The Dead Bodies Mean "I Love You" Part XI
Masterpost | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X
Castiel isn’t surprised at Dean’s ferocity. He’s surprised at the passion hidden beneath the kiss. Dean’s mouth is strong and sure, pressing insistently against his own. It’s easy to give in. Dean is making criminal noises in the back of his throat. Switching between moans and whimpers. His hands are tight and his body lean and hot.
“Dean Winchester,” Castiel murmurs against those lips. “Mine at last.”
That simple phrase changes everything.
Dean pushes him back, eyes glowing with fury.
“I’m not yours!” he snaps. “I was never yours! I shouldn’t even be here!”
“Yes, you should,” Castiel reaches forward. “You should be here. You belong here.”
“I--no!” Dean shouts, slapping Castiel’s hands. “I belong with my brother! It’s your fault his dead! All your fault!”
“You went after my cousin.”
“You killed Garth.”
“You killed Anna.”
“You killed Jo.”
“You killed that pastor.”
“You...”
Castiel smiles.
“I did what, Dean? Took your press coverage? Got in the way of your spotlight?” Dean doesn’t say anything so Castiel pushes on. “Those aren’t good enough reasons, Dean.”
“Don’t say my name,” Dean snarls. “I had a good life with Sam. We were happy. Then you showed up and ruined everything!”
“Dean,” Castiel says. “Dean. Dean. Dean Dean Dean!”
“SHUT UP!” Dean roars, jumping forward and tackling Castiel to the ground. “Shut up!”
Castiel laughs as Dean straddles him, hands balled in fists.
“Do it,” Castiel says. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Dean slams his fist down. Castiel flinches. The floor by his head is splintered. Dean’s hand is bloody. Neither of them move.
“He’s the only reason I’m even here,” Dean says softly. “I promised Sam I’d come find you. It was his dying wish. To come find you.”
“You got me,” Castiel whispers. “What’s next? Are you going to kill me?”
Honestly, if Castiel has to die, he wouldn’t mind dying by Dean’s hand. A death by Dean will be swift, sure, and beautiful. Dean pulls a gun from the back of his pants, pulling back the hammer and pressing it against Castiel’s temple.
His hands are shaking.
Castiel doesn’t say anything. He waits. He’s always been good at waiting. If he dies, then he dies. He has made his peace with God. He closes his eyes and waits for the end.
It doesn’t come.
He hears the gun land on the ground far away. Thrown away. He would smirk, but Dean pressed their mouths together again, grinding their hips together. It’s hot, rough, needy, and quick. Castiel can’t do anything but lift his hips up, keeping the delicious pleasure as close as he can. He scrapes his nails up Dean’s back moving his head slightly.
Teeth bury into his neck and he screams.
---
Dean wakes up in a fog. He can’t believe he’s still hung over. He turns over and realizes he’s in a house. A nice house. And he’s looking into crystal blue eyes.
“Did we...?”
“You were insistent,” Castiel nods.
“This isn’t the Novak house.”
“You were asleep and the cops were coming. We’re at my house.”
“You mean I was in your car?”
“Yeah.”
“And I wasn’t awake to enjoy her beauty?”
“You snored.”
“Great.”
Castiel is smiling and Dean can’t help but think it’s the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. He’s smiling back without thinking when his little brother crashes into his head. Not literally, of course, because he’s gone.
Sammy is gone and Dean is laughing with the man who all but killed him. He can’t go. He promised to keep him in line. He promised to keep an eye out on Castiel.
He can’t leave but he can’t stay.
He rolls over and curls around a pillow. Castiel gets off the bed and he can hear the door shut and a shower running.
Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been lost before. He’s always had somewhere to go. Always had something to do. Always had someone to fight for. Sam. Sam knew where to go and what to do. Sam was all Dean cared about. He was Dean’s heart and soul.
