Chapter Twelve - If I Allow It Now

I just wrote my first exam of the semester yesterday (at fucking 8:15, guys, if I ever find out who set that time I SWEAR-) and spent the rest of the day working on this. Much nicer than uni work. I hope you're gonna like the way we're progressing...*nervously chews on fingernails*

Reference to "Clean" by Taylor Swift and "Unsaid Emily" from Julie & The Phantoms.

Oh, and slight warning for bad anger and pain management. I don't think it's a lot, but just to be sure, if such things trigger you, look after yourself first.

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

He shouldn't be surprised.

He knows he shouldn't.

Still, the confirmation hurts. It hurts like a bitch.

He didn't mean it.

He knows he has no right to feel like this. He has no claim on Cas, none. Cas has never been his to lose.

His heart doesn't give a shit.

He's been hiding in his room. Again. He doesn't even find it in himself to care about the patheticness anymore. At least he's not hiding from Cas this time. At least not explicitly. No, this time, it's Sam and Eileen. Great, right? Add another two names to his list of 'People Dean Pathetic Asshole Winchester Fled From'. Only a question of time until his whole family's up there as it seems. Awesome.

They didn't even do anything. They'd just been happy, telling him about their date.

"It was really educational", Sam had said with a beaming smile. "Stuff even we hadn't seen before, let alone used. Here, I took notes. You never know when it might come in handy."

"Notes, Sam? Seriously?" Dean had crossed his arms in front of his chest, raising his eyebrows teasingly. "I thought this was supposed to be a date, dude. You can't leave your girl hangin' like that." He protectively wrapped an arm around Eileen's shoulders, marking his point. "And while we're at it - a museum, guys?" His brother was really unbelievable. A fucking museum trip for a date. At least it had been about weaponry and not some art or history bullshit, although he wouldn't scratch that from Sammy's 'perfect romantic location' list, either.

"Hey!" Eileen disentangled herself from him with a look of fake offence, pushed him playfully with a warm grin on her face. "It was awesome!" Sam's following grin had been even wider as he welcomed Eileen in his arm instead.

"Yes, it was." He'd pressed a kiss to her hair that made Dean's heart both warm and ache before Sam's grin grew dirty and he signed in Eileen's direction what Dean read as As was that dark corner we found in the knife section. The way Eileen had blushed and bit back a smirk left no doubt that his sign training hadn't let him down. Though he kinda wished it had. He really did not need to hear that. ...Read. See. Whatever.

"Oookay, that's my cue!", he'd exclaimed dramatically, making his way to the kitchen door.

"Night, guys. Oh and Sam?" His brother had looked back at him with a twinkle still in his eye and Dean had put on his sweetest of smiles. Fuck you, he'd signed and quickly disappeared around the corner. The laughter he heard coming from the kitchen had made him guiltily pick up his pace towards his room that he knew would be empty and lonely.

Despite all the teasing, he couldn't help but envy them. A museum. They're tooth-rottingly cute and perfect for each other. They're good for each other. They'll probably marry someday and have a beautiful family without any secrets or lies or baggage to drag their relationship down.

He wishes he could be good for anyone.

Dean gets up from his bed with a sigh and makes his way to the cabinet where he keeps the really good stuff hidden from Sammy. His fingers are itching to grab a bottle of bourbon and he pours a generous amount of the golden liquid into a glass. There's a pleasant burning when the first sip glides down his throat, the familiar sensation of a quiet pain that will soon overshadow the loud one in his heart if he just keeps drinking.

Convenient, isn't it. ...? Yeah. How about fucked-up?

He stares at the glass in his hand, lets the liquor sway around. It's been his friend, alcohol. The one thing that doesn't ask questions, doesn't judge. It's merciful. It makes him forget. It makes the feelings go away, if even for just a little while.

He's about to bring the glass to his lips again when Cas' face pops up in front of his inner eye, blue gaze sad as he looks out over the lake.

My healing doesn't only take care of external damage, Dean.

And suddenly, just the thought of Cas having to fix his liver again lets him drop his hand, anger boiling up in his gut instead. Next thing he knows is the glass is flying across the room and shatters against the wall, the bottle ditched in the bin where it lies on a pile of trash, staring at him in accusation.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Of course Cas didn't mean it. Of course not. Cas couldn't possibly have meant any of those things, those things he's turned over in his head and secretly fed on ever since they left Cas' mouth that day. He should have known better than keep that tiny spark of hope alive. Look at him. He drinks, he swears, he sleeps around (well he doesn't do that anymore, for no obvious reason at all), he's drowning in guilt and shame and self-hatred, he kills for a living - nothing about him is in any way relationship or -damn him- love material.

