A/N: So I started this on Tumblr, mainly to overcome writers block for my other fics, and then someone asked me to continue and so I did. I do not plan on continueing this any time soon so it is staying in the ficlet collection for now. Not sure if 7k words counts as a ficlet but ah well. It's not smutty or fluffy. It is angst and freakin' dark. THIS IS NOT RELATED TO THE OTHER TEXTING FICLET.
Warnings: Dark, minor sexual content, drugs, drinking.
Cas: Dean?
Dean: Dude, it's three in the morning
Cas: My apologies. It is the evening where I am.
Dean: Where are you?
Cas: On the west coast trying to decide what to do.
Dean: Decide what to do with what?
Cas: Angels. I don't know how to fix this Dean.
Dean: I know Cas. We'll figure it out. Try not to worry.
Dean: What are you doing right now?
Cas: Sitting and messaging you
Dean: Where exactly?
Cas: On a rock in the woods, why?
Dean: Why are you in the woods?
Cas; It's quiet here.
Dean: Makes sense. Why don't you lay down and close your eyes for a while. Tune everything out. It helps
Dean: For me anyways.
Cas: Talking to you helps.
Dean: Thx. Same.
Cas: How are you?
Dean: Fine.
Cas: You're lying.
Dean: What do you want me to say?
Cas: the truth.
Dean: Trust me. You don't want to hear it.
Dean: Cas?
Cas: I'm trying to figure out how to tell you that I'm always willing to hear anything you have to say. That it doesn't matter what it is.
Cas: When will you learn that nothing you could ever do would tarnish our relationship.
Dean: Relationship?
Cas: Is that not the most appropriate description? Would you prefer bond or friendship? I no longer feel either of those fits quite right. It's confusing.
Dean: Cas please stop writing.
Cas: ?
Dean: You really wanna know what's going on?
Cas: yes
Dean: Well… Sam hardly speaks to me. I hate myself for what I put him through and I hate that this damn bunker feels fucking stifling all the time. We're not getting anywhere with Abbadon. Gadreel is still out there. You're gone and doing whatever with angels. I feel fucking shitty and I know it pisses you off when I say stuff like that, you look at me all full of pity but what do you expect? I've fuckin ruined everything. Everyone is dead. Sam's basically a ghost and you're… not here.
Cas; Do you want me to be there?
Cas: I mean, consistently?
Dean: yes
Cas; Go back to sleep Dean.
Dean: Why?
Cas: Please.
Dean. K…
/\
Dean places his phone on the nightstand and lies back down. He feels uncomfortable and unsure about that conversation. In person there's always an unspoken line between them. But like his prayers, Dean feels easier talking when people aren't looking at him. He has no idea what to expect after that. He slowly falls back asleep, taking a long thirty minutes to get there.
When his dream starts, he finds himself sitting on the hood of his car with a cold beer in his hand. Nice and normal.
"Hello Dean." Cas says coming up along the side of the car.
Dean's eyes widen in shock. "Are you real?"
"Yes. Why else did you think I asked you to fall back asleep?" Cas narrows his eyes at him, the gesture is amused as Cas reaches into the cooler for a beer and then comes to sit beside him.
"I didn't think you could do this anymore, so I thought you were, I dunno, tired of talking to me." Cas shakes his head with a smile.
"Did I not literally just tell you that I'm always willing to talk to you?" Cas asks him, teasing.
"Well then why haven't you done this before?! You've been gone for like weeks!" Dean exclaims, his arms going up, the beer nearly sloshing out.
"You never liked it when I was in your dreams before, so I stopped." Cas replies mundanely, taking a sip of his beer. He lets his arm drop and then looks at the beer with idle fascination.
"Does it not feel silly drinking alcohol in a dream?" Cas asks, turning to look at him.
"Taste's good to me" He says.
Cas nods and gives an acknowledging hum but says nothing and keeps drinking.
The quiet stretches for a long time. It is a companionable silence and Dean feels calmer than he has in over a week.
"This is nice." He says appreciatively.
"Yes." Cas smiles at him as he brings the edge of the bottle to his lips, blinking as he drinks. Dean has never really watched the angel drink before and it looks funny, seeing him be casual that way.
"What?" Cas asks, smirking and amused.
"You. Drinking beer. Being all human and everything. It's funny." Dean says and Cas frowns.
"Are you making fun of me?" Cas asks, holding his beer tight.
"No.. no. Not at all. I like it." He remedies, eyes softening to observe his friend.
