Chapter Eighteen

Dean was stunned.

He couldn't believe Cas had actually left.

He had watched it happen. He had heard the door close behind him and the rumble of his car fading into the distance, but he still couldn't believe it.

How could Cas have just walked out on him?

He didn't understand. Everything had been perfect. They were together and they were happy and the sex was great-

Unless it wasn't?

Dean had virtually no experience. Maybe he was dreadful and Cas didn't have the heart to tell him, so he had used the nightmares as an excuse.

But Dean didn't think he would do that. Cas might not ever tell him the whole truth, but he didn't lie.

"This is for your own good."

It didn't make sense. How could Cas justify abandoning him when he knew how much Dean needed him here? Cas had been patient as he helped Dean through his panic attacks and social anxiety; why should the nightmares be any different? Was it because Dean hadn't confided in him? Maybe he thought that Dean didn't want his help.

But Dean had begged him to stay. It wasn't just because he was worried that he couldn't cope without him; he had been willing to let Cas go if that was what he really wanted. But when he had given Cas the option, he had chosen to stay. He had seemed genuinely happy to be with him. Dean had been falling in love with him, and he had thought that Cas felt the same.

Dean didn't think a person could fake something like that.

The way Cas had looked at him, the warmth in his eyes, his smile, his laugh, the way his body responded when Dean touched him… maybe he could have misinterpreted their meaning.

But when Dean had said those three words, Cas had said them back. Dean might not know him as well as he used to, but he doubted Cas would say 'I love you' if he didn't mean it.

If he did mean it, though, why leave?

It couldn't just be about his dreams. They weren't pleasant, and, okay, they were pretty damn weird, but Dean had been doing his best not to let them affect his waking hours. If he could set them aside after working the adrenaline and panic out of his system, he didn't see why Cas couldn't just ignore them and go back to sleep. They were just dreams.

"They're not just dreams and you damn well know it!"

Cas had been adamant. Furious, even. But Dean had no idea what he had meant.

Unless…

No. It couldn't be. Because monsters weren't real. He would have to be insane to even consider the possibility that his dreams were actually memories being dredged up from his subconscious. There were no such things as wendigos or rugarus or ghosts or shapeshifters or werewolves or vampires or demons or angels-

"I'm an angel of the Lord."

"Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing."

"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."

A sharp image cracked across his vision – Castiel, standing in a barn, illuminated by a flash of lightning, with the shadow of two huge fucking wings illuminated behind him.

Dean staggered backwards and hit the bed. He collapsed onto it, boneless with shock.

That wasn't a dream. He was wide awake. It was just like the flashback he'd had of beating up Cas, or of singing 'Hey Jude' to his little brother. Cas had confirmed that both were real events that had actually happened. Real memories.

It was a memory, recalled in vivid technicolour detail. He remembered the wind battering the tin roof, the bar on the door splintering like a toothpick, the electricity sparking all around them, the man who had repelled bullets and pulled a knife from his chest like it was nothing. He remembered the sick fear and the terrified confusion and the poorly-timed buzz of arousal. He remembered feeling sure that he was going to die, only to find out that this man – this creature – this angel – had been the one to bring him back to life.

Cas was an angel.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition."

Perdition. Hell.

His nightmare came back to him in a sickening rush of white-hot clarity. A hell hound had killed him and dragged his soul to Hell. He had been strung up on the rack and tortured in every possible way imaginable, every day, for days and weeks and months and years-

God. 30 years. Until his will had broken and he had accepted Alastair's offer. Then he had been the one doing the torturing, and at first it had torn him apart but eventually he had stopped caring and then he had grown to like it. He had turned torture into an art form. He was Alistair's star pupil. He could break souls faster than almost anyone.

And then an angel had come for him but it was already too late. There was nothing left that was worth saving.

"What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved."

Those eyes, those stunning blue eyes, had pierced through to his very soul. Cas had seen him, truly seen him, and he should have been repulsed. Dean was a hideous, evil, unforgivable, worthless piece of shit, more disgusting than the muck a farmer would scrape off their boot. He wasn't worthy to be standing in the presence of an angel – of course he didn't deserve to be saved by one.

Let alone loved by one.

Dean was brought right back to the horrifying question of how Cas could have ever loved him.

No wonder he had bolted out of here as soon as he realised that Dean was beginning to remember.

"I don't want this," Dean said. Hearing the words out loud shocked him; talking to himself surely had to be a sign of insanity. But the words came spilling out anyway. "I don't want this. I don't want this! I don't fucking want this!" He dug his fingers into his scalp as though he could claw the memories out of his brain. "Get out of my head! I'm not him, I'm NOT HIM, I'M NOT HIM!"

The images kept coming.

Blood-stained knives, headless corpses, a kid with a bullet shot clean through his skull.

"No," he gasped. "God no, that's not me, I didn't, I couldn't-"

But the memories flooded over him; a lifetime of violence and death.

Hunter.

The word rose in his mind. That's what he was, what he had been raised to be. It was his job and he was good at it. But the lines were blurred between monster and man and Dean didn't know if there was any difference between the things he had hunted and what he had become.

"That's not me," he protested weakly.

Only silence answered him.

He dropped his head into his hands.

"I am ninety percent… crap."

