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Dean is bleeding.
The remains of a tumbler lie shattered across the table in front of him, and Dean is bleeding.
He just stares. Watches the red well up: slowly at first, and then all at once. Watches as it travels down the cracks and crevices of his palm until it drips from his fingers in a steady rhythm.
Dean doesn’t know how long he sits there. He doesn't know much of anything, at the moment. But the pain in his hand is nice. Soothing. Grounding.
He can't say he's surprised. Well, he can. He'd expected something like this from Sam, eventually. Expected him to finally realize just how toxic his big brother truly was, the extent of the collateral left in his wake. Dean just hadn't expected it to be so soon, so final. He thought... He doesn't know what he thought. All he knows is that Sam is thirty seconds down the hall, but Dean has never felt more alone.
(Too scared of being alone.)
He'll get up in a minute, go to sleep. Wake up in the morning and bounce back. Pretend nothing happened, just like he always does.
But not now.
Right now, Dean watches the blood drip down his hand.
He hears his name, but can't bring himself to respond. He's so tired, after all.
Sooner or later he'll get up.
At least, he's pretty sure he will.
Pretty sure he still wants to.
But not now.
For right now, it's so much easier to just sit here, to listen to the slow drip of his hand, and pretend not to have heard anything at all.
"Dean."
He is being touched. Pulled. Dragged. "Stop." Dean shoves at the offending arm. The switch flips and he is no longer floating. Suddenly, he doesn't want to be calm. Suddenly, he is furious. "I don't need your help."
He finds that he is in front of his bedroom. Unreadable eyes watch as he staggers hard into the doorframe: "Clearly."
"Fuck off."
A slow blink. Calm, controlled. "If you like: once you cease to be a danger to yourself."
"Fuck you." Dean stumbles forward a couple of steps before his knees give out completely. He crumples, catching himself on the edge of his bed and sinking onto it. He finds himself alone.
For a while he just lies there. Sleep won't come. He begins to wonder if Cas plans on coming back, then thinks that he wouldn't blame him if he didn't. If he just left like all the others. Because even if Dean "can't handle being alone" that doesn't mean he has to cling and clutch and bring someone else down with him, drag them through the mud with him, and his hand is still bleeding, slowly staining his duvet red, and the silence has grown to deafening proportions, bearing down on all sides until he can hear the blood pounding in his ears, and the room has heated up, flames licking at his face, his sides, and his breaths are coming shorter and shorter, and distantly he realizes that, Hey, genius, you're having a panic attack, so he slides off the edge of the bed, drops his head between his knees, and tries to ride it out.
He clenches his fists: digs his nails into his palms and focuses on the satisfying spike of pain that comes with it. Does it again. And again, as each blip of agony brings with it a sliver of reality. At some point, Cas comes back. He doesn't try to say anything, for which Dean is grateful. Instead, he sinks down onto the floor next to him, removes Dean's shredded hand, and presses their upper arms together. The hunter doesn't respond. Just lets the warmth soak into him as he endeavors to get his breathing under control.
Minutes pass, and eventually Dean feels his heart rate slow. At almost the same moment, he feels a spike of very real fear. Dean knows he's been walking this tightrope of okay and not-okay for a while now. Long enough that sooner or later he's going to go pitching off the side. If anyone else was here, it wouldn't matter. He's had 31 years to perfect the act of covering it up, of holding on until he can slip away, get it out of his system, and crawl back with no one the wiser. It's gotten to the point where he can fool anyone, make them see what he wants, forget what he wants.
Almost anyone.
Cas must feel Dean stiffen, because he huffs an exasperated breath and what Dean thinks is the word "incorrigible" before rising gracefully to his feet.
Dean only has a moment to collect himself before Cas is back, carrying with him several bandages from the first aid kit Dean keeps in his bathroom. Wordlessly, the angel drops down in front of Dean, takes his hand, and begins picking out the shards of glass. The hunter lowers his eyes to the carpet, takes advantage of the tiny pricks of pain to sort through the shitstorm brewing in his head.
He feels... He doesn't know how he feels. Too full and too empty all at once. Furious and calm. Too much and too little. He just... can't. Where there should be... something, there's just a heaviness. This cold weight that sinks and spreads slowly through his limbs. Yet at the same time he feels... detached? Empty, as if at any moment he could go floating out of his body and just dissolve into the atmosphere.
It's weird. It's not like it's the first time one of them has said something rash, something they'd regret later on after the initial anger has worn off. But this.. this is different. Feels different.
