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destiel-love-forever · 5 years

Note

Thank you! #24 is : “Don’t come back until you’re fucking sober.”

This is an AU with no spoilers. Any character deaths/relationships/etc. don’t reflect anything that’s happened in the actual show. Established Destiel - Castiel’s a high school teacher, they’ve been dating since college, Dean’s been sober three years, they live together in an apartment/house. Mary Winchester just died before fic begins.

Read on my Ao3 or below!

Jack & Coke, and One Red Rose

Dean

When Castiel falls asleep beside me, I carefully extract myself from our bed and tip toe out of the room. The dark, quiet house is a relief. Peaceful. No Castiel asking me every few minutes if I need anything or if I’m okay. No Sam falling apart for me to hold and comfort. No old friends from school I could care less about offering me empty apologies. No extended family making passive aggressive comments about my life style or my drinking problem.

No dead mom.

What’s even more peaceful is when I show up to the bar. It’s like a breath of fresh air. Everything from the shitty jukebox crackling in the corner to the sticky, stained bar top are a comfort. I wave down the bartender, giving him a charming smile. “Double Jack and Coke, please.”

He nods and begins to pour. This stranger wearing a blue cotton shirt with a stain on the hem, quick hands mixing drinks, has no idea I’m three years sober. He has no idea that the last time I drank, I ended up in the hospital. Someone had found me in a puddle of my own vomit my final year of college and called an ambulance. Castiel and I had been dating for two months at that point - I had been doing a pretty good job at keeping my problem from him. When I woke up in the hospital, he had been holding my hand, tears drying on his face. He made me promise that I’d go to rehab and get help. That I’d never drink again. I said yes.

I exchange a five-dollar bill with the bartender in return for my drink. The smell alone makes me dizzy. Leaning against the bar, I rotate my wrist so I can watch the ice swirl. It’s mesmerizing. It’s exactly what I need. Just one drink, and it won’t be so hard to stay alive. Just one drink, and I won’t see my mom lying in that grave every time I close my eyes.

Just one drink.

Just one.

-----

When the bartender does last call, his eyes are glued to me specifically. He stopped serving me an hour ago but his hopes for me to sober up did absolutely nothing. I’m in that mental state when you know you’re shit faced, and you want to stop giggling and talking and doing stupid shit, but you just can’t.

“Buddy, you ain’t driving home tonight. Want me to call a cab? Or help you call a friend? Family?”

“Buried my ma today.” I look up at him and giggle again, even though it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says quietly, in a way that I actually believe. “Do you have any family in town for the funeral? A girlfriend? Boyfriend? Anyone? Maybe it’s best if you call one of them instead of a cab. Might be good if you’re not alone tonight.”

“Home,” I mumble.

“Do you have someone at home?”

“Cas.” I lay my head on the bartop. It may be sticky and smells of tomato juice and vodka, but it’s cool against my overheated skin and that feels amazing. “Gonna be mad.”

Someone comes up beside me and hands the bartender the money for their bill. The place is incredibly quiet. When I lift my head to glance around, I see that I’m alone. Just me and the poor bartender.

The guy motions for me to lift my head so he can wipe down the bartop beneath my face. I immediately press my cheek against it again when he’s done. It’s much more pleasing now that it smells like lemony soap.

“Give me your phone, buddy.”

I slap around my pockets a few times before finding my phone and waving it in the air for him. “Don’ call Cas. Be mad ‘t me.”

Castiel

My phone ringing wakes me from the restless state of sleep I’d been struggling through. I roll over to look at Dean, hoping it doesn’t wake him when I know he was having a hard time falling asleep, but his side of the bed is empty. With one hand, I answer my phone. With the other, I reach out and feel that his spot is cold.

“H - hello?”

“Hi. This is - well, okay. This is going to sound weird but I have a really drunk guy here mumbling about a Cas and you’re Cas in his phone.” I stare at the place where my boyfriend of three years should be lying. “He said his mom’s funeral was today? Ring any bells?”

