It starts with painkillers.
Castiel doesn't seem to remember that he's not an angel anymore, and if he does, he doesn't care. He still tries to protect, to fight, which is all well and good except for the fact that he's never careful.
He protects by shielding others from danger with his own body, so he's always injured now—as soon as one bruise or gash disappears, it is replaced by several more. He fights by using man-made weapons, guns and knives and objects used for bludgeoning; his fists and elbows and feet. Afterwards, when everyone is getting patched up, Sam and Dean joke about how he needs to be more mindful, "you're not an angel anymore, buddy," because talking to each other about this stuff is difficult enough, so talking about it with Cas must be impossible. Avoidance never works but the alternative is so much worse. (Never open up, it'll make you vulnerable—that's how you get killed, their father always told them. Castiel, unfortunately, was raised with just the opposite.)
He's sore all the time, aches and burns and just hurts. They have Aspirin, but that never seems to work as well as it could and Sam points out that it's not good for someone who bleeds as much as Cas does, anyway ("It has an antiplatelet effect." "English, Sammy?" "He could bleed out if he's not careful.")
They get him Tylenol instead, the one with the codeine, and Dean starts to get a bit antsy.
"Isn't that stuff addictive?"
"Dean, he'll be fine."
"I don't know, man, I just don't think it's safe. We have to write fake prescriptions!"
"It's Tylenol, Dean. It's safer than what he does to himself to need this stuff in the first place."
Dean stops worrying out loud after that.
...
The Tylenol is great, but it's not enough. Castiel has moved up through all four types, and it's still not enough. He still hurts all the time, and Sam can't figure out why the pills aren't working.
"I don't know what to tell you, Cas. Maybe we should take you to a doctor."
"That won't be necessary, Sam."
They don't know why it's not enough, can't possibly understand because sure, they've both been to Hell but they don't understand this pain. This crushing, breath-stealing pain that consumes every waking minute of every day.
It's not physical. That's probably why. They've been tortured and put through the wringer but they haven't Fallen, haven't lost faith in everything because they still have faith in each other while Castiel has no one, haven't seen the things Castiel has seen and done the things Castiel has done (My brothers, Sam's wall, mental hospital, bees, Dean.)
That's what it all comes down to in the end: Dean. Dean who loves his brother and is loved in return, who saves people from evils unknown, who blindly followed his father, who has known many women and loved very few, who will never think Cas is enough.
The drugs aren't enough for Castiel and Cas isn't enough for Dean and Castiel hates how he can find similarities without even trying now, when once they were so hard for him to spot.
Castiel chews more pills than he probably should (chewing makes them work so much faster) because Sam has long since given up trying to moderate his intake (If you're going to keep sneaking them, I'm going to stop trying.) and then Dean looks at him with this face, but he doesn't know what it means because the medicine's starting to kick in so it's time to sleep.
"What?" he asks, revelling in the fuzzy calm that overtakes him as he flops down onto his bed.
"What? Nothing," Dean says but he's still making that face and it's starting to piss Castiel off a bit.
"You're looking at me."
"So?"
"You're making a face."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are. Don't lie."
Dean sighs and starts to move over to his own bed (they've been swapping out since Castiel Fell, Sam and Dean, Sam and Castiel, Dean and Castiel, two sharing while one gets a room to themselves.)
"You're taking a lot of pills."
"I need them," Castiel mumbles, tiredness making itself known.
"I know, but..." he sits on the edge of his bed, facing away from Castiel. "There's a limit, and you're passing it."
"You do that all the time," Castiel says with a small smile.
"I don't take pills!" Dean sounds affronted.
"No," Castiel agrees, "You drink. And speed while driving."
"That's different—" Dean starts.
"How?" Castiel asks, opening his eyes and watching Dean's back. Dean tenses but doesn't speak for a long moment.
Then, "I'm not worried about me."
"Then you are being selfish."
Dean whips around to face Castiel. "How am I being selfish? I just said I'm not worried about myself!"
"And you're under the selfish impression that nobody else is, either."
Dean stares and says, "What?"
"You want to dictate how I live my life while you continue to live yours in a reckless manner. Lead by example, Dean. Be the change you want to see."
