Chapter 22: The Call

Dean walks back to his car, making sure to put one foot in front of the other.

"Don't you dare turn around," he tells himself as he grits his teeth. He knows if he turns around, he will see the man who didn't choose him. Even after everything, Dean can't help but feel pissed off at Castiel. His fingers form into fists at his side, and his fists don't unclench even while he drives home. He holds himself together; he is proud of himself for that.

Until he walks in, and Sammy is there, looking at him with his concerned eyes and his mouth forming a straight line; that's when he knows he isn't ok.

"Dean, where's Cas? What happened?"

Dean simply shakes his head, not even sure if he can feel anything at the moment. He wants to tell Sam that he messed up, that he should have listened to Sam weeks…hell, months ago. He wants to say he's sorry that he drove Cas away, and that he should have known better. Instead, he slides his jacket from his shoulders and throws it across a chair, and takes a deep breathe. "You can do this," he tells himself.

"He's gone, Sammy. Can we drop it?"

Sam stops for a moment; his brows furrowed before he shakes his head a little and stands up. "You can't just say, drop it, man. Cas is my friend too, and whatever happened, we can't just let him go off on his own."

"I mean it, Sam. I'm not talking about this right now," Dean growls as he continues up the stairs to the bathroom. He just needs to make it there, to get away and think a little bit. He can't break down in front of Sam. Hell, he hadn't even broken down when their dad died. He may have had some issues for a while, but it wasn't like this. This is a new kind of pain and for a man more familiar with pain than just about anyone…this says a lot.

Sam seems to take the hint, as his gaze softens and he nods slightly. He smiles gently at Dean, before saying, "I'm here if you wanna talk, Dean. I know we don't usually talk about this stuff. But it's Cas…I'm gonna worry about him too."

"Ya, well, you shouldn't. Once he's an angel again, he won't need our help," Dean replies bitterly as he finishes climbing the stairs.

He takes one last deep breath as he steps into the bathroom. As he closes the door behind him, he leans against it for support, his knees buckling slightly beneath him. His mind wanders back to Castiel, and how he had said the damn words. The thing he never says to anyone ever; not even Sammy. He meant them, he knows that. He's known for a while now. It was in the way he felt his heart tighten as soon as he saw Cas in the bar being hit on by some bar skank. It was in the way he felt lighter than air whenever their fingers brushed, even when it was in passing, as they cooked dinner together and maneuvered around the kitchen as if they were two halves of the same whole.

He had known simply because for the first time in forever, he was happy. He didn't hate himself as much, not unless he looked at that desk and remembered what he was hiding. But he was good at repressing and not dealing with things, and that was just one of those things he put off. Sam had warned him, he told him, "Dean, you can't keep this secret from Cas. He's gonna find out and I think he should hear it from you first."

Dean shakes his head, feeling pitiful. Even his younger brother knows how to be a better person than him; how to treat someone you love. No wonder Cas had left him, he thinks bitterly. He doesn't think he can even stand to look at himself in the mirror right now, so of course Cas feels that way too. He would barely look at him then, in the park, even when they were saying whatever version of goodbye that had been.

Dean turns on the shower, scalding hot, in hopes that it would cleanse some of his guilt away.

After showering, Dean does the only thing he can think of; he goes to bed. He crawls under the sheets, and piles both pillows under his head, rather than the typical one. His stomach grumbles loudly, but he ignores it. He doesn't think he can handle another worried look from Sam, and he certainly doesn't feel like cooking right now; not when the kitchen will seem so large and empty, much like his bedroom now.

Dean shuts his eyes tight, counting backwards from 100, hoping to fall into some version of sleep. It works, but only briefly. He finds himself waking often, one arm stretched out onto the side that Cas normally slept on. He hadn't even realized that Castiel had his own side of the bed. The loneliness pierces another part of his heart, and he feels like he is suffocating. Slowly, Dean begins to count back from 100 again. He does this two times until he drifts off somewhere around thirty.

When he wakes, Dean rolls over drowsily and for a moment is concerned to see Cas's side is empty. He swings his head around his room, before dropping back onto his pillows remembering the previous day. He sighs heavily as he sits up, swinging his feet to the side of the bed. He has a throbbing pain in his neck, which he supposes is from sleeping on two pillows.

"Dammit," he says out loud, to no one in particular as he runs his hands through his hair, clutching at the hair at the nape of his neck.

