Title: Too Much
Author: vaderina
Rating: R for mature theme
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel though can be seen as gen
Spoilers: Everything aired to be safe
Warnings: Suicidal thoughts
Word Count: 1288
Summary: Everyone has a breaking point and Dean sailed past that point a while back.


Sometimes things become too much. Everyone has a breaking point and Dean sailed past that point a while back. Once again he was on his own in a cheap and run down motel room – it seemed to reflect his life and soul perfectly. Barren, desolate, stained, empty, over used and neglected. He had nothing left to give and even if he had, he had no one left to give it to. Sam had gone. Again. Cas had died. Again. And Bobby was disappointed in him. Again. He had nothing to fight for any more. He was just a burnt out husk and he couldn't even blame being a vessel to an angel for it.


He sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress with a heavy sigh. His fingers ran down the cool length of the Colt. He'd chosen it carefully. After all, it only had one bullet left, that wasn't a coincidence. Right? That final bullet had always been meant for him, like when they'd made the bullets, they knew exactly how many they'd need for all those demons, plus one for Dean himself. There was no going back with the Colt. No being dragged back out of anywhere. Dean no longer believed in Heaven and Hell being all that different. They were just different kinds of torture and he felt that he'd lived through enough to warrant exemption from both.


Running his fingers back up towards the trigger, Dean wondered what it would be like. To just not exist. His mind wandered from his own death to what would happen to his body. He'd left clear instructions along with an apology to the maid who would inevitably find him when people realised he hadn't checked out of the room on time. A bitter laugh escaped him, echoing in the too silent room. If he were to go to some place where hardly anyone ever visited, would he ever be found? He sure as hell knew no one would look for him. His body would be left to rot in some hidden nook and nobody would ever realise, let alone care that at the ripe old age of 32 he'd ended his own life. Perhaps, year later when all that was left of him were dried out bones, a dog would find his remains, run around with bits of him then bury its find. Isn't it ironic that he spent his whole life saving people but the only thing that would ever bury him was a dog? Humanity wouldn't even miss him. That was why he'd decided to do it in a motel room. Was it wrong he wanted just one person to know that he'd left this world? Just one person to acknowledge that he had ever existed on this plane. Would the view of his body slumped across the bed in a pool of blood and brains scar the poor girl who found him? As much as he tried to care, Dean found he couldn't. He'd spent all his life caring about a race that never cared for him. Was it really such a shock he couldn't care any more? Knowing his track record though, the girl wouldn't even remember him a week later. He'd just be something to be forgotten and swept under the carpet again. Still. He never could make an impression last enough for people to remember him. It was probably why he'd never had a long term relationship. He was remembered while he was useful then forgotten. He was used to bring a night of pleasure to some. Used to bring protection to others. A source of cheap amusement. Or to do the dirty work of those who couldn't be bothered. But once his function was over, he'd be discarded like a broken toy. Because that was all he was. A cheap broken play thing that could easily be replaced.


His shoulders slumped. He wanted to cry but he'd run out of tears long ago. He'd run out of anger too. In fact, he hardly had any emotions left. All positive emotions had deserted him before hell. After hell, he still felt anger, bitterness and that fuelled him to keep fighting. But now, he was devoid of it all. He was just resigned to his fate of solitude. All he had ever wanted was a family. He'd fought tooth and claw to keep what was left of them after the fire as close as possible. He'd tried so damn hard to make do with what little he had. His family had meant everything to him. Was it really too much to ask? Everyone else seemed to manage to hold together a family. With great ease even. He'd accepted that he won't ever have his whole family. Loving parents, an annoying little brother who he actually loved dearly. A family of his own. Children he'd watch grown up. Who he'd raise so differently. So that they knew that their father was there for them. So they didn't have to wake up each day wondering whether their father would turn up at all, or if this was it and they'd never see him again. He'd come to terms with all that. But he'd thought that maybe, just maybe he'd be allowed to keep what little family he had. As broken and dysfunctional as it all was, it was his family and once upon a time he'd loved them all and thought he was loved back. It had been a bitter pill to swallow when he realised that these feelings only went one way. Unrequited love in all senses of the word hurt like a bitch.


But even that didn't sting any more. It has lost its painful edge when the realisation dawned on him that he will be on his own. The point when he realised he had nothing and no one live live for. So now, here he was, in a motel room with nothing left to hold him back. He closed his eyes and took one final large breath as he clicked the safety catch off. His hand didn't shake as it rose through the air. Just one more muscle contraction and all this would end. The metal barrel should have felt cold against his lips, but it didn't register. If he'd had the strenght, he'd have smirked at the way the gun pushed past his lips in a mocking parody of something more sexual. The oil left a bitter tang on his tongue, his whole mouth felt slick and laden with it. He adjust his grip, correcting the angle, he didn't want to mess this up too. Slowly, his fingers tightened around the trigger.


A pair of soft warm hands closed over his and a warm hard chest pressed against his back. Warm breath ghosted down the side of his neck and stubble rasped against his cheek. The hands guided the gun back down to his lap, clicking the safety back on and removed it from his now loose grip. With a gentleness he couldn't ever remember being on the receiving end of, strong arms lifted him and turned him to be cradled against a starched white shirt. He buried his face in the crook of the neck, feeling the steady beat of a heart under the chest he was held against. The arms wrapped around him in a firm grip, pulling him closer still. A rustle of what could have been feathers was accompanied by the feeling of warmth and being cocooned in a nest of safety. Dean's hands fisted into the shirt, the dam that he'd built up finally bursting. All his sorrow and loss being ripped from him in gasping breaths and sobs as hot tears ran freely down his cheeks and soaked the white material below his cheeks. He felt the chest rumble with the words whispered in his ear.


"Sssh Dean, you are safe and home now."


All he could do was cling harder and let out a broken hoarse cry.