[fic] It's In This Silence That I Feel My World Collapse for drowninthenow
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: It's In This Silence That I Feel My World Collapse
Author: brokentoy85
Recipient: drowninthenow
Rating: R
Word Count: 9254
Warnings: character death
Spoilers: none
Summary: Cas is gone and Dean tries to cope with it. In silence.
Author notes: hi! so, here's my gift for you! You didn't leave any specific prompts, but I did my best to fulfill your request for 'tearing up'. Hopefully this will do the trick :) I hope you like it as much as i loved writing it for you, and Merry Xmas :D To my wonderful shadowrose81 for being the best beta ever! thank you bb, always!
I miss you, Dean wants to say.
I miss you like I've never missed anything before, except for Sam.
I miss you like something I chose to keep around and now it's gone. And I can't take it.
Dean wants to say this and much more, but he can't. No one is listening anyway.
He opens another beer, flops down on his bed and drinks.
* * *
When he dreams, it's not about Hell anymore.
Oh well, maybe it is, but it's a different kind of Hell and he finds that sometimes he might prefer to see the flames burning instead of waking up with a name on his lips.
I hate this, he thinks. I hate this so much.
He wakes up in the middle of the night and gets out. In the parking lot, where everything is silent and dark, he wants to scream. He wants to tear the words from inside himself, have them go free in the space around him, never ever see them again.
Those words hurt. Those are words meant to be listened to.
He can't scream. He can't really liberate himself from this hurt. So he just seats there in the cold and hopes for a little numbness.
* * *
He dreams of his eyes, of course.
During the day he tries not to think about them. The blue depth of them and the way they used to stare him down, gauging secrets from his mind.
When he sleeps, those eyes are closed sometimes. He dreams of running fingers on his skin, mouth wet and lips parted in a whisper, and those eyes don't see anything. They don't open until it's over and he's shivering above him.
I hate you, he'd like to say.
But those are dreams and it wouldn't matter anyway.
* * *
He gets on with his life because he's expected to.
He keeps booking a separate room, his brother keeping silent, and weeks go by in between hunts like nothing ever happened.
The space around him feels empty.
He strains his ears to hear the sound of wings and when nothing ever happens, he stops being surprised.
This is useless. That's how it feels.
The only thing that makes sense is saving people, hunting things. So he keeps doing that because the alternative would be sitting in a corner, waiting for something that never comes, and trying not to be too loud inside his own head.
* * *
''You should talk to me.'' Sam says.
He's gracious enough to not point out that he should just talk in general, start again and break the silence he fell in all those weeks ago.
But he can't, doesn't feel the need and doesn't even want to.
He left so many things unsaid when he had the chance to be heard that now it doesn't really make sense to him all this talking business.
He's gone now. What's there to say anyway?
* * *
''You are beautiful to me.''
He hears it in his sleep.
He's dreaming and he knows it. His unresisting weight on his body a long gone memory by now, but the words still hurt him like they did that first time.
He wakes up and he's crying.
He feels the wetness on his pillow and he hates this. Hates this bed, too empty and cold. Hates this room, two states too far from where he last saw him. He hates himself, too, for this reaction.
There is nothing for him to do than close his eyes again and, between breaths, he tries to relax.
He falls asleep again without managing to be any calmer.
* * *
He always thinks about him and he only stops when it's time to focus on what their hunting.
He can tell his brother is worried, but there's nothing he can do to reassure him because he doesn't really know how to make things better.
There are days when his silence is never even mentioned. Once they went by five days without Sam asking him to talk.
He knows it must weird his brother out not to hear his voice, constantly bitching and bragging and shouting and asking for pie, but the fact is, that's it, and that's not gonna change.
Sam will accept it eventually.
He has to. It's not like he has a choice.
* * *
''I'm sure whatever it is you never told him, he already knew.'' Sam says.
He isn't sure how his brother can be so perceptive, but all he can do at that is lower his gaze and get out of the room.
* * *
In the dark, there are times when he can't help himself.
He thinks about his kiss, the way those fingers ran up his body like he was a wonder that needed be uncovered, and the ghost of those touches is so real in the empty spaces of his bed that he's powerless against it.
He makes it fast, puts a hand on himself and thinks about him.
