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Dean resisted consciousness. After all, being awake only ever meant pain. Especially lately.
Sure, they had gotten everyone back. Well, not everyone. And wasn't that the fucking problem.
Dean always loved seeing his little brother happy. But watching the joy on Sam's face as Eileen ran down the bunker steps into his arms made the sharp pain in Dean's chest all the sharper.
It reminded him of all he never got to have.
Dean eventually rolled over and opened his bleary eyes to his room.
His normally pristine bedroom was a pigstye. He hadn't taken the trash out in a week, he'd been eating in his bed so there were crumbs in it and wrappers surrounding it, and his laundry was overfilling his hamper.
He always hated a mess, but now what was the point? What was the point of anything anymore?
He reached down the side of his bed and pulled up the half-drunk bottle of whisky from the night before. It's how he was able to pass out at all and get some sleep before the nightmares started back up. They're always so goddamn persistent.
Fumbling with the cap, he took a swig to try and stave off the headache he could feel behind his eyes. He wishes he could just go back to sleep, but his mind probably wouldn't let him.
He finally sits up and swings his legs off the bed, and stumbles his way out of his room and to the bathroom. After relieving himself and splashing water on his face, he leaves without ever glancing in the mirror. He can't remember the last time he could stomach that. It must have been before it happened.
Instead of going to the kitchen like he normally would, he just goes back to his room, and collapses back on his bed. If he can't go back to sleep naturally, he will do what he's been doing lately and drink himself back to unconsciousness.
Sam has been worried about him. He knows that. But Dean just doesn't have the energy or the strength to care. He normally would take the sharp pain in his chest and push it down until it was almost bearable in order to get to work, but there's no more work to do, not really. There's been some monsters, but Jack took care of most of them when he took the job, and there's no apocalypse to deal with. No cruel, capricious God, no whiny bratty archangels, no old monsters, nothing. There's peace.
Just not for Dean.
So Dean has been doing what he's never done before, and actually feeling his emotions. Or more like wallowing as much as he's able with how much liquor is swirling through his veins and numbing his sensations. But can you blame him, when he's not used to them after shoving them away for almost forty years?
Dean would go and get something to eat, but Sam is probably in the kitchen at this time, and Dean can't deal with his overly concerned gaze on his emotionally healthy face. Dean obviously loves his brother, but he really wants to smack him when he looks like that.
He just wishes he could have a moment where he couldn't feel. The drinking helps, but then he passes out, and he gets a while of blissful silence before be starts dreaming.
Dreams of black ooze engulfing...
Dean shoots his eyes open.
Damn. Not even twenty minutes before the dreams. That's a new record.
Now he really is starving, so he makes his way to the kitchen, bumping into every wall as he goes.
He must've misjudged the time, because Sam is sat at the kitchen table. Or he's been waiting for him.
"Sammy," he grunts, making his way to the coffee maker. He's going to need caffeine if he's going to try and hold a conversation. He hasn't had one in two days.
"Dean," Sam starts, looking distressed. "You've been in your room for two days. I don't know when the last time you had water, or anything that wasn't alcoholic, was -"
"I'm making coffee right now."
"- but I am very worried about you. I'm scared I'll open your door to find you dead from liver failure one of these days."
Sam looked to be on the verge of tears, but whether from frustration or genuine concern, Dean couldn't tell.
He listened to the growling of the coffee being made.
"Well, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing," Dean muttered.
Sam made a sound that was disturbingly close to a whimper.
"Dean," he pleaded. "You need help. Please. I'm sorry Cas is - "
Dean ran out of the kitchen. The coffee was still brewing.
***
Dean slammed his door shut.
He can't hear that name. He can't. He'll die if he even thinks of that night, of his face, of what he said.
He wishes he would just die, that would save him from this torture. Dean knows torture. He knows thirty years of it. This is so much worse. He would never survive thirty years of this.
God, he can't breathe. Why can't he breathe? He grabs for the bottle he left on his bed and takes a long drink, but it slips from his hand and shatters.
