My first Destiel story, I guess? And, obviously, I had to turn it into some angsty fic because I'm a fucking masochist that actually likes writing sad stuff about her OTP. Anyway.

Characters are probably OOC, as always. But, you know, you are always welcome to comment it and help me improve my writing.

DISCLAIMER: I own... nothing, except that awful pain in my chest I get every time I read this shit, and tons of feels.

It's three am and I'm staring at the blank ceiling of what once was our shared room, perhaps in hopes of getting an acceptable answer. Perhaps not. I don't know. Maybe I'm just too tired to sleep.

I turn to my right, only to see the ghost of your sleepy smile vanish into thin air before I can memorize it.

I hate you.

(False. I only hate the fact that you left me.)

It's been two weeks since you walked away, and my nights are still made of tears and cheap alcohol. How do I get you out of my mind? Tell me, do you know how?

What did you do in order to forget me? A brain surgery? Sacrificing your soul to the devil? I would do any of those just to stop thinking about those lips I can't kiss anymore. What did you do to forget me?

I just realized— maybe it's because you never thought about me in the first place.

I woke up this morning with that lovely shade of green of your eyes burned into my mind —almost as if you were here—, only to fall into an endless abyss when I realized you were but an illusion of my tired, exhausted mind.

(The abyss seems endless, yet I can't avoid being scared of crashing against the ground.)

Do you hear my screams when, late at night, I wake up from a nightmare?

Did you hear my screams when you were still here?

I should have known. Of course I should have known. Who would stay with shy, awkward, embarrassing Castiel Novak when you can have anyone else in the world?

(Not you, I realize that now.)

I was stupid enough to think that yes, perhaps I had a chance at happiness after all, that you chose to stay with me (even when the whole world kneeled before you and begged for just a little bit of your attention) because you genuinely liked me, because you actually cared.

What do they say? Oh, right.

I was simply young and naïve.

Sometimes I still stare at your name, sharply blinding against my dark screen, wondering if I should call or not.

I never do— though I'm usually a couple of shots away from calling you in the middle of my vodka-induced delirious state.

It's four am, and your name is still on my lips —a prayer left unfinished— and I don't even know who I am anymore.

I'm drowning in my own emptiness.

I remember the day you left, even though five entire months have passed. You just came home, your hands still a little greasy from work, your shirt completely dirty (and your eyes absolutely empty.)

I asked about your day, but you just looked at me in the eye and destroyed my whole life with three words.

"I want out."

Looking backwards, I don't even know how I immediately knew that you were talking about us, and not about something else. Perhaps I know —knew— you so well that I was aware of what you were thinking before you even thought it.

And, as I watched my existence fall to the floor and shatter in a billion of vibrant fragments with sharp edges, I did nothing to stop you. I didn't ask why. I didn't try to convince you to stay.

Oh, how many nights have I spent awake thinking about what could have been different if I had stopped you.

You didn't need more than a suitcase and an old backpack to gather all your things and walk out of my life, pretending you never entered it in the first place. (But you did, and nothing was the same.)

And just like that, you were gone. Not even a word to the man with whom you shared the latest five years of your life.

And just like that, I was lost. Stumbling across life, trying to find a purpose— a purpose that you took into that old backpack the day you left you left.

And I still try to find you in the lips of all the strangers that remind me of you.

(But it's no use— you don't want to be found.)

And when, the following morning, I wake up in strange arms and I call your name (still trying to convince myself that the arms around my waist are yours), I always get nasty looks because they think I forgot their name.

If only I could forget yours.

Today I saw you on TV, all smiles and happiness and I had to rush to the bathroom so as not to vomit all over the carpet (remember it? The red, big one, the one you loved so much). Apparently, I'm not over you if just by seeing you I get nauseous —and not exactly because you look bad; but because you look great and I'm not right beside you—, and suddenly, that forgotten bottle of whisky is calling me again.

There are galaxies on the ceiling, turning and twisting and spinning and the world has never been so beautiful before.

The stars remind me of your freckles, and I can't help but trace the well-known route of freckles between your shoulders using these stars as poor substitutes.

I hadn't seen so much light since the last time you smiled at me, all dimples and cheeky smiles and damn, was I in love.

(Hint: still am.)

I've been laughing for eons now, because in my obviously inebriated state, I think about you. It's almost as if you're tattooed to the back of my mind, permanently there.

I'm starting to think that the only solution is to put a bullet in my head.

Something burns inside my chest, and I don't know if it's my love of you or that I had too many drinks. Either way, it isn't a pleasant feeling.

(Just like watching you walk out of my life, unable to do anything, wasn't pleasant either.)

Dean, I—

You know, I write all my thoughts about you, even those I don't really like or those I'm a bit embarrassed about, and keep them in a box under my bed.

Cliché, I know. But the love of my life just broke my heart, can you really blame me?

From time to time, I ponder sending them to you. Nothing fancy, just an envelop that reads To: Dean Winchester (From: …) at your brother's doorstep. I'm sure he'll give it to you.

In the end, I just write more letters and keep them buried under my bed.

It's recently been one exact year since you left, and I still wonder how I didn't see it coming. How could the brave, awesome, gorgeous, caring Dean Winchester (he who holds the whole world in his right hand) possibly fall in love with nerdy, shy, asocial, introvert Castiel (the one who never gets any of the pop culture references)?

I should have seen it coming. But I didn't.

And it still hurts.

I remember brightly the dazzling smile you sent in my direction when we first met. You even flirted with me a little, and I knew right then and there that I was a goner. Your eyes did wonderful things to my stomach, and my heart skipped a beat every time you looked at me.

You were the first person that made me feel wanted, that made me feel loved, that made me believe I was important. I gave everything to you without a second thought, I held you during hard times, I kissed you until you forgot your own name.

But you still left me.

I hate you, Dean Winchester.

(But in all truth, I still love you.)