You're going off the deep end.
He remembered the first time he had said this to himself. It was the first step of realization. The words echoed in his head.
You're going off the deep end.
Beating flesh, that's what he was doing. Beating the flesh, over and over, pounding until it stripped right off the bone, blood spewing like a magnificent dragon's fiery breath. Burning, burning, searing, white-hot, inch-deep wounds. Circular, hexagonal, mutilated shapes. Skin breaking, flesh ripping.
You're going off the deep end.
Crushing bones, that's what he was doing. Crushing the bones, snapping them like twigs, cracking them until they pierced flesh, fresh blood springing out from broken veins and shredded arteries.
You're going off the deep end.
The screams—they were what really bothered him. Those penetrating screams, the cries for help, the gurgled, pain-filled moans. Anything that brought him back to humanity; anything that pulsed through his being, piecing back together remnants of his fragmented soul.
Then again, it wasn't so bad anymore. First it had been worse than any version of Hell he had ever endured. The thought of harming anyone like he had in the pit brought a sickness to the very core of his being.
Slowly and surely he had realized it was necessary for survival. He knew if he started, he'd lose himself. It was inevitable. But there was no other option. So he tolerated it. He shut his mouth and bit his tongue, as he was accustomed to doing. His father had taught him that. Old habits die hard.
But now, he enjoyed it. He'd lost himself, like his brother had warned him. Truth be told, he knew he would. He'd felt the effects of Hell creeping into his soul, draining him, ever since he'd been "saved".
Saved. What a funny word. He didn't feel saved.
You're going off the deep end.
Cracking jaws, that's what he was doing. Cracking the jaws, splitting lips and knocking out teeth with his bare hands. It felt so good, even hearing their gurgled, bloody moans. The task was melodious to his hardened heart. The rhythmic beating of his own hands upon their ragged bodies was perfectly timed with each cry.
"Dean Winchester."
The words echoed across the empty lot as a streetlight flickered. It was dangerous to be out alone at night. There were only two people he could think of that might come after him at this hour. But why? They knew he'd changed. There was no coming back from where he'd been. No special powers, no blind preachers, no demon deals, no angels—not even God Himself could bring Dean back to the person he'd once been.
So why was someone here for him? Desperation, perhaps? Something must have incited this attempt, though Dean couldn't think of what. The apocalypse was upon them—what was worse than that?
The gravelly footsteps were closer now, but Dean didn't turn around. He'd let the other person close the gap. Fear tactics. He'd learned all the basics of survival now. All those who were still living had.
"Dean Winchester," the voice repeated. Low, smoky, rough, and smooth all at once. He knew that voice. The voice he once considered his last resort, his personal savior. His guardian.
"Castiel," Dean spoke in return, still not turning around. His voice was intense, yet playful. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the angel walked around and stood in front of him.
Dean lifted his dark green eyes to meet Castiel's bright blue ones. The angel looked different than Dean remembered. He was no longer wearing his signature trench coat—or any of his usual clothes, for that matter. His jaw line was scruffy, unshaven. His hair was unkempt. He observed Dean quietly, a hint of sadness evident in his usual stoic expression.
Castiel's attention drifted toward the flickering lamppost. The wind gently lifted his hair, and he looked back to Dean, that same calculating look in his eyes. "Your eyes are darker," he noted, more to himself than Dean. Dean knew this, of course. He'd known for quite sometime, and, to be honest, had always expected this change to come about sooner or later. He couldn't hide from fate forever.
Castiel observed him silently for a few moments before continuing. "What are you doing, Dean?" he asked slowly, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. Once, long ago, Dean might have smiled at this gesture. But that simple gesture held too many memories for him now.
Dean stared coldly at the former angel, then stepped around him and peered into the pitch-black night. Nothing could be heard or seen for miles. It felt as if they were the only two creatures in existence. What little light was present came from the single flickering lamppost. Orange neon. The only sound came from either of their voices, barely above a whisper.
"I could ask you the same thing," Dean said roughly, eyes trained tightly on Castiel's rugged form. Castiel locked eyes with Dean, then lowered his eyes to the ground, swallowing. Dean merely stood still, staring at the angel.
The lamppost flickered again, and wind gently tugged at Dean's jacket. The silence was eerie and deafening. Somewhere from the depths of his mind, Dean could hear the stifled moans of innocent souls.
"Don't do this," Castiel spoke quietly, the plea evident in his voice. He rose his eyes once again to meet Dean's, but Dean did not look away. Castiel's gaze was just as penetrating as he remembered, but now, without the humanity, it was tolerable. Dean knew Castiel wasn't just looking at him. Castiel was staring directly into his soul—or, rather, the empty void that once was his soul.
Dean laughed humorlessly, the sound echoing around the silent street corners, amplifying until it slowly faded away. "You did this to me," he said coldly.
Castiel stared at him, expression nearly impossible to determine. Beneath his crystal eyes lay something that Dean recognized as concern, but other than that, he couldn't tell. "I know," Castiel said quietly, looking away once again before returning his gaze to Dean.
The street filled with silence yet again.
"I'm sorry," the angel finally whispered, eyes glistening.
"It's too late for apologies," Dean shot back quickly, voice louder and harsher than before. "It doesn't change anything."
"I know," Castiel said again, voice a bit hoarser. He blinked quickly and looked up at the black sky, breathing in sharply. After a moment, he looked back to Dean. "If I could do it again…." he choked.