He moans low in his throat and kills all the sounds that try to escape in the cold air surrounding him.
The words he used to mutter in the intimate cocoon of his embrace, the soft groans of pleasure and shivers of fulfillment he used to shake with, are not to be heard by anyone now, not even the walls of an anonymous motel room.
He brings himself to completion and shudders at the memory of his cry being swallowed whole by Cas' willing mouth, thoughts and feelings traveling from one body to another, in search of home.
In the end, he covers himself, and all is bleak in his world except for his memory of him.
* * *
He never made a habit of thinking about the future before.
It's not that he took anything for granted because even he is not so stupid to do that with the kind of life he's always led, but he simply didn't find the point in doing so.
For him, future was an abstract entity that encompassed uncertainty of the worst kind.
In his mind, there were only so many options. Either he lived a full life, going as far as retiring from hunting, dying alone in the end when everybody he ever loved had finally left. Or, and he couldn't think which one was worse, he would get killed on the job, being the one to leave behind the others, hopefully safe and unhurt.
Now and it comes as a surprise, he finds himself daydreaming. It's not really about the future, really. There are too many what ifs in there to sort through, but he thinks about a life with him.
A house, maybe. None of that white picket fence and two-point-five kids bullshit, of course, because he can be rational even in his fantasies, but still.
He wonders what it would be like. The smell of him on the sheets, always the same bed to fall into. A shower big enough for two, a dinner and a movie from time to time.
He wonders about Christmases and midnight kisses, about birthdays they could create just for him, because he'd have the luxury of choosing his own.
He even goes so far, sometimes, as thinking about the gifts. What books he'd like to find under his tree, his first pair of socks to call his own and a new tie, just for kicks.
These moments are the worst. To think about a normal life he'd never have never hurt so much as now, when he truly would have tried.
* * *
I brought you pie, Cas.
He dreams again and when it's about pie, it's always apple in his dreams.
They're sitting in a diner and they're sharing a huge piece with vanilla ice cream on the side. Cas used to like the pie cold, but when he explained to him the wonders of the memories a warm bite could elicit in his brain, he changed his mind.
He told him about his mother and the Sunday afternoons waiting for it to be cool enough to sink his baby teeth into and he smiled so much at the feeling of warmth, the sentiment must have shown because his point came across fine.
He remembers the fascination in his blue eyes when he watched the ice cream melt.
He remembers, and it hurts, how the first time he tried to eat the whole thing before the coating became a mess of liquefying vanilla. He failed, of course.
"I don't understand,'' he said, looking at his plate with the kind of disappointment one usually reserves for a battle lost in the middle of a war. ''It's too warm to keep the ice cream from melting. What is the point?''
He remembers laughing then and he cries now in his sleep because it's not fair. All of this is not fair and he should have known it wouldn't last.
Still, he sees the point in this and he can't bring himself to regret a single moment of it.
* * *
Life is hard when you live in silence. People don't understand you and don't even make an effort, but it's ok with him.
Life is hard without him a little silence doesn't really make a difference.
* * *
''I'm here for you, Dean.'' Sam says one night. They're having beers under the open sky, leaning on the Impala's hood.
He knows this. Of course he does.
He looks at his brother then and smiles a little. It's been months, but the pain doesn't go away. It's a hole in his soul that can't be filled, no matter how much alcohol he shoves in there and he knows that he will eventually have to learn and live without him.
Not tonight, he thought. Tonight is still too early.
* * *
Six months ago this day, a part of him died.
* * *
If he had to choose his favorite part of Cas' body, if he was to be so shallow as to only concentrate on his physical appearance, he'd say his hands. Of course, his eyes are really what captured him from the beginning, but thinking of that unnatural blue's too much these days so he'll settle for the hands.
They were strong and delicate and perfect.
They rebuilt him from nothing and knew how to handle him in every situation.
His skin remembers each blow to the face as well as each caress to his body.
He can still feel those fingertips tracing the freckles on his nose and there are times when he closes his eyes and thinks of the weight of that touch and how Cas never seemed to be able to count them all.
He always got distracted into kissing him somehow.
* * *
One night he drinks himself into a stupor.
He's alone as always in his room, and suddenly the weight of all this time without him seems too much to bear.