"Hold on, a little booze and speeding isn't exactly comparable to a drug addiction."
"It's Tylenol, Dean. They give this to children."
"Not that kind, they don't. And since when am I dictating how you live your life?"
"I have done everything for you."
"I never made you do anything you didn't want to do!"
"No, but you always asked."
"How is that my fault?" Dean shouts.
"Because I could never say no," Castiel whispers and he can feel his consciousness waning, feel himself drifting off to sleep despite the panic he's sure he should be feeling.
...
Eventually, Castiel moves up to the big leagues: regular codeine. Castiel loves codeine because it never asks anything of him, never makes fun of him, never makes him feel anything but tranquil. Dean is nothing like codeine, but he loves Dean too.
Castiel has always been filled with cognitive dissonance.
...
Castiel is numb most of the time, his mind fuzzy and his body slow, and everyone notices but nobody says anything. Sam doesn't know what to do ("Maybe we should talk to him, Dean." "No. He wants to do this, let him do this." "I think he needs help. Professional help." "I said no, Sam! Drop it." "Fine.")
Dean tells himself that he doesn't feel guilty because he's not asking Cas to do anything, and that's what Cas wants. He did something before that made Cas feel like he didn't have a choice (and God, he wants to know what), and he'll be damned if he does that again. Whatever it was, it won't happen. Not this time.
Castiel has a choice this time. He can ruin himself if that's what he really wants, and Dean won't stop him.
...
Castiel is sinking, Dean is already drowning, and Sam is on a raft in the middle of the ocean without a map.
"Dean," Sam says one day when Castiel has gone for a walk and he and Dean are cleaning guns.
"What?" Dean asks without looking up.
"Why are you so worried about Cas?"
"He's our friend."
"No, I get that. I mean, I'm worried too. But you—you're not sleeping, Dean."
Dean sighs and puts down his gun. "What do you want from me here, Sam?"
"I want to know why you're not talking to him about it."
"I did."
"What? What did he say?"
"Nothing. Don't worry about it. It didn't go well so it doesn't matter. If he wants to destroy himself, fine: that's his choice."
"Dean—"
"No. I'm done talking about this."
"But—"
"Sam. Enough." Dean sounds enough like their father in those two words that Sam is suitably dissuaded from pursuing the topic further.
...
The codeine's not enough anymore, either. The numb feeling isn't working the way it used to, Castiel doesn't feel as happy as he wants to be, and he hates being so tired all the time, anyway.
He rifles through the bag that holds the prescription pad and smiles when he finds it. His smile leaves as quickly as it came when he realizes he doesn't know what he wants. What would make him feel good and awake and happy? He decides to make Sam look it up, because he's still wary of computers and Sam is the best researcher.
"Sam?"
"Mm?"
"Can you help me find something?"
"Sure, what do you need?"
"A different kind of medication. Something that won't make me so tired and slow."
"Um," Sam pauses, looks like he's struggling with something, but after a few moments he finishes with, "I'll look."
...
Castiel decides on amphetamines. They're a psychostimulant, Sam says. They'll make him less tired and more focused—they'll even reduce his appetite. It will be almost like being an angel again.
When Dean sees the new pill bottle, he stares at Castiel long and hard before asking, "What are those?"
"Pills."
"What kind of pills," Dean tries again, bracing himself for the answer.
"Good pills."
"Cas, I know those aren't codeine. What are they?"
"Amphetamines," Castiel says with a happy sigh. "They're exactly what I needed."
Dean goes pale, looking like he's going to cry, and says, "No."
"No what, Dean?"
"No. You are not taking those. You're done." He walks over and grabs the bottle off the side table.
"Dean," Castiel says calmly.
"What?" Dean grounds out.
"Give me back my pills."
"No."
"Dean," Castiel sighs, and he sounds like a weary mother.
"Cas, this little rebellious self-destruction thing you've got going is over. I'm not going to let you do this anymore."
"You can't do this," Castiel says stubbornly.
"I can and I will."
"Dean, please," Castiel says, and he's begging a little now.
"Please what?"
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Fine," Dean says, throwing the bottle onto Castiel' bed. "I'll ask, then. Please stop taking pills."
