A/N: So, yeah. This just came to me Wednesday, very randomly. I'm sure it's been done before, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. A special thanks to Halcyon Impulsion and her crazy-mad patience of my insanity (and grammar.) Please review!
Lonely is the night when you find yourself alone
Your demons come to light and your mind is not your own
Lonely is the night when there's no one left to call
You feel the time is right; the writings on the wall
- "Lonely Is The Night" by Billy Squier
Dean couldn't remember a dark and empty motel room being so creepy before. Even when his mother had first died, when the shadows that lurked in every corner of the room should have been going after him, should have scared him to death knowing the things that his young mind learned that night, he wasn't afraid. His father was there-- shut off and lost, sure; probably even scared to death himself -- but he was there, and that was all Dean needed.
But here he was, in a second floor room of some motel named Stardust or Starlight or Star-something, with its busted-up brick outer and leaky faucets, its cracked up walls and mismatched, three-dollar-a-piece pictures. The scene was no different than every single room he had woken up to nearly every day of his life since he was four. Only this time, he had woken up and the bed beside him was empty.
Dean had migrated throughout the country on his own before, sure. He had woken up by himself plenty of times. When Sam was gone, when his dad had left him to hunt down the yellow-eyed demon. Even when he was traveling with his family, it wasn't a rare occurrence for someone to take off-- to the diner, the bar, for a walk.
But this time was different. Dean could feel it in his bones. He wasn't sure why he was so uneasy. There was a good chance that Sam was just off with Ruby, once more. He hated that this was the preferable scenario here. But it was. It was better than his not-so-baby brother being kidnapped or possessed or killed or any of the other million possibilities that involved the supernatural and the screwed-up lives that they lived.
And Dean would know it was better, because he had experienced all of the above.
That was so not normal.
The hunter sighed and looked over at the alarm clock that sat on the night stand between their beds. It was just past three in the morning. No need to be alarmed. It wasn't like it was the most active time of the day for all things paranormal or anything. Dean snorted at the thought and pushed himself up against the headboard of the bed, folding his arms across his chest protectively. He glanced at the door, feeling an overwhelming need for Sam would walk through it. Like, right now. Dean would yell at Sam for being gone and Sam would make up some lie about where he had been, and they would both go to bed in a semi-huff but still grateful that they had each other.
Things had been said, lies had been told. The damage had been done, and Dean wasn't sure he could recover from the hurtful words that came out of Sam's mouth while under the spell of the siren. It wasn't just that he thought that Sam meant the words he had said – that Dean was too weak, holding Sam back, feeling sorry for himself-- but that Dean, in fact, believed those things himself.
The thirty-year-old shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Not now. He had too much on his mind, he wasn't going to think of that now.
He hated this feeling of helplessness. It made him sick to his stomach. Was he really scared of the dark? Did Hell do that to him?
Sure, he saw hellfire every time he closed his eyes. He saw the blood and the and smelled the sickening scent of sulfur burning him from the inside out. The screams caught him off guard. They echoed through his mind and into his soul and they rang so loud that he wasn't sure that anything else existed. Sometimes he woke up screaming himself.
But that wasn't what it was about. It wasn't why Dean was feeling so empty, so ill at ease.
It was what Tessa had said.
The beautiful reaper, with her casual sense of duty and proud ignorance of the coming war, had been a sight for sore eyes. At least temporarily. He felt like he could confide in her. She wasn't human, she wasn't an angel. She wasn't a demon or a spirit or any other semi-earthly thing that he and Sam had encountered. She was nothing, and she was everything. Omnipotent. A god amongst the dead, given the task of taking life and delivering it to its earned fate.
That kind of person, that kind of thing, was something you could trust, right? But it was what she had said that left that empty pit in his stomach, that widened that ever-present hole in his heart. One which continued to grow until it could grow no more, and then Dean would implode. He was sure of it.
When Castiel had first dragged him from the Pit, Dean was angry. He was scared, and he was mad, because he was sure that whatever it was that had brought him back was no friend. But Castiel assured Dean that he was needed on the side of Good. That there was something inside Dean that the Big Guy upstairs saw, something important enough to be released from the depths of Hell for.
