Really Cliché Destiel Highschool

I am so Not Sorry

Dean's POV

Arriving at the hospital is kind of like a dream. 

Not Cas, please not Cas-

The receptionist is kind of overly sympathetic, at least, I think she is. I'm not really paying attention, constantly glancing around the room, as if Cas will come out from behind that closed door, laughing and smiling that gummy smile that makes his eyes crinkle with mirth, saying I'm fine, Dean, and laugh some more. No such thing happens.

Please, don't let it be Cas, it can't be him-

Michael is there, so is Balthazar, and Anna, and Gabriel. Lucifer is absent. Rage coils in my blood. That dickbag can't even bother to show up when his little brother is dyi-

No, not Cas, anyone but Cas-

Nobody speaks to me. They talk in low, hushed tones, as if anything too loud or sudden will cause me to explode. I don't even bother to be angry with them. 

Please, let him be okay, he can't be-

Sam and Gabriel lean on each other, solemn and quiet, as if in mourning. I almost snap at them, Cas isn't dead, he's fine, this isn't his funeral--

It can't be.

Another door opens, and a round black women steps out with a critical expression on her face. She's holding a clipboard, stethoscope slung around her neck, and dressed in bright yellow scrubs that read Dr. Mosely in block letters.

Everyone snaps to attention, and an unnatural hush falls over the waiting room.

She looks all of us over, appraising Michael, Balthazar, Anna, Gabriel, Sam, John, Mary, and me. She glances down at the clipboard, and says-

"Are all of y'all here for Mr. Castiel Novak?" There is a murmur of yeses and a few nods, but everyone stays quiet and anxious. Dr. Mosely nods to herself, thumbing through the papers attached to the clipboard. 

"Dean Winchester? Which one of y'all is Dean?"

Everyone glances at me.

Dr. Mosely raises her eyebrow at me. "You Dean?" I nod numbly. She gestures for me to follow, and I do so without hesitation. She holds a door open for me, and I follow swiftly. 

Please let Cas be okay, not Cas-

"This kid's got one helluva family." Dr. Mosely smiles, a little sadly.

"Is he okay?" I hate the way my voice cracks, but I am too distraught to pay it much notice. Dr. Mosely gestures for me to follow again. I do. 

She leads me through a pair of double doors, and I freeze. 

My heart plummets. 

Cas is pale, more so than usual, with the unhealthy glow of trauma and stress. He's laying on the hospital cot, surrounded by machines. He's hooked up to all of these monitors that beep and click. He's unconscious, or sleeping, I don't know. I can barley stand it. But that's not even the worse part.

The worse part are the scars.

Cas is wearing one of those cheap short sleeved hospital gowns, the pale inside of his wrists exposed. They are lined with small, thin lines of a blade. Some are white and faded, but some are angry, red, and recent. My eyes fill with unshed tears. Slowly, I make my way over to the small bed, unable to tear my eyes away from the scars. Dr. Missouri leaves. I sink down into the chair that was left by the side of the bed, and finally look away. What I find is not much better. 

Cas' face, peaceful in some sick, twisted sense of the word. Tears run down my cheeks, dripping onto the sheets of the too-clean hospital cot. I don't wipe them away. I grab hold of Cas' hand. 

It is cold. 

"I'm sorry."

"I'm so sorry."