"Do you ever feel like hurting yourself?"

Dean looks his military-appointed shrink straight in the eye, silent and unblinking. He's been seeing Dr Erica Cartwright once a week for the last three months. They've done some getting-to-know-each-other exercises which he resents having to pay $300 an hour for, and had spoken a lot about his service overseas when he'd been stationed in Afghanistan, but never in any depth - Dean doesn't like to talk about what he's been through. Eventually she looks away from him and down at her sheet of paper – her 'sanity checklist' as Dean had called it when she'd first taken it out.

"I hurt all the time," he says eventually. "So would you if you'd had to put up with the shit I've been through."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, but I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"Not if you don't want to be committed for psychiatric evaluation, no."

Dean glares out the window. It isn't the first time they'd had this conversation, and it won't be the last.

"Dean, from the moment you chose not to jump off that ledge you had to realise you were coming here." When he doesn't answer she tries again. "Many soldiers come back home to find that they struggle to adapt to civilian life after deployment."

Dean says nothing, the silence broken by the sound of him cracking his knuckles one by one as he thinks about the first day he sat down in this chair.

"How are you sleeping?"

Dean stiffened. He hadn't been sleeping well since he got back. He got four hours a night, if he was lucky, and even then he kept waking up. "Fine," he lied.

"Not... sleeping..." she muttered to herself as she scribbled on her notepad.

"Hey, I never said I didn't sleep!" he snapped irritably. "I get my four hours."

"So four hours a night, then. That's not a lot."

Damn it. "You tricked me," he stated coolly.

"You lied to me," she shot back.

"I realise that many returning soldiers are reluctant to seek help," Dr Cartwright tries, jolting Dean out of his memory. "They view it as a weakness. But it takes strength to acknowledge that there is a problem."

Dean rolls his eyes.

"I see from your file that your father served in Vietnam... And he was awarded the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star, among other medals."

"The Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal and the Vietnam Service Medal," Dean nods carefully. He's never brought up his family before, and she hasn't asked. He supposes he knew it would happen sooner or later.

"Did your father ever talk about his time during the war?"

"No."

"Was your father the reason you decided to enlist?"

"I guess, maybe a little. I never really thought about it that way, though."

"How did you think about it?"

"I wanted to protect people."

She nodded, and scribbled something else down. "What was your father like when you were growing up?"

"He'd drift in and out. Go wherever the work took him," Dean says vaguely. It isn't a lie.

"What work was that?"

He shrugs. "He never said, and I never asked." There's a loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt and he pulls at it, pulling several stitches undone before he drops it again. "To be honest I was just glad when he came back with a few bucks in his hand and not smelling like whiskey," Dean admits reluctantly.

She treasures this golden nugget of information. "He drank?"

Dean scratches at his jaw and nods.

"Do you drink?"

"Who doesn't?"

"How many drinks do you have a week? Roughly?"

"Well, I gotta sleep sometime," he smirks, not taking the question seriously, because how else is he supposed to keep the guilt and the nightmares at bay? "What's seven days times... It's somewhere in the mid fifties." It's not like he keeps count but if it's an exaggeration, it's not by much.

"And you're still only getting four hours' sleep?" she asks, writing on her pad.

"Three or four, every couple of nights," he concedes.

Her hand seems to stop mid-word and as her head jerks up to look at him. "When was the last time you were in a long-term relationship?

He frowns at the change of subject. "Define long-term."

"More than two months."

"Never."

She tuts unhappily.

A pretty face flashes before his eyes. "Well, there was Lisa," he shrugs to himself, "but..."

"Lisa?"

"Best year of my life," he remarks wistfully. "But it was all levels of fucked up."

"How so?"

"I was messed up, but she took me as I was and we pretended we were a regular, happy family. I don't think she loved me, and I think I was more in love with the idea of her, but it was the closest thing I'd have to happiness in a long time so I held onto it too tight."

"What happened?"

Dean deliberately hasn't thought about it in years. "It all fell apart after a year when I got shipped out to Afghanistan. She was afraid of the effect it was going to have on her kid, what with me dropping in and out of their lives, never knowing if I was going to make it back." His voice cracks and he hopes to hell that he isn't going to start crying. "Ben was like a son to me."

He has Dr Cartwright's full attention now, the pen and paper long forgotten. "Oh, Dean, I'm so sorry."

He shrugs again, deflecting attention from the fact it's tearing him apart inside. He's said far too much already, and he doesn't know why.

. * * * .

Four Months Later

As the two surviving characters kiss on screen another creature slithered across and eats them just before the credits roll.

"Well, that was a heap of shit," Dean announces to the empty room.

