He liked to believe that hell hadn't changed anything about him. He liked to believe that. But he still jumped at loud noises, still flinched when someone came up on him suddenly. Whatever he'd had with women had been lost. After all, who wanted to wake up in the morning next to a man half delirious with nightmares.
Physically, everything about him had been changed. Maybe not his actual face. But the scars, the crooked bones, the bullet wounds. All those injuries had made him who he was. Now he felt Naked without them. Now he felt like he didn't know himself anymore.
He felt like Sammy didn't know him anymore.
He'd come back with the same attitude he'd had before. Pessimistic, optimistic, ever doubting and believing and sarcastic. At least, when the world was looking.
If he wasn't who he was, behind closed doors the tears would never stop. He blocked it out. Tried to, anyway, but it all came back. In the form of nightmares.
Waking delusions were bad. Put him on edge, made him snap at anyone and everyone because they didn't understand, couldn't possibly. But the nightmares. The nightmares pull him into an entirely different world. Cold hands caress and no matter what he does, he can't warm up.
That's what the whiskey is for.
The only part of him that is ever perpetually warm, always battling with his perpetual chill, was his left shoulder, where the mark pf his angel burned and stung.
The mark always burned when he was sleeping, twisting in the hotel sheets, groaning and mumbling. It was a reminder, he supposed. A reminder that the angel was there, watching, would pull him out of sin whenever he had to. The mark was a promise. He kept forgetting to tell the angel to turn the heat down though, because by the time he finally woke up, his whole shoulder was glowing with heat and burned for the rest of the day.
He never really wanted to tell the angel to tone it down. The warmth was ten times more comforting than anything whiskey could ever do for him.
On the odd occasion that he drifted between dreams, half conscious, he almost vaguely felt Castiel's presence. He felt warm lips barely brushing against his temple, as though whispering, but he never really heard the words. But the sound of the Angel's voice was warm, fought off the cold and it was a hell of a lot better then anything else he had.
He was sure at those times he felt the angel beside him, heavy, corporeal, warm like a human. One hand rested on his marked shoulder, the other arm cradling his head to his chest. in those half waking moments he felt peace. A true kind of peace, because he couldn't remember anything. Not his name, not hell, not even Sammy. And he hated remembering Sammy. It hurt him the worst.
When he'd gotten out of hell, he was changed. Probably for the worst, because now he felt even more worthless than he actually was. He felt empty, black, dirty. Though his body was cleaner than it had been in years, he felt as though he was covered in grime. He felt like a dirty little child in a dirty alley way with big dirty eyes. His eyes gave him nightmares. He could never stare into his eyes too long.
Castiel's eyes were too clean for him. He feared that if he looked at the angel too long, Castiel would be soiled, fallen. He feared that if he got too close, his dirt would rub off on the angel and ruin those crisp clean wings. He could never stare into Castiel's eyes too long either. Even though those big innocent blue eyes gave him his warmest dreams, he was afraid of what he would see there.
What did Castiel think of him?
He wondered if he was enough for Castiel. Angels were supposed to have unconditional love for all things. But he'd seen for a fact that they weren't exactly how they were made out to be in all the books. But he also knew Castiel loved everything, he appreciated beauty that angels like Uriel couldn't seem to see.
He hoped that he was enough for Castiel. He hoped that Castiel loved him as much as he loved everything else. He hoped that Castiel didn't see him as a dirty little child with no home, no love and no faith.
But knowing his luck, that was too much to ask for.
When he had crawled out of the pit, he'd been reformed, changed, reshaped. He wasn't who he was anymore. He'd give anything to go back to it. He'd give anything to morph back into the corrupt but utterly human man he'd been 4 months ago. He'd give anything to be a little cleaner than he was now, because he was by no means clean.
But Castiel wouldn't let him. It was by Castiel's hand that he was changed, and by the angel's hand that he stayed that way. Even if Castiel said that he was working on God's order, he liked thinking that Castiel had saved him for more reasons than that.
He liked to think a lot of things. He like to think that he'd never been changed.
But knowing his luck, it was too good to be true.
"Good things do happen, Dean Winchester."
There was a moment of heavy silence.
"Yeah, well not in my experience."
wooooooo! First Castiel/ Dean, and I think I aced it! Reveiw please!