Now he has nothing. Just this hole in his chest, eating him inside. It’s like a black hole of empty promises and pointless fights, filled with might-have-beens and if-onlys. For the first time in a week Dean can feel the black hole clearly. He doesn’t have the haze of alcohol numbing his senses.
He can feel every jagged edge of his broken heart.
It’s pulling him in. The black hole. He wants to succumb. To fall in so deep and never come out. To drift in memories of Sammy forever.
The shower turns off and Dean slips away.
---
Castiel keeps a journal. This one is new, leather bound, with creamy sheets of paper. On the first page he wrote one word. Dean.
November 2, 2012 -- Friday
Dean is as silent as always. I don’t know what happened yesterday, but it is killing him inside. I came out of the shower and he was completely silent, not even bothering to move. Just motionless and lifeless on the bed.
I did manage to feed him and keep him safe. I hoped today would be better. Unfortunately it’s not.
I can’t begin to describe the sheer agony of seeing a man, so full of life, be as ghost-like as Dean Winchester has become. I hope if I keep this journal, keep a record of Dean, that I can help him. Find a way to break through whatever walls he’s thrown up, and help.
~ C.
November 4, 2012 -- Sunday
Nothing important happened Saturday. I brought home a case of beer and Dean drank half of it. I don’t like where it is going. He’s handsy when he’s drunk and pulled me into bed with him.
This morning he snuggled into me and called me ‘Sam’. I knew the brothers were close, but not even I could imagine they were that close.
You can imagine the pain that filled his eyes when he realized it was me and not his brother in his arms.
He has himself locked in a spare room. I believe he thinks it is his. Any attempts at communication are lost. He refuses to even look at me.
~ C.
November 7, 2012 -- Wednesday
Still there is little improvement on Dean. He simply exists, with no will to move on. I’ve made contact with Ash. He was a close friend of the Winchesters and has been more than willing with all my previous requests, but denies telling me what is so special between the brothers.
How quickly he was able to tell me the location of Jo, but he can’t tell me this.
He says the FBI have considered our cases cold and closed for the time being. Apparently Agent Henricksen is tired of chasing dead ends.
Even as a shadow, a wraith almost, Dean possesses alarming beauty. He just... floats around the house. Occasionally eating, but mostly drinking. I forgot to bring home beer and he almost killed me.
Instead he slammed me into the mattress.
I’m still limping from it.
~ C.
November 9, 2012 -- Friday
He fought me today. Dean didn’t say much, just that it was my fault Sam was dead. He’s got a strong punch. I might be bruised for a while. Though it was as if the floodgates were opened. Suddenly Dean began talking.
He didn’t say much, just how much he hated me and how he regrets losing Sam more than anything.
With their dad always gone, Dean raised Sam. I can’t begin to imagine that kind of closeness. Looking out for each other for years and years they way they’ve done so. It’s no wonder Dean is torn up over it.
He needs to talk about it. I’ll be here for him when the time comes.
~ C.
November 12, 2012 -- Monday
It has been ten days. Slowly, Dean started talking. It’s like reaching out to a scared rabbit. You must be quiet and gentle and wait for him to approach. But the rewards are worth it.
I know of his mother and father and the man who killed them both. I know of the murder of Ellen Harvelle and Bobby Singer. Still, hearing it from Dean’, hearing his voice break as he talks about Alex (Azazel he calls him) and trying for court. It makes it real. These are not moments just printed on paper. They are actual events and this man had to live through each one of them.
He tells me about the pentagram. It was Sam’s idea.
Azazel, a name Alex gave himself, is the name of a demon. Curious that he chose it. When Dean and Sam first found him, his house was filled with all sorts of Satanic lore and paraphernalia. Pentagrams and inverted crosses and alters with blood rituals and the like.
Dean shot him in the heart.
Sam was very superstitious, and he believed that Azazel truly brought demons to Earth to hunt the Winchesters. The pentagram ensures that the souls of those they killed are protected from the demons.