"Fuck!" He screams.
But soon the scream turns wordless, and he collapses to his knees just letting out a guttural noise of anguish. He doesn't care that he kneels on the broken glass, or that he feels his skin split open. In fact it grounds him, and as his cries die out, he looks through the tears at the shards on the floor.
He picks one up, and without thinking, slides it through his wrist. At least the constant pain in his chest lessens a bit.
In fact, as he feels the blood flow warmly over him, he starts feeling less and less of everything.
At least, until his door bursts open.
"Dean, oh my god," Sam mutters as he grabs a random shirt and wraps it around Dean's wrist.
"No, please, Sammy. Please," Dean slurs, both from drink and blood loss. "Please, let me go, you've done it before, please, I can't do it anymore."
"Dean, no. I'm not letting you do this," Sam cries, pulling Dean up onto his bed. "Stay here, I'll be right back."
Dean can't find it in him to move, even if he wanted to. He doesn't even mess with the makeshift bandage Sam had tied around his wrist. He just lies there, and waits. As usual.
Sam comes back in with a first aid kit, and unwraps Dean's wrist. He sets about cleaning and wrapping it, while trying to clear his eyes of tears that keep falling.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispers. "I shouldn't have said...what I said. But this is why you need help. Please. After everything we've been through, please don't leave me like this."
Dean just sat there. At least the pain in his wrist and knees has somewhat lessened the pain that's been like a vice grip around his chest. Enough to voice some of it.
"I'm tired, Sammy. I'm so tired. After everything I've been through, I thought I would either die a hunter's death, or get some modicum of happiness, or at least peace. But I get this, instead. And I can't. I can't live like this. I don't know how dad did it. Or you. I don't know how I've done it every other time. Maybe I knew, somehow, that those weren't permanent. I don't know. I just know that I'm not strong enough to do this for the rest of my life."
Dean just sat for a moment collecting his thoughts. He felt his breathing quicken before his brain caught up. He's started thinking again. About him.
About his face. His voice. That stupid head tilt.
Before he knew it, Dean was sobbing. Sobbing harder than he's ever sobbed in his life.
Sam enveloped him in a hug, cradling his head. Dean was reminded of when he would hold Sam as a kid after a nightmare. It was fitting, seeing as their whole lives were nightmares.
"I need him back, Sam," Dean wailed. After that, he dissolved back into wordless anguish.
***
"Eileen, I don't know what to do. He tried to kill himself!" Sam cried. She leaned his head on her shoulder.
He had left Dean in his bed after cleaning the rest of his wounds and he'd fallen asleep. Luckily, it seems blood loss and mourning were enough to tire him out without the use of his usual method.
He had also taken anything that could be used to hurt him from his room.
"We need to get him help," she said.
"The one therapist I've ever heard of that knew about all of this is dead," Sam scoffed.
Eileen hesitated.
"Have you talked to Jack?"
Sam raised his head.
"He won't answer. I guess he's busy."
She brushed Sam's long hair out of his eyes.
"Maybe this will have gotten his attention."
***
"Jack? H-hey buddy," Sam said, standing in a clearing in the town they had seen him last. "Look, I know you said you were gonna be hands off, and I respect that, I do. But this is kinda an emergency.
"Dean tried to kill himself. Because Cas is...gone. And I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help him. And I'm just really hoping you can do this one thing."
"People lose people every day, Sam."
Sam turned around. Jack looked the exact same as when he'd left.
"They have to deal with it the same way Dean must," Jack said gently.
"But he's not. And I don't know if he'll ever be able to."
"I made a promise, Sam. I will not break it."
Sam scoffed angrily.
"After everything Dean has done for the world, doesn't he deserve a bit of happiness? Doesn't he at least deserve the chance?"
Jack breathed slowly through his nose.
"I cannot interfere."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both!"
Sam just shook his head.
"I don't know what happened that night. Dean can't even hear Cas's name, let alone tell me what happened. But I do know it had to do with Cas saving you. He saved your life, Jack. He's saved all of us and the world, multiple times, and you won't bring him back, one last time? Your own father?"
