Rating: PG
Warnings: Mild language, depression, angst, alcohol consumption.
Summary: Dean Winchester laments Castiel's death. Little does he know, Castiel is right there in the room with him. ((Starts after 7x02))
"Why'd you have to leave, Cas?"
Castiel stood in the corner of the room, as far away from Dean as he could possibly get. Dean couldn't see him, nor did Castiel want to be seen; he was supposed to be dead, after all. There was an almost overpowering smell of alcohol circulating around the room, the only source of light being that of the lamp on the bedside table near which the elder Winchester boy sat. Dean was alone, in more ways than one, but he preferred it that way nowadays. He couldn't handle the whole "let's talk about our feelings" spiel that Sam was always pushing, nor did he want to be the recipient of Bobby's look of cautious pity and concern every time he saw him.
And so Dean had sped off in the Impala sometime in the middle of the night, booked the nearest motel room he could find, purchased enough booze to supply a small army, and sat perched on the edge of the creaking queen-sized bed, longneck bottle in hand and curtains drawn tight.
Two hours later Castiel was able to locate him, and an hour after that Dean still hadn't moved an inch.
"Dammit Cas. There's no way in Hell," Dean grimaced at the figure of speech, taking a long drink before continuing, " that we can get through this without your help. Without you."
Dean exhaled in defeat, shaking his head solemnly. "Stupid son of a bitch."
From his corner of the room, Castiel's downcast eyes flickered up to look at Dean.
"We're going to find you, Cas. We're gonna save you."
Castiel took a few steps forward, watching as Dean lifted the beer to his lips again, emptying it of its contents and tossing it aside to join the rest of the many discarded bottles. There was a heavy weight in the angel's heart, a heavy weight in his entire being, that not being able to reveal himself to Dean placed there, terrible and unrelenting. If Castiel had ever wished for anything, anything at all, he'd wished for Dean to be safe, comforted, happy.
He was none of those, and it was for that reason that Castiel kept himself hidden from Dean.
"It doesn't matter what it takes." Dean grabbed another bottle, hands shaking a little, "If I have to personally find your ass and drag you back here, you will be okay."
Another swig of beer, "God, you're our family, Cas."
Taking another few steps forward, Castiel closed the distance between them, sitting next to where Dean perched on the end of the bed. Castiel wanted more than anything to comfort his friend, to tell him everything; why he was still alive, what he was doing- for Dean, always for Dean. He wanted to let Dean know how much he cares for him, how very much he values Dean's input, Dean's safety, Dean's very existence more than he's valued any other thing or being in the entirety of his incredibly long life.
"We just don't know how to-" Dean stopped, swallowing down on the lump in his throat and blinking rapidly, "we just can't...
"I just need you here, Castiel." He looked up to the ceiling imploringly, wishing he could see straight through it to the stars above, wishing that Cas was somewhere up there, alive and kicking, knowing despite his silent pleas that a wish wasn't ever going to make this alright.
"And I wish you could hear this, but- I know you're gone, Cas. You're gone." Dean emptied yet another bottle and tossed it to the ground, burying his face in his hands and trying to stop the tears from falling.
"It's for the best, Dean," Castiel murmured, somber blue eyes lingering on the side of Dean's face. Very gingerly, Cas reached up a hand and caressed the hunter's cheek, knowing that it was the last time he'd be seeing the broken man for a long, long while. "Everything I do, it's for you..."
Dean let out a strangled sob, "I'm so sorry, Cas."