To think, I was on a holy mission, and unknowingly the Winchesters were on one as well.
~ C.
November 14, 2012 -- Wednesday
Dean is currently tucked against my chest. His breaths are slow and even and soothing. It is so easy to think that nothing is wrong. That he is whole and perfect, as much as I am whole and imperfect.
He whispered my name during sex. The first time he’s ever done so. As if ashamed, he bent away, tears in his eyes. I can’t begin to fathom the reasons for Dean to react that way, though I have my thoughts.
Perhaps he thought I was his brother, though I doubt that is true. No matter how close the brothers were, I know they were nothing but platonic towards each other. At least, that is what I believe and I will stand by it until I die.
The more likely option is that Dean is still grieving. He cannot give himself to me because his mind is dominated by his brother, by that vague promise to ‘keep me in line’ and such.
It is no bother. I am content to wait.
~ C.
Oh. The thought came to me right as I was falling asleep, curled next to Dean. I may be falling in love. But, that is surely impossible. I can’t possibly fall in love with such a brash man. Lust, I can deal with. It’s hard not to lust after Dean Winchester. Having him here, however, in my house, trying to build him up after the death of his brother, being so aware of him and his emotions...
It is nothing. My mind is playing tricks on me.
~ C.
November 16, 2012 -- Friday
Dean looked at me today. I mean really looked. He didn’t glance over me, or close his eyes, or punch me. He looked.
I feel almost giddy. Perhaps we are making headway. It’s been three weeks since Dean fell apart. Three weeks since he hid away inside himself.
He’s sitting across the table from me, eating some leftover pizza and slowly sipping a bottle of beer. It’s as if Dean is almost human again. Beyond a doubt I know I am falling.
Perhaps I’ve been falling in love with Dean since I saw him on the news, those long, long months ago. It was easier to put myself on a path of righteousness, to believe it was mere lust.
There is no way he’d feel the same. He is a true killer, as am I. We do not meddle with things such as love.
Part XII
Castiel isn’t surprised at Dean’s ferocity. He’s surprised at the passion hidden beneath the kiss. Dean’s mouth is strong and sure, pressing insistently against his own. It’s easy to give in. Dean is making criminal noises in the back of his throat. Switching between moans and whimpers. His hands are tight and his body lean and hot.
“Dean Winchester,” Castiel murmurs against those lips. “Mine at last.”
That simple phrase changes everything.
Dean pushes him back, eyes glowing with fury.
“I’m not yours!” he snaps. “I was never yours! I shouldn’t even be here!”
“Yes, you should,” Castiel reaches forward. “You should be here. You belong here.”
“I--no!” Dean shouts, slapping Castiel’s hands. “I belong with my brother! It’s your fault his dead! All your fault!”
“You went after my cousin.”
“You killed Garth.”
“You killed Anna.”
“You killed Jo.”
“You killed that pastor.”
“You...”
Castiel smiles.
“I did what, Dean? Took your press coverage? Got in the way of your spotlight?” Dean doesn’t say anything so Castiel pushes on. “Those aren’t good enough reasons, Dean.”
“Don’t say my name,” Dean snarls. “I had a good life with Sam. We were happy. Then you showed up and ruined everything!”
“Dean,” Castiel says. “Dean. Dean. Dean Dean Dean!”
“SHUT UP!” Dean roars, jumping forward and tackling Castiel to the ground. “Shut up!”
Castiel laughs as Dean straddles him, hands balled in fists.
“Do it,” Castiel says. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Dean slams his fist down. Castiel flinches. The floor by his head is splintered. Dean’s hand is bloody. Neither of them move.
“He’s the only reason I’m even here,” Dean says softly. “I promised Sam I’d come find you. It was his dying wish. To come find you.”
“You got me,” Castiel whispers. “What’s next? Are you going to kill me?”
