Dean's made up his mind, convinced that this is better for both of them when Castiel hasn't even gotten a say in the matter, and it's hurtful. Cruel. This is worse than killing him in London, worse than waking up every day after and checking to see if he'd even come back. The only hope he'd gotten had been the fact all those messages he'd sent him hadn't bounced, having heard people talk about where some of them disappear to when they haven't actually gone home. That hope, now, is being shattered by his lack of understanding and his inability to keep him from breaking them. From breaking him.
He feels a little crazy, seconds passing as his hands just drop to his sides. Finally, it's come to this. The day Dean can't see past him, doesn't see anything worth keeping no matter how hard he tries.
It ticks down to the sound of him moving, pushing past him, and somehow, his body still refuses to let it go. Let him go, let them go. Castiel's grasping and clutching at the back of his coat, twisting into it in an effort to make him stop. This pain-- He's known cuts and deep wounds and broken bones. He's known the torture of his grace slowly tearing itself from him. But he doesn't know this. It's like everything is crashing, the pressure in his chest threatening to stop his heart, and he'd let it if it weren't for the anchor he had on Dean. He's nothing, he's no one without him, and it's taken something like this to finally realize it.
The words are thick, soft and strained with the evidence of something that might be tears. ]
I'm-- I'm not fine. [ He hasn't been for years. ] I can't do it without you, and I would rather die than know I drove you to this.
[ It's so much easier, the oblivion of death, that finality, and he steps forward to press his face against his back, between his shoulder blades. If it grows damp, he doesn't even notice, trying to breathe and failing. ]
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Dean's made up his mind, convinced that this is better for both of them when Castiel hasn't even gotten a say in the matter, and it's hurtful. Cruel. This is worse than killing him in London, worse than waking up every day after and checking to see if he'd even come back. The only hope he'd gotten had been the fact all those messages he'd sent him hadn't bounced, having heard people talk about where some of them disappear to when they haven't actually gone home. That hope, now, is being shattered by his lack of understanding and his inability to keep him from breaking them. From breaking him.
He feels a little crazy, seconds passing as his hands just drop to his sides. Finally, it's come to this. The day Dean can't see past him, doesn't see anything worth keeping no matter how hard he tries.
It ticks down to the sound of him moving, pushing past him, and somehow, his body still refuses to let it go. Let him go, let them go. Castiel's grasping and clutching at the back of his coat, twisting into it in an effort to make him stop. This pain-- He's known cuts and deep wounds and broken bones. He's known the torture of his grace slowly tearing itself from him. But he doesn't know this. It's like everything is crashing, the pressure in his chest threatening to stop his heart, and he'd let it if it weren't for the anchor he had on Dean. He's nothing, he's no one without him, and it's taken something like this to finally realize it.
The words are thick, soft and strained with the evidence of something that might be tears. ]
I'm-- I'm not fine. [ He hasn't been for years. ] I can't do it without you, and I would rather die than know I drove you to this.
[ It's so much easier, the oblivion of death, that finality, and he steps forward to press his face against his back, between his shoulder blades. If it grows damp, he doesn't even notice, trying to breathe and failing. ]