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3 years

It had been 3 years since the hunt: the hunt that had taken everything Dean had ever valued, maybe everything he had ever wanted, and torn it completely to shreds.

It had taken Dean’s already frayed and tattered soul, and twisted it further into something grotesque and deranged. It was like Hell, only this pain wasn’t physical; this pain was deeper, and it resounded throughout him, echoing and spreading through his hollow core.

Every morning, Dean was drug under the brutal and harsh reality of his cruel, pathetic existence.

It had been 3 years since Castiel had been killed.

3 years since Dean held the angel’s battered body against him while he prayed for a miracle; prayed for heaven to take anything else from him but this—anything at all.

3 years since Dean watched the angel’s eyes glow a brilliant blue. The most mesmerizing thing Dean had ever seen. He couldn’t look away—watching the grace surge from the angel’s body, drawing itself around him. Dean had pressed his hand tightly over the angel’s gaping wound at first, trying desperately to hold in the wisps of grace pouring from him. Watching as gasps of blue light trailed from his flesh and curled around his shaking, unsteady hands.

“Hey, Cas! It’s not that bad, okay?” Dean had reassured him, cupping his slick face in his hands “It’s not even that bad, alright? Cas!”

He held his face between his palms and smoothed the beaded sweat that hung on the angel’s frail face. Castiel struggled to breathe, his ribs skewering his insides; blood fell from his mouth, and he gargled the thick, hot liquid.

He wanted to say something—Dean could just tell.

“It’s—it’s okay, Cas. You don’t have to—you don’t have to say it okay? You can’t say it—you can’t because we’re gonna have plenty of time to say it after I get you out of here okay? Okay?”

He smiled a little, the saddest smile Dean had ever seen. His eyes fluttered lightly as he strained to focus on Dean—a halo of blue light beginning to trail through his eyes.

“Cas! Hey! I’m gonna patch you up okay? You’re going to be good as new—” The angel’s head feel backwards as his body began to go limp in the hunter’s arms.

“Cas! I’m gonna take care of you—I’m—I’m gonna take care of you, you hear me?”

Dean could still remember the last moment—the exact moment that Castiel let go—

“Don’t you leave me, Cas” Dean had whimpered as the angel’s eyes began to swell with the cool blue light. The angel’s grace bellowing out from him and leaking through his skin, seeping and draining around the hunter’s shaking hands.

Dean moved his hands down to the angel’s gaping wound one last time, trying his best to stop the heavenly light from pouring out of the angel.

“No, no—no, no—” Dean whimpered as tears burned at the corner of his own eyes, the angel’s grace dripping through his fingers.

“Oh—oh God no” He whispered as he pulled Castiel close to his chest and buried his head in his thick black hair. Dean gently rocked the angel in his arms, his slacken body cold and stiff.

He would’ve stayed there with Castiel forever—would’ve run his fingers over his glazed eyes and breathless body—would’ve whispered ‘Hey Jude’ into his blooded ear for all of eternity if he could.

That’s what Dean would’ve done, what he always would do.

Sam was the first to move them. Dean was like a puppet, his younger brother controlling his movements, showing him the right things to say and all the steps to make.

Dean remembered that hunt in perfect detail; it haunted him every night, burrowing deep into his rutted hollow mind with horrific images, depriving him of sleep, leaving his very soul hanging by a thread.

He drank, but that never seemed to be enough. By now, Dean had such a strong tolerance to alcohol that it was nearly impossible for him to get drunk, let alone drunk enough to erase the images burned black and charred into his memory.

Alcohol was Dean’s only lifeline. He spent days—hell—months drowning himself in a bottle of whiskey. It never mattered though; nothing ever took away the icy pain that threaded through his body and cracked at the edges.

Sam stopped asking—that was the worst part.

At first that’s all the younger Winchester did:
“Dean are you okay?”

“Dean, look at me. Dean?”

“Dean please, you’re scaring me”

He fell silent after a while, realizing that the brother that he had leaned so heavily on would never be as solid as he once was. Dean Winchester was dead and gone.

Sam left after that. Left Dean high and dry—but it didn’t matter, not anymore at least.

So he sat. Sometimes he watched pathetic day-time television, but the majority of the time though, Dean sat on his couch in dead silence. Whatever he did though, he did with a bottle of whiskey glued to the palm of his hand.

If the alcohol didn’t numb the pain, then at least it was carving and churning his insides—dragging him one step closer to an end.

An end sounded nice to Dean. Like the perfectly stamped end to a long story full of pain and doubt. A nice fresh and crisp end to all the torturous thoughts that rutted through his polluted mind.

Whatever waited for Dean in the end didn’t really matter all the much to him anymore—not when he had no one to share it with.

Castiel had left him—Sam had left him.