I close my eyes and tell myself not to cry. “Yup. He’s mine.”

“Awesome. Would you be able to come get him? I didn’t want to send him off in a cab. He’s kind of - well, he’s a fucking mess, to be honest.”

“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” I shove the blankets back, trying to keep calm because this poor bartender doesn’t need to deal with my emotions. As I scavenge on the floor for some decent clothes to throw on, I ask, “What bar?”

“Rookies. Do you know where we’re at? Downtown?”

I slap a hand at my cheek, stopping the one tear that slipped from my control. “Of course. Yes. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Can you please wait with him?”

“Of course. We’ll be here.”

Once I’m dressed and in the car, it truly sinks in that he relapsed. I should have known better. I should have fucking known. How could I be so stupid? I should have stayed awake until I knew he was asleep. I should have stayed awake all night if it was what he needed.

No. You know what? He fucking should have woken me up when he was struggling. He knows better than to drink. He’s a big fucking boy. All he had to do was wake me up.

By the time I’m at the bar, I’m pissed. Furious, actually.

By the time I see Dean, I’m heart broken.

He’s sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging between his legs as he heaves up all the alcohol he drank. A gruff man standing behind him gives me a kind smile. “Cas?”

“Yeah. Thank you so much for this. Uh, what’s his tab?”

“Fifty-two.”

I close my eyes until I’m confident that I won’t cry. Then I grab my wallet and hand him eighty bucks. “Keep the change.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks.”

“No problem. I know how he gets when he’s drinking.” I get down on a knee, a few feet away from Dean so I’m not kneeling in his vomit. “Dean?”

Impossibly green eyes surrounded by red veins lift to look at me. “Told him not to call you.”

“Where did you plan on going, then?”

“Dunno.”

“Mmm.” I try to help him stand up but he starts to cry. Big, wet sobs. His entire body shakes and heaves. The bartender helps me get him fully to his feet and takes one of his arms as we guide a stumbling, crying Dean to my car.

Just before closing the door to the backseat where we dumped him, Dean blinks up at me and whispers, “Sorry broke the promise.”

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“Go to a meetin’ tomorrow. Promise.”

“Sure. Let’s just get you home.”

He parts his lips to speak again but I slam the door and press my hands against it, hanging my head. I forgot the bartender was even still standing there until he says in a thick voice, “I am so sorry. I didn’t know he was an alcoholic.”

I give him a broken smile, not even caring anymore that my eyes are watering. “He’s charming. You’d never know unless he told you. Don’t worry about it.”

With a polite nod, the man backs away and heads inside the bar. I crouch down and bury my face in my hands, giving myself a minute to fall apart before I have to be the strong one for Dean. When the minute is done, I can’t stop sobbing. So, I give myself one more.

Dean

I try. I really fucking try. Sam picks me up in the morning and brings me, and my pounding, aching head, to an AA meeting. We sip cheap, shitty coffee. I walk up to the podium and admit I relapsed. Everyone looks at me with a mixture of pity and fear, because they’ve all either been there or are terrified they’ll be there soon.

We grab a bite to eat after and Sam delicately lectures me about staying sober. About calling him if I need him. About honesty and humility and all the other shit him and Castiel have been spouting for years.

I make promises, but even as they fall from my lips, I know they’re lies. Then he drops me off at home and I find out that Castiel stayed home from work to babysit me. He’s much more upset than Sam. No lectures. No coddling. Just a cold shoulder and a clearly broken heart. When I wake up from a nap on the couch, he looks at me with a sad smile and tells me he loves me. It sounds a lot like the promises I made to Sam. Empty. Unrealistic.

How could he love me? Especially now?

The second he falls asleep, I’m out the door. Fuck being sober. Where did that ever get me? A dead mom. A job I hate. A long-term boyfriend who deserves so much more.