"Everything feels backwards, doesn't it?" Cas says out of nowhere. It's cryptic and Dean isn't sure how to respond, so he takes another sip.
"What do you mean?" He asks holding his beer in his lap.
"Angels on earth, the King of Hell being of assistance, you and Sam hardly speaking, me wanting to forget the troubles of the angels entirely and spend all of my time with you." Cas finishes speaking and turns away immediately, as though he rambled into unchartered territory.
Dean stares at him, waiting for Cas to face him before he speaks. Cas takes a while, but eventually turns his head back, his blue eyes finding Dean's.
"Can I ask why?" He throws it out there and wishes he could get wasted before this conversation has a chance to continue because he knows where it's going. He can lie to himself all he wants, but that doesn't mean he's stupid. He knows exactly why things are the way they are between them. He can sing denial forever or he can just bite the bullet because with all the shit going on with Sam, he can't stand anymore tension.
"Why do you bother asking when you already know?" Cas asks calmly, observing him with a sad smile. It's almost like the angel is saying ,'What does it even matter?' and Dean doesn't know the right way to react to that. He's not ready to discuss the 'what to do we do now' talk before they'd even had the 'what is going on' talk. One step at a time. One very weird, awkward step at a time.
"Humour me." He says.
"You're being a masochist." Cas' tone is reproaching, his eyes hard and defensive.
"You're right, things are backwards. Here I am – being the one to want to talk about shit and you're just sitting there stone-cold ignoring it. Did it ever occur to you that I am sick of ignoring it? Whatever the fuck it is?" Dean says rudely, tempted to force himself to wake up. Maybe he isn't as ready for this as much as he'd like to have thought.
"You're frustrated and you are taking it out on me, or us, whatever and forgive me if I don't feel like being used as another way for you to feel like shit about yourself." Cas snaps back at him.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, blindsided by the anger in Cas' voice.
"You actually expect me to believe this would be a real conversation? You're bringing it up so that you can shut it down, rationalize it as something that doesn't matter, can't matter – all so you can leave here feeling like justifiable poison." Cas lips shut down tight. Dean stares at him wide-eyed, uncertain of what to say.
Was that why he was doing this? He didn't think so. If he was being honest though, where would this conversation have gone? Probably nowhere – not with the way they lived. So what was the point? To hurt them both? To make things unbearably uncomfortable and awkward?
"I just need to know. I need to know I'm not crazy. We're both on the same page right? I mean, the 'whatever-the-hell' it is we're talking about – we both know what that is right?" His words hardly make sense and he isn't sure Cas will understand what he needs to know. That confirmation that sits there on the edge of reality. Wavering, not quite real yet. He's nervous and terrified and embarrassed. Cas was right, he was a masochist.
Dean refuses to open his mouth again, worried more bull-shit or crazy will spill out of it. Instead he waits to see if Cas will reply; will give him that assurance. That after all this time, maybe it's not just him. Maybe—
"Yes." Cas says quietly, pulling him out of the downward spiral. Dean snaps his eyes over to Cas. The angel turns to look at him, the longing he sees in those perfectly shaded eyes is like a knife to the gut. He knows it's hurting Cas to admit it. It hurts him to hear it.
The stare at each other for an indefinite amount of time, neither is sure where to go from here. Suddenly Dean becomes vivid again, pulling out of his placid state.
"Is that why you asked whether I wanted you home?" The word home sends a shiver down his spine because he's aware of the way he said it implies that it belongs to both of them because that is truly the way he sees it. Except he's never said it aloud before, not to Cas.
Cas purses his lips and turns away, staring off into the distance. He replies without facing Dean. "Is my being there really a good idea?"
Dean is suddenly worried of the very real possibility that he's just broken something. That Cas will never return now that this is relatively out in the open. God, what has he done? He drops his face in his hands, grieving at the loss he's created. Why does he always break everything he touches?
A warm solid weight settles on his shoulders and he doesn't need to look to know it's Cas' hand.
"Dean?" Cas tugs on his arm, trying to pull him back.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. I don't want it to be like this." He rambles through his hands, his voice muffled and strained. The burn behind his eyes is a threat he really doesn't want to deal with on top of everything else. He caused this so he doesn't have the right to be the one to get upset and have Cas comfort him – its selfish and he needs to fix it somehow, but he doesn't know where to start. He needs a rewind button as bad as he needs his next breath – which are also getting hard to come by if the constriction in his lungs is anything to go by.
"Dean, relax. We're fine." Cas assures him, gripping his shoulder tight in an attempt to give him something to latch onto.
