Suptober. Day 13: Rewind
Dean has a few things to say to Cas. Word count: 2542
[Read on Ao3]
3 Weeks.
Dean's been stealing glances at his phone for over an hour. The dim light of the hall that creeps from under his door is the only reason he can see the thing, blurred out to a barely-there grey hunk of plastic.
The idea is fucking stupid. He doesn't care what Sam thinks. Sam wasn't even supposed to know. Let alone have fucking opinions.
But Dean slipped.
And it took more effort than he will ever admit to walk out of the kitchen without clocking his brother in the goddamn jaw.
Fuck Sam and fuck the phone.
He turns around, away from the stupidest temptation of his life, and demands sleep come.
It's only mildly successful.
2 Month, 1 Week.
Nothing bad can happen from a phone call. Doing it once can’t hurt you any more than you are now
Sam's a well-meaning kid. He really is. But sometimes he just needs to can it.
'Cause he had to go and say some shit like that, completely unprompted — they were talking about potential witch activity in Utah, not Dean's feelings, for Christ's sake — and now it's all Dean can think about now that the distractions of the day have bled into a dark room and cold bed.
And that gray hunk of plastic on his desk is laughing at him. He could reach it if he sat up. Stretched a bit.
But the idea is dumb. And Sam doesn't get it. He really fucking doesn’t.
Except Dean knows he's kind of full of crap.
He grits his teeth, shoves the covers to the side, and grabs his phone.
With each passing buzz, his heart stutters, breath cut into shorter and shorter spurts.
Stupidstupidstupid.
It- it isn't like he's gunna answer. Dean knows he not, but it just rings and rings and —
"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."
And it hurts.
He calls again every night for the next week. Of course, he never picks up. Sam doesn't ask.
4 Months.
Dean kicks the door after it slams shut. Throws his gun at his headboard, if it goes off and shoots him, oh fucking well. It's great. Just fantastic.
He pulls his phone out without thinking. Clicks Cas.
It rings, and for a moment his shoulders relax as the familiar greeting plays. Cause its Cas' voice. And fuck. Just… fuck.
Then it beeps, and he actually does the one thing he's wanted for months.
"None of your douchebag family will answer me. And I've tried friggin' everything, I swear to Christ."
He runs his hand over his face, glances up at the sour-yellow ceiling.
"How you ever stood them is beyond me dude."
And then, like a rational human being. He hangs up and pretends that whatever that was didn't happen.
Once the bitter taste of angels that don’t pick the fucking phone up from earlier that day fades, Dean stares at the darkened ceiling.
He left a voicemail. A fucking voicemail.
Pathetic.
4 Months, 3 Weeks.
So he hasn't called again since his, uh, slip up. And Sam keeps giving him these little looks. And he knows that Sam knows, and knows he isn't calling because he's a changed man or whatever.
Maybe Sam would drop it, whatever the hell he thinks Dean's mess is, if he could manage to eat.
Jody, Claire, Kaia, and Alex are all around the table with them. Jody's the charmer she always is, talking about how she's grateful for the help and oh, of course you guys are gunna stay for dinner! Ah-ah! No buts.
There was a hunt in town she tracked down with Claire, a huge vamps nest — we're talking dozens — and called them over for help. And is now feeding them. Because she's a saint and never deserved to be in the know in the first place.
Dean looks at the food. Pork lathered in dark brown graveyard with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. There's a pile of carrots on Sam's plate. Dean opted out.
Not that he's eating now. No, mostly just pushing it all around. He does eat in general.
But Claire isn't looking at him. Hasn't. She barely managed a glance up when he saved her — just a small nod and weary glance.
Sam, on the other hand, may as well be ogling.
Dean wishes he could read Sam's mind, find out where he's keeping it so Dean can wallow in misery without his brother being keen on some of the finer details, thank you very much.
He manages a few bites. Its excellent, mouth-watering, home-cooked goodness he's missed fiercely since he got a taste for it the few days Mrs. Butters was around.
But right now? Turns his stomach.
On the way back home, Sam clears his throat. Dean grips the wheel a little tighter.
"So —"
"I didn't ask for your opinion, Samantha."
In the corner of his eye, Sam's shoulder slump. His brother looks down and sighs out a sad little noise.
But the rest of the drive is quiet. And that's a win in Dean's book.
