press star to re-recordĀ | 15x18 coda | SPOILERS | 563 words
Dean doesnāt know how long heās been slumped against the wall. A while, probably, based on the stiffness in his knees and his back. Heās lost track of how many times his phone has buzzed, its rattling echoing through the empty room.
He needs to call Sam back, needs to tell him what happened, needs to figure this out, needs more time to think, to process, to - to something. Itās the end of the goddamn world and he canāt focus. Everything isā¦fluid. Slippery. He canāt hold onto a thought. He canāt hold onto a memory. There are too many, itās too much. Little moments and big moments, twelve years of them, and the whole time -
Before he fully realizes what heās doing, his phone is back in his hand. The screen reads 17 missed calls, but he taps away from it with trembling fingers because he needsā¦
āThis is my voicemail. Make your voice a mail.ā
A twisted, strangled sob-laugh punches out of him and his hands shake so badly he drops his phone again. The screen cracks, delicate fractures spider-webbing out from the corner. Dean ends the call before the machine can tell him if you are not satisfied with your message, press star to re-record.
Dean sucks in a deep breath, digging his nails into the meat of his thigh so hard his arm spasms. In. Out. Goodbye, Dean.
He dials again, but hangs up after the second ring. What I want. When was the last time Dean asked him what he wanted? When was the last time anyone did? Was that why he didnāt - he thought he couldnāt -
āThis is my voicemail. Make your voice a mail.ā
He manages āC-,ā stops, breathes in. His grip on his thigh does nothing to calm him, butā¦
The bloody print on his shoulder is nearly dry. Itās still tacky right under his palm, but the fingerprints are dry as he watches his own hand match it as if from a distance. But it isnāt enough to let his hand rest there. He squeezes, wanting it to bruise, wanting - needing to wear the brand once again.
āIf you are not satisfied with your message, press star to re-record.ā
He ends the call, grips his own shoulder tight. Redials.
āThis is my voicemail. Make your voice a mail.ā
āI - I know you canāt hear me. I donāt think you can, anyway.ā Dean is quiet for a moment, holding onto his shoulder so tightly it starts to ache. āC-ā he tries again, but itās still too much. He canāt say the name, but he can squeeze until he feels his heartbeat in his fingertips. āLook, weāre - Iām. Iām coming to find you. I donāt care what it takes, I need - I want.ā
Because he does, he wants too, has wanted, will want, thought he couldnāt have, thinks he still wonāt have. Happiness isnāt in the having. And maybe it isnāt. Maybe happiness is in the saying, in the being, but it could be in the having. It could have been.
āCastiel,ā he says, like a goodbye, a promise, a confession, a prayer. But he canāt manage anything further and buries his face into the crook of his elbow, muffling the noise of his sobs that wonāt stop now.
āIf you are not satisfied with your message, press star to re-record.ā
