#addict!dean

Curled inward on himself, his knees digging into the hard resin of the shower tray, Dean prayed for escape. He babbled and begged anyone- Chuck, Lucifer, fuckin’ Billie - to snap his God-damned neck in two. There was nothing he deserved more than death and he didn’t quite have the strength (or the balls) to do it himself. 

The water had long turned cold, leaving behind icepicks falling from the shower head and piercing his skin. Over and over and over. Again and again and again. Just like the bad decisions he’d made and the people he’d hurt; Relentless and never-ending. 

Sam was somewhere beyond the door, deep within the bunker and doing everything to avoid the older Winchester. They hadn’t spoken in days, nor crossed paths in the hallways. Dean would say he'd left if he didn’t know any better, didn’t know the fear burning in his brother’s gut. But there was no way he’d do that after catching Dean chasing little pink pills with whiskey. 

He hadn’t meant for anyone to find him. It was the dead of the night and all Dean had been craving since coming down was to go back up. But in a place like Lebanon, Xanax was the best he could score, and he hadn’t had a proper hit since their last job took them to Austin. Then he’d remembered the methadone pills hidden beneath the driver’s seat of Baby.

His first mistake was stopping by the kitchen for a bottle of whiskey. The second was giving into impatience and drowning thirty milligrams in smokey liquor. But it all ended when Dean failed to notice Sam standing on the threshold, atop the step, and watching his every move. Sober Dean wouldn’t have made that mistake, but he didn’t come around much anymore. 

“What is that?” 

Silence.

“Dean. What is that? 

“Whiskey.”

Sam moved closer. One step. Two. Then he was right at Dean’s shoulder and manoeuvring him so they were facing each other. 

“You promised. No more lies.” 

Dean desperately tried to avoid his brother's gaze. His stomach flipped, from the cocktail or fear, he couldn’t tell. Maybe both. 

“Dean!” 

“What?!” 

“What did you take?” The words slow, seething through Sam’s teeth. 

“Nothin’.” 

They went on like that for damn near thirty minutes. Dean denied anything other than liquor and his brother threatened to pat him down. In the end, Sam held firm on his promise and forcefully dug around in the pockets of Dean’s jeans, coming up with a small bag of pink and yellow pills. 

An argument erupted (“You fuckin’ promised me!” “Yeah? Well I lied!”) and Sam found himself on the wrong end of Dean’s fist. It was settled when the younger Winchester fled the kitchen in a horrid silence, his tail between his leg and a shiner developing below his left eye. 

“I can’t deal with you when you’re like this.” 

Dean was alone, fist bloody and bruised, begging the earth to swallow him whole. A gut-wrenching guilt bloomed in his stomach, but the buzz of the drugs overshadowed it. His mind was hazy and covered in heavy thickets of brambles and thorns. And had it not been for the throbbing in his fist, he would have written the whole thing off as some sort of fucked up high. 

But it wasn’t. The evidence was there in black and blue and shades of red. Peppered across his knuckles like crude clouds. 

He clenched his fist, whimpering through the pain, and shifted to cut the water off. Silence bloomed in the absence of thundering icicles. The emptiness left room for thought and Dean didn’t very much care for thought; especially not his. 

“Dean? Are you alright?” 

Somewhere above him, lingering by the door, he heard the fluttering of wings. Then the gentle squeak of the bathroom hinges. 

“What have I told you about personal space, buddy? This is a key example right here.” Dean allowed himself to fall back against the tiles, taking pressure off his knees.

“Because you’re naked? Or because you’re crying?” 

“‘ ‘not crying.” 

He wasn’t, not at that moment. But he had been. He’d practically had to shove his fist in his mouth to stop from screaming through the sobs wracking his body. 

Dean just wanted - needed - it to end. 

Castile moved closer and slid back the glass panel of the shower door. Dean didn’t even reach forward to stop him or try to shield his nakedness. The angel rebuilt him from nothing more than ash, bit by broken bit; Who cares if he saw his cock and balls? Or the bruises on his body from bar fights he couldn’t remember. Or the track marks from needles he vaguely felt? It was nothing to an angel of the lord. 

