Dean.
He's whispering, and you can't particularly tell where his voice originates from but you know he's around here, somewhere. He's always around, whether you want him there or not.
Wake up.
Your face is pressed into a pillow, but it's not soft and the used cover has stains from years of saliva dribbled into it. It's embarrassing, but he won't judge you for it, has never judged you for it. You're tired, already exhausted in the mornings when you have to lift your body from the bed, and set your feet on the hard wooden floor. Live. It's seven steps to the bedroom's adjoining bathroom and from the doorway it's three to the sink. You can't risk looking in the mirror this morning, especially not after last night's haunt, so instead your gaze is strictly set downwards, eyeing the drain as you let the water run. Two toothbrushes sit in the cup, green on the right, blue on the left. Toothpaste rests on the opposite side of the brushes, and your movements are slow, uncapping, squeezing, brushing, spitting. Minutes pass and your hands haven't left the white porcelain edges of the sink and your hands-
It's cold.
Today you decide to throw the other toothbrush out.
But it's not just the toothbrush you finally decide to rid the bathroom of, it's the-
"What kind of shampoo is this? Cas, we don't need to smell like green apples.I thought we were men here." He shakes his head, smiling at you. "You're the one with bad dandruff. Plus I think it's nice."
The sound is a heavy thud, the half empty bottle weighing the bag down to smack against the metal of the trash can.
"What do you mean my skin is dry? And why does this lotion smell funky?" With a roll of his eyes he sets it on the middle shelf, next to the jar of q-tips. "I mean, that your skin is dry. And this is going to fix that. Stop whining about the way things smell."
Another bottle joins in, the can getting full.
Wordlessly, Cas wanders into the living room and sinks down onto the couch next to you. A minute later, he shifts and his head is on your lap. He's turned towards you, curled up, facing the back of the couch. A groan, he's clutching his head and inching further into himself. "Are the headaches back?" He nods. "I'll go get the aspirin." But he doesn't move. You'll get it later.
The near entirety of the medicine cabinet is actually filled with medicine, and you throw away several types of painkillers.
"Babe that's the third medication they've put you on this month." He shrugs. You grit your teeth. Tilting his head back, Cas swallows back the pain and that's how he moves on. You just can't accept it.
The prescription bottles are almost all empty, though few pills remain. Shaking a few of them, the rattle stirs something within you that follows the last remaining bottles into the trash.
The bathroom feels too empty after, but he's whispering again-
That's good. Let it go.
You drag your feet across the floor, bare toes almost catching on the bottom of your sweats, and the bed welcomes you back again. The hiss of pain when your shoulder hits the mattress is ignored because your eyes close and he's there.
You need to get up.
You'd shake your head if you could.
You need to move, move on, and let me go.
You can't.
You just can't accept it.
