Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing: Dean knows he’s a headcase. He takes three daily medications, plus one as-needed sleep aid and a fast-acting anti-anxiety med for emergencies. He’s even got one of those old-person pill organizers he keeps on the back of his counter and four separate alarms on his phone to make sure he remembers to take his pills. He’s got two honest-to-God personal head shrinkers: one for trimonthly med reviews and one for weekly head reviews.

He’s been to two court-issued rehab programs, one for narcotic pain meds and one for booze. He has two restraining orders against him. He doesn’t want to touch his juvenile record with a ten-foot pole. And, three years ago, he spent four months in a state penitentiary for aggravated assault and a month in the prison’s ding wing before being transferred to a psychiatric hospital for six months and then ten months of probation in the care of his kid brother.

So, yeah, Dean knows he’s a fucking headcase. Absolutely, certifiably, off-the-rocker insane. The evidence is astronomical. So much so, he really doesn’t need Sammy to constantly remind him of it.

“I know, Sam. Jesus,” Dean says for probably the fifth time that day, all at steadily increasing levels of pissed-off.

Sam’s unmitigated train of reassurances breaks off abruptly at, “and I’m only 20 minutes away, 15 in an emergency, so –” and ends on his patented Bitch Face Numero Ocho.

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay,” Sam grumbles. His cheek jumps as he clenches his jaw.

Dean lets his eyes slide away from Sam’s because he’s never done well with eye-contact. It used to bring out all the best listen to me when I’m talking to you, young man spiels from his teachers. And he tries to dial it back a little, because Sam’s just trying to help, damn him.

“Dude, I asked you to help move my stuff, not give me a lecture,” Dean says. He rolls his eyes, but then he tags on a smirk to make Sam stop scowling.

It sort of works. Sam sends back his own eye-roll, levels the tower of cardboard boxes he’d lugged up the stairs in his orangutan arms, and mumbles, “Am helping.”

Dean shoves his own cardboard box onto the counter, scuffing up a trail of filmy dust behind it. Sam straightens up to his full gigantor-height and sends his eyes around the room. His scowl turns into the kind of look Dean imagines rich people put on when they admire their gardener’s Christmas card, and Sam says, “It’s, ah, bigger than I thought it’d be.”

That’s about the nicest thing you could say about the place, and it isn’t even true. The listing said it was a “compact studio,” which is just another way of saying “perfect upsize for hermit crab.” The kitchen exists for about three feet before it turns into the living room, which hits the far wall after another 12 feet. There are two doors to the right; one probably leads into the bathroom. The other, if Dean’s lucky, opens into a closet. If he’s unlucky, it adjoins the apartment next door, like a hotel. Plus, the building must have been built in a time when people were a lot shorter, because the ceilings are only five or six inches taller than the top of Sam’s bushy head. It gives the place an even more cramped, claustrophobic feel. But it’s big enough for a pullout couch and the small pile of crap Dean’s managed to accumulate while bunking with his brother.

“It’s a shithole,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam allows finally, wrinkling his nose. “It’s a shithole.”

But Dean can’t exactly complain about a shithole apartment. It turns out not many people are willing to rent to a felon with no viable references and next-to-no regular income. It’s not like Dean was going to ask his previous landlord to put in a good word. One, it was four years ago, and, two, his lease promptly ended when Dean set his couch on fire, panicked, and threw it out the six-story window. Good times.

“Alright then, tiger,” Dean says with false pep and slaps his brother on the shoulder. “Quicker we get done, quicker we get celebratory pizza.”

Sam follows Dean back into the hallway. The building is tall and narrow: five floors and four shoebox apartments to a floor, all connected by a steep staircase that’s barely wide enough for Dean’s shoulders.

“You gonna be alright?” Sam says over his shoulder on the way down, “I mean, it’s kinda tight in here. With your, you know, thing.”

Dean rolls his eyes again. What thing? Dean wants to snap, but he might as well ask which thing? Because it’s not as though Dean’s lacking in things. But, in this case, he knows what Sam’s talking about – and, come on, because that was an issue two, maybe three times – four times, tops – which is hardly enough to qualify as a thing.

“I’ll be fine, Sammy,” Dean says. And shoves Sam between his shoulder blades, so he’s forced to take the last three steps at a hop beforr he slams into the street door, palms first. He shoots Dean an ugly look, and Dean answers him with raised eyebrows.

“Watch your step.”

“Screw you,” Sam says. He pulls open the door. The street smells like sewage and the overfilling dumpsters in the alley.

“Really nice neighborhood, man,” Sam says as they walk back to his Prius parked on the curb to grab another armload of boxes from the backseat. “I can really see the appeal.”

The apartment faces are all tagged with vibrant squiggles of graffiti; Dean spots at least three dicks just from his view on the sidewalk. There are a couple potted shrubs on front stoops; the ones that haven’t been deliberately toppled over are wilting in the oppressive July heat. And most of the apartments have bars on their ground-level windows.

“Fucking ace,” Dean returns. “Great schools. Real community mindset, you know?”

Sam gives him a look like he wants Dean to know how unfunny he is, and he kicks the car door shut behind him with his heel.

“I just don’t get why you won’t stay with Bobby,” Sam says when they’re back to the building. Dean knows he waited until Dean was busy juggling his boxes plus the doorknob, because Dean’s too occupied to bother shooting his brother an annoyed look.

“Cause the whole point of this exercise is to get me independent again, dipshit,” Dean says, finally opening the door and stuffing himself back inside. He briefly contemplates letting the door swing shut on Sam’s face.

“Yeah, but Dr. Henriksen said you should take things easy,” Sam keeps up, sounding like the whiny six-year-old he secretly always will be. “Baby steps.”

“Sammy, I’ve been living in your ass for the past two years,” Dean says. He doesn’t risk craning his neck to fix Sam with a stern gaze, because he doesn’t want to lose his footing on the precarious stairwell. “I worked my way up to full time at the garage. I know fucking baby steps, okay? This is baby steps.”

They’ve had this conversation before, but, Goddammit, Dean will do everything in his power to make sure his brother leaves satisfied of Dean’s capability today. Or at least leaves, period. Dean’s been living with Sam for the past two years – ten months of which were legally required, 14 months of which were medically recommended – and he’s finally gotten to a place in his life that living alone again is actually a possibility. In fact, Victor, actually called him “stable” for the first time in, like, ever a few weeks ago. So, it’s time to take the plunge. Dean’s ready; it’s not his fault Sammy’s not.

Dean’s still well-aware that just one wrong move on his end could bring this whole wobbly house of cards that is his psyche, his brother’s concern, and Victor’s say-so, toppling down, and he really, really needs all three pieces to stay standing.

Dean’s too preoccupied with reassuring his brother, keeping ahold of his armful of cardboard boxes, and not missing the next step, that he doesn’t notice the flicker of shadowy limbs that is another person swinging out of the third floor door and onto the landing until it’s too late to get out of the way.

Dean collides boxes first into a solid pillar of human being and then there are two twin oomphs of shock and pain, one from Dean and one from his victim, followed by a “Dean, shit –” as Dean rebounds off the stranger’s chest into Sam, who’s still precariously perched on the stairs behind him.

The rhythm of thumps, bangs, and a solid, final crash as something heavy tumbles down the stairs and shatters on the second floor landing makes Dean’s blood turn to ice because holy fucking shit Dean just killed Sammy –

Dean turns wildly, top box in his arms sliding off and crashing to the floor – onto the stranger’s toes if the resulting curse is any indication – and freezes face to face with Sam.

“I think that was your coffeemaker,” Sam says sheepishly. He’s hooked one arm around the banister to keep himself standing, but he’s still holding two boxes, and he’s very much not lying in a mangled heap of blood and broken bones at the bottom of the stairs.

“Fucking shit,” Dean says, and he swallows hard, trying to force his heart out of his throat and back into his chest where it belongs.

“Um, hello,” the stranger says. “I apologize. I didn’t see you.”

“That’s totally cool,” Dean says, a little breathlessly because his brain is still too busy catching up with the idea that Sammy’s not dead to focus entirely on breathing. “Totally fine.”

“I believe you dropped this,” the guy says. His voice is deep and sandpaper rough. He bends at the waist to heft the box that fell on his toes into his arms. When he straightens up, Dean gets his first real look at him, and the first thing that manages to blare through the alarm ringing through his head is holly fuck. Hot.

There’s a mop of sinfully mussed hair on the man’s head, a couple day’s stubble on his jaw, and his clothes are baggy and covered in colorful splotches of paint. His eyes are very blue. Gorgeous, piercing blue. Everything inside Dean’s body is suddenly taught and thudding with hot blood, and he forces himself back into his head, where Pam is telling him that you use sex as a defense mechanism, Dean. Your first thought when you’re uncomfortable is “how can I literally screw my way out of this?”

“Um, yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” Dean says. “Can you just, like, slide it back on top?” He stoops a little to give the guy room to stuff the box back on top of the other box in Dean’s arms.

“Of course,” the guy says. “I don’t recognize you,” he says with a small pause. He steps back and runs his eyes up from Dean’s shoes to his face, and Dean tries really hard to think about all the things he doesn’t want to mess up by sleeping with this guy; he’s Dean’s new neighbor. Casual sex with the new neighbor is not a great way to establish his place in this building. Besides, Dean doesn’t even know if this guy is into dick.

“Yeah, I’m, ah, moving in,” Dean says. And it’s getting more difficult to concentrate because his heart bypassed his chest and landed in his stomach, and now it’s just churning liquid with each beat, like it’s a blender. And Sam’s right: this stairwell is way too fucking tight, and Dean nearly sent Sam to his death just a couple seconds ago, and there’s a ridiculously attractive stranger trying to make casual conversation, right now, as if anything about this is remotely casual.

“I’m helping him,” Sam pipes up.

“Hence the boxes, yes,” the stranger says, nodding sagely.

“I’m Dean,” Dean adds, because he’s supposed to be normal, and being normal means introducing yourself. And this is not an emergency, he reminds himself sternly. This is not an emergency, so his body can just chill the fuck out. Bastardized fight or flight reflex be damned.

“Hello Dean,” the man answers. “I’m Castiel Novak. And you…?” he turns his piercing gaze to Sam, and Sam shares one of his goofy, golden retriever grins.

“Sam. Dean’s brother.”

“Welcome to the building, Dean,” Castiel continues. “May I assist you? It seems I’ve inadvertently caused an inconvenience.”

“Nah, man,” Dean says. He hopes he comes across as relaxed. He fights the impulse to ask the guy to get the hell out of the way, please. Dean needs to move now because it’s getting a little too hard to breathe.

Fuck. Fuck no. Dean is not starting out his first hour of moving into his own place by having a panic attack.

“We’re good,” Sam adds cheerfully. “Just kick that box to the side. I’ll come back for it in a second.” He jerks his head down the stairs to indicate the box at the bottom of the flight, which holds the remains of Dean’s obliterated coffeemaker.

“I understand,” Castiel replies, and, thank God, backs through the third-floor door to let Dean and Sam past.

Dean takes the last flight to his floor at a jog; it’s more than enough to get his heart pumping. He hopes to high-hell that Sam attributes Dean’s sweat and breathlessness to climbing four flights of un-airconditioned stairs, because he cannot afford to let Sam see Dean as anything less than fine, right now.

He didn’t bother locking his apartment door, so he shoulders it open as soon as he gets there, dumps his two boxes unceremoniously, on the floor and keeps going.

“Where’s the fire?” Sam demands, still on his tail.

“Gotta piss,” Dean lies, not looking over his shoulder. He tosses open the first of the two doors in the wall and, no – closet. But good to know he has a closet – and then opens the second. Bingo. Bathroom. He shuts the door behind him, and then lets himself deflate.

Okay, he tells himself. He’s okay. Sam’s okay. Everyone in the world is A-Okay. He does the thing that Pam taught him, the grounding technique, or whatever, where he takes stock of his surroundings or roots himself in his body or some other hippie shit.

Five things he can see: there’s rust on the pipe under the sink, mold in the corner of the shower, a crack in the linoleum that runs the length of the entire floor, the lid of the toilet seat is up, a spiderweb hangs loose off the bottom of the mirror-faced cabinet above the sink.

Four things he can feel: the door behind his back, the cuffs of his flannel brushing his wrists, sweat slithering down the side of his face, his feet tight and hot in his sneakers.

Three things he can hear: the faucet drops a bead of water into the basin with a soft plink, Sam’s shuffling boxes across the floor to make room for his own, and that Castiel guy’s deep voice rumbles, “I didn’t feel right making you come get it when it was technically my fault you dropped it in the first place.”

It snaps Dean out of the exercise, which is all well and good because he usually skips the last two, anyway – smell and taste – because, what the fuck? he can smell mildew? He can taste his saliva?

He opens the door and comes back into the room to find Castiel followed them up. He’s standing in Dean’s door and holding a slightly dented cardboard box in his arms.

“I’m afraid it’s probably broken,” he says.

“Oh, thanks,” Sam says. He takes the box out of Castiel’s arms and sets it on the counter. It rattles as it moves, and Dean winces in sympathy for the poor schmuck that is himself tomorrow morning when he’s going to have to wake up without coffee.

“I apologize again,” Castiel says. “Gabriel always tells me I don’t pay enough attention to my surroundings.”

“Not your fault, dude,” Dean shrugs. He wonders who Gabriel is. A partner? And then tells himself to shut the fuck up, because it’s none of his business whether or not Gabriel was Castiel’s partner because, even if he was – and that meant Castiel was interested in men – then that was still bad news, because it wasn’t like Dean messed around with cheating. At least not anymore. Not since he was trying to model healthy sexual habits now.

Castiel nods, then he glances around the barren apartment like he’s never seen one before.

“You’ll want to get yourself an air-conditioner unit,” he tells Dean, pinning him with an intense gaze, more appropriate for relaying life-or-death information than discussing household appliances.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean replies. “I’ll put it on the list.” Along with a new coffeemaker, he adds.

“Well,” Castiel says. “I'm intruding.”

“You’re not intruding,” Dean blurts out before he can stop himself. Stupid stupid stupid. Even Sam shoots him raised eyebrows to let him know how utterly stupid Dean is.

“Thank you,” Castiel says with a small smile. “But I need to be going.”

“See you around, Cas,” Dean says. Cas? Fucking stupid. Fucking manwhore. Can’t he fucking keep it in his pants for even one fucking interaction?

Sam says goodbye to Castiel, as well, and then the other man leaves. The door slips shut behind him, and then Sam fixes Dean with a look.

Dean’s expecting another lecture, but Sam says, “Think he’ll be your strangest neighbor?” and Dean smiles in relief. Maybe he actually managed to sneak that whole episode right under his little brother’s nose. But then Sam continues, “You good? You seemed a little spooked on the stairs.”

“Nah, man, I’m good.” Dean doesn’t exactly lie, because he’s good now. He almost wasn’t. But then he was. And that’s all that counts. He really needs Sam to believe he’s good. “Think we can tackle the rest of it in one more trip?”

They do manage to haul the rest of Dean’s stuff up with one more trip, and they don’t encounter anymore neighbors or near disasters on the stairs.

Dean would have been perfectly content to leave unpacking to a later, unspecified date, but Sam insists that he’s there to help and, in a fit of morbid blasphemy, says 4:30 is too early for pizza, so they might as well finish the job before getting dinner. Grumbling, Dean starts unpacking boxes.

There ain’t a lot to do. Dean’s clothes and three pairs of shoes – steel-toe boots for work, running shoes, dress shoes – go into the closet. He lets Sam tackle the kitchen junk: pots, plates, glasses, utensils, and one ruined coffeemaker. He puts his shampoo and bodywash in the shower, hangs up a new shower curtain, and places his toothbrush and razor in the cabinet. Then Dean shoves the last two boxes with his personal shit – books, records, a couple framed pictures, and faded posters he’s had since he was a teenager – into the corner for later, because he can’t do anything with them until he buys a bookshelf. And that’s it. Dean’s entire life packed and then unpacked in 14 cardboard boxes Sam picked up from Costco.

Sam and him just sort of stare at the one-room apartment for a few seconds after they’re done. It isn’t exactly homey. Dean didn’t bring any furniture from Sam’s place with him, even though Sam told him he could, but that shit was Sam’s, and Dean’d already taken more than enough from his brother. So, the apartment is still totally empty; now there are just a bunch of empty cardboard boxes everywhere.

“You know you really can stay another night with me,” Sam offers half-heartedly because he’s already asked, and Dean’s already told him no.

“Pull-out’s coming in tomorrow, Sammy,” Dean replies. “I can handle one night on the floor.”

“Yeah, well don’t come crying to me about your stiff back,” Sam replies.

“Get out of here and get us pizza.” Dean dismisses his brother with a snap of his wrist. Sam rolls his eyes, but he snatches his keys from the counter and heads out the door.

After Sam leaves, Dean takes a minute to breathe. He loves his brother. He really does. But Sammy is just – a lot. With all his reassurances and careful eyes and constant questions. He remembers what Pam said about moving, about how any transition was a stressor, that it was important to check in with his body and mind whenever he’s feeling overwhelmed.

He thinks about what happened on the stairs. And Sam is a trigger. Sam has always been a trigger. Dean knows this. And when he knows something, it makes it easier to control.

Not control, the reminder sounds like Pam: manage.

And Dean can manage. He’s going to fucking manage.

Dean mops his forehead with his sleeve, being careful not to tangle up the amulet around his neck, and the fabric comes away damp. Castiel was right; Dean needs to buy an AC. Moving around in the small, suffocating room has left him drenched in sweat. He could technically strip down to his shirtsleeves, like Sam had done before they even started carrying the boxes, but Dean hadn’t wanted to risk running into anyone, like Castiel, on the stairs when he wasn’t wearing his overshirt. He’s technically free to change now, but he’s never been super comfortable bearing a lot of skin under his brother’s gaze, either.

Instead, he crosses the room to the window in the far wall. He hoists open the sash, letting the heavy scent of city summer air spill into the room: burnt rubber, wet dog, and weed. His window opens onto the fire escape. The scaffolding extends under his neighbor’s window, as well. Whoever lives there has a miniature jungle of dying plants. Dean spots a pathetic-looking tomato plant and some sort of cactus. The buildings are set so close together, Dean can practically see into the windows across the alley, so he adds curtains to his mental shopping list.

There’s nowhere to sit in the apartment except for the counter or the floor. Dean chooses the floor. He lays down and stares at the ceiling for a little while before he gets bored and pulls out his phone, but then he remembers Pam made him get rid of all his fun apps because she wants him to work on being intentional about sexuality or some shit, instead of turning to porn whenever he gets bored. Dean huffs in annoyance but successfully ignores the urge to re-download Pornhub or Tinder.

Instead, he shuffles through his music library until he lands on Zeppelin. He puts his phone on his stomach and counts the water stains on his new ceiling.

Sam arrives back with the pizza and a couple bags of groceries. Dean gets off the floor as soon as Sam comes through the door; Sam has found him lying on the ground and staring at nothing a few more times than necessary.

The plastic bags rustle as Dean inspects his spoils, and he draws out a sack of green stuff and demands, “the fuck is this shit?”

“You like broccoli, Dean,” Sam says.

“Vicious lies,” Dean says. He pulls out a bunch of bananas next and feigns vomiting. Among the assortment of fruit and vegetables, Sam did manage to buy a few edible items, including a packet of ground beef, milk, eggs, and even – thank God –some of that thick cut Canadian bacon that’s almost better than the strip stuff.

“These are going home with you. I don’t eat apples,” Dean says, swinging a sack of golden delicious at Sam’s head. Sam ducks.

“You do know what apple pies are made of, right?” Sam says.

“Yeah, fucking deliciousness,” Dean shoots back. “Not this shit.”

“Those are the sweet ones,” Sam protests. “You eat them with peanut butter – I’ve seen you!”

“If you didn’t get proper pizza, I’m throwing you out the window,” Dean warns as he dives for one of the pizza boxes and pulls open the lid. He’s relieved to find one regular peperoni and one meat-lovers, as it should be.

He immediately pulls out a piece and inhales it in two bites, suddenly ravenous. Moving house is hard work. Sam gives him an annoyed but fond look as he finishes tucking Dean’s groceries into the various nooks and crannies of his kitchen, then he grabs his own slice of peperoni.

They eat standing at the counter, trading jibes and snatching fallen toppings. Sam bought a liter of Coke to share, and Dean can’t wait until his brother’s finally out of here and Dean can buy beer again without being judged.

Sam insists on washing their dishes afterward, and Dean would have argued harder against it, I’m not a fucking invalid, Sam, except that Dean actually hates doing the dishes - all that grime that gets under his fingernails - and there’s no harm in putting his little brother to work.

“Alright, Sammy, get out of here,” Dean says finally, after Sam has to dry his hands on his jeans because dishtowels are apparently another aspect of domestic life Dean lacks. “House is yours now. Go bone your new girlfriend, what’s her face.”

“Her name’s Eileen,” Sam grunts, ducking his face so Dean won’t see him blush.

“Can’t keep track of them all,” Dean replies.

“You’re one to talk,” Sam retorts. Which is fair. But Dean’s all about hookup culture; Sammy’s a serial dater, and that’s almost worse, because at least with Dean there’s no strings attached. Sam starts picking out kids’ names if someone agrees to go on a second date with him.

“Yeah, well, at least I’m not cramping your style anymore, right?” Dean says. “You can finally invite her over.”

“That’s not why you wanted to move, right?” Sam says, with that ridiculous wrinkle between his eyebrows that means he’s serious. “Cause you know that –”

“Yes, Sam,” Dean cuts him off. “I wanted to move for me, ‘kay? Not for you,” which is only partly true. Sammy’s closer to the real reason than Dean will ever let him realize.

“And you know I’m really proud of you, right?” Sam says, still with that stupid constipated look on his face, twisting up his mouth and making him look even more like a dufus.

“God, Sam,” Dean says. He takes ahold of Sam’s shoulder and forces him toward the door. “Get the hell out before you poison the air.”

“And call me, Dean,” Sammy keeps talking. Rattling on a mile a minute because he knows his time grows short. “I can be here in 15 minutes if you need anything. Anything. And Bobby’s around, too –”

“Sammy, Jesus. This is my place, right? So that means I reserve the right to kick you the hell out of it.”

“Fine, fine!” Sam says, and he bats Dean’s hands off his shoulders. But then he only turns to tug Dean into a fierce hug. “Love you, jerk,” he says over Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Yeah. You too, bitch,” Dean says. He claps Sam twice on the back, and they both release. “Now fuck off my front porch.”

Sam meets Dean’s smile with a bright grin of his own, and then he’s throwing one last wave over his shoulder and turning down the hall. Dean shuts the door after him, and then that’s it. Alone at last. Really alone. A sigh of relief slides out of his lips, and he shuts his eyes. There’s nothing left to do but put the leftover pizza in the fridge, so Dean does that. And then he looks at the barren floor of his apartment, sighs again, and this time it’s not quite relief that’s tugging at the base of his ribs, and he figures he might as well recount the water stains on the ceiling.

Chapter Text

Dean doesn’t get much sleep that night. It’s a combination of the oppressive heat that makes his sleeping bag stick to his skin and a sizzling, staticky feeling in his bones. Dean hasn’t had his own place for four years. It feels strange. It feels somehow like Dean’s doing something wrong. It feels like squatting in abandoned homes when he was a kid, and Dean’d spend each night waiting for the police to bust in.

He’s hyperaware of all the noises around him: the nonstop traffic on the street below, steady plop of his leaking faucet, and hum of his refrigerator. Dad used to say rattling pipes, rats scratching in the walls, cold spots, and flickering lights were all signs of the supernatural. Of course, Dad was a delusional and obsessive son of a bitch who dragged Dean and Sammy across the country and back, tracking demonic omens that didn’t exist. So Dad’s word isn’t super reliable.

Dean can hear murmuring in the apartment next door. His neighbor with all the dead plants is talking to herself. She’s not loud enough to hear specific words through the thin wall, barring an occasional burst of swearing and death-threats. She’s either in the middle of a very intense phone call at two o’clock in the morning or Dean’s lucky enough to live next to a total psycho.

Dean knows he’s supposed to take his temazepam when it gets like this, but he hates how it make him feel like a zombie in the morning. Call him irrational, but he’d rather slog through the day because of lack of sleep instead of pills.

Eventually he plugs his headphones into his phone and attempts to drown out the night’s sounds with some soft rock. He must mange to doze off, because one second he’s blinking at his ceiling, and the next he’s doused in sweat, shaking, and reaching for the gun he keeps under his pillow –

Except he doesn’t keep a gun under his pillow, anymore. He hasn’t for a long time.

He sucks in a shuddering breath, but his lungs don’t want to inflate, so he rolls onto his back and forces himself into a sitting position, even though his back screams at him for moving too quickly.

“Suck my dick, you piece of shit, toxic lump of man meat!” his neighbor shouts next door.

It’s dark. He fumbles for his phone; he finds his playlist still cycling, and it’s five of five, which means Dean managed a little less than three hours before something – whatever it was – woke him up. Dean can’t remember the nightmare, even though his clammy skin and the panic stuck in his throat are both clear signs that that’s what it was.

Dean groans and mashes the heels of his hands into his eyes. There’s the beginnings of a headache clawing at the back of his skull. It’s not worth it to try to sleep again, and he really doesn’t want to just lay there for another hour, so he pushes himself up, knees creaking as he stands. His left leg, the one the accident screwed up, aches dully. Son of a bitch. Sam was right; sleeping on the floor sucks ass. He’d take his prison rack over this.

He stumbles through the dark until he bumps into his still-boxed stuff in the corner. Then it’s a matter of shuffling through his crap until his fist closes around the incognito pack of playing cards and his lighter at the bottom. He opens the pack and slides out one of the cigarettes he’d stowed there. It’s not that he’s hiding them; it’s just that he really didn’t want Sam to find out Dean still smokes.

Dean straightens up and heads to the window. It’s easy enough to duck out of it onto the fire escape. The air outside is marginally less sticky and warm than inside his apartment.

He lights up his cigarette, puts the filter in his mouth, and sucks in a lungful of poison gas. He knows it’s fucking unhealthy. But grabbing a cigarette is healthier than grabbing a fifth of whiskey. Anyway, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to die of lung cancer. Would the world really be missing out?

Shit. Redirect.

He takes another drag and holds the smoke in his mouth long enough to tickle the back of his throat. He lets it out slowly. Then he takes a couple steps back from the railing and leans against the side of the building. It’s not like he’s afraid he’s going to jump off. He just doesn’t want the option to introduce itself.

It’s all about precautionary measures, Pam insists. Risk management. That’s why Dean uses a disposable razor, why Sam didn’t let hard liquor in his apartment, why Pam made Dean put a post-it note with a crisis number in his medicine cabinet.

Dean works his way through one cigarette, then he pulls out another. He’d made a deal with himself to only smoke one stick at a time, but he’s still rattled from his nightmare, and it’s not like disappointing himself is new territory.

Strains of gray light start to creep above the trees in the scraggly park across the street. He can even hear the faint morning twitter of birds before it’s overrun by the rumble, shriek, and high-pitched beeping of a garbage truck backing into the alley to empty the dumpsters.

“Yeah? Well fuck you,” Dean’s neighbor says. It’s easier to hear her through the window than it is through the wall. “Do the world a favor and put your dick in a blender.” Then there’s the distinct slap of skin against something solid, the roll of a computer chair against the hard floor and, alarmingly, the neighbor’s window slides open, and out comes the neighbor, herself.

“Fucking douchewad,” she mutters under her breath. She hasn’t noticed Dean yet, and Dean stands there frozen, wishing he’d had time to retreat before she got outside. She has red hair tied into a tail at the back of her head. Dean notices she brought out a box of Cheez-Its with her.

She sticks her fist into the box and stuffs a handful of crackers into her mouth. She turns, and she spots Dean.

“Oh crap,” she says, eyes going wide and bits of cracker spewing from her lips.

“Um, hey,” Dean says.

She’s wearing athletic shorts so short they might as well be underwear, a t-shirt bearing the legend My Favorite People Call me Dad, and purple, calf-high socks with rainbow bands and the word GAY written up the side. Dean slots her into the do-not-flirt-with box.

She swallows hard and says, slightly breathless, “Um you’re not, like, a murder or a rapist or something, right?”

“Ah, no,” Dean says at once, and he tries to make himself as unthreatening as a large man smoking a cigarette in the shadows can possibly make himself look. “New neighbor.”

“Oh,” her face relaxes into a smile. “I’m Charlie. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She sticks out her hand, realizes it’s covered in Cheez-It dust, cuffs it on her shirt, and then offers it again.

Dean meets her half-way. “Dean.”

“Sorry if I, you know, woke you up or something,” Charlie says. “I’m usually not so…”

“Loud?” Dean offers.

Charlie shrugs. “I was gonna say ‘aggressively vocal in my fight for the honor of girl gamers everywhere,’ but, sure. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was a sexist pig, but I usually operate under a strict don’t-feed-the-trolls policy. But I got dumped yesterday, so I was grumpy.”

“Damn,” Dean replies. He’s not quite sure how to respond in the face of such relentless chattiness. At least his neighbor isn’t a psycho yelling at the walls. “Sorry.”

“I know, right?” Charlie smiles crookedly. “Her loss.”

Dean flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette. He’s suddenly acutely aware that he’s just wearing a t-shirt and his boxers, and he hopes it’s still dark enough that Charlie can’t see his scars. Dean’s lucky - the first thought that pops into someone’s head when they see a buff dude with scars up and down his arms and legs is bear attack or lion trainer, not he cuts himself like a teenage girl, but he still doesn’t like it when people ask. It’s not like he can casually go back inside and change, though.

“Breakfast?” Charlie asks, offering her Cheez-Its.

“Nah,” Dean replies. He holds out his pack of playing cards. “Smoke?”

“No thanks,” Charlie says. “Those things’ll kill you.”

“You sound like my brother,” Dean smiles. He’s always been good at this: small talk. Born out of the necessity to charm his way out of parent-teacher conferences, traffic tickets, and concerned cashiers who wondered why a ten-year-old was grocery shopping with his six-year-old brother. He’s especially good when it involves flirting, but he can manage friendly chatter, too.

“He live around here?” Charlie asks around another mouthful of Cheez-Its.

“Up town,” Dean replies.

“You guys close?”

“Pretty close,” Dean says. “I was living with him ‘til yesterday.”

“Oh, wow,” Charlie answers. “I mean, I was a single child, so what do I know? But living with you brother as an adult can’t have been ideal.”

Dean chuckles, “Can’t say it was my first choice.” They’re skating on thin ice, so Dean finds himself an escape hatch. “Listen, I gotta, um, go for a run probably,” he says, regretting the very idea. But everyone tells him exercise is an important aspect of a balanced noggin, so he just grits his teeth and puts up with it.

“Ew,” Charlie says in sympathy.

“Tell me about it,” Dean replies. He stubs the last of his cigarette out on the side of the building.

“Alright, well,” Charlie sighs dramatically. “If you’re headed out, I should probably turn in. It’s late.”

“It’s almost six o’clock,” Dean tells her.

“Yeah,” Charlie pauses to yawn. She pats her palm against her open mouth. Then she stretches out her shoulders. “That’s night life, bitches.”

Dean smiles in spite of himself. He thinks he likes this Charlie chick. Pam – and for that matter, Sammy – is always nagging him to make friends. It’s not like Dean’s not a friendly guy. He likes hanging out with people. It’s just that he always ends up messing up whatever friendships he manages to make, either by having sex with them or somehow freaking them out.

But Charlie seems…cool. She seems chill. And a little odd. Like maybe it won’t be too weird for Dean to say hi to her every once in a while if they bump into each other in the hallway or back on the fire escape. That’s what neighbor’s do, right? Ask for a cup of sugar or some shit?

But he doesn’t want to push too hard. He doesn’t want to come across like a pathetic, needy, lonely man who chain smokes at five o’clock in the morning. He doesn’t want her to think he’s stalking her, or something. Or, God, flirting with her – because Dean’s not. Charlie obviously plays for the other team. Like, sure, lesbian porn is hot as fuck, but Dean made it a rule not to chase the real thing when he was in his early twenties. Like Sam’s always telling him: don’t confuse real life with porn, Dean.

“So, ah, see you around, Charlie,” Dean says, because that’s what a normal, mentally balanced, well-adjusted person would tell their neighbor.

“Sure thing, Dean,” Charlie winks and salutes him with her Cheez-It box. She climbs back through her window. Dean turns and heads through his own.

Leaving Sammy’s place also meant leaving his fancy-schmancy, well-circulated gym in the basement of his building, so that means finding a running route outside. Dean changes into athleticwear. It’s still uncomfortably warm, and just getting warmer, so that means running in his usual sweatpants and long-sleeve shirt is going to be hell, and it certainly won’t do his headache any favors. Whatever. Extra sweat means a harder workout, right? Extra perks, or whatever. What are those suckers called – endorphins?

Dean grits his teeth, pulls the support sleeve over his bad knee, and heads out for his five-days-a-week torture session. He times himself 15 minutes out and 15 minutes back. When he gets back, he’s soaked through and gasping through the heat. His head pounds like it’s a second heart, and he feels a little woozy. Four and a half miles on three hours of sleep and no food? Definitely not the smartest idea he’s ever had.

Dean lets himself into his building and starts the four-flight climb. His body aches from the mileage and spending the night on the floor, so it feels like he’s hiking Mount Everest.

Finally, he shoulders open the door and nearly walks headlong into another person.

“Shit! Fuck, sorry – Cas!” Dean says in surprise as the other man fumbles with a mug, spilling a couple drops of coffee down his fingers. Cas’s startled expression nearly immediately pinches into a look of confusion. And, Dean, because he’s an idiot whose default setting is flirt, comments with a cheeky grin, “This is getting to be a habit with us, huh?”

“You weren’t in your apartment,” Cas replies neutrally.

It throws Dean off – because Cas is either supposed to respond in kind or refute Dean’s advance. Dean doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do with Cas’s clear bewilderment.

“Yeah, I was, ah, out for a run,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Cas replies. “I see that now.” Dean is very conscious that he probably looks disgusting: sweat-drenched and panting. He probably smells disgusting.

Cas’s eyes run up Dean’s body, and Dean represses a shiver. Because Cas is not only hot, he’s like sex personified. Especially this early in the morning. His baggy jeans and t-shirt are wrinkled, threadbare, and spattered with paint, somewhere between homeless and grunge couture – very starving artist chic. Plus, his hair’s sticking up on end like he just rolled out of bed, or maybe didn’t sleep at all. Dean remembers Charlie and wonders whether the entire building is nocturnal.

“So you, ah,” Dean struggles to redirect his brain. “You were looking for me at my apartment?”

“Yes,” Cas replies. Then he shoves the mug of coffee toward Dean’s chest so aggressively, he might have been throwing a punch. Dean reacts on instinct, snatching ahold of the offered mug. “I thought you would be in need of coffee this morning, seeing as I broke your machine yesterday.”

“Oh, wow, ah…” Dean sputters. Because that’s like – Cas is flirting, right? Dean flirted and then Cas flirted, and that’s what’s happening right? And fuck. Fuck. Because that was exactly what Dean wasn’t supposed to be doing anymore.

It’s totally possible for people to healthily engage in casual sex, Pam told him a couple months ago. But do you think it’s healthy for you to engage in casual sex, right now? Pam always staged her suggestions as questions, rather than demands, so it never felt like she was telling Dean what to do. Which was one of the reasons Dean put up with her, despite all her bizarre mindfulness and crystal magic woo-woo crap.

“That’s – man,” Dean adds. He tries not to pay too much attention to Cas’s body, but he’s standing right there, and Dean notices he’s got long, dark tattoos mirrored on his upper arms. His t-shirt’s covering too much for Dean to see what they are. “You didn’t have to do that. I mean, it wasn’t your fault. Sammy was the klutz who dropped it.”

“I insist,” Cas adds firmly, almost like it’s an inconvenience – like someone told him to come up here and give Dean coffee. So, maybe not flirting? Maybe just operating out of a skewed sense of social decorum?

“Sure,” Dean says. “I mean, thanks.”

Cas accepts Dean’s thanks with a curt nod. He adds, “I didn’t know whether or not you took it with milk or sugar, so it’s black. I hope that's alright.”

“No,” Dean rushes to reassure him. “Actually perfect. That’s how I like it.”

“That’s a relief,” Cas continues, just as crisply. “I hope you enjoy. Please feel free to return the mug whenever you are able. I’m exactly below you. 3A.”

“Thanks,” Dean says.

“You are welcome,” Cas nods his goodbye. “I hope you have a good day.”

And then he’s brushing past Dean in the hall and swinging through the door before Dean has a chance to say, “You too.”

OOO

Dean is distracted by Castiel’s coffee so badly through work that Rufus snaps at him twice to get his head out of his ass. Dean knows he’s overthinking things. He fixates on shit. He always has. But that doesn’t make it any easier to stop. He can’t help it. What the fuck does it mean? Cas brought him coffee. In a mug; one of those kitschy Paint Water mugs that was one half of a set. Cas’s own coffee that he made at 6:45 in the morning. Made especially for Dean, the man he’d only known for five minutes. And it was damn good coffee: rich and strong without being too bitter. Probably a dark roast, double-brewed.

Bobby wheels over to him during his lunch break to ask him if he’s okay.

“How’s that new place of yours working out?” Bobby asks.

“Sam ask you to check up on me?” Dean replies.

“I don’t need your brother to tell me to keep an eye on you, boy,” Bobby growls in response. Dean rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“What about you, old man?” Dean asks. “Why the hot wheels?” Bobby lost a leg in ‘Nam. Most days, he managed the garage with his prosthetic, or occasionally stumped around on crutches. It was rare to see him in his wheelchair, which Dean knew was the bane of his existence. Not because he really cared about the mobility issues, but because it was a pain to fold up in his truck and it aggravated the carpal tunnel in his wrists.

“Damn humidity is making my leg swell up,” Bobby grouches. “Gotta set up another fitting.”

“Yeah?” Dean says. “Well, that peg leg of yours give you too much trouble, call me, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby says. He swats Dean on the arm. “Get back to work, Winchester.”

Dean grins and flicks his hand to his forehead in a salute. “Eye, eye, Captain.”

Dean stays late to finish a 2009 Camry. It’s not until he’s on the bus heading back to his apartment that he remembers he was supposed to get his couch delivered today after work. Which should have been 15 minutes ago.

Shit. Fuck.

He digs out his cellphone and punches in the number for the furniture place. He makes an excuse for being late, apologizes, and tells them he’ll only be another 20 minutes. After he hangs up, he takes a couple minutes to curse the fucking bus and the fact that it has to stop at every fucking intersection. He leans his neck against the seat; his headache is back after popping a couple extra strength Tylenol at lunch. And his left hip aches – something bone deep and vague.

It turns into cursing the fucking city and its crapload of streets, cars, and pedestrians. Dean hates living here. But he’s got his ass stuck because he’s dependent on public transport for another four months before he gets his license reinstated. Turns out, in Missouri, two DWIs in a five-year period gets your license suspended for five years.

Which is just another thing that’s Dean’s fucking fault. Like making the delivery people wait at his apartment for an extra 35 minutes when they probably have a shit-ton of other stops to make before they can go home for dinner tonight.

And it’s his stupid medication’s fault. It makes it harder to concentration. He has to set 20 reminders on his phone for even a chance at remembering something. Fucking shit pills screwing up his brain even as they try to un-screw his brain in the first place.

Finally, the bus lets him out on his stop. He jogs the two additional blocks to his building and finds a couple burly workmen waiting outside the door with his couch. They’ve got cigarettes in their fingers, and they’re chatting with Dean’s landlord, a short guy with a shock of dirty blond hair and wicked hazel eyes named Gabe.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” Dean tells them. “Sorry, you, ah…” he directs to Gabe, not sure what he’s supposed to say, but wanting to make a good impression because it’s not like he’s had great relationships with his previous landlords.

“What, you expect me to entertain your guests all the time, Deano?” Gabe asks, spreading his arms, but he’s chewing on his own cigarette and doesn’t seem too bothered.

“Sorry,” Dean says again. “Work ran late.”

“Work-schmerk,” Gabe says. “That’s why I’m the boss-man. I make my own hours.”

Gabe is a difficult person to read. Dean’s only met him twice before: once when he checked out the apartment and the second time when he swung by a few days ago for the key. He’s all cheery smiles and wisecracks on the outside, but something about him sets Dean’s teeth on edge, like Grandpa Campbell’s sleezy lawyers. He’s got the bottom floor all to himself: half apartment and the other half, Gabe explained, his studio. What kind of studio, Dean’s not sure. And he doesn’t really want to find out.

“I’ll leave you kids to have fun,” Gabe says, throwing up a wave. He ends by pointing a finger at one of the workmen, “And, Roy, you got my card. Call me, pal.”

Roy gives Gabe a weak smile and looks immensely relieved to see him disappear into the building. Meanwhile, his partner is chortling behind his hand: “A motherfucking star. Your fucking – pecks, dude.”

“Shut up, Walt,” Roy mutters, then he turns to Dean and demands. “The hell you want this, man? We ain’t got all day.”

Dean figures it’s best just to play nice, so he leads the two men up the stairs and ushers them into his apartment. He gives them an extra-large tip, even though it empties his wallet – and he makes a mental note to stop by an ATM after work tomorrow – but it makes them leave happy and lets Dean feel better about making them wait.

Dean flops onto his new couch without taking off the plastic covering, so it crackles and squeaks beneath him, but he doesn’t care. His head is throbbing; he’s covered in sweat; his three hours of uneasy sleep is starting to catch up to him; and he kind of wishes he was back in his room at Sammy’s place. Which is pathetic and needy and gross. But Sammy has an AC. And he and Sam switched out which nights they made dinner. And Dean didn’t have to worry about irritated delivery people because Sam already had furniture, like a competent, successful adult person was supposed to have their own furniture.

Dean must be more tired than he thought because his eyes itch a little like he wants to cry. Which is so beyond disgusting, Dean can’t even think about it. What kind of 32-year-old train wreck of a person actually cries because they aren’t living with their little brother, anymore?

Dean is such a sack of shit. Just this literal useless pile of crap. He’s a failure and a disappointment. Everything Dad ever said or thought about him is true.

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s spiraling until he’s half-way through the vortex. Dean shuts his eyes. He closes his fists tight and feels his fingernails on his palms, but he keeps his nails trimmed short for just that reason. Right. Okay. Distraction.

Listen to music. Dean can’t right now; it’ll only make his head worse.

Watch TV. Dean doesn’t have a television because he could barely afford a couch. And he can barely afford this crummy apartment. He can barely afford his monthly rent, his groceries, his therapy bills, his meds, his –

Call Sammy.

Sam wanted Dean to call, anyway, to let him know about his first night in the new apartment, so Dean tugs his phone out of his back pocket, thumbs in Sam’s number, and presses his forearm against his eyes while he waits for it to ring.

God, he stinks of sweat and motor oil. He didn’t bother to change before he lay down on the couch. There’s grease under his fingernails and his jeans feel tacky and stiff against his legs.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam picks up after two rings. He sounds bright and smiley. He probably had a good day at work. Maybe he’s going out with what’s her face – Eileen – for dinner or drinks tonight. “How’s it going?”

Here’s the thing: Sam always sounds so hopeful. Maybe he was tentative about the apartment when Dean first brought it up, but now that the step is taken, Sam will resolutely believe that it was a step in the right direction. Letting Sammy down is about the worst thing Dean’s ever done in his life; he’s not planning on doing it again.

“Okay,” Dean says. “It was nice not being kept up by your snoring.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The eye-roll is evident in Sam’s voice. It makes the corner of Dean’s mouth flick up. “You met anymore neighbors, yet?”

For a second, Dean contemplates telling Sam about Cas and his strange cup of coffee. He lifts his arm away from his face long enough to spot Cas’s mug, carefully washed this morning and placed on Dean’s counter so he won’t forget to return it. But he dismisses the thought nearly as soon as he thinks it; he doesn’t want Sammy reading into things.

“Yeah, there’s this nerdy lesbo next door,” Dean says.

“God, Dean,” Sam replies, righteously scandalized, “how can you still be so – I don’t know – offensive when you are literally –”

Dean cuts him off before he can finish; because, sure, he’s open-ish about the fact that he’s an equal opportunities kinda dude, especially around Sam, but he still doesn’t do frikken labels. “It’s not like I’m fucking persecuting her,” Dean defends himself. “Charlie seems cool. I didn’t even ask her if she and her girlfriend would go down on each other while I watched.”

Sam makes the appropriate choked noise of disgust and indignation, which makes Dean bite back another smile.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean adds before Sam can regain his breath. “I’m fairly certain my landlord just solicited one of my delivery men, so you can rest easy in the fact that your brother’s living in a house of repute.”

“Uhg, really?” Sam asks, the prude.

Dean successfully maneuvers the conversation into Sam’s neck of the woods.

“Anyway, ‘nough about me. Good day saving the world?”

The smile is nearly tangible in Sam’s voice when he answers, “Actually, yeah. That case I’ve been on – you know, M?” Sam had to sign a whole stack of nondisclosure forms when he started working at his firm, but he bends the rules a little when it comes to talking with Dean; he just makes sure to use initials instead of names and changes a few details. “Her grandmother didn’t end up contacting us, so that means her foster family can file their petition.”

“That’s great, Sammy,” Dean says. And it’s true. Mostly. It’s good to hear Sam happy about something involving his job, for once, instead of weighed down. It’s a tough gig: being a family lawyer working in the trenches of horror story tragedies, messed up parents, and abused kids.

But it still feels strange to have Sam work so often and so close with the foster system, especially considering CPS was one of their worst nightmares when they were kids; it feels almost like a betrayal. Even though, rationally, Dean knows it shouldn’t. Sam just wants to help people. And, usually, he does a damn good job of it.

And Dean’s happy for the girl. M. Especially because Dean only knows bits and pieces of her story, but it’s enough to know it wasn’t good: religious fanaticism and untreated pneumonia. She will undeniably be better off with someone who actually cares about her, especially considering she’s already 15, and getting families to foster, let alone adopt, teens is next to impossible.

But it also makes Dean think about stuff that he’d rather not think about. It makes him remember when Sam told Dean he wanted to go into family law – five years ago after he finished his bachelor’s online and decided to look back into law school. It’s just, Sam said, all discomfort and pleading puppy-dog eyes. What if the system was better, right? What if it could have been different for…you know, us.

“Dean?” Sam asks, and Dean wonders how long he’s been silent. “You still there, man?”

“Yeah, sorry, dude,” Dean says quickly. “Been a long day. Think I zoned out for a second.”

“No problem.” Sam adds, “Listen, I actually gotta go. Eileen and I are heading out tonight to destress after the case…”

“Destress, huh?” Dean leers.

“Shut up,” Sam mutters. “God, I can’t say anything to you.”

“Whatever, Sammy,” Dean returns happily. “Go destress with your lady friend.”

“Fuck you,” Sam says. “And, hey, we were planning on taking a weekend sometime in early August to go camping. In case, you know…it might be fun if you wanted to tag along.”

Dean doesn’t know a ton about Eileen. He knows she’s a social worker Sam met while on the job. He knows she’s deaf because Sam started learning sign language two months ago. He knows she’s a couple years older than Sam because she had her thirtieth birthday shindig three weeks ago, and Sam totally spazzed about what he was supposed to get a girl for her birthday when he’d only been out with her twice. And Dean knows that she and Sam like to do boring and uncomfortable outdoors stuff for dates, like hiking and kayaking. He can’t imagine driving into the middle of the wilderness to spend time with just her and Sam and have to pretend he didn’t hear the two of them having sex in the tent next door.

“You know I hate camping,” Dean replies.

“Yeah, but,” Sam pleads. “I just thought it might be nice to, you know, get to know each other.”

“Sam,” Dean says, letting his voice drop into advice territory. Because, sure, Dean’s a mess, and Sammy has to do more than his fair share of cleaning up after him, but that doesn’t stop Dean from being Sam’s big brother. “You’ve been seeing her for two months, man. Pump the breaks a little, ‘kay?”

“I know it’s only been two months,” Sam says indignantly. Dean can picture his pursed lips. “It’s just –”

“It’s just that you’ve moved in with three of your three past relationships,” Dean interrupts him. God, he’s starting to sound like Pam. What the fuck is he doing, pretending to be all level-headed? “So maybe don’t buy a dog with her, yet, okay?”

“Amelia was more than two years ago, Dean,” Sam protests. “You don’t think maybe I learned my lesson?” Then his voice goes all soft and concerned. “This isn’t…you’re not jealous, right? Like you know I’m not, um, replacing you or something?”

“God,” Dean chokes. “Of course, I fucking know that, Sam! Stow the Freud, jeez!” And he does know it. He definitely does. Except, as soon as Sam said it, Dean wondered what if…? But no. That’s total bullshit. Dean literally moved out of Sam’s apartment for that precise reason: to give the kid more room to breathe, more time to have a life that didn’t revolve around taking care of his psycho older brother. “You know, not everything boomerangs back on me,” Dean says, a little more defensively than he’d meant to. “Sometimes you have problems, too.”

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says. “I know that. I just…fuck. Sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to insult you, or something –”

“Sammy,” Dean suggests gently. “Shut up.”

Sam cuts off with a half-exasperated, half-amused huff.

“I gotta get started on dinner, ‘kay, bitch?” Dean says.

“Whatever, jerk,” Sam says. “Call me tomorrow?”

“And I’m the one scared of being replaced?” Dean challenges.

“Bye, Dean,” Sam says emphatically.

Dean chuckles, says a proper good-bye, and then hangs up his phone.

Dean told Sam he was going to make dinner, so he pulls himself off the couch and crosses over from the matted carpet section of his apartment into the rectangle of linoleum that surrounds the refrigerator, stove, sink, and counter that makes up his kitchen.

That’s how Dean lives most his life: out of obligation. Pamela and Sam call it maintaining a healthy routine. Dean pops his second dose of lithium, then he drags himself through the motions of reheating yesterday’s pizza and, because Victor threatened to refer him to a dietician on more than one occasion, he munches on a few baby carrots and some of Sam’s gross broccoli.

While he eats, his eyes keep landing on Cas’s mug. Dean wonders if the coffee was a one-time thing. Probably just a fluke. It’s not like Cas will have many excuses to come back to the fourth floor. Dean’s only guaranteed way of seeing him again is to return to mug.

See him again and what? A suspicious voice that sounds like Pam inquires.

See him again and nothing, Dean insists. Can’t he just get to know the guy? Isn’t Dean allowed to make friends? Isn’t that what he’s supposed to be doing?

Except, a poisonous voice hisses through his ear – and it’s certainly not Pam’s, this time– Dean Michael Winchester doesn’t have friends.

The nearest thing he’s ever had to friends was Aaron, who sold Dean weed in high school, and Lee, who Dean road-tripped with for a handful of months when Sam was at Stanford. But Dean was also screwing both of them, so they don’t really count. ‘Cause he’s pretty sure friendship doesn’t involve much nudity; platonic is pretty much a corequisite.

That’s the thing. Dean doesn’t have friends, and he doesn’t have relationships. He has casual acquaintances who turn into casual fucks who turn into regrets. His longest relationship, to date, was three months, with a journalist student named Cassie, and ended with a lot of screaming and broken glass, and that’s not even the one that resulted in Dean’s first restraining order.

That one followed a two-month relationship with a woman and her kid, which ended after Dean had a manic episode that apparently involved flinging a gun around at imaginary voices and landed his ass in one of his many involuntary psych holds. Lisa was surprisingly sympathetic about the whole thing, except for the big, You brought a loaded gun into the house with my kid, Dean. But the restraining order didn’t come into play until five weeks later, when Ben somehow got ahold of his mom’s cellphone and texted Dean about an emergency, and Dean broke into Lisa’s house without knowing that “emergency” actually meant Lisa was on a third date with her new boyfriend, Matt.

Dean’s second restraining order coincided with the aggravated assault charge and involved a bar waitress, Ann Marie, and a douchebag named Kyle. Everything’s a little blurry about what exactly went down, but the key detail is that Dean broke his knuckles on Kyle’s jaw – or was it broke Kyle’s jaw on Dean’s knuckles? – either way, jaw and knuckles were broken, douchebag got dragged to the ER and had to suck food through a straw for six weeks, and Dean got sent to the corner to think long and hard about what he’d done.

So, yeah, Dean doesn’t do friends. And he doesn’t do relationships. As far as he’s concerned, more trouble than they’re worth.

Dean sighs and washes his plate, sticking it in the drying rack Sam bought him. Because they give each other domestic as fuck presents, now. He ignores Cas’s mug, even though it’s going to keep bothering him for the rest of the night, but he doesn’t want to deal with it now.

Dean figures he might as well get an early night of it, so he showers, unpacks his couch, and wrestles sheets onto the foldout mattress. It’s actually not too uncomfortable. Not as comfortable as the futon in Sam’s spare room, but Dean thinks he can get used to it. He’s tired and achy enough that he barely notices. He’s just settling into a YouTube rabbit hole when he hears Charlie’s window slide open and two clumps as she steps onto the fire escape.

Dean fights the desire to look out the window and say hi – to maybe just wave. He doesn’t even have to talk to her. She definitely doesn’t want to hang out with the creepy neighbor guy again.

Dean’s head snaps up when he hears two taps against his window. He turns to see Charlie peering through the glass, hand cupped over her eyes. She’s wearing an overly large t-shirt, long enough he can’t tell whether she’s wearing shorts. There’s a picture of a cat dressed up as Gandalf on the front.

“Hey,” Dean says, sliding open his window. “You, ah....” She looks distinctly worse for wear. She looks like she just climbed out of bed, or maybe from under a rock. “You okay?”

“Girls fucking suck,” she says. She has a bottle of peppermint Smirnoff in one hand. She takes a swig right from the bottle and then coughs.

Dean takes the time to put on pants and an overshirt, this time – he even strings his amulet back over his head – before he climbs through his window to join her on the fire escape. He has to clamber over the couch to do it, now.

“I found this in my freezer,” Charlie explains sadly, lifting the vodka. “I bought it last Christmas to make boozy, minty-fresh hot chocolate.”

It makes Dean feel a little better, because it would be just his luck to be neighbors with an alcoholic – Sam would probably make him move – but Dean’s still confused as to why Charlie knocked on his window to tell him.

“So, why do girls suck?”

Charlie looks affronted. “Girls are goddesses. Fucking goddesses. There is no love purer than sapphic love.”

“Right,” Dean says slowly. “I know shit about sapphic love. But, sure, girls aren’t half-bad.”

“She was a goddess,” Charlie says, squeezing her eyes shut before taking another deep drink of her alcohol, and Dean wonders how much she’s already drank. It’s not like she was particularly sane this morning, but at least she was coherent. And cheerful, despite telling him that she’d just been –

Dumped.

Right. This is about being dumped.

“Listen, Charlie,” Dean says awkwardly. “I don’t really know you all that well, but whatever this girl did to you, it ain’t worth accidentally toppling off a four-story fire escape.”

Charlie sniffs. She rubs her nose on her arm. Her eyes are a little too bright when they fix themselves on Dean’s face, and she can’t be too drunk because her pupils are still tracking him.

“You’re right,” she says firmly. “I am worth so much more than that. I mean, where the fuck does she come off telling me I have a dead-end job and no life? No life? We met freaking LARPing for fuck’s sake. She expected me to have a life? I make double what she makes at her boring desk job – and people literally pay me because they like me. People like me!”

“Damn right they do,” Dean says. “Wanna give me the bottle?”

“Oh, sorry,” Charlie says. “Want some?” She offers him the bottle, so Dean takes it. He puts it on the scaffolding against the wall. Charlie is too interested in peering back through his window to notice. “Oh wow,” she remarks. “Your couch is also a bed.”

And then she’s crawling head-first through his open window before Dean can stop her. By the time she’s slithered over the backrest of his couch and onto his mattress, he’s discovered that she is, indeed, wearing shorts under her ginormous top.

“Charlie, ah,” Dean hisses, not sure what to say to make her come back outside. “Charlie, maybe you shouldn’t –”

He ducks back inside and carefully maneuvers over the couch so he doesn’t step on her. She’s lying on her belly, with her head down where her feet are supposed to go, and she props her chin up on her hands.

“Your apartment is so sad,” she says. “You don’t have any stuff.” The way she says it, Dean knows she’s not bemoaning his lack of things, but his lack of personality.

“Haven’t gotten around to decorating yet,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, I know you’re not having a great night, and all, Charlie. But I really don’t think you want to be here, right now.”

“So fucking what, she wants to go to Europe, right?” Charlie replies. “I’m not stopping her! But don’t tell me I lack fucking incentive just because I don’t want to go with her. Valuing security isn’t about being afraid to leave my comfort zone. I like my comfort zone! It’s fucking comfortable here!”

Dean sighs and lets himself slump to the floor. He’s too tired for this shit. He leans against the base of the bed, and his head falls against the mattress. Charlie looks pretty settled; Dean’s beginning to think he’ll be spending another night on the floor.

“Hey,” Charlie nudges his shoulder. Dean hums to let her know he’s still listening. “I’m not in denial, am I? Just because I’d much rather interact with people through a screen doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to face real life, right?”

“She tell you that?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Charlie says unhappily. She drops her hands, so her face lands flat against the mattress. Her next words are muffled. “I’m not running. It’s not me who’s unwilling to confront her traumatic past. I’m not the one who’s flying half-way across the world for some lame ass European tour. I mean, it’s not even a good – it’s one you pay for and shit. It’s all tailored for the peasants. I’m not a fucking peasant.”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?” Charlie sniffs and lifts her head.

“Your ex sounds like a total asshat,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Charlie says thickly. Her bottom lip wobbles. A couple tears leak out of her eyes, and she drops her face back into the mattress before things can get more devastating. “A total asshat. The most of all asshats.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dean says. He doesn’t have the energy to get back up and grab his sleeping bag where he stowed it that morning in the closet. Instead, he reaches across the bed until he snags one of his pillows. He leaves the blankets. One, he’s a gentlemen. And, two, it’s still too effing hot for blankets.

He punches a dent for his head in the pillow and then lays down. The carpet is a little scratchy, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

“You ever dated a girl?” Charlie whispers from above him.

“Once or twice,” Dean replies.

“You ever been dumped?” Charlie says.

“You have no idea,” Dean says with a weak smile at the ceiling.

“It sucks.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies. “Sorry, kiddo.”

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“I think we might be best friends, now, okay?”

Something warm and bubbly appears in Dean’s chest. “Okay,” he whispers back, but by then he’s pretty sure Charlie’s asleep.

Chapter Text

“Holy fuckballs, Batman,” Charlie groans, and Dean leaves the last of a surprisingly good night’s sleep behind to find gray light spilling through his window and Charlie stirring in the bed above him. “My stream.”

“Your what?” Dean says. He sits up on his elbows and finds himself about eye-level with Charlie, whose still on her stomach and looks pale, hungover, and miserable. At least, he thanks God, she hadn’t totally freaked when she woke up to find herself in his apartment.

“My stream,” Charlie explains wretchedly, kneading her temples with her thumbs. “I was supposed to stream The Red Scare. People are gonna be mad. They wanted to watch me slay zombie vampires.”

“Oh,” Dean says, and he’s not really sure what else to add. “How’s the head?”

Charlie peers blearily through her fingers at Dean’s window, squints at the sunlight, and says, “Hiss.”

Dean smiles. He climbs to his feet. “I got Tylenol if you want it.”

Charlie groans something that might be a yes, please. So, Dean heads to the sink to fill a glass of water and returns to Charlie with the pills. The clock on the microwave tells Dean it’s 6:40, which means he slept through his morning run, and he needs to get out the door soon if he wants to be at work on time. But he can waste a little more time playing nursemaid.

“So, people really watch you play video games, huh?”

“Sure,” Charlie says. She downs the pills and the water in a single pull, like she’s chugging beer. When she comes up for air, she says, “I got half a million followers. Which isn’t, like, top. But it’s respectable-ish.” She must not like the look on his face because she adds, “Hey, don’t yuck on my yum.”

“You make money on this?” Dean asks. He takes her glass and heads back to the counter.

“Hell yeah,” she replies. “Like eight grand a month. I could make more, but brand deals are the scum of the bourgeoisie. Don’t wanna sell my soul, you know?”

“Holy shit,” Dean says. “What are you doing in this hellhole?”

Charlie shrugs, “Mostly hiding from the law.”

Dean assumes she’s kidding, so he tosses her a grin over his shoulder while he’s rummaging through his fridge for something he could whip into a hangover cure breakfast. But Charlie doesn’t smile back, so Dean’s smile dissolves.

“Wait, seriously?” he asks her.

“I mean, I haven’t checked whether they actually filed a warrant. But, yeah, I like keeping a low profile.”

Dean stares at her for a second, fighting his desire to ask what she’d done. But, as an ex-con, he knows better than anyone that isn’t a question you ask.

“So…” he says. “You’re not worried I’m gonna turn you in?”

“Nah,” Charlie smiles swiftly. She gets off the bed and wanders over to the kitchen. “What kind a’ bestie would do something like that?”

The reminder of what she’d said about best friends last night flares something warm and sweet in his chest again, tacky enough that it sticks to his ribs. He knows he should try to fight it: Dean doesn’t get close to people. Any people. Unless they’re Sam. And Sam’s different, because he’s family. But he can’t help but roll his eyes at her, stifling a smile when he orders her to crack the eggs.

He turns on the stove and starts omelets. “I’d offer you coffee,” he says, “but my clumsy brother smashed my machine on the way up the stairs.”

“The more you mention him, the less I like this brother of yours,” Charlie says.

Charlie mills around the counter while Dean pours the eggs into the pan. She picks up Cas’s mug and inspects it. “You a painter?”

“What?” Dean says. He remembers the Paint Water on the side. “Oh, no, that was…ah.” He doesn’t really know how to explain why he has the mug. But he’s surprised to realize that Charlie is the first person he really wants to talk to about it. Maybe it’s just fair play: she talked to him about her asshat ex-girlfriend, so Dean’s supposed to tell her something personal now. Isn’t that how friendships work? A series of emotional exchanges?

“Actually, that guy who lives on the third floor – ah, maybe you know him. He’s like,” Dean waves his hand vaguely at eye-level. “Yea high, dark hair –”

“Castiel?” Charlie pipes up with a grin. “He’s dreamy. I mean, I’m not in the market for what he’s selling. But, damn. He brought you coffee?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean replies. His face is weirdly hot. He blames it on standing so close to the stove. He digs two plates out of the cabinet and slips half an omelet onto each.

“Dude,” Charlie beams. “You should totally hit that.”

“I, ah, don’t –”

“If you’re about to tell me you don’t go for dick, I’m about to tell you that you should expand your horizons. Come to the gay side, we have cookies.”

“No – I mean – yes. I do,” Dean sputters, because he’s always been really bad at the whole coming out thing. “But I don’t really, ah – I’m taking a break.”

“Oh, boo. But, also, respect.” Charlie shovels her omelet into her mouth. “So, you nursing a heartbreak or something, too?”

Dean smiles, and he hopes it doesn’t look too much like a grimace. “Or something.” Even if he’s gonna give this whole friendship thing a shot, he’s still not talking about that. He doesn’t even talk about it with Sammy.

“Duly noted,” Charlie says, and Dean’s grateful when she doesn’t press. “But I still think you should bone Castiel.”

Dean laughs again. He can’t really remember a morning when he felt so good. He briefly wonders if this is how the vast majority of the population feels on the daily. Like, they don’t wake up with a hole dug into their chest that’s been filled in with cement.

“I should probably head back over to my place. Gotta post something to let people know I’m still alive.” Instead of heading out the front door like a normal person, Charlie crosses Dean’s apartment and climbs over the top of the couch. She ducks through the window onto the fire escape. “Anyway,” she peaks her head through the window, “thanks for being all prince charming last night. I needed it.”

“Any time,” Dean says easily.

Charlie stoops to pick up the half-empty bottle of Smirnoff Dean left outside the night before. She straightens up with a frown and asks him, “Think this shit’s still good?”

Dean shrugs, “I don’t usually have leftover booze, so I wouldn’t know.”

Charlie shrugs. She unscrews the cap and takes a drink. Her face collapses in on itself and she sticks her tongue out. “Blech. I think I’m gonna dump it. Have a good day, Dean.”

“You too, Charlie.”

OOO

Dean gets off the bus a block before Singer’s Auto so he can swing by Dunkin’ for an overpriced cup of black coffee. He wonders if he’s doomed for rest of his life to think about Cas every time he drinks coffee, now. He vows to return the mug that night because that way he will, one, actually have an excuse to see Cas again, and, B, he can just stop obsessing over it, already.

Dean keeps fixating on the plan all through work and the bus-ride home, so by the time he walks through his front door, he’s almost jittery with nerves and – what the actual shit? He’s just returning a coffee mug, not going on a first date.

But the thought of a first date makes Dean’s stomach squirm, so he quickly shoves it out of his head.

He’s returning a coffee mug. He is not going to screw Cas. Chiefly because Dean doesn’t have irresponsible, emotionally bankrupt sex with people anymore. But also because he’s not sure that Cas even wants to screw him. Except he probably does. Because he gave him coffee. And that’s basically a preposition, right?

Holy fuck, Dean’s a mess.

He changes out of his grease-stained, sweat-soaked overshirt for a fresh one. Then he grabs Cas’s mug and leaves his apartment.

Then he’s standing in front of Cas’s apartment door and – what does he do? He’s supposed to knock, right?

Dean knocks before he loses his nerve, not entirely sure why he’s so anxious, but unable to shake the memory of Cas’s magnetizing eyes on Dean’s face.

“Who is it?” Cas’s deep voice comes through the door. There’s some kind of weird, twangy music flowing under the door that sounds like it belongs to George Harrison’s Krishna phase.

“Ah, Dean,” Dean replies. “With your coffee mug?” Just in case Cas doesn’t remember bringing it over yesterday morning.

“It’s unlocked,” Cas tells him.

Dean twists the knob and opens the door. And Cas has to be there somewhere, because Dean definitely heard his voice, but he doesn’t see him anywhere. The only thing he sees is a totally naked lady sitting cross-legged on a high stool in the center of the room.

She’s got her back to Dean, wavy blond, pink-tipped hair spilling down her pale, bare back. Dean can see the individual knobs of her spine under her skin. He can see she’s got a bony, firm ass. She’s the kind of thin that looks a little unhealthy, and her round head is a little bit too big for her body. She turns slightly at the sound of the door opening, and, yep, there’s side boob.

“Ah,” Dean says, mouth open, brain frozen on I think I’ve made a mistake or wow, am I glad I opened the wrong door –

But then Cas comes around from the other side of the naked lady – he’s wearing a wrinkled, white dress shirt as a smock and carrying a palette in the crook of his elbow.

“Hello, Dean,” he says gravely. “If you don’t mind, my hands are full. Would you put the mug on my counter, please?”

“Ah, sure,” Dean squeaks. He edges into the room, and he tries to stop staring at the naked lady – but it’s a fucking naked lady – so instead he gets a face full of everything else in the room: it’s stacked with vividly painted, half-painted, and empty canvasses. The walls are covered with sketches, torn magazine pages, and strips of fabric. The entire place smells strongly of paint. There’s a box fan in the window for circulation. And there’s no furniture except Cas’s easel, a desk smashed in a corner, and the stool with the naked lady on it.

Dean wonders where Cas sleeps. Then he wonders, for the third time, why there’s a naked lady in the middle of Cas’s room.

“So, he’s the neighbor,” the naked lady drawls. Her head’s been tracking Dean’s movement across the floor. Her eyes are liquid dark and lazy. She sounds unimpressed.

And Dean tries to tear his brain away from Naked Lady for long enough to wonder why she seems to know who he is and why she might be unimpressed.

“I’m, ah,” he clears his throat and tries again. “I’m Dean.”

“Hiya, Dean,” she smirks.

“Eyes to the front, Meg,” Cas says calmly.

“You, too, Deano,” the naked lady – Meg – purrs.

Dean can’t not look at her. And it occurs to him suddenly that, absurdly, she’s holding a watermelon in the crook of her left elbow. And her skin is covered in sketchy, black tattoos, mostly strange lettering that looks almost like ruins: up and down her arms and across her ribs.

“Um,” Dean attempts. “Am I interrupting something?”

“It’s the idol of motherhood and the male gaze,” Cas replies. Meg snorts.

“Ah…” Dean blinks. “What?”

“My painting,” Cas elaborates. “You’ve interrupted my painting. It represents how men revere women as mothers. Her emaciated form –” Hey, Meg interrupts – “represents the shrunken body of womanhood when you reduce it to just the single act of reproduction.”

Dean has no idea what the fuck Cas is talking about. “And the watermelon…?”

“That’s just a stand-in for the infant,” Cas replies.

“Cas needs it to get the curve of my arm right,” Meg adds. “Shoulda used a real baby, but we didn’t have one lying around. You got a kid we could borrow, Deano?”

It sends an electric shock down Dean’s spine.

“No.” Dean puts the mug on the counter. “Thanks again for the coffee.” He doesn’t mean to sound abrupt.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Cas says. Maybe Dean imagines it, but there seems to be a little more warmth in his voice. “I would have brought you another cup this morning, but I’d let you use the only mug.”

“Oh,” Dean tries to digest that new information – not only had Cas provided Dean with coffee, he had provided Dean coffee in his only available mug. “You really don’t need to keep bringing me coffee, Cas.”

Meg snorts again. “No, I think he really does.”

Dean’s brain does pinwheels. Because what does Meg mean? Is she in on the whole coffee thing? Does she know why Cas did it? And what’s she to Cas, anyway? She’s literally naked alone with him in his apartment, and that has to mean something, right? Dean can’t imagine being in Cas’s place, staring at a naked lady all day and have it not mean anything. Unless Cas is straight-up gay, in which case Dean doesn’t have a problem. Or maybe Cas doesn’t care about any of that – people like that are a thing, right? Ace? Dean should ask Charlie – in which case, Dean’s back to having a problem.

And then all this comes to a screeching halt when Dean remembers he’s not supposed to care about Cas’s sexuality because –

Because –

There’s a really good reason why Dean decided to take a break from casual sex. He knows there is. But, right now, his brain is hopelessly firing and misfiring synapses along the lines of Cas and skin and sex, and none of his neurotransmitters are transmitting because the only thing he can actually concentrate on is the fact that there is a naked lady –

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Dean hasn’t been this distracted by bare skin since he was 11 and got his hands on his first ever Sport’s Illustrated swimsuit issue.

Damn, it has been a long time since Dean had sex.

“I should, ah,” Dean’s fairly certain he’s blushing like a virgin, and, fuck, his midwestern drawl only comes out this strong when he’s nervous. “I should leave y’all to your motherhood thing –”

“Don’t feel like you need to leave,” Cas interrupts, voice all raspy warmth that hits Dean right in the solar plexus. “I don’t mind an audience.”

Don’t mind an audience. Don’t mind an audience. Don’t mind an audience.

Meg is cackling like Dean’s the newest Netflix comedy special.

“No, I should –” Dean starts for the door. He doesn’t look back. “Thanks again for the coffee. I owe you one.”

And that’s how he leaves the room. The door snaps shut behind him, and he’s swamped by a rush of hot air in the hallway.

Fuck, he’s screwed.

OOO

Dean has his regular session with Pam on Friday after work, and she wants to talk about how he’s handling the move.

“Has it impacted your routine in a negative way?”

“I don’t think so?” Dean replies. “I lost a little sleep getting used to the place, but it’s fine, I guess.”

“Have you been using your temazepam?” Pam asks.

Dean shrugs.

“Did you just shrug?” Pam asks. There are pros and cons to having a blind therapist. Pros: Dean doesn’t have to constantly school his expressions to make sure he looks passive and unconcerned, and he can usually get away with rolling his eyes without getting called out. Cons: Pamela is scarily adept at picking up on nonverbal cues, like miniscule sounds of shifting clothes, and she actually makes him talk. Like out loud.

Dean sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“No,” he admits finally. He hates this. He fucking hates feeling like he’s letting her down. Because that’s bullshit. It’s his body. It should be his decision whether or not he medicates it.

But there’s no trace of judgement in Pam’s voice when she continues, “Are there side effects you’re trying to avoid, or is it something else about the pills?”

“It makes me drowsy during the day,” Dean decides to tell her. “I can’t deal with that shit if I’m working at the garage.”

“Mm-hm,” Pam says. She takes notes using a slim, braille keyboard that uses Bluetooth. She keeps the keyboard in her lap, and the keys click quietly as her fingers dance across the board. “You’re on 15 mils?”

“Yeah.”

“You should let Victor know. He might be able to lower your dose or try you on something else. You want me to send him a note?” Pam always asks that – you want me to tell him? You want me to call him? You want me to check? Dean thinks it’s probably because she doesn’t trust him to do it, himself. Which is, he admits, not entirely unwarranted.

Don’t be a fucking pussy, Dad’s voice echoes in Dean’s head, which is ironic; Dean’s fairly certain Dad would have thought the very act of taking meds meant Dean was a pussy.

“I’ll tell him,” Dean says.

“Good,” Pam says. Pam has a seeing-eye dog named Jesse that sometimes rests quietly under her desk during sessions, but he stopped showing up so often after it took Dean nine months to finally admit that dogs made him nervous. Jesse isn’t there, today. “So…how is living by yourself again?”

Dean lets his head fall against the back of the couch, and he stares at the popcorn ceiling that belongs in the 1970s. “It’s fine,” Dean relents. “It’s nice to have my own space again.”

“You able to meet anyone?” Pam prods.

Dean tells her briefly about Charlie, making sure to mention that Charlie is in no way, no how, of any sexual interest, because that’s the kind of thing Pam wants to know about.

Dean doesn’t mention Cas, for the same reason he didn’t mention him to Sam. He knows Pam will get the wrong impression. She’d ask him about his intentions, or something, when Dean doesn’t have any fucking intentions. And he certainly isn’t going to mention the fact that he’d jerked off in the shower last night to the fantasy of Cas painting in his apartment again, except instead of Meg nude on the stool, it was Dean. And Cas did more than just paint.

“That’s good,” Pam adds after Dean’s done talking about how he and Charlie had made plans for playing videogames that weekend. She pauses, and it’s the kind of pause that makes Dean’s entire body recoil because they’re only 20 minutes into the session, and Dean knows there’s more heavy-lifting to get to.

Pam is a badass, despite her whole healing energies vibe-check thing she has going on with the salt lamp, candles, and tiny, tinkling fountain in the corner of her office. She’s in her forties, toned, wears a leather jacket, takes no shit, and is sexy as all hell. She used to work as a prison psychologist until she got assaulted by a former inmate. Dean doesn’t know exactly what happened, but he knows that’s how she lost her sight. After that, she moved to private practice, but she still specializes in ex-cons and, apparently, tough nut cases, which is why Victor referred Dean.

Dean’s been seeing her for about a year and a half – that’s, like, 75 Fridays – and he’s only told her about ten percent of his crap, so maybe Victor had a point about hard to crack. But it’s not like Dean doesn’t respect her. And she actually gives pretty solid advice. It’s just that Dean doesn’t talk about his shit, no matter how relentless a therapist he might have.

“So, Dean,” Pam starts. “What do you want to talk about today?”

“Dunno,” Dean says.

“Well, last time we were talking about how you were worried about how Sam’d respond to you moving out,” Pam continues, unhindered by Dean’s total lack of enthusiasm. “But he seems to have done alright, huh? All things considered. So, that tell you anything about how you should handle your worry, next time?”

“You mean, I shouldn’t give a crap ‘cause things aren’t actually gonna be worst-case-scenerio. Unless they are, which means I just gotta deal with it when it happens?” Dean recites, still staring at the ceiling. Even though she’s blind, Dean still feels more comfortable not meeting her gaze.

“Well, there’s that lesson learned,” Pam says wryly.

“You know it,” Dean says. He forces a smile before he remembers she can’t see, so he lets it drop. Without the need to posture, Dean frequently feels his mood slip along with his expressions. It’s like a perverse side effect of his usual fake it ‘til you make it philosophy: once he’s no longer faking it, he can’t make it, anymore, either. The crest of vague and heavy wrongness swoops overhead and washes through his chest.

Dean doesn’t realize how long he’s been silent until Pam clears her throat.

“You want me to start playing 20 questions?”

Dean groans and shifts in his seat. He kind of wants to fall sideways onto the couch, but he also really doesn’t want to be a 1960’s psychoanalyst stereotype. He kind of wants to walk out the door. He hates it when Pam gets like this – all picking at his skin with needle-nose pliers.

“So,” Pam starts in. “How’s the self-harm looking?”

“Jesus, Pam,” Dean breathes. He runs his fingers through his hair. Once again, he’s sweaty and gross after a long day of work. The brutal humidity finally broke this morning, so it’s been scattered showers and rumbles of thunder all day, and it makes everything feel extra sticky.

“You need to put any of those coping strategies to test lately?” Pam keeps picking.

“No,” Dean growls. For the millionth time, he wishes Pam didn’t know about that. She’s the one person he could have actually hid his scars from, too, 100 percent total success rate. But, of course, she’d had access to his extensive medical file, so it was a lost cause from the start.

“So, how likely are you to hurt yourself, right now?” Pam says.

Dean moans again.

“Do I need to tell you to use your fucking words, kiddo?” Pam demands.

“I don’t know,” Dean gives in, annoyed. “A two?”

Pam makes a noise of approval, either at Dean’s answer or the fact that he answered at all and taps another note into her keyboard.

Dean’s hovered around a two or three most of his life. It means the thoughts always loom in the corner of his head, but it’s easy enough to ignore them except for when it unexpectedly spikes past five. That’s when he’s supposed to call someone on his crisis team – which currently includes Pamela, Sam, and Bobby.

“How much you drinking?” Pam jumps right back into the torture chamber.

“Screw me,” Dean groans.

“Already told you, kiddo,” Pam smiles wickedly. “Against licensing regulations.”

Thing is, she actually has told him that. Dean’s propensity for flirting with and fucking anything that breathes, consents, and is over 18 didn’t set up a super ideal atmosphere for a healthy psychologist-patient relationship. Dean spent his first six months with Pam trying to get into her pants. Now, they’ve settled into a comfortable routine of Dean’s habitual flirting and Pam’s steady and sassy rebuttals.

“I still haven’t had actual booze for more than three months.” Dean gives in with a roll of his eyes. “And beer doesn’t count.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Pam says, busy typing. “And there hasn’t been any monstrous disasters at work I should know about?”

“Work’s fine,” Dean replies.

“So,” Pam pauses. And then the bomb drops: “You thought more about filing your petition?”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. His heart stutters once, twice, and then kickstarts into a sprint. He curls both hands into tight fights and digs into his palms, but his fingernails are way too short. And, fuck. It’s bad enough for her to bring it up, but why did she have to drop it in out of the blue?

The silence drags on. Pam gives him a little more time by filling in the blank.

“Because it sounds like you’re taking this transition in stride. And it’s what this whole thing is for, right? Getting your independence back. Finding stability. I need you to tell me if the plan has changed.”

“No,” Dean says. And it’s the only word he can force out; his throat’s too tight.

“No, you haven’t thought about it, or, no, the plan hasn’t changed?”

“I don’t – I don’t know.” Dean’s chest hurts. His vision is a little blurry at the edges, so he shuts his eyes, and focuses on breathing – tries another one of those stupid exercises where he pictures a ball rolling up a mountain when he breathes in, and rushing down the other side when he breathes out.

“Nice breaths, Dean,” Pamela encourages him from her chair. “I’m gonna give you a minute. Take another few just like that. I’d tell you that crap about finding your center, but you hate it, so I won’t.”

Dean swallows a few more deep breaths. When he’s done, he can open his eyes again, and the world isn’t spinning, but his whole body shivers.

“M okay,” Dean says into the silence.

“When and if you do file, Dean,” Pam starts up again. Her voice is gentler than before. Dean hates it when she sounds like this. He likes her when she’s cheeky, rather than sympathetic. It makes him feel like he’s failed: like he’s too damaged to be able to handle her hardness, anymore, so she has to switch over to the kid gloves. “You need me on your side. ‘Cause Victor has to sign papers for the judge. And he’s gonna ask me for my say-so, too. So you gotta talk to me about it. Doesn’t have to be now. But eventually, it’s going to happen.”

It sounds a helluva lot like a threat. It takes two tries to swallow. Dean clenches his jaw, not because he’s especially pissed off; he just wants to stop shaking.

“That mean I’m free to go?” Dean attempts to sound flippant.

“We’ve still got five minutes,” Pam replies. She doesn’t even check the tactile watch on her wrist; after so many years as a shrink, she’s developed a sixth-sense about the passage of time. For a horrible second, Dean thinks she’s going to insist he stay. There’s nothing legally mandating he attend these sessions, not anymore, but Pamela is still very good at getting people to do what she wants. “But I guess I can let you off this time.”

“Awesome,” Dean says. He leaps off the couch, and he’s half-way to the office door before Pam talks him back around.

“Same time next week, gorgeous?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Dean replies. Then he’s free, and he’s practically flying through the waiting room and onto the office floor. Dean’s usually self-conscious about coming to and leaving Pam’s office; he’s convinced he’s going to bump into someone he knows, like from work or one of Sammy’s friends, and they’re gonna ask a lot of uncomfortable questions, but, this time, Dean hardly registers the other people he passes.

He takes the three flights of stairs to the ground floor rather than wait for the elevator, and he’s already digging his cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his jacket while he’s pushing his way through the glass doors onto the street. He did away with his playing cards disguise now that he’s not living with Sammy, and he tugs out a stick and lights it on the way to the bus stop on the corner.

It’s drizzling slightly: a light mist that coats his exposed face and hands with a thin sheen of mist. But it’s just another thing he doesn’t notice.

He smokes until his lungs burn, and then his bus pulls up. Dean means to stoop down and stub his cigarette out on the wet pavement, but he moves by instinct: shakes his leather jacket and shirt sleeve out of the way, baring the pale underside of his wrist where there are other circular, white scars, almost too faded to notice. He presses the red-hot nub at the end of the cigarette to his skin. First there’s a sharp, prickling burn at the point of contact. The cigarette goes out with a little puff of smoke. The prickle turns up to a sting to a harsh burn. Dean drops the filter and flicks his sleeve back over his exposed wrist.

The bus screeches to a stop at the curb. There’s no one around to see what Dean did. Dean hops onto the bus and swipes his pass across the farebox, and he finds a seat near the back.

His wrist stings. Dean closes his right hand tight around the burn. His heart thunders in his ears with the burst of adrenaline that always comes with pain. It’s a little like being high – except it makes him feel more present instead of floaty and distant. But the effect is the same: he’s focused on the single point of pain on his body, and he’ll stay that way long enough to clear his head, until the rest of the world finally fades back in. And then he’ll feel like shit. But he doesn’t have to worry about that, yet.

Dean tunes back in when there’s a buzz in his back pocket. He grabs his phone and sees it’s Sam calling. Dean might as well get the call out of the way while he’s feeling centered enough to concentrate.

“Yo,” he answers the phone.

“You on the bus?” Sam says. He can probably hear the rumble of the road under the tires, the screech of breaks, and the chatter of the other passengers.

“Yup,” Dean replies.

“You just leave Dr. Barnes?” It really pisses Dean off how Sam can’t just call her Pam. Or how he insists on calling Victor Dr. Henriksen. Like he has to constantly remind Dean that he’s seeing doctors because he’s sick. Usually, Dean just brushes it off as Sam being Sam, but, right now, it really fucking pisses Dean off.

“No, Sam, I actually decided to skip my appointment today, and now I’m on my way to Disney World.”

There’s a brief pause. Dean wonders if some small part of Sam is actually worried it’s true.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks finally.

“You know, there’s not always something wrong,” Dean snaps. “Sometimes I’m just pissed for the hell of it. You know, like a regular person.”

Dean listens to Sam let out a slow breath. Dean knows he’s setting off every single one of Sam’s alarm bells, and he tries not to care. He can’t grab his hurt wrist again, because he’s holding his phone, so, instead he rubs the burn against his thigh. The flannel of his overshirt catches against the raw wound. Dean closes his eyes and tries to just focus on the pain. He lifts his free hand and closes his fist around the amulet hanging against his chest.

“You know that’s – I didn’t mean –” Sam sputters. “Of course you’re a regular person, Dean.”

Shit, Dean thinks. He already regrets his outburst. Mostly because he doesn’t want to make Sam worry. And it’s not like the kid actually did anything to warrant getting his head bit off. Dean counts to five silently inside his head.

Responsive, not reactive, Pam reminds him.

“Sorry,” Dean says into the darkness. He keeps his eyes closed, and he hears the robotic voice of the bus announce the intersection two stops away from Dean’s street. “Long day.”

“That’s okay,” Sam says, all false cheer. Double shit, Dean thinks. “Listen, I, ah, can’t talk long anyway. But I called ‘cause I wanted to see if you wanna get breakfast tomorrow, or something. You’re off, right?”

“You miss me already, Sammy?” Dean says, adopting the same fake cheeriness as Sam. Anything to get them through the awkwardness of post-argument.

“You wish,” Sam replies.

“Sure, dude.”

“Alright,” Sam sounds slightly more genuine. “See you tomorrow at, ah, nine?”

“You do realize it’s a day off, right?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Like maybe people actually want to sleep in for once?”

“Fine,” Sam gives in. “Ten.”

“I hope all you morning people go insane because of sleep deprivation,” Dean replies.

“Har har,” Sam says. “See you in the morning, jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean says. He ends the call and stuffs his phone back in his pocket. His wrist throbs, and he feels like shit. Big surprise.

Chapter Text

“Dean, thank God,” Charlie greats him frantically at the top of the stairs, and Dean freezes in the hallway, eyes immediately darting across her body to check for outward signs of an emergency. Her hair’s a little crazy, and she’s wearing a slightly too-small and very worn t-shirt with a picture of the Death Star on it, like it’s a shirt she probably had when she was a kid and just refused to throw out when she grew out of it.

Charlie continues in a rush, “I bought two pints of ice cream and baked a double batch of brownies. I swear to the holy god Douglas Adams, I’m going to eat every last crumb if you don’t help me.”

She closes her hand around his wrist and drags him down the hall before he has a chance to catch his breath. Her grip rubs against his burn, and he stops himself from flinching away.

“Charlie, what –?” Dean begins.

She pulls him past his door and to her own. She kicks it open, and then they’re inside her apartment.

“And I will either, one, succumb to a sugar coma and die in my sleep or, two, spontaneously combust from the sheer volume consumed,” Charlie keeps rattling.

Charlie’s apartment is a little like getting dropped into a cross between Gamestop and Hot Topic. There are movie, television, and gaming posters overlapping every available inch of wall; Dean spots Star Wars, Harry Potter, Doctor Who, Call of Duty, Lord of the Rings and a ton more he can’t recognize.

She has a spindly loft-bed against one wall that probably came flat-packed in an Ikea warehouse. Under the bed is a humongous desk with three bright, flashing monitors. In front of the desk is a weird, futuristic-looking gaming chair. On the opposite wall from the bed, she has a bookshelf stuffed end to end with Funko Pop boxes. And then there’s the stacks of books, comics, DVDs, and wrinkled clothes that cover every remaining surface: floor, raised mattress, miniscule loveseat under the window, and counter – except for a tiny rectangle that’s been cleaned to make room for the pan of steaming brownies.

“That’s Smeagol,” Charlie says. She’s pointing to the side table by the loveseat. On the table is a rectangular tank filled with some moss and dead branches. Dean thinks he spots two round eyes of a gecko hiding under a rock. “He’s scared of strangers.”

It’s honestly a little bit of a sensory overload, and for a minute Dean just stands there, blinking and trying to orient himself.

“So." Charlie’s digging in her freezer. She emerges with the promised two tubs of ice cream, one for each hand, and grins. “I got chocolate chip cookie dough and peanut butter cup. One for each of us, unless you wanna share. ‘Cause I can do that, too. Because you know what we’re doing tonight? Tonight, we are eating our feelings.”

“Charlie.”

Maybe there’s something on his face. Or maybe it was in his voice. Because Charlie pauses. She doesn’t lose her smile, but it goes a little less bright.

It’s too much. This is too much. It’s too normal – no, scratch that. It definitely ain’t normal – but it’s too friendly. Charlie can’t be his friend. Charlie doesn’t know what he is.

“I’m – I’m crazy, okay?” he tries, but Dean’s throat is dry. It’s hard to concentrate with Leia in her slave outfit on the wall in front of him.

“All the best people are crazy,” Charlie reassures him.

“No,” Dean says desperately. He’s just as bad at this as he is at coming out. Probably worse, because it’s not like he’s ever had to tell people before. People have always just told him. “I mean I’m – I’m, ah, like I take meds for – like mental stuff.”

“Oh,” Charlie’s lips form a circle of understanding. She nods slowly. “You mean you’re crazy crazy.” And Dean knows she’s going to back away, now. This is the part where people go all polite, start hedging, start talking about how they’re too busy to hang out anymore. Charlie adds, tiny wrinkle of concern on the bridge of her nose, “Does that mean you don’t want brownies?”

OOO

A pint of ice cream and half a double batch of brownies – yes, Dean is aware that that makes it a full batch, but Charlie insists it’s only half the same way she’d insist eating an entire pizza by yourself was technically only one slice as long as you didn’t cut it into pieces – is a pretty terrible thing to eat for dinner. Dean’s sure Sam would have pitched a hissy fit and force-fed Dean a smoothie, but Dean can’t actually bring himself to care.

It’s Friday. He survived a week on his own. And he made a new friend who doesn’t care that he’s crazy.

A small voice reminds him that Charlie hasn’t actually seen him crazy yet, but Dean shoves it away. If things keep going the way the are – minus the whole cigarette thing this evening – maybe Charlie won’t ever have to see him when it gets bad.

“Look,” Charlie says at one point and shoves her phone into his face. Dean’s sitting on the loveseat; Charlie’s in her gaming chair, leaning back and legs propped on her desk. “She already took down every single picture of us! Even the one at comic con – and you couldn’t even see my fucking face! I dressed up at Batwoman!”

Dean looks at Charlie’s phone. It’s on the Instagram page of someone named Gilda: a slender, blond woman who’s posed in various cosplay outfits, most of which Dean can’t recognize.

“She went as Alice,” Charlie says, subdued. She stuffs another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth and swipes through her phone until she hands it back. This time it’s a picture of Charlie and Gilda, Batwoman and Alice, respectively. Gilda even buzzed half of her head for the part. Dean can’t deny that they both look super hot, but he doesn’t say anything, because he’s trying not to be an unsympathetic douche about all this.

“Damn,” Charlie says. “Does this mean I’m supposed to change my profile picture?”

“I dunno,” Dean says. “I think I have a Facebook, but I don’t even remember my password.”

Charlie gives him a scandalized look. “Okay, Grandpa.”

“God, you do sound like Sammy,” Dean smiles fondly.

“I’m getting super confused again, do we like Sammy, or do we not like Sammy?” Charlie asks.

“We like Sammy,” Dean replies. “Sammy is just a little bitch.”

“Acceptable,” Charlie nods. “You talk about him all the time. You got any other family?”

“Nah,” Dean says. It’s been long enough that he can mention it casually, but he still doesn’t plan on talking about it in any depth. “Folks died a while ago. It’s just me and Sam.” And Adam. And Grandpa Samuel and Dean’s slew of Campbell second cousins, but he doesn’t need to draw Charlie a family tree.

“Yeah, orphans,” Charlie declares and offers her hand in a high-five. Dean slaps it on reflex before he quite registers what she said. “We got, like, our own little club, now.”

Dean smiles in spite of himself. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda strange?”

“Only kinda?” Charlie grins. “Come on, what this party needs is some dope.”

“Ah,” Dean hesitates, because it’s not like he’s some kind of straight-edge loser like Sam, but he’s technically supposed to be staying mostly clean with the whole ‘don’t mix drugs with his drugs’ thing.

“Don’t worry.” Charlie knocks her elbow against his shoulder when she climbs out of her chair. “It’s just Maryjane, and I won’t even peer pressure you if you don’t wanna join me.”

Charlie transfers her empty bowl of brownie and ice cream residue to her sink, which is already heaping with dirty dishes. Dean smothers his urge to start cleaning; Sam’s always accused him of being a neat freak, but, truthfully, Dean’s never really understood the alure of not cleaning up after himself. It just makes a space feel cramped and dirty. Pam would probably explain that it had something to do with living out a car for most of his childhood. A desire to control his environment or something.

“Come on,” Charlie prompts him. “I’ll introduce you to Ash. He always gives me free weed ‘cause I hacked into his server once, and he said that no one’s ever done that before. At first I thought he wanted to kill me, but he was actually just really impressed.”

“That have anything to do with why you’re a fugitive from justice?” Dean asks.

Charlie smiles, “turns out Roman Enterprises might not appreciate finding out they’ve been making monthly donations to Planned Parenthood and the Trevor Project for the past three years.”

“Shit.”

“Hell yeah,” Charlie says proudly as they stomp their way up the flight of stairs to the fifth floor. “It was actually pretty easy. I’ve got plenty of experience. I hacked NASA when I was 13.”

“Whoa, wait, seriously?”

“Meh, NASA’s like a baby hacker’s first steps. It’s a rite of passage.”

Charlie holds the door for Dean and leads the way down the fifth-floor hall to the farthest door on the left. Dean can already smell a skunky trace of pot. She pounds her fist against the door and hollers, “Yo, Dr. Asshole – I mean, Dr. Badass!”

“Hola compadres,” a voice says from the other side of the door. It creaks open to reveal a disheveled man with a mop of tangled hair and a denim vest with frayed edges at the sleeves. The cloud of marijuana stink that comes out is strong enough to make Dean’s eyes water. The guy looks at Dean, and he squints in suspicion. “Who’s the beefcake?”

“Don’t worry,” Charlie says brightly. “He’s vetted. New neighbor. Ash, meet Dean.”

“Howdy,” Ash says after a pause, reaching through the door to offer his hand.

“Hi,” Dean says uncertainly. Ash’s handshake is surprising firm.

“Give us your best, my friend,” Charlie says. “We’re gonna go get stoned on the roof.”

Ash takes a minute to size both of them up before nodding and turning back into his apartment. He says over his shoulder, “What we feeling tonight, chica?” he asks Charlie. “Chill pill or party?”

Charlie looks at Dean while she thinks, nods once, and turns back to Ash. “When have I not wanted to party, doc?”

Ash keeps talking as he rummages through the drawers of a dresser that’s nearly hidden below vines of chords and electrical wire. Whereas Charlie’s apartment is clearly the room of a gamer, Ash’s apartment looks more like the control room of a top-secret organization.

“Gonna get y’all the good shit. Hydroponic all the way. Smooth little Sativa. Fuck you up with class.” Ash comes back with a little baggie of dried, crumbly flowers and some rolling papers. “You been high before, right, man?” Ash asks Dean as he hands the bag to Charlie.

“Do I look like I’ve never been high before?” Dean demands.

Ash shrugs. “Just don’t wanna screw over a rookie.”

“I’ll watch ‘im, Ash,” Charlie says with a wink.

“Can you guys keep it down out here?” A shaggy head of black hair peaks its way out of the door across the hall. The hair is attached to a young-looking Chinese kid with a frown. “I’m trying to study.”

“Lighten up, K.T.” Ash tells the kid. “It’s summer vacation.”

“Not if you’re triple majoring, it’s not,” the kid says unhappily. “I’m taking nine credits this summer.”

“Kevin!” Charlie says happily. “Come get high with us!” Dean’s fairly certain this kid can’t be over 17, and Kevin looks just as alarmed by Charlie’s suggestion as Dean is.

“My mom would kill me if I got high,” Kevin says.

Charlie rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, well, you need a new mom. Dean –” she points to Dean and then back to Kevin. “Meet Kevin. He’s my new son.”

Kevin looks at Dean like Dean’s an elementary school bully who just demanded his lunch money. “Hello,” he squeaks.

“Hey, kid,” Dean says.

“Come on, Kev,” Charlie orders. “Study break. Listen to your mother.” Kevin frowns, but he does as Charlie says. Dean’s not thrilled about the idea of a teenager trailing after them, but he doesn’t say anything as Charlie waves bye to Ash, and they head back toward the stairs. Charlie leads the way up the last flight, which brings them to the door to the roof.

It’s dark and warm on the roof. The wet cloud cover makes the air feel heavy. The cement is puddled with rainwater. There’s an industrial cage lamp above the door, which casts a circle of light across the surface. Everything else is lost in shadows, but Dean sees two figures next to the concrete barrier that outlines the edge of the roof. One is perched on the barrier, legs dangling over the side, and the other stands with his back against the concrete, arms crossed over his chest and looking at the door.

Dean doesn’t need more light to immediately recognize the scruffy crop of hair and baggy clothes to realize it’s Cas. His stomach does a weird thing that’s half a clench and half a flop. He wishes he hadn’t eaten so much of Charlie’s ice cream.

The other figure turns his head at a word from Cas, and he calls to them. “Hey, you troublemaking kids, how many times do I have to tell you to stay off my roof?”

“Eat shit, Gabe,” Charlie says happily.

It clicks, suddenly: Gabe the landlord and the ‘Gabriel’ Castiel mentioned when Dean first met him must be one in the same. Dean’s not sure if that makes him feel more or less hopeful that Cas might be screwing him.

“You know I don’t allow pot up here,” Gabe grouses. He hops off the barrier and heads toward them. “Unless you’re sharing with me, that is.”

“That’s called extortion in these here parts,” Charlie replies.

“Yeah?” Gabe demands. Now that he’s walked into the light, Dean can see a gleam of mischief in his eye. “Where I come from, that’s called good busines.”

“Hello, Charlie, Kevin,” Cas says mildly. As usual, his deep voice cuts Dean to the core. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean says. He doesn’t know why he’s scowling. It’s not Cas’s fault he’s so sexy.

“I’m sorry, who is responsible for the child?” Gabe calls.

“I’m nineteen,” Kevin declares indignantly.

“And you think that’s an argument in your favor?” Gabe replies.

“Don’t worry. I’ve adopted him, so he’s good to be here,” Charlie says. She opens the baggie and tucks the buds into the papers. She deftly backrolls a joint, sparks it with a Bic lighter from her shorts, roasts the tip for an even burn, and sticks the opposite end between her lips. She takes a hit and passes it to Kevin.

Despite Kevin’s hesitancy, he has clearly also done this before, and he takes his own hit with practiced ease before passing it to Dean.

Dean’s smoked plenty of times in his life, especially when he wasn’t medicated, and it was great for anxiety and insomnia. But it’s been about four years, now, since he’s been stoned, which was before he started taking the heavy duty drugs – the lithium and aripiprazole – so he has no idea if this is a bad idea or not.

Distantly, Dean’s aware that he’s probably feeling a little self-destructive, but, really, this is a much milder form of self-destruction than he’s used to, so he can hardly count it.

Dean takes a puff. It’s way better weed than he’s used to, and he makes a mental note to keep on Ash’s good side. Not that he’s planning on making it a habit; he definitely can’t afford stuff like this often.

He passes the joint to Cas, and he can’t help but watch as Cas puts it between his lips. And Dean thinks, my lips were just there. We’re sharing saliva, like a total dweeb. Maybe this shit was more potent than Ash promised.

Cas is wearing a short sleeve shirt, so Dean has a closer view of the tattoos on his arms. They’re feathers, Dean realizes, black and wispy looking. Whoever did them was skilled. The feathers aren’t just black, colored-in outlines. The individual vanes and barbs have all been drawn in. Dean realizes that he’s staring pretty intently at some random dude’s arms, so he turns away. He happens to catch sight of Charlie, who waggles her eyebrows at him.

The joint goes around once more before it’s clear that people are feeling it. Charlie and Gabe are loosening up, trading taunts and laughing loudly. Cas’s presence beside Dean is like a pillar of static electricity. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if his hair was sticking up on end; his whole body feels like a live wire. To try to distract himself, Dean turns away and finds himself faced with Kevin.

“So,” Dean asks. “You said triple majoring?”

“Yeah,” Kevin replies glumly. “Comp sci, religious studies, and music. I’m at Avila.”

“Shit, man,” Dean replies. “You got a death wish?”

“Nah,” Kevin says, taking the joint back from Charlie. “Just an overachieving mom.”

The pot makes Dean feel light and happy. It makes everything feel like not such a big deal. What’s up with Cas, anyway, right? It’s not like Dean’s actually gonna screw anything up if he just flirts with him a little. It’s not gonna hurt anything if Dean just talks to him.

Charlie rolls a couple more joints, and the group sort of splits into two: Charlie, Kevin, and Gabe in one, telling ridiculous stories and laughing easily, and Dean and Cas drift over to lean against the barrier and look over the street. It’s a calm night. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking. And there’s the faint sound of sirens. But it’s all way too far away to care about.

“Have you bought a new coffeemaker, yet?” Cas asks gravely before he sticks the joint between his lips. Dean is transfixed by the way Castiel’s mouth carefully puckers around the paper. His lips are a little bit chapped. They’d probably feel rough against Dean’s. And Cas’s jaw is covered with peach fuzz. God, Dean can imagine the burns that would leave on his thighs.

“What?” Dean blinks.

Cas blows out a puff of smoke and offers Dean the joint. He cocks an eyebrow and repeats himself, “A new coffeemaker?”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Nah, man.” He takes a puff. His throat is starting to burn; he’s not used to the feel of pot, even if he’s been smoking cigarettes on and off for the past 15 years. God, 15 years. Maybe Sam’s got a point; Dean should quit. “I’ll probably go sometime this weekend. I been too busy at work.”

“Where do you work?” Cas asks politely.

“Singer’s Auto.”

“You fix cars?”

Dean shrugs. “I’m a grease monkey. What about you?”

He brushes his shoulder against Cas in a friendly nudge. He overbalances a little and ends up kind of plowing into Cas’s side. Cas catches himself against the wall and stabilizes Dean with a hand on his back. Cas’s touch through Dean’s shirt tingles with warmth. And, shit, Dean is definitely not this high. Cas is going to think Dean is a total lightweight. There is no way Dean should be this dizzy.

Dean laughs weakly and shakes his head to clear his vision. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s alright,” Cas says levelly. Then he continues like nothing happened, “I sell my art, mostly.”

“Shit, man,” Dean says. “That’s cool.” Dean doesn’t know shit about art. He has no idea what he’s supposed to talk about now.

He’s saved from reply by a shout from Charlie, “Kev and I are getting fries, you want any?”

“No thank you,” Cas replies, and Dean says, “No thanks, Charles.”

“And I’m going to bed,” Gabe announces. “Don’t molest each other while we’re gone, you two.”

Dean’s cheeks burn, and he’s fairly certain he would have come up with a properly snappy response if not for the fact his head is whirling, jumping swiftly from thought to thought: like how weird the clouds look, all underlit by the streetlamps below, and how the water pooled across the ceiling looks kinda sparkly, and how Cas is really warm beside Dean, because he never moved an acceptable distance away after Dean bumped into him.

“Ignore Gabriel,” Cas instructs Dean. “He thinks he’s amusing.”

“Oh good,” Dean says bluntly. He’d forgotten how much weed loosens his tongue. “I was worried I was the only one who thought he was a douchebag.”

Cas smiles, like a genuine, relaxed smile, like Dean definitely said the right thing, and Dean’s chest glows.

“So, ah, art." Dean attempts to pull the conversation back into his court. “You, ah, paint?”

“Mostly,” Cas explains. “I enjoy color. And I like the viscosity of oil paint.”

“Awesome,” Dean says. “And you went to school for that shit?” Shit. “I mean, not shit shit. Just, like, shit.”

Castiel grins again. “I know what you mean, Dean. Yes, I went to art school.”

“What about that girl?” Dean prompts him. “She go to art modeling school, or something?”

“You mean Meg?” Cas clarifies. Of course, Dean means Meg. He remembers her name; he just didn’t want to say it.

Dean hums in reply.

“She also went to art school,” Cas replies. “That’s where we met.”

“So,” Dean attempts to sound casual, but, by now, his words are getting harder to drag up his throat. His eyes won’t focus on Cas’s face. He is way fucked up. “You guys screwing?”

Cas lifts another amused eyebrow. “No anymore,” he answers. “We dated in school, but that was more than five years ago.”

“What about Gabriel?” Dean presses. Somewhere, a logical and sober part of him is screaming that it doesn’t fucking matter who Cas is or is not screwing.

A look of pure disgust crosses Cas’s face. “Do you and your brother have sex, Dean?” he asks.

“What?” Dean says. It startles him backward a step. “Fuck no. Gross, man.” And it occurs to Dean what Cas is really saying. “Wait, you guys are brothers?”

Cas smiles indulgently. “Unfortunately.”

“Aw, man.” Dean’s mouth breaks into a wide and sloppy smile. “That’s great.”

“Why is that great, Dean?” Cas says. He recovers the step between them. His heavy brows cast dark shadows across his eyes.

The logical part of Dean’s brain is blaring danger, danger, Will Robinson, and the rest of Dean’s brain is saying, what the fuck, why not?

But then another wave of unexpected vertigo crests inside Dean’s head, and, if he’d toppled forward, he could have played it off as making a move, but instead his tips over to the side, and he catches himself against the barrier.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks from somewhere far away.

Dean braces himself with both hands against the barrier. He bows his head and takes a few deep breaths. This turns out to be a mistake because, when he opens his eyes again, he’s looking straight down five stories to the street below.

Here’s the thing: Dean’s always hated flying. He’s only been on a plane once that he can remember, but he hated every second of it. It was a combination of being sealed inside a pressurized tin can, shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of other people, and sailing above the earth at 35,000 feet. So, Dean doesn’t know if it’s the claustrophobia, agoraphobia, or acrophobia that does it, but he goes bat shit crazy at even the thought of flying.

And, right now, brain swaying giddily from side-to-side in his skull, ground shifting under his feet, eyes glued to the 70-foot drop to the pavement below, Dean’s flying high as a fucking kite.

“Dean.” Cas grips Dean’s upper arm in a vice, and he swings him around so he’s no longer looking at the ground. Now Dean’s just staring at Cas’s face, taught with concern, eyes piercing and levelled at Dean’s.

“S-sorry,” Dean says unsteadily. He focuses on the individual pressure points of Cas’s fingers on his arm. He’s less dizzy then he was a minute ago. “I have this thing about flying.”

Cas frowns. “We aren’t flying.”

“Oh,” Dean answers. “Right. Duh.”

“Do you frequently experience bad highs?” Cas asks urgently.

“What?” Dean says. It’s like Cas’s voice is getting stuck somewhere in the middle of Dean’s brain and swirling around until it becomes incomprehensible. “I don’t…ah.” he thinks about it way harder than he should have to think about it. “I don’t think so? I don’t think this is the high.”

But, of course, that’s not going to make any sense to Cas, because Cas has no idea what kind of drug cocktail is in Dean’s system, right now.

Cas just nods, however, like he believes Dean, and he doesn’t let go of his arm. “Perhaps you should get to bed.”

Bed makes every blood vessel in Dean’s body perk up their little ears and start working overtime. “Yeah, sure,” Dean says.

Cas leads Dean firmly toward the access door. The stairwell is too narrow to walk abreast, so Cas goes first, probably because he’ll act as a buffer in case Dean gets hit by another dizzy spell and tumbles head-first down the stairs. The thought makes him remember the first time he met Cas, when Sam nearly broke his neck falling. Or not falling. Details.

Dean’s stomach clenches with some unnamed, nagging fear, and he fights it back. He doesn’t need to panic, right now. He really fucking doesn’t need this.

They make it to Dean’s floor, and Cas is back to gripping Dean’s arm, although slightly less insistently now that Dean’s managed at least five minutes of steady footwork. Dean even manages to open his door without landing on his ass.

Cas keeps ahold of Dean until he leads him to the base of Dean’s bed. Dean keeps his bed unfolded because it’s not like he needs a couch for the endless visitors he has lining up outside his door. Thinking about his own bed makes Dean remember Cas’s lack of a bed in his apartment downstairs.

Cas prods Dean into taking a seat at the edge of the mattress.

“Where d’you sleep?” he asks Cas.

“What?” Cas asks, looking concerned again.

Dean smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring. “I meant in your apartment. You didn’t have a bed down there.”

“Oh,” Cas nods. “I only rent this apartment as a studio. I have another where I live a few blocks away. Close enough to walk.”

“Fancy,” Dean replies. Artist, yes, starving, no, he files away in his brain for future reference.

“It satisfies my needs,” Cas replies. And who says stuff like that? Satisfies my needs. Dean would sure like to satisfy Cas’s needs.

The thick, droopy feeling in his limbs from the weed, mixed with nauseating vertigo, and a cloying sense of nerves in his gut make for one of the most confusing erections Dean’s ever had in his life. But it’s definitely there, and the pressure of his jeans across his pelvis as he sits on the edge of his bed only make it that much harder to ignore.

“Cas –” Dean says. It’s easy enough to grab hold of Cas’s hand and tug him downward. He hears two soft thuds on the floor as Cas kneels. Dean opens his knees to give Cas room to sidle up between his legs. He slips one arm around Cas's torso. Cas’s hand spreads wide across the back of Dean’s head.

They’re kissing, and Dean can’t remember the moment their lips met, but now the sensation is all warm moisture and tingling energy. Cas’s lips are rough, just how Dean thought they’d be, but they’re also full and pliant, and his tongue is slick and flexible against the edge of Dean’s bottom lip, along the ridge of Dean’s teeth, twisting around the tip of Dean’s own tongue.

