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Dean feels incredible. He feels disgusted.
The First Blade is on his belt, stained crimson. His hands are red. His blood sings in his ears, and he feels lighter than air. His body tingles with warmth, and he feels more at ease than in months. But he stops in front of the driver's side door of the Impala, and he looks at his reflection in the mirror.
He feels nauseous.
Blood on his face, pupils dilated as if he were high on something other than the thrill of murder. When he inhales, it's shaky. When he exhales, everything that the Mark's pleasure is trying to drown out starts filtering into his lungs instead of oxygen.
Dean gave in to the Mark tonight.
He tells himself that he had to. That he didn't have a choice. He's gone so long without giving in, without drawing the First Blade and dipping his hands in blood. He tells himself that he had to, because he could feel it deep inside that he was dying. The blood he's been coughing up for the last two weeks. The heaviness in his limbs. The exhaustion. His struggle to eat and keep anything down.
Sam and Cas have noticed it, he's sure they have. He doesn't know if Sam is aware of what's causing it. He only knows his brother hasn't brought it up. Dean thinks of his brother and squeezes his eyes shut. He clenches his jaw, and the wave of self-loathing that hits him drowns out the adrenaline high the Mark gave him. Sam went through all of that trouble hunting him down months ago and turning him back into a human, just for this? For Dean to give in on a bad night and kill again? For Dean to turn around and sneak out of their motel on a hunt? It doesn't matter that his body was dying- he should've just let himself die . It would've been better than this- than proving to himself, and Sam, and Cas, and Crowley, and Cain that he is nothing more than a killer.
Although he supposes it's a bit too late for that. There's no proving his goodness or innocence to anyone, much less himself.
They all know what he is. They've seen him.
They know he killed Tessa before he'd ever spent time as a demon.
That he murdered those men who were going to hurt Claire- not that they didn't deserve it, because they did, and Dean would slaughter them again. But it's the fact that he didn't even hesitate to massacre all of them.
That when he was supposed to be helping Charlie, he instead broke her arm and left her bloodied.
Yeah, they all know he's nothing but a killer.
And he's terrified of the fact that they're right.
Dean opens the car door and climbs into the Impala. He drives off, not bothering to properly dispose of the bodies. Hell, maybe if they're found, he'll be hunted down and arrested. Locked up somewhere that will let him rot.
He wishes, desperately and not for the first time, that the Mark would just let him die. That it would let him take the coward's way out and greet the reaper with open arms. But he supposes Death is probably too repulsed at this point to take him to the other side.
He isn't paying attention to where he's driving.
It could be back to the motel, it could be across the damn country to a random burger joint in Utah.
He just drives.
And the journey ends up much shorter than he expected. He returns to his, Sam's, and Cas' motel and sits in the parking lot. Dean lets the car run, just staring up at the crappy motel's light-up sign. Maybe he does care where he ends up, because he doesn't want to be here.
And yet he's turning off the car anyway. He's climbing out of the Impala and locking her behind him.
He's crossing the parking lot with blood on his face and a murder weapon strapped to his hip beneath his jacket.
He's letting his feet bring him outside of Cas' motel room.
Dean halts, staring at the door. He doesn't know when his breathing became labored. Just that the nausea and repulsion are growing in his chest, expanding between his ribs. His skin is filthy with sweat and blood, and he doesn't want anyone, much less Cas, to see him like this. Not after Cas wouldn't promise to kill him in that diner. Not when Cas still believes there's a way to save him.
Dean opens his mouth, and he's choking on the knowledge that if he opens this door, then Cas is going to know he gave in. He's going to know that Dean was weak, and he's going to realize that Dean isn't worth saving. He'll finally accept what Dean himself has known for so very long.
Why does that idea terrify him?
He doesn't know.
But fear is making his throat collapse, because the idea of Cas giving up on him, too, scares him almost as much as losing to the Mark and becoming a demon again does.
Dean shouldn't be here.
He needs to run. Get to his room, another room, another city, another state - something. Anywhere but here, where Sam or Cas can see him. Where Cas can open that door, and Dean will see the disappointment, anger, and hate paint breathtaking blue eyes in shades Dean has never seen directed at him. He doesn't think he could take it if Cas looked at him like that. Not Cas.
The doorknob turns.
