Work Text:
When Dean sleeps, he sees the eyes staring back at him – abysmal black holes reflecting in the mirror, offset by the horrible lighting of an ill-attended bathroom. The face he recognizes as his own is ashen, sunken around the edges. Harder now, more wary of the passing days. Of his waning mortality, of the occasional skipped heartbeats that give him pause. They’re more frequent in his waking hours, spaces in the rhythm where nothing happens, where his breath stops for the barest of seconds. And yet, the world moves on. He isn’t on the verge of death from lack of oxygen; he doesn't collapse onto the sidewalk from a heart attack. He keeps moving, body stays on its current path and takes no notice.
And it scares him.
He stands before the mirror in that bathroom in his dream, watching the shadowed fluorescent lights flicker in the glass, the corners of the room and stalls dulled to black. His features darken to match the ambiance; in his reflection, he’s smiling, a grin with sharp teeth, a sadistic glint in his eyes. Physically, his face doesn't match – he’s horrified, heart hammering a jagged rhythm behind his ribs, hands shaking at his sides. The disconnect has him turning away, hands to the porcelain sink at his back, only to come face to face with a man of his nightmares. Sunken cheeks, white eyes, garbed in the ratty gray shirt he last saw him in. He smiles with bloody gums and clasps a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
It’s not the dreams where his skin is being methodically flayed from bone that has him screaming the loudest – it’s when he’s behind the knife, staring into the eyes of his all too-familiar victims.
Normally it’s Sam. Since the Mark, the nightmares have shifted from his own personal suffering to someone else’s – Sam, or Charlie, or anyone he remotely cares about in the world. Sometimes they’re strapped to the rack, sometimes in some shoddy motel or some derelict factory in the middle of nowhere, so no one can hear them scream. The dissociation leaves him reeling through each experience; he watches his hands hold the knife, severing arteries and veins in its red-bathed wake, always slow, methodical. But it’s not him – it’s his hands, but it’s not him. He could never—would never—.
It changes the night he gets home, the taste of whiskey still burning his throat as he rests on his side, fingers white-knuckling the bed sheets in any attempt to keep himself conscious. His body craves rest at all hours, revels when he can lie down for more than five minutes at a time; his mind says different, pleading for blinding white lights and activity. He has to keep busy. Stave off the bloodlust, the pounding in his veins when he wakes, the pure need to rip into the nearest person’s ribcage almost too much to overcome. But he always drifts off, the alcohol numbing him to his bones, dragging him under before he can pull himself back.
Sam isn’t on the rack tonight. The screams are suppressed now, moans struggling to bite free behind pale lips, blue eyes watching him in silent plea. He isn’t loud enough, the darker part of him, the Mark tells him, and he plunges the knife further between his ribs, the tanned body beneath him sinking away, soundless shouts choking out of his parted mouth. Yet, his eyes never look away, pupils overblown in agony, black close to eclipsing blue.
Somewhere in the back of his head, he knows he’s screaming, begging for it to end. Pleading his hands to pull away, to drop the knife. Muted brown catches his attention in his right hand, the jagged edge of bone and teeth pressing to the tattered skin over his victim’s heart, brilliant white seeping through the hole. His eyes never leave. If anything, they grow duller the further the Blade sinks in, until blood and Grace mingle and a new scream emerges, not his own. It rips from his reverie and leaves him staring at bloodstained hands, the scenery shifting to blank space. A black room, void of features. Still, the voice calls to him by name, shakes him to the core.
Dean wakes to those same eyes staring down at him, red-rimmed and frantic, hands on his shoulders, jerking him out of the death grip he has on the sheets, soaked through in red. Everything is scarlet – the face of the Angel, his hands, his pillow, the walls. Vaguely, he’s aware he’s still screaming and Castiel is talking to him, an edge of panic in his tone, struggling to remain calm. Dean can’t see him through the haze, the spatter on his face. It flickers like the lights, blue to white, red to tan; Castiel talks him through it, indistinguishable words that sound like praises and pleas, hands stroking over the wetness of his cheeks, until the screams turn to sobs and he’s left staring up into the face of his friend, eyes wide in terror.
The first words he speaks aren’t his ideal of ‘I’m fine,’ or ‘stop touching me, man.’ It’s, “I’m gonna be sick.”
Castiel hurries him out of bed and down the hall with just enough time for him to heave up the remnants of whiskey and the little he had at the bar into the toilet, body shaking through dry heaves afterwards, Castiel’s hands stroking through sweat-drenched hair, until his breathing settles to something manageable and he can pull himself away, backing into a wall with his knees pulled up to his chest. Castiel sits at arms length, hands folded in his lap, jittering in nervous movements, like he’s afraid to be there. Like he’s scared Dean will attack him.