And he didn't believe it, not for one second. How could he, Dean Winchester-- killer of all things abnormal, a liar, a thief, a failure-- be worthy of saving?
But Sam believed it. And so did Bobby, after a while. And Castiel continued to insist that Dean had work to do. Things of the utmost importance. Commissioned by God Himself.
So Dean had finally, finally begun to believe that maybe, in this life that was drowning in the blood of sacrifice and the souls of the innocent, that there was some hope for him after all.
And Tess had taken that away from him. With one thick, cold sentence, she had swept away that tiny amount of hope that Dean was harboring inside of him. She had taken it and destroyed it and all that was left were the salted-and-burned remains of its former self.
"Stop lying to yourself, Dean. The angels have something good in store for you? A second chance? Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure, deep down, you know something nasty's coming down the road," She had said to him, her gorgeous, endless eyes boring into his chaotic mess of a core. "Trust your instincts Dean. There's no such thing as miracles."
But Dean didn't know what his instincts were telling him anymore. He was lost, tethered, dragged around like a dog by angels and demons and his own self-loathing. He was drowning in a large, black pool of hate and sorrow and every time he thought he knew which way was up, he found himself sinking further into the murky depths of its grasp.
He pulled his knees in towards his chest and laid his head back against the dirty headboard of his bed. He didn't know what to believe anymore. If he didn't think he'd go straight back to Hell, if he didn't have Sam to still watch over, he probably would have just... given up by now.
Not that Sam was showing Dean any proof of needing his older brother anymore.
He didn't sit like that for long before he felt that he wasn't alone in the room anymore. He hadn't heard the door open and close, so he knew that it wasn't Sam, and his hunter instincts had not alerted him to any danger.
No, his own personal holy tax accountant had come to pay him a visit.
Dean didn't open his eyes, and Castiel did not speak. They were both very aware of each other.
"Sometimes I'm not sure that you're real," Dean said finally, his voice low and husky with what he convinced himself was merely disuse.
The angel seemed to hesitate before responding. "I assure you, Dean, that I am. I thought I had already convinced you of my existence."
Dean sighed and opened his eyes, lifting his head. "Yeah. You did."
Castiel tilted his head to the side in that frustrating way of his. "I do not understand." He was sitting on the foot of Dean's bed, his back straight, his vessel dressed in its usual, business-like garb. Dean wasn't sure why he was surprised at the absence of any weight on the mattress.
The hunter lifted his eyes and caught the angel's deep blue gaze. He looked away again. "Never mind. Why are you here?"
"Because you needed me."
Surprise caused Dean to look at Castiel once more. "I needed you? You mean... where's Sam? Is he okay?" Panicking at the possibilities, Dean scrambled off the bed and reached for his weapon under the pillow.
"Dean." Castiel's collected voice caused the Winchester to freeze in his tracks. He stared at the angel on his bed, eyes wide and eyebrows troubled and looking all the world as helpless and confused as he felt.
"Your brother is fine, Dean." The man with the dark, tussled hair told him, and Dean expelled a deep breath that he hadn't realized he was holding.
It wasn't just the words that comforted the hunter, it was the tone. The voice. The way Castiel delivered every syllable, forcing it to echo throughout his brain and settle into his chest.
Dean heaved another deep breath and plopped down onto Sam's bed. He felt spent. Exhausted. He could have easily just sat there, unable to move, while the apocalypse rained down on him with all of its fiery glory. "Then why...?"
"I came to warn you about Sam."
"Sam?" Dean questioned with a weary frown. He could feel the stress and fatigue tugging at his eyelids, his limbs… his heart. "But you just said—"
"Sam is off with that—demon—again," Castiel said the word with obvious distaste. At least they had that in common. "I warned you, Dean, about the consequences of what your brother is doing with his… powers."
"I know goddammit!" Dean shouted suddenly, jumping up and interrupting whatever thought or threat or obvious statement that was about to come out of Castiel's mouth. He paced the room as he spoke, oblivious of the angel's flinch at Dean's profanity. "Don't you think I know that?" His rage was lost as he said this. He had stopped moving, and turned his back to Castiel, laying a palm on the worn wall.