He drinks and drinks and doesn't think to stop. He wants to tear his heart to shreds and never hear it beat anymore. It's too loud in his ears and it's like it keeps screaming at him to pay attention.
It's been like this all day. And by night he just can't do it alone.
He hates it. He hates every second of his life now and he doesn't know where he's going anymore.
He's following his brother, and that is enough for now, but there will be the day when his silence will be too much for Sam, and he can't blame him.
He tried to behave himself, tried not to drawn his sorrow in alcohol and recklessness on the job, but tonight his heart won't just stop beating so fast, and he can't think of anything else.
I wish you were here.
That's all. That's the only thing he will allow himself because he's drunk now, and he's on the verge of tears and he hates him. He hates him so much and
Fuck, why are you not here?
The bottle smashes on the wall and he hopes Sam is sound asleep by now because he knows already that tomorrow he won't want to talk about it.
He can't take it anymore and so he drinks. One bottle after another piling next to his bed like his memories of Cas. Empty and useless as he feels.
He can't see clear and he thinks he hears his voice somewhere in the back of his mind, but that's just madness and the haze of alcohol can never be enough to bring him back to sanity.
He's not aware of his eyes closing or his limbs falling limply to the bedside, and the sound of glass shattering on the floor. It's just a vague memory by the time darkness takes him.
* * *
When he opens his eyes, the motel room is gone and all he can see is blue.
Cas is there standing just in front of him and he's just as beautiful as the last time he laid eyes on him. He doesn't smile, but there's something in the way he looks at him that is serene and peaceful.
It can't be possible. It can't be. Cas is gone and he was lost and he thought so much about finding him again, having him again, that he can't believe it's finally time.
He takes a breath, eyes clouding with tears. He feels warm all over and he wants to raise his hand toward that figure standing there, looking so much like his Cas that it hurts. He wants to touch him and hold him and be with him. In him, around him, everywhere and more.
He closes his eyes for a second, willing the tears away and trying to calm down. He counts to three and he's almost afraid to open his again because what if?
What if this is another dream, one that feels more real than the others? What if he opens his eyes and he's alone somewhere, cold in his bed and forever restless in the wake of his memories?
So he counts to three, his eyes open and Castiel is still there.
There's something wrong with the entire picture, but he can't really put a finger on it. It might be the excessive light surrounding them or the lack of hangover after all he remembers drinking the night before.
He feels lighter somehow, but that's just not it.
The thing that feels out of place, except for the sudden presence of Castiel in front of him, is the sight of two huge beautiful wings spread wide on Cas' back.
They're magnificent and ten feet wide on each side of him and Dean aches to touch them.
He spares a thought for Sam, alone in his room, but then Cas speaks and everything is forgotten for the moment.
''Hello Dean''
It's his voice, beautiful and rich, and Dean still wants to cry because this is all he ever wanted. He can't believe he's standing there, facing him and there's nothing in between.
He wants to believe, he wants and he kind of does, because what is left for him to do but this?
He feels tears falling. A sob crawls its way from deep inside him and he takes a step towards Castiel with his hands outstretched.
''I'm sorry they took me away from you.'' Cas is still speaking, eyes trained on him with infinite sadness. ''I tried my best to come back. I'm sorry I failed.''
Dean can't take it anymore. He's just a couple of inches away from him and he feels himself exploding with the need of touching his face, his hair and lips, sink into his form and lay there forever.
They'll never be apart this way. He'll dig a hole inside Cas and that will be his home.
Cas. Cas who's there and who's finally touching him. His fingers tracing down tear tracks to his lips, nonsense breathing in between them as Dean tries and fails to make sense of what's happening around him.
''I'll never leave again, Dean. You have my word.''
And then it's too much, for Cas is kissing him and it feels so real, it is so real that Dean has to take a second and recoil from it for an instant, basking in the feeling of being in his arms again.
Castiel holds him just like he used to. With a fierce gentleness that moves him to the core.
He wipes his eyes, clears his throat and the words come out tired and battered from eight months of silence.
''I love you. You have to know that.''
He kisses him again, tasting Cas on his lips, and all is fine in his world again.
* * *
Sam will join them, eventually, in his own, hopefully long time. For the moment it's just the two of them in this and it's ok.
