He misses him.
Dean keeps replaying the moment in his head.
He’s watching and listening and waiting for every word to happen and it hurts, it really hurts, because now that he looks back on it there is so much he could have said.
Should have said.
Needed to say.
And then he starts to wish with every fiber of his being that some weird ass time-dimension-shift-what-the-fuck-ever would send him back to that moment so he could have warned himself about what was going to happen and what he should and shouldn’t say and jesus christ, above it all, to not let things end like that.
And of fucking course this never happens, as much as he wishes it, because fate is a vindictive bitch and maybe this is its way of telling Dean that he wasn’t going to know what he had until it was gone.
So he spends his nights drowning out his feelings and general stupidity with cheap liquor until he’s so drunk he can barely stumble into the motel room around the unholy hour of six in the fucking morning.
But the alcohol doesn’t work, and neither does anything else, because whenever he drags himself to bed he is still watching that god forsaken scene in his head and his thoughts are all of Cas and the good ol’ days and all this other bullshit that he can’t really piece together at the moment but fuck,
he really misses him.
He’s watching and listening and waiting for every word to happen and it hurts, it really hurts, because now that he looks back on it there is so much he could have said.
Should have said.
Needed to say.
And then he starts to wish with every fiber of his being that some weird ass time-dimension-shift-what-the-fuck-ever would send him back to that moment so he could have warned himself about what was going to happen and what he should and shouldn’t say and jesus christ, above it all, to not let things end like that.
And of fucking course this never happens, as much as he wishes it, because fate is a vindictive bitch and maybe this is its way of telling Dean that he wasn’t going to know what he had until it was gone.
So he spends his nights drowning out his feelings and general stupidity with cheap liquor until he’s so drunk he can barely stumble into the motel room around the unholy hour of six in the fucking morning.
But the alcohol doesn’t work, and neither does anything else, because whenever he drags himself to bed he is still watching that god forsaken scene in his head and his thoughts are all of Cas and the good ol’ days and all this other bullshit that he can’t really piece together at the moment but fuck,
he really misses him.