Dean sucks in a short, shuddering breath that catches in his throat and twists inside his stomach so hard it almost hurts. Dean staggers back. Cas’s eyes open, and they’re startling blue, as always. He looks puzzled for a moment, and then something dawns across his face: a closed-off look of comprehension that immediately makes Dean wish he hadn’t hesitated.

“Hi,” Dean says, attempting to salvage the moment, but Cas is already moving away. He stands for long enough to move to the corner of Dean’s bed, far enough away that Dean can’t immediately grab hold of him again.

Regret is already thick inside Dean’s throat. Why the fuck does he even try? Why the fuck does anyone in their right mind actually think Dean’s fit to socialize with normal people?

“Cas…” Dean starts, unsure of where to go next.

“Dean,” Cas interrupts. His voice is serious. He’s looking at his hands. “I’m sorry. You’re not sober. I shouldn’t have pressured you.”

“No – fuck, no,” Dean says at once, because he doesn’t want Cas to think he’s done something wrong. Dean isn’t really that high. He wants to reach out and touch Cas’s shoulder, but he closes his hands into fists to resist the temptation. “I kissed you, man.”

“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.” Cas shakes his head solemnly.

“No,” Dean insists. “That’s not it. That’s really not it, okay?”

Cas looks over his shoulder and fixes Dean with one of his sharp, paralyzing gazes. He looks confused again. “Are you closeted?”

“What? No –”

Now there’s a frown pulling at the corners of Cas’s mouth, and Dean doesn’t want that, either. Because he knows the next excuse Cas will inevitably jump to is that Dean doesn’t find Cas attractive, or that Dean doesn’t want to have sex with Cas. And that definitely isn’t it.

Dean doesn’t know how to explain this in a way that won’t make him sound like a total weirdo: it’s just that nearly every single time I’ve had sex with someone, it’s messed me up, or messed them up. And I’m trying to get better at not screwing up everything I touch, so that means I’m living as a monk for an indeterminate amount of time. Maybe the rest of my life. Even though Pam’s more optimistic and suggested a zero-relationship break for six months to a year, just until Dean can figure out healthy boundaries.

“It’s sorta like No Nut November?” Dean tries.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re celibate?” Cas asks with supreme skepticism.

Dean feels his face get hot again. In fact, sweat beads at his hairline, and his vision goes out of focus. Then comes the dizziness, and Cas grips his arm and lowers him slowly onto his back on the mattress. Dean stares at the ceiling, and his heart races in his throat. It’s like he just got finished with a run, except he’s literally lying down.

“Dean,” Cas says sternly. “We can talk about this later. You’re definitely ill. You said you’ve smoked before?”

“Dude,” Dean insists. His voice is kind of wispy, like it got tired climbing out of his throat. “It’s not the pot. I had less than half a gram.”

“Clearly something is wrong,” Cas says. He sounds upset. His face hovers above Dean’s, obstructing his view of the ceiling. “Can I get you something? Water?”

“Sure,” Dean rasps, mostly so he can have a minute to breathe without looking like he’s about to have a fucking panic attack. Because he isn’t about to have a fucking panic attack. Dean isn’t going to let that happen. There is literally nothing wrong, right now. Dean does not need to freak out.

“Here.” Cas is back, and his hands are gentle as he eases his fingers under Dean’s head and props him up well enough to take a sip from the cool glass. “You seem strangely unperturbed. Has this happened before?”

“Mmh,” Dean says. He shuts his eyes and leans his head back. The entire world sways from left to right back to left. It’s a little like bobbing up and down inside a boat. “Not exactly.”

He doesn’t want to explain that Cas doesn’t need to worry because Dean’s only having an adverse effect from mixing marijuana and his antipsychotics. And, by the way, Dean takes antipsychotics because he’s, you know, psychotic.

“I need you to speak to me, Dean,” Cas says, with an adorable tone of urgency in his voice. “Am I supposed to call someone? Do you have any medical concerns I should know about?”

Call someone. It takes a minute for Cas’s words to make sense inside Dean’s head, and another few seconds to bypass the gut reaction of call someone equals Sammy.

“No,” Dean decides at last. “I’ll just sleep it off.”

“I feel very uneasy about leaving you alone, right now,” Cas says. Dean can hear him fidgeting on the bed beside him.

“I’m not gonna stop breathing, Cas, I promise,” Dean murmurs. Even if I wanted to, Dean doesn’t add. Because apparently I’m really, really bad at offing myself. But Dean’s probably the only one who thinks that’s even remotely funny.

Dean feels movement down at his feet, and he cracks open one eye. He tilts his heavy, unwieldy head high enough to see Cas crouching at the foot of the bed and removing Dean’s shoes.

“Thanks,” Dean says. He feels too ill to bother feeling embarrassed.

“Would you like me to take off your jeans?” Cas asks uncertainly.

“It’s okay,” Dean breathes. At least sometime between collapsing on the mattress with unbearable lightheadedness and now, Dean’s boner slagged. “It's really fucking warm in here,” Dean complains. He doesn’t know if it’s simply the oppressive heat of summer in the tiny room or if the meds are also messing with his temperature, but Dean’s forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, and there’s a growing dampness between his back and the mattress.

“Hence my suggestion to remove your jeans,” Cas replies wryly. He’s probably doing that sexy eyebrow-raise thing. Dean wishes the room would stop spinning so he could open his eyes and check.

“Sorry,” Dean whispers. He’s not sure why he’s apologizing; it’s just that there’s suddenly a crushing sense of despair and inevitable failure on his ribs. This is really not how he thought this evening would go.

“You don’t need to apologize, Dean,” Cas says patiently. There’s more shifting on the mattress. Dean slips a little toward the center as Cas settles against the back of the couch. Dean squints to see him. Cas’s long legs stretch out in front of him. His hands are in his lap.

He spots Dean staring, and he says calmly, “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone. If it makes you uneasy, I can call someone else.”

“Nah,” Dean murmurs. “You’re good, buddy.”

Cas smiles tightly. “I’m glad ‘I’m good,’ Dean.”

Dean can see the lights go out even with his eyes closed. He’s not sure if the dizziness is better or worse in the darkness, because now it’s all he can think about. It’s up and down and around in circles, a constant, throbbing movement in his head. It makes him queasy, plus his head is starting to hurt. He can feel irrational, irreversible panic threatening inside his chest. He’s shaking, now, and he really, really wishes Cas wasn’t here, but he has no idea how to tell him to leave. And he can’t even ask Cas to get his valium or temazepam, because Dean doesn’t want to risk mixing more drugs with the pot.

He covers his face with his forearm and just breathes. Even in his own ears, he sounds loud and frantic. It’s really fucking hot. But Dean doesn’t want to take off his overshirt or jeans, because, even in the dark, Cas might see his scars, and he’ll certainly see the new circular mark on the inside of Dean’s left wrist, which is undoubtedly a cigarette burn.

“Can I do anything?” Cas says softly from the dark.

“I don’t think so,” Dean groans. “You really don’t have to stay, man.”

“I’d like to,” Cas says simply. “Unless it bothers you.”

“It’s okay,” Dean whispers.

“Is it alright if I touch you?” Cas asks. “Physical contact can sometimes be grounding.”

“Okay.”

Cas’s fingers land on Dean’s head. One after another, his thumb to his pinky, connect with Dean’s scalp. Then he drags his fingers through Dean’s hair, slow and steady. He pauses to rub a slow circle with his thumb against Dean’s temple. The sensation is soothing. Dean can’t help but lean into it. He concentrates on Cas’s touch, the steady pull of his fingers combing through his hair. He breathes like Pam told him to, deep from his diaphragm.

He’s not sure if he slips into some kind of meditative state or if he actually manages to doze off, but the next time he’s aware of his surroundings, he notices the steady patter of rain against the window behind him and occasional rumbles of thunder. Cas is snoring quietly. He’s lying on his side, curled toward Dean, with his nose inches from Dean’s shoulder. He looks peaceful and, honestly, really stinking cute when he’s asleep, which is a sharp contrast from the usual intense pretense he puts on when he’s awake.

Dean feels less like his head is about to unscrew from his neck, and he’s definitely much steadier than he was before. The weed has probably worked its way out of his system.

So, now, Dean’s left alone in bed with Cas without the threat of an impending nervous breakdown to distract him. Dean’s slept in the same bed with someone without first having sex maybe three times, at most: once with a high school girlfriend, and twice with Lee when they were on a cross-country road trip and too exhausted to do anything but tumble into bed.

He doesn’t know what that makes Cas. Definitely not a high school girlfriend. And definitely not whatever Lee was: part-time partner, part-time screw. And it’s not like Cas is even anywhere close to Charlie. Because, with Charlie, Dean knows it’s not going to be anything more than friendship.

But it’s not like Cas is totally platonic, here. Dean did kiss him. And then fumblingly told him they couldn’t have sex. Maybe Cas is going to expect something more in the morning. Dean has no clue how he’s supposed to handle this.

Dean feels sleep tugging past the unease he managed to dig up. His body is too exhausted to deal with this shit, now. So he shuts his eyes again, curls into a more comfortable position, making sure to put his back to Cas so he doesn’t have any weird urges to kiss him when he next wakes up, and tries to fall back asleep.

Chapter Text

Dean gets lucky in the morning: Cas is a heavy sleeper. Dean manages to get out of bed, wash up and change clothes in the bathroom – he fixes a band-aid over the scab on his wrist; in case Sam catches sight of it under Dean’s cuff, he can say he hurt himself at work – and take his meds without Cas stirring an iota, which reminds him that he totally forgot his second dose of lithium, last night, so that’s great.

By then, it’s time for Dean to catch the bus if he doesn’t want to be late meeting Sam for breakfast, so he pats himself on the back for a conversation well-eluded, and he sticks a Post-It next to Cas on the bed: Had a breakfast date with Sammy. Feel free to raid my fridge if you’re hungry.

Then Dean slips noiselessly out his door and down the stairs to the street below. He’s just in time to catch his bus. Sam offered to pick him up, but Dean told him don’t bother. The diner they like is in Sam’s part of town, anyway, where all the hipsters live. Dean would have rejected the place on principle alone – he doesn’t do exposed brick and fancy-ass latte art – but the place makes the best Belgian waffles Dean’s ever had in his life, and Sam really likes their spinach souffles. Plus, the place is owned by the in-laws of one of Dean’s coworkers, and sometimes, if Bess – Garth’s wife – is working the register, she gives the brothers the family discount.

Dean hops off the bus to find Sam already outside the diner. He managed to snag a table outside, which is the best place to be at Jim’s on Saturday mornings. Even minus the college crowd during the summer, there’s a line leading out the door. Thankfully, the storms yesterday washed out the oppressive humidity, and it’s actually half-way decent out.

“I got your usual,” Sam says as soon as Dean steps up to his table. Dean hooks his ankle around the chair leg and drops into his seat. “And here’s your gross coffee.”

“Shut your face, you with your coffee-flavored sugar milk,” Dean retorts. He immediately grabs the mug and downs a solid slug of delicious, rich, perfectly strong black coffee. Sam cocks an eyebrow and takes a sip of his stupid Americano-latte-mocha-something monstrosity.

“You okay?” Sam asks, concern pinching his eyebrows. “You look kinda rough.”

“Gee, thanks,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Just had a late night, is all.” Because there’s no way in hell he’s going to tell Sam that he mixed too many drugs and slept with – but not slept with – the ridiculously attractive and strange-as-fuck artist dude from the apartment downstairs.

“Did anything fun?”

“Hung out with Charlie for a while,” Dean replies, trying not to read anything into Sam’s fun.

“Your lesbian neighbor?” Sam says, raising both eyebrows.

“Now who’s being offensive?” Dean says.

“That’s literally how you described her,” Sam defends himself.

“Yeah,” Dean continues. “Had a regular slumber party. Ice cream. Braided her hair. The works.”

“Scuse me, pregnant lady coming through.” Bess’s gentle southern accent interrupts them. She’s weaving her way through the line, large belly cutting a convenient path through the crowd. She stops at Sam and Dean’s table, and a cheery grin makes red apples out of her plump cheeks. “Mornin’ you two. Souffle for Sam. Waffle special for Dean.” She places their respective dishes on the table.

“Thanks, Bess,” Sam says. “How you feeling?”

“Garth treating your right?” Dean adds.

“He’d have me quit working if he had his way,” Bess says, shaking her head in good-natured exasperation. “But I didn’t get off my feet until Gertie made me, so I ain’t gonna let these two, either.” She puts her hand on her belly and smiles in that sweet, glowing way only pregnant women can really pull off without looking like a total dweeb.

“Gertie excited?” Sam asks. Sam’s always been better at this sort of menial small talk. Dean’s always teased him about being able to tease the panties off old women and church ladies. Dean tries to steer clear of that crowd as much as possible.

“She keeps chattering about her boys,” Bess replies. “Guess we’ll see how it changes once she realizes she ain’t the center of attention anymore.”

Sam says something back, and Bess laughs, but Dean’s lost the thread of the conversation. He’s not great around conversations about pregnancy and babies. He tunes back in when Bess says,

“We’ll see y’all be at the Lafitte’s picnic, right?” Every summer, Benny has a summer barbeque for the garage. In a combined effort, Bobby and Sam always make Dean go. It’s not that Dean dislikes his coworkers – Garth and Benny are actually great for a drink and a poker game after work – but he doesn’t love the whole domesticity thing about grilling, watermelon, and inflatable kiddie pools in the backyard. Dean usually does his best to avoid people by clowning around with the kids, drinking beer with Rufus – Bobby’s business partner and notorious bachelor – or manning the grill.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Bess.” Dean smiles easily.

“Better not,” Bess warns with another warm smile. She waddles away with a wave, back through the line and into the building.

Sam and Dean start off on their breakfasts. Dean has two heavenly bites of perfectly crispy-on-the-outside, soft-and-fluffy-on-the-inside waffles before Sam starts up again.

“Actually,” he says, “I wanted to talk to you about Benny’s picnic.”

“Oh no,” Dean says. “That’s your serious conversation face.” Which instantly transforms into Sammy’s cut your shit, Dean face.

“Yeah, well, I was talking to Bobby yesterday – it’s what I called you about, actually, but you were already pissed about something, so I figured it could wait –”

“This mean whatever you’re gonna say is gonna piss me off?” Dean asks.

Sam winces apologetically, but he forges ahead. “Listen, I quit asking a long time ago what happened between you and Jo –”

“The hell does Benny’s picnic have to do with Jo?” Dean says, too sharply, because Sam’s immediately on the defensive.

“Listen, Bobby just wanted to warn you because he knows something strange went down between you two, too. It was kinda hard to miss, Dean –”

“Sam, spit it out,” Dean orders.

Sam sighs, a heavy, resigned thing, and says, “Listen, Jo’s coming back for a weekend this summer. And it just so happens to be the weekend of the picnic, and Bobby doesn’t want to miss that, so he’s bringing her along –”

“And Bobby couldn’t have just told me about it?” Dean says, because he doesn’t want to think about the other thing – the Jo being back thing; the Jo inevitably interacting with Dean thing – so he latches onto this other, ultimately insignificant hurt.

“It’s not like he called me specifically about Jo,” Sam says. “You see him practically every day at work, Dean. He called me to say hey, and it came up. I told him I’d tell you.”

“Fuck,” Dean says under his breath. He shoves his plate of half-eaten waffles away. Breakfast never looked so unappetizing. “Why the fuck does she have to come? Can’t she and Ellen just, I don’t know, get their hair done, or something?”

Dean knows he sounds like a petulant child. He knows because Sam’s looking at Dean like he’s a petulant child. And Dean really didn’t intend to voice his complaint out loud; he usually keeps his grievances concerning Joanna Beth Harvelle to himself.

He hasn’t seen her for six years. Jo’s busy getting her doctorate in anthropology, so she spends her summers doing field work in the world’s farthest reaching corners: Yemen, Sierra Leone, Belize, and elsewhere. She’s practically Indiana Jones. Dean’d taken to asking after Indy when he mentioned her to Ellen, and Jo’d probably call him a dork for it, but it’s not like Dean ever talks to her, directly. All their conversations come filtered through Sam, Bobby, or Ellen.

She’s just another name in the long line of Dean’s fuckups.

“Get their hair done?” Sam says incredulously. Then he softens into his typically half-chastising, half-sympathetic tone he pulls when he thinks Dean’s being irrational, but he isn’t sure whether or not it’s because of one of Dean’s many things. “She’s his stepdaughter, Dean, you can’t expect her not to come.”

Fuck. Dean wishes Sam wouldn’t use words like stepdaughter. Because Bobby is as close to a second father as Dean’s ever had, and being reminded that Bobby is, in fact, legally Jo’s second father just makes it worse, because that makes Jo basically Dean’s little sister. And shit.

Bobby married Ellen when Jo was 15, which made Dean 20. And, back then, Jo had been like a little sister. Or maybe an annoying cousin. But that changed, and now things are uncomfortable, and Jo’s probably still angry at him. For good reason. And Dean will forever be deeply in her debt because she’s always kept what happened between them close to her chest. Because, if word got out, Ellen would shoot Dean through the head with one of her late first-husband’s old hunting rifles, and Bobby would be just behind her with a shovel to bury the body.

Ellen, Dean can handle losing. Bobby? Not so much.

“Then I’ll beg off,” Dean says.

“No, you won’t,” Sam says sternly. “I don’t know what the fuck happened between you guys –”

“Say it all you want, Sam,” Dean says. “You ain’t gonna guilt me into telling you.”

“– but whatever it is,” Sam plows on, “shouldn’t stop you from, I don’t know, forgiving and forgetting? It’s been years. Can’t you guys give it a rest?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“At least for the sake of Bobby and Ellen, Dean,” Sam implores. “You know it bothers them that you and Jo don’t want to see each other.”

Dean hates this part of his little brother: the morally superior one. Dean can usually handle the overbearing, overprotective, and overeager parts, but nothing makes him want to burry his fist in Sam’s face more than when the kid gets all righteously indignant. Dean needs zero reminders about who has the moral high ground, here: the child custody lawyer or the high school dropout with a felony charge and a handful of misdemeanors.

“This conversation ended five minutes ago, Sam,” says Dean.

“Whatever, Dean,” Sam says. “I didn’t mean for it to be a conversation, anyway. I just wanted to let you know she was gonna be there, so brace yourself.”

“Well,” Dean says deliberately. “Thanks for the breakfast, Sammy, but I should probably go –”

“Oh my God, Dean,” Sam replies, obviously warring between total exasperation and amusement. “I promise I won’t bring it up again, jeez.”

Dean settles back into his chair. Crisis successfully averted, he starts in at his waffle again. “So,” he says, “you gonna catch me up on all the gory details between you and Eileen?”

It has the desired effect: Sam goes red and turns his attention to his souffle. “There aren’t any gory details. She’s nice. She’s smart. I don’t know, she’s fun to hang around.”

Dean wrinkles his nose, “What the hell does she see in you?”

“You’re a comedian, Dean,” Sam says. He chews a bite of souffle vindictively. “We get it.”

The rest of the breakfast, despite its bumpy start, goes smoothly, but, by the time Dean begs off heading back to Sam’s place to watch an MLS game, Dean feels drained and just enough on the right side of grouchy that Sam doesn’t notice anything yet.

That’s the thing about Dean – he used to be totally fine socializing. Sure, he had the reputation of the edgy, loner kid in high school, but that was usually because he was also always the new kid and the ones teachers targeted as “trouble.” But he used to be a people person. He got along with nearly anyone. He was good at fooling around to get people to like him, and he used to enjoy the attention. Now, even the thought of spending all day with people – even Sam. And Sam and him used to be able to spend weeks cooped up in the same crummy hotel room together – makes him want to curl up in bed and never come out again.

There are probably reasons for it. If Dean ever manages to talk about it with Pam, she’d probably blame his loss of privacy in prison, the hospital, and at Sam’s apartment. She’d probably talk to him about social withdrawal in depression. But he doesn’t really need her to explain it, because, ultimately, what matters is that Dean used to be able to actually do stuff. Now, it’s like his quota is one activity per day. He can go to work, but if he goes to work, he can’t go out. He can go out, but if he goes out, he has to spend the rest of the day in bed listening to music.

Dean was planning on going to the grocery store after meeting Sam, but, instead, he goes right back to his apartment. He’s not used to spending time in the building during the day; he’s been using his place mostly to eat dinner and to fall asleep in. It’s busier and louder than he’s used to. He can hear all sorts of noises from the other tenants: there’s an unnerving, thumping beat like club music coming from Gabe’s first floor studio; someone’s yelling on the phone across the hall; and there’s the unmistakable sound of cello music coming from the floor above.

Dean shoves open his door, closes it again by falling against it, and takes a minute to breathe: back against the door, eyes shut, and fingers in his hair.

“What time’zit?” comes a bleary voice from Dean’s bed.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean’s eyes fly open.

Cas is still on Dean’s bed. He’s blinking in the light and scowling like being woken up is a personal offence. Dean sees the note he put on the pillow next to Cas has been undisturbed.

“It’s after 12, dude!” Dean exclaims. Damn. Fuck. Cas’s hair is all cute and fuzzy, and he looks all unreasonably distressed and grumpy. The sight makes something painful turn inside his chest. Dean wishes he could have been getting the view from the other side of the bed, instead of from the door, and then he berates himself, because that isn’t what he needs right now.

Cas makes an indistinct noise of displeasure, and he turns over onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow.

Dean just stands there, frozen. He can’t even decide if he’s happy Cas is still there or upset. He’s just really surprised.

“Where did you go?” Cas says, voice muffled in the pillow.

“Ah, breakfast,” Dean says. “With my brother. Sorry, I’d have gotten you something –” Why did he say that? Why did he say that?

Dean doesn’t do morning-afters. Fuck, this isn’t even a morning after, and Dean can’t do it. He doesn’t make coffee. He doesn’t bring home breakfast. He doesn’t stick around to chat. That’s why he doesn’t have hookups at his place. He likes the control of being able to leave whenever he wants to. Which is now. Right the fuck now.

“You weren’t expecting me to be here when you returned,” says Cas, with an unerring, dry bluntness that makes Dean wince. But then Cas takes the opportunity to turn his head. He spots the Post-It, pauses to read it, and adds, “Ah, exhibit A. How was your brother?”

“Ah, bossy,” Dean says. He hasn’t taken a step away from the door. His shoulders are pressed tight against the surface. “Too smart for his own good. Needs a haircut. The usual.”

Cas levers himself onto his hands, and then he arches his back. Dean can see his shoulders move under his shirt. Although he’s slim, he’s also clearly fit. Cas finishes stretching, then he flings himself onto his back, again, and muffles a huge yawn under his palm.

“I trust you’re feeling better, then?” Cas asks. This. This was exactly why Dean had hoped Cas would have been out of the way by the time Dean got home. He doesn’t want to talk about last night.

“Yeah, ah,” Dean finally propels himself into the apartment. He toes off his shoes so he doesn’t have to look at Cas. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says kindly. Dean chances a look. Cas smiles softly; the corners of his eyes go all crinkly. “It’s not the first time a friend’s been through a bad high.”

Dean doesn’t bother contradicting Cas’s assumption because, after all, a bad high is basically what it was. At least it’s a convenient excuse. One that doesn’t mean Dean has to explain to him about mixing medications and a lot of other psycho-bullshit. The more Dean can look like a normal dude, the better.

Cas moves to the end of the mattress, puts his feet on the ground, and then he reaches his arms high over his head. It makes the bottom of his shirt ride up, revealing a stripe of tanned belly and a trace of dark happy trail that disappears under the button of his jeans.

Dean turns away swiftly. He doesn’t have anything to do in the kitchen, but he makes himself busy regardless. He snags a glass of water from the cabinet and fills it from the sink.

“Here,” he offers, crossing the remaining six feet to Cas. “I’d offer you coffee but, you know….”

“This is quite satisfactory,” Cas says. He takes the glass from Dean’s hand and immediately takes a sip.

Dean has no idea what to do. There is literally nowhere else for him to sit in this crummy, matchbox apartment. His palms are sweating. He tries to covertly cuff them dry on his pants.

Dean heads back across the room to lean against the counter. In the time is takes Cas to down the glass, neither of them says a word. Dean’s mouth is dry. He wishes he’d poured his own water, but now he doesn’t want to move. He feels strangely heavy and clumsy and like Cas is examining his every move.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Cas says.

“What?” Dean sputters. “Shit – no. What? Of course not.”

“Oh, good,” Cas says. “I’ve been told I make people feel uneasy.”

“Well, you don’t,” Dean says, more firmly, holding back his urge to ask Cas which douchebags had told him that.

“I’m glad to know it,” Cas says with a nod. “Especially given what happened last night, I didn’t want you to feel awkward.”

Dean’s back to being a stammering, blushing mess. “What? No. Nothing happened last – it’s fine.”

Cas continues gravely, “Because I wanted to apologize again if you felt pressured by my advances. I completely understand if you would not like to pursue a sexual relationship with me. I am perfectly content to just be friends.”

It’s just Dean’s luck that he’s stuck in a 250-square-foot apartment with a ridiculously attractive guy who actually wants to talk honestly about fucking feelings.

“Dude,” Dean says, slightly more aggressively then he’d meant to, but by now he’s sweating through his shirt and severely deprived of oxygen. “It wasn’t you okay. Fuck’s sake, you didn’t pressure me, okay?”

“Okay,” Cas says. But there’s clearly something else bothering him because he frowns, and then he finally adds, “So, you do find me attractive?”

And Dean wants to scream. One, because Cas says it in a way like maybe there hasn’t been a whole helluva lot of people telling him he’s attractive, which is, to be honest, straight-up blasphemy. And, two, because who the hell says that?

Dean’s face is aflame. “I – yes – I – of course I find you – that isn’t it either, okay?” he says gruffly. He sounds like a Goddamn afterschool special. “It’s just that…I’m just not somewhere I can, you know. Right now.”

“Just to clarify,” Cas replies, totally neutral, like they’re talking about the weather. “I was not specifically asking about a romantic relationship. I would be more than pleased with casual sex.”

It’s like someone slit open Dean’s chest, yanked out his lungs, and then crushed them under a Humvee. Dean’s fairly certain he just stops breathing. If not for the counter propping him up, he’d be on the floor.

“Okay,” Dean says. He sounds all breathless and weird, like a teenage girl who just got told Justin Bieber wanted to marry her. “Okay,” he tries again. “Listen, I’m gonna be totally honest –” No. No, Dean is not going to be honest. He is so not built to have this kind of conversation sober. “That sounds, ah, I mean, that sounds really great. I just – I’m not – ah –”

And one part of his brain is whining like a little bitch: why? Why can’t you have the nice, sexy man? He’s practically throwing himself at your feet. And the other part of his brain hisses: Because of Jo. Because of Aaron, Cassie, Lisa, and Ann Marie. Because of Lydia. Because you’re poison. And you kill everyone who gets a taste.

Thankfully, Cas gets the point. “I quite understand, Dean. You don’t have to explain to me.” Unease trickles into Dean’s stomach; he wonders just what, exactly, Cas thinks he understands.

Then Cas fishes under the pullout mattress for a minute until he pulls out the shoes he must have taken off last night. He shoves his feet in without bothering to untie the laces. He stands.

“I should leave now.”

And Cas doesn’t sound offended. He just sounds dry and impartial and a little disinterested. He sounds like Cas. He doesn’t sound like he’s hurt Dean turned him down.

“Sure, man,” Dean says.

Cas smiles and hands Dean his empty cup. Dean’s fingers close around the cool glass, and he can’t help but notice that Cas’s fingers are nimble and slim. There are colorful smudges of paint stuck under his fingernails.

“Have a good day, Dean,” Cas says.

Dean doesn’t say anything as Cas leaves. He doesn’t know how to check to make sure that he and Cas are okay. He doesn’t know how to ask whether or not they can still be friends. If they can maybe hangout another time. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to do this. Dean doesn’t make friends. People don’t like him unless they want to have sex with him.

Charlie doesn’t want to be his friend because Dean’s a good person. She’s just lonely. She just got dumped. She’s clearly just looking for a shoulder to cry on. Like a platonic rebound. Once she finds someone else – someone better, someone she can actually hookup with, someone who isn’t batshit insane – she’ll leave Dean in the dust. Dean isn’t a permanent kind of person. He’s someone people use: for a quick lay, to fix their car, babysit their kid a couple times while they teach late-night yoga at the Y, take care of Sammy while Dad goes out to get sloshed, for monthly checks to –

Fuck. Dean’s breathing hard. His chest hurts. He wants to get to the bed, but he doesn’t make it. He crumples in a heap on the floor, thighs pressed tight against his heaving stomach, forehead scraping against the rough carpet. He pushes his hands into his hair and tugs hard, trying to pull himself back with the pain. It doesn’t work.

Call Sam. He’s supposed to call Sam. Sammy wants him to call when it get like this. That’s what he said. He told Dean to call him.

But that’s a lie. It’s just a nice thing to say. Sam is secretly glad Dean finally moved out. Dean’s finally out of Sam’s hair. Sam finally has time for his actual life. He isn’t saddled with his helpless big brother anymore. Dean doesn’t have the right to drag Sam back into this shitshow.

Dad didn’t want him around either. Dad took every opportunity to leave Dean’s sorry-ass behind. Dad dumped him at Sonny’s for two months when Dean was 16. He dumped him at Bobby’s for a year when Dean was 19. That was after the first time. After Dean cut too deep and Sam found him in the bathroom.

He’s crying. It’s the kind of frantic, uncontrollable sobs that come from little kids when they’ve been frightened by something they don’t understand. It’s hardly any tears, just huge, stuttering gulps of air that can’t fully inflate his lungs.

Eventually, he stops crying. Eventually, he hauls himself onto the bed and crawls into a miserable, shivering ball. His face is uncomfortably hot and sticky, but the rest of him is covered in goosebumps and cold sweat.

He drifts for a while, stuck in a limbo between dark thoughts and hazy, delirious dreams. It’s hard to tell, when it gets like this, how much of it is his own voice and how much of it is discordant memories. There’s Dad outside that club in New York. Don’t you ever do something like that, again, you hear me? And Dad shaking Dean’s shoulders in that hotel room, hard enough to rattle Dean’s teeth. You don’t ever leave your brother alone. You fucking understand me? And Dad heaving Dean bodily off the bed. What are you, some kind of good-for-nothing sack of shit? Get on your feet, soldier.

Dean’s apartment bakes like an oven under the sun. Sweat pools on his back, trickles down the sides of his face, and collects in the folds of his arms. He doesn’t move to open and window or take off his flannel or jeans, even though his body feels fever hot and itchy.

He’s alert enough to eventually notice as the sun disappears outside. Without lamps on, his apartment fades into darkness along with the night. Dean hauls himself out of bed, catching himself on the wall as he’s thrown forward with a wave of dehydration dizziness, and he heads to the bathroom to take a piss, splash some cold water on his face, wash away dried tears and snot.

His head thuds with an incessant headache from the heat, tears, lack of water, and lack of food. Dean should make himself dinner, but then he remembers that he doesn’t have any food because he didn’t go grocery shopping today. He can’t even take care of himself on the most rudimentary levels, and the thought sinks a leaden ball of despair into his stomach. He thinks for a minute he’s going to throw up, so he stays bowed over the toilet for a while.

The feeling passes. He totters back to bed. This time, he takes off his pants and shirt, so he won’t bake during the night.

He drifts again. He can hear Charlie playing videogames next door. She’s not as loud as she was before, but, by now, Dean can recognize the creak of her chair and the faint sounds of her voice as she cheers or groans along to the game.

For a brief, wild moment, Dean considers going over there through the fire escape to ask her – ask her what? Tell her fucking what? She already isn’t gonna want to be friends with him in a few weeks, why should he hurry the process?

The idea of bright, cheerful Charlie turning away from him is enough to make a few more tears chase themselves down his cheeks. He doesn’t cry for long, though. By now he doesn’t have a whole lot of water left in his body. He knows he should get back out of bed and fill up the water bottle he brings to work. But the task seems insurmountable, Dean just burrows deeper into his mattress.

He breathes deeply into his pillow. It’s the pillow Cas used. It smells a little bit like him: like musty pot and something vaguely earthy that’s probably his aftershave or deodorant. The scent makes Dean nauseous again. He rolls over onto his side so he can use his other pillow.

He sleeps on and off during the night, interrupted by vague nightmares and a constant feeling of unease. He’s awake long before dawn, but he hardly notices the passage of time as the sun appears above the building across the ally. Light spreads across his ceiling, and Dean watches as the shadows retreat to the corner.

You know, when you were a kid, and I’d wake up on the couch, or you hauled me into bed, Dad told him in the hospital after the accident, and Dean had half his hair shaved off, a tube in his chest, 75 surgical pins in his left leg, and was so high off of pain meds he could hardly see straight.

You’d put your hand on my shoulder, and you’d look me in the eye and tell me ‘It’s okay, Dad.’

Fuck. No. Dean doesn’t want to remember this. He doesn’t want to think about Dad.

His head hasn’t gotten better during the night, and it feels muzzy and heavy on his neck. Hunger pangs are drowned out quickly by more nausea. His tongue is dry and swollen in his mouth. His lips are chapped. On average, a person can last three days without water. Dean knows it’s not a great way to go. It can involve kidney failure and seizures. It probably wouldn’t be so bad after a certain point; Dean imagines he’d eventually just pass out, or something, and not wake up.

Dean. I'm sorry.

Shut up.

I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?

Dad’s face was all bruised up from the crash. His left arm was in a sling. He smiled, and there were tears in his eyes, and Dean’s chest thrummed with fear he couldn’t even understand yet.

Call Sam. Just fucking call Sam. Sam wants Dean to call him.

You’re scaring me.

Sam deserves to be left alone for once in his fucking life. He’s always tried to escape this family. First Dad’s crap. Now Dean’s crap. Dean doesn’t need to keep dragging Sam into this shit. Dean’s okay. He’s fucking fine. It doesn’t matter.

Don’t be scared.

It almost tips him onto the floor when he manages to crawl to the edge of his mattress and fish for his jeans. His hand closes around the phone he left in the back pocket of his pants. Then he rolls on his back. His head is swimming. His heart trips inside his chest.

His phone is on its last dregs of power. Sam’s on Dean’s speed dial; Dean can keep his eyes closed as he thumbs the right buttons. Then the phone is ringing. And Dean wonders if maybe Sammy’s at work. Kid works weird hours. Kid works too much. He works too hard to keep Dean’s ass out of the streets. Pays off Dean’s fines and medical debt. Gives Dean too damn much, and if Dean was any kind of good brother, he’d hang up the damn phone, right now –

“Hey, Dean,” Sam answers the call. “What’s up?” And he sounds so normal. So totally unconcerned and happy. He’s just enjoying his day. Maybe he’s with Eileen. Dean shouldn’t have interrupted him.

“Dean?” Sammy sounds worried now. Shit. Dean didn’t want to worry him.

The words are hard to work up his throat. Dean’s mouth is almost entirely dry. Shit, he’s thirsty.

“Sammy?” Dean rasps.

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam asks. He’s all business now. That’s his I’m calling 911 voice. His holy shit, you’re calling me from where? voice. His I think you should listen to Mick on this one, Dean voice.

“N-not the greatest, right now, Sammy,” Dean murmurs unsteadily. His eyes burn. His lips wobble. It’s like his body’s going through all the motions of crying without being able to produce any tears.

“Where are you?”

“At the, ah,” Dean breathes through the horrible ache in his chest. It hurts. It hurts. It fucking hurts. And there isn’t even anything physically wrong with him. “Apartment.”

“I’m on my way, alright?” Sam says at once. “Dean? Dean, stay on the phone with me.”

“Kay, Sammy.”

“Do you need a hospital right now?”

“No.”

“Have you taken anything?”

“No.”

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“No.”

“Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Okay, just hang on. I’m getting into my car now. I can be there in 15 minutes, right?”

“Kay, Sammy.”

“You still there, Dean?”

“My phone’s gonna run out of battery.”

“That’s okay,” Sam says urgently. Dean can hear the sounds of traffic in the background now: squealing tires and honking horns. “Just stay on with me until it dies, okay? I’m almost there.”

“M sorry, Sammy.”

“Don’t be sorry, Dean,” Sam barks, and finally he loses his hospital-like precision. Thick emotion seeps into his voice. He sounds angry. He sounds a little like he wants to cry. “Don’t fucking say that to me over the phone.”

“Didn’t mean….” Dean stops because he’s not really sure what he means. “Okay, Sammy,” he finishes faintly.

Sam keeps babbling over the phone, nonsensical things about going to be okay, and Dean echoes his responses on instinct, curling his clumsy tongue around the syllables until they don’t even sound like words anymore. Just meaningless noises.

“Just parked, Dean,” Sam tells him. “Coming up now, okay?”

‘Kay, Sammy.

Sam’s footsteps echo in the stairwell, clunking up the flights at the speed of sound. Dean hears the rattle of Sam’s spare key in stereo: through the phone in one ear and outside the door in his other. And then Sam barges through the door, hair mussed, face red, and breathing hard.

Dean looks away. He stares at the wall. He doesn’t want to watch as Sam sizes him up. He doesn’t want to watch as the ill-concealed panic on his brother’s face gradually slips away, replaced by relief and frustration. Just one more false alarm. Just Dean acting up one time out of many. Isn’t the first. Won’t be the last. Dad used to scream at him to get out of bed: what, you think I’m gonna go easy on you? You think your lazy ass can get out of doing chores if you stay in bed?

“Hey, man,” Sam says softly. He kneels by the side of the bed, directly in Dean’s line of sight. Sam’s eyes are unbearably soft; they’re still taking in every inch of Dean’s body, checking for blood or any scattered pills, making sure Dean was telling the truth about not needing a hospital.

Sam eases Dean’s phone from his loose grip and hangs up the call. He clicks off the screen and sets the phone somewhere behind him.

“What’s wrong?”

Don’t know. Don’t know, Sammy. Dean never knows what’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. Dean’s what’s wrong. But he can’t even open his mouth, anymore.

This happens sometimes. Words just stop working. It’s too hard to untangle the large, twisted mass of darkness inside his gut; it’s impossible to drag anything else up his throat. Shit’s all too heavy.

“You’re kinda flushed,” Sam says. A frown tugs at the corners of his lips. His eyes run carefully across Dean’s face. Dean wishes Sam would stop staring. His little brother’s seen the scars plenty of times before, but Dean always feels like they’re especially ugly when they’re under Sam’s gaze.

Sam places one of his huge palms against Dean’s forehead. His frown deepens.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten or drank anything?”

“Dunno,” Dean manages to whisper. His voice is all croaky.

“You’ve stopped sweating, and you’re really warm,” Sam reprimands him. Maybe he doesn’t mean to sound so upset. Dean doesn’t blame him either way. Dean’d be angry, too, if he had to deal with a piece of shit like himself.

Sam stands up. Dean listens to his footsteps as he crosses the room to the kitchen. He hears the squeak of the cabinet door and then the rush of the faucet. Sam reappears. He’s holding a glass of water, a bottle of Tylenol, and a dampened dishtowel.

“Gotta take this slow, okay?” Sam says.

First, Sam makes Dean take a sip of water. The coolness creeps soothingly across his tongue and down his sore throat. Second, Sam slips two pills through Dean’s lips, and he helps Dean take another swallow of water to wash them down. Third, he presses Dean’s head back against the pillow, then smooths the cloth against Dean’s forehead. It’s cold, and it makes the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end.

“Did you take your meds today?”

Dean doesn’t want to see Sammy’s inevitable disappointment. “Sorry, Sammy,” he whispers.

“You don’t need to apologize, Dean,” Sam rehearses calmly. It’s a line he drops all the time. Dean knows it’s a lie. There’s no way Dean could possibly apologize enough for all the shit he puts his brother through.

“You only missed this morning?”

“And – and last night.”

“I’ll get ‘em in a minute, okay? I wanna get more water into you, first.”

Dean totters on the edge of alertness for an indeterminant amount of time, lying back with his eyes closed except for when Sam’s hand scoops under his head and prompts him to take another sip of water. Eventually, Sam returns with Dean’s meds and makes him take them.

“You do this at the garage?” Sam asks. Dean blinks his eyes open. Sam’s already picking at the edge of Dean’s band-aid, and he peals it off without waiting for an answer. Dean doesn’t bother trying to lie once Sam sees the scab; it’s not like the kid can’t recognize a cigarette burn.

Sam’s lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything else about it.

“Hey,” Sam says brightly instead, like he’s just had a genius idea. “I’m gonna give Dr. Barnes a call. See if we should make an appointment, or maybe see Dr. Henriksen.”

Dean doesn’t bother replying; it’s not like Sam’s asking. And it’s not like Dean cares. He tries to fall back asleep, but the water and meds are perking him up despite himself. Sam takes his phone into the bathroom. Dean hears Sam say, “Hey, it’s Sam Winchester,” before the bathroom door swings shut behind him. Like his little brother wants to have privacy while he talks behind Dean’s back.

After a little while, the bathroom door swings open again. Sam peaks his head out, “Dr. Barnes thinks it might be the meds, so she says to make an emergency appointment with Dr. Henriksen. I’ll see if he can take you tonight, or at least tomorrow.” The door shuts again. Then there are more mumbled voices.

Now that Dean’s more alert, he’s more aware of how absolutely stupid this situation is. Dean had been fine – maybe a little exhausted from breakfast on Saturday, a little riled up by Cas – but, ultimately, nothing was actually wrong. It was just a snap of the fingers, and everything Dean’d been building came crumbling down.

Sam comes out of the bathroom, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “Got you an appointment for tomorrow morning.”

Sam pauses by the side of Dean’s bed. He’s all twisted hands and earnest expression, and Dean can’t stand it.

“You know this isn’t your fault, right, Dean?” Sam insists. He says it all the time, even though part of him must know Dean doesn’t believe it.

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean says, because he can’t just say nothing at all. Not when Sam is so desperate to make everything okay again.

Sam stays the night. He gets briefly, noticeably exasperated when he opens Dean’s fridge and exclaims, “You didn’t go grocery shopping this week?” But then he checks himself, and Dean watches the whole painful transition as Sam’s face shifts from my brother’s an idiot irritation to my brother’s sick pity.

“Stay here, okay? I'll be back in 20.”

Where was Dean gonna go? He thinks about the groceries and about how Sam probably sees it as evidence that Dean’s still incapable of living by himself. He’s gonna make Dean move back in. He’ll probably have Victor sign another court order.

Dean doesn't even change position by the time Sam returns, laden with groceries.

He makes something light for dinner and threatens to spoon-feed Dean if he doesn't eat it, which has only happened once before, and it’s not an experience Dean’s anxious to repeat.

Sam calls Bobby after dinner to tell him Dean can’t come in to work tomorrow. The whole time Dean thinks about how hopeless he is; he can’t even call in sick to his own job.

Then Sam tells Dean to budge over, and he joins him on the bed. He digs out Dean’s dinosaur of a laptop out of the box of stuff Dean still hasn’t unpacked and sets it on his outstretched legs. He pretends he doesn’t see all the porn links as he finds Netflix, then he puts on some sitcom and does a good imitation of a normal night, just chilling with his brother, like Dean’s not on fucking suicide watch.

Dean’s technically tried to kill himself three times, so he kinda gets why Sam’s so neurotic about this kind of shit. That’s at least what it says on his official medical record. But the thing is, the first time didn’t count, because that happened back when Dean was a teenager, undiagnosed and unmedicated, and he really hadn’t meant to cut so deep. And the second time also didn’t count because that was after the accident when he was still popping oxys, and the damn fucking doctors should have picked up way sooner on the fact that maybe Dean had a problem and should have stopped filling his prescriptions. And the third time didn’t count, either, because – what the fuck, sure, toss the manic depressive guy with paranoid delusions about being buried alive into seg and just watch him not totally lose his shit.

Dean doesn’t even fight Sam when he brings out the sleeping pills. All Dean wants, right now, is to drift somewhere he doesn’t have to think, anymore. The meds finally drag him into blissfully empty, dark unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

The temazepam puts him out swiftly and effectively. He wakes up groggy in the morning to Sam shaking his shoulder and telling him they have to go to his appointment with Victor.

Dean feels a little steadier. Or at least less like he’s being summarily torn to pieces. He’s coasted into a kind of numb state where nothing really matters. He’d rather stay in bed, but it’s easy enough to follow Sam’s orders: get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, coffee on the way, decaf for Dean because maybe the caffeine’s been messing with his meds. Dean’s always done better with orders. Things don’t have to make sense; he just needs to do as he’s told.

When it’s like this, it feels more like people are talking at him instead of to him. Dean’s brain just refuses to absorb information or inflexion. Words just kind of skate by without leaving behind any impression.

“I’m gonna get some stuff while you’re here, okay?” Sam says after he drops Dean off in the waiting room outside Victor’s office. And then Sam leaves, and it takes a couple minutes for Dean to connect his words with the action.

“Hey, Dean, come on in.” Victor props his door open, and Dean stands up from his chair, walks passed Victor into the office, and drops into the overstuffed leather chair across from Victor’s desk. Victor pulls his revolving chair out from behind the desk and takes a seat in front of Dean.

“So, what’s up?” Victor asks. He’s got a clipboard on one knee, and his hands are folded on the other. He leans forward a little and looks hard at Dean. Victor has this stern, calming energy about him, kinda like a hard-ass but supportive sports coach.

It used to drive Dean up the wall, how Victor cut through Dean’s bullshit without even trying, but, over the last two and half years, he’s gradually learned to appreciate Victor’s take-no-shit attitude. Or, at least, respect it.

So, Dean cuts to the chase. “I feel like shit.”

“And what do you wanna do about it?” Victor asks. That’s another thing Dean likes about Victor. He doesn’t bother with the whole we business Sammy, and even Pamela, pull all the time. Saying crap like what do we wanna do about it when it’s ultimately Dean who has to deal with this stuff day-in and day-out.

“Dunno, Doc. Ain’t that what I’m paying you for?” Dean says. He doesn’t really want to be here, right now. Despite Sam pouring fluids into him all yesterday evening and this morning, Dean’s still got one mother of a headache, and the fluorescent bulbs in Victor’s ceiling don’t help.

“You think it’s your meds, or you think it’s a one-off kinda thing?” Victor presses. Victor’s an attractive man: with his dark skin, shaved head, and goatee, but Dean never really got around to flirting with him. When Dean first met him, Dean was catatonic in a secure psychiatric ward, and, afterward, it just would’ve been weird. Besides, it’s not like Victor talks a lot about his personal life – the picture of the curly-haired boy on his desk is proof of at least one child he has with at least one ex-wife – but Victor seems like the kind of guy who’s married to his work.

Dean shrugs. He thinks the drugs are bullshit. He thinks the thing that’s wrong is him, not his brain chemistry. And he’s not gonna say all of that out loud, but he tries to be at least a little honest. “I think it’s like taking sugar pills. They work for a little while because I want them to work.”

“I can guarantee, if you went off your meds,” Victor says soberly, dark eyes refusing to let Dean look away. “You wouldn’t find that to be the case.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says. He rubs his forehead with the back of his wrist, trying to knead the pain out. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve had this conversation. Dean knows there are people out there who try one or two drug combos, and – bang – ain’t it a wonderful world? But Dean is not one of those people. Frankly, he’s getting kind of sick of it.

“I’ve got you on 100 milligrams of Zoloft right now.” Victor purses his lips and taps his pen against the clipboard on his leg. “And I have down you tried Prozac when you were 19?”

“It made me crazy,” Dean says at once. Up until he was 19, before his first encounter with psych wards and drugs, Dean’d only ever been depressed. But then he got prescribed Prozac and it was a sustained adrenaline rush of jumping off a cliff for three straight weeks. He ended up flushing the pills and not refilling the prescription.

He managed without meds – at least meds prescribed by doctors – until he was 26, when it got serious enough that Sam and Bobby had to step in again. Thus began Dean’s roller coaster of medicating, self-medicating, and non-medicating for another three years. Then prison happened. Dean’s been on various combinations of antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, and antidepressants since then, trying to find the mythical true match.

“But that was before you were diagnosed with bipolar, correct?” Victor continues, even though he doesn’t need to ask; he’s got Dean’s medical history in his lap.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean shrugs.

Victor raises a skeptical eyebrow. “It matters because you weren’t on mood stabilizers back then.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s tired. He really wishes he were back in bed. He lets his mind slip, for just a second, and imagines never having to get out of bed for anything ever again, let alone useless-ass psychiatric appointments.

Victor probably takes Dean’s silence for hostility; it’s something teachers and principals thought all through high school. Victors says soothingly, “I get that you’re frustrated. And it’s within your right to refuse medication. But things aren’t going to get better if you completely stop trying.”

Dean knows Victor said other stuff, but the only thing that penetrates is things aren’t going to get better. Dean lets his head drop onto the back of the chair. He’s just about reached the end of his ability to pretend to be a person, today. Victor undoubtedly senses this because he makes noises that mean the end of the appointment.

“I’ll call for a higher Zoloft dose. Check back in in a couple weeks, okay?”

“Sounds good, Doc,” he says with false optimism. Victor frowns at him, obviously unconvinced and possibly concerned, but he doesn’t say anything else besides good-bye as Dean leaves the office.

Sam texts him to let him know he’s waiting outside in the car. Dean leaves the building and finds Sam parked on the curb. He climbs into the passenger side.

“Was it okay?” Sam asks.

“It was fine, Sammy,” Dean says. “Got a headache. Let’s go, okay?”

Mercifully, Sam doesn’t ask any questions on the way back to the apartment. Dean doesn’t think to ask his brother what he was picking up while Dean was with Victor until Sam parallel parks and pops the trunk of his car.

Sam goes around the back and hauls out a large cardboard box with a picture of a window air-conditioner and a couple other Walmart bags. He also must have stopped by his own apartment because he swings the strap of a duffle bag over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna stay another night, okay?” Sam says. And Dean’s pretty sure he’s not allowed to argue.

Instead, he fists the Walmart bags, leaving Sam to juggle his duffle and the AC, and makes his way back to the building.

Dean doesn’t bother unpacking the bags when he gets into his apartment. He dumps them by the fridge, kicks off his shoes, and crawls into bed. Sam follows close behind him. He doesn’t comment on Dean’s new prone position; instead he just gets busy putting stuff away.

For a while, Dean listens to Sam rustle the plastic bags as he takes out whatever stuff he bought Dean. Dean will find out later how Sam’s latest purchases will improve his life. Which is maybe uncharitable. Sam’s only trying to help. Sam’s a fixer. Dean clearly needs fixing. Anyway, Dean’s too tired to argue about it now. Maybe too tired to argue about it, ever.

Dean chokes down half a sandwich to appease Sam at lunchtime, then he goes back to bed. The whole thing happens again at dinner.

It’s not like Dean’s been actually sleeping all this time, mostly just staring at the wall or looking at the back of his eyelids while his brain cycled through the usual dark thoughts and feelings of hopelessness burrowed deep into his lungs.

Sam takes the opportunity to climb over Dean’s bed and install the new air-conditioner into the window. Dean watches him work for a few silent moments. It’s been fairly silent for the extent of the afternoon. Sometimes Sam doesn’t know when to shut his face, but other times he’s actually okay at sensing when to leave Dean alone. Plus, he brought along his laptop and some notes for work, so he’s been camped out on the floor, papers scattered all over the place, just like he used to study in school.

“I’d have picked one up, you know,” Dean says as Sam plugs the AC into the wall and flicks it on. Immediately, a rattle starts up, and cool air blows through the vent.

Dean’s curled around one of his pillows, and he knows he looks ridiculous. He should have at least sat up for this conversation. Or maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all. Dean’s words all feel like bricks. He can’t imagine trying to explain himself, now.

“Yeah, well,” Sam shrugs. “Now you don’t have to.”

Sam shuffles off the bed. He heads into the kitchen and grabs one of the Walmart bags.

“I picked up curtains, too.”

You didn’t have to. Dean wants to tell him. I would have gone out. I’m not totally incompetent.

Dean turns over to face the opposite wall, and he doesn’t say anything as Sam climbs back onto the bed to fasten the new curtains over the window.

That night, Dean swallows another temazepam without a second thought. He doesn’t want to listen to Sam anymore, and he doesn’t want to risk waking up in the middle of the night because of nightmares, which always get more intense after bad days.

He forgot to reset his alarm, but Sam stirring at six o’clock wake him up.

“Sorry, man,” Sam hisses into the semi-darkness. It’s weird, now, with the curtains blocking the natural light. “You’ll be okay if I head to work, right?”

“It’s fine,” Dean says. “Gotta get up anyway.”

“You’re not going to work,” Sam says, surprised, and it takes Dean a second to work out that it was a question and not a direct order.

“I have a fucking job, Sam,” Dean says. He swings his legs off the side of the bed. He’s definitely spent too much time lying down because he gets a head rush plus a twinge of pain in his bad leg. He stretches out his achy shoulders. Then he works on thumbing the pain out of his hip and knee.

“Yeah, but –” Sam starts.

Dean cuts him off. He knows where this is going, and he doesn’t want to start the day off with an argument. “I’m fine, Sammy. Really.”

“Bobby wouldn’t mind if you took another day,” Sam insists.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “He probably wouldn’t. But I’m not gonna.”

Dean thanks God when all Sam does is frown.

They take turns in the bathroom like they used to growing up in motel rooms or crashing at Bobby’s place. While Sam showers, Dean tries to talk himself into making breakfast. He even manages to make it to the kitchen, but, after staring blankly at the open fridge for a few minutes, he decides he’ll just eat some of the cereal Sam picked up on Sunday.

Sunday was two days ago, Dean reminds himself. He tries to work out the idea of two days in his mind. The passage of time is…hazy at best. Simultaneously the blink of an eye and unfathomable eons.

His search through the cabinets reveals more of Sam’s spoils. He bought a tub of instant coffee, protein bars, and, as Dean fishes out his morning meds, he finds a package of Nicorette Gum. Which is just fucking great, because it means Dean’s got that conversation to look forward to.

Dean’s just irritated enough that he pulls open his closet door and fishes out his pack of cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of his leather jacket. He’s got more than enough time for a smoke before he has to leave for work, and he heads to the fire escape, cigarettes in hand. Hell, this is the most motivated he’s been to do something for more than a week.

He lights up and leans over the banister. He kind of regrets it as soon as he’s sucking smoke into his lungs, but, oh well.

“You found yourself some company, huh?” Charlie says from behind him. Dean turns to see she’s propped on her elbows on the window ledge. She’s got the kind of frayed, wide-eyed look that belongs to a nightlong of gaming, and she’s also smirking slyly in a way that doesn’t immediately register.

“What?” Dean says around his cigarette.

Charlie rolls her eyes, but her smirk only gets bigger. “Thin walls, sweetheart.”

“Oh, shit,” Dean says. His mouth drops open and the cigarette nearly falls out. “Ah, no. No. Definitely no.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, and she looks a little embarrassed.

“It’s my brother –” Dean hastily supplies, and then he immediately wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to explain why a grown-ass man had his little brother stay the last two nights in his miniature studio apartment. “He, ah, was helping set up some things.”

“Ah,” Charlie nods. “The mythical Sammy.”

At that moment, Dean sees through the window as Sam comes out of the bathroom, toweling off his ridiculous hair. Sam catches sight of Dean, scowls as soon as he spots the cigarette in Dean’s fingers, and beelines for the open window.

“I thought you quit,” Sam accuses.

“This is Charlie, Sam,” Dean says pointedly, gesturing with his cigarette to Charlie. Sam leans out of the window; his frown softens marginally. Charlie gives him a little wave and a cheery smile.

“Hey.”

“Good morning,” Sam says stiffly.

“I, ah, better get to bed,” Charlie says, glancing from Dean’s cigarette back to Sam, clearly sensing the tension. “See you around, Dean. Nice, ah, meeting you, Sam.”

“See you, Charlie,” Dean says, tossing a two-fingered salute as Charlie retreats through her window. She closes it deliberately.

Sam’s eyes are back on Dean. Slowly, Dean lifts the cigarette back to his lips and takes another hit. He knows – he fucking knows – he’s being spitefully provocative, but he doesn’t really give a damn.

Sam huffs dramatically and withdraws from the window. Dean watches him cross the room to the kitchen and loudly begin pouring his own bowl of cereal. Dean finishes his cigarette leisurely before following him inside.

For a while, Dean thinks he’s actually lucked out with the silent treatment. Sure, Sam’s huffy and obnoxious, with all his slamming drawers and doors as he makes himself breakfast and microwaves a mug of gross instant coffee, but at least Dean’s avoided a lecture.

“You headed back to your place after work today?” Dean tries to ask as casually as possible.

Sam snaps his mug on the counter so forcefully, his coffee nearly ripples over the edge. “You told me you quit,” he repeats himself. He turns to face Dean, arms crossed over his chest, jaw squared. He looks really mad. Worse, he looks hurt.

“You’re not my fucking keeper, Sam,” Dean snaps. And, in the back of his head, Pam nags him, anger’s a secondary emotion. But, shit, it feels like the first and only emotion that makes sense, right now.

“You can’t pretend this isn’t a big deal,” Sam exclaims. One thing they both learned well from their father was heat. “You can’t just lie to me about smoking and expect me to be okay with it.”

“It’s not your responsibility to fix me,” Dean shoots back. He’s dangerously near shouting territory. He’s aware that Charlie can probably hear them through the thin walls; he hopes to hell she’s got her headphones on. “The goal is to fucking help me manage. The cigarettes help me fucking manage.”

“The goal is to get you healthy,” Sam retorts. “And if you’re just using the cigarettes to hurt yourself, then how the fuck am I supposed to leave convinced you’re okay?”

Inadvertently, Dean closes his hand around his left wrist, where the cigarette burn is now completely painless. “That was an accident,” Dean says, but even as it leaves his lips, he knows it’s a pathetic excuse.

Sam scoffs. “Sure, Dean. Just like calling me on Sunday was a total accident. Like finding you half out of your head with dehydration was a fucking accident –” two high points of color bloom on Sam’s cheeks. His eyes glint with that dangerous light Dean recognizes from when he’d really get in it with Dad. “Because losing your ability to fucking feed yourself is a fucking accident.”

There’s still anger welling in Dean’s chest, but there’s fear, too, because he can’t help but see what Sam must see when he looks at Dean: someone who can barely hold themselves together, can barely provide for themselves, who can’t even be left alone for a week without falling to pieces.

“I never fucking promised I’d be okay!” Dean blurts out. He’s shaking a little, and he squeezes his wrist tighter. Everything in him is telling him that Sam’s right: that Dean needs to pack up his shit and go back where he belongs, that he’s never going to be able to do this, so he might as well stop trying. But Pam is in his head, too – in that weird hybrid way her voice sometimes combines with Dad’s – and she’s telling him that only pussies take the easy way out.

“This isn’t about me being okay.” Dean forces himself to continue, working hard to control the tremor in his voice. “It’s about working through it when I’m not okay. And it’s about calling you if I can’t work through it. And, guess what? I fucking called you. And now I’m okay again, so you can go home. And you need to be fine with that, too, Sammy. You need to be comfortable with the idea that I can actually make decisions for myself, again.”

More than Sam needs to be comfortable with it, Dean needs Sam to be comfortable with it. Because, the truth is, Sam still mostly holds the reins. Sam could easily get another court order that lands Dean’s ass back in his care. Or worse, lands Dean’s ass back in the hospital. But Dean needs to believe Sam won’t do that. Dean needs to trust Sam, and Dean needs Sam to trust him.

Sam sucks in a long breath through his nose. Irritation still clings around his mouth, but he’s clearly making an effort to bring things down a notch. “It’s not fair for you to ask for my help and then totally ignore me when I try to help you. Especially when – honestly, Dean? – you’re not doing a great job at convincing me you’re okay, right now.”

Dean’s been in some pretty shit situations, but he still doesn’t think there’s anything more terrifying than trying to convince someone you’re not crazy when that’s exactly what they already believe you to be. It sends chills shooting down his entire body. His stomach clenches. A high wine of panic starts up in the back of his head.

The shrink that evaluated him after the first time he landed himself in a psych ward when he was 19 – the one Dad broke him out of – thought Dean had antisocial personality disorder because of his criminal record, disregard for authority, recklessness, and stubborn, near-constant lying. Those two and a half days were, quite frankly, some of the most terrifying Dean’s ever experienced, because how the fuck are you supposed to convince someone you’re not a sociopath when one of the defining features of sociopathy is manipulation?

“Too bad, Sam,” Dean says. His throat is tight. “Cause you’re not the most important person I need to convince.”

“Whatever,” Sam says. Dean knows his little brother well enough now to know that he talks big about opening up and sharing and caring until he’s confronted by something he doesn’t want to talk about; that’s when he shuts down. Dean feels a little triumphant for having reached Sam’s breaking point, and a little bad about it, too. “I’m gonna be late for work.”

“Great,” Dean says. “You got all your stuff?”

Sam just rolls his eyes, but he gathers what remains of his stuff scattered around Dean’s apartment, cramming it into his overnight bag. “I’ll check in later,” he says, and it sounds a little like a threat, but Dean lets it go.

“Sounds good.”

Sam leaves without another word. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Dean deflates, letting the tension bleed out of his muscles. He doesn’t dare collapse back onto his bed because he might not get up again, so, instead, he leans against the counter and shuts his eye. At this rate, Dean will also likely be late for work, but he needs to take a minute to calm down.

It’s a pretty shitty way to start the day, and it doesn’t get much better after that. Bobby, bless him, doesn’t make a big deal out of the missed day of work, and Rufus and the boys only tease him a little for being a week-ass bitch for getting taken out by another stomach bug – which is Dean’s standard excuse for missing work because of this crap.

But he spends the day in a haze. He’s distracted and slow and makes a mistake on a ridiculously easy repair that ends up prolonging the job for another two hours. Bobby’s ready to toss him out on his ass by the time he’s leaving the garage for the day.

He texts Sam when he gets in: don’t bother calling, getting an early night. And he isn’t even trying to be passive aggressive, or anything; he genuinely does crawl into bed as soon as he eats what passes for dinner.

Wednesday is just as shitty. He switched to a higher Zoloft dose, like Victor told him to, and changing up meds always makes him feel drowsy and nauseous for a few days. Thursday is just as bad, maybe worse, because Bobby pulls him into his office at the end of the day and tells him to take another day off on Friday.

“I don’t want you killing yourself to come into work when you’re not up for it,” Bobby says gruffly, which is his version of sincere, and one Dean’s a lot more susceptible too than Sam’s.

“I’m up for it, Bobby, really,” Dean insists, but even he can see that it’s a losing battle. Bobby’s got that stern tilt to his eyebrows that brooks no arguments, the kind of expression that meant business when Dean and Sammy were kids and needed to get their asses to bed so help me God, I ain’t gonna count to three.

“Sam wasn’t exactly secretive about the fact you had a rough weekend, kid,” Bobby says. Dean stifles the heavy sigh that wants to climb out of his throat because of course Sammy wasn’t secretive about it. It ain’t his life; why does it need to be private?

“I’m fine,” Dean says.

“Sure,” Bobby says. “And you’re gonna be even better after you rest up over a long weekend.”

“If you don’t want me working on the cars, I can help in the office,” Dean says. He sounds desperate. He know he sounds desperate; but it’s the not-keeping-busy that kills him sometimes. He needs to work, even if he’s doing a shit job.

At the same time, Dean hates himself for begging Bobby like this. Bobby’s done too much for him already. Truthfully, Dean should have been fired five times over by now. Bobby should have, at least, never taken Dean back after he got out of prison. If Dean actually cared shit for Bobby or his business, he should have quit a long time ago and freed up Bobby’s roster for someone who was actually good at their job.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t know cars. He does. It’s just that he’s unreliable. Sometimes he’s good: he’s quick and skilled and has a head full of knowledge that only comes from working under a hood since he learned how to walk. And other times, like now, he’s sloppy and stupid.

Bobby looks pained. Dean knows he’s put him in a rotten position: pulled between his obligation as a boss and his fondness for Dean. But Dean really needs this job. And he really needs to stay full-time. Because he needs the health insurance if he wants to afford his drugs and sessions with Victor and Pam. And he needs the steady income for even the slimmest chance that a judge –

During the two years Dean lived with Sam, Dean scraped by on a combination of disability benefits and the part-time pity work Bobby threw at him, but even then he was only making enough to keep his head above the water that was fines, medical, and court payments. Living expenses, much to Dean’s ire, were mostly covered by his infinitely more employed little brother, the same little brother who threatens to toss Dean off a roof if he so much as thinks about paying him back. You practically raised me, Dean! Sam protested. You dropped out of school so you could pick up another job and buy me soccer cleats!

Which technically isn’t the exact reason why Dean dropped out of school, but what Sammy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

And, sure, Dean could always hustle. He’s turned to pool and poker during the worst of times, along with other questionably moral actions. But Pam’s technically filed all those under his “manic urges,” so they’re not supposed to be options anymore. Which Dean thinks is unfair, because he doesn’t think it should count as reckless behavior if he wasn’t actually losing money.

“Kid,” Bobby breaks through Dean’s train of thought, and, son of a bitch, Dean knows he’s zoned out at a pretty rotten time. “Go home,” Bobby prompts him firmly, but apologetically. “I’ll see you Monday, alright?”

Dean’s stomach sinks, but he gives Bobby a smile to let him know there’s no hard feelings. It’s a plastic smile, Dean knows. Or at least it feels like his lips are made of plastic.

“Sure, Bobby. See you Monday.”

The rest of the day passes in the same kind of meaningless haze. Dean forces himself to call Sam when he gets in to his apartment and makes mindless small talk for five minutes before finding an excuse to hang up; the two of them have been circling around stiff neutrality ever since their argument on Tuesday morning. As long as Sam wasn’t going to bring it up, then Dean was also content to act like everything was normal.

Dean’s tempted to write off Friday entirely. He’s in bed until 5:30, wrestling with his desire to call Pam and lie about a migraine, a broken arm, or ball cancer – anything to get him out of his session. But he figures Pamela will be able to metaphorically see through any shit Dean can come up with, so he drags himself out of bed and directly down to the bus stop so he can get to her office on time.

As Dean shuffles his way into her office, he is excruciating glad Pam can’t see him. He looks like shit. Not that he usually looks super great; he comes in right after a work shift. But today he’s in a pair of ratty sweatpants and a hoodie, something he literally slept in.

“So,” Pam begins as soon as Dean dumps himself onto the couch in front of her. “Heard you had a bad weekend.”

“Wasn’t great,” Dean says, because it’s not like he can lie. Not when Sam literally called Pam while Dean was in the middle of a mental breakdown.

“Wanna talk about it?” Pam asks.

Thing is, Pam would listen to him if he said no. Pamela’s never pressed him to talk about something he’s not ready to talk about. Hell, they’ve barely touched Dad or Dean’s childhood. All she asks is that he talk to her about something, or at least warn her if he just wants to sit there silently for 50 minutes so she knows he hasn’t, like, passed out or died on her floor.

“There’s this guy,” Dean starts haltingly. He doesn’t want to talk about Sam, or work, or meds, so the first thing that pops into his head is Cas. “He lives in the apartment under mine. He’s this weird artist dude who, like, paints pornos with his ex. But they’re classier than pornos.”

“Mm-hm,” Pam says. There’s just enough emphasis in that mm-hm that tells Dean he’s doing the thing where he rambles with too much detail to avoid talking about the actual issue.

“And – we, ah, almost hooked up.” Dean clears his throat. “But I told him I wasn’t…that I didn’t want to. Even though I did.”

“So, why not hookup?” Pam asks.

Dean’s again grateful she can’t see him. He rubs the back of his neck. “Dunno,” he mutters. “Cause of the whole taking a break thing.”

“And why are we taking a break, again?” Pam prompts him.

Fucking we. Fucking we aren’t taking a break. Pam is probably getting plenty of action. Dean almost calls her out on it; it’s right on the tip of his tongue when he stops to wonder if that’s what shrinks call deflection.

“Cause, I dunno,” Dean says. He’s looking at his shoes now. He fucking hates this shit. “Cause it’s not great to, like… I don’t know.”

Pam helps him out, “Because you’d like to focus on building healthy relationships. And, ultimately, you want to control your mania, not let your mania control you. And you know that sex is a trigger for an episode, right now – something you’d rather avoid.”

“Yeah, that,” Dean says.

“So,” Pam continues, “it sounds like you made a good choice when you told this man you didn’t want to hookup with him. Do you agree?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. Without even realizing it, he’s closed his hands into fists. His fingernails are a little longer because he hasn’t been great about personal grooming this week, and he focuses on the pinch in his palms for a minute before he makes himself relax. “Sure.”

“I’m not sensing a whole lot of conviction,” Pam says.

“It’s just, ah,” Dean clears his throat again. Fuck. It’s dry in here. “It made me think about how, ah, I was missing out on what would probably have been a great night with a pretty cool person. He has these tattoos down his arms, and….” Dean trails away because he’s doing it again.

“Would you say you were more disappointed in missing out on the sex or the intimacy?”

Dean shrugs. Before Pam can chastise him, he adds, “I dunno.”

“Have you considered getting to know him outside of the bedroom?” Pam says. “You said he lives below you, correct? I’m sure you probably see each other around the building.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why the fuck did he even bring this up? “Sure. I considered it. But –” but Cas doesn’t want to. Dean doesn’t have to ask. He already knows Cas doesn’t want to be friends. People don’t want to be Dean’s friend. Dean’s even been avoiding Charlie this week because he wants to soften the blow of her inevitable betrayal.

“But…?”

“But, he doesn’t want, ah, that,” Dean says. “Like, a relationship or, ah, I mean, to be friends.”

“Did you ask him?” Pam says.

Dean’s back to digging his fingernails into his palms. He swallows. “I just know he won’t want to.”

“How will you know if you don’t ask him?” Pam continues doggedly. Fuck. Dammit. She sounds like Sammy when he thinks he’s being all unwaveringly logical.

“Because, ah.” Dean’s chest tightens, almost like he’s going to cry. There’s something about Pam’s office that makes that kind of reaction all too likely. It’s like after he cried once in this place, his brain associates it as somewhere he can safely let his guard down. Which is totally not what Dean wants to happen, right now. “Cause people don’t want to unless…he’s not going to want to if he’s not getting sex out of it.”

“Okay,” Pam says. She digests this explanation with a nod. “So, you worry that people only value you for what you can provide them? And in the case of this man, you worry he won’t want to be your friend unless you can provide sex?”

“Sure,” Dean says, but his heart is tripping in his throat. His eyes are burning, and it’s taking every ounce of his control to not start bawling. And he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want this to be such a big deal.

“Do you wanna talk about why you view your body as a business transaction?” Pam suggests delicately, like she might already know.

But the idea that she would know, that anyone would know, is so paralyzing, Dean can hardly breathe through it. The answer is no. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He maybe never wants to talk about it.

“No,” Dean whispers. Maybe too quietly.

But Pam clearly hears him, because she nods again, and she doesn’t press him. She just makes a tiny note on her keyboard, probably marking this as a point of interest or some shit. She lets the moment sit there for a second, giving Dean time to find equilibrium again.

“Alright, let’s brainstorm,” Pam finally breaks the silence. Her voice is gentle, but also chipper. There’s something about her frank attitude that stops her from sounding totally patronizing. “What are some easy things you can do tonight to make yourself feel better?”

Chapter Text

Pamela – despite the ropes of crystals, strange pendants, and protective charms she wears around her neck – subscribes to a fairly practical self-care methodology. So she sends Dean home with a list of incredibly simple actions to do before he crawls back into bed: one, get off the bus two stops earlier so he has to walk the rest of the way, thus getting fresh air, exercise, and sunlight. Two, drink two glasses of plain water as soon as he gets into the apartment. Three, take a shower.

Dean does, in fact, feel marginally more human after he follows Pamela’s three steps. He even makes himself dinner. Sure, it’s just a simple chicken alfredo with the leftover rotisserie chicken Sam picked up from the store and canned sauce he’s pretty sure any true Italians would scoff at, but he throws some tiny broccoli pieces in it too, just out of his unshakable desire to please his little brother. Dean snaps a picture of his dinner and sends it to Sam as proof of ingested vegetables.

Sam replies: looks delicious!

Dean’s still not 100 percent, and he crashes pretty hard after dinner. He digs out his laptop and discovers Sam’s still logged onto his Netflix account, so he watches something mind-numbing that he can’t really follow – movies have been difficult to pay attention to for a while, unless it’s something he’s memorized word-for-word. But it has explosions, hot babes, and car chases, which makes him miss his own car, sitting pretty in Bobby’s garage. He pines after her for a few minutes before he decides that’s probably only going to result in more thought spiraling, so he downs another temazepam.

It’s the third time this week he’s resorted to sleeping pills. He’s not supposed to be bothered by this. Victor prescribed them with specific instructions to take them every night – and, damn, Dean forgot to tell Victor about the meds like he’d promised Pam.

Dean’s always felt skeevy about meds, especially the stuff that has such noticeable, immediate effects, like the sleeping pills or valium, which he only ever takes when things get so bad it isn’t even him taking the medicine, but someone else telling him to.

Dean tried to explain it to Sam once, how he didn’t like relying on meds to do stupid, normal stuff like sleeping. But then Sam came back with well, you don’t mind relying on booze, which basically shut the conversation down.

The sleeping pill carries him through the night. He wakes up groggy and like his head is too heavy for his neck, but his chest is noticeably lighter. After he chugs a mug of crappy coffee – still not as bad as the mud they served in prison – he feels good enough to go for a run. He usually doesn’t run on the weekends, because he likes to use the extra time to sleep in, but he feels guilty about missing so many days during the week.

Dean fucking hates running. He always has, even when Dad made him and Sam do it when they were kids for those stupid drills or whatever. It’s supposed to be about maintaining a healthy lifestyle, but Dean can’t deny that at least part of it is to keep his weight down.

Several of his meds cause weight gain because of slowing metabolism or retaining water. Dean used to be stick-thin when he was a teenager, which had more to do with lack of food than any regimented lifestyle. He definitely bulked out in his twenties, but he tries to stay relatively trim. Pam tells him it’s okay to miss some of the benefits of manic episodes, as long as he also remembered all the self-sabotaging aspects – because she’s big on the whole all feelings are valid bull – but Dean still feels a little guilty for missing his obsessive, frenzied two A.M. workouts because they sure made keeping fit easy.

Now, though, Dean will balloon if he’s not super careful about keeping to a balanced diet and regular exercise. He doesn’t need to have, like, a six-pack; he’s totally okay with the inch-thick softness on his belly. He just doesn’t want to look like all he did over the past week was lie in bed.

He puts in a few extra minutes both ways, and, for once, the endorphins seem to have kicked in. It’s a nice day: cloudless skies, a warm breeze, low humidity, and Dean manages a couple genuine smiles at the people he passes on his way back through the park across the road from his apartment.

Dean lets himself into the building, but he’s distracted by voices coming from behind the doorway to Gabriel’s apartment. Gabe tells someone, “You do realize normal people sleep during the night and are awake during the day, right, Cassie?”

“Society unfairly favors morning people,” Cas’s familiar deep voice replies, grumpy like it had been last weekend when he woke up in Dean’s apartment.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabe says back. “Tough luck, kiddo. Kali’s gonna be here in ten minutes, and unless you wanna work the cameras, then you really need to scram.”

Gabe pushes the door open before Dean can run up the stairs and pretend like he wasn’t eavesdropping. “Ah ha,” Gabe says upon seeing Dean. “Howdy, Deano. See, Cas? Be like Dean. He’s already up an' at ‘em and – God – have you even been exercising? Gross.”

“Hello, Dean,” says Cas. He comes around Gabriel. He is tousle-haired and droopy-eyed with sleep.

“Um, hi,” Dean says. This is the first time Dean’s seen Cas since he spent a sexless night in Dean’s room. Dean has no idea how he’s supposed to act right now. He feels irrationally like he just ran into an ex in the supermarket.

“Tell my little bro to get his rear in gear, Deano,” Gabe says. He gives Cas a little shove in the back to send him out the door. “I got shit to film.”

It’s too much: Gabe’s mysterious studio, the music Dean heard coming from downstairs a week ago, and now camera work and Kali. Dean can’t not ask.

“Ah, film?” He says, doing a passable job at casual.

Gabriel answers, “Artistic exploration of the human body,” at the same time Cas says, “Pornography,” and Gabe shoots his brother a disgruntled look.

“I used to produce porn,” Gabe explains to Dean. “But Kali makes it art.” His eyes glaze over in rhapsody.

Cas swings his head to face Dean. “He and his girlfriend film erotic videos, and they post them to the internet.”

“It’s not like you don’t capitalize off your girlfriend’s naked body.” Gabe rolls his eyes.

Castiel flares his nostrils. “Meg is not my girlfriend. And her portrait is not sexual. In fact, it is meant to be just the opposite.”

“Hey, it ain’t like sex can’t be art, right, Deano?”

Dean’s so taken aback at being thrust back into the conversation – he’d honestly thought the brothers had forgotten he was there – that he just gapes for a minute. “What?”

“I never said sex could not be art,” Castiel snaps, ignoring Dean entirely. “I merely corrected your interpretation of my artwork. I believe copulation is among the utmost of artistic endeavors via the physically intimate expression of love, but the depiction of erotic behavior for the express purpose of sexual excitement is literally the definition of pornography –”

“Oh, God,” Gabe says. “Go regurgitate a dictionary somewhere else. Dean, I told you to get him out of here, didn’t I?”

Both eyes turn to Dean, who has one foot on the stairs; he’s ready to bolt. “I, ah – listen, I really didn’t mean to intrude –”

“No matter,” Cas says. He twists away from Gabe with a final petulant look Dean well-remembers from Sammy’s earlier years. “I need to collect some of my things from my studio before I leave. Dean, I’ll follow you up.”

“Ah, sure.”

Gabe sticks his tongue out at Castiel’s turned back before tossing a quick wave at Dean and disappearing behind his back…to, ah, prepare for his girlfriend, or whatever. Dean’s pretty sure it’s not something he wants to think about.

“I imagine you have similar disputes with your brother?” Cas says as he and Dean begin the climb.

Dean chokes on a laugh, “Not exactly similar. But, yeah, fights I’m used to.” Dean pauses. They still have two more flights before they get to Cas’s floor. “What were you doing there so early, anyway? I thought you had your own place to crash in?”

“I occasionally stay at Gabriel’s when I work late.”

“You were working late?” Only one more flight, then Dean can make his escape. Not that Dean wants to escape. He doesn’t mind chatting with Cas. It’s just that he doesn’t want to make things worse than they already are.

“Yes, I finished Maternity.” Cas clarifies, “the painting Meg modeled for me.”

“Oh, wow,” Dean says. He definitely doesn’t need any reminders of walking in on Cas and a naked Meg. “That’s awesome, dude. Congrats?”

“Thank you,” Cas says. They’re at Cas’s floor now; they pause on the landing. “Would you like to see it?” Cas asks. His voice is his typical dead-pan, but maybe Dean imagines the hint of hopefulness that passes through his blue eyes.

“I mean, sure,” Dean says. Because what else is he supposed to say? No? You can’t say no to an artist when they ask you to look at their newly finished piece.

“Wonderful,” Cas says. He cracks a smile and leads Dean through the door onto the third floor. Cas opens the door of the apartment for Dean, and Dean ducks inside, strangely aware of how close to Cas’s body he has to get to walk through the narrow doorway.

Without a naked Meg to distract Dean, he’s immediately struck by how colorful Cas’s studio is. Every inch of wall-space is covered in vibrant and textured canvasses. Dean spots individual portraits, cityscapes, landscapes, and strange, unearthly places that look like they belong in a fantasy realm or dream. It’s strange: the paintings are all done in a bright, rainbow spectrum of colors. Dean would have thought Cas’s style would’ve been more…refined? Subtle?

“It’s on the easel,” Cas directs Dean.

Dean steps across the room to the easel set up across the now empty stool. He comes around the other side and looks at the painting.

Yep, there’s Meg. And she’s naked, balanced crisscross-applesauce on top of her stool, arms cradling a blue swaddled infant. Her body is splashed with colors: deep reds drip down her chest, blue shading on her arms, yellow light around her head, green hollows in her cheeks. She’s not looking at the baby, but right through the center of the painting, like she’s breaking the art equivalent of the fourth wall. There’s a disdainful curve to her eyebrows that Dean remembers from what little he paid attention to Meg’s face. Dean wonders if Cas purposefully copied her sick-of-this-shit attitude or if it was something that unintentionally seeped onto the canvass.

“It’s really…colorful,” Dean says stupidly. He doesn’t even mean it as an insult – instead, it’s just the opposite: the layers of color are entrancing and intense. They make it hard to look away. But Dean has no idea how to articulate that, and now he’s worried Cas is going to think he’s making fun of him, or something.

“Thank you,” Cas says. “I have synesthesia.”

“Um,” Dean looks away from the painting and finds Castiel’s face. “What?”

“It’s a neurological condition,” Cas explains calmly. “When one sensory pathway is stimulated another unrelated sense also responds. Mine is sound to sight, which is technically called chromesthesia.”

“Oh, wow, really?” Dean replies, sounding stupider by the second. “That’s really cool. I mean, is it cool?”

Cas smiles again, a swift upturning of the corner of his lips. “It is cool. It can also be overwhelming, but I’ve learned to adjust to it. I’m inspired by the colors I see while I work.”

Dean doesn’t know how much he’s allowed to ask about it; after all, Dean has plenty of neurological conditions he doesn’t like to talk about.

“So,” Dean tries, “Like, each sound is connected to a different color?”

“In general, yes,” Cas replies quickly. He seems completely at ease, except he’s doing this weird thing with his fingers: tapping his thumb to each fingertip one after another, so rapidly it looks carefully rehearsed. Dean wonders if it’s a nervous tick, like Dean has with pressing his fingernails into his palm. Cas continues, “When I paint, I also paint what I hear. Birds chirping, traffic below us, the voice of my models, and the music I listen to are all reflected in what colors I choose.”

“Whoa,” Dean replies. “That’s crazy, man. So, you’re, like, seeing me speak, right now?”

Cas smiles again, “Yes. I have what’s called projective synesthesia. It means the colors appear in what looks like the physical plane around me, as opposed to associative synesthesia, which results in strong associations or feelings when a certain sense is activated. It’s hard to describe what it looks like…almost like fireworks, perhaps. They’re large bursts of light and color around your head.”

Dean looks around himself like an idiot, as though he’s expecting to see little explosions of…he doesn’t know. He’s aching to ask how his own voice appears to Cas, but that feels like the kind of information Cas should volunteer, himself.

“Trippy, man,” Dean says. Stupid. So fucking stupid.

“Yes,” Cas grins. “Hallucinatory drugs can, in fact, mimic the experience.”

“So,” Dean doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say. He’s acutely aware that, if Sam were here, he’d be asking intelligent questions about artistic technique or color theory or some shit. “People buy stuff like this?”

“They do,” Cas replies. “In fact, I have an exhibition this Saturday at a gallery on Newberry Ave. You could come if you’d like.”

Dean’s fairly certain exhibition means an entirely different thing in the art world. An art gallery definitely sounds more like Sam’s scene than Dean’s, but there’s a candleflame of warmth that ignites in Dean’s belly at the fact that Cas asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says. “That’d be nice.”

“Excellent,” Cas says with a wide grin; it’s an infectious look on him, and Dean can’t help but smile, as well. “I ordinarily loathe shows. Gabriel refuses to come with me, and Meg is busy with a client. It will nice to have a friend with me.”

The candle grows into a roaring fire. “Awesome, man, absolutely.”

Then there’s a moment where the two of them are sort of just smiling at each other, and Dean’s sort of aware that maybe it’s a little weird, but he also doesn’t want to ruin it by saying something.

Finally, Cas says, “I don’t want to keep you from your day. Thank you for looking at my art.”

“No problem,” Dean insists. “Any time, dude.”

Dean excuses himself from Cas’s apartment and goes up to his own. The crackling fire in his chest keeps him company for the rest of the day.

OOO

Dean is a total chump when it comes to pleasing Sammy; that much has always been obvious. Which is why Dean takes the packet of Nicorette with him onto the fire escape after dinner instead of his cigarettes. He grumbles while he mashes the gum into a tacky ball inside his mouth, but it’s half-hearted. What he really needs the cigarettes for is to keep his hands and head busy, and they give him just enough of a buzz that he doesn’t want to rush off to the nearest liquor store for a fifth of whiskey. And Dean guesses that the Nicorette basically does the same job, but he still doesn’t need to be happy about it.

“Oh my God,” Charlie says when she climbs out of her window. True, Dean doesn’t technically need to chew his gum outside, but he can’t pretend seeing Charlie wasn’t part of his motive for coming onto the fire escape. “Is that a habit I see being broken?”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles around the wad of gum. He hates chewing gum. It makes him so aware of his tongue and saliva. “I’m doing this to appease my little brother.”

Charlie shrugs, “He sounds like a pain, but can’t say he’s wrong on this one.”

“You do understand that smoking weed is still smoking, right?” Dean says.

“Tomato tomahto,” Charlie says. “Anyway, distract me, I think I’ve reached the fourth stage of grief. Life is awful and I’m never going to find love again.”

Dean snorts. “I’m really not the person to come to for cheering up.” He tries to keep his voice light-hearted, but he can’t completely hide the cynical bend to his tone.

Charlie picks up on it, and she approaches with a sympathetic smile. She joins him at the banister and jostles his arm with her elbow, “Ah, come on. We can’t both be depressed.”

Dean cycles through a half dozen sassy comebacks, but none of them are strong enough to rise up his throat. He’s never been great at joking about his mental issues, unlike other people who toss around things like I put the ‘bi’ in bipolar like it’s second nature. Sure, he’s batted around the off-hand comment or two about being crazy or batshit insane, but Sam never seemed to appreciate it, and seeing as Sam’s been pretty much Dean’s solo audience for the past two years, he kinda fell out of the habit.

Dean doesn’t realize he forgot to respond at all until Charlie knocks him with her elbow, again, but it’s a soft knock, more of a gentle rub. She raises an eyebrow. “You know what this calls for, right?”

“Hmm?” Dean says, jarred out of his thoughts. “What?”

“The quintessential reality tv extravaganza,” Charlie replies with a grin. It looks a little forced; Dean’s played happy often enough to recognize the signs on someone else. And he knows he’s going to agree to whatever she suggests, even if he already doesn’t like the sound of where this is going.

“I think I’m afraid to ask,” Dean says.

“Ah, come on,” Charlie continues. “We’ve got Queer Eye, The Great British Bake Off, RuPaul, Say Yes to the Dress. You’ll love it.”

“None of that crappy wedding shit,” Dean tells her.

“Don’t be a spoil sport,” Charlie swats him on the shoulder and pouts a little. “Come on,” she adds brightly. “I’ll make popcorn.”

Dean makes the proper noises of annoyance, but he follows her in through her window. To his secret enjoyment, they start out with the baking show, which is something he’ll never admit to liking. The wedding crap comes next, but that idea is quickly vetoed when Charlie cuts it off with a groan.

“Ew, gross, happy couples,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “You should be proud of me,” she adds, picking up the remote to click over to RuPaul’s Drag Race. Charlie pauses her cursor over the episode on her Netflix home screen. Dean helped her angle her desk toward the couch, so they’re watching on one of her three large, flatscreen monitors. They’re sharing her loveseat under the window, which means they’re sitting kind of close, but it feels comfy and casual. Charlie has a way of unabashed sprawling that feels entirely welcoming. “I nearly flushed my phone down the toilet just so I wouldn’t be tempted to text her. But I’m a strong, independent woman, dammit, and I persevered.”

“Proud of you, kid,” Dean obliges. “She ain’t worth it.”

They’re half-way through episode three of RuPaul, which is another show Dean will never admit to finding secretly delightful, when Charlie gives him a cheerfully calculating look that immediately puts Dean on edge.

“What?” he demands, mouth full of the microwave popcorn.

“You know, you have really long eyelashes and killer cheekbones, dude…”

“No,” Dean cuts her off. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on, please,” she wheedles, pausing the episode and getting into Dean’s face.

Dean tries to edge away from her. “No way. I refuse to be a painted whore.”

“You expect to get away with that kind of slut-shaming crap?” Charlie reprimands him. “Besides, I don’t even have the stuff to go full glam. Just a little mascara and contour. Maybe a nice red lip –”

“You come near me with lipstick, and I will bite your fingers off,” Dean warns.

“But they’re so plump and pretty,” Charlie wines.

“Fuck you, they are not,” Dean says, but it’s without any heat. He covers his mouth with a hand so Charlie will stop looking at his frikken plump lips, but she grips his wrist and tries to tug it away.

“Don’t hide your beauty!” Charlie demands. She’s smiling, and without really realizing it, Dean’s smiling, too. He twists away from her and blocks her next grab. It’s sort of like wrestling with Sam when they were kids. Charlie is unexpectedly strong and agile.

“Go paint yourself!” Dean protests. He gives it up as a lost cause and decides defense is his only option. He buries his face in both his hands.

“Pretty please!” Charlie insists. She chortles and tries to tug at both his wrists. Dean twists away, but he miscalculates the amount of space on the loveseat, which is how he ends up on his ass on her floor. Charlie shrieks and lands on top of him. Her attack is relentless: “I was deprived as a child! I never had those fancy Barbie makeover head things! You have to let me! Please let me!” She gives up on trying to ply his hands away and turns to underhanded tactics: tickling.

“You – fucking – dirty – cheat,” Dean gasps as he attempts to writhe away from her fingers on his ribs.

“Haha!” Charlie cries triumphantly as Dean drops his hands to try to get her to stop poking him. Dean is loath to hit a girl, but he can’t deny that Charlie’s asking for it. He moves in one fluid motion – with reflexes built up over years of being a kick-ass older brother and the obsessive military-esque training Dad put them through as kids. He dives for her unguarded midriff, but Charlie responds easily, rolling out of the way and curling into a defensive ball like a turtle retracting into its shell.

“Abort! Abort!” she cries through laughter. Dean’s laughing, too, the kind of startled, unintentional glee that can’t be faked. It feels loose inside his chest, and his cheeks hurt from smiling.

There’s a few more moments where Charlie squirms on the floor and Dean takes advantage of his upper hand until she’s squealing for mercy. Dean falls back, gasping, against the couch, and Charlie wipes away tears of mirth.

“You’re lucky I didn’t use my super-secret ninja skills,” Charlie says direly. “I could have crushed your head between my thighs in two seconds flat.”

Dean huffs a laugh, “Sure, Bruce Lee.” He offers her a hand and helps her slide over to join him against the base of the couch.

“So,” Charlie says with a pause. “Just the mascara?”

“Oh my God,” Dean groans. He rolls his eyes hugely. There’s a painful, nervous twist in his stomach that he tries to ignore. This ain’t like getting turned out. This is just Charlie screwing around. He sighs, “Fine.”

Charlie fetches her makeup bag from the bathroom and fishes through it for various long, thin tubes.

“Uh-ah,” Dean says firmly when she comes at him with a narrow brush. “Eyeliner’s a no go.”

“You know,” Charlie says around a sheepish smile. “It really isn’t helping your whole macho-machismo-manly-man image by knowing the difference between eyeliner and mascara.”

Dean sputters for a minute before he catches sight of the mischievous glint in Charlie’s eyes, and he gives in with ill-grace. “Just get it over with, Pretty Woman.”

Charlie gets on with it. She grumbles briefly, “Why are guys’ lashes always so long,” as she attacks him with the black wand. Dean is a good patient, closing his eyes, opening his eyes, and blinking when she tells him to, overall feeling like a total schmuck, but at least this crap will wash off, and it’s not like he’s planning on seeing anyone else tonight.

“So,” Charlie makes conversation as she works. Dean’s currently trying not to flinch as she gets way to close to stabbing him in the eye. “Your whole chastity thing doesn’t extend to being my wingman next weekend, does it? I think I need an all bets off, reckless, and filthy rebound to get my mind back on track.”

Dean nearly laughs at the word chastity, because if one thing’s true, it’s that Dean Winchester has never owned a purity ring in his life. Born-againer, he is not.

“Consider me there,” Dean promises. Look at him – Cas’s gallery thing, a bar with Charlie, and the company picnic all in one weekend. It’s like he actually has a social life; Sammy’ll be proud. If Dean ever gets around to talking normally with his brother again, that is.

“Hell yeah,” Charlie says. She pulls away and caps the wand. She gives Dean a long, hard look, and he fights the desire to look away. His eyelashes feel weirdly heavy, like there’s dust caught in them, and he curls his fingers into fists so he doesn’t immediately try to wipe the feeling away. Charlie grins, “I’m a fucking genius – I’ll get a mirror!”

She’s up and away like a shot. Dean blinks to try to adjust himself to the strange feeling of the makeup. Do girls walk around feeling like this all the time, or do they get used to it? He finds himself strangely nervous about what he’s going to look like; he can’t look super different. It’s just black goo on his eyelashes.

Dad always used to tell Dean he was too pretty. With a little distance, Dean’s able to understand that Dad was just hung-up on the fact that Dean looked so much like Mom, and he hated being reminded of his dead wife every time he looked at his kid. But that knowledge didn’t help Dean when he was a 14-year-old kid, and he’d trim his eyelashes with nail scissors every few weeks. That was before Dean realized that there were advantages, as well as inherent dangers, to being too pretty. But that’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.

Charlie darts back. She settles on the floor, facing Dean, and thrusts a handheld mirror in front of his face.

Dean focuses on his reflection. He’s immediately drawn to his eyes – which look – well, they look bigger for one thing. They’re lined in black, long lashes, and the darkness serves to make the green look even lighter and more vibrant than it usually does.

His heart does a weird, fluttery jump. It looks – okay, it looks nice. Like, if he was a chick, he’d think he looked nice. And he imagines other people would think it looked nice, too. He can’t help but stare at the rest of his face, too. Unbidden, he wonders what it’d look like if he’d let Charlie do whatever else she’d been talking about, the lipstick and other crap. He swallows because his mouth is a little dry.

“Oh my God,” Charlie interrupts Dean’s thoughts. “Are you having a Princess Diaries moment? You look like a moose. A very cute moose. It makes all the boy moose go waaa,” Charlie quotes, and Dean has no fucking clue what she’s talking about.

“You’re a weirdo,” Dean informs her. He’s aware now that he’s definitely been staring at his face for too long. He makes himself put the mirror down, and he hands it back to Charlie.

“Well?” she prompts. “What’s the verdict?”

Dean smiles; it’s not as easy as before. “I think I’ll buy you one a’ those barbie heads,” he says.

“You’re a little shit, you know that?” Charlie says around a grin. She punches him in the arm.

The two of them settle against the couch again. Every time Dean blinks, he feels the mascara on his eyelashes. The fluttery feeling is still there, and he can’t tell if it’s nervousness or excitement. Part of him feels like he’s a teenager again, afraid that Dad is going to barge into the bedroom while Dean was in the middle of flipping through skin mags, the ones he really didn’t want Dad to know he looked at.

“You should let me do it again when we go out next weekend,” Charlie says.

“You’re funny,” Dean says dryly. But his stomach does a barrel roll at the thought of going into public like this. To change the subject, he says, “Cas asked me to go to an art gallery thing with him on Saturday.”

“No kidding,” Charlie says, sounding equal parts impressed and surprised. “Dude, score. I meant to ask if y’all got lucky last weekend when we left you on the roof.”

“Uhg, no,” Dean says. “Don’t remind me.” But he doesn’t mind her taunting; he’s much more comfortable getting teased about hookups than he is about makeup.

“That sounds like a story,” Charlie says.

“Nothing happened, Charles, I swear,” Dean says. “And he asked me to go with him on Saturday because he wanted a friend to tag along.”

“He said that?” Charlie says skeptically. “Specifically said friend?”

“In English and everything,” Dean confirms.

“Oh well,” Charlie shrugs. “It’s clear he’s in just as much denial about this as you are. When are you meeting him? Any way you can sneak a brunch date in there? Brunch is romantic as hell.”

Dean ignores her comment about brunch. “I’m actually not sure. He didn’t mention a time.”

“Text him,” Charlie orders, but then she must read the realization on Dean’s face, because her mouth drops open in disbelief. “Dude, you don’t even have his number?”

“How the fuck was I supposed to get his number?” Dean protests. “The whole point is to not make him think I’m interested – because I’m not interested.”

“Keep telling yourself that, bucko,” Charlie says. “Whatever,” she adds breezily. “I’ll send you his number.” She digs out her phone and gets busy typing. “Actually, that reminds me. Give me your number, because I cannot believe we haven’t exchanged yet. And while I’m at it, I’ll add you to the building group text. That way you’ll be up to date on all the out of order washing machines and snow removal crap.”

Charlie sends Dean a flurry of texts. He dutifully adds her to his contacts. She sends him Cas’s number and, although Dean rolls his eyes and pretends to ignore the little pulse of warmth in his stomach, he adds that to his contacts, too. Then he’s added to the building’s group message thread, and Charlie introduces him:

Building, say hello to your new neighbor, Dudebro. Dudebro, say hello to building.

Dean shoots Charlie a withering glance, which she intercepts with a grin.

This is Dean, Dean sends, and he hopes the thread will be relatively inactive. He fucking hates group texts. He doesn’t have the message rates to spare.

They watch a few more RuPaul episodes before Dean heads back over to his apartment to crash. He feels a little better, a little lighter, a little less like he’s teetering on the edge of a dark pit. And he spends a few minutes staring at his eyes, again, in the privacy of his own bathroom.

He looks like a girl, he thinks. Too pretty for your own good, Dad says, but it turns into someone else’s purr. Someone Dean can’t put a name to, and Dean shudders. It’s hard to swallow, and he trembles a little as he climbs in the shower and washes it all off.

Chapter Text

Dean breaks his feud with Sam on Friday, when he calls him about what to wear to Cas’s art gallery thing.

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean says, half-despair and half-exasperation. He is not panicking; it’s just that he really doesn’t know what he’s doing. “It’s some kind of art show. What the fuck am I supposed to look like for this thing? Am I supposed to wear a tie?”

“I dunno,” Sam says unhelpfully. “Is this a date?” He asks abruptly. He sounds a little judgmental, which was totally what Dean wanted to avoid during this call.

“It’s not a date, Sammy. Jesus.” Dean rolls his eyes. He switches his phone from his right hand to his left hand so he can sort through the crap in his closet. He cannot remember the last time he picked out an outfit the night before an event. “He just asked me ‘cause none of his other friends could make it.”

“Cause asking you to go to his art show sounds like a date, Dean,” Sam says seriously. “I thought you weren’t going to be seeing anyone for a while.”

“It’s not a fucking date!” Dean says. “Why the fuck do I have so much flannel?” He shoves aside row after row of plaid overshirts, all worn in the elbows and frayed at the cuffs. God, he’s such a slob. He only has a few presentable dress shirts at the back of the closet. They aren’t too terribly wrinkled.

“I don’t have to wear a fucking monkey suit, do I?” Dean groans. He’s too focused on the fact that he has nothing to wear to stay angry at his brother. Dean hopes he doesn’t have to wear a suit. The only one he has is the one he wears to court or funerals, so there ain’t a ton of happy memories associated with it.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. Thankfully he’s stopped pressing about the date thing. “Do you have a nice pair of jeans? You could wear that with a dress shirt, I guess. Can’t you ask him what he’s wearing?”

“Dude, what?” Dean demands. “I can’t ask him what he’s wearing. I’m not a fucking girl.”

“Oh my God, Dean,” Sam blurts out. There’s a brief pause, almost like he’s collecting himself. Finally, he asks, voice forced into calm. “Where is the gallery, anyway? That’ll give you a clue if it’s a high-end event or more casual.”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “He said it’s on Newberry. That’s where all the fancy-ass, snobby people hang out, right?”

“I mean, it’s close to the college,” Sam says.

“Right, so it’s pretentious as shit,” Dean replies.

“Not everyone who goes to college is pretentious,” Sam says.

“Right, just you,” Dean corrects him.

“I think Sarah is a curator at a gallery over there.” Sam ignores Dean.

“Rebound Sarah?” Dean says. He can almost hear Sammy’s eye-roll through the phone.

“Just because you can’t say friends with your exes doesn’t mean other people can’t, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean dismisses him. “So, is it snooty, the place she works at?”

“If it’s the same place, then yeah,” Sam replies. “It’s Heaven’s Gate, or something?”

“Oh shit,” Dean says.

“I’d wear a tie,” Sam adds.

“Yeah, I think so,” Dean replies forlornly.

Dean ends up wearing slacks and a nice shirt. He stuffs his amulet under his collar, so the brass head lays cool against his bare chest. He brings along a tie just in case, but he’s half-way hoping Cas will tell him to leave it in the car.

He feels weirdly nervous. His palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry. The feeling reminds him a little of being 16 and getting ready for his first school dance. Of course, he never ended up going to that dance, but that’s another story. Dean’s a little disconcerted that he feels like that now. He wasn’t lying when he told Sammy this isn’t a fucking date.

He’d finally worked up enough courage to text Cas after he hung up with Sam. He asked him where the gallery was so he could plan on catching the right bus, but Cas told him he’d pick him up at four.

So, now, Dean’s tripping down the stairs, trying to swallow his heartbeat because he does not need to be anxious about this. In fact, it’s probably gonna be really boring. And awkward. It’s going to be a ton of people he won’t know. Cas is going to be busy hobnobbing and talking complicated artsy-fartsy shit with his peers, and Dean will be in the corner, trying to look unobtrusive and not like he just wondered in off the street.

Dean steps onto the curb and looks around for Cas. His eyes immediately skate by an astonishingly disgusting, douchey, and plastic Lincoln Continental. Dean wouldn’t be caught dead in a piece of shit like that.

The driver’s side of the Continental opens, and – good God – Cas steps out. He’s wearing a suit, but he doesn’t exactly look better dressed than he usually is. It’s more like the suit is wearing him: it’s tight in all the wrong places and baggy in all the rest, but Dean finds himself grinning almost inadvertently at the sight. The whole image is kinda distractedly charming in the same way people put hats and sunglasses on cats. Except for the car. The car can go drive itself over a cliff.

“Dude,” Dean exclaims, walking over as Cas waves to him. “What the fuck are you driving? You look like my frikken pimp.”

“What about my car looks like I employ prostitutes?” Cas says with a puzzled frown.

Dean can’t help but smile. He crosses over to the passenger side quickly, tossing a look over his shoulder to make sure no one is around to possibly associate him with this monstrosity. “Because it looks like it’s driven by a guy who owns a mink coat and wears Prada underwear. How do you even get away driving that thing around this part of town?”

Dean ducks into the car. The interior is no less abhorrent: all crisp leather and wood paneling. Dean could gag. Cas takes his own seat. He’s still frowning in confusion.

“Gabriel insisted I buy this car.”

“Your brother literally makes his living off having sex,” Dean replies. “And you just accept his advice?”

“That is…fair,” Cas says, like he honestly has to think about it for a second.

Conversation flows surprisingly smoothly. Dean’s almost grateful for the ridiculous car because it broke the ice.

“So, why art?” Dean asks. The Continental ain’t exactly a smooth ride; it’s the kind of car that likes to be noticed, and the rumble of the engine is audible even in the snug confines of its interior. Dean’s all for cars with a voice – how could he not be, with his own baby waiting for him at Bobby’s – but there’s a class to Baby’s roar that the Continental lacks.

“It’s something I’ve always loved,” Cas replies. “My mother frequently had to tear me away from it when I was a child.”

“And you said you went to art school…” Dean says. He doesn’t want to sound like a total idiot. Like, he knows, theoretically, that art schools exist. But he doesn’t know why or how or for what people would go to them.

“Yes, the fine arts program at Washington University in St. Louis,” Cas answers.

Dean has no idea if he’s supposed to be impressed by that, or not. He runs through what he knows about Cas: he has enough money for an art studio plus a separate apartment and a douchey car. He makes this money off selling his admittedly pretty cool art. So he has to be fairly financially successful. But he doesn’t carry himself like the other rich people Dean’s met – like Sam’s bitch ex-girlfriend Ruby whose daddy funded her apartment and cocaine habit. Instead, Cas seems relaxed and confident to the point of absentmindedness. So, maybe he’s not trying to impress Dean by name-dropping a fancy school.

“Why’d you pick that school?” Dean asks.

Cas shrugs. He drives like a grandma, which further conflicts with his flashy car. A chorus of horns, shouts, and wolf-whistles follow them through the city streets. “It was close to Gabriel. And far enough from home.”

There’s a story there, and Dean wants to ask. But he knows better than anyone not to dig.

“You guys are close, huh?” Dean asks.

“He’s the only one of my family who I’m still in contact with,” Cas says. And, oh shit. Yep. There’s a story. Cas continues without being prompted. “I come from a large Roman Catholic family from Massachusetts. You can imagine they don’t approve of either mine or Gabriel’s life choices.”

“Aw, man, sorry,” Dean says, sounding like an idiot despite his best efforts. “That sucks.”

Cas shrugs again. “It’s been nearly ten years since I’ve heard from my mother. My oldest brothers, Michael and Luke, still send Christmas cards. I’m friends with my sister Anna and younger brother Alfie on Facebook. I’ve gotten over it.”

Dean knows a thing or two about getting over family shit. It’s never that simple. But he’s not going to contradict him.

“Why work at an auto shop, Dean?” Cas asks, and Dean recognizes a deliberate change of subject when he hears it.

“There wasn’t really anything else to do,” Dean says dismissively. “I didn’t go to school, but I’ve worked with cars my whole life. The guy who owns the shop is my uncle – or, well, as good as. It’s just something to do.”

“You must be very capable, if you’ve been working at it your whole life,” Cas says generously, and Dean’s face goes warm. Cas’s voice is perfectly calm; he sounds comfortable. But Dean can’t help but notice that he’s fidgety; it reminds Dean a little of himself to see Cas drum his fingers on the steering wheel, run his tongue over his chapped lips, bounce his left knee as his right works the pedals. Dean wonders if Cas is anxious about his show, or if it’s being in close quarters with Dean that’s making him nervous.

“Nah, man,” Dean deflects. “Just fair. I’d like to get more into classic restoration,” Dean adds, and immediately wonders why. He doesn’t talk about his aspirations with other people. He doesn’t even talk about that shit with Sam. Dean doesn’t have the luxury of aspirations. He adds the caveat, “But you gotta know the industry for that. Plus, I’d need a course at a trade school, if I want people to take me seriously.”

“It sounds like a worthy goal,” Cas says. “I think you should do it…We’re here.”

Dean’s never been so glad to arrive at a location, even if it’s some lame-o art gallery. Anything to stop this conversation in its tracks.

“I, ah, meant to ask,” Dean says, as Cas rounds the hood and joins him on the curb. “Am I supposed to wear a tie to this thing?”

Cas scans Dean from top to bottom, and that doesn’t help the rush of blood to Dean’s face. He purses his lips and replies, “No, I think you look quite handsome, as is.”

Jesus Christ.

Cas turns without another word, and it takes Dean’s brain a second to catch up with his legs and make himself follow him into the building. The gallery is a building smushed between an Italian bistro and a women’s boutique. It’s definitely in a part of town that Dean does not often frequent. And Sam guessed right: the name above the building is Heaven’s Gate.

Walking through the door reveals about what Dean expected: tall ceilings, stark, minimalist decorating, a bunch of pale people walking around in suits and dresses, holding glasses of wine. Dean feels very out of place.

The gallery, itself, is a sterile white box, interrupted by bright paintings that Dean recognizes as Cas’s. Dean doesn’t spot his newest portrait, the one of Meg, among them. In fact, none of these appear to be paintings Dean saw in Cas’s studio, which makes Dean wonder just how many painting Cas has, because a quick count adds up to 25 paintings on the walls, and there were way, way more than that lying around Cas’s studio.

“Ah, the man of the hour.” A pasty, pot-bellied man hustles over to Cas, looking just exactly like what Dean imagines a funeral director would look like. “Castiel, welcome. Welcome.”

“Zachariah,” Cas says with a curt nod. Immediately, the whole things feels suffocating, posh, and phony – Dean cannot believe he got dragged into this. “Please, let me introduce my friend, Dean Winchester.” Cas waves a hand to indicated Dean; Dean doesn’t miss how Zachariah’s eyes dart down Dean’s body, and, boy, is he happy he decided to wear good pants instead of jeans. Even still, he knows the other man’s eyes catch the imperfect creases down Dean’s slacks, the wrinkled cuffs of Dean’s shirt, and the scuffed toes on his dress shoes.

Cas rocks from toe to heel, and back again, probably another nervous tick, made worse by this Zachariah bozo, and Dean’s a little relieved to conclude it was the art show bothering Cas, not Dean, himself.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester.” Zachariah smiles stiffly. “Any friend of Castiel’s is certainly welcome. Please, come make yourself at home. Ms. Blake,” Zachariah snaps to gain the attention of a young woman in a pencil skirt and kitten heals. “Refreshments for our featured artist and his friend, please.”

The woman turns and approaches. As soon as her eyes fall on Dean, the synthetic smile on her lips melts into confusion before reforming into something much warmer.

“Dean,” she says kindly. Dean feels his own rush of relieved recognition, and he greets Sarah Blake with a smile. Dean notices Zachariah’s eyebrows pucker slightly, clearly at Sarah’s lack of decorum in addressing Dean and not the featured artist.

“Lovely to see you again.” Sarah comes forward with her hand outstretched. She shakes Dean’s hand first before turning to Cas, who also gets a warm smile; Dean can tell they already know each other. “And you, Castiel. How are you?”

“I’m well, Sarah, thank you,” Cas replies. He’s still bobbing nearly imperceptibly on his toes. “You know each other?” he nods between Dean and Sarah.

“I’m an old friend of Dean’s brother,” Sarah replies easily, and Dean marvels at her ability to be so casual about it. Sam’s right: Dean can’t imagine being friendly with an ex. All his relationships always blow up in his face.