*
It's roughly midnight, and books are scattered across the library table. They're all open to different pages, but none of it matters. Not really.
Dean's combing through it all anyway. Has been since Heavens decided they have a no-call policy with anyone named Winchester.
The piles he has laid around him have grown increasingly larger as the weeks have drug on. Spiked exponentially when he decided not to call anymore.
"Hey Dean."
Dean snaps his head up mid-sentence. Sam stands in the threshold, holding a plate. In pajamas.
Dean just looks at him. "What?"
"Made you food." He lifts the plate up a fraction
"That looks like a cold cut, so made is a generous word."
Sam has the audacity to slump into himself, full-on wounded-puppy mode. So Dean rolls his eyes and waves him over.
The plate gets sat down with a distinct clank, and Sam pats his shoulder.
"You know I just… want what's best for you."
Dean tenses his shoulders, closes the book in front of him. He speaks through his teeth.
"Yeah, well I never had it in the first place. And now it is gone, and there's nothing I can do."
"You don't know that Dean."
He glues his eyes to the back of the book. Balls his fists.
"Don't I? That — That fucking thing just —"
"I know. But it's also gone. We don't know what happened."
Dean chooses then to look over, fix his brother with a proper glare so he'll go the hell away — but sees it.
Sitting innocuously on the plate, like it isn't an affront to everything Dean would rather not, is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Sam's talking but he can't hear it. His brains turned to mush, a radio-static circus of nothing.
The bottom of his chair screeches as it drags against the floor.
And Dean can’t see.
Sam grabs his arm, he shakes it off. He moves decisively, tries too, but his eyes prickle and he can’t see shit, and he isn’t about to cry right there in front of his brother, validate every stupid thought the guy has that’s probably one-hundred percent right.
His door clicks shut, and he pressed himself against it. Slides down until he hits the icy floor.
Dean's throat is a constricted cage, each breath in has to be muscled in, down, out. Each wobble as much as the last.
Sam doesn't know shit. He doesn’t know what he's talking about. He really doesn't.
Calling someone who can’t answer, won’t ever answer, is fucking stupid. It's not therapeutic.
When he rubs a hand over his face. It comes back wet, and his eyes sting.
"Fuck."
He fishes for his phone. Going to Cas' number is muscle memory at this point.
It rings. Cause Sam can't help but keep the thing charged.
"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."
The ball in his chest is impossibly tight. Why hasn't he called? Just to hear him again, the gruff tenor that's like gravel and silk and the only thing he ever wants to hear, ever. And now he only has nine words he'll ever hear him say again.
That's it. Two sentences.
You saved the whole world. He didn’t save shit.
And what the fuck is he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to do anything? He’s never been any good, not as good as he needs to be. Maybe if he would’ve been — or did somethin’ different, anything different —
Dean threads his fingers in his hair and balls his fist. Squeezes his eyes shut against the pool of tears that just leak out, and curls in on himself. His guts are twisted and tight, just like the rest of him. Every part of him shakes, the hand vice-gripping his hair should hurt, should be enough to pull him back to sanity, but the tears don’t stop.
And really what does it matter if he cries. Chucks gone, and The Empty, that — that thing got what was coming to it.
But Cas didn't come back.
He lulls his head against the door, untangles the hand from his hair like his fingers piston operated they ache so bad
God, Cas should’ve just left him in Hell.
Maybe he's Heaven, Billy had said with a shrug. Casual. Like she didn't understand. And Dean knows she does. She gets it more than any of them, saw just what this shit did the last time. Saw exactly how much he didn't want to be around.
Jack had to fuck off to put the universe in balance, so he’s MIA and no help. And Heaven doesn't seem to give a shit.
There must've been a beep somewhere, so Dean just goes with it. Presses the phone to his ear again and works his jaw open until it’s loose enough to allow something resembling words can happen.
"It's — it's bullshit." God Dean can't recognize his own voice, pulled thin and hoarse. "You — you know that right? Bullshit." He shakes his head. Tries to take a deep breath that comes out only slightly less ragged. "You always left. And I — I get that you had to sometimes. But no one wanted you here more than me."
He wipes his face off with the collar of his shirt. His skull screams in sharp pain, and his temples thud. And normally this would be too long of a pause, but normally you don't start a voicemail off trying not to sob, and normally they're made for people who can actually listen to them. So whatever.
