Castiel lies in bed with Dean for a long time after he wakes up the next morning. His mind keeps replaying the events of the previous night on repeat. He had a goddamn panic attack in the middle of one of the biggest annual award shows. The event was even on national television, for god's sake.
What if his panic attack was on national television? It's not uncommon for them to show the audience during performances. What if everyone saw him running out of the room? And the paparazzi obviously got pictures of him outside, so those are going to make their rounds online, too.
There's no way to play this off, is there? He can't hide it. At this point, everyone has to know about his little freak out. It's probably being used against him by some random person online right now. And people still use moments from five-plus years ago against him, so they're never going to let him live this down.
This is the end, isn't it? He can't go to another awards show, he can't go to any concerts, and he certainly can't go on tour with all the big noises. He can't do anything where the spotlight is solely on him in case he has another panic attack. He can't do anything anymore.
So this is it. He's done now. He went out with a bang — both literally and figuratively.
"Cas?"
Castiel looks over to see that Dean's awake, looking sort of concerned. He sits up and gently pulls Castiel into a side hug with one arm, using the other hand to wipe a tear from his cheek. He didn't even realize he was crying.
"Hey, Cas, what's wrong?" Dean asks softly. "Another nightmare?"
Castiel just shakes his head.
"Are you okay?" Dean asks.
Castiel shakes his head again.
"Oh, Cas," Dean murmurs, wrapping both arms around him. "Talk to me. What's wrong, sweetie?"
"Nothing," Castiel mumbles.
"I know that's not true," Dean says quietly. "Is it about last night?"
Castiel hesitates, not sure he wants to admit it, then nods.
"You know people aren't going to be upset, right?" Dean says. "They're going to feel bad for you. I know you're used to everything you do being divisive, but even people who don't really like you are going to sympathize with you on this."
"But they're not," Castiel says. "That's not how the internet works. It's not how being famous works." He sighs softly. "We never should have come here. This is going to follow me around for years."
"It's not," Dean insists. "I'll prove it, okay? Let me go check Twitter. I'm sure I'll find lots of love on there."
"If you're so sure, let me look, too," Castiel says.
"Cas —"
"Dean, I just have to know where I stand right now," Castiel says. "Just let me see what people are saying. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just getting all worked up over nothing."
Dean hesitates, then says a reluctant, "Okay, hang on."
He reaches over to grab his phone from the bedside table. As he shields the phone from view to type his password, Castiel leans against him, resting his head on the boy's shoulder. Dean opens the Twitter app and searches up Castiel's first name.
The first things that show up are a Twitter moments about the Grammys, a Twitter moments about Castiel at the Grammys specifically, and a couple different articles.
"See, it's already a big thing," Castiel says.
"They do that type of thing for everything," Dean says reassuringly. "But it's going to be all positive, okay?"
Next is two pictures — one of Castiel walking out of the room with his hands over his ears, and one of him on his knees outside, and though he's really using his hand to shielding his face from the cameras, it looks like he's just crying. The caption is just, "Castiel is everyone when they hear a Cardi B song."
"See?" Castiel says. "I told you. There's no such thing as sympathy on Twitter."
Dean sighs. "Cas, it's just one tweet. It's the only joke you can make out of that. Everyone else will be nice."
The next most popular tweet is another similar picture of Castiel outside of the venue, with the caption, "Everyone saying it's PTSD is basically saying Castiel equates Cardi B's music to a terrorist attack and honestly same."
"Oh, yes, you're absolutely right," Castiel says sarcastically. "Everyone feels really bad for me. No one's laughing at me at all. Thank you so, so much for this."
Dean sighs. "I'm sure it's not as bad as you think, okay? And, for what it's worth, neither of them really made fun of you. They mostly made fun of Cardi B."
"Yay," Castiel deadpans. "I'm so glad I'm being used as ammunition to trash another artist. This is great."
After a pause in which Dean must be realizing that there's literally nothing he can say to make this better, he just says, "I'm sorry."
Castiel silently scrolls down on Dean's phone to read the next tweet. It's another picture of Castiel on the ground outside, but this time, Jack is crouched down next to him. The tweet just says, "Can I ship Castiel with Jack Kline instead of Dean Winchester because Dean's annoying and this is adorable."
