This is the most self indulgent thing I have ever written. It's basically what you get when you mix invalidation from 15x20, far too many hours on , the what-if-Cas-made-Dean-a-mixtape question, destiel feels, and my concerning ability to relate with TFW.
If there are any warnings, I'll put them at the beginning of chapters. For this one, TW is drinking and suicidal thought.

Dean was empty.

He supposed that was fitting, in a way.

Dean hated it. He hated that he had been to angry to stop and think, he hated that he had made that stupid deal, he hated that it was his fault he was gone, he hated that he left thinking it was all one sided, he hated that he had thought it was okay to say something like that, and then leave, hated that it was Dean's fault that Ca—

Dean forced the thought down. No. No, he wasn't going to sit there and think about that day or the words that had come out of his mouth and the ones that hadn't been able to come out of Dean's. Wasn't going to think about how the nothingness had enveloped him like a shell and pulled him away from Dean. Wasn't going to think about how he had done nothing. Or how he had been smiling, wider that Dean had ever seen, happiest killing himself for Dean.

"Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters," he had said once.

Always happy to bleed for you, Dean, was what he had really meant.

Dean wished that wasn't the case.

Dean wished that he wasn't so broken that bleeding was necessary.

He took a swig from his glass.

The whiskey burned his throat, but Dean wasn't going to complain. At least he was numb now.

Numb and empty.

Fitting.

Dean surveyed the bottle. About halfway gone. His glass was nearly drained as well. Within the half hour, he'd have to get another bottle.

The last thing he felt like was moving, but he'd take that over thinking about Cas.

Even with everything dulled by alcohol, the name still hurt like a punch to the gut.

Cas, wearing his boxy trench coat even in summer. Cas, ocean eyes squinting as he tilted his head. Cas, slipping his angel blade from his sleeve. Cas, wearing a ridiculous cowboy hat because Dean insisted. Cas, watching the bees. Cas, smiling radiantly with tears streaming down his face. Cas, dead—

Dean took another long drink, then refilled his glass.

Cas, dead because of him.

It didn't matter how you looked at it. Cas was dead because Dean had needed something to kill and couldn't stop and think. Cas was dead because Dean had led them into Billie's library only half cocked. Cas was dead because Dean was his true happiness.

Almost two months later, Dean still couldn't wrap his head around that.

He was Cas' happiness.

Had the circumstances been different, he would have been over the moon. But now he was dead for good, and it was because he thought Dean was worth it.

Cas deserved so much better than a fucked up hunter. Why couldn't he have seen that?

Glass after glass of whiskey disappeared as the minutes ticked by. It had barely been a half hour when the bottle was completely empty.

Dean stood, and the room spun a little. Good. That meant he was drunk. Not drunk enough, though, since there was still a small, nagging voice in the back of his mind that was whispering Cas wouldn't want this for you. Cas thought you were better than this.

Fortunately, it wasn't terribly far to the kitchen. He should be able to make it from the library to there. Then, he'd get some more whiskey or bourbon or anything strong that would let him forget. And that would be that.

Leaning heavily against the wall, Dean made his way towards the kitchen.

Unfortunately, the way there led him right past Cas' room.

He wanted to keep stumbling forward. Pretend the room didn't exist and pretend the door wasn't ajar.

Whiskey, Dean reminded himself.

Instead, he pushed Cas' door the rest of the way open and stepped inside.

The room was the same as he remembered. Barely any personal touches, just the plain beige sheets on the bed, the old dresser, and the older desk. A bulletin board had been hung up above the desk, where newspaper clippings were either hung up or strewn about without much organization. And on the desk's corner—

Dean picked it up. The picture was in a simple metal frame. Nothing special at first glance. But inside the frame….

The two of them had been working a case in Arizona. A couple of ghouls that had gotten off their corpse diet in favor of live humans. Back in the motel after questioning one of the vic's parents, Dean had said offhandedly, "You know, we're not that far from the Grand Canyon. Probably about an hour or two. Actually, I've never seen it."

Cas had squinted at him from his bed. "I find that hard to believe. You've been all over the country."

Dean shrugged, undoing his tie. "I mean, yeah. But Sam and I… just never got around to it, I guess."

"We should go," Cas suggested. "After we're done with this case."

"There a reason we should go?" Dean asked.