"I should never have pushed it. I've been on edge, torn up inside with everything with Sam and you being gone, and I just snapped. I shouldn't have said anything. I don't want to hurt you. I don't know what to do, I don't know what I can do, I don't—"
"—Dean." Cas cuts in hard now, forcibly turning Dean's body and pulling his arms away from his face, then grabbing it to keep it facing him. Dean can hardly look him in the eye. He's gone over that line now. It would have been okay if there was something on the other side of the line to get to, but he knows there isn't, that there can't be.
"It doesn't have to be this way." Cas suggests apprehensively, testing Dean's boundaries, his resolve. And, more or less, his self-worth.
"How can it be any other way?" Dean counters, gesturing wide in an effort to gather up all the fucking nutballs that sums up their lives.
"Why does it have to be either or?" Cas replies, his fingers starting a gentle caress where they touch Dean's check and neck. It's distracting because it's so new and undeserved. Dean wants to brush them off but he can't bring his arms up to do it.
"Cas.." Dean says in warning, shaking his head to get control of himself. Cas senses his doubt, his hesitation in that carefully constructed determination, and he seizes it, rushing forward quick to close the distance. His hands holding Dean's face in place so he can't move and then Cas' lips crash against his, and his brain simply blanks.
He doesn't respond or reciprocate – he can hardly think. It's everything he never allowed himself to want – or even consider as possible.
A headache blooms and his lungs seize and he realizes he hasn't breathed in nearly a minute, he opens his mouth to drag in a breath and Cas angles and deepens the kiss with his tongue, warm in Dean's mouth and Dean sucks in a breath straight from Cas' mouth. A strange part of him thinks he might pass out, but of course this is a dream – so technically he's already unconscious.
His tongue laps out to touch Cas', entirely against his will – which is failing him rapidly. Traitorous body. He breathes in quick pants through his nose and feels his body surge in heat, blooming in a flush sweat from head to toe.
Cas hands slide down his body, touching him in a way he never has and Dean snaps back.
His eyes wide and scared, looking at Cas whose completely taken aback by the abrupt stop.
"I can't." His voice shakes as bad as a dying man's last breath, barely audible, and he forces himself to wake up before Cas can say anything else.
As Dean sits up in bed, shaking, aroused, and feeling sick to his stomach, he rolls over to the sound of his phone binging on a new message.
Cas: I've decided not to give up on this.
Cas: Even if you have.
Dean doesn't fall back asleep that night. Instead, he wanders into the main room and drinks hard. Like everything else, he's broken this too.
/\
The next morning Dean finds himself draped over the large chair at the back of the main room – one leg hanging over the arm, the other stretched out towards the floor, and his head hanging backwards off the other armrest. The empty bottle of Whiskey is cradled into his chest, his phone at the far end of the table. He's barely awake, drunk still, and stubbornly refusing to fall back asleep. He finds it almost funny that it is impossible to ignore someone that can take a little dream-walk in your noggin whenever they please.
Fuckin' angels…
"Dean?" Sam asks skeptically from wide arch near the hall. "What are you doing?" His brows all scrunched together as he takes in Dean's pitiable condition.
"I'm having a drink, Sam." Dean replies with an insolent tone.
Sam cranes his neck and scoffs, "Yeah, I think you're done, man."
Dean grunts and shuffles into a more traditional sitting position, the bottle loosely held in his fist. His vision swims and the headache that's taken over business upstairs is pounding fierce against his skull. He rubs a hand over his face, feeling the extra day of scruff, and tries to wake up.
He hears a subtle hard drag from the table and looks up to see Sam raising his phone.
"Put that down." Dean's voice sounds as scratchy as 80-grit sandpaper.
"Dean… you have, like, eight messages from Cas." Dean sees Sam about to swipe his thumb to open them and he stands, managing not to fall. "Don't Sam, just leave it be."
His brother pauses, his thumb hovering over the screen and his eyes turn to Dean in keen observation, "What happened? You guys get in a fight or something?" He asks.
Dean snorts a bitter laugh and walks the length of the table and snatches his phone back. "Forget it." He says tiredly, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes that feel swollen.
"You can talk to me, you know." Sam says behind him quietly, his words reluctant. Dean laughs another bitter-sounding noise.
"Uh-huh. Strictly business, right Sammy?" He reminds his 'hunting partner'.
Sam says nothing.
"That's what I thought." Dean replies, his lips curling with distaste. He rubs his eyes again, trying to get rid of the pain behind them that won't go away.
