Supernatural Preferences!!

Triple Threat

Hey guys. Haizley here. Have you forgotten about me?? :( I'm still taking requests for one shots! I promise!! Anyway, this is going to be a very sad chapter. I'll list trigger warnings below, but long story short, It's going to be a long, long depression that just won't stop because I've been stewing over this idea for a very long while. It's gotten really bad, you should be worried.

Suicide, Multiple Major Character Death, Self Hate, Violent Flashbacks, Torture Descriptions, Grieving, Communal Grieving, Cutting, Generally just terrible

Prepare yourselves. I'm already tearing up, this chapter is going to be just awful. I told someone on Tumblr about a single headcanon and it grew out of proportion. And I fused it with other sad stuff.

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"Dean... Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asks, his voice coated in panic, hands raised, his palms facing the ground. He's backing up, crowding Cas behind him, who's trying to get from behind him—he should be able to, really, but he's letting Sam hold him back. Cas's not entirely sure he can help them.

"What I was made to," Dean says, and he raises his arm, the arm with the hand holding the first blade.

Things slow down. Sam raises his arm, squeezes too hard on the trigger of the gun in his hand, and Cas is suddenly knocking him out of the way, raising his arm up too, trying to grab Dean's arm, but all that Sam hears is a sickening squelch, and Cas is looking down at the blade in him, and Dean's coming out of his stupor, of the thing that was possessing him, and his eyes widen, his mouth drops open.

And then, suddenly, everything's happening way too quickly. Dean sucks in a breath, shuddering, a scream pairing with it. His eyes are watering up, realizing what he's done, staring at Cas's chest. Sam runs over to Cas as he collapses, catching him, holding him, horror all over his face.

All that Cas is looking at right now, though, is Dean, expression so utterly betrayed. Dean watches as blood gurgles up out of his chest, over his lips, and he's in shock, watches while he should be doing something, watches while his whole body is shaking, watches while one of the only people he'd ever loved died. Because of him. But then he watches as Cas—Castiel—closes his eyes, watches as his features smooth over. "I forgive you," he says, and that's what snaps Dean. He falls to the ground with Sammy, Sammy who is crying and has ripped the blade out of Cas.

He wants to say something. He should say something. But how could he? He'd never been particularly good with words except for telling people off. Now he had no idea what to do, he just felt himself welling up, his whole body beginning to ache with grief and he clenched his jaw and blinked against the tears that were already falling in droves. He didn't know when he had started crying, but Cas... he could see the wings forming from his body, black ink beginning to crawl out and form his wings. Dean watched, reaching down to touch them, looking up at the barn around them.

It was fitting. It was where Cas on Earth began.

Then again, Cas wouldn't go back to Heaven.

He closed his eyes. Pressed his lips together. He felt Sam sobbing next to him, leaning on him. He must have let go of Cas some time ago. He can feel their tears on his hands, and all he can think is I did this. I fucking did this.

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Gabriel looked up, felt something tearing at him in the heavens. He feels the others around him experiencing it too, and he immediately knows what it is—one of them has died.

Who?

Just as he's asking, he hears a screaming, a pain so deep he can easily imagine it sucking some of the grace out of him if he had felt it. He looks for the source, finds Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester. He looks further, and stops in horror.

He joins the sobbing, scream-like choir that is rising up in heaven—CASTIEL IS DEAD.

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"Dean, it... it wasn't really your fault," Sam says, looking up at him pleadingly. "Please, just... stop blaming yourself," he says. Dean stops his pacing, turns cold eyes on him. Sam almost jumps back at the malice in them.

"I will never stop blaming myself, Sam, because I did do it. I did kill him, Sam. I don't need you saying any different, because I'm not going to let myself say that, because I'm not going to let myself live a fucking lie, knowing that I killed that man. Because I'm going to fucking own up to it for fucking once," he says, and Sam can see that wall of anger crumble and let out what it was protecting. Dean sighs and takes in a shaky breath. "Sam, it's going to be you next," he says.

Sam leans back. He knows. He was trying to distract Dean from it, but he supposed it had to have been unlikely. Dean was always a worrier. "Dean, it'll-"

"No, Sam, it won't be fine! Can you get it through your thick fucking skull?!" He shouts, and Sam jumps back slightly. Dean shakes his head.

"It might not be fine," Sam says carefully, "but we've never had to kill each other. We've always found a way, Dean. Why would this be any different?"

"Sam, I'm so tired," Dean says, after a moment's pause. The moment's pause was all Sam needed to know what Dean was thinking—Sam, it's already happened. It is happening. There's no getting out of it now. "I suppose this is nature's way of telling us to get out," he says, because he knows what'll happen after he's fulfilled the prophecy—he knows he won't live long after it, because he won't be able to deal with himself long after it.

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He was right. There lay Sam, in his arms, the First Blade jammed through the side of his neck. He cried over him, over the finality that he had given up, that he'd let this happen. He scrunches his face, looks up at the sky. "Why did I deserve this?" He asks, quietly, looking down at Sam, at his forever still features. He repeats it, repeats it until he's screaming, hysterical, the bunker floor catching his tears.

Only when Claire finds him and drags him away, screaming, does he stop crying, but he's still whispering that question quietly. He stops for a moment once Claire has him seated, but then he looks up at her, the whole collar of his shirt soaked. She's crying too, he can tell, but not by sight—he can't see through his tears. "What did we ever fucking do?" He asks.

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 You deserve this, he hears, whispered in his ear, a sinister curl to the words accompanying the twisting of his insides, and he screams. What haven't you done to deserve this? He hears, and he can feel himself agreeing, submitting to what's happening to him. He screams again, as he feels someone pinching his skin, lifting it up and cutting off a horizontal slice of it. You're scum. Something stabs him again, he screams again. You killed the very man you loved. He feels something burning, something burning deep inside of his chest, and he begins choking on his own blood. You killed your brother.

He opens his eyes, suddenly, and Charlie's screaming at him to wake up. She's got her hand raised like she's about to slap him, and a gash is down her cheek, dripping red onto the sheets of his bed. He looks down, and he's holding a razor, cuts all over his arms and abdomen, deep and long, and he gapes at them, looks up at Charlie as he bleeds out.