Chapter Text
"Okay. I hear you," Dean says to Sam for what feels like the billionth time. The bourbon in Dean’s hand sloshes around as his fist clenches around the glass, threatening to shatter it.
He ducks out of Bobby’s living room and heads out to be with the cars. These cars are sometimes organ donors for Baby, when Dean gets desperate. Bobby used to work on these cars. The garage used to actually take in new cars and fix them up before reselling them. Now these beat up vehicles were just collecting dust.
Dean balls up his hand and lets his fist bounce against the hood of a shitty little car. A ‘98 Toyota. Nothing worth Dean’s time, but he opens the dented passenger side door and slides into the car. Coffee is the first scent Dean registers, then the metallic scent of blood appears at the edge of Dean’s senses. He sighs and balances his drink on his knee, then runs his hand over his mouth and shakes his head, as though this would help reorganize his thoughts.
"Incoming call from Dean," he says under his breath.
Something about praying feels out of place to Dean, but something about Cas feels very familiar, so he prays anyway.
"Here’s hoping you haven’t put me on mute by now."
Dean picks up his glass again and finishes off what remained. The liquor means almost nothing to him. He usually drank until the liquor replaced the blood in his veins, and then he had a bit more for good measure. Not that it helped as much as he needed to be helped. No amount of alcohol could diminish the guilt...
He glances around the Toyota and thinks of Bobby. Dean knew Bobby well, and so he's not surprised when he dug out a bottle with a good fifth of whiskey left. He laughs a little to himself and considers leaving the bottle undrunk. The thought passes quickly, and he is soon off to downing that bottle, too. Unlike most, he didn’t have to worry about the damage all the alcohol would inevitably cause. He wouldn’t live that long. Hunters rarely do.
"Cas?" Hunters die. They die suddenly. They die regardless of whether or not they have said all that they have ever wanted to say, done everything they’ve ever wanted to do. Hunters had to speak while they had the chance, they do what they must. They had intense lives, because they never knew when it will all end.
"Cas - When you get the chance…" No. "Cas I need you, my feathered friend, to fly south for a few." Dean pauses, feeling steadily more ridiculous and anxious. It had been months since Cas had answered to Dean’s prayers, probably because Dean did not make a habit of praying unless he needed Cas. At that moment, Dean only wanted Cas. He wants to explain idioms and watch Cas’ eyebrows lace together in confusion, his head cocking to one side. Dean wants to show movies to Cas and muss up Cas’s hair, like how it used to be when the two of them first met. Cas used to have perpetual sex hair. Dean misses the sex hair.
Dean drink and listens for the sound of rustling feathers, but no such noise was forthcoming. Dean drinks again and bows his head. “Come on, man.”