SPN Fic: Break And Rebuild
Title: Break And Rebuild - Dean
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 751
Disclaimer: Oh, if only
Spoilers: Nothing specific, just general S4
Warnings: Angst. Like, heavy-duty super-angst. *sigh* Brief, mild mention of suicide. Very mild slash, though might become moreso if I continue. Oh, and angst. Lashings of the stuff.
Summary: 2-shot. Dean is breaking, Castiel wants to pick up the pieces and rebuild him.
Just a little something I threw together in half an hour. Will post second part tomorrow some time. First fic in a while, first ever SPN/Dean/Castiel/fic posted on lj. Lots of firsts today. *grins*
Break And Rebuild
Dean is breaking. Breaking in a way that is almost physical. He can nearly feel the pieces of himself crumbling, falling away. Gone forever. He knows it is visible. The facade is barely there; he can no longer hold it together as anything more than a pretence. It is transparent, and Sammy, Bobby, everyone, can see right through it to the broken, deplorable thing that is no longer hidden.
He is tired. Tired and weak and he hates himself so much. He just wants it all to end. Needs it to. He used to be able to deal with anything, hold himself and the family together so long as it protected his little brother. But Sammy no longer needs protecting, except perhaps from himself, and he won’t allow Dean to do that. And if Sam no longer needs him, wants him, then what’s the point? There isn’t one. And if Dean wasn’t so terrified of Hell, he might kill himself. But he is terrified, so he doesn’t.
Alcohol no longer helps. The pain has become too real and sharp and awful for it do more than dull it in such a minor way that there’s no point. And it means sleep, nightmare-filled and terrible, and that’s something Dean would rather avoid. He hasn’t slept for four days now. It’s evidence of his state of mind that he sees that as an accomplishment, and not something else to worry over. There are too many things to worry over, anyway, even if he is too tired and too despairing to do it properly.
Sam has left. Probably gone to Ruby, and that’s another of Dean’s failures. There are too many to count by now. Far, far too many. Dean wonders whether he shouldn’t try to, anyway. Just for the Hell of it.
He takes another pull of whisky; he’s drinking, regardless. He used to relish the burn as it slid down his throat. Now he barely feels it. He doesn’t really feel anything anymore, except tired, and empty, and hopeless. And the pain. Oh, God, the pain. It never stops, or fades. Never becomes easier to bear. It’s both physical and not. It sits heavy, always, dragging at him, and occasionally stabbing. And it never, ever ends.
He is praying. Something wordless, more emotion than anything else, because even in the depths of his mind he’s lost his coherency and is losing his sanity. He knows it can’t last much longer. So he prays, but he doesn’t know what for, and doesn’t believe he’s being heard. Why would anyone listen? He certainly doesn’t expect an answer.
But someone is listening. And though they are supposed to be cold, unfeeling, above emotion, their heart is breaking.
Break
Dean is not startled when Castiel appears beside him. Just blinks his acknowledgement and continues staring at the wall, waiting for the orders he just knows there will given.
“Dean.” The angel’s voice is rough and low. Strong. Dean used to be strong. He isn’t anymore. Doesn’t really want to be. “Dean.”
That’s all. Nothing more. Finally he turns his head, and it takes far too much effort to do so. “Cas,” he murmurs, staring at Cas’ burning blue eyes
“Let me help you.” Warm, strong. Like a verbal embrace, folding around him.
Dean laughs brokenly. “I don’t think anyone can help me.” Because he is broken, broken into so many pieces it would take a miracle to gather them together and rebuild him into something strong and worthy and good. More than a miracle. It’s impossible.
“Let me try, Dean. Please.”
Please. Dean doesn’t think he has ever heard Cas say that before. He finds himself asking, a little desperately, because, hey, maybe there is the tiniest spark of hope left after all, “How?”
That’s when the angel, Castiel, in his beautiful vessel that doesn’t hide the sacred, angelic glow, leans forward and kisses him. It’s soft and gentle, chaste, and it feels right. It feels good. And Dean wonders whether maybe Cas has already started picking up the pieces, even if they’re no where near being glued back together again, because the pain doesn’t go, but that dreadful empty hollow in his chest seems to fill, just the tiniest bit.
And as Dean returns the kiss, because for the first time since he was lifted out of hell something feels just the tiniest bit right, he cries. He cries, and he thanks God, and he thanks his angel. Because maybe this is a miracle.