Sam hadn't been mad. Or, he'd been mad, but not the furious, passionate kind of mad that could be fixed with a few swings and a silent treatment. Dean think it'd have been easier if he had. He could take it: he's used to sneaking away to lick his wounds in private. Dean could have given Sam all the space he needed and then slotted himself back into place by his side, just like he always did. Him and Sam. The only family either of them had left. But no. No, Sam had been resigned. Honest.
And that's the worst part, isn't it? That Sam had been one-hundred-fucking-percent truthful when he said he wouldn't bring him back, wouldn't even try. It honestly shouldn't come as a surprise; he remembers Purgatory. Remembers Amelia, and Kevin, and the way Sam almost-not-quite made it out. For good. With no intention of coming back until Dean had popped up on his doorstep: bright, shiny, and nursing a brand new case of PTSD.
And fuck if that doesn't hurt. Deep down, in a place Dean would never admit to himself, it's almost a relief, not being needed. Because that lead weight is so heavy and Dean is just so tired. Tired of burying friends; tired of lying- to Cas, to his brother, to himself; tired of trying to convince himself that everything he does is for some higher purpose, some greater good that makes all the fucked up things somehow more bearable. (Because if there's anything Dean's learned in his 31 years of being a hunter, it's that they don't get a happy ending.) He's tired of caring. Caring has gotten him nothing but pain, and Dean can only take so much pain.
But he seizes those thoughts before they can even manifest, buries them down and smothers them under layers and layers of denial and half-truths. Because if nobody needs him, if Sam doesn't need him, then what else does he have?
Dean shakes his head slowly. "What are you even doing here, Cas?"
The angel hums. "I was in the neighborhood."
"At three in the morning?"
"Sure."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, I bet. Did Sam call you to check up on me? Make sure I'm not gonna do anything, ah, irrational?"
Castiel glances up, arching an eyebrow coolly. "Well, I believe that if anyone knew the signs of 'irrational behavior', it would be me."
Dean sets his jaw, but has the decency to flush slightly.
"Regardless, I hardly need Sam to call when your thoughts are so worrisome that they manage to reach me halfway across the state. So no, he didn't: you did." Cas is calm, patronizing, and Dean realizes he's goading him on purpose. Well, fine. Two can play at this. It's more than enough to rekindle Dean's anger from earlier, to make it flare up hot and vicious. It burns away at the fog seeping into his brain, into his bones, and Dean revels in it. This is something that is familiar to him; this is something he can control. And if he can let it out, if he can turn this- whatever it is coiling his gut- into anger, then maybe he won't break down completely.
Jerking his hand out of Cas's grasp, Dean leaps to his feet. He stalks the short distance across the room, but he can still feel the angel's eyes on him, calculating, and he spins on his heel. "Well," he says, "as you can clearly tell, I'm doing fan-fucking-tastic. So you can just zap yourself on back to whatever you were doing in angel land, and we can all move on with our lives."
Castiel's only response is to stare at him, unmoving, and Dean laughs wildly. "Cas, buddy, if you think a few deaths and a fancy friendship mark are all it takes for me to break, you don't know me."
The angel rolls his eyes at that. "No, you're right. You've clearly found a healthy method of coping with the hardships you've endured thus far. Please, tell me, how much have you been sleeping? And this was your first panic attack, right? Because you handled that like a pro."
Dean flinches. He can already feel his flimsy resolve wavering, the corners of the mask cracking. He never did stand much of a chance, anyway. Not to Cas. Not with this.
"Clearly," the angel continues, "something recent has occurred that neither you nor Sam have told me. Something that bothers you enough that I'm even here in the first place-"
Dean snorts. "What are you, my guardian angel or something I didn't-"
"Dean, you did." The hunter falls silent, counts his breaths, tries to slow the frantic pounding in his chest. "Whatever the problem is, it's clearly affecting you far more than it is your brother, whom I haven't heard a word from. Therefore, since no one else appears to want to do it, the job of making you see reason seems to fall to me. So why don't you stop lying to yourself and tell me what's going on."
When Dean drops his eyes to the ground, the angel huffs, thoroughly exasperated. "I don't understand you! When will you realize that people only want to help you, if you'd let them?"
And, wouldn't you know, that's all it takes for Dean to lose it. Facade gone, pretense forgotten, no-holds-barred, lose it.
