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The first time Dean walks into their cabin to find Cas balls-deep in some blond chick, he can't move. He's frozen there in the doorway, watching Cas rut into her. His stomach wants to rebel, and he can't think. As much as his entrance hadn't been covert, he can't stand the thought of either of them noticing him, now.
Somehow he gets back to the cabin that serves as headquarters, bland maps lining the walls, ammunition and supplies strewn across the tables and cabinets. Dean just stands in the doorway, at a loss for so long that the automatic timer on the overhead lights winds down and shuts off.
Dean startles, reflexively reaching for his gun before his brain catches up. Very calmly, he spins the timer dial back to max, and stares at it as it ticks down a good five minutes before setting it to max again.
It's his own fault, really. How many nights has he neglected their cabin lately—left Cas to curl around the ghost of him? How many nights has he spent with Jane, or Krista, or Julie? Buried deep enough in wet, sweet heat to forget how he's failed everyone. How he failed Mom, and Dad…hell, even Bobby. It's his fault Ash died, and Ellen and Jo back in Cincinnati. His fault Rufus bought it in Memphis.
It's his fault Sam said yes, and he didn't, and the world is ending bloodier than if they'd let two archangels take out their daddy issues on each other.
And fuck. It's his fault Cas has no Grace left to sell, no matter how cheap.
Face collapsing, Dean fights tears and the overwhelming pressure in his lungs and stomach and throat trying to tear him to crude, inflamed pieces. It feels like dying, his insides imploding.
Things weren't supposed to be this way. Dean wasn't supposed to spend six out of seven nights for the last five months in someone else's bed. He wasn't supposed to ignore Cas while his Grace dwindled to the point he couldn't heal a tiny cut, much less a broken foot; he wasn't supposed to ignore Chuck offering pills, or Cas going out on private missions to get "medical supplies."
He was never supposed to lose Cas.
But he lost him months back. Back when he knelt in the rubble of a shitty Nowheresville Main Street and screamed to the Heavenless sky, "YES! Goddamnit, Michael, YES. FOR FUCK'S SAKE, PLEASE! PLEASE, JUST LET THIS END!"
He lost it months ago, when they returned from burning Bobby's body, and he walked straight past their cabin to Emily's.
Dean doesn't deserve anything Cas has to offer anymore.
Staggering to the center table, lined with maps and notes and mission plans, Dean sways for a moment, staring at it all through hot, blurry eyes.
With a snarl, he swipes it all to the floor.
In a blind rage, Dean rips the cabin apart. The carefully marked maps flutter in pieces to the floor, highways bisected and scattering. Neat rows of reloaded shells and bullets roll haphazard across the warped floor to settle against overturned cabinets and the splinters of a wrecked chair. Breaking a crystal decanter against the wall, knife-sharp shards slice his hand, but he barely feels it.
Falling to his knees, he chokes on his own breaths and screams the bloody fragments of his heart in between.
Dean's brought all of this on himself, and he deserves it. He never could do a damn thing right in his life, and the pattern's holding. He knew months ago he lost Cas.
But goddamn, he's only now facing the reality of it.
Folded in on himself, he prays, desperate that at least the ability to hear him hasn't left Cas, and desperate that it has.
"Please, Cas, you're all I got left. Please, please, I know I don't deserve you, but please, don't you leave me, too."
Cas doesn't answer. Not immediately, with a flutter of invisible wings, and not an hour later.
Cas will never answer again, and Dean knows, quietly, that he's ruined the last good thing in the world.