“You were praying for me.” 

“I wasn’t prayin’ for you. I was prayin’ for anyone who would fuckin’ listen an’ that just so happened to be you. Doesn’t mean I need you.” Dean snarled. 

Castiel came to his hunches, the tail of his coat dipping into the wetness pooled at the base of the shower tray. He cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brows, a look of caution on his countenance. Dean kept his head firmly in his hands. 

“Let me fix you.” 

“Why do ya’ think that you needa’ fix me? Who told you I was broken!?” Dean was looking now, boring holes through the angel's skull with eyes fogged by dope. 

Who the fuck said anything about a repair job? 

“You. You asked for help.” 

“Help can mean a lot of things. Don’t always have to mean I need ya to fix anythin’.” 

The angel seemed to contemplate this for a moment before reaching out and taking hold of Dean’s arm. The hunter jumped back, smacking his head against the tiles, desperately trying to pull himself free from Castiel’s grasp. But it was useless, he was already being whisked forward and up from the floor, his feet struggling for grip through the dampness. He stood shaking on legs made of lead. 

“Jeez. Warn a dude before you manhandle him like that.” Dean grumbled. 

“You’re shivering.”

“Yeah, well” Dean reached for a towel and began dragging it across his body, “I was happy where I was.”

“But you’re cold.”

With a roll of his eyes, Dean pushed past the angel and into his bedroom. As much as he loved the man, his tolerance was wavering. All he wanted was another hit to take the edge off. Then he could go into town in search of the next one. Again and again and again until finally, something killed him. 

Or someone. 

Castiel watched as the hunter pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old Zeppelin shirt, the pallidness of his skin highlighted further by the darks in his clothing. 

“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question, but a matter-of-fact observation. 

“I’m doing just fine, C- ” Dean sighed. He sat heavily on his mattress, the frame squeaking against his weight, and leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. 

He wasn’t ready for this conversation. He hadn’t been ready when Sam cornered him in the kitchen all those nights ago, and he certainly wasn’t near ready now. 

“Sam’s prayers make more sense now.” Castiel took a few tentative steps forward, stopping a few feet shy of the hunter. 

Dean looked up to meet the angel's gaze. His brows were pulled up and knitted together in the middle, a regular expression for him, but it was his eyes that stopped Dean in his tracks. They were frightened, almost like he’d stumbled upon a haunted house when looking for a mansion.

“His - what? Sam’s been prayin’ to you? About me?” 

“He didn’t tell me that you’d relapsed in so many words, but I should have read between the lines. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it.” Castiel pursed his lips together and swallowed, “I rebuilt you from nothing. I know your past, and I assumed your present too.”

“Cas - “ 

“But somehow I missed it.”

“You didn’t miss anything, angel.” Dean spat, drawing his breath back and forth through gritted teeth, “I’m a very good liar.” 

“Yes. It would seem that way.” Castiel hung his head, releasing a trapped sigh. 

Silence stretched between them before Dean rose to his feet to find the remainder of the methadone. He hadn’t many left, maybe enough for another twenty-four hours if he rationed them. But relentless in his effort to chase after the high, he took two from the packet and began to crush them up with the hilt of his pocket knife. 

Castile watched on, astonished at the brashness of it all. 

“You can stand there with your mouth open like a fish, or you can fuck off. I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do whether you’re watching me or not.”

“Is this really how your story ends?” 

“With any luck.” Dean leaned forward, closing one nostril and inhaling through the other. He blinked several times and huffed out through his mouth. The burning disappeared, giving way to the rush of the drug. 

“You don’t mean that, Dean.” 

“Don’ I? What sort of ‘help’ do you think I was askin’ for, huh?” Dean stalked closer to the angel, pupils blown and a small trickle of blood smeared beneath his nose, “Did you think I wanted you to flutter down from your pedestal and throw me a hug? Let me cry on your shoulder and then check me into rehab?” He scoffed, “Been there, done that. The t-shirt just didn’t fit me.” 

“So what are you asking for?”