Honestly, if Castiel has to die, he wouldn’t mind dying by Dean’s hand. A death by Dean will be swift, sure, and beautiful. Dean pulls a gun from the back of his pants, pulling back the hammer and pressing it against Castiel’s temple.
His hands are shaking.
Castiel doesn’t say anything. He waits. He’s always been good at waiting. If he dies, then he dies. He has made his peace with God. He closes his eyes and waits for the end.
It doesn’t come.
He hears the gun land on the ground far away. Thrown away. He would smirk, but Dean pressed their mouths together again, grinding their hips together. It’s hot, rough, needy, and quick. Castiel can’t do anything but lift his hips up, keeping the delicious pleasure as close as he can. He scrapes his nails up Dean’s back moving his head slightly.
Teeth bury into his neck and he screams.
---
Dean wakes up in a fog. He can’t believe he’s still hung over. He turns over and realizes he’s in a house. A nice house. And he’s looking into crystal blue eyes.
“Did we...?”
“You were insistent,” Castiel nods.
“This isn’t the Novak house.”
“You were asleep and the cops were coming. We’re at my house.”
“You mean I was in your car?”
“Yeah.”
“And I wasn’t awake to enjoy her beauty?”
“You snored.”
“Great.”
Castiel is smiling and Dean can’t help but think it’s the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. He’s smiling back without thinking when his little brother crashes into his head. Not literally, of course, because he’s gone.
Sammy is gone and Dean is laughing with the man who all but killed him. He can’t go. He promised to keep him in line. He promised to keep an eye out on Castiel.
He can’t leave but he can’t stay.
He rolls over and curls around a pillow. Castiel gets off the bed and he can hear the door shut and a shower running.
Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been lost before. He’s always had somewhere to go. Always had something to do. Always had someone to fight for. Sam. Sam knew where to go and what to do. Sam was all Dean cared about. He was Dean’s heart and soul.
Now he has nothing. Just this hole in his chest, eating him inside. It’s like a black hole of empty promises and pointless fights, filled with might-have-beens and if-onlys. For the first time in a week Dean can feel the black hole clearly. He doesn’t have the haze of alcohol numbing his senses.
He can feel every jagged edge of his broken heart.
It’s pulling him in. The black hole. He wants to succumb. To fall in so deep and never come out. To drift in memories of Sammy forever.
The shower turns off and Dean slips away.
---
Castiel keeps a journal. This one is new, leather bound, with creamy sheets of paper. On the first page he wrote one word. Dean.
November 2, 2012 -- Friday
Dean is as silent as always. I don’t know what happened yesterday, but it is killing him inside. I came out of the shower and he was completely silent, not even bothering to move. Just motionless and lifeless on the bed.
I did manage to feed him and keep him safe. I hoped today would be better. Unfortunately it’s not.
I can’t begin to describe the sheer agony of seeing a man, so full of life, be as ghost-like as Dean Winchester has become. I hope if I keep this journal, keep a record of Dean, that I can help him. Find a way to break through whatever walls he’s thrown up, and help.
~ C.
November 4, 2012 -- Sunday
Nothing important happened Saturday. I brought home a case of beer and Dean drank half of it. I don’t like where it is going. He’s handsy when he’s drunk and pulled me into bed with him.
This morning he snuggled into me and called me ‘Sam’. I knew the brothers were close, but not even I could imagine they were that close.
You can imagine the pain that filled his eyes when he realized it was me and not his brother in his arms.
He has himself locked in a spare room. I believe he thinks it is his. Any attempts at communication are lost. He refuses to even look at me.
~ C.
November 7, 2012 -- Wednesday
Still there is little improvement on Dean. He simply exists, with no will to move on. I’ve made contact with Ash. He was a close friend of the Winchesters and has been more than willing with all my previous requests, but denies telling me what is so special between the brothers.
How quickly he was able to tell me the location of Jo, but he can’t tell me this.