“Excellent,” Cas replies. “I was worried Dean would be bored without anyone else he knew.”

“I’m always happy to be of service,” Sarah says with a quick grin. “Come on, lets get you to the booze.”

“Now you’re talking my kinda language,” Dean says.

Sarah leads the way to the back of the room, chatting easily as she goes, “Mr. Adler – you’ve just met – he owns the gallery. But I curate the collection.”

“And she does so quite skillfully,” Cas adds. “I always admire how you arrange my work.”

“Thanks,” Sarah replies, smiling modestly. “You’re one of my favorite artists to play around with. Your themes are always really coherent.”

This is around the time Dean zones out. There’s a table in the back of the room manned by a caterer in a white jacket. He’s giving out wine, and even though Dean can count on one hand the amounts of time he’s enjoyed drinking wine, he makes sure to accept a glass. The table is lined with heaping dishes of finger foods, so Dean loads up a couple plates with Swedish meatballs, miniature crab cakes, and tiny teriyaki chicken skewers. Just because it’s arrogant as hell doesn’t mean it’s not damn good food.

Dean hands off a plate of food to Cas, who smiles gratefully at him; it makes Dean feel all warm and fuzzy again, so he quickly stuffs a meatball into his mouth so he doesn’t do something embarrassing.

The place is starting to fill up with more asshats wearing suits and frilly dresses, the exact kind of rich people Dean tries to avoid at all costs. Cas apologizes when he gets dragged away by someone to answer questions about a piece near the front of the room. Sarah sticks around, probably so Dean wont’ feel lonely.

“Are you interested in art, Dean?” Sarah asks. Dean knows this is just a curtesy; she never really knew him very well, but she definitely knows him well enough to know he’s not interested in art. Sarah and Sam only dated for a couple weeks, but Dean always liked her on the principle that she dug his little brother out of his post-Jessica slump. Not to mention that was right after the accident, so Sam had to contend with Dad and Dean, plus a broken heart, so the kid definitely deserved a good lay.

“Nah,” Dean says. “Just supporting.”

“That’s sweet,” Sarah says. “How long have you and Castiel…?”

“What?” Dean says, at the exact moment he understands what she’s implying. And it suddenly clicks, exactly what this looks like: Cas holding the door for him when they came in, Cas introducing him to Zachariah, Dean bringing Cas a plate of food. Zachariah’s coolness was likely due to more than just Dean’s cheap clothes. It may be 2011, but it is the Midwest, after all. “No. Sorry, no. We’re just friends.”

“Oh,” Sarah’s face flushes, but she recovers herself with a laugh. “Sorry. It’s sweet of you, regardless, to come along. I know these things can be a drag if you’re not in the art world.”

Dean’s a master at leading conversation away from himself, so he guides it toward Sarah. In the six years since Dean’s seen her, she got her master’s in art history, and she’s engaged to a guy named Ian, even though they haven’t gone ring shopping yet. They talk a little bit about Sam; she’s surprisingly well-informed about his career moves and even knows about Amelia, but she doesn’t know about Eileen, yet, so Dean guesses that hasn’t gone Facebook official or whatever the fuck kids say these days.

Eventually, Sarah’s called away to deal with curating duty, and Dean’s left alone. He loads up a second plate of food and retreats to the corner of the room, where he’s not in anyone’s way, and he can observe Cas without looking like a total creeper.

Dean’s eyes track Cas across the room as he makes his rounds to tiny groups of patrons. Dean expected Cas to be more at ease here than anywhere else – these are his people, after all. Other artists and art-admirers. But Dean was wrong; Cas appears ill at ease and awkward talking to the other patrons. His voice is stiff, like he’s rehearsing lines he memorized for a play. And Dean can tell he’s off-putting to the people who’re asking him questions and trying to engage him in conversation: Cas stares too much, injects uncomfortable non-sequiturs, and is abrupt to the point of rudeness, accept Dean knows the poor guy is obviously just nervous.

Dean tries to ignore his own second-hand embarrassment and wonders if there’s a way he can rescue him.

Maybe Cas can read minds, because he looks up suddenly and catches Dean’s eye. He smiles swiftly, excuses himself from the middle-aged woman cooing over one of his paintings, and practically jogs over to join Dean in the corner.

“You okay?” Dean greets him. “You looked a little freaked over there.”

Cas shakes his head and lets out a long breath. He’s standing too close to Dean, but Dean doesn’t protest. But he can’t help the flash of goosebumps that result when Cas’s shoulder bumps his. Cas’s fingers flex and curl into fists; Dean’s given the impression that Cas is fighting the desire to paw at Dean’s arm.

“Frankly, I despise these things,” Cas says, bobbing once more from toe to heel. “And I despise myself for taking their money, at all.”

“Really?” Dean says, shocked that Cas would speak so bluntly when they could be overheard by anyone. “Why do you do it then?”

“There’s a complicated friction between art and profitability,” Cas explains. “It’s hard to strike a balance. I never bring the pieces I actually like to things like this, but then I worry that I’m cheapening my art even further because it feels more like production than invention.”

“That, ah,” Dean swallows. He wishes he had more wine, but he downed his glass a while ago. “That’s all way beyond my paygrade, dude. But, hey, if it helps – I think your stuff is cool. It doesn’t look mass produced, or whatever, to me.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says warmly, tension in his shoulders deflating slightly.

“Hey,” Dean bumps his elbow against Cas’s arm. “When do you get out of this thing?”

Cas looks immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry if you’re bored – I didn’t mean to abandon you. But if you need to leave –”

“Cas, buddy,” Dean laughs. He nudges him again. Cas’s arm is warm and firm, and Dean remembers the black feathers that are hiding under the shirt and suit jacket. “I just wanted to ask if you wanna grab a burger or something after this. The munchies are nice, but I feel like I’m eating crumbs. Plus, it looks like they’re sucking you dry.”

Cas responds to Dean’s suggestion with a wide smile. “I’d like that, Dean. I think I can make my excuses in another 20 minutes.”

OOO

Cas isn’t just damn sexy. He’s also wry and sarcastic. Dean knew all this before, but it’s established now that Dean’s spent an afternoon and evening with him. He also loves a good burger. What’s more, he’s never been to Conner's Diner, which is

“A damn fucking shame, Cas,” Dean tells him. “Make a right here –” he interrupts his tirade to point down the next street. “Downright sinful, actually. You’ve lived here how many years and you’ve never been blessed with the nectar and ambrosia that is a cold beer and a bacon cheeseburger from Conner’s Diner? Left at the light, and it’ll be next to us.”

“Five years,” Cas replies.

“Huh?” Dean asks, after Cas makes the turn and starts scanning for an empty spot on the curb.

“You asked how many years I’ve been here,” Cas clarifies. He is much calmer now that he’s been removed from the crowd at the gallery. “I moved right after I graduated.”

“Then you’ve gone five years too many without tasting these burgers,” Dean replies. Cas parks the car. Dean hops out onto the sidewalk. He feels good. He feels good because he’s had a nice afternoon with a friend. He feels good because he’s about to eat the most delicious bacon cheeseburger this side of the Mississippi. He feels good, and he’s trying not to worry about it.

Dean gets to the door first. He holds it open for Cas. The diner is all 1950s nostalgia: red stools at the long counter, booths under the windows, a genuine jukebox on the far wall.

“Howdy boys, take a seat,” a waitress calls from behind the counter. Dean leads them to the back, which is just an excuse to get near the jukebox, so he can pop in a quarter and line up “Riverside Blues.”

Cas slides into the booth while Dean’s busy, and Dean joins him across the table. The first strains of the song start playing and tug right under Dean’s ribs. Shit, but he misses his baby. He can’t wait until he can get on the road again and just drive.

“So,” Dean says, doing some quick math in his head. “You graduated five years ago?” And maybe Cas just has one of those faces that looks older – there are bags under his eyes, and his heavy eyebrows and perpetually confused expression give him wrinkles around his nose – but he sure as hell didn’t look like he was still in his twenties.

“I began at Washington when I was already 24,” Cas replies. “It was actually my second degree. I received my first at 22 in philosophy and theology. I intended to go to seminary and become a priest. I believe you can guess why I ultimately decided against it,” he finishes with a wry smile.

“Damn, that’s a lot of school.” Dean whistles low. “My brother Sammy’s a lawyer. That was seven years, I guess. But he took a break in the middle.” Dean doesn’t add – he took a break in the middle because Dad died and his older brother was learning how to walk again and popping oxy like Tic Tacs.

“College isn’t for everyone,” Cas says generously, which Dean thinks is nice; after all, Cas already knows Dean’s a loser who didn’t go to school. He doesn’t need to be so understanding about it. “Personally, I found it to be a solace. It was somewhere I could learn to be who I was without outward influences.”

Dean doesn’t need Cas to explain who he means by outward influences.

“What’ll it be, boys?” a pretty waitress in a white apron and ballet flats sidles over. The conversation waylays from there to include which IPAs are douchey enough to count as craft beer and if they should order a plate of the fried mac and cheese balls.

Dinner is delicious. Cas is enraptured with the burgers, and Dean tries very hard not to gloat. He’s trying to pace himself on the beers. Sam was pretty totalitarian about alcohol, so it’s been a while since Dean’s had booze. Still, a lifetime of built up tolerance means Dean’s one glass of wine and two beers haven’t left much of a dent. Although it’s technically not recommended he drink at all on his meds. Plus, he’s got the night out with Charlie to consider.

“Charlie and I were going out tonight,” Dean says on an impulse. He’s just having a good time; Cas’s dry humor and scathing commentary about anything and everything are things Dean wouldn’t mind keeping around. “You should tag along.”

Cas’s forehead dips in regret. “I’m sorry, but I promised Meg I’d go out with her tonight. She felt bad about missing the show.”

“You should bring her along, too,” Dean blurts out. So, maybe the beer is hitting him harder than he thought.

“That might be fun, Dean,” Cas says. His brow smooths back out, and it’s one of the best things Dean’s ever managed to do in his life. “I’ll text her.”

Cas gets a response nearly immediately from Meg.

“She wonders if this is a veiled proposition for group sex,” Cas says, reading off his phone.

Dean chokes on the last dregs of his beer. “God, no. No group sex.”

There’s a hint of a smile digging into Cas’s cheek that makes Dean wonder if he’d made up the whole thing.

“She’ll come,” Cas replies, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “But she needs us to pick her up at work.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Dean says. Inwardly, he’s panicking just a little at the size of the production he’s staged.

Dean says he’ll pay for the meal, Cas protests, Dean insists, and the whole time he’s telling himself ineffectually that this is not a date. It’s totally okay for a dude to pay for another dude’s meal, especially because it was Dean who suggested dinner in the first place.

Meg works nearby, so Cas suggests picking her up on the way, then reconvening with Charlie at the apartment before leaving for their grand night out. Which reminds Dean that he has to text Charlie.

I think I just crashed your rebound night, he texts her. I asked if Cas wanted to come, and now he’s bringing his friend, too.

Cas? Charlie replies. The Cas? The Cas you insist you have no romantic intentions toward?

Shut up.

Cas pulls up in front of a shop on a corner. It’s clearly closed, but there’s a pink fluorescent sign over the door: Pure Evil. The large storefront windows are painted with the words Tattoos, Body Piercings, Permanent Makeup, Laser Removal.

Meg is waiting outside, propped against the building, sucking on the last dregs of a cigarette. When she spots Castiel’s car, she stubs her smoke out on the brick side of the building and drops it on the ground without looking for an ashtray.

“Hello, boys,” she drawls when she climbs into the backseat of the Continental. She brings the smell of smoke in with her. “I’m shocked and offended you don’t want to have a threesome, Deano.”

“Yeah, sorry, I don’t share well,” Dean replies, before he quite registers what that implies.

“Typical,” Meg says. “Clarence doesn’t either.”

Thankfully, Dean doesn’t have to respond, because Cas changes the subject.

“Did you eat?” he asks Meg, voice surprising serious as he looks at her through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, Mom,” Meg says pointedly, rolling her eyes.

“I did not give birth to you,” Cas mutters. Meg laughs and rolls her eyes again, this time fondly. She reaches over the front seat to ruffle Cas’s hair, which makes him scowl.

“There’s the Clarence I know and love.”

“You’re a tattoo artist?” Dean asks, craning his neck to look at Meg.

“Yup,” Meg replies. “I inked the wings on Castiel’s back you must have seen by now.”

“Oh awesome,” Dean says on reflex. “They’re really good.”

“And you said you weren’t having wild and kinky sex,” Meg reprimands Cas.

Shit. Dean really should have seen this coming.

“We’re not,” Cas scoffs. And Dean immediately starts analyzing the we’re not. Does Cas sound disgusted? Or offended? He clearly wanted to have sex with Dean before, but has that changed? Is Dean totally misreading this situation?

A spear of anxiety slices through Dean’s chest, and he tries to shove it back. He feels good. He doesn’t want to spend this night feeling anything but good.

By then, they’re pulling up in front of apartment building. Dean expects Cas and Meg to veer off for Cas’s studio, but they follow him to the fourth floor.

Charlie’s door swings open, like she’s been waiting for them. She’s wearing a yellow t-shirt, tied up to expose her midriff, with a cartoon of a t-rex on it and the legend T-Rexy and I know it, light wash jeans with rips at the knees, and a pair of green converse with what looks like hand-drawn Yoda heads on them.

“Guten Tag, bitches,” she says. “We ready to eat ass and take names?”

“The proper term is kick ass, I believe,” Cas inserts.

“Speak for yourself,” Charlie retorts.

Meg gives Charlie a once over. Side by side, the two girls could not be more visually different. Charlie is a rainbow of color and cheer whereas Meg looks scathing and dour in leather-look leggings and a black denim jacket. Dean really hopes this wasn’t a bad idea, and he immediately feels a little guilty for ruining Charlie’s evening by asking more people to come along. She’d said she was fine with it, but maybe she’d secretly been hoping for a night out with just Dean.

“You boys aren’t gonna wear that,” Charlie says, running a judgmental eye past Dean and Cas. “We’re going to Cesar’s.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes,” Cas says.

“Just wear one of your boyfriend’s shirts,” Meg says dismissively. “You two are about the same size.”

“We’re not –” Dean protests futilely.

Charlie interrupts him, pointing to Meg, “I like you. Charlie Bradbury." She extends a hand. Meg takes it with a grin.

“Meg Masters.”

“Dean.” Charlie turns to Dean when she drops Meg’s hand. “Clothe thy neighbor, please.”

“Jesus,” Dean says. But then they’re all filing into his apartment. Cas, at least, has the grace to look a little apologetic. But it is clear, despite the fact they’re technically two against two, that Dean and Cas have been outvoted by the girls.

“Ever heard of decorating, Deano?” Meg sneers, glancing at his bare walls.

“Gonna have to stage an intervention,” Charlie adds.

“Har har,” Dean tells them both.

Dean heads over to his closet to fish out a change of clothes for Cas. He’s only got one good pair of jeans, and he grabs a t-shirt at random, sniffing it covertly to make sure it’s clean, before he tosses them both to Cas. Then he snags his own change of clothes and heads toward the bathroom.

“Someone’s modest,” Meg calls after him. Dean flips her the bird before he closes the bathroom door behind him so he can change without all their prying eyes.

Dean tugs on his jeans and switches out his dress shirt for a black t-shirt and a red button down. It’s one of his favorite looks. He’s not someone who spends a helluva lot of time on his looks – Dad always thought any kind of vanity was girly – but he likes the combination of the dark red with his eyes and skin tone. As he gives himself a pass in the mirror, he can’t help but wonder how Charlie’s mascara would look, but he swiftly dismisses the thought. He runs his hands through his hair and tugs his amulet from under his collar, so it lays against the black shirt.

He comes back out of the bathroom to find Cas also changed. Meg is unabashedly looking through Dean’s closet for a belt. Charlie is trying to convince Cas to keep his tie on because it makes him look hip. But Dean’s mainly distracted by the sight of Cas in Dean’s clothes: a navy Henley, just a little wide in the shoulders – and faded jeans, a little tight in the hips; he looks – he looks really good.

“We ready to go?” Dean rasps through an unexpectedly dry throat.

Meg looks over at him calculatingly, and Dean gets the impression that she’s zeroing in on everything he really doesn’t want people to see, right now, including the very faint stirring below the waist as he can’t help but imagine what Cas had looked like as he stripped when Dean was in the bathroom.

“Cute necklace,” Meg smirks. She finds a belt and tosses it to Castiel.

“My brother gave it to me,” Dean says, closing a protective hand over the amulet.

Cas snakes the belt through his jeans. When he straightens up, he, too, looks at Dean’s necklace. “What is its origin?” Cas doesn’t wait for a response. “It looks like it’s Egyptian. Or perhaps Mesopotamian?”

“I dunno,” Dean says uncomfortably. He doesn’t feel great under the scrutiny of so many eyes. “It’s just something I wear. I think Sammy mentioned it was supposed to be protective, or some shit. Not that I fall for woo-woo crap like that.”

“It is perhaps Lamassu, a Babylonian protective demon,” Cas says.

“How the fuck do you know these things?” Meg demands.

Charlie slides an arm into the crook of Dean’s elbow. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” she says. “I am so ready to get drunk and make out with strangers in a bathroom.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a really long time since Dean’s gone out with a group. In fact, he can’t recall ever doing it before. Sure, he’s been out with Benny, Garth, and some of the other guys from work, but that’s always been an early Friday evening thing. He was in his twenties the last time he went out for a night on the town. It feels a little bit like he’s been transported back in time as they all pile into Cas’s car and follow Charlie’s directions to Cesar’s.

It’s a bar Dean’s never been to before. The door is hedged on one side by the American flag and the other by a pride flag. Dean’s been to his share of gay bars; he kind of had to if he wanted to pick up guys. He knows better than most that approaching the wrong man in the Midwest can result in a blackeye or worse.

Charlie leads the way into the bar. Dean’s relieved to see it’s not one of those trendy, club-type places. Instead, its traditional wood features are soaked through with the familiar smell of beer and sweat. The floor is tacky with spilled alcohol, and there’s even a pool table in the back. It’s been decorated in what looks like authentic Mexican decor: colorful tiles on the walls and flags strung from the ceiling. And there’s fast-paced music playing with lots of trumpet and twangy guitar.

“Hola, Jesse!” Charlie shouts to someone at the bar.

“Good to see you, Charlie,” the bartender replies; he’s a bald man with a beard and mustache.

“Jesse and his husband Cesar host a D&D campaign upstairs every other Tuesday,” Charlie explains as they weave their way through a moderate sprinkling of patrons. They find themselves a table in the corner of the bar, for which Dean’s grateful. There’s definitely a friendly, lively feel to the place, but it’s also a little overwhelming. He can see a sort of dazed look on Cas’s face, as well, and he wonders what all this would be like with his sound-to-sight thing.

“They also give me drinks half-off, so first round’s on moi,” she finishes with a wink. “Oh yeah, we’re also getting a couple plates of chalupas because, holy shit, Cesar is in the kitchen, and you can’t miss out.”

“I’m vegan,” Meg pipes up.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Charlie says with genuine sorrow at the same time Cas says, rather fiercely, “No she isn’t, she just doesn’t want to eat.”

Meg scowls at Cas. Charlie shrugs. “Oh well, more for me. Drinks?”

“Whatever’s on tap,” Dean says.

“For me as well,” Cas adds.

“Vodka soda,” Meg answers.

Charlie flounces away toward the bar.

Meg immediately starts in on Cas. “Can you stop making such a big deal about it all the time?”

Dean clears his throat. “I’m gonna help Charlie with the drinks.” He sneaks out of his chair and crosses the floor back to the bar. Charlie’s leaning across the counter, engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with Jesse.

“– And she’s already deleted everything from social media, like I never even existed, so who needs that crap, anyway – Dean!” Charlie smiles brightly when she notices Dean. “Meet Jesse. Jesse, Dean – he’s my new best friend.”

“Evening, man,” Jesse says, reaching across the counter to shake Dean’s hand. “Any best friend of Charlie’s is welcome here.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. “It’s a nice place.”

“Isn’t it?” Jesse says with a warm smile. He glances around the bar like he’s admiring it for the first time. “Gotta hand it to Cesar. It’s his vision.” Jesse gets their drinks as he talks, lining up one after the other on the counter. “Food’ll be out in a minute. And I’ll keep an eye out for anyone looking a little lonely.” Jesse directs his last comment with a wink to Charlie.

She grins conspiratorially and snatches ahold of Meg’s vodka and her own drink – some kind of flavored margarita by the looks of the peach-colored liquid and salt on the edge.

“Being pals with the bartender has it’s perks,” Charlie informs Dean as they make their way back to the table. “I have met many a lass through Jesse’s good word.”

Meg and Castiel have stopped arguing by the time Dean and Charlie return, but a general disgruntled air lifts with the arrival of the drinks. From there, things are smooth and cheerful. Charlie is good at carrying conversation, and Dean finds a groove between her sunny chatter, Cas’s wry humor, Meg’s acrid sarcasm, and the constant stream of booze. He feels loose and happy, buzzing a little in the residue of the energy around him.

Cas is laughing about something Charlie said, one of those genuine chuckles that spread his lips wide and wrinkle his nose. He looks really good in Dean’s shirt. And his blue eyes glint in the low light of the bar.

Dean’s sitting diagonally from Cas, so it’s relatively easy to stare at him without looking obvious. But he feels a prickle on the side of his head, and he turns to see Meg is watching him, eyebrows raised.

Dean’s face flushes. He stuffs another half of a pork chalupa into his mouth to hide his discomfort at being found out. Meg continues to stare at him; Dean looks away.

Meg’s taken her jacket off in the heat of the bar. She’s wearing a spaghetti strap tank top underneath, which accentuates her jutting shoulder blades and clavicle. He gets a closer look at the tattoos on her shoulders and down her arms: block letters spelling out strange words and wispy, occult-like symbols. Dean thinks he recognizes a pentagram.

As the night goes on, more people fill up the bar. The music gets louder, and a space near the back of the room, closest to the speakers, starts filling up with people bopping and swaying to the beat.

Charlie’s eyes dart from the dancing to the table, and she declares, “Alright, who’s with me? Dean?”

“Fuck no,” Dean says. “I don’t dance.” It might have been something he’d do in his twenties, but not at 32 with a bad leg.

“Spoil sport,” Charlie pouts. Her eyes land on Cas. “Up and at ‘em, Cas,” she orders. “I need a way to get into that crowd of beautiful ladies, and you are it.”

Cas looks a little alarmed, but Charlie’s already up and pulling on his hand. Meg laughs and shoves Cas out of his chair, so he’s forced to totter after Charlie. Charlie pulls him into the middle of the crowd, shows him how to sway his hips to the music, and promptly dissolves into hysterical laughter, clutching at Cas’s shoulders to stay on her feet, as he attempts to mimic her.

Dean finds himself unconsciously grinning at the sight, and he can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if he’d actually taken Charlie up on her offer – could he have gotten Meg and Cas to join them, as well? Probably. Almost definitely. Flirting is what Dean does. It’s turning it off that’s the hard part.

“What are you on?” Meg asks Dean suddenly.

“Hmm?” It takes a second for her voice to register. “What?”

“What drugs are you on?” Meg repeats herself. Her eyes are flinty, but the rest of her face is neutral. Dean’s not sure if she’s making casual conversation or about to start interrogating him.

Even below the thrum of good feeling in his chest, Dean feels a brief stab of anxiety. His first impulse is to deny that he’s on anything, and he wonders how the fuck she even knows. “I’m not –”

“Dude.” Meg's smile is a little twisted. “I get it, okay? The whole trying too hard shit? I know chemical aid when I see it.”

Dean meets her eyes levelly before he bites his lip and looks away. He tries to find Cas and Charlie again, but they’re lost in the crowd by now. “I’m on Abilify, lithium, and Zoloft. I’ve got valium for emergencies.”

“Score,” Meg says, impressed. “Here I am with just my Prozac.”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Prozac doesn’t agree with me.”

“Lithium,” Meg says thoughtfully. “That’s a mood stabilizer, right? Bipolar?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He doesn’t really understand the etiquette, here. He tries asking, “You?”

“Good old fashioned MDD, baby,” Meg says. “Plus anorexia to spice things up. That’s why Clarence is so anal about the food thing.”

Dean nods in comprehension. According to Cas, there’s nothing between them, but Dean can’t help but prod. “You guys seem really close.”

Meg levels him with a skeptical look. “We’re not fucking, if that’s what you’re getting at. But I know you already knew that, Deano. We broke up nearly four years ago. Tried making a go at cohabitating and everything, but we were young – I mean, Cas was young, but I was younger. We started dating when I was 21. Plus, I’ve always been all about the free loving thing, but, like I said, Clarence doesn’t share.”

“Right,” Dean says. His stomach does a half-hearted flip when she mentions fucking, Cas, and even cohabitating. He wants to ask her why she’s being so forthcoming, but she’s not done yet.

“So, let’s do the math, okay?” Meg leans across the table, bracing herself on her elbows so her face is right in front of Dean’s. Neither of them is drunk – not really – but he can smell the vodka and citrus on her breath. “21 to 24 – that’s three years of passionate, imbalanced, and borderline toxic relationship knowledge pertaining to Castiel Novak. I know he folds each individual pair of underwear before putting them in the drawer. I know he hates mornings more than he hates his mother. I know his favorite midnight snack is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches – creamy Jiff, Smucker’s grape, and plain-ass white bread. Whiter the better.

“But mostly.” Meg looks downright dangerous. Dean wouldn’t doubt that in another life – maybe even in this one – she wouldn’t hesitate before doing someone grievous bodily harm and leaving the body behind a dumpster. “I know that he is the kindest, gentlest, and loyalist idiot on the planet. And no one’s easier to take advantage of than a loyal idiot. So,” she finishes. “The mixed signals? Cut ‘em out, okay? You’re either in, or out. But do yourselves both a favor and don’t jerk him around on a leash.”

Dean swallows a slow breath. He thinks about Sarah’s assumption earlier this afternoon, and the steady stream of couple jokes he and Cas have been subject to all evening. He thinks about kissing Cas a couple weeks ago. He thinks about telling Cas how he couldn’t give him more.

“Listen,” Dean begins. “I get the whole protective friend thing, but we’re really –”

“See?” Meg leans back, cocking an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m talking about. This denial schtick? It isn’t exactly cute. In fact, I’ve puked a little in my mouth each time one of you looks at the other when you think he won’t notice. I don’t know what your deal is, Deano, but grow a pair, okay?”

Dean’s pissed off, and he’s not even sure if he understands what Meg is trying to tell him.

“Cas already knows I’m not –” Dean starts headedly.

“Not what?” Meg challenges him. “Eye-fucking him every chance you get? Listen, I’m not even telling you to stay away – God knows you probably have reasons enough to stay out of his life. And I’m not saying you have to marry the guy. But can you please just make up your mind?”

“Awesome,” Dean gets out of his chair because he’s about a second away from totally blowing up in her face. “Thanks for the advice, sweetheart, but, really? It ain’t none of your business.”

Dean turns on his heel and heads out the door of the bar. He needs a cigarette. Fuck Sam and his fucking Nicorette. It’s cooler out on the darkened street. He can still hear the bas of the speakers coming through the door, but it’s otherwise silent.

He props himself against the side of the bar and lights up. He tries not to think about what Meg told him. He doesn’t need some bitch to tell him to grow some balls. How he feels or doesn’t feel about Cas is none of her business. And Dean tries really hard to hang on to the why behind saying no to Cas in the first place. But, right now, buzzing with a few beers and bathed in the smoke-doused, burnt rubber smell of a summer night on a city street, it’s really hard to think about anything else than how it would feel to kiss Cas again.

Dean holds the smoke in his mouth until it makes his gums sting, then he breathes it out through his nose. The bar door opens, and a rush of noise washes out onto the street. Dean doesn’t even bother looking up.

“Charlie has abandoned me to dance with someone she finds more sexually attractive,” Cas’s voice says, and Dean jumps a little to find the other man standing directly beside him.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean breathes.

“I apologize,” Cas says easily. “People often complain that I sneak up on them.”

“Sorry, man. You’ve been upstaged,” Dean says, and he drops his hand onto Cas’s shoulder. Cas’s arm is warm under his t-shirt. His face is flushed red from the heat of the bar and dancing. “Wanna smoke?” He offers his pack of cigarettes.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Cas replies. He joins Dean against the building.

“Getting too old for nights out like this,” Dean remarks ruefully.

“It is rather overwhelming,” Cas allows. “It’s nice to be out here with you.”

It sets off all kinds of alarm bells. It’s a little like in The Lord of the Rings, when Aragorn, the sexy elf dude, and John Rhys-Davies travel through that mountain pass to find all the ghostly green guys. Everything about that trail screamed bad news, but Aragorn and co. just kept trucking.

“Yeah?” Dean says. He scoots over a fraction of an inch, so his arm whispers against Cas’s. “It’s nice out here with you, too.” And then Cas looks at him, and Dean chickens out. Abruptly, Dean remembers how nervous Cas was at the gallery, and Dean feels a little guilty for dragging Cas to another crowded place. “Your sight-sound things ever freak you out?”

If Cas is disconcerted by Dean’s change of topic, he doesn’t show it. He answers thoughtfully, “I don’t know that it freaks me out, per say. I’ve experienced it my whole life, so I don’t know how to perceive the world without it. I suppose sometimes it confuses me that other people might not be as overloaded with sensory input as I am.”

Dean takes the opportunity to give Cas a proper once over. He doesn’t look overwhelmed or panicked, but he’s doing the thing with his fingers again, just tap-tapping his thumb against each fingertip over and over again.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says. And he wonders fleetingly if it would be rude – like if he was discounting Castiel’s experience, if he – but, too late, Dean was already speaking: “I kinda get it. Sometimes things just feel like a lot, you know? Too much noise and stuff. It’s like my brain can’t take it all in, and then it freaks out. Abort mission type a’ shit.”

Cas is still looking at Dean, but now he looks vaguely intrigued. There’s a tiny pucker between his eyebrows. “Is that why you came outside?” Cas inquires.

“Sure, yeah,” Dean says rapidly. He finishes his cigarette and drops it. Then he grinds it into the pavement with his shoe to put out the last red glow of the ember. “Meg gave me the father-with-a-shotgun spiel.”

Cas looks confused for a minute – Dean’s about to clarify what he means – but then understanding dawns in his eyes and he actually frowns, which wasn’t exactly Dean’s intentions. “I apologize if she upset you. Meg can be…”

“A total bitch?” Dean guesses. Fuck. Damn. Way to go, Winchester. Insult his mother while you’re at it, too.

But Castiel barks a laugh and says, “Yes, exactly. But I assure you she has good intentions, even if her actions may not suggest it.”

“I think she might have been trying to warn me off you,” Dean adds. “You sure she ain’t harboring any lingering feelings?”

Cas is already shaking his head. “She was the one who left me,” he explains. Dean remembers what she said, passionate, imbalanced, and borderline toxic relationship, and Dean’s aching to ask what happened between them. Moreover, why are they still friends? “If there was anyone to have lingering feelings, it would be me. And, for the record,” he says with a small smile. “I do not.”

Dean nods. “So, I don’t have to worry about her coming at me with a knife in a dark alley?”

“Well,” Cas says, “I wouldn’t go as far as that.”

Dean laughs. They’re silent for a minute. The kind of silence that burrows under Dean’s skin and makes him itch for something to say. It used to get him into trouble in school all the time. Hyperactivity. Distractibility. Impulsivity. Dean was in high school during the ADHD craze of the early 90s. He had plenty of school counselors dropping the label in his lap, but the idea that Dad ever went to any of those meetings, let alone made a follow-up doctor’s appointment, is ludicrous. Turns out it was just all early warning signs for mania, anyway.

“Listen,” Dean says abruptly. “I know I said before that I wasn’t –”

“Dean,” Cas cuts Dean off earnestly. “I’ve already promised that I won't ask for more than you’re interested in giving me. Whatever Meg says –”

It’s Dean’s turn to interrupt him, “– ‘cause I was gonna say she’s right.”

Cas’s eyebrows dip in confusion. “I don’t think I understand what you’re trying to say.”

Dean turns, so now he’s facing Cas instead of standing side by side. His heart speeds up, pinballs against his ribs like Elton John and those wild two-story platform shoes in Tommy.

“I’m saying maybe Meg has cause for concern,” Dean poses. He steps closer to Cas. Cas doesn’t back away. His eyes stay on Dean’s face, intensely beautiful and calculating.

Don’t do it. Don’t fucking do it, the logical voice in his head says. But, Goddamn, Dean wants to.

“Dean…” Cas says uncertainly.

“Shut up,” Dean tells him. And then he closes the distance between them, dipping his head forward so their mouths meet. Cas makes a low noise of surprise in his throat, but he doesn’t pull away.

Kissing Cas while Dean’s sort of sober is a lot better than kissing him while high. Dean’s more alert now than he was then, and he’s aware of all the little things about Cas’s body. Cas’s mouth is warm. His lips are soft. His hair is feather-like in Dean’s fingers as he brings up a hand and cups the back of Cas’s head. Cas’s arm is firm around Dean’s waist. Cas’s leg moves: his knees rubs the inside of Dean’s thigh, and Dean’s breath stutters in his throat as blood rockets toward his groin.

Fuck.

Cas is so fucking hot. Why the fuck did Dean think this was a bad idea?

“Does it make us bastards if we ditch the girls?” Dean murmurs into Cas’s mouth.

“Charlie has already abandoned us,” Cas reminds him. “And I think Meg will understand.”

“I don’t think she likes me very much,” Dean says. He cranes his neck so he can kiss the underside of Cas’s jaw. Cas moans and bares his neck. A flutter of excitement runs through Dean’s stomach.

“She’s a terrible judge of character,” Cas replies. They’re enough in the shadows that they’re basically invisible from the street. Even still, Dean hears a wolf-whistle from somewhere down the alley opposite them.

“She’s friends with you, isn’t she?” Dean’s breathless with desire, and his entire body is warm, yet Cas’s hand, inching below his shirt to touch Dean’s bare back, just below the top of his jeans, leaves a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.

“Mmh,” Cas hums into the side of Dean’s neck. Dean shivers. “Exactly.”

If it were up to Dean, he’d tug Cas into the alley and get on his knees right this second. Dean’s done it so many times, he can’t count; sometimes he wasn’t even paid for it. But Cas’s free hand closes around Dean’s wrist, thumb right on Dean’s pulse point, and Dean wonders what kind of erratic beat Cas picks up there.

“Car, now,” Cas growls. The order heads right to Dean’s dick, and he falls into step behind Cas like he’s a lost puppy.

Dean has to pull away from Cas so he can get into the passenger side of the car. He detaches with regret and rounds the hood of the Continental. Holy shit, he feels good. He’s grinning like an idiot. He’s practically shivering with eagerness. Fuck jogging; there ain’t any endorphins like sex endorphins.

Dean slides into the car, and he hardly shuts the door behind him before he’s leaning across the center console and finding Cas’s mouth again.

“I trust –” Cas comes up for air. His pupils are blown wide so his blue eyes are practically all black. His hair already looks well-fucked, and Dean can’t wait to tangle his fingers back in the strands. “I trust you are amenable to going back to my apartment?”

“Fuck yes,” Dean breathes. “I am so fucking amenable. Wanna feel how fucking amenable I am?”

Cas grins into Dean’s jaw, and his hand drops onto Dean’s crotch. Dean whines at the feeling of the heat and weight of Cas’s hand over Dean’s erection. He wants nothing more than to unzip his jeans and shove his boxers out of the way. His body is focused on one single-minded goal: getting into bed with Cas and fucking his brains out.

“Fucking drive,” Dean tells Cas.

Cas smirks again, and he nips at Dean’s ear before he pulls away and faces front. “I would if you'd stop being such a distraction.”

“I take that as a challenge,” Dean says.

The engine starts. Cas’s foot finds the gas, and then they’re flying away from the curb. Dean lets out a shaky breath, and he crawls his fingers over Cas’s thigh. Cas squirms under Dean’s touch. The passing streetlights reveal Cas’s face as he bites his lip against making a sound.

Dean inches his fingers closer to the bulge that’s making Dean’s jeans even tighter around Cas’s hips. The fly strains under the pressure, and it would be so fucking easy just to take the zipper down, to slip Cas out, and make it just that much harder for him to concentrate on the street.

Dean’s fingers tug at the fly, but Cas’s throat bobs and his right hand drops abruptly from the wheel, closing around Dean’s hand and pulling it away from his groin.

“Patience,” Cas hisses. He sends Dean a sly side-eye, and then he lifts Dean’s hand to his mouth, kissing the fingers one-by-one, so tantalizingly, painfully slow that Dean’s breath catches and throbs in his throat.

Cas’s apartment is about half-way between Dean’s building and Cesar’s, which is a good thing, because Dean doesn’t think he can stand another ten minutes in the car. As it is, by the time Cas is pulling into a space in the parking lot beneath the building, Dean is practically crawling into Cas’s lap. It’s easy enough just to loop his legs over the center console and climb out of the driver’s side; he doesn’t even have to detach from Cas that way.

Cas chuckles softly at Dean’s show of gymnastics, but he doesn’t complain as the two of them practically spill out of the door, moving in a tangled mess toward the elevator in the corner.

Dean is only aware in the vaguest sense that Cas’s apartment promises to be a lot nicer than Dean’s. Already, he has the advantages of an underground parking garage and a bona fide elevator. Speaking of which, Dean crushes Cas into the corner of the car as soon as the doors slide shut behind them. Cas has to fumble blindly for the keypad to find the button for his floor.

Dean works his tongue into Cas’s mouth. Cas closes his lips around the base and sucks, and Dean’s head goes all fuzzy with the sensation that reverberates down his body. The elevator dings. The door opens, and, clothes disheveled, they tumble into the hall.

Cas’s door is the third on the left. He manages to get the door open behind him as Dean is already working his hands under Cas’s shirt and onto the warm, flat plane of his stomach. He finds that ring of hair around his navel that so intrigued him two weeks ago, and he explores it downward until his fingers hit Cas’s belt.

Cas hits a light switch, immediately revealing a minimalist apartment – it’s sheer, open blankness is in stark contrast to the lived-in quality and vivid chaos of Cas’s studio; Dean can tell Cas probably doesn’t spend a lot of time here. On instinct, Dean turns the light back off, and the apartment is again plunged into darkness.

Cas doesn’t remark upon Dean’s strange behavior. He just keeps walking backward until they’re bumping into another door, and then they’re through to what must be a bedroom, because Cas is tipping over onto his back, and bringing Dean with him. There’s a brief scuffle where they try to kick off shoes as quickly as possible. Hands tangle into shirts and pants as their clothes come off.

Even in his haste, Dean remembers his strict policy – no clothes, no lights. In the back of his head, Dean’s aware of the risk of Cas feeling his scars: dozens of razor-bitten ladders climbing up his arms and legs, but usually his hair is enough to hide the uneven texture of his skin. There’s also the big ones: the inch-long incision where the surgeon went through to repair his hip, and the mess that is his left shin and knee, held together now by a long rod down his tibia and a couple of screws pinning his ACL into the bone, all relics of the car accident that put Dean into a 50 hour coma, month long bedrest, and six month long physical therapy and oxycodone jag.

For a while, the doctors didn’t know if Dean would be able to walk without a limp – but that was after the doctors worried that he’d lose his leg entirely, and after the doctors worried that he wouldn’t wake up at all, or, if he woke up, it’d be with some irreversible brain damage from the swelling in his left cerebral cortex.

Dean’s been told by too many people to count that the fact that he woke up at all – in the ICU with a tube down his throat and another in his chest, counteracting his punctured lung, no one but Sammy to great him because Dad was still confined to his own hospital bed – and the fact that he recovered as well as he did, with nothing more than a twinge of pain in bad weather or when he overexerts himself, is nothing short of a miracle.

Dean could call it something else.

He has to adjust himself as he straddles Cas’s hips, dropping more weight onto his right leg so he can take the strain off his bad hip and knee, but it’s ultimately not a problem. Cas is flexible and athletic; he easily picks up Dean’s slack.

It’s been nearly five months since he’s had sex with a real person instead of just his fist. And, damn, it feels good. All sweat-slick skin and warmth. It barely takes any time at all for Dean to finish – which is actually downright impressive because most of his meds cause delayed orgasms – and then he pulls Cas over with him.

The two of them end up twisted up in the sheets, covered in sweat and drying come, breathless and giddy.

“I definitely do not have the stamina of a teenager anymore,” Dean says.

“It’s the quality rather than the quantity,” Cas replies, and Dean chuckles. Turns out, Cas is a snuggler. Dean wouldn’t have thought it by looking at him – a scruffy dude who’s more likely to trade a scathing barb than a kind word – but he’s a total octopus in bed. After a perfunctory, “Stay here,” and a return with a damp cloth to clean them up, Cas wastes no time to curl back up in bed, pillows his head on Dean’s chest, wraps an arm around Dean’s middle, and sticks a leg between Dean’s knees.

Dean’s slept with a lot of people, some who are into postcoital cuddling, some who appreciate a brisk retreat, some who enjoy pillow talk, and some who don’t. Dean’s gotten really good over the years at figuring out what his partner wants from him after sex. Dean, himself, usually feels loose and a little loopy, more comfortable than he usually feels in his body. If he could have it his way, he’d totally be down for a little TLC every time, which is why he doesn’t protest Cas’s clinginess.

Dean breathes into the peaceful, comfortable darkness of Cas’s bedroom. He relishes the steady rise and fall of Cas’s chest against his own. The smell of his hair, close enough to Dean’s face that Dean can burrow his nose in it a little and not come off as strange.

“You think they’re mad at us?” Dean asks. His breath ruffles Cas’s hair a little. “For leaving?”

Cas smiles; Dean can feel the tug of his cheek against his bare chest, “I think it’s worth it, regardless.”

Again, Dean feels a little flutter of guilt for ruining Charlie’s evening in yet another way: first by crashing her party with extra people and, second, by dumping her early to have sex. Fuck. Why doesn’t he ever think about these things before he just does stuff?

With the fading afterglow of his orgasm, Dean again becomes aware of the fact that he’s naked in bed with Cas, and he starts thinking about how he might covertly roll over and grab his long-sleeve shirt again without looking like a total weirdo.

“Gonna check to see if I have any texts,” Dean hedges and gently slides out from under Cas. Cas whines, but then he huffs and rolls over to the side of the bed so he can fish his own phone out of his jeans.

Dean snatches ahold of his overshirt and tugs it on before he comes back up with his phone. He thumbs it open and finds several texts from Charlie – thankfully they’re all about going home with the hot chick she bumped into on the dance floor, so Dean feels better about ditching her for his own hookup.

“Charlie’s fine,” Dean informs Cas.

“Meg is incensed,” Cas lets Dean know.

“Not surprised,” Dean scoffs. Then Cas burrows back against Dean’s side, so Dean slings his arm around his shoulders. Dean’s eyes are adjusted enough to the darkness by now that he can see the dark shadows that make up the feathers down Cas’s arms; he didn’t get a chance to see how the tattoos expand across his back, like Meg mentioned.

It isn’t the only ink Cas has. Dean notices a tattoo across his left ribs: strange symbols that look like lettering. It’s not a language Dean recognizes, but the blocky, ruin-like style looks familiar, and Dean wonders whether Cas let Meg practice her technique on him.

“What’s that?” Dean asks, reaching to touch Cas’s skin, just above the writing.

“It’s my name,” Cas explains lazily. “In Enochian.”

“I have no idea what Enochian is,” Dean admits, tracing his fingers across the letters. He can feel Cas’s ribs move underneath him as he laughs.

“It’s an angelic language, recorded by the 16th-century occultists, John Dee and Edward Kelley,” Cas explains. “According to Dee, it was the language used by Adam in the Garden to name all things.”

“Holy shit,” Dean says. “Didn’t learn that one in Sunday school…not that I ever went to Sunday school.”

“My father studied angels,” Cas goes on. “He had a massive library filled with books about them. It’s why he named his children after them.”

“You’re named after an angel?” Dean asks, feeling pretty stupid while he says it. Why the fuck does Cas even know about 16th-century occultists?

“Yes,” Cas replies with a small smile. “Castiel is widely considered to be the angel of Thursdays, although it’s also a possibility it was a misnaming of the archangel Cassiel, who was cast out of heaven along with Lucifer.”

“Thursday, huh?” Dean says. “I never could get the hang of Thursdays.”

“Is there something about the day you find particularly troublesome?” Cas inquires.

Dean laughs, “Nah, man, it’s a quote from a book.” Ordinarily, Dean would never admit out loud to reading something as nerdy as Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but he’s fairly certain that they’ve just proved that Cas’s nerdiness far outweighs Dean’s, at this point.

“So,” Dean presses. “That why you wanted to become a priest, or whatever? Cause of your dad?”

“No,” Cas says simply. For a minute, Dean’s afraid he asked something he shouldn’t have, but then Cas continues, “My father left when I was very young. I don’t have many memories of him.”

“Oh,” Dean says. He kind of wishes Cas had stayed silent. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to –” What? Bring up painful memories? Introduce the topic of absent fathers? Dean searches for something to say to guide the conversation away from dangerous waters, but Cas begins again.

“My mother wanted me to be a priest. At the time, I thought it was an ideal occupation because clerical celibacy seemed like a good excuse to resist the parts of myself that I’d been told were sinful.” Cas’s characteristic bluntness is no less shocking for its regularity. It makes Dean’s stomach squirm every time. How can there actually be people in the world so unabashed about sharing their lives? “But certain experiences in school taught me that I wasn’t suited for the priesthood, so I dropped out.”

“What experiences?” Dean says before he can think better of it. It’s sort of like hurtling down train tracks on a diesel engine.

“I had an affair with an older man,” Cas replies matter-of-factly. “A professor, in fact. Understandably, it confused quite a few things.”

Abruptly, Dean feels ill. He closes his eyes, and he tries to latch onto one of Pam’s multiple grounding exercises.

Five things he can see: nothing, right now, because Dean’s eyes are closed. Four things he can feel: the tacky remnants of sweat on the back of his neck. Cas’s head, heavy against his chest.

Shit. It’s no good. Dean withdraws his arm from Cas’s shoulder; he tries to make the movement look natural, so he brings his hand up to scratch his head. But Cas’s eyes track his movement, and maybe he sees something on Dean’s face that isn’t hidden by the darkness.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Cas asks.

Dean plays it off as an inquiry after his physical comfort, so he shoots Cas a grin and squirms a little under him. “Sorry, arm was falling asleep.”

“Oh, I apologize,” Cas says. He sits up and moves over so they’re sitting side by side against the headboard. Dean immediately misses the warmth of Cas on top of him, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it back. He settles for bringing his hand back down so their shoulders press tight together.

“What this really needs is a couple a’ cigarettes,” Dean quips. It doesn’t land; Dean knows it didn’t land because Cas doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Dean?” Cas says thoughtfully. His hand is close enough to Dean’s, that he can just move his fingers, and then he’s back to playing with Dean’s overshirt buttons, this time the one on the cuff. “May I ask you something?”

Dean’s mouth goes dry.

“Sure,” he says, hoping he sounds unconcerned.

“Why didn’t you want me to see you?”

Dean sucks in a breath, and he forgets to let it out. It just sticks there in his lungs and makes him feel lightheaded.

“What do you mean?”

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” Cas says gently. “I don’t mind either way, but you deliberately kept the lights off, and then you put your shirt back on.” He tugs a little at Dean’s cuff.

Reflexively, Dean pulls his arm into his lap, dislodging Cas’s fingers. The movement is small, but in the context of the silence, the darkness, and the peace, it’s almost like Dean slapped Cas across the face.

“Ever heard of mood lighting?” Dean says immediately.

“You’re defensive,” Cas says, surprised. “I apologize, I didn’t mean –”

“You didn’t do anything,” Dean snaps. “Don’t apologize.” He tosses his legs over the side of the bed, acutely aware that he is still naked from the waist down. He makes an effort to get his voice back under control. “I gotta piss. Where’s your bathroom?”

“Across the hall,” Cas says to the back of Dean’s head. There’s no ignoring the trace of hurt that clings to his voice.

And there’s no hiding Dean’s movements as he stoops to pull up his boxers, as he searches through the darkness, quickly and efficiently gathering the rest of his clothes into his arms.

Like a total idiot, Dean forgets his socks and shoes, so he has to go back into the bedroom after he’s changed in the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, wetted down his hair, and done his level-best not to look at himself in the mirror.

Cas is sitting up on the bed when Dean comes back in, feet braced on the floor and clothed in a t-shirt and boxers. The lamp on the bedside table is on, and Dean wishes it wasn’t; it’s so much easier to make out the shock and hurt on Cas’s face in the light. And he’s doing the finger thing again. Plus he’s bobbing slightly up and down on the mattress, like he’s rocking himself.

Dean musters a smile; he tries to act like this is totally normal. “Hey, I think I’m gonna head back to my place. I had a great time, though.”

“Dean,” Cas begins with a deep breath. “I don’t understand what I said to upset you –”

“Dude,” Dean cuts him off with a horrid fake smile. “You didn’t upset me. I’m not upset, I promise. I just get a helluva back ache in the morning if I don’t sleep on my own mattress. Plus, I gotta be up early tomorrow. I don’t want to wake you up.”

The excuse really doesn’t deserve a response, and Cas just blinks at him solemnly for a second before he says, “That’s understandable, Dean.” The transformation from concern to ice send a shard of glass through Dean’s chest. “I trust you’ll be alright making your way home at this hour?”

“Definitely, man,” Dean says. His hands shake as he grabs his socks and shoes. He’s already backing out of the bedroom door again. “See you around.”

“Good night, Dean,” Cas says firmly. “Please lock the door on your way out.”

“Sure thing,” Dean calls, still in that ridiculous, shit-awful cheerful tone. God, he hates himself. How on earth could he have ever believed he was at all ready for something like this? What the fuck was he doing?

Thinking with his dick, his brain supplies. Wrecking everything, as usual.

Dean shuts Cas’s bedroom door firmly behind him, and then he makes his way out of the apartment.

Chapter Text

It’s three o’clock when he gets back to his own apartment. He decided to walk instead of call a taxi; save some dough and work off some of his residual energy.

It’s impossible to tell whether Charlie is home; although, Dean wouldn’t exactly want to talk to her if she was. He feels shitty. Of course he feels shitty. He wishes he hadn’t walked out. That was a really crappy thing to do. But he also…he also feels fine. Like not great. But it feels a little bit like resignation. Dean knew he was going to screw it up, so at least that’s out of the way now. He doesn’t need to tell anyone else about it because what are they gonna do? Tell him something he doesn’t already know?

He can’t sleep. It’s been easier to sleep in his apartment since Sam bought the AC, but now it adds to the cacophony of all the other noises in his apartment. He stares at the ceiling and listens to the hum of the AC, rattle of the fridge, the stupid faucet dripping, and someone in an apartment above him flushes the toilet, so he hears the rush of water through the pipes in the walls.

Maybe Cas’ll come around, Dean thinks. After all, what did Dean do that was really all that bad? Sure, he left in the middle of the night when Cas clearly wanted him to stick around, but Dean has never been a coffee-in-the-morning kinda hookup. And, like Meg said, she wasn’t asking Dean to marry the guy, just make up his damn mind. Well, mind made up. They had sex. Good sex. Maybe they’ll have sex again. But Dean never promised there was going to be feelings. And certainly no bullshit conversations about inappropriate relationships with teachers or why Dean doesn’t take his clothes off.

Fuck. Dean gets up and pads over to the bathroom. The fucking Goddamn shit fuck faucet. He plays around with the handle for a minute, turning it on and off, twisting it this way and that to make it stop, but it keeps dripping, and Dean forces himself to walk away, because he is this close to throwing a total bitch fit and tearing the pipe out of the floor.

He can’t stay here. He has to get out of the fucking apartment and all its stupid noises. Rats in the walls and ghosts in the pipes. He can’t even hear himself think.

Dawn is starting to creep into the sky, so Dean changes into his running gear and heads out for a morning jog. It’s Sunday morning, so not a typical running day, but Dean feels good. He’s actually looking forward to moving his body. Which is the first time in a long time that Dean’s felt like that. He breathes in the cool morning air, and it sends a thrill through his chest, like it’s kinda good to be alive.

Hey, that’s a nice thought. Maybe the extra 50 milligrams of Zoloft is actually doing it’s job for once. It’ll be nice to tell Victor and Pam that things are looking up.

He goes for an extra long run, and then he takes an extra long shower. When he comes out, his legs are pleasantly achy. He feels frikken healthy, man. Is this what Sammy feels like all the time? He doesn’t even need a cup of coffee. His phone goes off with the first of his many reminders to take his meds. And, shit, he definitely forgot to take his second dose of lithium again last night; he’s really not used to being out for the whole day, and going from the art show to the diner to the bar threw him off his schedule.

He swipes the reminder off the screen and reaches toward the cabinet, and then he stops.

He chews on his lower lip.

Goddamn, it’d be nice to just ride out this wave. He wants to head upstairs to buy a baggie of Ash’s smoothest Indica. Just spend the day totally blissed out, and he knows he can’t do that if he takes his meds, ‘cause that totally sucked last time.

Forgetting is one thing, but it’s been literally years since Dean skipped his meds on purpose. Sammy plus Pamela plus Victor constantly scream bullshit at him about consistency, or whatever.

You win guys, Dean tosses in the direction of his interior peanut gallery. He gulps back his pills with a swig of orange juice, right from the carton. The juice only serves to let him know how frikken hungry he is, but his plans to make a suitable, all-American, Dean Winchester specialty breakfast are swiftly waylaid when he realizes he doesn’t have any groceries.

So, then it’s off to the grocery store, and he loads up his cart with all the best shit. Keep your fucking veggies, Sammy.

He’s half-way done putting away his groceries when Sam sends him a text about picking him up in an hour.

Of fuck, Dean totally forgot about the barbeque. Shit, he’d told Benny the other day he was gonna bring something to that, too. Well, good thing he got groceries.

In lieu pancakes, Dean turns his attention to lemon bars. Simple enough to whip up on a whim and tasty enough that everyone always asks him for his recipe. The lemon bars are done in a flash, so he makes a batch of brownies, too. He wishes he’d planned ahead enough to make pie, but pie takes time and finesse he doesn’t have, right now.

Dean changes into something picnic-appropriate while he waits for the brownies to finish baking, which just means changing into a nicer pair of pants – or at least intending to until he remembers Cas wore his nice jeans last night, and they’re still at his apartment.

For about two seconds, Dean thinks about calling Cas to see if he can come pick them up before he dismisses it as, yeah, probably rude. Especially if Cas is still pissed at him, which he probably is.

Fuck him, Dean thinks with unexpected fervor. It’s not Dean’s fault if he can’t handle a normal frikken one-night stand. They aren’t, like, dating. Dean Winchester doesn’t fucking date.

Sam texts Dean to let him know he’s parked outside, and Dean pulls on his old pair of jeans, shoves on his shoes, grabs his trays, burns himself on the still-hot brownie pan, and heads downstairs.

“You didn’t text me back,” Sam says with a frown when Dean slides through the passenger door.

“Oh, sorry, man,” Dean says. “I got sidetracked. Totally forgot I was supposed to make something.”

“What did you make?” Sam asks eagerly, reaching a hand to peak under the tin foil Dean spread across the pans.

“Hands off,” Dean says, slapping Sam’s wrist.

“Ow, jerk.” Sam snatches his hand back and shoots Dean a suitably tortured look. But then he starts up the car, and they’re off, heading toward the suburban outskirts of the city where Benny lives with his girlfriend, Andrea, and their little girl, Lizzy.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sam says as he makes his way through the relatively empty, mid-afternoon Sunday streets. “How was the art show with Cas?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, that,” Dean says. “It actually wasn’t awful. They had those little meatball things and tiny cakes. And after we went to Conner’s. Man, those burgers are great.”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, leave it to you to go to an art gallery and come away talking about food.”

“Hey,” Dean says, feigning hurt. “The art was cool, too. I mean, I didn’t understand it, but doesn’t mean I can’t, like, appreciate it, or whatever.”

“Sure, Dean,” Sam says, shooting him a grin.

“Anyway, what crap are we listening to?” Dean demands. He reaches for the radio dial so he can change the channel from whatever top 40 bullshit Sam has playing softly in the background.

“What the hell happened to house rules?” Sam protests.

“I’m the older brother, Sammy. I literally make the rules,” Dean says. He lands on an oldies station, and they’re playing some 80s synthpop crap, but it’s marginally better than Justin Bieber. Plus, Dean knows Sam hates it, so he drums his fingers on the dash and sings along at the top of his voice.

“Oh my God,” Sam moans. “How the hell do you know all the words to ‘Take On Me’?”

“It’s a skill, baby brother,” Dean replies, and launches into the chorus. It gets Sam to laugh, which is honestly what Dean was going for.

Benny’s house is the pretty typical suburban dream: a raised ranch with an impossibly green lawn and a crabapple tree out front. Out back, there’s one of those plastic playhouses and a patio.

“Heya, chief,” Benny calls when Sam and Dean make their way around the side of the house. Benny’s a couple years older than Dean, and he’s been working at Singer’s Auto for almost as long as Dean has, plus, he’s actually got a degree in automotive technology, so Dean is definitely not his boss in any sense of the word, but Benny’s called Dean chief for as long as they’ve known each other.

“Hey, Benny,” Dean replies. “You want these somewhere?”

“Better hand ‘em over to the head of house,” Benny replies, nodding to Andrea as she comes through the sliding door onto the patio.

Andrea rolls her eyes good-naturedly at her boyfriend before coming forward to grab the trays. Dean leans forward so he can drop a kiss onto her cheek. “Hey, Andrea.”

“Hello, Dean, Sam.” She smiles prettily and heads back to the patio table, which is already spread with a collection of potluck dishes. Benny lucked out when he found Andrea, with her olive-tanned skin, dark wavy hair, willowy figure, and cute Greek accent, but what’s best is her ability to cook. Dean’s mouth is already watering at the promise of her stuffed grape leaves and baklava. Coupled with Benny’s Louisiana born and bred cooking wherewithal, the annual picnic is always a smorgasbord of Greek and Cajun staples.

Benny’s already manning the grill, wearing a Kiss the Cook apron and flipping corn on the cob and steak, while he nurses a can of coke. Dean knows Benny’s in AA, but it’s never been something they talk openly about.

“Y’all better’ve come hungry,” Benny tells Dean.

“When is he not hungry?” Sam remarks. He and Benny exchange knowing looks, and Dean would have flipped them off, but Andrea comes back through the house, and this time she’s holding a bundle of little girl and flowery sundress.

“Little miss went down for a nap early today,” Andrea explains.

“So there won’t be any fussin’ this afternoon,” Benny replies. Lizzy looks up at the sound of her father’s voice, but then she spots Dean, and her face lights up in a bright smile.

“Dee!” she declares. Dean’s heart melts at the three-year old’s voice. With Benny working days at the garage and Andrea working nightshift as a nurse, it means sometimes Lizzy gets dropped off at the garage early, so they don’t have to spend money on daycare. Lizzy’s a big hit with all the guys there, but Dean’s worked hard to establish himself as one of her favorite people by supplying her snacks on the sly.

“Uh oh,” Andrea teases. “That your best friend?”

“Hey, Pipsqueak,” Dean says, and he reaches across so Andrea can deposit Lizzy into his arms.

“Hey, Pipsqueak,” Lizzy parrots and squeals as Dean tugs playfully at one of her blond pigtails. He can feel Sam’s eyes on the back of his head, and he religiously avoids his brother’s gaze.

Thankfully, he’s saved from any remarks when more guests arrive. Lee, a tall man with a patchy beard who works mainly weekends, shows up with his teenage daughter, Krissy, who looks thoroughly unamused at being dragged along.

Garth, Bess, and Gertie, their precocious six-year-old, arrive soon after. Garth is carrying a crockpot which Dean hopes contains Bess’s iconic mac and cheese, and he has one arm slung around his very pregnant wife. Gertie immediately darts toward Dean and Lizzy and declares through a gap-toothed smile that, “Mamma’s pregnant, and not with just one baby, but two, so that means I’m gonna be a big sister twice.”

Lizzy’s apparently feeling shy and sleepy after her nap because she buries her face in Dean’s neck and pretends like Gertie isn’t there, which leaves Dean to strike up a conversation with Gertie about her future little brothers. He teases her about changing diapers and soon has her solemnly swearing to teach ‘em how to climb out of their cribs as soon as they can walk.

Cole arrives with his wife, Nikki, and his five-year-old son, Davey. Gertie is bossy in a way that all six-year-old little girls are, and she immediately declares that she and Davey are going to play house.

“What about you, kiddo?” Dean asks Lizzie, jogging her up and down in his arms, but she shakes her head and nestles further into his arms. Dean feels the by-now familiar ache in the center of his chest, but he works hard to push it back, searching for the rush of energy that carried him through the day so far.

“You got nem-nems?” Lizzy inquires, on the hunt for Dean’s favored form of bribery: Peanut M&Ms.

“Sorry, Squeaker,” Dean replies. “But I think I can sneak you a corner of a brownie if you promise it won’t spoil your dinner.”

Lizzy smiles and nods enthusiastically, and Dean heads over to the food table, fishing under the tin foil for a piece of the brownies he baked earlier. Bess catches his eye from across the patio, and Dean winks conspiratorially and puts a finger to his lips.

Lizzy accepts her brownie with a giggle and promptly stuffs the entire thing, plus three fingers, into her mouth.

“Dean Winchester,” Bess comes over. “We have got to find you a wife. You’re too much a family man to go to waste.”

Dean smiles at her, ignoring the new twinge in his chest. He doesn’t even care that she assumes he’s looking for a wife. Dean can never count on it in the Midwest, but he’s fairly sure that Bess has a brother’s who gay, so she’d just as soon tell him he needed to find a husband if she knew. But he spends most of his time trying to ignore anything that has to do with fatherhood. Pamela says he’s gonna have to confront it eventually, but Dean’s not ready, yet. And, damn, but Lizzy’s a cute kid. She’s got Benny’s blue eyes and blond hair, but Andrea’s narrow, long nose and almond-shaped eyes. Dean can’t help but wonder –

His thoughts are stopped in their tracks when Bobby’s voice announces gruffly, “Alright, idjits, where am I supposed to put the booze?”

Dean turns to see Bobby, who’s lugging one half of a large cooler between himself and Ellen. And behind him, carrying another cooler, blond hair in a tail behind her head, shorts showing off miles of tan, toned legs, is Jo.

Jo. Fuck. Dean completely forgot Sam told him she’d be there. Holy fucking fuck. How the fuck could he have forgotten that?

Dean fights the sudden, uncontrollable urge to turn tail and run. Sick fear burbles readily inside his stomach, and he immediately remembers the last time they saw each other. Dad’s memorial service six years ago, when Dean was still in a full-leg brace and perpetually a little buzzed on oxy, and Jo was just in the right place at the right time, and why not?

Fuck.

Thankfully, Jo sees Sam first, and she’s immediately engulfed in a Sasquatch-style hug. They haven’t seen each other for seven months, since Jo came back from Paraguay for Christmas, a holiday, much to Sam’s chagrin, that Dean skipped.

Dean takes his out and speeds off to where the kids are playing at the plastic house.

“Alright, Lizzy,” he tells the little girl, readjusting her so he’s holding her away from his chest so she has space to stretch out her arms and pretend she’s flying. “Let’s dive bomb these suckers.”

“Suckers,” Lizzy giggles, and Dean wonders if that was a word she wasn’t supposed to know yet. Oh well. She’s probably picked up worse at the garage.

From then on, the afternoon turns into a paranoid game of hide-and-seek that only Dean is playing. He jumps from person to person, striking up conversation in whatever way he can, anything to avoid bumping into Jo. He’s never felt so social in his entire life. He even makes nice with Cole, who, for whatever reason, seems to hold a grudge against Dean. Probably because Dean returned from the hospital right around the same time Bobby hired Cole, but then Bobby gave Dean his old job back, which bumped Cole to worse hours. And Cole doesn’t know the whole story, so all he sees is Bobby’s favoritism for his headcase surrogate nephew.

Actually, Benny’s the only one out of Dean’s coworkers who even begins to know the extent of Dean’s history. Dean’s been at Bobby’s since he was 19. Ever since Bobby thumped an ancient GED prep book he picked up from the library on the breakfast table and told Dean, Listen, I know shit about schooling, kid. I got my two-year through the GI Bill. But I do know you’re gonna need at least some kind of high school equivalency if I wanna pay you proper for the crap you do in the garage. So that means we’re gonna study you up for the GED, sound good? It was clearly not a question. It sounded good because Bobby said it sounded good.

Bobby hired Benny a year after that, who was fresh off three tours in Afghanistan and working on his own degree at Metropolitan Community College. So, Benny’s been around for a lot of Dean’s crap – from the year he disappeared when he was 26 to go look for Dad with Sam, which ended in the accident and Dean’s six-month recovery period, which ended with the overdose and three months in impatient, to his more recent stint in prison and the hospital and his slow journey back to full-time at the garage.

But Dean makes casual conversation with Cole about football, and his wife is friendly enough, and then Benny wanders over and they get to talking about their time in the military, because Cole spent two tours in Iraq in special ops.

Dean must be doing a little too good of a job pretending everything’s okay, because Sam pulls him aside and asks seriously, stopping Dean with a hand on his forearm, “Are you on something?”

“Jesus, Sammy, no!” Dean replies. He shakes Sam off. Fuck, how depressed does he have to be that when he’s fine everyone thinks something’s wrong?

Sam shrugs and has the grace to look apologetic, but not for long. “And quit ignoring Jo. You’re being really obvious.”

“I’m not ignoring her,” Dean hisses back.

“You’re not ignoring who?” Jo says from behind him, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin.

Sam is smiling like he orchestrated the whole thing, and Jo looks politely inquisitive, but, damn, if Dean can’t spot a knowing smile spark in her eyes.

“Hey, Jo,” Dean recovers himself quickly. “You’re looking good.”

“Thanks,” Jo says, clearly amused at Dean’s unease. “You too.”

“Ah, um, thanks,” Dean says. “How long you back for?” Jo and Sam exchange looks like Dean’s the most entertaining thing since Jay Leno.

“Just until Tuesday, actually,” Jo replies. “I’m heading back to UCB early to teach a pre-college summer program on forensic anthropology.”

“Damn, Teach.” Dean grins at her. His cheeks feel weird. He feels weird. He really wants to be anywhere but here, right now. “Gonna knock some sense into the freshies?”

“You know it,” Jo replies. “Then I’ve just got a semester left. Taking my exams in December.”

“Shit, Doctor Jo,” Dean replies. “Never thought you’d really get here.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jo replies. She punches him in the arm, and the gesture is so familiar, it’s like she’s a bratty 16-year-old, and Dean’s making sure she and a 17-year-old Sam don’t get into too much trouble.

Dean’s known her since she was 12 or 13, which was when Bobby and Ellen officially started dating. They practically grew up together, even though their five-year age gap always kept them pretty far apart in terms of overlapping interests, but not for lack of trying on Jo’s part. She grew up constantly begging Dean to teach her about cars or guns or knives, same as Dean’d taught Sammy. He quickly realized she was struck by a bit of harmless hero worship and a sizeable crush, and Dean did his best to let her down softly, because it’s not like he ever saw anything but a scrawny, fire-cracker of a teenage girl.

Until the right mixture of grief and mania hit after John’s memorial service, and sleeping with Jo suddenly seemed like the best idea in the world. And it was, until the morning after, when Jo clearly expected more than a quick lay, and Dean clearly expected a simple thanks for letting me blow off some steam, see you when come back for Christmas break. Which quickly devolved into one of the worst decisions of his life, because it wasn’t like Jo mad at him was a big deal – he’d been the target of her screaming many-a-time while growing up – it was the crying that was the worst part.

Joanna Beth didn’t cry. The only other time Dean could remember seeing her get teary was after some asshole stood her up for prom, and even then she drowned out her sadness with righteous indignation and the promise to saw the guy’s nuts off with her dad’s old pocketknife.

Now Dean was the asshole.

“So, how you been?” Jo asks with entirely too much significance. At this point, Dean’s lost track of how many people know what details about the wreckage of his past several years. But Jo is close enough to family that she probably knows most of it. Hell, for all he knows, she might have even come to visit him while he was at the hospital. He doesn’t remember a whole lot about those first few months.

“Good,” Dean replies.

“Sam said you got your own place?” Speaking of Sam, the bitch seems to have disappeared.

“Yeah, it’s about 20 minutes from his place.”

“That’s awesome. And are you, ah, seeing anyone, or anything?”

“What? Nah, you know me.” Jo’s smile wavers. Shit. Not the right thing to say.

“Can we, ah,” Jo hesitates, and then she puts a hand on Dean’s arm and walks a few more paces away from the party. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure,” Dean all but squeaks. His heart starts thumping 100 miles per hour inside his chest. He feels a little like he’s being ushered into the principal’s office after he was caught in the janitor’s closet with his hand up Amanda Heckerling’s skirt.

“So, we gonna cut the crap, or not?” Jo demands as soon as they’re far enough away from the party that they won’t be heard.

“What crap?” Dean says.

Jo looks at Dean pointedly. He’s struck by how much she looks like her mother. And Ellen Harvelle is not someone to get on the wrong side of.

“Us, Dean,” Jo says. “What happened between us. Are we ever gonna talk about it? Or are you just gonna keep ignoring me for the rest of my life? ‘Cause, I gotta be honest, you were my friend long before we screwed it up, and I kinda miss that.”

“Jo....” Dean starts, and he doesn’t know how to finish. He wishes she hadn’t brought this up now. He feels exposed. Like any minute one of his coworkers, or worse, Bobby or Ellen, is going to wander over and eavesdrop on what they’re talking about.

“Dean,” Jo mocks him with a bitch face she totally picked up from Sam.

“Listen,” Dean tries again. It’s a little hard to speak, so he just tries to breathe through the tautness in his throat. “I’m sorry, okay? I know I should have – I tried to – shit, Jo, I never meant to –”

“Hurt me?” Jo cuts him off, cocking an eyebrow. “Of course you fucking hurt me, Dean. And I was mad about it for a really long time. But that shit was six years ago. I think it’s time we just move on, don’t you?”

Dean feels untethered. Everyone’s watching them; he knows everyone’s watching them.

Like she read his mind, Jo continues, “And I know this isn’t the time or place to bring it up, but I’m only here for a couple more days, and I didn’t know when else I could possibly get you on your own.”

“Jo.” Dean isn’t sure what he’s saying. Jo’s words keep spinning meaninglessly inside his head. Of course you fucking hurt me. I was mad about it for a really long time. “What I did – I didn’t –” somewhere Pam is telling him gently, take responsibility, Dean, and Dad is yelling at him, don’t make fucking excuses. “I know I messed up –”

Jo frowns at him. “It’s not like I was blameless, either, okay? I shouldn’t have approached you. It’s not like you were super emotionally stable at the moment.”

“That doesn’t matter –”

“Of course, it matters,” Jo says. “It was your dad’s fucking memorial service!”

Dean’s fingernails bite into his palms. He musters a smile. He wants to scream. “Okay, I’m sorry. You’re sorry. You’re totally right.” He sounds like he’s reading from a script. “This has lasted long enough. Let’s just try to put it behind us.”

Jo’s face softens. She looks relieved. “As long as you really mean that,” she says and she takes a deep breath. “I don’t want it to stay like this.”

“I mean it, Jo, really,” Dean says.

She smiles for real. Then she chuckles and leans in for a hug. “God, we’re so stupid.”

“Couple a’ idjits,” Dean agrees. He gives her a squeeze and tries to not reveal how hard his hands are shaking. It’s like he was going to get hit by a car, but it missed by an inch, and now there’s just a whole lot of adrenaline he doesn’t know what to do with.

Jo releases him, and she raises a critical eyebrow. “This better mean you’re actually gonna be around for Christmas when I come home this year, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Dean says.

Benny calls something about one steak left, which Dean uses as a perfect escape route, even though his stomach bobs with nausea and he can’t imagine eating something else. It only makes him feel worse when he spots Sam and Ellen throwing him triumphant looks. Oh yeah, he’s definitely been set up.

And, the thing is, it should be good. He and Jo finally cleared the air. Probably took them a lot longer than it should have. But the air doesn’t feel cleared. In fact, it just feels more complicated. Because now Dean actually has to confront the entire situation, instead of just ignoring it.

And Jo laying it all out like that feels like she’s sliced through Dean’s sternum and revealed his inner organs to the hot, dry summer air. Everything’s fucking open. Everything he’s tried so hard to push aside is right up in front of his face. Jo and Lisa and Ann Marie and Lydia. And Cas.

Dean wants to leave. He doesn’t want to have to be here right now. Pretending nothin’gs wrong when literally everything’s wrong. Everything’s wrong because Dean is wrong, and he needs to leave before he ruins the rest of the party for everyone else.

He sees Sam talking to Garth in the corner of the yard. He waits until Gertie approaches her father and Garth folds his wiry height in half so he can give his daughter his entire attention, and then Dean walks up to Sam.

“Hey, you and Jo hash things out?” Sam asks.

“Can you bring me home?” Dean asks abruptly.

Sam blinks in surprise, and then his brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

“Just gotta killer migraine,” Dean lies smoothly. “I’ll take a cab if you don’t wanna leave –”

“No,” Sam says at once. “Of course, I’ll bring you home. You need anything? I’m sure Benny’s got ibuprofen –”

“Already took a couple Tylenol,” Dean continues the farse. “I’ll wait for you in the car, kay?” And then he leaves before Sam can do more than haltingly agree.

Dean’s not enough of a jerk to leave the party without passing on his apologies to the host. He’s thankful he bumps into Andrea instead of Benny, however, as she’s easier to lie to. Benny knows him well enough to sniff out bullshit.

“Hey,” Dean says softly. “I gotta head out. It was a great time. Pass on my thanks to Benny?”

Andrea’s smile falters for a second at Dean’s brisk tone, but she recovers swiftly. “Of course, Dean. It was lovely to see you. I’ll have Benny bring your pans and things to work tomorrow, is that alright?”

“Sounds great,” Dean says, pressing her into a quick hug. “And give my love to the Pipsqueak.”

“Of course,” Andrea replies warmly. Her eyes sparkly. “You do have a way with the ladies.”

It takes Sam longer to leave the party than Dean. Dean waits for Sam in the passenger seat and shuts his eyes, feeling like a kid waiting for the grownups to stop talking. He fucking hates not having his car. He fucking hates getting hauled around by his soccer mom little brother. He fucking hates not having his own life.

He should have just stayed home.

He shouldn’t have left Cas like he did last night.

But now it’s done, and it’s gonna be just like it was with Jo. Except it won’t be for six years. It’ll be forever. Because there’s nothing for Dean to fall back on with Cas; they barely knew each other long enough to count as friends.

Sam gets into the driver’s seat.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Just gonna keep my eyes closed,” Dean mutters, keeping with the narrative of a migraine. Mercifully, Sam seems to buy it, and he keeps his trap shut the whole way back to the apartment. It turns out to be kinda true, actually, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, because now that Dean has space to think, his head does really hurt. Probably a result of skipping sleep the night before.

“You need me to come in?” Sam says when he pulls up in front of the apartment.

Dean’s eyes fly open. “Nah,” he says easily. “Thanks Sammy. Sorry for pulling you away so soon.”

“That’s alright, man,” Sam says. He smiles, but his eyes are still creased with concern. “Everyone else will probably be heading out soon, too.”

It’s a lie; Sam just wants Dean to feel better. Everything feels like a lie, at this point. Jo was probably lying when she told Dean she wanted to put it all behind them. Dean’s really, really sick of lies.

He climbs up to his apartment, and his chest briefly throbs as he passes the third floor. Cas probably isn’t in his studio. Anyway, the idea of going in to talk to him, to try to explain – explain what? that Dean’s a total asshole who doesn’t deserve a second chance? – is completely ludicrous.

Instead, Dean heads straight to his floor and lets himself into his apartment. He steps into the room and sees the groceries from this morning. There’s a pool of melted ice cream under one of the bags.

Swearing furiously under his breath, Dean attempts to clean up the mess. He ends up tossing a bunch of shit, like milk and other refrigerated stuff. The other crap he salvages and packs meticulously away in his kitchen.

The whole task leaves him too riled to attempt to sleep, which was his first plan of action, so, instead, he grabs his cigarettes and heads for the fire escape.

Almost immediately, he realizes this is a mistake. Charlie climbs out of her window to join him, like she was waiting for him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she says. “Was your night as successful as mine?” There’s a devilish glint in her eyes, and, for once, Dean isn’t charmed by her enough to smile.

“You get lucky then?” he says around his cigarette, making an effort, regardless.

“Hell yes did I get lucky,” Charlie crows. “Got her number, too. Name’s Dorothy. Sexy as hell. Drives a fucking motorcycle. Toto, we are certainly not in Kansas anymore.”

It’s enough to tease out a grin, but that’s all Dean can muster before he looks over the edge of the fire escape and takes another drag from his cigarette.

“What about you?” Charlie asks, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow. “Regale me with tales of your victorious conquest, oh humble handmaiden.”

“Can you cut it out?” Dean turns on her, knocking her elbow away. His cigarette drops from his fingers. Charlie’s eyes flash from surprise to hurt. “Why do you even want to know?”

Charlie blinks rapidly. For a horrible moment, Dean thinks she’s going to start crying. It’s like he’s watching himself on television – like he’s transformed into one of those idiot characters in the frikken Hell Hazers franchise, and he’s screaming at himself not to go downstairs into the murder basement, but he’s totally deaf to his own voice.

“I don’t even fucking know you,” he continues. “Why do you keep pretending like we’re best friends?”

“Jesus Christ,” Charlie mutters. She moves from hurt to anger, but Dean can still see the pain in the way she holds her body. She’s shrunken in on herself, like she’s afraid he’s going to hit her. Dean used to stand like that in front of Dad, and the memory sends a shock of agony through his core. Suddenly, Dean can’t speak. He can’t even breathe.

“If you didn’t want to be friends, there are about a million better ways of telling me,” she says. Her voice is surprisingly steady. “Clearly this isn’t a great time for you, so I’m just gonna go. Bye, Dean.”

Then she turns and ducks back inside her window. Dean watches her leave.

Chapter Text

It’s a good enough night to go out again, so Dean takes himself to whatever corner bar is grungy enough it won’t attract the local hipster crowd, but upstanding enough the booze won’t leave him blind.

Dean orders a shot and a beer. He tosses the whiskey down, and it burns his throat in a way he missed; it’s been too damn long since he’s had hard liquor. He orders another shot, and then he starts in slow on his beer, glancing down the counter to see what the rest of the prospects are like.

The bar is relatively empty on a Sunday night. There’s a few guys tooling around the billiards table, but they all look too casual to put money on the line. The bartender is a guy and looks a little macho, so Dean doesn’t want to risk flirting and getting mugged in the parking lot. But there’s a woman on the other end of the counter, and she’s looking at him over her own bottle. Dean tries out a grin and salutes her with his glass before he takes a sip; she smiles and echoes his movement.

That’s the invitation he needs. Dean grabs his glass and heads down the counter.

“This stool taken?” he asks her.

“Empty,” she replies. She’s blond and attractive. The heavy mascara and shallow crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes suggest she’s a little older than Dean, but he’s never let that stop him. And, despite the fact she’s drinking late at night before the workweek, she doesn’t look like a total loser.

Her mind’s evidently on the same track because she asks, “Rough night?”

“Gettin’ better,” Dean replies.

She shakes her head but smiles indulgently. Dean waves down he bartender for another two shots. Pacing is for wimps.

“I’m Tina,” she offers.

“Dean.” He takes her offered hand. Her palms are soft. Her fingers are narrow. He’s already thinking about next steps.

The bartender slides over their shots.

“To getting better,” Tina toasts, and Dean clinks her glass with another wink.

Sex with Tina is sweaty, fast, a little desperate. Lights off. She’s the kind of woman who knows what she wants. Dean doesn’t mind her taking the lead. He’s always kinda liked getting bossed around in bed.

He registers somewhere in the back of his head that it’s the first time he’s been with a woman since – and that starts up a simmer of anxiety in his chest that he has to keep pushing away. But they’re both sober enough to insist on a condom, so Dean tries to set his mind at ease. He leaves afterward with a peck on the lips and a look after yourself, Dean.

He gets to his apartment a little after three, and he actually manages a few hours of sleep before he wakes up to go through the whole thing again: run, shower, meds, breakfast, work. Benny asks if his head is feeling better, and a couple of guys tease him for bringing baked goods to the party.

After work seems like a great time to scope out some of the local gyms. Dean’s been meaning to find a new place; it’s been a few weeks now since he’s had access to the one in Sam’s building, and he should really get back to weight training. He ends up at the local Y and has a brief moment of panic where he thinks about Lisa before remembering that she and Ben moved to Cicero.

A membership is kind of pricy, but whatever. He’s supposed to stay healthy, right? Part of that is working out.

He makes an elaborate dinner but gets distracted by YouTube halfway through, and he nearly sets off the smoke alarm when his cheese-stuffed burgers burn. Which means he eats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, instead. And then he wonders why he never tried to do the meal planning thing. That’s trendy, right? All kumbaya, health-nut, self-help kinda crap. So he cooks until about two o’clock in the morning before he passes out on his bed.

In the morning, his kitchen is a wreck. Fuck. He’ll clean it later. And he definitely forgot about putting away all his food prep stuff, so that turned out to be a stupid trend. Honestly, Dean should have known. Tuesday passes about the same way Monday did. He runs. He stuffs a couple protein bars down his gullet because he’s late for work. He works late because the whole day he’s kinda scatter-brained and keeps jumping from job to job without finishing up, and then he heads to the Y to lift weights. And then Wednesday happens. And Thursday happens.

And Friday comes around, and why the fuck does he even need to see Pamela? There’s nothing he needs to talk about. This week was great. Dean’s life is great. He’s totally fine. He has never been so fine. So he sends her a text with any kind of excuse. She wants to reschedule, but Dean tells himself he’ll text her back later, and he forgets.

The weekend is awesome. The oppressive heat and humidity of mid-July gave way to dry heat and clear skies into the first week of August. Dean spends most of Saturday outside in the park across the road from his complex. He gets a sunburn, and when he returns to his apartment, he finds he forgot his phone, and there are about 20 increasingly distressed texts from Sam and several missed calls.

Dean calls him back and spends 15 minutes convincing his brother that he’s totally okay. Really, Sammy. God, stop being such a drama queen.

That night he dreams about the accident.

Light. Broken glass. Pain. Can’t breathe. Blood in his eyes. Can’t breathe. Dad. Dad’s slumped over the wheel. Dean’s head is stuck to the window with blood. He can’t feel his legs. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

Smoke. Fire. Heat. This is how Mom died. She burned up into a tiny pile of ash. Run. Take Sammy and run. The house burned all up. And Mommy screamed. Dean woke up because Mommy was screaming.

There’s flashing lights. High-pitched siren. Rushing wheels. Hands. Hands. Hands. Don’t touch him. Don’t hold him down. Please. Please let go. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. They’re burying him. Burying him alive. And he can’t get out. Can’t get out. Can’t –

Dirt in his lungs. Can’t breathe. Tube down his throat. Sammy Sammy Sammy.

I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?

Don’t be scared.

I’m not gonna hurt you, Dean. Do what I tell you. Do as I tell you, and it’ll be okay. Just do what I say. Just like that. You’re a perfect student, Deano. You’re doing so good.

Dean wakes up with a voice rebounding in his skull. He rolls off the bed. His knees hit the ground. Pain reverberates up his left leg. He barely hobbles back to his feet and makes it into the bathroom in time to vomit into the toilet. Acid scorches his throat. Tears spring to his eyes and streak down his face. He throws up again. His chest burns. His leg aches. His head throbs. He’s shaking nearly uncontrollably.

The voice taunts him softly, one hand tangled in Dean’s hair, the other thumb rounding Dean’s lips, which are pulled taught around the man’s dick. The man thrusts hard. The head of his cock hits the back of Dean’s throat.

Dean gags again. He tries to throw up, but instead he just dry-heaves, a thin string of saliva dripping off his tongue.

He’s dizzy. He’s not sure if he blacks out, or not, but the next thing he knows, he’s tipped over on his side. His elbow stings from where it smacked against the hard linoleum. His cheek sticks to the cold floor. He’s shaking so hard it’s like he’s vibrating. And it tastes like a rat crawled into his mouth and died there.

He wants Sammy. The need for his brother is so primal and desperate, it’s like something’s clawed apart his chest and is scooping out his heart, leaving a gaping, gasping blackhole of need for his brother. He wants Sammy. He just – he just needs to make sure Sammy’s okay.

But then a quiet, insidious voice lets Dean know that, if he calls Sam now, Sam is going to know something’s wrong. Sam is going to bring Dean to the hospital again.

And Dean can’t. He can’t go back there. Not when they’re gonna – they’re gonna tie him down to the bed again – and they’re gonna poke and prod him with needles and tubes. And they’re gonna – gonna burry him underground.

Dean only realizes he’s crying when a sob gets caught half-way up his throat, and then he’s sucking in a rattling breath of air as he struggles to regain control.

He’s fine. He’s okay. He doesn’t need to go to the hospital. He’s okay.

He tries to latch onto Pam’s voice instead of the other man’s voice. Instead of Dad.

Five things he can see: there are cracks in the ceiling above him. There’s some black mildew in the grout between the linoleum tiles. There’s a wet towel scrunched up in the corner. There’s an empty toilet paper roll on the holder. There are tiny drops of condensation clinging to the pipe under the sink.

Four things he can feel: shivers running up and down his spine, so strong they’re like spasms. Dull, bone-deep ache in his left hip, knee, and shin. Cold. Cold linoleum on his legs, arms, and through his shirt on his back. Pain. Sharp, burning, exhilarating pain on his forearm as he claws stripes into his skin with his fingernails. Over and over again, digging in hard, until he breaks skin, and he picks up blood and skin under his nails. And then he stops, breathing hard, feeling steadier. His arm stings persistently. It’s something to hold onto.

He hauls himself back to his feet. He looks like a wreck in the mirror: pale and sick. The change in altitude comes with another rush of vertigo and nausea, so he bows over the sink for a minute to let his stomach settle. Then he rinses out his mouth. He flushes the toilet. He tosses a handful of cool water over his face. He drags himself back through the door and falls into a heap on his bed.

He’s still shaking, so he burrows under the covers. His head splinters with pain from one ear to another.

It’s like a roller coaster. First there was the torturous climb up the incline, grinding chain and juddering suspense. Then there was the uncontrolled freefall, wild and terrifying and breathtaking all at once. Now, the car’s spun off the tracks. He’s landed in a heap of melted plastic and twisted metal on the pavement. And he’s stupid. He’s so stupid for not recognizing the manic episode for what it was.

Dean can’t even remember how regularly he’s been taking his meds for the past week, and the idea breaks with a fresh wave of nausea, because that shit isn’t okay. Dean knows it’s not okay. He could stroke out with some of these meds if he stops cold turkey.

He manages to crawl out of bed to take today’s dose, and then, remembering what happened a few weeks ago, he fills up his water bottle and grabs a package of protein bars to bring back to bed with him. He feels wrung out and rotten, so he takes a sleeping pill, even though he knows it’s going to knock him out until early afternoon.

He wakes up a little before three. He still feels like shit, but now he’s also drowsy and disoriented.

And everything’s right there. Cas. Charlie. Jo. Lydia. Tina. He’s already crying again, just slow tears that keep dripping off his chin, and there’s a low frequency vibration throughout his entire body. He aches like he’s just gone a couple unsuccessful rounds with Dwayne the Rock Johnson. He feels like he’s going to throw up if he so much as thinks about food, but he knows he needs to keep his body fueled, so he chokes down a protein bar and sips some water.

Care and prevention, Pamela coaches him. Take care of immediate needs. He’s already eaten and drank, so that means he should get out of bed, put on clean clothes. Every movement feels weighed down by bricks. His body is on a five-second lag, but he changes into sweats and a hoodie. He even finds the energy to brush his teeth.

On autopilot, he tugs up both sleeves of his hoodie. The tracks he made with his fingernails on his left arm are red and puffy, but shallow. They barely hurt anymore. So, he grabs his safety razor from the shower. Sammy made him throw out his reusable one because the cartridges had sharper blades, but it’s easy enough to pick apart his disposable razor. He has to hold the blades carefully because they’re so thin, and the shaking in his hands means he leaves sliver cuts in his thumb, but it’s easy enough to draw lines into his arms, leaving tiny beads of blood behind.

Care and prevention. The key is to regain control of the situation. Dean can’t afford to spiral into another cycle. He’s been there before; it’ll only get worse. He needs to cut off the head and cauterize the wound before another has time to grow in its place.

And this. This is something Dean can control.

The pain is sharp and good. He rolls down his sleeves after he’s done, and he leaves his razor disassembled on the side of the sink. He doesn’t have the dexterity to put it back together, now. Plus, he might need it later.

He goes to bed. He tries not to think.

Cas.

Cas. He hurt Cas. He just walked out on him. He did what he swore he wouldn’t do to another friend.

And Charlie. He pushed her away, just like he pushes everyone away. And, sure, maybe it was inevitable. Maybe she’d eventually shut him out. But he shouldn’t have hurt her like that. He remembers what she looked like, so small and shocked and a little bit scared, and bile jumps into his throat.

And, shit. He crosses his arms and closes both hands around his forearms, feeling the bite of the cuts underneath. He didn’t cut deep enough for the blood to come through his sleeves, and the pain is already starting to fade. He shouldn’t have done that. It’s been months since he last cut himself. Sure, the cigarette burn was a fluke. But he shouldn’t have –

Fucking kids do shit like this. Dean was supposed to have gotten better.

And now he just wants to do more. The pain is already going away. And he wants it back. When there’s pain, there’s nothing else. Dean doesn’t want to have to deal with all the else.

He squeezes his arms hard. He shuts his eyes. He tries not to think about the razor. He tries not to think about slicing line after practiced line into his skin, layering one after another across his wrists. How long does it take someone to bleed out? How much would it hurt?

Call Sam. The solution presents itself loud and clear as a gunshot in his head, and he’s halfway to thumbing to his emergency contact list before he remembers hospital. He really fucking doesn’t want to go to the hospital.

Dammit. Fucking dammit. Because he was doing so well. The sense of defeat is so all-encompassing and terrible, it’s like a rock settled on his chest, resisting the rise and fall of his ribs, and he hiccups a weird, strangled kind of sob. Once, twice, until the pain fades enough to tolerate.

He can’t call Sam. Calling Pamela would get the same result. So would calling Bobby. Ludicrously, he thinks about Cas. But that’s so far from being an option, it’s laughable.

And then he thinks about Charlie. But she hates him. She has to hate him. Dean hates him.

And then he thinks, if Charlie screams at him to go away, maybe he’ll just – that’s an option he’ll think about later. But the least he can do is tell her he’s sorry. She shouldn’t have to go the rest of her life wondering if maybe she did or said something wrong. Not when it was all Dean’s fault.

It’s hard to get out of bed, but now that Dean has a goal in mind, he’s able to push aside the covers and slip his feet onto the floor. The concept of putting on shoes right now is completely out of reach.

He heads for window instead of the door. He’s not sure why. But he slides open the sash and climbs onto the metal landing, toes curling around the slats, and Charlie’s right there. She’s bent over her pots of dead plants, watering can in hand.

She jumps a little at the noise of Dean’s feet on the fire escape, and she turns.

“Oh good, it’s not a murderer,” she says with false cheer. In the bright afternoon sunlight, Dean can see the wariness in her eyes. He can’t speak. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to say to her.

He didn’t speak for nearly a year after Mom died. Child therapists and teachers tried all sorts of things to get him to open up: drawing, music, finger paints, Playdough, etc. But nothing worked. It wasn’t until Sammy started to talk that Dean really caught up again.

And it’s like that now. The words are just too big. They get all clogged on the way up his throat.

Charlie nods to the plants. “You’ve heard of a green thumb, right? Well mine are stained red with the blood of all the plants I’ve killed.” She sets the watering can down. She pats her hands dry on her leggings, which are patterned with swirling blue and purple galaxies and speckled stars. “But does that stop me from buying more plants? Nooo. And that’s why I think I’m a closeted sociopath. Dude, you okay?”

She stops abruptly, eyebrows falling in concern. There must be something about him that makes him look not okay.

“Charlie, I –” he stammers. Shit. Shit. No. His eyes burn. His lip wobbles. Charlie stops looking worried and moves to downright terrified. “I’m – I’m really sorry –”

“Oh my God, Dean,” she says. And then she’s lunging forward, and she has two arms wrapped around his middle and her head on his chest. “Dude, listen, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what I said, but it clearly upset you, and –”

“Stop,” Dean says, distressed enough that the word jumps out of his lips. “Stop – it w-wasn’t you – I-I didn’t mean it, and –” he’s crying. He’s really crying. Shit. No. Fuck this. He doesn’t want her to see him cry.

It’s something that happens sometimes: he just starts bawling without any real reason. It used to freak Sam the fuck out. It’s not like Dean goes hysterical; it’s more like everything just builds up until it bubbles over. There’s nowhere for it to spill out except his eyes, so he cries, just a steady, slow stream of tears down his face.

It’s funny, because Dean doesn’t cry when he’s supposed to: not after Dad died, or at Dad’s service, or after Dean got sentenced, or at court with –

“Dude,” Charlie insists. She pulls away from his chest, and her eyes are warm with concern and care. “You are really not okay right now.”

Dean bites his lip and shakes his head, and then he can’t speak anymore.

“Alright, you’re gonna come into my apartment, and we’re gonna figure this out. Dude,” she says again, aghast, “you’re shaking really hard and kind of freaking me out.”

She takes him by the elbow and leads him firmly to her window. She makes him duck in first and then follows close behind. He’s on her loveseat and getting bundled into a fuzzy blanket with the Tardis on it before he can register being told to sit down.

“Okay, you need to tell me how series this is,” she says earnestly. She kneels in front of him and makes him meet her eyes, “Is this doctor serious? Do I need to call someone?”

Dean shakes his head frantically. He swallows a couple times and finally forces his voice to come back up. “I-I’m okay. Can’t – not supposed to be alone, right now.” He gulps. His throat hurts; there’s a vice squeezing tight around his neck.

“Well,” Charlie says kindly, “good thing you’ve got me as a friend then, huh?” she probably means it as a lighthearted reassurance, but it lands like a jab, and Dean swallows a sob and turns his head away so he can try to reign himself in without her seeing. Under the blanket, he grabs ahold of his forearms again. The pain grounds him.

“M sorry,” he tries again. “Didn’t – shouldn’t have s-said that. I’m sorry –”

“Dean,” Charlie says gently. She finds his knee and squeezes. “I forgive you.”

“Shouldn’t,” Dean says around the lump in his throat.

“Well,” Charlie replies. “Good thing that’s my decision and not yours. Okay." she claps her palms against her thighs and stands. “This clearly calls for hot chocolate.”

While she putters in her kitchen, Dean slumps down and pillows his head on the armrest. Too much is happening inside his head to process, so he focuses on getting his breathing under control. His face is sticky and swollen from crying, and his skin is probably all gross and splotchy.

The tank with Smeagol the gecko is right next to his face. Dean finds the lizard staring at him; it licks one of its black eyes.

Charlie returns a minute later. She’s carrying two steaming mugs, one patterned with DC comic heroes and the other with Han Solo on it.

“You seemed like a Han fan to me,” Charlie says, handing Dean the mug. Dean dislodges the blanket to grab the mug, but he’s still shaking pretty hard, so it takes a couple tries to get his hands secure around the handle.

Charlie watches him carefully. “Did you take anything?” she asks carefully. “Or do you need to take anything? You mentioned you have meds…?”

Dean forgot he told her that. He shakes his head, no. She doesn’t look super convinced, which is fair. Dean really should have taken a Valium this morning when he woke up in the middle of a panic attack. That’s what it’s for: emergencies. But Dean can count on one hand the number of times he’s voluntarily downed it.

“If you wanna talk about it I’m here, okay?” Charlie says softly. She takes a seat on the floor, pulling her legs up to her chest and rests her own mug on top of her knees.

“Sorry,” Dean whispers again. He’s probably ruined her night. She probably had shit to get done. And now she’s stuck babysitting Dean, and she shouldn’t even like Dean anymore.

“Man.” She turns to give him a small smile. “I hijacked your bed while drunk off peppermint vodka. I think you’re entitled to a bad night on my couch.”

“It’s,” Dean swallows. “It’s not supposed to be this bad.”

“Dude,” Charlie says. “Drink your hot chocolate.”

Dean takes a sip. It’s actually kinda nice. It’s hot enough that is eases his sore throat, and the sweetness leaves a film on the roof of his mouth.

They sit there in silence for a while. Dean finishes his hot chocolate without even realizing it. Charlie gets up and brings out her box of Cheez-Its and offers Dean some, which he declines. The first thing to go is always his appetite. She settles down at the base of the couch and leans the back of her head against the cushion.

“My parents died when I was 12,” she says to the ceiling.

“What?”

Charlie turns her head and stares at him steadily. “You said you didn’t know me. Well, I want you to know me.”

It makes something stir in his chest, and he’s still too near another crying jag to risk responding.

“They got hit by a drunk driver,” Charlie goes on. “It really screwed me up. Believe it or not, I have not always been the charming and well-adjusted specimen you see before you. I got diagnosed with everything under the sun: ADHD, ODD, PTSD. I basically hopped around from foster families to group homes until I filed for emancipation when I was 16. And then I was just on my own, I guess. I was a lonely kid, so I got really good at getting people to laugh so they’d like me. And I discovered the online world was a lot better than real life because it was filled with a bunch of other lonely weirdos. Just like me, you know?”

She pauses, like maybe she’s expected Dean to reply. Then she adds, “And that’s about it, I guess. I’m self-aware enough to know some of what Gilda said was right. I say I like my life right now because I’m comfortable, but, really, I think I’m scared. I like stability so much because I know what it’s like not to have it. And the idea of uprooting any of that – even just looking for a different apartment, let alone cohabitating – terrifies me.”

Dean thinks about telling her about hopping from hotels to crumbling rentals to trailer parks when he was a kid, never finishing a grade in the same school where he started, taking care of a dad who drowned himself in a bottle so he’d stop seeing ghosts in the drain pipes and demons in the crossroads, looking out for Sammy since he was four-years-old, cooking, cleaning, making sure he had enough money for food and clothes and toys and soccer cleats in whatever way Dean could: shoplifting, pickpocketing, hustling, hooking.

Instead he tells her, voice a croak: “I have a kid.”

“Ah,” says Charlie. “That’s the or something, huh?”

Dean has to push every word out of his mouth. It feels like it did six months ago, when he got the court ordered DNA test from Lydia’s lawyers, and he had to tell Sam.

“A daughter.” He clears his throat. “Emma. I – I’ve never met her. It was just a one-night stand. Her – her mother filed for custody, and I was pretty messed up then, so it wasn’t even worth fighting. I’ve been trying to – I’ve been trying to get better.” So I can see her, Dean can’t finish. I just want to see her.

“I’m really sorry,” Charlie says. She gets off the floor and nudges his feet over a little so she has room on the loveseat, then she leans over him so her head is pillowed on his arm.

“But I keep messing stuff up,” Dean continues. A few more tears slip out of his eyes. He rubs his face on the armrest. “And – I know Cas is mad at me…”

Charlie cuts him off, “To be fair, I don’t think Cas is actually mad at you. Gabe, on the other hand, you probably have to watch out for.”

“I just,” Dean breathes deeply, exhale shuddering on its way out. “I don’t know how to…and I didn’t even mean to….”

It’s called hypersexuality, Dean knows, but knowing it has a name doesn’t make it any easier to control or less embarrassing to talk about. And it’s just one reason why he should have known he was looking down the barrel of a manic episode. Which makes him that much more of a failure.

“Do you think it might help to talk it out with him?” Charlie suggests softly. “I hear communication is good for a lot of things.”

“I don’t know,” Dean whispers.

“Hey,” Charlie says after a moment. “I’m gonna go break into your apartment and steal your phone and toothbrush, and stuff, because we’re gonna have a slumber party, okay?”

Dean smiles weakly, but he doesn’t reply. He’s really tired. All the aches and pains across his body are back in full force.

“Need anything else while I’m over there?” she gives him a friendly nudge.

“M supposed to take more lithium,” he says. “And temazepam. I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Charlie replies. “Just let me know if you think of anything else. I won’t even grumble about a second trip.”

Charlie disappears onto the fire escape; Dean left his window open, so she’ll be able to get in. He waits for her to come back. His brain keeps cycling through every single horrible thing he’s ever done in his life.

He always swore he wouldn’t become John Winchester. He wouldn’t dump his kids just because stuff got hard. He’d be better. But turns out Dean’s just as much a useless fuck as his father was. He only knows his kid’s name because it was on the court documents. He can’t even get in touch with Lydia unless it’s through their lawyers. He doesn’t even know what his daughter looks like.

“Hey.” Charlie comes back. “No hyperventilating while I’m away. Sit up, man.” She takes ahold of one of his arms and helps draw him into a sitting position. “Uh, wanna breathe with me?” she asks uncertainly. Dean closes his eyes and mirrors the rise and fall of her chest; it’s not a full-fledged panic attack like it was on the floor of his bathroom this morning. Charlie finds his shoulder and rubs small circles with her thumb. “You missed me that much, huh?”

Dean meets her gray eyes, and he tries to match her watery smile. “M okay,” he tells her.

“You’ve got about 15 missed called from a ‘Sam’ – I’m guessing he’s the grumpy brother I met?”

Dean leans back. He doesn’t think he can fake his way through a phone conversation with his brother right now.

“And here’s a text,” Charlie continues. Dean doesn’t ask how she got through his phone’s passcode. “Says he’s gonna come over here if you don’t reply in an hour…that was 20 minutes ago.”

Dean covers his eyes with his arm. If he can’t see the problem, the problem doesn’t exist.

“So,” Charlie replies. “I’m gonna text him back. ‘Sorry, was busy hanging with my bff Charlie, who is an awesome and incredible person.’ That’ll throw him off the scent. Oh shit, he’s calling again. I don’t think I was convincing –”

Dean fights the urge to toss his hands over his ears so he doesn’t have to listen to “Smoke on the Water.”

“Just let it go to voicemail,” he moans.

“I’m gonna veto that request,” Charlie says. “Just because I don’t think it’s gonna assuage your brother’s worry.” Charlie answers the call and presses the phone against her ear. “Hey Sam…nope, this is his awesome and incredible bff Charlie. No – don’t panic. Dean’s fine…like he’s not the greatest, right now. But he’s okay. He’s gonna hang out with me for the night…No….Dude, I’m a lesbian. Your brother’s so not my type…I swear I’m not on drugs, I really am this hyper….Okay. Catch you on the flip side, dude.” She ends the call and puts the phone down. “Your brother’s kinda anal,” she says, and it prompts a fragile smile from Dean in response. “But I think it’s because he must care about you a lot.”

She fishes two medication bottles out from the pouch of her hoodie and gives them a rattle. “Got your drugs. Also your toothbrush. And now I’m gonna ask you a super uncomfortable and intrusive question, but I saw the razor blades, so I gotta know….”

She lets it hang there for a minute. Dean’s stomach turns over. Dean braces one elbow on his knee and leans into his hand. He doesn’t want to look at her.

“I’m okay,” he says faintly.

Charlie still looks uncomfortable. She clearly doesn’t want to press the issue. Dean doesn’t want her to, either.

“Okay,” she says finally. “But I got band-aids and rubbing alcohol if you need it.”

Dean’s so surprised that she doesn’t make it into a big deal that he lets his hand fall away, and he meets Charlie’s gaze. He swallows. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Charlie says swiftly. Dean does what Charlie told Sam he was gonna do. He spends the night at her place. He drags himself into her bathroom to brush his teeth. He even cleans a couple of the worst cuts on his arms with alcohol. Then he pops a sleeping pill. Charlie’s loveseat unfolds into a twin bed, and he doesn’t even have time to notice if the mattress is comfortable before he’s swept off to sleep.

The night is filled with uneasy, dark dreams that he can’t remember in the morning, but they leave him feeling urgent and unsettled.

Charlie feeds him toasted Eggo waffles with Nutella for breakfast, and then he gathers his shit and heads toward the window to leave.

“You’re not going to work today,” Charlie says, amazed and a hint exasperated.

“I have to go to work, Charles,” Dean replies. He’s already about an hour late, but he sent a text to Bobby about a weird morning. He’ll just put in extra time tonight.

“Dude,” Charlies says unhappily, but she doesn’t say anything else.

Dean smiles crookedly. The weird, thumping sense of unease is still clinging to him, but he feels a little more functional than yesterday.

“Thanks for letting me crash, kiddo,” he says. Voluntary, platonic physical contact is something he rarely initiates, but he tugs Charlie into a hug before he can think better of it.

She squeezes him back hard. “I love you,” she says, completely coherently, and Dean freezes.

“I know,” he replies out of panic.

Charlie laughs and shoves him toward the window. “Get out a’ here, you scruffy nerf herder, you.”

Chapter Text

Dean climbs out of Charlie’s window and back through his own. At this point, he’s not entirely sure why he has a door. Then it’s a quick shower and a change. He’s looking a little rough, but he doesn’t have time to shave. Besides, his razor’s still in pieces by his sink. The sight makes his skin itch, but he avoids taking up the blade again by picking at the cuts on his arms that have already scabbed over. Then he makes himself take his meds and heads out of the building to catch the bus.

The uneasy feeling travels with him throughout the day. He can’t shake the instinct that someone's watching him. It’s a constant buzz in the back of his skull. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end whenever he has his back turned. And he’s skittish and irritable at work, jumping at every loud noise or any time someone comes up behind him unannounced.

It’s a relief to get back to his apartment. The long flight of stairs is shadowy and narrow. The light overhead flickers. Dean remembers what Dad always said about flickering lights, how ghosts caused it through their electromagnetic interference. The stairs creak underfoot, and Dean pauses, heart thundering in his ears, too loud to hear whether there are footsteps behind him.

He doesn’t want to look behind him, so he takes the last flight at a run and slams through the door to the fourth floor. He lets himself into his apartment and falls against the door, breathing hard.

He’s fine, he tries to talk himself down. There’s nothing there. He’s not being followed. He’s not being stalked. He’s not like Dad. He’s not going to be like Dad.

Dean nearly shits his pants when his phone goes off in his back pocket. His fingers tremble as he thumbs open the screen.

“What?” he snaps into the mouthpiece.

“Jesus,” Sam replies. “Just calling to say hey.”

“Sorry,” Dean breathes out. “Hey, Sammy.”

“You okay?” Sam answers. “You kinda worried me over the weekend.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. He doesn’t need to tell Sam about the manic episode, because it’s over. Dean’s fine. He’s not still manic. He can’t still be manic. He’s fine. He’s fucking fine. And he’s being careful. He didn’t even have caffeine today.

“Well, good,” Sam replies. “So, I know I mentioned the camping thing before, but Eileen and I are going this weekend – we both got Friday off, so, if you wanted to tag along, it’d be really cool….”

There’s something in Dean’s bathroom. He can hear the sink dripping and the pipes rattle and – and there’s something there, waiting for him.

“Dean?”

“Sorry,” Dean says. “Sorry, Sam. Lost connection for a minute. I…ah, I’m not sure about this weekend. Don’t you guys want, like, time alone for, ah, alone stuff?”

“Dude, gross,” Sam says.

“Sex ain’t gross, Sammy-boy. You should try it and see.”

Can they read his mind? Dean wonders and then immediately thinks, who? Who the fuck is reading his mind? There’s nothing there. It’s fine. There’s no one in Dean’s apartment except for him.

“Very funny, Dean,” says Sam. But he must sense he’s fighting a losing battle because he says, “If you don’t wanna go camping, can we plan dinner sometime? Maybe on Thursday before we leave?”

“What?” Dean says. His forehead drips with cold sweat. There’s a shadow in the corner of his eye that darts out of the way whenever he turns to face it head-on.

“Thursday?” Sam repeats himself. “Dinner with me and Eileen? She really wants to meet you.”

“Sure,” Dean says vaguely. “That sounds great, Sammy. I gotta go, okay? Talk to you later. Bye.”

He hangs up before Sam has a chance to say goodbye. He tosses his phone on his bed, and then he darts over to his bathroom and slams the door shut because he needs to keep it in there. There’s nothing there. He needs to shut it out.

He shivers in the cool air from the AC in his window. It’s a ghost, his brain supplies. Shit. Fucking shut up. He tugs the plug out of the wall and the AC sputters into silence.

Okay. Okay. He’s fine. He just needs to get out for a little while. He needs to work off some of his excess energy. He changes out of his gross work clothes and puts on a new shirt and a pair of jeans.

Cas still has the clothes he borrowed from Dean during their night out. Dean counts them as a lost cause. Charlie told him to talk to Cas, but that’s not actually going to happen. Dean doesn’t talk to people. Besides, what he did was pretty shitty. Cas isn’t gonna want to talk to Dean.

Dean’s followed out of the building and onto the street by the unformed shadows in the corners of his eyes. Stalking him with long claws that scrape against the pavement, poison-tipped fangs, and a growl deep in its throat. Watching him watching him watching him –

Dean spins on his heel to try to catch it in the act, but there’s nothing there, and the woman carrying her groceries at the bus stop gives him a strange look. He’s gonna become one of those old guys who talk to themselves on park benches who moms hide their kids from.

