"It broke his heart and it made him old. Tries to rebuild but it just erodes. Some people say that's the way it goes, but he don't feel that way."
(Above lyrics by Conor Oberst)
Dean has been dead for two weeks now. Castiel marks a large X on his calendar to mark the fourteenth day that his best friend left him alone on this miserable earth. A tear drops down his face and he chugs the bottle of whiskey in his free hand. He throws the marker across his empty room. He takes the last chug of alcohol, and throws that as well. He hears it shatter against the wall of the bunker room that Dean once slept in.
Sam had been more than understanding when the angel requested the room as his own upon Dean's passing. In Sam's grief, he was benevolent.
As much as Castiel didn't want to give Dean up, as much as he wanted to bury his own face in the pillows that smelled like Dean's shampoo and lay curled up under the sheets that smelled like his cologne and body wash, the angel knew he was slowly destroying himself.
He had no way to stop, though. Without Dean by his side, he was weak and lost
Castiel couldn't stand thinking about his friend and the one and only love in his centuries of long life. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Dean as plain as day, green eyes blazing happily, white teeth showing as he smiled. Castiel didn't know if this helped him or hurt him. Whichever, he wouldn't give it up. Every night the hunter haunted Castiel's dreams—every dream he'd had for the endlessly long two weeks that Dean had been gone.
Castiel had lost his grace in the great fight to save Dean, and everything that he'd ever felt for the young man became an ache so strong that nothing could ease it. He felt everything one hundred times more miserable than he did when he had his grace. An angel can feel, but resist. A mortal can feel and succumb—succumb so very easily that it can tear one apart. Castiel had come to realize all too suddenly.
He had showered once since the hunter died, and that was only because Sam was there to persuade him to do so. It had been three days after the death that Castiel sat staring at the wall of Dean's room, alone and covered in his own, and Dean's, blood. Sam entered the room on the third day, and knelt down beside the graceless angel. Sam spoke softly to Castiel, and convinced him to get up from where he was sitting. Sam assisted Castiel as he got on to his feet weakly. Castiel didn't speak a word as Sam gently took off his blood drenched trench coat and tried to wipe dried blood from the angels face with a damp washcloth. "It's time to get you cleaned up, buddy." Sam said in a muted, kind tone.
"It's his blood." Castiel said with a dead tone.
"It's all I have of him now. I can't let that be gone too." Castiel's eyes glistened with tears, as did Sam's. However, Sam eventually talked his friend into a shower. Only on the premise that Sam would never wash the blood from his trench coat. Sam agreed to this, forehead furrowed with a pained look on his face. He folded the coat up neatly, placed it on the end of Dean's old bed, and walked away.
Every night since then, Castiel slept holding that coat as if it were a teddy bear. Truth be told, he clung to it because it was all he had left of Dean. It was his only comfort. Every night he would nestle into the coat and cry himself to sleep.
Castiel believed in nothing now. His heart was lost and his mind blown into crisis. He was a shell of a person without Dean.
#destiel #sad #dean winchester #castiel #supernatural #helpful sam #death