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Dean Winchester tried to end his life four times after losing Cas. Four desperate, shattered moments when the weight of existence crushed him, and the hollow echo of his own heart mocked him with its stubborn, meaningless rhythm. Cas had been his breath, his everything, the only light in a world that had always been too dark. And now, without him, there was nothing: no air, no light—only emptiness.
The first time, Dean prayed that death would take him quietly, as if he could bargain away the pain that tore through him like shards of glass. The second time, he didn’t pray at all—he welcomed the darkness, hoping it might cradle him in the arms he could no longer reach. By the third, he didn’t care if it was fast or slow, peaceful or violent; all that mattered was escape. But it was the fourth time—the worst, the most deliberate—that revealed just how broken he had become. Because Dean wasn’t just mourning Cas. He was dead with him. Every memory of Cas—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the quiet power of his love—was both a comfort and a curse. It was all he had left, and it wasn’t enough. Cas had taken Dean’s heart with him, leaving behind a man who was only half-alive, drowning in the unbearable ache of absence. Without Cas, Dean was nothing. And yet, somehow, even in the abyss of his despair, something pulled him back each time, just enough to linger on the edge of existence. A fragment of hope buried deep within, or perhaps the faintest memory of Cas’s love. It wasn’t enough to save him, but it was enough to keep him breathing—barely. For now.
11x17 Red Meat
Dean could usually silence the nagging sense of emptiness with the roar of his Impala’s engine or the bite of cheap whiskey. But nothing—no amount of bloodshed or alcohol—could touch the hollow ache that had been slowly eating away at him since Cas had fallen under Lucifer’s control. The knowledge burned in his gut like acid, eating away at every scrap of hope he had left. It felt like watching his world collapse, and he was helpless to stop it. His mind flashed back to the bunker, to the moment he realized that Cas hadn’t just left—he’d been taken, transformed into something unrecognizable, twisted by the same force that Dean had fought his whole life. There was no bargaining with Lucifer, no negotiating for Cas’s freedom. And though he tried to shut it out, the truth kept searing him: he’d failed Cas. He hadn’t been able to protect him. And now, as he stumbled through the dark forest, his breath coming in ragged gasps, Dean barely registered the wounds that dotted his body. It was a small hunt—one that shouldn’t have been dangerous. Just a simple werewolf hunt with Sam. But it hadn’t been about the hunt for him; it had been about escaping that bleak, desperate feeling, about throwing himself into anything that might make him feel alive. When the werewolf struck, Dean had seen it coming, and he hadn’t even tried to dodge. The claws had raked across his side, and as the pain flared, he felt...relief. Maybe this was it. Maybe he could finally let go, finally give in. But then there was Sam, panicking, shouting something he couldn’t quite make out. Dean’s mind drifted in and out, and he almost smiled as his vision dimmed. It would be easy, so easy to let go, to stop fighting. He could finally rest, finally be free from the crushing weight of missing Cas. But then something pulled him back. It wasn’t Sam, and it wasn’t the pain. It was the dim, lingering thought of Cas—the only person who had ever seen him, really seen him. And for a moment, Dean felt the ache sharpen into something more bearable, something that sparked the tiniest glimmer of hope. If Cas could see him now, would he want this? That thought kept him clinging to consciousness just a little longer, even as his heart slowed, the edges of his vision darkening. He barely heard Sam begging for help, barely felt the hands lifting him, barely registered the oxygen mask over his face. And when he finally let himself sink into the darkness, he felt…not peace, but the faintest memory of Cas’s hand on his shoulder, grounding him, keeping him tethered.
13x05 Advanced Thanatology
Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spot where Cas had fallen. His chest felt caved in, like he was breathing through cracked ribs. The flickering lights, the cold stench of blood and sulfur—all of it faded into the background as he stared at Cas’s lifeless body. Lucifer had come and gone in a flash, but the devastation he left behind was boundless, stretching deep into Dean’s bones. Dean had seen death. Lived it, even. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the hollow ache settling in his chest, an ache that stole the breath from his lungs, that clawed at his throat every time he swallowed. Cas was gone, really gone. Not taken, not possessed. Gone. And for Dean, that was worse than any pain, worse than any nightmare. He stumbled out of the bunker, not bothering to check his bag or his gun. There was a hunt somewhere upstate—small, forgettable, the kind of case they’d usually pass up. But to Dean, it was perfect. An excuse to run headlong into danger, to let his life hang by a thread just close enough to the edge that maybe, if he were lucky, it’d finally snap. He could hear Billie’s voice in his head from that last hunt, when he’d first tried to end it all. “This is the end, Dean. You're going to die today.” she’d said, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. But that time, he hadn’t been ready to face it. Now? He was ready. The drive was a blur, punctuated only by whiskey that burned less and less with each gulp. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he felt anything. Every corner of the Impala smelled faintly of Cas—his coat, his aftershave, the strange ozone scent that always seemed to linger after he left. The smell was almost enough to make him believe, just for a moment, that Cas was there, beside him, silent and steady like always. When he arrived at the rundown house, Dean moved in a trance. The place was a mess of broken glass, the walls covered in mildew and something he didn’t want to think about. He found the ghosts haunting him—a few innocent teenagers who had died many years ago—and for once, he let the spirits come close. He could feel the cold press of them, see the shadowed forms flickering before him. It was like looking into his own soul. The reality was that Dean wanted to die. He wanted to escape the unrelenting suffering of his body and soul, to find peace in the memories of Cas, and to reunite with him in heaven. Sacrificing himself for the sake of a hunt felt less like a burden and more like a quiet reprieve—a reward for a life spent fighting battles he never asked for. With that thought heavy in his mind, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the adrenaline needle—just for something as simple as communicating with ghosts and ending the hunt. He could feel the point pressing against his skin, his heartbeat echoing in his ears as he raised the needle to his chest. He barely felt it pierce his skin, barely registered the shockwave of pain that followed. As the drug surged through his veins, Dean felt his heartbeat slow, then stagger, then lurch forward. There was nothing left in him that could fight. Cas was gone. Really gone. And he couldn’t live in a world without him. As he slumped to the floor, Dean thought he saw a flicker of blue—a hint of Cas’s eyes, watching him, comforting him. He was ready. For the first time in months, he felt a release from the constant, gnawing emptiness. But fate wouldn’t let him go that easily. Billie was there, appearing in a darkened corner of the room, her gaze sharp and unyielding. “I know you wanna die. But you can't get to run from this, Dean Winchester,” she said, a strange blend of pity and sternness in her voice. Dean wanted to shout at her, to demand she let him go. But all he could manage was a rough, “Why not?” She tilted her head, her expression softening just a fraction. “Because you don’t get to decide when it’s over. Not when you’re running from something you don’t understand.” The words stung. Dean felt himself slipping back, the release slipping from his grasp as his heartbeat stumbled back to life. He could almost feel the warmth of Cas’s hand on his shoulder, his gaze steady and grounding. A moment later, the vision of Billie faded, leaving Dean alone, alive and still aching.