He might. Given the chance, if he can get his hands on anything, even a box cutter or a shard of glass, he just might.
“Kill me,” Dean orders, panting, hands frantically gripping the legs of his pajamas. “’S not gonna stop, Cas. Won’t stop—.”
“Dean,” he says, voice resolute. Dean glances over to him, breath still coming in short bursts, heart racing in his chest. Castiel reaches across the divide and takes his hand with both of his own, balling it into a fist between shivering fingers. He’s scared. Terrified. In the middle of the bunker’s bathroom, Castiel draws him into his arms and tucks his head against his shoulder, Dean holding him just as tight, hands clutching the rumbled fabric of that stupid trench coat. “Breathe. Breathe.”
He does. It takes him another few minutes, but the overwhelming nausea passes with each breath, each inhale of the worn leather of the Continental and sweat, the combination dragging him back down to earth. Feeling returns to his limbs soon after; tears streak his cheeks and soak through Castiel’s coat, their limbs tangled in an uncomfortable manner, his skin warm in his clothes. He needs a shower, needs to drown himself in the chill. Escape the situation. Get away from Castiel, keep him away for as long as he can.
The longer he stays gone, the safer they’ll both be.
Castiel runs a hand down the flushed skin of his arm, pressing his thumb to the brand on his forearm. It sears under his touch, Dean whimpering through it as it lashes out, sinking his teeth into his coat. He doesn't taste blood like he expects; instead, rainwater washes over his tongue. It must have started storming after he returned from the bar. “Can you stand?” Castiel asks, and Dean shakes his head.
“Can’t do this anymore, Cas,” he says, frail. Castiel makes a noise that sounds oddly like a sob and presses his mouth into his hair before moving to stand, helping drag Dean to his feet and walk him over to the showers. He turns on the water – frigid – and they both sit beneath the spray, drowning in it, uncaring of the temperature or how they shiver as the minutes go on. Castiel takes his hand again and presses Dean’s knuckles to his lips, mouthing unknown words against his fingers. Dean doesn’t say anything, just looks to the ceiling and closes his eyes, catching water on his lips. “Shoulda done it. Shoulda taken my ass out right there.”
“I’ve told you before,” Castiel replies, vehement, “I have no intentions of killing you. Now, or ever. I’m trying, Dean—.”
“You’re not trying hard enough.” He doesn't mean the harshness of his tone; Castiel doesn’t flinch away, simply continuing whatever incantation he was mouthing before, lips moving faster now, more fervent. “I keep—,” Dean stops, swallows down bile. “I keep killing Sammy, I keep… It was you. I killed you, and then you were—you were staring at me, and I just—.”
“I know.” Castiel pulls him closer, lowers their hands. Dean rests his head on the Angel’s shoulder, hand trembling in his grasp. They need to leave, before hypothermia or pneumonia set in and they’re bedridden for days. Why is he even there, anyway? “I—I was talking to Sam at the door, and I heard you. I felt your soul crying out. I… Sam’s watching Metatron.”
Dean stares across the room, transfixed. “…Sammy didn’t go see a movie, did he?”
“I’m afraid not,” Castiel sighs. He rests his head atop Dean’s, winding their fingers together. “We’re going to find my grace. It’s the only way—.”
“No.” He wants to move, wants to back away and tell Castiel to stop, that he’s not worth it. His body won’t let him. “There’s gotta be another way, Cas. You can’t just—.”
“I can, and I will.” He grips Dean’s hand tighter, fingers stinging from the cold and the weight. “You no longer have a say in whether you live or die, so don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Dean. And so help me, I’ll drag you out of Hell again if I have to.”
I’ll fix you if it’s the last thing I do, the words ring out in his head. “’M not your job to fix,” Dean breathes, voice shaking with it. Castiel only holds him tighter, pulling him into a full embrace and shielding him from the spray. He fists the trench coat, tugging Castiel closer, seeking his warmth, his touch. “Don’t need you to—.”
“I want to,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Dean’s heart stops again, and this time, not from fear. “This… I don’t want to be an Angel if it means that you won’t be here with me. And if that means sacrificing myself… then so be it.”
Dean laughs, shakes a little from the force. He can’t breathe; his heart hurts. Still, he burrows closer, Castiel’s hands on him, clawing him into his space. “You’re an idiot,” Dean breathes. “Fuckin’ stupid Angel…”
“I’m your Angel.” The words flow off his tongue like water; it feels like a confession. Like words he can’t bring himself to say to anyone, let alone Castiel.
Still, Dean nods and breathes him in again, letting the dream wash down the drain, letting this memory take its place. “Yeah,” he says, barely there. “I know.”