Genre and/or Pairing: Gen? Can be read as Dean/Cas
Spoilers: End of 7.06 as well as general Season 7 spoilers
Warnings: Angst with an optimistic twist
Word Count: 657
Summary: He knows that voice.
“Dean, listen to me.”
He knows that voice.
“Are you listening, Dean?”
But how could that voice be here? That voice died in a lake weeks ago. It exploded and disintegrated and dispersed in a cloud of black ooze, leaving behind just a trenchcoat and an overwhelming sense of despair.
“Dean, put down the drink.”
He takes a large gulp in defiance. No way is he going to let some hypocritical, imaginary angel tell him what to do. He curses his conscience. Of all the voices it had to choose…even Sammy’s voice would have been easier to handle than this.
“You have to listen to me, Dean. You’re better than this.”
That’s it. “You think I’m doing this because I’m beating myself up?” he snarls. “I’m doing this because you drove me to this. You, with your goddamn…your fucking…you….” He struggles to get the words out, waving his tumbler to emphasize his point and sending splashes of Scotch all over the table. He curses again at the waste of liquor. “You made a hell of a mess, you fucker. And then you leave us to deal with it all on our own. It’s a miracle we figured out how to take down the Leviathans, and even that might not be permanent for all we know. So, yeah, maybe I’m drinking a little more than usual, okay? It’s just to take the edge off this constant fucking migraine you’ve saddled me with,” he says. “Fucker,” he adds, just for good measure.
“Dean, this is not what I wanted for you. I was only trying to help. I wish I could be there to help you clean up my mess, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Dean doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he just stares at his glass. All of a sudden, he doesn’t want to drink anymore. But the need for unconsciousness is even greater than before, so he gulps half the contents in one long swallow. The glass is trembling in his hand; maybe he’s worse off than he originally thought if his hand is shaking. But no, in spite of the alcohol his hand is steady; it’s just the glass that is trembling. On the table, the near-empty bottle is doing the same thing. When the voice in Dean’s head speaks again, the shaking grows more pronounced.
“Things are a little tough right now, but I promise you they will get better. I will do everything I can to see that it all works out.”
Now the windows are shaking a little, too. It’s not as pronounced as it is in the glass near Dean, but it’s there. Dean can’t take this anymore. It’s too similar to back then, in the gas station. When the sound of Cas’s voice tore the whole place apart and nearly killed Dean. His imagination is taunting him, and he has half a mind to get in the Impala and drive off the nearest bridge to just make it stop.
The voice sighs, a little frustrated but mostly just weary. Dean knows the feeling. “Sleep, Dean. We will talk again later.”
“Like hell we will,” Dean says. Nevertheless, he puts down his glass and lays down on the bed, fully dressed and on top of the covers. Even taking off his shoes is too much effort at this point. He makes sure that the bottle of Scotch is within reach to help ease the hangover he is sure to have in the morning. And he knows, in spite of what he might say, he will talk to that voice again. Now that Sam’s gone, he doesn’t have to hide the fact that he’s slowly losing his mind and that he longs for the moments when he can pretend to hear his best friend’s voice again.
He just wishes he could figure out why the glass shakes whenever the supposedly imaginary voice starts talking.