Pinned
𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙑𝙀𝙉
ᯓ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. Dean is dying and Castiel is there for him in his last moment
note: I couldn't let go of Destiel x Slide by Chase Atlantic, so I tried to write it myself. This is my very first drabble. Feedback is always appreciated!! warnings: 16+, mentions of blood, mentions of death wordcount: 479
Dean is dying
Not the dramatic, world-ending kind of dying. Not the kind that gets a hunter a pyre and a bottle of whiskey passed around in his honor. No, this is quiet. This is slow and silent.
This is Dean slumped against a dirty wall, his leather jacket soaked through with blood. The slow, steady drip of crimson leaks out of him, pooling in the cracks of his soul. The pieces of him slip away, scattering around him in a tide.
He is coming apart, slow and silent.
It is the kind of dying that happens in the dark, where no one is watching. The kind of death where the walls are closing in just a little bit. Where the air grows thinner with every breath and the shadows press closer, whispering things he does not want to hear. The kind where the voices are getting just a little louder for his liking. Their words sharp and jagged, carving into the fragile edges of his mind.
And when the silence finally comes, it is not peaceful. It is the sound of his own heartbeat—slow and heavy, counting down the seconds until the dark swallows him whole.
Expect there is no darkness that consumes him. There is only Castiel watching him—silently.
He stands just outside of the haze, staring. The glow of the moon catches the sharp angles of his face. His eyes are unreadable, but Dean can feel the weight of them.
They hold him down, keeping him here.
Not with the panic Dean has seen in Sam’s face too many times. Not with desperation or grief. Just watching, like he has known this was coming. Like he has been waiting.
Dean swallows, tasting copper. He knows this feeling.
He has danced on this edge before, stood on this ledge more times than he can count. But this time, there are no hands pulling him back. No desperate, last-second resurrection. Just silence.
And Castiel knows.
Knows the way this story will go. Knows how tired he is. Knows that even if Dean never says it. Never admits it, never stops fighting, never lets himself want it—he is so goddamn tired.
So Castiel does not promise to save him. Does not whisper reassurances he does not believe. He simply presses a hand against Dean’s skin, fingers brushing against his jaw, grounding him in something steady. Something real.
If this is it, if this time death decides to keep him, Dean knows.
Knows Castiel will not let him be lost. Knows, in a way he has never let himself believe before—that if he goes, Castiel will take him somewhere good. Somewhere safe. Somewhere he can finally rest.
The world is fading, the dark creeping closer, but Dean exhales—shaky, uneven, but not afraid. And Castiel watches, silent and certain, as if this has always been a promise waiting to be kept.
Divider ©: @steviebbboi