I slide onto the bar stool and smile when I see the same bartender from the night before. He frowns when he sees me, then glances around like he’s expecting something or someone. Waving a five dollar bill in the air, I tell him, “Double Jack and Coke, please.”

“Dean, I think you should go home.”

“Um, no.” I slap the bill on the bartop. “What I will do is take a Double Jack and Coke.”

“Does Cas know you’re here?”

Narrowing my eyes, I tell him through gritted teeth, “Don’t say his name.”

“If you can’t even hear his name as you’re about to drink, maybe you shouldn’t be drinking.”

“Fuck you, asshole.” I push away from the bar and start to leave. The bar is in the busy downtown area. My options are not at all limited.

The bartender wraps a hand around my bicep and tugs me toward the bar stool I was just sitting on. “Alright. You gonna get shit faced, might as well do it here so you don’t get your stupid ass killed or something.”

When he hands me the drink after a minute, I make eye contact and hold him there. “At the end of the night, call a cab. Not Cas.”

Something flashes in his eyes but then he gives me a curt nod. “Whatever you say, man. It’s your life you’re fuckin’ up.”

“Yeah,” I tell him, slamming the drink in one go and pushing it toward him for a refill. “It is.”

Castiel

For the eighth night in a row, he stumbles into the house. Tonight, he trips over my leather messenger bag stuffed full of shitty high school student essays. Ones I haven’t even graded yet, because all I do every night is sit up watching reruns on Netflix and crying. Except for tonight. Tonight, I watched reruns on Netflix and just stared in a stunned emptiness.

He falls to his hands and knees, immediately chuckling. When he squints in the living room light and spots me, he laughs harder. “Cas! Missed you!”

“Are you sure?” I stand up, shoving my hands in my sweatpants pockets. Actually, his sweatpants. I like his better because they’re nice and baggy. I’ll have to buy some in his size when he moves out. Lord knows I can’t keep a pair here. The smell of him alone will break me and I’ll go running back to him. That’s what I do best. Running back to Dean Winchester. “Doesn’t feel like you missed me.”

“‘Course silly! Missed you lots.”

“Then stop leaving me.”

His green eyes narrow as he stares up at me from where he’s still on the floor. If it was a few days ago, I would offer to help him stand. Not anymore. I’m so unbelievably done. “I’d never leave you, Cas.”

“You leave me every night, Dean.”

“Well, yeaaaaaaah!” he giggles, slowly pushing to his feet. “But ‘ways come back home to ya.”

I stand and watch him as he wavers on his feet. With just a slight wind, he’d be on his ass again. “I can’t keep doing this, Dean.”

“Doin’ what?”

“This.” I gesture between us. “I need you to stay at Sam’s from now on.”

“S- Sam’s?” He shakes his head like he can make the words disappear. “What? No. We’re - we - this ‘s m’ home.”

Ignoring the tears slipping down my cheeks, I swallow around the giant lump in my throat and inform him, “No. This is not your home anymore, Dean.”

He starts to cry. Then I start to cry. On shaking legs, he hurries over to me, backing me into the wall. His lips are on mine and he tastes like whiskey and regret, but I can’t get myself to pull away. When his hands grab the backs of my thighs, I let him lift me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. We get each other’s shirts off by some miracle, our mouths barely separating. I think he makes sure it’s that way so I can’t tell him to leave again. It’s not like I’m exactly committed to it. Apparently, Dean Winchester still has all the power. Not sure why that surprises me. It wasn’t a problem before his relapse, because he didn’t abuse the power. He took care of me. He was kind. Funny. Loving. Caring. Gentle. Sure, a pain in the ass sometimes, but not like this. Not a fucking mess. On night four, he told me to fuck off. On night six, he came home so angry he started throwing things. I don’t like drunk Dean. Drunk Dean isn’t my Dean.

Things turn angry fast. I start to yank at his hair and claw at the bare skin of his back. He finally pulls his lips from my mouth only to clamp down on the side of my neck, biting and sucking all the way down to my shoulder before moving to the other side and doing it all over again.

