The Dead Bodies Mean "I Love You" Part X
Masterpost | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX
It’s still dark. Dean is lost. He doesn’t have a car. He just ran. Ran and ran and ran. He can still hear gunshots. Still can see the silhouette of Sam as he fired. He tries to keep it in his mind. That image. Sam as a hero, standing strong in the face of death.
His little brother sacrificing himself for Dean and Cas. Letting himself die, so Dean can keep Castiel in line, can keep hunting with a partner that will be good for him.
It isn’t worth it. All his fond memories of Castiel, those long night texting sessions, all the orgasms to his voice, disappears.
He’s angry. Livid. Furious. Sam would have another good word for him. Something six syllables from a college textbook. Dean wants to kill Castiel. It’s his fault that Sam died. It’s because of Cas that they even went to that damn house!
Fury is coursing through him. Even in the forty degree weather, his skin is burning. His heart is beating double time and his vision is clouding over. All that’s going through his head is the damn angel. His damn blue eyes and damn sex hair and damn voice.
Dean is going to kill him. Dean is going to make him suffer.
He breaks into a fast looking car and peels out of Pennsylvania. He doesn’t want anything to do with this state.
---
Dean is in Ohio when he hears it on the news.
“Outside the home of notorious thief, Balthazar Freely, a miracle occurred. Sam Winchester, known serial killer, was killed by the police after charging them with his own guns. Dean Winchester is nowhere to be found, the only other body was that of Freely, slaughtered like the other Winchester victims. I’m sure we can all sleep soundly knowing that one half of the Winchester duo is gone. With no news of Castiel or Dean, it seems the nation can sleep at peace once again.”
He throws the television out the window of the house he was squatting in. How dare they talk about Sam like that! They’re all brainwashed, the lot of them. They didn’t know what they were talking about, unable to separate reality from the fiction cops and lawyers fed them. Deluded into thinking that Sam was the villain, that he was wrong. No. They were wrong.
Sam was a hero. He lived and died a hero. Just like their father.
Dean growls and punches a wall, bruising his knuckles.
It’s all his fault. Everyone he loves dies. They die protecting him or giving him second chances he doesn’t deserve. In the end, Dean will always be alone.
“They don’t know you, Sammy,” Dean says. “Not like I do. They didn’t help you with your first words or your first gun or girlfriend. They don’t know how badly you wanted out. That you ran away while Dad and I hunted Azazel. They have no idea that struggle you had. They don’t know that it was your idea to use the pentagram. Heh, you always were superstitious.”
Dean chokes on tears. His breath is short and his face is burning, but he keeps talking.
“I just... I can’t do it, Sammy. I can’t go on without you. Revenge and you. That was my job. Prove that the cops don’t know what they’re doing and make sure you were okay. I screwed it up. I screwed up everything.”
It should have been him in the line of fire. Dean knows that much. Sam could have hidden away, gone to college again, meet another girl and get the whole apple pie life. He shouldn’t have died that early, and certainly not for Dean and Cas.
“I don’t know what to do,” Dean whispers. “You were the one finding hunts. I don’t know where to start, what to look for. I just know how to hurt them. I just...”
He stops. Takes a breath.
“I let down everyone, don’t I? Let down Dad and got him killed. Let you down, lost you, got you killed. How could I do that to you? I couldn’t keep my own brother alive. How am I supposed to live with that?”
He can’t breath anymore and his tears are streaming. His heart is aching and he can feel the anger building up again.
“What am I supposed to do, Sammy?” he asks the empty house. “What am I supposed to do? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!”
Dean lashes out and kicks over the table, punching the wall a few more times. Hands burning and eyes blurry, he grabs his duffel and jumps into his car. He doesn’t have a choice anymore. It was practically Sam’s dying wish.
He speeds down the highway, ignoring the speed limits and traffic laws. He’ll kill any cop that dares pull him over. He has one destination, one goal. He blasts through the border of Indiana. One more state to go. One step closer to his job.
Find Castiel.
---
James Novak might as well have been Castiel’s twin for all the similarities. Same piercing blue eyes, same dark hair (but his was parted nicely), and same plush lips. They look the same, but they couldn’t be more different. James, or Jimmy, had a wife and daughter and was a good Christian man. But he looks like Cas and that’s good enough for Dean.
