Chapter Text
They did it. They won. Hell, they even got Cas back. Everything should be great and wonderful, Dean thinks bitterly. Everything should be fucking peachy. And yet, here he is, waking up screaming from a nightmare for the third time this week, and it’s only Tuesday.
Dean keeps thinking things will get better. That he’ll feel more like himself. That he won’t wake up screaming anymore. He has been hoping, praying, that things will get better. He has cried himself to sleep more times than he can count in the past month or so since they defeated Chuck, screaming and pleading for things to get better.
He doesn’t understand why things are so bad. They should be good, they should be great . But then another day goes by and then another and another and another until he is trapped in this endless cycle of pain and grief. He doesn’t even know what he’s grieving.
The days have been almost impossible to get through lately. He’s not proud of it but he’s started drinking more, among other things. He can barely stand to look at himself in the mirror these days.
He knows Castiel and Sam are worried about him. They’ve both said as much, but Dean just waves them off, tells them he’s fine. So when he wakes up screaming again, it’s not really a surprise.
Dean shoots up in bed, his throat raw and tears in his eyes. He brings his hands up to wipe over his eyes angrily. He is so fucking tired of waking up this way. Just once, he thinks, just once he would like to wake up normally. Yet here he is. Waking up covered in sweat and tears, just like every other night.
He looks over at the clock on his bedside table and sees that it is 3:26 AM. He groans to himself, so much for getting a full night’s sleep. He pulls his damp blanket off of himself, swinging his legs over the side of his bed.
He just sits there for a long moment, looking down at the floor. He wishes he knew what he was dreaming about, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it’s better that way, you can’t overthink when there’s nothing to think about.
He rubs his fists over his eyes, wiping the lingering tears and sleep from them, before getting up. He stands from the bed, moving slower than usual, something that has become somewhat of a new normal for him.
He moves over to his dresser, pulling out a fresh pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. He tugs off his sweaty clothes before replacing them with his fresh pajamas. He thinks it’s almost pointless to be changing into new pajamas instead of just getting ready for the day, but he needs the comfort of a soft pair of pants and a t-shirt right now.
He leaves his bedroom, immediately making a beeline for the kitchen. He puts on a pot of coffee, sitting down at the kitchen table while he waits for it to brew. He tries to keep himself from thinking too much, without much success.
He finds himself thinking about Castiel. It’s where his thoughts often stray these days. He thinks about his eyes, his smile, his laugh. He thinks it’s cheesy to be having such sappy thoughts about the man, but he can’t help himself. He’s always admired Cas but something about him now that he’s human, makes Dean feel like maybe he has a shot.
It’s a pretty big maybe, but it’s enough that Dean allows himself to think about the former angel in a light he didn’t before. He imagines what it would be like to be held by him, to hold him. What it might be like if he pressed their lips together in a soft kiss. What it would be like to be told he is loved.
“Why does this sound like a goodbye?”
“Because it is.”
“I love you.”
Dean shocks out of the memory, having lost himself in the thoughts for a moment too long. He hears the coffee maker beep, indicating the coffee is ready but he doesn’t hear it over the pounding in his ears. He looks down at his hands resting on the table and sees them tremble.
He can’t stop it when he thinks about the horrid black goo enveloping Cas and taking him away from him. He can’t stop thinking about the smile on Castiel’s face and the tears in his eyes. He can’t stop thinking about the pain and grief he felt as he was left alone in that dark cold dungeon. He can’t stop thinking .
He doesn’t do it consciously, but he stands up from his chair on shaky legs and moves over to the cabinet they keep the alcohol in. He grabs a bottle of whiskey, not bothering to get a cup before he opens it and takes a swig.
He moves back over to the kitchen table, sitting down while taking big gulps of the whiskey. He can barely even taste it, the burn overly familiar in his throat and on his tongue. His thoughts continue to wander to all the times he’s lost Cas over the years. All the time he’s seen him beaten and bloody. All the times he’s been the reason he is hurt.
Dean takes a long swig as he thinks about the time he nearly beat Cas to death. He wishes so badly he could forget the memory. Forget Castiel’s willingness to stay by his side, even when he was a monster. He thinks about how unworthy of Castiel’s love he is. How even in a platonic capacity Dean doesn’t deserve Castiel. Dean doesn’t deserve anything.
It’s too short of a time before he finishes the bottle. It had been nearly full when he picked it up. He tries to stand to get another one, but he sways too much on his feet and falls to the ground. He is thankful at least that he didn’t have the glass bottle in his hand when he fell. That would have been a bitch to clean up.
He doesn’t bother trying to pick himself off the floor, he just lays there curled up in a ball and shivering. He distantly feels tears falling down his face but he can’t be bothered to pay attention to them right now. He’s just so tired, he thinks distantly as his eyes begin to droop.