"You've never seen it," Cas said simply. "I saw it once before, a few hundred years ago, but I didn't think much of it. I think I would like it more this time, especially if I got to see it with someone."

Dean couldn't have stopped the grin that spread across his face. "If you wanna go, Cas, we'll go."

Cas had smiled at him and nodded.

It was three days later before they made it.

It was worth it.

Not just because of the limitless sky and the rich layers upon layers of rock that stretched to the canyon floor, but because of the enjoyment in Cas' eyes, and the way Cas was talking about all the different types of rock he could see.

As the sun had set, they'd gotten a couple to take a picture of them leaning against the hood of the Impala, the canyon behind them. Cas' eyes had been soft and the light had played across his face. He was beautiful.

Dean had wanted to kiss him. He didn't.

He could have, and Cas would have kissed back. He knew that now.

Still holding the frame, Dean backed away from the desk and sat heavily on Cas' bed. He put the frame face-down next to him and buried his head in his hands.

What he would give, to go back to that moment, the sun caught in Cas' hair, his lips turned upward in that small smile he reserved for Dean, alive and okay and together.

He should get up. Go get that alcohol. Down a couple more glasses. It wasn't healthy, but at least it was better than sitting in Cas' room.

Better than sitting in what used to be Cas' room.

Dean didn't move for a long time. Even then, it was only to lay down.

The pillow at the head of Cas' bed was almost unused. It was stiff beneath Dean's head, and he didn't know why he'd been hoping that maybe some of Cas' scent had stuck to it. Cas didn't sleep. He had never used that pillow. He would never use that pillow.

Dean sat up abruptly, and the world started swimming again. He didn't care; it was too much, it was all too much—

He knocked into the doorframe as he hurried out of the room. To the kitchen. There was more whiskey in the kitchen. If he drank enough, maybe his head would quiet.

The door stayed open behind him as he stumbled down the hall.

Cas dreamed.

There were tears rolling down his face. His mouth was stretched wide in a smile. This was it.

Dean's eyes searched his desperately. "Why does this sound like a goodbye?"

"Because it is."

Dean opened his mouth to protest.

Cas didn't let him.

"I love you."

A myriad of expressions played across Dean's face; disbelief, desperation, denial.

Cas thought he saw heartbreak.

"Don't do this, Cas," Dean begged.

Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't do this.

What did Dean mean by "this?"

Before Cas could try and figure out what he meant, there was a dark mass swelling behind Dean, the dungeon door had opened with a slam, and his hand was on Dean's shoulder.

"Goodbye, Dean."

"Cas—" There were tears in Dean's eyes.

Cas shoved him to the side, out of harm's way. He could do this one last thing. One last time, he could save Dean Winchester.

The Empty enveloped him, and he drifted off.

But what was "this?"

Cas continued to dream.

Dean was woken by Sam shaking him roughly.

"Dean? Dean!"

Dean blinked, still out of it. Everything hurt more than it should. He took in his surroundings.

He was still at the kitchen table, slumped over uncomfortably, a bottle of whiskey within arms reach. The lights were far too bright, everything was far too loud, and Dean didn't want to deal with any of it.

"Jesus, Sammy, let a guy wake up naturally."

Sam's tone was pissed. "Let a guy— you've been out for hours. You drank a bottle of whiskey on your own and were starting on your second. I didn't know if you were going to wake up."

Dean felt a pang of guilt. Sam didn't deserve this. "'M sorry. Didn't mean to worry you. Just was thinking about—"

He didn't let himself finish the sentence.

Sam finished it for him. "Cas?"

Dean flinched.

"Dean—" Sam broke off, then started talking again, this time more softly. "What happened with Billie? You barely stayed sober when we were up against Chuck, and now that he's gone, you're not even trying. Every other time Cas has died, it's been bad, but never—"

Never like this.

"I told you," Dean said, fighting to keep the emotion out of his voice. "I don't want to talk about it. What happened happened. He made a deal, it got cashed in."

"I want to help, but I can't if you're not telling me things," Sam tried. "And anyway, talking might actually help."

"And since when are you my therapist?" Dean snapped.

"Since… I dunno, since you don't have a therapist? You can't keep everything bottled up and expect alcohol is going to act as some sort of magic cure."

"Watch me." Dean reached for the bottle across the table.

Sam grabbed his arm. "Look, Dean. Talk to me or not, it's your choice. But you can't keep trying to drink yourself into an early grave."