Dean freezes. His eyes drop to the turning knob, and he needs to run, now, but his feet are glued to the floor. When the door opens, his eyes trail up black pants to a dark belt, a white buttoned shirt, then up to blue eyes and a furrowed brow. Dean opens his mouth, not knowing what will come out of it. Nothing does.
"Dean?" Cas says, his voice low.
It's questioning and worried, but wary. Cas' gaze drifts from his eyes to the blood on his face, then his shirt and jacket, then down to where his hands hang limply at his sides.
Dean waits for the repulsion to fill Cas' face. For his best friend's lips to curl into a grimace or a sneer. To be looked at with disappointment or anger; to be told what he already knows. He waits for it even as he can feel something in him start to break at the idea of it.
"Cas-" he manages, and it's all he can get out before his voice cracks.
Blue eyes are back on his face in an instant, their assessment finished, and what Dean sees there isn't loathing or hatred or anger or repulsion. It's sorrow, something mournful, but without judgement. Understanding.
"I-" he tries again. "I'm sorry. I had to, I- I- it was killing me and I couldn't- I couldn't fight it -" it feels like excuses, like weak justifications for his own weakness, his own patheticness.
But he needs Cas to know. He needs him to know that Dean didn't just give in. That he didn't do this just because he wanted to. That he wishes so badly that he hadn't done this.
"I know, Dean," Cas says quietly. He purses his lips, looking Dean up and down before stepping back into the room.
An offer for Dean to come in.
It's the last thing Dean deserves, but he's a selfish man, he knows it. So he accepts. He ducks his head so he doesn't have to look at his best friend as he steps into his motel room. He sees the trench coat draped over the end of the bed and the bag sitting on the floor. Cas shuts the door behind him. Dean hesitantly steps towards the bed, dropping down heavily on its edge. He folds his hands together in front of himself, lets them dangle between his knees, and keeps his eyes on the carpeted floor. He’s jiggling one leg. He feels the mattress dip as Cas sits down beside him.
"What was it?" Cas asks.
Dean swallows, quiet for a few moments before answering. "A vampire nest."
"The nest we're here for?"
He nods. "One less Cullen clan to get the jump on anyone," he means for it to come off as something lighter, but it falls flat. His voice sounds hoarse to his ears.
They're quiet for a minute or two before Dean hears Cas shifting. "Dean, look at me."
He doesn't want to, but he does anyway. Dean turns his head to look at his best friend even as every instinct and cornered part of him screams to shy away. There's compassion in Cas' eyes that Dean doesn't deserve. Hasn't ever deserved, but especially not now.
Cas reaches out a hand, and his fingers dance fleetingly across Dean's jaw as his hand curls around the side of his face. Dean feels the rush of grace flood his body, cool and tingling. The blood is gone from his skin, and the cut across his face that a vampire left him with vanishes.
Dean exhales and closes his eyes. He turns his cheek minutely into his friend's palm, and hates himself for it. For the weakness in it. For how badly he wants what he doesn't deserve.
But then, Cas pulls his hand away again, Dean's wounds being healed, and Dean feels hollow. He blinks open his eyes, body tensing involuntarily and jaw clenching as he stares down at the floor near Cas' pant leg.
"There's still time, you know," he murmurs.
"For what?"
"For you to kill me."
He hears Cas' intake of breath. "Dean-"
"I mean it, Cas. There's still time. I'm-” Dean inhales shakily. “I'm still me. At least mostly. We can give up this doomed wild goose chase to break the Mark and find a way to kill me for good." He barks a laugh, something bitter. "Hell, I'll even hand you the First Blade right now, and you can kill me. Grab my gun from the car and bury a devil's trap in my skull. Keep me pinned down until you find a way to leave me dead for good."
"Dean, stop," Cas says harshly. "No one is going to kill you. We're going to find a way-"
"And if there is no way?" He cuts his friend off. There’s a mounting panic, memories of the exhilaration, the adrenaline rush, the ecstasy of feeling the First Blade cleave through a vampire’s neck as if the weapon were an extension of his own body.
"What then, huh? What if there is no way? What if the only thing at the end of this road is me with black eyes and a mound of corpses? How do I- How am I supposed to live with that, Cas?" He's breathless, choked emotion in his throat, and tears catching in his water lines. "Knowing I'm heading towards that? I can't do it. I gave in tonight, and I'll give in again. It doesn't matter when, it's always going to happen." His voice goes soft with his next words. "I can't escape this. I can't run from it."