Loving me isn't easy. I have sharp edges. I have missing parts. And it takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.

If there's anyone that would be able to see something worthy left in him, it would be Cas. He would tell him that forgiveness is nothing you get because you deserve it...but because you need it. He would tell him that...stars can't shine without darkness or some poetic shit he just randomly comes up with.

But he shouldn't think about Cas now. Not ever. Especially not without alcohol. Especially not without something drowning out his feelings. He can't do this shit sober. He certainly shouldn't do this shit sober. He doesn't know how to deal with the things inside of him like this, the pain and the rage and the...the...

That's not what he does. He keeps those things in check, keeps them at bay. That's how he deals with it. He just doesn't. And if he lets them lose once...he has no idea how to tie them up again.

If I allow it now...maybe it'll never stop.

And he doesn't think he could bear that, having to feel all the time. It's too much.

He only now realises that his feet are moving, aggressively pacing up and down in his room. Maybe his body is searching ways to release whatever is boiling inside of him. He can't quite pin down what it is, anger, worry, sadness, frustration, a bit of everything. And he can't make it shut up. He can't make his head shut up.

That's sort of his thing, isn't it. Shutting up, swallowing everything, just not talk about it. But this, this...he can't do it.

Cas, he says to him in his head, this is...unbelievable.

Ever since that day, Dean's had every word the angel said engraved in his memory. He tried to put it off, but it just won't fucking leave him alone. Hell, he'd told him he- You told me you love me. He'd told him all that shit and... That's not something you can just drop in a guy's lap and then let it be swiped under the carpet and never mention it again. Does he have any idea how messed up that is? Jesus-

He forces his feet to stop, channels the energy rushing through him by punching a fist against the wall instead. It feels good. It hurts, but the pain is good. It helps. He does it again. The wall blurs in front of his eyes, only coming into focus again when there's suddenly red staining the white. Shit, he's bleeding. His knuckles, they-

This is a mess. His hand is a mess, and the wall is a mess, and the shattered glass sprinkled with bourbon at his feet is a mess. He is a fucking mess.

Dean slams his flat hand against the stone, leans his forehead against it, breathes.

The sound of his panting is loud in the silence of his room, the wall cool against his heated skin. He doesn't know how long he stands there like this, lets the anger flow out of him like the liquor he'd spilt, leaving him with nothing but emptiness.

It might be even worse, feeling empty. It gives you the illusion that maybe you can fill that emptiness with something that isn't fucked-up. And you think that...maybe you won't be a total waste of space when you find something to fill that space. But instead, you end up being more sad, and more angry, because that emptiness can never be filled with something else, because the problem is always you. And how do you fill a space in you that's empty because of you?

Dean turns around and leans his back against the wall, lets his legs give out under him and glides down to the cold floor.

They're hopeless hearts just trying to pass through life, every one of his bones is screaming that he doesn't know what to do. He wants to be able to talk to Cas, tell him what he tells him in those conversations he has, the ones that never leave his head. Because every time he tries, all the lines he rehearsed just disappear from his mind.

I'll tell you about it if I ever get it straight in my head. Write the words 'I love you' in every empty silence.

For now, he has nothing to offer anybody except his own confusion. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to do it right.

You can, a hopeful little voice says far back in a forgotten corner of his mind, you should, and if you're brave enough to start, you will. If he just trusted that to be true.

Dean sits in the quiet darkness of his room, he hadn't bothered to switch the ceiling lights on when he came, the only source of brightness a little bulb of light on his bedside table that can't chase the shadows out of the farther corners. There's nothing to see anyway. No one to see. The floor is hard underneath him, the wall cold in his back. His hand still hurts, but he ignores it, closes his eyes and lets himself be swallowed. He's just so tired. It's so exhausting to keep everything locked up all the time. So he lets it come, let's the hurt and longing and love roll over him until he disappears under the waves.

And just when he's drowning, that's when he could finally breathe. It's so much, it's frightening, but it's also liberating.