He says the FBI have considered our cases cold and closed for the time being. Apparently Agent Henricksen is tired of chasing dead ends.
Even as a shadow, a wraith almost, Dean possesses alarming beauty. He just... floats around the house. Occasionally eating, but mostly drinking. I forgot to bring home beer and he almost killed me.
Instead he slammed me into the mattress.
I’m still limping from it.
~ C.
November 9, 2012 -- Friday
He fought me today. Dean didn’t say much, just that it was my fault Sam was dead. He’s got a strong punch. I might be bruised for a while. Though it was as if the floodgates were opened. Suddenly Dean began talking.
He didn’t say much, just how much he hated me and how he regrets losing Sam more than anything.
With their dad always gone, Dean raised Sam. I can’t begin to imagine that kind of closeness. Looking out for each other for years and years they way they’ve done so. It’s no wonder Dean is torn up over it.
He needs to talk about it. I’ll be here for him when the time comes.
~ C.
November 12, 2012 -- Monday
It has been ten days. Slowly, Dean started talking. It’s like reaching out to a scared rabbit. You must be quiet and gentle and wait for him to approach. But the rewards are worth it.
I know of his mother and father and the man who killed them both. I know of the murder of Ellen Harvelle and Bobby Singer. Still, hearing it from Dean’, hearing his voice break as he talks about Alex (Azazel he calls him) and trying for court. It makes it real. These are not moments just printed on paper. They are actual events and this man had to live through each one of them.
He tells me about the pentagram. It was Sam’s idea.
Azazel, a name Alex gave himself, is the name of a demon. Curious that he chose it. When Dean and Sam first found him, his house was filled with all sorts of Satanic lore and paraphernalia. Pentagrams and inverted crosses and alters with blood rituals and the like.
Dean shot him in the heart.
Sam was very superstitious, and he believed that Azazel truly brought demons to Earth to hunt the Winchesters. The pentagram ensures that the souls of those they killed are protected from the demons.
To think, I was on a holy mission, and unknowingly the Winchesters were on one as well.
~ C.
November 14, 2012 -- Wednesday
Dean is currently tucked against my chest. His breaths are slow and even and soothing. It is so easy to think that nothing is wrong. That he is whole and perfect, as much as I am whole and imperfect.
He whispered my name during sex. The first time he’s ever done so. As if ashamed, he bent away, tears in his eyes. I can’t begin to fathom the reasons for Dean to react that way, though I have my thoughts.
Perhaps he thought I was his brother, though I doubt that is true. No matter how close the brothers were, I know they were nothing but platonic towards each other. At least, that is what I believe and I will stand by it until I die.
The more likely option is that Dean is still grieving. He cannot give himself to me because his mind is dominated by his brother, by that vague promise to ‘keep me in line’ and such.
It is no bother. I am content to wait.
~ C.
Oh. The thought came to me right as I was falling asleep, curled next to Dean. I may be falling in love. But, that is surely impossible. I can’t possibly fall in love with such a brash man. Lust, I can deal with. It’s hard not to lust after Dean Winchester. Having him here, however, in my house, trying to build him up after the death of his brother, being so aware of him and his emotions...
It is nothing. My mind is playing tricks on me.
~ C.
November 16, 2012 -- Friday
Dean looked at me today. I mean really looked. He didn’t glance over me, or close his eyes, or punch me. He looked.
I feel almost giddy. Perhaps we are making headway. It’s been three weeks since Dean fell apart. Three weeks since he hid away inside himself.
He’s sitting across the table from me, eating some leftover pizza and slowly sipping a bottle of beer. It’s as if Dean is almost human again. Beyond a doubt I know I am falling.
Perhaps I’ve been falling in love with Dean since I saw him on the news, those long, long months ago. It was easier to put myself on a path of righteousness, to believe it was mere lust.
There is no way he’d feel the same. He is a true killer, as am I. We do not meddle with things such as love.
Part XII