Destiel and Sabriel Imagines

Destiel: Happiness

Dean bit his lip in attempt to stop the sobs that rippled through his body. It didn't help much, all his got was a bloody lip and tear stained cheeks.

He sat there for another 20 minutes or so, who was counting? He got up, carrying Cas with him, and heading to the car. He set the limp body in the back seat before setting in the drivers side.

Once he started the car up, Sam sat up, blinking awake. "Dean? Want me to drive?" He asked. Dean only gave a mumble of "I'm fine, Sammy." In response.

His brother shot him a worried glance, but he just gripped the steering wheel and sped down the road. "Dean, slow down!" Sam hissed. Dean's jaw clenched as he accelerated more.

"Slow the fuck down or let me drive, damnit!"

"I'm not going to slow down! The faster I drive the faster we get back tot the bunker and we can get him back."

Sam let out a long sigh. "We can't get him back, Dean."

"You don't know that! You don't, know that."

Sam didn't object further, just looking at his brother sadly. Dean's knuckles turned white and he adjusted his grip on the wheel. Once they reached the bunker Dean slammed on the breaks. He barely had time to turn the car off before he was picking up Cas and bring him inside.

Dean carefully set him in his room. He tried to make him comfortable before exiting and going straight for the books. Sam merely watched from the doorway, not able to bring himself to say something.

Days went by. Dean never moved except to get more book or more alcohol. He never slept. He never ate. Sam was running out of options. He sat on his bed and took a deep breath.

Hey, uh, Gabriel. Cas, he-he's dead. Long story. But Dean, he's not in good shape. I need help. Please.

He waited. And waited. And waited. He eventually gave up hope of him answering. The next day Sam walked into the library. Dean had bags under his eyes, he was on his sixth bottle of whiskey, and there was a giant pile of books on the floor.

"Dean, please eat something." Sam sighed. He didn't get a response. He never did. He walked into the kitchen to see a golden-haired angel on the counter. "He looks like shit."

"I know. Is there anyway to help him?"

"Bringing an angel back. That takes serious mojo." Gabriel answered. "Well, you're an archangel, would you be able to? Please?" Gabe pursed his lips.

"I'll be in touch." And then he was gone. Sam immediately went back to Dean.

"Gabe was here." He announced. Dean didn't even flinch. "He might be able to help." Dean's ears perked in interest. "He said he'll look into it. There's hope, Dean. But if we get him back, I don't think he'll be too happy to see how you've been denying to take care of yourself."

"Then go make me a sandwich, bitch." Dean mumbled. "Whatever, jerk." Sam rolled his eyes but returned to the kitchen to make two of the biggest sandwiches he's ever seen. When he brought them out, his brother practically inhaled them.

"Alright ladies, called in a few favors, but I think we can pull this over."

Dean shot out of his seat. "Then what are we waiting for?" He snapped. "Calm down, hotshot, we need to do it at the exact time of death."