Title: It's In This Silence That I Feel My World Collapse
Author: brokentoy85
Recipient: drowninthenow
Rating: R
Word Count: 9254
Warnings: character death
Spoilers: none
Summary: Cas is gone and Dean tries to cope with it. In silence.
Author notes: hi! so, here's my gift for you! You didn't leave any specific prompts, but I did my best to fulfill your request for 'tearing up'. Hopefully this will do the trick :) I hope you like it as much as i loved writing it for you, and Merry Xmas :D To my wonderful shadowrose81 for being the best beta ever! thank you bb, always!
I miss you, Dean wants to say.
I miss you like I've never missed anything before, except for Sam.
I miss you like something I chose to keep around and now it's gone. And I can't take it.
Dean wants to say this and much more, but he can't. No one is listening anyway.
He opens another beer, flops down on his bed and drinks.
* * *
When he dreams, it's not about Hell anymore.
Oh well, maybe it is, but it's a different kind of Hell and he finds that sometimes he might prefer to see the flames burning instead of waking up with a name on his lips.
I hate this, he thinks. I hate this so much.
He wakes up in the middle of the night and gets out. In the parking lot, where everything is silent and dark, he wants to scream. He wants to tear the words from inside himself, have them go free in the space around him, never ever see them again.
Those words hurt. Those are words meant to be listened to.
He can't scream. He can't really liberate himself from this hurt. So he just seats there in the cold and hopes for a little numbness.
* * *
He dreams of his eyes, of course.
During the day he tries not to think about them. The blue depth of them and the way they used to stare him down, gauging secrets from his mind.
When he sleeps, those eyes are closed sometimes. He dreams of running fingers on his skin, mouth wet and lips parted in a whisper, and those eyes don't see anything. They don't open until it's over and he's shivering above him.
I hate you, he'd like to say.
But those are dreams and it wouldn't matter anyway.
* * *
He gets on with his life because he's expected to.
He keeps booking a separate room, his brother keeping silent, and weeks go by in between hunts like nothing ever happened.
The space around him feels empty.
He strains his ears to hear the sound of wings and when nothing ever happens, he stops being surprised.
This is useless. That's how it feels.
The only thing that makes sense is saving people, hunting things. So he keeps doing that because the alternative would be sitting in a corner, waiting for something that never comes, and trying not to be too loud inside his own head.
* * *
''You should talk to me.'' Sam says.
He's gracious enough to not point out that he should just talk in general, start again and break the silence he fell in all those weeks ago.
But he can't, doesn't feel the need and doesn't even want to.
He left so many things unsaid when he had the chance to be heard that now it doesn't really make sense to him all this talking business.
He's gone now. What's there to say anyway?
* * *
''You are beautiful to me.''
He hears it in his sleep.
He's dreaming and he knows it. His unresisting weight on his body a long gone memory by now, but the words still hurt him like they did that first time.
He wakes up and he's crying.
He feels the wetness on his pillow and he hates this. Hates this bed, too empty and cold. Hates this room, two states too far from where he last saw him. He hates himself, too, for this reaction.
There is nothing for him to do than close his eyes again and, between breaths, he tries to relax.
He falls asleep again without managing to be any calmer.
* * *
He always thinks about him and he only stops when it's time to focus on what their hunting.
He can tell his brother is worried, but there's nothing he can do to reassure him because he doesn't really know how to make things better.
There are days when his silence is never even mentioned. Once they went by five days without Sam asking him to talk.
He knows it must weird his brother out not to hear his voice, constantly bitching and bragging and shouting and asking for pie, but the fact is, that's it, and that's not gonna change.
Sam will accept it eventually.
He has to. It's not like he has a choice.
* * *
''I'm sure whatever it is you never told him, he already knew.'' Sam says.
He isn't sure how his brother can be so perceptive, but all he can do at that is lower his gaze and get out of the room.
* * *
In the dark, there are times when he can't help himself.
He thinks about his kiss, the way those fingers ran up his body like he was a wonder that needed be uncovered, and the ghost of those touches is so real in the empty spaces of his bed that he's powerless against it.
He makes it fast, puts a hand on himself and thinks about him.
