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I’m not okay.
The words hovered on Dean’s lips, not daring to make themselves heard. He tried to drown them in whiskey.
“Damnit Cas,” he grunted, yet again. The angel was gone, the Leviathans were taking over, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Sometimes it was as though he could hear the faint flapping of wings over the sound of the trees rustling outside. Every once in a while, he felt as though Cas were right behind him, invading his personal space in the most welcome way. Occasionally, he found himself praying to the angel, shouting to the void, and hoping for some response that was more than an echo of his own voice. Come back to me, Cas.
Dean’s shoulder prickled with the memories of Castiel’s handprint, memories of a barn so far from here and knowledge of his best friend raising him from perdition. His face burned with the thought of how he had never even begun to repay him. His throat burned with yet more whiskey.
Maybe if he burned so much, this deep, bitter cold that rested inside him would go away.
Pathetic, he thought, slamming his empty glass against the table and getting up to serve himself a cup of coffee. He took it black.
Eh, what the hell. He poured a dash of whiskey into that too.
Dean found himself standing out a window at the night sky. “Cas, if you’re out there-anywhere out there,” he murmured, in one last desperate attempt at finding the angel, “I hope you hear me. And I hope you come back. And I’ll be watching out for you. Because, you know...you’ve always done that for me. And I’ll make sure that...that tomorrow is better for you. I’m sorry, Cas. Damnit.”
A breeze washed into the room from outside; it was chilly. Dean didn’t know whether it was a sign or not. Probably not. All it did was make him colder.