Dean is in Pontiac and the irony is not lost on him. The very city where Castiel came from is where his doppelganger lives. This was where it started and this is where it will end.
He waits until Jimmy leaves for work, selling ad time on AM radio or something. Catches him in the car and takes him far away. Jimmy whimpers in the back seat, some high pitched whining that grates on Dean’s nerves.
Castiel doesn’t whimper.
He was planning on torturing this man until his need to kill Cas abated, but he can’t do it. This man is both just like Cas and at the same time completely different.
He tosses him behind a motel. Blood is splashed on the walls and, in a daze, he writes a message. Sam would comment on his terrible spelling or the horrible cliche moment of it all. If he was still here at least.
Dean punches the wall and kicks the long dead body of Jimmy Novak.
He needs Cas. He needs the damn angel like air. He still doesn’t know whether to kill him or ravish him. He glances at the time. Almost 10 pm. He notices the date.
It’s Thursday.
---
Castiel sees the message. It’s not released to the public, but his informant has connections and he takes advantage of it. Dean has an excellent point. The man looks extraordinarily like him. That’s not what interests him, however. It’s the words written in blood on the wall.
Not Cas. Not Cas. Come get me.
He’s only too eager to do so. His informant gave him all the information on his look-alike. Jimmy Novak. Married to Amelia with a daughter, Claire. It is only fitting that he finishes what Dean started. You don’t kill one member of a family. No.
You kill them all.
---
It’s dark. Really dark. Is it night? Day? The room is unfamiliar. There’s a bottle in his hand. Empty Jack Daniels. More whiskey bottles are in the room. They reflect blue light. Blue. Light. He doesn’t know where the blue light is coming from.
What kind of light is blue anyway?
Mindlessly, he lifts his arm to take another swig of the days old booze.
He gags.
The sink is too far away to make to in time. He vomits on the floor.
God, he hopes he’s not in a hotel. He squints and looks around. It’s dark. Black. That damn blue light is still glowing from somewhere. He doesn’t like it. It’s blue. Blue is. Bad.
There’s something about... eyes. Eyes and blue. Blue eyes and angels. An angel.
Castiel.
He sits up straight and feels the alcohol rise in his throat again. He’s on his knees, not enough energy to expel his stomach. He just gags and moans.
But he remembers. He’s got revenge to deal out. He needs to hurt someone. Another someone. He got that other guy. Jimmy. He needs his twin. Cas.
He rubs his eyes and stumbles to his feet. The world is spinning and wobbly. He squints around the darkened room and realizes, thankfully, he’s not in a hotel.
Then where the hell is he?
The sink is filled with bottles. Beer bottles, whiskey, even one bottle of wine. He wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t drink wine, no matter how bad things get. He turns the faucet on anyway, ignoring the splash off the bottles.
It’s amazing how much more human he feels after washing his face and drinking some water. His head has a supernova going on inside, but he can deal with that. He has more pressing issues.
Like what day it is.
He thanks all deities above that his phone is alive. It’s Tuesday. Dean lost five days in this drunken haze. Five. Days. Is that possible? He doesn’t even know. Sam never let him get this drunk ever.
“Sam,” he tries to say, but his voice refuses to work. He clears his throat and tries again, “Saamm. Why’d you let me get this drunk?”
No answer.
Like a sledgehammer, he remembers. No more Sam. No more little brother. No more bitch to his jerk. No more snarky comments. He can’t breathe. His chest is caved in. Sam took it all with him. Took his heart, his lungs. Dean doesn’t have anything.
By sheer force of will he takes in a shuddering breath.
Hot tears spill over. He reaches for his bottle of alcohol, but remembers that he has business to attend to. Sam would want him to go on. It was his dying wish.
It’s late, but that’s not going to stop him from leaving. He’s got enough brain cells left to know that he should not be driving. Instead, he stumbles out of the house, the cold air waking him a bit more. He shivers.
Two streets away is a diner. He stumbles in, ignoring the looks from the patrons. The clock says it’s almost midnight. He collapses into a booth and cradles his pounding head in his arms.