Cas' face appears in front of him again, smiling down at him. This time, he lets the images linger, dives down into the memory of that night he slept in his arms, the warmth and protection he'd felt such a contrast to the hard coldness he finds himself surrounded by right now.

Cuddling. He'd cuddled. They'd cuddled. And fuck him, he loved it. The domestic quality of it makes his heart flutter. Damnit, he wants- he wants everything with Cas, ok? The whole bloody thing. Having a life and getting a pet (ok, they already have that one) and matching pyjamas (ok, ok, they already have those, too) and going on vacation and sleeping in the same bed and fighting over curtain patterns and all the other stupid normal life crap. The whole package of domestic shit - and he's fucking afraid of it.

He'd like to promise Cas the world, but...he can't. He can't even promise him a normal, peaceful life, for fuck's sake. All he can promise is his world, his life. A world that has become Cas' too and...a life that he'd like to make theirs. He knows it's not much, but...

All I have to promise you is everything in me, poor offering as that is.

Perhaps it will be enough.

Nothing has ever been conventional about them, after all. Things hadn't even happened in the right order, for fuck's sake! First, he'd died, then they'd met, Cas had saved him and Dean had stabbed him, then there was pining worth of a whole damn forest, then Cas had said he loved him and nearly died because of it-

And now they're back to this game they're playing.

Dean feels like he's climbing a mountain over and over again, but every time he reaches the edge of the waterfall, he's too afraid to jump. There's this little voice inside him that says "Don't do it. You're gonna die." So he turns around and it's the climbing down the mountain alone that actually feels like dying. And he wishes that he could just stand there at its edge for once, telling himself "Oh look, it's time to die again", and he wishes there could be a different voice for once, a voice that says "Do you want me to jump with you?" And deep inside, he knows Cas can be that person, that someone who takes his hand when he wants to walk away from the edge once again like the coward he is, that someone that says "Come one, you can do it. We'll jump together." And maybe he'll find out that he's not gonna die at all. Maybe he'll find out that he won't even fall. Maybe... maybe he'll fly.

When he opens his eyes again, there's a determination rushing through his veins that he didn't know he still possessed. Getting up from the floor is easy, opening the door is easy. Closing it feels like leaving more than one mess behind.

He's going to fix this.

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

"Can't sleep, either?"

When Cas enters the kitchen, he finds Dean with his back to him, leaned over the sink.

"I don't sleep, Dean." He hesitantly steps behind the hunter, tries to throw a glance at his profile. "I heard you. Getting up. And I wanted to check if-" He breaks off as his gaze falls on Dean's hands in the sink, water running over scraped knuckles, washing off the remains of drying blood. "Dean", he says, not caring to keep the worry out of his voice. "Your hand-"

"Oh, that's nothing", Dean says not very convincingly as he grabs a kitchen cloth for drying, trying to hide his clearly injured knuckles by shielding them with his other hand.

Cas raises his eyebrows. He knows this game.

"Dean."

"Cas, it's nothing." Dean sounds dismissive, but gives up the futile hiding endeavour. "Just an accident", he mumbles in his 'I don't wanna talk about this' voice. This, Cas knows well, too. He hears it a lot. He doesn't find it in himself to argue with it now.

He sighs, resigning.

"If you say so, Dean." He watches how Dean presses his lips together, and for a second he wonders if there's something more sitting at the tip of the hunter's tongue, but if there is, Dean bites it back. Instead, he lowers his eyes to his hand, drives a thumb over the red marks and hisses.

"Here, let me." Cas reaches for him instantly, pleased when Dean meets him half-way, as if giving himself over to Cas' care. At least that's what Cas allows himself to believe for a second. He takes Dean's chafed hand in one of his and places the other on top, careful not to touch the raw patches. The light of his healing can be seen shining through their fingers and maybe Cas holds on just a moment longer than would have been necessary before he releases Dean's hand.

Dean stretches his fingers, trying out the newly unblemished skin.

"Thanks, Cas." His voice is soft and genuine, and for a moment Cas can feel the familiar warm fluttering forming in his chest. Then suddenly, there's a flicker behind Dean's eyes, he looks almost panic-stricken for a second before something shuts down and his smile vanishes. He lowers his eyes, clears his throat.

"I'm good now", he says then, shifting uncomfortably, and Cas doesn't really understand what caused this sudden change of atmosphere. Except maybe- "See? You can go back to your room-", Dean says, sounding harsher than he probably anticipated. "I-If you want", he quickly adds, having Cas wrinkle his brow.

