Wayward - [A Destiel AU]

Chapter 5

This one's pretty long. Enjoy!

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Dean's room was a mess. The lamp had been thrown off the bedside table along with the horrid lava lamp, resulting in the breakage of both. The sheets had been ripped off the queen sized bed — literally ripped, with huge tears going down the length of both sheets; nails had been pierced through. Huge posters, once covering the pale walls from top to bottom, were then confetti, strewn all over the floor like it was Mardi Gras. On the floor joining the broken glass shards was the black office chair Dean sat in every afternoon while he talked to Cas or Andy on the phone. And on the floor was blood — tiny drops of blood, generated from Dean's left arm when he hit his fist so hard into the fragile mirror it broke. Dean lay beside it, holding back tears. The yells and angry, betrayed shouts he had let out before could never have been stopped like his tears; already he felt more coming. He thought maybe, maybe if he lay here for long enough he could wake up from this nightmare; he never saw Cas kissing Sam, he never felt real betrayal. It was just a dream.

Wasn't it?

With every painful sniffle and every time he moved his muscled arm Dean knew it couldn't be a dream. He couldn't be in this much pain and still be asleep, could he?

Was it his fault this time? Did he fuck it up again?

Bzz, bzz. Bzz, bzz.

'Leave me alone.' Dean mumbled, his voice muffled by his uninjured arm. He lay on his stomach, by the broken lava lamp, one arm brought up to use as a pillow for his forehead.

Bzz, bzz.

'Leave me alone!' He couldn't take it anymore, standing up and hurling his phone across the room, where it hit the wall and bounced off, landing on the bed. In all his anger and pain Dean prayed it hadn't left a dent in the wall.

He knew without looking that the text was from Sam. It buzzed again, indignantly this time, as if it was offended that Dean had ignored it. The caller was probably Cas. Sam never called unless it was an emergency.

A buzzing filled Dean's ears. It was the home phone ringing — he knew it was either one of the two traitors, but would just let it go to voicemail.

'Dean. It's Sam. Please answer my texts, man, I'm sorry. I — we never meant for it to—' Sam cut himself off and sighed. 'We're both really sorry. I knew what Cas meant — means — to you, and I'm sorry. Please call me back. I know you're listening to this, either just sitting there moping or getting drunk. Either way, I know you're listening. Please pick it up.'

Ooh, getting drunk. That sounded great — thanks for that idea, Sammy. Dean heaved himself up with a reluctant groan, looking like a sleepwalker as he trudged over to the liquor cabinet. He didn't bother with a glass or shot, he just took a huge swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. It shuddered down his throat, making the sensitive inside burn. He shivered and coughed a little, but kept going... and going. And going, until he couldn't see straight.

**

Sam couldn't get his brother to talk to him for nearly three weeks. Well, he spoke to him but never actually talked.

'Sam, pick your damn bag up, you'll be late.'

'Sam, I'm going to Andy's house. Make your own dinner.'

Even then, whenever he went to Andy's or Michael's houses he wasn't that fun to be around. He was pissed off, nearly all the time, and his friends had to be careful with what they said to him. Anything could set him off; anything could make Bruce turn to the Hulk.