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Night had fallen hours ago. Or maybe the sun had just set. Dean had no idea. The whiskey had long since washed away his sense of time. The whiskey had done its job to numb the pain, but as he stumbled down that dark dirt road - maybe feet, maybe miles from the bunker - taking a huge swig from the half-empty bottle, he realized the pain had become too much to numb; too big to push aside. The absence of Castiel was eating him from the inside. What little soul he had left was flickering like the last remnants of a flame on a melted candle.
Something up ahead caught his eye, forcing itself into his blurry line of sight. Squinting through the dark, he grumbled something to himself as he stumbled off the path, fighting his way through the overgrown grass, growling obscenities at it as he went. As he neared it, he realized what it was: a weather-worn old church. The cross on the leaning steeple had long ago broken off, and the once white clapboards were rotting through. The front door had, at some point, been tagged with unintelligible graffiti.
"Son of a bitch," Dean mumbled. He shouldered the creaky door open and staggered inside, ignoring the ache that settled in his arm. The inside was seemingly in worse shape than its rotting shell. What hadn't been looted remained dusty and falling apart. The windows were shattered, nature creeping in to reclaim its territory. Two rows of pews faced a desimated altar. On the back wall, however, remained a fully-intact cross. "You son of a bitch," he growled taking slow, unsteady steps forward. He took a drag from the bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He jabbed his finger through the musty air toward the cross, the amber liquid sloshing in the bottle. "I've given everything!" He shouted, his gruff voice echoing in the beleaguered sanctuary. "I've sacrificed everything for you, you damn son of a bitch! My whole family!" He choked back a sob, drowning it with another swig from the bottle. "I went to Hell. I fought the Devil. My brother sacrificed his life to stop the apo--" he hiccuped, "apocalypse! 'Cause you! You coudn't be bothered! Where were you?" Another swig, his voice crescendoing, "Where the fuck were you when we needed your help? I've prayed. And I've begged. I begged for your help!
"Where were you when your precious Angels were slaughtering each other? Huh?" The tears he'd held back broke free of the dam, streaming hot down his cheeks. "Cas has done everything he could to make shit right! Everyth-- thing! He needed you! We all needed you! How can you sit back and let the fucking Devil run free! Let your--your--your sister," he grimaced, choking back the hot, bitter bile rising in his throat, "slaughter the world? You're a coward!"
Dean dropped to his knees, overcome by his sobs. The bottle slipped from his fingers, rolling across the warped floor to clink against a decaying pew. "I've given everything for you. Just give him back," he sobbed, hanging his head, his hands lip in his lap. "Just give him back." A hand appeared on his shoulder and he gasped, sniffling as he dragged his heavy head up.
"Hey, Dean."
Dean blinked, certain his alcohol-logged brain was playing tricks on him. "Ch--Chuck? What..." His shook his head, as if that would shake away the alcohol and free his thoughts like a dog shaking out after a bath.
Chuck smiled down at him, a sad, knowing smile, and nodded. "We have a lot to talk about."