"Dean..." He tilts his head to the side, tries to read what might be going on in the other's head. "Is there- Is there something on your mind? Something that's troubling you?"

He means to catch Dean off guard, get him to share a bit more in one of those rare moments when he allows himself to be vulnerable. But the snort the hunter lets out quickly disillusions Cas' hope.

"I'm a hunter, Cas", Dean says as if the mere question had been ridiculous. "One with a messed-up past, confused present and pretty low chances for a better future. There's always something on my mind troubling me." To someone else, this might have sounded like a regular shut-off Dean-comeback, but to Cas, it might actually have revealed a bit more than Dean intended to. His voice is hard and gives nothing away, but there's a revealing glimmer in his eyes that Cas tries to catch before the hunter averts his gaze.

"You know what I meant", he says with a hint of reproach, eyeing Dean intensely.

"I'm fine." Cas huffs. Dean can pull this shit with whoever he wants, but he's not stupid.

"We both know that's a lie." Dean's eyes shoot up to his, mouth slightly open with surprise about Cas' harsh tone. Cas hold his gaze, questioning blue eyes searching for whatever Dean is hiding. The hunter is slightly squirming under his look, his eyes going wide, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. The wall he's built seems to slowly melt away the longer their eye-contact lasts, and just when Cas thinks he might find what he's looking for, Dean suddenly turns away, hands roughly gripping the edge of the counter.

Cas sighs. He doesn't have the strength for this.

"Alright", he says quietly, nods to himself. "I see." He waits a few more moments for Dean to react, give him something, anything. But there's just a turned back, slowly moving with the in- and outtake of breath. Okay, then. Cas drives a hand over his face. He's tired. He doesn't feel physical exhaustion, but this is an emotional sort of draining. You can't help someone who refuses to let you, no matter how hard you try.

"Goodnight, Dean."

~oOo~

Dean curses himself. Where's that damn determination gone he'd felt when he left his room? Vanished down the drain like the red-dyed water in the sink as soon as those impossibly blue eyes locked with his, that's where. He wants to go through with this, he really does, but he's a fucking coward. He hadn't been ready, hadn't planned on Cas suddenly appearing here, not yet, not before he'd made up his mind on how to get this show on the road.

So of course his defensive douche-instincts tuned in and now Cas is leaving again. He's hurt and he's leaving.

He can't let him. He can let it end like that, not again. If he's going to fuck up again, then because he finally put all his fucking cards on the table. If he's going to fuck up again, he's gonna do it right.

"Wait." He turns around, relieved to see that Cas has stopped in his tracks with one hand against the doorframe. "Actually...I-" He laughs bitterly, hating himself for being so damn tongue-tied all the time. "Y'know, I've been trying to find a positive spin on this...but I got nothin'."

Cas squints his eyes in confusion.

Dean laughs again. The sound is cold and hollow. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. It's easier to get words out when he's not looking at him.

"Why do we keep doing this, Cas? Just not...talk about shit."

There's a heavy silence following his words, one that forces Dean to open his eyes again and look at the angel's reaction. Cas seems to be in thoughts, a deep frown engraved on his forehead. Dean waits, watches the wheels turning behind that furrow, the way it finally relaxes, the way his eyes go wide and pliant.

"If this is about-" Cas breaks off, licks his lips. "I don't want to be presumptuous", he says then, slow and cautious, "but- if this is about that moment in your room yesterday, I told you, I know you don't want to talk about it. And I accept that. I understand."

Dean wants to laugh again, forces the sound back down his throat. It's a disgusting habit.

"You're kidding, right?", he says instead, incredulous. "You don't understand shit, Cas."

He feels a pang of guilt when Cas twitches at his harsh tone, but he can't give that any thought now. His agitation fuels his vocal cords, makes it easier to get out what needs to be said. So he clings to it, almost grateful when Cas straightens his shoulders defensively.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What?" Dean accepts the challenge, lets his voice be carried by the flow. "You think I can just- what? Ignore all that shit you said and pretend it never happened?"

Cas looks at him as if he just asked if the sky is blue. The angel opens his mouth, closes it again, shakes his head to himself. When the blue eyes meet his again, there's a new fire in them that throws Dean off course for a second.

