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Castiel draws in a shakily breath.
He misses not breathing. Why is his body afraid? It’s not even his body; Jimmy’s. He is not afraid. He wants to go home. He misses heaven. Heaven hasn’t been his home for far too long. He misses the quietness. He misses his wings, and most of all, he misses peace. He misses the peace of just visiting one of the personal heavens, and he misses the chorus of his brothers and sisters.
Breathe, the former cherub tells himself, staring at the blade in his hands. His blade. His angel-blade. He cuts his wrist with it, one time, testing it out. It burns. Like he expected.
Will Dean and Sam miss him? What will Dean say, finding him bled out on his bed, when he comes back from the hunt? You are only a burden for them anyway, Cas tells himself. He sighs. Another involuntary reaction from his stolen body. Oh, He hates it. He hates it to be human, to be vulnerable, to be unable to go home.
He closes his eyes, breathes in, and cuts.
“Cas? Cas! What the fuck are you doing!”
Dean looks on the body on the floor. For one second he thinks there is nothing wrong, wonder what the strange, dark feeling in his gut has to mean, then, but then he sees the blood. And there is a lot of it, so much blood, colouring the carpet in a bizarre way, and it takes him another painful long moment to realize what he sees. To realize to whom the body in front of him belongs. When he does, the world around him seems to shatter into more pieces then anybody could pierce together again.
Sam finds him, later; lying on the blood-soaked carpet, Cas’ lifeless body in his arms. Murmuring apologizes to him, tears long dried on his face. It takes him a long time to get Dean to let go, and he know, everybody knows, that Dean never does let go, anyway.