“Dean,” I whisper, reminding myself that this was supposed to be a break-up. Or, at the very least, an I-need-space-up.

“Shh,” he whispers against my abused skin. “Just, shhhh.”

I rest my head against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut. He stops and I’m not sure I want him to stop anymore because I’m too afraid to lose him now. The words are stuck in my throat and I can’t get them out, even though nothing sexual is happening between us anymore. Even wasted, Dean picked up on my mood. He knows I’m not okay.

“Come on. Let’s go sleep,” he whispers.

“No. Stay.” I cling to him, shaking now. “Stay. Here. Fuck me.”

“Cas-”

“Dean, fuck me or leave.”

He looks away, shame clear across his face. “I don’t wanna leave, Cas. Don’t make me leave you.”

“Then fuck me.”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath, then gives me a tight smile. “Can we at least go to the bedroom?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I give him the same tight smile back. “Because you’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight, babe.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat and nods. “Yeah. That’s - yeah. That’s fair.”

Before either of us can think of anything else to say, he’s pressing a searing kiss to my lips. I shiver and melt against him. When he presses me harder into the wall, I help him undo our pants, shoving them awkwardly the best we can. He rips my underwear in the back instead of trying to maneuver around them but I don't care. I just want him to fuck me. To remind me of the love we share, because I can't seem to find it anymore.

After a sloppy and quick prep with his fingers and spit, he’s pushing inside me. He groans and buries his face in my neck. “God, baby. ‘S been s’ long.”

Maybe if you weren’t getting wasted every fucking night, we could be having sex more often. Instead of saying that, I just grab a fistful of his hair and bring his mouth back to mine, pressing our lips together again. I have no idea if this break-up sex or make-up sex or what, but I know one thing. It might be our last time. So, I free myself from all the anger and sadness and loneliness, and give myself one more night with the love of my life.

Dean

The bartender at Rookies, who I now know is named Benny, is just a year older than me, and is really invested in my life for some reason, hands me my final glass of whiskey for the night. At some point I stopped even asking for the soda along with it. What’s the point, right?

I stare down into the glass and think about what I’ve been thinking about all night long. Castiel. I know he was trying to break-up with me last night. I know it was wrong that I used sex against him. I know I’m being a piece of shit lately. Drinking. Smoking. Getting into fights. Yelling at Castiel. Being crabby and hungover all day just to sneak away and get wasted at night.

Not even sneak away anymore. I left while he was still awake tonight. He was sitting on the couch grading papers and drinking coffee, like he was planning on staying awake for a while, so I decided to just leave instead of trying to wait him out. What if he didn’t fall asleep fast enough and I missed bar close? Then what would I drink? So, I left. Walked right out. Avoided eye contact.

Except the guilt is haunting me. It’s the first time since I relapsed that I haven’t been able to enjoy myself at the bar. No loud karaoke. No meaningless flirting. No nachos. No playing card games with some of the regulars. Just me and my glass of whiskey, freaking the fuck out.

He wanted me to leave. He was trying to break-up. He’s done with me. Fuck. What will I go home to tonight? Will he still be there? Will he demand I leave? How do I fix this?

Two assholes are laughing at the end of the bar. I keep looking at them, hoping that they’ll get the picture that they’re annoying the fuck out of me, but they just get louder. More obnoxious. When one of them spews something about “fags” I launch to my feet.

“Woah, buddy,” Benny immediately says, putting a hand out to stop me. “Not worth it.”

“Nothin’s worth it ‘n more.”

“Dean!”

I hurry to the guy that’s closest to me and slam my fist against his face, smiling as the blood sprays from his nose. He stumbles back but before I can pursue him, his friend is jumping on me. We fall to the floor but I quickly gain the upper hand, rolling us so I’m on top. I land a few good punches before the first guy is pulling me off and slamming me into the bartop. As he hits me, I start to laugh like a fucking maniac.

