Chapter Text
Opening the door had been the first step, but he could only go so far. His body froze at the entrance to the bedroom, he couldn't get control of it. He was static, loosely holding a broom in the left hand, meanwhile, his right hand was holding the door jamb tightly, supporting all his weight, preventing him from falling apart. Taking a step forward was symbolic, it meant getting out of the pain zone and restarting, but his brain refused itself, and kept sending that danger warning to every cell of his body. His mind was screaming that if he started it, it would be the end. It would erase any memory.
“Dean, is everything okay?” Sam’s worried voice sounded right behind him.
He rotated on his axis, still using his hand as a support, he didn’t trust his legs to keep him standing up. His eyes found Sam’s eyes, he wanted to say something witty to ease the creases on the youngest’s forehead, but his mind kept sounding like a loud alarm, preventing him from formulating any coherent thinking.
“Dean, it’s okay if you don’t want to do this now or at any other moment. Seriously, man, you don’t really need to do this.” Sam said.
He felt that familiar burning in the corner of his eyes and took a deep breath to compose himself, although his voice showed he was horribly failing.
“I know, Sammy, but I need to do this, okay. Really need to.” It was everything he could say and it was more than he would like to.
He wanted to deal with this as something normal within the normality of The Winchester's life. Every single death was felt, mourned, and as time passed, they accepted it within the possible, leaving just the memories. But not this time. Soon it would complete eight months and the pain wouldn’t go away, instead, it felt like it was increasing day by day in the same manner as his longing.
Sam nodded, he realized that none word would be enough, never could be. Felt like fate was unfair with his brother. Dean’s life, since always, comes down to giving his all to others, especially to Sam, keeping him safe and protected. Even though, at the end of everything, who owned the best part was the youngest, meanwhile the older of the Winchesters needed once again to deal with the loss. His biggest loss.
Sam got his attention attracted to the interior of the room. He was feeling sadness tightening his chest while his gaze wandered around the bedroom. To someone who didn't live there, this place would be just another normal room, a bit stripped down though. But to them, especially to Dean, where some objects were missing, remained memories.
“There isn't a lot to pack up.” the younger one couldn't avoid that sound of sorrow scratching his throat. His brother came back to the doorway and Sam knew he was running away to hide the tears hanging in his eyes.
“I know. That stupid angel was never good at wanting things for himself. Dumb angel. He could always have had everything he wanted to. He just needed to say it and he would have it…” Dean's voice died into a low sob, but loud enough for Sam to hear.
The older one never told what exactly happened that day when Castiel was taken by the Empty, but the younger one suspected that something big had happened, something much bigger than the angel's death, and losing Cas was something that couldn't be measured because it was Cas. For Sam, losing Castiel had the same proportion as all the times he had lost Dean, Cas was his brother by affinity and choice, he was part of that family, always had been.
“Do you want to do this today? Do it another time, Dean.” Sam suggested.
The eldest of the Winchesters for a moment pondered the suggestion, after all his mind kept up all that incessant fussing about not touching anything, about keeping everything in place, like a shrine dedicated to Cas. He could do that, he could leave it exactly like that, but that would mean choosing to stop in time, to stop living, feeding only on the torturing memories. He would keep crawling to that place like a wounded animal looking for a hiding place to lick its wounds. He would keep up the routine of night after night abandoning his bed to plunge into the angel's, seeking comfort in the smell of the sheets, bending over himself, weeping softly all the longing he felt. But Cas would not approve of this. Castiel had sacrificed himself so that he would have the chance to be free and happy. To choose anything that did not lead him down that path was to dishonor the angel who had given him everything, even life.
“It is okay, Sammy. I’ll be okay. I’m gonna do this today, there’s no reason for postponing it even more.”
The youngest of the Winchesters still had doubts about whether it was the best thing, but he thought it would be wiser to let his brother get on with it without standing on his shoulders. Dean didn't need a babysitter, just space to deal with his emotions, and anyway, Sam would always be around if he needed one.
“Okay then. I'm off video calling Eileen if you need anything else I'm in the library, just shout out and I'll come running.”
“Don't overreact, Sam, I'm just gonna pack and clean up the bedroom, there's no reason for me to shout out asking for help. Go there before Eileen gets tired and snorts at you for being late.”
