Supernatural Short Stories

s e v e n

!! TRIGGER WARNING !!

-x-

Castiel dragged himself over to Dean's lifeless body.

A feeling of dread occupied him and he could feel his heart in his throat.

He pulled Dean onto his lap so Dean's head was resting on his chest.

Then suddenly the realization came.

Dean was gone.

Castiel broke.

He broke in many ways, mentally, physically and emotionally.

The one perfect thing in this horrific world was gone.

And it was all his fault.

Cas' tears stung the cuts on his cheeks. He winced as they continued to roll down his bloodied cheeks.

He sat there in the cold clutching his only savior. He lent his head against Dean's still chest, sobbing into his blood stained shirt.

"I'm sorry", he sobbed.

"I-I'm s-sorry, Dean", Cas whined.

Castiel entangled his fingers with those of the dead man. He then laid down next to Dean. The cold, hard floor embraced him with an iron hug against his back.

His tears now flowed without pain, in fact he didn't feel anything.

And suddenly the anger set in.

Cas yelled and started hitting the ground with his fist.

"Why?", he growled and punched.

"Why??", he repeated and punched harder.

"Why the fuck did it have to be him?!", Castiel screamed and repeatedly punched the ground.

He eventually stopped and laid back down next to his lover. He fists bleeding and the tears still flowing.

Castiel sobbed into Dean's chest again.

"I'm sorry, Dean"

"None of this would have happened if I could just get something right"

"If I could just /not/ fuck it up for everyone"

"I'm sorry, babe. It's all my fault and now... l-look what happened"

"Why do I fuck everything up?!"

Castiel continued to sob into Dean's lifeless body for hours.

He eventually couldn't feel his hands and feet. Cas reluctantly decided to get out of here.

He weakly scooped up Dean in his arms and began to carry him, bridle style.

He began staggering forward, following the cold and dark road.

He would frequently stop and utter how sorry he was for fucking up everything, including Dean, and especially his life.

Castiel eventually spotted a gas station in the distance, he continued stumbling forward but with a determination in his eyes now.

If Dean wasn't here, why should he be here?

Castiel didn't care if he went to hell, it's not like he wouldn't know anyone.

And besides he deserved the pain anyways.

Cas was about ten minutes from the station now and he decided that cutting would be a suitable option.

He arrived at the station and walked around the back, following the signs for the restrooms.

He opened the disabled toilet and set Dean down on the floor. He fished a few notes out of his pocket and closed the door behind himself.

Castiel walked into the station, grabbed a pair of scissors and placed them on the counter.

A stout woman scanned the pair and put them back on the counter.

She looked Cas up and down.

"Have trouble with the wrapping paper?", she asked.

"Something like that", Cas replied and gave her the notes. He took the scissors and left.

He returned to find Dean just the way he left him.

Cas ripped the plastic off the scissors and locked the door.

He sat down next to Dean and brought the scissors up to his wrist.

He pressed down hard and began to drag the blade across his wrist.

Droplets of blood started to spring up after the cut. Cas continued but had no idea how much blood he was now sitting in.

His eyes were cloudy from his built up tears. After the fifth or sixth cut he finally let them fall. They splashed onto his exposed cuts, Cas winced in pain.

After about ten he started seeing spots. He stood up an staggered over to the wall of the bathroom. He brought his hand to the wall and started to paint something in his blood.

The service woman said she found them laying next to each other on the bathroom floor.

A pair of bloody scissors next to the one in the trench coat and hand prints and words on the wall.

She said that someone had painted the wall in blood.

Will you still kiss these lips,
Knowing that a blade kissed my wrists?

She said there was a smudged handprint after that, like someone falling over or sliding down the wall.

He must've dragged himself over there, she said.

And I was the one who gave him the scissors, she said.