A ficlet thing I wrote when I was having an anxiety attack from my GAD. Dean’s been kidnapped by witches and thrown under a spell after the events of 15x18 (with the bonus that Jack rescued Cas from the empty but... ya know, Cas comes back to the bunker ofc) (That anxiety ficlet I mentioned that I was contemplating adding more plot to. Still might do that and throw it on AO3 but I’m focusing on my Season 16 fix-the-unmentionable-finale-that-doesn’t-exist-fic so maybe later) I just have it on my phone and edited it sloppily because I want it out somewhere, so I’m throwing it on here.
TW: Anxiety attack and the thoughts one has during one, Canon compliant Violence mentions, John Winchester mention, Self Worth issues.
Not beta-read, barely proofread.
His heart is going a mile a minute. Its pounding in his ears, bashing against the inside of his skull like a jackhammer. His breaths are shallow, quick, too quick, too much.
It's all too similar to the buruburu case in Colorado, taunted by his mind about his time in hell, about returning, after he was saved by an angel, by god he wishes he could be saved by that angel again.
Please. Please. Someone save me, please-
It's all too much, it's too much, it's too similar to those years spent in the pit, the torture he suffered, and it won’t stop, won’t stop, please stop-
Time somehow is passing at a crawl and a mile a minute. His throat feels tight, like he’s being choked, and he has been, so many times before, but then he could fight against it and now, despite how much he cries out, only half aware of every plea that leaves his lips, they simply hang in the empty, foreboding space. Every assault on his mind comes like he's thumbing through a flip book, the images intense and gone as quickly as they came only to be replaced by ones just as hellish as the last.
He simply exists, thrashing and falling in this agonizing space, in this spell-induced hell, this anxiety filled pit.
He sees John one minute, hears his angry yells. He can feel every punch and kick and breaking of bones he’s ever taken the next minute, and then, then he's seeing the faces of all the monsters he's ever almost died to, the animalistic rage behind them; something twisted and evil and gnarled and aimed right at him-
He can see the pit, feel the rip and tear of hell hound claws that dragged him down. He may as well be buried in a pine box because there can’t be oxygen in this damp basement he's locked in, because his lungs refuse to take any in.
Above it all is the ache splitting his ribs, for every death he's had to watch and carry on through- every victim he couldn't save, every family member he's ever failed- Sam, Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Charlie, Mom, Cas-
Cas, help, help me, help me please—
It's a plea, a prayer, for help, for forgiveness, an apology for it all; the fighting, the lies, for not listening to him, for not helping him, for not saving him; from Crowley, from Rowena, from Lucifer, from Asmodeus, from the Empty.
It's an apology for not saying it, for not stopping him, yet again, when he left him in that dungeon months ago, when everything was falling apart just like he is now.
He's only able to duly note that there’s a bang above him. A shot. A yell and a burst of energy. It's too far away, too far outside this bubble of torment that he's stuck inside and can't escape. He can’t bring himself to pay attention to the blood leaking down his face, the swollenness of his left eye socket and the pressure building steadily there. He knows at some point he tried to move, to curl in on himself, to somehow protect himself against the mental hits, forgetting the chains keeping him prisoner against the cold cement wall, and his ribs protested harshly. He's sure some are broken but he can't bring himself to care, because it's just more pain, more nausea inducing fear.
None of it can really matter now, ever since the spell that has his lungs gasping for breath and hot tears staining his cheeks as he struggles to calm his pulse, to not shake against his shackles. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, is the spell finally killing him? He knows it's the spell, he knows, he knows, but he keeps seeing flames on the ceiling, Sam's back bleeding red onto his palm, burnt wings on the ground around him, everyone he loves leaves, dies, he corrupts everyone who touches him, why do people keep touching him?
He just wants it to stop, please, please make it stop, please make it quiet, please end it, because he can't watch Sam fall into the pit, he cant watch the blue white glow and hear Cas's scream-
Cas, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, I'm sorry-
He clings to Cas, like he did being half carried down the bunker halls that day, begs the thought of the angel to ground him somewhere; the movie nights, the car rides, the late night phone calls with Dean sitting outside his hotel room in the driver's seat of the impala so he doesn't wake Sam but those happy thoughts feel so far away, like it isn't him in the memories, and they're easily replaced by the tears sliding down Cas's cheeks as he says his goodbyes, Death pounding on the door like his heartbeat in his skull, boom, boom, boom, until Dean's lungs bottom out as his back hits the wall-
He twists his face, screws his eyes shut tight; no, no he can't hear his voice, can't hear it saying what he can't say back-
Stop, stop; Cas is safe and home, but he can't be, maybe Jack didn't bring him back, maybe it's all been a cruel joke. Maybe he's still in hell, suffering the loss of a love he's never known.
