AN: This chapter has been edited since the original publish thing because of some continuity issues, so yeah.
I'm still updating on a regular basis - either Friday or Sunday depending on how efficient I am and my other fics.
Review responses at the bottom.
Chapter Two
Dean finally entered the Roadhouse that evening, slumping down at the bar with his head in his hands.
"Ellen, can I get a beer?" he asked wearily. Ellen looked him over before putting a bottle in front of him.
"What's wrong, kid?"
Dean grunted. "You don't wanna know."
"Talk to me, Dean. You look like shit, and I wanna know why so that my kid doesn't have a teacher who is permanently hungover!"
He grimaced. "Long day. First I had to cover Novak's damn classes, then the shithead decides to fucking attack me, and then some kid managed to start a fire in the workshop and I almost lost my office. I'm just really tired, and really pissed, and I need a drink. Okay?"
Ellen pursed her lips before going to serve more customers.
Now on his third beer, Dean felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder. He looked up into the face of his adopted father, and the only real family he had left, Bobby Singer. Dean looked back down at the wooden surface of the bar.
"Hey, Bobby."
"Dean. Let's go home." And without saying another word, Bobby hauled Dean out the bar, nodding at Ellen in thanks for calling him. Ellen winked, causing Bobby to blush as he followed Dean outside. They drove back to Dean's apartment in silence – a five minute drive, due to the proximity of the Roadhouse – and it was only when Dean turned to leave that he asked in a low voice, "can you come in, Bobby? I don't wanna be alone right now."
Concerned, Bobby agreed before cutting out the engine and heading up to Dean's front door.
Once inside, Bobby sat at the small, circular dining table while Dean grabbed two more beers out the fridge and set one in front of him.
"What's going on?"
Dean's gaze didn't shift from the bottle he grasped with both hands.
"It's almost been ten months. This Saturday."
Oh.
"I know. But that doesn't change anything. He's still gone, Dean. Don't go back to how you were, it won't do any good."
"He's my brother, Bobby. And I just….I couldn't stop him. I couldn't save him, and those dicks are still out there. And my brother's dead. It's my fault. Why did they all leave me behind?" A small sob escaped Dean before he could stop it, and he tightened his grip on the beer before taking a swig. Bobby sighed.
"Look, kid. None of this shit was your fault. Your parents are dead, and it sucks. Sam's dead, and it sucks. But you can't change that, and drinking isn't gonna solve it or bring them back. So make that your final beer, stop moping, and focus on your damn job!"
A shrug, and Bobby sighed.
"Go to bed, Dean."
Dean shrugged once more before dragging himself off to his bedroom, with a brief pause at the doorway to the second bedroom. The door stayed shut, as if screaming out the fact that Dean's younger brother would never open it again, or slam it after an argument with his brother/flatmate. Dean continued to his room, the door giving a small creak before snapping shut. Bobby cleared the kitchen, and settled on the couch to doze for a few hours before heading home to sleep.
Dean lay on his back in bed and stared at the ceiling, miserable.
Little did he know, Castiel was in exactly the same position. The History teacher lay on the queen sized bed Balthazar had bought in a moment of extravagance, sticking firmly to his side and ignoring the snores emanating from the couch in the living room. After Castiel had returned home, Balthazar had decided to blow up once more and resume their argument from that morning, yelling about how Castiel never had time for him anymore and how Balthazar had never wanted to move to America anyway and why was he even wasting his time with Castiel anyway? Castiel had remained stoic during this outburst – it was simply the latest in a long line, and then quietly informed Balthazar that after cooking dinner for the both of them ("Which I do every night without fail after working for 8 hours straight while you watch television for the majority of your time, Balthazar), he would remain in their 'shared' bedroom that Balthazar hardly slept in, and stay there for the night ("You may spend the evening how you please, however I will remain out of your way considering the fact that you regret 'wasting your time' with me").
The enormous bed felt more cold and alone than ever, and Castiel finally drifted off into an uneasy, unhappy sleep.
Weeks passed. The two men had reached a silent, mutual agreement to never discuss what had happened in the parking lot, and to simply avoid one another. They exchanged curt nods in the hallway, and Dean couldn't help the twinge in his stomach as he saw the weariness in Castiel's face, and the way he held himself – tired and emotionally drained.