Dean takes a breath, looking up at his best friend, the angel he's pretty sure he's in love with, and sees the pain and despair staring back at him. "Just kill me while I'm still me. Please."
He doesn't remember the last time he begged to die. At the very least, not when he’d found that he badly wanted to live.
Cas shakes his head. "I can't."
"You can't or you won't?" Dean's voice tremors with the accusation.
"Both. I'm sorry."
Dean opens his mouth to speak, but nothing else comes out. No anger, no threats or accusations, no demands or pleas. Just quivering air. He feels a tear fall down his cheek, and he ducks his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He's trying, futilely, to hold the last fragile pieces of himself together.
But then he hears Cas shifting again, and arms are wrapping around him and pulling him in. Dean goes willingly, slumping forward against Cas' shoulder. He buries his nose in his best friend's dress shirt and feels a hand curling at the nape of his neck, holding him close and secure.
And finally, the dam breaks.
Dean lifts a hand to Cas' shirt, then lets it fall uselessly to his side. He squeezes his eyes tighter shut and turns his face to hide it against Cas' neck. His sobs are quiet things, but his whole frame shakes with them, with the pain and fear and shame behind every one of them.
He doesn't know how long he sits in Cas' motel room and cries against him. He doesn't know how long Cas spends holding him. He doesn't want to know. Dean just knows that eventually, even the crushing guilt and self-loathing ebbs from its oppressive weight into the same ignorable thing he's used to.
It doesn't fade entirely, because it never does. But it becomes something manageable.
And Dean sits up, Cas' arms falling away from him as he does. He searches Cas' eyes, trying to find something to say. Because Dean knows he should say something.
'Thank you,' maybe.
Or beg to know why Cas still won't kill him. Or maybe tell him that this is something they'll never speak of again. But none of that comes out. Nothing at all comes out. Dean still doesn't have the words.
So he gives up, closing his eyes again and leaning forward to rest his forehead against Cas'. He hears his best friend's breathing hitch. Senses the coiled nerves.
But this is all Dean wants.
Just this moment. This weakness he's allowing himself, right now, to indulge in. The desperate desire for comfort, for touch. For Cas' touch. He doesn't need anything more.
Slowly, Cas' hands lift to frame his face, and he feels thumbs brushing the sticky tear residue from his cheeks. Their sweep is gentle, and Dean's shoulders sag.
"I'm not going to give up on you," Cas murmurs. "And I'm not going to kill you. Neither has ever been an option. We will find a way to save you. And even then- even in the last, worst possible case scenario, where we fail, and you one day succumb to the Mark, still I won’t give up on you. I'll still be at your side."
"Why?" Dean whispers. He's practically begging again.
Cas doesn't answer at first. Not verbally, at least. But his hands shift to cup Dean's face between them, and he’s gently pushing his face away. Dean's eyes open to see something so soft, so despairing, but genuine in Cas' eyes that he's afraid to name it. Afraid to hope or dread that it could be what he knows, realistically, it could never be.
But then Cas is drawing near again, and Dean closes his eyes. He doesn't feel the brush of lips like he expects to, just a forehead tipped against his own, their noses brushing. He feels every exhale against his mouth, and when Cas turns his head just enough to speak directly against the corner of his lips, Dean’s breath catches.
"Because nothing could ever persuade me to give up on you. Nothing is worth more to me than you. So I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry. I will save you, and if I can't, then I will watch you lose yourself. Because I am too weak and selfish to do anything else."
Dean feels another sob rising in his throat, and he does everything he can to swallow it back. He breathes shakily, finally lifting a hand to fist in the front of Cas' shirt. He draws away enough to look him in the eye, to see the sincerity shining in oceans of blue.
And then he kisses him. A soft, fleeting thing. A press of chapped lips against chapped lips. He lingers only a few moments. Then, Cas is the one to pull away. Dean knows, wordlessly, that it's not out of rejection.
It's because it's the wrong time. He knows it is. Hell, this isn't when he would've wanted to first kiss Cas. But every day, Dean is stepping closer to his doom, his unmaking and corruption, and he doesn't know when another moment will come when he feels brave enough to do that. And when he holds Cas' gaze, he knows that Cas understands.
"I forgive you," Dean croaks. "Wish I could hate you for it. But I forgive you."
There's something unspoken in their exchange. Something Dean feels settle deep in his chest, an essential truth he understands now.
I love you. I'm sorry.
I love you. I forgive you.