"I don't need your help. I don't deserve your help." And it's satisfying, so satisfying, to watch someone fall silent, to know that he is being heard. "If you wanted to help you wouldn't even be here. How many times do I have to say it? I am poison, Cas! You of all people should know: how many times have you fucking died for me, died for any of us? Christ." Dean rubs a hand down his face in frustration, laughs brokenly. "I screwed you over; I made you leave. How the fuck you're even sitting there right now, not smiting my ass, I have no fucking clue."
"Jesus." He's on a roll now, and if it has to come out, there's small comfort in it being Cas that it lands on. "From the beginning, it all comes back to me! Dean Winchester, the guy who couldn't bear being alone so he dragged his brother away from his normal fucking life with his normal fucking girlfriend so they could be a 'family' again and got them both killed! Dean Winchester, the guy who pulled Joanna Beth Harvelle out into the real world and got her, and her mom, killed! Dean Winchester, who started the fucking apocalypse, for fuck's sake. Everyone who has ever known me winds up dead or worse. I'm not good for people, Cas: I never have been. Lisa, Ben, Kevin-" his voice catches, and he growls in frustration at the sudden pinpricks behind his eyes. "Kevin. He was just a kid. And that will always, always, be on my hands. So you tell me how this," he turns back to Cas, meets his eyes resignedly, "how any of this, is not on me."
The mark on his arm burns.
Cas drops his gaze, and doesn't say anything. The air is heavy with the weight of Dean's words, but he finds he can't bring himself to regret them. When he angel still doesn't respond, Dean throws up his hands in defeat, dragging himself back onto the floor in front of Cas. His hand has reopened, and he turns it to the side, poking at it idly. He watches disinterestedly as it runs onto the carpet, staining it. Lets the coldness slip back, lets it sink and spread. Detached. Floating. Calm.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"For someone as generous as you are, that was a remarkably selfish thing to say."
Dean's head jerks up, protest forming on his lips-
"So, I believe this is the part where I tell you to, 'Cut the crap'."
-and closes his mouth with a snap, speechless.
Castiel leans back and levels a glare at the hunter, who suddenly feels a little like the time he was five and his Dad yelled at him for leaving the milk out on accident. "Now," he continues, irritability crackling like static around him, "I cannot speak for the others, but the fact that you have the nerve to accept the accountability for my actions is not only baffling, but frankly, extremely insulting. You seem to assume that I am not in control of my own decisions, or that I'm somehow making them without understanding the consequences. Well, 'news flash', Dean Winchester," he pauses to make the air quotes, "I am a multi-dimensional celestial being, several millennia older than you- I believe that entitles me to my own fuck ups."
Dean chokes on a pained laugh, because it's all too much. Leaning forward, he buries his face in his uninjured hand.
"So what you will not do," Castiel says, ever calm, "is presume to tell me when I am, or when I'm not, accountable for my own decisions. Now," his voice softens, but loses none of its firmness. "I admit that I only knew Miss Harvelle and her mother for a short while. But both of those women elected to travel with us to Carthage: they knew what was at stake. To blame yourself for their actions is to lessen their role in preventing Lucifer's rising and in turn, their sacrifice. The same can be said of the Braedens. You were clear from the start what Lisa was risking by being with you, and yet she chose you anyway. If anything, that should be a commendation to your character, not a slight. As for Jessica..." The angel sighs dramatically, but watches Dean closely out of the corner of his eye. "I'd say that her death falls more on Sam's shoulders than yours, wouldn't you agree? After all, if he hadn't tried to leave hunting, if he'd just stayed away from anyone that could potentially get hurt, then she'd never have died-"
Flag on the play. "What- dude, no, what the actual fuck, Cas?" Dean's three seconds from seeing red, because what?
"You're saying that my baby brother shouldn't get to be happy just because he's got a shitty life? What the fuck is your problem? If anything, he deserves it more than all the other ungrateful assholes on this god-forsaken rock. And you know what? Screw you. Sam didn't kill Jessica, that dickhead Azazel did. And he got what was coming to him."
Cas cocks an eyebrow. "So what you're saying," he replies, voice carefully neutral, "is that just because Sam's lot in life was poorer than others he should still be allowed to do what he wants? To make himself happy even if there's a risk that it will fall through?"
"No shit, Sherlock." Dean revels in his triumph for a moment before-
"Then we're agreed," Cas says, clasping his hands in satisfaction. "Sam isn't to blame for something entirely out of his control. I just hope that one day I hope you'll take your head out of your ass long enough realize the value of your own advice."