Castiel remained silent, giving Dean a moment to collect himself.
The hunter lay his forehead against the wall and shut his eyes. "I don't know what to do anymore…" He said. To himself, or to Castiel, he wasn't sure.
And he didn't. He really didn't. Before Hell, he had always had a game plan. Take care of Sammy. Save this person from the haunted house. Send that demon back to Hell. Don't screw up for dad today. But now… there was no plan. He had no idea where to go from here.
"It is going to be alright, Dean." Castiel's soft voice was very sure, very determined.
"How do you know?" Dean growled, spinning around and glaring at his companion. "How the hell can you say that after everything that's happened? After everything that's going to happen? How. Do. You. Know?!" Dean's eyes flared a flickering green heat as he took one step closer to Castiel, his finger pointed accusingly.
The angel, of course, remained calm throughout Dean's raging. "You have to have faith, Dean."
The hunter scoffed, but deflated. He wandered back to Sam's bed and sat back down against the headboard. "Faith's not what I need." He muttered, his eyes trailing to the outside window. He could see through a crack in the curtains, and in the darkness it was beginning to rain.
"What is it that you need?" The angel questioned, his head tilted slightly to the side once more in his usual, curious manner.
Dean didn't answer. Instead, he watched a trickle of water that laced its way down the pane, coming from behind the curtain only to disappear again. He didn't know what he needed. He didn't know what to do. He just… didn't know.
The pair sat in the deep silence, only the angry pattering of rain penetrating the quiet, letting the angel and the hunter know that they were still there. That they were, in fact, alive. That Dean was back from Hell, and that Castiel did exist.
It was kind of like a miracle. They both were, really.
And Dean felt that boiling, cold emptiness inside loosen just a little. The shadows that clawed at his mind receded, if only slightly. He let his green eyes wander sideways, absorbing in the man that sat on the bed beside him, and his crazy hair, and solid blue eyes, and the tie that he wore which made his appearance all the more ridiculous.
Dean really did need Castiel.
There he'd been, sitting there in the lonely dark, thinking about Tessa. About her cold words that penetrated him hard and fast like the rush of a burst dam in the middle of winter. And he had longed for the angel. He longed for his comforting words, for what Castiel had told him before. He wanted to mean something to someone else. He wanted to feel important, to feel useful.
Maybe it was the man himself, and his odd, rumpled appearance. Or the tone of his calming voice, or the words that he uttered as if whatever he was saying was the most important thing in the world at that exact moment.
Maybe it was what he represented – God, second chances, hope. Dean wasn't sure. The fluffy angel crap was Sam's territory.
Used to be Sam's territory.
Whatever it was, it was making Dean feel better. It was holding his personal demons at bay.
And Tessa could go screw herself, in the end.
Castiel looked at Dean as if he saw something there. Something other than a weak, pathetic, failure of a man. His glances were without the pity and the wariness that he saw in Sam and Bobby's eyes. The angel didn't have to even say anything, Dean could sense it with his presence. It was unnerving, it was undeserved. He looked at Dean as if everything the hunter had experienced in Hell, everything he… he had done, like it just didn't matter. The choking darkness and the paralyzing light and the pain and the screams that never ended… as if none of that had happened. As if it wasn't still happening, inside the young man's mind.
It was that, Dean realized, as he sat on the lumpy mattress of a creaky old bed in a non-descript motel room, which gave him hope.
It was going to keep him going through all of this. While Sam was off strengthening the dark powers of his demon-blood, while he was lying to Dean about nearly everything and slowly drawing a line in the sand between the two brothers, Dean could still have a little bit of hope.
Dean gave a little laugh, and ran a trembling hand through his hair. Castiel stared at him, questioningly. The hunter just shook his head and pushed himself away from the headboard, stretching out on Sam's bed. It was the only time his younger brother ever restrained himself from making his bed – when he was planning to be back in time before Dean woke up. Dean cradled his head with his arms, allowed the thoughts and fear about his brother leave his mind, and closed his eyes.
Whether he drifted off to sleep before Castiel left, he wouldn't know. He did know, however, that it was the first time in a long time that he had closed his eyes without worrying what was lying beyond the brink of unconsciousness.