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Dean’s POV
Being so acutely aware of what is and isn’t normal is a fucking hellscape.
For the third day in a row, Dean laid in his bed, eyes glued to the ceiling in some sort of trance. His arms were to his sides, barely moving. Here lies Dean Winchester, he thought to himself, a bitter laugh curling around his throat, Death by fucking laziness. Dean blinked, moving his hands to rub his eyes til they made a light show behind his eyelids.
Defeating Chuck was supposed to be a win.
After riding the high of the defeat of god, Dean could feel the feeling creeping back, a terrifying wave of complete numbness. Something he had not felt in years, since C- he died all those years ago to Lucifer. It was a special sort of hell that tortured him because of him and nobody else. Returning to the bunker had been the catalyst that put it into full swing. Dean entered his room 3 days ago, and had not left since.
Dean knows that this isn’t healthy. He knows that Sam is worrying for him. He knows that laying in bed is not gonna bring him back. His mind is muted in its racing and screaming for help. He just can’t seem to get out of bed. A sort of sick anxiety overtakes him. With all of the freedom he now has, why can’t he seem to use it? Or even more sickening:
Are they even free?
A knock on the door overtakes the thoughts Dean was focusing on. He tried to move, but his body was glued to the bed. “Come in,” Dean said, hoping his voice did not come out as weak and frail as he thought it was. The light from the door shone into the room to show his brother, in his full, put together glory. Sam walked to the side of his bed, looking at Dean with a sort of sad pity he had only seen one time before. When Ca- he died. Swallowing down the tightness in his throat, Dean pushed himself to sit up, facing his brother for the first time in days.
Sam pulled up a chair next to Dean’s bed. Dean pulled on his shirt, trying to distract himself from the sweat and tears staining the middle of it. His skin itched, but he couldn’t care to do a thing about it. He knew that he probably looked disgusting and unkept, but at this moment, that was the least of his problems. The brothers sat in silence, both silently hoping the other would say anything. Sam broke the silence, coughing and moving his hand to the edge of Dean’s bed.
“You know you can talk to me about it, Dean. About-”
“About what? We won! Can a man not sleep in peace after fighting fucking god?”
“You know that this isn’t about that, Dean. You know Cas was my friend, too.”
There it was. The words that shattered Dean’s anxious but safe bubble.
A wave of sickening anger hit Dean like a truck. His chest tightened, feeling a ball of emotion well up in its cavity. He let out a shaky breath. “You got Eileen back,” he said, “His voice shaking, “Why don’t you leave me the fuck alone.” “Dean, you know that’s different,” Sam said, trying to make his voice gentle. This was the tipping point. Dean gritted his teeth, jumping up from his bed in rage. “It really isn’t,” he practically yelled, storming out of his room.
Making it to the garage, Dean took a shaky breath, struggling to hold back the tears and emotion that were threatening to overcome him. As he got into Baby, he started the engine and drove as fast as he could away from the bunker. For ten minutes, Dean gripped the wheel an unhealthy amount, gritting his teeth to force the tears down. The open road, something that had always seemed to calm him down, felt suffocating. The open sky was a blanket, smothering out his joy and leaving him empty.
Stopping the car on the side of the road, Dean slammed his hands on the steering wheel, tears spilling over and sobs coming shortly after. He was angry, so fucking angry. He was drained dry and empty of anything he could truly care about. Dean screamed, his voice ragged and broken. “Cas, you son of a bitch!” he shouted, his voice thick with emotion, “I fucking hate you. How could you drop this shit on me? How could you leave after telling me that? You selfish son of a bitch, you fucking destroyed me this time. I cant-'' He breathed shakily, chest vibrating from the sudden wave of emotion “Ca-as,” he croaked, “I can’t. I can’t go on without you. And I couldn’t even say it. I’m a useless son of a bitch and I couldn’t even tell you. I fucking hate you for that. And I need you.
I fucking need you now.”
-
Cas came back on a thursday.
After Dean’s breakdown (or as he liked to call it, his massive fucking freak out), he went back to the bunker, to find Sam standing in the kitchen. He was hunched over a book, eyes red from what was probably tears (but Dean really did not want to pry). He apologized to Dean sheepishly, saying he was looking to see if there was a way to bring hi- Cas back from the Empty.
The next week was spent hunched over books, which was the only thing keeping Dean from having another freak out. A breakthrough came on Wednesday with them realizing they could use the handprint on Dean’s arm, which was somehow laced with grace, to track and pull Cas out of the empty. The next day, they completed the spell. It went well until the moment that Cas was supposed to come out, instead giving them a limp, asleep Cas with the black goo holding onto his body for dear life. Dean knew what this meant.
As long as Cas was an angel, the Empty would never free him.
In a fit of panic, Dean took the angel blade from Cas’ sleeve, making a thin cut across his neck, like he had seen many others do. The black goo seemed to leech onto the grace, absorbing it and residing back to where it came from. Cas flopped onto the ground, being barely supported by Dean’s shaking arms. He took a deep breath and held Cas tighter. He is home, he thought, He is here. You don’t need to worry. With Sam’s help, the two carried Cas to the closest bedroom, which happened to be Dean’s. Dean took the seat next to where Cas laid, the need to hold him overtaking him in a wave. I just need to be here when he wakes up, he said to himself, He is going to wake up.
-
It took Cas 3 days to wake up
During this time, Dean had little to distract him from the sleeping man in his bedroom. He felt like a strung up elastic band, on the edge of snapping at any moment. It felt that if he got too far away from Cas, he would disappear into a puddle of black goo all over again. Sam insisted that Dean sleep, but he couldn’t even tell his brother that he physically couldn’t. He needed his eyes, his hands, his body near Cas. He needed him.
Cas waking up was terrifying. He woke with a start, almost knocking Dean out of his seat with how startled he was. Dean rushed to the side of the bed, the sickening anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach starting up all over again. His mind raced. What if Cas didn’t want to be back? Was Dean being selfish for wanting him, needing him here? It was his sacrifice, Dean should have respected it. It all stopped when Cas reached his hand out, touching Dean’s fingers lightly “Hello, Dean,” he croaked, his voice sore from disuse.
Dean let out a shaky breath, smiling weakly at Cas, who smiled back with the same level of adoration. Ah, there he is. Old Cas, here in the flesh. “Ca-as,” Dean said, his voice breaking from emotion, “You son of a bitch.” Cas’ smile dropped into a face of fear, slowly starting to retract his hand. Dean desperately reached out, gripping his hand again. “You never let me finish, you son of a bitch,” he breathed, “In purgatory. Of course I love you. Of course I fucking love you. You can have me, Cas, in whatever way you want. I’m yours.”
Dean met Cas’ eyes and was met with a look of utter devotion, a smile breaking with tears welling up in the former angel’s eyes. “I love you, Dean Winchester. As you are mine, I am yours. I always have been.” Cas sat up, facing Dean, and patting the side of the bed so they could be even closer. His hand moved to Dean’s jaw and another grabbed his hand. It was slow, too fucking slow. Dean grabbed the back of Cas’ neck, pushing them into a desperate kiss. The hunter moved his hand to Cas’ front, grabbing, holding onto anything that could prove this was real. Their lips moved feverishly, as if trying to remember everything all at once, like it was their final chance.
A cough broke them up. There stood Sam, a smirk on his face, causing Dean to turn beet red. “About fucking time,” Sam said, leaning in to give Cas a hug. Dean coughed, struggling to hide the smile that was sprouting across his face. “You’re not?” Dean started. Sam laughed. “You deserve this, Dean,” he said, “I guess it wasn’t different afterall.”
Dean deserves this.