The younger man gave a strained half-smile, nodded, and made his way to the library before his girlfriend snorted at his delay. Dean followed him with his eyes, and when the younger man was out of sight, he turned resignedly to the open door. He forced himself to silence the alarm in his head, rubbed his face in an attempt to dispel the uncertainty, picked up the broom that was against the wall, and finally stepped forward.
*****
Of all the rooms in the bunker that was the most austere. Dean had done everything to convince Cas to choose another room, one that was bigger and more colorful, but the angel stubbornly wouldn't give up all that gray shit as the oldest of the Winchesters referred to the walls painted in a heavy tone. What he didn't know was that Castiel had chosen that place because it reflected his dark and uncertain inner self; in his mind, he didn't think himself worthy of anything, let alone comfort. In that time and after, all he could think about was how he had failed time and again, disappointing everyone, especially Dean.
Yet there were still little things that reflected his personality slightly. Next to the old television was the pretty album that Cas had bought to keep all the silly drawings Jack used to make. The other trench coat, in a much darker beige, was hanging on the old-fashioned coat rack, and on the tiny table by the door was the box of the game Sorry that he sometimes played with Dean when he had peaceful evenings. Above the table, the only painting in the place contrasted with the suffocating lead: it was a delicate watercolor drawing of a nice, smiling little bee.
The sugar-sweet novels that made Dean roll his eyes rested neatly aligned on the bedside table on the left side of the bed, and in front of them was a double picture frame, the kind that looks like an open book, two pictures were framed: the first was a beautiful picture of the two Winchesters flanked by Castiel and Jack, and the second had just Cas and Dean in their cowboy hats, smiling at each other.
The single bed was simple, covered with light beige sheets. It was very neatly made up, and anyone would think it hadn't been used since Cas had left. But Dean occupied it every night, messing it up with his nightmares that relived the moment the angel was taken by the Empty. And every morning as he carefully tidied it up, the eldest of the Winchesters promised himself never to sleep there again, only to forget his promise when the day was done.
Dean looked around with a heavy heart. It was as Sam had said, there was almost nothing to pack, yet sealing up those few things and storing them in some forgotten corner of the bunker was a task that required more than he thought he could handle. His eyes were drawn to his old Walkman, which had also been a gift from him to Cas, he had given it along with the mixtape of his favorite Led Zeppelin songs. The device was on the TV and he knew that the tape wasn't there, it wasn't anywhere and he knew this. He had searched the room for it because he needed to be sure about something he suspected: Cas couldn't be a part of that mixtape, always carrying it up and down in his pocket. It was certain that he had it with him when it happened.
He felt his body heavy, the fatigue was increasing as time went by. The exhaustion was so tremendous that all his muscles ached and on some days even his bones seemed to ache. He wondered if he would ever be able to live without all that feeling that pushed him further and further into the dark depths he carried inside his chest, and as much as he tried to see in himself what Cas had seen, he kept groping in the dark, blind to who the real Dean Winchester was. "Cas had said... no, Cas had stated that he was not John's blunt knife, that he was not made of anger and revenge, but of love. So and completely love, and that was why the angel had changed, and also why Castiel had loved him to the end."
“Cas, you idiot, what am I supposed to do with this? You had no right to tell me all that and then let yourself down, you damn bastard.” The broom slipped from his limp hand and fell with a thud.
He considered bending down to pick it up, but his body yearned for a minute or two of peace, and the inviting bed lured him like a mermaid. He would not lay down, just sit for a while waiting for the muscle pain to pass. He knew he was stalling because he suspected that all that physical pain was a symptom of stress, at least that's what Sam thought. His brother had been urging him to see a doctor, but Dean hadn't even considered it, especially after he learned exactly what kind of specialist he was supposed to see. Sam had chosen Mia Vallens to be his therapist, and the two of them, plus Eileen, had been confabbing behind his back. And then his brother called him in for a serious talk to tell him that of all the misfit hunters out there, Dean was the one who most urgently needed to see a psychiatrist. He wanted to punch Sam just for suggesting that "shitty idea", but it wasn't even necessary, just his skewed glance had been enough for the youngest to shut up and never mention the subject again, even though he would certainly keep gossiping with his girlfriend and "that shapeshifter wannabe Mother Teresa".