Castiel

The knock on the door wakes me from where I’m sleeping on the couch. I rub my eyes and look at the time. It’s still an hour to bar close so I’m not sure why Dean’s already home. Or why he can’t use his goddamn key.

Even more annoyed than usual, I storm over to the door and unlock it, then yank it open. I gasp when I see that Dean’s not alone. Benny, the nice bartender that’s been trying to keep him as safe as possible during his recent bender, is holding him up. Dean’s bleeding and one eye is swelling shut. When he sees me, though, he starts to laugh and walk toward me. I back away and he stumbles, but with a hand on the wall he stabilizes himself and stands up straight. His grin is bloody and terrifying.

“Hey you,” he slurs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smiling again, this time a softer, loving smile. It makes me nauseous.

I look at Benny and give him a tight, thankful smile. “Sorry about this.”

“I’m sorry. The fight happened too fast. It didn’t last long, I got his ass out of there the second I could.”

“Thank you, Benny.”

“Are you,” he pauses, looking at Dean before looking at me again. “Are you okay here, Cas? Do you want a ride somewhere? Or I can take him somewhere else? He’s bad tonight.”

“‘Ay, fuck off, asshole! He’s mine,” Dean shouts, stabbing a finger in the air toward Benny. “Leave!”

Knowing that I’m now crying, I pretend like I’m not and wave Benny off. “It’s fine. I promise. Thank you, again.”

He looks nervous leaving me but after a few seconds he nods and closes the door behind himself. I stare at Dean, trying to recognize him. Trying to understand how, in nine short days, we got here.

“I can’t do this anymore, Dean.”

“‘Ll get better. ‘Swear.”

“It doesn’t feel like it’s getting better.”

“Jus’ fuckin’ buried my ma, Cas! Wha’ ya wan’ from me?”

Unable to look him in the eye, I stare at the ground and whisper, “I want you to leave.”

“Fuck you.” As he walks by, he shoulder checks me. It’s the most violent he’s ever been with me - which is saying a lot, because people constantly shoulder check people - but it still sets me off.

Whipping around, I put my hands on his back and shove him. He goes stumbling across the floor before turning to stare at me with wide eyes. “Jesus christ, you’re fuckin’ crazy!”

“I want you out of this house!”

“No. ‘s our house.”

“Actually, it’s not. It’s mine. You just have a key.” I swallow down the pain I’m feeling and force myself to look straight at him, lifting my chin to look more confident than I actually feel. “I will pack your things and bring them to Sam’s tomorrow.”

“No.” He shakes his head, laughing. “You don’ get to break up with me. That - ‘s not how it works.”

I go to the door and yank it open, pointing out toward the sidewalk. “Leave. Now.”

The nearest thing to him is an end table with a lamp and a picture frame on it. He growls and turns to it, lashing out and dragging his hands across the surface. He sends the lamp crashing to the ground and the picture flying. It lands a few feet from me, picture facing up, the broken glass spidering across my smiling face. Dean’s face is left untouched.

Staring down at our broken image, I tell him, “Leave on your own right now, or I’ll call Sam. Who doesn’t even know you’re still drinking, by the way. So I suggest you don’t make me do that.”

“How dare you?” he chokes out. “My ma died.”

“That excuse stopped working a few days ago, Dean. You need help.”

“I need you.”

“I’m not available right now.”

He makes a weird sound that draws my attention. When I look up at him, he’s staring at me like he doesn’t recognize me. His face is covered in tears. “Don’ do this, Cas. ‘can fix this.”

“No you can’t.”

The sadness morphs to anger, like it always does with Dean Winchester. He starts throwing everything in sight. None in my direction, like I said, he’d never hurt me. But it still makes me start to shake. I openly sob but it doesn’t matter to him. He’s too busy screaming about how selfish and judgemental I am. How he deserves better than me. How I’m an asshole. How I’m heartless. How I’m the worst person he’s ever met.