“-ean! Dean!”
“Wha?” Dean says, his vision blurry as he tries to open his eyes.
“What the fuck man?” A familiar voice says from above him. Dean tries to open his eyes again, only for pain to shoot through his head. He tries a third time, only cracking his eyes open to see who is above him. His vision is still swimming slightly and he feels like he might throw up.
“Sammy?” Dean asks, as the picture of his brother comes more and more into focus.
“What is wrong with you?” Sam asks, his tone irritated and short.
“Wha do ya mean?” Dean slurs, still feeling the effects of drinking an entire bottle of whiskey only a few hours before.
“Dean, you passed out on the kitchen floor with an empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the table.” Sam says bluntly, crossing his arms against his chest. Dean rolls his eyes, immediately regretting the decision when a new wave of nausea washes over him.
“Whatever Sammy, yer just jealous.” Dean says with a giggle, clearly a little drunker than he thought.
“Are you- Dean are you still drunk?”
“No.” Dean says. Sam gives him an incredulous look. “Maybe.”
“Jesus Christ Dean, this is ridiculous! I can’t believe you right now! Do you know how dangerous this is?” Sam all but yells, making the pain in Dean’s skull worse. Dean sits up before rising shakily to his feet and getting up in Sam’s face.
“Don’t pretend like you care, Sam.” Dean spits, feeling anger welling up inside him.
“Of course I care, Dean! I’m your brother!” Sam argues, his eyes full of pity.
“I don’t need your fucking pity.” Dean says, pushing Sam out of the way and starting to stumble towards his bedroom.
“Where are you going Dean?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Dean stumbles back to his room, already feeling guilt welling inside of him. He slams the door behind him before collapsing in a heap on the floor. He can feel the panic over his fight with Sam taking over his body.
Dean fucked up, again. He always does this. Sam was only trying to help, and Dean went and fucked it up. He feels his breathing go short, and tears welling in his eyes. He begins to feel frustrated and angry all over again.
Sam has no right to be worrying about Dean’s habits. They’re his habits, not Sam’s. It’s none of his business. Dean shouts angrily, punching his leg once, hard. The motion doesn’t calm him down, so much as feed into his anger, but it feels good. So he does it again, and again, and again, until he can feel a bruise starting to form on his upper thigh.
He takes in a gasping breath, feeling like there is no air left in his lungs. The extra oxygen after not getting enough makes him go a little light headed. He keeps taking in over exaggerated breaths, trying desperately to calm down. He can feel tears starting to fall down his cheeks as he lets out a loud sob.
“Fuck!” Dean screams, feeling himself getting increasingly frustrated. He starts hitting his leg again, the pain helping dull some of the panic slightly. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He chastises himself.
He feels like he can scarcely breathe between heaving sobs. After one particularly harsh sob his lungs seize up, forcing him to cough violently enough it makes him gag. He tries to take in a breath but his body is wracked with sobs once again. Each sob shakes through him so violently he thinks he is going to fall apart. He swears the next one will finally be what breaks him, but instead more and more just keep coming.
His throat hurts and his stomach hurts and everything hurts. He feels like he is being taken apart at the seams and then sewn back together in some horribly mangled and disfigured version of the person he was before. He thinks it almost hurts as bad as losing Cas. Almost.
He feels bile rising in his throat, and he tries to choke it down but it’s no use. He retches off to the side, trying not to get any vomit on himself and failing a little miserably. He takes in a heaving breath after emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor beside him, finally feeling like at least a little air is getting into his lungs. He is startled out of his thoughts by a loud knock on his door.
“Dean? Sam asked me to come check on you. Are you okay?” The familiar voice of Castiel asks through the door.
“I’m fine. Go away Cas.” Dean grits out through his teeth, impressed at his ability to keep his voice somewhat even. Cas is quiet for long enough Dean thinks he’s left before he hears his door being slowly pushed open.
“Oh, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, stepping further into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Fuck off Cas. I don’t need your pity too.” Dean snaps, feeling more tears welling up in his eyes. Castiel steps closer to Dean, kneeling down in front of him, careful to avoid the puddle of vomit sitting next to him.
“Whatever you are feeling from me is not pity, Dean. I simply want to help you.” Castiel says calmly, not a hint of frustration in his voice.
“Yeah? Well I don’t need your help. I can deal just fine on my own.”
“Just because you can deal on your own, doesn’t mean you have to, Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes, the two of them lapsing into silence. Dean looks down at the floor, unsure what else to do. It’s clear Cas isn’t just going to leave him alone, but he’s too stubborn to accept his help.
“Would you like it if I held you?” Castiel asks after a few minutes of silence.
“What?” Dean asks, shocked by the question. “Dude, I’m not some chick who needs a hug because they had a rough night.”