Of course he'd known that when he'd started with a title like Piranhaconda, but he'd just been looking for something to keep him amused for half an hour until Cas came home. However Cas still isn't back. Dean isn't worried, though, because he knows that Cas can easily get caught up at work. So long as nobody knocks on the door he isn't going to panic. He definitely doesn't want to end up watching Sand Sharks, so he grabs the remote and flips through the channels, desperate for something else to watch.

He skips past a documentary on meerkats and a game show, among other things, before doubling back when he belatedly realises he's seen Cas's face on the news.

"—several hours Detective Novak has been speaking to seventeen-year-old Krissy Chambers."

Seventeen. The kid has her whole life ahead of her.

"Her mother was tragically killed in front of her in a home invasion when she was nine, and eight months ago her father was murdered. She has since been living in foster care and it's thought she is suffering from depression."

The camera cuts from the newsreader in the studio to the bridge where Cas is still talking to her.

'So that's where he is,' Dean muses.

He hunches forward in his seat, eyes glued to the screen. He doesn't believe in God but Castiel does, so he prays that he'll be able to talk her down safely. He hasn't watched any of the news footage from the time he'd been about to jump - he doesn't want to think about the crap the reporters would have dragged up - but he'd been hounded for weeks by reporters asking about Jo, and his father, and his brother. Hell, even Sam had had a run in with a couple of reporters asking about his drugs problems and was currently serving a one-year suspended sentence after pleading guilty to punching one of them in the face.

"We don't know what Detective Novak is saying to Miss Chambers, but she seems no closer to climbing back over the railing now than she was an hour ago. Police forces could be in for a long night," the on-site newswoman was reporting.

Well, shit. Dean settles back in his seat to watch in a gesture of support for his boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

Some mornings he still has to pinch himself, because he can't believe he's waking up next to an amazing guy after so many one-night stands and weekend flings. If he doesn't dwell on it for too long he can almost imagine a future with Cas, and that scares him more than facing a hundred Taliban fighters.

"It's been just over five hours since police officers were alerted to the situation behind me. Detective Novak was called to the scene and has been talking to Krissy Chambers in an attempt to persuade the seventeen-year-old to climb back over the railing. We can only speculate as to—"

Several exclamations from the television cut the newswoman off mid-speech, and he watches as the young girl sidles along the railing - away from Castiel. The cameraman does his best to zoom in on her as she appears to shout at Cas, the picture blurring to varying degrees as he adjusts the focus.

Then she jumps.

Dean stares at the television, his heart in his mouth, as the camera zooms out again to show the boats circling in the water below, lights panning the water for any sign of her. He barely takes in the newswoman's stuttered words as she does her best to continue reporting, or the text scrolling along the bottom of the screen; his attention focused solely on the tiny person in a beige trench coat leaning over the bridge railing.

. * * * .

"Look at what's happened to me..."

Castiel's voice carries through, his tone flat as he sung.

"I can't believe it myself..."

Dean sits up as a key scrapes against the lock once, twice, three times, then turns.

"Suddenly I'm up on top of the world,
It should've been somebody else..."

"Cas?" he asks, stepping out into the darkened hallway.

"Believe it or not,
I'm walking on air..."

The smell of whiskey has him fingering the silver ring he wears, twisting it round and round his finger. It's a thing he does now every time he has the urge to drink, to focus his attention on something other than his thirst. Sometimes it works.

"I never thought I could feel so free-ee-ee.
Flying away on a wing and a prayer.
Who could it be?"

Cas has a bag in one hand, the tell-tale clink of bottles making Dean's mouth go dry.

"Believe it or not it's just me."

As Cas fumbles with the chain Dean kicks himself into action, gritting his teeth as he locks the door and slides the chain into place.

"Cas? What happened to you, buddy?"

"I found a liquor store," Castiel tells him seriously, swaying a little on his feet. "And I drank it."

"I saw the news."

"You can't save everyone," Castiel says coldly, brushing past Dean on his way into the kitchen.

"She was seventeen."

"I know how old she was!" Cas roars at him.

It was only then, in the light of the kitchen, that he can see how red and puffy Cas's eyes are.

"You did your best," Dean assures him.

"It wasn't enough."

"If she'd decided to jump then nothing you could have said would have changed her mind."

"I changed your mind."

Dean swallows. "That can't be here," he says, motioning to the brown bag.

"Why not?" Cas asks, pulling out a bottle of whiskey. "I can drink. I'm not an alcoholic."

That stings. "You promised me that—"

"It's my fucking house, Dean. If I... hic... If I want a drink I can... hic... damn well drink." He pulls out a second bottle. "Glasses, glasses," he mutters, opening and closing cupboard doors without seeing the contents. "Who needs a glass?" he asks, unscrewing the cap and taking a large swig from the bottle.

