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He’ll cut it out. He’d done it before. He’d do it again and again. It was who he was, who they were. Who they were not. This world, this life, it wasn’t safe. It wasn’t suitable. It wasn’t worthy.
His hands slipped against the dirty porcelain sink. Red smears of blood appearing in their wake, a stark reminder that he wasn't safe here. That more Croats could stumble upon him at any moment. How they even made it into the camp he wasn't sure, but he knew why they were here. They could smell it on him, even if the humans couldn't yet. Deep breaths. He could do this. He could get through it. Again and again. He could. He could, he could, he had to.
When he heaved into the sink all that came up was bile. Stinging his throat in a way the alcohol didn’t. It almost hurt. It almost made him regret his decisions. Almost.
The heavy scent of copper and decay stung his nose as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Another smear of foul smelling blood and a grimace. He’d have to clean it off before finding Dean again. He didn’t need the alpha losing his shit over nothing. He didn’t need to worry their leader… again.
Something once vaguely resembling his heart twinges at the thought. At the idea that Dean would think the sadness he tasted in Cas’ scent was linked to the blood. It was in a way, but not to the blood covering him. It was linked to the blood coursing through him. Through Dean. It was the blood that still tried. When all else had failed in the world, it tried. Again and again.
No matter how many times Cas stopped it. How many times it killed him to do so.
And fuck if Cas didn’t want. Fuck if he didn’t yearn and his body didn’t beg. But He couldn’t. They couldn’t. And wanting can be curbed. And yearning can be replaced. With drugs that made you forget, and booze that burned through your body.
If he was naïve enough to believe God still cared he’d hope to be forgiven. He had been blessed, again and again, and he washed it away every time. He fought against the storm in his heart. He fought down the tears and bile and drowned in self loathing. He took the pills like candy, letting them dissolve on his tongue. Leaving behind the bitter taste he knew so well.
Next the drink to wash it down. To wash it away, to absolve him of their mistake. Looking at himself in the mirror he didn’t know the man staring back anymore. He didn’t know the him who cared so little. He didn’t know this Cas who worked with measured distant motions. Who’s hands barely shook as the bottle of whiskey touched his lips. Who’s eyes were long dead and grey.
He didn’t know this Cas anymore. He definitely didn’t like what he saw. But he couldn’t stop it now. What was once more in the greater plan? They may have had the chance, in some world or universe, they may have. Not in this world though. Not in this universe. Maybe if they could wake up and the world could right itself. But this isn’t a dream and there was no waking up.
So he drank the bottle. Letting the last drops sting his throat like the tears in his eyes. Let it burn his heart as he drowns in his misery. He’ll pretend the pain in his body is post-heat sickness. He’ll lie and they’ll believe it. He’ll pretend his heart isn’t oozing in agony because he’s done it before.
The Cas in the mirror straightens up and his empty gaze hurts to look at. The blood on the faucet keeps his focus because if he looks at the water swirling down the drain, he’ll spiral with it. It’ll wash away the evidence, but it won’t fix the hurt. It won’t mend any cracks, it won’t stop his pain.
He thought, once upon a time, that maybe he would make a good parent. That he would be a good omega if given the option. Would be caring and nurturing and produce strong little pups. It could have been so good. It could have. But it wasn’t. And he wasn’t. And they couldn’t.
So he’d wash it down. The second bottle may have stung, it must have. But he was numb to the feeling. The taste was bitter and sour and hit differently than the whiskey. The first had been rich and smooth and soothing, a pleasing goodbye. An ‘I love you I love you I love you’ I’m sorry. An acknowledgment that he was not as pure as he wished to believe.
He took this short moment, where his dreams may have once come true, and cherished it. He wrapped it in silver and buried it in gold. He let the feeling comfort him for the first and last time. It was a reminder that he could. That he should have. It was a reminder that his unhappiness was his own fault.
The second bottle was sharp and brutal to his senses. A desperation to make it quick. A certain knowing engulfing his entire being. A need to forget prompted the second set of pills. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
The bottle of champagne came last. He didn’t drink it all. He never did. Not this one, this one he raised to his reflection. The spark in his eyes long gone as the cramping in his stomach started. This one he’ll smile ruefully and down a large mouthful. He let the fizz burst on his tongue and tickle his throat. He let the drinks mix.
He’ll tip the bottle over into the sink then and let the liquid spiral. He’ll wish he could follow it, down the drain and out of this fucked up world. Once the bottle was empty and it had all washed away he turned on the tap. The water was frigid in the late December cold but that was fine by Cas.
If anything it helped. It soothed the aching burn in his esophagus. It settled his stomach. The cold saturated his soul and left him numb to the feeling. As the light in him dies so does he… but he’s done this before. It won’t kill him. He knows it’ll carve another piece out of himself. Another chasem to fill with absinthe and disgust. But it won’t kill him and he knows it but he’ll do it again. And again and again because he couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
He’ll go back to Dean. Look him in the eyes and let his grief be ignored. He’ll say it was a false alarm, that maybe they didn’t have to worry about a mistake happening. Maybe his body was already fucked up beyond repair and couldn’t catch even if they wanted to. They both know it’ll be a lie, but they’ll both let it slide. He’ll look away as he says it.
He knows Dean will too. He knows Dean almost better than himself. He knows Dean yearns just the same as him. The words will cut worse than any blade but he’ll still say them. Because Dean needs to learn. To understand where Cas is coming from. Otherwise he won’t be able to justify his actions.
They can’t have that. They can’t be a family.
Fingers dig into his eyes and pinpricks of color dance in the endless void. He lets his eyes crack open as his hand slips down his face. In some other time, he was a good omega. He was a good friend, a devout lover, a caring parent. In another life he had a family. They were a family. In some other world he didn’t have to cut it away.
Somewhere, he didn’t take the pills. He didn’t drink the whiskey or the absinthe. Somewhere out there he didn’t have to because it was safe. And they were allowed. Somewhere out there, the Winchester line didn’t end with Dean.
This wasn’t ‘somewhere’ though. This was their world. A world filled with death and destruction and danger. A world where there could be no weaknesses or distractions. And it would be. A distraction. A weakness. Because families got hurt. He’d be an even bigger liability than he already was. He'd lead them here. His scent had drawn them into their camp. He endangered them all.
So he cut it out. With drugs and pills and booze, he cut it out.
He washed it away like champagne down the drain.