"You think asking is going to make me stop?"
"You said you could never say no."
"Past tense, Dean. I could never say no before, but I can now. These help me with that," Castiel replies as he returns the bottle to its rightful place.
"Cas," Dean says, and he looks like he's going to cry again.
"No," Castiel says, voice unsteady because Dean is being far too persuasive right now.
"Please." Dean is thisclose to getting on his knees and outright begging.
"No."
"Cas—"
"You never listened to me when it mattered; why should I grant you the same courtesy?"
"Because it's important this time," Dean says hoarsely, but Cas is shaking his head already.
"You consider everything you ask of me to be important, Dean."
"This is different."
"How?"
Dean looks at the ceiling for a moment, then seems to make a decision before looking back at Castiel. "I've seen things, Cas. I know what'll happen if you keep this up."
"Really?" Castiel asks, looking more sceptical than Dean thought was possible for him. "What?"
"You'll do drugs all the time, and then you'll end up getting yourself killed just because I asked you to do something for me."
"That's happened many times before without the drugs," Castiel points out.
Dean has no response. A lone tear makes its way down his cheek before he manages to leave the room.
He stays in the car all night, but is unable to sleep.
...
The amphetamines make Castiel feel good, but he still doesn't feel great. It's like going to a restaurant when you haven't eaten all day only to find out that you can't have the one thing you want; the food is still appreciated, but your meal could have been so much better.
Castiel knows the one thing he wants, but he can't have it. Unfortunately, he can't just sit in the booth and enjoy his food. No, in this restaurant, the meal he wants is sitting right in front of him, taunting him with its very existence. He can look, but not touch. Sometimes the smell will find its way to him, enticing him even more, but he's still not allowed to eat it.
It's torture.
Instead, Castiel enjoys the meal he has, has an entrée every once in a while (absinthe is the perfect companion to amphetamines), and tries not to think about what he can't ever have.
(He never succeeds.)
...
Months pass, and Castiel is less like himself than he has ever been, instead becoming more and more like someone Dean once met in another time. Dean tries not to notice.
(He never succeeds either.)
...
The tipping point comes some time after that, when Castiel wakes up and feels ... different. There is something about today that feels important, and Castiel is sure that he'll figure it out eventually.
After taking his pills, things start to change. Dean enters the room but doesn't speak, doesn't even look at Castiel, which Castiel finds strange. Then, Anna enters the room. "I thought you were dead," Castiel says, but she does not answer. She moves toward Dean, puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, and turns him to face her.
Dean looks at her with the most tender expression, one Castiel has seen a thousand times directed at himself but is different this time because Dean is moving closer to Anna, leaning in and kissing her softly and Castiel's chest feels like it's going to cave in on itself, form a black hole and suck everything in to fill the void.
Castiel watches them for what feels like hours until finally Dean pulls back and says "I love you," and if Castiel felt empty before it was nothing compared to what he feels now.
"I love you too," Anna says, before turning to Castiel. "Do you see?" She asks him, "He does not love you, cannot love you, silly child."
"I know," Castiel responds.
"I'm glad. It is easier this way, Castiel. Easier for you to see it now before it is too late and you are in too deep."
"It's already too late," Castiel whispers, looking at his feet. "I am too far gone."
"Then there is one thing you must do, one thing that will help you."
"Please tell me, Anna. Please," Castiel begs.
"You will not like it."
"Please, sister, anything. I do not want to feel this anymore. I want to feel nothing."
"Then I'm afraid you must die," she says sympathetically. "I am sorry for you."
Castiel turns to look at Dean, but Dean is still ignoring him. "Will it hurt?"
"No, Castiel, not if you believe it won't."
Dean is still ignoring everything, looks like he hasn't heard any of this conversation. Castiel asks, "May I say goodbye to him first?"
"No," Anna says, "He will not listen. He does not hear you."
"He never has," Castiel sighs. Then, "How must I do this?"
"However you see fit, dear brother. Whatever feels most comfortable for you."
"I tend to explode when I die. I do not think that is possible this time."
"How else have you died?"
"I imploded once. In the water, at the bottom of a lake."
