Castiel's sitting on the wooden floor of his deteriorating hut, blanket pulled tight around him, candle burning on the ground in front. He's fixated on the flame; on the rhythmic dancing, flickering embers, heat that turns from a deep, luxurious red to an ice-blue to a magnificent gold.
There's a tap on the door and it's Dean; even in his misty stupor Castiel knows that, has the features burned into his brain, branded like chemical instinct. But even in the dark his eyes are shining, such a vivid emerald-green, and Castiel squints because it's like looking into the sun. This would be the aftermath of the pretty pink pills; the hallucinations have stopped, Castiel is no longer focused purely and entirely on a slight tremor in his hand; in a crack throughout the plaster of the ceiling that snakes and stretches and paints pictures; in the alien shapes cast by the only light bulb in the room, dim, flickering.
Now he's just cold, numb, and somewhere, deep down – hungry.
"O my fearless leader," he says loudly, and it's dripping with sarcasm, gaze avoiding the too-bright other's. "Got a job for me?"
Dean steps further into the room, tall build swathed in jackets further illuminated by the candle, and Castiel doesn't realise he's staring dully for a moment until Dean clears his throat, frowning, and says; "I need you to sober up, Cas." Except it's more of a growl and Dean looks as prematurely-old as ever, face haggard and painted with lines, skin pale and sunken. He's thinner, and his cheekbones are too prominent, the bags under his eyes too dark and heavy. His burning eyes are the only indication of the drive that keeps him going.
Not that Castiel can say he looks much better himself.
"We need to do a supplies run and we're a gun down."
The ex-angel laughs, bitterly, too-loud and it's hollow and disjointed. "I'm the second-best fighter in camp," he says matter-of-factly, taking a swig from his flask and grimacing against the bitter liquid because even after all this time and experience, it still tastes like pure gasoline. "High or… not," he adds, for want of better cohesive thinking and maybe some skills in persuasion. Dean doesn't look particularly convinced, but he knows it's the truth. Castiel's saved his life at least ten times; and he'll put money on the fact that he was doped up to the eyeballs about eight of them.
Dean looks like he's about to say something but he closes his mouth, unstrapping his gun and placing it on the table and striding over slowly to sit on the edge of Castiel's bed. Castiel notes that he doesn't remove any of the various knifes and single shotgun he has on his person underneath all the layers; he also doesn't feel the need to remind him that the bed's well-used and not a particularly sanitary place to sit.
"And how are you doin', Cas?" Dean asks seriously, trying to catch the other's gaze. Castiel has to rip his eyes and short attention-span from the flame to look questioningly at him.
"And since when do you care?" It's harsh, but Castiel thinks it's the truth. He knows that Dean struggles, hold himself responsible for everyone they've lost – that he tries to distance himself from everyone including himself. And Castiel gets it, he really does.
But he didn't have to leave Cas to rot in the hut, to drown himself useless and pass-out from slight overdose as opposed to fall asleep every night. He didn't have to resign visits to telling him weakly to get a grip on himself because they have this mission and that mission and Dean still wants to believe that it's even possible to get a grip; that there's still something to grab hold of.
Dean doesn't reply. Maybe because it rings true. Maybe because it dregs some deep-buried guilt about Castiel, or Sam, or Bobby. He looks pained. But either way, Castiel knows how much it hurts to feel; and isn't that what he outruns every night, whether it's alone or swathed in bodies, the common objective being how high and distant he could make himself.
So he offers Dean the flask because that's how he stops feeling, and although Dean raises an eyebrow and spares him a condescending glance – one that Castiel thinks he can see sadness strewn throughout but isn't sure – he takes it all the same, unscrewing the silver lid and taking a gratuitous gulp. He probably isn't expecting the strength because he almost chokes, but his cheeks are void of flush by the time he wipes his lips and mutters a husky, "Thanks," handing it back to Castiel who's confused for a moment before he takes it with understanding.
Castiel does that sometimes.
And he immediately misses the high; he misses the lights the most, because although they change colours and shapes and patterns, they still manage to be constant and absolute and they promise him they'll never leave, which is less than he can say about anything else in this new, broken world.
So he looks at Dean wordlessly before he's padding over to the table of drawers by his filthy bed, rummaging through to find a disappointingly high amount of empty capsules, and Castiel makes a mental note to do a run. By which he means sneaking out of camp perimeters at some ungodly hour despite Dean's lectures about safety and rules – finding some run-down pharmacy or derelict human willing to sell, of which there are a fair few considering it's post apocalypse. Castiel's surprised how many people he shares priorities with. Except now they deal desperately, in tinned peaches and bottles of water instead of money. Sometimes Cas feels bad for using his rations to purchase the stuff that lays him to waste; but then he remembers that he doesn't care and screw everyone, and he's walking quickly back to camp with one half of him hoping the croats don't catch up and the other, stronger half praying hard to an absent god that they do.
