Fic: Good Comes Undone (Supernatural)

[keep_counting]

Title: Good Comes Undone
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas
Rating: R
Warnings: Swearing, allusions to violence, blood and death. Spoilers up to and including episode 5x10
Genre: Angst/Hurt-Comfort/Romance
Word-count: 1,667
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in relation to this.
A/N: Emotional trauma after 'Abandon All Hope' forced me to write therapy-fic. That turned into more angst instead.
Summary: 'I was unsure whether to give you a full bottle or an empty one - if you were going to throw it at the wall anyway.'

There is the sound of glass shattering, and maybe Bobby flinches a little and maybe Sam turns over in his (uneasy) sleep, but none of them really reacts, or wakes, or goes to see what it is.

They know what it is. Dean is getting drunk.

That, in itself, is of course not unusual. It happens often. Frequently often. Alarmingly often. You might say he gets drunk, or at least semi-buzzed, as often as other people change their underwear, but that might be slightly exaggerating it after all.

Slightly.

But, this night Dean is drunk (pissed, hammered, smashed) and he’s angry. Being angry is usually a good template for getting drunk, if you’re Dean Winchester at least. And Dean Winchester is both angry and drunk a lot – as stated above.

Hence, the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey getting smashed (broken, shattered, destroyed) against the wall.

It’s pathetic, because it doesn’t make him feel better. And now there’s no more whiskey left, unless he wants to lap it off the wall and floor.

He really doesn’t want to lap it off the wall and floor.

Dean hardly even has time to lament the loss of the bottle when a new one has suddenly appeared right next to him, and he thinks well damn, what are angels for? Because there was the tell-tale flutter of wings and a familiar presence next to him.

He doesn’t want to look at Cas because Cas was there and then he wasn’t and maybe if he had been…

Maybe if Dean hadn’t been so dead-set on ganking the fucking Devil with a stupid little pistol, Jo and Ellen would still be alive.

Scratch that. If Dean hadn’t been so dead-set on ganking the fucking Devil with a stupid little pistol, Jo and Ellen would still be alive – for sure.

“Thanks,” he says, instead of ranting and raving and accusing Cas, because Cas is Cas and accusing him of things out of his control has become moot and feels like dust in his mouth by now. The angel has got that kicked puppy-look down even better than Sammy does, and it always wins him over.

Always.

“I was unsure whether to give you a full bottle or an empty one,” Cas says, deep baritone filling the room and Dean has to wonder at Jimmy Novak’s normal tone, if Cas is deliberately making his voice deeper, rougher after the fiascos that was the gas station and the hotel room and if that’s the case Dean is sort of really thank-full for Vessel-vocal chords  because having your ears bleed once was twice too many and he might be a bit more drunk than first assumed. Instead of dwelling on this more, he takes a large swig of the proffered bottle and only vaguely registers that this is much better stuff than the cheap-skate shit he was drinking before, and where did Cas get this bottle? Angel-delivery – always the best.

“Um,” he says and realizes that Cas has been speaking. “You…?”

“If you were going to throw it at the wall anyway,” Cas continues and Dean has a short second of remembering what the angel said and he glances down at the bottle and scratches at the lapel on it, absentmindedly, imagining that it’s skin and he is drawing blood.

“It seemed a waste,” Cas adds.

“But you brought me a full one,” he says, not sure what the hell they’re talking about. Bottles or walls or possibly the fact that whatever remains of Ellen and Jo were blasted sky-high and all they had to burn and bury was a fucking black-and-white photo taking out of some morose death dealers scrap-book.

“I can get an empty one, if you feel like throwing some more things,” Cas offers and Dean sneaks a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, a goddamn angel standing light and tall and shrouded in the shadows of the dark guest-room.

“I’ll throw this one when it’s empty,” he says and takes a swig (drag, pull, mouthful), eyes focused on the way the trench-coat is so visible in the darkness, like it’s a halo, slipping from the head to engulf and encase the body instead. He figures Vessels need a bit of armour, in times of trouble. And Cas wears his coat like armour, like protection and like a signature and he’s reached out with his free hand and tugged at said coat before he’s even thought about it, the mattress dipping under him as a new weight is settled on it. Cas is sitting close, their knees knocking together, hands folded awkwardly and Dean’s fingers still gripping the lapels of the light clothing.