15x20 Carry On
Dean didn’t know how much time had passed since Cas was taken. Days, weeks, months—it all bled together in the haze of grief and emptiness. Losing Cas was like tearing away a part of his soul. Each breath felt heavier than the last, his body moving through the motions of life while his heart remained shattered, abandoned in that deserted warehouse where Cas had given his final, whispered confession. The words echoed in Dean’s mind, carving into him like glass: “I love you.” He heard them every night, in that quiet, raw voice that had slipped past Cas’s lips. Cas had loved him—truly, deeply. He’d died for him, offering up his own life and his own happiness so that Dean could keep going. And Dean had stood there, too shocked and too broken to say anything in return. To say the one thing he’d known for years but had buried under guilt, under fear: that he loved Cas, too. And now, there would never be a chance to say it. After that, Dean had tried to move forward. For Sam, for Jack, for the sake of the family he had left. He even went back to the bunker, tried to care for Miracle, the dog who brought him the barest semblance of comfort in the stillness. But there was a void inside him, deeper and colder than any he’d known before. Cas had taken a piece of his heart with him, and Dean felt like he’d been left hollow, drifting through each day as little more than a ghost. Sam noticed, of course. Dean could see it in the worried looks he’d send his way, in the late-night talks he’d try to initiate. But what could Dean say? How could he put into words that nothing—no hunt, no drink, no family—could fill the empty space Cas had left behind? In his more lucid moments, Dean tried to reach out. He’d prayed to Jack, begging him to bring Cas back, promising anything—his own life, his own soul, whatever it took. But Jack had refused, his voice filled with sorrow and a quiet, impossible-to-ignore finality: “The Empty won’t let him go.” That was when Dean felt his last shred of hope slip away. If even Jack, with all his power, couldn’t save Cas, then what was left? And now, here he was. On a routine vampire hunt, dragging himself through the same motions he’d done a hundred times. But tonight, he couldn’t bring himself to care. His heart beat dully in his chest, and his fingers felt numb against the hilt of his machete. The vampire lunged, its claws flashing through the dark, and Dean—caught in the trance of his own sorrow—didn’t bother to move. Pain flared in his side as the creature’s claws struck deep, tearing through his skin. He staggered, but instead of fighting back, he simply let the vampire shove him backward. The momentum sent him crashing against a rusted piece of construction iron, a sharp spike slicing into his back. For a moment, he felt his body go cold, the pain numbing as he realized he was pinned, his blood pooling around him. Sam was shouting something, but the sound felt distant, like it was coming from underwater. Dean’s vision blurred, but he could see enough—the expression on Sam’s face, the panic that shifted into something darker, something that looked almost like…understanding. Dean’s lips twitched into a small, bitter smile. Maybe, at last, he could let go. Maybe he’d finally find peace in that darkness. And maybe—just maybe—he’d see Cas again. But the peace he’d hoped for didn’t come. As his vision faded, a deep ache spread through him, piercing the cold numbness. Images of Cas filled his mind—the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hand on Dean’s shoulder, the quiet strength he’d always carried. And suddenly, that ache sharpened into something he couldn’t ignore, a longing so deep it twisted his heart. He wanted to see Cas, to be with him. But not like this. Not in some distant, unreachable afterlife. He wanted to hold him, to tell him the words he’d never been able to say. He forced his eyes open, gritting his teeth against the pain. His heart thudded heavily, clinging to life even as everything in him wanted to give up. In that moment, he heard Sam’s voice again, clear and desperate. “Dean, come on. Stay with me.” For the first time, Dean saw the tears in his brother’s eyes, the raw, unfiltered fear. It struck him harder than any blow, and he felt something shift inside him. He couldn’t do this to Sam, couldn’t leave him behind—not when he knew the pain of losing someone you loved so deeply. But it wasn’t enough. His heartbeat slowed, and darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. Just as his mind drifted to Cas one last time, he felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of warmth—a light pressing against his soul, soft and gentle. And then, he heard Jack’s voice. “You’re not done yet, Dean.” He wanted to protest, wanted to tell Jack that he couldn’t keep going, that he didn’t want to. But Jack’s presence was a firm, grounding force, pulling him back from the edge. And then, with a shuddering gasp, Dean’s eyes flew open. He was still in the barn, still bleeding, still aching. But as he looked up, he saw Sam’s face, a mixture of relief and sorrow etched into every line. He felt like he’d been dragged from the brink, and for the first time, a wave of bitter disappointment washed over him. He’d been so close to escaping, to finding peace, and now he was back, tethered once again to a world without Cas. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes, letting the pain wash over him. The familiar, gnawing emptiness was back, stronger than ever, and he wondered if he’d ever find a way to live with it. Dean Winchester had been running on borrowed time since Cas was taken. The hollow ache in his chest had become his constant companion, a gnawing emptiness that even the strongest antidepressants couldn’t fully suppress. Prescribed to him by a psychiatrist Sam had insisted he see, the pills dulled the edges of his despair. They didn’t heal anything, didn’t touch the core of his grief—the place where his love for Cas had lived and been ripped away. But they offered an escape, however fleeting, and Dean clung to that lifeline with both hands. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t breathe without feeling like he was suffocating. The pain was relentless, a cycle that never seemed to end, and the pills had become more than just a treatment. Over time, they turned into a crutch, something he leaned on to keep from falling apart completely. At first, they dulled the edges of the anguish, turning sharp grief into something muted and distant. But as the months wore on, even that wasn’t enough. Dean’s eyes fell to the bedside table. A prescription bottle sat there, nearly empty, the label worn and smudged. He’d been taking the pills for months now, swallowing them like lifelines, chasing that brief reprieve from the pain. But they were a poor substitute for Cas’s steady hand or the way his blue eyes had seemed to hold every answer Dean had ever needed. The pills had become an addiction—one that kept him from spiraling completely, until even they started to fail him. And when they weren’t enough, the hollow ache threatened to swallow him whole. Dean was a shell of himself. The light in his eyes had faded long ago, leaving only the dull sheen of exhaustion and grief. He had lost a noticeable amount of weight over the months, his once-strong frame now frail and gaunt. Sleepless nights haunted him, his mind plagued by nightmares of losing Cas—scenes that replayed in endless, agonizing loops. The skin under his eyes had turned a deep, bruised purple, making him look like he hadn’t seen rest in years. He moved through each day as though his soul had already died, leaving his body to carry its unbearable weight. His heart beat sluggishly, his lungs worked like an afterthought, and every organ in his body seemed ready to quit. Sam had gone back to law school, leaving the bunker behind without so much as a second glance. Dean knew Sam had given up on him, he knew that Sam thought his own brother was beyond saving anymore. But Dean couldn’t muster the energy to care. All he could do was exist in the ruins of his life, each day a continuation of his slow, inevitable decline. That morning, Dean had woken from a fifteen-hour sleep, heavy and disoriented. For a moment, he thought he’d dreamed of Cas—that brief, vivid kind of dream where he could almost feel Cas’s presence, warm and grounding beside him. But as he pushed himself up from his bed, the memory faded, leaving him hollow. He moved into the bunker’s main room, rubbing his eyes and trying to shake off the heaviness that always seemed to cling to him. But then, he froze. Standing just a few feet away was…Cas. Dean stared, the sight unraveling his mind. Cas stood there, solid, as real as anything, his blue eyes warm and filled with an expression Dean couldn’t quite decipher. He looked like he hadn’t aged a day, the trench coat resting against his shoulders, his hands tucked into his pockets. Dean’s throat went dry. He tried to speak, tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but all he could manage was a hoarse, broken whisper. “I’m hallucinating,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I’ve lost it. Finally drank myself stupid enough to see you.” He chuckled, a rough, bitter sound, and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “That’s it, isn’t it? This is the part where I go crazy.” But Cas stepped closer, a soft, concerned look crossing his face. “Dean,” he said quietly, his voice rich with the same soothing tone Dean had missed so deeply. “I’m here. I’m real.” Dean flinched back, unable to handle the warmth in Cas’s gaze. It was too much, too real. This felt like some twisted mirror image of that day in the warehouse, the day Cas had said his first and final “I love you” and left Dean alone in a cold, empty world. “No, no,” Dean murmured, panic flooding his voice. He stumbled backward, his eyes darting around the room. “A djinn. It’s a djinn dream. Or a shapeshifter—something’s trying to mess with me.” His breathing quickened, and he felt his chest tighten as he searched for something, anything, to ground him. His hand brushed against a silver knife on the table, and he grabbed it, his grip so tight his knuckles turned white. Before he could bring the knife to his skin, though, Cas reached out, his hands firm but gentle as he took Dean’s wrist and pulled the blade from his grip. The touch was grounding, steady, and Dean found himself gasping for breath as he looked up into Cas’s eyes. “Dean,” Cas whispered, his voice soft but unwavering. “It’s me. I’m real. I promise.” Dean fought against Cas’s grip, his pulse pounding with the fear that if he let himself believe this—if he let himself hope—he’d be shattered when it all disappeared. He shook his head, his voice breaking as he muttered, “I can’t… I can’t lose you again. I won’t survive it, Cas. I can’t.” Cas’s expression softened, a flicker of pain crossing his face as he listened. He tightened his grip just enough to keep Dean grounded, and then he leaned in close, his voice a gentle murmur that washed over Dean like a balm. “Do you remember that night, Dean?” Cas said, his voice low, steady. “When you couldn’t sleep because of Michael’s memories in your mind? I counted your freckles to help you fall asleep—765, and 487 scars. You laughed, called me weird for knowing that number. Then you fell asleep in my arms.” Dean’s chest tightened as he remembered that night, the comfort he’d found in Cas’s presence. The memory sharp and vivid. Cas had stayed up with him, his voice soft, counting each freckle and scar like he was memorizing a constellation. Dean had laughed, feeling silly, but that night, he’d felt safe. Safe in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He looked up, a shimmer of something like hope flickering in his eyes. A fresh wave of tears blurred his vision. “I remember,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. Cas stepped closer, his hand reaching up to rest on Dean’s shoulder, his touch warm and solid. Dean felt the echo of Cas’s handprint there, a reminder of the night Cas had pulled him from Hell. He shuddered, a sob catching in his throat as he finally let himself reach out, pressing his hand to Cas’s chest, feeling the steady, comforting beat of his heart. “Cas…” he whispered, his voice a plea, filled with a desperation he couldn’t hold back. “You’re really here?” Cas nodded, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Yes, Dean. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” But even as he felt the truth of it, Dean’s instinct for self-preservation kicked in. He couldn’t let himself believe it, couldn’t let himself hope. He pulled back, retreating to the safety of his room, locking the door behind him as he slid down against it, his hands pressed to his face as sobs wracked his body. On the other side of the door, Cas pressed his hand against the wood, his heart aching as he heard each muffled sob. He wanted to tear down the door, to gather Dean into his arms and hold him until every piece of him was whole again. But he knew Dean needed time. Time to process, to heal, to let himself believe that Cas was real and that he wasn’t going anywhere. So Cas sat outside the door, his voice soft as he began to speak, sharing every memory, every moment he could recall that connected them. He reminded Dean of the nights they’d spent on the road, the quiet talks by the Impala, the silent looks they’d shared that spoke louder than words. Each memory was a thread, a small piece of the life they’d woven together, and Cas wove each one in his voice, offering them as a lifeline to Dean. Hours passed. Dean’s sobs quieted, and eventually, exhaustion overtook him, his body came loose on the bed as he slipped into a fitful sleep. When Cas heard the silence, he let his own tears fall, his heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. He’d seen the toll his absence had taken on Dean—the hollowness in his eyes, the weight of grief that clung to him like a shadow. He knew he was the reason for Dean’s suffering, the pain that had nearly broken him. And that knowledge felt like a blade, piercing through him with each heartbeat. Eventually, Cas slumped against the door, his own exhaustion taking hold as he drifted off, keeping vigil for the man who meant more to him than anything. Dean woke up hours later, disoriented and feeling the faint press of dreams lingering at the edges of his consciousness. He’d dreamt of Cas. This time, it felt so vivid, so real. The memory of Cas’s voice lingered, so close to his ear, grounding and steady, the way his blue eyes had always seemed to hold every answer Dean had ever needed. But he couldn’t afford to believe in dreams. Not again. His room was eerily quiet, the echo of long-forgotten laughter drifted on the walls. Dust hung in the air, undisturbed by any breeze. Each echo of Dean’s footsteps reminded him how empty the place was without Cas. His chest felt like it was caving in, his mind spiraling with images of Cas’s final smile, his last whispered “I love you.” That memory struck like a blade every time. Cas had loved him—had died for him—and Dean hadn’t said it back. He hadn’t had the courage to say it back. The hollow crater Cas had left behind gnawed at him relentlessly. It was a cycle Dean couldn’t escape: the grief, the guilt, the suffocating weight of everything left unsaid. He pulled himself up from where he’d slouched on the mattress of the bed, the empty whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers. His legs felt heavy, but he forced himself to move, his steps dragging him to his bathroom. The ache surged, a violent tide of loss and longing that pulled him under with every thought of Cas. The bathroom light was harsh, glaring against the cold tile as Dean twisted the knobs on the bathtub faucet. The icy water gushed out, filling the tub as he collapsed onto the edge, still fully clothed. His legs shook as he lined up the makeshift altar at his feet: a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a nearly-empty prescription bottle with a smudged label, his silver hunting knife, and a photograph of him and Cas. Dean stared at the photo, the edges curling and worn from too many nights spent clutched in his hands. Cas’s faint smile was a cruel reminder of everything Dean had lost, everything he couldn’t fix. His fingers trembled as he picked it up, brushing his thumb over Cas’s face. It was from years ago, some forgotten hunt. Cas had looked happy, content. How had Dean missed it back then—that Cas had loved him? And now it haunted him. The ache surged anew, raw and suffocating. Dean slammed the whiskey bottle on the floor, his hand trembling as the sob tore free. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.” His breaths grew shallow, ragged as he stared into the cold, rising water. His body was trembling, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. With shaking hands, he poured the pills into his palm. One by one, he swallowed them, chasing them with long gulps of whiskey. The burn in his throat didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. The photo rested in his lap, and Dean picked it up again, his thumb tracing Cas’s face as tears spilled freely onto the image, smudging the ink. “I love you, Cas,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I love you so much. I should’ve told you. I should’ve said it every day.” Dean pressed his lips to the photo, leaving a faint bloody smear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you. You deserved better than me. You deserved a real life. And instead, you got me—a broken, selfish idiot who let you die.” His voice cracked, raw and full of pain. Sliding into the icy water, Dean felt the cold soak through his clothes, stinging his skin. It was better than the suffocating weight in his chest. He pressed the photo against his heart, the water pooling higher around him, swallowing him inch by inch. But the ache—the hollow, endless ache—remained. It throbbed sharper now, cutting deeper than the pills or the whiskey ever could. Dean’s hand reached for the silver knife, the cool metal heavy and grounding in his palm. He pressed the blade to his wrist, hesitating for just a moment before dragging it across the skin. The sharp sting flared, followed by warmth as blood trickled into the water. It curled in delicate crimson patterns, mixing with the cold. Dean almost laughed at how beautiful it looked. Switching to his other wrist, Dean repeated the motion, dragging the blade deeper this time. His breaths grew weaker, his chest rising and falling with shallow gasps. Blood dripped onto the photo, staining the edges as it slipped from his grasp and floated in the water. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible as his vision blurred. He wiped the blood from Cas’s face in the photo with the back of his hand, pressing a final kiss to the image before clutching it to his chest once more. The water rose to his shoulders, then his chin, and Dean let it take him. His limbs felt heavy, his body sinking lower as the pills, whiskey, and blood loss pulled him under. He felt the water fill his lungs, the sharp burn giving way to a strange, almost peaceful weightlessness. Dean closed his eyes as his heart slowed. For the first time in months, he felt…peace. Cas awoke as if being dragged from the depths of an unending ocean, his chest heaving as he sucked in the stale air of the bunker. The Empty still clawed at his mind—its darkness, its suffocating silence. He remembered surrendering to it, letting its cold embrace take him, believing he was saving Dean. But now, the bunker’s warmth surrounded him, grounding him. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, where something faint pulsed like the echo of a heartbeat. A tether. A bond. Dean. “Dean,” Cas whispered, his voice breaking, the name a prayer on his lips. His memories surged—Jack’s voice, quiet yet insistent: “He needs you, Cas. He’s not okay.” That faint bond grew stronger, pulling him forward. The air in the bunker felt heavy, suffocating. Cas pounded on the familiar door, shouting, his heart screaming with urgency. "Dean?" he called out, his voice trembling. "Dean, please answer me!” The stillness answered him, mocking him. Cas hit the door hard with his shoulder, forcing it open with a resounding crash. Shadows danced along the walls as he searched the room, his voice trembling. "Dean? Dean, where are you? Please answer me.