"I'll be in my room." He leaves and heads down the hall.
Once in his room, Dean closes the door and leans against it, " 'the fuck?" he asks himself. Dean is itching to beat the shit out of something right now and if he could do it to himself, he would. They've got no case, no fucking leads at all. All he can do is sit on his goddamned ass and he hates it.
He crosses the short distance to his bed and sits down resting his elbows on his knees and bringing one hand to prop up the heavy weight of his head.
Dean feels the hard lump of the phone in his right hand. He looks at it, chewing on his lip as he decides whether to read the messages or simply delete them. He knows he's making it worse. It's one thing to cross that line, and then another to be a dick about it. But what else can he do? He was stupid to let this become another weakness – nothing more than another tool for the enemy to use. If Cas ever died because of this…
Dean's eyes cinch shit, his head throbs and he grips the phone tight enough that it creaks in protest.
He makes a snap decision, his head-supporting hand gives him a few slaps on the cheek to pull himself together and he quickly unlocks his phone. He pauses to look at the door for a second and then drops his gaze to the screen and reads…
Cas: Dean?
Cas: Please don't ignore me.
Awesome. Now he feels worse. You deserve it, he reminds himself.
Cas: Fine, then listen. I know you see relationships as weaknesses and I can sympathize. But Dean. You are WRONG.
Cas: On that note, so is Sam. Not that I am taking sides here… but anyway.
Dean breathes a small laugh and shakes his head.
Cas: I don't want to argue or debate right or wrong, good decisions or bad. Mostly because your obnoxiously stubborn and it would be a purposeless endeavour on my part. Instead.
Cas: Instead.. picture it. That is all I ask. Imagine it. Take a moment to wonder. Dean, it's sometimes all I can think about. I can see it on you too. You don't think I notice when your mind wanders, I know you think I'm oblivious to many things. I assure you I am not. I've just found that. .
Cas: If I pretended to not be aware, maybe? I don't know. Maybe it would be easier.
Cas: You are continuing to ignore me so I guess I'll leave you be for now.
There are no other messages from Cas. No missed calls. The messages stopped at about six a.m – so it's been four hours since the last message.
Dean gets lost in stillness, staring at the floor. He doesn't spend the time thinking about it – he has already. He's spent years thinking about it. Always pulling thoughts out of that iron thick safe buried deep. Of course, that had been different.
The many times he'd fallen asleep wondering what being in bed with him would be like, wondering how it feel to be able to wrap his arms around his best friend without holding back everything inside. He'd only ever thought about it from a distant place in the fantasy world. Dean buried that shit deep – never allowing it to surface where it could fuck with his head, or cause him to make bad decisions.
Fuck… now the whole goddamned vault had sprung a leak, his thoughts spread out like a virus changing every preconceived notion of his life.
Imagine it… the words coming back to him slow, teasing like the offer of cocaine. Which he'd done once on a whim – solely to see what it was like.
Whether it's the alcohol or his exhaustion, he's not sure, but for some reason he allows himself to wonder. To truly think about it. Even if it's just to let himself indulge in the idea of being happy. Pretending that he doesn't have to save the world from itself every six months. Imagining the bizarre concept of walking into his room and not being alone. Having someone there when he can't stand his own thoughts. Having that someone be his best friend. The one person who forgives him of everything, even though he doesn't deserve it.
He lays back on the bed, letting the images wash over him. He pictures Cas' body coming up to his after a hunt, their ramped up and can't hold back. He remembers Cas kissing him in the dream, how good it felt to feel the warmth of his lips on him. Cas had never felt more alive to Dean than he did in that moment, so close. Where he could feel everything, smell him, touch him…
Dean jolts awake, startled and disoriented. The inside of his mouth is dry as cotton and legs are cramping from they're still hanging from the end of the bed. He doesn't even remember falling asleep. One look at his phone that is still miraculously in his hand and he sees Cas hasn't written anything else. He's also slept half the day away.
He's sick of his own brain now. Tired of thinking about what he knows he can't have. What he shouldn't have even started wanting in the first place.
"Cas…" He groans in sharp frustration as he sits up, unable to come to terms with the turmoil in his head. His phone bings and his eyes narrow suspiciously at it, seeing a new message.
Cas: So… I can still hear you when you pray to me.
