Author's Note:

I built this off of one of my prompts on Unspoken Prayers, and said prompt is slightly modified and included here. The song All Again for You by We the Kings also inspired a lot of it. This is basically just a giant ball of angst. And I just really love Endverse, too...

Warnings: Major character death, man-angst, suicidal thoughts

Please don't kill me.

It wasn't supposed to end like this, things were supposed to get better – he was supposed to get better.

That was all Dean could think right now, and it was driving him out of his mind.

The hilarious thing was, he'd seen this coming a mile away and still did nothing about it. Dean thought it typical of himself; it was always save Sammy, even when it was clear that Sam wasn't Sam anymore.

Cas probably understood that much – knew that Dean was too wrapped up in salvaging what was left of his brother to deal with whatever Cas had gotten himself into. They'd argued about that whole ugly mess Sam's 'yes' had made so many times they both lost count. It was the reason Dean turned to fighting, and the reason Cas turned to pills. Dean's stomach twisted like a pretzel at the thought, because no, he'd never been there for Cas. He could have saved Cas if he'd changed his tune, if it wasn't always save Sammy, and that's probably the worst realization he's come to so far.

My fault… all my fucking fault, again.

Dean grit his teeth, willing the tears away. He didn't want to ugly-cry while the people standing behind him watched, few in number as they were – word spread like wildfire through camp, and everyone here counted on him to get shit done, to be their stone-cold and fearless leader because he was Dean Winchester, and apparently that meant everything.

Dean Winchester, who stared death in the face every day. Dean Winchester, who defied the odds every day. Dean fucking Winchester, who tamed a mighty angel, made him into a lowly human, and managed to keep him around every day.

Dean laughed bitterly – that's what they all said, and they couldn't be more wrong. Dean didn't tame shit; Cas just chose freedom, which he thought meant Dean. In reality, he'd only managed to chain himself down again; the same old song and dance with a downgraded change of scenery. And look where that had gotten him: buried in drugs but still hopelessly devoted to Dean despite his callousness.

And Dean remembered the last few days with perfect clarity. They should have snapped him out of it, and they did for about a day, but it didn't last. Why didn't he keep that fear of losing Cas in the front of his mind instead of shoving it back? How could he forget that gut-wrenching feeling?

It was only three days ago that Dean was begging Cas for death, and the events that unfolded afterwards were traumatic enough for him to want to keep Cas close, but Dean supposed he shouldn't be too surprised. He had always run at the first sign of caring too much, thinking it would kill someone, and now that strategy had completely and utterly backfired.

Dean could tell Cas was high in seven different ways, courtesy of who knew how many different pills, and those things were what he chalked the shaking in the man's hands up to; it couldn't be how Cas had a gun pointed between two dead green eyes that hadn't had an ounce of hope in them since 2011.

"Dean..." Cas almost seems surprised to hear emotion in his own voice, and not the sarcastic kind he fakes around camp for the hell of it. But this was Dean Winchester, his Dean – or at least it used to be. "I can't, Dean. I know it literally kills you to see Sam, but I can't. Fuck, no, I really can't."

Dean just glared harder. "Shoot the fucking gun, Cas, or so help me god, I will do it myself."

"Fine." Cas ignored how his sudden agreement actually made Dean do a double-take and threw the weapon. The gun landed with a heavy THWUMP on the dirt, skidding just the slightest bit; it stopped right at Dean's feet and Cas gave him a look that positively screamed 'I dare you'. Dean took the bait and cautiously picked it up.

"This is too easy. What're you-"

"I said fine, Dean!" Cas stepped forward until they were only a foot apart, opening his arms wide as he scowled, which didn't at all remind Dean of the powerful angel this broken-down man used to be. "Go ahead and put a bullet through your skull."

"You don't– "

Dean shut up at the utterly blank stare he received, hardly daring to breathe when Cas said, "Do it if you think it's the cure-all, end-all. But you have to shoot me first, because I will not stick around this hell for more than a second if you're gone."

Then Cas grabbed his arm to press the barrel of the gun smack between two hopeless blue eyes, and now it was Dean's hands that were shaking.

"I can't."

Cas smiled sadly, letting the gun drop. "I know, Dean. I still have faith in you."

"You shouldn't, Cas." Dean shook his head with a grimace. "You should've left a long time ago, way before Sam even said yes–"

"Maybe," Cas conceded light-heartedly, "but I didn't."

Dean pulled Cas in for a hug, like he hasn't in a very long time. He would die before he let Cas see the way he was tearing up.

"And you know what, Dean?" Cas whispers into his ear. "I swear I'd do it all again, for you."

Dean could have said it right then. He could have breathed out three short words as reassurance that he understood and felt the same and didn't want to lose another person he cared so deeply for – but Dean kept his silence like he'd done a thousand times before now and soldiered on.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed, his voice cracking with emotion as he wished he could go back and just fucking say it.

"Dean," Chuck began piteously, "I'm so sorry – we can leave, if you want."

Dean absolutely hated his tone, but the offer was appreciated. "Yes," he muttered in answer.

Their footsteps slowly faded out, and Dean lost it. He dropped his head onto Cas' chest and drew in breath after ragged breath at the stillness he found there, almost like he was compensating for what the empty lungs below him would never do again. He kept on gripping that cold hand, too, like doing so might ground him. Anchors may not move, otherwise they couldn't keep anything rooted, but Dean's used to be able to do both, and if he squeezed hard enough, would the pulse come back?

Cas was no plant, either, so Dean didn't know why he was crying; sobbing and getting snot all over the dead wouldn't bring them back. Nothing was bringing Cas back to him, not this time.

The drugs had finally won and the gun in Dean's holster had never looked so tempting.