Burned - Destiel

XXIV

"How are you feeling today, Dean?"

Although the flames did not yet emerge from behind his eyes and the tears barely held against a nearly-filled dam, threatening to spill, the boy's response did not hold such emotion and vulnerability. Except for his eyes that were filled with guilt, anger and pain, the rest of his face held no emotion at all.

"Great," he replied, forcing a smile. He then put down his coffee, looking at the man who had questioned him. "Look, Chuck. I deliberately mentioned that I didn't want any more sessions, which means that I don't want to talk. Not in your damned shrink room and not in the kitchen."

The calmth that Chuck seemed to express was making him even more angry. Why did he not understand that he didn't want to talk? Why did everyone keep pestering? Why was this pissing him off in the first place?

"Dean. obviously, you're not fine. I won't demand you to answer, but I do want you to realize that bottling things up won't help," the man said. Dean just glared in his direction, the muscles of his jaw clenched, his skin contracting as well.

"I believe that that's still my decision to make," he spat out, before departuring the kitchen at an alarmingly high speed. Everyone just kept asking him if he was OK on a daily basis, as if he was merely seconds away from jumping off a bridge. The more they questioned, the more that idea actually seemed tempting. Nobody was aware of this, though.

He entered Castiel's room without knocking, earning a confused look from said boy, who was studying for some exam they had in a couple of weeks. The dark haired boy was laying on his bed on his stomach, arms and elbows leaning on the soft fabric of his sheets. A thick book was resting in between his arms, a notebook to his left. The boy laid down his pen and watched as Dean started pacing restlessly.

"You OK, babe?" he asked, his eyes tracing his boyfriend from the right to the left. The boy just ranked his hand through his hair and sighed.

"Why does everyone keep treating me like I'm not OK?" he complained, his eyes filled with despair and frustration as he finally looked at the raven haired boy. Said boy turned to his back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Dean kept pacing, surprised when the boy suddenly stood in front of him.

"Maybe because you're not," Castiel answered his question truthfully, holding onto his hands gently. Dean stared at him angrily, though his lower lip trembled. Castiel let go of one hand and instead grazed it over a freckled cheek. "You're hurt, scared, guilty, lonely and worried but you hide it underneath anger and rage to scare people off. To others that might work, but you can't fool me, Dean."

"Apparently I can't fool anyone," Dean mumbled quietly. Castiel smiled gently, searching for a change of expression which never came. The boy just seemed to beat himself up over this even more.

"Who says you have to? I know you're strong. Hell, you're stronger than anyone I've ever met, but losing a father? A brother? That's too much to go through alone," Castiel replied calmly. He was unsure if his words were effective due to the expressionless features that stared back at him. He did, however, notice that he should've kept his mouth shut when the boy's eyes darkened.

"Right. It's not like you speak out of experience," Dean exclaimed sarcastically, throwing his hands up dramatically. Then he turned serious, leaning forward. "It's my fault and my problem, don't sugar coat it. And if you like to imagine that you can understand how I feel, go ahead, but don't expect me to be grateful for the effort," the boy hissed quietly, that frustrated, angry tone back in his voice. Castiel felt his heart clench upon hearing those words, aware that Dean had the tendency to speak like this everytime someone spoke about his dad or brother. Whether it was Castiel or someone else, it wasn't appreciated.