He could, Dean knew. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. With Jack in charge upstairs, maybe Dean would have a ticket to heaven. And there….

At least in heaven, he could see Cas while he replayed his biggest hits.

No, he couldn't do that. Sam needed him. As much as it hurt, he couldn't abandon Sam.

Sam didn't seem to realize what he had been thinking. He kept talking. "Eileen is coming over later. She's looking forward to seeing you too. Just…." He trailed off.

Dean sighed and muttered something about taking a shower.

Sam nodded.

Dean stood and made his way slowly towards the door.

"And Dean?"

Dean turned to look back at his brother.

"After Eileen leaves, I'm going to call Rowena. See if she has any ideas for getting Cas out."

There was so much hope in Sam's eyes. Dean wanted to believe him. Believe he could get him out. Believe that there was even the slightest possibility that he could wrap his angel in his arms and never let him go, and thread his fingers through his hair and kiss him, and tell him everything that had been left unsaid.

It came rushing back.

"When I experienced a moment of true happiness, the Empty would be summoned, and it would take me forever."

Forever wasn't something you could bring someone back from.

"Fuck that," Dean wanted to say. He couldn't. If it didn't work—

No, it was better to have no hope at all. Better than believing things would be okay when they were never okay.

Dean left the room, and didn't bother to respond.

No matter how much it hurt, he wasn't coming back.

Dean didn't make it through the shower.

The water ran over him, droplets falling at their own pace, on the walls, down his face. He made it just over a minute before it all came rushing back.

It reminded him too much of the way his cheeks had become riverbanks after he had been taken.

Dean fumbled to turn the water off, barely taking the time to dry himself off with a towel before throwing his clothes back on. He stared at himself in the mirror.

It didn't look like he'd had a good night of sleep in weeks; there were defined bags under his eyes and an almost heavy quality to his eyelids. His shoulders seemed to be weighed down too, along with the rest of him. He was paler than he should be. No wonder Sam had been worried.

Dean couldn't bring himself to care much.

The door to the bunker opened as the morning was slipping into afternoon.

Sam's face split into a grin. "Eileen!"

Eileen smiled at him. "Hello, Sam."

"It's so good to see you," Sam said, signing clumsily along with his words.

"Sam! It's good to see you too," Eileen said.

Dean watched them from a distance. Determinedly not thinking about how the way they looked at each other reminded him of the way Ca— he had looked at him.

They met at the bottom of the stairs. Sam leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Eileen's forehead. Eileen responded by dragging him down further for a chaste kiss on the lips.

Dean definitely was not thinking about how maybe that could have been him and Dean.

Not thinking about he would be the one to press a kiss to his forehead when he came home, or how he would roll his eyes and tell him to kiss him properly. Not thinking about how Dean would tease him before complying. Not thinking about what it would feel like to kiss him. Not thinking about what could have been.

Eileen caught sight of him. "Dean!"

Dean tried for a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey, Eileen."

She pulled him in for a hug. "I'm sorry about Castiel."

That was the last thing he wanted to hear, but he nodded when they broke apart. "I am too." He tried to sign along with what he was saying.

"Dude," Sam said, breaking the tension that had fallen over them, "you suck."

"Shut up, bitch. You're one to talk," Dean said.

"Jerk," Sam shot back.

"Sam is doing very well," Eileen said, rolling her eyes. "You aren't doing badly either."

Sam smirked at him.

"She's only saying that because she's your girlfriend," Dean said.

That earned him a set of glares from both Sam and Eileen, but neither of them corrected him.

"So you said you were hunting a rougugru on your way up?" Sam

Eileen nodded. "Yeah. It wasn't very good at covering its tracks. Easy hunt."

They moved to one of the tables in the library.

Dean tried to follow the conversation, he really did.

His focus always went back to the empty chair next to him.

There were a hundred moments that flashed across his mind and they hurt, they fucking hurt.

Cas, tied down to the chair, dealing with the effects of one of Rowena's spells; Cas, pouring tirelessly through volume after volume of old texts; Cas, coming into the library with a glass in hand, refusing to let Dean drink alone; Cas, sitting next to Dean and laughing; Cas, displaying a rare, wide and gummy smile; Cas, just existing; Cas, just alive—

"Dean?" Sam was looking at him expectantly.