“ The room was cold, empty, the bed unmade. A nearly drained bottle of whiskey sat on the nightstand like a monument to despair. Cas’s heart clenched. Then he heard it. Faint. Water running. A chill ran down his spine as he sprinted to the bathroom, dread coiling in his stomach. His heart pounded as he shoved the door open. What he saw stole the breath from his lungs. Dean lay submerged in the bathtub, the water stained red. Blood swirled in delicate tendrils around his pale, lifeless form. His wrists were marred with deep gashes, and nearby, a knife lay discarded. A bottle of whiskey rested at the tub’s edge, its contents spilled, and an empty pill bottle lay forgotten on the floor. Floating beside Dean’s limp hand was a photograph, smeared with blood and water—a memory of happier times, of smiles and moments that felt a lifetime away. “Dean!” Cas screamed, his voice raw and breaking as he dropped to his knees. His hands plunged into the icy water, pulling Dean’s limp body out with trembling strength. He laid Dean on the cold tile, his lips quivering as he took in the pale face, the blue-tinged lips, the stillness of the man who meant everything to him. “No,” Cas whispered, his voice cracking as his tears spilled freely. “No, no, no. Dean, stay with me. Please, don’t do this.” Cas pressed a towel to Dean’s bleeding wrists, his hands trembling as blood seeped through the fabric. His fingers fumbled as they moved to Dean’s neck, searching desperately for a pulse. There was nothing. Cas’s heart stuttered, and his breath came in short, desperate gasps. “Come on, Dean,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Please. Don’t leave me. You don’t get to leave me.” With frantic hands, Cas tilted Dean’s head back and pressed his lips against his lover’s, forcing air into his lungs. He pressed his hands to Dean’s chest, compressing rhythmically. “Breathe, Dean,” he pleaded, his voice rising in desperation. “Come back to me. You have to come back to me.” Tears blurred his vision, falling onto Dean’s lifeless face. Minutes stretched into eternity as he alternated compressions and rescue breaths, his voice raw as he begged. “You don’t get to do this, Dean. Not after everything. Not when I just got back.” Cas leaned down, his forehead pressing against Dean’s, his sobs wracking his body. His fingers brushed over the familiar mark burned into Dean’s shoulder—the handprint Cas had left when he first pulled Dean from hell. A faint, blue glow flickered beneath his touch. Cas froze, his breath catching. The light was faint, fragile, like the flicker of a dying star. His grace—a fragment of the power he thought he’d lost—still lingered, buried deep within Dean’s soul. Hope surged through Cas’s chest, fierce and unrelenting. “Dean,” he whispered, his voice breaking as his tears fell. “I won’t let you go. Not now. Not ever.” The glow grew stronger, pulsing with warmth as Cas pressed his hand to Dean’s heart, the other against his shoulder. He closed his eyes, focusing on the bond between them, the love that had tethered them together for years. “Come back to me,” Cas murmured, his voice filled with desperate conviction. “You’re stronger than this. You’ve always been stronger. Fight, Dean. Fight for me.” The light flared, spreading through Dean’s chest, healing the injuries, purging the poison from his blood. Cas poured every ounce of love, of devotion, into the glow, his voice trembling as he whispered, “I love you, Dean. I’ve always loved you. Please, my love. Come back to me.” And then—a gasp. Dean’s chest heaved as his body convulsed, coughing violently. Cas turned him onto his side, steadying him as he retched, expelling the pills and whiskey from his stomach. “That’s it,” Cas murmured, his voice trembling with relief. “Breathe, my love. I’m here. You’re safe.” Dean’s glassy green eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused as they locked onto Cas’s tear-streaked face. His voice was a broken whisper. “Cas…?” Cas cradled Dean against his chest, his tears soaking into Dean’s damp hair. But this wasn’t enough—not for the storm of emotion raging inside him, the despair, the gratitude, the overwhelming love. He cupped Dean’s pale face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over the damp skin, and leaned down. Cas kissed Dean’s lips with everything he had, his tears spilling onto Dean’s cheeks as he poured all his anguish and devotion into the kiss. It was desperate and trembling, a plea, a promise. “I’m here,” he murmured against Dean’s lips as he pulled back, his voice breaking. “I’m here, my love. And I’m never leaving you again.” Dean’s trembling hand reached up, weakly gripping the front of Cas’s shirt. Tears streamed down his face as he choked out, "Cas... I didn't... I didn't want to leave you,” he mumbled, his voice weak. "Didn't want you to feel the way I did...after you..." "Shh," Cas whispered, pressing his hand over Dean's heart. “It's okay, my love. You're safe now. I won't leave you. You don't have to hurt anymore.” Cas pressed his lips to Dean’s forehead, his touch soft yet unyielding. “You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured. “I’m here. I’ll carry the pain with you.” Dean let out a broken sob, burying his face in Cas’s chest. “I love you, Cas,” he whispered, his voice raw and trembling. “I wanted to say it that day...” Cas cupped Dean’s face, his gaze fierce with love. “I know you love me, my beloved. I see it in the way you look at me, in the way you smile at me, and in the depths of your soul.“ He whispered. “And I love you, my one and only.” Dean sagged in Cas’s arms, exhaustion pulling at him as the adrenaline ebbed. Cas stood, lifting Dean effortlessly and carrying him to the bed. He laid Dean down gently, wrapping him in warm blankets. Cas sat beside him, his hand resting over Dean’s heart, feeling the steady beat beneath his palm. “You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re home. And I’m not going anywhere.” Dean’s eyes drifted closed, his breathing calm and even for the first time in what felt like forever. Cas stayed, his fingers tracing soothing circles over Dean’s hand, whispering promises of love and a future where neither of them would face the darkness alone. And as the bunker fell into quiet, Cas’s presence became Dean’s anchor—the light that had pulled him back, the love that would never let him go. The drive to the hospital stretched endlessly, time slowing as fear gnawed at Castiel’s resolve. The road ahead blurred, not from the rain, but from the tears clouding his vision. His right hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles pale, while his left hand remained firmly on Dean’s wrist, feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingertips as if it were the only tether keeping them both alive. He couldn’t lose him. He wouldn’t. “You’re going to be okay, Dean,” Cas murmured, his voice a quiet mantra meant to keep himself steady as much as to comfort his unconscious lover. “Stay with me. Please.” His thumb brushed over the band of skin above Dean’s wrist, slick with blood, as if his touch alone could hold him here. His words spilled out in a stream of trembling reassurances, soft and desperate. “You’re