Dean silently curses himself. Christ, you can be an idiot. He glares at the phone debating whether he should write back. Maybe he's over thinking it – all of it. Maybe he's just being a bitch? He brings the phone up to his mouth and taps it against his lips as he thinks on it some more. Fucking make a decision already… his brain shouts. Do it, or don't. Those are the only options you have. Sitting on the fence is only going to make it worse.
Dean doesn't text back. Instead, he continues praying. It feels easier and more natural. Besides, the hangover running through his head and stomach has made his hands weak and the idea of operating a touch screen with any level of accuracy will only result in anger and the need for a new phone once he'd thrown this one against the wall.
He holds the phone between his hands, the strange object between his flattened palms against each other. He struggles with what to say.
It's terrifying, he admits, to be… not weak – s'not what I mean. Vulnerable, maybe?
And yes, I've thought about it. I think about it. Fuck… Cas, you don't even know. God, you'll never know. I don't know how to do this. Don't think I can. Look what happened to Lisa and Ben.
How can you expect me to think everything will be okay?
The screen on his phone lights up with a new message, he opens his eyes to look at it.
Cas: It probably won't.
You would make a really shitty salesman. I need to know you won't die because of me.
Cas: I can't promise you that. I would die for you.
Cas… don't. Don't say that. No one should die for me. It's been done already and I'm not worth it. Believe me, I know.
Cas: You're fucking stupid.
Jesus, Cas, tell me what you really think. Dean is shaken by Cas' resolve and brazen attitude. It's unlike him and Dean wonders just how much he's been holding back all this time. His phone goes off again and he looks down, only to have his mouth drop and his eyes blink a few times as though each time he expects to open them and see something different.
Cas: I'm in love with you. It's exhausting trying to pretend I'm not.
Cas: I gather those types of things aren't meant to be said through a text.
Cas: Dean?
Still here. Sort of. Sorry.
Their strange way of communicating hits a pause, the air crackling with static between them. And such a large amount of air that it is, hundreds of miles of it. I'm a coward, he realizes. Cas deserves better.
Fuck.
Cas. Deserves. Better. He repeats to himself slowly.
Better. Better than me.
Dean sits still for several minutes, bracing himself; feeling his stomach twist and then the worlds tumble – brick after brick, he rips the building to pieces.
I'm not what you need. You don't know what you want. Not really. I'd ruin everything. Even if the world wasn't such a shithole, I'd ruin us. I'm sorry, but you deserve better.
I don't want to lose what we already have and I do want you here. I want you on hunts, but that's it. That's all I've got. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Cas.
You don't… I'm sorry.
Dean can't bring himself to say anything else. He promptly turns his phone off so he can't see the result of what he's done.
Oh fuck... what have I done? Dean's heart is seizing tight against his ribcage, like it's not in the right place. Maybe it's dying. He looks down at the mark on his arm, staring at it.
"Fuck! Get out of your head!" Dean grunts out loud, running his hands hard over his head, tempted to unload some lead into it – ya' know – just for fun. He looks at the phone once before tossing it behind him on the bed and gets the hell out of this room. With its fucking queen size bed and double nightstands. It's a fucking crime scene now, and he's the murderer making a hasty escape.
When Dean finds himself in the hall, he shuts the door, holding onto the handle a bit longer than necessary. He has a strange thought that he might not come back to it. Is this really even home anymore?
Home means family… he doesn't have that here. Or anywhere, for that matter. It's his fault anyway. Sam's been telling him, he should have listened. 'You think you're doing more good, but you're not.'
"Dean?" Sam calls to him from the other end of the hall, Dean looks up and waits for Sam to say something else.
"Cas called." Dean looks down at Sam's hands but doesn't see a phone. "Uhh… he's not," Sam extends his empty hands. "He just called to tell me to tell you that 'you're doing it to yourself'." Sam quotes and then makes a face that invites an explanation.
"You were wrong, Sam." Dean says monotonously. "You said I was selfish." He clarifies and Sam continues to listen. "If I were selfish, my life would look a lot fucking different." Dean concludes, his tone turning wry.
He walks the length of the hall, Sam's eyes following his every step until he needs to stop because of the giant tree in his way. He glares up at his brother – aware that his eyes appear lifeless.
"I'm going out." He states expectantly; waiting for Sam to move.
Sam hesitates as he considers whether he's gonna say something or not, Dean keeps the hard stare in place like a challenge. Sam's eyes drop down in defeat and he shifts to the side to let Dean pass by. Dean walks quickly by the map table and grabs his keys and leaves.