It’s a sobering thought, so Dean takes a couple deep breaths to calm down. He’s fine. It’s just his imagination. He’s completely fine.

The next hours pass in a blur of paranoia and the urgent need to keep moving, keep ahead of it.

It’s coming. It killed Mom. It killed Dad. It’s gonna kill Dean. And that’s not the problem. The problem is it’s gonna kill Sammy. And Dean’s gotta protect Sammy. Dean has his hand in his pocket before he realizes he forgot his phone on the bed. Awesome. This is awesome.

“Hey, Deano." The voice in Dean’s ear and the clap on his back makes Dean spin around, hand raised –

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Gabriel says with a sly smile, and he steps back, arms upturned in surrender. “Didn’t mean to startle you, bucko.”

Dean swallows down the panic in his throat. “What the hell do you want?” he growls, way too aggressively, he knows, because Gabe’s eyebrows rise.

“Just wanted to know if I could buy you a drink,” Gabe says smoothly.

A drink. Buy him a drink. It takes a minute for Gabe’s words to make sense. A drink because Dean is at a bar. He’s standing at the counter of a bar. It’s kind of a seedy place; the lights are low, there are shadowy figures in the corners. There’s a buff bartender, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye as he wipes out a glass, probably watching him for any wrong moves. Dean doesn’t remember going to a bar.

“Or, ya know, you could buy me one,” Gabe suggests. He hops onto a stool, and the movement puts him nearly at eye-level with Dean.

“What?” Dean says. He doesn’t know how far away he is from his apartment. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He doesn’t know how much he’s had to drink. There’s an empty shot glass and a half-empty pint of beer in front of him, but he has no way of telling if this is his first round.

“Yo, Deano,” Gabe says. A small crease forms on the bridge of his nose. He snaps his fingers twice in front of Dean’s face, and Dean flinches. “What are you on, man?” he grins. “More importantly, where can I get some?”

“Dude, what the fuck is your problem?” Dean demands, jumping straight to anger because he doesn’t – he doesn’t know – and he – he –

“My problem, Deano?” Gabe growls, and despite his wide-eyed, plump-cheeked, generally boyish face and floppy hair, he suddenly looks dangerous. “Maybe it’s the fact that you screwed with my baby brother, huh? Cassie’s too polite to come out and say it, himself, but fuck you.”

Dean’s blood pounds in his ears. He’s right. He’s right. He’s right. Tears clog Dean’s throat, but he’s not going to fucking cry when he’s in the middle of being threatened.

“Fuck you,” he replies. He shoves Gabe in the chest. The smaller man nearly topples off his stool. Dean’s moving before he gives in to the impulse to smash his fist into the bastard’s fugly, self-satisfied mug. Someone calls after him. He doesn’t turn back.

He’s outside the bar in a second, bumping into a goon with a girl on his arm, who says something rude to Dean’s back but doesn’t make a move to stop him.

Dean stalks down the sidewalk. The street is relatively quiet and dark. He still doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know how he can get back to his apartment. There is no way in fuck he’s going back to the bar to ask Gabriel.

There’s a smattering of footsteps behind Dean. Dean turns sharply.

“Dude, you owe me $14.50 for your cheap-ass booze.” Gabe catches up to him. “Where the fuck are you going?”

$14.50. That’s what? Three, four drinks? Dean doesn’t feel like he’s had four drinks, unless it just hasn’t hit him yet. He stops in the street and does the whole stand still, arm outstretched, try to touch your nose thing and he ends up almost poking his eye out.

“My man,” Gabe says with a low whistle. “You are batshit insane, are you aware?”

Dean drops his arm. “Why the fuck are you following me?” he demands.

Gabe bristles. “I’m not following you.”

“Then get the fuck away from me,” Dean says. But he misses Gabe’s next words because the street is weird. The lights are…it all looks kinda one-dimensional. They’re on a stretch of road lined with more bars. A crowd of people spill out of a nearby door, and – and there’s something wrong with them. Dean’s gut tenses in fear, and he’s darting across the road before the people can get too close.

“The fuck’s the fire?” Gabriel yells after him.

Dean doesn’t turn around. He just keeps walking. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He needs to get somewhere quiet. He needs to get off the fucking street.

Mom’s screaming. She’s screaming screaming screaming. Getting burned up alive, and Dean can smell it. He can smell her body as the fire eats away at her flesh, chews through her bones, makes the fat bubble and pop.

“Ew,” Gabe says, as Dean gags and heaves up the alcohol he drank before. “You are so fucked up, right now,” Gabe tells him.

Dean coughs, spits, and rubs his mouth on his sleeve.

“I cannot believe I’m offering this to the jerk who hurt my little brother, but you need a ride back home?” Gabe’s hand finds Dean’s back.

Hands. Hands on his body. Pushing him up against the wet, cold wall.

“Get off me!” Dean yelps, and he shakes off Gabe’s hand. He turns with both fists raised, and Gabe takes a step back, a flash of unease in his eye.

And Dean can’t – he can’t – don’t touch him. Too many hands. Hands holding him back. Pressing him down. Hands clinging to his arms and hair and legs.

Get off her. And he threw the guy against a car, one hand tangled in his collar, and plowed his fist once, twice, three times until he heard a crack and the guy drooled blood.

“Dean.” Gabe’s voice comes from far away, “Dean, man. You’re having a bad trip or something, ‘cause you are definitely not okay, right now.”

“Don’t touch me!” Dean yells again, and he spins out of reach of Gabriel’s hand. He closes his eyes. He’s not here. He’s not here. He doesn’t want to be here.

“Oh my God, dude, chill,” Gabe says.

“There a problem here?” a new voice cuts in.

“Does it look like there’s a problem here? Gabriel snaps.

Someone screams again. Again. Again. Again. Dean claps his hands over his ears and doubles over. Stop. Make it stop.

“Dean! Shut up!”

Hands grab at his arms, haul him upward. Dean struggles out of their grip. He swings wildly. His elbow makes contact with something hard.

“Shit!” Gabriel hisses in pain, and he covers his face with his hand. Blood seeps through his fingers.

“Buddy, calm the fuck down!” the other voice orders. A heavy arm wraps around Dean’s chest. Dean throws his head backward and the crown of his head connects with the man’s nose. The man releases Dean, swearing in surprise and anger.

There’s another man. Dean moves on instinct. He blocks a blow and throws one of his own, years of Dad’s careful, obsessive training drilled into his skull. He lands his fist in someone’s stomach. The man bends over; air hisses out of his lips.

“Call the fucking cops!”

No. Fucking no. Dean can’t go back – they won’t bring him back. Hands. Hold still.

Hold still, Alastair coached him. Such a good boy. My good boy.

Don’t make a sound. Hands down his pants and –

Turn over. On your hands and knees.

Bite his lip so hard it bleeds. Blood in his mouth. Blood in his eyes. Blood running down his wrists. He just wants it to stop. Please, stop. Let go. Please, let go. Don’t hold him down. Burying him. Burying him alive. No room. No air. Dirt in his lungs. Can’t breathe.

“Let go of him. He’s fucking panicking – maybe he’ll stop fighting if you fucking let him go, you bozo.”

A siren splits the air.

No. No no no no no. Dean can’t go back. They can’t make him go back. Pavement bites into his knees, and his arms are twisted painfully behind his back. There are too many bodies. So many people touching him.

He slams his forehead against the sidewalk. Stars scatter across his vision. A sharp pain rebounds to the back of his skull like a bouncing basketball.

“Holy shit,” Gabriel exclaims.

Dean smacks his head against the pavement again. The world goes silent. There’s a rushing in his ears. A hand closes around the back of his head, and then his face is crushed into the sidewalk.

“Do not move, do you understand?”

Don’t move. Stay quiet for me, Deano.

It only makes Dean fight harder. He kicks out at random, and his foot connects with someone’s knee. More cursing.

“Police! Out of the way.”

“Let me get through.”

Dean twists hard. The person holding his head falters, off-balance, and Dean rolls over onto his back. He kicks with both feet. He sees a blue uniform right before his feet land square in the officer’s stomach.

“Goddamn, hold him down!”

More hands. More voices. More bodies. Touching him. Touching him. Stop touching him.

It won’t hurt if you just relax, boy.

He’s a fighter, ain’t he?

“Get his legs!”

And then someone’s laying across his legs, pinning him to the ground. And someone else is straddling him. Dean can feel their weight on his ribs. And Dean knows what comes next. He doesn’t – he doesn’t want it to happen again. Please. Please, let him up. He just wants to sit up.

“Sir, you need to calm down.”

“Jesus, Deano, can you stop?”

“Christ, Ballard, his head’s bleeding pretty bad. Get the EMTs out here.”

“On their way, Pete.”

“Sir, if you do not calm down, we will place you under arrest. Do you understand?”

Get off. Get off. Get off.

“Sir, do you know this man?”

“I’m his landlord.”

“Has he taken any chemical substances tonight, sir?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? I mean, he’s definitely sloshed.”

More sirens. More sirens. Don’t take him. Please don’t take him. Dean wants to go home. He just wants to go home. Please, he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Please, he just wants to go home.

“Sir? Sir, can you tell me what your name is?”

Stop. Stop. Let go. Let go. It hurts. It hurts. Please, stop. Sam? Sammy? What have they done to Sam?

“Sammy? Is that your name?”

“His name’s Dean – Dean Winchester.”

“Okay, hey Dean. My name’s Tessa. I’m an EMT. We’re gonna get you to a hospital, okay? You hit your head pretty hard. Can you look up for me? Can you look right here toward my eyes?”

There’s a young woman’s face hovering above Dean, and she doesn’t look strong enough to be holding Dean down by herself, so Dean doesn’t understand why he can’t move. And then her face is obstructed by a blinding pinpoint of light. Dean wines and tries to turn his head away, but there are hands there, too.

“Hey, I know it’s uncomfortable, but you gotta calm down, Dean. We’re not gonna hurt you. We’re trying to help.”

“We ready to transport?”

“Lets get him on the stretcher.”

The weight on top of his chest disappears as whoever was straddling him gets off. Hands tug at him to turn him on his side. Dean takes the opportunity to jerk hard out of their grip. One arm gets free. He makes contact; the girl, Tessa, cries out.

A stab of guilt cuts through Dean’s fear, but he can’t afford to linger because the weight on his shoulders redoubles, and a grip closes vice-like around his free wrist.

“Tie him down.”

Please, stop. Let him up. He’s sorry. He’s sorry. Just let him go. Please let him go.

“One, two, three, lift.”

There’s a jarring sense of weightlessness, and then the slide of fabric and metal, and Dean’s suddenly in a tiny room with bright lights and wires and machinery around him, and Dean doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home.

There’s a belt across his shoulders and chest, and his legs are restrained at the ankles. He can’t raise his hands, and he fights the hold against his head so he can lift his neck. There are white bands around his wrists, tying him to the stretcher. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. They can do whatever they want to him. They can – they can –

“He’s hyperventilating.”

“Dean, look at me,” Tessa is back. Her dark eyes are kind and calm, and there’s a red mark on her cheek. “We’re trying to help you. I’m gonna put the oxygen mask on now, alright?”

There’s a hand on either side of his head, holding him down, and Tessa wrestles the mask over his face, and Dean can’t breathe – can’t breathe because what if it’s poison? What if she’s trying to kill him? He tries to shake his head, but he can’t move. He wants it off. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like it. Fucking get it off –

A tech on the other side is rolling up Dean’s sleeve. No. No, Dean doesn’t let – clothes stay on. Don’t –

“Just a blood pressure cuff, Dean,” Tess says. “You’re doing really well, okay?”

“Multiple lacerations to both forearms; they look a few days old.”

“We’re gonna insert an IV, alright Dean? It might pinch for just a second.”

“Administering 2.5 milligrams diazepam.” There’s a prick in the crook of his arm, and he tries to tug away, but the IV is already in. And they’re drugging him drugging him drugging him and they can – they can do whatever they want if –

There are dark shadows at the edges of his vision. His body feels heavy, like there are weights on top of his chest.

“That’s it, Dean,” Tessa coaches him, hands still holding his head in place. “That’s it. Calm down.”

Dean fights the growing need to shut his eyes and let himself slip away. He can’t afford to fall asleep. If he falls asleep, anything can happen.

“I’m gonna ask you a couple questions, so we can figure out what’s going on, okay? First, can you tell me if you took anything tonight?”

Didn’t take anything. Didn’t take anything. Please – please let him go – please.

“Your friend mentioned alcohol, can you remember how much you had to drink? Hey – hey, Dean. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Tessa’s face disappears as she turns to talk to another tech. “We need to get him calmed down.”

“Administering another 2.5 mils.”

“Can you tell me how old you are, Dean? Dean?” Tessa lays a soft, latex-covered palm against his cheek. Her eyes are kind and earnest. “Look right at me. Don’t pay attention to the needle, okay? You’re alright.”

Dean tries to latch onto Tessa’s voice. She's soft and calm. She’s gonna be the last thing Dean ever sees. He won’t get to say goodbye to Sammy. Or Bobby. Or Charlie.

“Can you tell me where you are right now? What city are we in, right now, Dean?”

“Okay, do you know today’s date?”

But Dean’s done. He’s done with questions. He wants out. He needs to get out. He wants it to go away. He wants it to end.

He remembers when the two cops and the hospital chaplain came into his hospital room after the accident. And Sammy was sitting by his bedside. Dean was still too weak to even lift his head. He was stupid from painkillers and his vision was blurry and distorted from the blow to his head. His throat was raw from having a tube down it for two days straight.

Sam and Dean Winchester? We’re afraid we have some bad news.

“Alright, Dean. We’re at Saint Luke’s,” Tessa says brightly, and the ambulance doors are open; they’re on the move again, and the jostling makes nausea stir in Dean’s stomach. He’s dizzy. He can’t tell if it’s from the booze or the sedative. “Gonna leave you in good hands.”

The gurney wheels rattle underneath Dean, and the emergency doors whistle open.

“White male. 32 years old. Approximately 200 pounds. Head trauma. Severely distressed. Heart rate is 210. Blood pressure 180 over 90. Received five milligrams diazepam.”

Reality filters in and out. A doctor hovers overhead and asks Dean questions. She’s replaced by a receptionist who wants to know about insurance. Who’s replaced by Alastair who croons, got you all wrapped up, Deano. Can’t get away. I’m always right here. He taps Dean on the side of the head and grins. Right here.

And then there’s yelling and clattering equipment on the floor, and the saline solution from the IV bag splashes to the ground and trickles down the cracks in the linoleum. And calls for “code gray” and “security!”

And then something sticks him in the neck and the shadows at the corners of his vision billow and grow until all there is is darkness.

OOO

“He’s bipolar with psychotic features. He takes Zoloft, Abilify, and lithium daily, valium as needed, and temazepam to sleep. He’s not supposed to have narcotics – he’s addicted. And he’s an alcoholic but he still drinks. No allergies. I mean – ah, cats, but, ah, I don’t think you meant, yeah…”

“You’re doing great, honey. Let’s talk family history, okay? What about your daddy?”

We’re afraid we have some bad news.

“He – ah, he’s dead.”

He was found in the boiler room.

“How’d he die?”

We’re sorry to tell you it was self-inflicted.

“He, ah, took his own life. He – he was probably bipolar, too, except he never got diagnosed. He and – he and Dean had a lot of the same…. But, ah, yeah.”

We’re not sure how he gained access to the blade.

“And your mamma?”

“She’s dead, too. She died when I was a baby. House fire. It was an accident. I don’t know…sorry.”

An accident. An accident. An electrical fire started up in the nursery walls. A Yellow-Eyed Demon.

“That’s alright, honey. Paternal grandparents?”

“We never knew them. Dad never – he never told us about them, really.”

Son of a bitch walked out the door when Dad was seven years old. Ran off with his secretary, Josie Sands.

“And your mamma’s family?”

“Her mom died of a heart attack before I was born. Our grandfather…he has high blood pressure, I think. I don’t know about anything else. We aren’t close.”

“Okay, Sam. We just wanna get a picture. As it is now, your brother looks like he just gave himself a nasty knock on the head. He should be okay. And the doctor’ll be here in a minute to talk about his psychiatric treatment options.”

“Okay.”

“You got any questions for me?”

“Why – w-why’s he restrained?”

Tied down. Tied down. Hold him down. Don’t let him up. Keep him quiet.

“Dean came in pretty riled up. We had to secure him to make sure he didn’t hurt himself or anyone else. We’ll be able to take ‘em off once he’s awake and we can assess his condition.”

“Did he? Hurt anyone, I mean. He – he’s not violent. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I understand that, honey. It’s just a precaution.”

“He hates being tied up. He went to – he was in prison a few years ago, and – and being contained isn’t good for him. He – he hurt himself.”

Sammy. That’s Sammy’s voice. The words drift lazily through Dean’s head. His body feels heavy and unwieldy. He’s drowsy and dopey and just wants to stay asleep.

“We’ll work hard to keep him safe, Sam. You seem pretty up on your brother’s condition, but I gotta ask if you’re aware of the self-inflicted wounds on his arms?”

And that’s someone else. A woman. Her voice is warm. Calm. Tessa? No. Not Tessa. Who the fuck is Tessa?

“Yeah. He – he’s been doing it – I’ve known since – he started when he was 13 or 14. I – I didn’t know he’d started again. But – but it’s not new.”

“Okay, Sam. It’s just something we wanted to make sure you knew about.”

“Sure.”

Dean blinks his eyes open. His lids are thick and slow. The light is too bright, and Dean wines and closes his eyes again.

“Dean?” Sammy’s on him in a second, one hand tangled in Dean’s fingers, the other clawing at his shoulder. “Hey, man. You’re good. You’re okay. Just be nice and calm, okay? You’re fine.”

Sam’s worried, insistent chatter transforms into a one-tone buzz inside Dean’s head. His brother is sitting beside him, leaning over his bed. And his enormous face is ghostly pale, red and wet around the eyes. Which means he’s been crying. And that – that’s not good. Sammy crying equals bad.

And there’s an older woman frowning at him from the foot of his bed. She’s got a round face, a halo of tight curls, and a clipboard in her hands.

“You back with the living, Dean?” she inquires.

There’s a pang of panic inside Dean’s chest, but it’s distant and hazy, like a smokey mirage on a desert horizon. Because he can’t move. He can’t – he can’t move.

“Let me –” his tongue is clumsy. His voice sounds weird and far away. “Let me up.”

“That depends,” the woman says, raising a stern eyebrow. “You gonna behave yourself?”

And the panic is getting stronger, but it’s a sloppy, cloying feeling instead of pin-prick sharp and angry. It climbs into his throat and chokes him. He’s going to cry – fuck – fuck he’s going to cry, and Sammy’s right there.

“P-please. I – I promise.”

“Okay,” the woman says. And she’s bustling to Dean’s side so she can get at the buckled cuffs holding his left wrist to the cot. “It’s okay, honey. I’m gonna get them right off.”

She releases his left wrist. Dean immediately tugs his hand free and covers his face with his forearm. His skin lands in warm, sticky tears. Shit. He’s not wearing a shirt. He’s just wearing a stupid, flimsy hospital gown, which means his arms and legs are totally bare and everyone can see the fucking scars. Dean hates his body. He hates it. He fucking hates it.

“My name is Missouri. I’m your nurse, Dean,” she talks softly as she works around him. “Okay, Dean.” Missouri finishes, and the last restraint slides away from around his chest. It’s like Dean’s ribs are finally given permission to fully expand. “There you go, sweetheart.”

Dean curls inward. He doesn’t want her to look at him. He doesn’t want Sammy to see. Knees to chest. Left arm over his face. And he moves his right arm, but there’s an IV in the crook of his elbow, catheter taped into his skin. Dean bites his lip so he won’t take hold of the line and rip it out with his teeth.

“You’re shivering,” Missouri tells him. She gently pulls a blanket over his body. He feels a little better, but the needle is still fucking there, and he doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want – doesn’t want –

“Dean,” Sammy whispers. His long fingers comb through Dean’s sweaty hair. “You’re okay, man. It’s okay.” Sammy puts his face close to Dean’s. Close enough Dean can feel his warm breath on his cheek. Like they used to lay when they shared a bed as kids, and Sammy would curl close if he woke up from a nightmare or if Dad came in late and drunk. Only it was Dean who’d whisper reassurances into his brother’s hair back then. Close your eyes, Sammy. I’ll protect you.

“I know you don’t like it,” Sammy says, and Dean peaks under his arm like he’s a little kid checking for monsters in the dark. “But it’s okay. It’s not hurting you.”

“M sorry – sorry, Sammy.”

“Did you stop taking your meds?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, Dean. It’s not your fault. We’re gonna figure it out.”

“S-screwed it up. M sorry. I – I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. I know, Dean. You’re alright. Dr. Henriksen is gonna be here in a few hours. We’re gonna figure out what to do.”

“D-don’t wanna be like Dad.”

“You’re not gonna be like Dad.”

“Don’t wanna – I-I’m not crazy, Sammy.”

“I know.” Sam keeps pushing his fingers slow across Dean’s scalp. The feeling is soothing. Dean swallows. His throat hurts from the pressure of the tears fighting to climb out. “You’re just sick, Dean. It’s not your fault.”

“M sorry.”

“Don’t have to be sorry,” Sammy says. They must have Dean on a pretty nice sedative, because he’s already drifting back to foggy, empty gray.

Chapter Text

St. Luke’s doesn’t have an onsite psychiatrist, so Dean gets shipped across the city to NKCH. There’s another brief freak-out and another threat of sedation because Dean doesn’t want to go in the ambulance. He fucking hates ambulances. They’re just a step above a coffin. But it’s patient transportation policy, and Sammy promises he’ll ride in the back with him, and he says it’s fine, totally fine, Dean. Even though it’s not fucking fine.

The shrinks are waiting for Dean at his new room. And there are two of them, Victor and a NKCH native, plus Dean’s lawyer, Mick Davies, so Dean knows it’s bad. Technically, Sam could be Dean’s lawyer, but Mick’s always been around for the really big things: the arrests, DWIs, and custody shit.

Turns out Victor’s there as a consultant, because he doesn’t work for the hospital, so Dean has to contend with Dr. Sunder, who’s got a glass eye, shoulder-length auburn hair, and the kind of no-nonsense attitude that makes Dean want to hide under the bed.

Mick explains to Dean that it’s either deal with the psych eval or accept the Peace Disturbance charge, which is a class B misdemeanor and can result in six months in prison and/or a fine of $1,000. Which sets off another full-blown panic attack. Afterward, Dean’s a blubbering mess and he doesn’t even care, and he’s clutching at Sammy and whimpering don’t wanna go back. Please don’t make me go back.

He’s not exactly sure what he did or said, but whatever it was convinces Dr. Sunder that he’s going to the Research Psychiatric Center for a 96-hour involuntary civil commitment.

He has to get back into the ambulance and, by then, he’s done. Dean doesn’t do hysterical, but he’s definitely not super steady on the way to the center. When he’s getting checked in and Sammy’s making promises about coming tomorrow with books and t-shirts and sweatpants, Dean starts begging, because it’s not like he’s got his dignity to care about.

“Please, Sammy, please, just – just let me go back with you. Please, I don’t need to be here. Sammy, I don’t need to be here. I swear – I swear I’ll do better. Please –”

“Dean, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” Sammy says, and there are tears in his eyes, and Dean doesn’t mean to make him cry. He doesn’t want to hurt Sammy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong.

“P-please.”

Sam tugs Dean into a bone-crushing hug, and Dean collapses into his brother’s arm. He hides his face in Sammy’s shoulder. Thank God the kid is so ridiculously huge. Dean doesn’t want everyone else watching him, right now.

Sammy tells the aide over Dean’s head, “He’s fine. He’ll cooperate. Right, Dean?”

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean rasps. He wipes his face and tries to smile at Sammy because there’s something wrong with his little brother’s face. He looks scared and hurt and anxious.

“And I’ll be here tomorrow,” Sammy insists. “Soon as I can be.”

“Hi, Mr. Winchester? Dean?” The aide approaches. She’s got dark hair and large brown eyes. She smiles kindly. “My name is Duma. Will you follow me, please?”

Dean curls his hand around the amulet hanging from his neck, and he lets the pressure against his palm tug him away to somewhere safe: that Christmas when Sam shoved the funny-pages-wrapped package into his hands and grinned sheepishly as Dean unwrapped it.

“Will you please remove your belt, shoelaces, and any jewelry? I’ll also need what you’ve got in your pockets – wallet, phone, or anything else.” Dean does what she says with trembling fingers, and she must see him hesitate before he reaches for his necklace because she adds soothingly, “We’re going to pass everything over to your brother before he leaves; don’t worry. It’ll be safe with him.”

From there, it’s pretty simple. Waiting around at the hospital for the eval, bloodwork, and transfer papers took frikken forever, so it’s already too late to do much else but follow Duma wherever she leads him. Dean’s been to Research before, about four years ago, so it’s not like he needs a tour. They stop off at the empty cafeteria so Dean can eat a chicken salad sandwich for dinner, which is really gross, and he doesn’t eat a lot of it. Duma watches him with a slight frown. And then he gets his meds, including a sleeping pill, which he’s grateful for. Then she drops him off at his room.

The place is one of the nicer facilities he’s been in; it’s painted in warm, pale beiges instead of stark white, and there are occasional stripes and splashes of accent color across the walls because it’s not like they can risk leaving glass-covered paintings around, or anything else that could be used as a projectile or bludgeon.

There are also private rooms, which is nice, but Dean knows it’s partly what makes the place so fucking expensive. And it’s not like Dean’s shitty health insurance dishes out extra for nice digs. Dean’s getting billed more than half of this shithole out-of-pocket. And he knows Sammy picks up that slack. Which is unfair and horrible, and just one more example of why Dean’s a shitty brother.

Dean’s room is a small rectangle. All the furniture is affixed into the walls: a narrow bed, a desk, a closet, a bench under the window – which is barred. Dean’s mind is well-trained for risk assessment, so he picks up on everything in the room he could use in an emergency: the only lights are fit into the wall, and the only loose piece of furniture is the desk chair. Dean could use the chair to reach the lights, and he could probably use his now-unlaced sneaker to smash the glass without cutting himself. Hell, he could use his fist; it’s not like it would matter. And then he’d have to act fast because security or one of the aides would hear the crash.

But Dean files the information for later. Now, he’s tired. Duma fitted his wrist with a white band. It itches his skin; he wants it off. The sleeping pill is starting to take effect. So, he changes into the plain pajamas and robe they gave him to use until Sammy comes back with clothes, and then he curls up into bed and tries to sleep.

OOO

Dean wakes up and he hates himself. He was doing well – sure, maybe not great. But fine. He’d finally moved out. He’d made friends. He was working full-time. It seemed like maybe his life was getting back on track. And now that’s all gone. He messed it up. He always fucking messes it up.

It’s the sixth time he’s been hospitalized since he was 19, when he went in for slitting his wrists and Dad broke him out after the first day. He went in again after the oxy overdose when he was 27. That one turned into a 90-day rehab. Then he got in after waving a gun around in Lisa’s house, and then again after busting through her front door and finding her with Matt. Fifth time coincided with his second DWI, when he crashed into a tree and nearly totaled his baby; that was his first time at Research. Then, of course, there was the bar fight with Kyle, the assault charges, and the transfer mid-way through his sentence because he tried to hang himself with his bedsheets in the prison’s segregation unit.

“Dean?” A knock precedes the call, but just barely, and the door’s already open, so it doesn’t even matter. Dean forgot about that: not the lack of privacy thing, but the entire disregard for common courtesy.

It’s another aide, but this one is tall with long blond hair and a little girl cuteness to her face that’s a little poisonous. “Breakfast is in 45 minutes. Time to get up.”

Dean doesn’t bother looking at the aide’s nametag. He doesn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to die.

The thought jumps to mind immediately. Dean’s been passively suicidal for as long as he can remember. But it’s only sometimes when it feels like this.

The feeling follows him around the center all day. I want to die, he thinks as he pulls on yesterday’s jeans and fastens them without a belt. He doesn’t bother with his shoes because they’re loose and uncomfortable without laces. So, he pads around with the socks they gave him last night; they’ve got those little rubber grips on the bottom to stop him from sliding around on the linoleum. I want to die he thinks as he tugs the thin blanket off his bed and tosses it around his shoulders because he doesn’t want people to look at him. I want to die, he thinks, and he pokes his watery eggs around on his paper plate with his plastic spoon. He can barely eat, and he wonders how long they’ll let him starve before they flag him for an eating disorder. I want to die, he thinks when a nurse shines a pen light in his eyes to check his head. He didn’t give himself a concussion smashing his face against the sidewalk, but they’ve got him under observation anyway. Turns out head injuries are a really bad idea if you’ve got a history of TBIs.

“I want to die,” Dean tells Victor, who he’s allowed to meet with that morning instead of going to group. Pam will be in later that afternoon, before visiting hours.

“Okay,” Victor says soberly. He’s always been good at cutting the bullshit. “It sounds like you’re rapid cycling, Dean.”

“I don’t want to be here,” Dean says. He doesn’t know how he can be any clearer. He wants to die. He is going to kill himself. And he doesn’t care.

“We’re going to focus on getting your meds balanced again while you’re here,” Victor says levelly.

Dean’s placed in a one-to-one after his conversation with Victor, so Dean figures his shrink probably spilled the beans about the whole wanting to die thing to hospital staff. Dean doesn’t care. The aide he’s stuck with is an older guy, Joshua. Dean remembers him from his last stay in Research. He’s got white at his temples and a calm, warm demeanor. He says he remembers Dean, as well, and Dean hates the idea that he’s becoming a revolving door patient. Joshua says Dean should ask him for anything he needs; perhaps he would like to go for a walk in the garden?

Dean doesn’t say anything. He curls back up in bed and sleeps. He would have slept through lunch, but the blond aide from the morning barges into his room, and she’s got his food, meds, and a bottle of Ensure on a tray. She tells him coolly that they’ll have to insert a nasogastric tube if he continues to refuse to eat.

He catches her nametag this time: Lilith. And, for a fraction of a second, he wonders how much trouble he’d get into if he flipped his tray in her smug face. But it’s not worth it. And he painfully slogs through half his meal until he feels like he’s going to throw up. And then he sleeps again.

Pam’s arrival wakes him at three. She apologizes for having to bring her dog, Jesse, and Dean says it doesn’t matter. The black German Shephard sits half-way under her chair, head on its gigantic paws, and Dean wonders what it would feel like to have its teeth rip out his throat. Pam asks him a few questions before she realizes she’s not gonna get a lot out of him.

“I want to die,” he tells her like he told Victor.

“How likely are you to hurt yourself, on a scale of one to ten?”

“I don’t fucking care”

“But you’re telling me about it, Dean, so you have to care at least a little bit.”

“Can you get the fuck out of my fucking room?”

Sam shows up a little while afterward. He’s got a duffle full of hospital-sanctioned clothes and possessions and a forcefully hopeful attitude that can go fuck itself. Dean wants to go back to bed, but he’s only allowed to have visitors in the dayroom, so he makes himself stay awake as Sam reassures him that this time, it’ll work. This time, they’ll figure out the treatment plan that sticks long term.

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean says, when it’s finally time for his brother to leave. Dean trudges back to his room afterward, despite Joshua’s suggestion he eat dinner with the rest of the residents. Then Joshua asks if Dean wants to unpack his stuff – he even lugs Dean’s bag down the hall for him, which is nice, but just makes Dean feel like shit.

Dean doesn’t want to unpack, but Joshua needs to confiscate the bag because of the straps, so Dean just dumps his crap on the floor.

There’s a bunch of books. The last time Dean was in the hospital, after he crawled his way out of the two months of akinetic catatonia, practically all he did was read: Vonnegut, Tolkien, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Ludlum, those weird Neil Gaiman books Sammy likes, Death Note and Berserk and even Harry Potter. It filled the time and brought Dean somewhere else. Plus, he needed the entertainment; all they played on the television was nature documentaries, game shows, and HGTV.

Something flutters out on top of the pile of clothes and books, and Dean doesn’t need to flip it over to recognize the picture of him and Mom from before the fire. Sammy must have gone through his box of unpacked stuff in the apartment.

Dean picks up the photo and stares at her smiling face for a while. Her long blond hair and how it catches the light. If he tries really hard, he can still remember the feel of her arms wrapped tight around his thin chest. He doesn’t remember what her voice sounded like anymore, but he remembers what she said: angels are watching over you. By now, Dean knows that’s bullshit.

Feeling more than a little stupid, but figuring no one needs to know, he tucks the picture under his pillow before he gets under the covers and goes back to sleep. She can hang around with him for a little longer.

OOO

The next day, Dean feels better wearing a fresh pair of pants and shirt, even if it’s just his grubby loungewear. Dean can’t get out of group again because Victor isn’t there. Pam is coming again, but that’s not until the afternoon, so Dean shuffles through the hallway to the meeting room. Joshua is back, a silent and soothing presence, after getting briefly replaced by a night aide.

“Hello, Dean, please take a seat.” Dr. Eleanor Visyak is also someone Dean recognizes from last time, but it’s clear she doesn’t remember him. She’s blond and kind of a babe for probably being in her low fifties, but right now she has the plastic, indulgent smile of every mental health professional Dean’s ever met. “A reminder that we do like to begin sessions promptly at ten o’clock.”

“Sorry,” Dean says. It’s just that I didn’t give a shit about being here, but he doesn’t actually want to be in this cesspool for longer than he has to be, so he bites his tongue. He momentarily considers spinning a chair around to straddle it – but one of his therapists in another of his countless group sessions suggested that Dean didn’t like to sit on a chair properly because he liked to use the backrest as a physical manifestation of his mental walls, so Dean just sits. But he does cross his arms over his stomach. Body language be fucked.

“Ava, you may continue.” Visyak nods to a girl with a round face and bangs. The girl has two white bandages around her wrists. Too small for vertical cuts, so Dean knows she didn’t really mean business.

Ava’s large eyes ghost across Dean for a second before she launches back into the narrative she’d begun before Dean came in. “There’s just something about the pattern of it that makes me feel trapped. I wake up. I shower. I go to work. I come home. I make dinner. Brady and I watch TV. Yadda, yadda, yadda. And it just keeps going around. And I feel like that’s all life is, you know? It’s just day after day of the same shit before you retire. But, by then, you’re too old to do anything, so you die after 15 years of moping around your one-story condo.”

Dean tunes her out. Instead, he inspects the other three members of his group: he vaguely remembers meeting Martin, a thin-faced, bald man, and Frank, an overweight man with a grim face and glasses, at breakfast the day before. But the other woman Dean doesn’t recognize: a pretty girl with a haughty face and dark hair, who looks just as bored as Dean feels. Mental hospitals are like prisons: you don’t ask someone why they’re there, so Dean can only guess why his cohort are trapped here with him, and he entertains himself for a while trying to guess diagnoses.

“Thank you for sharing, Ava,” Visyak says patiently. “Does anyone have anything to say to Ava?”

Martin pipes up. He seems like the type of guy who’s anxious to be helpful. Or maybe he’s just anxious. As Dean watches him, he seems to be almost vibrating with nerves. And his voice kinda explodes out of his lips like he can’t wait to be rid of it. Frank, also, seems on edge. He’s clearly hyper-vigilant and a little twitchy. He keeps looking over his shoulder, and Dean can’t help but notice he took the spot in the circle with the clearest view of the door.

The girl Dean doesn’t know is watching him. He exchanges a raised eyebrow with her. She makes no secret at scanning him from bottom to top, giving him the feeling like he’s pinned under a microscope, before she smirks – Dean can’t tell if it’s because she likes what she sees or she’s unimpressed.

“Dean?” Visyak interrupts Dean and mystery hot girl’s silent judging match. “Since this is your first day with the group, would you like to share how you’re settling in?”

“Me?” Dean says. He crosses his legs, ankle against his knee. “I’m awesome. Currently I’ve got a tail because they’re worried I’m gonna slit my wrists when they’re not looking.” Dean’s learned over the years that situations like this are best dealt with bluntness. Afterall, they can’t get mad at him for being too honest.

Visyak, however, looks minutely unimpressed before she smooths her face into another sympathetic smile. “Do you think that worry is groundless?”

“Shit no,” Dean says, mustering a grin. “Give me a blade and I’d do it right here.” Even as he says it, Dean knows he’s probably earned himself another few days, at least, in this fucking building. He’s stupid. Dean is so aware that he’s stupid; he’s just totally incapable of stopping himself from doing stupid things.

Group drags on.

By the end of it, Dean’s ready to claw his skin off. He wonders if this is another rapid cycling moment, vacillating wildly from mania to depression and back again. He remembers how Pam always tells him he should try to become more in tune with his body; how it’ll help him recognize warning signs or shit. Oh well.

Everyone smokes in hospitals; it’s one of the only ways the aides let you out of the building. Dean’s feeling well enough that he doesn’t need to crash immediately back into bed, so he takes one of the smokes being handed out at the door and heads into the garden.

“Hello, Joshua,” the girl from group tells Dean’s aide, sidling over to where Dean had taken refuge in the corner of the fenced-in yard. Her voice is clipped and posh; Dean wonders what she’s doing in white trash, Midwest America.

“Good morning, Bela,” Joshua replies with a gentle smile.

The fences aren’t too high, maybe ten feet. Dean could easily haul himself up and over and be half-way down the block before old Josh could even call security.

“Hello, Dean is it?” Bela says to Dean. She’s got an unlit cigarette between her long, narrow fingers. She’s got nice hands. Nice arms. A nice body. She didn’t mind giving Dean the once-over before, so Dean gives her one, now. She smirks under his gaze.

“Bela?” Dean replies.

“Pleasure,” Bela says, baring all teeth in a smile, like a hunting lioness. “Visyak is a charmer, isn’t she?”

“Kinda sexy,” Dean says. The yard reminds him of rec in prison. He really wants to stop thinking about fucking prison. “In a fuck-your-teacher kinda way.”

“You that kinda boy, Dean?” Bela asks.

“Hell yeah,” Dean boasts. “Senior year. Abigail Don. Social studies. She was engaged and everything.”

“Mmh,” Bela replies, cocking an eyebrow. Again, Dean’s not sure if she’s impressed or disgusted. “I was screwing the headmaster and maths instructor at the same time. That was before they threw me out for stealing.”

Dean nods. He takes a drag from his cigarette. It’s a pretty shitty stick, but smoking road kill was worse. “How long you been at this dump?”

“Coming up on two months,” Bela replies. “You see, I should be in jail, but my mother is rich and thinks it would be less embarrassing to have an insane daughter rather than a criminal.”

“So you know this place pretty well, then?” Dean asks. He taps the ash off the end of his cigarette. Bela’s is still unlit; he should probably ask if she wants a light.

“Oh yes,” Bela replies. “I’m quite well acquainted, by now. For instance, Martin,” she says, pointing to the bald guy from group across the lawn, “Paranoid schizophrenic. Wild psychosis. For a while he’d tell anyone who’d listen that Lilith is a monster who eats people’s brains. He’s only partially wrong; she’s not a monster, but she is a bitch. Frank,” she points to the other man from group. “Obsessive compulsive. He sees patterns in everything. Very cliché. And Ava – her fiancé found her in the bathtub. She’s new, as well, but she’ll be gone before the weekend. I think she’s a one-and-done kind of girl.”

Dean scans Bela again, head to toe, more subtly this time. He looks for any clues about what got her into the place; she mentioned sex and stealing and jail. She’s wearing a short-sleeve shirt, so he can clearly see her arms: no scars. And the scoop-neck is about as low as they’ll allow without asking you to put on something less revealing.

“And you?” she inquires, as if asking Dean where he’s traveling for the summer. “You’re obviously impulsive, insecure, and brashly suicidal, but is there an official diagnosis to go along with the personality defects?”

A laugh gets a little caught inside Dean’s throat, but he answers her. “Bipolar.”

Bela nods, like it all makes sense now, and replies with a charming smile, “Borderline, love.”

Dean nods again. It makes sense: the criminal behavior and the impulsive sexuality.

“Find me after you get out of one-to-one,” Bela says quietly, so Joshua can’t hear from where he’s been politely ignoring their conversation from a few paces away. She leans forward under the guise of catching a light from his cigarette. “I think we should waste a little time together, don’t you?”

OOO

“I’d like to consider the possibility that you have PTSD,” Pam starts out with.

“I don’t,” Dean tells her.

“Ah, yes, seeing as you’re the expert…” Pam trails off. Despite her lack of vision, she fixes her eyes on his face and gives him an incredulous look.

Dean’s not in the mood. “I don’t have that – I’m not.”

“I’m going to ask you a series of yes or no questions,” Pam replies; she seems to have sensed his mood because her playful tone is immediately replaced by stern professionalism. “Have you ever experienced a trauma? Including a fire, accident, death of a loved one, child abuse, physical or sexual assault –”

“Can you fuck off?”

“Dean,” Pam sounds gentle, but relentless. “I know the answer is yes. Do you have recurrent nightmares about these events?”

“Everyone has fucking nightmares.”

“What about flashbacks? Do you know what a flashback is?”

“I fucking know what a flashback is –”

“You had a series of fairly serious flashbacks while you were in the hospital. You said some pretty alarming things.”

Deadened panic swells in Dean’s stomach, but he’s too ill to experience it fully. He doesn’t say anything.

Pam waits for a minute. “I can’t tell if you’re giving me the silent treatment or if you’re finding it difficult to form words.”

“Fuck you,” Dean tells her. It doesn’t sound nearly as threatening as he wants it to. He wants to leave. But he knows Joshua is right outside the door.

Pam accepts this response with raised eyebrows. “I’m gonna refer you to a colleague of mine,” she says calmly. “She’s a trauma focused therapist. Her name is Billie Mortem, and I frequently send clients to her. I obviously can’t force you to go, Dean. But I think it would be a really important step.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. His throat is tight. His head feels like it’s rapidly filling with smoke. He uneasily thinks back to his time in the hospital, but he can’t remember what he might have said. He can just remember a lot of fear.

Pam continues, “I also don’t want to undermine the role alcohol played in this.”

“It – it didn’t,” Dean says, and even as it leaves his lips, he hears how pathetic he sounds. Like a little kid who’s being chastised for doing something he knew was wrong.

“You had a blood alcohol content of .08 when you got picked up. I know you don’t want to hear this. And God knows I don’t want to play bad cop. But I’m not here to just hold your hand.” Pam adds, “Your medication will not function the way it’s supposed to if you drink. And you know alcohol triggers mania. This has been an issue for you before.”

“Shut up,” Dean moans, because he can barely hear her anymore over the rush of blood in his ears. He is so tired. So fucking tired.

“If you ever want the chance to see your daughter, you need to get serious about this,” Pam adds. She may as well have picked up a dagger and impaled Dean through the chest.

“Don’t,” Dean gulps. “Don’t use her against me.”

Pam doesn’t reply. She lets silence close in around Dean until it’s strangling him. He wants to scream. He’s breathing raggedly, each breath leaving a stabbing pain in its wake.

And all of it. Fucking all of it – the countless pills and hours of therapy and months he’s lost to small white rooms and sympathetic shrinks. All of the crap he has to go through just so he can barely function in his pathetic excuse of a life. It all builds until Dean can’t even see straight. He is so sick of. He is so fucking sick of it.

“It’s not helping,” Dean tells her. He tries to keep his voice level, but he can’t. “None of this is helping anymore.”

“We haven’t exhausted our options yet, kiddo,” Pamela says firmly. “I’m still in your corner. But you gotta keep fighting, okay? You just gotta keep fighting for me.”

Chapter Text

Mick visits with Sammy on Thursday to tell Dean that he’s adequately crazy, and the cops aren’t pressing any charges. Dean goes a little shaky with relief, but it’s swiftly eclipsed the next day when Victor comes by again for another assessment because Dean’s 96 hours are up that night, and he tells Dean it’ll be best for him to stick around for at least another week so they can finish levelling out his meds.

“If you prefer,” Victor says seriously. “We can wait to discuss this with Sam this afternoon, but it isn’t going to sway my decision. And I can recommend we go over your head to get a 21-day commitment from a judge. But I don’t really want to do that, Dean. And I don’t think you want to, either. So, it’d be easier all around if you signed yourself in.”

And that’s the thing Dean can’t stand: the total lack of autonomy, just like being behind bars again. The be a good boy and we might remember you're human someday. And Dean knows – he knows – these people are trying to act in Dean’s best interest. But it makes him feel trapped. And it makes him want to hurt himself just because why the fuck not? They already know he’s crazy; he might as well act like it.

Even though he’s been off one-to-one since Thursday evening, he hasn’t cashed in on Bela’s proposal, yet, but there’s no better time than the weekend, when the schedule slackens up a little – art therapy gets replaced by free periods – and the more familiar aides and security team gets switched out for the weekend shift. Having sex in a mental hospital is probably not the smartest thing he could do, but it’s not technically against the rules if both parties are consenting adults, although it is frowned upon. But when has Dean ever let a little something like conventional etiquette get in his way?

Bela’s somehow filched the key to an empty resident’s room. She puts her mouth on him as soon as the door shuts behind them. Her lips are soft. Her mouth is warm and wet. Her tongue knows what it’s doing. She has him against the wall, one hand holding his head in place and the other falls between them so she can palm him through his sweatpants.

It’s been a while since he’s had the chance to jerk off; it’s not like he had much of a chance when he was being watched 24/7 or with the shower’s 30-second push-button water flow. So, he’s definitely responsive to Bela’s touch.

She laughs into his lips. “You like that, don’t you?” And she lifts her hand so she can dive below his waistband.

He responds in kind, inching his hand under the bottom of her shirt. He presses his palm flat against her stomach, tops of his fingers brushing the edge of her sports bra.

Her fingers meet his cock through his boxers, and he releases a sharp breath. He inches his fingers under her bra, touching the bottom of her breast, but it’s hard to navigate under so many clothes.

“Bed,” he says, already a little light-headed with sensation.

Bela agrees with a growl hum in her throat, and she walks backward to the cot against the wall. Dean follows, one hand around her back so he can lower her to the mattress once the back of her knees hit the edge.

Dean crawls on top of her, rolling her shirt up as he goes. She gets the hint and pulls her shirt all the way off. She goes for the edge of his Henley, next, but Dean stops her by dipping back under her bra. He tugs it up, and she drops her hands to help him pull it off, revealing her pale chest. Dean drops his mouth against her breast. He works his way around, circling inward until he sucks her nipple between his lips, and she moans in approval. She squirms in pleasure below him, rutting her pelvis against his crotch.

“Who’s the woman?” she says on an open-mouthed exhale. She reaches both arms around his back and spreads her hands wide against his back. “In the picture under your pillow?”

“What?” Dean says. He pulls away from her boob, but his head is still muzzy, and he lets her lead his face back toward her own. She captures his mouth with her lips.

“Sorry,” she gasps warmly into his mouth. “It’s a maladaptive coping mechanism. Sneaking around. I wanted to know.” She works a hand between their hips and digs her hand back under his sweatpants and underwear, tugging downward to free him from his boxers. “Everything about you, Dean Winchester.”

Maybe it should be a turn off, the idea of her snooping around in his things – he spares a thought to the fact she already confessed to being a thief and makes a note to check his possessions later – but he’s too distracted by her hand rough against his cock to care.

“She your mother?” Bela insists. Her thumb finds the head of his cock, smearing pre-come down the shaft. Dean realizes he has a little catching up to do, so he drops a hand from her face and makes a go for her own waistband.

“Yeah,” Dean says distractedly. He definitely doesn’t want to talk about Mom, right now.

“I can’t stand my mother,” Bela whispers. She hums in approval as Dean’s fingers dip below the loose waist of her pajama bottoms and finds the wiry curls of her pubic hair. He brings down his other hand and pulls at her pants. She gets the point and raises her hips so he can slip them past her hips. She’s not wearing underwear.

“And my father,” she adds. “I tried to kill him when I was 14.”

Dean pauses. It’s a little hard to think. She’s got one hand around his dick and one in his hair. He’s got one hand on her hip and another around her inner thigh, thumb already angled toward her slit.

He pulls away from her lips. “What?”

Bela exhales beneath him, and she’s smiling a little unsteadily, “He was raping me,” she says. “It started when I was nine. I told my mother. She didn’t believe me.”

Dean is entranced by her face. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair is a little mussed. Her lips are red and swollen. And there are tears in her eyes.

Dean eases his hands away from her. He shifts his weight, so he’s propping himself up on his arms, not her.

“I just wanted it to stop,” Bela whispers. “So I hid a knife under my pillow. And when he came into my room that night, I was ready. But I missed. Hit his rib and landed in his lung, but he didn’t die. They locked me up. I just wanted to stop him.”

Dean levers himself up, rolls away from her. He stops on the edge of the bed; he’s already pulling his boxers and pants back up. “I’m sorry,” he says numbly. “I should go.”

His ears are buzzing. He feels sick. He swallows bile. He can’t stop staring at her.

Bela’s eyebrows furrow. And the brightness in her eyes suddenly snaps to anger. “Fuck you,” she says. She sits up, using one hand to yank her pajamas back up. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing to me?” She reaches for her discarded shirt beside her.

Dean’s on his feet. His heart hurts, it’s beating so hard. His stomach coils around empty, aching air. “I’m sorry,” he echoes himself stupidly. “I – I need to leave. I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bela hisses. Someone’s going to hear. Someone’s going to hear, Dean thinks desperately, and panic keens, sharp and poisonous, through his head.

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeats. It’s all he can say. He backs up until he hits the opposite wall. “Bela, it’s okay. You’re fine – it’s fine.”

“Get the fuck away from me.” Bela leaps to her feet, but she doesn’t go for the door. She stops in front of him, first, and slaps him open palm across the face.

The back of Dean’s head snaps against the wall. The pain in his head that had finally faded, wakes up again. His cheek throbs with heat.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” Bela tells him, voice cold and dangerous. Then she crosses to the door, flings it open, and marches down the hall.

A wave of nausea hits so hard, Dean sinks to the floor, hanging his head between his knees and taking large swallows of air. He’s still shaking. He can’t stop shaking. And it’s a long time before he claws himself back to his feet and makes it back to his room.

OOO

All in all, Dean spends two weeks at the hospital. After Bela, he keeps his head down. Does what the doctors tell him like a good little boy. Takes his meds. Eats his food. Sits through group and speaks when spoken to. He must do something right, because Dr. Visyak, Victor, and Pam are satisfied that he can leave.

Sam brings him back to his apartment, and Dean wonders if his brother will ever let him move out again. He hasn’t had much time to think about his own apartment; he assumes he hasn’t been evicted. He’s got an automatic payment set up from his account, so Gabe’s been getting rent, and there’s no reason to kick him out. Unless Dean scared him enough with his breakdown, and Gabe doesn’t want to rent to a crazy person.

Sam dropped by Dean’s apartment once or twice to get some more clothes or a new book and to clean out Dean’s fridge. He conveyed a message from Charlie, who wanted to know where Dean was. Dean reassured Sam that Charlie already knew he was bonkers, so it was fine if she knew he was in a hospital, he just didn’t want visitors. After Dean gets out and gets his phone back, he finds about two-hundred texts from her. She comes over to Sam’s twice to play video games and watch movies and she generally doesn’t make a big deal about anything, which makes Dean kind of love her, even though he can’t say it out loud, yet.

Dean spends another two weeks at Sam’s, attending sessions with Pam every-other day and heading to Victor’s for blood tests every week to make sure his lithium levels aren’t out of whack after his new dose. Overall, August is a complete wash. Bobby and Ellen bring dinner on Sunday, and Dean apologizes for missing so much work. Bobby calls him an idjit and reiterates that the only thing he cares about is keeping Dean healthy. But Dean still feels guilty, plus he hates the idea of eventually returning to the garage where all the guys will wonder where the hell Dean’s been for a month.

Dean also feels guilty about making Sam miss his big weekend of screwing Eileen in a tent, so he reluctantly agrees to dinner with Eileen on the first Friday of September. He didn’t exactly want to meet Sam’s newest girlfriend when he’s so fresh out of the nut house, but there ain’t a lot he can do about it.

So, Eileen’s coming at six, and Dean’s making chicken marsala: one, because Sammy’s being a bitch about red meat, and, two, because no way is Dean making that poor girl unnecessarily suffer through Sam’s cooking.

“Dude,” Dean says, after bumping into Sam on his way to the sink for about the fifth time. “Out of the kitchen. No one’s eating your rabbit food, anyway.”

“We’re supposed to eat a balanced meal,” Sam retorts, folding his salad together like a total wuss.

“Mushrooms are a frikken vegetable,” Dean says. He finishes buttering the loaf of bread that will transform into garlic bread once he pops it into the oven. First, however, he needs to flip the chicken fillets that are sizzling on the stove, because they’ve already been cooking for three minutes, and Sammy’s in the way with his stupid leaves. Dean hip checks Sam out of the way, adeptly multitasking: one hand slides the sheet of bread into the oven, and the other snags ahold of the fork to attack the chicken.

“Hey!” Sam says, now crammed between Dean and the counter.

“Too many cooks, Sam,” Dean says, grinning relentlessly. Even though he was in his apartment for only a month, he’d gotten used to having his own space. It’s weird to have to dodge his brother whenever he moves, now.

Dean eases his chicken breasts over, one by one, and they’re seared perfectly: flour-dusting all crispy gold. Bon appétit, bitches, Dean thinks, and reminds himself of Charlie. He feels a dull ache deep in his chest; he misses living right next door to her.

“You, ah, seem good,” Sam says tentatively, shifting his workspace to the far side of the counter, so he’s out of the way of the stove.

“I’m peachy,” Dean says, and it’s not even a lie.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Sam asks.

Dean looks over his shoulder. “No?” He says. Is he supposed to be nervous? He might not be thrilled about having to socialize, but Eileen seems like a cool chick, and it’s not like Dean’s ever been nervous to meet one of Sam’s girlfriends before. “Are you nervous?”

Sam’s ears must be burning red; Dean knows because Sammy does that weird half-headshake thing that flings his hair over the sides of his face.

“I just want you guys to get along,” Sam mutters. He’s still tossing his leaves, shredded carrots, cucumbers, and cherry tomatoes, even though they can’t possibly get more tossed.

“That serious, huh?” Dean asks, cocking an eyebrow. With Sam, it’s hard to tell when things are serious, mostly because things are always serious. But he’s certainly displaying all the usual signs of rapt, borderline-obsessive puppy love unique to Samuel William Winchester.

“It’s, ah.” Sam’s still uncomfortable, but he gives it a go. “She’s just really awesome.”

“Well, good,” Dean replies.

Speak of the devil, Sam’s door goes off, so he skedaddles to buzz this supposedly really awesome princess charming into the apartment. Dean hopes she’s as cool as Sam says; Sammy deserves someone really awesome in his life, seeing as all Dad and Dean have given him is mountains of unending crap. And Sam’s always been fishing for the whole white-picket-fence, apple-pie life. Maybe this Eileen chick will be it.

The chicken’s cooked, so Dean lifts the fillets out of the pan and replaces them with his mushrooms, garlic, and shallots. He douses it all in marsala wine and chicken stock. It was a hard-fought battle to convince Sam to buy the wine for the dish. Currently, Dean and his little brother have reached an uneasy truce about alcohol. Sam knows booze had something to do with Dean’s hospitalization, but he hasn’t pressed for details, and he probably won’t as long as Dean behaves himself.

Sam is Dean’s personal representative on his HIPAA form, and Sammy gets health care power of attorney when Dean’s not mentally able to make his own decisions, so Sam has access to Dean’s medical records. Usually, Sam’s good about not prying too far into Dean’s privacy. But sometimes he gets on a self-righteous, overly protective kick and starts digging into stuff Dean wishes he wouldn’t. Like Pamela’s conversation about AA or Dean’s brand-new PTSD diagnosis.

Over the sizzle of the pan, Dean hears Sam open his front door. He doesn’t hear any greeting, and then he remembers abruptly that Eileen is deaf, so Sam and her are probably chatting happily in sign language, and, shit, Dean had totally meant to learn at least something before he met her. Now he’s going to look like a total asshole. He knows a few signs from prison, but that sure as hell ain’t ASL. The nervousness that Sammy mentioned a couple minutes ago is suddenly there in full force.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says behind him, and Dean flies around. Sammy’s standing in the kitchen doorway, beaming, with his arm around a short, slim, dark-haired, and very pretty girl. “This is Eileen. Eileen – this is my brother, Dean.”

Eileen grins. Her eyes sparkle with what looks like genuine pleasure and maybe a little bit of mischief. “Nice to meet you, Dean.” And then she’s out from under Sam’s arm and crossing the kitchen to pull Dean into a hug. It’s a firm and deliberate motion. Dean gets the impression she’s a tenacious kinda girl. She detaches and holds Dean at arm’s length. “Sam’s told me a lot about you.”

“Good things I hope?” Dean says, smiling. Even though he knows Sam couldn’t have a helluva lot of good things to say about Dean. What could Dean possibly be to Sam’s string of ex-girlfriends other than Sam’s screw-up older brother?

“He tells me you’re a better cook than he is,” Eileen teases. She looks around the kitchen and gives a hungry glance to Dean’s simmering mushrooms. “It definitely smells delicious.”

“It’ll be burned if I don’t pay attention,” Dean says. It’s been kind of nice, getting to cook again. It’s something Dean got out of the habit during his month in his own apartment; he should eat real food more often, instead of sandwich meat or frozen dinners.

Dinner actually goes smoothly. Eileen is entertaining, chipper, and refreshingly blunt. Dean can see how she’d make a good social worker: she’s got a frankness to her that Dean wishes the CPS workers he encountered when he was a kid could have had. He gets why Sammy likes her so much.

Watching the two of them interact – soft, casual touches to shoulders, hands, or legs under the table – ridiculously makes him think about Cas. It’s not like he’s been thinking about Cas a ton for the past month, but he hasn’t not been on Dean’s mind, either. There’s a tugging need below Dean’s sternum to apologize – for a lot of things, but mostly for leaving Cas high and dry that night. It doesn’t help that Dean’s been radio silent for the past four weeks, either. And Gabe’s almost definitely told his brother about the big drunk freak-out, so it’s not like Dean can hide being crazy. But Cas still deserves an I’m sorry. It’s not like Dean even has ulterior motives. Dean knows that ship has sailed.

After Dean pulls out dessert – a peach pie with vanilla ice cream; what can he say? He’s had a lot of free time on his hands – talk turns to Sam’s fumbling attempts at learning ASL, and, between anecdotes, Eileen launches into a brief tutorial about names.

“It’s the first letter of your name, plus a word with a strong association to you. Sam, for instance, is ‘S’.” With her right hand, Eileen makes a fist with her thumb on the outside, and then she puts both hands, her left outstretched, against her temples, then she moves both hands up and away from her head in a curve, “and the sign for moose.”

“Oh God,” Sam says, going scarlet.

Dean laughs. “Why the hell are you moose, Sammy?”

“It’s just a joke around the office,” Sam mutters.

Eileen grins at her boyfriend’s expense, and then she continues, “And I’m ‘E,’ plus the sign for Ireland.” Eileen curls her four fingers toward her palm and rests her thumb against her nails, then she brings her hand to her forehead and bends it back like she’s tipping a cap. “I like to use ISL instead of ASL for the sign.”

“So, why are you Ireland?” Dean inquires.

“That’s where I was born,” Eileen explains. “Both my parents were Irish.”

“Your parents move, or did you?” Dean asks. Sammy gives Dean a fleeting abort mission look from across the table, but Eileen doesn’t look particularly bothered.

“They actually both died when I was a baby,” she says.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Dean says quickly.

“Thank you,” Eileen replies. “I grew up with my mother’s aunt, Lillian. She moved us to America when I was ten. Unfortunately, she passed away when I was sixteen. I didn’t have any family left, so I spent the next two years jumping between foster families. It’s difficult to find placement for teens, especially one with a disability.”

She signs the word disability as she says it, almost like a dismissal: a quick transition between what Dean recognizes from Eileen’s attempt to teach him to fingerspell his own name, the letters D and A.

“That really sucks,” Dean says awkwardly.

“That’s why Eileen wanted to become a social worker,” Sam says. He slings his arm over Eileen’s shoulder and gives her a smile that’s all kinds of proud and sappy.

“I wanted to help other kids like me,” Eileen adds seriously. “Luckily, my experience was a largely positive one – Lillian always provided for me, even after her death. But a lot of kids aren’t as lucky. Sam’s told me about how you two grew up. With the right support, things could have been different.”

“Sam’s told you about that, has he?” Dean says. The peaceful feeling that lasted throughout dinner and dessert is gone. Dean should have known it was too good to be true.

Eileen’s an adept lip-reader; even if she can’t hear Dean’s tone change, she undoubtedly doesn’t miss his change of expression. But she doesn’t backpedal.

“The housing insecurity,” she explains. “Your father’s alcoholism and mental illness. It sounds like a very difficult time.”

“I don’t know what Sam’s been telling you,” Dean snaps. “But Dad did the best he could with what he had.”

Eileen doesn’t back down. She raises her eyebrows. Sam is looking uncomfortable: red-faced and practically humming with uncertainty over whether to intervene or not.

“I’m sure he did,” she replies levelly. “But the both of you deserved a lot more.”

Dean’s chest hurts. And he knows what Sammy must have said about Dad. Even after Dad’s been cremated six years, Sam’s still lugging around the same chipped shoulder from when he was a moody, argumentative teenager. But Dean knows different. Dad did his best. Dad did better than his best. And whatever slack he left behind because of his own shit? Well, that was Dean’s responsibility. So, ultimately, Sam isn’t saying that Dad didn’t do a good enough job protecting him; he’s saying that Dean didn’t do a good enough job.

“So, what?” Dean demands. His face feels warm. His skin is too tight. “You think the best solution is to take kids away from their parents?”

“Dean,” Sam warns, finally deciding to jump in with his my poor, mentally ill, overreacting brother routine.

But Eileen doesn’t notice because she’s looking at Dean, not at Sam.

“So,” she says calmly. “I think the solution is to do what’s best for the child. In some unfortunate cases, yes, a parent isn’t always that. But we work hard for that to be our last resort.”

“Bullshit,” Dean says. He scrapes his chair back, and he stands up. He’s not – he’s definitely not threatening her. Dean doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but he just knows he doesn’t want to sit at the table and listen to this crap anymore. And Eileen clearly feels unthreatened, because she doesn’t even flinch. But Sammy doesn’t get the memo because he’s on his feet too and moving his gigantic body between Dean and his girlfriend.

Sam’s hand closes almost painfully around Dean’s upper arm. “I think you should head to your room, Dean,” Sam says. His voice is utterly steady, but the tenseness of his jaw betrays the emotion he’s obviously holding back.

“Fuck this,” Dean says. Because he’s not some Goddam misbehaving kid that needs to be sent to timeout. He tears his arm out of Sam’s grip, spins on his heel, and stalks out of the dining room, down the hall, and into Sam’s second bedroom, which was home to Dean for two years and has become home again for the last two weeks.

As soon as Dean shuts the door behind him, he rips open the dresser drawers and starts tossing his clothes onto the bed. He can’t stay here. He can’t handle Sam always fucking being there. Besides, Sam has his own life he deserves to live without Dean screwing it up at the snap of his fingers.

And Dean has his own life, too.

Or, at least he could. He thinks about Charlie, about their fire escape talks and reality TV binges. He thinks about long runs in the morning. He thinks about Cas. He tries not to think about Cas.

Dean digs his duffle out from under the bed. Then he goes to the closet to tug down the small collection of shirts and sweatshirts he’s gathered while at Sam’s. He hasn’t accumulated a ton of stuff, and Dean’s got everything packed into his duffle and a backpack by the time he hears the front door shut, undoubtedly behind an offended Eileen and a very apologetic Sam.

Dean feels a twinge of guilt for ruining the evening, but he isn’t going to apologize for defending Dad. He’s long accepted that he and Sam have very different versions of their shared childhood. The girls Sam brings home? They get Sam’s version. Dean can’t help that. But it doesn’t mean he has to sit through fucking dinner conversation about how he and Sam would have been better off in the system than with Dad.

Because Sam doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get what it’s like to be screwed up in the head. To lose a fucking kid because you’re deemed unfit –

The door swings open without a knock. Sam’s eyes are snapping with furry. His mouth is set in a tight, straight line.

“Eileen fucking apologized, Dean,” Sam says, obviously attempting to keep himself under control. “She said she didn’t mean to upset you.” Sam says it like he’s horrified that Dean has the gall to be offended by what just went down.

“Well, good,” Dean says, voice clipped.

Sam’s eyes dart from the bed, which holds Dean’s bags, back to Dean’s face, and his eyes darken. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m leaving,” Dean says, which doesn’t need any clarification, but he says it anyway. Sam clearly expects him to keep talking. “This isn’t working out.”

“The hell you are,” Sam says.

“Look,” Dean says. He takes a deliberate breath in an effort to calm down. How can we de-escalate this situation? Pam prompts him from within his head. But Dean doesn’t need de-escalation. This isn’t a fucking episode, or something. Dean’s just angry. And he has the right to be angry, dammit. And frustrated. And upset that Sam doesn’t ever fucking hear him.

“I’m sorry for blowing up at your girlfriend, Sam. I’ll apologize to her later. But that was family shit, okay? You can obviously talk to her about whatever the fuck you want, but that doesn’t mean I have to.”

“So, you’re leaving because you don’t like the way dinner went?” Sam demands. Then he scoffs, “Yeah, forgive me if I don’t think that’s totally rational behavior, okay?”

Dean bristles. Because damn him. Damn him. And Dean wishes he was better at explaining this shit. He has no idea how to tell Sam that this – this – has nothing to do with being bipolar or psycho or medicated or suicidal or any of that shit. This is just Dean being a – being a fucking person.

“No, Sam,” Dean says. “I’m leaving because – thanks, it’s been really great to be here and get back on my feet, but I have an apartment and I have my own fucking stuff – and this is clearly not what either of us need, right now.”

“If you think for a second I’m letting you walk back out that door when you’re like this, Dean –”

“Son of a bitch, Sam!” Dean blurts out. He wants to scream. His hands find the back of his neck. “Can’t you just trust me for once? Can’t you just believe me when I say that this isn’t a big deal – that what happened sucked, yeah, but it’s over, and I’m totally okay –”

“It’s not a big deal?” Sam’s nostrils flare, and immediately Dean knows he said the wrong thing. He hides a wince, and Sam keeps going. “Not a fucking big deal? Dean – shit.” For a minute Sam just gapes, like he doesn’t have words enough to explain how angry he is. He threads his hands into his long hair and tugs, pulling his forehead taught.

“Do you have any fucking clue what this is like for me?” Sam exclaims. “Do you know what the fuck it’s like to do everything in my power to keep you safe and to have you fight me at every fucking turn? I was fifteen when I found you bleeding out in the bathroom the first time. And yeah – fucking yeah I called the ambulance. And I’m not apologizing for any of this shit. You can blame me all you want for landing your ass in that hospital or getting you in trouble with Dad or whatever other bullshit you wanna blame me for, because I don’t care.”

“You expect that shit to work on me?” Now Dean’s yelling, too. “You were fifteen? A fifteen-year-old fucking princess? Try six, Sam! I was a little kid when I walked in on Dad choking down sleeping pills and puking his guts out. I was four when I listened to Mom burn to death –”

“Great, Dean!” Sam blurts out. “You have fucking issues! And Dad had fucking issues. And, Goddammit, I’m not going to watch you kill yourself like Dad did! So, I don’t care if you’re mad at me for making you give up the oxy, or for taking away your fucking booze –”

“The oxy – it wasn’t a problem, Sam, not like that.”

“That? That’s your takeaway from this conversation? More bullshit excuses about how you’re not a fucking addict? Cause, I’ve got news for you, that’s what a fucking addict would say!”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Sam, okay? I wasn’t using the oxy to get high. And so what I overdosed?”

“So what? So you almost fucking died, Dean! Again! Fucking again! And I never know when the hell you’re gonna try again, so excuse me for being a little paranoid, okay? For calling you all the time or not wanting you to live alone. ‘Cause I’m not gonna let my big brother check out early. And I’ll do anything – fucking anything to keep you safe.”

“You’re not keeping me safe! You’re driving me insane!”

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t care. I’d call an ambulance – I’d call the fucking police on you in a second flat if I thought you were going to hurt yourself. And I know you hate that. I hate that. But I. Do. Not. Care.”

Sam’s on a roll, now: “And, I know you blame me for what happened with Lydia, because I encouraged you to follow Mick’s advice – but, so what? There was no way I was going to let you fight for custody of that kid. You were in no shape to be someone’s parent, and I wasn’t going to let you ruin a child’s life just like Dad ruined ours.”

Dean wants to hit him.

Dean’s palms land hard against Sam’s chest, and he curls his fingers into Sam’s shirt. He backs his brother through the door and against the wall. He’s breathing hard. Sam’s eyes are huge.

“Don’t –” Dean gasps. He’s never lifted a hand against Sammy before. And maybe this is what Dad felt like – anger blinding and fluid inside his body, like molten lead – before he started wailing on Dean.

Dean drops his brother. He falters backward.

“Don’t fucking say that to me,” he ends on a whisper. His throat aches. He turns around and marches into his room. He slams the door behind him and falls heavily against it. There aren’t locks on the door; Sam took them off when Dean first came to live with him two years ago, and he never bothered to put them on again.

He listens to his brother as he slowly detaches himself from the wall outside and picks his way down the hall. A minute later, there’s the sound of water as he starts cleaning up after dinner.

Dean closes his eyes. He brings his knuckle to his mouth and bites hard until he stops feeling like he’s going to shake apart at the seams.

Chapter Text

“The man himself,” Gabe announces as soon as Dean walks through the street door into the stairwell, and Dean hides a wince; he’d really hoped to get into his apartment without anyone noticing.

“Hey, Gabe,” Dean says, forcing a smile. He adjusts his hold on his duffle bag. He’d lugged his two bags across town this morning on the bus. Sam and him hadn’t said a word to each other after the fight last night.

“I gotta say, Deano,” Gabe says, leaning on the doorjamb of his apartment and smiling hugely. “Pretty impressive. You had like two cops and three EMTs on top of you, and you gave ‘em a run for their money. We ever play pickup football? You’re on my team.”

Dean laughs. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He starts the long march up to his floor. He’s happy when Gabe doesn’t seem like he wants to chat, but, instead, tosses Dean a good-bye wave and heads back inside his apartment.

Dean passes the third floor with a pang. He wants to go in and see if Cas is in his studio. But how the fuck do you begin a five-week-late apology?

Instead, he keeps walking. He unlocks his door, and he’s swept up in a wave of surprising relief to be back on his own turf. His apartment looks exactly how he left it, except the cardboard box in the corner has been opened during Sam’s search for items Dean needed in the hospital.

Dean heaves his bags onto his open bed. He unpacks swiftly. The only thing he lingers over is putting Mom’s photo back into its frame. He really needs to buy a nightstand and a bookshelf for his crap. He’s owned the apartment for two months; it’s high time he actually got around to treating it like a home.

As soon as Dean’s done unpacking, before he can talk himself out of it, he crawls out of the window onto the fire escape and taps on Charlie’s window. She pops up behind her curtains almost immediately, and her face splits into a wide grin.

There’s another hard ache in the center of Dean’s chest, but this one feels happier than the one he gets when he thinks about Cas.

“Dude!” Charlie crows. She’s out of her window and squeezing Dean in a tight hello before he can blink. “You’re back!”

“Hey, Charles,” Dean says softly. His eyes burn a little, but Charlie doesn’t even care when he rubs at them with the back of his fist. She just smiles sweetly, and she leaves a comforting hand on his arm.

“So?” She prompts him. “What are we doing to celebrate? Pizza? LOTR marathon?”

“Actually,” Dean says. “I think I really need to buy some furniture.”

Charlie, if possible, looks even more delighted. “Hell yeah,” she says. “Let’s extreme makeover home edition this shit.”

It turns out Charlie’s serious about making over Dean’s apartment, because she doesn’t just drag him to Walmart or Lowe’s; instead, she brings him to a ginormous thrift store that has piles of secondhand furniture. It’s cheap, too, which is a plus because a month without work plus rent, child support, and a stay in a private psychiatric hospital means Dean’s on a shoestring budget.

He finds a bookshelf for $25, a nightstand for $15, and some simple frames that will fit his movie posters for $3 each. Then Charlie insists he splurge on a bunch of stupid final touches, like a spice rack, matching containers, a throw-blanket and two useless pillows in case he ever folds up his bed and uses it as an actual couch, and a floor lamp. In all, he spends $100. Which is about a week’s worth of groceries, which means he’ll just have to watch his budget until he talks to Bobby about starting work again on Monday. He can’t even complain because Charlie helps haul it back to his apartment, and she sticks around to help him set it up.

He sticks his books and records on his shelves, puts Mom’s picture on the night table, nails his Star Wars, Batman, and Indiana Jones posters on the walls, stuffs his vintage car magazines in one of the containers and his playing cards and magnetized chess set in the other, and makes up his couch for the full effect, and shit. It’s actually pretty nice.

“Much better,” Charlie says with a relieved sigh. She immediately flops onto the couch, ruining the placement of the throw pillows, but Dean follows her right down.

Charlie throws an arm over Dean’s shoulder and tugs him down until he’s nestled into her side.

“You never told me what happened with your motorcycle chick,” Dean says.

“Dorothy?” Charlie says. “She’s a total babe. Keeping it casual, right now, but that’s cool as long as she goes to Rocky Horror with me.”

“Happy for you, kid,” Dean says.

“What about you?” Charlie says gently. “You okay for real?”

Dean shrugs. It’s been a nice afternoon of ignoring his issues, but Charlie’s inquiry brings it all back, like a cinderblock settling below his ribcage.

“I’m fine,” Dean says.

Charlie's hand finds Dean’s, and she squeezes it. “Sure you are.”

“Sam and I had a fight,” Dean confesses. His throat is tight.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Charlie squeezes his hand again. “I met him a couple times when you were gone. Definitely a little anal. But nice, too.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. His eyes burn. He fights back the strange urge to tell her more. She already knows he’s a shit person who abandoned his kid; it won’t change anything to tell her Sammy thinks he’s an unfit parent, too. But he doesn’t think he can talk about Emma, right now, without crying. And he really doesn’t want to cry.

“And, ah,” he changes subjects. “They want me to check out AA.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie says. “Well, if you want some moral support, you can bring me along to an open meeting.”

Dean smiles weakly. “Thanks, Charles,” he whispers.

“Alright,” Charlie says abruptly. “Enough of this, you sap. I finally got around to watching Game of Thrones, and you gotta watch it. It’s gonna blow your fucking mind.”

OOO

Dean stays up for a while with Charlie watching tv, so he sleeps late on Sunday morning. He gets out of bed to make a grocery run, and when he’s putting his food away, someone knocks on his door.

He knows it isn’t Charlie, because she would have come through the window. His heart jumps, and he tries not to hope it’ll be Sammy.

But he swings the door open, and there’s Cas. He looks uncomfortable and small in an oversized hoodie. There’s a smudge of purple paint under his right eye. He’s holding a stack of clothes in his arms that Dean recognizes as the t-shirt and jeans he’d lent Cas for their night out at Cesar’s. And he’s bypassed bobbing up and down for honest-to-God rocking back and forth on his heels. It looks like he’s trying to keep his balance on a boat.

“Oh, ah, hi,” Dean says. His stomach does a weird half-flutter thing that feels like a dying bird caught between his ribcage.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, voice level despite his obvious disquiet. “Gabriel told me you were back.”

Dean wants to ask him what else Gabe told him – about finding Dean out of his mind in a dive bar, about watching him fight off the cops and get hauled off in a meat wagon.

“Yeah,” Dean says. His voice is weird. He clears his throat. “I just got in yesterday.”

“I wanted to return these,” Cas says, offering Dean’s clothes. Dean can’t tell if Cas is just being his regular hard-to-read self or if he’s still angry.

As soon as Cas’s hands are empty, he starts tapping his fingers. It seems to soothe him, and he stops rocking back and forth so violently.

“Thanks,” Dean says breathlessly. His heart is beating madly. “Do you, ah – wanna come in?”

Cas doesn’t say anything. He just walks past Dean and into the apartment. He looks around curiously, and he remarks. “I’ve never seen Star Wars. Charlie tells me this is an atrocity.”

“What?” Dean sputters. “Man, she’s right. You should –” Dean chokes on his words, because he’d been about to invite Cas over to watch it sometime. “You should definitely watch it.” He finishes lamely.

And then it’s just awkward silence. Dean closes his fists around the fabric in his hands. Just apologize, he tells himself. Just fucking say it.

“I’d like to apologize,” Cas says abruptly. He’s still moving his fingers, and he’s not meeting Dean’s eyes.

“You – what?” Dean says.

“For my behavior the last time we saw each other. You had made it clear previously that you were not interested in engaging in a romantic or sexual relationship with me; it was wrong to cross that boundary.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, man?” Dean exclaims. “You’ve got it backward – it was me who –”

“Meg told me you're bipolar.”

“And that doesn’t give me an excuse to treat people like shit,” Dean says. His heart thrums in his belly. He doesn’t dwell on the breach of privacy that was Meg gossiping about him to Cas. Of course she told Cas; they're best friends. “And I shouldn’t have –” God fucking dammit. It’s so hard to just fucking talk. “I shouldn’t have used you like that, okay?”

Cas’s face softens, but he still doesn’t look at Dean; he’s staring at Dean’s feet. “I don’t feel used, Dean.”

“Well, you should.” Dean turns around. It’s hard to look at Cas without wanting to burst into tears or start yelling. He’s breathing kind of hard. “You – shouldn’t – I’m not good at getting close to people, you know?”

“Meg often tells me I let people too close to me too quickly,” Cas says. “It can make casual encounters awkward. I’m not good at reading social cues.”

Dean nearly smiles, but he still can’t look at Cas. He’s staring at his fridge, instead, so Cas is probably getting a one-quarter view of his face. “That’s not your fault, Cas.”

“Neither is it your fault for being bipolar,” Cas responds levelly.

Dean’s face burns. “That’s different.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for acting irrationally if you were put in an uncomfortable position,” Cas continues doggedly. “And I can only surmise, judging by your behavior later with Gabriel, that you may have been in an unhealthy mental space. In which case, I’m sorry I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t!” Dean spins around, and there’s a hard, desperate edge to his voice now. He hates that stupid phrase. Taking advantage. Dean wasn’t taken advantage of. If anything, he took advantage of Cas. “Okay – you need to realize that, fuck, sure, I was probably manic, but it was still my choice okay? It was still my fault for triggering it in the first place –”

“Dean,” Cas says calmly. He’s finally meeting Dean’s eyes, and Dean can barely stand it. His fingers brush against Dean’s arm, and Dean’s so keyed-up, he almost flinches away. He can’t quite stop himself from startling, and Cas’s hand drops. “I’m not angry.”

Dean shuts his eyes and breathes deeply. You should be, he thinks. But he remembers what Charlie said all those weeks ago, about how forgiving him was her decision. Is this in your control? Pam frequently asks him. And Dean hates it. Because he’s so sick of feeling out of control.

He slides onto his couch and braces his elbows on his knees. He’s acutely aware that Cas is watching his every move, but he doesn’t know how to calm down without slowing everything down. Besides, Cas already knows he’s crazy. Maybe this will finally scare him away.

Dean takes slow, measured gulps of air, trying to shuffle back from the edge.

Instead of running, Cas folds into a seat beside him.

“Is it alright to touch you?” Cas asks. Dean remembers how carefully Cas handled him when Dean had his bad high. The memory hurts.

“I’m okay,” Dean says with effort. He pulls his head out of his hands and chances a look at Cas. Cas looks confused and a little unhappy. Dean doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do.

“What the hell is this, man?” Dean blurts out. “I don’t – I don’t know what we’re doing, here.”

Cas blinks at him slowly. “Currently, I just want to make sure you’re alright. You’re obviously upset. And I – when you were gone, I was worried about you.”

Dean clenches his jaw. He wonders again, if anyone – Charlie or Gabe – told Cas where Dean’s been for the past month, or if he vanished into thin air. He remembers Meg’s warning that Castiel was too loyal for his own good. Dean feels like a total jackass.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says again. “You didn’t have to worry about me.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Cas says with a slight frown. “I care about you as a friend, Dean. Regardless of what this is.” He makes honest to God air-quotes around the word, and it makes Dean’s fingers clench. Because Cas is such a weird, dorky dude, and Dean just keeps treating him like shit.

“I, ah,” it’s easier to talk if he doesn’t look at Cas, so he stares at Cas’s hands: slender and white with neatly trimmed nails, spattered with multicolored paint. They’re not moving anymore; Dean’s glad that Cas, at least, has calmed down. “I don’t know if anyone told you, but I was in the hospital – like Cuckoo’s Nest kinda hospital.”

“No one told me,” Cas says softly. His fingers are on Dean’s arm again. Gentle and slow. Dean is hyper aware of every point of contact. It sends gooseflesh prickling down his arm. “I asked Charlie if she had heard from you, but she only told me that you were safe. She wanted to respect your privacy.”

A little blossom of fondness for Charlie nudges aside the constant ache inside his chest. Dean swallows. “Well, that’s where I was. It was two weeks there and then I stayed with my brother for another two weeks. And now I’m back.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” Cas says, curling his fingers a little firmer around Dean’s arm.

“Cas, you gotta understand –” Dean turns finally and, shit, he shouldn’t have. Because Cas’s eyes are so blue. And he’s so Goddamn kind. And sex with him was good, but so was driving with him and eating cheeseburgers with him. The last time Dean felt this kind of fluttery, desperate ache inside when he thought about someone it was with Lisa – and that shit ended in flames.

“You don’t want to get involved with someone like me,” he blurts out. “I’m crazy, Cas. I’m actually crazy. I’ve been hospitalized six times, okay? And probably will be again. And – and, fuck it, Cas,” Dean can’t stop talking. Shit, Cas needs to know. Cas deserves to know because Meg called him a loyal idiot, and Dean knows people like Cas: people who won’t walk away even to save themselves. Cas needs to walk away.

“I’ve been to prison. Because I almost killed some guy in a bar fight. And that – that messed me up really bad, okay? And there’s – there’s other stuff, too.”

Like I have a daughter. I have a daughter, and they won’t let me see her, and I’ve probably lost my last chance to successfully appeal because I messed up, and they’re not gonna giver her back to a crazy person. And Sammy thinks I’m a bad father. Just as bad as Dad was.

And I’m addicted to sex, Dean keeps rambling inside his own head, even though this is something he’d never say out loud.

Pam says I replace emotional connection with physical relationships because I’m too damn afraid to let anyone near me. Because I have major abandonment issues that started when I watched my mom die in a fire when I was four-years-old.

Dean doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to do emotions with sex, let alone without it.

And part of me wants to die. A little part of me always wants to die. And it shouldn’t be your responsibility to talk me down from the ledge.

“I’m very sorry, Dean,” Cas says. He loosens his grip on Dean’s arm, but it’s only to lift his hand and slide it across Dean’s shoulder. Soft and slow. The last time someone touched him so tenderly was – Dean can’t really remember. He shuts his eyes and tries not to lean into it, but he can’t help but tilt toward the warmth of Cas’s hand. The stability of his arm around him.

“I’m very sorry,” Cas repeats levelly. “It sounds like you’ve had a difficult life.”

“I-I don’t know what this is,” Dean repeats unsteadily.

“Is it important to you that you know?” Cas says, nothing but open curiosity in his voice.

“I dunno,” Dean says. He doesn’t do well with uncertainties. He likes things to be cut and dry. It’s the control thing again.

“Dean,” Cas says levelly. His other hand comes up. It lands under Dean’s chin and gently guides Dean’s face toward his. “I am very attracted to you,” he says bluntly. “Your voice is deep, dark blue and intoxicating.”

Dean quivers a little under the raspy roughness of Cas’s voice. He sneaks a look to find Cas’s face very close to his own. He looks earnest rather than seductive.

“I feel comfortable with you in a way I don’t with most other people.” Cas continues. “You are refreshingly blunt. And you don’t treat me like I am some kind of strange anomaly.”

“You’re not a strange –”

Cas shushes Dean by adding firmly, “But I’d like to make you feel safe. And I need you to be honest with me.”

Dean pulls in a deep breath.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean says on his exhale. “I – ah.” He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to explain that every atom of his body is screaming to be touched by Cas, kissed by Cas, held by Cas. It’s a little hard to think; his desire is all encompassing.

“What do you need from me, Dean?” Cas inquires seriously.

“I – um.” Dean takes a deep breath. He isn’t going to chicken out. For once in his Goddamn life, maybe he can just tell the truth. “I don’t want to –” son of a bitch. Dean tries again, but this time his eyes are closed because he can’t concentrate under Cas’s piercing stare. “I mean I’m – I’m not in a place where I can – shit. Cas.” The rest of Dean’s words spill out unchecked. “I don’t know how to have a healthy relationship. And I don’t think it’s fair to drag you into my shit, right now. So – so I can’t, okay? Not right now.” His eyes fly open as the last of his words burst out of his lips. And he’s relieved to find Cas doesn’t even look upset.

“Not right now?” Cas clarifies, lifting an eyebrow.

Dean’s stomach does that strange little wobble again. But it’s cruel, unspeakably cruel if Dean leaves Cas with hope. It’s not fair to ask Cas to wait for him. That’s like – that’s like chick-flick bullshit to the max. Dean cannot actually be that selfish.

“Maybe never.”

Cas is silent for a long time. Finally, he nods slowly, and his voice is calm as he says, “I understand. Thank you for being honest.”

“Um, yeah. Sure,” Dean says hoarsely. If this is honesty, it sucks. No wonder Dean doesn’t do it very often.

“I hope…” Cas begins hesitantly. "That the fact we can't have a romantic relationship won’t deter us from being friends.”

Dean laughs; it startles him, but, Jesus, he can’t help himself.

“Deter us from being friends?” Dean snorts. “You swallow a dictionary when you were a kid?”

A tiny smile creeps across Cas’s lips. “I’d like to get to know you better. Would you like to, ah, hang out?”

Dean shakes his head. “You’re almost as crazy as me, you know that?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Christ, Cas.” Dean laughs again, and it comes a little easier. A burst of dizzying, almost hysterical fondness spirals across Dean’s sternum. “Yeah. Yeah, man. I’d like to hang out. You, ah.” He pauses so he can try to wrestle back the wide smile that’s threatening to explode across his face. “You wanna watch Star Wars?”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas replies. “I would like that very much.”

Chapter Text

“You wanna talk about what happened between you and Sam?” Pamela asks, one leg over the other, keyboard braced on her knee, but all her attention is fixed on Dean.

“No,” Dean says. And he’s not trying to be obstinate. He honestly doesn’t think he can handle talking about him and Sammy’s fight. It already hurt enough spilling to Charlie.

“Okay,” Pam says simply. “Want to talk about what you’re going to do to make it better?”

“Sam hasn’t even texted me,” Dean says. And, stupidly, disgustingly, his eyes are already burning. He really didn’t fucking want it to be this kind of session. But he’s cried in almost every session since he got out of the hospital, so it’s not like he should have expected anything less.

“You, Dean,” Pam corrects him gently. “What are you going to do about it? You’re not in control of how your brother responds.”

“I dunno,” Dean says, struggling to keep his voice level.

“Have you thought about texting him?” Pam suggests. “Or calling?”

“I dunno,” Dean says again. He feels bad today. It started with a call to Bobby to ask about work, and Bobby suggested he start back at three days a week. Which Dean should be grateful for. And he is grateful for. But Dean needs to get back up to full time. He needs the hours and the benefits and the money. Because if he can’t prove he’s got his life in order than he’s never going to be able to –

And he can’t think about calling Sam. Because the truth is, he’s really fucking mad at Sammy. He’s mad at his little brother for not listening to Dean. He’s mad at Sam for the stuff he said about Dad. More than that, he’s mad at the stuff he said about Dean. Because can’t he see that Dean’s trying? He’s busting his ass over here, and Sammy’s acting like getting thrown in the hospital was all Dean’s fault.

Because it was, a voice tells him. It doesn’t sound like anyone: not Dad, Pamela, or Sammy. It’s just Dean’s voice. The truthful one that Dean can’t ignore. The one that, when it tells him he’s a piece of shit, Dean knows it’s being honest, because it lives with him twenty-four seven.

“You want to ask him to join us for another session?” Pam suggests, and Dean knows he’s been quiet for too long.

“I dunno,” Dean says for the third time. If Pam’s frustrated with him, she doesn’t show it. In fact, her eyebrows soften in sympathy.

“It might help, Dean. It can be good to have a moderator.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean says, which isn’t exactly an agreement. After all, to get Sam to come to a session involves actually calling him first. Dean doesn’t know if it’s just the bullheaded, stubborn part of him that drives people crazy, but he really doesn’t want to make the first move. If he’s honest, he’s kind of waiting for Sammy to apologize, but he feels guilty for even thinking that.

Pam lets the silence sit there for a minute before she prods him, “So, you obviously moved out of your brother’s place in a hurry. But I’m asking you to be honest with me, here – do you feel like it’s safe for you to live by yourself now?”

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” Pam says. “If there’s a chance you’re not gonna call Sam in a crisis, is there anyone else around you can rely on?”

“There’s, ah, Charlie,” Dean says. “And maybe Cas,” he adds before he can stop himself.

“Wanna remind me who Cas is?” Pamela says with a little bit too much emphasis.

Shit. “He’s – ah – the downstairs neighbor artist guy,” Dean fumbles.

“Ah, yes,” Pam says. “The almost hookup?”

Dean cringes. Cas is still something he hasn’t caught her up on. “Yeah, and –” Dean bites the bullet. He figures if he talks fast enough it won’t hurt as much coming out. “And – and then an actual hookup. Like before the hospital shitshow. And I, ah, walked out on him like a jerk. But we talked on Saturday, and we’re trying to, um, be friends.”

“Just friends?” Pamela inquires, damn her intuition.

“I don’t really know,” Dean says helplessly. “He knows I can’t be in a relationship, right now. But he still wants to be friends. So, yeah, that’s what we are.”

“Is being more than friends a goal you’d like to work toward?” Pam asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Pamela’s always big on goals. The first goal was getting Dean to actually take his meds every day, which was an uphill battle for most of the first six months he was seeing her. The second goal was moving out of Sam’s. Lately, the goal’s been to prevent a future hospitalization. Dean guesses it’s about time for her to set up another one. She’s been pushing for the Lydia shit for a while, but Dean’s not sure if –

“I, ah.” He clears his throat. His heart rabbits under his ribs. “I actually think I – I want to focus on –” my daughter. I have a daughter. I want to see my daughter. “I want to see my – I want to meet Emma.”

“That’s a great goal, Dean,” Pam says with a quiet smile. Maybe she looks a little relieved, like all her subliminal messaging has finally paid off. “What are some things you’re gonna do to get you there?”

“I – Charlie said she’d go with me to AA.”

“Very good,” Pam says. She’s still smiling. “Sobriety ain’t gonna be a picnic, Dean. But I think a twelve-step program under your belt will be a good sign for a judge.”

“Yeah,” Dean says faintly. He hates words like sobriety. He doesn’t need to be sober. He doesn’t have a problem.

“And you’re gonna call to set up an appointment with Billie, right?”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. He’s fucking glad Pam can’t see because he really doesn’t want anyone else privy to the look of pure terror on his face. “Yeah,” he all-but squeaks. “Yeah, okay. I’ll do that.”

OOO

“Dude,” Charlie tells him. “See that call button? You push that, and you could be connected in seconds to your brother.”

Charlie’s driving her very yellow AMC Gremlin, and Dean’s on his phone to try to distract himself from the nausea-inducing jitters in his belly.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know how phones work, Bradbury.”

“It ain’t gonna get better until one o’ you fools make the first move,” Charlie says.

It makes Dean laugh despite himself. “You sound like my Uncle Bobby.”

“I am unironically glad I remind you of an old man,” Charlie says.

“You would be.”

“You see, I think you’re trying to insult me,” Charlie says, and she’s parallel parking in front of the church and – holy shit – Dean gags on a jolt of nerves. “But I’m just not insulted.”

Dean’s not listening anymore. Instead, he’s staring at the plain, white building in front of him. There’s one of those church-signs with the black letters in the front yard that says You are a Friend of God. Sunday Services 9:00.

Sure, he’s done the whole recovery thing before – but that was fucking court-ordered, inpatient rehab, so it wasn’t really his decision. This is – this is different. This is in his own fucking city. This is – this warrants an I’m so proud of you from Sammy. The very idea makes Dean want to fucking vomit.

“You still with me, soldier?” Charlie nudges him with her elbow.

Dean gulps. “I gotta – I’m not going in there, Charles.”

“Hey,” Charlie says kindly. “This is an open meeting, man. This isn’t even the big stuff, okay? You don’t have to talk to anyone. You can even pretend you’re just there to listen. Like we’re journalist students or something.” Dean gives Charlie a confused look, and Charlie tosses her hair back and laughs. “Come on.” She elbows him again. “I got you.”

“Not with cover stories like that, you don’t,” Dean says weakly. But he opens the passenger door and slides onto the sidewalk. His legs are honest-to-God shaking. He is such a fucking coward.

Charlie comes around the nose of her car and joins him in front of the church steps.

And Dean’s fine. He’s fucking fine. He can do this. They’ll sit in the back. Like Charlie said, it’s an open meeting. It’s not even the real shebang. He can pretend he’s just there to listen to the speaker, or whatever. When Charlie slips one of her small hands in his and guides him up the stairs, he’s stupidly thankful for her support.

They slide through the front door into a hall. The sanctuary is in front of them, and it’s buzzing with fifteen or twenty people, all milling around chatting or taking their seats. There’s a guy in a blue dress shirt and slacks, standing at the top of the room, and he turns enough for Dean to catch sight of a scruffy, rust-colored beard.

Dean skids to a stop.

It’s fucking Benny. And Dean hasn’t seen him for nearly five weeks because Dean was out of work until Tuesday, and Benny was out Tuesday and Wednesday, and Dean was off today, and fuck. Fuck. Dean can’t be here.

He can’t – he fucking – he’s turning on his heel and walking back the way he came, tearing Charlie’s grip from his hand. He’s going to have a panic attack. He can already feel it rising inside his throat like an unstoppable tsunami of fear and self-loathing.

“Dean.” Charlie’s jogging after him. Dean slaps his palms against Charlie’s car and he bows his head between his arms. “I’m gonna be really redundant and tell you to breathe, okay?” Charlie says. She puts a hand between his shoulders and slowly runs her palm down his spine. “You’re good. You’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says pathetically. God, he hates himself. He fucking hates himself.

“You don’t need to apologize for being scared,” Charlie tells him firmly. “We don’t even have to stay. You wanna skip and get ice cream, that’s good on me.”

“I-I work with one of the guys in there.”

“And he’s a total asshole who will make your life miserable if he sees you here?” Charlie guesses.

“What? No.” Dean’s startled enough to look up. “Benny’s a good guy – he won’t even care –”

Charlie’s grinning. Dean stops. “So, what’s the issue?” she asks.

“Because he –” he doesn’t know how much of a screwup I am. He’s gonna think I’m an alcoholic. “I’m not an alcoholic,” Dean says. “I’m – I haven’t even had a drink for a month.”

“That’s great,” Charlie says genuinely. “So, you’re already partway there, right?”

“Charlie,” Dean pleads, and he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

“Hey, listen to me,” Charlie says earnestly. She takes his hands in her own. Her fingers are narrow and small. “This? This right here is your Mount Doom, okay? And I can’t carry it for you – whatever it is in this analogy. And I sure as hell can’t carry you, cause you’re like a big muscly man. But I’m gonna climb right along with you, okay? Be the best Samwise Gamgee I can be.”

“That’s – that’s Rudy hobbit, right?” Dean says. His voice wobbles. He feels weird.

“Yeah.” Charlie gives him a pitying look and pats him on the cheek. “That’s Rudy. So, you – ah – ready to go out there and kick a touchdown, or whatever?” She defends herself, “Hey, I don’t do sports metaphors.”

Dean tries to stop his lower lip from trembling, catches it between his teeth and bites down hard, and he nods. “Yeah, yeah okay. Take two.”

Charlie pulls him back toward the stairs, but there’s a slim, dark-haired woman trotting up the sidewalk toward them, towing a small child behind her.

“Dean,” the woman calls, surprised. It’s Andrea, Benny’s girlfriend. And Lizzy’s clinging to her hand. She blinks at the sound of Dean’s name and peers at him curiously.

“Dee!” she exclaims, tiny pink lips spreading wide in a delighted smile.

“It’s your best friend, little miss!” Andrea says, and Lizzy’s already pulling free of her mother to dash to Dean.

Dean recovers quickly from his panic at being faced with yet another person he knows. He scoops Lizzy up on instinct and tucks her on his hip.

“Dee – we gonna hear Poppa,” Lizzy declares happily.

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks. His voice is kind of scratchy. He clears his throat.

“She missed you like crazy, Dean,” Andrea says, smiling softly at the two of them. “Kept asking for you.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean says awkwardly. He still hasn’t come up with a plausible excuse for his long absence from work. Bobby and Rufus know. Garth had been satisfied with Dean’s muttered family issues, but had been easily distracted with showing Dean pictures of his new twin boys. And none of the other guys had bothered to ask. “I was, ah, away for a while.”

“That’s alright,” Andrea says easily. “You two here for Benny’s talk?” She’s looking curiously at Charlie, and it occurs to Dean that they probably look a little like a couple – given that all Andrea would have seen walking up the sidewalk was Dean against the car and Charlie leaning into him, holding his hands.

“Benny’s Poppa,” Lizzy says.

“Yeah, we, ah, yeah,” Dean sputters. “This is Charlie – she’s my neighbor.”

“Excuse me,” Charlie scoffs. “I’m his best friend.” She leans forward to offer her hand to Andrea.

“She your best friend?” Lizzy asks, eyebrows dropping in concern.

“Nah,” Dean leans his head down conspiratorially. “That’s you, Squeaker.”

Lizzy giggles.

“We should probably go in,” Andrea says. “I was worried I was gonna be late.” Andrea asks if she needs to take Lizzy back, but Dean’s tells her he’s got her. She’s sort of like a living, breathing, squirming teddy bear, and Dean feels a little better holding her as they walk in. Andrea leads the way into the sanctuary, and Dean’s relieved when she takes a seat in the back in case Lizzy gets bored and loud during the meeting and she has to make a quick escape.

Benny stands up behind the podium, clears his throat, and starts in his relaxed Louisiana accent, “Good to see, y’all. Wanna get started?”

Dean’s sitting sandwiched between Andrea and Charlie. Lizzy insisted on snuggling on his lap, and Dean didn’t have a reason to argue; besides, he can hide the shaking in his hands if he keeps ahold of the wriggling three-year-old.

Charlie elbows him in the side, and Dean leans his head over so she can whisper, “We’re still getting ice cream on the way home, BT-dubs.”

Benny starts out with announcements. He’s glad so many of them could turn out. He and someone named Lenore lead a closed group on Sunday evenings, so if there’s anyone interested in attending, feel free to come over and ask him about it later, or there’s literature in the back. Also, there’s coffee in the hall if anyone wants to stick around and chat after he’s done.

“You’re not his real best friend,” Lizzy tells Charlie, nuzzling her head into Dean’s shoulder. “That’s me.”

Charlie chokes on her spit and stuffs her knuckles into her mouth to stop from laughing out loud. Her face turns red from the effort.

“Lizzy,” Andrea hisses in shocked embarrassment.

But Dean’s grinning so wide his cheeks are numb. “You tell her, Pipsqueak.”

In the front of the church, Benny is talking about PTSD after his three tours in Afghanistan. He turned to alcohol as a way to cope. But he finally found the courage to seek help with the support of his girlfriend, Andrea. He looks around the room at that point, and Andrea gives him a happy little wave, and Dean’s face burns, because Benny’s eyes slide from his girlfriend to Dean, and any lingering hope of getting out without Benny noticing is eradicated. Benny gives him a swift grin and a nod, and then he’s back to his story.

It’s all so neat and tidy. The stereotypical recovery story. And Dean knows that it’s probably been polished a little for public consumption – that the real raw stuff happens in closed meetings – but it still makes Dean’s skin crawl. Because Dean’s not staring down recovery. He doesn’t get to fucking recover from bipolar and whatever other shit is inside his brain. It’s a constant upward climb, and so fucking what if he wants to drink to take the edge off? So fucking what if he’d rather bury his feelings in alcohol – it worked for John Winchester; it should be good enough for Dean.

Dean doesn’t even realize that Benny’s anecdote has ended to polite applause. That the crowd is dispersing through the pews and wending toward the back doors and the promise of caffeine.

While Dean’s distracted, Lizzy climbs off his lap and darts into the crowd, but Dean doesn’t even have time to register the stab of alarm before her blond pigtails emerge again, this time at eye-level, because she’s been scooped up by Benny, who’s rubbing his beard on her face and making her giggle. The panic transforms into an ache, and Dean looks for escape routes, but Charlie is blocking his way, and Benny’s eyes are already searching for Andrea, which means he’s looking toward Dean again.

“I’m very proud of you,” Andrea tells Benny, and Benny smiles bashfully under the praise, but he stoops to peck his girlfriend on the lips.

“Did good, Poppa,” Lizzy chatters happily. “And Dee is here. And I satted on his lap all the – the whole time…”

“Chief,” Benny says with a wide smile. He walks over and pulls Dean into a one-armed hug. “Good to see you, brother.”

“Hey, Benny,” Dean says. Every muscle is coiled and ready for retreat. If Benny so much as says one word out of place –

“And who’s your lady friend?” Benny cocks an eyebrow at Charlie.

“I’m Charlie,” Charlie says hastily, stepping forward. “Andrea’s really hot,” she tells Benny.

Benny goes for one of his whole-hearted, warm chuckles. “That she is. I’ll even let you steal ‘er.” He winks. “How ‘bout you galls go get us a cup of coffee?”

The panic is back. Because Benny’s sending them away. He’s getting rid of all of Dean’s security forces, because he even passes Lizzy over to Andrea. And Dean doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say –

“You had us worried for you, chief,” Benny says warmly. There’s a v of concern on the bridge of his nose. “You good?”

“I – yeah, fine,” Dean says. His hands are in fists. He wishes his nails were longer. Eye contact, he reminds himself. Don’t look away. If he looks away, he’s gonna look shifty.

Benny looks at him for a while, a deep sadness in his eyes that tells Dean maybe he’s not being super convincing. “Glad to hear it,” he says at last.

“You, ah, did good up there, man,” Dean says. He’s jogging his leg. He needs to stop jogging his leg.

“Thanks,” Benny says easily. “It was nice of you to show up for me.” He might as well have said it with another wink because he knows. Dean knows he knows. And Dean’s stomach sinks. His palms are sweaty.

“No problem,” Dean says. But it comes out too quietly because his throat is so dry. But he can’t say it again because that would be weird.

Benny’s eyebrows dip over his eyes, and he’s suddenly serious again. “None of it was a cake walk, brother, despite what it might sound like. Every day I wake up, and I’m still an addict.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He runs his tongue over his teeth. “I should, ah – Charlie’s probably waiting for me.”

“Sure,” Benny says. “See you around?”

And he means at work. Benny definitely means at work. But Dean can still hardly breathe as he says, “Sure,” and then he practically turns tail and flees.

It feels like he’s holding his breath as he weaves through the line for coffee and finds Charlie, as he says goodnight to Andrea and Lizzy, and the two of them head down the stairs and back into Charlie’s car.

Dean only releases a breath after the passenger door slams behind him. He dips his head until his forehead smacks the dashboard. He breathes. He breathes. He’s okay. Just breathe.

Charlie’s hand is on his back again, rubbing wide circles. She doesn’t say anything until Dean unrolls and lifts his head. He feels fucking wiped out, like he just got slammed by a Mack Truck.

“You good?” Charlie checks.

“Peachy,” Dean says weakly. The worst part is always after, when he feels really dumb for freaking out over nothing.

Charlie pats him on the back and starts the car.

“Your friend Benny seems like a sweetheart,” she says, pulling back onto the road. “I approve mucho.”

“He’s a good guy,” Dean says. His voice is fucking wrecked. God, he wishes he’d grabbed a coffee.

“And Andrea was super suspicious I was your girlfriend, so I just flirted super hard with her to throw her off the scent. I think she kinda liked it.”

Dean knows what Charlie’s trying to do, so he smiles for her benefit, even though he feels like shit.

“And – damn – I’m not usually one for baby fever, but Lizzy is one cute terror.”

Dean smiles for real this time, even if it’s gone as quick as it comes. “She’s great.”

“And she adores you,” Charlie says, lifting an eyebrow. “For good reason.” Dean’s stomach twists. Charlie pauses, and then her hand squeezes his knee. “For what it’s worth,” she says gently. “I think you’d make a stellar dad.”

Her words land like an uppercut to his ribs. Dean fishes for her hand on his knee, and he squeezes her fingers a little unsteadily. “Thanks, Charles,” he whispers.

“Enough of this,” Charlie declares a moment later and pulls her hand free so she can smack him on the shoulder. “I promised you ice cream, and, God help me, I’m getting you ice cream.”

OOO

Sunday comes sooner than he thought possible. The dread builds in his body to such an extent that by the time he spills out of bed late that morning and makes himself take a shower, he pauses midway through washing his hair to retch into the drain.

He’d planned on walking to the meeting, but he knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to leave his apartment and walk the three miles to the church without collapsing in the middle of the sidewalk. And he can’t call Sammy because he and his little brother still aren’t speaking. And he can’t bug Charlie about it because he already made her do Thursday with him.

God. He’s so hopeless. Fucking shit. He’s already half-way to a panic attack. How the shit does he expect to get through a whole fucking meeting without losing his mind?

So, he throws on some clothes and, as his wet hair drips water down the back of his shirt and he paces restlessly across the small space between the end of his bed and the counter, he calls Pam.

“I can’t go,” he tells her as soon as she picks up. “Tell me to do something else because I can’t fucking go.”

“Dean,” Pam cuts in, calm and levelheaded and everything Dean is not, right now. “Let’s try to take it down a notch, okay?”

“I can’t fucking do it,” Dean says, and he’s near tears, and he’s so stupid. Such a shit coward. And he’s never going to meet Emma. He’s never going to see his daughter –

“Count backwards from ten with me, Dean.”

“It’s not going to work. It’s so stupid. I don’t want to go. I don’t need to –”

“Dean,” and her voice is a little firmer. Just hard enough to edge through a crack in his panic. “Ten.” She pauses. Dean sips in a little trembling gasp of air. “Nine,” she continues.

“E-eight,” Dean says. They count the rest of the way down to one. Dean slumps onto the edge of the bed and rests his head in his hands. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“I’m very glad you called me,” Pam says. “You don’t have to apologize for asking for help.”

Dean doesn’t answer. She asks him a few protocol crisis questions, whether he’s in danger, whether he wants to hurt himself. Dean replies woodenly that he’s okay.

“You want to tell me what scares you about going to the meeting this afternoon?” Pam prompts him.

“I-I don’t know,” Dean says helplessly. He’s just scared. So fucking terrified he can’t even think straight.

“Dean,” Pam says calmly. “You’re not disappointing anyone if you don’t go today, alright?”

She’s lying. Because of course Dean is disappointing people by not going. He’s disappointing Sam and Pamela and Charlie and his daughter because if he can’t even do this one measly thing, then how the hell is he ever going to get past the other mountain of shit?

“Dean,” Pam cuts in soothingly. “Today you tried. You got out of bed and got ready. You tried so hard you nearly collapsed in on yourself. So next week you’re going to try again, but this time you’re going to remember what the roadblocks were today, and you’re going to get past them. Even if it’s just to get a little further out the door. No one said progress can only be measured by the size of the step forward. Hell, it’s still a damn step, and that’s good enough.”

“Preparing for the Oscars, huh?” Dean says weakly.

Pam snorts. “Take the rest of the day off, okay, kiddo?” she suggests gently. “Obviously you don’t actually need to do anything I say, but, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve earned a little downtime.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean sighs. He feels like a failure, but he also feels a little relieved to be told by someone else that he doesn’t have to do this impossible thing. At least not right now.

“I think it’d be a good idea to not be alone right this second, though,” Pam adds. “Think you can call a friend?”

Dean thinks about Charlie – who’s probably sleeping – but then his thoughts trail to Cas, and his chest tightens in something that feels a little like anticipation, a little like fear.

“Sure,” Dean says.

Pam lets him go with a good-bye and a reminder to be gentle with himself. Dean spends a few minutes doing some of her stupid breathing exercises before he gathers enough courage to go downstairs.

He hesitates for a minute before he knocks on Cas’s door – he should have texted to see if he was in his studio, but Dean’s half-way hoping he might not be there so Dean won’t have to risk looking weird. But the other part of him really, really wants Cas to be there.

He raps his knuckles on the wood. Cas’s low-register rumble answers, “Come in.”

Dean turns the knob and pushes the door in. Cas is alone. He’s lying on the floor. His eyes are closed. There are the faint strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata coming through a Bluetooth speaker in the corner. And Cas’s window fan is going full force, despite the lack of paint fumes; instead, Dean’s eyes fall on a compact, green glass bong near Cas’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Dean says.

Cas lifts his chin to his chest and squints at Dean from the floor. “Hello, Dean.”

“This part of your creative process?” Dean quips.

Cas lets his head fall back against the floor. There’s something about the slump of his body that looks painfully despondent, even if his voice lacks inflexion when he replies, “Lying here with the music and my eyes closed, it is like a kaleidoscope.”

