Pairing: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Warnings: Language, Lots of Drinking (duh)
Word Count: 1.6k
Author’s note:
I know I’m late to the party on this, the only reason I haven’t published this earlier is because I thought it’s not really good? Idk guys, tell me what you think. Hopefully I’ll get back into writing and improve. Alright. Enjoy.
Dean’s eyes open halfway, almost like they were glued shut. He just woke up after finally sleeping. For 13 freaking hours. He brings his right hand to rub at his eye, making a disgusted face when his fingers get covered in drool before they get to reach their original destination. He wipes them on the old, stinky shirt he’s wearing, and in the process of doing so realizes he is yet to have taken his jeans off.
He sits up, his gaze shifting to his pillowcase with the wet spot on it. Putting his head in his palms, he feels the pulsing headache get worse. He should probably take a pill, or two, or the whole bottle and eat something, preferably healthier than his usual dietary choices. He hasn’t eaten for a while. Getting up and stretching for a second, he sighs, feeling the sharp pain in his legs as his knees pop. A reminder that he isn’t that kid in his twenties looking for his dad anymore.
His eyes drop to look at the state of the room. There are about five or six empty beer bottles on the floor. Some standing near the door, others laying like they fell while he was breaking down on his bed. Some broken glass is scattered on the floor near his desk, a black cap shining, the remainder of the smashed bottle laying on its side. Dean could easily tell it was some cheap whiskey. Probably the one he downed yesterday.
Yeah, well, why does that something always seem to be you?
He feels a sharp pain in his chest, followed by a hollow, empty space. Oh, yesterday. Dammit. Drinking isn’t new to Dean. He knows that’s a terrible coping mechanism, he just, doesn’t really care. Certainly, not anymore. He is used to chugging beers one after another, soon followed by the familiar burn of liquor in his throat. Yet, yesterday’s night was a new low for him. He drank so much, finished three quarters of a whiskey bottle by himself, that he nearly fainted as he landed on the mattress of his bed. Then, it cut to black and he was sleeping.
It wasn’t like he wanted to sleep. It was just his body giving up. He was so tired. After sleeping about 6 hours in a week, and drowning himself in so much alcohol that he doesn’t know how he is still alive, his body just collapsed. Additionally, his lack of appetite really didn’t work for his favor. But who is he to pity himself. Who is he to bitch about exhaustion, about pain, when yesterday’s events are still fresh in his mind? When his actions are choking him?
Why does that something always seem to be you?
Fucking hell, it hurts. The tears pool in his eyes. Cas. Suddenly, he feels a cold shiver pass through him. He makes his way out his room, to the kitchen, stopping in the bathroom to relieve his bladder. Brewing some strong coffee and frying some bacon, he eventually decides to check the time. The hands of his watch pointing out that it is 3:50p.m. Whatever.
He sits down, sipping on his hot coffee, burning his mouth. He winces a bit, almost spilling the beverage everywhere, the reaction masking the fact that he truly doesn’t give a shit. Depressing thoughts clouding his mind, he picks up a piece of bacon and shoves it in his mouth, the grease sticking to his fingers. Screw healthy.
Why does that something always seem to be you?
Sam appears in the doorway, the judgmental look on his face quickly turning into pity. Dean notices him, although he doesn’t turn even the slightest. “Morning”, Sam quickly blurts out to break the uncomfortable silence. Dean isn’t phased. “Morning, what’s up?”. “You tell me”, he says as he goes on to make his coffee. “What do you mean? Everything is fine.”, Dean tries to reassure him.
Sam scoffs, knowing that Dean is in the stage of denial by this point. It shouldn’t be long before it transforms into grief, days and nights of him locked in his room listening to the same top 13 tracks of good ol’ Zeppelin. “Sleeping half the day away isn’t really the norm for you, even after such an insane week. Well that, and the fact that you look like absolute shit”, he finally declares. “Anyway”, Dean ignores him, “get me some Aspirin instead of trying to insult me please.”
