pipe dream;

Dean’s palms are sweaty. He brushes them off on his jeans. “Nah, Sammy, I got it.” But he really doesn’t. Jack turns expectant eyes on him, setting down the bottle on the table. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out where to even begin. How are you supposed to describe the one guy who meant almost everything to you? “He liked PB and J,” is what comes tumbling out of his mouth first. Jack squints his eyes in confusion, and Dean puts his bottle down to mimic putting two slices of bread together. “It’s a type of sandwich.” “He liked sandwiches?” Jack says, still lost. “He liked a lot of stuff. Uh, his fugly old car for one. And tan trenchcoats. And helping people. He also liked giving me the silent treatment whenever either of us fucked up. And oh, how could I forget,” Dean huffs, shaking his head a little, “making bad decisions to save me and Sam, even if it meant getting himself caught in the crossfire.” Whether it was killing Billie, or giving up an army, or choosing to go after Lucifer right up until that last moment, Cas was always there to help them out.  If only the bastard wasn’t so set on sacrificing himself. If only Dean could’ve told him he was meant for more than cleaning up the messes he and Sam made. If only Dean could’ve told him that and so much more. “And,” Dean continues, even though he’s not looking at Jack anymore, instead staring off into space. “He was one of the best people I’ve ever known, angel or human. He made me a better person. Sometimes he would fuck off into another dimension and leave me wondering if he was okay, but he was always there when I needed him most. And he would still be here if I hadn't— ” He cuts off, feeling the prickle in his eyes. If I had left him alone. If I hadn’t been so stupid. It’s all my fault. “You would’ve been lucky to have him as a Dad.” He takes another pull from his bottle, but it feels like something’s stuck in his throat, no matter how much he drinks.  “Are you alright?” Jack asks him, bringing him back to the moment. Jack tilts his head, and for a second, Dean’s reminded of Cas, the way he would squint at Dean like he was an idiot and tilt his head, and Dean’s breath whooshes out of him. And then his head fills with the image of the long looks Cas would throw his way, like he was worth a damn. Or the small smile Cas had on his lips when Dean handed him the mixtape he made. He remembers the feel of Cas’s hands whenever they healed him, time and time again. The way his voice would fall soft when it was just the two of them in the room. He’s left gripping the edge of the table, a whole wave of emotion climbing up his throat at once, and his heart aches like there’s a piece missing. Is this what John felt like when he lost Mom? “Dean, really, are you okay?” Sam questions, since Dean hadn’t answered Jack. But Sam doesn’t need to because they both know he’s not.  “Yeah, I’m good,” he lies, tricking no one. “I think I’m gonna turn in for the night.” He pushes out of his chair, his heart hammering against his chest. “Don’t stay up too late, alright kids?“  "Dean,” Sam repeats, but Dean shakes his head. Not today. He leaves his half empty bottle on the table as he turns away. There’s a bottle of tequila in his room, and it’s calling his name.