Work Text:
Some days were bad days.
Some days, Dean didn’t want to eat. Some days, he didn’t want to get out of bed. Some days, he didn’t even want to open his eyes.
On those days, the dark ones where the storm inside himself grew too much and he couldn’t bear to even stand under the weight of all his grief and self-hatred, the demons came.
They whispered in his ear, dark and spiteful. They weren’t anything new; Dean had been battling demons since he was four years old.
Sometimes, the demons were simply that: demons. Their voices were high and whispery, laughing and full of dark glee at the idea of having a broken hunter so firmly in their grasp. They whispered about all his faults, all his deepest desires. They urged him to take up the gun underneath his pillow and put it against his head.
Other times, the demons were more tricky. Other times, they came in the form of loved ones, both found and lost. They took on the voice and image of real people, of all the ones Dean had wronged.
Sam.
Dad.
Mom.
Charlie.
Bobby.
Kevin.
Ellen.
Jo.
Benny.
There were others. Always others. One name stood out.
Cas.
Dean always knew he was in the darkest pits of his own personal Hell when he heard Castiel’s voice.
Typically, the first to arrive was John’s. John hadn’t been too far off anyway, in a way, he was just as bad as the demons that normally whispered in Dean’s head. His words weren’t unfamiliar, both because he’d said similar things in real life and because he echoed what many of the other people in Dean’s mind also said.
You’re worthless.
Not enough.
Never enough.
You’re shattered and broken.
You can never be fixed.
Everyone else slowly joined in, but the last two were always Sam and Castiel.
What killed Dean, what really broke him open and made him cram a fist in his mouth to silence his sobs, was the fact that they didn’t even speak to him. They didn’t hurt him, because they would never do that. They were too pure, too beautiful, too good. But he had damaged them all the same.
Sam reminded him of what used to be. And Castiel reminded him of what was to come.
Sam always stood there, hazel eyes sad. It killed Dean, killed him to know that his amazing younger brother was so broken inside. Sam had dealt with things no human should ever face. He’d come out of it alive, but Dean could see the cracks, the places where the hurt showed through. The hurt was his fault.
After all, he’d been the one to drag Sam back into the hunting life in the first place. He’d taken him from his chance at a normal life, the only thing he’d ever dreamed of, and he’d tossed that in the dirt. Dean had been selfish, had wanted Sam to himself, so he’d taken his brother with him at the expense of his happiness.
And now Sam was sad. Now Sam was hurt. Now Sam was bent. Dean refused to believe that he was broken. His little brother could never be broken. But he was battered and bruised and it was all Dean’s fault.
He hated himself for it.
In the dark hours, gazing at Sam’s image and apologizing through heavy sobs, Dean would remember how it used to be. How Sam had looked at him, with light and life in his eyes. With adoration and amazement, as if Dean had hung the moon and the stars.
At some point, he’d grown up. At some point, Sam had learned how to cry quietly. At some point, he’d realized how flawed Dean was.
It had killed Dean, to watch his brother grow and to realize that as Sam grew, his awe for his older brother diminished. He no longer looked to Dean for guidance, because he was growing up and becoming his own man and it shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.
But it did.
It hurt. So bad. It hurt to know that Sam didn’t look up to him anymore, hurt even more to know that there was a reason. Hell, Dean wouldn’t have wanted Sam to look up to him. He was a fucking train wreck.
He drank too much, but he couldn’t stop drinking. He drove too fast, sang too loud, ate too much, wasn’t as smart and useful as his brother needed him to be. Dean was just a fucking punching bag, and that was all he’d ever been.
At least, until Castiel.
Castiel had changed Dean’s life, because he’d looked at Dean like Sam had used to. Over time, that look of awe had turned to one of something more intimate, something Dean could feel but could never bring himself to acknowledge.
Like all things in his life, he’d eventually ruined it.
Now Castiel could barely look at him, let alone speak to him and love him. Dean had long ago learned that he didn’t deserve to be loved.