At some point, I got myself to dial Sam’s number. I couldn’t speak through the sobs but he could clearly hear Dean screaming at me. He lives three streets away from us. By the time I hear him enter the house, Dean hasn’t even run out of steam yet. He punches the wall right before Sam hugs him from behind, pulling him away from the new hole in the drywall, grabbing his bleeding hand to keep it from getting injured further.

I lift my chin to look at Dean as Sam drags him toward the door. Sam is in responsible big brother mode, shifting between apologizing to me and asking if I’m okay, to hushing and whispering to Dean that everything will be fine. When they get directly in front of me, Dean’s eyes meet mine. They’re full of so much hate and pain and love that I have to take a step back.

“Don’ do this, Cas,” he whispers a final time, voice raw from his screaming. “Don’ make me leave.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” I whisper in a voice just as broken, even though I’ve barely raised my voice since he got home. “I can't be with you like this.”

“You're heartless. You never loved me, did you?”

“How can you even say that? Of course I did. I still do! But I can't anymore. You have to stop this.”

“Fuck you! I need you ‘n you're fuckin’ abandonin’ me!”

Sam tries pulling him away but Dean pulls his arm back, his elbow hitting Sam in the nose. He takes advantage of his freedom by coming for me. I back away out the door so he will follow me outside, then turn so I'm closest to the door.

“Don't speak to me like that, Dean.”

“Fuck. You.” He spits at me. “I'll be back. You'll be beggin’ me to.”

“No, Dean.” Wiping at my face, I tell him in the strongest, most confident tone I can muster, “I swear to god. Don’t come back until you’re fucking sober.”

His lips part but I turn my back to him and run inside, slamming the door and locking it. Then I slump down on the ground and curl in on myself, not sure if I just made the best decision of my life, or the worst mistake.

Dean

17 hours sober.

Well, since my last drink. I doubt I'm even sober yet, considering the amount of alcohol in my system. Still, 17 hours is impressive for me, so I'm counting it.

I rest my cheek against the cool toilet seat, vomit dripping from the corner of my mouth. Sam enters the bathroom, placing a glass of water on the counter before wringing out a cold cloth over my head, sending refreshingly cold water down my body. He runs it under cold water again before resting it on the back of my neck.

“Thanks, Sammy,” I whisper through chattering teeth. I wish my fucking body would stop shaking so hard. It's starting to hurt. Every muscle is aching. With each heave as I vomit, my body protests. It feels like I'm being ripped into ten different directions.

------

37 hours sober.

I sit at the back of my second meeting of the day, bouncing my knees to the rhythm of my pounding heart. The man speaking to the group is talking about being sober for ten years. There's a wedding ring on his finger. I stare at it as he talks with his hands. It was just last month I was at the jewelry store with my mom, browsing rings for when I proposed to Castiel. We said we would go back and make a final decision but we never did.

Now she's dead.

Now, Castiel would probably throw the ring at my face.

Don't come back until you're fucking sober.

I want to go home right now. Technically, I've sobered up. I purged all the alcohol out of my system through vomit, sweat, and time. Now I'm left with a shaky, empty shell of myself. Not the man Castiel is hoping will return, I'm sure.

------

42 hours sober.

I want a drink so fucking bad. My hands are trembling so hard and I know what they're begging me for. I know they want the comfort of wrapping around a glass of whiskey. My whole body wants something to do with the liquid gold. My tongue longs for the taste. My throat for the burn. My stomach for the heat that spreads through it. My veins want to be pumping alcohol. My mind wants help shutting off.

I scrub a rough hand over my face, my knees bouncing double time. I should go to another meeting. I'm sure there's one right now, even though it's late. If I was more determined, I'd find one. I'm not though. I'm worried if I get off the couch and allow my feet to move, they will bring me to the nearest bar. So, I sit on Sam's couch with the TV on mute so I don't wake his family up. I sit until I don't need a drink.

I end up falling asleep first.

------

56 hours sober.