“How much have you smoked?” Dean says. He figures Cas hasn’t asked him to leave yet, so maybe he doesn’t mind the company; Dean sinks to the floor, propping himself against the refrigerator and stretching his legs in front of him.

“Less than it appears,” Cas reassures him. “I would offer you some, but…” he trails away meaningfully.

Dean smirks. “Yeah, ah, me and substances aren’t on the best of terms, right now.”

“If it bothers you to watch me partake…?” Cas begins, looking up again, but Dean cuts him off:

“Nah, man. You do you.”

Cas hums contentedly in response and goes back to staring at the back of his eyelids. After the commotion and anxiety of the morning, Dean’s content to sit in the slow quiet of Cas’s room, even if it’s a little weird to just hang out while Cas gets high. Dean will probably get a bit of a second hand buzz; it’s not like the window fan is great circulation, but if Cas’s mellowness is any indication, it’s probably an Indica, so hopefully Dean won’t go all trippy and paranoid this time.

“My sister’s getting married,” Cas says, eyes still closed, and Dean thinks he hears a bit of a mournful lilt to his voice, even if his face remains impassive.

“Oh yeah?” Dean prompts. He understands all about shit families. He runs through everything he knows about Cas’s family: the jerkface older brothers and sister and little brother who only communicate with him over the internet, if that.

“Yes,” Cas says. And yeah, he definitely sounds bummed. Dean’s heart sinks, just a heavy feeling of dread he recognizes from every time Sammy told him something hadn’t worked out: girlfriends, college applications, bad test scores. Dean would make every bad thing that has ever happened to people he cared about go away, if he could.

“A man named Bartholomew,” Cas continues. “He’s a friend of Michael’s – my eldest brother. I believe they go to the same church.”

“And he’s a total douchewad?” Dean guesses.

The corner of Cas’s lips uptick in a faint smile, but it’s gone as soon as it’s there. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

“Shit man, sorry,” Dean says helplessly. He couldn’t imagine being separated from Sam to the point of not knowing who the kid was gonna marry. He knows their relationship is kinda rocky, right now, but Dean also knows that it’s nothing irreparable. Nothing like Cas has gone through with the majority of his large family.

And, sure, Dean guesses there’s Adam. But that’s not an estrangement in the same way it is for Cas. That’s just a case of separate lives, more like distant cousins than half-brothers. Because it’s not like they grew up together. They didn’t find out about Adam until they read Dad’s will, at which point Adam was fifteen, Dean was a strung out mess, and Sam was way too busy dropping out of college to take care of his brother to worry about long-lost family bonding shit. And, since then, it’s just been a whole lot of other crap to deal with, so Adam and his mom Kate have been relegated to Christmas cards and in-the-area drive-bys.

“She wants me to come to the wedding.” Cas tunes back through Dean’s internal monologue. “Or, at least, Gabriel and I received invitations this morning. I’m uncertain whether it was prompted merely by social decorum.”

“You gonna?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know,” Cas says, a definite tone of misery in his voice now. “Gabriel said he’ll go if I go, but….”

“Dude,” Dean says, “If it ain’t something you think you can handle, it’s okay to tell them to stuff it where the sun don’t shine. From what you’ve told me, I don’t think you owe them anything.”

“Yes,” Cas says slowly. “But… it’s difficult to explain.”

Dean feels a familiar jerk in the middle of his stomach. “But they’re family,” he finishes for Cas.

“Yes,” Cas agrees sadly.

There’s another minute of silence, during which Beethoven and pungent smoke swirls between them. Cas is doing his finger thing again, with his hands hovering above his stomach, and Dean’s so used to it by now that he doesn’t even think it’s weird.

“Anna used to be different,” Cas laments. “It used to be…we were close as children. I used to be closer to her than with Gabriel. She was more outwardly rebellious when she was a teenager, whereas I did not find my own wings until I left for college. By which time she’d already turned back into one of them. Like mother, Michael, and Luke.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He’s always been shit at consolation. After a second, he’s glad he stayed silent when Cas goes on:

“And Bartholomew will be just the same, I already know it. When I saw the invite, I thought for a moment that it might be a sign of further reconciliation. That maybe Anna was genuinely reaching out. But after speaking with Gabriel, I’m sure they’ve only invited us because they feel they have to. I’m not sure if I can go and withstand their fumbling attempts at casual conversation, acting as if they haven’t cast us out. Worse, if they act like I’m a prodigal son returned home. If they try to redeem me as if they were somehow more righteous and I wrong in some fundamental way –”

If there’s one thing Dean knows, it’s self-loathing spirals, and that’s sure as shit what Cas is caught in now, so Dean cuts in before he can get too deep.

“You know you’re not, right?” Dean swallows. His throat is dry. This is way more Charlie’s territory than Dean’s, but Cas at least stops to listen. “You’re not wrong. Just because shitheads like them say it, doesn’t make it true.”

Cas props himself up on an elbow. He blinks for a minute and finally says, “Thank you, Dean. I think I do know that. It’s just difficult to remember sometimes.”

Dean shrugs, uncomfortable under Cas’s owlish, sincere gaze. “I get it, man. Family’s important. And when they don’t – when they don’t approve, or whatever, it sucks. God knows I’m glad my dad never knew me outside the closet. I don’t think I could ‘a handled –” but his voice bites off at that because it’s been a little wobbly for a while now; it’s always hard to talk about Dad.

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t mention the hitch in Dean’s voice. He pulls himself into a proper sitting position, long legs crossed and elbows propped on his knees.

“It’s my birthday on the eighteenth,” Cas says.

Dean’s a little thrown by the non-sequitur, but he recovers quickly. “Oh, cool, man.”

“Gabriel knows I despise parties. He’d bring me to a strip club every year if he had his way, but we’re compromising with a small dinner at my apartment. I’d like it for you to be there.”

Dean’s cheeks alight with heat. He doesn’t think he’s ever been invited to a birthday party before. Even when he was a kid. “Thanks, dude. Of course I’ll go.”

“I’m inviting Charlie, as well. So you’ll know more than just me. She knows a lot of people I know. The local queer community is quite close knit.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says. He guesses he’s technically part of that community – or he could be, if he wanted to be. But his interactions have been limited to hookups in gay bars, so far. He doesn’t have a lot of friends, let alone gay friends.

“I apologize,” Cas says vaguely. “I understand some people are uncomfortable with the word ‘queer.’ I won’t use it if it bothers you.”

Maybe there’d been something on Dean’s face. Some outward reflection of the brief moment in which he’d relived every time some piece of shit shoved him against a locker or chased a punch with the words fucking queer or worse on their tongues.

“Nah, man,” Dean shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“You don’t need to dismiss your feelings simply to preserve my vocabulary,” Cas corrects him gently.

Dean looks at his fingers because Cas is being way too earnest. Maybe it’s the pot. But Dean thinks he knows better by now that it’s just Castiel.

“Yeah, okay, man,” Dean says, plucking at a thread hanging from the bottom of his jeans.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Cas sits up ramrod straight and declares calmly, “Shit.”

“What?” Dean says, alarmed, looking over his shoulder because Cas is staring at the refrigerator as if it’s about to launch an attack.

“I suddenly realized I’m very hungry and I don’t have anything to eat in this apartment.”

The bark of laughter startles Dean on its way up his throat. “You got the munchies, I’ve got you covered,” he says brightly. “Snacking, I do right. Come on.”

Dean climbs to his feet; before he can think better of it, he reaches down to help up Cas. Cas’s palm is dry but smooth. His fingers grip his hand firmly. He tugs Cas toward the door. He’s hyperaware that he’s still holding Cas’s hand, but he feels somehow that it would be more noticeable if he released it now. Cas, for his part, is totally oblivious to Dean’s misgivings. He merely trots along behind Dean, arm outstretched, padding down the apartment hallway and up the stairs to Dean’s floor in his socks.

Dean opens his door and lets Cas into his apartment. He finally releases Cas’s hand, and he immediately misses the pressure of his fingers. Cas propels himself forward and face plants into Dean’s open bed.

“Oh yes,” Cas says, voice muffled in Dean’s mattress. “This is very nice.”

“We came for foodstuffs, feathers,” Dean chuckles, thinking of the wings tattooed on Cas’s shoulders. “We’re not sleeping.”

“Sleep is very good,” Castiel says wisely, snatching ahold of one of Dean’s pillows and clutching it to his belly.

He’s – fuck. He’s actually really fucking cute. And Dean turns away before he can forget that this isn’t a thing. They’re just getting to know each other. They’re trying to be friends. Dean isn’t going to ruin it now by climbing back into bed with Cas. Plus, Cas is high.

Dean sets his mind firmly on the task at hand, raiding his cabinets for appropriate snacks. He pulls out a jar of peanut butter and marshmallow fluff. He hopes high Cas has the palette of a middle schooler.

“Ya know,” Dean says conversationally, “My brother used to eat this shit with a spoon.” He spreads the fluff out on a piece of white bread. “He begged me to put it in everything – even mac and cheese. And I’d always keep a huge bag of knock-off rice crispy cereal on hand so I could whip up rice crispy treats – cuz it was cheap as dirt but tasty as fuck, and that way Sammy’d have shit to bring to school bake sales and stuff, ya know? Mix in M&Ms or little pieces of Reese’s? I was a gourmet chef, dude.”

Dean crosses the floor, plated sandwich in hand, and drops onto the edge of his bed. Cas looks up as the mattress jostles.

“You are a wonderful friend and brother,” Cas announces, and he snatches ahold of the plate. Half the sandwich is crammed into his mouth before Dean has a chance to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. “Whatever, man.” But something deep and secret inside of him glows at the praise. “Chew with your mouth closed.”

Chapter Text

If July was the calm before the storm and August the storm, then September is reconstruction. Dean knows all about getting back on track. When he was twenty-seven, he climbed his way out of a grueling physical therapy regimen so he could use his leg again. He’s slogged through countless meds and rehab stays and hospitals. And he scrabbled his way out of two months of catatonia through a combination of drugs and ECT. Dean knows how to get back on his feet.

Or at least Pam tells him he does, when she’s got him on her couch the next Friday, brainstorming how he might actually make it to the AA meeting on Sunday.

“Every time you get through a setback, you become better equipped to deal with another in the future,” she explains earnestly. “You’ve learned new things about yourself – what works and doesn’t work. So let’s tap into that knowledge so we can set you up for success.”

It turns out Dean can use his crippling need to never disappoint anyone to his advantage by asking Charlie to drive him to the meeting on Sunday; this way he’ll feel so guilty about forcing her to do him a favor that he won’t be able to wimp out on her. Pam isn’t too thrilled with his negative language, so she gives him a list of affirmations to run through over the weekend, all shit like I am not a burden. Charlie is my friend. I am worthy of having a friend. I am allowed to ask for and accept help.

Either way, it gets Dean out of bed and into Charlie’s car on Sunday afternoon. Which gets him to the church. Which gets him a few BPMs shy of another panic attack.

But Charlie talks him down, and she even shoots him a thumbs-up and a blinding smile when he reaches the church doors, and Dean casts her one last, pitiful look of despair before he shoulders his way inside.

The church looks the same as it did a week and a half ago, except it's quieter and comes with the promise of a more intimate, closed meeting instead of the biweekly open meeting. There’s a white folding table set against the wall with coffee and a box of powdered donuts. Normally, Dean’s an anxious eater, but today he’s pretty sure he’s going to puke if anything gets near his mouth, so he bypasses the table without taking anything.

He can hear a rumble of voices coming from down the hall. Dean swallows, squares his jaw, and orders himself in Dad’s voice to man the fuck up.

He turns into the room at the end of the hall. It’s just like group at the hospital, which means it’s just like all the corny movies: a circle of foldout chairs, filled by an unassuming crowd. Years of threat assessment drilled into him by Dad have Dean immediately scanning the people: a well-groomed, blonde-haired woman, probably a typical frenzied housewife, chardonnay addict; another woman with brown hair in a ponytail and bruise-like bags under her eyes; a guy clutching a Styrofoam cup of coffee, looking around the room like he’s ready for someone to jump him; a darker-skinned girl who looks like she can’t be older than sixteen, hunched in on herself like she wants to disappear, shredding a Styrofoam cup in her lap; and Benny.

Nerves burble in Dean’s stomach when Benny looks up from his own cup of coffee and catches sight of Dean, but the other man’s smile is swift and welcoming – he doesn’t give Dean a second look or act surprised in any way, and Dean tries to calm down. Because this is Benny. And Benny isn’t going to care that Dean – that Dean’s an – an –

“Heya, chief,” Benny says kindly. “Take a seat, if you’d like.”

Dean can’t say anything, so he gives Benny a tight nod and drops into the nearest chair; it’s next to the girl, who doesn’t look up from where she’s picking at her Styrofoam carnage. It’s kind of a relief to know Dean’s not the only one who clearly doesn’t want to be there.

It’s a few minutes before they get started. Dean’s glad when no one engages him in conversation. Between him and the girl, they’re putting out strong enough stay away vibrations to repel the entirety of the Midwest.

One last woman comes through the door, a girl with a blond pixie cut and fairy-like features to match, before Benny pulls away from his conversation with Real Housewives to address the group.

“Right, we’ve got someone new tonight, so let’s start out with a round of introductions. My name’s Benny, and I’m an alcoholic – if you don’t wanna start it out like that, it’s okay. Just your name’ll be nice.”

“I’m Amy,” the blond woman to Benny’s right says. Real Housewives. She’s got fake, red nails that look like they’re dipped in blood. “And I’m a member of alcoholics anonymous.”

“I’m Lenore,” says the brunette. Her pale skin and dark circles make her look like a vampire. “And I’m an alcoholic. Pleased to meet you all.”

“I’m – ah,” the blonde pixie cut says. The artless rips in her jeans and backpack slung over her shoulder make Dean wonder if she’s homeless. Plus, there’s a guarded look in her eye that Dean remembers from when he was about her age. “I’m Kate. I’m an alcoholic.”

Dean’s so close to throwing up, he can barely choke out, “I’m Dean,” before he has to swallow bile. But no one seems to notice his anxiety, or maybe it’s just par for the course here, because introductions immediately tip over to the girl next to Dean.

She doesn’t lift her head, just mutters, “Kaia.”

The jittery guy next to Kaia says, “Hi. Um, I’m Chuck. My sister says I’m an alcoholic.”

Benny rolls his eyes at Chuck, like maybe this is a well-worn joke, before he claps his hands and says, “Alright then. Let’s get started.”

Dean’s relieved to find that the meeting proceeds without his participation. The atmosphere is, for the most part, one of easy comradery. It’s clear that everyone there, barring Dean and the surly teenager, Kaia, know each other well. They take turns sharing anecdotes about the past week.

Chuck talks about maybe finding his own apartment soon. He’s anxious to get out from under the feet of his infinitely more composed twin sister.

Amy talks about the struggles of being a single mom and how difficult it was to have to tell her son that he couldn’t try out for his middle school’s football team because she didn’t have the money or time for him to play, how it made her feel like a failure as a parent. Dean feels guilty for judging her earlier, and he bites his tongue around the absurd feeling of empathy welling in his chest. He hasn’t gotten to the point of considering himself a parent – he’s never even met Emma – but he definitely understands how it feels to fail your child.

Kate comes bearing the bad news that her boyfriend relapsed again and got kicked out of the shelter. She’s not sure yet if she’s going to follow him back out on the streets or if she’s going to stick with the program because she’s worried that will mean breaking up with him. Lenore encourages Kate to stick with it, but Dean notes that no one directly tells Kate what to do, which is comforting.

“Kaia,” Benny says when there’s a lull in the conversation. “Would you like to share anything this week?”

Kaia looks up, but she doesn’t meet anyone’s eye. Her mane of curly hair is covering half her face. “Taking each day as it comes. You know how it is. Every morning’s a gift, right?”

Dean can tell Benny’s not convinced, but Dean has to hide a grin. He likes this chic. She’s got the same take-no-shit attitude Dean imagines he’d adopt if he was ever forced into this kind of place as a teen.

“I heard you had a rough weekend?”

“Yeah?” Kaia says defensively. “Well that shit’s supposed to be between me and my case worker, so I don’t know how the fuck you found out.”

“You’re right,” Benny says patiently. Dean marvels at his ability to remain calm in the face of so much teenaged anger. It reminds him a little bit of Sonny. “I’m sorry if I invaded your privacy.”

Kaia snorts. “What privacy? The shit kind of privacy do I have anymore, huh?” She shakes her hair out of her face. Her eyes are wet and angry.

And there’s the crack. Boy, it’s easier seeing it in another kid while Dean’s an adult. He thought he was infallible at Kaia’s age, flawlessly fooling everyone with his bullshit. But he was probably just as full of gaping, bleeding fissures as she is, now.

“Look, I’m only here because Jody says I have to if I wanna stay out of the center,” Kaia says defensively. “So I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

“You’re right.” Benny lifts his hands to shoulder height. “You ain’t gotta tell us anything you’re not comfortable telling.”

It’s an awkward way to end a meeting, but Benny maneuvers expertly around it, closing with an update of weekly events and hoping everyone has a good time until next weekend.

Everyone gets up to mill around the coffee table in the lobby, but Dean makes his escape before anyone can talk to him. For a brief, terrifying moment after Benny called on Kaia, Dean wondered if maybe he was next, that suddenly he’d find himself at the center of all those eyes and he’d have to find something to talk about. He’s glad it didn’t happen like that.

But, in a strange way, he realizes as he pulls a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lights up outside the church, waiting for Charlie’s headlights, he kind of wishes he had been called on. Pam’s voice ponders quietly if maybe it’s good to get shoved out of his comfort zone sometimes. Benny hardly even acknowledged him; Dean wonders uneasily what it’s going to be like at work tomorrow. If maybe they could glide over some of the awkwardness if Dean worked up enough courage to talk to him now.

Dean sucks in a breath of smoke, and a voice asks beside him.

“Can I have one of those?”

Dean looks to his right and about two feet down to find Kaia, leaning against the church wall and looking just as nervous and sullen as she was in the circle, but at least she’s initiating conversation, even if it’s to ask for a cigarette.

Dean’s halfway pulling out a stick before he hesitates.

“How old are you, kid?”

“Really?” Kaia asks, totally unimpressed and making sure he knows it with a massive eyeroll. “We just met at a fucking AA meeting and now you’re worried about giving a minor a cigarette?”

Dean shrugs. “Whatever,” he says. “You ain’t my responsibility.” He gives her the cigarette and lights it for her.

Kaia grunts a thanks.

Dean’s not anxious to talk. He’s fine just smoking cigarettes in the dark. But, after a moment, Kaia shuffles her feet and she says to the sidewalk,

“So, what’s your deal, anyway? You court-ordered like me or are you here because you want to be?”

“Just here,” Dean answers. He doesn’t know why kids always seem to warm up to him. Maybe he’s just got an aura of prior-delinquent that makes them feel safe. Krissy, the daughter of Dean’s coworker, Lee, likes him, too. Although that might be because he once bought her and her two friends a six pack when she bumped into him outside a liquor store.

“Yeah?” Kaia says. “Cuz you’re obviously waiting for someone to pick you up. Which means you don’t have a car. Which means you probably got a DWI.”

Dean snorts. “You think you know everything, huh?”

Kaia smiles faintly and blows out a cloud of smoke.

Dean still doesn’t know why she approached him. She was so antagonistic toward Benny. Maybe she just wants to talk. Hell, Dean can understand that. Talking in a room full of people is a shit-ton different then talking one-on-one with someone who gets it. He figures he and Kaia were kind of the outsiders in there – the only ones that didn’t voluntarily share something – and maybe they’ve got a sort of companionship, now.

“Hell, I don’t think it,” Kaia brags. “Derek says we’ve got second sight.”

“Derek your boyfriend?” Dean guesses.

Kaia scoffs. “Fuck no. He’s my brother – well, half-brother. He’s trying to get custody. Which I think is bullshit. I’m eighteen in five months. I should be able to make my own decisions about who I want to live with.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says. He flicks the ash off the end of his stick. “Life sucks, kid. What can I say?”

“Thanks,” she snorts. “That helps.”

Dean salutes her with his cigarette to his forehead. “You mentioned you’re staying with some Jody person?” he prompts.

“Yeah,” Kaia says, and the hint of a smile is gone again. “Jody’s some lady cop who takes in delinquent girls. She’s fine. Just a hard ass. And Claire’s, okay.”

Dean almost asks Kaia if Claire’s her girlfriend, but he stops when he sees that Kaia’s blushing, and he smiles to himself.

“I was in a place like that when I was a kid,” Dean remarks. “Beat the hell out of juvie.”

Sonny’s home was residential placement. Dean was there for two months after he got caught stealing groceries when he was sixteen. Sonny was a good guy, and it might be strange, but Dean views his time there with more fondness than he does most of his youth. It was a space of stability and support, somewhere that Dean didn’t have to constantly worry about how he was gonna feed himself or Sammy or if there’d be enough money to stay in the motel another night. Sonny was the first one who found out about the cutting. Dean would have stuck around if it wasn’t for the fact it meant leaving Sam alone with Dad.

He lost touch with Sonny after that, but Sonny always kept an eye on him. He visited Dean while he was in prison. Drove all the way from upstate New York. Since then, Dean calls him sometimes.

“Yeah, I guess,” Kaia agrees.

A red land rover pulls to the curb and honks its horn. Kaia immediately launches herself off the wall, stubbing her cigarette out.

“Don’t worry,” a girl calls from within the car. “Just me. But you’re gonna need gum or else Jody’ll smell the smoke on your breath.”

“Hi, Claire,” Kaia says, relief in her voice, but something else, too. Something soft.

“Who’s the old man?” Claire asks, leaning across the seat to poke her head out of the passenger window. She looks a couple years older than Kaia, and she’s got dirty blond hair pulled away from her face.

“Hey,” Dean protests.

“That’s Dean,” Kaia says, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder but already walking toward the car. She stops to twirl on her heel. “See you around, I guess,” she mutters.

“Take it easy, kid,” Dean tells her.

“See ya, Dean,” Claire calls happily. Kaia climbs into the passenger side, and then Claire maneuvers the car back onto the road and away.

Dean finishes his cigarette in the resulting silence, wondering if he has time to smoke another before Charlie shows up.

“Did I see you out here talking to Kaia?” Benny’s voice comes from behind him, and Dean turns in time to see the church door close and Benny join him against the wall.

“She’s a good kid,” Dean replies. He thinks about offering Benny a cigarette, but he’s pretty sure the man doesn’t smoke.

Benny gives Dean a strange look. “I can barely get her to say five words to me.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well, kids like her probably have one or two issues with authority figures.”

Benny smiles and shakes his head. “Probably right. Christ, she makes me worry about my Lizzy when she gets older. Teenagers.”

“Lizzy’ll be fine,” Dean reassures him. “She’s got you and Andrea in her corner.”

“Sure,” Benny sighs. “Kids, chief. I don’t think it ever gets easier being a parent.”

There’s a twisting pain in the base of Dean’s stomach. The silence is suddenly oppressive. Dean breathes out slowly, imagining the tension spill out of his limbs. And he did it: he got to the meeting. He sat through the whole thing without panicking. Now he can do this one other hard thing. He’s getting tired of ignoring it, of hiding it – hiding her. Emma. His daughter. Like she’s some dirty secret and not the most beautiful thing he has ever made, even if he might never get to see her for himself.

“I’m, ah.” Dean clears his throat. Benny is quiet beside him. Dean has a feeling Benny’s gotten good at a lot of patient silence, what with leading this whole meeting thing. “I’m here for my, ah, my daughter. She’s, Christ, eight months old about. And, ah, I’ve never –”

Benny doesn’t say anything, but suddenly Dean has to explain, because he can hear Sam’s voice in his head, accusing Dean of being like John. Dean doesn’t want Benny to think he abandoned his kid. Dean didn’t – he didn’t fucking walk out.

“I didn’t even know until she was a month old and her mother’s lawyers – yeah. And – man, I wanted to meet her. I still want to meet her. And – and take care of her if I can, but – but I wasn’t in great shape. I’ve never really been in great shape. So, the judge gave her to her mom and – and –”

“Hey, Dean, brother,” Benny interrupts, and he lands his hand heavy on Dean’s shoulder, giving Dean grounding he hadn’t realized he’d needed.

Dean takes a deep breath. He’s okay. Benny’s not freaking out. Benny maybe doesn’t think Dean’s a horrible person. Benny maybe isn’t judging him for not being able to take care of his baby girl.

“You good?” Benny asks, eyebrows heavy over his earnest blue eyes.

Dean nods. “So, yeah,” he finishes weakly. “That’s why I’m here.”

“It’s a good reason to be here, brother,” Benny says, squeezing Dean’s shoulder before letting his arm swing free. “I get the feeling it’s not something you tell a lot of people, yeah? So thanks for telling me.”

“Sure,” Dean says.

Charlie’s yellow car rumbles up the road, and she gives a cheerful wave through the windshield.

“You take care of yourself, hear?” Benny says.

Dean feels a little wrung out, but he smiles and nods. “You too, Benny.”

OOO

“God, your closet belongs to a butch lesbian,” Charlie moans and tosses another flannel onto the floor in disgust.

“I still don’t get why I can’t just wear the red shirt I wore to Cesar’s,” Dean whines, stooping to pick up the detritus of Charlie’s wardrobe rampage.

“I will let you do many things, Dean, but repeat an outfit, I will not,” Charlie declares. As for repeating outfits, Dean thinks she must have an infinite supply of graphic tees. She’s wearing a t-shirt with an Andy Warhol style pop art of Jeff Goldblum superimposed over the word CHAOS.

“Don’t you wanna look hot tonight?” Charlie continues, taking out two flannels and comparing them in the light. One’s tan-checked, the other blue. Dean’s never given thought to any meaningful difference between them, but Charlie makes a face and tosses the tan one on the floor.

“Why do I need to look hot?” Dean complains. “I don’t need to impress anyone.”

Charlie coughs loudly and obnoxiously, a noise that sounds suspiciously like “Cas!” Dean ignores her except to roll his eyes. He’s trying not to let the Cas situation bother him. They’re friends. Just friends.

Dean’s not great with ambiguity in relationships. It’s family, friend, one night stand, fuckbuddy, or dating. Not that he’s ever gotten around to dating for any significant length of time. But Cas doesn’t really fit into any of those categories anymore. Seeing as they’re friends, but also hooked up. But not planning on hooking up again. But Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to be jealous as fuck if Cas pulls an SO out of the woodwork any time soon.

It’s way too complicated, and Dean loathes himself a little for the fact that Charlie’s right: he definitely wants to look hot tonight.

“We thinking black tee with your good jeans?” Charlie says. “Sleek and simple. Show off your guns a little?”

“I don’t have fucking guns,” Dean mutters. He still hasn’t had the ‘no sleeveless’ conversation with Charlie.

“Sure you do,” Charlie says. She reaches out to pinch his bicep. “Mmh, see? Lots of muscly muscles.”

“Ouch,” Dean says, swatting her hand and snatching the black t-shirt and the blue plaid she’d favored from before. He heads into the bathroom to change.

“What’s the point of coming over to dress you if you don’t let me fucking dress you?” Charlie pouts from the other side of the door.

“You invited yourself,” Dean scoffs. He tugs the flannel over his arms and comes back out of the bathroom, and he even spins around so she gets the 360 view.

Charlie chuckles.

“You have any other jewelry?” she asks, scanning his mother’s ring he wears on his right hand when he’s not at the garage and Sam’s amulet. “Sucks your ears aren’t pierced. That’d be hip as fuck. Maybe a septum piercing. You should talk to Meg.”

“If you or that demon come near me with any needles, I swear to God.” Dean lets his threat hang, but Charlie backs off with a shake of her head and a grin.

“Alright, fine,” Charlie concedes. “I approve you.”

“Alright, Your Majesty,” Dean snorts. They leave his apartment together and head to her Gremlin parked on the curb.

“Is Dorothy coming?” Dean asks, sliding into the passenger seat. He knows Charlie’s gone out for what seemed like several successful dates in the interim with her hookup from Cesar’s, and Cas had extended the invitation to plus ones.

Charlie wrinkles her nose. “Nah. Says it’s too early to meet the friends.”

“Mmh,” Dean says.

“It’s cool, Dean.” Charlie shoots him a grin. “We’re casual.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. “Just, you know… make sure she’s giving you what you want, too, ‘kay?”

Charlie elbows him in the arm. “Hey, you can’t be the mom friend. I’m the mom friend.”

They pull up to the street outside Cas’s apartment. Dean can’t quite stifle the bloom of unease in his core. The last time he was here, he was drunk, manic, and half-way crawling into Cas’s lap. He in no way wants a repeat of that night.

Dean waits for Charlie on the curb as she rounds the nose of her car, pretending like he’s being polite and doesn’t need the moral support to walk toward the building. Charlie handles the intercom, announcing that they’re ready to Partaaaaay, which Dean winces at, and whoever it was on the other end – Dean didn’t recognize the voice, and he assumes it’s another of Cas’s friends – buzzes them in.

They take the familiar elevator up to the third floor. Dean staunchly does not look at the corner where he and Cas had been climbing over each other, tongues down each other’s throats. The elevator dings. Charlie, again, takes the lead down the hallway to Cas’s door, even though it’s like Dean’s walking through a vivid dream; he could draw a map from memory.

Charlie knocks. The door swings open to admit them, manned by a stranger with wide eyes, a shy smile, and Zooey Deschanel bangs.

“Hi!” Charlie says. “I’m Charlie. This is Dean.”

“I’m Hannah. Nice to meet you.”

Cas’s apartment looks exactly like Dean remembers – cold and manicured – except it’s made slightly more welcoming by the buzz of activity inside. There’s a cluster of people in the kitchen and spilling into the living room. Dean doesn’t recognize any of them except for Meg, who raises her head when he and Charlie come in. She immediately scowls at the sight of Dean, and Dean feels another miniature explosion of nerves.

It’s the first time he’s seen Meg since his and Cas’s ill-fated hookup. Dean has no idea how her opinion of him has shifted, more than a month and a half later. He also can’t help but register that Meg and him are alike now, in that they’ve both slept with Cas, and he wonders whether anyone else at the party has also done that. Maybe Cas makes a habit of befriending his exes.

Not that Dean’s Cas’s ex. He’s just – he’s just a friend.

“Deano,” Meg says, approaching despite her chilly demeanor. “Risen from the dead, I see.”

“Meg,” Dean replies levelly.

“Whoa,” Charlie intercuts. “Am I gonna have to run interference between you two all night? Because, if so, I’d like to be pointed in the direction of the booze, first.”

Amazingly, Meg cracks a smile. “Booze is on the table.”

Dean is saved from anymore awkward interactions with Meg when Cas enters the room from down the hall. Dean thinks it’s more anxiety in his stomach at first before he recognizes the weak bubbling of excitement. Cas looks good. He’s wearing black jeans and a snug, navy t-shirt that brings out his striking eyes. Dean’s so used to seeing him around the complex in baggy smocks and sweatpants, it’s jarring to see him in something form-fitting.

There are tiny flashes of light framing Cas’s face, and Dean realizes for the first time that Cas’s ears are pierced – he’s never had earrings in around Dean before, but he’s wearing small diamond studs tonight. Charlie’s right again: earrings are sexy as fuck on a dude. Dean angrily stifles the desire to find out what they feel like against his tongue.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, stopping on the threshold of the kitchen and smiling warmly.

“Hey,” Dean smiles back at him.

Charlie bursts through their little bubble of warmth when she squeezes past Dean and engulfs Cas in a hug. Cas looks momentarily surprised over her shoulder before looking pleased.

“Happy birthday, grandpa,” Charlie says. “Thirty-frikken-four, man. You’re ancient.”

There are stilted introductions after that; Dean’s already met Hannah, and there’s also a blond girl named Rachel, and a tall, thin man with a shaved head named Benjamin who Charlie knows from a local arcade. Gabe and his girlfriend storm in a minute later with the kind of enthusiasm Dean would expect from Cas’s older brother, but Kali is a surprise. Kali is Kim K kinda hot without the plastic, not at all someone Dean would expect to be with Gabe, and certainly not someone who would be at a shindig like this, which is a red Solo cup, bagged Doritos, and oven warmed pigs-in-a-blanket kind of affair. Dean remembers that Kali and Gabriel film porn four floors below his apartment, and he does his level best not to imagine her naked.

Cas, Dean can’t help but notice, is as awkward in a crowd of friends as he was among strangers at the gallery. He’s not very good at hosting – at least not in the way Sammy or Ellen is good at it, making everyone feel welcome and encouraging people to mingle. Instead, he takes one or two people aside for quiet, earnest conversations and otherwise leaves his guests to themselves.

It’s Meg, surprisingly, who adopts the role of host. She’s busy in the kitchen mixing elaborate drinks and loudly talking to people like she’s known them for years. Dean wonders if maybe she came early to help Cas set up; she’s certainly familiar enough with the place. He can’t help but notice how well they compliment each other: Meg the gregarious, aggressive party maker, and Cas her steady, quiet influence. There’s another pang in Dean’s stomach, but this time he immediately recognizes jealousy.

“How do you two know Castiel?”

It’s Hannah, looking a little uncomfortable in the crowd. Dean empathizes with her. Charlie is clearly comfortable in any kind of party atmosphere, but she’s so far hung around at Dean’s elbow. Dean is grateful for her company, even if he feels a little guilty for using her as a security blanket.

“He’s our neighbor,” Charlie replies.

“And you wonder why people think we’re dating,” Dean tells Charlie.

Charlie mimes puking into her cup of rum and coke.

Rachel wanders over. It turns out she and Hannah are partners. Hannah met Castiel at a community Pride event several years ago.

Dean has never been to a Pride festival in his life, despite Sam’s ardent attempts to bring him, but Charlie makes him swear he’ll go with her next June. The idea of going with his impossibly supportive little brother when Dean breaks out into a sweat at the thought of wearing any kind of rainbow paraphernalia in public makes Dean want to crawl into a hole. But maybe going with Charlie wouldn’t be too bad. And maybe Cas could tag along. But that’s almost a year away, and Dean’s not good at making long term plans, so he tries to stop thinking about it.

Charlie ends up getting drawn into an in-depth conversation with Hannah and Rachel about some Swedish, synth-pop artist that Dean’s never heard of.

Dean feels wrong-footed and bumbling because he misgendered Hannah at the start of the conversation, who gently corrected him by saying they use they/them pronouns. Dean knows he’s not supposed to take that kind of stuff personally, but he can’t help but be reminded by how much he doesn’t know. He hopes to God no one asks how he identifies; the idea of saying he’s bisexual in front of so many people makes him feel ill. And he’s afraid someone is going to confront him with the pansexual/bisexual debate and he’s not going to be able to defend himself. Or he’ll say something wrong and offend someone else. Or they’ll laugh at him for being, as Charlie calls it, a baby queer.

He tries to calm down, reminding himself that no one is going to demand anything of him here. They’re all just people. Just people having a good time at a friend’s birthday party.

“Howdy, Deano,” says Gabe with his typical, clownish smile. Kali is on his arm. She’s about Dean’s height, if not an inch or two taller, in her heeled boots.

“So, this is Dean,” she remarks dryly.

“Um, hi,” Dean says, nervously wondering what Gabriel has told Kali about him – it’d be nice to know if she thinks of him as the psycho madman who hooked up with Gabe’s little brother. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Mh,” Kali says noncommittedly.

“You’re not drinking?” Gabe says, and he’s half-way to dragging Dean into the kitchen to rectify the situation before Dean digs his heels in.

“No, man, I’m good, really.” It feels weird coming out of Dean’s lips, and he’s blushing scarlet before he’s got all the words out. He’s never rejected an offer for alcohol in his life, not since he was eleven and one of Dad’s friends gave him his first beer. Because maybe Gabe is going to say something – maybe Gabe is going to ask –

Gabe releases his elbow and shrugs. “Your loss is my gain, man.” Then he goes into the kitchen and refills his own cup.

Kali is still there and still looking at Dean like he’s pinned under a microscope.

“So, ah, where are you from?”

Kali cocks one well-manicured eyebrow. “California. But if you mean where does my family come from in India, my great-grandparents were born in Punjab.”

Dean’s face, recently flushed, gets warm again immediately. Sammy’s always telling him about microaggressions and political correctness, and Dean always seems to get it wrong. “I’m – sorry – I didn’t mean –”

Kali touches his shoulder. “Don’t hurt yourself.” She takes pity on him and changes subjects, “Gabriel tells me you live in his building.”

“Um, yeah,” Dean flounders. “It’s, ah, nice.”

“And that’s where you met Castiel?”

“Yeah.”

“Castiel is very sweet. I’m very fond of him.” There’s a slight edge to her voice now. Great, Dean’s already stressed about meeting all these new people, now he’s got another overly protective girlfriend on his back. He wonders what about Cas makes people so defensive of him. Dean looks at where Cas is earnestly discussing something with Benjamin in the corner, and he gets it: he’s a dorky, little dude, kinda weird, and Dean wants to shield him, too. Which makes Dean feel all the more guilty for the way he treated him back in August.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I – he’s a really great guy.”

“He seems to care about you dearly,” Kali continues.

Dean’s entire head will burst into flames at the rate this conversation is going. He clears his throat, wondering if cares dearly are Cas’s words of Kali’s – it sounds like the kind of thing Cas would say.

“He’s, ah,” Dean swallows. “He deserves good things.”

“He does,” Kali agrees. She gives him a long, calculating look before she makes excuses and goes to get a plate of food.

A few people start up a game of Cards Against Humanity, Charlie and Gabe vying for the win. Dean opts out; he still feels rattled, made worse by Kali’s confrontation. He used to be so good at parties: quick to make friends – or at least be friendly, able to make casual, easy conversation instead of standing awkwardly in the corner, terrified of saying the wrong thing if someone asks him a question.

The wave of melancholy isn’t exactly unexpected, considering he’s been staving it off all evening. He wonders if he could sneak a drink without Charlie noticing. It’d help him loosen up, give him a little leg up. He’s no fun to be around when he gets like this, and he doesn’t want to be a bummer at Cas’s party.

“I’m not very good at things like this,” Cas says behind Dean, making Dean jump.

“Jesus, man,” Dean breathes. He smiles and puts a hand over his chest. “Gonna give me heart failure.”

“I apologize,” Cas tells him gravely.

“It’s all good,” Dean says. He pats Cas’s shoulder reflexively, feeling the thin fabric of his t-shirt that does nothing to mask the firmness of his muscles underneath. Cas’s shirt bares the tattoos spread across his upper arms, and Dean finds his mouth dry as he desperately tries not to dwell on what Cas looks like without a shirt.

“Are you having a good time?” Cas prompts him. “Gabe frequently berates me for neglecting guests.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do.” Dean shrugs, bypassing Cas’s first question. “I think you’re a great host.”

Cas beams at him. Dean thinks his face must be melting by now.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“So, ah, you decide yet about your sister’s wedding?”

“I believe Gabriel wants to go. Likely to cause mischief. So, if he and Kali will be there, I will as well.”

“Yeah, well, they give you any bullshit, you call me,” Dean says.

“That means a great deal, thank you,” Cas says. It’s his turn to touch Dean’s shoulder. His palm is warm through Dean’s shirt. Dean tries not to lean into the feeling. God, when’d he get so clingy?

“Family is…very difficult,” Cas confesses.

“Tell me about it,” Dean says, thinking of Sam and the fact that it’s the longest they’ve gone without any kind of contact since Sam’s last few months at Stanford. Even when Dean was in prison they never went that long.

“Okay, okay, lovebirds,” Gabe’s voice cuts between them – Dean briefly wonders if Gabe’s running interference intentionally. “Get over here and join the party.”

Castiel rolls his eyes at his brother’s antics, but he tugs Dean over to the rest of the crowd. They find seats on one of Cas’s two midcentury-style sofas. Dean is intensely aware that he’s sitting next to Cas, and he tries not to let their thighs meet despite the tight fit.

Kali and Gabe brought a fancy cheesecake, so they all eat cake in the living room and toast Cas’s good health with expensive champaign. Dean’s never been a girlie drink kinda guy, but he has to bite his lip to stop himself from accepting a glass regardless. This sobriety schtick is a load of bullshit, and Dean secretly ponders how long he’s actually going to last.

The last time Dean saw Cas tipsy, it ended in sex, and Dean remembers now that Cas is a clingy drunk. The distance between them dissolves as the night goes on; Cas is like fluid steadily creeping closer until their legs are flush and Cas’s arm is slung lazily around Dean’s shoulder. Dean feels a little guilty about taking advantage of Cas’s inebriation, but he can’t help but enjoy how close and warm he is. It makes something ache inside his chest.

“So, this gonna be the year you finally settle down?” Gabe taunts from the opposite couch. “Find yourself a nice girl, raise 2.5 kids?”

“As if,” Meg scoffs. “Castiel is a disaster around children.” Cas blushes and shakes his head, but he’s smiling like this is clearly a overworked tease. “Remember that lady who roped you into babysitting and you called her in a panic when the baby wouldn’t stop screaming at you?”

“I did it as a favor to Nora,” Cas explains. “But she never did ask me again.”

“Who needs the little brats, anyway?” Gabe laughs. Kali swats him on the knee.

Dean is somehow cold and too warm at the same time. The room is too crowded. He suddenly doesn’t want Cas to be touching him. He wonders if he can casually sneak away to the bathroom without someone noticing his discomfort.

“Ah, come on guys,” Charlie interrupts. She shoots Dean a concerned look from where she’s sitting on the armrest of Meg’s chair. “Kids aren’t all bad – I mean – they’re messy and smelly, but they’re kinda cute.”

“No, it’s a good point,” Hannah pipes up. “We should all consider the moral ramifications of having children during a climate crisis.”

“It does do well to weigh how procreation may contribute to the dangers of climate change,” Cas adds. “Not to mention whether or not it’s moral to willingly introduce another person – a mere child – into the mess of humanity.”

“Oh my God,” Gabe moans. “No fucking philosophy, please.”

Dean excuses himself quietly. Cas’s arm slips from around Dean’s shoulder. Dean disappears down the hallway where he remembers the bathroom is. It’s across the hall from Cas’s bedroom. Dean shuts his eyes and tries not to think about having sex with Cas. Tries not to think about the disaster that came afterward.

God, how could he be so stupid? Of course, this wasn’t going to work. Dean was an idiot for even imagining it. Besides, he’s not supposed to be focusing on a relationship, right now. He’s supposed to focus on Emma.

His daughter is what’s important. So, it shouldn’t matter that Cas doesn’t like or want kids. It doesn’t matter because Dean doesn’t need Cas. He needs his daughter. And that’s fine. Dean’s fucking fine.

There’s a knock on the door, and Dean doesn’t need Charlie’s quiet voice to tell him it’s her.

“You decent in there?” she asks.

Dean can’t speak, so he twists the knob in answer, letting Charlie slip through the door. Her eyes are wide with sympathy. It’s that that makes Dean feel like he’s going to cry.

“I take it he doesn’t know then?” Charlie inquires softly.

Dean shakes his head.

“You wanna leave?”

“Don’t wanna mess up your night,” Dean says with difficulty.

“Nah,” Charlie musters a smile. “Meg’s starting to get a little handsy, so I think I’d better get out while I still can.”

Dean nods. Charlie gives him a pat on the arm. She leaves him in the bathroom so he has a chance to compose himself before goodbyes.

Hannah and Rachel are in the middle of saying their own farewells when Dean comes out, so it isn’t awkward for Charlie and Dean to follow them out.

Charlie gives out hugs to everyone. Dean settles for a friendly wave. Cas looks like he’s angling for a hug – they got pretty cuddly on the couch – but Dean can’t bear having someone touch him right now, especially Cas, not when he feels like he’s a hair’s breadth from falling apart. So, he dodges the hug and goes for the handshake, instead, pretending to miss the brief glimpse of confusion in Cas’s eyes. But he catches Gabe’s furrowed brow, and he decides that he doesn’t have the emotional energy to worry about Gabe’s big brother instincts.

Dean leads the way through the door. Charlie is silent beside him as they get into the elevator and make their way to her car. But her hand finds his knee before she starts the engine, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been more thankful to have her as a friend.

Chapter Text

“Sam joining us today?” Mick asks off-handedly as he flips through Dean’s file on his immaculate desk. Everything about Mick Davies is immaculate: his crisp, designer suit, shiny Oxford dress shoes, and slicked hair. He’s the kind of man Dean’d hate on principle except for the fact that, once you got to know him, Mick was surprisingly down to earth, empathetic, hardworking, and more likely to stop by a bar for a tankard of ale after work than some fussy, pansy-ass brandy and meerschaum pipe.

“No, he’s, ah, busy,” Dean hedges, hoping Mick won’t call his bluff; Mick and Sam work in the same office, after all.

Instead, Mick looks up with a sympathetic grin. “Yeah, poor lad. He’s pretty caught up in the Turner case. I certainly hope you’re watching out for him. He’s looking a bit run down.”

Dean feels a stab of guilt and anxiety. Watch out for Sammy, Dad’s voice rebounds in his head, and Dean tries to ignore it. But he’s never been good at blocking out Dad’s orders, so it lands heavy and sick in his stomach.

“So,” Mick continues, letting the Sam conversation drop. “It’s been over six months since entry of judgement, so we’re in the clear to file a motion.”

“Great,” Dean squeaks, cuffing his palms on his jeans. Maybe it was the discussion at the party that gave Dean the shove he needed, but the next Monday he called Mick and set up a consultation.

Dean’d briefly thought about finally breaking his silence with Sam, so his brother could tag along, but Dean figured it might be better to talk to his lawyer without someone in the room who thought he was an unfit father. Dean purposely scheduled a meeting during what he knows is Sam’s lunch break, so Dean’s hoping he doesn’t bump into his brother while at the practice.

“Let’s go over a few things before we begin, shall we?” Mick begins. “Just so you know what you’re getting into.”

“Okay, yeah,” Dean agrees. He’s felt sick all morning and left the house without eating breakfast, sure he’d spill his cookies on the bus if he had more than his one allotted cup of coffee.

“Alright. On average, we’re looking at a six month to a year process. I’m going to look into whether we can petition for visitation rights in the interim.” Mick looks up from Dean’s paperwork and fixes Dean with a stare that makes Dean feel even more nauseous. This is the part where Mick tells him that he doesn’t need to bother; the battle was lost before Dean even got a chance to fight.

“The first step is filing your motion, which is a great deal of paperwork on your end,” Mick explains. “We’ll serve Ms. Lydia Penn with a summons – I’ll reach out to her lawyer, Ms. Bevell. You’ll have to complete a litigant awareness class and a parent education program. If Ms. Penn opposes your motion, we’ll request a meeting. Usually, a judge will request you both meet with a mediator before scheduling a hearing.”

“If we can get a stipulation for the parenting plan, a court might grant the request without a formal hearing. That requires agreement on both sides, however. And, seeing that Ms. Penn initially planned to contest you for full custody, I don’t think it’s likely she’ll back down without a fight. Also, considering your history, a judge might want to see you, regardless.”

“Okay,” Dean says faintly. Lydia petitioned for sole legal and physical custody after Emma was born, and Dean gave in to what she wanted because both Mick and Sam didn’t think he’d have much a chance, considering his mental health history, recent prison time, and the fact that, a year prior, he’d still been under the restricted guardianship of his kid brother. Dean gets that a judge is going to want to see evidence that Dean’s able to care for a child, now.

“Then we move on to the discovery process,” Mick continues. “You’re able to ask for any information you think is relevant from Ms. Penn. We’ll talk about that later. She’ll be able to do the same for you. I’ve faced off against Ms. Bevell before. She fights tooth and nail for her clients; she’s not going to go easy on you.”

“Okay,” Dean repeats. He sounds like a broken record. But his head is spinning, trying to keep up with Mick.

Mick pauses to share a consolatory smile. “There’s a list of things you can do to prepare now,” he says. “Some of those you’ve got in hand: a full-time job, a lease under your name. But you’ll also need reliable transportation, recovery program certificates, and parenting classes won’t hurt.”

“Right,” Dean says.

“After discovery, we meet for a pre-trial hearing. The majority of child custody cases don’t make it to trial. So, we take the hearing very seriously. Both sides will be prepared to argue their cases, and hopefully the judge will be able to reach settlement there. Of course, if that doesn’t happen, we’ll move to trial, which is more involved. But, for now, you need to focus on proving yourself a fit father.”

“Okay.”

Mick stops again. “You holding up alright?”

“I’m fine, yeah,” Dean answers by rote.

“Dean, I’m going to be honest with you,” Mick finishes. “Missouri’s child custody laws currently revolve around a ‘winner takes all’ mentality. We’re working on changing that, but that kind of reform is slow. Right now, the courts favor mothers. Especially for an unmarried man with a record, it’s not going to be easy.”

Mick hesitates before adding, “Listen – you know me. I’m a friend of your brother. You know I don’t think it’s fair to judge someone because of who their partner is. But this is fundamentalist Christian country. It’s not going to do you any favors if you’re seen in a relationship with a man. In fact, right now it’ll probably look better if you’re not in any kind of relationship at all.”

Dean feels cold. There’s a lump in his throat, but he swallows hard and says, “That’s not an issue. I’ll do what I need to.” And he doesn’t think about Cas. He can’t think about Cas. Dean’s made his choice: this is about Emma, now.

Mick finishes out the meeting by handing Dean a stack of paperwork. Mick talks him through some of it, and then they work out finances. Mick handles Dean’s cases pro bono because Dean’s got family in the practice, but there’s also the cost of the arbitrator during mediation, custody evaluations, and other miscellaneous fees, which means Dean could be looking at $5,000 or more.

Seeing as Dean lives paycheck to paycheck, it’s a daunting number. As much as he loathes asking Sam for more money, it might be his only resort; it’s not like he can really swing another job, right now. But he’ll ask if Bobby will consider occasional overtime. Or maybe he can pick up some of the other guys’ shifts.

“And if you want me to loop Sam in, just let me know,” Mick finishes casually. “It might help to have another pair of eyes.”

“Thanks,” Dean says awkwardly. “I’ll, ah, talk to him about it.”

“Great,” Mick says, clapping his hands.

Dean gathers his shit, shakes Micks hand, and leaves the office in a daze. This was a fucking terrible idea. It’s a mistake. Dean’s only going to screw it up and end up heartbroken. Emma’s probably better off without him, anyway –

Dean’s so preoccupied, he doesn’t notice the slip of a girl coming around the corner until she bounces off his chest and lands on her ass. Dean spills his paperwork and catches himself on the wall.

“Oof,” she yelps, attaché case opening and scattering papers across the floor.

“Fuck, shit, sorry,” Dean stammers, reaching out a hand to help the girl back to her feet.

“That’s okay,” she says shakily. She grips Dean’s hand and looks up; her eyes widen in recognition. “Oh, Dean, hi!”

“Um, hi,” Dean says uncertainly, pulling her to her feet. She’s young – in her low twenties, probably – with doe eyes, long dark hair, and a round face. Dean knows her from somewhere, but his brain is stuck reliving his meeting with Mick. He really fucking hopes he hasn't hooked up with her, before.

She reads the confusion in his face and says hastily, “Ah, it’s Maggie. Sam’s –”

“Oh, shit, duh,” Dean interrupts her. “Sure, Maggie.” She came for dinner once or twice when Dean was at Sam’s apartment. She’s been Sam’s paralegal since she got into law school. Dean calls her Sam’s mini-me because of the matching hair and golden retriever dispositions.

“Sorry, here,” Maggie says, stooping to gather the papers. “I think these were yours.” She hands Dean back his stack of forms.

“Thanks,” Dean says. “My fault. Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Maggie laughs easily. “Nah, totally on me. You come from Sam’s office?”

“Ah, no,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. He really doesn’t want to get stuck in small talk, right now. Besides, he needs to get to work; Bobby let him take a two-hour lunch today as long as he worked late this evening. “Came about something else.”

“Well, when you see your brother, tell him to take a night off, right?” Maggie says, shaking her head. “He doesn’t listen to me.”

“Kid’s too stubborn for his own good,” Dean says uneasily. This is the second time he’s been told Sam’s working too hard. Dean needs to call him. Clearly his little brother’s not doing so hot.

Another thing you can’t do right.

Dean clenches his jaw hard, trying to hold back the wave of remorse and shame.

“Listen, Mags, I gotta go,” Dean says quickly. “You, ah, take care of yourself, ‘kay?”

“Will do,” Maggie says cheerfully, tossing him a wave as Dean rushes down the hall.

OOO

The rest of the day passes in a hazy blend of rattled thoughts and turbulent emotions. He gets into a shouting match with Cole over some misplaced tools, yells at Rufus when Rufus tells him off for yelling at Cole, nearly cries when Benny asks if he’s okay, and actually cries when Bobby chews him out for being a “stupid ass.”

“Please don’t, Bobby,” Dean begs, voice hoarse, feeling wrung out. “Please, just, not fucking today.”

Bobby grabs Dean by the elbow and drags him into his office, cane thumping with each step. He shuts the door behind them and then rounds on Dean.

“This about your brother?”

“Fuck, no, it ain’t about Sam,” Dean says. He swallows hard and swipes at his eyes, leaving a smudge of grease on his forehead and feeling like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Here.” Bobby tosses a box of tissues at Dean’s chest. Dean catches them, turns so Bobby will stop looking at him, and blows his nose. “You done blubbering or you need a hug?” Bobby says gruffly.

“I’m fine,” Dean grunts.

“You switch up your meds?” Bobby asks.

“Fuck, no, Bobby,” Dean groans. “My meds are fine.”

Bobby shrugs, but he doesn’t apologize; Dean doesn’t really blame him for being worried. “So, if it ain’t your little brother, what is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Dean says at once. “Just a bad day.”

“Christ almighty,” Bobby huffs. “You boys are gonna be the death of me. First Sam’s moping around like someone ran over his dog –”

“What the fuck is wrong with Sam?” Dean says, panic flaring so quickly it gives him whiplash. “This is the third fucking time someone’s said he’s not okay –”

“He’s fine, Dean!” Bobby cuts him off. “You know what he’s like on a rough case. Can’t think about anything else. And he keeps calling me to bitch about you because apparently neither of you know how to talk to each other anymore.”

“I don’t need an intervention about Sam.” Dean frowns.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “One minute you’re losing your head about him, the next you’re jumping down my throat. Whatever’s got your panties in a twist, I hope you untwist 'em quick. I can’t handle all the PMSing.”

“Why the fuck does everyone think this is my fault?” Dean demands. “Maybe he’s just being a pissed off baby.”

“I say this was your fault?” Bobby snaps. That’s his quit fucking around voice that Dean remembers well from his youth. Bobby may be an incurable grouch, but he rarely yelled like Dad did, so Dean well-learned the different edges of his voice. He knows when he needs to cut the bullshit.

Dean doesn’t heed the warning. “Maybe not, but why the fuck do I have to take the first step, here?” he rages. “He was the douchebag – maybe I’m waiting for him to apologize, huh? I’m not always the fucking screwup! Even if Sam obviously thinks I am. He thinks I’ll be a shit father, and apparently everyone else thinks I’m a shit brother –”

“Dean,” Bobby cuts in again, but his voice is softer. “Take a breath, yeah?”

Dean does what Bobby says, sucks in air until it catches in his throat and his eyes burn again. Fuck.

Bobby gives him a minute before he prompts gently. “Sam say that? That he thinks you’re a shit dad?”

“Fucking implied it,” Dean says miserably. “Said – said I’d ruin her life l-like Dad –” Dean swallows a couple times, but it’s no use. He’s been fighting an emotional breakdown all day; it’s just his luck he’ll have one in the middle of his boss’s office.

Dean finds himself wrapped up in two strong, steady arms. Bobby’s jacket smells like motor oil, and Dean’s coveralls are probably filthy, but the feel of someone else holding him is so overwhelmingly good, it hurts.

“Your brother may have more schooling than both of us combined,” Bobby says over Dean’s shoulder. “But he sure doesn’t know shit, sometimes.”

There’s so much that aches inside his chest: Mick’s dire advice, the Cas situation, but Dean takes a moment to let the horrible weight of Sam’s words fall off his shoulders. He’d never even told Pamela what Sam’d said to him. At least someone else knows, now.

Bobby pulls away but keeps ahold of Dean’s shoulder. He meets Dean’s eyes, face stern. “Listen to me, son. You know I don’t like talking ill about your daddy. God knows that man had his own demons. But I know this. John never fought to be there for you boys like you’re fighting to be there for your little girl.”

Bobby wordlessly shoves the box of tissues back into Dean’s hands when his words cause a fresh flood of tears.

“Kay, Bobby,” Dean says huskily.

“You got plans for dinner tonight?” Bobby asks.

“Nah, probably reheat something.”

“Like hell you will,” Bobby replies. “I’ll tell Ellen to expect you. She’s making some sort of roast. Plenty to go around.”

“No, Bobby,” Dean protests. “I don’t wanna intrude –”

Bobby snorts. “Fucking intrude. You hear yourself, boy? As if Ellen doesn’t more than half consider you one of her own.”

Dean smiles shakily and gives in to the invitation. It’ll be nice to eat something homemade. He’s been eating better lately, but he hasn’t had much time to make food beyond tv dinners from the frozen section.

“Now, you gonna keep bullying my crew, or you gonna shape up?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’ll be good, Bobby. Cross my heart.”

Bobby swats Dean on the back of the head. “Idjit.”

OOO

“Bout time you came over for dinner,” Ellen tells him as soon as he’s through the door. She tugs him into a hug before he can get his shoes off. Maybe Bobby warned her that he’d had a rough day, or maybe Dean just looks wrecked, but her face is creased in concern when she pulls away. “How you holding up, kid?”

“I’m okay, Ellen,” Dean says.

Dean spent occasional weekends at Bobby’s when he was a kid; whenever Dad was close enough, he’d drop Dean and Sam off for a few days and take off. Or sometimes he’d hang around and sober up, play at mechanic in Bobby’s garage. Make a lot of promises about sticking around for good, this time.

When Dean was nineteen, Dad snatched Dean out from under the nose of Dr. Fuller at that hospital in Tennessee, hightailed it to Missouri, and dumped his ass on Bobby’s doorstep. Told Dean to straighten himself out, and took off again. About a month later, Bobby tracked Dad down and out-argued him about leaving Sammy with him, too. If Dean was gonna stick around, might as well have his brother there; at least that way Sam could finish his last three years of school in the same place.

Dad stuck around for a while, too. Even got himself an apartment for a couple months in the summer. But that didn’t last. At least he left Sam behind, this time. Sam had a chance to make friends and play at having a normal life for a while before he went to college. And Dean settled enough to get his GED and start working at the garage.

So, Bobby’s two-story cabin, thirty minutes outside the city, has always felt a little like home. And Ellen’s pot roast is the feast of gods. Dean ladles a heaping serving of meat, carrots, potatoes, and gravy, and eats like a starving man.

“You should feed yourself better,” Ellen reproaches him, but she looks secretly pleased at his appetite and urges him to take second helpings of everything.

Dean doesn’t see Bobby and Ellen like this unless it’s at dinners at Sam’s apartment or family barbeques and holidays. It’s kind of nice to have them to himself for once. They don’t talk about anything in particular. Dean shoots the shit with Ellen about what Jo is up to. Bobby grumbles about the garage a little. It’s nice. Dean feels rejuvenated by the food and the company, and he’s happy Bobby talked him into joining them.

“I woulda’ baked a pie if I knew you were coming,” she tells him after he pushes away his empty plate, belt biting into his hips. “But we got some of Bobby’s molasses cookies in the jar.”

“Bobby’s always been the true culinary artist among you,” Dean says.

“Shut it,” Bobby hushes him through a grin.

“So,” Dean says after he’s managed to tuck in four of Bobby’s famous icebox molasses cookies – cut from cookie dough stuffed in a coffee tin and stored in the freezer for a quick fix. “How you treating my best girl?”

“Go on and see for yourself,” Bobby tells him.

Bobby’s got a three-car garage, and Ellen always harps on the fact that they never have room for her Chevy Blazer or Bobby's Ford F-350 because he clutters it up with all his other crap: namely a junker 1965 Mustang Bobby swears he’ll fix up one day, his 1971 Chevelle, and, in the corner lot, covered carefully in a tarp, Dean’s 1967 Chevy Impala, safe keeping for the next five weeks until Dean can drive her again.

“Heya, Baby,” Dean mutters after he folds back the tarp. He slides his hand across her hood, remembering the purr of her engine under his palm. “Not much longer now.”

Dean rebuilt her from scratch after the accident in 2006. She didn’t have damage more than a paint job would cover when Dean skidded into a guiderail in his first DWI. Bobby took care of her after Dean’s second, after he wrapped her front bumper around a tree. Because apparently Dean’s the type of douchebag with, not one, but two DWIs under his belt. Maybe Pam’s got a point about the whole problem with alcohol thing.

But Baby’s grillwork looks just fine, now. Dean admires her for a minute before completing the circle. He won’t sit behind her wheel, not until he gets his license back on the first of November. Mostly because he doesn’t wanna be the pathetic schmuck who sits in a car parked in a garage, dreaming of the open road. And also because Baby deserves more from him. Dean’s not gonna open her door again until he can treat her right.

Dean peers through the window at her front bench seat, leather still worn and cracked in all the ways he remembers since childhood. He can’t help but flick his eyes to the back. He’ll have to outfit her with a rig for a car seat if –

But no. Dean can’t think like that. He can’t make plans. He can’t let himself hope yet. Not with Mick’s daunting to-do list hanging over his head like an anvil. Dean doesn’t know if it was Mick’s intention to scare him off today, but it more than half worked. Dean swallows and forces his mind toward other things.

“You been taking her out?” Dean asks when Bobby shuffles into the garage.

“Every other week, like clockwork,” Bobby replies drolly. “Nice long spin. Nobody else near us. Don’t play your crummy music, though.”

“Hey!” Dean says. “She loves Zeppelin!”

“Car like that needs calm, simple music,” Bobby says firmly. “Keep your hard rock away from her.”

“Dylan? Credence? That’s okay.” Dean points at Bobby. “I won’t even say no to Garfunkel. But you even think about bringing your crooners into her –”

“Frank Sinatra is an artist,” Bobby retorts.

Dean scoffs and shakes his head. “Old man.”

Dean would have gotten another slap upside the head if Bobby was close enough; instead, Bobby scowls and leads him back out of the garage with a string of fond insults. After that, Dean jogs inside to hug Ellen goodbye. She presses a Pyrex of leftovers into his hands and gives him a look that warns him away from protesting.

Bobby’s behind the wheel of his truck by the time Dean climbs into the passenger seat.

“Ah, thanks,” Dean tells him haltingly. “For tonight.”

“Shut up and listen to the music, boy,” Bobby tells him. Dean bites back his grin, and he doesn’t even bitch about listening to Old Blue Eyes the whole way back to his apartment.

Chapter Text

Dean takes a shower when he gets back from Bobby’s and dozes in front of his laptop watching MasterChef. It’s a little after 10:00 when he rouses himself enough to shuffle over to the kitchen so he can take his sleeping pill and really crash. He’s been better at taking his sleeping pills after Victor switched out his temazepam for another aid that makes him less drowsy during the day.

He’s got the tablet in his hand when there’s the sound of footsteps outside his door and loud, frantic knocking. Dean drops the pill into the cap, glad he didn’t down it, otherwise he’d be a groggy mess in ten minutes.

He figures it’s probably Cas. As much as he doesn’t feel ready to face Cas after the party, he’s worried for whatever reason Cas is visiting this late at night.

“Hey, man –” Dean’s voice dies on his tongue when he opens his door and discovers it’s not Cas, but Sam, in the hallway.

Dean’s brother looks run down and hassled. He’s pale in a way that suggests he hasn’t been getting enough sleep, and there are dark bruises under his eyes.

“Son of a bitch, Sam!” Dean says and snatches ahold of his brother’s arm, pulling him into his apartment, scanning him for any outward sign of injury. “Are you okay? What the fuck are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!”

“Am I…?” Sam says dazedly. “Dean, I’m fine – shit, are you okay?”

“Me?” Dean says, wondering if Sam got into a car accident, or maybe he was mugged, or maybe, God, he broke up with Eileen. “Dude – yeah – I’m totally fine. The fuck are you doing here, man? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Sam insists. Now he looks a little abashed. It occurs to Dean suddenly that it’s been nearly a month since they’ve spoken to each other. Dean’s stomach aches with the thought. “Really, I’m okay. I just – Maggie said she saw you at the office today,” Sam confesses. “I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

“What?” Dean snaps. “You think I’m in trouble with the law again?”

Sam’s eyes melt into puddles of hurt, and Dean’s immediately guilty.

“No,” Sam says in a small voice. “Of course I don’t think that.” He’s carrying his dopey man purse that he insists is actually a satchel, and he flips through it for a second before coming out with a wad of papers that Dean recognizes as one of the forms Mick gave him this afternoon; it probably got mixed in with Maggie’s stuff when they collided in the hall. “I – here. I think this is probably yours.”

Dean takes the form. Motion to Modify Child Custody and Support. Dean knows Sam read the title.

“I, um.” Sam rubs the back of his neck. It’s a tick they share when they’re nervous. Dean doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do. He’s not used to being faced by Sam’s embarrassment. His brother always seems so sure of himself. “You could have called me, you know,” he finishes, still speaking in that soft, sort of hurt voice.

Dean tries to swallow back the unexpected wave of anger. “I know,” he says tightly.

“I – you know I wanna be, like, involved in this kind of thing,” Sam says helplessly, evidently put off by Dean’s lack of a response.

“Yeah, I know, Sam.”

“So, you just,” Sam takes a breath. “You just wanna deal with Mick on this one, then?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says curtly. “I guess I didn’t think you’d be super interested.”

Sam’s face goes slack with disbelief. Dean’s chest feels like it’s being torn apart, one half terrible guilt at causing Sammy pain, the other still-stinging anger at what Sam said to him.

“Why would you think that?” Sam says.

“You don’t need to cross examine me right now,” Dean grunts.

“I’m not –” there are two high points of color on Sam’s cheeks now, and Dean can tell his brother is starting to get mad, too. They both inherited Dad’s quick temper. “Jesus, Dean – I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

“Maybe because you clearly think it’s a fucking bad idea!” Dean yells.

Sam falters a step back, blinking in surprise. Dean’s glad he thought to shut the door to the hall, but even if his neighbors across the way can’t hear him, Dean’s sure Charlie can; he hopes she’s streaming with her noise canceling headphones.

For a second Dean thinks Sam’s going to lash out at him in turn. They’ll have a repeat of Dean’s last night at Sam’s apartment and not talk to each other for another three weeks.

Instead, Sam deflates.

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” he says. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. It occurs to Dean that maybe Sam’s been feeling as guilty about their argument as Dean has. “And, um, I – I shouldn’t have said those things. About Dad. And, ah, you. I’m sorry.”

Sam honest to God scuffs the toe of his shoe in Dean’s floor like he’s a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The sight makes something lodge itself in Dean’s throat, but he forces it back down.

“Well, thanks,” Dean grunts. “And, ah. I’m sorry, too. For – for getting so angry.”

Sam looks back up. He gives Dean a tentative smile.

It’s like something breaks overheard, the first thundercloud moving across the sky and letting a knife of sunlight through. The relief is so palpable, Dean’s shoulders drop. Sam looks infinitely more relaxed, except the poor kid still looks exhausted.

“You come over here from work?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, stress immediately jumping back across his face. Dean regrets asking about it. Sam presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Working late.”

“You, ah, wanna talk about it?” Dean asks. Sam usually vents to Dean about bad cases, but it occurs to Dean that, while they weren’t talking, Sam must have talked to Eileen about it. Dean forces himself to ignore the tiny stab of jealousy.

“It’s just this kid, Jes – fuck. I mean, J. He’s been with his foster family since he was two. They’ve been fighting for adoption for five years. It’s the only family he’s ever known, really. But his mom’s come out of the woodwork. She says she’s going to NA meetings, but her hair follicle test came back positive. And she’s missed two visitations. I don’t want to petition to terminate rights – you know that’s always my last resort. But fuck. At this point I think she’s hurting J more than helping him.”

Sam looks unhappy in a way that always makes Dean remember him as a kid, makes him wish he was still that small and wiry and wouldn’t think it was weird if Dean bundled him into his arms or bribed the tears away with ice cream.

Sam keeps talking, “But it’s just – God. Shit. She’s still trying, ya know? It’s not her fault she’s sick. And – and Dad still tried. I know that. And you – Dean I know you’re fighting for this. Fuck, I – you fought so hard for me as a kid. You were more a parent to me then Dad ever was. So, of course I know you’re gonna be a good dad to Emma. Of course, I know that.”

Dean swallows hard, but the knob is still there in his esophagus, so he clears his throat a couple times. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; he’s not close enough to clap Sam on the shoulder. So, he just nods at Sam and coughs out a tense, “Thanks.”

Sam seems to get it. He smiles shakily and huffs out a relieved breath.

“I didn’t know that about Dad,” Sam says unexpectedly. “With the sleeping pills. When you were a kid.”

Dean’s stomach curls in on itself. He can physically feel himself recoiling from this conversation. He’s tired. It’s been a long fucking day. A long fucking month. And he doesn’t want to rehash this with Sam, right now. But Dean’s afraid Sam’s just gonna get all self-righteous again if Dean refuses to talk about it – but, damn. Dean’s allowed to decide when he wants to talk about his life.

“I didn’t want to tell you.”

“I know,” Sam says. There’s a hint of frustration in his voice; Dean only notices it because he’s been attuned to Sammy’s voice since he first started to talk. “But you can, you know? If you ever wanted to. You can tell me anything, Dean.”

“Ah, thanks,” Dean says, surprised when Sam doesn’t push. Dean changes the subject, “You, ah – you better have eaten dinner.”

Sam’s smile turns wry, but he doesn’t call Dean out on the dodge. “Maggie made me drink the rest of my protein shake.”

Dean shakes his head. “You still don’t know how to take care of yourself. Sit,” he orders, and points at the edge of his bed, which, until a half-hour ago, he’d been planning on crawling into. “You better still like peanut butter and banana sandwiches, because I gotta get rid of this fruit somehow.”

Sam laughs weakly. “Dean, you don’t gotta –”

“Shut your mouth, Samantha,” Dean singsongs.

He’s got Sammy’s sandwich made, on a plate, and stuffed into Sam’s hands in a jiffy. There’s a warmth between his ribs that he hasn’t felt in a long time while he watches Sam take a bite and hum in appreciation. It feels right: Dean taking care of Sam, for once. For a little while it’s the way it’s supposed to be again.

Dean makes idle talk while Sam finishes his gross sandwich, filling Sam in on the gossip passed on from Ellen.

“I’m thinking about getting a dog,” Sam says out of the blue once his sandwich is crumbs. He looks a little less like a corpse, and Dean considers it’s a job well done.

“Yeah?” Dean prompts him. It doesn’t really surprise him. Sam begged for a dog ever since he knew the things went woof. He held off while Dean lived with him because he knew Dean didn’t like them; it makes sense he’d think about it again, now.

“Eileen thinks – she, ah, suggested it might be nice for me to have something to, you know, look after,” Sam says awkwardly. “Like it might be nice to have something to keep my mind off work.” And off Dean, Dean knows is the rest of that sentence. But he tactfully doesn’t say anything.

“You’re not getting one with her, though, right?” Dean prods. “It’s just that I think you missed Riot more than you missed Amelia when you two split.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, definitely not. We’re not there yet. I mean, she,” Sam blushes. “She stays over a lot, but we’re not talking moving in yet.”

Dean raises his eyebrow. “Look at baby bro, finally gettin’ some. Proud of you, Sammy.”

Sam wrinkles his nose and looks so much like fifteen-year-old Sammy that Dean laughs. But the stab of painful nostalgia that comes in its wake is so powerful, it nearly makes Dean wince.

“You should crash here,” Dean says to cover up his discomfort. He catches sight of the clock and sees that it’s after eleven. “There’s no use driving across the city when I’ve got a bed.”

Dean has good timing; Sam’s already in the middle of a yawn.

“I don’t wanna take up your space,” Sam protests when he’s recovered himself.

Dean grins, half warmed by the sound of your space coming out of Sam’s lips and half exasperated by his ridiculous brother.

“Fuck off, Sam. Mi casa su casa. And I know you’ve got a spare jacket at the office, so don’t try anymore excuses.”

Sam shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but he gives in. Dean crosses the room to his closet so he can toss his brother a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt to sleep in. The pants will show Sam’s ankles, but there’s no way Dean’s letting him sleep in his rumpled suit.

Sam uses Dean’s spare toothbrush, and the two of them are in bed before it’s 11:30. It’s too late for Dean to take his sleeping pill now and still expect to get up early enough for work, but it’s alright to skip a night; he’s always slept better with Sam nearby, anyway.

Dean shuts off the lights and climbs into bed with his brother, toe to tip like they used to sleep as teenagers and Dad only got a room with two beds. Dean shoves Sam’s leg so he has enough room for his shoulders, and Sam retaliates by poking Dean’s toes.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Dean informs his brother.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says. “Night jerk.”

“Night bitch.”

OOO

Dean’s alarm wakes him at 6:00, and Sam kicks him in the face.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yelps and Sam grumbles. “Shut the fuck up.” Which is enough of a reminder why sharing a bed with his not-so-little-brother isn’t as easy as it used to be.

“Move, bitch,” Dean says, shoving Sam’s leg away from his head and rolling off the edge of the bed.

Dean slogs through his morning routine as Sam starts snoring again. Dean smothers the urge to dump a glass of cold water over Sam’s shaggy head after he’s done downing his morning dose of pills, but he ultimately decides he doesn’t want to get his mattress wet.

“Hey, princess.” Dean wacks Sam hard on the shoulder, instead, and Sam growls at him. “Shower before I get back from my run, or you’re not getting breakfast.”

Sam mumbles something less than flattering, but there’s a grin digging into Dean’s cheek as he swings out of his apartment. He missed his brother more than he thought, and the feeling comes with a dull ache in his chest.

The mornings are starting to get cooler as October approaches, and Dean doesn’t sweat as much as he usually does in his typical long-sleeve shirt and sweats. He does his four-mile loop before ending on a detour to stop by Dunkin’ for coffee and egg sandwiches.

Dean’s halfway between the third and fourth flights of stairs when he sees the door to the stairwell open and Sam walks out. Dean’s heart drops because apparently Sammy doesn’t wanna stick around for breakfast, after all – but then Cas comes out after Sam, and Dean’s heart plummets for an entirely different reason. He is definitely not ready to face Cas after that conversation at his birthday party, not so soon after Dean’s finally decided to swear off the possibility of a relationship with Cas in favor of getting his daughter back.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says when he catches sight of him.

Dean’s so mired by his own tumultuous feelings, he doesn’t even register to be confused about why Sam and Cas are together.

“Hey,” Sam says. “Cas stopped by to show you his new painting. He decided to bring me, too.”

“I was up until four finishing it, and I figured I could grab you before work. I didn’t realize you had company. I hope you don’t mind,” Cas says.

“Oh, no problem,” Dean stammers. “That’s, ah, totally okay, man.”

Dean backtracks on the steps and lets Cas take the lead through the third-floor door. Sam catches Dean’s eyes with raised eyebrows, but Dean just shrugs; he’s used to Cas’s idiosyncrasies, by now. It’s not like this is the first time Cas has come to Dean’s apartment at the ass-crack of dawn to drag Dean down to his apartment to show him some experimental art piece, sketches, or new painting.

There’s a pang in Dean’s sternum, and he tries to ignore it. It’s fine. He’s fine. He wasn’t supposed to be hoping for a relationship with Cas, anyway. Just because it’s totally off the table doesn’t mean anything has to change. They can still be friends. Just friends.

“I think I’ll call it ‘The Sword,’” Cas says after ushering Sam and Dean into his studio and gesturing to his easel. On it is a large canvas, candid and vibrant in the way Dean now recognizes as Cas’s colorful style.

It takes Dean a minute to decipher the shape of ginormous, outstretched wings and an armored body of some kind of angel.

“Shit, Cas, that’s amazing,” Dean gushes. “Way cooler than those naked Christmas card cherubs.”

“Biblical angels are warriors,” Cas replies.

“This is really beautiful,” Sam says, impressed. “Do you often use religious imagery in your work?”

Cas shrugs, “Occasionally. I try not to weigh myself down with only one milieu. Except the color, obviously.”

“I was gonna ask about that,” Sam continues. “The, ah, all the contrast is really striking – how do you choose your pallet?” Dean tries not to roll his eyes at his brother; dude dates an art historian for a month and thinks he knows everything.

“It’s largely intuitive,” Cas explains. “I’m a very…visual person. In fact, I’m a synesthete. I incorporate a great deal of my chromesthesia experience into my artwork.”

“Oh, cool,” Sam says, obviously taken a little aback. “I’ve never met someone with synesthesia before. I know it’s more common in people with autism.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees. “Which makes a great deal of sense, seeing as I'm autistic.”

Sam blinks. “Oh. Yeah?” he says, trying to save face.

Cas’s announcement doesn’t exactly surprise Dean; he already knew that Cas perceived the world a little differently, and it definitely doesn’t bother him. But he can also tell that Sam’s a little jittery with his oh no did I just say something offensive? panic. And this is also the first time Cas has mentioned it out loud, so maybe it’s not something he brings up in everyday conversation; Dean doesn’t want him to be worried that it’s going to make Dean think of him any different.

“That’s awesome, dude,” Dean says stupidly.

A low-frequency buzz interrupts the moment, and Sam fishes his phone out of his pocket with a hasty apology to Cas. Sam walks a few paces toward the door so he can take his call with more privacy. Dean struggles to gloss over the sticky silence.

“Seriously, man,” Dean says, gesturing to the painting again. “It really is awesome. You gonna try to sell this one?”

Cas shrugs, “I’m not sure yet. I don’t have as strong of an emotional connection to this one, so I may attempt to show it at a gallery. It always feels a bit like I’m stripping off my skin and bearing my soul when I do a show with a piece I’m very attached to.”

The surprisingly gruesome simile is interrupted by an abrupt and fierce, “Holy shit,” from Sam behind them.

Dean spins around, alarmed, but Sam is entirely engrossed in his phone conversation.

“Fuck, no – you did the right thing, Maggie. Tell Eliza and Tom not to worry – or, well, tell them I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Sam thumbs out of the call, and before Dean can ask him what’s wrong, he’s spinning around and telling Dean, “I need to go. Something big just happened with that case – shit. Fuck. Thanks for the night, Dean – I’ll – I’ll call you later, right?”

Then Sam’s gone, dashing down the hallways. Dean’s brother looked massively shaken. He didn’t even say goodbye to Cas. That, in itself, is enough to send Dean’s big brother alarm pinging.

“Sam –” Dean dumps his Dunkin’ Donuts bag and coffee carrier on Cas’s counter, and he’s sprinting after Sam. He catches up by the stairwell. “Sam, what the fuck is wrong? Are you okay?”

Sam pushes his hair out of his face. His eyes look a little wild. “I – yeah. Sorry I have to cut and run, Dean. And I’d – I’d tell you, but –”

“Confidentiality, yeah, yeah,” Dean says, bluffing a smile to hide how antsy it makes him to see Sam so distressed. “Just – drive safe, yeah? You’re not able to play the hero if you turn the car over in a ditch.”

Sam offers an anemic smile. “Yeah, Dean. I’ll try to call you later if I have time.”

“Go save the world, bitch,” Dean tells him, and the fact that Sam doesn’t shoot him back the customary jerk as he dashes down the stairs makes panic stab through Dean’s chest.

Dean takes a moment to catch his breath, running through a simple breath 1-2-3-4, hold 1-2-3-4 pattern.

“Is Sam alright?” Cas asks from behind Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “Yeah, kid’ll be fine.”

There ain’t a lot that’s an emergency for lawyers. Sure, there’s unexpected shit: clients arrested, court dates rearranged, motions dismissed – but that’s not I’ll be there in twenty minutes kind of shit. Every lawyer Dean’s ever had to interact with has never been worried about traveling at a leisurely pace, so whatever this new development is, it has to be big, and it has to be urgent; which means it’s also probably heartbreaking, and Dean hates that that’s something he can’t protect his little brother from.

“Come on,” Dean says, needing the distraction, no matter the fact he wasn’t ready to face Cas so soon after the doesn’t want children, so he’s not going to want you when he finds out you have a daughter epiphany. “You want some breakfast?”

OOO

Turns out, Sam’s not able to call Dean, but Dean fills in the missing pieces when he catches a snippet of the news in the break room. There’s an Amber Alert out for a seven-year-old kid named Jesse Turner. His birth mother, Julia Wright, is the prime suspect. His foster parents are begging for any information. Dean’s able to make the connection between Jesse and the case Sam was talking about yesterday, with the kid J. It makes sense: there’s not much that will make Sam panic, but a missing kid is definitely one of those things.

Dean understands, on an academic level, that this case has nothing to do with him. Yes, it’s normal – it’s human – to feel fucking awful when you hear about a kid who might be in danger – but it’s not normal to feel so weighed down by the news all day that he barely functions.

Compartmentalize. That’s what he’s supposed to do. His connection to the Turners is adjacent, at best. He shouldn’t feel so sick with worry by the end of the day that he can’t even eat dinner when he gets back to his apartment. So, fucking terrified for Jesse and his foster parents. Fucking messed up with grief and anger toward Julia Wright that he wants to hurt himself.

Because she could be him. She could be him, and it makes Dean sick to his stomach.

Dean wants to believe he’d never hurt a kid. Let alone his own kid. But he remembers, in the hazy, distorted swirl in which manic memories exist, drawing a gun in Lisa’s house, pointing it at invisible shadows. Ben was in his room, but what if he’d taken that moment to climb down the stairs? What if Dean’d been so startled by the small, innocent shape that he’d turned his gun and fired?

The thought makes Dean break into a cold sweat. He sinks to the floor and draws his knees to his chest. There’s a painful twist in his stomach as his intestines tie themselves into knots.

And that was during a space of time when Dean was fairly stable – sure, he wasn’t medicated, but he wasn’t drinking, either. He was functional until he wasn’t. Throw in another factor – drugs, maybe, like Julia – and then what could happen?

It’s terrifying to live with his brain, to not be in control of his thoughts the same way other people are. To constantly be afraid that he’s going to spiral into patterns he can’t escape from. Or he’s going to snap again like he did outside that bar three and a half years ago, when he almost killed that guy. Or maybe he’ll dive down so deep he’ll go catatonic again. Or he’ll finally succeed at killing himself. It feels unstoppable and dangerous, like a car with its breaks cut, careening down a three-lane highway.

He knows Pam and Victor and Sam are trying to help him get stable. But it all feels too precarious. If one pillar drops, he’ll crumble. He doesn’t know how he can rationalize taking care of child when he can’t even trust himself to take care of himself.

So, Dean’s on the floor again. Crying, again. Pam’d tell him to take a few deep breaths, maybe send someone a text. He’d call Sam, except there’s no way Sam has time to spare his screw-up brother, right now, especially when Dean can’t possibly tell him, yeah, you know that really emotional taxing case you’ve been working on, the one with the kidnapped kid? That’s making me actually lose my mind because I’m just a selfish bastard.

Feeling bad about feeling bad has always been a vicious cycle, so Dean tries to focus on another nugget of Pam advice. Every time you get through a setback, you become better equipped to deal in the future.

The last time this happened, Dean crawled into bed and didn’t come out again until Sam had to practically force-feed him liquids. So that’s not happening again. Because Dean’s not going back to the hospital, and he’s not moving back in with his brother.

So, Dean gets up. His muscles feel rubbery and weak. His head aches from crying. He doubts he’ll be able to keep anything substantial down, so he grabs a packet of peanut butter crackers, downs a glass of water and his evening meds, and calls it an early night.

OOO

His sleeping pills help him fall asleep, but he wakes up with nightmares and stays awake.

He was supposed to drop off his court documents with Mick Thursday afternoon, but Dean forgot to fill them out yesterday. He’d meant to ask Sammy to go over them with him on Wednesday morning, but Sam obviously rushed off before Dean got a chance.

He’s in the breakroom again when the news comes on with the announcement that Jesse was found and his mother taken into custody. Dean’s glad the kid’s safe, but the news doesn’t make him feel any less like shit.

He slogs through Friday, the only bright spot on the horizon being that he doesn’t have to work any weekend shifts and Charlie wants him to come over so they can play Halo.

Dean doesn’t mean to be a hysterical mess in front of Pam during their session, but, by then, he’s worn thin and exhausted, so it ends up all spilling out.

“So, basically, I’m just a fucking selfish asshole for turning everything back on me, even though I should have been worried about the kid and Sam. The whole thing is stupid. And I shouldn’t even bother turning in my fucking paperwork, because it’s not like any judge worth their weight is gonna give me custody. And they’re right. They’re fucking right – because I could go off the rails at any time. And I’m so fucking selfish for even trying because – because it’s supposed to be what’s good for the kid, right? So who gives a fuck what I want? That’s not what matters –”

“Dean,” Pam interrupts him firmly, and Dean gets the feeling that maybe she’s tried to interject a couple times, now. “Take a couple breaths with me, okay?”

Dean resents her like hell for being such a patronizing prick, but his throat is all tight and painful from the effort of holding back tears, so he does what she says.

“Let’s try to take this a little slower,” Pam suggests once Dean’s calmed down. There’s a fine tremor in his hands, but he doesn’t feel quite as much like he’s about to explode; not to give Sam any points for being right, but sometimes it is just nice to talk it all out.

“First, you feel guilty about seeing this situation and centering yourself in the narrative, correct?”

“Yeah, cause I’m a fucking jerk –”

“Because you’re a human being,” Pam corrects him. It isn’t often she talks over him, so it makes Dean shut up and listen. “Because, last time I checked, being a human is inherently selfish. You are at the center of your narrative. It’s only natural that you view the world in terms of how you are affected by it. You only become a selfish asshole if your experience is the lens through which you force everyone else to view the world. Okay?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says.

“Did you, for instance, call up anyone involved in the case to tell them how their situation had affected you?”

“No,” Dean says, a little aggressively, because he’s really not loving feeling like a stupid little kid on top of everything else.

“Then, if you didn’t allow your feelings to hurt anyone else, I don’t think you need to be worried about being selfish,” Pam finishes.

Dean doesn’t answer. He plays with a little thread fraying on the cuff of his jeans.

“Do you wanna talk more about Emma?” Pam asks gently after she’s given him a little time.

“I didn’t turn in the paperwork,” Dean says again, defeated.

“Did you miss a due date?” Pam asks.

“No,” Dean says uncertainly. “It’s not even official, yet. As soon as Mick gets the papers, he’ll be able to contact Lydia’s lawyers, I guess. He’s just waiting on me.”

“So, he’ll be able to wait for you to drop them off next week?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean says. He puts his face in his hands and scrubs at his eyes. Son of a bitch, he’s tired.

He shuts his eyes. He can feel the soft give of Pamela’s couch beneath him. The sturdy floor under his feet. The slight pinch of his work boots on his toes. The ache in his lower back from being bent under a hood all day. He can hear the squeak of the wheels on Pam’s rolling chair as she shifts a little in her seat. The gurgle of the water jug in the corner of the room. His own pulse of blood in his ears as he presses hard against his eyelids. He can smell car oil on his finger and the faint scent of burnt grass in the room; Pamela probably burned some sage before he got there, for cleansing energies or some shit.

“I’m ruining her life,” Dean tells the carpet. “I haven’t even met her yet, and I’m ruining her life.”

“Yeah?” Pam prompts him gently.

“If I don’t get custody, then she’s gonna have to live the rest of her life thinking her dad didn’t want her, and if – if I do, then I’ll probably do something else to screw it up.”

“I don’t know a ton about parenting, Dean,” Pamela tells him. “But I know every parent is scared to hell they’re gonna screw up their kid. And, shit, all of them do in some way or another.”

“What if she’s like me?” Dean whispers. It’s the first time he’s dared put words to the nameless fear that gnawed through his ribs ever since the day Lydia’s lawyer called him about the paternity test. Bipolar disorder runs in families. If anyone knows that, it’s Dean, with all shit he had to put up with from Dad. Dean should have been more responsible. Should’ve had a damn vasectomy.

“What if – what if she’s just as messed up?”

“Dean, listen to me,” Pam says softly. “Yes, mental illness is genetic. It is very possible your daughter could also develop bipolar, but it is not, by any means, a guarantee. And if she does? There are few better that can parent a child with mental illness then someone who has already learned to manage that illness. You’ll be able to catch warning signs sooner and relate to her in a way someone else won’t. Every child – every child – brings its unique issues to a family, but that does not mean having that child isn’t worth it, or they will somehow be unable to live a fulfilling and worthy life.”

“It’s not about –” Dean’s unable to look up from his palms, yet, even if he knows Pam can’t see him. He squares his jaw in an effort to stop his chin from wobbling. “It’s not about her not being worth it – it’s –” it’s about me not being worth it. “What if she has a better chance without me?”

Pam takes a long breath. Dean glances up in time to watch her lean back in her chair, switching from her left to her right leg propped on her knee. She’s nodding slowly to herself, like she’s trying to find the right words to say, like there’s anything in the world she could tell him, right now, that will convince Dean that staying as far away from his daughter as possible isn’t the kindest thing he can do.

“I’m not going to deny that there are cases where a child will do better without one or both of their parents in the picture,” Pam says slowly. “But it’s also true that children, cognitively and socially, do better when their father can serve as an affectionate and supportive roll in their life. Dean, you wouldn’t be so concerned if you didn’t already love your daughter. You’re already willing to do anything to protect her, even if it means removing yourself from her life. Every child deserves to have that kind of love. That’s the kind of love your daughter deserves from you.”

Dean’s chest aches. He wonders what she looks like: if she’s got his eyes or his freckles. If she’s got Lydia’s auburn hair.

“But I’m not going to choose for you,” Pam finishes. “Whether or not you pursue a relationship with Emma; that’s your decision.”

Chapter Text

October brings the first smattering of orange leaves in the park across the street, Charlie forcing Dean to imbibe a bona fide Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks, and a jack-o-lantern of assorted candy outside Gabriel’s door.

Mick files Dean’s motion to modify child custody and serves Lydia’s lawyer with the summons, a total bitch named Toni Bevell, who Dean remembers all too well as being on the opposite end of the phone call about the initial paternity test.

Mick tells Dean that Lydia has 14 days to respond to the motion with either a stipulation if she agrees with the changes and wants to resolve it out of court, or a written opposition. Mick tells Dean not to hold his breath for a stipulation, but try not to worry while he’s waiting for the response.

He may as well have told the tide not to go out. Dean spends every free moment trying not to obsess over what Lydia and Toni are talking about and how best they can counter Dean’s motion. Trying not to think about how it feels to be Lydia, to be faced with the jerk who got you pregnant, abandoned you and the kid because he too crazy for the responsibility, and now wants to take that kid away from you.

Mick tells Dean he may as well knock off some of the other stuff on his to-do list while he waits, and Dean signs up for a court-certified parent education course that meets at the North Kansas City High School every Tuesday evening. So, now Dean’s busy three nights of the week with self-improvement activities. He keeps meaning to call the trauma therapist lady and putting it off. Plus, he picks up a few hours from Garth’s shifts after the guy sprains both wrists somehow while taking care of his twins.

All in all, Dean’s so busy, he barely registers the passage of time until Charlie knocks on his window on a Saturday evening, spills onto his couch, and tells him,

“Okay, couples costume ideas: go.”

“Um,” Dean says, perplexed. He spent the afternoon marathoning Indiana Jones in his sweatpants after he got back home, greasy and achy, from the garage. “For you and Dorothy?”

“No, dufus,” Charlie says, punching him on the arm. “You and me. Dorothy ain’t really a Halloween girl, apparently.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. Charlie surrenders almost immediately, heaving a sigh. “Fine. Maybe we’re kinda taking a break, right now. While she’s off doing cool motorcycle stuff across the country all month.”

Charlie obviously doesn’t like the look Dean gives her, because she punches him the arm again, harder this time: “Hey! It’s not like we were ever super serious, anyway.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Dean protests.

“You were thinking aggressively,” Charlie tells him before rapidly changing subjects. “Every year Gabe invites all his tenets to his mysterious sex dungeon to have a Halloween party, and you’re going to be there, which means we need a couple’s costume.”

“Um…his sex dungeon?”

“Well,” Charlie amends. “He technically puts away all his toys and camera equipment, so it’s not quite a sex dungeon. But it’s Gabe, so it’s close enough. Not that Gabe’s porn is skeevy.”

“Is that something you know from personal experience?” Dean asks before he can think not to.

“I don’t watch Gabe’s stuff, obviously,” Charlie replies. “But Kali’s woman-on-woman scenes are impeccable. I mean, feminist, fair trade porn? Sexy, sexy dominatrix with lots of leather and knee-high boots? Safe, sane, and consensual? What’s to dislike?”

Dean tries not to focus on the fact that Charlie has just confessed to watching Kali, Gabriel’s imposing, beautiful, Goddess-like girlfriend, having sex. Or the fact that a woman like Kali in leather actually sounds really great; not that Dean wants to consider any more than he has to that Charlie and him might have similar tastes in porn.

“Okay, ah, costumes,” Dean says hastily so they can get back on track. “You thinking superhero?”

“That’s the ticket,” Charlie says with a wide smile.

“So…Iron Man and Black Widow?” Dean suggests.

“Dude, everyone and their mother is doing Marvel this year,” Charlie pouts.

“Mystique and, ah, Wolverine?”

Charlie scoffs, “Only if you go as Mystique.”

“You can’t force me to go to some lame party and then shoot down all my ideas,” Dean protests.

“You know what you’d be doing if I didn’t make you come to Gabe’s?” Charlie demands, “sitting up here in your pajamas watching more 1980s action flicks.”

“Hey,” Dean says.

“Oh, so you had plans?” Charlie challenges him.

Dean rolls his eyes, because it’s not like he did. He’s never been able to get super into the Halloween thing. Dressing up in costumes always seemed like it would be fun, but Sam grew out of that shit when he was about ten and never got back into it. So, Charlie’s not too off on her predictions for his night; except he’d be demolishing a bag of Snicker’s in front of Hell Hazers and Hatchet Man instead of his usual fare.

“Wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face,” Dean says, getting her back for hitting him in the arm by swatting her lightly upside the head. “You remind me of frikken Sammy.”

Charlie retaliates by mussing his hair and ducking and rolling off his couch to avoid another swipe. She comes up on her knees, grinning.

“You two patch things up, then?”

Dean shrugs, but he can’t quite help the upturn of his own lips. Something about Charlie’s smile is contagious. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

“You should invite him for Halloween,” she says.

“Kid hates Halloween,” Dean says. “Besides, no way is he seeing me in whatever ridiculous costume you decide to put us in. Not giving him that kind of blackmail material.”

“Ooh!” Charlie squeals triumphantly. “Charlie’s Angels!”

“Fuck no!” Dean sputters. “They’re girls!”

“You need to expand your ideas about gender,” Charlie tells him. She chews on her lip. “We’d have to get a third, though. You feel okay looping Cas in?”

“Not if we’re doing Charlie’s fucking Angels,” Dean scoffs.

“Oh my God, Powerpuff Girls!” Charlie says, eyes lighting up like she’s a five-year-old and it’s Christmas. “We have the hair!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean rolls his eyes. “If we’re gonna do three, we should do Butch and Sundance and his girlfriend what’s-her-face. At least that’s cool.”

“Fine,” Charlie says with an eye-roll of her own. “But if we’re gonna do Butch and Sundance, I’ll be Butch. You can fight Cas over who gets to be Sundance.”

“Fuck that,” Dean says, but he’s chuckling.

“You’re impossible,” Charlie tells him. “And you will regret it when I surprise you the day before with what you’re wearing.”

“You do understand I can just refuse to put it on, right?” Dean says.

“Impossible,” Charlie says again, shaking her head. She climbs back onto the couch and shifts his laptop so they can both see the screen, pressing play on the movie.

OOO

Thoughts of Halloween are erased from Dean’s head when he gets a call from Mick at work. Mick tells Dean that Lydia’s served Dean with an opposition.

“So, ah, what now?” Dean asks around a cigarette he’s too nervous to light. He’s a couple paces away on the sidewalk outside the shop. He’d asked Rufus if he could take an early lunch after he saw Mick’s number come up on his phone screen.

“So, now we’ll have to request a hearing. Depending on the judge, they’ll likely request you and Ms. Penn meet with a mediator. It’ll take somewhere between two to six weeks to hear back from the judge, either way.”

“Okay,” Dean says. Even though it’s technically his lunch hour, he can’t imagine eating anything. The rush of nausea that appeared with the phone call was almost enough to take him off his feet. Dean walks now to try to work off some of his anxiety. He makes his way past the front of the garage and into the alley between the building and the laundromat beside it.

“How about you come to the office sometime in the next few days? We’ll go over the paperwork together. We’ll discuss if you want to reply to Ms. Penn’s opposition with a countermotion. We can also start talking about filing a visitation petition.”

“What does that, ah, mean?” Dean asks. He’s not stupid. He’s not. And maybe Sam would have answered with a roll of his eyes or patronized Dean like teachers did when they’d answer a question with another question: what do you think it means?

Mick, however, uses the same level voice he always uses when he replies, “It means we can ask a judge to let you see your daughter before we iron out custody. You’ll have to file another motion. We can try to work our way up: start with weekly two-hour visits, move to four, then eight, etcetera.”

“Okay.” Dean clears his throat to get rid of the croaky sound. “Sure.”

“We’ll talk about it in person, okay? I know it’s a lot to handle, right now.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks, Mick.”

“Take care of yourself, Dean.”

Dean lights his cigarette after ending the call with Mick. He smokes for a while, leaning against the garage, staring at the heap of garbage spilling out of the dumpster across the alley.

He could see her. He could actually see her. The idea is so arresting, it’s almost terrible. Through everything: the lawyers, the paperwork, the endless back-and-forth with Sam about whether he was going to try for custody – it’s difficult now to think of Emma as anything other than an insurmountable goal in his future. But she’s real. A real, living, breathing, human child. And she’s Dean’s. And Dean might actually – he might actually get to see her.

The desire to cut off the choking emotion in his throat by sticking his lit cigarette against his hand is automatic. He’s been better, lately, at not reaching for a blade or a lighter when he gets stressed out. But the urge is always there. And Dean’s already cuffing his shirtsleeve to find somewhere that won’t show when his cellphone buzzes again.

Dean drops the cigarette. He smudges it out with his shoe in the ground.

Sam’s number flashes on the screen, along with a text: You ok if Eileen tags along this year?

It’s a distraction, certainly, but not exactly a welcome one. He knows Sam’s talking about their annual trip to Lawrence to visit Mom’s grave in Stull and put in a tortuous appearance at their grandfather’s house to pay their respects.

Great, Dean sends back. She can take my place.

Dean regrets his sarcasm when his phone immediately starts ringing. Dean bites back a groan, but he picks up.

“What?” he barks.

“You are not making me go alone,” Sam tells him immediately.

“You won’t be alone,” Dean says. “You just said Eileen is coming with.”

“Dude,” Sam protests. “It’s Mom –”

“I’ll still visit Mom.” Dean fights hard to not roll his eyes, but then he remembers that Sam is not actually there, so he rolls his eyes. “I’m just not going to Samuel’s stupid dinner after.”

“It’s the one time a year we see them,” Sam says. It’s a well-worn argument. Dean doesn’t want to have it now.

“It’s a shitty tradition.”

“I’m not saying it’s not,” Sam says, all level-headed and condescending; Dean wants to throw his phone against the brick wall of the laundromat. “But this way we get out of having to go for any holidays.”

“Samuel doesn’t even fucking want us there,” Dean says. “It’s not like we’re family to him like Gwen or Mark or fucking Christian –”

“You just don’t like him because Dad didn’t like him.”

“Samuel hated Dad’s guts. He barely sees us as his daughter’s kids.”

“Probably because he doesn’t know us, Dean. We only see him once a year, now. And we hardly ever saw him when we were kids.”

“He tried to take us away. He took Dad to fucking court.”

“Yeah, well.” The annoyance is clear in Sam’s voice. Dean knows they’re wading into dangerous territory. “I had a broken arm and you had weird bruises. It’s not like he was wrong to be concerned.”

“Yes he was,” Dean says. The rush of anger is disproportionate to the conversation, and Dean knows it, so he tries to keep it at bay. It’s like trying to keep back those raging horse rapids from The Fellowship of the Ring.

He doesn’t want to think about that harrowing day when Sammy fell off the roof of their mobile home and Dean had to bring him to the hospital on his bike handles. He doesn’t want to think about the social worker at the hospital who took him into that small office and asked him a lot of questions about why they couldn’t get in touch with Dad. He doesn’t want to think about the judge who asked Dean so kindly if Dad ever hurt them.

“You ever think about how messed up that was?” Sam is still talking.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean snaps. “You don’t need to tell me that I shouldn’t have goaded you into jumping off the fucking roof.”

“No!” Sam exclaims. “I mean Dad. Kids are gonna do stupid stuff. They’re kids. But Dad should have stopped me from jumping. Fuck, he should have just been there. He should have driven me to the hospital.”

“Right, yeah,” Dean sneers. “And you think Samuel would have been any better? Guy’s a total jackass.”

“It’s one day, Dean,” Sam wheedles, abruptly back to the matter at hand. Giving Dean fucking whiplash. God, Dean hates it when his little brother begs. “And, anyway, if I drive you to Stull, you’re gonna have to stick around –”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean interrupts him. “I get my wheels back on the first. You think I’m letting you drag my ass around in your fucking Prius for one second longer –”

“Fine,” Sam snaps. “Don’t stick around. Whatever.”

Shit. They just got over one argument only to start a new one.

“Fuck,” Dean groans. “Whatever, bitch. I’ll be there.”

Sam’s silent for a several seconds; Dean wonders if he managed to shock him by giving up the fight so easily. Not quite conflict mitigation, but at least they’re not yelling anymore. And Sammy got his way. Dean can deal with the rest.

“Oh, well, good,” Sam finally replies. “And you don’t care if Eileen will be there?”

“It’s up to you, man. You decide when you want her to meet the fam. Can’t promise they’ll be peaches, but it’s better she know what she’s dealing with.”

“I meant at, ah, the cemetery. She could stay in the car if, you know…”

“Oh,” Dean says. “I mean…Mom’s the one who should really meet her first, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Sam says softly, but the kind of softly that means he’s smiling. Dean’s immediately grateful he didn’t dig his heels in earlier. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. “I gotta get back to work, ‘kay, lover boy?”

“God, you’re annoying,” Sam replied.

“Damn right.”

OOO

“Absolutely not,” Dean says, spying Charlie’s threatening grip on her makeup pallet from across the room.

“Come on,” Charlie pouts. “Cas let me do his!”

“That is true,” Cas replies indifferently.

“Yeah…well,” Dean sputters. “Elton John is supposed to be…flamboyant.”

Charlie snorts, “And Freddie Mercury isn’t? Come on, don’t be such a dude. Let me give you smudged eyeliner.”

They’d eventually decided on iconic musicians of the 1970s. Charlie is dressed like David Bowie from "Life on Mars." She pulled her hair back from her face so it looks like she has a mullet, and she’s wearing a powder-blue suit with matching eyeshadow. Cas is Elton John from his Pinball Wizard number: high-waisted white pants, sequined shirt, knit hat, and boots that give him a couple extra inches of height; it’s nowhere near the stilts in Tommy, but it keeps making Dean do doubletakes whenever Cas stands next to him.

“I think you’ll look nice with eyeliner, Dean,” Cas says. It’s the kind of matter-of-fact, utterly incongruous remark Cas makes all the time, but that doesn’t stop it from landing like an uppercut to Dean’s solar plexus.

Charlie laughs, delighted. “See – he thinks you’ll look nice! You can’t say no to him!”

“God, why’d I agree to this,” Dean moans. He stomps over to Charlie’s bathroom and folds his arms, blowing out an exasperated breath, but Charlie doesn’t seem convinced. She shoots Cas a conspiratorial grin before she starts attacking Dean’s eyelids with a tiny pointy brush.

“Because you secretly do want to have a good time with your friends and not mope around your lonely apartment all night?” Charlie says. She finishes with a flourish and then pushes Dean in front of the mirror above her sink so he can take a look.

There’s a little flutter in his stomach that he tries to tamp down. He hasn’t tried wearing makeup again since Charlie put mascara on him months ago. But he can’t deny that he likes the way the smudged black line around his eyes makes the green stand out more sharply. He chews on his lip, trying to find something to say that won’t sound dweeby.

“Looks like I got punched in the face,” Dean says finally.

Charlie shoves him in the arm so he totters back out of the bathroom and she can get past him. “I’ll punch you in the face,” she mutters darkly before she snatches her tie off the back of her computer chair and winds it under her collar.

“Well?” Dean says, turning to the less-hostile person in the room. He opens his arms to show Cas the finished look, feeling, admittedly, pretty stupid. But also kind of having fun. “How do I look?”

Cas takes a long moment to survey Dean from the bottom of his sneakers, up his red-lined, white sweatpants, wife-beater, and yellow jacket Charlie found at a thrift store.

“You look very handsome,” Cas says.

“Jesus Christ.” Dean’s face flushes. He doesn’t know why Cas is so consistently able to completely disarm him. “Right back at you, big guy,” he replies. Unable to look at Cas for another second, he turns to Charlie. “You ready, slowpoke?”

“Yup. Here.” She pushes something fuzzy into his hand. “You forgot your pedo-stache.”

“Uhg. I don’t wanna put the dead caterpillar on my face.”

“Getting real sick of your bullshit, Winchester –”

“Okay, okay!” Dean hastily sticks the fake mustache on his upper lip, tosses Charlie a grin, and races for the door. “If I get there first, I’m gonna eat all the candy.”

“I don’t understand why he insists on pretending to dislike dressing up,” Dean hears Cas tell Charlie. “He’s clearly enjoying himself.”

“It’s because he’s a little bitch!” Charlie calls after him as Dean races them to the stairwell.

Charlie wasn’t lying when she said the entire complex shows up to Gabe’s Halloween party. Dean tosses a wave to Kevin, dressed as the Incredible Hulk, by the food table. There’s also Ash, not in costume, handing out edibles shaped like miniature pumpkins. There’s a married couple from the second floor that Dean thinks are called Tamara and Isaac, and there’s a young woman – Tracy? Casey? – with a really nice ass dressed as a sexy cat.

Charlie mutters that Tracy’s costume is derivative, but then moves away from Dean and Cas to flirt. Cas gets ambushed by his brother almost as soon as they walk through the door. Gabe is dressed as Loki – Charlie was right about too many Marvel costumes – and Kali is dressed in a cheap sari, which she says represents “cultural appropriation.” Dean, left by himself, gets sucked into painful small talk between Isaac and another guy named Guthrie, dressed like a demon. They talk about football for a while, and the guys rag on Dean for not having a favorite team; it’s not like he’s ever had a lot of time for sports.

Gabe has almost the entirety of the first floor to himself, and he’s knocked out all the walls to make one massive, open-floor plan between living room and kitchen. There are platters of food and bowls of candy on nearly every horizontal surface. He’s playing “Thriller” by Michael Jackson at top volume.

Dean fights the desire to find the booze. He also forcefully steers himself away from Ash so he won’t be tempted to pop an edible. He grabs a plate of food and stuffs his pockets with candy, looks for Cas, and is just in time to see the other man squeeze past another incoming couple on his way out of the apartment.

Dean heads after him, and it doesn’t take him long to catch up.

“It’s very loud in there,” Cas says by way of explanation. He’s sitting on the third step of the stairwell.

Dean joins him, a step below, and agrees. “Yeah. Parties ain’t really my scene anymore.”

He offers Cas a mini Reese’s, but Cas waves him off. He’s fidgeting pretty noticeably – tapping his fingers and jogging his knee. He doesn’t look particularly upset, he’s just rocking with a steady, perpetual motion.

“You, um, okay?” Dean asks, not sure what the protocol is here.

“I apologize,” Cas says. “It’s called stimming. I could try to stop if it bothers you.”

“What?” Dean nearly spits out the bite of pizza roll he just put in his mouth. “Dude, no. Of course not. It’s fine. I just – I didn’t know if you needed to go find somewhere quieter with, ah, less stimuli, or something.”

Dean knows what it’s like to have a sensory overload. He’s not autistic, but Pam’s explained how overstimulation can trigger bipolar episodes or panic attacks. Cas’s movements – he called it stimming – reminds Dean of some of the grounding techniques Dean’s tried: tapping his leg or snapping a rubber band against his wrist.

“Oh,” Cas says, and he actually sounds surprised. Maybe a little relieved. Dean feels sick and angry over the fact that other people in Cas’s life have made him feel like he bothers them. “I’m alright. It was loud and crowded, and I just needed a little distance. Stimming helps me self-regulate. I – I usually try not to be so obvious. I’ve become very good at masking.”

Dean wrestles with the unexpected emotions Cas’s confession bring up. He tries to disentangle what he wants to say. He doesn’t want to be a total sap, but he doesn’t want to be a jerk, either.

“That’s – I mean, obviously you can do whatever you want to do with your life,” Dean tries, “but that really sucks if you feel like you have to change yourself just so other people are more comfortable, or whatever.”

“That’s kind of you to say. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says gruffly. “It’s true.”

“My mother put a tremendous amount of pressure on me to be high-functioning.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been hard to have a, ah, parent not accept you for…you know. Who you are.”

“It was difficult, yes.” Cas agrees. “It took me a long time to realize she was wrong. But it’s still difficult to internalize it.”

“Yeah,” Dean says faintly.