Dean startled. "Huh?"

Sam's face softened slightly. "You alright?"

"Yeah. Peachy." Dean forced a smile and winked at him. "What were we talking about?"

"We were wondering if maybe you wanted to cook dinner for tonight?"

"Only if you want to," Eileen added.

Dean didn't respond right away. Cooking. That seemed like such an ordinary thing to do. Like something you did while the world kept turning.

The world was turning, though. It had never stopped. Not just because he had sacrificed himself.

So maybe he should.

"Sure. Don't think we have much in the fridge, though," Dean said at last.

"I ran to the store yesterday," Sam said, shrugging him off. "I got stuff for burgers."

Dean nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. The last time he'd made burgers, it had been for Sam, Jack, and him. "That's good. I'm, uh, I'm gonna go prep those." Without waiting for Sam or Eileen to say anything, he stood and walked out of the library.

"Losing Cas has been really hard on him," he heard Sam say quietly. "Apparently he died saving him. Dean won't say any more than that. Whatever else happened… I dunno, but he's barely done anything besides take bottles from the liquor cabinet. This is the first time since Cas… died… that he's agreed to do something he enjoys."

Dean didn't hear Eileen's murmured response.

Sam was right, he realized. This was the first time since that day that he'd even considered doing something he had found fun. The only reason he'd even left the bunker was to defeat Chuck. After that, there'd been no reason. There wasn't anything out there that he wanted.

Even there at the bunker, there wasn't anything he wanted. He couldn't bring himself to listen to music. The idea of washing Baby or taking her for a drive wasn't appealing.

The one thing he wanted was something he knew he couldn't have.

Dean wasn't unaware of how fitting that was.

He'd just have to make due. Try and be happy with the memories. Move on. This was the first step. Do something he had liked to do.

Dean didn't want to move on.

He went to the kitchen anyway and started going through the fridge.

Burgers. Burgers were simple. He could make those pretty quickly. He got to work.

It was a mindless task, one Dean had done a hundred times. Easy and repetitive. He was halfway through shaping a fourth burger when he realized that Sam had gotten too much meat. There were only three of them now, with Jack acting as God and him— Cas, Dean corrected himself. He was moving on, he had to be able to say Cas' name— gone.

They were going to have leftovers. It was rare that that happened. That was probably going to change.

Dean kept shaping the burgers.

Dinner was quiet.

Sam had smiled when Dean had come into the library to let them know that the burgers would be done in the next ten minutes.

At least he was happy.

Both he and Eileen had complimented him on the food. Uncharacteristically, Dean had taken the compliments without complaint. After that, the chatter had died down as they dug in.

There were two burgers left over. Dean stuck them in the back of the fridge and pretended they didn't exist.

Sam and Eileen moved to Sam's bedroom not long after they finished eating.

"Make sure you keep it down, alright?" Dean said.

Sam gave him bitchface no. eleven, but it lacked some of its usual venom.

"Goodnight, Dean," Eileen said.

"'Night." Dean watched the two of them disappear down the hall.

They looked good together. Happy. They were happy. He saw the way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching. It was the same way he had looked at Cas, and the same way Cas had looked at him.

Another string of memories flashed by painfully; every look he and Cas had shared, from the powerful, piercing stare from when they first met, to the tear-filled way their eyes met as the Empty reached out and—

Dean took a breath, and forced the memory away. He glanced at the clock. Almost seven.

Well, it was five o'clock somewhere.

Dean headed towards the kitchen.

Cas' door was still open.

Beige blankets rumpled from Dean having laid down there, the photo still facedown on the bed. Everything as his drunken self had left it the night before.

Dean stepped inside tentatively. He gingerly grabbed the frame off the bed, and without looking at it, put it back on the desk's corner. He straightened out the blankets.

If he pretended, it was like Cas would be coming home, right to this room.

He isn't coming back, Dean reminded himself.

Dean backed out of the room and shut the door behind him, leaving it empty. Then, he turned on his heel and set about finding the strongest whiskey he could.

He didn't drink as much as he would have liked. Only enough to make the world go soft around the edges and make the pain numb a bit. It was still a long ways past what Sam would approve of.

Move on.

Move on.

Move on.

That started with doing things he liked, it continued with not getting blackout drunk.

Dean made to pour himself another glass anyway.

Cas wouldn't want this, a voice said in the back of his head. He thought better of you.