Castiel starts choking on air at that suggestion. Dean pats his back reassuringly until he's calmed down and just stares at the phone instead.
"I'll take care of this," Dean assures him.
Castiel watches silently as Dean types out his response, and he's sure it's going to be bad just because it's Dean, but he doesn't really care.
"I might be annoying, but at least I'm not 15 —"
"Jack is 16," Castiel tells him.
"Oh, shit, you right," Dean says, then restarts.
"I might be annoying, but at least I'm not 16. You realize Cas is —"
"What's 23 minus 16?" Dean asks.
"Seven, and you need to go back to kindergarten," Castiel replies.
"Oh, shut up."
"I might be annoying, but at least I'm not 16. You realize Cas is 7 years older, right? And I think he died a little inside from reading this."
Castiel chuckles. "Well, you're not wrong."
"I'm never wrong," Dean says confidently.
"Literally every single thing you've said to me today has been wrong," Castiel reminds him.
"Shh, don't dwell on the past," Dean says.
Castiel goes back to the popular tweets with his name and starts to scroll to the next one, but Dean locks his phone before he can.
"What was that for?" Castiel whines.
"I changed my mind," Dean says. "I don't think either of us want to see what people are talking about right now."
"Can we at least look at Lucifer's account?" Castiel asks. "He's usually really funny."
Dean shrugs. "I don't see why not."
Dean unlocks his phone again and searches up Lucifer's account, but before they can read any of his tweets, Castiel swipes to the side to look at the tweets he's liked.
"Y'all really have the audacity to make fun of Castiel for his PTSD? This is the epitome of fake woke Twitter."
"Moment of appreciation for Jack Kline for making sure Castiel was okay last night. We stan a supportive friendship."
"If I see one more tweet mocking Castiel's PTSD, I'm going to stab someone. He went through a real trauma, and I'm proud of him for coming back at all."
"He's very focused on you right now," Dean observes.
Castiel shrugs. "He likes to make some of his statements through his likes. He says it makes him feel cool and mysterious. And I'm sure he doesn't want to bring any extra attention to it by tweeting about it, so this works."
He turns his attention back to Lucifer's likes, just for some type of validation, some assurance that not everybody hates him.
"Castiel and Jack talking about each other in the red carpet interviews was the best part of the Grammys don't @ me."
"I better not see a single person complain if Castiel doesn't go on tour again and stays away from awards shows because of his PTSD. His mental health comes first."
"STOP SHIPPING JACK AND CASTIEL THERES A SEVEN YEAR AGE GAP THERE FOR GODS SAKE."
"Castiel Novak reminds us all once again that anyone can have mental illnesses, and that's okay."
"If you make Castiel feel bad about his PTSD, not only are you a dick, but you're also invalidating all the other survivors (which makes you an even bigger dick)."
Castiel locks Dean's phone and puts it facedown in the bed. He leans against his fiancé's arm, resting his head against his shoulder.
"What's up?" Dean asks quietly.
Castiel just shakes his head.
"Cas, talk to me," Dean insists. "What's wrong?"
"I just..." Castiel sighs. "Everyone's calling it PTSD, and that's... That's what happens to soldiers coming back from the trenches. I never did that. I left that stadium in one piece. People got hurt, people died, and I was fine. You know, physically, I was fine. And I know that I'm all messed up now, but I'm still alive, even if my brain still scares me.
"And I just feel like calling that PTSD when none of it happened to me is just — it's gonna make PTSD seem like a smaller thing than it actually is. Does that make sense? I don't think that makes sense."
"No, it makes sense," Dean assures him. He wraps his arms around Castiel, holding him close. "But you know what? You're absolutely wrong."
"What?"
"Anyone who thinks what you saw wasn't that bad is an idiot," Dean says. "And yes, I'm including you in that. I can't imagine what you went through. I didn't see you for hours after that, but when I did, you were still in shock, so I know it was bad. And if you don't feel comfortable labeling it as PTSD, you don't have to, but if you're just saying it because you don't consider watching a terrorist attack in real time enough of a trauma, you're dead wrong.
"But you know what?" Dean continues, a small smile on his face. "You're still here. You made it. You've dealt with it so well, and that deserves to be mentioned. You're so strong, Cas, and I love you for it." He presses a kiss to Castiel's cheek. "Don't psych yourself out of this. You may not be able to see it, but you've come so far."