Long Roads [SPN]

01 | Scorch Marks

[ 01 | Scorch Marks ]

                          [Angst - Trigger warning - Implied Destiel]

It was a day like another other, really, the bunker was under attack by some no good demons and the three brothers were fighting the evil before them, surely to come out victorious as they always did.

That day though, wasn't as victorious as they hoped.

Castiel stumbled backwards, his eyes so huge they could pop out of their sockets and a hand over the bloody wound. He tried to keep himself up right but ended up falling on his back on the cold, hard bunker ground.

"Cas!" Dean had shouted, his voice strained. The older Winchester rushed over to the fallen angel as Sam dealt with the last of the no good demons, the one who had hurt Castiel in the first place.  

Dean got to the ground and grabbed Castiel, pulling him up and close. Dean leaned back on the wall behind him, pulling Castiel up further. "Alright, buddy, it's going to be alright, don't worry." 

Castiel's back was pressed up against Dean's chest and he knew it was his time to go, perhaps for real this time and in doing so, he knew the marks he would leave if he stayed close to Dean. He could barely talk, his voice raspy. "Dean- Let go or you'll..."

"Shh, don't worry. You're going to be just fine, you're gonna make it." Dean assured him, though he was mostly trying to assure himself. He couldn't lose Cas. His green eyes flickered over to Sam, who was wiping blood off of his face after dealing with the last Demon, then looked back to Castiel.

Castiel's eye lids felt heavy. He tried to move away, tried to push Dean off and away but he couldn't as he was too weak. "Dean-" He gasped out.

"You're gonna be fine, Cas. You're going to live."

"Dean- Dean, I lo..." 

Those were the last words Castiel ever said. The last sentence he could never finish before he passed away, in the arms of the man who had become his world and in the vision of another man with the saddest puppy eyes, whom he once thought to be an abomination.

It had been a few weeks since then.

Sam took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it up with water from the tap. He turned the tap off and quickly chugged down the water, letting out a loud sigh after he did so. He stood there for a few moments, just out of it.

It was true that neither Sam or Dean were the same after Castiel's passing, but Sam, well, he was practically in perfect, happy condition in comparison to his big brother.

Sam put down the glass and walked out of the kitchen to go see Dean. He peered around the corner, to the room in which Castiel died. Still, there sat Dean, sitting down with his back on the wall like he had when he held Castiel.

In between him were the top half of wings scorched onto the wall and well, the bottom half of those wings were some place else - Dean's chest. 

Dean sat there shirtless, the marks of Castiel's wings on him in plain view. Despite it being weeks, they hadn't really healed up. Sam wasn't sure if they even would heal, but he knew Dean was probably picking at the wound, as they were bloody every now and again.

Dean wouldn't let Sam try to tend to them.

Sam assumed Dean wanted it there as a reminder, not a reminder of Castiel's once glorious life but a reminder that Dean couldn't save him because Dean blamed himself.

Hell. Dean always blamed himself.

Dean grabbed a bottle of beer and chugged it down quickly. He discarded the bottle and hid his face in his hands again. Around him were about ten empty bottles of beer and if Sam didn't clean up, there'd probably be more.

If Dean knew that Sam was watching he surely would've tried to hide the tears that started to fall from his beautiful green eyes because even if he was constantly sitting in this one spot and looked like shit, he didn't want his brother to see him doing something worse than that - crying.

Maybe Dean was too macho for his own good or maybe he just didn't want to upset Sam further.

Knowing Dean wouldn't let Sam comfort him or move him, Sam just let his big brother be, even though it hurt his heart.

Dean cried throughout the day and the rest of the night until he passed out.

He wouldn't move. He wouldn't hunt. He wouldn't get into his car. He wouldn't eat. He would only sit there and drown his sorrows in alcohol.

That was the only way he knew how to cope.

Sam got up and out of bed at around 4 AM to check on his brother. When he saw him asleep, his hands on an bottle of alcohol which was practically full still and currently being spilled out onto the floor, he walked over to Dean and with some struggle, picked him up. "Come on, Dean, let's get you into bed."

He took his older brother into his bedroom and laid Dean down onto the bed, pulling the blanket up over him. "Get some sleep, big guy." Sam smiled softly, quietly exiting the room and leaving the door half open - just in case.

Dean opened his eyes once he heard Sam's footsteps disappear. He stared at the ceiling for awhile, feeling too weak to move before he sat up, feeling like he desperately needed to get back to that wall and those wing marks.

He sat on the side of his bed, looking around tiredly with a broken expression. His eyes trailed to a chair, which was near Dean's bed. That chair was one Castiel usually sat on, watching Dean sleep. As creepy and weird as it was to Dean at the time, he missed it now.

Castiel would never sit there again.

Castiel would never again give him a sassy remark when Dean told him to stop watching him.

Castiel would never move again.

Dean let out a gruff cry, hitting at his head and gripping at it with both hands. He bowed it, eyes watering for probably the thousandth time today. 

It hurt so much. He couldn't handle it. He had failed to save him. This was all his fault. Even though it wasn't his fault at all, Dean still blamed himself. Dean couldn't stop blaming himself. 

He just wanted the pain to stop.

He wanted the pain to stop permanently, not temporary like with those many bottles of beer.

His eyes trailed to his bedside table, where a silver handgun was sitting beside his lamp. 

He just wanted the pain to stop.

He wanted the pain to stop permanently, not temporary like with those many bottles of beer.

Letting out a breath, Dean reached for the gun.

[END]