There’s silence as Dean drinks, and it’s practically radiating from Cas, that he wants to say something (sorry, thanks, love you) but isn’t sure how it will be received, and Dean thinks he can say almost fucking anything and it will be heard and forgotten by morning. The world is positively spinning by now, and the alcohol is tearing at the hole in his stomach: in his mind, it’s dramatically matching the hole in Jo’s side, blood and intestines spilling out and everything.

Hell gives you a morbid sense of humour. That’s an even better excuse to drink some more, to be fair.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Cas finally, finally, says and Dean almost – only almost, really – snorts into the mouth of the bottle, and it comes out more like a sob, but it’s not really and he drowns it in harsh, burning liquor before any more sounds escape.

“People die all the frickin’ time, doesn’t matter,” he says when he lowers the bottle again and Cas’ eyes are boring into him now, he can feel them, like hot pokers twisting and turning and revealing his brain (mind-reader, psycho, angel)

“They were like family to you,” the angel (demon, human, Cas) presses on. “They were dear friends of yours.”

You’re a fucking dear friend, pulling me out of hell and all, Dean thinks, glancing at Cas again and wondering why there’s two of him and if he should finish the rest of the bottle. There was that thing with Heaven too, and Cas rebelling for him and everything. That had been pretty sweet as well and he giggles, actually giggles. Not out loud, of course, just on the inside. Hopefully.

“The first time I met them,” he says and thinks of yellow eyes and clowns eating people and Sam’s hair looking like a run-over puppy and he might’ve giggled out loud for sure now. “Jo had a rifle at my back and Ellen had a gun to Sammy’s head. And then Jo nearly broke my nose.” He laughs now. Or slurs. Or wheezes. He’s really not feeling too well, and the burning has risen from his stomach up towards his nose and it burns, burns, burns.

Cas’ silence is contemplative and Dean doesn’t want to break it, so he finishes the rest of the bottle and lets it slide from his hand unto the floor, where it rolls around for a bit before settling against his foot, an odd pressure like cold steel and razor knives.

“The first time we met after Hell, you and Bobby shot me multiple times and then you stabbed me,” Cas glances down and lifts his hand, places it on the spot where said stab had occurred and Dean realizes that he is still gripping the angel’s fucking jacket and as such, the lower part of Cas’ palm is resting over the tip of his fingers and there’s warmth.

He registers what Cas said and laughs. And doesn’t move his hand either. Neither of them does.

“Shit,” he says. “That is so messed up. So much for gratitude, huh?” his body is wracking with laughter (tears, sobs, pleas) and he’s bending his head and the pressure behind his eyes is building even higher and he might throw up, because in his mind Ellen and Jo are burned and crisp and smells like the deepest, darkest pits of Hell (and he knows those. He lived in those), and there’s nothing to erase the image, to replace it, because they’re gone.

“I don’t need your gratitude,” Cas lies for him and that’s really funny and not true, because Dean knows he’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve a garrison of angels going through Hell for him, and he most certainly doesn’t deserve the only sane angel in all of Heaven watching over him, and giving up everything for him.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Cas says and that’s even funnier. No really. He’s going to take everything he ever said about Cas and joking back, because his angel is fucking hilarious.

He realizes, with a slight amount of hysteria, that Cas’ hand is actually placed over his heart and that’s where Dean stabbed and it’s a really good aim too, it went in deep, that blade.

He’s also very aware that his face is wet from tears and that’s really pathetic. It’s even more pathetic that he can’t even protect his own family, but that is a good word to sum up this whole situation anyway. Pathetic. Stupid comes next. Morbidly ironic. But that’s two words. He’s not sure that counts.

Cas looks concerned. “Do you need to break the bottle?” he asks, his other hand reaching out to rest on Dean’s knee in a seemingly innocent, comfort gesture, and there’s a sharp intake of breath and his headache disappears and he thinks thanks, Cas. And he should probably say that out loud.

“No,” he says instead, pulling the angel to him with both hands now. “No, this is fine.” And it is fine, kissing an angel. Warm, soft, comfortable. And it makes the images go away, the corpses and the cries and Jo as pale as death as her blood soaks the floor and the heat from the explosion.

Thanks, he thinks again as the angel’s arms wraps around his waist. Thank-you.