The Year of Redemption

Chapter 42: Broken

Something shone brightly on Dean's face. He closed his eyes tightly against it and brought the covers up over his head, cursing the daylight. Images flashed through his now-conscious mind. Cas, he thought. His mind seemed to be screaming the angel's name, and he couldn't quiet it down.

With the covers still over his face, Dean reached to the side, groping for the angel. But all he found was the mattress. He reached to the other side, again finding nothing but mattress.

The hunter's eyes shot open, and he sat up, letting the covers fall and shielding his face from the sunlight. Somewhere in the far recesses of his consciousness, he reminded himself to get a curtain, but the thought was fleeting and insignificant compared to everything else racing through his mind at that moment.

Dean glanced at the floor beside the bed. Castiel's tie and coat were gone. He swung his feet off of the mattress and nearly ran out of the bedroom into the kitchen. He stopped short at the kitchen doorway, finding the room empty. His heart felt like it was free falling through his chest. His eyes welled up, and he searched around the room desperately – for something, for anything. But nothing was there, not a trace of the angel, not even a note.

Dean willed himself to walk farther into the kitchen, his chest feeling heavier with each step. Suddenly, he halted, and his breath caught in his throat. He was staring at the ground, motionless, the flood in his eyes threatening to spill over at any second.

There on the floor lay a dirty, crumpled dish towel and the jagged remnants of a shattered wine glass. A small puddle of dark red liquid had gathered under one of the pieces of glass, and drops of red were spattered along the floor and the cupboards.

Dean's eyes burned. His chest felt like someone had ripped a hole straight through it. He bent down to pick up one of the larger pieces of glass. Through his blurry eyes, he misjudged where the edge of the glass was and brought his hand down too quickly, slicing a thin, deep gash along his palm.

The addition of this physical pain was enough to cause the tears to spill over Dean's eyes and rush down his face. The hunter fell onto his knees, then leaned his back against the cupboard and let the emotions tumble out.

Staring at the red wine and the shattered glass around him, Dean held his injured hand between his knees and cried. He could hardly feel the pulsing of his wound over the inexplicable pain in his chest. A different kind of red liquid dripped from his hand and onto the floor, mixing with the small puddles that were already there.

After a few minutes, the tears became silent and less intense. Dean had no control over the salty water still running down his face, but the pain had eased somewhat, and his hysterical sobbing had ceased. He felt empty inside, like there was an emotionless void where something was supposed to be, but he didn't allow himself to think about what it was. His mind had closed itself off, erecting a barrier that he knew better than to penetrate.

Absent-mindedly, Dean reached over and picked up the dish towel. He clambered onto his knees and began sopping up the wine and wiping the pieces of glass into a pile. Using the rag, he picked up the glass and dumped it into the trash. Dean retrieved a clean towel and mopped up the rest of the wine and glass, then he threw the rags in the washer and headed for the bathroom, running completely on auto-pilot by this point. He washed his still-bleeding wound and wrapped a bandage around it.

Then, Dean returned to the kitchen and heated up a hamburger. He paced around the house as he ate it, as if he had some sort of hyperactivity disorder. There was no way he could relax right now. He had to be moving, he had to constantly be doing something. He wouldn't let himself think about why, he just knew he couldn't allow his body or his mind to rest, even for a second.