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Disoriented, disoriented and numb was how Dean felt. A strange echo of a static sound filling up his head, screaming this emptiness back at him.
Jack was dead. Really, literally dead. No heartbeat, no breathing, still and cold.
The last hours were a blur of sorrow, concern for those alive and a complete deprivation of sensation altogether. Now Sam, Castiel and Dean were seated around the big table, drinking and talking somber, voices hushed. Some of those conversations he partook in, some he just disassociated, too consumed by his own grief.
He knew that the Nephilims death was hard on all of them, but he just couldn’t shake of feelings of guilt for he did promise the boy he was the one who would ultimately take his life. The time they’ve spent together had not only led him to regret those words like he had never regretted something before, but it also made him sick to have never properly apologised for it. Sure, he had taken Jack for an outing when they knew his death was imminent, but it would never rid him of this guilt.
The hunter was only pulled out of his thoughts when he felt stirring and saw his brother get up, excusing himself and leaving for his room.
“Goodnight, Sammy.” His voice was rough, and he felt Castiels eyes piercing through him. He pointedly did not look at the angel.
“Dean.” The soft tone took him by surprise. His name was muttered softly, like he deserved affection.
“Dean, look at me.” Castiel made to touch his arm, settled for his shoulder though, maybe, just maybe because that was closer to his neck, because he wanted the man to feel his warmth first-hand. Maybe the mixture of grief and alcohol just made Dean too hopeful.
When he finally turned to look at the other man, he saw the same feelings reflected in those blue eyes. Blue eyes that seemed to be able to strip his mind of every thought he shoved into the depths of it. Made him want to lay it all bare.
“Cas.” He wasn’t supposed to sob, wasn’t supposed to sound so pathetic but something about the hand on his shoulder that now rubbed gentle circles into his shirt seemed to break him.
The two of them did not talk for a while, alternating between staring and sheepishly taking sips from their drinks. In the end it was the hunter who raised his voice though, despite the vulnerability of this moment that seemed to drown him.
“Are you okay?”
The angel looked at him for a long moment, as if to search him for a hidden meaning behind his question.
“No, Dean, I am not okay.” The way Cas’ gruff voice broke, choked up on the words Dean would never dare to speak, made him want to lay all his reservations aside and pull the man plus his offensive trenchcoat into his arms.
He gulped and forced himself to look into his sky-blue eyes, again dumbfounded at the pure intensity of the stare Castiel returned.
“Me neither. It hurts. Hurts like a motherfucker” Dean offered, not exactly planned, it seemed to have just stumbled out of your mouth. Trying to cover up the raw pain which could be easily picked up on, he started chuckling nervously, avoiding the angels piercing gaze. He regretted it once he moved around too much, inducing the others hand to fall off his shoulder. The sudden lack of warmth and skin contact made Dean feel uneasy, there was something deep in his chest siently weeping and his sin seemed to be made of pins and needles.
Jack was gone. Truly gone.
“I told him I’d kill him.” He didn’t look up to say it, staring into his, almost empty, glass and considering a refill to numb this altogether. A voice within him assured him he deserved to feel this way, alcohol would just be another cowardly escape of his thornily strung ideas about guilt and the role he plays in it.
“But that was before. You know he saw right through you, right? How much you cared for him, loved him?” Cas didn’t even hesitate with those words, they seemed to roll of his tongue smoothly, easily, yet they strike Dean like a knife to the torso.
“Dean, please look at me.” The hunter silently obeyed, his feetrest lessly tapping up and down. Though he felt discomfort, he withstood Cas’ burning eye contact. Were they always shining as bright as his grace?
“There is nothing to feel guilty about. Yes, you cannot take back what you said, but your actions show your love for him, trust me, he knew.”
Dean wanted to cry. The words spoken to him with a benevolence and affection he’d never allow himself to bask in. The ache in his chest seemed to expand, leaving him unable to breath, words he wanted to say ending up in his throat and the only thing actually leaving his mouth was a soft “oh.”
It was barely even intelligible, a husk of an actual phrase, but Cas heard him, nonetheless. Of course, he did.
The angel moved his chair closer to his own, and as they huddled together, shoulders slightly brushing and eyes averted coyly, Deans dams finally crashed down.
A sob escaped his mouth, then the tears he had desperately tried to blink away rolled down is cheek, leaving wet trails as evidence of his fragility behind. He hated it.
The man lifted his hands to wipe them away, but stopped himself mid-air, not wanting to acknowledge them at all. As if only the disposal of them made it real in the first place.
The hand was covered by another. Silently, his friend had taken his hand- had it trembled like that the entire time? And squeezed it, really slowly. Again, he spoke soft words, comforting him.
“Dean, we don’t need to talk. Take all the time you need. I am here, always.”
Always
The alluring definiteness in that word.
Warmth spread where he had previously come close to shivering, yet the entirety of Cas’ behaviour made him wary. He felt like a wounded deer, being soothed before ultimately being shot.
But that wasn’t him, though, he wasn’t a deer. He was a rabid dog that bites the hand that feeds before it could take it away again.
That’s how it goes: experiencing happiness and having it ripped away. Getting a taste for the blood, then never being fed again.
Would Cas end up letting him starve, too?
He just couldn’t find words, not when these blue eyes looked at him expectantly, not when they were overbrimming with such tenderness.
“I-“ The hunter choked out, another sob rippling through him.
And finally, Castiel seemed to have understood the hopelessness of the situation, marked by a long sigh and the loss of warmth Dean felt on his hand.
He is gonna leave, he will leave me now.
Instead of the presumed disappearance into thin air, the angel leaned impossibly closer, wrapping his strong arms around the man's body and let him cry.
So, Dean cried.
He cried until his eyes were red-rimmed, face puffy and voice hoarse, but Cas had stayed the entire time. Had held him steady like an anchor a boat in the salty sea of his tears, all while whispering reassuringly at the back of his neck, for he had rested his head on Deans shoulder. He didn’t imagine a spot on the back of his flannel getting increasingly wetter, and shortly after they were crying together, a symphony of sorrow, mourning for the child they had lost.
“Don’t leave, just don’t leave.” He mumbled, pulling Cas closer, hands still clinging to each other.
“I could never. I will never.” It was simple, oh, so simple. But the way he said it with such a certainty broke his heart all over again.
And Dean believed him, believed so fiercely like one would in a god, because if he could not bet on Cas, then on who could he?
Castiel was the one who had saved his ass more times than he could count.
Castiel was the one who had raised him from hell.
Castiel was the one who let him cry his eyes out and held him through it all.
He wouldn’t leave, Dean was sure. He wouldn’t let me starve.