Every time he saw Castiel, he felt ashamed over what he’d done to the angel and grieved for what they could have had. For the life they could have spent together. Dean mourned the loss, the beauty of the small relationship that had been budding between them. Mourned the gentle touches and soft smiles, the intense looks and near-telepathic actions. He grieved for everything he and Castiel could have been, and hated everything he had done to ruin that.
Oh, he’d done so many things. Part of him wished he was still in Hell, still being tortured on the rack by Alastair. It was the least he deserved.
Alastair’s favorite thing to whisper in his ear these days was about how much Dean had enjoyed the pain. It had only been a tiny bit, but it had been there. In a way, the pain had felt cleansing. Like Dean was finally atoning for his many, many sins.
Whenever Alastair spoke like that, he always managed to convince Dean to take up the blade again. Only this time, he wasn’t using it on some poor, innocent soul.
No, this time he was using it on one so dark and twisted, so infested with grief and hatred and rage, it was barely recognizable.
Himself.
Dean had scars. They’d disappeared when Castiel had put him back together, but ever since then it had been Dean’s mission to steadily replace them. He was always careful, never did too much, never put them anywhere Sam could find them if he was patching Dean up.
Dean also varied them, put the cuts and gashes and scars on different parts of his body. Too many neat, straight lines would look deliberate. Random cuts all over the body? That could be passed off as hunting. It was all a part of the game.
Dean was a master at said game. He was a master at hiding his pain.
He was a master at being his own torturer, at dragging the knife slowly through his skin and sobbing through clenched teeth. A master at starving himself until Sam took notice and forced him to eat, which he only did when Dean had lost a lot of weight. It was hard to notice small things like that these days.
Dean relished the burn of the knife, the ache of his stomach, the throbbing of his head. He kept himself from sleeping some nights too, wanting to become so tired that when he finally allowed himself rest, he’d be so exhausted the nightmares wouldn’t have a chance.
It almost worked. Most of the time.
Dean didn’t remember a time when he didn’t have nightmares. They had become a part of his life, old friends that he danced with and avoided every single night. It got tiring very quickly.
‘Tiring’ was the word to describe Dean’s life. He was always tired.
Today, the demons whispered in his head, memories of Sam’s careless laughter and bright smile haunting the inside of Dean’s eyelids. He didn’t want to open them. He wished he could just sleep forever, forget about the rest of the world for a while. Of course, when he woke, he would have to face the problems. But for now, it felt good to just hide away.
But the pain and memories and demons wouldn’t let him stay at peace for long.
They loomed like a tidal wave, rising high and dangerous over Dean’s fragile bubble of imagination. The hunter knew the storm would break sooner or later, and that he would drown soon after that. But for now, he could hide away and close his eyes and pretend there wasn’t a hurricane on the horizon, waiting to sweep him away.
Dean gritted his teeth at the pressure in his mind, pressing his eyes tighter shut. He could feel the beginnings of a headache coming, most likely due to the fact that he hadn’t been drinking water.
God, he wanted to just fall asleep and never wake up. He wouldn’t though. Not until the Apocalypse was over and Sam was safe. Then Dean could find a nice, quiet place to blow his brains out.
He could feel the storm in his head rising, could feel the demons and memories and failures building. He knew the thunderhead would break soon, bringing with it a barrage of pain and suffering. He quietly grasped onto the last few moments he had with his sanity, praying that he wouldn’t do anything he regretted. He deserved pain and eventually, death. But not yet. Not while Sam still needed protecting.
Dean listened to the rising storm, the roaring that had started in his head. Just as the thunderhead was about to break, opening a howling hurricane in Dean’s mind, a familiar fluttering noise sounded.
Dean finally opened his eyes, blinking blearily at the angel now standing in the center of his bedroom. He sighed, unable to muster the energy to even reprimand Castiel.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice cracking and broken.
Castiel tilted his head to the side. “Your soul was calling for me,” he replied.
Dean would have rolled his eyes, would have made a smart remark or a rude comment or a sharp retort. But he was just so, so tired. And with Castiel there, the storm in his head retreated a little.
Castiel seemed to take Dean’s silence as his acceptance, so he walked forward and came to stand at the edge of Dean’s bed. “Sam is resting. I made him go back to sleep.”
“He woke up early?” Dean asked, already knowing the answer. Castiel simply nodded.