He dresses quickly, ignoring the fact that Cas took his favorite shirt, and is most likely still wearing a pair of Dean's jeans as well. He throws on a black t-shirt and the first pair of jeans he finds in his dresser. His bare feet are cold on the hardwood floor, but Dean doesn't care right now. He needs to get out of the room where thoughts of Cas keep infiltrating his mind.

As he heads into the kitchen, Dean sighs heavily. He quickly grabs a piece of bread and retreats to the main living area. Sam is awake, judging by the empty coffee mug next to his open laptop, but he isn't here. Dean assumes that he must be out for a jog, or whatever weird things his brother enjoys that no human should enjoy. He looks around and realizes that he has no idea what to do. The feeling sinks into his stomach and settles there like a lead weight. He hadn't realized what a staple Cas had become in his life; how he had filtered like sand into every crack and changed everything. The realization of that hurts almost as much as thinking of Cas out there, alone, so Dean tries to think of anything else.

He decides to work on his car, and maybe get some groceries, or practice shooting. Dean wants to do anything but sit in the bunker and be reminded of Castiel.

Two weeks pass silently, and Dean has further mastered the art of avoidance. He spends less time around Sam, and more time doing his own thing. If he thinks about it now, he's not quite sure what that is. Every day seems to pass slowly and more boring than the previous one. He hunts sometimes, just short, one or two day trips. It seems to help; at least it gets his mind focused on something other than Castiel.

He knows he has been sulking, and that he can only ignore Sam's persistent questions for so long. He just doesn't know what to tell Sam now. So he puts it off, and he goes about his days even if it feels like he is just going through the motions. He's not sure what else to do, because there's a void now and he hadn't known that the fissure would be this wide.

It is barely 9pm, but Dean heads to his room anyway, ignoring Sam's worried look. The one he gets when his eyebrows draw together and form a crease in his forehead, and he tilts his head to the side slightly. Dean can't stand to see it, and it is the look Sam has given him every morning, and every time he sees Dean with a drink in his hand, and every time he is about to say the word "Cas" but stops himself.

He can't stand it tonight, for some reason, everything feels heavier. Charlie had visited yesterday, and despite her best attempts, he still had to force a smile at everything she said. She was on her way to a convention, and said they were right on her way, so why not stop. Dean didn't need to be a genius to know that Sam had put her up to this. She was subtle, or as subtle as Charlie ever is. Before she left, she'd told him to call her if he ever needed to talk.

Dean shakes his head as he pulls out his phone. He contemplates texting her, but even then, he isn't sure what he would say. His finger hovers over the C button and he looks at the name above hers in the contact list.

"Cas," he whispers quietly to himself. He hasn't said it in two weeks, and he chokes back what he hopes wasn't a sob. Dean Winchester doesn't cry, and almost laughs, because he can't really lie that well to himself. He shakes his head and tosses his phone lightly onto his nightstand. He pulls out the bottle of whiskey he's had under his bed, which is now nearly half empty. He leans back onto his bed, closing his eyes as he takes a drink. It won't take much, just enough to ensure he sleeps through the night. He's been having trouble with that too.

It is nearly 2am when Dean's phone buzzes, vibrating on the hard wood of his nightstand. He opens his eyes slowly, his head still heavy from the alcohol. With one eye open, he slams his hand onto his nightstand, looking for his phone, grumbling. He flips open the phone and his heart stops. One new text message.

Cas_

I miss you.

Dean shakes his head, wondering if he'd had too much alcohol because that was the last text he expected to see. He feels a small balloon of hope fill inside him, and he hates himself for it; for wanting what he doesn't deserve. His hands are shaking slightly as he reads the message over and over again. A small part of him wants to respond, but a much larger part wants to throw his phone across the room. He wants to say "what gives you the right to say that now?" He has a million things he wants to say, but he can't think of how to phrase any of it, so he sits there reading this same message over and over for what seems like hours. His phone buzzes two more times.

Cas_

Ignore that.

Cas_

I'm sorry if I woke you.

This time Dean does throw his phone across the room, and as it skitters across the floor, he throws his head back against his pillow. He hates Cas for doing this, for making him feel this way, and he hates that he taught Cas how to properly use a phone and how to drive the impala (or what would pass for driving anyway). He hates that he taught Cas how to cook, how to shave, and how to love. Most of all though, Dean hates himself. He hates himself for lying, for being selfish, and for failing Cas like he always did. He closes his eyes and tries to count backwards from one thousand. He doesn't suspect he will fall asleep easily, and his fingers ache to put his phone back together and dial a number that he shouldn't have memorized but he does. He had already said his goodbye.