“Can I get you anything, sweetheart?” a sweet voice says in his ear.
It’s an old lady. Sweet. Smells like vanilla. He mumbles something that hopefully sounds like coffee and she must get the message because she moves on.
A television is mounted on the ceiling. It’s the news. Rerun from this morning. Or earlier in the night. He doesn’t know. The sound is off. He reads the caption.
Castiel killed the family of deceased James Novak. Wife Amelia and daughter Claire were found in their homes, throats slashed. A grim message calling out the last Winchester to action.
Dean tosses a few dollars on the table and rushes from the diner. This is it. He can finally avenge his brother. He ignores the waitress calling about his coffee. He’s as awake as can be.
The wind is blowing. A storm is coming. He pulls out his cell phone and calls.
“Dean.”
His voice sends Dean whirling. It’s been so long since that voice has slid up his body and singed his nerves. Too long.
“Cas.”
“I’ve been waiting.”
“Me too.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. You in Pontiac?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Castiel’s voice is filled with promise, “428 Water.”
“Novak’s house.”
“See you then.”
---
He doesn’t know how he stole a car. He doesn’t know how he even drove consider he’s had nothing in his stomach for a week. All he knows is that he is pulling up in front of the Novak house. He sees a gorgeous car parked there. It wasn’t there last time. Must be Castiel’s.
A 1967 Chevy Impala. Black. Man’s got style.
Dean crosses the black and yellow caution tape. It’s dark anyway. No one to see him. He opens the door, half expecting a fight.
“It’s so good to see you in person,” Castiel’s voice comes from the darkness. “I thought you’d be shorter.”
“That’s because Sam’s a giant,” Dean says, falling into their easy banter. “Not fair that I can’t see you.”
Castiel comes out of the shadows. He’s almost as tall as Dean, just a little shorter. His hair is as black and messy as ever and his blue eyes are like sapphires. They pinpoint Dean and keep him still. Like lasers.
The decision to kill him or ravish him comes easy to him now.
He stalks forward, face set. Castiel doesn’t flinch. That makes it easier.
Part XI
It’s still dark. Dean is lost. He doesn’t have a car. He just ran. Ran and ran and ran. He can still hear gunshots. Still can see the silhouette of Sam as he fired. He tries to keep it in his mind. That image. Sam as a hero, standing strong in the face of death.
His little brother sacrificing himself for Dean and Cas. Letting himself die, so Dean can keep Castiel in line, can keep hunting with a partner that will be good for him.
It isn’t worth it. All his fond memories of Castiel, those long night texting sessions, all the orgasms to his voice, disappears.
He’s angry. Livid. Furious. Sam would have another good word for him. Something six syllables from a college textbook. Dean wants to kill Castiel. It’s his fault that Sam died. It’s because of Cas that they even went to that damn house!
Fury is coursing through him. Even in the forty degree weather, his skin is burning. His heart is beating double time and his vision is clouding over. All that’s going through his head is the damn angel. His damn blue eyes and damn sex hair and damn voice.
Dean is going to kill him. Dean is going to make him suffer.
He breaks into a fast looking car and peels out of Pennsylvania. He doesn’t want anything to do with this state.
---
Dean is in Ohio when he hears it on the news.
“Outside the home of notorious thief, Balthazar Freely, a miracle occurred. Sam Winchester, known serial killer, was killed by the police after charging them with his own guns. Dean Winchester is nowhere to be found, the only other body was that of Freely, slaughtered like the other Winchester victims. I’m sure we can all sleep soundly knowing that one half of the Winchester duo is gone. With no news of Castiel or Dean, it seems the nation can sleep at peace once again.”
He throws the television out the window of the house he was squatting in. How dare they talk about Sam like that! They’re all brainwashed, the lot of them. They didn’t know what they were talking about, unable to separate reality from the fiction cops and lawyers fed them. Deluded into thinking that Sam was the villain, that he was wrong. No. They were wrong.
Sam was a hero. He lived and died a hero. Just like their father.
Dean growls and punches a wall, bruising his knuckles.