Sam knows he doesn’t mean it like that. He gives him one pill, then adds another one as he sees how banged up Dean really is. Dean murmurs a thanks, chugs down the pills with the rest of his coffee, chews on the last piece of bacon and walks out the door. He doesn’t bother washing his hands, no intention of coming out of his room in the near future.
Wiping his hands on the t-shirt as he approaches his room, he is contemplating if he should clean up. He settles on picking up the broken glass the best he can, not bothering with the empty bottles. Of course he cuts himself in the process. He doesn’t bother with the blood dribbling down from his palm. The door closes with a click, trapping him in with the heavy stench in the air. He slides down to the floor.
Why does that something always seem to be you?
Despite all his stubbornness, a flashback creeps into his mind. It’s him and Cas talking after they came back to the bunker. Them fighting. Actually, it’s more Dean being a complete asshole to Cas. And man, it was the last straw. Dean could tell Cas was having a hard time. They shared the feeling of self-loathing and not being enough between them, ever since their profound bond wad established. And in spite all this, all of the times Cas has sacrificed all he had, rebelled, died for, Dean spit in his face. Time and time again, he made him feel so little about himself.
Tears were rolling down his face now, blurring his vision, some of them hitting the cold floor. Others, falling right into that wound in his palm, making it hurt a bit as they mix with the blood.
It was Mary’s death, then Jack, then on top of it all finding out that God is the villain you are supposed to knock out. Dean was angry. He was pissed. And he took it out on Cas, regretting the words that just a second ago rolled off his tongue.
Why does that something always seem to be you?
Cas decided to move on. He has every right to move on. It felt like a breakup to Dean, considering the fact that Cas was never exactly his in the first place. Selfish. Repulsive. Ungrateful. That’s how Dean feels. And he is right to feel so. He brings his knees to his chest and sobs, trying to keep it quiet so he doesn’t disturb Sam.
After Cas left, Dean stood there for another half an hour, trying to process what the hell happened. He bumped into Sam on his task to grab some alcohol to drown his feelings. He would soon find out it only made them worse.
“He’s gone”, the only two words that came out of his mouth. Sam gave him a concerned look, “Cas? He always comes bac-” “Not this time” , Dean interrupted, “it’s final.” “What happened?” “He decided to move on. I guess it’s not good for him here.” “Call him, tell him to come back, I’m sure he’ll-”
“Stop Sammy. He’s gone. Please”, and with that Dean slid away into his bedroom.
I think it’s time for me to move on.
Dean rests his head on the wooden door. Closed eyes, tear stained cheeks and heavy breaths. What a mess. Then, something inside him clicks. Maybe it’s the guilt, the regret. Maybe it’s the despair. Perhaps it’s the habit he has picked up over the years of knowing Cas. His heart rips apart and he fiddles with his fingers, a couple of them painted voilent red by the trail of fresh blood.
I think it’s time for me to move on.
Dean starts praying. Not to Chuck. To Cas. It’s so honest, coming out as a cry, shaky voice and sobs intertwined. It’s hard to form words at first. He almost hyperventilates. “Cas… Please… I’m sorry man. I know it doesn’t cut it. It never will. You deserved better. I will live with this pain for the rest of my life. I’ll never forgive myself. You shouldn’t either. I was acting like a douche. But please, Cas. Know that I didn’t mean it. It’s not your fault, never has been. It’s all me. It’s Mom and Jack And Rowena. I can’t bottle that anger up anymore. Can’t contain so much grief. Truth is, I don’t think you’re at fault for any of this. I need you. Fuck that. I love you. You aren’t some used blunt tool. I know you won’t come back. But know that I love you so much. Goodbye Cas.”
He breaks down again. On the other side of the state, Castiel starts up the engine of an ancient, dirty truck he found behind some gas station. He makes a sharp U turn. The blood is pumping through his veins, soft rain hitting the windshield.
A sudden pain in his palm grabs his attention, almost as if he had been cut there. He looks at it, unable to see anything wrong with his hand. No wound besides the one in his heart.
Eyes back on the road. Dean taught him.
He doesn’t stop to wonder how he heard Dean’s prayer if his powers are so weak. Chuck never intended for this to happen when he wrote this story. Well, Castiel was never one to follow his father’s drafts.