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 Dean was smoking his life away, or at least that's what Sam was telling him. 'Dean your gonna die of lung cancer', ' Dean you'll kill yourself if you keep smoking that much'. He'd heard it all, every variation. It wasn't until Sam asked him how many cigarettes he smoked a day, that Dean realized that he actually was killing himself. 'Three packs maybe, four if the day feels right,' the look on Sam's face made him feel like an even bigger sack of shit. And thus he lit another "cancer stick" as Sam had called it, and put it to his lips. He slowly blew out the smoke, almost as if he was trying to savor the taste, savor the feel. Savoring how he should have savored everything else.

Dean regrets a lot of things, choices he's made, things he's said and done; but he knows that it's to late and that he needs to move on. But somethings are to big to move on from, in all honesty, Castiel was om top of that list of regret. How he talked to him, got angry at him, how he needed him too damn much; how he wasn't willing to listen until Cas was telling him, to his face, that he might kill himself. He tried, he honestly did, but it wasn't enough enough to get through that bastards head, that he wasn't alone and that Dean was willing to listen. He'd listen to everything if he could. He knew Castiel would fall, it was bound to happen and as much as he tried, he couldn't stop Cas from becoming that fucking drug addict that he'd seen at the end of the world. Everyday Dean tried to stop him, cut him off, but he always found a way. He was the reason Cas OD'd, too many pills in to little a time; fucking cocktails if the day felt right. And now Dean was killing himself to, day by day, pack by pack. Dean sighed as he unwrapped his third pack that day.


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August 2013

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