Maybe an ending wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Description
3 years

It had been 3 years since the hunt: the hunt that had taken everything Dean had ever valued, maybe everything he had ever wanted, and torn it completely to shreds.

It had taken Dean’s already frayed and tattered soul, and twisted it further into something grotesque and deranged. It was like Hell, only this pain wasn’t physical; this pain was deeper, and it resounded throughout him, echoing and spreading through his hollow core.

Every morning, Dean was drug under the brutal and harsh reality of his cruel, pathetic existence.

It had been 3 years since Castiel had been killed.

3 years since Dean held the angel’s battered body against him while he prayed for a miracle; prayed for heaven to take anything else from him but this—anything at all.

3 years since Dean watched the angel’s eyes glow a brilliant blue. The most mesmerizing thing Dean had ever seen. He couldn’t look away—watching the grace surge from the angel’s body, drawing itself around him. Dean had pressed his hand tightly over the angel’s gaping wound at first, trying desperately to hold in the wisps of grace pouring from him. Watching as gasps of blue light trailed from his flesh and curled around his shaking, unsteady hands.

“Hey, Cas! It’s not that bad, okay?” Dean had reassured him, cupping his slick face in his hands “It’s not even that bad, alright? Cas!”

He held his face between his palms and smoothed the beaded sweat that hung on the angel’s frail face. Castiel struggled to breathe, his ribs skewering his insides; blood fell from his mouth, and he gargled the thick, hot liquid.

He wanted to say something—Dean could just tell.

“It’s—it’s okay, Cas. You don’t have to—you don’t have to say it okay? You can’t say it—you can’t because we’re gonna have plenty of time to say it after I get you out of here okay? Okay?”

He smiled a little, the saddest smile Dean had ever seen. His eyes fluttered lightly as he strained to focus on Dean—a halo of blue light beginning to trail through his eyes.

“Cas! Hey! I’m gonna patch you up okay? You’re going to be good as new—” The angel’s head feel backwards as his body began to go limp in the hunter’s arms.

“Cas! I’m gonna take care of you—I’m—I’m gonna take care of you, you hear me?”

Dean could still remember the last moment—the exact moment that Castiel let go—

“Don’t you leave me, Cas” Dean had whimpered as the angel’s eyes began to swell with the cool blue light. The angel’s grace bellowing out from him and leaking through his skin, seeping and draining around the hunter’s shaking hands.

Dean moved his hands down to the angel’s gaping wound one last time, trying his best to stop the heavenly light from pouring out of the angel.

“No, no—no, no—” Dean whimpered as tears burned at the corner of his own eyes, the angel’s grace dripping through his fingers.

“Oh—oh God no” He whispered as he pulled Castiel close to his chest and buried his head in his thick black hair. Dean gently rocked the angel in his arms, his slacken body cold and stiff.

He would’ve stayed there with Castiel forever—would’ve run his fingers over his glazed eyes and breathless body—would’ve whispered ‘Hey Jude’ into his blooded ear for all of eternity if he could.

That’s what Dean would’ve done, what he always would do.

Sam was the first to move them. Dean was like a puppet, his younger brother controlling his movements, showing him the right things to say and all the steps to make.

Dean remembered that hunt in perfect detail; it haunted him every night, burrowing deep into his rutted hollow mind with horrific images, depriving him of sleep, leaving his very soul hanging by a thread.

He drank, but that never seemed to be enough. By now, Dean had such a strong tolerance to alcohol that it was nearly impossible for him to get drunk, let alone drunk enough to erase the images burned black and charred into his memory.

Alcohol was Dean’s only lifeline. He spent days—hell—months drowning himself in a bottle of whiskey. It never mattered though; nothing ever took away the icy pain that threaded through his body and cracked at the edges.

Sam stopped asking—that was the worst part.

At first that’s all the younger Winchester did:
“Dean are you okay?”

“Dean, look at me. Dean?”

“Dean please, you’re scaring me”

He fell silent after a while, realizing that the brother that he had leaned so heavily on would never be as solid as he once was. Dean Winchester was dead and gone.

Sam left after that. Left Dean high and dry—but it didn’t matter, not anymore at least.

So he sat. Sometimes he watched pathetic day-time television, but the majority of the time though, Dean sat on his couch in dead silence. Whatever he did though, he did with a bottle of whiskey glued to the palm of his hand.

If the alcohol didn’t numb the pain, then at least it was carving and churning his insides—dragging him one step closer to an end.

An end sounded nice to Dean. Like the perfectly stamped end to a long story full of pain and doubt. A nice fresh and crisp end to all the torturous thoughts that rutted through his polluted mind.

Whatever waited for Dean in the end didn’t really matter all the much to him anymore—not when he had no one to share it with.

Castiel had left him—Sam had left him.

Maybe an ending wouldn’t be so bad after all.