Work Text:
Dean wants to cover his ears. Every sound is too loud. Have clocks always been this loud and he just never noticed? Maybe he could take the batteries out. Of course, there’s always a chance he could get a shock from touching the clock so it’s probably better to just not touch the thing and endure the endless tick tick tick tick tick…
It’s fine. This is fine. They will figure this out. They always do. Dean’s gonna research. Books are safe. Maybe a paper cut but as long as he disenfects it he won’t die of flesh eating bacteria or something.
Hallucinations and a horrible death ? Real helpful book. Dean can’t ignore the pain in his throat and coughs. He doesn’t feel sick. Fuck these pictures aren’t helping. Just blood and gore and bloody vomit.
You’re dying… Again. Loser , the book taunts. Or maybe it’s the ghost sickness. Dean doesn’t feel good. He blinks rapidly and rubs his eyes. He’s got to figure this out. Everyone is counting on him. You gonna cry? The book teases. Baby gonna cry?
Why is the clock so fucking loud?! Dean can’t take it anymore. He doesn’t care that it’s sharp and he could cut himself or that he might get shocked, he grabs the stupid, ugly, loud clock and smashes it to the floor. That’ll show you, fucking clock.
Dean takes a deep breath. He shouldn’t have given in. Always been too sensitive. John tried to beat that out of him but it never really worked. Dean just got better at hiding it. He’s so tired of hiding. Tired of pretending that he’s not still fucked up after being in hell for decades. Tired of pretending that he doesn’t want to just off himself and let someone else deal with all of the shit that’s always weighing him down. He didn’t ask for any of this.
And that stupid angel! Castiel! What the hell kind of a name is Castiel anyway! Dean grabs a beer from the fridge, the slight dig of the bottle cap pressing into his palm is grounding. Stupid fucking angels think Dean’s strong enough to save the world? Dean’s not even strong enough to stop his mind from wandering to Castiel’s stupid, beautiful blue eyes.
Dean downs half of his beer. He knows better than this. Knows not to give into these feelings. Knows that attraction makes him weak. He can give into the thoughts of strong arms holding him, telling him that he’s safe and cared for. Angels are like that anyway.
Dean almost prays to Cas but stops himself. The last thing he needs right now is confirmation that god thinks he’s an abomination and if he sees Cas, Dean’s not sure he can stop himself from throwing his arms around the angel and sobbing.
Dean finishes his beer and grabs another. Better to sit and wait for Sammy. Sammy’s fix this. Sammy’s the smart one. Sammy’s the good one. That’s why Sammy didn’t catch the ghost sickness. Dean takes a small sip of his second beer. It’s going to be okay. Sammy’s fix this.