We are beautiful (we are doomed.)
||destiel, angst, first fic||
Dean is sitting on the side of a motel bed; the room is lit by the flickering 12:00 on the VCR. Seemingly, nobody ever bothered to reset it. Sam was out. Cas had left. He wanted this, didnât he? to be alone? That's what he told himself, at least.
Dean still had the ringing in his ear from all the yelling.
Castiel had come back with takeout when he found Dean half alive in the bathroom. âDean.â He approached the man softly. âWhat is going on with you?â Deanâs nose is bleeding and his right cheekbone is swollen and bruised⊠was he⊠slightly intoxicated?
âOh, this?â He nonchalantly attempted to lift himself from the tile by placing a palm on the toilet lid and his other hand around the rim of the sink. "Called âer the wrong name.â He gives Cas a bit of a âwhoopsâ face.
Dean had been picking up girls more often recently. The angel had asked if it was for any particular reason, but he always got shut down. "Oh," he breathed, trying to help him to his feet. âWho did you call her?â Dean rolled his eyes and turned on the faucet.
"Cas," he breathed out, half laughing.
âYes?â Cas tilted his head slightly.
âNo, I called her Cas.â Dean let the water splash over his face, soaking in the stinging that came from it. He felt pathetic. âHeat of the moment, I said your name.â He looks over at the blue eyes staring a hole in him. The manâs face scrunched his eyebrows at this admission. âI mean, you canât frigginâ blame me, Cas." His tone was much more defeated now. âI canât keep picking up these strangers and pretending theyâre you.â Dean notices a chip in the sink paint and the rusting of the drain stopper, cas in the reflection. âI just donât know how to stop it from being you. I'm always looking, as hard as I can, to break thisâthis curse youâve put on me. Iâve read every piece of lore, everything.â
Castiel watches Dean's admission. Dean is trying his best to keep a poker face. âGod, you make it hard to think straight.â Dean tightly closes his eyes, balling his fists against the outside of the sink.
âDean.â The other man says again, not entirely sure what to say back. He obviously really cared about Dean, but he couldnât take advantage of his ill state. âDean, Iâm not sure you know what youâre saying. Youâre hurt," he fiddled with the end of his tie. Dean looks up at him. His eyes are slightly wet and his face is much redder now. âI canât keep doing this, Cas. You disappear, you come back, you watch these movies with me, you come to me scared, you come to me happy, and then itâs like this... this thing in my head. It tells me, "This is nothing; he doesnât mean any of it.â
âIt doesnât feel like it..." Dean pushes past Castiel, stumbling. "Dean, youâre hurting yourself. "Stop, sit down..." He pushes down on the manâs shoulder. âYou donât think this kills me too? I betrayed heaven for you, Dean, and you wonât let me have you. I have to pretend to be asleep to get you to hold me, Dean. You pretend too. I know you do. You lay there and you close your eyes and act like you donât notice me getting under the sheets, then you roll over and bury your head in my chest.â
Dean looks offended... hurt... caught in his lie.
âI donâ" Castiel immediately cuts him off. "You do. Youâre not the only one whoâs getting hurt here. Donât look at me like that, Dean.â His face softens. âYou have to figure yourself out before we do this.â Vulnerability covers Dean like a rash. He doesnât know what to say. âDonât act like you know whatâs wrong with me, Cas. There's nothing to figure out about me.â He attempts to assert himself; he stands up, inching closer to Cas. âI wish youâd just fucking disappear and this could be over. You donât know whatâs wrong with me.â The angel did not waver. The two men stood face to face, practically breathing the air into each otherâs lungs.
And he did, so now Dean is sitting in his guilt, ache, and exposure. An hour has passed, and nothing but the time has changed. He picks his phone up and scrolls past Castiel, allowing his gaze to linger, before eventually giving in and scrolling back up. The phone rings.
He throws his phone across the bed, placing his knees on the floor and his elbows on the mattress, connecting his hands in shame. As a throw to the wind, he prays. His eyes close, allowing a tear to blink out. âCastiel. Please.â
âHello, Dean.â Castiel is standing on the other side of the bed, staring down at Dean. "God, I look pathetic," he scoffed.
Castiel continued to watch him. He stepped around the bed to stand beside Dean, who was lifting himself up.
âCas, Cassie, I'm⊠sorry, justâjust listen.â He grabs the other manâs shoulder. âIâve been hurting you too. I don't want anything to change. I'm⊠casâŠâ he grasps at words, trying to make things right. The air is a heavy weight on their shoulders, the stale fall air making its way through the cracked window. The angel examines the manâs eyes, trying to gauge his emotions. âDean. Let me love you.â
Something falters in Dean's expression. "Okay."