It doesn't take long to find the dispenser that holds four blue tablets, all which get tipped into Castiel's hand. Somehow, through the fog, he still knows they're the strongest. So he walks back to his pillow and blanket on the chilling, creaky floor and is only looking in wonderment at the pills, convinced he can hear the hairs on his hand rubbing together and wondering what new senses these sky-blue will bring him when Dean is beside him in a heartbeat, hand cupping Castiel's palm and covering the pills, saying, "Don't."
Castiel's overcome with rage but he doesn't know how to phrase it, his muddled mind not able to make anything out of the thoughts so they come out in disjointed phrases like, "You don't even… who gave you the fucking right!"
It doesn't take more than a few moments of Dean's even gaze before the anger's died down because his emotions last about as long as his concentration in this state, so he just sighs in the deprivation and lays on his back. The wood is hard and uncomfortable, but the darkness of the room in warm and encompassing and he murmurs, "Lay down with me," to Dean who complies without a response.
The only nights shared between Castiel and Dean – and yes, there had been some, but they'd been aggressive and full of need and want and a sort of deprived violence. Not that Castiel hadn't enjoyed them, and he knew Dean had too. But waking up alone had a whole new sense these days, and aloneness was so much more physical with the absence of the other, so self-representative that it made him want to curl up and die from his sheer reflective hatred.
So Castiel seizes the moment and pushes into Dean's familiar heat as far as he dares, cheek brushing against stubble, and although Castiel assumes the grunt he receives is because it's too close to affection for the ever-abrasive Dean, a pleasantly heavy arm is thrown around his shoulder, hand entangling in his mop of hair, the other around his waist. Even peering through his cloudy perception, Castiel knows this is familiar and good and smiles against the crook between Dean's neck and shoulder, overcome with protection that's a kind of luxury emotion for him.
Castiel puts his hand, testing, on Dean's chest, the cotton of his t-shirt warm but not completely hiding the hardness of his pectoral muscles, and he remembers what they look like unclothed and decides it's been too long but disappointed in that he knows Dean won't allow it, not tonight, not with him like this. It was a strange rule of his, born, Castiel can only assume, from a kind of respect, a want to not take advantage of him. It makes Castiel laugh hollowly, but Dean refuses to get any kind of physical when Castiel's this far gone.
But it's more than he'd hoped for when Dean shifts suddenly until he's hovering over Castiel, frowning and clearly trying to think straight. For a moment Castiel does that thing where he forgets everything and he's looking at the familiar crack in the ceiling over Dean's shoulder and he's rolling the pills around his palm, but he's snapped back to real and this when Dean pins his wrists to the floor. It hurts slightly, but Castiel doesn't mind – leaning up into the hungry kiss. It's violent like everything they share, like everything in their world, but Castiel doesn't mind that either and he's running his tongue along Dean's teeth, exploring every crevasse in his mouth, wrenching one hand free from the iron grip to grab a handful of messy hair that has to be painful but gets lost in all the fumbling and struggle. Dean's lips are dry and cracked but they're still somehow so soft and warm. Castiel moves his hand under Dean's layers of clothing to run it up his spine, counting each prominent vertebra by feel, satisfied when he pulls a shiver from him, even more satisfied when the hand that isn't holding his left wrist runs under Castiel's shirt and up to his chest.
But then he pulls away too quickly, just like old-times, and Castiel's hit instantly with a freezing-cold breeze that nips at him with frosty fangs, the absence of warmth and weight and flesh. He lets out a whine, and Dean sounds slightly embarrassed when he says quietly, "You know the rules," meaning he'd almost forgotten how far-away Castiel had been and was disappointed in himself for thinking it was anything but chemically-influence. Castiel wants to tell him it was real, but it's slightly ironic that he can't form the words, still under the control of narcotics and adrenaline.
Dean's stopped being soft and warm when he all but spits, "Get some rest. We leave at six," to Castiel who lays stunned and alone on the hard ground. He picks up his gun and leather jacket, storms out of the door and slams it behind him. It isn't the first time Castiel's gotten such mixed signals; Dean's afraid, so afraid of feeling, maybe more so than Castiel because he can't smother himself otherwise, because he has a camp to run and survivalists to look after and he needs to be on the straight-and-narrow to hold any kind of authority. But Castiel had forgotten to be distant and had made the mistake of opening so when he blinks up at the ceiling he feels the biting again, the raw emotion at his core that he's not supposed to notice.
He rolls the blue pills around in his hand again before he's put them in his mouth without a second thought and washed them down with what still closely resembles drinking tar.
It's bitter and resentful and cowardly, and it's everything he's used to.