Red was fast becoming a pivotal color in his dreams. Crimson red, and a sticky, trickling sensation. A color all too familiar to Dean. He felt like he was walking through a vast, unfamiliar wilderness, but he could see no ground, no surroundings to give a clue as to where he was. Although he was walking, Dean couldn't feel anything beneath his feet. All he knew was that he was searching. There was no sound. Not footfalls, not heavy breathing, not even a breeze.
Somehow, he knew where he was going. In the total absence of anything, he just knew he was going the right way. Dean Winchester, weathered hunter, player, breaker of many – was following his heart. His heart, which suddenly had substance; he was aware of it beating – ka thump, ka thump, thhrump – every few beats it would flutter in anticipation. The thumping got louder and louder, until it overcame everything. A searing pain took precendence, and "Dean!" Such a familiar voice. Associated notmally with comfort and happiness, yet pain and loss, yet still Dean felt a warm, fuzzy feeling in his tummy, a notion he would share with no one. A familiar face, a perfect face, brilliant blue eyes, soft, voluptuous lips, framed by delicate and intricate lines. Velvety near black hair, matted together with a sticky fluid. The face was frozen in a silent cry. The perfect face, splattered in blood, streaked in blood, ruined by blood.
The face of a Fallen, broken Angel. The face of Dean's Angel.
Dean didn't hear himself shouting Cas' name as he came to. He barely made it to the en suite, clattering and crashing his way to the toilet to retch violently. Nothing came up, and Dean came to realize that he had nothing to come up. His appetite had dwindled away to nothing. Hours spent thinking about everything and nothing at the same time had all but addled Dean's once, limited track given, but once sharp mind.
He thought about Castiel's blood drenched face as he and Sam sat down to a silent lunch.
Sam watched his older brother pick away steadily, but surely, at his fries. Sam steadied his own pace, and thought about striking up conversation, but thought better of it for fear of distracting Dean away from his food. Sam chewed slowly on a mouthful of burger, studying Dean's pale, weary face. He had gather that Dean wasn't sleeping well, despite the fact he was sleeping a lot, and drifting off all hours of the day.
Dean finished his burger, let out an absent minded belch, then flushed red as he spotted an attractive waitress giving him a disapproving glare. He flashed a large Dean Winchester Charm trademark smile and pardoned himself.
Sam smiled to himself, a little tickle in his tummy hoping silently that his brother was maybe returning to his normal annoying, womanizing self.
Dean blew out his breath sharply and clamped a trembling hand to his stomach. "Ugh,"
Sam braced himself to jump out of the firing line of vomit. "Dean?"
Dean raised his free hand, and rasped, "Indigestion."
Sam's body relaxed, and he let his breath go. "Thought you were gonna hurl," Sam chuckled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Don't." Dean's husky voice made Sam jump. Dean wasn't looking at his brother, instead his was pushing the last few fries around on his plate with his fork. An uncomfortable silence passed, then Dean got up, leaving a note to pay for the food, and he left the diner.
Sam had decided to disappear out away from the tension between him and his brother. He would just waste time at a cheap bar, perhaps throw a few darts, buy a pint of the cheapest and sip at it slowly. Horrible, bitter, gritty stuff with an after taste of soil. Sam had to swallow twice and clear his throat after every sip. He watched the other people go about their business, but didn't really take anything in. He was deep in thought. It was clear to him that his brothers problem stemmed from the disappearance – death perhaps – of his Angel friend Castiel. Sam sure knew Castiel and Dean had been fond of one another. In fact Sam had sometimes thought the Angel had been a little too fond of his brother. Something in the way he looked at Dean, and Dean looked back at him, and Sam could swear they were communicating telepathically. He sipped, grimaced, then sighed as his mind averted back to his late girlfriend Jess. That's the last time he remembered seeing that look in someone's eyes. That was the last time anyone had looked at him in that way. He choked back several mouthfuls of his vile pint and bit back the tears in his eyes.
A few miles away, sat on the edge of his hard, musty bed, Sam's older brother was allowing the tears to silently fall. He raised a hand to wipe away the wet streaks leaving dirty trails down his face. The room was lit only by the dim moonlight let in through the window. Dean glanced at the bare floorboards, which were covered her and there by ragged worn rugs that looked like they had been dragged straight out of the '80's, with a faded pattern in orange, green and brown. Years, drunken careless louts, and lowly paid, bitter housekeeping had not been kind to the room or its somewhat dated décor.
As Dean was studying the room, consciously attempting to distract himself, he found himself thinking, hoping, that Castiel would turn up in the room, the gust of air from his wings disturbing the drapes that divided the living/sleeping area from the poor excuse for a kitchen – which consisted of a small sink and draining board, a table top refrigerator that looked like it had been sat undisturbed for the thirty or so years the motel had been standing for, and an area of worktop no more than a foot squared – and his eyes would already be on Dean's, and he would step towards Dean, his strangely perfect face void of much of any emotion, and he'd begin rambling on about the latest baddie or mission in that deep, brusque voice, a voice that made hairs rise on the back of Dean's neck, and Castiel's eyes would not leave Dean's, not falter, not even for a second as he spoke, perfect baby blues boring a hole in to Dean's soul, holding Dean totally captive to him.
Dean closed his eyes and remembered all the times the unwitting Angel had stood barely a foot from him, fixing him with that steely gaze, and after all those times correcting him "Cas, we've talked about this... Personal space." And his Angel had apologized and stepped away, and now all Dean wanted was Castiel back in that space. Dean would wrap his arms around his Angel, and he wouldn't let go.