"You'd what?" Dean said, a dirty smile playing at his lips. "You'd change things? Make it all better?" His laughter boomed again around the empty street. "You and who? God?" Dean pointed to the necklace Castiel was wearing—the same one Sam had given him when he was young. "I don't think so." His words hung in the air, sharp staccatos on an old piano.
Castiel said nothing, eyes stuck to the ground, jaw set. If Dean had looked closer, he might have seen the glistening tears that threatened to spill over.
Instead, Dean took to circling Castiel, much like a predator might do to its prey. "Why are you here?" Dean mused aloud as Castiel stood deathly still. "To save my soul?" Dean let out another hearty laugh. "No, that's not it. You know there's no way to do that…. Not anymore, at least."
Castiel remained silent.
"So what is it then?" Dean spoke, voice harsh and merciless, reverberating around the empty night. "Help? More torturing?" Dean smiled cruelly, turning back to look at Castiel. "You know I'm always willing," he smirked.
"It's Sam," Castiel murmured, still avoiding Dean's gaze. It was strange to see him so…human. Vulnerable. Dean focused on his face, noticing small scratches and bruises alongside the dark purple circles beneath his eyes.
Dean's eyes flickered to the ground for a moment at the mention of his brother's name. So many memories flooded his mind, so many former feelings—love, sympathy, concern…. However, the emotions were no longer meaningful. Nothing could fill the empty void in his heart, his soul.
"Sam," Dean said lowly, looking directly back into the angel's eyes. Dean clenched his jaw as he said the name through his teeth, nearly spitting it. Castiel lowered his eyes, away from Dean's poisonous glare.
"He needs your help," Castiel said quietly, looking back up at Dean pleadingly.
"He needs my help," Dean scoffed.
"He's your brother." The angel tilted his head again, squinting slightly, trying to decipher some sort of emotion that was clearly not present in Dean's expression.
"Your point?"
Castiel sighed dejectedly, recognizing the hopelessness of the situation. "He needs you. You're his only family."
"I'm not that person anymore," Dean returned caustically. He pressed his lips together tightly, expression remaining cold and hard. Heartless.
The lamppost flickered and extinguished. Darkness flooded Dean's vision once again. He immediately became very aware of his surroundings, despite the lack of visibility. Nothing could be heard except the angel's shallow yet steady breathing.
Dean tried to listen to the silence, but the screaming in his head grew louder. Gasps, moans, yelps, cries—he heard it all. Every single soul he'd ever tortured, shattered, shredded…. There was no such thing as silence anymore.
Neither Castiel nor Dean moved in the eerie darkness, yet both of them could feel the sense of foreboding hanging in the air.
"Dean," Castiel finally murmured quietly. His usual gruff tone was gone, replaced by an unmistakable softness, a plea. The lamppost flickered on again, its dim light revealing Castiel's forlorn expression.
Dean smirked and eased his hand around the knife in his pocket. He wondered if it would work. Could he kill an angel with a knife? Was Castiel still an angel, or was he completely human? Only one way to find out. From the depths of his mind came the chilling cries, louder now, beating like a pounding drum. After a moment, Dean realized Castiel was saying something, but he could only hear the low undertones of the angel's voice.
Dean's pulse raced faster, sweat dripping down his neck. He was getting desperate. He couldn't remember the last time he'd killed, tortured, or mutilated. The last time he'd stabbed, ripped, torn flesh from bone. Addiction—that's what the demons told him would happen. After extreme hatred, came dislike. Then came tolerance. Then came denial. Then acceptance.
Then addiction.
In one deft movement, Dean pulled the knife out of his jacket and twisted it into Castiel's stomach. The angel leaned forward, gasping in shock as blood spurted out of his stomach. His face paled sheet-white, the color that signaled impending death.
Dean watched the blood flow, eyes dancing in the neon orange glow of the streetlight. Killing hadn't been this satisfying in a long time. He twisted the knife again as a gurgled moan escaped the lips of the angel.
You're going off the deep end.
Voices echoed in his head, louder and louder. The rough, disapproving voice of his father. The gentle concern of his brother. The pleading of the angels. The urging of the demons. The faltering cries and simpering moans of his former victims.
You're going off the deep end.
The angel's blue eyes were wide with emotion. Shock. Disappointment. Pain. Agony. But the most prominent of them was failure. Failure to save Dean from his ultimate enemy—himself.
You're going off the deep end.
Another twist of the knife. The angel was fading, body crumpling to the ground. Dean didn't notice. He didn't care. A quick movement of the knife, a rip of the flesh. Skin tearing against the sharp blade. Organs rolling out, intestines spilling onto the pavement.
You're going off the deep end.
Castiel's body writhed desperately, perhaps its final act before death. Dean gripped the angel's jaw with one hand and beat his skull with the other. Castiel hardly moaned, but desperately grabbed Dean's wrist in protest, quickly losing consciousness. Dean pulled the angel's arm back and broke it with a sickening crack.
Blood, deep purple and red, stained Dean's hands and clothes as he grabbed the knife from the angel's abdomen. He thrusted it deep within the chest. He punctured one of the lungs. He tore across the skin of the rib cage. Castiel's body fell limp against the pavement, embracing death's cool touch.
You're going off the deep end.
Raising the knife, that's what he was doing. Raising the knife and kneeling over the body, plunging it into the heart. Ripping open the chest and clawing at the skin, blood filling his dirty nail beds, tainting what was left of his ragged soul.
You've gone off the deep end.