"This is stupid. It's not — voicemails ain't your style." His breath leaves, and exhaustion sets deep into his bones. "You always just called back for the explanation. You'd leave 'em, though."
At least Dean assumes. Every call back he'd ever gotten from the guy he'd have to fill him in on whatever was happening anyway. Guess it makes sense in a way. If you have enough time to listen to a message, you've got enough time to call.
The space behind his robes aches when he says, "We both shoulda picked up more, I guess. And Sammy wants me to call now. Like it makes up for shit. It doesn't."
He swipes the little red phone to the left, and stares at the word Cas in his contacts page.
But the screen goes blank, and all he can see are his puffy red eyes reflected in the black screen, and that's motivation, so he gets ready for bed.
1 Year, 10 Months, 13 Days
He calls a few times after that. But tries not to leave voicemails for someone that's just gone, in every sense of the word.
It’s dumb. Still really dumb. And he has no defense for it. Eventually Sam hands him Cas' old phone and a charger. All of the missed voicemails untouched.
Dean could swear he remembers ever last one.
They're mostly simple crap, sometimes. Updates.
"Sam and Eileen are getting hitched. They're pretty fucking disgusting together. But sometimes they look at me, and I can just see it, man. See how they like, bubble themselves off." He laughs, but it's strained. "Guess it just be written on my face. Which is just friggin’ fantastic. Cause I'm happy for them. I've always wanted that for Sam. But I wanted it for us too. Fucked up that I can only say it now, huh."
"I don't like the way burgers taste anymore. And I, uh, have a bumper sticker now. It's a bee. I kept it together until Sam got misty-eyed." There's a pause for a touch too long, then, "That mixtapes been the only thing in Baby for a month."
"I kept the trenchcoat. Wore it earlier. Got cold out for the first time since —" he sighs. "You wore it better. Looks like shit on me. It pretty much lives in my closet. Can't get monster guts on it that way."
But sometimes it's just a confession, none of the other bullshit. Just the truth.
"Look. I'm not mad. So don't think that. Cause I'm not. Wish I was. It's — it's always been easier. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I would've for you. I just… Don't know how now."
"Can't tell if I like using your old angel blade or fucking hate it. Don't like much of anything anymore. You were better with it."
"Id pray to you, but this is all I got. And I wish I could hope you're up there. But then I'd hope there isn't any pay per view Earth or whatever. Cause this shit? Is pitiful." A sigh. "G'night, Cas."
And one night, a long time later, he's sitting with his back against his bed, nestled next to the end table he never used, he says the truth in a way he knows he should've years and years ago.
"Guess this is like prayin', ain't it? Sammy caught me a few months ago. He wasn't even surprised I'm still doing this. Told me it was, uh — It was okay. Even if I just… never did. And you know what? I don't think l can." He gives a small laugh. "Hell, I only leave messages when I'm feeling, I dunno, brave? Like some part of me thinks you could still hear it and tell me to get lost."
Logically, he knows Cas wouldn't have kicked him to the curb. Wanted him just as much.
"God I listen to it almost every night dude. Just hearing this stupid fucking line — It's like hitting rewind, for a few seconds."
The rest comes off easy, in its own way
"I miss you, Buddy. And I — I love you more than I know what to do with. I wish it would've been enough. But instead, it killed you."
He ends it, and calls back. Just to listen to the only thing he'll ever hear Cas say again. It’s not a replacement, never will be until he can see if Heaven really does have an angels left.
But the only faith he ever had is just an echo on the other end.
I can't believe I let myself be talked into this, but @winchester-reload told me it would be good for me and here I am, staying up until 3:30 AM on a work night so that I could put together this little watercolor piece (and you can't even see the colors properly UGH)
Also a fun fact: I haven't really drawn much at all in the last six or seven years, and I DEFINITELY haven't broken out the watercolors in years, so...uh...I'm definitely super rusty. But I guess putting out something is better than nothing?
Anyway, happy day one of Suptober, all! Hope to be back with something (better) tomorrow!
I tried to give it "morning after" vibes... I think I got it :) But tbh I like to imagine Dean being completely and utterly shameless and Castiel not understanding the concept of walk of shame in the first place. And of course, Sam cannot look either of them in the eye during breakfast because the walls are fucking thin
