body. It pierces his chest, tugs his insides apart in a way that is achingly familiar. His limbs feel like lead weights as he follows Sam, steps slow, even and measured.
Left. Right. Left again.
The numbness such a pattern brings is all that Dean can ask for right now. He's tired, and all he wants to do is go back to the motel and sleep. This hunt has left him drained.
Sam stops, and Dean comes to rest just behind his elbow. His younger brother stands stiller than Dean's ever seen him stand, at complete attention as he stares resolutely ahead of them. Dean still hasn't found the motivation to raise his eyes from the grass at his feet.
It's a beautiful day. The sun is out, a few wispy clouds drifting lazily in the summer blue of the sky. The trees a few hundred feet away are full of vibrant green leaves in all shapes and sizes. From the thin needles of the evergreens to the wide oak leaves, a breeze waves the trees' branches and ruffles Dean's shirt.
He scrubs a single hand down his face as Sam steps forward some more, to where they placed a bottle of lighter fluid and some matches earlier in their preparations. His eyes track his brother's hands as they douse the pyre, also constructed earlier. Sam stops a few minutes later, movements unhurried and sluggish. Sam sets the bottle down, stands still.
The grass drifts back and forth around their ankles. It's rough and brittle and the yellow-brown of a lawn that's seen better days. Dean's eyes fall back to the blades in front of his boots as Sam finally grabs the matches.
The faint snick as the matches are lit seems like a canon to Dean's ears. The crackle of the flames like gunfire.
Sam rejoins him and they stand side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder. One huge hand lands on Dean's back as he head drops again, shoulders hunching up. Sam doesn't do anything else, but the simple touch is grounding and Dean uses it to focus himself.
The stink of burning clothes and flesh fill Dean's nostrils and his eyes flit up for a split second. It's enough to see a flash of tan where the coat is folded before it curls and blackens in the flames.
Dean's gut feels like ice and he looks down again.
This happened because of him.
If he hadn't insisted on taking this case. If he had paid a little more attention. If he had been just that much faster…
Cas wouldn't have been in the line of fire.
Cas would be sitting in the Impala, grinning right along with Sam and Dean as they drove into the unknown, battered and a little worse for wear but alive.
Cas' body wouldn't be wrapped in linen, burning in a hunter's funeral while the ashen outline of his wings still litters the nearby warehouse's floor.
Dean sags, and Sam's right there to grab hold of his arm and hold him upright, to lead him to the parking lot and sit him in the backseat of the Impala. Dean sinks into the leather seats, throws an arm across his eyes and shuts down.
It's no wonder the bad follows him like a plague; Dean destroys everything he touches. He always has, right from the day he was four years old up to the present and the realization drives another stake through his chest.
Dean Winchester doesn't notice as his brother slides into the front seat and drives them away from a fallen angel's funeral. He doesn't notice as day slips into night and the stars come out to play, their reflections dancing and shimmering through the glass of the windows. He's too wrapped up in his memories and guilts and 'what if?'s.
Sam depended on him, and Dean let him get killed. John depended on him, and he died because of Dean. He couldn't protect Bobby, and he couldn't protect Lisa, or Ben, or anyone else he's ever remotely cared about.
Cas depended on him and Dean didn't have his back.
This is all his fault.