An hour later, Dean's found the perfect place. Not some nice, twenty's-something type of bar, but a real skeavy place. The kind where, whatever you're looking for, you'll find it here – even with the sun only starting to set moments ago. It's exactly where he needs to be. He fits right in, too.
Dean foregoes the bar and heads to the back to sit at one of the high tables by the back door. There's not as many people in this corner and Dean doesn't want to be bothered unless it's by the right type of company.
The waitress with the short, light brown crop of hair comes by and takes his order of six shots and a beer. She doesn't bat an eye which just goes to show this place is right up his alley.
She's quick and sets everything on the table in front of him. "You lookin' for anything else this evening?" She asks in a polite but hard voice. She's seen some shit, he can tell. Which is sad – she doesn't look a day over thirty-five. I hear ya, sister.
"What else you sell here?" He asks.
She nods in understanding. "Whatever you want." She's all business now, right to the point and he can appreciate that. All business, right Sammy?
"Going for a solo kinda pick-me-up, or maybe a little company? Hell, we can do both for a discount." She taps her fake nails on the table, and he meets her brown eyes.
He'd planned on the second, but the temptation is too much and so he chooses option C. If I'm sinking this far tonight, I might as well hit the bottom, he reasons as he shoots back the burning liquid, draining their tiny glasses.
Forty minutes, and several tiny glasses emptied later, he's presented with skin and a ready-to-go attitude. Long blonde hair, wavy – lots of makeup – and clothes that are doing a terrible job of clothing anything. He takes a minute before he looks more closely – good, not blue.
Dean nods to the door and the woman slips something in his palm that he doesn't even ask what it is. He pops it in his mouth and chases it down with the last of his beer.
"Let's go." He says, standing up and she's on him already. Hands rubbing up and down his arms, saying dirty things he's not paying attention to. He can feel whatever he just took buzzing through his veins already and it lifts the heavy weight from his chest. Dean's head falls back in relief, the feel of small hands on his chest brings his view back down where it pauses sharply midway.
To the far left of the bar Cas is standing like an island amidst the bar-goers, motionless, his hands in his pockets as he watches them. His blue eyes, even from this distance Dean can see are flooded with pain. Dean pretends that the sight doesn't make his heart sputter like it's run out of gas. He grits his teeth and glares at the angel. Yeah, take it all in, Cas. This what you want? He asks bitterly. Not sure if Cas is listening, not sure if he's praying or talking to himself.
The blonde rubs a hand discreetly over his crotch and he looks down at her, forgetting she was even there. She startles from the hard look in his eyes but recovers quickly – ever the expert.
"Let's go outside baby." She hums, and pulls him towards the door. The drug is setting in and he follows her without looking back.
In the darkened alley, he's pressed against the wall. The feeling drudges up a flash of memory. Another wall... another body up against his own. A groan escapes his lips as he remembers the hard lines of another body.
"God, you're so much hotter than my usual clients." She flirts as she undoes his fly with her short purple nails. If only she knew how wrong she was, she wouldn't be so eager. She'd probably run screaming.
She runs her hands down his chest and abs before getting lower and touching him bare. Dean closes his eyes as though it can block everything out and leave only the weightless drug and the touch on his skin. Except with his eyes closed, the touch is dealt by another hand and his lids flash open; his vision swims trying to right itself and he languidly peers down as she strokes him, reminding himself whose hands are on him, and whose aren't.
Dean let's his head fall to the side, eyes open but unable to watch the trainwreck. His breathing catches as he realizes Cas didn't leave and he's standing twenty feet down the alley.
The angel looks like he might vomit or kill Dean with his bare hands. Dean can only muster a blank stare back. There's a hum under his skin that tingles and everything is turning sideways. It's distracting enough that his brain can't process what he's doing.
"Hey baby, you want more or what? You didn't say." The hooker asks him and he almost laughs.
"Yes." He says to both of them. "I want more." His eyes fixate on the man farther away than the women with her face an inch from his dick.
Cas blinks, confused and wary of Dean's words and the way his eyes are glazed but stuck on him. The confusion switches to anger and disgust the second Dean feels wet heat surround his cock.
He's pretty sure she gave him ecstasy because even though his insides feel like rotten garbage, his cock is hard and ready to go, his abs tightening in pleasure. Well... at least one of us is into this. He hates himself for this, but it's just par for the course. Cas needs to see that.
I'm not what's good for you. I've never been…
The blonde – not blue-eyed – chick deep throats and he comes which is weird because he barely feels it. Dean sort of feels sick actually – like his cock threw up, maybe. Great, he thinks. My own dick is disgusted with me. Awesome.