He had known it. He had hated himself. He tried to drown the self-loathing in alcohol but it only ever made him feel worse.

Losing his memories had been a blessing. It was a chance for a fresh start.

That was why Sam and Castiel had tried so hard to keep him from remembering.

He finally understood, and he wished that he didn't. Ignorance had been bliss.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. He wasn't Dean the mechanic, but he wasn't Dean the hunter either. He was stuck in the middle, burdened with the knowledge of his past and a desperate longing for the future he could have had.

All he could do was sit there, wishing that his memories had stayed gone, wishing that there was some way for him to get rid of them, wishing that Castiel hadn't left, wishing that he had never cornered him in that alley in the first place.

Before, he hadn't known what he was missing. Now he knew what it had felt like to be happy, and losing it all felt a thousand times worse.

But he couldn't even cry.

After a while he became aware of the stench of vomit clogging the air.

Moving on autopilot, he retrieved cleaning supplies from the bathroom and did his best to mop up the mess without hurting his knees. He straightened the bed covers and carefully put Castiel's duffle bag in the closet.

He had his shower, and he got ready for work.

There was no one to kiss goodbye to at the door.

He approached his car and he recognised her properly now. Hunters lived life on the road; she had been the only constant in his crazy world.

Curious, he popped the trunk and pulled up the false bottom that he had never noticed before. It was empty, stripped of weapons and other hunting supplies. Sam must have taken them.

Dean took it as a sign that his old life was over. There was nothing in his past that he wanted to revisit, nothing worth going back for.

He got into his car and he drove to work like it was any other day.

He thought that if he stayed busy he could pretend that he had never remembered anything.

But the revelation that monsters were real wouldn't leave him alone.

He jumped at loud noises. He flinched if anyone touched him. He found himself peering into the eyes of his boss, his co-workers and their customers, looking for tell-tale flashes of black. His fingers itched for his gun; he felt naked and vulnerable without a weapon that he could draw at a moment's notice. His gaze darted between the windows and the doors; there were too many openings, too many ways for the monsters to get in and no way to set up an adequate defence perimeter. He didn't have any silver knives or holy water – he didn't even have salt. He was known and hated by every type of monster in America and if they knew where he was, if they decided to come for him, there would be nothing he could do. He was going to die bloody, alone and screaming-

"Dean?"

He reacted on instinct. He lashed out, desperate and terrified and determined that he wouldn't go down without a fight.

He heard smashing glass and yelling and then reality slammed into him.

He had thrown his boss bodily across the workshop. Ray was crumpled on top of the hood of a customer's car, unconscious. The windscreen had shattered, the metal was severely dented, and there was blood trickling down Ray's face.

He had done that.

There was yelling and people were running and someone was calling an ambulance and someone else was checking on Ray and Dean could only stand there, staring in frozen horror.

"Dean, what the hell, man?"

It was Ryan, one of the junior apprentices, gawking at him like he had gone insane.

"I didn't- I didn't mean to-"

"You could have killed him!"

"I didn't – I don't-"

"Fuck, man, that is all kinds of messed up! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't – I can't-"

There was too much noise and too many people and too many eyes on him. He knew he should stay to make sure that Ray was alright but he couldn't – he had to get out of here, he had to-

He ran to his car and he careened out onto the road and he shouldn't have been driving but he made it home and spilled out onto the driveway and vomited everywhere. He was shaking and he couldn't stop, his stomach was twisted in knots and his head was pounding and his knees were screaming in agony and he couldn't-

He couldn't-

"Dean?"

It was Jeremy.

"Don't," he rasped through a throat that was raw and painful. "Don't come near me. I don't want to hurt you."

Jeremy maintained a careful distance, but he crouched down to his level.

"Dean, are you okay?"

"Y-yeah. No. I mean- I don't-"

His brow was furrowed with concern. "What happened?"

"I hurt – I didn't mean to – I thought he was a – oh god, I didn't mean to."

"Dean, you're not making sense. Just… take a few deep breaths."

He tried by all he could manage was short, shallow gasps.

"Where's Castiel? Can I get him for you?"

The name was like a knife wound to his heart. "No. Not here."

"I could call him-"

Dean just shook his head. "Gone. Not – not coming back."

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

Dean huffed out a broken laugh. "Me too."

"Dean, I don't want to overstep my bounds, but you look like you need help. Will you let me help you?"

He was too drained to argue. He nodded weakly. It took every ounce of strength he had left in him to contain his flinch when Jeremy grasped his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. He staggered towards the door, leaning heavily on his neighbour, humiliated beyond words but utterly incapable of managing on his own.

Jeremy sat him down in the kitchen, brought over a bowl of warm water and a cloth, and started to clean him up.

He still couldn't stop shaking.

"I'm sorry. You don't have to-"

"You said you would let me help."

Dean fell silent and allowed his neighbour to finish.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Don't mention it. Now, are you sure there isn't anyone I can call for you?"

Dean shook his head. He was on his own now; he just had to learn to cope. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," Jeremy said uncertainly. "Well, if you need anything, you know where I'll be."

"I appreciate that."

Jeremy left and Dean dragged himself into the bedroom. He wanted desperately to fall asleep, but he didn't want to face those nightmares again.

Unconsciousness claimed him eventually, but it brought no comfort.

ooOOoo