God, I miss him. I miss him so fucking much. I need him. Almost as much as I need a drink. Since I know that's wrong, since I know he deserves someone who needs him more than anything, especially more than whiskey, I still don't go back.

------

6 days sober.

The cravings still thrum beneath the surface of my skin. The piercing headache I’ve had for three days straight now still won’t go away. But, when I sweat, it doesn’t smell like booze anymore. I can now eat three meals a day without throwing them up. The trembling has mostly stopped. It only returns when I’m anxious or unable to sleep. That’s probably my biggest problem now, besides the Castiel issue. I can’t sleep well.

It’s mostly that I can’t even fall asleep. Too restless. Too many thoughts. Too upset. When I do manage to fall asleep, I’m battling nightmares. Nightmares about the horrors of my past. Nightmares about dying alone. Nightmares of Castiel dead like my mom, lying stiff in a coffin. Nightmares of Castiel finding someone else. Nightmares of me trying to go back, proud of being sober, only to be told he can no longer love me.

------

12 days sober.

I dial his number after work, drumming the fingers of my free hand nervously against my thigh. I've sent him two texts since he kicked me out. One when I first detoxed, apologizing and promising I would get better. The second a few days ago, just saying I miss and love him, and want him to take all the time he needs. He didn't answer either.

He doesn't answer the phone call either. It takes a lot for me to not throw my phone at the wall. It takes even more for me not to drink. I go for a run instead. 8 miles. Sam would be so proud.

------

30 days sober.

I get my bronze chip at my daily meeting. Everyone claps for me. I even smile.

I visit my mom's grave, apologizing for being gone so long. She listens to me talk and cry. She sits with me in silence.

I ask Sam if Castiel is okay. Sam promises he is. I can't decide if I'm relieved or hurt by that. All I know is I fucking need him, and it's killing me that he doesn't need me too.

Castiel

34 days alone.

The first apology arrives during the school day in the middle of my lesson on Ernest Hemingway. 37 pink roses and one red rose. They come with a note written in Dean’s beautifully messy handwriting: 37 pink roses for every month we’ve been together, and one red for this past month that we’ve had to spend apart. I’m so sorry I made it so we needed a red rose… I promise to try and make sure we never have another one again. I miss you. I love you. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. - Dean

Telling my students to read the short story I just introduced, I hurry off to the staff bathroom and lock myself in. With the note crumpled in my hand, I let myself cry. I cry for every pink rose. I cry even harder for the red one.

------

37 days alone.

The second apology is in my mailbox the next morning. An envelope with just my name on it, in that same handwriting as the note with the roses. I bring it inside and open it as I eat my breakfast. It’s a gift certificate for a full day at the spa in town. With it is a note that reads: You talk all the time about how stressed you are. With work. Your kids. Coworkers. Family. Even with me. I never tell you enough how much I appreciate you. How I appreciate that even if you get home after dark, you still make us dinner. How I appreciate that even when you’re exhausted, you still wake up with me when I have my nightmares. How I appreciate your never ending patience and understanding. How I appreciate that you planned my mom’s funeral since Sam and I were too upset. I promise to appreciate you more. I promise to tell you more. I’m nowhere near the man you deserve.. But I’m going to try my hardest to become him for you. I miss you. I love you. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. - Dean

------

40 days alone.

The third apology is a pink gift bag on my front porch when I come home at the end of the day. I bring it inside and place it on the breakfast bar. After I’ve changed into more comfortable clothes and poured myself a glass of wine, I open it. A note is tied with a ribbon off one of the handles. I open it and read: I miss you. I love you. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. - Dean

When I look inside, I see that the bag is actually packed full of notes. Little folded up slips of paper. With shaking hands, I open the first and read: You don’t know this, but the first time we met wasn’t actually the first time I’d seen you. I saw you a week before that, when walking across campus to the dorms. It was a cool, windy, fall day. You were in this chunky, burgundy sweater. A plaid flannel blanket was wrapped around you, falling off one shoulder. You were sitting on the ground with your back against a tree. Reading. Always reading. My cute little nerd. The wind kept blowing your crazy curls around and I just stood there in awe. You were so beautiful. I remember when I saw you at that party the week after, I just knew. I knew you were the one. It was fate.