He doesn’t understand why he can’t get Cas out of his head. For all intents and purposes, Cas is a one-night stand. Sure, he’s also become as near a friend as Dean’s capable of making. But it’s not like they’re looking at a relationship, or anything. They can’t. That possibility is dead and buried simply on the condition that Dean doesn’t do relationships. Let alone the doesn’t-like-kids thing. Or the don’t-look-gay thing that Mick mentioned.

But Dean doesn’t understand the half-pang, half-thrill every time he makes Cas smile. Every time they’re just able to sit and talk and hang out or watch a stupid movie together. Dean’s never bemoaned the impossibility of a relationship with another hookup before. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Here,” Dean says again, putting a handful of assorted candy on the stair next to Cas. “I stole some before Gabe can eat it all.”

“Halloween is Gabriel’s favorite holiday for a reason,” Cas remarks.

“I don’t blame him,” Dean says. He pops a Three Musketeers in his mouth, chews, and swallows.

He doesn’t understand it. But he doesn’t want to screw it up, either. He and Cas have had too many close calls already.

“I’m gonna go steal about another pound of chocolate,” Dean says. “Then I’m gonna go back to my room and watch Night of the Living Dead. Wanna come?” It might be the first time in his life Dean’s ever used the go back to my room line and not meant it as a come on.

Cas certainly seems to take him at face value, and he asks, “You don’t want to stick around for more of the party?”

Dean shrugs. “Like I said. Not my scene. I only came for the food and because Charlie begged me. Getting ready is always the real fun.”

“Then, yes,” Cas says. He smiles. Dean’s heart swells. “I’d like to steal candy and watch Night of the Living Dead with you, Dean.”

And they do exactly that.

Chapter Text

On the first, Dean didn’t have time for much else except to drop off the reinstatement fees and proper forms, including proof of a completed driver’s exam, at the DMV before he picked up the impala from Bobby’s after work. But Dean takes November second off, and he wakes up early so he can make the most of it. Stull is only an hour from Kansas City, but Dean leaves with enough time to get there before Sam and Eileen. Plus, he wants a little extra time between him, Baby, and the open road.

“Hey, girl,” Dean says as he climbs into the front seat. It’s the first time he’s been behind her wheel in five years. Since he ran her off the road and smashed into a tree. Didn’t give himself more than an achy neck from whiplash, but she had to get her front grill replaced.

It’s a hazy time to look back on. That was when Dean was really starting to go off the rails. Lisa had just broken up with him and started hooking up with some doctor guy. Dean doesn’t remember getting more than a text from Lisa’s kid before he was breaking into their house and threatening to beat up Matt. It was on the way out that driving off the road just seemed like a good idea. It’s the one time that Sam’s never questioned him about; it was easy enough to cover up as just another car accident. Plus, Dean was drunk. He didn’t know what he was doing.

Dean spiraled pretty hard for another year and a half before the whole Anne Marie thing happened: with her douchebag ex, Kyle, and Kyle’s broken jaw. The assault charges. Prison.

Dean shakes off the memories with a shiver. He grips the steering wheel hard. He’s fine. He’s not that person anymore. He’s not.

He lets out a slow breath and turns the key in the ignition. The cough and growl of the engine, the rumble that starts up beneath Dean’s seat, is enough to chase his dark thoughts away. He can’t help but grin at the sound. Damn, it’s been a long time.

He pulls away from the curb. She steers like a dream. Bobby’s done a good job keeping her fighting fit. This early in the morning, the city streets are empty of commuters; it’s just Dean, garbage trucks, and city busses, as he makes his way out of the city proper, through the surrounding suburbs, and toward the countryside.

He rolls down the window despite the morning chill. He turns up ACDC. Despite the somber anniversary and the promise of awkward conversation and family tension later this afternoon, Dean’s chest loosens.

He’s never felt so free, so at ease, so without inhibitions than behind the wheel. Tires grumbling on the pockmarked pavement. Flat farming land spilling across the horizon. It’s like there’s no sense of time, no past, no future, no worries: just him and his baby. And it feels right. It feels okay.

He crosses over the border into Kansas. Kansas has never felt like home despite being born there. Not with the way Dad avoided it like the plague when they were kids. Dean didn’t even go back to Lawrence until he was nine and all the court shit happened between Samuel and Dad.

Dad made the effort to bring Sam and Dean to Samuel’s a few times after that, during one of the brief periods of times when he tried his best to be sober – scared straight by the CPS fiasco – and got it into his head that his kids should get to know their extended family. That ended when he started drinking again, and they went back on the road.

Dean just drives for a while. Finds a couple straightaways and guns it. Gets familiar with the feel of her beneath him again.

It’s nearing mid-morning by the time Dean ambles through Lawrence and keeps driving, trying not to think about dinner with the Campbells.

Dean and Sam started coming back to Stull after Dad died. It was Sam’s idea. Spend November second in a way that didn’t involve drinking themselves stupid and getting into a bar fight, coughing back the stink of smoke in their lungs. Visit Mom in the morning. Just the two of them.

Dean drives through the gates of the cemetery. Gray clouds hang low in the sky. There are skeletal trees and sparse shrubbery reaching up between the crooked rows of tombstones. Grandma Deanna is buried somewhere around here. She died of heart failure before Mom and Dad got married, so Dean never met her. But Dad liked her more than Samuel, so Dean might not have minded her either.

Dad’s not buried in Stull. Samuel paid for Mom’s headstone and he didn’t want John anywhere near her or the family plot surrounding the gigantic monument for Nathaniel, Dean’s great-great-grandfather who settled in Kansas after he fought on the “right side” of the Civil War – Dean’s never wanted to ask what side the right side was, according to Samuel. Anyway, Sam and Dean decided to cremate Dad. They buried his ashes in the woods outside of Bobby’s property.

Dean leaves the Impala slowly. He shakes out his bad leg, achy in the damp and cold. He sticks his hands in his jacket and shuffles across the browning, frost-crackled grass to Mom’s headstone.

Her gravesite is bare. He didn’t bring flowers, but that’s usually Sam’s schtick, so Dean knows there will be a fresh bouquet – or two, if Samuel stops by later – by the time the day is over.

“Hey, Mom,” Dean says quietly. His breath leaves his lips on little puffs of air, like cigarette smoke. Not the gray, putrid smog that filled their hallway that night. Dean remembers sitting in the back of the ambulance with an oxygen mask over his face, tiny lungs scorched by the heat.

“I hope you’re, you know….” Dean always feels kind of stupid talking to a stone in the ground. He’s done it enough that it shouldn’t bother him anymore, but he can’t help but think it’s just a piece of fucking concrete. He doesn’t know where Mary ended up – doesn’t know if he even believes in Heaven or Hell – but she’s definitely not here. Not listening to her son in the middle of an empty cemetery.

“I, um, got something to tell you.” This is the real reason Dean wanted to get there early, why he was so grateful the reinstatement of his license coincided with the annual trip because it meant he could do this without Sammy around.

“I, um –” Dean shuts his eyes. This time last year Dean didn’t even know. Lydia barely even knew, and certainly not that the baby was Dean’s.

“You’re, ah – you’re a grandmother, Mom.”

Dean bends so he can trace the letters of her name: Mary Sandra Campbell Winchester. 1954 – 1983.

“She’s a little girl. And – and her name is Emma. Emma Rose.”

Dean leaves his hand on the cold, rough stone as he sits. The icy ground bleeds through the seat of his pants. His face is hot. His eyes burn.

“God, I’m sorry, Mom,” Dean chokes. “I know – I know you didn’t want this. I – I’m sorry I’m such a Goddamn screwup.” Dean knows he’s not what his mom imagined when she thought of a family. He knows this isn’t where she wanted her kids to end up. That Dad isn’t who she thought her husband was. Sure, Dad came back screwed up from ‘Nam, but they were happy, right? They were happy for those first four years. Dean remembers them being happy.

“But a granddaughter is good, right? You’d be happy about that, right? You’d be…be buying a bunch of frilly pink dresses, or whatever.”

Dean wonders if Mary wanted daughters. Maybe she and Dad planned on having more kids after Sammy. Dean tries to imagine that and can’t: a little sister. Him and Sam showing her the ropes. The five of them a happy, nuclear family, living their youths happy and content in Lawrence, surrounded by their second cousins. Maybe Dean still would have knocked up some poor girl, but it would’ve been someone like Lisa with a kid like Ben: someone who would’ve stuck around. Would’ve made a go at playing happy family.

But that family doesn’t exist. Never existed. Was burned out of existence by that fire.

Dean can remember her screaming.

It might have been the smoke that woke him up coughing that night. But it’s the screams he remembers.

“I miss you,” Dean whispers. “God I – I sometimes fucking hate you for dying, you know that? I fucking hate you for leaving us. For leaving us with fucking Dad. For screwing us over so bad.”

Dean scrubs his eyes hard enough to hurt. He takes two trembling deep breaths to calm himself down.

“And then I hate myself for thinking that,” he breathes. “I – God, I wish it had been me. That’s so stupid, huh? I wish it had been me, not you. Because then at least Sammy would’ve had the happy family. Kid deserves it, after all the shit me and Dad’ve put him through.”

Dean hears two thumps of closing car doors behind him. He glances back to see that Sam and Eileen have pulled up. He didn’t even hear Sam’s engine. Stupid Prius. They’re standing outside Sam’s car, obviously not wanting to intrude.

Dean wipes his face on his sleeve again, and he stands.

“Just wanted you to know, Mom,” he finishes. He pats her headstone before taking a step back. He doesn’t make any promises: doesn’t say, maybe next year he can bring Emma so they can meet. He’s not ready to make dreams like that, yet.

He hears Sam’s boots against the thawing frost like crackling newspaper.

“Hey, man,” Sam says. He thumps Dean on the shoulder. He’s carrying a bunch of carnations. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Dean says. He knows Sam can see his red eyes, but he’s glad when Sam doesn’t mention them. “You should get Eileen over here – introducing her to the family. Big step.”

Sam smiles weakly. “Yeah.”

Dean turns and makes his way back to the car. He passes Eileen on the way. He expects nothing more than an awkward head nod after the way they departed last time, but, to his surprise, she stops to pull him into a hug. She even pecks him on the cheek.

She pulls back, eyes warm and heavy. “It’s good to see you again, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “You, too.”

She releases his arm with a tiny pat, and then she makes her way over to Sam. Dean parks himself against the hood of the impala, giving Sam and Eileen space like they gave him.

He lights up a cigarette and smokes it slowly, levelling out. God, he hates November.

Sam and Eileen eventually turn back from Mom’s grave. Sam has his arm around Eileen’s shoulder, and his eyes are rimmed with red. This is the one time of year that Dean won’t make fun of his little brother for being a big sap.

Sam comes around the front of the impala and runs his palm lovingly over her hood. “She run okay?”

“Bobby took care of her.”

“Hey, girl,” Sam says, and Dean fights back a smile. Sam might not be as neurotic about the car as Dean is, but he still loves her, in his own way. After all, she was the one really steady home base they had as kids.

“She’s beautiful,” Eileen says appreciatively.

“Thanks,” Dean says. His opinion of Eileen jumps up by about ten levels.

“1967?”

“Yeah. You know cars?”

Eileen shrugs, “Lillian lived with a mechanic for a while. Grace taught me a thing or two. I’ve got a 1971 Valiant at home.”

“And you still let Sam drive you around in that dump?” Dean asks incredulously, jabbing his thumb toward Sam’s Prius.

“It’s good for the environment!” Sam frowns.

“And bad for the soul,” Dean shakes his head. Eileen beams at him. “You wanna ride shotgun?” Dean asks Eileen.

“I’d love to,” Eileen says.

“Meet you at Phil’s?” Dean asks Sam. “If we’re not there in an hour, we’re joy-riding across the border.”

“Har har,” Sam says, scowling as he climbs behind the wheel of his car.

Dean and Eileen get into the impala, and Dean revs the engine. Eileen puts a hand on the dash where she can better feel the vibrations. She’s beaming.

Eileen is only the second girl Sam’s brought along to their annual pilgrimage. The first was Amelia, but Dean never really liked her. Mostly because Sam and her started dating while Dean was in prison, and within three months they’d moved in together despite the fact that Amelia hadn’t yet divorced her husband. Dean has to admit that Eileen’s already made a better impression.

“I, ah, wanted to say I’m sorry,” Dean starts, glancing over at Eileen, but she’s looking out the window and didn’t see him speak. Dean takes a deep breath, and he taps her on the shoulder.

Eileen turns with a polite smile.

“I wanted to apologize,” Dean tells her again, looking away from the road for long enough for her to read his lips. She looks puzzled, so Dean continues, “I mean, in person. I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like I did during dinner.”

Eileen’s face softens. “I should apologize, as well. It wasn’t right for me to assume your feelings were the same as Sam’s. I'm a social worker. I'm usually pretty tactful. That was not one of my best moments.”

Dean shrugs. He can feel a flush creeping up his neck, and he pulls his collar away from his skin. “It, ah, wasn’t a great time for me. A lot of stuff was sitting on the surface, so I kinda blew up.”

“I understand,” Eileen says at once. “It can take years to work things out about our childhoods. And it’s not fair to have a stranger picking at all the scabs.”

“Plus, ah." Dean clears his throat. He doesn’t know if Sam’s told Eileen about Emma. He knows that Sam does make somewhat of an effort to keep Dean’s private life private. But this is his girlfriend, so she might already know. “I’m in the middle of a custody battle for my own kid. So, it was…kinda raw.”

“I didn’t know that,” Eileen says kindly. She puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “If you need me to help at all, Dean. Please don’t hesitate to ask. I don’t know you well, but Sam thinks very highly of you.”

Dean doesn’t know how that could possibly be true, but it’s nice of her to say. Dean averts his eyes. “Thanks,” he says. And then he thinks that it’s probably kind of rude to not look at someone who relies on lip-reading for communication, so he looks back up and says again, “Thank you.”

She smiles. She’s got a pretty smile. Sam’s a lucky guy.

They’ve reached the parking lot of Phil’s Diner. Dean parks a few spaces away from the other cars so no one will hit Baby with a door. Sam pulls in next to them.

It’s only then that Dean notices a small, furry head pop up in the backseat of Sam’s car. Dean’s out of the impala in a second.

“What the fuck is that?” Dean exclaims, pointing to the backseat.

“He’s a Yorkie,” Sam says, affronted. He gets out of the driver’s side and moves to open the back door. He pulls the tiny bundle of straggly fur into his arms.

“You said you wanted to get a dog. Not a rat!”

“He’s not a rat!” Sam says. He actually manages to sound a little hurt. He’s cradling the thing like it’s a baby. It looks around, shakes hair out of its beetle-black eyes, and lets out a high-pitched yip. Dean can’t tell if it’s happy or angry. “And, anyway, I didn’t buy him. I’m fostering him through a program that rescues dogs from kill shelters.”

“His name is Leslie,” Eileen coos, scratching the thing behind its ears. “And he likes belly rubs. Don’t you, honey?”

“Oh God,” Dean groans. “You two are perfect for each other.”

Phil’s is a diner in the middle of Lawrence, and their annual stop before facing the Campbells. They make the best damn coffee in the Midwest. The one responsible for it, a guy named Oskar, explained that it’s all in the roast. He picked up his skill from some time he spent in Ecuador.

Phil’s also, unfortunately, has no issue with allowing small, so-called well-behaved, so-called dogs into the establishment, which is why no one gives Sam a second glance when he sets the thing – Leslie or whatever – on the ground and walks him through the door. The dog takes ridiculously tiny steps, and it has to practically trot to keep up with Sam’s gate. Dean tries not to think about it’s disgusting paws and its tiny scratchy nails or what kind of bugs are hiding in its fur.

They take a table in the back. The dog immediately curls into a ball beneath Sam’s chair, so at least the thing’s trained. Dean tries to ignore the impulse to pull his feet up off the floor; he keeps thinking the creature is going to crawl up his pantleg like that squirrel in Iron Giant.

A waitress comes by for their orders – the typical moody teenager who clearly doesn’t want to be there. She’s chewing gum loudly, and her nametag reads Eve.

“Bacon cheeseburger and fries,” Dean orders.

“I’ll have the cob salad.”

Eileen rolls her eyes fondly at Sam before handing the waitress their menus and saying, “Bacon cheeseburger sounds great.”

“Whatever,” the waitress says and moves away with their orders.

“She’s a keeper, Sammy.” Dean elbows Sam in the side, and his brother blushes. Eileen rolls her eyes, but she’s hiding a grin.

They eat leisurely. There’s no sense in rushing to the Campbells, not when neither Dean nor Sam are looking forward to it.

Mom had a brother, Eddie, who died when he was a baby, but she didn’t have any other brothers and sisters, so Sam and Dean don’t have any first-cousins. But that’s made up for by a slew of first-cousins once removed and second cousins. They all live in the area, so November second is always a packed house. The whole brood is close-knit and varying shades of unpleasant. Sam and Dean are known as the hostile, liberal Winchester cousins.

Dean definitely knows Sam is a liberal – kid is always talking politics. And Dean is pro-Obama, even if it makes him feel weird to talk about stuff like that out loud; he’s always been afraid it will reveal too much about him by airing political views out loud. But the Campbells are definitely not pro-Obama, even though Samuel says it ain’t because he’s Black.

And Dean hesitates to call them homophobes. Mostly because he’s not a little afraid that he’s still sorta homophobic, himself. It’s not like he’s being deliberately malicious. He tries to do and say the right thing. But he still stumbles over the right pronouns when he’s faced with someone like Cas’s friend Benjamin. Or he makes comments he knows are offensive to Charlie, even though he’s just joking. Or he gets a little shiver of disquiet when he sees Cas wearing his earrings or nail polish.

It’s not even like Dean has religious baggage. God knows Dad wasn’t a believer. And Samuel sure as hell ain’t a bible thumper. There are just things that men don’t do. And Dean doesn’t know how to make himself stop feeling like it’s such a big deal. So, needless to say, Samuel doesn’t know about Dean and guys.

Samuel’s brother, Jebediah, died from a stroke a few years ago, leaving three sons: Thomas, Robert, and Caleb. Caleb, the youngest of Mary’s cousins, never got married, and is the only one of the family Dean’s ever kinda liked – mostly because Dad and he got along alright. Dad would sometimes drop Sam and Dean off at his house when Dad went to visit Mom’s grave and a bar. Caleb never let on to Samuel.

Thomas had three sons with his wife Rosie: Mark, Johnny, and Tyler. Tyler was married to a girl named Darcy. Robert had two kids with his wife Hannah: Christian and Gwen. Christian was married to Arlene, and they were expecting their first son in December. The so-called first-great-grandson.

Samuel doesn’t know about Emma, either. Dean’s not planning on telling him until it’s absolutely necessary. After all, the man didn’t react very well when he heard about Adam. Kept saying John was disloyal to his daughter, as if Mary hadn’t been dead seven years before Dad hooked up with Kate. Dean doesn’t need to hear what Samuel will say once he finds out his grandson fathered a child during a one-night stand.

“Okay,” Sam says finally, pushing his empty plate away. “We ready to head over?”

“Uhg,” Dean says, shoving up from his seat. “Might as well get it over with.”

Eileen doesn’t comment on their lack of enthusiasm, so Dean assumes Sam’s filled her in on the complicated family history.

Samuel’s sprawling one-story ranch is fifteen minutes outside of Lawrence, situated across the country lane from a field covered in head-tall cornstalks. There’s a gigantic cottonwood in the front yard that Dean has vague memories of scaling when he was a kid. There’s a line of rusty trucks out front, the Campbell’s preferred method of transportation, and Dean grits his teeth before getting out of the impala.

“You still driving around in that hunk of junk?” a voice crows from the front porch.

Dean fixes a hard smile on his lips. “Robert,” he nods.

“Uncle Rob, hey,” Sam says, climbing out of the Prius behind Dean and coming around the passenger seat to meet Eileen.

“You found yourself another girl, huh, Sammy-boy?” Robert says as he ambles down the lawn. Robert looks a lot like Santa, if Santa was a redneck who wore dirty jeans and American flag bandanas. He’s about three-hundred pounds, and his white bushy beard makes him look older than his mid-sixties. He’s abrasive, opinionated, and crass. And he’s Christian’s dad; anyone who could raise a man like Christian had to be an asshole.

Sam’s smile turns strained. “This is Eileen. Eileen, this is my mom’s cousin, Robert.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Eileen says kindly, shaking Robert’s hand.

“You got something wrong with your voice?” Robert says, eyebrows dropped.

Sam sputters to Eileen’s defense. Dean shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath that’s half-way to a moan; it’s going to be a long day.

Thomas and his sons, Mark and Johnny, come out of the house when Robert yells that “Winchester’s boys are here!” Dean notes that Samuel isn’t among them and isn’t exactly surprised.

Eileen gets the dog out of the backseat, and the guys make fun of Sam for it, which Dean can’t help but agree with.

“This is Sammy’s new girlfriend,” Robert introduces Eileen. “She’s deaf.”

“That so?” Mark says. He’s the youngest cousin, and one of the few that got blond hair like Mary’s. He’s grown a stupid mustache since the last time Dean saw him; he fights the instinct to tell him he looks like an eighties’ porn star. “Pleased to me you!” he yells into her face. “You always had an eye for the hot ones.” Mark turns to Sam, whose face is turning red, half from mortification, Dean knows, and half from rage.

“I read lips,” Eileen says coldly.

“Neat party trick,” Johnny cackles and slaps his brother on the back.

“Come on.” Dean swoops in, wanting to bypass the scene Sam will cause by planting his fist in Mark’s face. He touches Eileen’s elbow. “I’ll introduce you to, ah, Gwen.” Gwen’s the only cousin that Dean finds even marginally tolerable. She likes guns and knows how to kickbox; maybe Eileen and her will get along.

“Galls are in the kitchen,” Thomas tells Dean.

“You always did like hanging out with the women, Deano,” Robert says with a laugh.

“That because they’re where the food is,” Dean says smoothly. But his ears are on fire. Fuck, he hates this. He hates the way they all call him and Sam Sammy-boy and Deano, like those names at all belong to them. Mostly he hates how easily he’s able to maneuver around them, smiling along with their bad jokes so they don’t turn mean. He hates how he turns into such a fucking hypocrite when he’s around them.

Dean leads the way into the house, Sam, Eileen, and the dog following him. At least it smells delicious. He catches the scent of fried chicken and something sweet that he hopes his pie. At least the Campbells always know how to eat right.

He follows the good smells to the kitchen, which is all warm oranges and reds – its covered in tiny chicken figurines, which must have been Deanna’s touch, because it’s not like Samuel’s much of an interior decorator.

Dean swiftly does the rounds of introductions: there’s Thomas’s wife, Rosie, Robert’s wife, Hannah, Christian’s wife, Arlene, Tyler has his arms around his wife, Darcy, and Gwen is sitting on the counter, peeling an apple with a carving knife as big as her face.

“Howdy boys.” She nods to Dean and Sam as they come in.

“Y’all better be hungry,” Rosie tells them. “We’ve got chicken, potatoes, fresh corn, the works!”

“Always hungry for your cooking, Rosie,” Dean says with a wink.

“Still a charmer,” she says, and Dean bends so she can peck him on the cheek. He doesn’t understand how all these sweet women ended up with such douchebags for husbands.

“We gotta pull out all the stops,” Tyler remarks. “Seeing as you two never show up for Thanksgiving.”

Sam shrugs and fumbles around the same, unconvincing excuse. “Sorry. Works always busy this time of year. It’s easier to stay local.”

Tyler snorts. “Fancy ass lawyer.” It could have passed as friendly ribbing if Dean had said it, but there’s an undertow of malice behind Tyler’s tone.

“And ain’t this one just sweet!” Darcy croons, kneeling to tempt the yorkie with the back of her hand.

“You boys find your granddaddy yet?” Hannah inquires from where she’s stirring something over the stove. “He’ll want to know you’ve arrived.”

“Not yet,” Sam replies.

“Well, you go on, then. Leave us girls to the work. Eileen, honey, you ever cream corn?”

“I’m sorry,” Eileen says. “I don’t cook.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you leave that growing boy to fend for himself?” Arlene gasps. Dean doesn’t know Arlene very well yet. She’s got a narrow frame despite the swell of her pregnant belly under her sweater.

“I don’t cook, either,” Sam says with a shrug. “We mostly eat out.”

Hannah, Rosie, Arlene, and Darcy almost in sync shake their heads and cluck their tongues. From the counter, Gwen catches Dean’s eye and makes a face. He grins at her.

“Well,” Hannah says, rummaging through a drawer to pull out a spare apron. “You just leave her with us, Sammy. We’ll teach her.”

Eileen casts Sam a slightly alarmed look when Hannah grabs her arm and pulls her toward the stove, and Sam looks apologetic. Dean chuckles and pushes his brother out of the room. He’d rather leave Eileen with the girls then any of the guys. And Dean’s glad to dump the dog with the ladies.

On their way through the dining room, they find Christian, who’s fussing with a cooler full of ice and beer. “They let you out of the nuthouse, huh, Deano?”

Dean freezes. Beside him, Sam also goes absolutely, deadly still.

“Good to see you, too, Chris,” Dean says carefully. Christian doesn’t know, he tells himself fiercely. Christian’s just being an asshole. It was impossible to expect the news of Dean’s arrest, subsequent stay at the hospital, and bipolar diagnosis stay with Samuel, but no one here knows about what happened in August.

“Y’all want some beers?” Christian digs out a couple bottles from the cooler. He tosses them across the room before Sam or Dean can answer. Dean catches his on instinct.

It’s the first time he’s even held alcohol since the beginning of August. He blames the chill of the bottle on the fact that a shiver runs down his spine. He feels Sam’s eyes on him. Dean slowly, deliberately puts the bottle on the table. He wipes the dampness off on his jeans.

“You seen Samuel?”

“In the sitting room with Caleb,” Christian replies.

Sam and Dean leave the dining room, head through the archway into the cluttered, musty sitting room. Samuel’s sitting in his favorite winged armchair. His feet are up on the coffee table. ESPN is on mute on the tv; it’s showing a poker tournament. Caleb is on the couch, beer dangling between his knees. They both look up when Sam and Dean enter the room.

“Hi boys,” Caleb says with a genuine smile. He gets up to shake their hands. “How’s work, Sam? That old rascal Singer still putting up with your ass, Dean?”

“Don’t know how he does it,” Dean says, relaxing by a margin and able to share a smile with Caleb.

Samuel, however, scowls at the mention of Bobby. He’s never liked the man. Probably because Sam and Dean spent more of their childhood with Bobby than with Samuel.

“You boys go to the cemetery this morning?” Samuel asks them. He gets to his feet and exchanges his own handshakes. Samuel is 81. He doesn’t look a day over 70, and he’s as limber as he was when he was in his 60s. He credits the clean country air. Dean thinks it’s just a good draw of genetics. Although his bald head doesn’t bode well for Dean and Sam’s own future hairlines.

“Yes, sir,” Dean says at once.

“Good,” Samuel replies with a brisk nod. “More’n your father’d do.”

“Dad came as often as he could,” Sam says sharply. And it’s a mark of how much the visit has already wound Sam up that he’s jumping so quickly to Dad’s defense.

Samuel squares his jaw and looks like he’s being forced to swallow something extremely bitter.

“You,” he barks suddenly to Dean. “Any more trouble with the law?”

“No, sir,” Dean replies again. His stomach clenches. Fuck, he feels like he’s walked into a police interrogation.

Samuel stares at him hard, “And no more trouble with your head?”

“Dean has a mental illness,” Sam says. He’s breathing through his nose. He’s way angrier than Dean’s seen him in a long time, but he’s clearly fighting hard to retain his composure. Dean kind of wants to rub it in his nose that it was him, after all, that talked Dean into coming this year. “It’s not just something that goes away –”

“Sammy,” Dean says. Phrases like mental illness aren’t going to mean anything to Samuel, not when the man’s knowledge of crazy people begins and ends with psycho killers like Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer. He touches Sam’s arm. Sam stops talking like he had to physically bite his tongue to do it. “I’m good,” Dean tells Samuel.

“Finally moved out of your little brother’s place, I heard?” Samuel asks, dark eyebrows dipped low over his eyes. His eyes are a grayer green then the ones Dean inherited from Mom.

“He finally kicked me out,” Dean says with a disparaging smile.

Sam makes a dissenting noise, but Caleb disrupts the awkward moment. “You got your own place? That’s great to hear, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Finally left the nest.” It’s second nature to talk himself down. He just wants them to not focus on Sammy, give his brother some time to cool off. “Sam needed to make room for the new girl he picked up. You’ll have to meet her – she’s in the kitchen with the other wives.” He hates himself. He fucking hates every fucking word coming out of his mouth.

“What happened to what’s her face?” Samuel isn’t one to be deterred. His critical gaze lands on Sam. “Amelia?”

“Amelia and I broke up over two years ago,” Sam says.

“Well,” Caleb says with false cheer. “Lead the way to your new lady friend, Sammy. I’d certainly like to meet her.” Caleb gestures for them to head back toward the kitchen.

“And I suppose you haven’t found anyone to settle with, yet?” Samuel is back to staring down Dean.

“Nah,” Dean says with an easy leer. “You know me. Ain’t found a girl yet who’ll chain me down.”

“That’s my boy,” Caleb says with false heartiness. Finally, Samuel breaks his hard gaze with a grunt, and the four of them travel back through the house so they can set Samuel on Eileen. Dean would pity the girl if he wasn’t so certain she could hold her own against the old man.

There are sixteen of them, and even though Samuel’s table is big enough for an army, the dining room is still uncomfortably cramped when they all settle down for dinner. The loudness of it, the business of it, reminds Dean of chow hall in prison, and the idea snaps into place so firmly, he can’t shake it. He tries to be unobtrusive about choosing a chair closest to one of the exits.

He furiously talks himself down from his unease, distracting himself with the abundance of food. It serves as a very suitable distraction: he wasn’t lying when he praised Rosie’s cooking. For a while, he, Sam, and Eileen are left out of the conversation as casual chatter, family ribbing, and common conversation overtake the meal. Dean’s glad for the chance to let down his guard a little.

“You voting this year, Deano, or are felons not allowed in Missouri?” Robert asks abruptly from across the table.

Dean swallows a piece of chicken wrong. Coughs and thumps his chest.

Sam comes to his rescue, voice clipped, “Felons are eligible to vote again as soon as their sentence ends.”

“Gonna help get Obama out of the oval office then, right, boy?”

“I didn’t realize anyone needed to say who they planned to vote for,” Eileen says, eyebrows creased in innocent inquiry, but Dean recognizes the note of danger in her voice.

Robert chuckles at her, and it ripples around the table. Christian rolls his eyes like Eileen is a child who said something vaguely amusing yet inappropriate. Caleb looks uncomfortable.

“Now, now,” Hannah chides her husband awkwardly. “No politics. No religion. You know what they say.”

“You a college girl, too?” Thomas asks. All attention is suddenly on Eileen, and Dean can tell she’s uncomfortable. He spots Sam’s shoulder move, and he knows his little brother’s just put his hand on his girlfriend’s knee.

“I went to Kenyon, yes,” Eileen says stiffly.

Robert snorts, “You liberal arts galls are all the same.”

Mark chuckles, “You major in gender studies?”

Tyler jumps into the fray after his brother, “Makes sense you’d go for someone like Sammy and his gay hair.”

“Holy shit, it’s just hair. It has nothing to do with liking dick,” Dean snaps, and the table goes silent. Sam’s eyes are wide. He’s staring at Dean, and his mouth is slightly slack. It’s probably the first time ever Dean’s defended his brother’s hair – and it still looks stupid as fuck but – shit. The back of Dean’s neck is hot. It feels like flames are licking up his spine toward his brain.

“Someone’s overcompensating,” Mark scoffs, breaking the silence. His brothers laugh with him.

“You drop the soap in prison, big guy?” Christian sneers.

“Can you leave him the fuck alone?” Gwen snaps at her brother.

Dean’s chair scrapes against the scuffed wood floor. He is on his feet. He is through the door and into the kitchen. He is banging through the screen door. Pounding down the porch steps. He fishes for his pack of cigarettes. His fingers are rubbery. He can barely get a grip on a stick. He fumbles with his lighter. His hands are shaking. He flicks the lighter. The flame doesn’t catch. Fuck. Flicks the lighter again. The flame jumps. Blue hot at the base. And –

His chest hurts. His brain is on fire.

He –

“Dean!” It’s Sammy, running down the porch stairs after him. Eileen is on his heels. She’s got Leslie tight in her arms. They’re both red-faced and breathing hard.

Dean closes his eyes. Rocks back on his heels. Bites his lip hard.

Get it together. Get it together, Winchester. He can’t lose it. He can’t fucking lose it, now –

“Sit down, Dean,” Sam orders him from far away. His hand is on Dean’s shoulder, but Dean can’t feel it. Is that his shoulder? Is this his body? Where is he? Where –

“Head between your knees – you gotta breathe, Dean.”

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” It’s Christian. He certainly doesn’t sound apologetic.

“You’re not helping,” Eileen tells him fiercely. “Please leave us alone.”

“It’s not my fault he’s fucking psycho!” Christian says angrily. “If he’s gonna freak out about a little joke –”

Hit him, Dean’s brain supplies. He steps forward. Sam gets there first: his fist lands hard and fast on Christian’s nose in a strong right hook that would leave John Winchester proud. Christian goes down, sprawls onto his back and blinks at the sky like he doesn’t even realize how he got there.

“How about you shut the fuck up?” Sam growls.

“Sam!” Eileen gasps.

For a moment there is perfect, disbelieving silence in Dean’s head. He cannot physically grasp what just happened. Christian stirs: shakes his head, levers himself onto his elbows, touches the back of his hand to his nose and realizes it’s bloody. Sam probably broke it.

“We’re leaving,” Sam says. He turns. He puts a hand against Dean’s back and leads him to the driveway. Dean lets himself be pulled.

He hears Sam and Eileen talk in low voices about who’s driving which car. Dean almost says that he’s fine. He can drive. But he opens his mouth, and he can’t speak. He’s shaking.

He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t understand what went wrong. It’s not like – Christian and Mark didn’t fucking out him, or something. It’s not like anyone at the table took it as anything more than just bad teasing. But something about what Christian said, something about the way he said it, made Dean totally shut down. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Eileen drives ahead of them in Sam’s car. Sam must have grabbed Dean’s keys from his jacket, because he’s behind the wheel of the impala, and they’re bumping across potholes in the road.

Dean realizes he’s still holding the unlit cigarette. He quietly takes his pack back out and stuffs the stick into an empty place.

“You okay?” Sam asks, like Dean finally moving of his own volition means he can be spoken to.

“Yeah,” Dean says slowly. “Yeah, I’m…yeah.”

Sam looks unconvinced. He’s gripping the steering wheel hard. His right fist is already purpling from hitting Christian.

Something bubbles up Dean’s chest. He only realizes it’s a laugh until it leaves his lips. Sam, if possible, looks even more alarmed for Dean’s well-being.

“You – you fucking laid him out, Sammy,” Dean says, breaking into a smile. He puts his hand over his mouth, trying to smother his laughter. He can’t stop. He feels a little unhinged; he definitely knows he’s coming across that way.

Eileen is pulled off at the side of the road ahead of them. Sam pulls to a stop behind her. Dean wonders if they’d planned this little rendezvous ahead of time so they could discuss what happened. Dean doesn’t see how they plan to do that; he’s still too busy laughing. He’s practically wheezing.

Sam pops the driver’s side door. Eileen bends into his space, checks to make sure Dean’s okay, and then she tells Sam, “Your family sucks.”

It only makes Dean laugh harder, until he’s brushing tears away with his thumbs. Eileen’s eyes shine. Her face turns red. Her lips tremble. And then she’s laughing, too, bent double, clutching at the impala’s door to keep herself upright.

Sam finally breaks into a smile, himself. He shakes out his hand; Christian’s got a hard head, must have hurt like a son of a bitch to crack him one.

“F-fucking see his face?” Dean gasps.

Eileen is clearly beyond talking, and she fumbles her way through signs: taps her forehead with her right pointer finger, then drops both hands in front of her, fingers splayed and palms flat toward the ground. Her face mimics the look of dumbfounded surprise Sam had left on Christian’s.

That’s what breaks Sam, too. All three of them are laughing until they’re gasping for air. Sam rests his forehead against the steering wheel, shoulders jostling. Dean’s ribs ache, he’s laughing so hard.

“You’re right,” Dean can finally pant. “They fucking suck so bad.”

Chapter Text

“Okay,” Mick says from across the desk, straightening out papers and looking way calmer than Dean is, right now. Dean’s trying to stay in control of his body, but he can’t quite stop his knee from jumping, and his heel hits the floor with a faint staccato. His palms are red and raw from digging his fingernails into them. “You’ve got your proposal for custody? Your time-sharing plan?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. His throat is dry. He coughs. It doesn’t help.

Sam’s out of his chair in a second flat, running to fill Dean a cup from the water cooler in the corner of Mick’s office. Dean takes the cup from his brother without a word. He’s too anxious to spend energy at being mad at Sam for babying him; anyway, it’s kind of nice to have the extra support.

“Remember, everyone in that room wants what’s best for your daughter,” Mick says, voice measured.

“Yeah,” Dean says again.

While October was spent filling out paperwork and waiting around for Lydia or the judge to respond, November proceeds swiftly into next steps. Like Mick guessed, the judge responded to Dean and Lydia with an order to attend a mediation session before pursuing litigation. Mick says that, in cases like Dean’s, this is largely a formality, so go in with measured expectations; Dean likely isn’t coming out of one mediation session with Lydia’s stipulation on a 50/50 custody proposal, and maybe not even visitation rights.

“You got any questions for me before we head over to Dr. Vallens’ office?”

“Will –” Dean clears his throat again. He crushes the flimsy paper cup into a ball in his fist. “Is she gonna be there, do you think?”

“Emma?” Mick guesses. His eyebrows dip in sympathy. His eyes are warm. “It’s a possibility, yes. It’s also possible that Ms. Penn left her with someone for the afternoon.”

Dean almost doesn’t ask it. He almost can’t. “Can – can I – if she’s there – can I meet her?”

Sam’s hand squeezes Dean’s shoulder a little; again, Dean doesn’t mind the extra bit of touchy-feelyness from his brother. He woke up feeling wrung out and ill, and they still have a two- to three-hour session to get through. Dean knows he’s going to need every ounce of moral support if he wants to get through the day without shaking apart.

“At this point, that decision rests with the mother,” Mick says kindly. “But I think it’s certainly worth asking once we get there.”

Dean’s only able to nod. They file out of Mick’s office together. Mick departs to get to his car parked in the private garage below the law office. Sam and Dean head together to the street to climb into the impala.

“You good to drive?” Sam asks.

“I’m fine,” Dean says tightly. He needs something to keep himself busy; he wants to calm himself down before he gets to the mediator’s office. Sam seems to sense that Dean can’t handle conversation, right now, so he just sits silently in the passenger seat as Dean plays Led Zeppelin at low volume and winds his way through the slush-filled city streets.

It was the first snow last night, leaving about three inches of icy mush in the morning. It’s just the start of a long, toiling Midwest winter. Dean has to figure out how to protect Baby through the worst of it. She won’t do great parked in the harsh weather on the street outside Dean’s apartment.

Dr. Vallens’ office is only ten minutes from Sam’s practice. Dean parallel parks with ease behind Mick’s flashy red sedan; funny, Dean wouldn’t have pegged the nerdy dude as a sport car guy.

They climb the salted porch stairs to the office door; it’s more of a refurbished house than an office building. There’s clean white siding and green trim around the doors and windows. There’s a welcome mat with flowers in front of the door that Dean uses to clean the slush off his shoes before stepping through the door.

“Hello.” A tiny man with glasses and a striped tie greets them from behind a reference desk. “Are you the two o’clock?”

“That’s us,” Mick answers, and Dean’s glad he’s off the hook, for now, as far as pleasantries. He’s pretty sure he’s going to puke if he opens his mouth.

“Mr. Davies or Ms. Bevell?”

“Any of us look like a Ms. Bevell to you?” Dean asks.

Sam glares daggers at Dean. Mick gives the receptionist an apologetic glance.

“Right." The guy brushes it off with a quick smile; Dean guesses he’s probably used to dealing with combative people. “If you’ll follow me…. Dr. Vallens likes to keep her clients in separate waiting rooms before meeting for conference,” he explains as he leads them to the left. He opens a small sitting room and waves them inside. “She’ll call you in a moment.”

“Thank you,” Mick and Sam both say. Dean falls into a chair. Great. More waiting. He fucking hates waiting. And now he doesn’t even have music to ease the terrible silence that descends after the receptionist shuts the door. Dean shuts his eyes and starts running through all the lyrics to “Ticket to the Moon” by ELO.

Dean gets to the second chorus before a door perpendicular to the one that leads to the entrance swings open, revealing a trim woman with dark skin, tight curls, and dressed in earth tones.

“Mr. Winchester?” She has a warm, calming voice.

“Yeah?” Dean says. He’s on his feet like he’s a fucking Jack-in-the-box.

The woman smiles kindly and extends her hand. “I try to be as informal, as possible, so, please, call me Mia.” Dean knows Dr. Mia Vallens is a family therapist turned child custody mediator. Mick has worked with her before with some of his clients; he says she’s kind and fair.

Dean grips her hand. “Dean – this – this is ah, my brother, Sam, and my lawyer, Mick – I mean, Sam’s also sort of my lawyer –”

“I’m just his brother, today,” Sam says easily, rescuing Dean from his incompetence. Mia shakes Sam’s and Mick’s hands before leading them all into the room behind her.

Dean’s first impression is that it’s white. The room is all cool tones, sharp angled furniture, and natural light coming in from large windows that face the street. Dean wonders what the color pallet is supposed to mean. He’s been in too many mental hospitals and therapist offices to not know that interior design is always intentional.

He was expecting a conference table; instead there are two white couches, facing each other, and four white chairs, all surrounding a low coffee table.

The receptionist is there, as well. Mia gestures to him as she walks, “This is my assistant, Brandy. Please, take your seats. I’ll go get Ms. Penn and her party.”

Dean's stomach bobbles like a beach ball in the ocean at her words. He flops onto the nearer of the two couches beside Sam. Mick takes one of the chairs.

Mia crosses the room to a door on the other side. She opens it to what looks like a waiting room identical to the one in which Brandy left Dean, Sam, and Mick.

Dean recognizes Lydia as soon as she walks through the door. Not from their one-night-stand – he was too drunk to recall anything more than long auburn hair, lots of warm skin, and piercing gray eyes – but from the meetings afterward when he surrendered custody. He also recognizes Toni Bevell, Lydia’s lawyer. She’s cold and sharp as an ice pick, and she’s dressed in a crisp suit that looks like it walked off the pavement of Savile Row.

But the older woman who comes in after them, Dean doesn’t recognize. He has the briefest impression of dyed platinum blonde hair and kitten heels before his breath catches, because the older woman is carrying a detachable infant car seat, and – and – that’s Emma.

Even though Dean can’t see beyond the baby blanket tossed over the hood, he knows that’s Emma. For the first time in nearly ten months, Dean’s in the same room as his daughter.

He must make some kind of noise, or maybe it’s just the stiffening of his body that alerts Sam, because his brother elbows Dean and raises his eyebrows to ask nonverbally if he’s okay. Dean clenches his teeth hard and nods.

“Alright,” Mia begins after she’s ushered the other party into their own seats. Lydia is avoiding Dean’s eyes, but the older woman is glaring openly. Toni Bevell looks frosty and aloof. “Now that we’re all here, let’s make sure we all know who we are. Lydia…?”

“I’m Lydia Penn. I’m Emma’s mother,” Lydia begins, sounding slightly irritated.

“I’m Charlene Penn,” the older woman says next. She’s put the carrier by the foot of the couch, within her reach. “I’m Lydia’s mother. Emma’s grandmother.”

“Toni Bevell, attorney to the respondent,” Toni introduces herself with a closed-lip smile.

Introductions run around the circle from Mick to Sam to Dean, ending with Mia and Brandy, who has a clipboard in his lap.

“So,” Mia begins, “the goal today is to have a conversation about custody and visitation rights of Lydia and Dean’s daughter, Emma, with the hope that you won’t have to move the case to litigation. I’m not here to make any decisions for you. I’m here to arbitrate calm and respectful discussion. The first thing I’d like to do is hear from both sides so we can get our stories into the open. Lydia, because Dean initiated this case, I’ll hear from him first, but you’ll have plenty of time to speak, as well. Dean? When you’re ready.”

There are seven pairs of eyes on Dean. It’s suddenly like there’s not enough air in the room. His default is to find somewhere small where he can hide, but in lieu of that, Dean fixes his eyes on a weird abstract painting of blue and gray blocks so he doesn’t accidentally meet anyone’s eyes.

“I, ah, don’t really know what you need to hear,” he starts. He licks his lips, but it’s a pretty pointless move because he’s got zero saliva in his mouth. “Last February, ah, Lydia’s lawyer called me requesting a paternity test. I didn’t even know Lydia was pregnant.”

Fuck. Shit. Mick fucking coached him on what to say, but it’s like all that advice has flown out of Dean’s brain, replaced by mindless static. It’s like every single test he ever took in high school: no matter how much he studied the night before, when it came to recalling information, he might as well bash his head against a brick wall.

“We’d hooked up – shit – sorry. Sorry. I mean, we met in May, 2010, but it – it was just a one night, thing. And I hadn’t heard from her at all…anyway. So T-Toni – Ms. Bevell – Toni – called and I did the test and it turned out that I was…and – and Lydia wanted full custody, and I wasn’t in a great – yeah. So, I signed what needed to be signed. But I’m doing better now and – and I’ve been making payments every month.

“It was never about not wanting her,” Dean blurts out. There’s a tingling in the back of his head. “I always wanted to be a part of her life. So, I thought it was…there was a six month waiting period, I think, before I could motion for a-a change, or whatever. So I did that. And – now we’re here.”

Dean can barely even remember what he said, and everyone’s still looking at him. And he refuses to look away from the stupid painting, because he knows they’ve stopped looking at him like he’s some kind of skeevy jerk who gets girls pregnant and abandons his child; now they’re looking at him like he’s some kind of pitiful moron.

“Thank you, Dean,” Mia says. “Lydia?”

Lydia launches into her own narrative. She’s a lot more collected and articulate than Dean was. She hardly stammers. She doesn’t swerve from her obviously rehearsed story about finding out she was pregnant and assuming it was her fiancés’. It wasn’t until her fiancé called off the wedding that she began to question paternity. She explains how relieved she was that Dean gave up custody, how she’d assumed that would be the end of it and she could begin rebuilding her life with her daughter, and now not understanding why Dean felt the need to reverse his previous decision, as it would only disturb Emma’s life.

“Okay,” Mia cuts in because Lydia’s eyes are flashing, and her voice had gained a heated edge. “Thank you, Lydia. As I understand it, Dean filed for a 50/50 custody split and visitation rights in the interim. But Lydia, you’ve opposed both those motions. Can you explain a little more of your rationale behind that decision?”

“I just don’t understand why he’s suddenly interested,” Lydia says. “It doesn’t make sense that he didn’t want anything to do with Emma, and suddenly he’s interested in being as much a part of her life as I am – which feels like it completely discounts the role I’ve had in her life. I’ve been her soul caretaker for 10 months. That’s not even counting my pregnancy. I lost a relationship because of her. I had to get a bigger apartment. A new car. I have to work longer hours so I can afford to send her to daycare. I’ve had to give up any hope of focusing on a new career or going to school or making a better life, so I can focus all my attention on her. And now what? He just wants to be involved in the fun parts of raising a child? That’s not fair.”

Lydia’s mother, Charlene, nods fervently through Lydia’s speech.

“Dean,” Mia prompts gently. “Lydia said how she didn’t understand why you changed your mind about being a part of Emma’s life. Can you perhaps provide more details about what made you change your mind?”

Everyone is looking at him again. Dean’s head hurts.

“I didn’t change my mind,” Dean says. And he sounds petulant in his own head, so he tries to tone it down. “I always wanted to be there – I-I just wasn’t in a good place to help raise a child. Sam – and Mick – they said – they didn’t think I’d do well in court. They – I didn’t have the money for the legal fees.” Sam shifts next to him by an iota, and Dean wonders if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. If Sam’s lawyer alert is pinging.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Lydia snaps. “That your lawyer didn’t think you’d win against me in court? If your own brother didn’t think you were fit to raise a fucking child, maybe you should listen to him!”

Dean recoils like she hit him. He blinks hard. Jesus Christ, he’s not going to cry.

“Lydia, please,” Mia hushes her gently. “I understand we all have strong emotions about this. But we’re here to discuss it calmly and rationally. Dean, can you tell Lydia why, if you agreed you weren’t in a position to fight for custody in the winter, you feel prepared to do so now?”

“Listen,” Dean says, a little desperately. His voice is hoarse. He’s not begging. He’s not. The buzz in the back of his head has transformed into a high-pitched screech. It makes his head ache. “I’m bipolar, okay?” This time both Sam and Mick shift in their seats, and Dean knows he made a mistake, because Mick already said that Dean didn’t have to disclose his mental illness until they went to litigation. “And – and I wasn’t doing great when I met you. And – but I’m better now. I see a psychiatrist. I take my meds. I’ve got a job and an apartment and I feel like I’m in a place where I could do what’s right for her –”

“What’s right for her?” It’s Charlene. Her eyes are burning. She looks utterly disgusted. “Now he’s telling us he’s mentally unstable enough that having a job and an apartment are an accomplishment? And he thinks he’s what’s right for my granddaughter? If you truly wanted to do what was right for Emma, you would terminate your rights entirely.”

“Charlene,” Mia says sternly, raising both hands as if to block either side from launching themselves across the room. Her hoop earrings glint in the brightness from the windows behind her.

But Charlene doesn’t need the warning because there’s a tiny mewl from within the carrier, and Charlene’s attention immediately fixates on her granddaughter, who’s evidently been disturbed by the raised voices.

Dean’s eyes glue themselves to the stirring blanket as Emma bats at it from within the carrier. His – his daughter – Christ, it’s his daughter.

Charlene snatches the blanket off the carrier and then scoops up the child within it like she’s done it thousands of times, pulls Emma up to her shoulder like her existence isn’t one of the most miraculous things Dean’s ever witnessed, tucks her head against her neck like she’s used to the feel of her soft hair against her skin.

“I think now might be a good time for a brief break,” Mia suggests. “We’ll meet back in ten minutes?”

Mia’s saying something about where they can find the bathrooms. Dean doesn’t hear her. He can only see the back of Emma’s head, but he sees that she’s got a full head of hair, a little lighter than her mom’s, but not quite blond like Dean’s was when he was a baby. One of her pudgy hands fists itself in her grandmother’s sleeve. She’s not quite crying, but she’s fussing in the way that proceeds tears.

“Hey, man,” Sam prompts him. “Wanna stretch your legs?”

“Can – can I see her?” Dean whispers.

He’s loud enough to draw Lydia’s attention. Her eyebrows drop. She frowns. “What?”

“I – just for a minute,” Dean says. It’s like someone else is using his lips. There’s a painful knot in his throat.

“You haven’t met her yet?” Mia inquires. She’s been good at keeping her expressions neutral, but Dean thinks he detects a glint of sympathy in her eyes.

Dean shakes his head.

“Lydia,” Mia turns to the woman. “It’s up to you.”

“Lydia,” Charlene hisses, sounding scandalized.

It’s almost like it was her mother’s reproach that was the trigger, because Lydia rolls her eyes, grabs Emma from her grandmother’s arms, and crosses the room to Dean. And she offers Emma to him.

“You know how to hold a baby?” She asks a little snidely when he doesn’t immediately move to take her.

“Yeah,” Dean says hastily. He lifts his arms, curls an arm under Emma’s bottom and puts his opposite hand against her back. She’s holding herself mostly erect in his arms. She’s still got the blueish gray eyes that all babies have, and there are a few drops of water on her eyelashes from her earlier tears. She’s dressed in pink: pink knitted sweater and pink pants with a pink bow around her head.

She’s so damn small.

“Hi,” Dean whispers.

For the tiniest moment Dean imagines what it could have been like. If he had known ahead of time. If he’d been there for Lydia at the hospital. If the nurse placed Emma carefully, reverently into his shaking hands. Congratulations, you’re a father.

He makes sure Emma’s snug in his arm before he moves his hand from her back and brushes his finger, feather-light, against her hair. It curls into fluffy ringlets around her ears.

She’s beautiful. So Goddamn beautiful.

Sam moves out of the corner of Dean’s eye. He approaches quietly, transfixed by Emma, smiling a little, even if his eyes are clouded with pain, and it occurs to Dean that Emma is Sam’s niece. His niece, and he’s just meeting her for the first time, too.

Emma’s perfect button nose crinkles. Her pink lips open, revealing a red tongue and a handful of tiny teeth, and Dean realizes she’s already teething. She’s already teething. She’s probably already crawling. God, has she already started talking?

The rest of her face crunches as she starts wailing again. Charlene tisks impatiently, like Dean did something to make Emma cry. And a wave of indignation floods him – because he knows kids, dammit. And she’s crying because she woke up in a strange place to a bunch of angry people and now she’s being held and gawked at by a total fucking stranger –

Dean’s stomach plummets.

She doesn’t know him.

“You’d, ah, better –” Dean manages to say, and he offers Emma back to Lydia. Lydia scoops her back up, puts her against her chest, rocks her, presses a kiss to the top of her head. Emma hiccups against her mother’s shoulder.

She doesn’t cry for him.

It’s another blow, and Dean tenses to stop a full-body flinch. She doesn’t know him. She doesn’t cry for him. She doesn’t reach for him when she’s scared. She doesn’t know that he’ll protect her because she’s never met him.

He doesn’t know when she started crawling or when she rolled over or when she popped her first tooth or what her favorite toy is or favorite food or whether she likes it when you sing to her or how to hold her.

Dean lets Sam bring him back into the waiting room. He goes through the motions. He downs a glass of water. He heads to the bathroom to toss a handful of cold water onto his face. He scrubs his face red with a towel.

Mediation continues. Lydia refuses to cooperate about a new parenting plan. Charlene accuses Dean of just wanted to get out of his child support payments. Sam retorts, using a lot of brainy lawyer talk, that Charlene doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.

Mia moves them toward talking about visitation rights. Lydia fumbles for a reason why she doesn’t want Dean to see Emma, but Charlene comes through again, ranting about how Dean’s a danger to her granddaughter. That he shouldn’t be left with her because he’s crazy and he could hurt her. That it’s not safe to leave a child alone with a crazy person who’s proven himself irresponsible and unreliable. Mick jumps in about how Lydia couldn’t possibly object to supervised visitations with a social worker. Lydia reluctantly agrees. Toni Bevell joins for the legal portion that involves ironing out paperwork.

Mia eventually dismisses them, voicing her regret that they weren’t able to negotiate more out of court, but she wishes them all the best in the future.

Dean drives Sam back to his office.

She doesn’t know him. She might never know him.

Sam hesitates before leaving the car. “You want company for dinner tonight?”

It’s after five o’clock. Dean’s head feels like it’s been cleaved from one ear to the other. He’s exhausted. He’s angry. He’s heartbroken. He hasn’t spoken a sentence longer than a single word for almost an hour.

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” Dean tries for a smile. He can’t meet his brother’s eyes.

“I know today was kind of a bummer, Dean,” Sam starts. “But this isn’t over. Not by a longshot. I’m not –” Sam’s voice cracks. “I’m not gonna let you lose her, okay?”

It’s Sam’s emotion, more than anything else, that makes Dean overflow. He closes his eyes tight. He tucks his head into his arms. He curls over the steering wheel. He breathes a long, shuddering breath, and he’s crying.

“She doesn’t know me,” he says. “She doesn’t cry for me. She – she doesn’t –”

“Hey,” Sam says, voice thick. Maybe his little brother is crying, too. They’re just two losers sobbing in a car on the side of a darkened street.

Dean hasn’t cried this hard in front of another person for a long time. He can’t remember ever crying like this in front of Sammy. It’s not like he’s even hysterical. He’s not gasping for breath or wailing. He’s just crying. He can’t stop fucking crying.

“Hey.” Sam’s arm crawls around Dean’s shoulders. He draws him toward his chest. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Dean. I swear – I swear it’s gonna be okay.”

“S-sorry,” Dean chokes.

“It’s okay,” Sam just keeps saying. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Sam holds him with both steady, gargantuan arms, and, for once, Dean lets himself be held.

Chapter Text

“You wanna be my handmaiden?” Charlie asks over her slice of pie on Sunday morning. She’s been complaining lately that she never gets to see Dean anymore because he’s so busy, so she brought him breakfast – which happens to mean a cherry pie she picked up from the bakery section of the grocery store.

“I’m sorry, is that some kind of sexual preposition?”

“Ew gross.” Charlie wrinkles her nose. “No. You should join my D&D campaign. You can be my handmaiden. I play a queen who’s been exiled from her home country by her evil court jester who overthrew the kingdom via bewitched circus animals. So now I wander the country mustering forces to take back the crown. I’m in need of a handmaiden. You could be my bard. You know those little guys who narrate via song? Can you warble?”

“Fucking what?”

“You know, serenade me about my heroic deeds and adventures.”

Dean nearly chokes on his chunk of crust. “I’m not joining your weird satanic nerd night. Especially if I have to sing.”

“I bet you have a nice voice,” Charlie wheedles.

“Go ahead and bet,” Dean snorts. “You’ll lose.” In truth, he doesn’t think he has a bad voice, but it’s not like he’s ever sung in front of anyone else before. Except maybe Sammy once or twice when they were kids, and Dean used to tool around on Bobby’s old guitar. Or while he was at Sonny’s and he tried to impress Sonny’s niece, Robin, by writing her love songs.

“Aw, come on! Cas is there. I talked him into it a few weeks ago. He’s a hot elf cleric who studies the sky. Very fancy astrology. I think he picked it up from Meg. You know she’s a witch?”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Dean says scornfully.

Charlie rolls her eyes, “No, like Wiccan, genius. Neopaganism? She’s friends with another one of the guys who plays, Max. He’s Wiccan, too.”

“Is this a head’s up that she’s gonna put a hex on me?” Dean asks.

Charlie tries to shove a forkful of cherry goo at his nose. He dodges her. She comes back up with her hair wild and frowning.

“She can’t because of the Wiccan Rede. Although I wouldn’t blame her if she did,” Charlie says. “She’s actually pretty nice. I don’t know why you don’t like her.”

“She doesn’t like me!” Dean protests. He voices his unease, “You’re not, like, interested in her, right?”

“What if I was?” Charlie says, narrowing her eyes. “Do I need your permission?”

Dean blushes. “’Course not. Just don’t think she’s right for you.”

“Hmm,” Charlie says, eyes still squinty. But she doesn’t answer his question about being interested in Meg, and Dean feels his heart sink. The last thing he needs is Meg creeping on his friends and turning them against him; Dean can already do that well enough on his own.

“Anyway, we’re playing this Tuesday at eight.” Charlie brings them back to the Dungeons and Dragons conversation.

“I can’t do Tuesdays, sorry,” Dean says, smiling in relief. “I’ve got that stupid parenting class thing.” Dean doesn’t actually think the parenting class is stupid. Actually, it’s kind of interesting, even if it does keep highlighting how sucky Dean’s childhood really was. They talked about how parenting can affect a child’s attachment styles last week, which was…enlightening. This mental health crap can actually be pretty insightful when it doesn’t feel like Dean’s digging through his chest with a dull spoon.

“Ah, damn,” Charlie says. “Well, I’ll find a way to sucker you into it yet, Winchester.”

Dean scrapes the rest of his pie off the plate and licks his fork clean. He’ll never say pie is an inappropriate breakfast choice. Besides, he’s actually kind of enjoying a quiet morning with Charlie. He’s been so busy with custody shit and job shit and getting his life in order shit that he hasn’t had a lot of time to just chill out. He hasn’t seen Cas since Halloween.

“Fine,” Dean groans. “I’ll stop by for, like, a half-hour after the class, okay?”

Charlie looks absolutely flabbergasted, but also thrilled. “You fucking kidding me? I didn’t even have to get down on my knees!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Just absolutely no singing.”

OOO

Dean pulls up outside Cesar’s about half past eight, and he immediately knows it’s a bad idea. He hasn’t been to a bar since August. He doesn’t even know if people in AA are supposed to go to bars. Or…well, he knows they’re allowed. It’s not like there are rules. But he doesn’t know if he, Dean Winchester, should be at a bar.

He finds it’s easiest to ignore alcohol if he removes all association of it from his life – an out of sight, out of mind kinda thing. But now it’s right under his nose. Because this feels like grabbing a drink with the guys after work. Or it feels like before: when he was horny and itching for something to take off the edge. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been to a bar before that hasn’t ended in a hookup.

Don’t be a fucking pussy, Dad tells him, and Dean’s not even going to try to identify the irony of Dad’s voice appearing in this situation.

Dean slaps his hands against the steering wheel and climbs out of the impala before he has any more time to think. He’s not watching where he’s going, so he nearly plows over a dumpy guy who’s smoking by the wall and chooses that moment to head for the door, same as Dean.

“Sorry, man,” Dean says, and he holds the door for the guy, who ducks passed him, knit cap pulled low to hide his face, muttering his own apology. Poor sucker. Dean remembers being that nervous to enter a gay bar, once upon a time.

The bar is quieter than it was the Saturday night Dean was there; there’s calm music playing and no dancing. Dean heads to the counter because he doesn’t exactly remember where Charlie said they were meeting, and he hopes the bartender will know. Dean remembers him from when they met months ago as Jesse, Cesar’s husband.

“What can I get you?” Jesse asks.

“I, ah, I’m looking for my friend Charlie?” Dean says. “She’s, ah, here with some people –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jesses interrupts him with a grin. “Turn right at the top of the stairs. You’ll see ‘em.” He peers at Dean carefully for a moment. “You’ve been here before, yeah?”

“Ah, yeah,” Dean shrugs. “While ago. Charlie introduced us briefly.”

“Right,” Jesse snaps his fingers. “Came in with Cas? He’s upstairs, too. Remind me of your name?”

“Dean.”

“Howdy, Dean,” Jesse replies with a warm handshake. “Can I get you a drink to bring up with you? Cesar made nachos for the table.”

Do it. It’s just one drink. Dean’s not an alcoholic. It’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be this big of a fucking deal.

“No – no thanks,” Dean says. It feels like pulling teeth, but Jesse doesn’t seem to think he’s strange, and merely lets Dean go with a cheerful wave.

Dean climbs the stairs, feeling jittery and stupid. So stupid. He doesn’t know why this is so Goddamn hard.

“Dean!” Charlie squeals excitedly when Dean enters the room upstairs. He didn’t notice it the first time he visited the bar, but the entire second floor is set up like a cozy study area or coffee shop. There are plush, ragged couches, stacks of boardgames on the floor, and tiny reading nooks. Charlie’s group is seated at a round table in the corner of the room.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas turns at Charlie’s announcement. “I didn’t realize you were coming.” Cas’s face is as indecipherable as ever, but Dean thinks his voice sounds pleased.

“Just a spectator,” Dean protests, hands raised to shoulder height.

“Pull up a chair,” a friendly-looking man tells Dean. He has tan skin, a goatee, and hair that’s shaved on the sides and builds into a swoop on top. The kind of hair that Dean’s always secretly thought was sick as shit but could never pull off. It looked too…obvious. Which wasn’t to say Dean hadn’t seen straight guys wear it that way; Dean was just afraid he’d be perceived as immediately queer if he grew out his carefully spiked coif any more than it already was.

Dean tugs a chair over to the table, sitting between but a little behind Charlie and Cas so he won’t interrupt the game but he can still see what they’re doing.

“This is Cesar.” Charlie points to the man with the cool hair. “And this is Max,” a thin black man, maybe mid-twenties, with a shaved head and very nice cheekbones – Dean’s uncomfortably aware that Dean would have been flirting shamelessly with the kid within the hour if he had given in and gotten alcohol. “And Alicia.” Charlie points to the last person at the table, a girl who looks very like Max, except her hair is smooth, dark waves that fall at her shoulders.

“Hi,” Alicia greets him with a pretty smile.

“Hell-lo,” says Max, running his eyes down Dean’s body with a hungry smirk.

“Ignore him,” Alicia says, punching Max in the arm. “He’s a disgusting flirt.”

“And she’s just disgusting,” Max says.

“Alicia and Max are siblings,” Cesar says, which explains a lot.

“Twins,” Alicia clarifies.

“I’m oldest,” Max adds.

D&D turns out to be a lot more complicated than Dean expected. There are a shit ton of rules that all of them seem to have memorized. And they also keep referencing lots of papers that, Charlie explained, are called character sheets, which guides them about which moves their characters can and cannot make.

Cesar is apparently something called the Dungeon Master, a name Dean snorts at, which Max returns with a raunchy wink, and Charlie orders, “Head out of the gutter, you two.”

Cas is the newest one to the game, and Charlie keeps pausing to explain things to him, looping Dean in, too. The others don’t seem to mind; they overall seem like a friendly, patient group, more interested in having fun than being competitive.

Like Jesse promised, there’s a large platter of nachos in the middle of the table, but Dean doesn’t want to interrupt the game by reaching across the table and getting in the way of their dice throws, or something, so he mostly eats off Cas’s plate.

“My character’s name is Ezekiel,” Cas explains to Dean after he leans forward to grab another chip. “See?” he points to the white paper, filled with complicated, text-filled boxes and numbers, “His race is elf, and his class is cleric, which means he can use magic to heal friends and hinder foes.”

“Zeke’s got a longbow?” Dean asks, scanning the page further down.

“Yes, and a small knife.”

“So, he’s kinda like Orlando Bloom in Lord of the Rings?”

“I don’t understand that reference,” Cas replies.

“Come on, man,” Dean protests. “How can you be into nerdy shit like this but not know Lord of the Ring?”

“Stop flirting with your boyfriend,” Max calls from across the table. “It’s your turn, Cas.”

“He’s, ah, he’s not…” Dean’s protest dies on his lips, because no one is actually paying attention to him. Cas was too flustered about leaving people waiting that he didn’t even seem to register the comment. And apparently some big fight thing is happening in the game, because everyone’s pretty invested.

It’s not like it’s the first time Dean’s been mistaken as Cas’s boyfriend. The other times, it created a current of panic and unease. But now, Dean feels a faint flush of something difficult to identify. It feels kinda…nice.

Dean chews on his lip. Dean settles back into his chair; he hadn’t realized how far he’d leaned forward while talking to Cas. He can’t think like that, he reminds himself. No relationships. Especially no relationships with men. And definitely no relationships with people who don’t like kids. That rules Cas out three times. Besides, they’re friends. They’re just friends.

The game wraps up after the big showdown between a band of goblin bandits and the ragtag group of players: a ranger, cleric, druid, and rogue, collectively what Charlie calls “the Hunters.” They leave the Hunters peacefully slumbering in their campsite, ready to face whatever adventure comes in a fortnight.

Cesar gets up to take the empty nachos tray downstairs to the kitchen, nodding his goodnights. Charlie stands and stretches her arms high overhead. Max and Alicia leave together.

“See you next time, bitches,” Charlie calls after them. She, Dean, and Cas leave together. They climb downstairs and cross the bar, shouting goodbyes to Jesse as they leave.

“You know that old guy?” Charlie bumps Dean’s shoulder and points to a man sitting in the corner of the bar. “He’s staring at you.”

Dean recognizes him as the man Dean crashed into at the front door. Now that he gets a better glance, he looks like he might be homeless. It’s probably a biased assumption, but the guy's got the ragged look of someone who lives rough: fingerless gloves, old hat, jacket with patches in the elbows.

“I don’t think so,” Dean says. The guy might have been looking at Dean before, but he’s pointedly looking away, now.

“Maybe he wants a piece of that ass,” Charlie muses.

“Sure,” Dean drawls.

“It is a nice ass,” Cas remarks.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean chokes, and Charlie starts laughing madly.

“I apologize,” Cas said measuredly. “I meant to engage in friendly teasing, not a flirtation.”

“We, ah,” Dean stammers, fighting madly to stop the rush of blood to his face. He claps Cas on the shoulder. “We’ll have to work on that, buddy.”

OOO

The motion for supervised visitation goes through without Lydia’s opposition, which means Dean’s driving across the county to Liberty on Sunday afternoon. Lydia lives in a duplex in a quiet suburb. Not quite white-picket-fence, but it’s a damn-sight closer than Dean’s living situation.

There are two cars in the driveway, one for Lydia, and Dean figures the other belongs to the social worker. Dean can’t tell if he’s more nervous to be spending two hours straight with his daughter or about being under the hawk-eye of another social worker; he’s never really had the best of luck when it comes to CPS.

Dean gets out of the impala and heads toward the door, plate of brownies in hand.

He rings the bell, and Lydia answers almost immediately. She’s dressed like she’s getting ready to leave: winter coat, purse, and boots. Dean’s only ever seen her when she was dressed in a tight dress for a night out, or in her prim business casual apparel at mediation; he’s never seen her look so casual, and it kind of takes him aback. Suddenly she looks a lot more like the tired, exasperated, overworked mother that she told Mia about.

“Um, hi,” Dean says. He pushes the plate toward her; they were fresh baked when he left, but they’ve cooled off on the way.

“What’s this?” Lydia asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Um, peace offering?” Dean tries. Truthfully, he attempted to work out some of his anxiety by stress baking, and he figured a tiny bribe couldn’t hurt.

“You know she can’t eat solid food yet, right?” Lydia asks.

“Yeah, no, of course,” Dean says. He’s not stupid. He remembers feeding Sammy mush until he was just under a year. “It’s for you. I don’t know if you like brownies.”

Lydia still looks unimpressed, but a chipper voice says from within the house, “Someone say brownies?” a blond woman with plump, red cheeks comes into the hall. She’s got Emma in her arms. “I don’t mind if I do.”

Lydia steps back with a long sigh, like letting Dean into her house is the last thing in the world she wants to do; it probably is.

“Howdy,” the blond woman says, “Donna Hanscum, your case worker.” She sticks out her free hand. Dean shakes it instinctively before he registers what she said.

“You, ah, don’t – you’re not what I expected,” Dean says.

“What, I’m too short for a stormtrooper?” Donna teases. “I don’t go in for the stick-up-the-ass approach. I’m here for this little pumpkin, and I figure I can do just as good a job being friendly as being a jackass.” Donna jiggles Emma in her arms and puts her nose in her face. “Can’t I, sweetheart? You wanna go to your daddy?”

Dean’s heart gives a weird jump at the word daddy, but he hides it well because Donna’s stepping forward to transfer Emma over to him. Dean takes her immediately, and she gurgles at him, flaps her lips and grabs for his nose. She seems happier today than she was at mediation.

Donna takes the brownies from Lydia and shoos her to the door. “We’re all set here. You take some time to yourself, okay?”

“Okay,” Lydia says slowly. She’s got a guarded expression on her face as she looks at Dean holding her daughter. “I’ll, ah – I’m just gonna run a few errands. Hit the grocery store and maybe the post office. Ah…thanks for watching her.”

“No problem,” Dean answers, feeling like a babysitter. Maybe that’s what Lydia has to tell herself to avoid thinking about him as Emma’s father.

“Call me if something comes up. Donna has my number.”

“Sure,” Dean says. Lydia pauses on her way out to brush a hand against the back of Emma’s head. She makes sure not to glance at Dean. Then she’s gone. And Dean’s alone – well, alone save for Donna – with his daughter for the first time.

Emma’s dressed in a tiny blue polka-dot sweater today. It hits Dean suddenly that all the clothes she owns were picked out by Lydia. He doesn’t know the policy as far as buying her stuff. Lydia’s been using his child support checks for essentials, sure, but Dean wouldn’t mind getting Emma a few toys, maybe. Something different to wear. She’d look cute in one of those baby leather jackets he’s seen in stores. He’ll have to ask Lydia what she’s already got.

“Feel free to bring her into the living room,” Donna breaks into Dean’s thoughts. “She’s got loads of toys in there.”

Emma’s getting a little squirmy, and she grunts in frustration. Dean remembers from Sammy that babies like to either be walked around or left to their own devices. Standing still is a no-no. Dean walks in the direction Donna points him to. Lydia’s living room is small: just a couch pushed against the wall with a TV, and nearly every inch of floor space is taken up by primary-colored toys. There are stuffed building blocks, plastic trucks, one of those tables with different sensory stuff: buttons and switches and spinny things. On second thought, Lydia seems to have toys covered.

“What about you?” Dean jogs Emma up and down in his arms. She squeals and peers up at him at the sound of his voice, eyes wide and beautiful. Her cheeks are pudgy and soft and adorable. Dean’s smiling and doesn’t even realize it. “What looks good, bug?”

“Uh!” Emma cries.

“Is she, ah,” Dean turns to Donna. “Is she talking yet?”

“Just her own little language,” Donna replies, making faces at Emma. Emma laughs.

Dean brings her the rest of the way into the room. He bends to put her in the middle of the carpet, figuring she’ll move to whatever looks interesting. He sits on the floor, as well, bad leg stretched in front of him and back against the couch.

He keeps one hand on her back, even though she’s sitting steady under her own power. She’s a strong little peanut. But he kind of wants to keep physical contact. She’s soft and warm under his palm. So tiny and delicate.

Emma flops over face forward so she can grab at a rattle shaped like an elephant. She snatches ahold, sits back up after rocking a couple times, and stuffs it into her mouth.

“That tasty?” Dean asks her quietly. It’s weirdly hushed in the house. He figures he should feel embarrassed about baby talking, but he barely even registers Donna.

“Speaking of tasty,” Donna says, “these are delicious.” She’s got half a brownie in her mouth and the rest in her hand. Dean grins at her; he’s beginning to like this Donna gall, even if she is a social worker. With both her and Eileen, Dean wonders if maybe he misjudged the career.

Donna sits on the couch. She’s got her eyes on Emma. Dean does, too. He can’t look away. She’s slobbering all over her toy and speaking happy gibberish. She rocks a little more and scoots her butt closer to the rest of her toys. Dean shifts so she can’t move too far away from him, aware that he’s hovering, but totally incapable of stopping himself.

“You in the city?” Donna asks.

Dean looks up. He straightens his shoulders, tries to look pulled-together and capable. “Yeah. I’ve got a place downtown –”

Donna smiles easily and laughs. “Don’t worry, Dean. I’m not checking up on you. I’m just here for Emma. You don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t want. I’ll just sit here and watch ‘er.”

Dean relaxes by an iota.

“Are, ah, you in the city, too?” he asks, not wanting to be rude.

“Sure am,” Donna replies. “My partner’s in the police department, so she’s got to live within city limits.”

Dean doesn’t react to the revelation that Donna’s with another woman, but he does relax a little more. At least there’s little chance, now, that she’ll turn out to be some kind of bigoted asshole, not that Dean was planning on divulging any of his sexual history.

Emma grabs their attention by squealing loudly and tossing her rattle halfway across the room. It hits a pile of blocks dead-center and sends them toppling. Emma burbles, very pleased with herself.

“You got yourself an arm, Em,” Dean says. He scoops her up. She keeps giggling, so he pulls her into his lap and tickles her neck. “You gonna pitch for the Royals someday, huh?” He bounces her on his legs. She likes that a lot, giving him a wet smile and another of her pleased giggles. His heart thuds hard against his ribs. He ducks toward her and kisses her cheek. She smells like he remembers Sammy used to smell: clean and powdery, a little sweet from whatever shampoo Lydia uses.

“You’re good with her,” Donna remarks. “You used to taking care of babies?”

“I took care of my brother when he was a kid,” Dean replies. He’s holding Emma’s hands, one in each of his own, and helping her balance on her feet. She’s definitely still too top heavy to attempt standing on her own, yet, but she’s got enough muscle dexterity to lift her feet like she wants to walk.

“He a lot younger than you are?”

“Nah, just four years.” Dean realizes he probably just inadvertently stepped into something, so he fumbles to explain, “My, ah, mom died when I was little, and my dad wasn’t around a lot –”

“That’s okay,” Donna says reassuring. “Both of you ended up alive, right?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean says uncertainly.

Donna shrugs, “I ain’t gonna judge. Seemed like you were a good big brother.”

It turns out Emma really, really likes it when Dean bounces her up and down on his legs, so Dean ignores Donna in favor of making her laugh like he’s the funniest thing since late night television.

It goes smoothly until about an hour and a half in, when Emma starts fussing. Dean tries bouncing her again, distracting her with various toys, rocking her, making faces, anything he can think of to make her not dissolve into full-out wailing. He’s hyperaware of Donna watching him. She offers to try, but she doesn’t seem judgmental, just helpful.

Finally, Emma starts chewing on her fist like she wants to eat the entire thing, and Dean remembers she’s still in the middle of teething, and he realizes he has no fucking clue what he’s supposed to do for that, because it’s not like John Winchester’s methods were super orthodox.

“Um,” Dean says. “Does she have anything else to chew on? I think her gums hurt.”

“Righto,” Donna says immediately. “Lydia mentioned there’s a teething ring in the fridge. Give her here, I’ll keep her safe while you get it.”

Dean isn’t allowed to be alone with Emma outside of Donna’s view, so he hands Donna the now screaming baby and jogs to the kitchen to retrieve the teething ring. Dean returns, toy in hand, and offers it to Emma hastily. It takes her a little while to calm down enough to try chewing on it, but as soon as she does, the coolness seems to soothe her.

Emma eases into whimpering instead of sobbing. It still tugs at the underside of his ribs, but at least it doesn’t sound like she’s in pain anymore. Donna hands her back to Dean, and Dean puts her on his shoulder and walks in gentle paces around the living room.

“My dad used to put whiskey on my brother’s gums. Stopped him crying right away.” Shit. “I mean – not that I would – I know you’re not supposed to do that.”

Donna laughs. “Don’t worry. You handled it just fine, Dean.” She adds, “I’m not so practiced with little ones.”

“Do you and your, ah, partner have kids?” Dean makes awkward conversation. He knows things like that are complicated. Gay marriage isn’t legal in Missouri, so neither is adoption. He doesn’t know what the other options are.

“Not exactly,” Donna replies. “She fosters four girls. Well, two, technically, because the older two are over eighteen. But they stuck around. They’re our girls, even if the state won’t recognize it.”

Lydia is back all too soon. Emma is visibly thrilled to see her mom again, and it makes Dean feel sick to his stomach, but he just kisses his daughter on the top of her head and hands her over. He promises Emma he’ll be back next week, even if she’s not going to remember him three minutes after he heads out the door.

He turns up the Rolling Stones loud on the way home. He doesn’t want to think.

Chapter Text

“The point of discovery is to gather information for our case,” Mick explains to Dean. Sam is in the office, too, furiously scribbling notes on a clipboard. “And Ms. Bevell will do the same thing for Ms. Penn. For you, we’re not building a case against Ms. Penn, because you’re perfectly happy to allow her to share custody, so during this stage we’ll primarily be watching out for what requests they make of you and how we can combat them.”

“Okay,” Dean says uneasily. “What kind of stuff will they ask for?”

Mick doesn’t look thrilled to say it, but he continues, “Unfortunately, because Ms. Penn doesn’t want you to share custody, she’s going to dig into everything. You’re going to have to be prepared to give access to mental health records, driving records, arrest records, you name it.”

“We won’t know for sure what she asks for until Bevell sends the requests,” Sam interrupts. He’s got his lawyer-voice on, which Dean’s always secretly hated because it’s the same voice, but deeper, that he used when he and Dean were still in school and Sam’d try to explain everything to Dean like Dean wasn’t four grades above him. “They can request five things: requests for admissions, requests for documents, subpoena duces teca, interrogatories, or depositions.”

Mick must spot the slightly crazed bafflement on Dean’s face, because he jumps back in, “A request for admission means they can ask for you to admit or deny a specific statement and then explain your answer. A request for documents means you need to provide any documents they ask for: text messages, proof of employment, etcetera. A subpoena duces tecum is a request to a third party – it means they can go over your head if you can’t provide or don’t have access to a certain document. An interrogatory is any question that can’t be answered with a strict yes or no. And a deposition involves sitting down with a court reporter, who will record your answers after you’re sworn in. It’s basically a testimony rehearsal, except they can use it against you if anything about your testimony changes at the hearing.”

“Basically, the discovery process turns the Hollywood trope of ‘surprise evidence’ into a myth,” Sam adds. “Because both sides know exactly what the other has asked for and a rough idea about how they will fight the case before the trial even begins.”

“What?” Dean says.

“Sorry,” Sam has grace enough to look abashed. “Not really relevant. Never mind.”

“Sam’s right in that the process will give us a stronger foundation,” Mick says. “We’ll be able to decipher what evidence Ms. Bevell will use against you based on what she asks for. What we need to do now is start brainstorming how to convince a judge you’re a fit parent despite what Ms. Bevell brings up.”

“I hate to say it, Dean,” Sam says. He’s popping his pen open and closed on his clipboard, a nervous tick that sets Dean’s teeth on edge. “But two of the biggest things Bevell will bring up is your criminal record and your mental health history.”

“The mental health history we can partially combat with a psych eval,” Mick advises. “If we get a psychiatrist to testify that you’re stable, it will help convince the judge.”

“Yeah, okay, I can – I can probably have someone do that,” Dean says. He feels the briefest flash of guilt, almost immediately obscured by nerves, because he hasn’t reached out to the trauma therapist Billie, yet, and that’s something Pam specifically wanted Dean to do to prepare for custody. He wonders if that will affect her decision to consult with Victor on the case.

“Ms. Penn wants to prove that you’re unfit,” Mick continues. “Sam’s right that she’ll dig into your criminal record. You’ve got a few things working against you. First, the drug and alcohol abuse, but we can fight that by your recovery program certifications. There’s also the aggravated assault charge – it may or may not help to lean too heavily on your diagnosis for that one, but because you were transferred to a mental hospital mid-way through your sentence, it will be difficult to ignore. What we can say is, you’re a reformed man with a steady job and zero charges since 2009. We’ll have to develop a convincing story for your history of prostitution, however, as any crime that’s constitutes sexual deviancy is going to be looked at especially hard –”

“What?” Dean says. He isn’t in Mick’s office. He’s somewhere else. Somewhere – he’s floaty and dissipated. He can’t gather his thoughts. Sammy is there – Sammy is right there.

“Dean –” Sam turns. His mouth is slack. He looks absolutely devested. Dean thinks he’s going to throw up.

“That’s supposed to be sealed,” Dean says distantly. “That – that shit’s juvie. That’s supposed to be sealed.”

Mick hasn’t grasped the enormity of what just happened. His eyes soften in pity, but his voice is still composed when he explains gently, “I’m sorry, Dean. But it was an outstanding charge in Tennessee. You’re well past the statute of limitations, so they can’t still arrest you, but the charge wasn’t expunged from your record.”

Dean’s not there. He’s not there. He can’t be there. This can’t be happening. This – Sammy wasn’t supposed to know. He was never supposed to find out. Dean remembers it. He remembers every fucking time, getting on his knees for those filthy fucking douchebags. He remembers the bruises and the sick, boiling shame in his belly, the terrible fear that Dad would somehow discover his disgraceful secret.

“How many times?” Sam sounds almost angry. His clipboard and pen are on the floor. He’s on his feet. Dean’s still in his chair, so it’s like his little brother is ten feet tall. It’s like Dean’s kneeling on the scummy bathroom linoleum, on the sharp, gravely pavement in an alley that bit through his worn jeans.

“Oh my God,” Mick says. He’s figured it out. He’s finally lost some of his careful, professional veneer as he babbles, “Because he was assisting with the case, I assumed he knew. Oh my God, Dean, I am so sorry –”

“How many fucking times, Dean?” Sam demands.

Dean wants to curl into a ball. Wants to clap his hands over his ears like he’s four and hiding in the corner of a hotel room, begging for Mommy to stop screaming, begging for Daddy to stop being so angry. Wants to shut his eyes. Wants to never face his brother again.

“Dean, cut it out!” Sam yells. He bends down, yanks Dean’s hands roughly away from his face. “Just fucking tell me!”

“D-don’t,” Dean says desperately. “God, Sammy, don’t be mad. Not about this. Please –”

Sam’s hands go limp from around Dean’s wrists. He sags to a crouch, hangs his head between his knees, swallows large, trembling lungful’s of air like he, too, is trying not to throw up. He slides his fingers into his hair, slots his hands together behind his neck.

Dean remembers Sam at ten, crying because he was hungry and Dad hadn’t been home for two weeks. He remembers Sam at twelve, angry and frustrated and unable to understand why he couldn’t just get the pair of dumb soccer cleats; they were only fifty bucks. Sam at fourteen when he needed money for the school trip to the amusement park.

“Did Dad know?” Sam finally asks. His voice is hollow. He’s staring at the blue and black speckled office carpet. Dean doesn’t know where Mick went, but he’s not behind his desk, anymore, and he closed the door firmly behind him.

“I dunno,” Dean answers. By the very virtue that Dean is alive and breathing today, he doesn’t think so. But sometimes, on the rare occasion he lets himself think about those nights, he wonders if Dad never wondered where his teenage son, too young and too pretty to sneak his way into bars for poker or pool games, managed to get all the extra money. And in those rare, dark moments, Dean wonders if Dad didn’t guess, but if he let Dean do it anyway, if Dad thought this, too, was part of Dean’s job of taking care of Sammy.

Sam breathes a heavy sigh. He hauls himself back into his chair, hands dangling between his legs. He finally looks up to meet Dean’s eye, but Dean’s not going to let that happen. He can’t bear his brother’s eyes on him, right now.

“Is that why you hurt yourself?” Sam asks, voice hushed, still with that hollow, echoing ring to it, like he’s just learned the most devastating news he could imagine. Like somebody died. Maybe somebody has. Maybe Sam’s last crumb of uncorrupted childhood has just been pulverized. Or maybe Dean’s dead. Maybe Dean’s finally done the unforgiveable.

“No,” Dean says. It’s the truth. Sure, he’d hurt himself afterward, usually. But he started cutting when he was twelve. He didn’t start hooking until he was sixteen. After Sonny’s. After he figured out stealing wouldn’t work anymore because it was too easy to get caught. Store owners were on the lookout for good-for-nothing teenage kids.

“Is, uh.” Sam rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Is that why you deal with, ah, you know. The hypersexuality, stuff? I know sexual trauma can –”

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Dean snaps. Sam flinches, but Dean can’t stop. He scoffs, “Sexual trauma? What the fuck do you think prostitution means? I literally – son of a bitch, Sam – I literally asked them to do it. I went out knowing what was going to happen. They fucking paid me for it.”

“You were a kid!” Sam exclaims. “You were legally incapable of consent, Dean!”

“Fuck that!” Dean yells. Legally incapable of consent runs around and around in his head until he’s dizzy with it. That’s not true. There is no way that’s true. Dean knew what he was doing every step of the Goddamn road. He knew what he was agreeing to, and he still did it. “Don’t try to turn this into something it’s not. You heard what Mick said – it’s a crime, okay. A crime that I committed. Not the other way around.”

Sam doesn’t raise his voice to match Dean’s. Instead, his voice drops further. “Is that – is that who Alastair was? One of those – those guys. Did he – did anyone ever hurt you?”

“Who the fuck is Alastair?” Dean says. His mind draws a blank. He doesn’t know where Sam pulled the name from. Dean certainly never knew any of the johns’ names. Some of them were a little rough, maybe, but none of them hurt him. At least not in the way Sam means.

“You were – when you were in the hospital,” Sam stutters. “You kept freaking out and talking about some guy named Alastair. I just assumed he was an ex, or something. But, Dean, please tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the fucking truth!” Dean explodes. There’s a small wine of panic, like a mosquito buzz, in the back of his head. He is telling the truth. Why the hell doesn’t Sam believe him? Why the hell does the name Alastair sound familiar? Dean doesn’t know any fucking Alastairs.

“Can you just –” Sam says desperately. “Calm down? I’m sorry – I’m – I’m not mad, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t know. I – I should have known.”

It’s the pleading note in Sam’s voice, the guilt that spreads across his face as sure as it did when he was six and trying to lie to Dean about accidently losing Dean’s baseball mitt, that finally brings Dean back to himself.

“I didn’t want you to know,” Dean says, still dodging eye contact.

“Fuck,” Sam says unhappily.

It’s about all that can be said. It’s not like they can go back in time. Dean can’t change his choices. He can’t erase the fact that there wasn’t anything else he could do. He can’t change Dad. He can’t make Dad more present for their childhoods. He can’t give Dad a steady job. Sam can’t make this one better; it’s just something he’s going to have to swallow. Dean learned how to do that a long time ago. And now Dean’s going to have to come to terms with the fact that Sam knows. That, no matter how much he might object, this singular fact will change how Sam views him. It’s impossible not to. Sam will either view Dean now as a victim or as a whore. Dean’s not sure which one’s worse.

“I think we’re gonna have to reschedule with Mick,” Dean says, making a weak effort at levity. He gets out of his chair. He’s done here. He doesn’t want to have to deal with anymore turbulent emotional fallout from his little brother. This is something Sam’s going to have to deal with on his own, because Dean doesn’t think he can go through that. Pam would be proud; she’s always going on about the importance of boundaries.

Sam doesn’t even crack a smile. “Do you want to – we could go to my office to, ah –”

“No.” Dean tries for firm, but he must land on sharp, because Sam flinches again. He tries to soften his tone. “I can’t, Sammy. I’m sorry, but I can’t, right now.”

And surprisingly, after Sam sucks in another breath like he wants to vacuum every bit of oxygen in Mick’s office, he nods and says in a small, hurt voice, “Okay. That’s okay, Dean.”

“I think I’m gonna –” Dean grabs his stuff. His wallet. His phone. His notebook he’s been using to keep track of all the custody shit, like a spiral bound Rosetta Stone for legalese. Dean doesn’t know how his brother ever got through three years of this shit on top of undergrad. “I’m just gonna head home. Call it an early night.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sam asks, peering carefully at Dean’s face. Dean does the trick where you look at the bridge of someone’s nose instead of their eyes so it looks like he’s making eye contact.

“I’m fine,” Dean says.

Sam nods. He doesn’t seem able to say anything else. A fierce wave of guilt crests in Dean’s chest. He can’t just leave his little brother like this. Not when he’s hurt and confused and angry. But Dean can’t – the idea of sitting through more of what he just had to confront makes him erupt into a cold sweat. He can’t do that. Not now. Maybe not ever. Sam’s just going to have to learn to suck it up. Grin and bear it.

Dean leaves the office and finds Mick pacing in the hallway. He looks absolutely miserable, which, when it comes to Mick – who is a tiny, nerdy dude – it’s like looking at a sick, abandoned puppy.

“Dean,” he starts, sounding breathless. “I cannot tell you how absolutely sorry I am –”

“It’s fine,” Dean cuts him off. And it’s like he just kicked the puppy. Because he knows Mick is genuinely sorry, even if he didn’t do anything wrong, because Dean agreed to let Sam be part of his legal team, which meant Sam had access to Dean’s records. It was just dumn luck that Sam hadn’t seen that part of them, yet. “It’s really fine, Mick.”

Mick tries to recover himself. “I’ll call you about rescheduling. Obviously – obviously we don’t need to continue now. I – I’m so –”

Dean thinks he might crack if Mick says I’m sorry again. Splinter right down the center. Scream and hit the wall. Or maybe Mick. “It’s fine,” he says again. “It’s fine.”

OOO

Dean goes to a bar.

The funny thing is, he’s not even manic. He feels completely in control of his faculties as he downs two shots of whiskey and sips at his first beer. And then orders another two shots. And maybe a couple more. It is level-headed, deliberate self-destruction; Dean’s just along for the ride.

He supposes he should be used to losing his dignity in front of his little brother by now, but, instead, it stings in a resonant and deeply personal way every time.

It’s a weekday night, so it’s quiet in the bar – some seedy place downtown that Dean used to come to when he was living with Sam. It’s far enough from the crowd that he won’t bump into anyone he knows. The bartender isn’t the kind who asks questions; he just pours the liquor and takes Dean’s money.

There’s an old guy across the counter that looks vaguely familiar, but Dean’s soon drunk enough to not care. Son of a bitch probably just has the kind of face that always looks like someone else.

It’s been four months since Dean’s had liquor, so it hits him hard. Soon enough, the bar is comfortably fuzzy. Pleasure stirs deep in his chest. He doesn’t have to think about anything. Doesn’t have to think about sucking cock behind gas stations, truck stops, and bars. Doesn’t have to think about how there’s no way he’s going to win this custody battle. That Emma is probably better off without her screwup father, anyway.

“Hi, baby,” a voice purrs into his ear. “You looking for a good time?” The girl is pretty. She’s got wavy brown hair, shiny and smooth in the low light. Hoop earrings the size of bracelets frame her cheeks. She’s wearing a purple, low-cut shirt that shows off a nice rack, and a short, tight skirt with fishnet stockings.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs.

“My name’s Shaylene,” she says. She puts a hand on his arm. Her palm is warm through his sleeve. She looks kind and soft. Dean aches to have her against him. It’d be nice to be held. To be lost inside another human being. It’s been a long time since Dean’s felt that. “You can call me Shay, if you want. What’s your name?”

“Dean,” Dean says with a slow, lazy smile. It’s nice to be approached for once, instead of the other way around. “You come here often?”

Shay smiles large and bright. “Often enough. What about you? Or is tonight a special occasion?” her hand moves up to his shoulder. Her eyes are deep brown and captivating.

“You just made it a helluva lot more special,” Dean replies. Her laugh is golden; Dean wants to make her do it again. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“How ‘bout we get out of here, instead?” Shay says. Her face is close enough he can feel her warm breath on his face. He can see the cherry glossiness of her lips, and he wonders what it’d look like smudged all over his face.

“I’m not arguing,” Dean replies.

“I got a nice, snug motel room right across the street,” Shay says. She slips her hand into his, tugs at his arm a little so he follows her. “All private like. You and me can do whatever we want.”

Her voice is just as intoxicating as the booze, and Dean lets her bring him wherever she wants to. The shock of the late November air clears his head a little. Shay’s hand is small and tight around his wrist as they cross the road. Something’s niggling at the back of his head, like he’s forgotten something important, someone he’s supposed to call or something he was supposed to do.

But then they reach the outside door of Shay’s room in the one-story motel across the road from the bar, and Shay puts her lips against his. Her lips are supple. Her lipstick is waxy and vaguely sweet.

“You like that?” Shay whispers into his mouth, like she’s an advertisement. The uneasy feeling grows, prickling up and down his spine. “That’s just a little preview of what kind of things this mouth can do.”

She gets the door behind her open and brings him into the room. It’s low light. There’s a lamp on in the bathroom, but nowhere else, and Shay doesn’t move to turn on another light. It’s a single, and the one bed is neat and inviting, top quilt already pulled down like Shay was expecting this.

She blocks his view of the room when she walks into him, pinning his back against the door so the latch shuts with a click. She’s surprisingly strong despite her slight size. She knows what she’s doing, and Dean lets her. It feels so damn good to let someone else take over. He’s always loved this part: the getting lost. The erasure of everything else. No more thinking.

She tucks one leg between his leg as she kisses him fiercely. She lifts her knee so it bumps his groin, and the teasing pressure immediately makes him hard. She kisses him deftly, sucks his tongue into her mouth and toys with the end with her own tongue. He feels a tiny bump of metal and realizes she has a tongue piercing. It sends his brain into overdrive, overwhelmed by the possibilities that little development lends itself to.

“You ever done this before, baby?” Shay pulls away enough to whisper, but not enough that he has to chase the warmth of her lithe body against his own. She feels so damn good. Dean just wants to keep her close.

“I, um –”

“It’s okay, baby,” Shay soothes him. She kisses him again. “I’m $100 if you want me to suck you.” She puts her hand against his crotch, against the bump of tented fabric there, and Dean can barely stop himself from rutting against her palm. “$200 for a fuck. $500 for all night.”

He doesn’t know how she manages to make it sound so sexy. When he was a kid, he always fumbled awkwardly around the business side of it. It always came out sounding tawdry and stilted, but Shay makes it sound delectable. The most natural thing in the world.

“I, ah,” Dean says. “I used to charge $25.”

If Shay’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she laughs lightly. “Inflation. You know how it is. A girl’s gotta eat.”

Gotta eat. Sammy’s gotta eat. And $25 gave him at least five days’ worth of food: canned soup and boxed mac and cheese and McDonalds and frozen vegetables because a kid Sam’s age needed vitamins and minerals. Sam came home with one of those poster food pyramids when he was about eight-years-old, stuck it to the fridge with magnets.

“Are you hungry?” Dean asks.

Shay laughs again, but she sounds a little bemused, like maybe she’s worried he’s drunker than she thought. “Just hungry for you, baby. So, what’s on the menu?”

Dean fumbles for his wallet in his pocket. He doesn’t know when his hands started shaking, but his fingers tremble so hard he can barely unfold the wallet so he can count his bills. He’s always carried cash around with him. Dad had a thing about distrusting credit cards.

“Um,” Dean says, and he fishes for the right bills. “Fuck.” He lets his head fall against the door with a faint thunk.

Shay finally seems to realize something’s wrong, because she takes a step back, but she leaves one hand on his chest. “Hey,” she says soothingly. “No need to be nervous, sweetheart. You wanna sit on the bed? Want me to make you comfortable?”

She must be used to easing people’s consciouses, talking guys down from panic and guilt. Dean remembers that. He remembers warily traversing the thin line between calming a guy down or getting punched in the teeth.

She leads him to the bed. He sits on the edge. She sits beside him, not crowding, but still near enough to touch him. She puts a hand on his leg. She grabs his hand with her other and crosses their arms, so his palm is against her thigh, just below the hem of her skirt. He can feel the crisscrossed pattern of her stockings.

The tremble in his hands has traveled up his entire body.

“Hey, hey,” she says gently. She turns her head so she can kiss him under the jaw. “Just relax, baby. You don’t need to worry. I’ll take care of you.”

Her soft voice, her lips on his face, her finger inching up his leg don’t help. His heart clogs his throat, pulsing there like some animal in the midst of its death throws. The buzz of alcohol makes him feel bewildered and afraid. He isn’t supposed to be here.

“M not –” he tries. “I don’t – I don’t think I can do this.”

“You don’t hav’ta do anything,” Shay persuades him. “Just let me take over.”

“Wait,” Dean says, panic jumping sharp and bright in his brain. “Wait.” He’s up and off the bed, backing into the wall by the bathroom. Shay gets up, as well: the predatory, sultry look on her face is gone, replaced by caution. She backs up slowly, hands raised, watching his every move. She’s approaching the night table by the bed. It’s the room she rented for her night’s work, and Dean knows she probably stowed pepper spray or maybe a small gun in the top drawer in case someone got violent.

And Dean imagines what this might look like from her point of view: a perspective client getting a little too jumpy. Suddenly threatening.

“It – it’s not you,” he attempts to reassure her. “It’s – I’m not gonna do anything.”

Shay’s face doesn’t lose any of its guarded cautiousness, but she stops reaching backward for the table.

“Are you gay?” she asks tentatively.

Dean snorts. That’s a topic of conversation for another day. “That’s not it. I – I think I’m drunk.”

“You think?” Shay scoffs.

Dean laughs weakly, but it punches out of his mouth and turns into a stifled gasp. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on his ass, knees pulled to his chest. Shit. Motherfucking shit.

“So, you just wanna…what?” Shay asks carefully, watching him on the ground. He’s taking up her time and money. And he’s intruding on her turf. It’s not like she can go out and find another client if he’s here wallowing on her floor. “You still gonna give this a whirl? I gotta say that I want my money now, though.”

“I – you don’t have to do anything,” Dean says. “But if you need money –”

“I’m not your hard luck case,” Shay says indignantly. “I’m tryna pay my way through college, not to stay out of the poor house, or whatever. This ain’t Charles Dickens.”

“Oh,” Dean says.

Fuck. What the fuck was he thinking? What the fuck is he doing here? He tries to pick himself up, but his head spins. He feels sick and dizzy. His chest hurts.

“Uhg,” Shay says. She’s lost her previous seductive tone entirely. Now she just sounds fed up. Pissed off at Dean for messing up her business. “So, what? You want a fucking drink or something? Or are you gonna get out?”

“M not supposed to drink,” Dean says mournfully. He puts his hands over his head, rests his face against his knees. He wants to cry. He always screws everything up.

“Oh,” Shay says in an entirely different voice. Dean peaks from under his arm and he sees she’s on the edge of the bed again. She got one foot in her lap, shoe off, massaging her soul with her thumbs. “My mom’s an alcoholic. She’s clean now, though. Probably lose her shit if she saw what I get up to. But I could call your sponsor, or something, if you need someone to pick you up.”

Four months. He lasted four measly months without a drink. How the hell is he supposed to do this for the rest of his life? How the hell is he supposed to do this for Emma?

“Oh my God,” Shay says. “Please don’t – fuck. Please don’t cry.”

Dean can’t really help it. The least he can do is curl into a tight ball against the wall so she can’t see his face.

Shay grunts in exasperation. She comes over to him, and he twitches because he wasn’t expecting another body so close to him.

“Whoa,” she eases him. “Just getting your phone, big guy. You got a Sam here in your emergency contacts. Can I call him?”

“No,” Dean moans. “D-don’t. Oh God.” The idea of Sam finding him right now is unbearable. The idea of disappointing his little brother yet again, when Sam has done nothing but support him, makes Dean want to stop breathing.

“Fine,” Shay snaps. “Who the fuck am I supposed to call?”

“Th-there’s a Benny,” Dean says. He blinks his tears away well enough so he can see his phone screen and thumb in his access code. His fingers shake so hard he has to plug it in twice. “He – I know him from AA.”

“Okay,” Shay says. She stands up, phone pressed to her cheek. She opens the drawer in the night table and pulls out a tiny makeup bag. She reapplies her lipstick without looking at a mirror while she listens to the phone ring.

Dean suddenly remembers how late it is. He doesn’t know how long he was at the bar before Shay picked him up. It’s probably well after midnight. Benny’s probably home alone with Lizzy while Andrea works her nightshift at the hospital. The realization that he’s a disgusting burden on everyone he’s ever met sends another wave of tears.

He barely hears as Benny picks up; Shay has him on speaker so her hands are free to put on mascara.

“Howdy, brother, everything okay?”

“Hi,” Shay says. “Is this Benny?”

“Sure is,” Benny keeps his voice friendly, but he sounds a little concerned to hear a strange woman speaking out of his friend’s phone. “Who’s this?”

“Um, Shay,” Shay answers awkwardly. “Listen, you know a Dean?”

“He okay?”

“He’s, um, pretty drunk. And he’s on my floor. I kinda need the room, so he said you could come get him...?”

“What’s your address?” Benny says immediately.

Shay tells him, and Benny says he’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Shay hangs up and slides Dean his phone again. Dean doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to talk. He’d kind of like to sleep, so he lets himself fall sideways and curls into the fetal position.

“You’re not gonna pass out on me or anything, are you?” Shay asks, wrinkling her nose at the prospect at having to drag his drunk ass to the hospital if he came down with alcohol poisoning.

“Not that drunk,” Dean slurs.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Shay snorts. She steps over him so she can go into the bathroom and freshen up her hair. She’s evidently planning on going back out as soon as Benny gets rid of Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Dean tells her.

He hears the hiss of hair spray before Shay responds. “Not like I’ve never had a bad night.” She nudges his back softly with her toe. “Just one working girl helping another, right?”

Dean forgot he told her he used to hook.

She steps back over him and sits down on the bed so she can put her four-inch heeled boots back on. Dean’s glad he never really had to dress up for the part. Pair of low-slung jeans and a tight tank top, and he was golden.

“You still do it?” Shay asks conversationally. She’s a lot more talkative now that she knows for certain he’s not a threat. Besides, she’s getting rid of him, soon; she probably just wants to pass the time.

“Nah,” Dean says. “Just when I was a kid.”

Shay clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “That sucks. Least I’m twenty-four. It’s just a job for me, you know? Like, yeah, sometimes it sucks. Sometimes I wish I could do something else. But that’d be the same if I was working at the corner bank.”

There’s a knock on the door. Shay gets up and crosses the room. She peers through the peephole.

“Your friend a bear? Beard? Kinda looks like a pirate?”

“That’s Benny,” Dean says, still curled up on the floor.

Shay opens the door. Benny nods to her, but goes immediately to Dean. He crouches. “Heya, chief. Rough night?”

“Fucked up,” Dean tells him sadly. He doesn’t want to look at Benny’s kind eyes, where the corners are crinkled in concern that Dean doesn’t deserve, so he stares at Benny’s shoes, instead. They’re the work boots he always wears to the garage: steel toe and caked with mud.

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Benny says. He takes ahold of one of Dean’s arms and hauls it over his shoulder. Pulls Dean to his feet, and the world wobbles wildly, like a globe toppled off its axis. Australia must be bobbling in the water. “Let’s get off the nice lady’s floor, okay?”

Shay laughs.

Benny stands with Dean hanging off his shoulder, barely able to get his feet under him. Goddamn, this booze is hitting him hard. Benny fixes Shay with a firm glance.

“He hurt you?”

“Nah,” she says. “He’s a big softy.”

“He, ah,” Benny adds uncomfortably. “He owe you anything?”

Shay shakes her head. “Never got around to doing anything.”

Benny nods at her and drags Dean toward the door.

“Good luck, baby,” Shaylene calls after him sweetly, but Dean doesn’t fool himself into thinking she’s anything but glad to see the back of his head.

Benny brings Dean over to his waiting station wagon. Dean’s stomach pitches, and he barely has breath enough to push away from Benny and totter a few paces until he’s bending over and puking in the hotel parking lot. He’d topple headfirst into the puddle if Benny didn’t catch him around the chest.

“Easy does it, chief.”

“M, sorry.”

“You done?”

“Think so.”

Benny straightens Dean out again and brings him to the passenger seat. He helps him into the cab and stops to stare seriously at his face for a minute.

“You know how much you had?”

“Don’ ‘member,” Dean murmurs. His eyelids droop. Benny’s calloused, thick hand is suddenly on his face. One thumb finds Dean’s eyelid and he pries it open, stares at Dean’s pupils. He’s frowning.

“You take anything else, chief?”

“Jus’ booze,” Dean says. “Drugs make me crazy.”

“Yeah?” Benny replies. “You ain’t doing too hot on the liquor either, brother.”

Benny leaves him to climb behind the wheel.

“M a piece of shit,” Dean says.

“You’re just human, Dean. It’s a universal affliction,” Benny says heavily. “How ‘bout you crash out on my couch tonight, okay?”

Dean doesn’t reply. He’s too busy feeling sick and tired and disgusted with himself. Benny drives them in silence.

Dean’s a little steadier on his feet when they get to Benny’s house; he just needs Benny’s hand on his elbow to keep him walking in the right direction. Benny helps him out of his jacket when he walks through the door. Dean tumbles headfirst onto the couch. Benny removes Dean’s shoes like Dean’s a toddler. He tosses a blanket over Dean’s shoulders. He disappears for a second before returning with a glass of water and a couple bottles of pills.

“What kinda pain relievers can you have on top of your meds?”

Dean hadn’t realized Benny knew that Dean took meds. He’s too exhausted and muddled to puzzle it all out, now.

“Tylen’l,” Dean mumbles.

“You’re in luck,” Benny says, rattling one of the bottles. He pops the cap and leaves a couple capsules by the glass of water where Dean will see them when he wakes up. “Take it easy, chief,” Benny says finally, straightening out with his hands on his knees. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Dean doesn’t even see Benny turn out the light before he’s asleep.

Chapter Text

Dean blinks himself back to consciousness, and he immediately wishes he’d stayed asleep. The first thing he registers is the sickening, unrelenting pain in his head. The second thing he registers is a pair of big blue eyes attached to a tiny face, peering at him with a serious frown that strongly resembles her father’s.

“Pappa said you sick,” Lizzy says into Dean’s face. “You cun-tage-us? My momma works at the hospital. She can make you better.”

“Hey, squeaker,” Dean rasps. He squints into the too brightness of Benny’s living room. He fumbles for the glass of water on the coffee table.

Lizzy shuffles out of the way of his reaching arm, watching in wide-eyed fascination as he picks up the two pills Benny left and downs them with a gulp of water. It scratches his throat going down and lands heavy in his uneasy stomach.

“That medicine?” she inquires. She’s wearing purple footie pajamas with a unicorn horn attached to the hood. She’s really damn cute. The sight sends a crescendo of despair through Dean’s chest. Dean’s never going to see his daughter like this. He’s never going to be able to read her a bedtime story. Never going to be able to make chocolate chip pancakes for her in the morning.

“Mmmh,” Dean says, swallowing back his nausea. He really doesn’t want to throw up in front of the kid.

“Medicine icky,” Lizzy says. “Momma don’t make me take it unless I’m real sick. Are you real sick?”

“I’m okay, squeaker.”

“Lizzy-girl,” Benny says from the hallway, “Let’s give Dean some breathing room, okay? You think you can head downstairs and watch your show?”

“Sofia is on!” Lizzy says, smiling wide. “She’s got a purple dress just like my jammies.”

“That’s awesome,” Dean replies. God, it hurts to even look at her. Dean’s never going to get this. It’s never going to work. He was stupid to even try.

Lizzy’s gone and Dean’s hands are over his face. Benny’s perched on the end of the coffee table.

“How’s the head, chief?”

Dean pulls in a hard breath. “God, I’m sorry, Benny. Fuck.” He rubs his eyes. There’s something sharp and painful in his throat. “Fuck.”

“Hey, brother. I said it last night. Ain’t nothing to be sorry about.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You sleep it off, and you try again. Unless you see another option.”