"Actually, yes", Cas says, voice laced with disbelief. "You made it very clear that you didn't wish to see me, that you prefered to stay in your room and...even eat dinner in silence and solitude." Dean would like to know how Cas does it, control his voice like that, calm yet accusing. "You avoided me, for weeks, Dean", he throws in Dean's face, and yes, he's right, of course he is. "And then you told me you wanted to go back to the way things were before-" Cas breaks off, swallows. "...before. I know I'm not the most well-versed in reading human interactions, but I can get a fucking hint, Dean!"

"I-" His voice gets lost in the angry sparkle of blue eyes fixed on him, the untypical curse that escaped the angel's mouth. And when has Cas gotten this close, anyway?

"You...You've been avoiding me as well", he says lamely, aware what a weak retort it is. Still, it seems to soften something in Cas, the fire giving way to something quieter, sadder.

"Only because I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. To give you space. Isn't that what you always told me? Personal space."

He looks very small all of a sudden, quoting back Dean's words at him, the lies he'd created to keep the angel at a distance. Dean feels the urge to reach out and touch him, comfort him, but he's not sure his touch would be welcomed right now.

"And you think I want that now? ", he asks instead, not quite managing to keep the desperation out of his voice. "After all that...after everything?"

Cas shrugs and that little movement makes something inside Dean break.

"I thought that would be what you want, especially after...everything", Cas echoes.

So this is...this is all his fault again, isn't it. He's made Cas believe he didn't want to talk. So Cas didn't.

Well done, Dean. You're an idiot.

"Well." Dean swallows hard. "Guess again."

The emotion flitting over Cas' face is a turmoil, Dean thinks to make out surprise, wonder, confusion, and a tiny hint of...is that...hope?

"But...", Cas stares at him with wide eyes. "You've barely said a few words to me-"

"Because I didn't want to say the wrong thing!"

This might be the most painfully truthful thing he said so far. If he didn't speak, he couldn't confess. (Only, he confesses with his eyes every time he looks at him, anyway. His eyes are just as much confessing as Cas' are, both so occupied expressing everything their lips couldn't that they don't see.)

"You've barely been able to look at me-"

The anger is completely drained out of the angel's voice by now, leaving it raw, almost pleading, and Dean nods to himself, drives a hand over his face, lets the emotion loosen his tongue, confess openly and truthfully. The pain of hearing Cas like that is mixing with the pain that's become his constant companion and he doesn't dare look at him, fixes his eyes on the kitchen tiles.

"Because I couldn't stand to see the hurt", he manages to press out, "and...and the pity-"

"Dean." And finally, finally, they're touching. It's Cas who reached out to put his hand on Dean's arm, Cas that brings them even closer together while his voice makes its way under Dean's skin and into his soul. "If you'd just looked me in the eye for two seconds you would have seen that this is not what you'd have found." His grip on Dean's arm tightens, urging him on. "Dean, look at me. Look at me!"

He can't. It's going to be his undoing if he meets his eyes now.

"Please." Cas is truly pleading, he's begging, and Dean looks. He has to look. He sees how Cas breathes out when their eyes meet, a soft peacefulness settling over his features, the hint of a smile forming in the corner of his mouth.

"Now tell me what you see", Cas asks, voice so soft Dean almost can't stand it, couldn't deny him if he tried. So he stares, mouth slightly open, mesmerized by the warmth in Cas' eyes, the affection, the compassion, the lo- nonono. He shakes his head, shakes himself out of this before he's in too deep.

"Well." His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth and Cas' hand letting go of his arm is a painful loss. "If you could just forget about it, good for you, man. But I can't." He doesn't know where the words come from. He didn't mean to say them. He doesn't want to rip down what they built up just now. But he has to be sure, he has to be absolutely certain this time. So he swallows around the lump in his throat, keeps his voice as steady as possible as he speaks his potential sentence of ruin. "So- sorry, but you will talk about it. You'll have to."

He mentally goes in defence mode, prepares for whatever is to come, but he's simply met with a smile. Cas is smiling.

"Dean, you- you still misunderstand me", he says, keeps smiling. Dean can't quite decide if it's a happy or a sad smile. "It's not that I don't want to talk about it. I just assumed you would prefer to forget", Cas tells him, and oh fuck.

"You want to talk?", he asks, and there's much more confidence in his voice than Dean suddenly feels himself. "Good. Let's talk."

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

I'm really nervous about this so...comments, maybe? Please? I'd really like to hear your opinion so far!