Jack turned away, eyes closed.
"Don't you dare," he whispered. "I want to. But I am trying to be different than Chuck. I'm trying to be fair and good. Please, do not try to weaken me. And don't you dare insinuate that I'm unfeeling."
Tears were silently rolling down his cheeks.
Sam huffed.
"Jack," he said, reaching for him. He pulled away. Sam sighed. "I'm sorry. I know you love him, and miss him. But please. I know you want to be fair. But Chuck was never fair to us. Doesn't that mean we get a little bit of leeway on the other side?"
"With the number of times we all have died and come back, isn't that enough?"
Sam chuckled.
"I don't know if those were exactly charity on Chuck's part."
Jack smiled.
"No, I suppose not."
The smile slipped off his face.
"If," he said, voice low and deadly serious. "If I do this. It will be the last time. Ever. Even if I bring him back and he immediately gets hit by a bus or something. This is the last time I am interfering. I've completed most of the work of fixing Chuck's mistakes. After this, you get no more favors, or special treatment. Nothing. Do you understand, Sam Winchester?"
"I do."
Jack reached his hand out. Sam shook it.
"It is done," he said, releasing it. He raised his hand in his usual wave. "Bye."
And disappeared.
Sam gaped. Then ran to get in his car.
***
Dean had been in a semi-conscious state since he had lit his wrist. He didn't try to wake up. He didn't try to go to sleep. He was fine with this semi peacefulness.
It still felt like his heart had been ground up, but it wasn't forcing itself to the forefront of his mind like when he was awake, or forcing its way into his nightmares like when he was asleep. No, here, in his not quite lucid state, he could remember Cas, and not break down like a child.
He could think of the blue of his eyes. How piercing they were. Dean could have stared into them for hours. He never did, of course. That would have made him seem gay, and he used to care about that so badly. How ridiculous, now. How fucking ridiculous.
He could think of his full, slightly perpetually chapped lips. And his smile. How awkward it always seemed, but how gentle. Dean would have liked to have felt it against his. At least one time. If he wasn't such a fucking coward, he would have before Cas shoved him out of the way of The Empty. But he didn't move. He just stood there. While Cas was taken right in front of him.
He could think of his adorable little head tilt. How often he did it, because of how often he was confused about something humans did. Dean would have loved explaining all the idiosyncrasies of humans to Cas, all the minute details of humanity, and helping him navigate it. Of course, he'd had that opportunity before, and he'd abandoned him. He'd never been human before, didn't know how to live, amd abandoned him, because an angel he didn't really know told him to.
Dean seemed to be, unfortunately, coming back to consciousness.
He wished he could stay in this place forever. He was beating himself up, but at least he could see Cas in his mind's eye.
But his brain, as usual, refused to give him peace. And he was thrust back into wakefulness, where he was forced to live another day without the love of his life.
Throat tightening, he felt another breakdown coming on. He's always known he was cracked in the head, but this is getting ridiculous. He'd tell himself to get a grip, but what would be the point? It's never worked before. His brain stopped listening to him when it froze up after Cas said those words.
He's at least moved past his suicidal actions, so he feels it's safe to venture out of his room without Sam yelling at him.
He has no particular destination in mind, he just felt cooped up. Probably the lingering smell of blood. It never bothered him when he was little, but after Hell...
He stops when he hears a clatter behind a closed door.
He knows Sam isn't in the bunker, he left him a note, and he doesn't think Eileen would be here without Sam.
He doesn't have a gun or any sort of weapon on him. And unfortunately, the cloud hasn't cleared enough for him to particularly care. So what if it's something that wants to kill him. He hopes it does it quickly.
Reaching for the knob, he has a split second of realization before he opens it that this is where Cas died.
Pushing the door open, the first thing he sees is a tan trench coat.
***
"Cas?"
Dean rasps, barely audible. Low enough that he doesn't turn around. He just stands there, his head slightly moving, turning from one side of the room to the other.
