Destiel one shots

Grief Woven with Love

The hunt should've been simple, a banshee targeting terminal patients in a local hospice—easy to track, salt and burn. 

Dean wasn't even worried when he and Sam split up, Cas had vanished midway through again, with nothing more than a, "I'll find the source", murmure.

Dean rolled his eyes, but he didn't argue. Not anymore. Cas always came back, bruised by things Dean couldn't name.

But tonight felt... different. The banshee was already dead when Dean reached the room. The silver blade, humming with angelic grace, was lodged in its chest.

Cas stood over it, wings flickering through the planes faintly in the hospital's dim yellow light, but what stopped Dean cold was the look on his face.

Not calm. Not serene. Broken, Dean stepped forward slowly, "Cas?", he called and Cas flinched. Just slightly. Like the name pulled him back from somewhere far away.

Dean took another step and saw the girl in the bed. Maybe six years old. Pale. Gaunt. Her mother clutched her, sobbing.

The girl was breathing again, alive, Dean frowned, glancing from the child to Cas, "You got here in time?", he asked but Cas didn't answer.

But Dean saw it now—saw him, his posture was wrong, shoulders trembling, one hand braced against the wall like he couldn't stand.

And his eyes—blue, endless—were swimming with tears, Dean's voice dropped, "Hey. Cas. What happened?", he asked worry slipping into his voice.

Cas inhaled sharply and then—whispers. Voices. Screams. Dean staggered back as something pressed against the space around them. Not physical. Memory. A thousand shards of human grief. A father's guilt. A mother's scream. A child's terror. Regret. Pain. Agony.

And all of it was leaking off Cas like smoke, Dean's voice was a whisper, "What... what is this?", he asked swallowing hard.

Cas blinked slowly, "She was dying. Not from the banshee. From the cancer", he said and Dean blinked, "I know", he said.

"She had already accepted it. But her mother hadn't. And her father... he never came to say goodbye. It was a wound", he said and Dean's face slumped with realization.

"So you healed her", he said, "Yes", Cas simply said, Dean looked back at the girl, now peacefully asleep in her mother's arms.

"And the memories?" he asked, heart suddenly in his throat, Cas finally met his eyes, "I took them", he said his eyes full of pain.

Dean's stomach dropped, "You what?", he asked and Cas finally let the weight in and leaned against the wall, every line in his face carved with sorrow. 

"She was afraid. Alone. She blamed herself. Her parents had fought for months after the diagnosis. Screamed at each other. She thought it was her fault. She felt like... like a burden", he said.

Dean swallowed hard, "You took that from her?", he asked, "I had to," Cas whispered. "Her body is healed, but the memories would have festered. Grown into something else. So I gave her peace", he said.

Dean's voice was hoarse, "And what—you just carry it now?", he asked already knowing the answer and Cas nodded once. 

"Every time I heal someone, I take what hurts the most. Their worst memory. Their guilt. Their shame. I carry it, so they don't have to", he said and Dean's heart shattered.

Dean stared at him, "Jesus, Cas...", he said unable to continue, "It's not enough," Cas said, quietly, "But it's something", he said.

"You're not supposed to do that alone," Dean growled, voice rough with emotion, "That's not—you're not a dumping ground for everyone else's trauma", he stated.