Clamping down on my bottom lip to keep from crying, I grab a new one and read: I know you hate my homemade lasagna, babe. But thanks for always pretending anyway.

I laugh softly, the smile feeling foreign on my face. I can’t remember the last time I genuinely smiled, instead of the forced ones I give in public to keep up appearances. It’s not really a surprise that Dean Winchester is the one to get me to smile again. He was always quite good at that.

I read another one: I’m sorry for that terrible fucking haircut I gave you last year… that was… oh boy.. That was terrible babe. I wasn’t lying though. You still looked gorgeous.

This makes me laugh until I’m breathless. I remember that day. I had a meeting the next morning and it had completely slipped my mind to go to the salon. All I needed was a trim so my curls weren’t falling in my eyes. He butchered it so bad I wore a weird fedora like hat to the meeting, which my coworkers to this day still tease me about. The laughter is relieving. Almost all of the pressure that’s been building on my chest the last 40 days lifts. I can almost breathe again.

I read another: When I make love to you, your sexy legs wrapped around my waist and your arms around my back, holding me close so we can kiss, you make the most beautiful noises. I get lost in your eyes sometimes and forget to even move my hips. You’ve never pointed it out. Sometimes I wonder if you get lost in me too. If you don’t even notice.

My heart flutters.

I read another: When we were both still in the dorms on campus, you accused me of stealing one of your favorite sweaters. It was blue, almost identical to your eyes, and so fucking soft. My favorite part though was that it smelled like you. So… yeah… I totally lied. I stole that. I’m really sorry. It just made me feel safe and it helped with my nightmares. I slept with it every night, even long after it stopped smelling like you. When we moved in together, I was afraid to tell you… so I hid it. It’s in our bedroom closet right now if you want it back. In a box labeled ‘Dean’s College Shit’. Maybe it smells like me… maybe it can help you sleep now.

“I fucking knew he stole that,” I grumble, unable to stop myself from smiling. I go to the closet and find the sweater, exactly where he said it’d be. It’s slightly dusty but it does still smell like him. Actually, it smells like us. A smell the rest of this house is starting to lose. I pull the sweater on over my shirt and sink into it.

Going back to the kitchen, now wrapped in my own Dean security blanket, I read another: I love you so much, Cas. You make my entire world spin. It feels like everything is standing still lately… you know how much I hate being still.

And another: I miss you.

And another: Sam’s dog is under the impression we are now best friends, and he sleeps on the couch with me every night. He’s lucky he’s cute because this couch is fucking small.

Another: I love when you read to me at night while I fall asleep, even when it’s your students’ terrible essays that I know drive you nuts. God.. I miss your voice, babe.

Another: When we kissed for the first time, you tasted like skittles. I never asked if you had been eating them, or maybe drinking something earlier. I wonder what it was.

Another: It’s raining tonight. Thunderstorming. I know how much you love them. I hope you’re sitting in the window seat with a book and a mug of tea, enjoying it. You deserve peaceful moments like that.

It hasn’t thunderstormed in two weeks. He's been writing these over the time we’ve been apart, instead of all at once for this apology gift like I thought.

My resolve crumbles.

I read another: I love you.

I read every single one. Most of them more than once. By the time the sun is setting, the wine bottle is empty and I’m dialing Dean’s number.

He answers before the phone can ring a second time. “Cas?” he asks breathlessly. The desperation and hope in his voice breaks my heart.

With a smile, I say what I’ve wanted to for 40 days now. “Dean. Come home.”

#destiel #supernatural #prompts #love #angst #writing #feels #savingpeoplewritingprompts #au #dean #castiel #domestic au #alcohol #relapse

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