She's saying something but he isn't paying attention, his head is hanging to the side, his eyes fixed on the dumpster across the alley. It's green and covered in patches of rust. Her voice gets louder and Dean is tempted to tell her to fuck off, but she shouldn't have to deal with his shit so he keeps his mouth closed.
Dean pulls some money out of his pocket and passes it off to her. She's quick to disappear after that. He's alone, sort of.
He hears the soft thud of shoes over asphalt and closes his eyes and waits for the wrath of God. Or in this case, God's little soldier. Which may very well be worse.
"Do you think I haven't already seen the worst of you?" Cas asks softly. Though maybe he's yelling, the waning influence of the drug makes it hard to tell.
"You don't know the worst." Dean replies, tapping his forehead.
"I know everything Dean." His voice is so certain. So confident. God, how can he be so sure?
"Just leave." Dean says without looking. He doesn't hear anything for a long time. When he chances to open his eyes, he's completely alone.
/\
Dean goes back into the bar a few minutes later. The drug is rapidly wearing down, barely lasting an hour and when he sits down at the bar, he orders only a beer. He hadn't meant for Cas to show up. This wasn't what he wanted to happen. But now that it had, maybe Cas would get it finally. Maybe he'd realize the Dean wasn't right in the head. No wonder all his relationships went to shit.
The stool to his right scrapes the ground as it's pulled out. A large body sits down as his neighbour pulls the stool close to the bar in the same motion. Dean knows its Sam without looking. He's terrified to find out what Sam knows.
Sam orders some light beer. Dean takes a sip of his, waiting for his brother to speak. When the beer is placed on a cardboard coaster, Sam angles towards him slightly.
"What's goin' on Dean?" Sam asks in a serious, low voice that barely carries over the TV's and the other bar chatter.
"I shattered a lie." Dean speaks with the bottle close to his lips. He takes a sip, the cold fizz running down this throat feels refreshing.
Sam stares at him trying to figure out what he means.
"Dean," Sam begins after several minutes, "I'm still your brother." Dean frowns but doesn't warrant that with a reply. A derisive snort is only barley contained.
"I'm sorry." Sam voice is heavy with emotion. He's looking down at the bottle in front of him as he picks at the label with his fingernail.
"For what?" He asks tartly.
"For saying we're not brothers. You are my brother. I mean, you just don't know how to play the role right."
For the first time since Sam arrived Dean turns to glare at him, his lips pulls up at the corner, piqued and affronted.
"But it's not your fault." Sam continues, "it's dads." His voice is so solemn. "And maybe…I dunno, Dean, maybe we don't get to be normal brothers." Sam takes a sip slowly, resting the beer carefully in the center of the coaster, holding it solid in his big hands. Their quiet for a while after that.
"I love you Dean." Sam says without looking and Dean's brain can barely register, no wait, barely fathom what his brother has said. Dean can't even remember the last time either of them said it. Dean's eyes fall shut and their burning behind his lids and he bites the inside of his bottom lip to try and pull himself into one piece.
When he feels about as held together as though the cracks had been filled with Elmer's Glue, he lets out the breath he'd been holding.
Facing his beer, he says, "I love you too, Sammy." His fucking hands are shaking as he pulls the bottle up to his mouth.
A loud, delighted girlish shriek from the other side of the bar snaps them back for a moment out of the soundless void they'd fallen into. The bar suddenly seems inundated with noise that chafes his eardrums.
"What happened with Cas?" Sam asks, finally turning around in his seat to face Dean completely.
Dean effects an ambiguous gesture that could mean anything from 'I don't know' to 'I don't wanna fucking talk about it'. In this case, it's both.
"Dean." Sam chides tersely. Dean has to hold back a smile from the way Sam says his name – exactly like a nagging little brother should sound. Things feel easier somehow.
"I ruined everything." He provides in summary. It's as good as any.
Sam listens quietly, waiting for him to elaborate.
"You know, right?" Dean drowns his beer and lifts two fingers as he meets eyes with the bartender. In fifteen seconds, another cold one is opened and ready. He guzzles the neck and stares at the TV over the bar. It's a college game. The home teams winning, fans are cheering and shouting.
"Yeah, I know." Sam finishes off his first beer then. "I assume you said something? Or he did?"
"I did." 'Cause I'm an idiot, he adds.
"Shouldn't that be a good thing?" Sam wonders.
Dean turns to him with a wry expression, "So how's Jess, Sam?" His brother recoils as if he'd been slapped and Dean barrels forward, "or Lisa, or Madison, or wait, what about Jo?"