Dean opens and closes his mouth several times as the words sink in. "But that's- you- he's not- and I'm not-"
Castiel seems pleased with the turn of events. Unconcerned with Dean's splutters of confusion, he pushes on. "Kevin was a prophet. It's true that he didn't choose that life, just as Chuck didn't. If you are to blame yourself for his becoming a prophet, by the same logic you must also blame Chuck for dying. Because if Chuck had lived, if Chuck had been more careful, Kevin never would have been "dragged into" anything in the first place. And that, I think we both agree, is idiotic, and you are not an idiot. At least," the angel pauses, with a reluctant twitch of the mouth, "most of the time."
"Hey," the hunter protests weakly. But that leaden feeling in his gut is slowly starting to dissipate, and he'll cling to the change as long as he can.
Castiel holds out his hand, asking for permission, and after a moment's hesitation Dean allows him to resume his doctoring. Dean lets himself drift for a while, lulled by the repetitive tug and pinch as Cas tugs each the remaining shards from his hand. (It doesn't occur to Dean until later that Cas could just mojo it better.)
It's a while before Dean realizes the movements have stopped, so lost in thought as he is. When he looks up, Cas is gazing at him with such profound concern that the hunter has to cough sharply, has to look away.
"Dean. Tell me what happened. Please."
And, because who else is going to listen, Dean does. He tells him everything, and finishes about the same time that Cas tapes the last bandage to his hand. He trails off, watching as the angel smooths down the cloth one final time before folding his own hands in his lap, staring at them pensively.
"I think," Cas begins slowly, carefully, "that your and Sam's... habit, of cheating death is not necessarily a beneficial one. And," his voice softens, "as great a loss as the both of you would be to the world, you cannot cheat Death forever. I'm afraid, from what we've seen, that he simply won't let you."
Bitterness wells up in Dean's throat. "So you agree with Sam, then. That I shouldn't have brought him back- that we should just let each other die?"
Castiel lets out a huff. "Do not put words in my mouth, Dean Winchester. I cannot presume to understand all of Sam's feelings. Your brother has only just recently realized that he has not been in possession of his faculties and as a result played an unintentional role in killing one of his good friends. I cannot speak for him. The only thing I can assume is that he is hurting, Dean. He's more likely now than ever to lash out when he's feeling frustrated."
"He's right though." Dean's mind whirls, and he feels as if this entire conversation traveling in circles. "For all the good I do, or think I do, someone always ends up getting fucked over in the end. At least," he rolls up his sleeve to the elbow, "at least with this thing I'll be able to take one last big bag down with me."
Cas frowns, reaching out to examine the mark on Dean's forearm. It's not as violently red as it had been the day he got it, but it lingers still, angry and malicious. "Cain, you said?" At Dean's nod, the angel lets his fingers trace the brand, muttering words under his breath that the hunter can't understand. The constant burn the pervades the mark seems to lesson with whatever Cas is doing to it, and Dean lets himself be lulled. Therefore, it comes as a surprise when Cas suddenly stills, bending over to press his forehead to the inside of Dean's arm.
Dean blinks. "Uh. Cas?" When he doesn't respond, the hunter reaches out a hesitant hand, hovering just shy of the angel's shoulder.
"Dean you don't-" Cas breaks off, sounding distraught. Abruptly, he releases the hunter, sitting back. His mouth is drawn tight in anger, but there's something in his eyes that Dean can't place. "I will never understand why you feel that sacrificing yourself is necessary. You gain nothing from hurting except more pain. To continue to bring these things onto yourself is- is just-" Castiel fumbles for a word, breaks off. "You do not owe the world anything."
The abrupt change in the angel's manner throws Dean for a loop, but at least this is something he knows how to answer.
"If I don't, who else will?" He laughs nervously. "Besides, I'm the one with all the fancy angel breeding, remember? It's gotta be me."
The attempt at levity falls short. If anything, he seems to be causing the angel more distress.
"Hey, Cas. It's not that big a deal, alright? It's just me; no one cares."
Castiel growls, freakin' growls. "I cannot understand how you can place so little value on your own life. Especially now that I have experienced what it's like to be a human! It's beyond irritating. It's irrational, it's illogical, it's stupid, and-"
"-Yeah, yeah, thanks, Spock. Too bad it's the truth." Dean frowns softly. "Everyone I love is either dead or gone, Cas. If Sammy's not alive, if you're not alive, then-" he manages a shrug, "then there's no point to me."
"Point- the point is that you get to live!" Dean is struck by the familiarity of the words, not to mention the urgent tone, but shakes it off quickly as Cas continues.