Yeah, Dean can see a couple other options. But he doesn’t want to tell Benny that there’s always the possibility of hanging himself from the rafters. Doesn’t wanna make the guy worry. And there’s always the option of just giving up. Drink himself silly until he can’t remember his daughter’s face or name. Forget about her in some notell-motel while he goes on another bender.

Dean peals his fingers away from his face. “I, ah, I think I might be an alcoholic,” he says with an anemic laugh.

“First thing you gotta do is face it,” Benny says seriously. “That’s day one.”

“I always fuck it up,” Dean says helplessly. “Why the hell even try?”

“I’ve been fighting this thing for eleven years, chief,” Benny replies. “Probably longer. I’ve lost count of how many day ones. Last time I fell off the wagon was four years ago. Right after Andrea told me she was pregnant. I left her alone and terrified in our apartment, worked my way through a couple bottles of Beam. Lenore found me, sobered me up, and dumped my ass back with Andrea. I thank Christ every day she had grace enough to take me. God knows that’s not how I’m built.”

“How’d you, ah.” Dean clenches his jaw and swallows. “How’d you decide your kid was better off with you than without you?”

Benny whistles, shaking his head. “You sure ain’t afraid to ask the hard questions.” Dean ekes out a smile. “Truth is, I’ll never know if Lizzy’d be better off with a father who’s never drank more than a glass of wine with the Sunday roast. Hell, I don’t know if Andrea’d be better off with a different guy – she certainly had her pick. All I know is any kid is better off with someone who loves them enough to become a better person. And I know that’s how I love my Lizzy. She thinks I’m a Goddamn superhero. So I’ll become a superhero, even if it’s damn hard work.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies faintly.

“You just gotta make the choice,” Benny says. “You make the choice today. You make the choice tomorrow. Maybe you can’t make the choice a week from now. But you pick yourself up and you make the choice again in a week and one day. And two weeks. And a month. Every day you make that choice for her. She deserves a daddy who’ll fight to have her, no matter how hard the fight.”

OOO

“Dean Winchester?”

“Ah, yeah?” Dean’s out of his waiting room chair so quickly he almost sends his issue of Sports Illustrated spinning across the carpet.

Dr. Billie Mortem glances at him neutrally, and says, “Please follow me.”

Dean does what she says without a word. One, she’s got a demeanor that indicates she won’t be easily crossed. And, two, Dean’s going to puke if he tries to speak.

Dr. Mortem doesn’t look like any therapist Dean’s ever worked with before, but he’s always gone for the unconventional. Pam favors hippie harem pants, colorful tank tops, and strings of beaded necklaces. Billie, on the other hand, looks cool. She’s in all black: t-shirt, jeans, boots, and leather jacket. Her hair is cut in a bob of tight curls that perfectly frames her high cheekbones. She’s the kind of woman that Dean would flirt with only if he was adequately drunk, because she could demolish him with one raised eyebrow.

Her office is all dark tones and earthy textures. She waves to a plush leather chair, and Dean falls into it like she’d used magic on him. She grabs a clipboard from her desk and sits across from him on a matching chair.

“So,” Dr. Mortem begins. She offers a small smile. It isn’t what Dean’s used to with Pam’s cheeky grins, but it softens her face a little and makes Dean feel slightly more comfortable. “I’m used to people being a little nervous when they meet me. Apparently, I’ve got a little bit of an RBF.”

“Just a little,” Dean jokes weakly. He immediately worries he stepped out of line, but Dr. Mortem smiles again.

“So, let’s start by getting acquainted, okay? First, feel free to call me Billie. I’m a doctor in clinical psychology, and I’ve been working in the field for about nine years now. I focus on trauma focused cognitive behavioral therapy. I know you were referred here by Dr. Barnes, so I’m guessing you don’t have much experience with trauma focused therapy, but correct me if I’m wrong.”

“No, I’ve never, ah, done that,” Dean says.

Billie doesn’t look bothered by this information. “Pam has sent me a number of patients. We’ve had a lot of success together, so I hope you’ll be willing to give it a shot with me, even if it’s new.”

This seems like something Dean’s supposed to agree to, so he says, “Okay.”

“I’ll start us out by a brief explanation of what I do,” Billie tells him before beginning. “PTSD occurs because our brains are not equipped to process a traumatic incident while it actually occurs – either because it’s too busy running from a threat, fighting for its survival, too surprised to take it in, or a plethora of other functions. So, our minds are – days, weeks, years afterward – still trying to process this moment. Our brains do this by running through that traumatic moment over and over again, trying to move forward, but being blocked by the fact that it doesn’t want to face all those scary emotions again. So that results in flashbacks, nightmares, mood swings, and all the other symptoms that come along with post-traumatic stress.

“That’s where I come in. There are two types of trauma-focused CBT. There’s cognitive processing therapy, which focuses on deciphering your emotional and mental responses to trauma and deliberately breaking them down so that you’re better able to understand and nullify them. The second is called prolonged exposure. The theory behind PE is that exposing yourself to aspects of your trauma, in a safely contained atmosphere, will help you face those memories and gradually wear down the negative emotions connected to them. I work primarily with PE, but I also incorporate aspects of CPT, because I think it can be helpful to break down emotions into their components so that you can gain a better idea of the thought behind that emotion, instead of letting yourself become entirely overtaken by it.

“Any questions?” Billie pauses. “I know it’s a lot of information all at once.”

“What does that mean, ‘prolonged exposure’?” Dean asks nervously, assaulted by the vivid and terrifying image of being strapped to a chair, Clockwork Orange-style, and forced to rewatch every terrible thing that’s ever happened to him on a supersized projector.

“There are three aspects to PE. I’ll teach you how to respond to upsetting memories with breathing exercises –”

“I already do that with Pam,” Dean interrupts her.

“That’s good.” Billie seems unbothered by the disturbance. “You’ll be able to apply some of that knowledge to what we work on here. We’ll also work on something called imaginal re-experiencing, which is just a fancy way of saying I’ll ask you to tell me about an upsetting experience, and I’ll help you move by it, piece by piece, until it isn’t upsetting anymore. It typically takes several repetitions. The third aspect is called in vivo –”

“In life?” Dean interrupts her again and curses himself for not being able to bite his tongue.

She arches an eyebrow. “Do you know Latin?”

“I got a dorky little brother,” he mutters.

Billie adds, “Yes, ‘in life,’ which means we’ll identify situations that trigger PTSD responses in your life and brainstorm ways you can face them safely to wear down any association with negative memories.”

The idea of what Billie is describing – the constant and torturous reliving of traumatic events – sounds just as atrocious and debilitating as Dean’s Clockwork Orange nightmare.

“Can we do the other one instead?” Dean asks. “The, ah, the cognitive thing.”

Billie’s face softens. “I understand PE can sound terrifying at first. I would like to work our way up to it. But we can certainly focus on CPT while we’re getting to know each other. I don’t expect you to suddenly be comfortable spilling all your darkest memories a week after you’ve just met me.”

Billie continues, “A trauma focused course usually runs for ten to twelve sessions, but that’s not supposed to be a set timeline. It all depends on how receptive a client is to therapy, how quickly they and I build a rapport, whether they’ve experienced multiple traumas in their life – it can take less than ten weeks or much longer than that before you move passed a trauma.”

“How do you know that?” Dean asks. “Like how do you know someone’s moved passed it?”

“You can usually tell someone’s moved beyond a trauma when they can talk about it without any strong emotions. If they can tell you the story as if it’s just another memory, then that means their brain has healthily processed the event.”

“Oh,” Dean says. He can already talk about stuff without strong emotions – like the fire or the accident. He doesn’t feel a thing when he talks about that shit. Maybe that means he’s not really traumatized? Pam’s probably wrong; he doesn’t have PTSD. He doesn’t actually need to be here.

But Billie apparently possesses the uncanny ability to read minds held by many shrinks, and she addresses him with a raised eyebrow, and continues:

“Of course, zero strong emotions isn’t the same thing as completely numb. Sometimes a person’s brain can shut down – what’s called disassociation – entirely when faced by a trauma. It means their brain has distanced itself so thoroughly that it refuses to face the event at all. That requires retraining the brain into feeling and accepting the emotions connected to the trauma. Sometimes disassociation can run so deeply a person will forget a trauma entirely.”

“That can happen? You can just forget something that big?” Dean asks. He doesn’t know why the thought fills him with so much dread. The idea that his brain could block out something terrible that’s happened to him – that some huge block of his life could be entirely hidden from his view – is terrifying and violating.

“Yes,” Billie replies. “It’s called dissociative amnesia. It’s a strategy the brain uses to protect itself, actually, when something occurs that is too large and too horrifying to cope with. The brain chooses, instead, to just not remember. But the memories are still stored in the unconscious – as long as there isn’t any brain damage – which means those memories are still accessible and can still cause involuntary physical and emotional responses. Dissociative amnesia isn’t typically permanent. Memories can return completely through therapy or sometimes unexpectedly if they’re triggered by something.”

“Is that, ah, common?” Dean asks. His throat is scratchy. He’s bobbing his foot rapidly. He feels weird: kind of like his skin’s been all stretched out, like there’s too much of him to fill. “People forgetting shit?”

“It’s relatively uncommon,” Billie replies calmly. “But certainly not unheard of. I’ve seen it several times.”

Do you think I have that? Dean wants to ask. Because he can’t remember chunks of what happened in prison. He can’t remember periods of being in the hospital. And apparently he’s been having flashbacks about a guy named Alastair, and Dean can’t remember why that name is so important. But he swallows the concern because Billie’s talking again,

“So, let’s hear about you.”

Dean takes a couple minutes to talk about his life. He explains about working at Bobby’s, moving out of Sam’s apartment, needing a psych eval for the custody battle, about the deposition that’s happening a week before Christmas, about how Pam wanted him to see Billie because it was supposed to help, or something.

“I know Pam frequently works with former inmates. Are you previously incarcerated?”

“Um, yeah.” Dean rushes to explain, “I got, ah, I got two years. Served 85 percent. My, ah, my brother’s a lawyer and he got ‘em to transfer me to a hospital half-way through.”

Dean knows he’s one of the lucky ones. Because he had a kid brother in law school. And he had a job lined up after he got out. And he found a landlord willing to rent to a felon.

“Was there an inciting incident for being sent to the hospital?” Billie asks.

Dean digs his fingernails into his palms. “Yeah – I – yeah. I got into a fight with another guy. They sent us both to seg – um, segregation.” Dean knows he’s rambling, but he can’t stop. The entire episode is covered in a pale haze. He shivved Boris under the ribs with a sharpened toothbrush when the other guy cornered him in the showers. The only reason he didn’t get worse than seg was because it was self-defense.

“But, um, I’ve got this thing about tight spaces and – I wasn’t really taking my meds even though they were giving me brake fluid. I’d cheek ‘em or pass ‘em off to someone else. So, I was already not really – I was paranoid and freaking out –”

“Is there anything particular about small spaces that upsets you?” Billie interrupts him. “An association from childhood, maybe?”

Fuck. Dean doesn’t know. They just wig him out. He remembers the moments before being medevacked from the car, crushed on all sides, feeling like he was being suffocated, like the impala would become his coffin and Dad his gravedigger.

“Dean?”

“No,” Dean says. “No. It’s just a delusion. One of my delusions. It’s about being buried alive, or something.”

“Okay,” Billie says. “So, what happened after that?”

“I, ah,” don’t remember. They told me I tried to hang myself. But I don’t know how. I remember waking up two months later in a hospital. My larynx was still all messed up from being crushed. “I went catatonic,” Dean says. “I was out of it for two months.”

“Is that the only time you’ve been catatonic?” Billie asks, like she’s asking interview questions for a magazine article.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “They gave me a course of ECT.”

“Have you ever considered ECT as a treatment for bipolar? It’s been proven to be an effective –”

“No,” Dean cuts her off. The chill of terror down his spine is enough to make his entire body stiffen. He’s positive Billie notices.

She gives him a careful look and nods slowly. “That’s understandable. It’s not unusual for people with acute mental illness to experience medical trauma. Unfortunately, the system doesn’t always accommodate everyone’s needs. Many medical personnel lack training on how to deal with patients experiencing an altered state of reality. It can create a lot of needless tension.”

Maybe it’s supposed to be an opening for Dean to talk about his own experiences with medical trauma, or whatever. But Dean’s not going to sit here and talk to a stranger about being tied down to a bed. About being drugged out of his mind, kept so docile he can barely open his eyes. About wearing those stupid, tissue paper-thin gowns while people poked and prodded his body. The indignity of it. The vulnerability. The total lack of self and choice.

Billie evidently senses hostility in his silence because she rapidly changes subjects.

“If you’re alright to continue, I’d like to talk about some common reactions to trauma so I can get a better idea about the things you deal with.”

“Fine,” Dean huffs. He knows he’s deteriorating rapidly into the sullen and obstinate stance he adopts when he’s fed up and exhausted and sick of being told what’s best for his own mind and body. But then he remembers that he fucking decided to be here. Benny told him that he has to choose. He has to choose every Goddamn day to do what’s best for Emma. Even if Dean doesn’t give a shit about getting better, he wants his daughter to have a dad who’s not as unstable as John Winchester.

“Yeah, okay,” he corrects himself.

Billie gives him an impressed head tilt, and then she runs down the list of common symptoms, asking Dean to respond with yes or no.

“Flashbacks?”

“Um, yeah, I guess. Not a lot, though.”

“Unexplainable mood swings?”

“I’m fucking bipolar. Of course, I have mood swings.”

“Nightmares?”

“I guess.”

“Hyperarousal.”

“I don’t think that means what I, ah, think it means.”

Billie rolls his eyes a little; clearly, she isn’t as receptive to Dean’s brand of humor as Pam is.

“It means you feel like you’re constantly on edge. For instance, I noticed you’re very aware of your exit points, and you scanned the room and myself when you came in like you were assessing possible threats. That kind of body language is pretty common in veterans. It’s like they can’t remove themselves from a combat situation.”

“I thought that was just, you know,” Dean says uncertainly, “being aware of your surroundings. That’s how my dad trained me.” But now that he thinks of it, he doesn’t notice Sam still eyeing everyone up for possible hidden weapons, even though he was given the same spiel about unspeakable, invisible evils.

“What do you mean trained you?” Billie asks, eyebrows lowered.

“He was a marine in Vietnam,” Dean explains awkwardly, knowing how strange it sounds. There is no way he can make his unconventional childhood sound normal, especially not to a shrink. “He kind of raised us like we were part military.”

“Did this include disciplinary measures?”

“It was the ‘80s, for Christ sake,” Dean bristles, immediately catching on to her implication. “Every parent used disciplinary measures.”

Dad didn’t hurt them; that’s what Dean told the judge when he was nine-years-old. Sammy’s broken arm was from jumping off the roof. The bruises on Dean’s ribs were from crashing his bike on the way to the hospital. He jammed the front wheel into the lip of the sidewalk and his chest rammed into the handlebars.

Besides, Dean deserved it. It was stupid and mean to goad Sammy into thinking he could fly, even with a towel tied around his neck like a superhero cape. Every kid got a good wallop from their old man every now and then.

“That’s not actually the case,” Billie says delicately. “It’s true that some parents use corporal punishment, but there’s a definite difference between that and a beating.”

Dean puts his hands against his temples, spreads his fingers through his hair. “Is this important?” he tries not to snap.

“When it comes down to it, most things are important,” Billie replies.

“Yeah, but I’m not, like, traumatized because of my dad. I don’t have nightmares or flashbacks or whatever about him hitting me. This ain’t Good Will Hunting, okay?”

“You wanna talk to me about what you do have nightmares or flashbacks or whatever about?” Billie challenges him. “It’ll be helpful to narrow our focus to a specific trauma, maybe one that feels the most pressing to you, right now. It’s what we call the ‘index trauma.’”

“Like…the worst thing that’s ever happened to me?” Dean says uncertainly.

Billie shrugs, “Not necessarily. It can be difficult to quantify something like that. Just pick a memory that you frequently struggle with. We’ll work on identifying more about it in the coming sessions.”

“Okay, um,” but he comes up blank. He thinks about the most recent issue – the big screw up with getting drunk and almost spending the night with a hooker. He’s not totally incapable of connecting the dots; he knows he spiraled because of the conversation earlier with Sam about Dean’s own experience turning tricks. But – it’s – yeah, it’s a screwed-up experience. But he doesn’t feel like it – it’s not what Sam thinks it is. It’s not rape, or whatever. And it’s not that he can’t talk about it, he just doesn’t.

So, he tries to find something else they can talk about. He knows he has nightmares almost every night, but they’re disturbing, indecipherable images, sensations, and voices that he forgets almost as soon as it’s morning, so there’s nothing concrete to dissect. And his flashbacks usually involve the accident or – or other stuff involving unforgiving hands on his body and faces he can’t –

“Um,” he says again stupidly.

“Alright,” Billie takes pity on him. “How about we just start at the beginning. We’ve still got a little bit of time, so you just start telling me about your life. You don’t need to give me too much detail. Just start talking, and if you reach a sticking point, we’ll pause and consider it as a possible traumatic incident.”

Dean’s stomach twists at the fact that they have a little bit of time. It feels like this conversation has already been an hour long. He’s already exhausted, and they haven’t even started talking about anything serious, yet.

“Ok.” Dean starts where it always starts. It’s the moment when everything changed. The catalyst to Dean’s life as it is now. Had that night not occurred, had it happened different, become altered in the smallest of ways, Dean’s life would have been completely different. He likes to think it would have been better.

“My mom died in a house fire when I was four. It was, ah, faulty electrical wiring.” Dean takes a deep breath. No matter how many times he’s had to retell it, it never gets easier to talk shit about Dad. It’s like airing out the family’s dirty laundry. Ain’t nobody’s business but theirs.

“My dad was sick. I – I think he came back screwed up from Vietnam, but losing Mom made it a lot worse. He became obsessed and paranoid. He was convinced that something killed Mom. Not someone. Something. He thought it was some kind of demon, and he wanted to protect me and Sammy from it, so we went cross-country. Started running place to place. One second Dad’d be trying to outrun the thing, the next he’d say we were the ones chasing it, trying to destroy it for what it did to Mom.”

“He never sought professional help or a diagnosis?”

“No,” Dean answers. “Sometimes – when he wasn’t drinking, he wasn’t that bad. But a lot of times he was pretty messed up. So, I – I mean, Sam needed someone in his corner. So I took care of it.”

“And you were four at the time of your mother’s death, you said?” Billie clarifies.

“Yeah – but when I was nine or ten, we ended up moving in with a friend of my dad’s while Dad went to rehab.” The incident with Samuel and his scummy lawyer Crowley managed to shock Dad into compliance for about a year. Dean still remembers the strange domesticity of it all, undercut by the horrible inevitability of the fact that it couldn’t last. “We got an apartment. It was fine. And – I don’t know what happened, but it suddenly wasn’t fine, and we went on the road again.”

“So, you’re ten or eleven at this point?” Billie asks. “What was your mental health like at this point?”

Dean snorts. Looking back on it now, he knows he was probably depressed. At the time he thought he was just lazy. Exhausted from having to take care of his seven-year-old brother, certainly too tired to be interested in friends or sports or school, which made his grades drop when he entered middle school. He started cutting soon after. It started as self-punishment, motivation not to mess up Dad’s orders, to do better in school, to not get noticed by teachers or hotel managers or social workers.

“It was like that for a while,” Dean continues. “Dad kept getting bad. He wasn’t bringing in a lot of money, so we moved around a lot. He’d get angry for no reason. He –” Dean stops to collect himself.

“Is that when he started to hit you?” Billie guesses.

Dean shrugs, “It’s when it got worse. I started anticipating when he’d be home, tried to keep Sammy out of the house as much as possible. Dropped him off at the library or a friend’s house. I knew how to talk Dad down. Or – or if I couldn’t –” Or if Dean couldn’t talk him down, then he knew how to get in his way. Knew how to make Dad get it out of his system. Work out his anger on Dean before Sam got home.

“You wanted to protect your brother,” Billie says gently.

“Well, yeah,” Dean says. Duh. It was his job. And Sammy needed protection. Always was too smart for his own good.

“But you don’t think you deserved the same protection?” Billie asks.

Dean flinches. “I – I didn’t need protection. I wasn’t a kid. I was taking care of it.”

Billie just nods. “You want to keep going?”

Dean doesn’t, but it’s not like he’s going to tell her that; she’ll just assume something’s wrong.

“I started getting more messed up, too. In high school. Started messing with the law. You know, regular kid stuff. Drinking and smoking weed. Screwing girls. And, ah, guys. ‘Cause I’m – cause I’m bisexual, I guess. I kinda hoped –”

“What did you hope?”

“I kinda hoped when I was eighteen, after graduating high school, I could get a job. Maybe go to trade school or get a two-year. I kinda hoped I could get Sam away from Dad. We coulda’ had our own place. I mean, obviously that didn’t work out. I was too stupid to finish school. I didn’t even get my GED until I was twenty.”

“Any particular reason you didn’t finish school? Was it just grades, or…?” Billie lets it hang. Like she knows. Like she already knows about his social studies teacher, with all her sweet lies and promises, and kind words about how successful Dean could be if he just let her help him. She didn’t want anything in return. Nothing. Nothing except Dean’s love and trust and –

Dean closes his eyes. He wants to lie to Billie, tell her there was nothing. He doesn’t want to tell her how devastating it was to leave that winter break, to drop her without a word because Dad lost another job and they packed up for another town. He doesn’t want to tell Billie about how he gradually realized everything about her was fake – her charming smile, just for him, the flattery, the idea that Dean could be special, could be successful in any way. It was only ever about the sex.

“I, ah, I guess I ended up screwing around with one of my teachers. She – she was helping me with college stuff. But then we left that school, and I just never picked it back up. Didn’t seem like there was a point.”

“Screwing around, like…?”

“It means what it sounds like,” Dean says flatly.

“How old were you at this time? Underage?”

Dean remembers what Sam said, about how Dean wasn’t legally able to give consent when he was sixteen. Sweat beads on the back of his neck.

“I – sort a’? It fell apart over winter break. I was eighteen at the end of January. So I was – I mean, I was old enough to know what I was doing.”

“Okay,” Billie says seriously. He hates that knowing look in her eye. He wants to scream at her. He wants to yell in her face that it wasn’t rape. It wasn’t rape because Dean loved it. And he loved his social studies teacher, Angela, a little bit too. It’s not like she was some kind of sexual predator. She didn’t pull up outside his house in an ice cream truck. She didn’t bad touch him in a church basement. She didn’t fucking groom him.

“So, I tried to get work,” Dean forces him to continue when Billie doesn’t ask him anything else. He feels like she’s testing him. He doesn’t think he’s doing great. “But it was hard without a degree, so I’d take whatever job I could under the table. Making money was basically my responsibility. Dad wasn’t really home a lot. And I had to make sure Sam had clothes and food and shit so the government wouldn’t get suspicious.”

“You didn’t reach out to any other family – you mentioned the friend of your father’s – for help?”

Dean stifles a flash of irritation. He was trying his Goddamn best, didn’t she get that? Contacting Samuel would mean losing Sammy, because their grandfather could handle a fourteen-year-old, well-behaved whizz-kid, but definitely wouldn’t want an eighteen-year-old, screwed-up Dean with his mental issues and scars and drugs. And Bobby – sure, Bobby would have helped. Bobby did help. But they weren’t even in the same state as Bobby when all this went down.

“I had it under control,” Dean bluffs. “But we – I mean we ended up moving into Bobby’s, anyway. At first it was just me. Bobby gave me a job at his garage. He eventually convinced Dad to let Sam live with him, too. We tried the whole apartment thing again. Sam was able to finish his last three years of high school in the same place. He made it into fucking Stanford, can you believe it? Kid’s still an absolute genius.”

Billie smiles, but her question is about Dean, not about Sam: “What made you move in with Bobby? Was that your choice?”

Dean hesitates. He stares at his forearms, like he can see the thick, rope-like scar that bisects his left wrist. “I slit my wrist,” he says finally. It’s maybe the first time he doesn’t say it was an accident. He has a feeling Billie will sniff out that bullshit.

“Was this your first suicide attempt?”

Dean doesn’t ask how she knows there were more. Maybe she read his medical file. Maybe she can just see it on him, a flashing neon sign: mentally unstable.

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean adds, “They put me on Prozac, but it triggered a manic episode, so I didn’t stay on it long. But it was better at Bobby’s. At least I knew Sam was getting three square meals a day, and he got into college, like I said. After Sam left for California, I rode around with Dad again. I left him for a girlfriend. And then, ah, a guy for a while. I lost track of Dad, so I went to California to convince Sam to help me track him down. It was Christmas break – his senior year – but he came with me.

“We found Dad in some dump in Chicago. He was pretty bad off. Sam and him got into a fight, and Sam took off for California. I stuck around with Dad, tried to clean him up, but he – he didn’t really know who I was, or anything –” Dean’s throat closes up, like someone pinched a straw shut in the middle of slurping up a milkshake. He gets passed it. Feeling Billie’s eyes on him, he continues, “Little while after was the accident. Tractor trailer sideswiped us. Sam flew back out. Basically turned around at the airport. Dad was okay, but I – the doctors went from thinking I’d be dead to a vegetable to unable to walk again. But I was fine. Or I worked my way up to being fine.”

“How exactly did the accident occur?” Billie asks, eyebrows scrunched above her nose.

“I told you,” Dean says aggressively, “Tractor trailer sideswiped –”

“Yes,” Billie says evenly. “I meant, was it night? Were you driving?”

“Yeah, it was night,” Dean says. His face burns. He can’t look at her face. “I wasn’t – Dad was behind the wheel.”

He knows she wants to ask: why was Dad driving. Why’d Dean let an emotionally unstable and mentally disturbed man drive in the dark? Why, when Dean knew he’d been drinking? Why, when Dad couldn’t even properly identify his own son, let alone a stop sign?

But Billie doesn’t ask any more questions. Instead, she clicks her pen closed on her clipboard. Dean hadn’t even registered she’d been taking notes the whole time. The thought of what she’s written about him makes his stomach curdle.

“That’s about all the time we have left today,” Billie tells him. “How about we plan on going over the accident in a little more detail next week, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says hoarsely. At least it’s a week away, he soothes himself. He can come up with a better story by then. He can rehearse it a little more so she doesn’t see the cracks.

“It was good to meet you, Dean.” Billie rises from her chair, offers him another rare smile. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Next week.”

Chapter Text

Dean feels sick. He can’t eat. Whatever he does manage to get down usually comes back up in the middle of the night when he wakes up from nightmares. He wonders if he picked up something from the guys at work. Anyone with kids is constantly bringing in different bugs during the schoolyear, and it spreads through the garage like wildfire.

But Dean’s only symptoms are nausea and exhaustion, so he doesn’t think he’s sick sick. It’s probably just a side-effect of his unrelenting anxiety ever since he started seeing Billie. It’s only one session, but it’s messed with his head in a way therapy never has before.

He’s jumpy and nervous. And he keeps remembering things. Not things he necessarily forgot, but things he never thought were relevant before. Like he wakes up choking one night with the memory of what it felt like to have an intubation tube down his throat. And he remembers the horrible sinking feeling in his chest when Dad would come through the door with that particular glazed look in his eye that meant his was drunk and pissed off.

He remembers the other guys used to call him Kansas in prison.

Dean drags through every day, using breaks at work to take a fifteen-minute nap on the couch in the breakroom. Eating whatever his stomach can handle: mostly canned soup and saltine crackers. He breaks his promise to Pam to stick to only one cup of coffee so he doesn’t trigger another manic episode with too much caffeine; instead, he relies on cups of the stuff to keep himself on his feet.

On top of everything else – his crowded weeks of AA meetings, therapy sessions, parenting classes, consultations with Mick and Sam – he’s got the deposition to look forward to. Mick and Sam take it in turns to coach him about what to expect from Lydia’s lawyer, about what kind of questions they’ll ask him: intimate details about his mental health and sexual history – anything that Lydia thinks will make a judge rule against him.

Dean barely registers the approaching holidays. He’s dimly aware that Christmas music has been blaring from Charlie’s apartment since the day after Thanksgiving. Gabe has even wound some straggly, plastic garland around the banister of the stairwell. Christmas is usually one of Dean’s favorite Holidays – it meant a brief spot of respite and peace during childhood. More often than not, Dad’d get it together enough to buy a nice dinner and maybe watch a movie together. Or sometimes he’d just drop them off at Bobby’s, and a few years they spent the holiday at Samuel’s.

But this year, Dean’s looking forward to Christmas more because it promises two weeks without legal appointments or therapy. Pam’s giving him two sessions off, Billie one, and even the AA on the 23rd promises a more laid-back evening of sugar cookies and socializing instead of difficult conversation. Mick explained that the deposition is Dean’s last big obligation before they have to start planning for the hearing in the new year. He anticipates the judge will set a date near the end of January.

Dean’s glad for the promise of a vacation, even if it’s still two weeks away. Even Donna can tell he’s dragging on Sunday when he comes to Lydia’s house for visitation, and she doesn’t try to make conversation. Lydia takes the opportunity to leave the house for Christmas shopping. Dean takes the opportunity to sprawl on the couch.

Emma is fussy and distraught; Lydia thinks she might be coming down with her first cold. Luckily, however, she’s the kind of upset that requires close contact and careful attention, instead of acrobatics. So, Dean puts her on his chest and holds her.

Her tiny body moves up and down as he breathes. She grabs fistfuls of his t-shirt and drools over the fabric.

“Hey, peanut,” he tells her softly. He’s got one hand on her back, the other is playing with her darkening curls around her tiny ears. “Rough day, huh?”

Donna is sitting in a chair across the room, but Dean barely even registers her presence. There’s not much else in a room that can distract him when his daughter’s there.

Dean doesn’t have many clear memories of his early childhood. Mostly it’s a haze of dirty hotel rooms, shivering in the backseat of the car, and Sammy. Obviously, Sammy. But one of his clearer memories was when he was five or six, and Dad came in stinking like whiskey. Maybe it was around the anniversary of Mom’s death. Or maybe it was just a crappy day. Because, for whatever reason, Dad took one look at the two of his kids, Dean and Sam sitting curled up on one of the big beds in the hotel room, watching some kind of cartoon. And Dad just started bawling.

Dean remembers because it was such a rare occasion to see Dad cry. Usually, John Winchester translated his grief into rage. But today, Dad sunk to his knees, put his head in his arms, and sobbed. Dean’s been scared worse, and he’s been scared plenty more often, but the memory sticks out because it’s one of the first times Dean can remember being that scared.

Dad cried, and Sam blinked at him, confused, all of one- or two-years-old, more familiar with Dean by then than his own father, and Dean climbed down from the bed, cautiously approached Dad, and put a hand on his shoulder.

Don’t cry, Dean told him. Don’t cry, Dad. I’m here. It’s okay. I’m gonna make it okay.

Holding his daughter against his chest, Dean knows that’s never going to be her. Emma is never going to have to comfort Dean. That’s never going to be his little girl’s job. He’s not putting that shit on her shoulders.

Emma squirms like an inchworm, sticking her butt into the air and rubbing her face into Dean’s chest, whimpering unhappily.

“Yeah?” Dean asks her softly. “Don’t worry, you’ll be right at rain in a couple days. Won’t even remember feeling crummy. Yeah? Yeah.” Emma lifts her head and looks at him, so Dean scootches her close enough to plant a kiss on her tiny nose. She offers her first smile of the afternoon, and Dean feels like he’s won the fucking lottery.

“There she is,” he tells her, delighted. “There’s that pretty smile, beautiful. You’re gonna kill guys with that smile someday. Or, ah, girls. Whatever you go for. Not that you’re gonna go for anyone until you’re at least twenty-five.”

Emma giggles at his high-pitched voice, and he rubs his nose against hers, again.

“That’s right. Yuck it up, kiddo. You’re gonna be single ‘til you’re twenty-five,” he tells her, showering kisses on her chunky cheeks.

That’s how Lydia finds them when she gets home, Dean half asleep on the couch and Emma sucking her thumb, out like a light, tiny rasp to her breathing as she sucks air through her stuffed-up nose.

“Oh, thank God,” Lydia says, dumping her shopping bags in the hallway. “I couldn’t get her to go down for her nap.”

“She nodded off about fifteen minutes ago,” Dean says. Lydia carefully lifts Emma off Dean’s chest. Emma squeaks, but she doesn’t wakeup.

“He’s a regular baby whisperer,” Donna says quietly.

Dean doesn’t want to leave while Emma’s asleep; he knows he’s being silly, but he didn’t get to say goodbye. But it’s not like he can hang around, especially not when Lydia leaves to put Emma down in her crib for a proper nap.

Dean pulls on his coat, says bye to Donna, and awkwardly stands by the front door, waiting to – he doesn’t know. When it comes down to it, he and Lydia are strangers. They fucked once and it irreversibly changed both their lives, but they’re definitely not friends; they’re technically closer to enemies, considering their legal battle, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s supposed to stick around to say goodbye to her. But Lydia comes back out to get her shopping bags while Dean’s in the middle of lacing up his boots.

“Thanks for watching her,” Lydia says uncomfortably. “It, ah, really helped to get out for a little while.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs, finishing with his boots and standing. “I’m just glad to get to know her.”

Lydia smiles tightly, and she nods. “See you next week, I guess.”

“Yeah, see you,” Dean says, and he leaves before it can get anymore awkward.

OOO

It’s strange to look forward to Mondays, but with all the other days of the week overtaken by various obligations, it’s Dean’s only day where all he has to worry about is work.

Bobby’s leg was acting up – the cold weather often makes the amputation sight ache – so he told Dean to take his place in the office. Even though Dean doesn’t have any degree, he’s been working at the garage for long enough that he knows the books backward and forward. Plus, he’s always had a knack for math.

“Heya, Dean,” Garth calls, popping his head around the doorway. “We got a walk-in asking for you. Some lady.”

“She say why she want me?” Dean asks. There’s all sorts of reasons – maybe she’s been there before and liked the way Dean did her car, or maybe she’s someone he flirted with and she wants to see if he's busy.

“Nah,” Garth replies. “She’s a little older than you usually go for.” He sends Dean a wink. Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“Tell ‘er I’ll be right out.”

Dean stands, kicking back the rolling chair and stretching out his shoulders. He’s not looking forward to heading onto the floor. He woke up with full body aches, which makes him think he really is coming down with something, and he’d appreciated the well-heated, comfortable office.

He leaves the desk and heads through the door. There’s an unfamiliar Hyundai Genesis in the garage, looks like this year’s model, and Dean definitely doesn’t remember working on it before.

“Ma’am?” he says, approaching the back of a blond-headed woman, bowed over her phone.

The woman turns. Dean jerks like he was hit by a jet of ice water. It’s Lydia’s mom. Charlene Penn. Dean doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing there.

“Mr. Winchester,” she says. She grins like a predator. She tucks her cellphone into her red purse, clutched tight in the crook of her elbow. She’s as polished and fearsome as she was in mediation: wearing a navy pantsuit with a fitted peacoat and red gloves that perfectly match her purse. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“Ah, Mrs. Penn,” Dean says. He glances around at the floor, but none of the guys are watching, even though Dean can’t shake the feeling he’s being put under a magnifying glass. “What are you –”

“I knew this was where you worked,” Charlene interrupts haughtily, not bothering to lower her voice. Dean’s terrified someone’s going to look over. Someone’s going to overhear. Someone’s going to figure it out – “I had something very serious I needed to speak to you about, so I thought I’d stop by and ask you to lunch.”

“Um,” Dean says. “Can’t it wait? I mean shouldn’t this go through your lawyer?” He’s already had a strict chat with Mick about how important it was to not have conversations with Lydia about anything outside of visitation. He assumes that advice extended to Charlene, as well.

“Oh no,” Charlene laughs. It’s like she thinks Dean’s the funniest thing since sliced bread. The phoniness of it sets Dean’s teeth on edge. “This isn’t anything our lawyers need to be involved with, I assure you.”

“Okay,” Dean says uncertainly.

“Excellent,” Charlene beams. She claps her hands. “Please, join me for lunch. When do you get off?”

“Ah, in a half an hour –”

“I’ll be at the Amazon,” she says, still smiling that awful, toothy leer. “It’s on fifth street. I’m sure you know it.”

“I’ve never –” Dean starts. He’s never heard of it, but he’s never heard of a lot of places on fifth. It’s not exactly the part of town Dean finds himself in often. And he’s definitely not going to be dressed like the rest of their cliental: rich stay-at-home moms on luncheon dates with the rest of their PTA cliques, big time lawyers and businessmen; Dean’s wearing worn down jeans and steel-toe work boots.

“Don’t worry,” Charlene simpers. “I’ll pay.”

It lands like the jab it was meant to be. Dean schools his features. He’s definitely not going to call the mother of the mother of his child a conceited bitch, no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he smiles with difficulty and tells her he’s looking forward to lunch. They both know he’s lying, but Charlene is as adept at playing a part as Dean is, so she gives him a closed-lip smile and a cheerful wave before driving away.

Dean doesn’t get much more work done while he waits. He battles with whether he’s supposed to call Sam or not, but he ultimately decides he’ll just watch what he says, and if anything makes him feel uncomfortable, he’ll let his lawyers know after the meeting.

He shouts to Rufus that he’s taking his lunchbreak, he’ll be back in an hour, and Rufus tells him to just get his ass gone already.

Dean’s stomach is in knots as he navigates the city streets in the impala. The Amazon is easy enough to spot, even if it’s crowded among all the other fancy-schmancy restaurants and boutiques. He finds a parking spot a block down from the entrance; it’s the lunch rush and there are plenty of suits driving from their offices to order $20 salads and quinoa bowls.

He steps through the door and tries to spot Charlene’s white-blond head across the sea of business casual patrons. The restaurant hostess eyes him with distrust, probably wondering if he’s a workman who forgot to go in the back entrance.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for a Charlene Penn?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Penn’s third. Please, follow me.”

Dean’s pulse jumps at the realization that they’re a party of three; he was under the impression it was just him and Charlene meeting. Dean wonders if he’s being set up for an execution, Godfather-style. But he follows the girl, dressed in a smart black uniform with a severe bun tied at the nape of her neck.

She leads him to the very back of the restaurant to a table in the corner by a large window. There’s plenty of natural light, enough for Dean to see clearly the man who’s sitting next to Charlene. He stops, unease growing, because he’s definitely seen this guy before: he’s got a pointed face and curly, graying hair.

Charlene looks up and greats Dean with a civil, “Dean, wonderful that you could join us,” as if she hadn’t left him in the garage forty minutes ago.

“Hi,” Dean chirps. He hooks a chair with his ankle and drops. “What’s good here?”

“They do an excellent lobster bisque,” Charlene says sweetly. “Perfect for the cold weather.”

“More of a steak and potato guy, myself,” Dean says with a wink, trying to hide his encroaching nervousness. He’s beginning to think he definitely should have called Sam about this, but he doesn’t know how he can back out now. He might as well go all in. He nudges the old guy under the table with his foot. “What about you, man? What’re you hungry for?”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Charlene says with a grating titter. “I forgot to introduce you to my associate. Dean Winchester, this is Marvin Armstrong. Marvin, this is Dean Winchester, the father of my grandchild.”

“Call me Marv,” the guy says in a nasally voice.

The waiter approaches and takes their drink orders. Charlene gets a sparkling water with lemon. Marv says water’s just fine. Dean gets a coke.

After the waiter leaves, Charlene addresses Dean, “You’re not drinking, Dean? I thought you were a beer man.”

Dean swallows. Charlene knows damn well that Dean doesn’t drink anymore. He talked about AA at mediation. His eyes flick from Charlene’s sickly-sweet smile to Marv, neutral but somehow alert, intense eyes taking in every detail of Dean and the restaurant and the waiter who took their drink orders. And Dean remembers. He recognizes him.

Marv is the guy that bumped into Dean outside Cesar's. The guy Dean thought was a homeless man, who Charlie said couldn’t keep his eyes off Dean’s ass.

And he was at the other bar, too, Dean remembers. The bar with Shaylene.

“Fuck,” Dean says. He shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the look of triumph that crosses Charlene’s face when she understands he’s figured it out. He knows what this is, and, yeah, he should have called his lawyer.

“I gather by your vulgarity that you’ve deduced exactly what’s happening here, Dean,” Charlene says, and her voice is almost gentle.

“So, what?” Dean scoffs. “This blackmail?”

“Blackmail?” Charlene gasps. She’s doing a pretty good impression of scandalized. Dean keeps expecting her to tell him she’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse. “Dean, I think you’ve entirely misinterpreted my motives here.”

“Oh, really?” Dean says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “So, what’s your goon here for?”

Marv bristles. “I am a highly professional private investigator –”

“Where I’m from, we just call them dicks,” Dean retorts.

“Please,” Charlene says, raising a hand. “Let’s not raise our hackles. We haven’t even ordered lunch, yet.”

“Our fucking hackles?” Dean hisses. “Lady, you think I’m gonna sit here and listen to this shit –”

The waiter returns with their drinks, interrupting Dean’s threat, which is probably a good thing, because he’s not entirely sure what he was going to say. All he knows is he’s angry. He’s angry at himself for being so stupid, and he’s angry at Charlene for being such an entitled, manipulative bitch. And maybe even angry at Lydia, because there’s no telling whether she put her mother up to this, or not.

Charlene orders her fancy lobster soup. Marv gets pork ribs.

“I’m not eating, thanks,” Dean tells the waiter.

“Nonsense,” Charlene tsks. “He’ll have the 8oz center-cut filet with the whipped potatoes,” she names the most expensive dish on the lunch menu, and Dean knows she’s making some kind of point. He just doesn’t give a damn what that point is.

The waiter leaves. Charlene offers a honeyed smile before taking a sip of her sparkling water. “A steak and potatoes man, you said?”

“Okay,” Dean says, working hard to keep his voice under control. “Let’s cut the crap. You obviously called me here for a reason. You had this shmuck follow me for a reason.” He jabs his thumb toward Marv. “You obviously want something from me. You might be having fun playing mob boss, but I’m wasting my lunch break. So, do us both a favor and get this over with so I can get back to work.”

Charlene draws herself up. She has a sharp, chiseled face and manicured eyebrows. She must have been an imposing mother to grow up with.

“I’m not an unreasonable woman, Dean, despite what you might think of me,” she begins. Dean rolls her eyes. She forges ahead. “And I think you won’t disagree with me when I say all I want is the best for my daughter and grandchild. Which, as I’m certain the judge will rule on, is not a man who frequently visits bars to get drunk and spend time with prostitutes.”

“Fuck you,” Dean says. It’s not like he didn’t know it was coming, but her words still send a wave of ice-cold dread through his body.

Marv clears his throat. “Elysia Johnson, otherwise known as Shaylene, twenty-four years old, student at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, majoring in business. Well, she’s certainly well-prepared for that, isn’t she?”

Dean feels sick. He didn’t think about the effect this could have on Shay. If this got dragged into court, then she’d get pulled in, too. She could get arrested. Kicked out of school. Possibly face jail time.

“Performing an act of prostitution or patronizing an adult prostitute can result in up to six months in jail or a $500 fine,” Charlene says calmly.

Dean shuts his eyes. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to think.

“You don’t have proof,” he says.

“I’ve got plenty of photos,” Marv says with an oily grin. Dean wants to smash his fist into his pointed, rat-like nose.

“Nothing happened,” Dean says, a little firmer. It’s not for nothing his brother’s a lawyer. Dean knows how to spin a good story. “Yeah, I was drinking. The girl helped me out, let me crash in her room until my buddy picked me up. I could get them to testify.” Dean’s bluffing, there’s no way he’s dragging that poor girl into his mess. But Benny, at least, would stand up for Dean in a courtroom.

“Be that as it may,” Charlene says, waving Marv down. “You don’t really want to bring this into court, do you?” She smiles again, but her eyes are cold. “In fact, I think you want all this to go away. The custody battle, all of it. Like I said, I’m not unreasonable. And I’m not ignorant. I understand how much of a financial burden those monthly child support bills are for a young man like yourself.”

Like yourself, she says, eyeing his patchwork flannel shirt and old jeans.

“So, here’s my proposition. I can make it all go away. I’ll cover your child support obligations until Emma turns eighteen. You don’t need to worry about her anymore. You don’t need to worry about Lydia anymore. And I’ll even provide you an extra…let’s say 20 thousand? So you can get back on your feet. Maybe find a better place than that one-room shack you currently call a home. And Ms. Bevell won’t say one word about Ms. Johnson in front of the court recorder at the deposition next week. In return, you’ll drop the case. No questions asked. And agree to signing over 100% legal and physical custody to Lydia.”

Dean swallows with difficultly. “You don’t want me in her life that much, huh?”

Finally, Charlene’s polite façade cracks, just for a moment, when a flash of disgust crosses her face. “Would you, if you were in my position? A mentally ill, ex-con, junkie who ruined your daughter’s life?”

“It’s not like your daughter’s totally innocent in all of this,” Dean snaps. “She’s not some virginal angel. Maybe she should have thought twice about cheating on her fiancé, ever thought of that? ‘Cause she sure as hell wasn’t wearing a ring in that bar.”

Charlene’s eyes narrow. “I urged my daughter to press charges, you know, when we found out the baby wasn’t Eddie’s,” she says poisonously. “Lydia told me that there was alcohol involved. Things could have been much, much worse for you than they are now.”

Dean goes cold. The anger stops in its tracks, beaten back by paralyzing, disorienting fear.

“I don’t know if you’re too familiar with the whole concept of a one-night-stand.” Dean forces himself to keep talking. “Probably not, I’m guessing, ‘cause you don’t look like the kind of gall who’s getting much. Unless you and Marv, here, are getting down and dirty on his day off. But, yeah, we were both drinking. Fuck, we were probably both drunk. And we both wanted to have sex, so we fucking had sex.”

But inside his head, he’s caught in a whirlpool. Because what if – he didn’t hurt her, right? He was definitely drunk that night. He thinks she was, too. But was she drunker than him? Did she not want to be there?

That couldn’t be what happened, he tries to reassure himself. He thinks he remembers her taking the reins. She kissed him against the wall. She shoved him toward the bed. He remembers she was firm and assertive in bed. She was – she was definitely into it, right?

Maybe Charlene senses his uncertainty, because her grin turns vindictive and ugly.

“So, what do you think, Dean?” she offers. “Just say the word, and everything can go back to the way it was”

Dean doesn’t know if she timed it that way, but the waiter is coming back with their food, giving Charlene’s words time to percolate in the dead silence.

But what Charlene didn’t anticipate was it also gave Dean time to think. It’s true that a lot of people, when they look at Dean, don’t immediately assume he’s got any kind of brains to speak of. He’s a grease monkey with a GED. Compared to Sam, he’s a neanderthal. But Dean’s not stupid. And he’s not going to let this bitch treat him like it.

The waiter leaves their plates, wishes them a good meal, and leaves them to more silence.

Charlene raises her eyebrows, waiting for Dean’s response. And the idea that she thinks she has Dean cornered – that she thinks she’s got him all figured out – that every Goddamn person in Dean’s life thinks they know how he’s going to react, what moves he’s going to make, thinks they know what’s best for him and his daughter –

Dean’s fucking sick of it. He shoves up from the table.

“Fuck you,” he says, not caring if his voice carries. Not caring when about twenty businessmen and other rich douchebags turn to look at him with open disgust.

“Fuck you,” he says again. Charlene does her best not to give away how shocked she is, but she blinks, and her mouth opens like she wants to tell him off – like she’s some old schoolmarm reproaching Dean for speaking out of turn.

“You think you can fucking buy her off of me?” he spits. “You think you can fucking bully me off fighting for my own Goddamn daughter? Well, just think again, bitch. Because nothing you say to me – nothing you do to me – you could offer me Goddamn Mercedes-Benz USA for all I care – nothing is going to make me drop this case. So, keep your Goddamn, shitty steak. I don’t want anything from you.”

He’s drawn the attention of the restaurant manager, who’s probably called security, and Dean knows he’s outstayed his welcome. He snatches his wallet out of his back pocket, picks out three twenties to cover his plate, turns on his heel, and stalks out.

Chapter Text

“How was your week?” Billie asks Dean after Dean dumps himself into the chair across from her.

He lets out a humorless laugh. His week? Shit is the short answer. Charlene’s ambush has been fresh in his mind every night while he tries to fall asleep. He hasn’t told Mick or his brother about it yet. Why? Probably because he’s a fucking coward. He knows the entire Shaylene debacle will come out at the deposition; Charlene made that very clear. So it’s not like Dean has any hope of skating by unmarred. But his psyche has been operating on the level of toddler all week: if he can’t see it, it can’t see him.

“Not great?” Billie guesses when Dean doesn’t respond.

“Not great,” he agrees with her.

Billie tries to make small talk for a few minutes, but it’s kind of like trying to stop a speeding bullet train with bare hands. It’s not like she can distract him from what they’re actually here for. Soon enough, the train hits:

“So, last week we talked about beginning this session by going over the accident in a little more detail.” Billie’s picked up on calling it The Accident, too. Dean’s not sure if that’s a grandeur she’s afforded it because of the way Dean talked about it, or if it’s just a coincidence.

“Yeah, ah, sure,” Dean says. He shifts a little in his seat. Switches from one ankle across his knee to the other.

“So, I’d like for us to do that. First, I want to let you know that I’m going to record you. I’ll send you the recording, and your homework next week will be to listen to it at least three times. Find a free hour, sometime when you’re as relaxed as possible, in a place where you feel safe. The idea is to try to start confronting these memories and giving your brain a chance to work through them.”

“Oh,” Dean says. The idea of listening to his own voice drone on for an hour sounds like a new kind of torture.

“So, you can begin when you’re ready. Start wherever you feel like the memory becomes challenging.”

Billie fiddles with her phone until it’s recording. Dean stares at it as she puts it on the desk beside her.

“Um,” Dean begins. He runs his tongue over the top ridge of his teeth. “I was almost twenty-seven, I guess. And it was – it was right after Sam left to go back to Stanford. Like I said we – I mean, he and Dad didn’t part on good terms. It was just the same old argument, about how Dad refused to clean up his act and expected us to do everything for him and about how he was ruining our lives, or whatever. But I stuck around with Dad. We were making the drive back down to Bobby’s. It was nighttime. It was snowing out. And an eighteen-wheeler hit us. That’s, ah, all I really remember until I woke up in the hospital three days later with a tube down my throat.”

“Okay,” Billie says slowly. “Let’s try to break it down a little more. It might be helpful for me to ask questions.”

“Sure,” Dean says. His palms are clammy. He cuffs them dry on his pants. “Shoot.”

“The fight between your brother and your father, did you take a side?”

Dean doesn’t know what that has to do with the accident, but he answers anyway, “They were always fighting. I just tried to get them to calm down.”

“Were you able to do that? Do you feel like Sam left calmer?”

“Um, I dunno?” Dean says. “It was a long time ago. I mean, Sam left heated, so I sure as hell didn’t talk him down.”

“And your father?” Billie presses, “Was he more upset or less upset after your brother was gone?”

“Dad was always angry when Sam left – he, ah, had a little bit of a track record of wanting to get away when we were kids.”

“You mentioned last session that your father had trouble recognizing you. Do you think the fight heightened his distress? Do you think it helped to have you there with him?”

Dean bobs his foot up and down, until he realizes he’s doing it, and he makes himself stop. “It’s not like I could just leave him,” he says sharply. “He was drunk and delusional, hallucinating demons and shit. I didn’t have fucking Stanford to fly back to.”

“Were you upset at Sam for leaving?”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“So, you don’t resent your brother for leaving you alone to deal with your father?”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean says.

“Okay,” Billie says neutrally.

Dean’s pulse speeds up. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, reminds himself that he’s here because he fucking chose to be here. Even if it was a pretty damn stupid decision.

“I – wanted him to be gone,” Dean says haltingly. “Sam wasn’t helping anything by yelling at Dad. It was just making Dad worse. And I didn’t want to have to deal with Dad worse if Sam was still there.”

“Were you afraid for Sam’s safety?”

“No,” Dean says again. “I – Dad wouldn’t have hurt him. I wouldn’t have let that happen. But it was still better just to get him out of the way.”

“Were you afraid for your own safety?”

Billie’s eyes are piercing. It’s like she’s vivisecting him, splitting him down the middle and pinning back his skin so she can poke at all his interior organs.

“Dad – he didn’t do that anymore. He didn’t – not since I was a teenager. I was an adult. I could take care of myself.”

“Did he become violent?” She means: did Dad hit him? Did he think Dean was possessed by a demon? Did he start screaming about how Dean killed Mom? Did he try to fight Dean off when Dean tried to calm him down? Did he slam Dean’s head into the drywall so hard Dean saw stars? And, still, the worst part was that Dad wasn’t even angry. He was just afraid. He was just protecting himself.

“This isn’t even about the fucking accident.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Billie says levelly. “But this is where you started your narrative. I wanted to know why.”

“There’s no reason,” Dean says defensively. “It’s just the story.”

“Okay,” Billie says like she couldn’t care less. “What's the next part of the story?”

“So, we left that night,” Dean huffs. “We got hit. End of story.”

“Dean,” Billie says, and Dean knows he’s crossed a line. He’s been lectured by enough people to recognize the tone of voice. Billie leans forward a little in her chair, propping her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands. There are several ornamental rings on her fingers. The largest is an ornate silver band with a large, flat pearl. Dean wonders if it’s a family heirloom or something.

“This isn’t going to work unless you cooperate. I understand it’s difficult. But you will not be able to move past this unless you’re willing to face what happened – whatever happened that you don’t want to tell me about right now.”

“I don’t – it’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” Dean says sullenly. He feels like a little kid being chided by a parent for acting out. He thinks he deserves it a little. It’s not like he’s being super cooperative.

“Is it more or less helpful when I ask direct questions?” Billie tries again.

Other than the fact that it feels like pulling teeth, Dean thinks it is helpful to have a little more direction. Being told just to open his mouth and see what comes out doesn’t promise good results.

“Um, more.”

Billie nods. “Okay. Let’s go back to your father, before you got into the car. He was distressed and delusional. Did he lash out at you physically?”

“Just because I made the first move,” Dean says. “I – I tried to get him to stop wigging out. So, yeah, he fought back. I freaked him out.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Dean swallows. “I hit my head against the wall. It was an accident.”

“Were you hurt badly?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. Headwounds bleed a lot. I got dizzy, but I don’t think it was too bad.”

“After you were hurt, did he calm down?”

“Yeah, actually.” Dean rubs his hands against his pants again. Shifts his legs so both feet are on the floor. Doesn’t like how that makes him feel so open, so he crosses his arms over his stomach. “He seemed to get who I was again.”

“Can you talk to me about what you were feeling during this time? Were you scared or angry?”

He was terrified out of his fucking head. So terrified he was sick with it. He remembers the resonate, icy dread, the utter helplessness. He remembers begging Dad to snap out of it. Screaming at him that it was Dean, just Dean, so why didn’t he just calm the fuck down.

“I don’t know. After I hit my head, it was all…it was kinda fuzzy. Next thing I knew we were in the car and – and I didn’t want him driving, obviously, but it’s not like I could drive either. I could barely see straight. And he was talking about bringing me to the hospital, but I was fine – I didn’t need – but, yeah. That’s when – I think he ran a red light. And the – the driver said later that he tried to stop, so he didn’t hit at full velocity. But the truck smashed into the passenger side. So, I got the – the full force or whatever. So I don’t remember anything else except – except –”

Except the shocking cold night air bleeding through the shattered spaces like water pouring through a shipwreck. Except trying to pull in a full breath and not being able to because of the grating creak of his broken ribs inside his body. Except the excruciating pain. The startling clarity that he was dying. Dad had killed him.

“Except what?” Billie prods gently.

Dean reminds himself to breathe. His chest hurts. There’s a phantom twinge in his bad leg, starting in his hip and running down his shin to his left foot.

“Except I was, ah, conscious for some of it. Or semi-conscious, at least. I just remember flashes. Like – like Dad crying. It was, ah, I never really heard him cry that much before so – so, yeah, I remember that. And it was cold all over. And there was a lot of blood. I could smell – I could smell it in the air. It was like I was breathing it.”

Dean gulps. His throat hurts, like he’s swallowing knives. He’s rapidly losing interest in being in Billie’s office. The walls are closing in, taking up all the air. He remembers being stuck in that car, wedged between the chair and the dashboard: a metal coffin sinking to the bottom of the Pacific.

Billie’s watching him, maybe expecting him to go on, so Dean tries to find something else to talk about. Anything so he doesn’t have to explain those terrible moments where he dragged in painful breath after painful breath, just waiting to die.

“I, ah, broke my left hip and shattered my tibia ‘cause I – well, I must have seen the impact coming, so I twisted in the seat and got, ah, stuck on the floor. I pulled my right leg up to my chest, which messed up my ribs. Punctured a lung. And I smashed my head against the dash because, yeah, no airbags. Dad got tossed against the door. Dislocated his shoulder. Wacked his head into the window. He was – he was fine though. And he tried to help me, kept apologizing, saying – saying it was his fault – but – but it wasn’t. I should have –” Dean’s voice catches.

“Should have what?” Billie says. “You said you had a head injury. How were you supposed to have stopped the accident?”

“I just – I just should have, okay?” Dean snaps. “I shouldn’t have freaked him out to begin with. If I hadn’t made him shove me –”

“It’s very difficult to calm someone down in the middle of a psychotic episode.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs. “I’d done it before. I knew – I knew I shouldn’t have come at him like I did.”

“Do you think things would have been different if your brother was there?”

“It wasn’t Sam’s fucking fault, either,” Dean barks.

Billie drops her chin in a brief nod. “You’re right. I apologize if it sounded like I was accusing him of something. I only want to get to your thoughts and feelings behind the situation, not cast judgement.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, a little embarrassed he snapped at her. “I already said I was happy he wasn’t there. And – and I’m happy he wasn’t involved in the accident. I mean, my head was already screwed up. A traumatic brain injury messing it up more didn’t matter.”

“So you believe the TBI made your mental illness worse?”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, that’s what the doctors say happened. I definitely – I wasn’t great before the accident, but I could still, like, fucking function. Like I had a fucking life. It was only after the accident that – that everything got a lot worse. So, yeah.”

“Were you angry about your injuries?”

“Fuck, sure, I guess. It sucked. Still sucks.”

“Where was your anger directed?” Billie asks. “Toward the truck driver or the doctors?”

“Shit no,” Dean says immediately. “Guy was just doing his job. Not his fault Dad wasn’t paying attention. And the – I mean, the doctors did what they could.”

“When you say it wasn’t the driver’s fault because your father wasn’t paying attention –”

“I told you,” Dean interrupts. “That shit wasn’t Dad’s fault, either. He freaked out. He just wanted to get me help. It wasn’t his fucking fault, and I – I should have fucking stopped him from getting in the car, okay? Or I should have made him pull over before he fucking killed someone.”

“So, you’re angry at yourself for the accident?” Billie guesses.

Dean resists the urge to throw up his hands and exclaim ding, ding, ding, we have a winner! Because who the hell is he supposed to be angry at? He’s not putting this shit on Sam. He sure as hell ain’t putting it on Dad, not when he knows Dad blamed himself. Not when Dean knows that’s why Dad slice his throat, ear to ear, and bled out in the hospital boiler room.

“Are we almost done here?” Dean says instead.

Billie raises both eyebrows. “We can be.”

“Good,” Dean says, not caring if it makes him sound like an emotional toddler. Because he’s done with this bullshit. It just makes him feel worse. It just makes the nightmares and the Goddamn flashbacks worse. Dredging all this shit up from where its buried doesn’t help anyone. Certainly doesn’t help Dean.

Billie keeps eyeing him like she wants to ask more prying questions, but she keeps the rest of their session to explaining what he’s supposed to do for homework before the next: listening to his recording and journaling about what it makes him feel. And then she tells him to keep a record of the triggers he notices during the week, noting what they are and how he responds to them.

By the time she finally dismisses him, Dean feels like his skin is crawling with millions of tiny insects, and he wants to tear into it with his fingernails, dig deep until he can peel it all off. The feeling lasts well into the night. He blames it on the fact that the deposition is tomorrow, and that’s a whole ‘nother Goddamn can of worms he doesn’t want to think about.

OOO

All-in-all, he doesn’t get much sleep, and he’s a zombie at work the next day. He takes off an hour early so he can get to the courtroom on time, change into the slacks and dress shirt he brought in the car, and meet Mick and Sam, who both look a lot calmer than Dean. It’s probably because they’re still in the dark of just how much a screwup Dean really is.

At the beginning, it goes okay. Yeah, there’s the intrusive questions, spoken in Toni Bevell’s haughty, prim voice, about Dean’s mental health history, criminal charges, and previous relationships.

The court reporter’s office is smooth, maple furniture and dark green carpet. The court reporter, himself, is a sturdy, tan-skinned man named Edgar Martinez. He’s largely expressionless, and his stoic face gives Dean the creeps as he administered Dean’s oath and meticulously records everything Dean’s saying. So Dean tries to keep his eyes on Bevell, which isn’t much better, because her frosty smile and hard eyes make Dean feel like he’s staring down some kind of vicious animal that wants to tear out his throat.

Mick and Sam have been coaching him incessantly on how to respond to the questions: take his time, think things through, don’t volunteer extraneous information if a simple yes or no will do, and, for God’s sake, tell the truth, because no one wants to deal with a perjury charge – this Dean bristled at, because did Sam honestly think Dean was going to lie in court?

Bevell starts out on small shit, establishing Dean’s work and address, lulling Dean into a false sense of security like Mick warned she would before she starts digging deeper into his finances, apartment, friends. She spends a lot of time on his aggravated assault charge, leaving Dean drained and shaken before she switches to his two restraining orders.

She asks if he’s ever put a child knowingly in danger, Dean says no, and he feels like a fucking liar because he is a fucking liar, even though Dean could argue that he didn’t knowingly bring a loaded gun into Lisa’s house with her eight-year-old son, Ben, seeing as he was out of his head with paranoia and psychosis at the time. And at least Lisa didn’t press charges, so the incident isn’t on Dean’s record.

After an hour of incessant interrogation, Dean feels wrung out. He knows that Bevell is trying to demoralize him, and it’s fucking working, because he agrees with Lydia, by now: no fucking way is he fit to be a Goddamn parent.

The point of the deposition is to get everything out in the open so there won’t be any surprises at the hearing, but that definitely doesn’t mean there won’t be any surprises at the deposition, at least for Mick and Sam.

“Mr. Winchester, do you drink?” Bevell asks him in her clear, sharp tone, gray eyes snapping.

“I’m in AA –”

“It’s a yes or no question, Mr. Winchester,” Bevell interrupts him, doing a pretty fair imitation of Perry Mason. “Do you drink?”

“No,” Dean says, stomach twisting. He knows what’s coming, and he can’t tell what’s more awful: his own paralyzing knowledge, or Sam and Mick’s ignorance.

“Were you or were you not at the bar known as Cesar’s on November 13th from 8:30 to 10:00?”

“I was,” Dean says through his teeth. He sees Mick and Sam exchange glances and start ruffling through their papers, evidently alarmed at Bevell going off-script.

“But you don’t drink?” She clarifies with a sugary smile that makes her look even more like a predator.

“No,” Dean says.

“Mr. Winchester, may I remind you you’re under oath?”

“I didn’t drink at Cesar’s,” Dean says. “I can prove it. There were a lot of witnesses.”

“Hmm,” Bevell hums incredulously. “And, tell me, on November 30th from 9:00 PM until just before 1:00 AM did you patronize a bar called the Cobalt Room?”

Dean breathes hard through his nose, trying to ease the nausea in his stomach. “Yeah.”

“Did you drink?” Bevell says, and she’s barely containing her smile.

“Yes,” Dean says.

“You did?” Bevell says, feigning surprise. “But I thought you didn’t drink?”

“Fell off the wagon,” Dean murmurs, like saying it quietly enough will make it disappear.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?” Bevell says, putting a hand to her ear.

“Save the theatrics for the courtroom, please, Toni,” Mick interrupts.

“Very well.” Bevell continues with a nasty sneer. “I suppose Mr. Winchester is more than dramatic enough. Did you drink to the point of drunkenness?”

“Yes.” Dean makes the point of speaking clearly.

“Did you leave the bar with a young woman named Elysia Johnson to go to her room in the Moonlight Motel across the street?”

“Yes,” Dean says. God, even the motel’s name sounds sleezy.

“Were you aware that Ms. Johnson was a prostitute?”

Dean’s throat closes up with panic. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to answer that. He can’t remember if he knew right away that Shay was a hooker, or if it’s something that became apparent after they got to her room. Either way, it doesn’t sound great, and he’s still not sure whether he can get Shay into trouble if he says too much.

He looks to Mick and Sam. Mick is intensely engrossed in the proceedings, but whatever signal he’s trying to pass on to Dean is lost in translation. And Sam has his eyes closed. He’s sitting back in his chair, hand to his head. Dean’s chest pangs like someone landed a blow below his ribs.

“I – no, not at first,” Dean says, turning back to Bevell.

Bevell raises both her eyebrows. “But you did become aware later on?” she clarifies.

“Yes,” Dean says.

“Can you specify exactly when?” Bevell digs her talons in deeper. “Perhaps it was before you agreed to go to her motel room together? Or was it before you had intercourse? While you were working out the rules of your engagement?”

“Christ, Toni,” Mick interrupts again. He looks angry. Dean can’t tell if he’s more pissed at Dean or at Bevell. Sam’s still completely checked out. Dean knows he’s getting yelled at after all this is over. “He’s not on trial. You don’t need to drag it out.”

“Please answer the question, Mr. Winchester,” Bevell says smoothly, ignoring Mick entirely.

“We didn’t have sex,” Dean says stiffly. “I didn’t pay her. She didn’t ask for money.”

“You expect us to believe that you left a bar with a prostitute, intoxicated by your own admission, that you went to this woman’s motel room, and you did not have sex?”

“No,” Dean says, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. “I mean – yes. Yes. I don’t know if you’ll believe it, but it’s the truth.”

“If you did not have sex with her, then how did you know she was a prostitute?” Bevell challenges him.

“She just told me,” Dean says vaguely.

“And why did you go with her to her motel room if it wasn’t with the intention of having intimate relations?”

“She – she just – she wanted to make sure I was okay. She let me crash in her room while she called a friend of mine to pick me up. He can corroborate my story,” Dean says.

Bevell doesn’t seem to be listening to him anymore. Instead, she shakes her head. Makes a disapproving click with her tongue. “Tell me, Mr. Winchester, would you trust a mentally ill, unstable man with a history of visiting prostitutes and a drinking problem with custody of a young child?”

Mick is out of his chair in a shot, pointing to Bevell, “That’s subjective, Toni –” he turns to Dean, “You don’t have to answer that.”

But Bevell doesn’t care. She raises both hands to shoulder height in surrender and sits down. “I’m done,” she announces loftily.

Any relief at having finally reached the end of the tortuous ordeal is overshadowed by a crushing sense of defeat. Dean zones out as Mick finishes up proceedings with Bevell and Edgar. He’s only distantly aware as Mick tells him he’s free to go. He feels untethered, like he’s moving too slowly, held back by heavy, sloppy mud as he drags his feet through the hallways back toward the courthouse’s doors and the street outside.

He barely registers that it’s sleeting out when he steps onto the street. Wet, thick pellets of ice slap his face. His shoes skid against the slushy sidewalk as he makes his way to the impala parked on the side of the road.

“Dean – Goddammit!” Sam finally catches up to Dean, grabs his upper arm and yanks him around hard enough for Dean to lose his balance. He catches himself against the roof of the impala. “I’ve been calling you!”

“Sorry,” Dean says tonelessly.

It definitely doesn’t improve Sam’s mood. His eyes burn dangerously. He looks incensed, like he’s barely containing the urge to smack Dean in the face, flatten him on the icy pavement.

“What the fuck was that?”

Dean shrugs. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. Sam was there, same as Dean.

“Did you know?” Sam demands, absolutely livid. Dean remembers when Dad used to get this mad: eyes popping. Color high and clear on his cheeks. Usually followed by a sharp blow across the face or a shove to Dean’s stomach. Fuck Billie; if it wasn’t for her, these memories wouldn’t be sitting so close to the surface.

“Did you fucking know Bevell was gonna bring up that shit?”

Dean shrugs again. He can’t tell Sam about Charlene and Marv. He doesn’t want him to know she offered him money to step away from his own kid. The whole episode feels so dirty to Dean. He doesn’t want to try to explain it to Sam. He doesn’t want Sam to say maybe it’s too bad Dean didn’t take the deal.

“What? Are you just not gonna fucking talk to me, now?” Sam explodes. Heavy wet flakes land on his hair, weigh it down until it looks oil-slicked.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” Dean says. There’s a hallow space between his ribs, carved out by the trowel of Bevell’s pointed words, and Dean doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, now. He doesn’t know how they can come back from this. How Dean can come back from this.

“Did you sleep with her?” Sam snaps.

It’s the first thing that awakens the smallest spark of anger in Dean’s chest. “What? You think I fucking lied?”

“At this point I have no fucking clue,” Sam retorts. It stings. But Dean supposes he should have expected it. It’s not like Sam’s ever been 100% on his side in this fight.

“I don’t pay girls to sleep with me, Sam. I don’t need that,” Dean says.

“You sound like that’s some kind of moral triumph,” Sam sneers. “Not just the lowest bar of common decency.”

There are people around them, commuters rushing through the sleet to their cars. It’s after seven o’clock, and they’re surrounded by a tiny circle of light from the lamppost above them. Dean’s tired. Sam’s right. And Dean’s so fucking tired.

“I’m gonna go now, Sam,” he says, trying to sound firm, but landing on beaten. He turns. Sam’s hand on his arm stops him again, and Dean tries not to notice the miniature flare of panic at the idea of someone grabbing him. Holding him. Pinning him –

“What the fuck is your problem?” Sam says. He doesn’t yell, probably to preserve his sense of decorum in the middle of a busy sidewalk. But his voice is an angry whisper. And he’s close enough to Dean’s face he can see drops of ice water on his brother’s eyelashes.

“You keep telling me to fucking trust you,” Sam continues. “But then you pull a stunt like this? How the hell am I supposed to believe you when you just keep lying?”

“I didn’t lie –” Dean says helplessly.

“A lie by omission is still a lie, Dean,” Sam says with his infuriating, self-righteous law-boy talk.

There’s nothing for Dean to say to that. His brother’s right, as usual. Dean’s wrong. He just wants to go home.

His stony silence must sound like an invitation to Sam, because his brother continues, working himself into a rage like he used to get with Dad, “First you lie about whoever this guy Alastair is –”

“What?” Dean says, startled out of his silence. “I didn’t – why are you so obsessed with that? I told you I don’t know –”

“You don’t know?” Sam says, gasping in half anger, half bemused exasperation. “You don’t know? I looked him up, Dean! Alastair Heyerdahl? He was your fucking cellmate at CRCC!”

Something strange happens in Dean’s body. It’s like someone upends a cup of water over his head. And the water slowly trickles over his face, down his back, drips down his arms and legs and reaches his finger and feet. Turns him utterly numb. All tingly like his entire body’s fallen asleep.

“What?” he says.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Sam says, throwing up his hands in disgust. “I don’t know what the fuck you and him got up to in prison – why the fuck you think you need to lie to me about it, now, but can you please just stop pretending? Holy shit, Dean! When are you going to get it through your thick skull that I’m just trying to help? You hiding all these details about your life – it’s not making anything any easier!”

“Okay,” Dean says faintly. He’s trying to bring himself back to the present. Feel the cold on his fingers, and the wet sleet on his lips, he orders himself desperately, not sure what the fuck is wrong with his head. Trying not to panic.

“Okay, what?” Sam exclaims, like he’s yelling at a child. Like he’s so beyond disappointment and anger he can’t even remember what he’s lecturing Dean about.

“Okay, I’ll stop hiding things,” Dean says with a calmness he does not feel. There’s something wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. And that fact rebounds inside his skull until it’s all he can think. There’s something wrong with him. There’s something horribly wrong. And it makes him feel dirty and confused. “I’ll – I promise, Sam. I’ll stop lying.”

Sam clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to cave because he’s momentarily at a loss for words. He lets out a violent breath, chest heaving. “Fine,” he says. He drops his hands, turns away, maybe looks a little ashamed about coming on so strongly. “Fine, Dean. It’s just – I’m trying to help.” There’s a twinge of desperation to his voice.

God, Dean couldn’t imagine having to deal with someone like him. He doesn’t know why Sam keeps putting up with it.

“I know,” Dean says. He smiles weakly. “Sammy, I know.”

Chapter Text

Dean only gets through one mile of his run the next morning until he’s hacking up a lung. He blames the cold, dry air, but it’s getting harder to ignore the possibility that he’s worn down his immune system from under eating and lack of sleep. He wonders if he picked up whatever Emma had on Sunday.

He makes it through work, but barely, and he calls out sick for his appointment with Pam; it’s possibly the first time he’s done so for an honest-to-God illness, and he thinks, even if his words don’t convince her he’s really sick, the rasp in his voice must.

He spends Saturday in bed. On Sunday, he reluctantly contacts Lydia through Donna to tell her he has a cold and doesn’t feel right dragging his germs into her house. She agrees with him, and they have a surprisingly civil conversation about what they’re doing for Christmas.

Lydia’s bringing Emma to spend the day at Charlene’s. Dean’s chest hurts with more than congestion at the thought that it’s his daughter’s first Christmas, and he’s missing it, just like he’s missing so many other landmarks. He offers to drive over to drop off the gifts he picked up Emma – just a stuffed bunny and some books – but Lydia tells him to wait until next week so he can watch her open them in person.

“She’s able to tear open paper now,” she says. “It’s cute.”

Dean hangs up after wishing her a good holiday. The conversation with Lydia, although cordial, didn’t do much to improve his mood. He was supposed to jump up to four hours with Emma this weekend. And those missing extra hours feel beaten into his skin. It’s just something else he’s missing. Just something else he’s doing wrong.

And, God, after the shitshow of the deposition, Dean has no idea how many hours left he has with Emma. Mick called him afterward, told him not to lose hope: it was just a bump in the road; they’d finagle their testimony around the new information. But it didn’t exactly lighten the terrible weight of failure on his shoulders. Maybe it would have helped if the words came from Sam, but Sam wasn’t talking to Dean, right now. Dean didn’t blame him.

Dean’s nose is stuffed up, his throat is scratchy, and his head aches. It’s only two days before Christmas, and he couldn’t feel less festive. He didn’t get a tree. He made a concerted effort to avoid listening to Christmas music all December; it makes him remember when he was a kid, which makes him think about Emma, which reminds him that he doesn’t get to see her. He didn’t even buy anyone else in his family gifts because money is so tight. He’s still planning on baking pie and cookies before he heads over to Bobby’s on the day of, but baked goods for presents feel like a copout.

Dean tells himself he’s not plummeting headfirst into a depressive episode, not right before Goddamn Christmas, so he drags his aching body out of bed, bundles up in his warmest coat and boots, and climbs onto his balcony with a pack of cigarettes.

It’s snowing slowly: heavy flakes that flutter and drift in the light spilling from his and Charlie’s windows. Charlie strung fairy lights on the banister of the fire escape, and they cast glistening shapes onto the wall of the building across the alley.

Dean lights up a cigarette and takes one breath before he’s nearly doubled over from coughing. Dimly, he hears Charlie’s window slide open.

“This black death?”

“Hi to you, too, Charles,” Dean rasps, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. On second thought, he crushes his cigarette under his boot into the powdery snow collecting on the landing.

“I don’t think I’ll get too close,” Charlie tells him. She looks festive: she’s wearing a fluffy sweater with a picture of the Grinch on it and a Santa hat pulled low over her ears.

“Probably for the best,” Dean says, coughing again in an effort to clear his lungs.

Charlie’s eyebrows furrow in concern. “Seriously, you dying, or something?”

“I’m okay,” Dean says, smiling. “Just a cold. More annoying than deadly.”

“Well, good,” Charlie says. She props herself up against her window, breathes on her fingers, and stomps her feet. “No one should be sick on Christmas.”

“What are you up to on the big day, anyway?” Dean asks. He doesn’t know much about Charlie’s family except for the fact both her parents are dead. He immediately feels guilty about not wondering about it before. He doesn’t want her spending the day alone with her video games, especially now that he knows she and Dorothy are officially kaput after Dorothy just never came back from her cross-country motorcycle trip.

Charlie shrugs. “I kinda like to do my own thing on Christmas.”

That doesn’t make Dean feel any better. “You could come with me to my uncle’s – you know Bobby?” Come to think of it, Charlie’s become such a staple in his life, he’s astonished she has yet to meet Bobby or Ellen. “He and Ellen wouldn’t mind the extra person. There’s always plenty of food. Plenty of booze. Plenty of pie.”

“Thanks,” Charlie says. Her voice is a little strange, like she’s trying too hard to be chipper. “But I do this, ah, thing on Christmas. I’ll be okay on my own, really.”

“You sure?” Dean says. And he’s never been good at this. The prying apart people’s stories thing. He never knows when it’s okay to dig further, whether someone’s secretly hoping he’ll ask the question or if they just want to be left alone. Sam always takes the everyone needs to tell me everything and I don’t understand why they would want to keep things just to themselves approach, but Dean’s hyperaware of boundaries. He doesn’t want to cross any of Charlie’s. He’s always been paranoid about overstaying his welcome.

Surprisingly, however, after a minute of catching snowflakes on her red-tipped fingers, Charlie pipes up, “My parent’s house is still in my name. I got it when I turned eighteen. It’s about half an hour from Des Moines. I – this is gonna sound really sad – but I always go there for Christmas. I’ve got this whole, you know, thing. I hang out with their headstones for a little while. Read ‘em a couple of my favorite chapters from The Hobbit, and spend some quality time in the house, checking out to see if it’s falling apart. Watch Elf. Eat some eggrolls and sweet and sour chicken. That’s where a lot of my money goes: keeping the house running. Stupid, I know, because no one’s living there.”

Dean looks at Charlie – really looks at her. He’s been pretty caught up in his own crap since he met her, but he reminds himself that it’s been a pretty bad six months for her, too. She’s gone through two breakups in the interim, even if she’ll deny that she and Dorothy ever broke up because they were never officially dating. And she’s had to shoulder a lot of new stress as an addendum to having Dean as a friend.

Charlie catches his eye and offers a self-depreciating grin. “Go ahead, call me pathetic. I know it’s pretty pitiful.”

“No –” Dean says hastily. “I don’t think you’re pathetic – I just – I mean, I get it. Christmas sucks for missing people. And I still talk to my mom’s headstone, and I was a lot younger than you when she died.”

Charlie’s smile turns soft with gratitude. She’s always so bright and bubbly. Even though Dean’s starting to believe her when she calls him one of her closest friends, he doesn’t think he really gets to see the core of her hurt all that often. She clears her throat slightly, and when she speaks, her voice is a little croaky.

“It’s just – Christmas was our day, you know? I mean, it’s that way for the majority of white, middle-class America. I’m not special. But it’s still, like, heavy.”

“You need someone to come with?” Dean asks.

Charlie’s eyes bloom with tenderness when she smiles at him, and her lower lip trembles a little. “It means a lot that you asked, Dean. The idea that you’d give up spending time with your family to come with me to meet my dead parents is really sweet.” She hesitates, “But I think – I think I’m gonna do this year alone. Maybe next year, huh?”

“Yeah, well, Bobby always says that family don’t end in blood,” Dean says seriously. “Whatever you need, kiddo. Just – promise you’ll call me if it gets to be too much? You need me, I’ll be there. It’s only three hours.”

Charlie laughs, and it isn’t quite enough to disguise her loud sniff. She shakes her head and finally fixes him with her characteristically chipper smile. “Thanks, Dean. I think I’ll actually risk those germs for this –”

She crosses the balcony and wraps herself around his torso. Dean spreads his arms around her without hesitation. It’s hard to remember a time when hugging Charlie wasn’t second nature. He presses a kiss to the top of her frizzy red hair. “Love you, kid.”

OOO

The feeling like his head is a watermelon about to split open under the sun thankfully dissipates overnight, although the cough lingers, and Dean’s able to go to work in the morning. It’s Christmas Eve, which means Bobby tries his best to hide how soft he really is. He still puts out a plethora of baked goods provided by Ellen under the tree on the table in the breakroom.

Bobby and Rufus hand out envelopes with Christmas bonuses, and the guys give out the gift baskets they always coordinate to Bobby and Rufus. Bobby accepts his with a gruff, “idjits,” and Rufus complains about being a week late for Hanukkah.

Dean drives back to his apartment carefully through the renewed snow flurries. At least it’s a white Christmas. It’s about the only thing that feels right about the holiday this year.

He lets himself in the building with the same ache in his chest he had all weekend. He doesn’t know how it’s possible to miss something he’s never had, but his every step is weighted down with flashes of everything he’s missing: letting Emma taste sugar cookies and candy canes. Seeing her dressed up in a Christmas dress, maybe something made out of velvet. Brining her to the mall so she can cry on Santa’s lap. He didn’t even get the chance to ask Lydia if she’s planning on doing the whole Santa thing. He’s not sure if that’s a conversation he’ll ever get to have with her.

He fights hard against the rush of sadness, and he nearly misses it when he passes the third-floor door and it swings open, letting out Cas, who’s dressed in the baggy suit he wore to his art show, this time with an equally ill-fitting trench coat overtop.

He exchanges his typical hello, Dean for a somber, “Merry Christmas Eve, Dean.”

“Hey, buddy,” Dean says, hoping his dreary mood doesn’t show on his face. “What are you dressed up for?”

“Christmas Eve service,” Cas replies.

Dean’s so surprised, he blurts out, “You go to church?” without thinking about how rude it will sound.

Cas, thankfully, smiles, “I understand your surprise, considering I certainly don’t have a good track record with organized religion. But the season doesn’t feel right without going to a Christmas service. I’m still used to attending midnight mass when I was a child. Gabriel and I go every year.”

“Gabe goes to church?” Dean says, not caring if he sounds rude.

Cas grins wider before he explains, “It’s an Episcopal church. Similar enough to Catholicism that it feels familiar. Although they are affirming – they will even bless same-sex unions – so Gabriel and I feel more comfortable.”

“Well,” Dean says. “It’s good to know they’re not assholes, at least.”

“Pastor Joe seems very kind,” Cas nods in agreement. “Although, admittedly, I only attend at Christmas and Easter. It’s the only time Gabriel will go with me, and I dislike visiting new places by myself.”

“You guys got plans for tomorrow, too?” Dean asks. He’d invite Cas to Bobby’s, as well, even if it meant putting up with Gabe, but it feels a lot more significant, somehow, then inviting Charlie. He doesn’t want Cas reading into it. For that matter, he doesn’t want Bobby, Ellen, Jo, or Sam reading into it. It would be a lot easier convincing them that he and Charlie weren’t a couple – just mention she’s a lesbian and they’re good as gold – but Cas and Dean? Ellen has wanted Dean to settle down with someone for years; no use getting her hopes up.

“I spend the day with Gabriel and Kali, yes. Kali is Hindu, so we don’t celebrate overmuch tomorrow. Tonight is more our tradition. But we still have food and presents in the morning.”

“That sounds nice,” Dean says. “I’ll head over to Bobby and Ellen’s before lunch – they’re as close to family as you can be. They’ve got a daughter, Jo, who’ll be there. And then Sammy, of course. He’s bringing his new girlfriend.” Sam and Eileen have been dating for the majority of the year; Dean wonders when he’ll stop thinking of her as Sam’s new girlfriend.

“That also sounds very nice,” Cas says.

“Hey, when do you leave for your sister’s wedding?” Dean asks. “That’s before the new year, right?”

“Yes,” Cas replies. “We leave on the 26th, actually. It’s a late flight to Boston. Neither of us wanted to go to the rehearsal dinner. The wedding is in the afternoon on the 27th, and we fly back early on the 28th.” It’s hard to tell because Cas’s face is so impassive, but Dean thinks he sounds a little nervous.

“I hope it’s – you know – a good time,” Dean says uncertainly.

“Thank you,” Cas says. He swallows. Yeah, definitely nervous. “It’s been ten years since I’ve seen any of them in person. I – of course there’s been Facebook and phone calls – but that’s not really the same.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Listen – if you need anything – you can call me, okay?” He wants to make the same offer he did to Charlie: ask him to be there, and he’ll be there, but Boston is a lot farther than Iowa. Dean definitely can’t make it in a three-hour drive.

“I appreciate that,” Cas tells him.

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs, feeling suddenly uncomfortably warm in the stairwell. Maybe his cold’s transformed into a fever. “Just don’t let them give you any crap. They rub you the wrong way, tell ‘em you’ve got a friend back home who knows how to throw a punch.”

It makes Cas break into a smile, which is what Dean was going for.

“Gabriel has threatened physical violence multiple times on my behalf, as well.”

“Good,” Dean says. “That’s what a big bro is there for.” Dean inwardly winces – did he really just equate himself with Cas’s big brother? Is that really the dynamic he wants to play up, right now? “Well, ah, I should probably let you go. Don’t want you to be late for church. Ain’t tardiness one of the ten deadly sins?”

“There are only seven deadly sins, Dean,” Cas corrects him gravely. “And no, tardiness is not one of them. Although perhaps frivolity should be.”

Dean throws him a wink. “Everyone needs a little frivolity now and again, Cas.”

Cas grins at him. “I hope you have a peaceful holiday, Dean.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, letting himself be serious for the moment. “You too, man.”

He hesitates for a moment before he takes the last step up to the third-floor landing and closes his arms around Cas in a hug. Cas is stiff in his arms for only a second before he softens and puts his arms around Dean, in turn. It feels nice. Close and warm and friendly. Dean wishes –

Dean lets go, clears his throat. There’s a tickle there, lingering from his cold, and he says to the floor, “Well, merry Christmas, dude.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

OOO

“Too damn skinny,” Ellen says with her arms tight around him. “You eating enough?”

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Ellen,” Dean says, playfully rolling his eyes, but more than a little conscious of the need to dodge her question. The answer is no: he’s still mostly subsisting off soup, toast, and the occasional starchy food, like potatoes or oatmeal. It’s the only thing that will keep his perpetual nausea at bay.

Dean’s always had a strange relationship with eating. Noticeable enough that Pam’s put a little worried tick next to it once or twice, but not alarming enough that it’s ever been the center of conversations. He fluctuates wildly from bouts of psychosomatic nausea that leave him nearly incapable of keeping anything down to anxiety-fueled, compulsive binges that used to make Sam gag. But it’s not like he’s ever made himself throw-up. He doesn’t purposefully starve himself. It’s not like he wants to be skinny. It’s just that…sometimes hunger feels right. Sometimes it’s almost comforting. Because, as a kid, hunger meant Sammy went to bed well-fed. Hunger meant Dean was doing his job. But that’s definitely not something he’s going to tell Ellen.

“Don’t you make faces at me,” Ellen says, but she pulls his head close so she can kiss his cheek.

“You better have brought that apple pie of yours.” Bobby comes around the corner into the hall, wheels squeaking on the linoleum.

“Wouldn’t have bothered coming if I hadn’t,” Dean says. He bends to give Bobby his own hug.

“Someone say pie?” Jo’s voice rings out, and she’s sliding across the floor in red and green striped socks. She’s wearing a Santa hat with the script Bah Humbug across the rim.

“Jeez, nice to know I’m wanted,” Dean says.

Jo greets him with a smile, snatches the two foil-covered pies stacked in his hand, and grabs him in a hug with her free arm. “Merry Christmas, loser.”

“Hi, kid,” Dean says, still feeling uncomfortable around Jo, seeing as the last time they saw each other face-to-face was at Benny’s picnic. Technically, they’ve patched things up, but Dean doesn’t exactly know how to behave normally around her. Six years is a long time to go without talking, after all.

He thankfully doesn’t have much time alone with just Bobby, Ellen, and Jo before Sam arrives with Eileen, creating a notable distraction when Sam also drags along a bundle of golden fur and energy at the end of a leash.

“What happened to the rat?” Dean calls – he thinks the new dog is a golden retriever. It’s currently licking Jo’s laughing face, who immediately descended on the mutt in rapture, bypassing Eileen entirely.

“Leslie,” Sam says pointedly, “was adopted by a woman in a retirement home named Mildred.”

“Hope she doesn’t step on it,” Dean remarks.

Sam frowns at him, but he steps forward like he’s going to give Dean a hug, so Dean complies. He wasn’t sure what Sam would be like – it’s the first time they’ve talked since the disastrous deposition. Apparently Sam’s decided to enter that terrible holding pattern where he pretends everything’s okay before he can find an appropriate time to “talk.”

Eileen is being passed around from Bobby to Ellen to Jo with enthusiasm. Bobby and Ellen met her at Thanksgiving, but it’s the first time Jo’s been introduced, and she immediately drags her away to gossip before Dean’s able to get in much more than a quick wave.

“This is Bones,” Sam says proudly, tugging the dog away from where it had its paws up on Bobby’s lap, happily accepting ear scratches. The dog is excited to greet Dean, next. Before he knows it, Dean has 60 pounds of fur and slobber bounding toward him.

“Oof, hi,” Dean says, taking a step back, but not in time to avoid a headbutt to his thighs as the dog tries to get a good whiff of his crotch.

Sam laughs at him. “He’s not going to bite you, Dean.”

“Fuck off,” Dean tells his brother.

“He can smell your fear,” Bobby adds.

“You know, I’m just gonna take my pies and go back home –”

“Hush,” Ellen says, stepping forward to rescue Dean by crouching to the floor and luring Bones away from him. “He’s a sweetheart, innit he? Hi, boy. Who’s a good boy?”

Sam and Dean exchange matching looks of alarm at the sound of Ellen breaking into high-pitched squeals as she rubs her hands along Bones’ face. Bones loves her, and his mouth drops, letting out a slimy tongue.

Dean takes the opportunity to walk back a few more steps. It’s not that he doesn’t like dogs, he’s indignantly told Sam too many times to count, he just doesn’t want to have to touch them. Or worry about them coming over to touch him.

“Kate and Adam sent a card for both of us,” Sam says, slipping his hand into his back pocket and handing Dean said glossy Christmas card from Kate and their half-brother Adam. “Forgot to tell her you moved out. Looks like Adam’s engaged. He’s also been accepted to Harvard for med school.” Dean turns the card over to see the photo printed on it: there’s Kate, Adam, and a girl Dean recognizes as Adam’s high school sweetheart, Kristin.

“Well, would you look at that,” Dean replies. “Two Ivy Leaguers in the family.”

“I don’t think it counts if you never graduated,” Sam says, casually enough, but Dean always wonders if those kinds of comments are a dig. Dean doesn’t think Sam blames Dean for dropping out of Stanford during his last semester, but he can’t be sure that there’s not some hidden resentment. The accident was Dean’s fault, after all.

“Yeah, well, close enough,” Dean says flippantly.

The day passes with a surprising lack of awkwardness. Jo’s nearly as good at Dean at playing the fool, so if she’s uncomfortable, she doesn’t show it. It feels almost like old times, when Dean and Sam were living with Bobby after he married Ellen. Eileen fits right in, too. She and Jo lose no time ganging up on Sam and Dean. They eat good food and tell bad jokes and tease Jo about all the dried noodle Christmas ornaments she made in kindergarten that Ellen still hangs on the massive tree. Everyone even pretends to be excited about Dean’s presents of peanut butter cookies and chocolate fudge even though he’s the only one who didn’t get store bought items.

Bobby hauls out a gigantic present after everyone’s done opening gifts and hands it to Dean. Dean can already feel the rush of blood to his face when everyone’s eyes turn to him.

“You better not have wasted money on me,” he mutters.

“Just open the damn present, ya idjit,” Bobby tells him.

Dean tears open the paper, momentarily afraid that Ellen and Bobby got him some sort of baby-inspired present despite his request not to buy him anything in case the custody battle fell through – but he pulls off the paper and reveals a familiar, battered guitar case.

“Bobby…” Dean says, words caught in his tight throat.

“She deserved to go to someone who’ll actually play ‘er,” Bobby says gruffly.

Dean recognizes the case for Bobby’s 1975 Martin, right away. His fingers shake a little as he unclasps the case and opens it to reveal the guitar. It’s bumped and bruised from years’ of use. It’s not the kind of guitar that hung on a wall or was stuck behind a glass case to be kept in pristine condition. There’s music scraped into its spruce face and mahogany back. There are smudges from Dean’s thirteen-year-old fingerprints as Bobby patiently taught him how to pluck out his favorite songs.

Dean wants to protest, but he knows anything he says will fall on deaf ears.

“Thanks,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Dean used to want to be a Rockstar. He labored for hours over this thing when he was a kid. He remembers it as one, if not the only, interest he had as a child that didn’t involve looking after Sam or worrying about Dad. It’s been over five years since he’s played. He just got out of the habit of asking Bobby for the guitar whenever he’d come over.

“I remember when you used to play this old thing,” Sam says, leaning over for a better look.

“Better make sure you still remember how,” Bobby says. He’s got a grin hidden beneath his scraggly beard. Ellen is beaming beside him.

Dean doesn’t need any more prompting. He takes the guitar carefully out of the case. He’s self-conscious with so many eyes on him as he spends a couple moments tuning her, plucking strings and turning the pegs. He strums the soft, familiar chords of “Stairway to Heaven.” His muscle memory picks it up like no time has past, and it’s nice for his body and mind to cooperate on something, for once. He ends by plucking out a refrain of “Jingle Bells” before he sets the guitar back in its case.

Dad always said Dean got his musical talent from Mom; she was a regular guitar-toting hippie in the late ‘60s, cried when the Beatles broke up in ’70. Her guitar was one of the many things they lost in the fire.

Christmas isn’t Christmas without watching Die Hard, munching on caramel popcorn and candy canes. Sam, Eileen, and Bones leave soon after. Ellen packs Dean’s arms full of Tupperware filled with leftover Christmas lunch: turkey and mashed potatoes and Bobby’s corn bread.

“Don’t even think about arguing,” she warns his direly.

Dean accepts the food, shaking his head in exasperation, before giving out good-bye hugs. The drive home is peaceful. It stopped snowing last night, but everything’s coated in white. Christmas lights strung on front porches and over garage doors cast vibrant patterns on lawns and the street. Dean even puts on the local oldies radio station instead of one of his tapes because it’s playing classic Christmas carols.

When he gets back to his apartment, he thinks about heading onto the fire escape with a cigarette, but he talks himself out of it: he already smoked a pack in the past week, alone, which is nowhere near his pack-a-day chain smoking days when he was with Lee, but it’s still way over his one stick a day promise to himself. Plus, it’s getting harder to convince himself that the lingering cough and tightness in his chest don’t have something to do with whatever damage he’s doing to his lungs.

Instead, he lets himself into Charlie’s apartment to poke a couple dead crickets at her pet gecko, which licks its eye with its weird, pale tongue and stares at him unnervingly. He double checks to make sure its tank is latched; he doesn’t want it getting out in the middle of the night to sneak into his apartment and eat his toes.

Then he returns to his apartment. He sits on his bed and pulls out Bobby’s guitar again. He smooths his thumb around the wide curve of the body before tracing the edge of the neck. He fits it snug into his arms and strums mindlessly for a while, lost in hazy memories of Mom, who’d pull out her own guitar – every night, without fail – and sing “Hey Jude” before putting Dean to bed. It’s something he’s always distantly hoped to do for his own kids someday.

He’s interrupted from his melancholy when his phone erupts with an incoming call. Dean sets aside his guitar and immediately picks up the phone when he sees it’s Charlie. He’s been keeping tabs on her all day with check-in texts, but he knows better than most that it’s at night that the demons really show up.

“Hey, Charles,” he says into the phone. “You okay?”

“Mer’ Christmas,” she slurs happily.

“You drunk?”

“Just a tiny little bit,” she says.

“You need me to come get you?” Dean asks seriously.

“Nah,” she says. “I’m ‘kay.” He listens hard for any sign that she’s not telling the truth. But she does just sound drunk, so he tries not to worry too hard. “I just wanted to talk to someone who was alive, ya know?”

“You got a glass of water by your bed?” Dean asks.

“Yes, Dad,” Charlie snorts.

“You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“Smeagol okay?”

“Okay and creepy as ever,” Dean says. “Just fed him his Christmas pudding.”

Charlie hiccups on the other end of the phone.

“You know I’ve known them longer dead than alive?”

Dean sighs hard, not exactly thrown by the non sequitur. “I know, kiddo.”

“Sucks,” Charlie says miserable. “Sucks balls.”

“I know it does,” Dean agrees.

“They never got to know me, ya know?” Charlie says thickly, in the sloppy way that could proceed a drunken meltdown. “I’m so fucking awesome, and they never even got to know me.”

“You should try to get some sleep,” Dean suggests. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Tell me a story?” Charlie says.

Dean figures she’s drunk. She’s sad and she’s alone and she’s not going to remember this in the morning. “Want me to sing to you?”

Charlie sniffs loudly. “Yes, please,” she says meekly.

“Lay down and shut your eyes,” Dean instructs her.

He hears shifting fabric, and a moment later Charlie says sleepily, “Ready.”

Dean puts the phone on speaker so he has his hands free. Then he picks up Bobby’s guitar, props it up in his arms, and starts, “Hey Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…”

Charlie joins him on the first round of na na na nas, but, by the second, he can hear faint snores coming through his phone. Dean trails away, smiling to himself.

“Merry Christmas, Charlie,” he whispers before he hangs up.

He gets up to put the guitar away, carefully tucking it beside the couch armrest and the wall. Then he hops in the shower to wash off the day, changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt, and gets into bed.

OOO

Dean’s snapped off the lights and drifted into a light doze when he’s abruptly brought back to consciousness by the sound of urgent knocking. Dean’s brain immediately cycles to the usual catastrophes: the building’s on fire, someone’s dead, it’s the police, someone’s in the hospital –

He doesn’t even think to look through the peephole before he’s tugging the door open.

It’s Cas. Dean blinks at him blearily for a minute, coughs roughly into his fist, and straightens up to see that, no, he is not dreaming.

“Dean,” Cas says urgently, twisting his fingers in front of his chest. “I need your help.”

Chapter Text

“Cas!” Dean says, startled into alertness. “What the – you okay, man? Get in here.” He grabs Cas’s arm and tugs him through the door, like they’re performing some kind of illicit affair.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. He’s visibly nervous, which makes Dean nervous. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“No, that’s – I’m not alarmed.” Dean lies hastily. “Just wasn’t expecting – what’s up?”

“Kali’s father had a heart attack,” Cas says.

It takes Dean’s brain a second to comprehend this stream of words, let alone why they would bring Cas to Dean’s door in the middle of the night. “Oh, shit, man. That sucks. He okay?”

“They believe he will recovery,” Cas says. He starts pacing in the small space between the end of Dean’s bed and the kitchen. He’s tapping his fingers at his sides. “But Gabriel and Kali are leaving in the morning for Sacramento.”

“Oh, good,” Dean says, hurrying to catch up, but momentarily sidetracked by the realization that Gabe is actually some poor guy’s daughter’s boyfriend. What a horrifying prospect for a son-in-law.

“And I understand how unusual it is – how spontaneous this is – but I can’t go alone. I already didn’t know how I was going to get through it with Gabriel. Now I can’t believe I’ll be able to survive without – but I already told them I’d be there and – and I do want to see them now that I’ve made the decision to go –”

“Dude!” Dean interrupts. He grabs Cas’s arm again. “Calm down. Just – here,” he leads him to the edge of the bed. Cas sits, looking so miserable Dean kind of wants to sling an arm around his shoulder, but he resists the urge, perching beside him, instead, with a couple inches between their legs. “Start at the beginning, okay? You don’t want to go where alone?”

“Anna’s wedding,” Cas says.

“Oh, shit,” Dean says, remembering. “I’m guessing they won’t be able to make it on a later flight?”

“No,” Cas frowns, and he just looks so Goddamned sad, Dean just barely stops himself from hugging him. “They expect to be there for at least a week. Kali’s mother needs assistance around the house.”

“And you – you really wanna go to the wedding still?”

“I just want to see them,” Cas says, voice thick. It makes Dean’s heart ache, like someone’s physically ripping it apart. He doesn’t understand why seeing Cas upset hurts so much. This is almost Sammy’s in trouble levels of distress. “I understand I’m likely setting my hopes too high, but – but I thought at least Anna – or Alfie. The last time I saw him, he was in high school –”

“There’s no one else you can ask?” Dean says, a little desperately, because he’s starting to understand why Cas might have woken him up.

Cas shakes his head. His hair’s all floppy and disheveled. “Meg is the only other person I’m closest to, but she has threatened my family with bodily harm on more than one occasion, and I’m genuinely afraid she could become violent if someone says something out of line – especially Michael or Luke.”

“Cas – I don’t –” Dean says, but he stops. Because he can’t. He can’t say no to Cas, right now. Not when Cas is clearly so desperate for help. Not when Cas just compared Dean to Meg: the only other person he’s closest to.

“I understand,” Cas says, and even though his face is his regular hard-to-read veneer, Dean knows him well enough now to tell he’s devastated. “I shouldn’t have – it’s a great deal to ask of someone –”

“No, wait,” Dean says hastily. He puts his hand back on Cas’s arm, and he wonders why he can’t stop touching the guy. “I – listen – I’ve only got one suit, okay? So as long as you’re fine with me showing up like your cheap date, then I’ll go.”

The grin that splits Cas’s face is enough to demolish all of Dean’s doubts. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and spreads his lips wide enough to show his gums.

“Thank you, Dean. I think your suit will be perfectly acceptable.”

OOO

By the next afternoon, waiting to board the five o’clock flight to Logan International Airport, Dean thinks he’s pretty stupid.

What the fuck was he thinking? Why the fuck did he agree to come on this trip? He’s doing everything in his power to not turn tail and spring out of the airport. His hands are clenched in tight fists, and he urges himself to find an anchor in the slight pinch of pain between his nails and palms. He can’t sit still: one second he’s pacing circles around the gate, the next he’s staring out the window, watching the planes fly in and trying not to think that, in a few minutes, that’s where he’ll be: hurtling toward his death.

A tin can. That’s what it is. A fucking tin can in the sky. Dean doesn’t care how many times Sam has explained lift and aerodynamics and whatever other bullshit. People were not meant to fly. It’s just not natural.

Castiel, for his part, seems like a relatively good travel companion: he’s calm and organized and punctual. He appears utterly transfixed by everything going on around him, like he’s never seen an airport before. Dean wants to tell him to cut out the creepy staring, but he has a feeling that might be kind of rude, so he swallows back the words. He might be on the verge of outright panic, but it’s not to the point of biting off anyone’s head, yet.

He’s not sure how much longer he can last when the check-in officer finally calls for boarding of their flight. It’s not crowded, and Dean and Cas get a spot near the front of the line.

“Are you alright?” Cas inquires, eyebrows dipped low over his eyes.

“Fine,” Dean says tightly.

Cas doesn’t have a chance to ask more because they’re handing over their boarding passes and heading down the accordioned tunnel of doom toward the plane. Dean’s heart is beating so hard it’s like a jackhammer against his ribs. The rolling suitcase he borrowed from Sam bumps behind him. Sam had been less-then thrilled to hear about Dean’s impromptu trip to Boston, but he’d eventually softened after a rigorous interrogation about Dean’s mental faculties: you’re absolutely sure you’re not manic, right now? You’re positive you know what you’re doing? You’re gonna be okay for two nights alone with Cas in a hotel room?

The stewardess that greets him at the entrance of the plane is pretty, and her smile is bright, voice is perky, but Dean can’t even muster a flirtatious wink. He barely nods at her as he passes into the plane.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Dean’s stupid. He’s so fucking stupid. And he should have just popped a Goddamn valium. All his reasoning for not taking the pill seems utterly ridiculous now. Sure, he hates how dopey and drowsy it makes him feel. And it’s a five-hour flight, and valium usually puts him out for upwards of six hours, and he hadn’t wanted to make Cas drag his high ass to the hotel, but – shit. Shit.

A five-hour flight. A Goddamn five-hour flight.

He wants a drink. Holy shit. He’s supposed to get through five hours of this shit, and he can’t even have a fucking drink?

His arms shake as he lifts his bag into the overhead compartment. Dean’s ahead of Cas, so when he gets to their row, he heads in first, but it’s by the fucking window. So, he’s going to be hemmed in by Cas and the fucking wall. And this way he’ll be able to have a first-hand view of the ground careering toward them while they crash. Yes, Pam, he knows he’s catastrophizing. He just can’t help it at the moment.

“Are you afraid of flying?” Cas asks.

“No,” Dean snaps. And he slams the shutters of the window so he can’t watch the very tiny people below load the luggage under the plane. “Okay, fine. Yes. It’s stupid. Don’t worry about it.”

“If you need to hold my hand, you can do so,” Cas says seriously.

“I don’t need to hold your hand. Jesus,” Dean barks.

This changes almost as soon as the plane taxis down the runway and starts its incline. Dean can feel the press of gravity against his chest. He grabs anxiously for anything to hold onto, and it just so happens that one of those things is Cas’s hand.

Cas’s fingers are firm and reassuring. Dean shuts his eyes tight and frantically tries to remember all the lyrics to Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters.” He doesn’t register he’s muttering aloud until Cas leans close, nudges, him and asks, worry evident, “Would you like to listen to music?”

Dean can’t speak, but he nods quickly.

Cas bends to rustle through the small backpack he stuffed under his seat. He returns with a pair of bulky headphones and mp3 player.

“They’re noise cancelling,” Cas explains. He detaches his hand from Dean’s long enough to slip the headphones over Dean’s head and fit them snuggly over Dean’s ears.

Dean would feel guilty about stealing what is probably one of Cas’s sensory tools, but he’s too busy trying not to puke. He takes small sips of air in an effort to calm his stomach and racing heart.

Cas was right: the headphones are noise cancelling. The low frequency rumble and chatter of the other passengers immediately cuts out. Cas fiddles with the mp3 player before a generic folksy, indie tune comes through the headphones, but Dean doesn’t even care. He’d take Taylor Swift if it meant escaping this death trap, right now.

Actually, after counting a few breaths, sitting there with his hand tight in Cas’s, eyes shut, and ears filled with music, it’s a lot easier to forget he’s sitting in an airplane hundreds of feet above ground. He can almost imagine he’s sitting in a car or maybe a train.

The false sense of security lasts until they hit turbulence as they cross the border of New York. Dean bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. They’re going to die. They’re going to spontaneously combust into a fiery ball. They’re going to plunge into the icy depths of the ocean –

Cas peels off one of the earpads of Dean’s headphones and he says, “There are no oceans in the middle of the continental United States, Dean.” And Dean realizes he’s been muttering out loud.

“Fuck,” Dean says, dropping his head against the back of the seat and wishing it was over, already.

Cas renews his grip on Dean’s hand. Dean can’t even bring himself to be bothered by the fact that they’ve been holding hands for nearly four straight hours, now. Cas has been steadily working his way through a book, holding it one-handed.

The last hour is terrible. It’s nearly ten o’clock according to Dean’s watch, but it’s approaching eleven in Eastern Standard Time, so Dean’s exhausted, and he’s run down from having bypassed an early dinner, too nervous to eat anything. He’s only ever flown once before: back when Sam was at Stanford, Dean scraped up enough money to fly out to him during his first winter break. Dean remembers that taking off and the descent were the worst parts. The terrible pitch in his stomach is the same when the plane drops altitude, as is the painful popping in his ears and the feeling of vertigo that rushes through his body.

But, finally, it’s over. The plane wheels to a stop, attaches to the gangway, and a flight attendant tells them over the speaker that she hopes they had a good flight, best wishes in Boston.

It takes Dean a couple seconds to release Cas’s hand. He swallows hard. He's shaking a little. And his muscles were clenched so tight for so long, he can feel the threat of a cramp in his upper thigh.

He limps out of the plane, dragging his suitcase behind him, and he doesn’t take a full breath until he enters Logan Airport. He bends over with his hands on his knees, thinking he’s never been so grateful to have solid ground under his feet.

“Holy shit,” Dean takes a deep breath. He releases it with a week laugh. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Dean,” Cas says in his straightforward way, like he didn’t just spend five hours comforting a grown man through a plane ride as if he was a toddler.

They didn’t check any bags because they’re only staying two nights, so they leave the airport right away. Cas calls them an Uber to take them to the hotel, where all the guests are staying; the reception takes place in the onsite restaurant. It’s a snazzy as fuck place overlooking the harbor. It’s over $300 a night, and looks it – with sleek wood trim, intricate marble detailing, and mirrored tile in the lobby. It’s way outside Dean’s usual hotel fare, but Gabe’s footing the bill. He insisted on covering Dean’s hotel stay and airplane ticket once he heard he was going with Cas, as a sign of gratitude for looking after his little bro. Dean would have protested harder, but the shit was already paid before, and Dean really didn’t have the extra money. He’s never had quite the same aversion to charity that John Winchester had.

The hotel is still decorated for Christmas. There’s holly, fairy lights, and garland strung across every doorway and around every banister. There’s a massive silver and gold-decked tree in the middle of the entrance, towering at least two stories. The nicest place Dean ever stayed at had complimentary cookies in the lobby, but this place has a small wine bar, manned by a straight-backed waiter. And the concierge calls an honest to God bellhop to carry their bags for them.

It clicks, suddenly, just what it means that Cas’s family is New England kinda rich. Even wealthy people in the Midwest aren’t exactly flashy. It’s humble land, and it tends to breed humble stock. But the Northeast is different: it’s uniformed elevator boys and crystal chandeliers in the car and gold handles on the doors. It’d be tacky except for the fact everyone around him was so unaffected by it. If he were with Sam, he would have been making fun of the ridiculous marble bust of an angel guarding the front door, and Sam would roll his eyes at him.

