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Few times in Dean Winchester’s life had he wanted to give up. He had wanted to give up when he lost their Dad- no matter how big of a son of a bitch the man was. He had wanted to give up when he lost Sammy, but made a deal instead and tossed up his own life for his brother’s.
That’s what he was good for anyway, that’s what he’d thought. All his life he protected Sam, so why should he have stopped? What came of this sacrifice was Hell. He’d wanted to give up there, too; give himself up to Alistair and become the demon’s newest plaything.
The thing about Hell was, he had someone to pull him out. To show him life had meaning and that he had worth. When Dean was growing up, he only cared about keeping Sam safe. Keeping him fed. Doing whatever he had to, at the expense of his own health and relative innocence, so Sam didn’t have to.
When Castiel pulled Dean out of Hell, he was far from saved. He remained a wreck- a tangled up jumble of different colored threads caught up in each other with knots and tears. What he did have, though, was Castiel. Because of Cas, Dean didn’t give up anymore. Because of Cas, Dean kept fighting.
But Cas was gone, and Dean had nothing left to fight for.
His whole body was numb, a cold blackness as thick as the coiling creature that had taken Cas away from him. It would have been a relief to feel nothing if it weren't for his head. His head racing with thoughts, flashes of the angel that once was, slipping over his eyes like a grainy black and white film projected on the big screen.
On normal days, when Cas was talking with Jack in the kitchen or laughing with Dean at the table, he smelt like lightning. That electrical spark blazing off of him snapped with every word, every breath that escaped his lips. Dean craved the smell, unconsciously gravitating towards it with every close-call-lean and hesitant step. The smell had been the strongest when Cas was standing there in front of him, the sound of Billy bashing on the door. It burned his nose, how sharp the scent was. How it engulfed every pore, every ounce of his being with each word. With Cas gone, the room smelled of rain.
Dean was starting to wonder if the spark had come from him.
Because Castiel was gone for good this time, and Dean would never see him again. He felt like his brain would tear itself into pieces, like the world needed to know Castiel- the angel with too big a heart- was dead and gone forever.
The phone was buzzing on the floor, and Dean stared at it for a moment. For the first time in what felt like hours, his mind shifted from the constant repeat of phrases:
“It’s in just saying it”
“You changed me, Dean.”
Part of him wanted to reach for the phone, but the part of his brain that tried impossibly slow to process what he was feeling told him “No, because the last thing you touched was him, and if you touch something else, you’ll never feel his touch again.”
So Dean sat, frozen on the floor, with his head in his hands.
Did he love Cas? The question, which a week ago would have sent him into spiraling self-doubt and fear, was written plainly on the cement with blood-red ink. Did it even matter if he did? God, the things he had said. The things he had done . He had kicked Cas out of the bunker, out of his life. Dean wished more than anything for a do-over. He wanted to kick the shit out of himself. He wanted his soul to simply step out of his body and kick it over and over again without ever having to move an inch.
Cas had been wrong. Dean was never about love. Everything he loved he lost, so the only logical conclusion he could come to was that he didn’t deserve any at all. His touch was venom and his heart was the snake.
Because of this truth, Dean couldn’t love Cas. If he loved Cas, Cas was doomed to leave him. Dean had thought, maybe, if he shoved all his feelings into the old, beaten up, box in his chest, he could pretend Cas was safe. Dean didn’t think Cas reciprocated, either, but now that he thought about it, he’s not sure why.
Dean’s throat was closing in on itself as if he were a balloon being slowly squished to pop. He liked to pretend he didn’t cry- was pretty good at hiding it. The first time he ever learned how to was when he was seven, and his father had just finished beating him for spending their last dollar on a chocolate bar.
“ Winchesters don’t cry” he had said with a bite in his tone as Dean howled into the blankets, “men don’t cry.” Dean had nodded, wiped off his snot, and closed his eyes as tight as he could. He learned to sob silently to himself from then on, occasional hiccups easily disguised as random. When a week later Sammy cried from a cut on his arm, and their father had hushed him as he wept, Dean felt only a little bit betrayed. There were separate rules for him and Sam, and that was fine. It was the way things were. Sam was allowed to settle down. Sam was allowed to be happy. Dean always had to fight for those things, hold onto them with scraps of thread when Sam had always carried feet of rope.
Cas had taught him what it felt like to have a rope. Cas had been his anchor. No matter what Dean did or said, Cas was there to tell him how wonderful he was- how he was worth receiving praise, and happiness, and maybe a bit of love too.
“I love you.”
But Cas was dead, and Dean cried. He gasped for air in an attempt to regain a sense of clarity, but what came out was a horrible scream. Before he could contain it, Dean was gasping for it- big gulps of oxygen between deep lungs sobs that hashed their way through his body. Numbly, he moved one hand on his face to grope at the bloody handprint on his arm. It was still damp, and Dean squeezed it hard enough for spikes of pain to radiate through his shoulder. He wanted it to hurt, he wanted to feel it .
“Cas-” he sobbed into his other hand, still planted firmly on his mouth like he was going to get away with hiding the despair, “Please.” Dean didn’t even know what he was asking for. He just felt like begging- like if the universe heard him plea enough, it would both present and answer the question for him. “Please,” he wailed again, but the word was too mumbled with the sludge of snot and tears for even his own ears to comprehend.
“Dean!” His name echoed through the halls, but Dean was helpless to the sound. He wanted to cover his ears like a toddler at a Nascar race and block out everything. When the bunker door slammed open and Sam stood in the place Cas had been taken, Dean froze once more.
Sam crouched down to his brother’s side in a haze, “Dean, what happened? Talk to me,” Dean responded by gripping his arm even harder, “Jesus, you’re hurting yourself-” Sam said, trying to pry Dean’s hand away from the last mark Cas would ever leave on him.
“He-” Dean said, giving way to the tugging, “Cas.”
It was then that Sam saw the handprint. Dean could tell from the way his eyes began to pool with tears, “Oh God,” he managed to get out before wrapping his arms around his brother in a very strange and unheard of embrace.
Dean sobbed into his brother’s shoulder. He had never once wanted to truly give up in his life. However, sitting on the floor of the room he lost his angel, Dean Winchester almost did.