Day 27 – Prompt: Survivor's guilt
Direct sequel to Chapter 26 (Forced to choose).
"Dean, you need to eat something."
Dean just silently shook his head. He wasn't hungry.
It had been one week since Cas had died, since Dean had practically killed him, and Dean hadn't eaten anything in that time. Sam had barely gotten him to drink anything other than whisky. Humans could survive without food for 40 days. Dean fully intended to go beyond that.
Sam sighed deeply. He put a cup of apple juice in front of his brother and pulled the whisky bottle further away. Dean didn't care enough to stop him.
It was a small miracle that Sam had even gotten him out of his room – because it was only his room now that Cas was no longer in there with him. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his dead man's robe as well as a fluffy blanket curled around him. He still felt cold.
"Dean, you need to talk to me. You can't just continue to bury whatever thoughts are going through your head inside," Sam begged.
Dean looked at his brother with dead eyes. He didn't even try to respond. He wouldn't be able to anyway. He already knew this. He'd gone mute once before in his life. Only this time he barely even cared about his lack of ability to communicate. He had nothing to say.
Besides, he wasn't even fully mute this time. In the middle of the night, when he was alone and crying in his empty bed, he'd sob Cas' name.
His heart ached.
He wished he could cut it out so it'd stop hurting.
Dean ignored the juice and pulled the whisky bottle back to himself. Ignoring Sam's disapproving frown, he took a big swing. Alcohol was the only thing that somewhat helped to numb the pain inside of him.
"You're gonna drink yourself to death if you continue like this," Sam mumbled, his eyes hollow.
Dean just shrugged. The thought didn't bother him nearly as much as it probably should have.
Sam gave him a sharp look at his nonchalance, but didn't say anything.
They sat in silence for almost half an hour. Each wallowing in their own bubble of sadness.
Between swings of whisky, Dean was trying to remember the exact shade of blue of Cas' eyes. Already the memory was beginning to fade. There was nothing blue enough in this world to resemble how Cas' eyes had shone when he'd looked at Dean. No picture could capture the exact shade of their beauty.
Dean furiously whipped at his eyes when he felt moisture collecting in them and took another swing of amber liquid. He'd cried enough, damn it!
He didn't deserve to feel sorry for himself. It was his fault that Cas was dead! Eve might have pulled the trigger, but Dean had aimed the gun. He'd aimed it at his angel, the love and light of his existence. Now he was living in despairing darkness.
Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. He'd never thought highly of himself, but now he hated his reflection in the mirror. He wished he could smash it into a thousand pieces. He wished Eve had killed him instead of the angel.
"Dean," Sam's sympathetic voice brought Dean out of his thoughts. "I miss him too. Cas-"
Dean abruptly pushed his chair back with a loud scrape. He couldn't do this. He couldn't talk about Cas. Not with Sam. Not with anybody.
He was about to leave the kitchen, when Sam's quiet voice stopped him. "It should have been me. You can't live without Cas. You should have given me up…"
Dean whipped around abruptly. With two big steps he was in front of his brother. He jabbed him in the chest hard a few times and furiously shook his head, crowding into the taller man's space.
"Jeez, alright, alright," Sam backed away. "I won't say it again. Calm down."
Dean nodded sharply, satisfied and backed off.
They stared at each other for a moment, but when Sam opened his mouth to say something else, Dean turned around and left the room quickly enough that it could be classified as fleeing.
He returned to his room.
He flopped down on his bed (his empty, lonely bed) and lay there for what felt like hours.
When Sam came to get him for dinner, he still hadn't moved. During the meal he only picked at his food and didn't eat any of it. Sam didn't say anything when he scooped the uneaten eggs and potatoes onto a plate and put it in the fridge for Dean to eat later. They both knew he wouldn't.
Back in his room, Dean stood next to the closed door for way too long. It took an enormous amount of energy to move.
Eventually he settled on the bed and pulled a stack of familiar old photos from his bedside drawer. He started to look through them. They were all pictures of Cas and him over the years.
He looked through all those happy memories caught on tape and this time when the tears came he let them fall.
He'd destroyed this. Cas had said he forgave him, but Dean didn't deserve it. It was his fault that Cas was dead. And the world had lost its shine.
In a short burst of energy born from anger and self-hatred, Dean aggressively stuffed the pictures back into the drawer. In doing so his fingers brushed against metal. It was the gun that he'd moved from under his pillow to the drawer after Cas had started sleeping in his room.
As if hypnotized by the shining metal, Dean pulled the gun out and cradled it in his hand. The weight of it was familiar, almost comforting.
Why was he still alive while Cas was dead? He would have deserved it so much more than the angel.
Dean imagined bringing the gun to his mouth and pulling the trigger. It would be so easy. It would end his sorry existence. If the universe had mercy, maybe he'd even end up wherever Cas was now.
The image of Sammy flashed through Dean's mind. How would his little brother feel if he gave in to the pain? Would he even care all that much? Cas had been his friend as well, after all. And Dean had killed him.
For a long time he just stared down at the weapon.
He was startled out of his stupor when a knock sounded at the door and Sam poked his head inside. "Dean? Are you-"
Sam cut himself off and his eyes widened when he saw Dean holding his gun. "What are you doing?!"
With three big steps he was in the room and at the bed and forcefully pried the weapon from his older brother's hands.
"What the hell, Dean!? Have you lost your mind?! Were you trying to- to kill yourself?!"
A desperate note had creeped into Sam's voice and Dean quickly shook his head. He honestly didn't know what he'd planned on doing. But the least he could do for the moment was give his brother peace of mind.
Sam didn't look convinced. He put the gun into the waistband of his jeans before he started to go around the room, collecting all knives, weapons and otherwise potentially dangerous objects. He even took Dean's katana off the wall. In the end he was almost buried in weapons. Wow, did he really have that many in his room? Dean honestly thought Sam was overreacting. He wasn't suicidal. At least not that much.
"This ends now," Sam growled as he stomped out of the room with determined steps. "I'll find a way to make this right."
Dean numbly looked after his brother. He didn't know what Sam was planning, but he also didn't care enough to find out. The only thing that could ever make anything right again was to bring Cas back. And that wasn't possible.
Dean had killed him.