Play My Song (Destiel Fan fiction)

(4/5) Play My Song

Dean sat up in the kitchen, staring at the wall with wide, almost frightened eyes. He clutched a bottle of beer tightly in his shaking hands, not even bothering to take a sip of the room temperature alcohol. Across the table sat his brother, looking through the pictures they had taken in Ferndale in a desperate attempt to keep his mind occupied.

The trip itself had been a wonderful experience. The drive home was a nightmare. Dean still cursed himself; even days after they had finally arrived home, that he had not opted to fly the distance. Forcing Castiel to drive the whole way there and back had turned out to be a very bad idea. While Castiel had fared semi-well on the drive out, it seemed that a week in Ferndale had not undone the damage from the long drive.

Halfway home, Dean had turned to say something to Castiel, when he saw him leaned against the door, forehead pressed firmly against the glass. He initially thought he was sleeping, until he noticed his shoulders quaking. Hitching. A cold fist of dread gripped his stomach as he immediately lurched over to the shoulder, slamming the car into park before turning to Castiel. "Cas? Cas, what's wrong?"

Dean reached out, touching his shoulder gently to turn him. His heart dropped into his stomach the moment he saw his face.

Castiel's face was completely drained of color, the yellow tinge of jaundice almost indiscernible against the ashen color. Dean never saw Castiel openly cry; he was sobbing. "D-Dean..." he croaked, curling in on himself, as another spasm of agony wracked his body, tears streaming down his pain-contorted face. "Dean... I-I... it hurts..."

Dean glanced down at the clock, eyes widening slightly. He had completely forgotten Castiel's dose at the last pit stop they had taken. "Shit!" he hissed, leaping out of the car and tearing around to the other side. His hand dropped down to his side to fetch the pack of syringe and vials... and found an empty space on the belt loop.

Dean's blood turned to ice in his veins, as his eyes dropped down to his hip. The pouch was gone. "Fuck... no no no!" he begged, running back and ripping the trunk open. He dug his backpack out, vaguely remembering having taken the backpack in with him to the rest stop. Riffling through the bag, he came up short, rage at himself and terror throbbing in his chest. "No, please where is it?" he begged, digging desperately.

The pouch was nowhere to be found. Dean slammed the trunk shut in aggravation, fisting his hair. He wanted to scream. How could he fucking lose the pouch? After a moment, Dean composed his self-loathing enough to walk stiffly back to Cas' door.

Opening it silently, Dean caught the limp man in his arms, holding him close against his chest. Castiel curled into his embrace, burying his face in the side of his neck, as his own hands clutched desperately at his abdomen. He gripped his stomach as if to alleviate the pressure, the ripping, throbbing ache that ran around to his back, yielding his legs useless from the fired nerve endings in his spine. "Cas I'm so sorry... I-I can't find the pouch..."

Cas shakes his head slightly, quaking a heavy breath as he tried to calm his own pain. It did little good as he seized up again, coughing painfully.

Dean shifted his grip, lifting the sickly thin man into his arms easily. He moved Cas to the back seat of the Impala, laying him down gently along the back seat. "Hang on, I'm gonna try and find you something to help with the pain..." he said quietly, watching desperately as Castiel curled into a tight ball in the back seat, moaning.

It was a long distance from the middle of bumfuck Wyoming to Sioux Falls.

By the time Dean got Castiel back to Sioux Falls, there was no point in even trying to get a new prescription of morphine. The pain was so excruciating, it rendered Cas almost completely unconscious. The only signs that he wasn't completely comatose were his varied whimpers of pain, twitches, and his occasional lapses of consciousness, which never lasted long anyway.