It’s all his fault. Everyone he loves dies. They die protecting him or giving him second chances he doesn’t deserve. In the end, Dean will always be alone.
“They don’t know you, Sammy,” Dean says. “Not like I do. They didn’t help you with your first words or your first gun or girlfriend. They don’t know how badly you wanted out. That you ran away while Dad and I hunted Azazel. They have no idea that struggle you had. They don’t know that it was your idea to use the pentagram. Heh, you always were superstitious.”
Dean chokes on tears. His breath is short and his face is burning, but he keeps talking.
“I just... I can’t do it, Sammy. I can’t go on without you. Revenge and you. That was my job. Prove that the cops don’t know what they’re doing and make sure you were okay. I screwed it up. I screwed up everything.”
It should have been him in the line of fire. Dean knows that much. Sam could have hidden away, gone to college again, meet another girl and get the whole apple pie life. He shouldn’t have died that early, and certainly not for Dean and Cas.
“I don’t know what to do,” Dean whispers. “You were the one finding hunts. I don’t know where to start, what to look for. I just know how to hurt them. I just...”
He stops. Takes a breath.
“I let down everyone, don’t I? Let down Dad and got him killed. Let you down, lost you, got you killed. How could I do that to you? I couldn’t keep my own brother alive. How am I supposed to live with that?”
He can’t breath anymore and his tears are streaming. His heart is aching and he can feel the anger building up again.
“What am I supposed to do, Sammy?” he asks the empty house. “What am I supposed to do? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!”
Dean lashes out and kicks over the table, punching the wall a few more times. Hands burning and eyes blurry, he grabs his duffel and jumps into his car. He doesn’t have a choice anymore. It was practically Sam’s dying wish.
He speeds down the highway, ignoring the speed limits and traffic laws. He’ll kill any cop that dares pull him over. He has one destination, one goal. He blasts through the border of Indiana. One more state to go. One step closer to his job.
Find Castiel.
---
James Novak might as well have been Castiel’s twin for all the similarities. Same piercing blue eyes, same dark hair (but his was parted nicely), and same plush lips. They look the same, but they couldn’t be more different. James, or Jimmy, had a wife and daughter and was a good Christian man. But he looks like Cas and that’s good enough for Dean.
Dean is in Pontiac and the irony is not lost on him. The very city where Castiel came from is where his doppelganger lives. This was where it started and this is where it will end.
He waits until Jimmy leaves for work, selling ad time on AM radio or something. Catches him in the car and takes him far away. Jimmy whimpers in the back seat, some high pitched whining that grates on Dean’s nerves.
Castiel doesn’t whimper.
He was planning on torturing this man until his need to kill Cas abated, but he can’t do it. This man is both just like Cas and at the same time completely different.
He tosses him behind a motel. Blood is splashed on the walls and, in a daze, he writes a message. Sam would comment on his terrible spelling or the horrible cliche moment of it all. If he was still here at least.
Dean punches the wall and kicks the long dead body of Jimmy Novak.
He needs Cas. He needs the damn angel like air. He still doesn’t know whether to kill him or ravish him. He glances at the time. Almost 10 pm. He notices the date.
It’s Thursday.
---
Castiel sees the message. It’s not released to the public, but his informant has connections and he takes advantage of it. Dean has an excellent point. The man looks extraordinarily like him. That’s not what interests him, however. It’s the words written in blood on the wall.
Not Cas. Not Cas. Come get me.
He’s only too eager to do so. His informant gave him all the information on his look-alike. Jimmy Novak. Married to Amelia with a daughter, Claire. It is only fitting that he finishes what Dean started. You don’t kill one member of a family. No.
You kill them all.
---
It’s dark. Really dark. Is it night? Day? The room is unfamiliar. There’s a bottle in his hand. Empty Jack Daniels. More whiskey bottles are in the room. They reflect blue light. Blue. Light. He doesn’t know where the blue light is coming from.
What kind of light is blue anyway?
Mindlessly, he lifts his arm to take another swig of the days old booze.
He gags.
The sink is too far away to make to in time. He vomits on the floor.
God, he hopes he’s not in a hotel. He squints and looks around. It’s dark. Black. That damn blue light is still glowing from somewhere. He doesn’t like it. It’s blue. Blue is. Bad.