"Then perhaps drowning would be most familiar?"
"That seems rather inconvenient."
"Dying is not convenient, Castiel," Anna says primly.
"Perhaps it would be best to use a weapon. I have a knife in my bag."
"Excellent thinking."
Castiel stands and walks toward his bag, carefully removing the clothes from the top until he finds his knife. It is not particularly special, save for the fact that Dean gave it to him. May as well have something of your own now, he'd said. Castiel places all of his clothing back in the bag, then returns to sit on his bed.
"Is this really necessary, sister?"
"I do believe so."
"Thank you," he says meaningfully, before asking, "How should I do this?"
"How do you think you should do it?"
Castiel frowns at the knife in his hand. "Perhaps in my stomach? I will not die quickly, but I will not have to be careful to avoid bone."
"If that is what you desire, then it is a good choice."
"Thank you," he says again, and pushes the knife into himself. It's not the worst pain he's ever felt, but it's different from the rest of it because this is not something that will go away if he takes medicine. He can feel the blood trickling down from his wound and it reminds him of warm summer rain on his skin. He looks up, but Anna and Dean are nowhere to be seen.
Until the door opens.
...
Dean had only been gone for an hour, tops, to do the laundry. He doesn't know what he was expecting when he came in, but it certainly wasn't this.
Castiel said hello when Dean first opened the door, so Dean returned the greeting before walking over to his own bed to start folding. It was when he heard a slight whimper that he turned to look at Cas properly and noticed the knife.
"Cas," he says, hearing his heart beat in his own head. "What ... what are you doing?"
"Dying," Castiel replies softly.
Dean walks toward Castiel, eyes welling up as he sinks to his knees. "Why?" He whispers brokenly, not caring for once that someone is seeing him cry.
"Because Anna told me it was the only way."
"Anna's dead, Cas. Michael killed her, remember?"
"That is what I thought as well, but she was here with you. Don't you remember?"
Dean starts to cry harder. "No. I was doing laundry this morning."
"Oh," Castiel responds. "Perhaps I was hallucinating again."
"You—you've been hallucinating," Dean says.
"Yes. It is a side effect of the amphetamines."
Dean lets out a laugh that isn't really much of a laugh at all, and stands again to help Castiel lie down on the bed properly. When they've finished, he sits on the edge and snaps.
"I wanted you to stop. I asked you to. And you didn't."
"I know," Castiel whispers. It is difficult to speak around the blood oozing out of his mouth; it feels like eating soup, but in reverse.
"And now you're going to die."
"It's not your fault, Dean."
"I let you keep doing this and now you're going to die."
"Dean, please—"
"I'm so sorry, Cas," Dean chokes, "I'm so sorry."
"Dean, this is my choice. It is the only way out."
"The only way out of what?"
"Loving you," Castiel says, because he's dying, so he doesn't need to hide anymore.
"Fuck," Dean moans.
"I apologize," Castiel whispers. "This is why I did not tell you."
"Cas," Dean says. "Cas, listen to me. You can't die yet, okay? We still have to talk about this."
"There is nothing to say," Castiel replies, eyes closing.
"Hey, no, don't do that," Dean insists, placing a hand on Castiel's cheek. "Look at me." Castiel tries, but it is getting harder to move, to breathe, to exist. "Please, Cas, just once. Please." Castiel opens his eyes just slightly, just a crack, and Dean does the best with what he's got.
"I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry you keep dying because of me. I'm sorry I didn't make you stop when I should have." Castiel is closing his eyes again, so Dean starts speaking more quickly. "I'm sorry God doesn't care and I'm sorry you believed in him so much. I'm sorry I've been a selfish jackass." Castiel's breathing is becoming slower. "Please hold on, Cas, just one more thing, I promise." He moves his hand to hold Castiel's and squeezes it gently. "I'm sorry I never told you I love you," he says, and Castiel breathes a little heavier for a moment.
"Dean," he says, barely even a sound.
"Cas?" Dean asks, trying so hard not to be hopeful but failing at that, too.
"I'm sorry," comes the answer, just the shape of two words on a pair of pale lips.
Then there is silence, save for the sound of one man's heart breaking.