safe. I’m here. I’ve got you, my love.” When the hospital came into view, Cas pressed the gas pedal harder, the tires squealing slightly as he pulled into the emergency bay. He threw open the door and moved to the passenger side, gathering Dean’s limp body in his arms as carefully as if he were made of porcelain. “Help!” he called, his voice breaking as medical staff rushed toward him. The doctors moved with practiced precision, their faces grim as they took Dean from his arms. Cas’s heart clenched painfully as their hands replaced his, as Dean was wheeled away through the swinging doors of the emergency room, disappearing into a world Cas couldn’t follow. His fingers twitched, aching for the connection they had just lost. Hours passed in agonizing slowness as Cas paced the sterile hallway, the sound of his boots against the linoleum the only thing grounding him. The image of Dean’s pale face and lifeless body haunted him with each step, accompanied by the memory of the blood-stained photo clutched in Dean’s hand. He couldn’t forget the way Dean had looked—broken, drowning in despair. His soul mate, his beloved, the love of his existence. How close had he come to losing him forever? The swinging doors opened, and a doctor approached, their expression neutral but not unkind. Cas stopped in his tracks, his breath catching painfully in his chest. “How is he?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. The doctor gave a small, reassuring smile. “He’s stable. The drugs and alcohol took a toll, but we’ve cleared his system. He’ll need rest and careful monitoring, but he’s going to be okay.” Cas nearly collapsed with relief, his knees threatening to give way. He nodded jerkily, managing a hoarse “Thank you” before rushing past the doctor and into the room. The sterile walls and fluorescent lights cast a cold glow over the hospital room, but to Cas, it felt like a sanctuary. Dean was alive. His steady breathing and the soft hum of the heart monitor were the only things holding Cas together. He moved to the bedside, his hands trembling as he reached out to clasp Dean’s hand. His thumb brushed tenderly over Dean’s knuckles, the warmth of the contact soothing his frayed nerves. “You scared the hell out of me,” Cas murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned forward, his lips pressing softly to the back of Dean’s hand. His blue eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. Not now. Not ever.” A soft groan escaped Dean’s lips, and Cas froze. Dean’s eyelids fluttered open, his hazy green gaze struggling to focus. For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken emotion. “Cas?” Dean rasped, his voice raw and scratchy, his confusion evident. Cas stood abruptly, the chair scraping the floor as he moved closer, cupping Dean’s face in his hands. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice trembling with relief. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you. You’re okay. You’re safe now.” Dean blinked, his gaze falling to the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrists. His expression faltered, a wave of shame and regret washing over him. “I—I didn’t mean for you to see me like that,” he whispered, his voice cracking. Cas’s grip on his face tightened gently, grounding them both. “Dean,” he said, his tone unwavering, “you don’t have to apologize. You were hurting. I should have been here sooner. I should have—” His voice broke, the guilt crashing over him like a tidal wave. “Stop,” Dean murmured, shaking his head weakly. His hand trembled as he reached up to rest it on Cas’s wrist. “You saved me, Cas. You always save me.” Cas closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of Dean’s words settling deep in his chest. When he opened them again, they shimmered with tears. “And I always will,” he whispered, his voice soft and resolute. “You mean everything to me, Dean. I’ll never let you go through this alone again.” Dean swallowed hard, his throat tightening as the tears spilled over, trailing down his face. His hands clutched at Cas’s shirt, desperate and trembling. “I love you,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “So much.” Cas pressed his forehead to Dean’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. “I love you too, my beloved.” he replied, his voice steady even as tears streaked down his face. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to help you heal. Whatever it takes.” Dean nodded weakly, his tears soaking into Cas’s shirt as he let himself sink into the warmth and safety of Cas’s presence. The next few days blurred into one another, marked by whispered reassurances, soft touches, and Cas’s unwavering devotion. He stayed by Dean’s side through every medical evaluation, his hand never leaving Dean’s. The nurses gave him sympathetic smiles, and no one dared to suggest he step out. His love and protective energy filled the room, unyielding and palpable. When the doctor finally cleared Dean to go home, Cas helped him into the passenger seat of the Impala, his hands steady and gentle. Dean hesitated, his fingers brushing the familiar leather seat. “Haven’t driven her in a while,” he muttered, his voice tinged with regret and exhaustion. Cas placed a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder, his touch grounding and firm. “Then we’ll take it slow,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “One step at a time.” Dean nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching in the faintest shadow of a smile. He leaned his head back against the seat, his eyes closing as Cas slid into the driver’s seat. As the Impala rumbled to life, Cas glanced over at Dean, the love and relief in his eyes a silent promise. Whatever came next, they would face it together. Cas drove them home—together, as it had always meant to be. The days turned into weeks, and Cas’s resolve only grew stronger. He knew that Dean needed more than just love—he needed healing. With Jack’s assistance, Cas found them a quiet, detached house on the edge of town, a sanctuary far from the memories of their haunted past. The bunker had held too much pain, too many ghosts, and they both needed a space where they could breathe. The day Cas brought Dean to their new home, the sky was crisp and clear, the kind of autumn day that felt like a promise of renewal. The Impala came to a soft halt in the driveway, the engine’s familiar rumble fading into the quiet of their surroundings. Dean sat beside Cas, staring out the window, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s this?” Dean asked, his voice gruff, but there was a softness in his eyes as he took in the quaint, cozy house that sat nestled among the trees. Cas turned to him with a small smile, his blue eyes filled with hope. “A fresh start. For both of us.” Dean swallowed, his throat tight as he blinked back unexpected tears. The bunker had been their home for so long, but