“I never said you were. I was simply offering because physical contact has been proven to have many calming benefits, such as a lowering of cortisol levels, as well as a-”
“Okay, okay, I get it man. Whatever, you don’t want to hold me anyway, I’m kinda disgusting right now.” Dean replies, feeling most of the real fight leaving his body the more he and Castiel talk. Even still, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t put up a little bit of a fight.
“I don’t mind, Dean. However if that bothers you, you could always take a shower first.” Castiel offers. Dean wants to argue but he finds himself too tired to do anything other than give in. He nods once, giving in to letting himself be taken care of a little bit. Castiel stands up first, offering a hand to Dean. Dean ignores the hand, getting up on his own. He might be letting Cas take care of him but he’s still a stubborn motherfucker when he wants to be.
Dean walks over to his dresser, grabbing his favorite pair of pajamas (soft scooby doo print pants, and an old worn AC/DC shirt). He grabs a towel from the top of his dresser, and then walks out to the bathroom, not bothering to check what Castiel is doing.
Dean walks into the thankfully empty bathroom, placing his clothes and towel on the bench before moving into one of the stalls and turning on the shower. He strips out of his clothes, not bothering to take care of them, just throwing them on the ground before stepping into the water.
He hadn’t given the water enough time to turn hot, but he can’t even find it in himself to care. He goes through the motions, tilting his head forward into the spray of the shower, wetting his hair. He can already feel some of the tension leaving his body as the water beats down on him.
He grabs his shampoo, barely paying attention to his movements. He feels like he’s watching himself through a movie screen, not quite in control of his own motions. He is working completely on autopilot.
He rinses off his hair, not bothering to put in any conditioner before moving on to grabbing his shower gel and lathering the soap into his skin. He works quickly, used to five minute motel showers. He’s gotten better at relaxing and taking his time in the shower, but with his body on autopilot he is defaulting to what he is most used to. He rinses off, turning off the shower before stepping out.
He grabs his towel, toweling off his hair before drying the rest of his body. He feels a little more himself but he still feels a little like he isn’t in his body. As he’s pulling on his boxers he notices the bruise forming on his leg. The sight makes him feel even more numb, his consciousness feeling like it is retreating as far back into his mind as it can with him still being awake.
He ignores the feeling, pulling on his pants and shirt, throwing the towel down with his dirty clothes for him to deal with later. He walks back to his bedroom slowly, his feet feeling like they are dragging on the concrete floor. He expects his room to be empty when he enters, but to his surprise Castiel is sitting on the edge of his bed.
The vomit from earlier has been cleaned up from the floor and his sweaty sheets from the night before have been changed. Castiel perks up when he sees Dean, a small smile spreading across his face.
“I brought you this,” Castiel says, holding out a red hoodie Dean knows is Castiel’s favorite.
“Why?” Dean asks, confused. He distantly thinks the word comes out a little rudely, but what else is new.
“It is my understanding that humans enjoy the comfort of wearing their loved one’s clothing, especially when they are feeling down.” Castiel replies, easy as anything.
“What, are you trying to woo me or something Cas?” Dean teases. A soft blush spreads across Castiel’s face at Dean’s words, as he looks down at the hoodie in his hands.
“Ah, I was unaware this was considered a romantic gesture. My apologies, Dean. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“Nah, man. I’m just messing with you. I, uh, I appreciate it.” Dean says, tugging on his ear in a nervous gesture. He reaches a hand out to grab the hoodie, Castiel easily handing it over. Dean pulls it over his head and immediately feels more at ease. The hoodie is warm and smells like Cas. Dean can’t remember the last time he felt so safe just from a piece of clothing.
“My offer still stands, if you want me to hold you.” Castiel says, straight to the point.
“I, um, sure, I guess,” Dean gives in, not really sure why. He honestly can’t remember the last time someone held him. He moves over to the door, closing it, before walking back over to the bed. Castiel moves himself so he is laying on his back towards the middle of the bed.
Dean awkwardly climbs in, resting his head on Castiel’s outstretched arm. This apparently is not satisfactory to Castiel as he pulls Dean further in, so his head is resting over Castiel’s heart, and his arms are wrapped around him. Dean feels himself settle into the embrace, moving his arm to rest over Castiel’s stomach. He lets out a breath, as he sinks into Castiel’s hold.
He could have sworn he had been holding his breath for his entire life for how easy it is to breathe right now. He can’t remember the last time he breathed this easy, if ever. Castiel moves his hand in gentle patterns across Dean’s back. Dean thinks it feels like he’s writing something but he’s too tired to try and determine what it is he’s writing.
“Sleep, Dean. I’ll protect you.” Castiel whispers, leaning down and placing a kiss so soft to his head, Dean almost thinks he imagined it. He lets his eyes slip closed, drifting off into the first peaceful sleep he’s had in ages.