"It's our house," Dean says, palms sweating as he twists his ring round his finger.

This isn't like Cas. He's never seen Cas have anything more than a glass of wine with dinner, and that was before Dean had started going to AA meetings. When Dean gave up drink so had Cas.

"She was so angry," Cas slurs. "So full of anger. She hated me, the press, the people watching her! She was so angry..."

"Why don't you put that down?" Dean asks, trying to take the bottle from him.

"Why don't you fuck off?"

"Because you're gonna hate yourself in the morning," Dean tells him.

"I hate myself now," Cas mumbles, knocking back another gulp. "Ah," he gasps. "That burns."

"Why don't you at least have a shower first, hmm?" Dean asks, finally managing to coax the bottle out of his hand. "You must be freezing."

"I love you," Cas tells him, grabbing his face and kissing him.

Dean freezes, the taste of whiskey on Castiel's tongue threatening to override his common sense.

"I love you," Cas repeats, and sniffs as fresh tears trailed down his cheeks. "I love you."

It takes all of Dean's self control not to take a drink from the bottle himself. "Shower," he instructs harshly. "Now."

Cas takes his hand and pulls him towards the doorway.

"I'll be right behind you," Dean promises. He needs to make sure Cas doesn't fall and crack his head open in the shower, after all. "Just give me a minute."

"Just one," Cas says, using one hand to lean on the wall as he makes his way to the bathroom singing, "Look at what's happened to me... I can't believe it myself..."

Dean looks at the bottle in his hand, and the ring on his other. It would be so easy to raise the bottle to his lips and take a sip - just one sip. But he knows that one would turn into the whole bottle, so he fights the urge down and took both bottles to the sink. As he tips them up the dark amber liquid glugs out, its heavy scent filling the air and wrapping itself around him like a noose, pulling tighter and tighter as the contents swirl down the drain. He can almost taste it and his grip on the bottles tightens in response.

He turns the tap on and rinses the bottles out for good measure.

"De-ean!" Castiel hollers through drunkenly.

Dean understands drinking to cope, he does, but he will never, ever admit to Cas that tonight a small part of him hates him for not only coming home drunk, but with alcohol. He won't say anything, because Cas will hate himself more than enough for both of them tomorrow.

. * * * .

Castiel opens his eyes and immediately screws them shut again, groaning as he buries his face in his pillow. It's too bright.

"Good morning," Dean says loudly, and far too cheerfully for Castiel's liking - though he thinks it sounds forced.

His head is pounding. He hasn't had a hangover like this since college, and even then— He was hungover. Oh, God, he'd been drinking. He screws his eyes shut again, willing the tears pricking at his eyes to go away.

The bed dips beside him and a warm hand rubs his shoulder. Even through the pillow he can still smell the strong coffee Dean has brought through. He turns his head and opens one bleary eye.

"Is that for me?" he mumbles, knowing that the answer will be yes even though he doesn't deserve it.

"Yes," Dean says, placing it on the bedside table.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks quietly.

Dean sighs heavily beside him. "A little," he concedes.

"I'm sorry."

"I get it, I do, Cas, I just... It would've been better if you hadn't come home last night, you know?"

Castiel's stomach turns. God, how can he have been so stupid? Knowing how much his actions have hurt Dean makes him realise just how much he cares about him; how much he loves him. He's lucky to have Dean, and if last night has cost him their relationship, he'll never forgive himself.

There had been hell to pay at work over his actions talking Dean down from the ledge - he'd been suspended and almost demoted, the counselling he'd been forced to undergo the only thing that had saved him. Dean had stayed with him throughout it all, despite having his own crap to deal with, and while they weren't perfect they were happy.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, and he'll say it over and over and over if it'll help.

Dean sighs. He doesn't want apologies; he wants Cas to turn back the clock and just come home. But that's unrealistic. Torment darkens Castiel's eyes, and it's all Dean can do not to simply pull him into his arms and tell him he everything's okay.

It isn't okay, but they can make it okay. Together.

"That can never happen again, capiche?"

Castiel nods solemnly. "I capiche." Then a memory comes rushing back to him. "I bought whiskey!" he exclaims, sitting up in concern.

"It's gone."

"Gone?" he echoes weakly. Does that mean..? Has Dean..?

"I poured it down the sink."

Cas nods to himself, unable to put his relief into words. That had been the best thing to do. "Dean, I'm so sorry."

Dean can't look him in the eye, but he nods. "I know."

Castiel grabs his arm. "I'm sorry," he repeats, more desperately this time. He can't lose Dean over something so foolish; he won't.

"Cas—"

"I need you."

Finally Dean does look at him.