"He was wrong," Dean muttered, but he didn't refill his glass.

Moving on. Yeah, right.

He left the bottle out on the kitchen table and made his way to his room.

As he walked past Sam's room, he could hear quiet voices. The halls suddenly seemed even more hollow. It nearly suffocated him when he opened the door to his room.

Two pillows— there were two pillows on his bed, lined up next to each other. One for him and one for him. That had just been a fantasy, though, sharing a bed with him, being able to wake up next to him and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. But if he had just asked, they could have— Cas would have—

Dean struggled to remember how to breathe as he stared at the bed.

What would Cas have looked like after waking up? Would Dean have pressed a kiss to his forehead? Would that have made him smile? Would they have gone to sleep on opposite sides of the bed but woken up tangled in each other? Would Cas have even slept, or just laid there the whole night watching over him? Would he have kissed Dean awake, or vice versa? Would they have been happy?

Dean knew the answer to that last question. Yes, they would have. Happy wouldn't begin to cover it.

He wished he knew the answers to the other ones.

He'd never know the answers to the other ones.

Dean grabbed the pillow off the left side of the bed and threw it across the room before adjusting the right pillow to the middle of the bed. He laid down, painfully aware of how large the bed was.

It was a long night.

Then again, the nights had always been long.

Dean stayed in bed just barely long enough that Sam wouldn't question it.

Moving on. Dean had to keep moving on.

Yesterday, moving on was cooking. Today—

Suddenly the walls were pressing in on him. Their emptiness was suffocating him.

Dean grabbed his phone and his keys off the bedside table before abruptly leaving the room.

Today he was going to go for a drive.

Baby was still in good condition. Of course she was. She hadn't been out on the road since they'd driven back to the bunker after Jack snapped everyone back.

That had been six weeks ago. Only six.

Which meant it had been just under two months since Cas had died.

No, he was not thinking about that. He was moving on.

The Impala could probably use a wash. Maybe he'd do that tomorrow. But for now, she would be alright.

Dean pulled his phone from his pocket and shot off a quick text to Sam.

going for a drive. be back later.

Sam was probably still asleep with Eileen. At least with that, he wouldn't freak out about Dean being gone.

Dean opened the driver's side door and slipped inside. He turned the keys, then took off.

The open road was familiar. The mindless motions of driving and the way the road seemed to fly out from under him. The sky, horizon just starting to become tinged with pinks and oranges. It grounded him.

This was okay. Driving was okay. It was good to be back on the road, just him and Baby. He'd done this a hundred times before.

Like he had a hundred times before, Dean flipped on some music.

Back in black

I hit the sack

I've been too long, I'm glad to be back

Yes, I'm let loose

From the noose

That's kept me hanging about

Yeah. This was okay.

Dean pointedly ignored the heavy feeling in his chest that screamed that something was missing.

He drove.

And drove.

And drove.

And drove.

He stopped for gas once. Pretended that he wasn't remembering a different Gas 'n' Sip.

It was nearing noon when he made it back to the bunker. Sam and Eileen were sitting in the War Room, laughing over something, beers in hand.

Dean watched them, leaning against the doorframe.

Neither of them noticed him for a minute or two. He was about to turn and go when Eileen caught sight of him. "You're back!"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Didn't bring any souvenirs with me, sorry."

"That was a long drive," Sam said. "You good?"

No.

"Yeah, I'm fine. So, what'd I miss?"

Sam didn't seem convinced, but he didn't push.

Dean had the feeling that he was waiting until Eileen was gone.

It was a few more days before she did leave and Sam had his opening. She was headed East for a potential specter. Dean was sorry to see her go, albeit not as much so as Sam.

"Come back soon, alright? Or maybe I can meet you somewhere," Sam said.

Eileen smiled. "I'd like that. I'll call you when I get there," she assured him.

Sam smiled back. "Great! That's, uh, that's great."

They leaned in and shared a kiss.

Then, Eileen raised a hand in a wave as she headed up the stairs and left the bunker, looking back at Sam one last time before shutting the door behind her.

Dean didn't even register what was saying until the words were already out. "Marry her."

Sam stared at him. "What?"

"I, uh, I mean," Dean said, stumbling over his words slightly, "you love her, right? I'm not blind, Sammy. And she— I'm pretty sure— positive, actually, that it's not one sided."