"Cas," Dean says slightly louder, and he sees him still. Then he turns.
And he sees his face. Beautifully Castiel.
Dean takes a tentative step forward. Then another. All the way until he's standing right in front of him. He slowly raises his hand to Cas's cheek.
There's an inch of space between his hand and his cheek. But he can't close the distance. He's worried his hand will go through empty air.
Cas moves his head to connect with Dean's hand, and Dean gasps as his eyes fill with tears.
"Are you real?" Dean whispers.
"I think so. I don't understand how I'm here, but I believe I am really here," Cas says, in his usual rumble.
Dean shudders out a breath. Breathing is not something he's concerned with right now.
Dean just looks in his eyes. He can do that now. He can stare at his beautiful piercing blue eyes for as long as he wants.
"Dean?" Cas asks after an indeterminate amount of time. "Are you alright?"
Dean shakes his head. And finds that he can't stop shaking it. And that the tears won't quite stop.
"Dean?" Cas asks more concerned, raising his hands to Dean's shoulders, which only makes him sob more.
"Don't shove me away again, Cas, please. I can't do that again."
"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas said, tears starting to form in his eyes. "But I think you need to breathe. Humans need to breathe, Dean."
Dean simply cried, and started to hyperventilate, knees buckling as he wound his fists in Cas's coat.
Cas gently lowered him to the floor, kneeling in front of him as well. He took his face in his hands and brought their foreheads together.
"Breathe, Dean, please."
"God, I hate you so much right now, Cas," Dean said between sobs.
"How fucking dare you do that to me? Leaving me like that? Fuck you," he gasped, gripping his coat even tighter.
Cas brought his hand around to the back of Dean's neck and started lightly scratching his nape.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
By the time Dean's sobs had turned into quiet crying, they heard a bang and quick steps growing ever louder before Sam burst into the room completely out of breath.
"Oh, thank god. Or, I guess, thank Jack."
Neither of them acknowledged him.
***
After Sam had left them again, they just sat there on the dusty dungeon floor, holding each other, not talking.
Until Dean broke the silence.
"Don't ever do that again, Cas. Please. I won't survive it," he whispered.
"I won't, Dean. I promise. I'm so sorry."
Eventually, Dean moved to get up, and Cas immediately moved away from him.
"I'm too old to be sitting on the floor this long. I won't be able to move tomorrow," Dean said with a grin, reaching down to pull Cas up as well. He didn't let go of his hand.
Cas looked down at their hands and finally seemed to notice the bandage covering his wrist.
"What happened?" He asked, gently running his fingers over the white gauze.
Dean looked away.
"I - nothing. It's fine."
Cas furrowed his brows.
"Dean. Please tell me?"
Dean looked in his eyes that have always been his weakness and felt himself give in.
"I...I tried to...kill myself," he whispered.
Cas stared at him, before slipping his hand out of his.
His breath caught in his throat.
"You...why?"
Dean laughed incredulously.
"Why? You really don't know?"
Cas shook his head.
"I saved your life. I gave myself to The Empty to save you. Why would you do that?"
Dean stared at him. Cas really didn't know.
"Because you were gone, Cas. Because I thought I would never see you again. Because I have not been...functioning since you did that. Because I could not imagine happiness with you gone."
He was crying again. He's been doing that a lot, lately.
Cas was crying as well, and shaking his head.
"No. No, don't say that. You don't mean it."
"Bullshit, don't tell me what I mean. I didn't see life as worth living without you. I need you, Cas, so don't you ever try to pull anything like that again."
Cas just nodded.
Dean softened his gaze, and brought his hands back up to Cas's neck.
"I love you, too, by the way."
He heard Cas gasp before he swallowed it with a kiss. Cas immediately melted against him, bringing his hands to Dean's waist and gripping tightly.
When they finally pulled back for air (Cas was happy to keep going, but Dean was getting lightheaded), they just leaned against each other.
"Dean," Cas started, running his fingers up and down his back. "I think you need help."
Dean sighed.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I do, too."