The soft mattress had been another one of his ideas, because if it were up to the stubborn angel he would keep using that hard thing like a board, with the excuse that he didn't need to sleep. But if Cas was a blockhead, Dean was five times more so, and the "mattress crisis," as Sam had dubbed it, had been just another of their many arguments. This made him smile because the truth was that he enjoyed those little provocations, and despite the usual grumpy frown, he knew that Cas also enjoyed those fights. He would never forget the day his brother, already out of patience, shouted louder than they did, accusing them of looking like a grumpy old couple. The younger brother threw the book he had in his hands on the table, called Jack, who looked on without understanding a thing, and left, snorting, saying that they were going to buy more beer and something for dinner. He and Cas exchanged astonished looks and burst into laughter, while Sam, indignant at being a laughingstock to both of them, slammed the door on his way out of the bunker.
All that seemed to have happened in another life and not so recently. Time. He had been thinking about the concept a lot, more than usual. It had become something natural since he had faced Chronos. But after losing Cas the whole thing had become a bit of an obsession. If he could go back to that damned day, he would never have gone to Billie's library, much less dragged the angel with him. If there was one thing he would give anything to change, it was his stupid decision that led Cas to his death. He woulda thousand times rather have the angel by his side, loving him in silence, than lose him forever.
He sighed resignedly. He knew it was no use getting lost in daydreams, it was just another mental trap to escape the purpose of being there. The cardboard box was in the hallway, and, discouraged, he picked it up and placed it on the bed. He decided to start with the items near the door and one by one they were placed inside. He put some tape on the box to seal the contents and finally, with a marker pen, wrote a large "CAS" on the top and sides. It hadn't even taken him twenty minutes to do this, but he still felt more exhausted and sore than before. The urge to sit down again to continue rambling was strong, but he forced himself to finish what he needed to do. It was just a matter of dusting off the furniture, sweeping the dust outside, locking the door, and handing the key to Sam, so that he would never again give in to the impulse of surrounding his life inside that bedroom.
With a crushed heart in his chest, he carried the box out and carefully placed it on the hallway floor. Back in the bedroom, he set about cleaning the furniture and finally picked up the broom to finish his work. He just wanted to finish quickly before he gave up and put everything back in place. He swept more vigorously than necessary and only stopped when, while passing the broom under the bed, he heard a noise of something coming loose. Intrigued, he dragged the furniture aside until he found a long, narrow rectangle cut into the floor.
“It's probably just some Man of Letters shit. I wonder how many more hiding places the bunker has that we haven't found yet?”
Curiosity spoke louder, he crouched down near the cutout and without much thinking pulled out the loose lid. The first thing he noticed was that it wasn't a very deep hole, it had been dug deep enough to accommodate a simple aged wooden box, and he picked it up carefully. The second thing he noticed was how light it was. No sigils or any symbols on top, but his fingers felt grooves diverging from the smooth surface, on the front where the small clasp was. Dean needed to bring the box near, there was a lot of weathering and whatever it was, it wasn't easy to see with tired eyes. And it was only when he hovered the object a few inches from his face that he understood what it was: Enochian.
But it wasn't just anything in Enochian. He might not be as well-versed in the language as Sam, but that one word he knew so well that he would never forget it. His memory was thrown back to that day, some years before, when one night, half-drunk, he filled Cas' patience to show him what the angel's name looked like in the ancient sacred writing. And that was what he had in front of him now. To his surprise, Castiel's name was written just below the clasp.
Dean froze for a moment. He had never seen that box, all those years of having Cas around, and the angel did not even hint that he held anything other than the few items he had in that room. On the outside there was nothing spectacular about it, not even the lock was something detailed and difficult to open, it was quite ordinary, meaning that whatever it held inside, it was important, but not dangerous.
Once again he gave in to curiosity. Carefully he unlocked it, pulling the lid upwards. He barely lifted it and was flooded by an intense light, the brightness exploded in his face and he instinctively turned his head to protect himself. It lasted a few seconds and just as it appeared, it faded. Dean was surprised, he opened it all at once to find out what the hell was inside that could have done that. And nothing could prepare him for that surprise.
“Son of a bitch!”