"We haven't even used that word yet. I think it's a bit early," Sam said. He paused, then asked, almost hopefully, "You think she loves me?"

"Yeah. It's not hard to see, she looks at you like—"

Dean didn't know how he had planned to finish that sentence.

She looks at you like Cas looked at me.

She looks at you like I looked at Cas.

The emptiness in his chest seemed to expand, throbbing painfully.

Sam noticed how he'd broken off. "Dean, what were—"

"I need a drink," Dean announced, then turned on his heel.

"Dean, wait." Sam followed him, frowning. "You were going to say something about Cas, right?"

"I need a drink alone," Dean clarified, voice hard. "Drop it, Sam."

"Look, whatever—"

Dean whirled around, snapping. "Can you fucking drop it? I can't deal with this right now!"

"You're not dealing with it at all, whatever it is," Sam said irritably. "Ignoring it isn't helping!"

"Yeah, well, you grilling me isn't helping either!"

"I'm not trying to grill you, but we've talked about this, you can't just bottle everything up—"

"I can and I will!"

Sam tried another approach. "If Cas were here—"

Fuck, those words hurt. And Sam knew it.

If he were here…

"Well, he's not!" Dean's voice shook. "He's not, and it's my own goddamn fault, so drop it! I as good as killed him, Sam! He'd be alive if—"

Why couldn't Sam just listen? Why couldn't he see that he wasn't helping, and just leave Dean the fuck alone? Why did he keep bringing Cas up, as though that would bring him back and fix things?

"We can bring him back," Sam insisted. "I told you, we can call Rowena—"

"Rowena can't help. You know why?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Because when he— when he died, it was final." The words felt final coming out of Dean's mouth, and he hated it. "He can't come back!"

"Since when has that ever stopped us?"

"Since now."

This time when he left, Sam didn't follow.

With only a bottle of Jack for company, Dean locked himself in his room. He didn't bother bringing a glass with him.

Dean took a swig from the bottle, ignoring how the alcohol burned his throat.

"I miss you," he whispered to the empty room. "I miss you so fucking much it hurts, and I wish you would come home so—" Dean took a breath, pointedly ignoring the way his eyes were growing damp. "—so I could tell you that I— goddammit."

Words didn't work. Words didn't convey the absence in Dean's chest or how he physically ached when he remembered Cas wasn't there. They didn't come out how they were supposed to if they came out at all.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Just come home, man. I— I need you. Dunno what the hell I'm supposed to do without you. Don't want to do anything without you. And— and I can't do anything without you, Cas. So please. Come— come home."

He waited, as though he would hear the flap of angel's wings behind him or see the door open to reveal a familiar trench-coated figure.

Who was he kidding? Cas was gone. He was dead. Praying wasn't any good. It wasn't like Cas could hear him.

Dean took another long drink.

"I miss you. I miss you so fucking much it hurts, and I wish you would come home so— so I could tell you that I— goddammit. Just come home, man. I— I need you. Dunno what the hell I'm supposed to do without you. Don't want to do anything without you. And— and I can't do anything without you, Cas. So please. Come— come home."

The words echoed across the Empty.

I miss you

So I could tell you that I

Just come home

I need you

Can't do anything without you

Please

Come home

I miss you

So I could tell you that I

Just come home

The ground rippled.

Cas woke.

He had passed out at some point, empty bottle still in hand.

The lights were too bright when he opened his eyes and everything throbbed. His shoulder, in particular. He didn't pay it much attention.

Moving on. He was moving on.

What did people do when the world was still spinning?

People cooked. They went on drives. They ate. They watched bad tv. They took showers. Went on dates. Hung out with friends.

Dean didn't think he could stomach anything. Driving didn't sound appealing. Neither did Dr. Sexy. Even the idea of seeing people— dates or friends— made him feel sick.

Showers. When the world was still spinning, people took showers.

Dean stumbled towards the bathroom.

He didn't get much farther than turning on the water and pulling off his shirt. Looking in the mirror, Dean did a double take, hit by deja vu.

An old gas station, his reflection staring back at him, eying a burn on his shoulder; blood, seeping through his jacket, where moments before there had been a hand laid there—

Dean touched it gingerly.

There, on his left shoulder, freshly as though he had just been pulled out of hell, was a burn in the shape of a handprint.

Cas' handprint.