"I need you," Castiel says again, now that he's got his attention, pulling at his arm until Dean sidles closer so Cas can curl up against him. "Oh, God, Dean," he breathes into his chest. "She was just a child."

"I know." Dean wraps his arms around Cas, strong and comforting. "I watched it on the TV."

Castiel looks up at him. "You saw..?"

"Everything."

Castiel buries his face in Dean's shirt. "I don't think I can do it any more."

A part of Dean felt like Cas doesn't deserve his support, but he swallows it down. Jo had always said that his biggest character flaw was that he cared too much. She'd said it would get him killed in action. He lets out a shaky breath, the familiar guilt over her death washing over him. "Cas, you're good at what you do," he says, glad that he'd had the strength to dispose of the whiskey last night. It's always hardest not to take a drink when he thinks of Jo.

Castiel shakes his head. He used to be good at his job; used to care without getting involved. Now it's hard to be objective when his heart is on the line. "I've gotten too close. I feel too much. I bring it all home with me and it's not fair on you. It's not fair on you..."

"You shouldn't try to make a decision now," Dean tells him, trying to think logically. "You're hungover and you lost someone last night—"

"This isn't about last night!" Cas snaps, his sudden burst of anger doing nothing for the pounding in his head. He massages his temples as he tries to figure out how to make Dean understand. "I've been thinking about it for a while."

"You— Oh. But you never said anything."

"I knew you'd try to talk me out of it."

"Hey, hey, no. It's not up to me. I'm not gonna try and talk you out of it—"

Cas laughs bitterly because that's exactly what Dean has been doing.

"—I just wanna make sure you think it through."

"I have."

"Okay." Admittedly Dean's a little bit relieved that Cas is leaving. He loves seeing the hope in his eyes every time he talks someone down, but it doesn't compensate for the crushing disappointment he sees when Cas comes home feeling like he's failed someone.

"Captain Adler over in homicide is retiring," he tells Dean.

"Adler?" Dean repeats softly, stroking a hand up and down Cas's arm. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"Because you called him a homophobic prick at the Christmas party."

"Oh, yeah!" Dean grins at the memory, before recalling how drunk he'd gotten that night. "I kind of embarrassed you."

Cas shakes his head, even though there's an ounce of truth in Dean's admission. "Word is Naomi Harris will be replacing him. Maybe I'll go for her job."

"You really wanna be a homicide detective?"

Cas shrugs. "I just don't want to watch good people give up any more."

"So now I get to worry about you chasing after serial killers who are gonna try and shoot you."

"You've been watching too many cop shows," Cas chuckles lightly. "But if I can't be there for the living, then maybe I can be there for the dead."

"But don't... I dunno, don't you want to try and retire on a success story?"

"Dean, I intend to spend the rest of my life living with a success story," Castiel says carefully. The past seven months have been an uphill battle for both of them, but they've been there for each other and nothing is more important to him then Dean is. He knows that now. "I need to leave, and I need to do it now."

"Okay."

"I mean it, Dean. The rest of my life."

"Okay."

Castiel sits up so he could look Dean in the eye, the right thing to say suddenly seeming so clear. With that clarity comes confidence. "Will you marry me?"

Dean stares dumbly at him. He can barely think about still being with Cas in a month's time, and now Cas wants him to decide on the rest of his life! "Why... Why now?" he settles for asking. When they're on the brink of a fight they may or may not manage to avert seems a crazy time to propose.

"Why not now?" Cas asks. He can see he's caught Dean off-guard, but he wasn't exactly expecting this himself. "I love you."

"Yeah, but... I'm still fucked up," Dean rambles. "I still have nightmares and I'm an alcoholic and I'm fucked up!" He says it all in a rush, like he's trying to get Cas to change his mind. Which he isn't sure is what he's really trying to do.

"I'm fucked up, too," Cas reminds him, only now starting to feel nervous. Asking had felt so much like the right thing to do that he never considered that Dean's answer might not be the one he wants to hear. Cas can't feel the bed beneath him and he feels like he might float away. "You can say no, if you want to," he tells him quietly, silently praying that Dean won't.

What must only be about five seconds drags out like an eternity. Castiel's burst of confidence is long gone; now all he feels is suffocating dread as he waits for Dean's answer.

Dean shakes his head. "I don't want to say no."

"Oh," he breathes, momentarily relieved. Then, "But you haven't said—"

"Yes."

"Yes?" Cas echoes, daring to smile.

"Yes."

Cas moves to kiss him but Dean pushes him away. He instantly recoils like he'd been burned. "You're still mad at me," he says.

"No. Well, yeah, but you're gonna taste like whiskey."

Castiel slaps a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry," he says, his words muffled.

"Go brush your teeth. I'll make us breakfast."

Castiel pecks him on the cheek. "I love you."

"You, too."