Why the hell should I care anyway.
I don't care.
At all.
Dean focused on teaching, trying to find solace in the happiness students were getting from his teaching. Their grins and enthusiasm hurt however, reminding him too much of Sam before the bad days and before their lives went to shit. He drank more and more every night, needing to restock the beer supply in his fridge on an almost daily basis. He didn't go to the Roadhouse – Ellen would definitely rat him out to Bobby, and then the shit would really hit the fan – preferring to drink in the silence of his own home.
He definitely did not think about the way Castiel's hands shook slightly when he was drinking his coffee during break, or the way the man flinched at the sound of yelling from the cafeteria.
And he certainly didn't dream about kissing Castiel, running his hands underneath that douchey trenchcoat, and about Castiel opening him up, before –
No. Dean didn't do that at all. Because the guy was a complete and utter dick, no matter how vulnerable and worried he looked on a permanent basis. And Dean did not, repeat not, care.
Not one single bit.
For his part, Castiel kept his head down. Balthazar became more and more volatile as he was continually turned down for jobs, and he drank more. He got angrier, sometimes throwing empty bottles at Castiel in the middle of yet another fight. They found more things to hate about one another – Balthazar leaving the toilet seat up, Castiel not understanding film references, simple things that should have remained insignificant but were instead drawn out. Each flaw they resented was hung up and dissected, leaving both of them miserable. Castiel slept alone every night, and he knew his students could detect his red eyes and depressed demeanour.
One night, he realised.
He didn't love Balthazar anymore. Wasn't sure if he ever had. Balthazar had swept him off his feet in a moment of lust and madness, and now they were both paying the price. He did still care for the man, and regretted dragging the Brit to Kansas – so far out of his comfort zone it was small wonder Balthazar resented him.
He found that he began to miss the altercations between himself and Dean. The attractive, green eyed man haunted his thoughts, and Castiel had the burden of guilt on top of everything else to cope with now. He refused to dwell on it, blocking out thoughts of Dean holding him and comforting him like he knew he was capable of, and sunk himself deeper into his work. He barely spoke to anyone at work now, and when he passed Dean in the hallways he only allowed himself to give a brief nod before plunging himself back into a dense fog of despair.
Why had everything gone so wrong?
Two months later, it was a Friday. Dean took the day off work, and visited the cemetery.
Parking the Impala close by, he walked to the lonely tombstone and halted before laying down a bunch of lilies. He cleared his throat.
"Hey, Sammy," a lump began to form, forcing him to swallow, "I know, lilies, right? Kinda sappy, but that's me I guess. Crunchy on the outside, and a pathetic mess underneath."
Dean paused.
"I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry that Mom and Dad died. I'm sorry I was the only one apart from Bobby that stuck around to raise you. I'm sorry I let you down, and that you died because of it. I'm sorry I let you go so far off the reservation, and I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm so fucking sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry I couldn't stop it from killing you. I miss you every damn day, and I'm so alone now."
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the tears fall from his eyes and land on the rumpled black suit he wore.
"It's been a whole fucking year and I'm still lost and alone. And if you were alive I know you'd probably hate me. So I guess I'm sorry about that too."
Dean lifted up his last beer from his cupboard – he'd been saving it – off the ground, and opened it. He toasted the sky, and poured a measure out onto the soil.
"It's not what you were hooked on, but I figured you could use a drink. Because I sure as hell could."
Dean left the cemetery after another hour, driving towards the Roadhouse with determination.
AN: Reviews please!
family-and-free-will: SAME. And then I realised that this is what I wanted in a fic and so I wrote it :D I really like writing this and you are awesome. Thanks :)
Hey-yo-Jelly-O: THANK YOU. IT IS UPDATED. I hope you liked this one, and what you said made me very happy.
MariMagda: Yeah pretty much :) it's gonna be awesome.
ill-interrogate-the-cat: DONE. Hope it's pleasing! Thaaank you!
Yeah, again sorry for all the angst. Feel free to check out other stuff I've written!