He moans low in his throat and kills all the sounds that try to escape in the cold air surrounding him.
The words he used to mutter in the intimate cocoon of his embrace, the soft groans of pleasure and shivers of fulfillment he used to shake with, are not to be heard by anyone now, not even the walls of an anonymous motel room.
He brings himself to completion and shudders at the memory of his cry being swallowed whole by Cas' willing mouth, thoughts and feelings traveling from one body to another, in search of home.
In the end, he covers himself, and all is bleak in his world except for his memory of him.
* * *
He never made a habit of thinking about the future before.
It's not that he took anything for granted because even he is not so stupid to do that with the kind of life he's always led, but he simply didn't find the point in doing so.
For him, future was an abstract entity that encompassed uncertainty of the worst kind.
In his mind, there were only so many options. Either he lived a full life, going as far as retiring from hunting, dying alone in the end when everybody he ever loved had finally left. Or, and he couldn't think which one was worse, he would get killed on the job, being the one to leave behind the others, hopefully safe and unhurt.
Now and it comes as a surprise, he finds himself daydreaming. It's not really about the future, really. There are too many what ifs in there to sort through, but he thinks about a life with him.
A house, maybe. None of that white picket fence and two-point-five kids bullshit, of course, because he can be rational even in his fantasies, but still.
He wonders what it would be like. The smell of him on the sheets, always the same bed to fall into. A shower big enough for two, a dinner and a movie from time to time.
He wonders about Christmases and midnight kisses, about birthdays they could create just for him, because he'd have the luxury of choosing his own.
He even goes so far, sometimes, as thinking about the gifts. What books he'd like to find under his tree, his first pair of socks to call his own and a new tie, just for kicks.
These moments are the worst. To think about a normal life he'd never have never hurt so much as now, when he truly would have tried.
* * *
I brought you pie, Cas.
He dreams again and when it's about pie, it's always apple in his dreams.
They're sitting in a diner and they're sharing a huge piece with vanilla ice cream on the side. Cas used to like the pie cold, but when he explained to him the wonders of the memories a warm bite could elicit in his brain, he changed his mind.
He told him about his mother and the Sunday afternoons waiting for it to be cool enough to sink his baby teeth into and he smiled so much at the feeling of warmth, the sentiment must have shown because his point came across fine.
He remembers the fascination in his blue eyes when he watched the ice cream melt.
He remembers, and it hurts, how the first time he tried to eat the whole thing before the coating became a mess of liquefying vanilla. He failed, of course.
"I don't understand,'' he said, looking at his plate with the kind of disappointment one usually reserves for a battle lost in the middle of a war. ''It's too warm to keep the ice cream from melting. What is the point?''
He remembers laughing then and he cries now in his sleep because it's not fair. All of this is not fair and he should have known it wouldn't last.
Still, he sees the point in this and he can't bring himself to regret a single moment of it.
* * *
Life is hard when you live in silence. People don't understand you and don't even make an effort, but it's ok with him.
Life is hard without him a little silence doesn't really make a difference.
* * *
''I'm here for you, Dean.'' Sam says one night. They're having beers under the open sky, leaning on the Impala's hood.
He knows this. Of course he does.
He looks at his brother then and smiles a little. It's been months, but the pain doesn't go away. It's a hole in his soul that can't be filled, no matter how much alcohol he shoves in there and he knows that he will eventually have to learn and live without him.
Not tonight, he thought. Tonight is still too early.
* * *
Six months ago this day, a part of him died.
* * *
If he had to choose his favorite part of Cas' body, if he was to be so shallow as to only concentrate on his physical appearance, he'd say his hands. Of course, his eyes are really what captured him from the beginning, but thinking of that unnatural blue's too much these days so he'll settle for the hands.
They were strong and delicate and perfect.
They rebuilt him from nothing and knew how to handle him in every situation.
His skin remembers each blow to the face as well as each caress to his body.
He can still feel those fingertips tracing the freckles on his nose and there are times when he closes his eyes and thinks of the weight of that touch and how Cas never seemed to be able to count them all.
He always got distracted into kissing him somehow.
* * *
One night he drinks himself into a stupor.
He's alone as always in his room, and suddenly the weight of all this time without him seems too much to bear.