Dean has to be still sitting on the dungeon floor, twisting and jerking to free himself from the chains that hold him there, his body protesting, his throat caught between a sob and a yell, both so broken by pain, forced to lose his best friend, forced into silence by the trauma, unable to scream or whisper it back and he opens his eyes, tries to see through the blur of tears, only to be taunted by blue eyes staring back, wide eyed and scared, scared of him, scared to be saying it, scared of dying.
"Cas, please-" he hiccups a sob, willing Cas to stop looking at him, to stop the rough hands yanking at his wrists, rougher hands still frantically gripping his shoulders-
"Dean, Dean it's us, its Sam and Castiel--it's me, stop-"
Stop, and he's sure Cas is lying broken, on the floor beneath him in the bunker in a mess of books and wood splinters, a moment from death at Dean's own rage-fueled, bloodied hands-
And then Cas is cupping his face and he forces his eyes open, forces himself to look into the blue eyes peering back at him, and he can't help but to rest into the warm palms, to get relief in any way, uncaring if Cas kills him here in this crypt over this tablet now.
"I'm getting it, just--...I got it, help Dean, I’ll cover--"
And then the chains are free, and Cas is lifting him from Hell, lifting him from the pit, an arm around his back, a hand around his wrist but this time it isn't restraining and restrictive; no it's carrying him through the gunshots, through the bunker halls, up wooden steps and into sunlight, into leather seats where he can collapse back, his head lulling forward to stare at the dark floors that should be the dirt at a lake house, marred by burned wings-
"Cas..." He whimpers out, aching on the movie nights, an old western playing over them in the dark where he can blame the closeness on booze, on tiredness, on just accidentally shifting closer trying to get the popcorn. He aches to let himself fall into Cas's hands, closing his eyes against the touch that he knows he shouldn't want, and yet he thinks Cas wants now, somehow, someway in front of a neon cross-
"Dean, it’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you. Look at me...look at me."
He shouldn't want to peer up into those blue eyes and imagine the cosmic energy behind them and yet he does, to just selfishly grasp at the possible love behind them, to feel the words ‘I love you’ over and over again; that he's loved, that he's a loving, cared for, selfless, kind person, all the things he's still not sure he is and yet he wants to be, wants to be more than anything and yet how can something as otherworldly as Cas be wrong?
"I've got you. Take this, for me, it’s okay."
How can he deny someone like Cas, when he's looking at him so purely?
Cool glass meets his lips and a liquid snakes down his throat and its somehow vile and yet holds a ginger root scent that’s warm and kind of smells like that trench coat or maybe that's coming from the fabric itself that he’s gripping like a lifeline now, head curling against the angel's warm palm. Cas is staring so mournfully sweetly at him, and suddenly his entire body is full of warmth and intimacy and safety; kindness and love and he can’t help but whimper in awe at it.
"Shh. It's okay, Dean. It’s okay."
It’s okay to finally let himself ignore the old western on the tv, Sam and Jack, to let his head lull onto Cas's shoulder, to let Cas guide him against his chest, to let Cas wrap an arm around him. It's okay to cry at the sensation of Cas's warm palm against his cheek, to focus entirely on his thumb stroking his skin.
He can hear Sam asking Cas a question, he's sure he hears his own name, but it isn’t accusing, it isn’t judging, it isn’t hateful; Sam's asking if he's okay. Because of course he is.
No, he will be because Cas has got him.
Cas has got him, like he's always had him; once more he's lifting him up from hell, and he's safe in his arms, curled up against his side now, the safest place he could be, and finally his body and mind drift away from the exhaustion of it all; lulled to sleep by Cas's warmth against his side, the rumble of baby's engine, the low Led Zeppelin track on the radio, and the knowledge that he'll be okay.