it was also a place of pain, of too much loss. This house—the warmth it radiated—felt like a chance to start again. It felt like a gift. “You did this for me?” Dean’s voice wavered, the disbelief plain. Cas stepped closer, cupping Dean’s cheek in his hand, his touch warm and grounding. “For us,” he whispered gently. “We deserve a place where we can heal. Together.” Dean’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, and he managed a small smile, though his voice trembled. “You’re too good for me, Cas.” Cas’s hand tightened just slightly, his expression fierce, unwavering. “I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. With you.” Cas set up Dean their new room with care, ensuring it was a space filled with warmth and comfort. The walls were decorated with small reminders of happier times—photos of the two of them, and even a framed picture of Miracle. The first few days were hard. Dean struggled to adjust, plagued by nightmares and guilt that kept him from fully embracing Cas’s return. But Cas remained patient, sitting with him through every rough moment, holding his hand and whispering reassurances when the nightmares got too loud. “You’re safe, Dean,” Cas would say, his voice steady and soothing. “I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.” One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden light through the windows, Dean sat on the couch with a mug of tea Cas had made for him. He stared into the steam, his thoughts distant. Cas sat beside him, his presence grounding. “What’s on your mind?” Dean hesitated before speaking. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly. “Do what?” Cas asked gently. “Live,” Dean said, his voice cracking. “Without all the crap, without the hunts, without the guilt weighing me down. I don’t know who I am without it.” Cas reached over, taking Dean’s hand in his. “You’re Dean Winchester. The man who saved the world more times than I can count. The man who has the biggest heart I’ve ever known. And the man I love more than anything.” Dean’s eyes filled with tears, but this time they weren’t born of sorrow. He looked at Cas, his voice trembling as he spoke. “You really mean that?” “Every word,” Cas said, his gaze unwavering. “You’re not just my purpose, Dean. You’re my home.” Over time, Dean began to heal. He started therapy at Cas’s gentle encouragement, slowly confronting the demons that had haunted him for years. Cas was there every step of the way, offering support without judgment. On days when the weight felt too heavy, Cas would sit with Dean on the porch, holding his hand and reminding him of all the reasons he was loved. On nights when the nightmares crept in, Cas would pull Dean into his arms, whispering words of comfort until the tension melted away. “You’re stronger than you know,” Cas would murmur, pressing a kiss to Dean’s forehead. “And I’ll remind you every day until you believe it.” Dean was slowly but surely finding himself again. With Cas by his side, he had started to let go of some of the guilt and pain that had consumed him. There were still hard days—days when the weight of his past felt unbearable—but Cas never faltered. One afternoon, Dean was in the garage Cas had converted into a small workshop for him. The tools were neatly organized, and Miracle lay lazily in the corner, watching Dean as he tinkered with the engine of an old Impala. The grease on Dean’s hands and the faint hum of classic rock on the radio felt comforting, grounding. Cas stood in the doorway, a soft smile on his face as he watched Dean work. For the first time in months, there was a faint glow in Dean’s eyes, a spark that had been missing for too long. “You’re staring again,” Dean said without looking up, a small smile tugging at his lips. Cas stepped forward, his hands in his pockets. “Can you blame me?” he said gently. “Seeing you like this—it’s a gift, Dean.” Dean wiped his hands on a rag, turning to look at Cas. “I’m still a mess, you know,” he said, his voice laced with self-deprecation. Cas stepped closer, his gaze soft but unwavering. “You’re healing. That’s what matters. And I’ll be here for every step of it.” Dean swallowed hard, his emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, shaking his head. Cas closed the distance between them, his hands moving to rest on Dean’s shoulders. “Dean,” he said, his voice low and steady, “You deserve every good thing in this world. You deserve love, happiness, and peace. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you.” That night, they sat together on the couch, the soft glow of the fireplace casting warm light across the room. Dean rested his head on Cas’s shoulder, the steady rhythm of Cas’s breathing lulling him into a rare moment of peace. “Cas?” Dean’s voice was quiet, hesitant. “Yes, my love?” Cas replied, tilting his head to look at him. Dean’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “I never really said it before. Not properly.” Cas’s brow furrowed slightly. “Said what?” Dean lifted his gaze, his green eyes shining with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. “That I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time, Cas. And I should’ve said it before—when you…” His voice broke, and he took a shaky breath. “When you told me, before The Empty took you. I was too much of a coward to say it back.” Cas’s heart swelled, his hand reaching up to cup Dean’s cheek. “You’re not a coward, Dean. You’ve never been a coward.” Dean leaned into the touch, closing his eyes as a tear slipped down his cheek. “I mean it, Cas. I love you.” Cas’s thumb brushed away the tear as he smiled softly. “I know, Dean. I’ve always known. And I love you too—more than I can ever put into words.” Dean let out a shaky laugh, pulling Cas into a tight embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything. For saving me. For staying.” Cas held him close, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. As the weeks turned into months, Dean’s life began to transform. He opened a small mechanic shop, pouring his energy into fixing cars and building something new for himself. Cas found work as an accountant, a role he excelled in despite his limited human experience. Their days were filled with simple joys—cooking breakfast together, sharing quiet moments on the porch, and walking Miracle through the fields near their home. The wounds of their past hadn’t disappeared entirely, but they had become easier to bear with each other’s support. One evening, as they sat under the stars, Dean reached for Cas’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You know,” Dean said, his voice soft, “I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this. Peace. A life that didn’t feel like a fight every second of the day.” Cas turned to him, his blue eyes shining with affection. “You deserve this, Dean. And I’ll do everything I can to keep it this way for you.” Dean smiled, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to Cas’s lips. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m glad you’re here.” Cas rested his forehead against Dean’s, his voice a tender murmur. “I’m glad I’m here too. With you.“ Months passed, and with each sunrise, Dean found himself rediscovering the pieces of himself he thought were lost. The small house Cas had chosen for them became a sanctuary, a place filled with laughter, quiet mornings, and the steady rhythm of a love that had weathered every storm. Dean’s recovery wasn’t linear. There were nights when the nightmares returned, leaving him gasping for air, his hands trembling as he clutched at the bedsheets. But Cas was always there, pulling him close, his voice a soothing anchor in the chaos. “I’m here,” Cas would murmur, his arms wrapped tightly around Dean. “You’re safe, my love. I won’t let anything hurt you.” And every time, those words calmed the storm inside Dean, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. One morning, Dean stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with a surprising amount of focus. Miracle sat by his feet, her tail wagging lazily as she watched him work. Cas entered the room quietly, leaning against the doorframe as he took in the sight of Dean humming softly to himself. The sunlight streaming through the window highlighted the relaxed set of Dean’s shoulders, a stark contrast to the tension that had defined him months ago. “You’re staring again,” Dean said without turning around, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Cas stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist from behind. “I can’t help it,” he said softly, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder. “You’re beautiful.” Dean chuckled, though his cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. “I’m covered in flour and wearing yesterday’s flannel. Hardly beautiful.” Cas tightened his hold, pressing a kiss to the side of Dean’s neck. “I don't care. You’re beautiful to me,” he said simply. Dean turned slightly, meeting Cas’s gaze. The sincerity in those blue eyes made his chest tighten with emotion. “I love you,” Dean said, the words feeling easier and more natural every time he spoke them. “And I love you,” Cas replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. The days turned into a rhythm of quiet contentment. Dean’s mechanic shop flourished, his work drawing in customers from the surrounding area. Cas often visited him during the day, bringing lunch or simply sitting nearby as Dean worked. “I like seeing you happy,” Cas said one afternoon, watching as Dean wiped grease from his hands. Dean glanced at him, a small smile on his face. “I didn’t think I could feel this way again. Like I could breathe without it hurting.” Cas stood, closing the distance between them. “You deserve this,” he said firmly. “You deserve every bit of happiness in this world.” Dean reached for Cas’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You’re the reason I have it, Cas. You gave me a second chance.” Cas’s expression softened, his love for Dean shining clearly in his eyes. “You’ve always been worth saving, Dean. And I’ll remind you of that every day.” One evening, as they sat on the porch, the sun setting in hues of gold and orange, Dean leaned back against Cas’s chest. Cas’s arms were wrapped securely around him, his chin resting lightly on Dean’s head. “This is it,” Dean said softly, his gaze on the horizon. “This is what I’ve been looking for my whole life. Peace. A home. You.” Cas pressed a kiss to Dean’s temple, his voice a quiet murmur. “You’ve always had a home with me, Dean. And you always will.” Dean closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Cas’s embrace and the steady beat of his heart lull him into a rare moment of complete contentment. For the first time in a long time, Dean felt whole. In the end, Dean Winchester tried to end his life four times. When it happened the first time, Dean had just learned that Lucifer had taken Cas. The weight of that knowledge crashed over him like a tidal wave, dragging him under. He had failed to protect Cas, failed to save the only person who had ever truly seen him. Without Cas, life lost its meaning. Stumbling through grief, Dean found himself on the brink, ready to bargain with Billie for a release from the agony. But fate intervened—a doctor’s determined hands pulled him back, though the hollow ache in his chest remained, gnawing at him like a ghost he couldn’t shake. When it happened the second time, Dean watched Lucifer kill Cas right before his eyes. He felt the world shatter, as if everything inside him had turned to dust. Dean wasn’t just mourning; he was hollow, a shadow of the man he had been. With no hope, no reason to go on, he plunged himself into reckless hunts, carrying an adrenaline needle like a ticket to oblivion. And when he used it, when he felt his heart stutter and slow, he wasn’t afraid. He welcomed it. Even Billie could see the truth: Dean wanted to die. But before he could truly let go, Cas returned. His embrace, his touch, his presence brought Dean back to life—but it didn’t heal the fractures deep inside. When it happened the third time, it was the day Dean truly gave up. Cas was gone, ripped away by the Empty, and Dean was drowning in guilt, grief, and whiskey. His prayers to Jack went unanswered, his pleas to Cas echoed into silence. In the aftermath of another hunt, Dean made no effort to fight, no move to survive. The iron rod that impaled him felt like mercy, not cruelty. And when he closed his eyes, he did so with the faintest smile, hoping he might see Cas again. But instead of peace, Jack pulled him back, leaving Dean angry, devastated, and lost all over again. When it happened the fourth time, it wasn’t a reckless act or an accident. It was deliberate. Planned. Dean sat in the cold water of his bathtub, the blade heavy in his hand, whiskey burning down his throat as he swallowed every pill in sight. The photo of Cas in his arms was stained with tears as he whispered his love one last time. This time, Dean felt sure—there was no one left to stop him. No miracle would pull him back. He let the pain fade, let the cold take him. But as the darkness crept in, a voice broke through. Cas. And this time, Cas was real. And Dean felt peace. Three times, Dean's soul crumbled under the weight of losing Cas, each attempt a desperate grasp for relief from the unbearable emptiness. But once—just once—Cas was there. With love as fierce as it was unyielding, Cas reached into the darkness and pulled Dean back, holding him with the kind of devotion that stitched together even the deepest wounds. In that moment, it wasn’t death that claimed Dean, but love. Cas saved him, not only from the brink but from the hollow ache of living without him, proving that their bond was stronger than despair, stronger than death, and eternal beyond measure.