He drinks and drinks and doesn't think to stop. He wants to tear his heart to shreds and never hear it beat anymore. It's too loud in his ears and it's like it keeps screaming at him to pay attention.
It's been like this all day. And by night he just can't do it alone.
He hates it. He hates every second of his life now and he doesn't know where he's going anymore.
He's following his brother, and that is enough for now, but there will be the day when his silence will be too much for Sam, and he can't blame him.
He tried to behave himself, tried not to drawn his sorrow in alcohol and recklessness on the job, but tonight his heart won't just stop beating so fast, and he can't think of anything else.
I wish you were here.
That's all. That's the only thing he will allow himself because he's drunk now, and he's on the verge of tears and he hates him. He hates him so much and
Fuck, why are you not here?
The bottle smashes on the wall and he hopes Sam is sound asleep by now because he knows already that tomorrow he won't want to talk about it.
He can't take it anymore and so he drinks. One bottle after another piling next to his bed like his memories of Cas. Empty and useless as he feels.
He can't see clear and he thinks he hears his voice somewhere in the back of his mind, but that's just madness and the haze of alcohol can never be enough to bring him back to sanity.
He's not aware of his eyes closing or his limbs falling limply to the bedside, and the sound of glass shattering on the floor. It's just a vague memory by the time darkness takes him.
* * *
When he opens his eyes, the motel room is gone and all he can see is blue.
Cas is there standing just in front of him and he's just as beautiful as the last time he laid eyes on him. He doesn't smile, but there's something in the way he looks at him that is serene and peaceful.
It can't be possible. It can't be. Cas is gone and he was lost and he thought so much about finding him again, having him again, that he can't believe it's finally time.
He takes a breath, eyes clouding with tears. He feels warm all over and he wants to raise his hand toward that figure standing there, looking so much like his Cas that it hurts. He wants to touch him and hold him and be with him. In him, around him, everywhere and more.
He closes his eyes for a second, willing the tears away and trying to calm down. He counts to three and he's almost afraid to open his again because what if?
What if this is another dream, one that feels more real than the others? What if he opens his eyes and he's alone somewhere, cold in his bed and forever restless in the wake of his memories?
So he counts to three, his eyes open and Castiel is still there.
There's something wrong with the entire picture, but he can't really put a finger on it. It might be the excessive light surrounding them or the lack of hangover after all he remembers drinking the night before.
He feels lighter somehow, but that's just not it.
The thing that feels out of place, except for the sudden presence of Castiel in front of him, is the sight of two huge beautiful wings spread wide on Cas' back.
They're magnificent and ten feet wide on each side of him and Dean aches to touch them.
He spares a thought for Sam, alone in his room, but then Cas speaks and everything is forgotten for the moment.
''Hello Dean''
It's his voice, beautiful and rich, and Dean still wants to cry because this is all he ever wanted. He can't believe he's standing there, facing him and there's nothing in between.
He wants to believe, he wants and he kind of does, because what is left for him to do but this?
He feels tears falling. A sob crawls its way from deep inside him and he takes a step towards Castiel with his hands outstretched.
''I'm sorry they took me away from you.'' Cas is still speaking, eyes trained on him with infinite sadness. ''I tried my best to come back. I'm sorry I failed.''
Dean can't take it anymore. He's just a couple of inches away from him and he feels himself exploding with the need of touching his face, his hair and lips, sink into his form and lay there forever.
They'll never be apart this way. He'll dig a hole inside Cas and that will be his home.
Cas. Cas who's there and who's finally touching him. His fingers tracing down tear tracks to his lips, nonsense breathing in between them as Dean tries and fails to make sense of what's happening around him.
''I'll never leave again, Dean. You have my word.''
And then it's too much, for Cas is kissing him and it feels so real, it is so real that Dean has to take a second and recoil from it for an instant, basking in the feeling of being in his arms again.
Castiel holds him just like he used to. With a fierce gentleness that moves him to the core.
He wipes his eyes, clears his throat and the words come out tired and battered from eight months of silence.
''I love you. You have to know that.''
He kisses him again, tasting Cas on his lips, and all is fine in his world again.
* * *
Sam will join them, eventually, in his own, hopefully long time. For the moment it's just the two of them in this and it's ok.