"I get it." Sam bites back. "It's not the same though." Sam grips and ungrips the empty bottle in front of him.
"You want another?" The bartender with the short hair from before comes up to ask Sam. He shakes his head. "Looking for something else?" The insinuating tone is hard to miss.
Only then does Sam bring his head up to give her a sketchy once-over, "Uhh.. no, thanks. I'm good." Sam replies, his lips tight.
"No, it's worse." Dean says when their alone again.
"Why?"
"Because it means more…" He says quietly, wondering when he and Sam became comfortable enough with each other to talk about this shit.
His brother doesn't reply. Maybe he's not surprised by the admission. Dean takes notice of the empty beer in Sam's gigantor hands, "one and done, huh?"
Sam nods. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna head back. Are you coming home?" The word sinks to the bottom chambers of his heart where it settles deep. He coughs back an emotion before he can trust his voice.
"Uhh.. yeah. Not for a bit though." Sam stands up from the stool, his body near Dean's shoulder. Sam rests a hand on his upper back, soothing almost and Dean can't remember the last time Sam touched him in a comforting gesture.
"Don't write it off yet." Sam tells him.
"Pretty sure that ship has sailed, crashed, and dropped to the bottom of the ocean to become pals with the Titanic, so I appreciate the sentiment but it's worthless." The words are cynical but his demeanour is calm and resolute. He's accepted his fate; what he's done.
"You don't know that." Sam argues.
"You should've gotten here a half hour earlier." Dean smirks bitterly over his shoulder.
"What did you—"
"—forget it." Dean cuts in. Doesn't matter, anyway.
"Are we good?" Sam asks standing to his right.
"Until I fuck up again, yeah we're awesome." He tips the beer back again and it's nearly done.
"We're always gonna fuck up; me, you – it doesn't matter. I think maybe if we just, I dunno, talked more. And I know –"
"—no, you're right." Dean interrupts. His words causing Sam some confusion. "It's better. Talking and shit. Maybe if I'd.. If I hadn't been such a coward six years ago, it never would have gotten this bad." He confesses.
"We still talking about us?" Sam asks, smiling for the first time.
"Shut up." Dean shakes his head, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. It's not any deeper than the skin, doesn't bring with it the emotion it displays. But it's something…
"Alright... I'll see ya' at home." Sam claps a hand on his shoulder and turns away.
There are no more beers after that. It takes time to get to the front seat of his beloved car, it's hard to walk when all he can see is the look on Cas' face. As much as it hurts, and how fucking horribly it happened, Dean knows it was the right decision. The wake of the dead behind him speaks for itself.
I won't let you be another grave that I won't visit. Dean says silently. It's not a prayer, it's a reminder.
/\
When he gets back to the bunker he parks the car out front instead of the garage. Sometimes he likes to see the shiny metal reflect the different nighttime lights. It makes for a beautiful sight.
The door creaks shut and his eyes lift up and he sees Cas sitting by the door, his knees up high with his arms resting in a stretch over them. Dean stops several feet away.
"I'm sorry." With the amount of times he's said or thought the words in the last twenty-four hours, he should just tattoo them onto his face.
"Doesn't change anything, does it?" Cas mumbles to the ground.
"No."
"For me either." Cas tips his head up to meet his eyes. There's a bittersweet sadness that's taken over those blue eyes. Dean wishes he were closer, so he could see every line, every nuance of colour in them. He already knows, it's burned into his memory but seeing them each time anew, with all their intricacies and uniqueness, it's a secret joy he allows himself whenever they're close. Dean doesn't doubt for a second that they aren't really Jimmy's eyes. He'd seen Jimmy, and his eyes were dull.
"Are you staying?" Dean looks away finally, knowing that Cas sees the wreckage in him.
"Yes." He says. Dean nods, keeps nodding a bit more than necessary as he forces his body to accept it.
He walks forward, his breath sticking on each inhale. When he gets close, Cas stands up and they move towards the door together. Nothing will ever be the same again, he thinks.
Cas looks him up and down as Dean goes to open the door, it's appears to be clinical assessment more than anything else. The door opens and Cas steps past him to walk in, "I hope you contracted something," he says bitterly.
Dean stands in the doorway for a minute, watching Cas disappear to somewhere inside the bunker. Yup, rock-bottom, right where I wanted to be tonight.
A/N: Ohh so , kisses for my readers because of what I just put you through. Hope you liked it.
