There were days, long days where he’d be clean. Days where he wouldn’t have one damn thing swimming in his veins mixed in with his blood. When he was coherent, and silent, and his eyes were so damn clear it was almost like Castiel was back and those were the days that Dean almost thought that maybe they could do this, maybe they could survive. Those days where Dean would just sit in his cabin, Castiel clean and sober his silent companion but it reminded him so much of the days when they first started this, days of sitting silently in the impala, the windows rolled down and the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corner of Castiel’s lips. Days when Dean thought he could end this, that he could find the colt and put a bullet in Lucifer’s skull and then go back to hunting boring regular things like ghosts, and demons, with Castiel and Sammy at his side.

But then Detroit happened and the next thing Dean knew he was angry all the time and the host was gone and Castiel was drowning himself in whatever drugs and alcohol he could get his hands on. He wasn’t Castiel anymore, he was just Cas. And even though Dean had sometimes been so frustrated because of the angel he realized early on that he missed him, that he hadn’t wanted Castiel to change, that he had wanted him to stay that awkward support system he had become.

Still… those few days that he got, the days where Castiel just lazed about Dean’s cabin because all the alcohol and drugs had been depleted from his stash, those days Dean was thankful for, though he never said it. He just sat there and worked out new plans and strategies for recovery and the colt while shooting sideways glances at Castiel who lounged on his cot, his clear eyes closed, his hair pushed back and his stubble dark and almost thick and Dean could pretend for just a while that he was happy, that they were normal, that they were safe, that Castiel wasn’t broken.

And then the shakes and fevers would come because Dean didn’t want to lose Castiel, because he refused to go out and risk men and women just so Castiel could have a fix. And he would hold Castiel close to him, surround him with his arms and body as if it could keep the withdrawal away but it never did. And Castiel would cry and plead with Dean, pulling at Dean’s clothes and offering his body up as recompense for the promise that as soon as Dean took what he wanted he would go and get Castiel that fix.

Dean always broke at that. No one in the camp besides Castiel and Chuck knew how often Dean broke because of that. And most of the time Cas wouldn’t remember the next day. Because after Castiel, shaking with fever, his teeth chattering, plunged downwards onto Dean, impaling himself and gripping and scraping new scars into Dean’s already torn skin, Dean would leave Castiel passed out and sweating on his cot, wool blankets tucked tightly around the sickly sallow skin, with Chuck to watch over just in case he awoke because of a new bout of shakes. Dean would grab a few other people and out they would go, raiding hospitals and liquor stores that had been abandoned long ago along with other places for supplies. And Dean would come back and Castiel would have his stash and thus disappear and there Cas would stand in his place.

The day after was always the worst. Because Dean refused to see Castiel when he wasn’t sober, refused to see what he had become, what Dean had pushed him to become. And it broke him. It tore at him just a little bit more.

Dean savored the days that Castiel was sober. He hated the days when he wasn’t. He bled the days when Castiel begged, and pleaded, and pushed, and gave himself because no matter how hard he held, or pounded, or pleaded back, he could never keep Castiel grounded. In some ways, Dean was more wounded than Castiel would ever be.