Dean closed his eyes, wishing his brother could just sleep peacefully. It was the least he deserved.
He opened his eyes and found that Castiel was now holding a plate of food and some water. He was watching Dean with that same unreadable expression, and Dean found himself wishing the angel had never appeared in the first place. He didn’t have the energy to protest against the food and water.
“Cas, please leave me alone,” the hunter croaked.
The angel tilted his head a little, then placed the food down on the table. “No,” he said simply, gravelly voice leaving no room for argument.
He turned and put his hands on Dean’s shoulders, pulling towards himself. Dean grunted as he was forcefully heaved into a sitting position, back resting against the headboard.
“Cas-“
“Dean, be silent. Allow me to take care of you, as you have done for me,” Castiel requested.
“Cas, all I’ve ever done is hurt you,” Dean replied, voice quiet.
Castiel stared at him for a moment, blue eyes soft and unbelievably sad. “Dean, I cannot express to you how wrong you are. But there will be time for that later. One thing at a time, yes?”
He smiled wryly and put the plate in Dean’s lap. There were little pieces of fruit and cheese scattered across the porcelain surface, and Dean felt like a child.
Before he could protest, Castiel spoke again.
“Eat, Dean,” the angel commanded. “Or I’ll tell Sam that you won’t.”
Dean gritted his teeth, not wanting Sam to have to worry about anything that wasn’t important. He reluctantly placed a grape in his mouth, figuring that as long as Castiel was happy, it was okay.
“You don’t have to do this. You can go do important stuff,” he grumbled.
Castiel tilted his head, looking - if possible - even more sad. “Dean, there is nothing more important than you.”
Dean’s response was automatic and swift. “Bullshit.”
Castiel didn’t refute the statement, just looked at him sadly.
Dean looked away so he didn’t have to see the sorrow in those blue eyes, instead choosing to put another piece of food in his mouth and choke it down.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “I thought you were angry with me.”
“I am. I was,” Castiel said. He sighed. “Dean, no matter how angry I am with you, it won’t change the fact that I love you.”
Dean froze, nearly choking on the grape in his mouth. “Cas, you can’t just say that,” he said, voice shaking.
“Why not?” the angel asked. “It’s true. I’ve felt it for along time, and I’ve kept my distance so as not to make you uncomfortable. But I realize now that my silence has done more harm than good.”
Dean swallowed a piece of cheese, the food falling like a lead weight in his stomach. Castiel. . . he couldn’t love Dean. Dean destroyed everything he touched, hurt everyone he loved-
A hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts. “Whatever you are thinking, stop.”
Dean swallowed. “I’m trying, Cas,” he rasped. “I really am. But it’s like a. . . like a fucking storm in my head. I can’t stop it, can’t make everything shut up. I’m just. . . here.”
“And I’m here too,” Castiel said calmly. “I will stand beside you.”
Dean shook his head. “I’ll fuck it up, Cas, I’ll hurt you-“
“No,” Castiel said again, simple and short and so, so gentle. “No.”
Dean exhaled shakily, hating that he was on the verge of tears. How could Castiel be so calm when he felt like he was coming apart? How could the angel be so still and serene when the storm inside of Dean was threatening to break.
“I love you, Dean. And I will stand with you,” Castiel murmured, taking Dean’s hand and kissing it gently.
Dean swallowed, throat clicking. His mouth was suddenly so dry.
“I. . . I-I love you t-too, Cas,” he choked out.
At the glint in the angel’s blue eyes, he could tell he’d said the right thing. The storm receded a little bit. And everything settled inside of Dean, temporary but welcome.
“Come, Dean. Let’s get some real food,” Castiel said, eyes crinkling kindly. He stood, holding out a hand.
Dean looked at that outstretched hand, hesitated.
He contemplated the pros and cons, the possibility of hurting his angel all too real.
And he realized that in their life, their profession, they were going to get hurt. It was better to be beside his angel, to face whatever horrors they had to, than to be apart.
So he took a deep breath.
He reached out, put his hand in Castiel’s.
He tightened his grip, his angel’s hand warm and calloused.
And Dean stood.