There’s something about... eyes. Eyes and blue. Blue eyes and angels. An angel.
Castiel.
He sits up straight and feels the alcohol rise in his throat again. He’s on his knees, not enough energy to expel his stomach. He just gags and moans.
But he remembers. He’s got revenge to deal out. He needs to hurt someone. Another someone. He got that other guy. Jimmy. He needs his twin. Cas.
He rubs his eyes and stumbles to his feet. The world is spinning and wobbly. He squints around the darkened room and realizes, thankfully, he’s not in a hotel.
Then where the hell is he?
The sink is filled with bottles. Beer bottles, whiskey, even one bottle of wine. He wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t drink wine, no matter how bad things get. He turns the faucet on anyway, ignoring the splash off the bottles.
It’s amazing how much more human he feels after washing his face and drinking some water. His head has a supernova going on inside, but he can deal with that. He has more pressing issues.
Like what day it is.
He thanks all deities above that his phone is alive. It’s Tuesday. Dean lost five days in this drunken haze. Five. Days. Is that possible? He doesn’t even know. Sam never let him get this drunk ever.
“Sam,” he tries to say, but his voice refuses to work. He clears his throat and tries again, “Saamm. Why’d you let me get this drunk?”
No answer.
Like a sledgehammer, he remembers. No more Sam. No more little brother. No more bitch to his jerk. No more snarky comments. He can’t breathe. His chest is caved in. Sam took it all with him. Took his heart, his lungs. Dean doesn’t have anything.
By sheer force of will he takes in a shuddering breath.
Hot tears spill over. He reaches for his bottle of alcohol, but remembers that he has business to attend to. Sam would want him to go on. It was his dying wish.
It’s late, but that’s not going to stop him from leaving. He’s got enough brain cells left to know that he should not be driving. Instead, he stumbles out of the house, the cold air waking him a bit more. He shivers.
Two streets away is a diner. He stumbles in, ignoring the looks from the patrons. The clock says it’s almost midnight. He collapses into a booth and cradles his pounding head in his arms.
“Can I get you anything, sweetheart?” a sweet voice says in his ear.
It’s an old lady. Sweet. Smells like vanilla. He mumbles something that hopefully sounds like coffee and she must get the message because she moves on.
A television is mounted on the ceiling. It’s the news. Rerun from this morning. Or earlier in the night. He doesn’t know. The sound is off. He reads the caption.
Castiel killed the family of deceased James Novak. Wife Amelia and daughter Claire were found in their homes, throats slashed. A grim message calling out the last Winchester to action.
Dean tosses a few dollars on the table and rushes from the diner. This is it. He can finally avenge his brother. He ignores the waitress calling about his coffee. He’s as awake as can be.
The wind is blowing. A storm is coming. He pulls out his cell phone and calls.
“Dean.”
His voice sends Dean whirling. It’s been so long since that voice has slid up his body and singed his nerves. Too long.
“Cas.”
“I’ve been waiting.”
“Me too.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. You in Pontiac?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Castiel’s voice is filled with promise, “428 Water.”
“Novak’s house.”
“See you then.”
---
He doesn’t know how he stole a car. He doesn’t know how he even drove consider he’s had nothing in his stomach for a week. All he knows is that he is pulling up in front of the Novak house. He sees a gorgeous car parked there. It wasn’t there last time. Must be Castiel’s.
A 1967 Chevy Impala. Black. Man’s got style.
Dean crosses the black and yellow caution tape. It’s dark anyway. No one to see him. He opens the door, half expecting a fight.
“It’s so good to see you in person,” Castiel’s voice comes from the darkness. “I thought you’d be shorter.”
“That’s because Sam’s a giant,” Dean says, falling into their easy banter. “Not fair that I can’t see you.”
Castiel comes out of the shadows. He’s almost as tall as Dean, just a little shorter. His hair is as black and messy as ever and his blue eyes are like sapphires. They pinpoint Dean and keep him still. Like lasers.
The decision to kill him or ravish him comes easy to him now.
He stalks forward, face set. Castiel doesn’t flinch. That makes it easier.
Part XI