"This, this mark." His hands twitch in agitation, but he doesn't reach for it again. "I have no idea what it does. Not one clue. All I can feel is that it's bad, Dean. Evil. Did you even ask what the possible repercussions would be?"
Dean sets his jaw, looks away. "Unbelievable." Castiel bows his head, runs both hands through his hair in frustration. It's one of the most human things Dean's seem him do recently, and it digs at him. "What is it that makes you hold so little regard for everyone's life but your own?"
"Hey, it's not like you're the shining member of the self-worth club, pal. I don't need a preacher."
In his haste to defend himself, Dean's retort is perhaps a little too on the mark. Cas recoils slightly- all angel once more. "I'm well aware of my own shortcomings. But I'm not the one with the bandaged hand, am I?"
Dean feels like shit again.
"That wasn't-"
"Wasn't it?"
Silence.
"He said I was afraid of being alone."
The words slip out softly, before Dean can close his mouth against them. He flushes slightly, pointedly doesn't look at the man in front of him. Because if he meets Cas's eyes and sees the pity, the condemnation that he knows is going to be there, he's done.
What he doesn't expect is a heavy sigh, and his eyes return to the angel against his will. Cas is looking down at his hands sadly, tracing each well-worn groove and space. "If there is one thing I've learned in my time as a human, it's that being alone is one of the most unpleasant things known to man. There's no shame in fearing it."
"Cas..." Dean wants to reach out, to still the restless worrying of his hands, but he's frozen.
"You cannot hold on to people forever. They grow to resent you for it. With my brothers and sisters I know this... all too well. Sometimes it's better to-" he closes his eyes, "to cut them loose when the time is right."
When he does manage to reach out, Dean doesn't know what he intends to do. It's not until his hand is on the angel's shoulder that he realizes that maybe this is a bad idea. But then he decides that they both need it, and he's had enough emotional shit for the night so a little more isn't going to hurt, and he just goes fuck it and pulls Cas in for a hug.
He expects it to be much like their hug in Purgatory: quick, maybe a brief pat on the back, all business and nothing-to-see-here. But as Dean moves to pull away, he finds that he can't because Cas is making a broken noise and... hugging him back?
Well. That's... new. But Dean decides he's not going to ruin the moment. Partly because, while the hug from Garth had scratched the itch, he'll admit to himself that it hadn't been who he really wanted it from. But mostly it's because Cas is holding onto him like he really, really needs it.
But that doesn't mean it's not slightly awkward, kneeling on the floor with his angel, kind-of-best-friend and being hugged within an inch of his life. Especially when Cas breaks the silence with, "You're a good man, Dean Winchester. Your worth is not measured in the sum of your sacrifices."
Dean closes his eyes against the words, feels himself start to shake. "I can't lose him too, Cas. I can't. Kevin's gone, Charlie's gone, Bobby's gone, Garth's carved out his own place. You're-" he struggles for words, "you're... you. Not that- not that we- I don't want you here." He amends hastily. "It's just- you're.. an angel and you probably have... more important stuff- and you can't just- pop down here whenever- whenever I- we-" he swallows. "I mean, I get that, man. It's not like you have that many other options to choose from- so it's good that you come when you can-"
"Dean." Cas cuts him off, not unkindly. "There are billions of other people on the planet. Do you truly believe that if I did not desire to be here that I would choose to stay?"
Yeah. Ok. Dean exhales shakily, allows himself to lean into Cas, just for a moment. Finds that it's easier to speak into his shoulder than to the angel himself.
"You and Sam. You're all the family I have left. I don't know what I would do if he left. If he didn't need me. It would end me."
Because this has been 31 years in coming, and Dean is fucking terrified out of his mind. He tightens his fingers in the fabric of the angel's shirt, and breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Feels warm palms stroke down his back once, twice, and then he's finally succumbing to the tremors, the burning in his eyes.
He feels Cas smile sadly into his hair, feels lips pressed briefly against his temple. "You underestimate your own strength."
The hunter can't respond except to dig his fingers into his friend's back and, gasping, cling tighter. Cas sighs, gathers him up closer. "Talk to Sam in the morning. Really talk to him. Neither of your are going to find peace if you don't do it together. You must remember that, just because he may not need you in order to live, it doesn't mean that he doesn't need you to be happy."
Tomorrow, Dean pick himself up, dust himself off. Tomorrow, Cas will go on his way and Dean'll be back to fooling everyone, fooling himself.
"You will survive this, Dean Winchester."
Tomorrow, he'll glue all the pieces back together.
But for now, he can break.