But Cas seems entirely nonplussed by it, like he’s nonplussed by basically everything, but it occurs to Dean that he must be used to this. It’s what he grew up with, after all. Cas has always been so comfortable in his tiny, messy studio at Gabe’s, in his baggy, paint-smudged clothes, and it throws Dean to think of him as a rich kid. Yeah, he has his douchebag car, but even that is more like a sad accident then any meaningful extension of his personality.

Dean’s so used to Cas being the odd one out, what with his disconcerting staring and stilted conversation, that it makes him a little nervous to realize just how out of place he, himself, will be here. He’s the uncouth, underprivileged stranger invited by the estranged son to an intimate family affair.

The elevator lets them off on the eleventh floor, and they head down the hall to their room. Cas has the key in his hand when a call from down the hall reaches them.

“Castiel?”

Cas turns so fast Dean’s afraid he’s going to break his neck. He nearly fumbles the key. The man approaching them is a couple inches taller than Dean. He has closely shorn blond hair and whiskers.

“Luke,” Cas says.

Dean sees the flicker of unease in Cas’s eyes, and he straightens his shoulders a little, stares the guy head-on. Luke looks more like Gabe than he does Cas – with his hazel eyes, rounded nose, and high forehead – but there’s similarities between Luke and Cas’s broad shoulders and sloping walk.

“Wow.” Luke stops a few paces away, staring Cas up and down. He doesn’t give Dean or the bellhop with their bags a second glance. “Little Cassie’s all grown up.” He’s got a nasally voice and a coldness in his eyes that Dean’s never seen in Gabe’s. Dean immediately dislikes him.

“Hello, Luke,” Cas says. Dean’s never seen him at a loss for words before. “It’s – it’s good to see you.”

It’s so weird. Because ten years – ten years? – Dean’s not one for touchy-feely shit, but he and Sam would definitely hug, or something, if they hadn’t seen each other for ten years. At least shake hands, even if they somehow hated each other’s guts.

It’s like Luke hears Dean’s thoughts, because he suddenly grins and steps forward, snatching ahold of Cas’s shoulders and tugging him into a firm embrace. Dean notices Cas doesn’t melt into it the way he did when he and Dean hugged on Christmas Eve.

“Good to see you, kiddo.”

Dean remembers the bellhop has been standing there the whole time, silently watching the awkward exchange.

“You can, ah, just leave ‘em here,” he says. He digs into his pocket for his wallet, totally at a loss for how much to tip the kid. The poor guy looks like he’s in high school. He's dressed up like a toy soldier, cap not quite able to contain his afro of tight, black curls, and he has a nametag on his chest: Aaron. Dean picks out a ten and hands it over; Aaron looks immensely pleased with the offering.

“Have a good night,” he says, dropping the bags in front of the door and heading back toward the elevator.

The disturbance finally draws Luke’s eyes to Dean. The brothers have stopped hugging. Cas’s face is a little red, but Luke looks entirely unperturbed. In fact, he looks unimpressed as he takes in Dean’s casual traveling outfit: old jeans and his leather jacket over a flannel shirt; nothing different than he usually wears.

“Didn’t know you were bringing someone, Cassie,” Luke says. And Dean really doesn’t like how he says someone.

“I wasn’t initially planning it,” Cas says uncertainly. “But you know Gabriel and Kali couldn’t make it –”

“Oh, yeah,” Luke says, “Gabe’s Iranian girl.”

“Kali is Indian American,” Cas says stiffly.

“Thought we were supposed to say Native American now,” Luke says. He throws a wink toward Dean like he’s somehow in on the joke, and Dean’s skin crawls.

Cas’s mouth drops, obviously not sure how to correct this, but Luke guffaws at his face and slaps him hard on the shoulder. “I’m just kidding, Cassie. Loosen up. So, who’s this lug?”

“This is Dean,” Cas says. “He’s my friend.”

Luke lifts one eyebrow. “That the story you’re telling Mom?”

“Nice to meet you,” Dean cuts the conversation short. He’s already sick of this douchenozzle. If Luke is anything like the rest of his family, then they’re looking forward to a difficult couple days. “Dean Winchester. Cas has told me a lot about you, Luke.”

“Hmm, has he?” Luke says, and his other eyebrow joins the first. He clasps Dean’s hand hard: it’s a businessman’s handshake, well-practiced and dominant. Dean gives as good as he gets. He reminds himself that Cas specifically invited Dean because he has faith that he won’t erupt into physical violence like Meg might; Dean’s beginning to agree with Meg for once.

“Well,” Luke says, finally dropping Dean’s hand but not looking away. “I’ll leave you boys to settle in, then.”

Luke’s departure leaves a bad taste in Dean’s mouth. He wants to ask Cas if he’s okay – he put up with Dean’s ass all flight, after all – but Cas is silent and subdued as they finally make it into their hotel room. It’s Cas’s brother; Dean’s not going to just blurt out wow, what a jerk, because, unlike what Sam believes, Dean does have some measure of tact.

“You, ah, wanna get something to eat?” Dean asks hesitantly. Following the theme of the entire hotel, their room is grand and ornate. There are two plush queen beds, complete with elegant throw pillows and stark white comforters that Dean’s a little afraid to touch in case he leaves dirty fingerprints on them. It’s about three times the size of a normal motel room, too.

Cas thinks for a moment before he nods. “I think I would like a burger.”

“Right,” Dean says at once. “Burgers, I know.”

The hotel has a fancy order-in system, which caters from several local restaurants. Only one of them serves the kind of food Dean’s looking for, and even that’s a little ostentatious, with elaborate burger combinations, calls its fries frites, and has about 20 different dipping sauces. Dean calls up and orders two bacon cheeseburgers with a large side of sweet potato fries and something called garlic aioli, because that’s what the receptionist says is her favorite.

By the time the food arrives, they eat, and they shower off the day, it’s after one o’clock. Dean is so exhausted he doesn’t bother popping a sleeping pill. He crawls into the bed and luxuriates in the extra space, extra plushness of the pillows, and extra thread count in the sheets. The day has tired him out, what with the sustained panic of the flight, dealing with Luke, and the fact that he worked a six-hour shift before leaving. He drops off to sleep almost immediately.

OOO

Dean wakes up with the smell of smoke in his nose and a tickle in his throat. He coughs himself into full consciousness, feeling claustrophobic and overly warm in his blankets. It takes him a minute to remember where he is because he’s too busy trying to catch his breath. But he finally remembers that he’s in a hotel room with Cas; nothing’s burning; he’s not about to be smothered.

“You sound terrible,” Cas says, slipping into his field of view with a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Dean rasps. His lungs hurt. Damn, he thought he was finally getting this cold out of his system. He gratefully takes the water from Cas and takes a couple careful sips. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Cas says. Which makes Dean think it must be later than he thought; it’s still pitch black in the hotel room, but maybe it’s already morning. Except he glances at the clock and sees it’s 3:45. “I was doing yoga,” Cas explains.

“Dude, what?” Dean sputters. The water cooled his throat, but his voice is still raspy. “It’s the middle of the night. Have you slept at all?”

Cas shrugs. He sits across from Dean on his own bed. There’s about two feet of space between their knees. It would be very easy to lean across and –

No. No. That is not why Dean’s here. He is not going to ruin this. Cas trusts him. Cas is his friend. They’ve come too far now to take a step back just because of Dean’s ridiculous libido.

“I have insomnia,” Cas says. “I tried to sleep for a while. Yoga helps me relax.”

“Yeah? I bet it does,” Dean says before he can stop himself. Stupid. Stupid. “I – ah – never really – I mean, I had a girlfriend who taught –” he’s rambling. He stops.

Cas doesn’t seem to register Dean’s acting weird. He just nods slowly. “Yes, it’s pleasing to move my body. It helps me center myself.”

Pleasing to move my body. Jesus Holy Christ. Dean shuts his eyes. He brings his legs back into bed, grabs the blankets he kicked away from himself, and covers his lap.

“Are you alright?” Cas asks. “You were talking in your sleep.”

Dean’s face burns. It’s definitely an effective boner killer. “I’m fine. Sorry. I do that. It’s – ah –” he doesn’t know what to say. Just be glad I wasn’t screaming. He wants to ask what he said, but he also doesn’t really want to know in case it was something too mortifying.

“What about you?” He switches focus. “You okay?”

“I’m…apprehensive,” Cas says. He looks it. His elbows are on his knees, and there are deep lines on his forehead. “Seeing Luke so unexpectedly…it took me off guard. I don’t know how I’ll handle seeing the rest of them tomorrow.”

“Well, it didn’t go horribly tonight with Luke, did it?” Dean asks. Awkward as fuck, yeah, and maybe kind of backbiting in the way rich people always seem to double talk, but overall not a disaster. Then again, Dean’s criteria for a disaster is a family gathering ending when someone gets punched in the nose.

“Luke was unexpectedly civil,” Cas agrees. “But he’s always been more tolerable without Michael there to egg him on. And it’s –” Cas takes a deep breath. “It’s really my mother I’m worried about. The other’s will be polite to accommodate the wedding, and my mother certainly won’t cause a scene, but she knows how…. Well, she’s always known how to hurt me.”

“That sucks,” Dean says, and he means it. Most of the time, he believes that Dad genuinely didn’t know what to do with two little kids. Dad was so mired in his own shit that he couldn’t help but hurt them. Dean doesn’t think any of it was deliberately malicious. “Parents are just…hard, man.”

“Yes,” Cas says. He drags himself onto his bed and covers himself with his blankets so his face is all that’s out, head on the pillow and turned toward Dean. It’s like they’re having a sleepover, and Dean can’t decide if that’s incredibly adorable or incredibly lame. “What was your relationship like with your father? You mentioned he didn’t know about your sexuality. Was that a point of contention between you two?”

Dean snorts. If it was anyone but Cas – or maybe Charlie – Dean would snap at them that it wasn’t their business or make some sort of snarky remark to avoid the subject. But it is Cas. And Dean only mentioned the thing about Dad once, and Cas was pretty high at the time. Dean’s touched that he remembered it at all.

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “He was just this – he was a marine, you know? All about being the man of the family. He didn’t have time for anything he didn’t understand. And he lived through all the Aides propaganda. You know that shit.”

“Hmm,” Cas says thoughtfully. “Did growing up with that make it difficult for you to accept yourself?”

Cas’s bluntness startles a laugh out of Dean. Maybe it’s because it’s the middle of the night – that hazy point in time when exhaustion lowers his inhibitions – or maybe Cas is just easy to talk to, but Dean still doesn’t get angry at him for prying.

“I don’t know, man. I guess. I mean I can barely say the word bisexual, let alone tell people that’s what I am. All my mom’s side don’t even know.”

“I only ask because I understand how easy it is to internalize toxic things about your identity,” Cas explains. “For a long time, I thought I would never amount to anything more than a special needs child. Something strange and alien. It took me a long time to accept my autism for what it was – just a part of me. And a longer time to treasure how my autism plays a part in my artistic and professional success. Even if it does make interpersonal relationships difficult, sometimes.”

“Shit, man,” Dean says. He blows out a slow breath. He picks his next words carefully, conscious of all Sam’s Ted Talks about how not to invalidate people’s feelings by making it all about you. “I mean – I don’t want to compare our, you know, experiences. But I – I get what it feels like for people to make assumptions about you. I don’t tell anyone, if I can help it, that I’m bipolar. It turns me into the monster, you know? All those misconceptions about split personalities, or whatever.”

“Neurodivergence is difficult to explain,” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. He marvels at Cas’s ability to apply a label to himself so smoothly: neurodivergent. Dean’s never been good at labels. Like queer or mentally ill. It’s fine for people who want to identify that way, but he’s not sure if he’s there yet. Maybe it has something to do with what he was talking to Cas about: how Dad was so suspicious of anything that was different. Difference meant threat. So, Dean tried his best to conform.

“It’s strange,” Cas continues with a small huff of a laugh. “I still find it more difficult to come out as autistic than pan.”

Dean’s pretty sure pan means pansexual, but he doesn’t want to ask. Instead, he thinks of something else to say, and he lands on a memory that makes him smile.

“I don’t really come out to people at all. Didn’t even come out to Sam. He found out when he walked in on me and another guy. He yelled at me for traumatizing him, then yelled some more for not telling him, and then he hugged me and cried, the girl.”

“I told my entire family at Christmas,” Cas says conversationally. “Coupled with the news that I had quit seminary and intended to pursue art. You can imagine the news did not go over well.”

“Damn,” Dean says.

“I was high,” Cas explains. “Which perhaps explains my lack of inhibitions.”

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Many people do consider me an ‘odd duck,’ yes. As for whether my mother is a bitch, you’ll be able to decide that for yourself tomorrow.”

Dean laughs until he starts coughing again. He turns over so he can bury his face in his pillow.

Dean’s never had this kind of conversation without running away before. Sure, he and Charlie sometimes talk about deep stuff, but that usually connects to some piece of fantasy or science fiction. This is different. This feels comfortable and safe. Almost like a therapy session, except Dean’s not paying Cas, Cas gets to share, too, and they’re not digging into anything with a goal in mind. They’re just talking.

“When did you, ah, know?” Dean asks. Charlie knows his story about popping a boner watching Harrison Ford kiss Carrie Fisher in the Millennium Falcon. And he knows hers was Ripley’s infamous underwear scene in Alien, right before she flushed the titular creature out of the airlock.

“I think I always knew,” Cas says thoughtfully. “I suppose I had a crush on my friend in high school. Inias. But I was always too afraid to approach him. I didn’t have my first sexual encounter with a man until I was 21.”

“My first was a friend in high school, too,” Dean says. He doesn’t need to mention the hooking thing. Besides, it’s all become so jumbled in his head he honestly can’t remember if Aaron came before or after turning tricks. “He sold me weed and I taught him how to give a blow job.”

Cas is silent for a moment. Dean begins to wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then he says quietly, “His name was Balthazar. My first. He was my Liturgical Theology and Practice professor.”

Dean’s stomach clenches. And, yeah. He’d forgotten about that. He’d tried to block out the majority of his and Cas’s disastrous night together, but Dean recalls it now: running out when it got more than skin-level. Leaving Cas there, thinking that he’d done something wrong. The idea that Cas is trusting him with this information, even when Dean so spectacularly messed it up last time, leaves him feeling dizzy.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

“Thank you,” Cas says. “It took me a long time to realize how deeply he wounded me. How much influence he had in our dynamic. His hypocrisy and flagrant abuse of power was largely what disillusioned me to any authority in the church.”

Dean swallows. He’s a second away from telling Cas about his social studies teacher, but he doesn’t want to share too much and then regret it in the morning. Pam calls that an intimacy hangover, and it’s at least partly why Dean hasn’t done any of Billie’s homework or called her to set up another appointment.

“You didn’t deserve that,” Dean says. “And your bastard professor deserves to rot in Hell.”

“He was an assbutt,” Cas remarks. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice. It makes Dean smile, as well. He’s suddenly drowsy again. Talking’s always worn him out, and Cas’s breathing is coming slower and heavier in the silence.

“Night, Cas,” Dean mutters finally, the darkness draping warm and comfortable around them. Dean shuts his eyes and curls into his blankets.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Chapter Text

“So, what’s the plan of attack?” Dean asks. Both he and Cas are dressed, and they’ve got six hours to kill before they have to get ready for the four o’clock wedding.

“I wasn’t aware we were preparing for battle,” Cas says drolly. He’s definitely in a better mood this morning than he was last night. He’s also wearing jeans that unfairly show off his nice ass. Dean’s grateful he’s not planning on drinking at the wedding, because it’s hard enough to keep his mind off sex with Cas while sober.

“We braving the breakfast downstairs?” Dean asks. “Or do you want to avoid everyone until this afternoon?”

Cas chews on his lower lip. “Gabriel was the one contacting everyone. I don’t know whether he planned anything.”

“Doesn’t matter what Gabe planned,” Dean says. “What do you want to do?”

Cas looks momentarily alarmed at being given free reign of their options, but he musters his resolve and nods, “I think I’d like to go downstairs for breakfast.”

“Kinda hoped you’d say that,” Dean says. He claps Cas on the shoulder and winks. “I’m starving.”

The continental breakfasts Dean’s encountered have, at best, included soggy eggs and those little packaged pastry things. That breakfast is not this breakfast. There’s a waffle bar, customizable omelet buffet, seven different types of coffee, too many freshly baked pastries to count, and fresh fruit. Dean piles his plate high and joins Cas at their corner table. Cas only has coffee and a piece of toast; Dean can empathize with being too nervous to eat, so he doesn’t say anything.

“Anybody down yet?” he asks.

“No,” Cas says. “I know for certain that Luke and Alfie are staying here, although I doubt Michael will be. He lives in Brookline near Mother. No doubt Anna will be busy getting ready.”

“Right,” Dean replies. “Brides have all that girlie shit to get done before a wedding.”

But Cas is no longer listening. He lowers his mug of coffee slowly. The cup rattles a little against his plate. Dean looks over his shoulder to see what Cas is staring at in time to see a young couple walk in. The guy is tall and gangling and the girl is about two feet shorter, looks a little like Winona Ryder’s less attractive sister, and is carrying a can of Nerve Damage. Little bit early for sugary energy drinks, but Dean’s not one to judge.

The guy glances past their table, double-takes, and ogles at Cas. He leaves the girl behind as he dashes across the dining room.

“Cas!” he shouts.

“Alfie –” Cas gets out of his chair stiffly just in time to get buried in a hug. Dean and the girl both avert their eyes from the reunion to give the brothers some privacy. They happen to make awkward eye contact, and the girl offers a startled, closed-lip smile that looks a little like Kermit the Frog.

The brothers finally detach. Alfie’s face is red and Cas’s eyes are wet. At least it’s a more successful reunion than last night’s with Luke.

“It’s really nice to see you again,” Alfie says.

“You as well,” Cas answers in his typical well-mannered diction, and, whereas Dean thinks Luke probably would have made fun of him, it makes Alfie beam.

Cas mentioned that the last time he saw Alfie, other than over Facebook, the kid was in high school. Even though he must be in his mid- to late-twenties now, he still looks like a teenybopper. He’s all wide-eyed and chubby-cheeked liked a Valentine’s day cherub.

The girl he’s with wanders closer. They make quite a pair: her face is angular and eyes are rimmed in a thick band of dark eyeliner. She’s wearing what looks like a little boy’s dress shirt buttoned tight under her chin, and Dean’s not sure if she’s just a hipster or if she’s gay – in which case, Dean’s not going to be the one to break the news to her boyfriend.

“Sorry – this is Alice,” Alfie says breathlessly.

Alice flashes an uncomfortable peace sign. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Cas says. He’s still obviously flustered, so Dean puts him out of his misery.

“I’m Dean,” he offers his hand to Alfie – Alfie doesn’t seem nearly as frosty as Luke was – and he enthusiastically shakes Dean’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Dean. Cas – I’m so glad you decided to come. Obviously, I’m really sad Gabe couldn’t make it. I really wanted time to hang out with you both. But Anna will be so happy to see you.”

Cas looks so taken aback by this news that it kind of breaks Dean’s heart. And he still seems completely incapable of processing this new development, so Dean takes the initiative again – after all, he’s there for moral support. He might as well do his damn job.

“You guys have plans before the wedding?” he asks.

“None,” Alfie says immediately, looking absolutely thrilled. He’s like a puppy. He and Alice remind Dean of Andy and April from Parks and Rec. They even have the whole alliteration thing going for them. “We should check out the harbor. Alice has never been to Boston before. And – Dean – I don’t know if you have. And we have plenty of time for lunch. Michael and Luke are both groomsmen, so they’re busy, but I’m free until later because I’m just an usher.”

“I would like that very much,” Cas says, breaking his silence with a watery smile.

Alfie and Cas take Dean and Alice on a tour of the city. It’s cold, but the streets are clear of slush, so it’s easy enough to walk around, Dean bundled in his leather jacket, Cas in his trench coat, Alfie in a ridiculous rich boy peacoat, and Alice in an oversized letter jacket with the word shiznit on the back.

Alfie and Cas lead the way. Dean’s more than happy to hang back and let Cas catch up with his little brother. Alfie is an enthusiastic tour guide, pointing out the Freedom Trail, a line of red bricks inlaid into the road, and explaining which famous people are buried in the granary burial grounds. Cas is talkative enough when he gets on a subject that really interests him, but Alfie is more like Gabe in that he never stops talking, although he is incessantly cheerful instead of snarky like his older brother.

His babbling only serves to highlight how dead silent Alice is. Despite her early morning energy drink, she is anything but perky. Dean’s aching to find a way to ask if they are a couple, and it occurs to him that she and Alfie are probably biting their tongues on the same question about he and Cas.

They grab lunch at a hole-in-the-wall deli before heading back to the hotel to get dressed for the wedding.

Dean knows he cleans up well. His suit’s cheap, but it fits him like a glove. He won’t be the most well-dressed guy there, but at least he won’t be shabby. That’s until he comes out of the bathroom, tucking the bottom of his tie into his pants, and sees Cas.

Because Cas cleans up really well.

Dean’s only seem him in the baggy suit he wore to the gallery and Christmas Eve service, but whoever picked out his outfit for the today – because no way did Cas choose it, himself – knew what the fuck they were doing. Cas is in a tailored navy suit with a black shirt – and he looks – damn. He looks sleek as hell. Dean’s mouth goes dry.

“You’re, um,” Dean says, because he’s staring. He’s staring so hard that even Cas – the master of awkward staring – is going to notice. “Your tie’s crooked.”

“What?” Cas says.

“Here,” Dean says, taking two steps forward and reaching automatically to straighten Cas’s black silk tie, which matches his shirt perfectly. And Dean hadn’t registered just how close that got his hands to Cas’s permanent dusting of dark stubble. If Dean lifted his hands just an inch, he could run his knuckle over the angular arc of Cas’s chin.

Shit.

Yeah. Dean is not drinking tonight.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says.

“No problem,” Dean says, dropping his hands immediately and averting his gaze, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

Dean watches Cas covertly as they take another Uber to the church. He tells himself it’s because he’s worried for the guy; Cas gets more tense as they approach the ceremony, where he’ll be seeing the rest of his family for the first time. But Dean keeps getting distracted by little things: the way Cas’s hair curls around his ears. The sharp blue of his eyes, cast into greater relief by the color of his suit. The glint of a fleeting smile in the wispy winter sunlight.

He’s beautiful.

Dean tries to muffle the thought. He can’t – he can’t let himself go there. He can’t let himself feel things. Not when he and Cas don’t have a future. Sure, they were up into the wee hours of the morning talking to each other. Yeah, Dean feels more comfortable around him than he’s ever felt with almost anyone else. But Dean can’t. He doesn’t have fucking relationships.

Our Lady of the Angels is a massive, impossibly ornate church, all dark stone, gothic architecture and high wrought iron fencing that looks a little like bars. Churches have always kind of creeped Dean out: all that supposedly hallowed ground, the hushed reverence. The statues of saints, dead people in the walls, and the stained-glass windows depicting graphic and disturbing scenes of one of the worst deaths imaginable; Dean’s sure it’s sacrilegious to think it, but – if he was Jesus – he wouldn’t want his last painful moments forever cemented in a million different, colorful ways.

The inside of the church is just as beautiful and intricate as the outside. There are high archways and delicate carvings in the wooden pews. There’s a gigantic organ climbing the far wall. Dean feels dwarfed by the sheer artistry of the place, and he resists the urge to latch ahold of Cas’s sleeve like he’s some little kid afraid of losing his mom in the supermarket.

Alfie meets them with a wide smile and points them in the direction of the bride’s side of the church. Cas is back to stony silence. He’s practically vibrating, he’s so anxious. It’s strange to see him so obviously tense but not stimming; Dean wonders if Cas is forcing himself not to.

“You okay, man?” Dean whispers when they take a seat in one of the back pews.

“That’s my Aunt Hester,” Cas says, nodding his head to indicate a woman in a simple gray dress and blond curls. “She’s mother’s sister. And that’s my Uncle Ishim. The youngest. And my Uncle Donatello. There’s just the four of them. My mother is second oldest. I’m surprised Uncle Donatello is here. He’s an atheist. I don’t mind him so badly. He calls me sometimes. He likes Gabriel. And my cousins Raphael and Uri – Aunt Hester adopted them both from Ghana – And there’s Anael. She’s Luke’s wife. And Melanie is Michael’s –”

“Hey, hey, Cas, buddy,” Dean says. He puts his hand on Cas’s arm. Cas flinches. Dean withdraws immediately, but he keeps his voice soothing. “It’s okay. We’re okay, here.”

Cas swallows hard. He nods. “Thank you, Dean.” He doesn’t look any calmer, but he stops rambling.

Dean hasn’t been to many weddings. The only one that comes to mind is Bobby and Ellen’s when Dean was 20, but that involved a small crowd at the courtroom and a backyard barbeque. “Blushing bride, I am not,” Ellen had defended her desire to have a simple, intimate celebration.

The wedding of Anna Grace Novak and Bartholomew Adam Milton is anything but simple, and certainly not intimate. The church, despite its intimidating size, is crowded with well-dressed family and friends. The bridesmaids are in lacy, burgundy dresses, holding bouquets of weeping greenery. The men beside Bartholomew – who, Dean notes, looks like a regular country club douchebag with a silk tuxedo and Hitler Youth blond hair – are all in glossy black.

Luke brings Naomi Novak in on his arm. She’s a slender, haughty woman, dressed in an elegant forest green gown. Cas shifts behind Dean’s shoulder when she passes, but she doesn’t look around.

The priest, who introduced himself as Father Reynolds, tells them to stand for the bride. Cas sucks in a tiny, trembling breath when his sister walks in. In the absence of her father, she’s brough down the isle by the eldest Novak son. Where Anna, Gabe, Alfie, and Luke all resemble their mother, Michael, with his dark hair and heavy eyebrows, looks the most like Cas. Dean wonders if they take after their absent father.

Anna looks like an angel in her bejeweled white dress. Something ethereal and lovely. She has shocking red hair, offset by a halo of delicate flowers around the crown of her veil. She’s smiling as she joins Bartholomew in front of the priest. She looks happy.

Dean looks over his shoulder to check on Cas, and he finds the other man’s eyes are glossy with unshed tears. Dean’s throat goes a little tight, and he does the only thing that makes sense – he reaches for Cas’s hand and squeezes it once in support. Cas held his hand on the plane, after all.

After that, there’s just the ceremony. Dean doesn’t know a lot about Catholicism, but there’s a lot of kneeling and a lot of murmured words, a lot of blessings, and then Father Reynolds finally pronounces Anna and Bart husband and wife. The crowd bursts into applause when the newlyweds kiss, and the somber mood dissipates into something lighter and more celebratory.

Cas hides again as the bridal party files out, followed by Naomi, her siblings, and Bart’s family. It makes Dean angry that Cas didn’t get to sit with the rest of his family, but he reminds himself he’s here for moral support, not to start a fight.

The reception is back at the hotel. The Novak-Milton clan spared no expense, and cocktail hour includes hors d’oeuvres that Dean doesn’t even try pronouncing and liquor in every conceivable glass and color. It turns out, not drinking at a wedding is about 150% worse than not drinking at a party, especially when it’s a wedding with an open bar.

Cas downs a shot of straight vodka as soon they walk into the room; it seems to help him calm down. He stops hiding behind Dean whenever a relative passes, and he even engages in conversation with one or two, awkwardly looping Dean in when he remembers. Dean doesn’t mind being left out; it’s not like he actually wants to talk to any of these people. Their startled, frosty looks are more than enough interaction.

Donatello turns out to be a friendly guy who complains loudly about his sister’s tacky taste; Dean immediately likes him, and he’s glad that Cas has another ally. Alfie and Alice join them again. Alice is wearing a light gray pantsuit that coordinates well enough with Alfie’s that they look like they’re part of a boyband.

They’re also greeted by a doddering older lady who looks like she’s stepped out of the 1950s. She grasps Cas’s hands in her own tiny ones and coos about how big he’s gotten. Cas introduces her as Mrs. Butters, their housekeeper, and, after she leaves, Dean teases Cas about, “having an honest to God nanny while you grew up – like freaking Mary Poppins, man.”

The DJ announces the wedding party, followed by Anna and Bartholomew. Dean hopes that means dinner will be served soon, but instead it just means a sappy love song plays and everyone watches the bride and groom twirl in a circle for about three minutes. Jesus, if Dean ever gets married, he’s not gonna bother with any of this traditional bullshit. That’s as if the idea of Dean ever getting married wasn’t entirely laughable, of course.

There’s music now, and a few couples are swaying conservatively on the floor. Dean wonders how much of a stir they would cause if he and Cas got up to dance – not that they will.

“Castiel,” a sharp, proud voice announces from beside them, and Dean turns to see its Cas’s mother. She is a strikingly beautiful woman, Dean notes. She has graying, cropped hair, cherry red lips, and wide eyes, darker blue than Cas’s but just as piercing. “I wasn’t aware you were coming. Is Gabriel here, as well?”

“Mother –” Cas says, voice strangled. His face is a little flushed. Dean’s not sure if it’s from embarrassment or the fact that he’s already had two drinks on an empty stomach. “Gabriel – he couldn’t make it. There was – his girlfriend had a family emergency.”

Naomi seems utterly unconcerned about her absent son’s alternate plans. In fact, she’s barely listening to Cas’s explanation, at all.

“And I see you’ve brought a guest,” she says primly. She scans Dean. Her face is impassive, but her eyes are unkind.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean steps in, offering his hand. It’s the third time he’s had to introduce himself to a disapproving relative in the past fifteen minutes. He’s found being direct is the best approach. “I’m a friend of Cas’s from Missouri.”

Naomi isn’t the kind of woman who will outright reject a handshake, but it’s perfunctory, at best. She wipes her hand on her dress after she lets go, like Dean has cooties. He’s immediately reminded of Lydia’s mom, Charlene, and his dislike for Naomi Novak triples in strength.

“A friend, yes, I’m sure,” Naomi says, with the same shade of disdain in her voice that Dean heard in Luke’s last night.

“We’re not in a relationship,” Cas says, face turning two shades redder. And Dean gets it: the need to deflect, to conform in the interest of self-defense. He does it all the time when he’s with the Campbells. So, he’s not mad at Cas for sounding embarrassed. He’s just mad at Naomi for making her son feel like he needs to defend himself.

“Oh, please, Castiel,” Naomi says. She swats at the air like Cas is an annoying buzzing fly. “There’s no need to be uncouth. I’m just surprised you brought a perfect stranger to your sister’s wedding.” She smiles, and her voice takes on a coddling tone, almost as if she’s about to pat Cas on the head like he’s a little kid. “But I suppose we must excuse it. You don’t understand many social niceties, do you?”

Cas’s throat works as he tries to swallow back his shock and hurt.

“What the fuck –” Dean blurts out before he can stop himself. He understands now why Meg threatened these people with bloodshed.

Before Naomi has a chance to look properly scandalized by Dean’s outburst, there’s a flurry of white, rustling fabric, and Anna is there, face nearly as red as her hair.

“Cas! Castiel! Oh, I’m so, so happy you decided to come!” Anna’s got her brother in a tight hug around his neck. Cas looks startled but pleased over her shoulder, and he hugs her back.

“Hello, Anna,” Cas says.

Anna lets him go. She’s grinning so widely, there’s likely no measure of hostile energy that could pierce her bliss.

“It’s so good to see you! Luke mentioned he saw you last night. I wish I’d had more time to see you –” Anna hardly registers her mother or Dean’s presence.

“I’m very happy for you, Anna,” Cas says softly. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” Anna gushes. “Have you met Bart? Mother, I’m going to steal him for a minute –”

“Well.” Naomi draws up her shoulders. She pointedly looks away from Dean. “I’m glad you’re here for your sister’s sake, Castiel,” she says coldly. “I know how much Anna wanted you here. It’s a pity Gabriel wasn’t able to find an excuse from his previous engagement.”

Anna barely notices her mother’s words, but Cas clearly does. Dean can see him work hard not to let the hurt show on his face on account of his sister. Anna drags Cas away by the wrist to meet her new husband, leaving Dean and Naomi behind in a very prickly silence.

“I don’t appreciate the tone you took with me,” Naomi says. Dean will give her credit where it’s due: she’s not a tall woman – Dean could easily snap her in half across his knee – but she isn’t at all intimidated by his size. Money will do that to a person, Dean thinks. It makes you impervious to just about anything.

But Dean’s not going to let her intimidate him, either.

“I don’t appreciate the tone you took with Cas.”

“He is my son.” Naomi breathes sharp through her nose. “And you dare presume you somehow know what’s better for him than me?”

“Even though I’ve known him for less time, you sure as hell don’t know what’s best for him. I’ll fucking presume that.”

“Your language is vile,” Naomi hisses, wrinkling her nose like she’s a 1950’s housewife cleaning a toilet. “And so is your lifestyle. I don’t know what kind of influence you have over my son – but the idea that you and Gabriel have led him so astray breaks my heart. The idea that you could manipulate someone with a disability –”

It is rage unlike any Dean’s felt before. But it’s not wild; instead, it’s something rock solid and certain. He hates this woman. He hates what she’s done to Cas.

“Cas is autistic,” Dean snaps. “He’s not a kid. And he’s the smartest damn person I’ve ever met. And you know what? He’s artistic – a genius, actually – and sweet and gentle and fucking kind, too. And you don’t know any of that because your head’s so far up your own ass it’s hitting your throat. Wherever Cas learned to be a good person, it sure wasn’t from you, lady.”

Naomi takes a step back, and for a second Dean thinks he got to her, but the curtain she draws over her face is of pure disgust. “I will pray the Lord opens your eyes to the evilness of your ways, Dean Winchester. And that He might bring my son back to me someday.” She doesn’t wait for him to reply, just spins on her heel and stalks away.

Dean doesn’t bother trying to respond; he’s pretty sure the next thing out of his mouth would get him thrown out of the reception. Instead, he turns in the opposite direction of Naomi. He wants a damn drink so bad it’s a ravenous pit inside his stomach. But he forcefully steers himself away from the bar. He’s fucking pissed off, yeah, but he’s not going to let a bitch like Naomi have any part in ruining his life.

Dean checks to make sure Cas is still with Anna across the room; he’s barely visible in a crowd of family, but he looks like he’s doing okay. Dean has a feeling that his presence is doing more to hinder Cas then help him at the moment – as long as Dean’s not there, no one will ask them if they’re dating, after all – besides, he needs to cool off, so Dean heads for the door at the end of the room that leads onto the deck that overlooks the harbor.

He nearly runs headlong into Alice on his way there. She’s peeling off from the bar, juggling a dozen shot glasses on a plate.

“Hi,” she says dryly. “Alfie and I are gonna get sloshed. Wanna join?”

“Uh, no,” Dean says, working hard to keep his voice measured. His face is still flush from his conversation with Naomi. “You two kids have fun, though.”

“You just get chewed out by the reigning matriarch?” Alice asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Um…” Dean says, made uncomfortable by the idea that anyone else might have witnessed the confrontation. He doesn’t actually want to ruin Anna’s wedding, even if he thinks she’s culpable in the whole Cas’s family are douchebags thing.

“Naomi has that effect on people,” Alice says, smirking.

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Hell of a lady. So, what, you planning on marrying into this circus?”

Alice snorts. “Hell no. Alfie and I are strictly platonic. He just asked me to come to get Naomi off his back about when he’s gonna find a nice girl. I don’t think I’m quite what she had in mind, but…” she lets her sentence trail into a shrug. The shot glasses shiver dangerously on the plate. “What about you?” she asks. “Gay marriage is legal in Massachusetts.”

“Oh, ah, no,” Dean says hastily. “Cas and I are – we’re not together, either.”

Alice looks incredulous. “I mean, man, I’m ace as hell. But even I could sense the sexual tension between you two.”

Dean’s face turns hot again, this time for an entirely different reason. “It’s, ah – we’re not really – not the best, ah, time –” he mutters.

“Your loss.” She shrugs again. “I’m gonna get blackout drunk now.”

As she steps around him, Dean calls after her, “Hey, if you get the chance, talk Alfie into coming to Missouri sometimes. He seems…better the rest of them. I think Cas could do with some more family around.”

Alice nods. She makes the risky choice to maneuver the plate of glasses to one arm so she can toss him a two-fingered salute. “Will do. Stay weird, Dean.”

Dean laughs, “Stay weird, kiddo.”

He crosses the rest of the floor and lets himself onto the deck. It’s cold outside, cut through by a frigid seaward breeze. It’s snowing too: fat, lazy flakes that settle on the abandoned deck furniture like a coat of dust.

Dean walks to the banister to lean out over the harbor. He can smell saltwater in the air. He watches a few yachts, strung with Christmas lights, depart from the docks below. It’s a nice night for pleasure cruising. The water’s quiet. The moon peaks through the light cloud cover in shafts.

Dean lights himself a cigarette and smokes it slowly. As much as he wants to be there for Cas, he’s not in a hurry to return to the wedding. Faking smiles and conversation with people who already don’t like him is tiring. Dean’ll be glad when it’s over.

He hears the deck door open behind him, letting a clash of laughter and music from the party within spill into the quiet of the evening. Dean turns, expecting a waiter on their smoke break, or maybe Cas looking for him, but, instead, he’s surprised when he spots the bundle of white dress that precedes Anna’s entrance.

“Oh, hello,” she says, surprised to find someone else.

“Um, hi,” Dean says.

He moves to stub his cigarette out on the banister, but Anna stops him with a quick, “Oh, I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

Dean nods and takes another pull.

“Congratulations, by the way,” he says around the stick.

“Thanks,” she says. The cold slaps more color into her face, but Dean can see that, beneath her makeup and the flush of the day, she’s pretty pale; the moonlight makes her arms glow. “You’re Cas’s, ah…?”

“Friend,” Dean supplies for her. “Dean.”

“I’m happy you were able to come, Dean,” she says pleasantly.

Dean shrugs, “Yeah, well, Cas wanted to. And he asked me for support.”

“Well,” Anna says earnestly, stepping a little closer. “I’m glad you were able to give it to him. I –” her eyes get a little misty. “I really have missed him. It’s very good to see him again.”

Dean doesn’t ask why she couldn’t have just bitten the bullet and seen him before now. Why she insisted on waiting ten years if she says she missed him so much. Hell, Dean knows she’s rich enough to afford a plane ticket. But he just drags in another breath of smoke. He’s not going to start anything with the bride at her wedding, for Christ’s sake.

“My photographer mentioned it had started snowing,” Anna says when the conversation lags. She looks around the deck like snow is the most interesting thing in the world. “She and Bart will be out in a minute.”

“I’ll make sure to get out of your way then,” Dean says, making a move to leave, but she stops him again.

“Oh no,” she says. “No, that’s okay. Don’t rush.”

“You want one?” he offers. He knows she’s going to decline; no way is Cas’s pretty, Catholic sister going to want a cigarette, but it’s impolite not to ask.

“No thanks,” she says, and then floors him when she adds, “I quit a few years ago.”

“No shit,” Dean says. “Sorry – I mean – no way. Uh, yeah, my brother’s tryna get me to quit, too.”

Anna grins at him, probably trying to set him at ease. She’s got Cas’s smile. It’s calming and sweet, like she can read him back to front.

“I would have thought it would have been easier than quitting alcohol,” she says. “But it really wasn’t.”

“You’re sober?” Dean asks. Apparently, Anna’s full of surprises. Dean feels a little bad for assuming otherwise.

“Eleven years,” she says with a proud nod.

“Damn.” Dean whistles. “Good for you. I’ve got one month.”

“That’s really great to hear,” she says earnestly. She’s got Cas’s way of cutting to the heart of a conversation, too. Dean shrugs, uncomfortable under her praise.

“I had kind of a rebellious phase in high school,” she explains. “Regular crazy party girl stuff.”

Dean just nods. Cas told him about this, he remembers. How Anna seemed like she was separating herself from the family’s stringent values before she turned back at the end of high school, just in time to miss Cas’s own period of doubt.

“But my family always supported me,” Anna continues. “They accepted me with open arms when I turned my life around.”

Dean knows what she’s getting at. And he doesn’t want to outright contradict her – seeing as it is her special day and all – but there’s a difference between genuinely supporting someone and supporting someone as long as they’re willing to conform to your way of life at the end of it. And Dean’s not going to stick around for Anna to compare her struggles with addiction to Cas’s sexuality, or the fact that his family’s acceptance of him is contingent on denying an intrinsic and valuable part of himself.

“I’m happy for you, Anna,” Dean says, and he finds he truly means it. He doesn’t know her, but he knows she believes what she’s spouting – even if Dean thinks it’s all bullshit. She’s genuinely trying to help; she just doesn’t understand that she’s part of the problem. “And I’m glad you’ve found peace with your family.”

She’s obviously intuited the deeper connotations of this conversation, because her eyebrows dip over her eyes, and she looks a little sad, a little wistful. “Thank you, Dean,” she says. “I wish you the best.”

Dean knows her and his ideas about the best probably don’t align, but he accepts her well-wishes without complaint. He flicks the string of ash off the end of his cigarette and nods to her.

“You too.”

He passes Bart and the photographer on his way back into the reception. He notes that the dinner buffet is opening. His stomach growls, reminding him that it’s been a while since lunch. He looks around for Cas so they can head over to grab food, but he doesn’t see him.

Maybe he’s paranoid, but he suddenly feels guilty for leaving Cas alone to deal with his older brothers after Anna left. He looks around to see if he can spot Michael or Luke, but they don’t seem to be in the room, either. Dean catches sight of Alfie in a corner table, laughing hysterically at something Alice must have said, because she’s actually cracked her deadpan façade for a smile, as well.

He swings by their table.

“You haven’t seen Cas around, have you?”

“He went out with Luke and Michael a second ago.” Alfie waves an uncoordinated hand toward the exit that leads into the rest of the hotel. All the shot glasses have been emptied and turned upside down. Alice wasn’t kidding about wanting to get blackout drunk.

“Thanks,” Dean says curtly. He speeds off without another word. It’s impossible to ignore the sense of unease in the pit of his stomach. He just wants to make sure Cas is okay – that his brothers aren’t being jerks –

He leaves the reception hall and enters the lobby. Cas and his brothers are nowhere to be seen. He turns down the hallway that eventually reaches the elevators to the upper rooms – and he hears raised voices.

He kicks into a jog, drawn by Luke’s familiar, snide voice,

“What you do in bed is your own business, Cassie, but I just don’t understand why you had to bring him here. Mother has enough on her plate –”

There’s a door off the hallway across from the elevators marked Staff Only, but Dean ignores the warning and shove it open. He stumbles into a small supply closet. Michael, Luke, and Cas, standing in the center of the shelves, look over in surprise. Cas’s face immediately opens in raw, vulnerable relief, but Michael and Luke both scowl.

“What are you doing here?” Luke says.

“Can’t you see we’re trying to have a family discussion?” Michael snaps. Up close, Dean notices that Michael is attractive – in a very clean cut, all-American boy kind of way. But the frown on his face makes him look scornful and ugly. No way is Dean letting this jerkface boss Cas around.

“Looking for Cas,” Dean says curtly. “You okay, buddy?” He turns his attention to Cas, the other two be damned.

Cas is not a small man. He’s only one or two inches shorter than Dean, and he has broad shoulders and thick thighs. He’s definitely no smaller than either of his brothers, but Dean has never seen Cas look so diminished. His sleek suit is rumpled and partially unbuttoned. His hair, which he’d smoothed down with some kind of gel this afternoon, is now wild and feathery, like he’s run his hands through it nervously one too many times.

“I’m – yes,” Cas says, but he definitely doesn’t look fine. He’s rocking hard from toe to heel, and his hands are balled into tight fists like he’s doing everything in his power not to start tapping.

“I asked you –” Michael says, taking a step forward. “Does this look like any of your business?”

Dean squares up to Michael. Pansy ass prep school boy doesn’t have anything on him; Dean could lay him out flat with a flick to his prissy nose. “Cas is my business,” he says firmly.

“How many times must I say,” Michael says, and he’s probably so used to business associates and underlings cowering under his wrath that he doesn’t know how to pick his battles. “That you are not welcome here. You are a stranger amongst my family. You are clearly an irreputable, immoral –”

“You’re a real fucking piece of work, you know that?” Dean doesn’t back down. He is so fucking sick of this family. Luke doesn’t try to interfere. In fact, he leans against one of the built-in shelves and folds his arms over his chest, surveying the scene like it’s supremely interesting. “You wanna talk about morality, huh?” Dean keeps going. “You wanna talk about abandoning your own flesh and blood for ten years just because you don’t like their choices? You wanna talk about how you’re fucking your wife every night and getting blow jobs from your secretary every morning? You don’t know morality if it bit you on your ass –”

“How dare you!” Michael screeches, sounding very much like his mother. His face goes pale with rage. Luke’s jaw drops a little, and Dean has a feeling he guessed right about the secretary thing. “You – you have no right to intrude on our family gathering and speak to me like this.”

“And you have no right –” Dean roars, jabbing his finger into Michael’s chest. Unaware just how they managed to get so close together, and figuring the only logical conclusion to this fight is going to be fists. “To treat your brother like trash just because he likes fucking men –”

“Please stop!” Cas blurts out. His voice is high-pitched and frantic. It makes Dean drop his arm, makes his stomach plummet, and he turns to look at Cas. “Please – please stop – don’t yell – don’t –”

“Christ, Cassie,” Luke groans, rolling his eyes. “Not again.”

“You still do this?” Michael shouts at Cas, translating his anger at Dean immediately into anger at his brother. “You still throw tantrums like you’re some kind of overemotional toddler –”

“Stop!” Cas yells. He smashes both hands against his ears hard and squeezes his eyes shut. “Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop yelling! She’ll hear! Please – don’t – Anna! I don’t want Anna to hear!”

“Cas –” Dean chokes, terrified and helpless because what did he do? What the fuck is he supposed to do? “Cas – buddy –” he reaches for him, helpless. But Cas flinches hard out of the way of Dean’s hands. He hits the shelf behind him, sends a couple cans of Lysol rolling off the shelf.

“Stop – stop – God – stop!” Cas whimpers. He hits the back of his head against the shelf, seems to realize it’s there, and does it again intentionally.

“Fuck, Cas, please –” Dean pleads. He feels utterly powerless. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He’s seen Cas stim when he was anxious and uncomfortable, but he’s never seen him completely lose control before.

Neither Michael or Luke makes a move to help their brother, but Luke offers, with an exasperated look. “It’s a meltdown. Thought he grew out of those.”

It’s Luke’s casual condescension, more than anything, that snaps Dean out of his own panic.

“Fuck you,” Dean tells the brothers. And then he’s done with them. He could not care less about how Michael’s still silently fuming at Dean, more upset by Cas’s meltdown because it got in the way of his and Dean’s argument than out of any concern for his brother. Dean doesn’t give a shit about Luke’s arrogant apathy. He’s done. He’s done with this fucking family. And he’s getting Cas out of here.

“Cas,” he says gently. Mostly he wants Cas to stop hitting his head. “Cas, I’ve got you, buddy.” He grabs ahold of Cas’s arm, and Cas moans and tries to tug away, but Dean doesn’t let go. His heart twists; he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do – he doesn’t want Cas to feel unsafe, but they need to get out of the fucking closet and somewhere private.

“Come with me, man. Please, Cas.”

Cas is obviously stuck inside his own head. Dean tugs him through the door and manages to punch the elevator button, but Cas is clearly unaware of it. He’s got both arms wrapped over his head, hiding his face, and his hands are tugging hard at his hair. He’s breathing hard and muttering under his breath, words too fast and low for Dean to decipher.

The elevator takes an eternity, but eventually the doors slide open with a ping, and Dean shepherds Cas inside.

“I’ve got you, man,” Dean keeps up a steady litany of comfort, but he doesn’t try to touch Cas again except for the one hand that he’s moved from Cas’s forearm to his shoulder so he can guide him down the hallway when the elevator opens again on the eleventh floor.

Dean fumbles the key in the lock of their hotel room, but the latch finally flashes green and Dean all but kicks the door in.

“You’re okay,” Dean says, releasing Cas at once. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Dean tries to let his reassurances sink into his own chest, but he still feels rattled. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do for an autistic meltdown. He – the only reference he has for this kind of thing is Rain Man, and he’s pretty sure that’s pretty bullshit representation.

“What do you need?” Dean tries to ask. “Cas, tell me what you need.”

But Dean’s questions clearly don’t help, because it just makes Cas whimper faintly, “No, no, no.” And then he starts hitting himself on the chest with his fists. Hard thumps that echo through his sternum.

“No, stop,” Dean says, grabbing for Cas’s arms, but Cas twists out of the way. “Stop, Cas, please –”

Dean tries not to freak out. He really tries – but he’s making it worse. Dean’s making it worse, and he doesn’t know what to do – he is near tears, and losing it is going to do shit for this situation. This is not about Dean, right now. This is about Cas. Focus on Cas.

Dean twists his hands hard into fists, feels the grounding bite of his nails in his palms, takes a deep breath.

Panic attacks are the only thing he can think about to compare to something like this. Dean doesn’t like to be touched when he has a panic attack. He likes to curl into a ball on the floor or on his bed and hide under something heavy and soft.

Right. Okay.

“Cas, lie down,” Dean tries. He reaches for Cas’s arm, but Cas dodges him – and – fuck, yeah – don’t touch him, right now. Instead, Dean pulls down the covers of the nearest bed.

Cas reacts instinctively. Drops onto the mattress and, sure enough, curls into a tight ball, tugging with shaking hands to yanks the covers up over his shoulders.

Dean jumps forward and pulls the blankets up for him. Cas burrows deep within them, trembling hard. He’s stopped hitting himself; he’s just rocking, now. This is okay, Dean tries to reassure himself. This is okay.

Slowly, Cas comes down. Dean’s heartbeat decelerates with him. Dean hovers awkwardly nearby, not wanting to crowd him, but definitely not wanting to leave him alone, either.

Cas’s murmured pleading transforms into rapid fire cursing, “Fuck,” he says a little louder. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck this.”

“Do you need anything?” Dean asks, feeling stupid. Feeling so fucking stupid and helpless and pointless –

“D-deep pressure,” Cas stammers.

“What?”

“Deep pressure,” Cas says, a little clearer. “H-hold me. I – I need –”

“Fuck, yeah, sure,” Dean says immediately. He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He doesn’t even waste time thinking about how weird it is. He just climbs into the bed immediately, gets under the quilt so he can get a better hold on Cas, but keeps the sheet and blanket between them. He wraps his arms around Cas.

“Like this?” He asks uncertainly.

“H-harder,” Cas whimpers. He breathes ragged for a minute, and Dean squeezes him closer to his chest, throws a leg over Cas’s legs, tugs him in like their spooning. “Please,” Cas tags on pathetically.

“I’ve got you,” Dean reassures him.

It’s quiet for a while. Cas’s breathing evens out, and he stops shaking so violently. Dean doesn’t let up on the pressure he’s exerting over Cas’s body. His own pulse calms down, and the sense of panic dissipates. Without it, he’s left with the knowledge that he is once again in bed with Castiel. He begs his overactive sex drive to, please God, not give him a boner, right now.

“Do you really think that?” Cas says unexpectedly. His voice is hoarse.

“Hmm?”

“That Michael’s cheating on Melissa with his secretary?”

Dean snorts, half surprise and half amusement. “Just seemed the type.”

Cas doesn’t reply. But, after a moment, he whispers. “I think I’m okay now. I’m sorry.”

Dean carefully detaches himself. He rolls off Cas and sits up, but he doesn’t get out of the bed. Truthfully, the warmth and physical contact was helping him stay grounded, too.

“You don’t need to apologize, man,” Dean says.

“That doesn’t happen often,” Cas says jerkily. He sounds embarrassed. Even though Dean isn’t on top of him, anymore, he doesn’t move to sit up. “It occurred more often when I was a child. But – as an adult – it’s very humiliating.”

Feeling out of control of your body and mind is something Dean can empathize with. “It’s not your fault,” he says firmly. “And it doesn’t bother me – I mean, I freaked out because I didn’t know what to do – but that wasn’t because of you.”

“You were very helpful,” Cas responds, still not looking at Dean. “Thank you.”

“You need anything else?”

“I’m very tired now,” Cas says unhappily. “I think I’d just like to stay here.”

“Absolutely,” Dean says at once. “You want me out of the room, or –”

“No,” Cas says at once. He turns his head to look at Dean, even if he doesn’t make full eye contact, but he looks frightened and small. “Please –” he looks away again. “Please stay. Your presence is grounding.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “Yeah, man. Of course. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Chapter Text

The wedding isn’t a success in terms of actually attending the wedding, but at least Cas reconnected with Alfie; that’s enough of a success for Dean. And the plane trip back isn’t quite as bad as the one there. Dean’s still choking on his heart the whole time, but at least there’s the promise of home at the end to carry him through.

Dean works the afternoon and evening shift on Friday and catches up his Thursday hours on Saturday. By Sunday he’s so tired he can barely get out of bed, and his cough is back in full force. But no way in hell is he missing out on another afternoon with Emma, so he drags himself into the car and makes the drive to Lydia’s.

“That cold still bugging you?” Donna asks when he unsuccessfully muffles a coughing fit into the crook of his elbow. It leaves his chest aching.

“Guess so,” Dean croaks.

Emma is officially on the move; she’s started crawling and scooting around on her butt, and she can stand if she’s holding onto something. It means Dean’s been following her in circles around Lydia’s living room, dining room, and kitchen, and even though she’s moving at the pace of a turtle, she’s still got Dean out of breath.

“You look plum tuckered out,” Donna tells him.

“It really handed me my ass, I guess,” Dean answers.

“You still able to enjoy the holidays?”

It’s easy to forget Donna’s a social worker, Dean likes spending time with her so much. She’s easy to talk to, and they shoot the shit for a while about their respective Christmases. Lydia’s tree is still up in the corner of the living room, ornaments a couple feet off the ground so Emma couldn’t get her hands on them. Lydia was right, Emma was at the perfect age to rip wrapping paper, and she enjoyed demolishing Dean’s presents even more than the actual gifts.

Emma plops on her bottom and sticks her pudgy arms in the air. “Mmm,” she says, with her lips pressed tight.

Dean swoops her up and into his arms. She’s been doing that now: making noises that sound more like words. Any day now she’ll be saying mama. Most kids say mama first; it shouldn’t bug him, but it does. She only gets to see him for a few hours every week, and even though she’s gotten used to him, she still definitely doesn’t know him.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he coos. He pokes at her tummy and she squeals with laughter. She’d done moving on her own, but that doesn’t mean she wants Dean to sit down. So, Dean paces with her across the living room while Donna watches him from the couch.

“And we were able to get Derek over for the day, so that cheered Kaia up –” Donna continues.

It makes Dean snap his eyes away from his daughter. “Wait, Kaia?” he asks. “One of your foster kids is Kaia?”

“Um, yes,” Donna says slowly. “You know her?”

“Sounds like the same Kaia,” Dean replies. But he checks anyway, “Your partner’s not named Jody, is she?”

“Sure is,” Donna says with a blinding grin. “That’s my Jodio. How do you know Kaia?”

“She and I, ah,” Dean hesitates, because it’s called Alcoholics Anonymous for a reason. And he’s not technically supposed to divulge other members, even though Donna would already know Kaia was a member, seeing as she’s her foster mom.

Thankfully, Donna gets the message. “Ah,” she throws him a wink. “Say no more.”

Dean grins gratefully. “Kaia’s a good kid.”

“All my girls are good kids,” Donna says proudly.

Dean doesn’t doubt it. Kaia still doesn’t talk at meetings, but she’s made a habit of snagging a cigarette from Dean afterward. She’ll chat about school and Claire and Derek and mostly Claire, but sometimes also the other two girls who live with Jody: Alex, who’s in nursing school, and Patience, who is a senior in high school, same as Kaia, and apparently better at school, better at sports, better at fucking everything. But it seems like a stable, loving home, and Kaia’s been doing good there; Dean can tell because she’s put on a little weight, and she’s not so quick to dodge eye contact as she first was.

“I’m happy she’s got you guys,” Dean tells her.

Dean’s time with Emma, as usually, passes too quickly. Lydia arrives back from her lunch date with a friend, and Dean has to turn over his daughter. He presses a kiss to her cheek, as usual, feeling like his heart is being physically torn away from his body.

“Did, ah,” Lydia asks him at the door, when he’s already got one foot on the front porch. Emma’s back in the living room, chattering happily and loudly in her playpen. “Did you get a call from your lawyer?”

Dean tenses; they’re not really supposed to talk about the case away from their attorneys, especially not together. “No, why?”

“Toni called,” Lydia says. “Apparently the judge set a date for the hearing. January 25th.”

“Oh,” Dean says numbly. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Mick hasn’t called yet. He probably will soon, after he knows Dean will be back from visitation. Dean doesn’t know how the news makes him feel, to know that everything could be decided in less than a month. He could lose everything in just four weeks. It’s sooner than he expected.

Dean doesn’t know why Lydia’s telling him. He doesn’t know how she feels about the hearing. He has no idea what her plan is if Dean loses. Is she going to try to terminate visitation, petition to take away his rights entirely?

And Dean doesn’t get it. He understands, on a surface level, why she’s angry at him for leaving her with a kid. He can understand why she doesn’t want to give up any of her time with Emma, especially if it means leaving her with someone she doesn’t trust is safe. But he doesn’t get why she’s so adamant that Dean shouldn’t have any role at all in his daughter’s life.

It’s bugged him ever since Charlene threatened him with it, but it’s been on his mind since he talked with Cas in the hotel room, got him thinking about shit that he hadn’t before.

“Can I – can I ask you something?” Dean says tentatively. He doesn’t want to freak her out. More than anything, he doesn’t want her to feel threatened. But he also needs to know.

“Okay,” Lydia says warily. She’s got one hand on the door. Dean makes sure he’s a couple paces away on the front porch. He wants her to feel safe, to feel in control of this situation.

“When we, um.” Dean has no clue how the fuck he’s supposed to broach this topic. “When we, you know….”

Lydia narrows her eyes. And Dean gets it. About the last thing he wants to do is talk to a previous hookup about their one-night stand, especially one that resulted in the birth of their daughter.

“That night,” Dean plows ahead recklessly. “Did, ah, listen – I didn’t mean to – to pressure you, or something. I know we were both drinking and maybe not thinking straight. And I just – I wanted to know – and you don’t have to tell me. God, I’d get it if you didn’t even want to look at me. But I just – I needed to make sure –”

“Are you trying to ask if you raped me?” Lydia demands. Her voice is flat. Her face is unreadable. Dean’s stomach plummets –

“I just want to know if I hurt you,” Dean says desperately. He doesn’t have the clearest memory of most of his hookups. The idea that he forced her to be a part of something she didn’t want to be a part of is terrifying. It’s sickening.

“Holy shit,” Lydia says on an exhale. She puts a hand to her forehead. “Have you –” she begins. “Did someone say something to you?”

Dean can’t possibly tell her about Charlene, so he lies, “No. It’s just something – I needed to know.”

“No,” Lydia says, almost sternly. She tugs her hand away from her face, and she looks a little pissed off but also earnest. “I don’t feel like you hurt me, Dean. It was – it was a stupid decision, okay? With life-altering consequences. But I don’t think you took advantage of me.” She looks at him carefully. “Do you think I took advantage of you?”

“No,” Dean says at once. His face bursts into flames. “I – I definitely, you know, wanted – it was – it was cool.”

Lydia’s face goes a little red, too. “Well, good.”

“Okay,” Dean says abruptly. “Good. Great. I’m gonna – I’m gonna go now.”

“Good,” Lydia says. “Okay then.”

OOO

Sure enough, Mick calls soon after Dean gets back into his apartment, letting him know about the court date.

“Can you come in tomorrow?” Mick asks. “It’s time to really buckle down on your defense. And we’ll have to start accumulating your witnesses.”

“Right,” Dean says. “I can swing that.” Inwardly, however, his heart sinks. Bobby and Rufus understand Dean’s need to be out of the office so often, and they don’t complain as long as he gets someone to cover his shifts. But he still needs to make up the hours afterward. Dean’s entire body still aches from getting sick, and he can’t imagine finding extra energy to plug into work.

“The judge’s name is Timothy Cain. He’s a good man. Hard but fair. He won’t be biased toward Ms. Penn just because she’s the mother.”

“Good,” Dean says automatically.

Mick talks to him a little more about who he should contact as possible witnesses: Victor for a psych eval, Benny to vouch for the AA stuff. Despite his best efforts, Dean finds himself zoning out. He shouldn’t have laid down on his bed when he got into his apartment, but his head ached and his muscles were tight from running after Emma all afternoon.

“Call me if you’ve got any questions,” Mick finally says. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right, bye, Mick.”

Dean gratefully thumbs out of the call, but then he figures he’d better bite the bullet and loop Sam in, too.

“Hey,” Sam answers his phone after the second ring. “I was about to call you. You heard from Mick?”

“Just got off the phone,” Dean says.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says. “You sound awful.”

“Thanks, princess,” Dean snorts. “I’m just sick of talking.” His throat does hurt, so he pulls the phone away from his mouth so he can attempt to clear it, but it just makes him cough again.

“You’re still smoking, I’m guessing,” Sam says, disappointment clear in his voice.

“Can we save the lecture, Sam?” Dean moans. “I’m about to pass out, here.”

“Excuse me for not wanting you to get lung cancer,” Sam snaps.

Dean doesn’t reply. A tiny thrill of fear runs up his spine: what if he has lung cancer? He tries his best to shut down the thought. The last thing he needs to do is add hypochondria to his extensive list of mental issues.

“Whatever, bitch,” he says instead. And he does his best not to cough again. “So, the hearing’s on the 25th, but you already know that.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. His voice is forcefully bright when he adds, “We’ll have to plan something to celebrate that weekend – it’s your birthday the day before.”

“I know when my birthday is, Sam.”

“And I’m guessing you want me to ignore it, as usual,” Sam replies, unimpressed.

“Can we just…” Dean tries to find the right words. Sam knows Dean doesn’t like his birthday. It’s not the idea of turning a year older; Dean couldn’t care less about that, but it’s the idea of being the center of attention for a day. Dean’s life isn’t exactly something worth celebrating. Especially this year – with the hearing the day after, Dean’s not going to be able to focus on anything else. And that weekend is either going to be a cause for celebration or a cause for despair; Dean would rather not get his hopes up. “…not make a big deal out of it until we know whether or not…you know.”

“Fine,” Sam says, and he sounds a little more understanding. “No surprise parties.”

“Good.”

“But do you want to come over for dinner on Saturday, anyway?” Sam prods. “It could be something small. I know Bobby and Ellen will want to see you. Or it could just be me and Eileen and if you want to bring someone. Charlie, maybe? Or, um, Cas? I want to get to know your friends.”

“You sound like a concerned parent,” Dean says to dodge the question. Dean doesn’t want to think about that weekend, to put words to what Sam isn’t saying: that either he’ll be a dad or he won’t be, probably won’t be, and maybe Dean won’t want to be alone after that.

“You know it’s not…” Sam says, completely ignoring Dean’s comment, and, as usual, diving straight toward the heart of the issue with all the finesse of a curved blade. “It’s not the end of the road if this thing doesn’t go your way. There’s still the appeal. We could bring it to trial.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says with forced nonchalance.

“So, you don’t need to freak out, or anything,” Sam says.

“I’m not freaking out, Sam.”

“Okay,” Sam lets out a long breath, and Dean can tell his little brother doesn’t believe him.

“Listen,” Dean says. “I’m gonna crash, okay? It’s been a long week.”

“Oh, okay,” Sam says. “You okay?”

“Sam,” Dean says pointedly. “I’m fine. I’m gonna watch a movie. Make dinner. And I’ve got my meeting tonight.”

“Okay,” Sam says again. He doesn’t sound certain. Dean wonders if he has cause to be worried, but the idea of taking the time for self-reflection right now is too exhausting.

They bid each other goodbye and Dean sort of does what he told Sam he was going to do; he doesn’t make dinner or watch a movie, but he does crash, and he’s sleeping soundly before it even gets fully dark outside.

OOO

Dean loses an afternoon of work on Monday to see Mick and Sam, but the meeting’s fruitful in that they set up a schedule for more meetings and outline the arguments Mick thinks Toni Bevell will use against Dean.

Dean works another evening shift on Tuesday, after which he drags himself into bed without a shower and sleeps like the dead. He oversleeps on Wednesday, and it feels like he’s playing catchup all day. Thursday, he tries to go for a run, but he’s so out of breath he makes himself sick; he blames it on the cold weather and the fact he hasn’t been out since he got sick. He just needs to get back into shape. Friday, he meets with Pam. She asks him how his sessions with Billie are going, and Dean says it’s fine despite the fact he hasn’t seen her since mid-December, and he hasn’t yet called to make another appointment.

The weekend is spent in bed except for seeing Emma and going to AA; he’s asked Benny by now if he’ll testify at the hearing, and Benny enthusiastically agreed, but Dean still wants to keep up appearances.

The next two weeks pass in blur. Dean’s cough doesn’t fade. In fact, it seems to get worse: transforming into hideous rattling, sucking hacks that make his throat sore and chest ache. It’s getting harder to hide at work, and climbing the four flights of stairs to his apartment becomes a daily feat of endurance. Dean starts to wonder if maybe Sam has a point about the smoking thing, so he makes an effort to switch back to Nicorette.

It’s still a habit to grab his smokes, however, and he finds himself lighting a cigarette on the fire escape one night. He draws in a lungful of smoke, and as soon as it hits the back of his throat, he’s doubled over, coughing so hard he’s worried he’s going to break a freaking rib.

He dislodges a wad of salty mucus, and he spits onto the ground. He blinks at the glob, which landed with a splat on the fire escape. It’s pink. Fuck. It’s definitely bloody. And – fuck. Fuck. Coughing up blood isn’t good. Even Dean knows that’s a bad sign. He swallows hard and takes a few shallow breaths until he stops coughing. He kicks some of the crusty snow in the corner of the platform over the evidence.

Charlie’s window opens.

“Holy New York style cheesecake, Batman,” she exclaims. “You sound like you’re dying.”

“Thanks,” Dean rasps.

“Seriously, dude,” she continues. “You’re sick again?”

Dean shrugs. “Guess it’s just a stubborn cold.”

Charlie squints at him, obviously unconvinced, but she clearly decides it’s not a hill worth dying on, because she drops it.

“I talked to a realtor chic today,” she mentions casually.

“No shit?” Dean asks. “For your parent’s house?”

Charlie shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Sort of. I don’t know – it felt a little more like closure this Christmas. I think I finally realized how much I’m missing out on by not letting go. There’s a whole world out there, you know?”

“You gotta do what feels right,” Dean tells her.

“I think I’m ready,” Charlie says. She takes a deep breath. Then she sends him a brittle smile. “Or as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Just let me know if you need anyone to help out,” Dean offers. “I can move furniture.”

“How ‘bout when you’re not quite so TB or not TB, that is consumption, dude,” Charlie says, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Okay, okay,” Dean surrenders, lifting his hands to shoulder height. Her point is granted more evidence when he starts coughing again. He covers his mouth with his elbow and wheezes into his shirt sleeve for a minute. When he catches his breath again, Dean quickly makes sure there’s no blood left on the fabric; it’s clean. Maybe he imagined it before.

“Dude.” Charlie’s eyes are dark with worry.

“I’m fine,” Dean wheezes. “Really, Charles.”

Charlie shakes her head and mutters, “gonna drag your ass to the doctors.”

“Date for the hearing’s set,” Dean says, grasping on anything to change the subject. It works, Charlie’s immediately pulled away from Dean’s cough into details about the hearing. She chides him for not telling him before now, and she's angry at the system for not valuing character witnesses. She asks if he’s worried.

“Trying to not think about it,” Dean says. It’s as near the truth as he can get. Any time he does think about it, he feels like his chest is being sat on by a rhinoceros. He’ll become paralyzed if he stops to consider what the hearing actually means, so, instead, he operates on automatic: doing what Mick and Sam tell him to do, answering their questions, listening to their suggestions. It’s like he’s preparing for someone else, like he becomes disembodied during their meetings. If he tries to even for a second to conceive of himself, Dean Winchester, as the center of this hearing, he’s going to fall apart at the seams. He’s going to run. Or he’s going to drive into another tree.

“Well, same offer goes to you,” Charlie says. “Not that you need to move furniture, but I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks,” Dean says.

“I gotta establish myself as Auntie Charlie early on,” she replies.

And Dean can’t – he can’t think about that. He can’t think about actually bringing Emma here. Of letting her meet Bobby and Ellen and Charlie. Or Cas. He can’t imagine what that actually means. He can’t let himself hope, because hope is only going to tear him to pieces.

“I don’t think it’s gonna go my way,” Dean confesses quietly. He hasn’t voiced the heavy sense of dread that descended in his belly ever since the disastrous deposition. He hasn’t talked about it with Pamela or even Sam. He’s going to lose; it feels like an inevitability.

“Then the judge is a stupid piece of shit,” Charlie says certainly.

Dean tries to smile at her show of comradery, but he can’t make his lips move. Now that he’s vocalized the thought, it feels insurmountable. Something huge and ugly. He’s going to lose his daughter. He’s never going to see her again.

“Hey,” Charlie snaps into his dark thoughts. “My parents died when I was twelve, okay? You know how much I would have given to have one person – just one Goddamn person – to fight for me after they died like you’re fighting for your daughter?”

Dean’s eyes sting. He looks away and swallows with difficulty. His throat hurts like someone’s got his neck in a vice.

Charlie’s hand finds his, and she squeezes his fingers tight. “I can see it. Your brother sees it. And the judge will see it, too. It’s gonna be okay, Dean.”

Dean squeezes her hand back, and he tries to believe it.

Chapter Text

On the Monday before D-Day, Dean wakes up dizzy and impossibly warm. He’s coated in a thin film of sweat, and even transferring himself to the bathroom from his bed leaves him out of breath and lightheaded. He drags himself through work and his afternoon meeting at Mick’s with a low-grade fever. In a daze, Dean repeats his testimony verbatim and reviews proper courtroom etiquette and what to anticipate from Toni Bevell. Whether Sam registers Dean’s ill or simply stupid from nerves, Dean’s not sure. He’s too preoccupied keeping himself on his feet.

Tuesday is worse. Dean barely takes two steps out of bed before he’s doubled over, both arms wrapped around his stomach, and hacking so hard it feels like someone’s taking a sledgehammer to his chest. He covers his mouth with his arm, and the inside of his elbow comes away sprayed with red.

Shit. Dean thought the coughing up blood thing was a fluke. It only happened that once on the fire escape. Dean assumed he’d just irritated his throat enough to make it bleed.

The shower knocks some mucus clear and helps him breathe easier, but he has to hold onto the wall the whole time to stop himself from faceplanting onto the bathmat. He takes one look at himself in the foggy mirror and winces. He looks like a corpse: sunken circles under his eyes and skin pale. His eyes are fever bright in his wan face. He puts a hand to his forehead to check his temperature, but it’s an inconsequential move, seeing as he’s flushed all over from the boiling shower.

It’s weird, though. Because even though the water was hot enough to cook a lobster, Dean’s still shivery. It’s a bone deep kind of cold. He’s trembling hard by the time he’s pulling on his clothes, layering on a hoodie over his usual t-shirt and flannel and finding the pair of wool socks Ellen got him a couple Christmases ago.

He trudges out of his apartment in his work boots, barely able to lift his feet. He drags his shoulder along the wall to keep himself from spinning to the floor. He’s dizzy. Like really dizzy. The kind of dizzy that makes the world around him pulse with sickening, hazy movement, all bugged out like there’s a fisheye lens fixed across his eyes.

Dean grips the banister hard enough to turn his knuckles white on his way down the stairs. His knees shake with every step. He’s terrified he’s going to send himself ass over teakettle and break his fucking neck.

That would be great. Fucking hilarious. All twisted up like a pretzel at the bottom of the stairs. All you need is the cheese dipping sauce.

Dean’s laughing, and then he’s coughing, and then he’s sitting hard on the bottom step of the flight, feet planted on the third-floor landing, knees up to his ears, trying to catch his breath before he hyperventilates.

“Dean?”

It’s Cas, and he’s in his trench coat because he just came up the stairs, and he’s carrying his Paint Water mug with steaming coffee. He looks so worried his eyebrows practically meet in the middle over his nose.

“C-Cas?” Dean says. He’s laughing again because of course it’s Cas to find him at probably the most unattractive and pathetic he’s ever been in his life. His legs aren’t even strong enough to let him stand up again. But the laughing turns to more coughing which turns into sort-of crying because his chest hurts and he’s fucking scared, okay? He thinks he’s really sick. He thinks he might be dying.

“You’re not alright,” Cas tells him, not even needing to ask. He puts the coffee mug on the floor and reaches for Dean’s shoulders to stop his forehead from smashing into his knees.

“Th-think I’m sick,” Dean mutters.

“You’re very warm,” Cas says. And he’s got one of his large, dry hands pressed against Dean’s forehead. It feels so nice. Soft and cool and gentle. Dean wants Cas to touch him again, but Cas is already pulling his hand away. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“Gotta – work,” Dean rasps. Because he needs to make this shift. Needs to cover for Lee until 10:00 pm because Lee took over for him yesterday so Dean could meet with Mick. Needed to meet with Mick so Dean can plan for Friday. Needed to plan for Friday because Dean needs Emma. He needs Emma.

“You are in no shape to work,” Cas says sternly. “Come with me.”

Cas is steady and demanding. It’s the most natural thing in the world to follow his orders. It would be easier if Dean’s legs still worked. He scrabbles against the wall for a minute, searching for the banister to yank himself back up before Cas gets the message and draws him to his feet with surprising strength. Cas slings one of Dean’s arms over his shoulders, and they slowly start the stumbling climb back to Dean’s apartment.

“You’re…really strong,” Dean says, head lolling toward Cas’s shoulder. His nose ends up mashed against Cas’s trenchcoated arm. The material is damp; it’s probably snowing again. Dean fucking hates the snow. He fucking hates winter. He fucking hates the Goddamn Midwest –

“And you are very ill,” Cas answers him.

Cas practically drags Dean through the fourth-floor door and down the hall to Dean’s apartment. He rustles for a minute through Dean’s coat pockets and comes back with his keys. He shoulders open the door and hauls Dean across the threshold.

Good thing Dean didn’t have the energy to fold his bed this morning because that’s exactly where Dean lands when Cas lets him go. The jostling change of position sets off another coughing fit, leaving Dean gasping for breath and miserable. He moans and starts shivering violently despite the fact he’s in four layers.

Cas tugs his top sheet, blanket, and quilt over his quivering shoulders. It’s not enough. Dean’s so cold, he feels hollowed out with it. Like something scraped away all his organs and flesh and left only bones inside a shell, rattling around like a maraca.

It’s possible he’s a little delirious.

“How long have you been like this?” Cas says. He’s perched on the edge of Dean’s bed, frowning at him all serious. It makes parallel lines form on his forehead. Dean wants to smooth them away with the pad of his thumb.

“D-dunno,” Dean says through chattering teeth.

Cas clicks his tongue reprovingly. He gets up from the bed so he can round the end and unlace Dean’s boots. He tugs off both shoes, leaving Dean’s socks on.

“Will you be alright if I leave for a moment?”

“Not – not gon’ leave,” Dean mumbles. He discovers he won’t start coughing if he takes in tiny sips of air from his nose and exhales carefully from his mouth.

He hears the door snap closed on Cas’s way out. It occurs to Dean that he’s not supposed to still be in bed. He needs to be at work. He didn’t call out sick. He’s used more than his share of personal time. Bobby’s too good to him.

He struggles to push the blankets off his body, but it’s like they’re made out of metal. He finally manages to sit up, redoubling his shaking. It sends another pulse of dizziness, but Dean grits his teeth and powers through.

He inches toward the edge of his bed, plants his feet on the ground – and he’s not wearing shoes. He definitely remembers putting on shoes. He grabs for the boots he finds on the floor, stuffs one foot into the mouth of one boot – and he’s not sure if it’s the right match. He tries to talk himself through tying the laces.

Fox chases the rabbit, Sammy. Around the tree and into the hole.

“Dean!”

Cas is back, and he sounds angry. One strong hand plants itself on Dean’s shoulder, and that’s all it takes to send Dean flying back toward the mattress. Another hand catches Dean’s fall, lowering him carefully the rest of the way onto the bed. So many hands. Too many hands. Octopus hands.

Dean’s coughing again. More hands help him roll onto his side so he doesn’t choke.

“Why are you putting your shoes back on? You need to stay in bed.”

“Gotta go to work,” Dean wheezes. “Gotta – gotta…”

“You’re in no shape to work today, Dean,” Cas says unquestionably. “You need to stay in bed. Do you need me to call out for you?”

“No!” Dean exclaims. He tries sitting up, gets taken down when the room around him does a barrel roll. “Gonna worry – Bobby’s gonna worry if he thinks I’m sick.”

“I think a bit of worry may be warranted,” Cas says. He drags Dean back into the bed, props him on his side with one of his pillows, and covers him with the blankets again. He smooths his hand across Dean’s forehead, brushing sweaty strands of hair away from his skin, and it feels so nice that Dean whines and chases the contact when Cas pulls away.

“Let me take your temperature,” Cas says. When he was gone, he must have made a stop at the Walgreens down the street, because there’s a crinkly plastic bag in his hand. He rummages in it for a second before he pulls out a long, plastic thermometer.

Dean giggles; it sounds like a death rattle, so he stops and chokes.

“It goes in your mouth,” Cas chides him. He slips the metal-tipped end through Dean’s lips. “Under your tongue. Close your lips. That’s it.” In less than a minute, it’s beeping. Cas pulls it out and frowns at the reading. “You’re 102.8, Dean. That’s very high. Do you have a primary care doctor I can call?”

“Na-ah,” Dean says.

“Can you swallow an antipyretic?”

“Dunno…dunno what that is,” Dean says. Cas is like Sam, always using big, impressive words. But somehow Cas does it in a way that doesn’t make Dean feel stupid. Dean knows what words like photosynthesis and corporeal mean; he’s just not gonna use ‘em in a sentence.

“Fever-reducing,” Cas explains. “Acetaminophen?”

“Kay,” Dean says. And he needs help lifting his head so he can swallow the pill Cas gives him. He chases it with a sip of water that soothes his throat.

Cas leaves again, but he returns with a wet rag that he drapes around the back of Dean’s neck. Cas sits back on the bed, mattress dipping with his weight. Dean nestles close to him. Hid body heat is comforting. Dean remembers falling asleep together the night after the wedding, and he wishes Cas would crawl under the covers with him. Wrap him up in his arms. God knows it makes him pathetic, but Dean wants to be held. But he’s too cold to move and too tired to attempt to communicate this desire, so, instead, he ducks his face into Cas’s leg and closes his eyes.

He drifts for a while in a space that’s not quite sleep but definitely isn’t full awareness. It’s all dazed, cloudy movement and sounds and a steady, stabbing pain in his chest. He hears Cas talking at one point, somewhere dim and faraway. Cas rouses him gently with a hand on his shoulder. He helps Dean sit up enough to down another half-glass of water.

“Your boss, Bobby, called,” Cas explains. “He was concerned when I told him you were ill, but I said I’d take care of you.”

“Not s’posed to miss work,” Dean says, frustrated by the fact that he can’t explain it to Cas and the fact that Cas refuses to understand and the fact that he can’t even summon enough energy to come across as properly frustrated. “Gotta – take time on Friday…and gotta catch up….”

“Your boss will understand, Dean,” Cas soothes him. “He seemed like a kind man. Although he did call you an ‘idjit’ before he wished you well.”

“No,” Dean insists. “Can’t be – can’t be sick.” He pushes himself up, shifts his weight, and rolls on his back with a wumph of breath knocked out of his lungs. He’s coughing again, and he tries to curl into a ball, but it feels like his abdominal muscles are ripping apart.

“Gotta – gotta go to the hearing on Friday,” Dean gasps. His voice is wrecked. The twin pains in his chest and head make him feel like he’s going to puke.

“What hearing, Dean?” Cas says. He’s good with his hands. Really damn good with his hands. So deft and careful as he grips Dean under his arms and tugs him into a sitting position against the backrest so he can breathe easier.

“Emma’s,” Dean says blearily. “Mine – I dunno – it’s for Emma. Gotta…gotta get her back, Cas.”

“Alright, Dean,” Cas says placatingly. He brandishes the thermometer again. “I think I should check your temperature again. You’re not making much sense.”

“Get off,” Dean says, clumsily knocking away Cas’s hand when he comes toward him with the plastic stick. He doesn’t want shit up in his face, right now. He’s so fucking uncomfortable. It’s fucking hot. So fucking hot.

“You are insufferable when you’re sick, do you know that?” Cas tells him.

“S’fucking hot,” Dean defends himself. He shoves the blankets away from his lap. He’s drenched in sweat. His hoodie is heavy and itchy around his neck. He tries to tug it off, but he gets tangled in the arms. Cas takes pity on him and helps him take it the rest of the way off. It pulls away from his hair with a sizzle of static electricity.

Cas grins at him and uses his hand to smooth Dean’s hair back down. “Is that better?”

“No,” Dean grunts. He has a little more success pulling off his flannel, baring his arms in his t-shirt. The air in his apartment feels stifling and warm, however, and it doesn’t give him much relief. He wonders if Cas would care if he just got naked. But then he sees that Cas is looking at Dean’ arms and – shit – shit. Fuck. shit. Son of a bitch. Clothes stay on. Clothes stay on because Dean doesn’t want Cas to see –

“Fuck –” Dean says, fumbling for the top sheet.

“Dean –” Cas says at once.

“Shit, Cas –”

“Dean,” Cas says, gentler this time. He grabs ahold of both of Dean’s hands. “It’s okay. They don’t bother me. You’re okay.”

There’s a prickle of discomfort in the back of Dean’s head. He feels pinned to the mattress under Cas’s gaze like he’s a butterfly nailed to a display case. But Cas releases his hands, offers another smile.

“You should try to drink more. Then sleep. You need rest.”

Dean manages to take another couple sips of water. Cas gives him a fresh towel for his forehead, then he closes his eyes and tries to sleep. It is both too hot and too cold. He vacillates wildly between shivering so hard his teeth rattle to desperately flinging away every inch of unwanted fabric.

Cas urges him periodically to take another drink of water or down another pill. He presses the thermometer through his lips to check his temperature. He frowns at the reading again.

“It hasn’t gone down. Do you want to go to an urgent care?”

“No,” Dean breathes. It’s surprisingly hard to speak. It’s been a while since he’s tried. It’s like all the words are carrying miniature barbells. “No…doctors.”

“Dean,” Cas reproaches him, and he sounds like Sam, like when Dean’s brother is disappointed in Dean for being such a screw up, and if he just listened to Sam like a good little boy everything would be so much easier. “You could be fighting an infection. You might need antibiotics –”

“I said fucking no,” Dean says, more aggressively than he meant to, because it results in another fit.

“Okay,” Cas says. “Do you think you can eat something? Gabriel’s bringing up soup.”

“Not gonna eat…Gabe’s cooking,” Dean attempts to joke. He’s not entirely sure if this is lunch or dinner. The curtains are drawn, so it’s impossible to tell if it’s dark outside. Dean doesn’t know how long he was in and out of sleep.

A moment later, Cas is answering his brother’s knock at the door and relieving Gabriel of a pot of soup. They exchange a few furtive words that Dean thinks probably have to do with him.

“Hey,” Gabe calls before heading back downstairs, “if you’re gonna die of the plague, do me a favor and don’t do it on my property, okay?”

Dean lifts a heavy arm and sends Gabe his middle finger in answer, but he figures that’s as close to a well-wish he’s gonna get from the guy.

Cas insists that Dean at least try to get some of the broth down, and it’s actually a surprisingly successful endeavor. The warmth feels nice on his raw throat, and having something in his stomach perks him up a little. Cas takes his temperature again, after waiting a militant half-hour after Dean’s eaten, and finds that he’s gone down one degree, so the Tylenol has finally kicked in.

Dean dozes a little more after that, but he’s roused by more coughing, followed by a sharp knock on the window above his head. Cas looks puzzled, and Dean realizes he doesn’t know about his and Charlie’s fire escape rendezvous, so he croaks, “It’s Charlie. Tell her I don’t want her to catch anything.”

Cas kneels on the bed beside Dean so he can reach the window, hauling it open and sticking his head into the wintry air. Dean is again unbearably warm, so the cold feels soothing across his flushed skin. He’s lying on the bed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, sweaty and filthy and gross, way too damn sick to worry anymore about the fact that Cas has seen his scars.

“Hello, Charlie,” Cas’s deep voice rumbles above Dean’s head, and it sounds nice, sends little earthquakes through Dean’s skull.

“Oh, thank God,” Charlie says, “at least he’s not dying alone.”

“Hopefully he’s not dying at all,” Cas replies.

“Let me in,” Charlie orders him. “I woke up and could hear the coughing. I brought meds, but you’ve probably already got it covered.”

“Don’ wanna get you sick,” Dean murmurs weakly, but Charlie dismisses him.

“But it’s okay to get Cas sick? That’s bestie nepotism, man.”

“He didn’t have much of a choice,” Cas explains. “I basically forced him to let me in.”

“Well, good,” Charlies says. “He’s already used to it, then.” Cas gets shoves backward as Charlie climbs through the window. The bed bounces when she clambers over the backrest of the couch, landing beside Dean. “I can’t believe you two are roleplaying Florence Nightingale without me.” She bends over Dean and plants a kiss on his forehead. Before he can protest, she says, “Don’t get mushy, I’m just checking your fever.”

“He was 101.8 an hour ago.”

“Shit, dude, you tryna break a record?” Charlie teases him affectionately, but there’s a crease of concern between her eyebrows.

“I’m fine,” Dean says feebly.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be the jug of that,” Charlie says. She, too, is equipped with a plastic bag. She rustles inside until she pulls out a bag of throat lozenges. “Suck on that. It sounds like you swallowed a cheese grater.”

Dean unwraps the bright red lozenge, wrinkling his nose at the sharp scent of menthol, masked by artificial cherry-flavoring, but it eases the sharp pain in his throat a little, so he’ll take it.

“How long have you been feverish?” Charlie asks.

“I think I was yesterday,” Dean answers, but he doesn’t mention the coughing up blood thing. It’s not a big deal; it hasn’t happened since this morning.

“He didn’t tell me that,” Cas says in exasperation.

Charlie makes a face. “We gotta work on your communication skills, bucko.”

Dean sticks his tongue out at her, half-dissolved lozenge poking out.

Charlie apparently doesn’t care that he’s dying, because she swats him on the upper arm.

“Seriously,” Dean insists. “I’m fine. I don’t need babysitters. I just gotta get a good night’s sleep.”

“Famous last words,” Charlie says sagely. But then she turns to Cas and asks, “Okay, who’s got first watch?”

“I just said –” Dean says, struggling to sit up but flung backward again when he starts coughing so hard it causes tears to stream down his cheeks. Charlie gets her hands on him and props him up.

“You were saying?” Charlie says, the smartass, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re running a fever and you’re barely strong enough to sit up in bed. You’d probably faceplant if you tried to get up to take a piss, right now. No way are we leaving you through the night.”

“F-fuck you,” Dean says, but it’s not really a protest. His recent coughing fit has tripled the sickening pain in his head. And it feels like his lungs are being wrung out every time he takes a breath. He decides it’s a better idea to stop arguing and try to sleep again. He’s dimly aware of Cas and Charlie working out the logistics without him.

Charlie volunteers to take first watch, seeing as Cas has been there all day and Charlie doesn’t sleep at night, anyway. But Dean loses most of what happens after Cas leaves and Charlie urges him to take his evening meds. Then Dean’s out.

OOO

His dreams are frightening and unclear, filled with the monsters of his father’s delusions and shadowy figures with reaching claws and pawing hands, raspy laughter echoing in his ears.

He wakes up slowly, like he’s being dragged out of murky water. He can tell his fever’s spiked again because the vertigo is back, bobbing the world up and down around him. It’s also hard to breathe, hard like his throat is constricting; someone’s got their hand clenched tight around his larynx. He sucks in air with a wheeze and tries to swallow down the tickle that starts in his lungs with little success.

Charlie stirs beside him at the sound of his coughing, setting aside her laptop and fixing him with more worry.

“I’ll get some water,” she says. She climbs out of bed and returns with a glass. Dean’s back to shaking, so Charlie holds the cup to his lips for him. Dean swallows with difficulty.

He can’t speak, but he sends her a grateful look through his half-lidded eyes. She doesn’t notice; she’s staring at the lip of the glass with dawning horror.

“Dean,” she says. “There’s blood on this. Are you – are you coughing up blood?”

“Not – not a big deal –” Dean manages to whisper, already drifting back toward darkness.

“Not a big deal?” Charlie says loudly. “Hey – hey, no sleepy-time just yet. How long have you been coughing blood?” She grips his upper arm tight. Dean winces and tries to pull away, but she might as well be a pro-wrestler for all the strength he has.

“D-dunno.”

“Shit,” Charlie says. She’s kneeling on the bed again and tossing open Dean’s window. She leaps over the edge and Dean dimly hears her as she gets Cas’s attention where he crashed out in her apartment for the night.

The air coming in through the open window is ice cold, like the shiver a ghost sends through your bones before it drags you down to its grave.

“Hey, hey, Dean?” Charlie’s fingers tap on Dean’s cheeks, and Dean tries to pry his eyelids open. Charlie’s pale face hovers directly over his. Cas stands behind her, equally anxious. God, Dean’s tired. He fucking aches. “Wakey, wakey, big guy. We gotta get you to the hospital, okay? Coughing up blood, as a rule, isn’t great.”

“No hospital,” Dean says. He’s not totally tracking Charlie’s spiel, but he registers the word hospital, and he knows hospital equals bad. Hospital is where he goes before they lock him up again. Dean doesn’t want to be sent away. Dean doesn’t have time for another Goddamn setback. He’s gonna lose Emma. He can’t lose Emma.

There’s movement above him. Cas takes Charlie’s place in front of him, holding the thermometer again. Dean opens his mouth on instinct and lets Cas tuck the end under his tongue. After it beeps, Cas and Charlie huddle around the reading, frowning.

“Yeah, you’re 104.2, dude,” Charlie says. “That’s 100% ER business.”

“No…” Dean murmurs, trying to explain, but the words are out of reach. Everything swirls around him, a tilt-a-whirl of color and sound.

“Do you think you can walk if we help you downstairs, or do you need us to call an ambulance?” Cas asks. His hair is sleep-ruffled. There are dark shadows under his eyes. He looks scared and pale.

“No,” Dean tries again. He needs them to understand. If he goes to the hospital, they’re gonna realize he’s crazy. They’re gonna stick him in a straightjacket and a padded room. “Gotta – c-can’t –”

But then he tries to draw breath, and he can’t. He just can’t. It’s not funny. It was never really funny. But at least it was kind of cute, watching Cas and Charlie play nurse, kinda playfully exasperating, secretly kinda nice to be coddled, but now it’s not funny. Now Dean can’t breathe. And there’s something on his chest, squeezing him hard. The world is collapsing inward and Dean’s gonna suffocate. Gonna die buried alive in a pile of crushed metal.

“Dean!” Cas’s voice is sharp and alarmed, and his face is bright with terror as he scoops Dean into his arms, puts Dean’s back against his chest and holds him in a sitting position. It helps clear Dean’s airway by a crack, and Dean sucks in a breath that results with another convulsive burst of coughing.

Dean tunes back in to hear Charlie in the background, talking rapidly into her cellphone, “Yeah, he’s had a fever all day, maybe yesterday, and he’s having trouble breathing –”

“No,” Dean whimpers. He wants to tell Charlie to hang up. He doesn’t need an ambulance. He doesn’t need a hospital. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital. “No, no, no, no.”

“Shhh,” Cas hushes him. He puts a strong, warm hand flat against Dean’s chest, rubs slow paths down his sternum. The pressure feels nice, but Dean’s not sure if it’s for him or if Cas needs to be reassured of the rise and fall of Dean’s lungs. “You’re okay, Dean. You’ll be okay.”

“D-don’t let them take me,” Dean says. Hot tears drip down his face. The tightness in his throat just gets worse again, panic making his entire body seize. He hates it there – fucking hates the white coats and impassive faces and reaching hands and tubes and needles and wires. He hates it hates it hates and he doesn’t want to go. They can’t make him go. “P-please.”

“I’ll be there,” Cas says desperate. “I’ll be there the entire time, Dean.”

It doesn’t help. It doesn’t fucking help. Dean chokes on a sob and it makes him cough again, so hard he tears out of Cas’s grip and falls face forward toward the bed. There’s more blood. Dean blinks and sees red drops on the blanket across his lap. He can smell the metallic tang of it in the air. His lungs are so full of gunk, there isn’t any room for air. This was how he's gonna die. Drowning from the inside out. Unable to draw breath.

Charlie tucks her cellphone in her back pocket, and she crosses the room, damp towel in hand. She pats gently at his mouth, wiping away more blood with a mixture of disgust and horror. She finishes by brushing away his tears.

“I know it sucks, man,” she reassures him. “But you’re gonna be okay. You want me to call Sam?”

“D-don’t want him to know,” Dean says helplessly. “Didn’t screw up – Charlie, I didn’t screw up.”

“I know you didn’t,” Charlie says gently. “Sam’ll know it, too.”

“C-can’t lose her.”

“You’re not gonna lose her, Dean.”

“They’re gonna take her away,” Dean says, shutting his eyes and squeezing out more tears. Cas is back to holding him. The heat of his behind him is grounding, but it’s not enough to stop his uncontrollable trembling. Dean’s getting torn apart. All his nuts and bolts knocked loose. “They’re not gonna let me keep her. Not gonna – not gonna –”

“Dean, it’s going to be okay,” Charlie tells him firmly.

Dean’s breathing comes in tiny hiccupped sobs, and he stops trying to talk because it makes his chest hurt too much. His panic coats him like his cloying, sweat-dampened skin. It’s impossible to shake and impossible to ignore. Cas keeps steady pressure around his shoulders. Dean can feel his belly rise and fall behind his back with each even breath.

When the EMSs arrive, they want to put Dean on a stretcher.

“Don’t wanna – don’t strap me down,” Dean pleads. He hates this. He hates all their dark blue uniforms and business-like attitudes as three of them swarm into his room, carrying equipment, rattling mettle and tubes.

A dark-haired woman clips a pulse oximeter to Dean’s finger and offers him a perfunctory smile. “Don’t worry, slugger. We just need to get you safely down the stairs.”

But she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t fucking get it. Dean can’t be strapped down. He doesn’t want to freak out. He doesn’t want to be handcuffed and held down and –

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis,” Castiel whispers into Dean’s ear, something soft and flowing. His warm breath tickles the side of Dean’s neck. Dean tries to focus on that instead of the tightening spiral of terror in his core. “sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum.”

Dean doesn’t know the what the words mean. He’s vaguely aware it might be Latin, from the homework Sam used to bring home as a teenager. It sounds like some kind of poem, or maybe a prayer – Dean doesn’t know if it’s for Dean’s benefit or Cas’s.

“Sats at 84%,” the paramedic calls. “I’m gonna put an oxygen mask on you, okay?” she turns back to Dean, still smiling.

Dean tries to shake his head. He doesn’t want it. He hates those things, too. Claustrophobic and tight across his nose. It makes him remember waking up with a tube down his throat, something mechanical keeping his chest rising and falling –

But she’s already fixing the mask over Dean’s face, slipping the strap around the back of his head, and the rush of cool, clean oxygen is almost enough to distract him.

“I’m Risa, by the way,” she says, sending him a wink. “Ready to transport?” she asks her team. It happens in quick, well-rehearsed movements: Dean’s rolled onto a backboard and transferred to the stretcher, buckled in across his chest, thighs, and ankles.

A high wine of fear leaks out from behind Dean’s mask. And he’s tilted up on the bed to help his breathing, but the hard pressure of the raised platform is a poor substitute for Cas’s warm, firm chest.

Dean can hear Charlie, Cas, and one of the paramedics discussing who’s coming with him in the ambulance.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Charlie says at once. “I’ll follow you. Dean,” she says cheerfully, “I’ll be right behind you.”

The journey down the narrow, steep stairwell is surprisingly smooth. Dean does his best to stare at the ceiling so he doesn’t register how close the walls are or think about them dropping him. He hears the familiar slide of metal on metal as they roll him into the back of the ambulance. Cas clambers in after him. Cas takes a seat on the bench beside him, and Dean doesn’t even think about it before he flails his arm, looking for Cas’s hand so he can hang on to something. Cas’s fingers are warm and steady, just like they were on the plane.

The ambulance is tight. Its metal walls and cold, sterile equipment, and the flashing monitors give him a headache. He can’t remember much of solitary, but it must have felt like this: confining and isolated and impersonal. No one there to stop him from looping the bedsheets around his neck and letting the weight of his limp body do the work.

“Please,” Dean whimpers. “Please, please, please let me go. Don’t lock me up. Please.”

“Is he claustrophobic?” Risa guesses, addressing Cas.

“I think he must be,” Cas tells her calmly.

“Hey Dean, you just pay attention to your boyfriend, okay?” Risa tells him kindly. She’s fiddling with his arm, sliding an IV catheter into the vein. “You just look right at him.”

Whatever’s in the IV is probably some kind of sedative, or maybe his panic has just left him drained, because Dean loses time on the way to the hospital. He phases back in to find himself surrounded by white coats and mint green scrubs in the ER. Cas is gone, and that makes Dean’s heart jump. He tries to sit up, but his spine is made of jelly, and he slumps against the hospital bed.

There are people around him and beeping, whirring machinery. Chatter about his crashing vitals and sending him for chest x-rays. And hands – so many fucking hands. He wants them to stop touching him. Poking and prodding and pinning him down. But the panic doesn’t catch. It slips away like an ice cube on a scorching sidewalk, replaced by a heavy rush of exhaustion. He grays out to blackness and knows no more.

Chapter Text

There is pain. There are smudges of light and darkness. There is the feeling of drowning. Of being dragged by the ankle into the depths of the ocean. There is darkness, heaviness, noises, and pawing hands. Fingers pry at his clothes. Pry at his lips. At his hands and chest and stop him from getting up. He is too weak to fight. He’s always too weak to fight. Dad would be so disappointed.

Dean wakes up to the too-familiar sight of his little brother sitting by the side of his hospital bed. Sam looks dog-tired. His hair’s a mess and his elbows are braced on his knees, so he’s staring at the floor; Dean’s not entirely sure he’s not asleep.

“Hey,” Dean says, or, at least, he tries. His throat is so dry, the word gets chipped away on the way until it comes out little more than an exhale, but it makes Sam’s head pop up. His eyes are a little red, but the overall impression is immense relief, so Dean figures he’s not dying.

“Hey,” Sam breathes. “Good to see you awake.”

Dean’s been in the hospital enough to recognize a regular room; there’s a curtain to his left hiding his roommate. It’s nice to know he’s at least not in the intensive care unit. He’s still attached to the regular array of wires, tubes, and sticky patches that scratch at his skin, but the oxygen mask has been switched out for a canula, so that’s a plus. The last thing he needs right now is flashing back to a tube down his throat.

“How long –” Dean tries to ask but apparently two-and-a-half words is enough to leave him out of breath. He gasps through the rest. “Was I out?”

“It’s a little before noon on Thursday,” Sam says. He scratches the back of his neck. “You, um, kinda missed most of yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“Happy birthday?” Sam tries. But it falls flat. Dean doesn’t think he has ever experienced a less happy birthday. That includes the one six years ago when he spent the day comatose after getting creamed by a semi.

Sam has dissolved into an unhappy look. Dean looks away. There’s a knife-sharp pain in his chest whenever he inhales. He’s propped up at an angle, and his hands are in his lap. His arms are bare in his paper-thin hospital gown, revealing the pockmarked stretch of scars: lines where he cut with a blade and tiny circles where he burned himself with cigarettes. There are so many that there’s hardly a strip of unblemished skin.

Dean doesn’t want to look at that, either, so he closes his eyes. His lids are heavy, anyway. He’d figure that losing an entire day would warrant finally catching up on his sleep, but he’s still beat.

“What happened?” Dean asks quietly.

“I’m not totally sure,” Sam begins. “Charlie called me early Wednesday morning, said she and Cas brought you to the ER. You’d been moved to the ICU, so they couldn’t see you. Not family.”

Dean doesn’t want to think about Sam getting that call. He doesn’t want to know what his brother’s mind first jumped to when he heard that Dean was once again in the hospital.

“M sorry,” Dean whispers.

“You’re sick, Dean, it happens,” Sam says simply, and Dean can’t gauge his voice. He has no idea if Sam is secretly flipping the fuck out, waiting for the opportune moment to tell Dean how much he screwed up this time, or if he’s genuinely taking this like it’s just a normal bump in the road, like everyone in the world has been sick the way Dean is. “Doctor said it was bacterial pneumonia, probably developed from bronchitis.”

“Any word on when I can get out of this place?” Dean asks, doing his best to sound like his usual self, but falling pretty flat, seeing as he barely has the lung function to get over 10 decibels, which – he remembers as one of the few useless facts he took away from high school science – is about the same level as rustling leaves.

“They don’t know,” Sam says with a shrug. And there it is: that slight edge to his voice when he’s trying to hide how pissed he is. Dad used to have it, too. “You fucked up your lungs. Not sure how bad, yet, but you’ll probably have to be on supplemental oxygen for a while.”

It diverges to one perfect point of hurt: Sam’s disappointment, the idea that Dean is going to have to spend some indeterminant time stuck in this hospital bed, that today’s his birthday and he never gets to have a nice Goddamn birthday, that tomorrow’s the hearing and Dean’s screwed it up – screwed up his one big chance to get his daughter back.

“D-didn’t mean to, Sammy,” Dean whimpers. And, fuck, it’s hard to cry without enough oxygen to even speak. It Goddamn hurts. It feels like someone’s taking a razor to the inside of his lungs and scraping them bloody. And it makes one of the monitors attached to his body start beeping like crazy. “D-didn’t d-do it on p-purpose. I-I – m s-sorry, Sammy. S-sorry –”

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam snaps forward, looking stricken. He grabs Dean’s hand, the one that’s not attached to the pulse oximeter, and pumps it hard. “I’m not angry – shit. Of course, you didn’t do it on purpose. I mean – the smoking didn’t help, but it’s not your fault. It’s really not your fault.”

“G-gonna lose her,” Dean can’t stop. His chest jerks with every tiny sob, sending shockwaves of pain looping over his shoulders and through his abdomen. “N-not gonna m-make it to the – the hearing –”

“Dean,” Sam says, and, amazingly, he’s smiling. But it looks like he’s squeezing it out of an empty toothpaste tube. “It’s okay, man. It’s fine. Mick motioned for an emergency continuance. We’re postponing the hearing. Probably the end of February. It’s okay.” He gives Dean’s hand another press.

“F-fuck everything up,” Dean says. Sam’s words don’t quite penetrate. “The f-fucking de-deposition and – and g-got d-drunk –”

“Dean,” Sam pleads. “Come on, man. You made a mistake. That’s okay. You’re human.”

“F-fuck up your life. Y-you and J-Jess –”

“How is Jess about you? I broke up with Jess.” Sam’s voice is still level, but he looks confused, clearly not sure why Dean’s bringing up his seven-year-old relationships. Clearly not seeing how much Dean has destroyed his life.

“B-because of me.”

“No,” Sam says, frowning. “Because I was 23 and not emotionally mature enough to deal with what happened to Dad and a relationship at the same time. And she was graduating from Stanford while I was dropping out.”

“D-dropped out b-because of me,” Dean says. His breath hitches. His throat aches. He can barely see, his vision’s so blurry with tears. God, he’s disgusting. Despicable. He doesn’t understand why Sam keeps coming back.

“You know, for someone with no self-esteem, you sure think everything’s about you,” Sam says with a week grin. He doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand. Dean wonders how he can stomach even touching him. Dean is disgusting. He is so Goddamn useless. Everyone else’s problem. And he’s not gonna get Emma. And Charlie and – and Cas aren’t gonna want to be his friends anymore –

“Y-you l-left Amelia, so – so –”

“I left Amelia because her divorce fell through,” Sam interrupts him. “And I was sick of being in the middle of that shitshow. All your cracks about being a military wife’s boy toy didn’t exactly help, but it’s not what drove me away.”

“S-slept with R-Rachel after your p-prom.”

“Okay, ah, sure, that was pretty shitty,” Sam allows. “But it’s not like Rachel didn’t have something to do with that, too.”

“R-Ruby –”

“Jesus Christ, Dean. You need to calm down, okay? Ruby was a toxic skank – that’s what you told me from the beginning. Why the fuck are you upset about that now?”

“B-because it’s my f-fault. I f-fucking ruin your life and – and you sh-shouldn’t put up with me.”

“Dean, come on, man. Breathe, okay? You’re starting to freak me out –”

“Land’s sake, boy,” a nurse comes bustling into the room, and her dark skin and frizzy head of hair looks kind of familiar, but Dean’s too busy trying to control his desperate gulps of air to give her much attention. “You gonna just upset him, you can wait outside!”

“Sorry,” Sam says, looking properly abashed, sitting back so the nurse can get to Dean.

“Hey, baby,” she says, turning to Dean with an indulgent smile. “You just take your time, now.” She adjusts the canula under Dean’s nose, grabs a couple tissues from the swivel bedside tray and dabs under Dean’s eyes. “Ignore your brother,” she tells him conspiratorially. “He just doesn’t know the difference between worried and mad.”

Dean tries to manage a feeble smile, but he can’t quite get his trembling lips under control. It’s not great to feel like a child, but something about being in the hospital has always made him crave softness. He catches sight of the nurse’s nametag when she’s bent over him, fiddling with various wires: Missouri. It clicks into place where he remembers her from; she’s the same nurse that took care of him back in August.

“Member you,” Dean tells her stupidly. It occurs to Dean that he is almost definitely medicated. He might even still be feverish. It makes him feel better about being so pathetic.

“I remember you too,” she says with another wide smile. “One of my favorites, but that sure as hell doesn’t make me happy to see you here again.”

“S-sorry,” Dean says again.

“Nah-ah,” Missouri snaps, wagging her finger. “You don’t get to apologize for needing help. Not on my watch.”

She bustles around him for a little longer until all the monitors stop their angry beeping and calm down to whatever must be their normal levels.

“Now, I heard from someone that it’s your birthday today,” she says finally, hands on her hips and fixing Dean with a stern gaze. “So how ‘bout we see how a little birthday Jello goes down, hmm? We might even graduate to solids in time for tonight.”

“Kay,” Dean sniffles.

Missouri sends Sam a dark look of warning, which he shrinks from, before she heads back toward the door.

“Dean,” Sam says softly, after Missouri’s footsteps have been lost in the brisk tread of doctors and nurses in the hallway, the rattling of portable medical equipment, and the beeping of countless threatening machines.

Dean shivers and tries to pull his blanket further up the slope of his chest. He fucking hates hospitals. He doesn’t want to fucking be here.

“Dean,” Sam says again. He helps pull up Dean’s blanket and tucks it around his shoulders so it doesn’t slip off. “You know I’m not mad, right?”

“Okay, Sammy.”

“I’m serious, Dean,” Sam says desperately. “You – you don’t ruin my life, dude.”

That’s a fucking lie. Sam would be some bigshot California lawyer with a degree from Stanford if it wasn’t for Dean. Dean doesn’t want to see the proof of it in Sam’s eyes, so he looks away. He’s tired, anyway. Maybe Sam will stop talking if Dean tries to sleep.

“Dean, please,” Sam pleads. And Dean hates that helpless, tiny voice, almost more than he hates being stuck in a bed, pinned with needles, and filled with so many drugs he can hardly remember his name. So, Dean looks at his little brother.

“I know you’ve been through crap,” Sam starts. “I know it hasn’t been easy. But you gotta know I’m in your corner, right? I – I love you, man. And you make my life better by being here, okay? Please believe that, Dean. Please.”

Dean swallows with difficulty. And then he nods. “Okay, Sammy,” not sure if he really means it, but too tired to argue if he doesn’t.

Sam doesn’t look satisfied, but he leans back in his chair and offers a small smile. “Well, good. Because you gotta stick around to be my best man, right?”

“You getting hitched, Sammy?” Dean says, aware that this is a distraction technique, but unable to stop himself from giving into it.

Sam goes red. “I mean, not right now. But we’ve…Eileen and I have been talking more about the future.”

Dean manages a feeble smile. “You could always ask Andy.”

“Andy’s not best man material,” Sam insists. “He’d think Chinese takeout and sharing a bong is a good bachelor party.”

“He’s not wrong,” Dean croaks. He nestles into the bed. The plastic covering under the sheet crinkles in his ears. “What about that chubby weirdo from high school?”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Sam wrinkles his nose. “Sully and I are still friends.”

“He’d…make a good speech.”

“Nope,” Sam says stubbornly, shaking his shaggy head. “It’s gotta be you man. You gotta stick around for that.”

Dean smiles again. He closes his eyes; he can probably manage a cat nap before Missouri returns with her promised Jello.

“Kay, Sammy. I’ll be there.”

OOO

Bobby and Ellen show up later in the afternoon to fuss over him. Bobby doesn’t even call him an idjit, so Dean knows he really scared them. The antibiotics make Dean nauseas as hell. He wasn’t able to keep down Missouri’s birthday Jello for very long, let alone work up the nerve to try Ellen’s pie, but she promises she’s keeping a slice warm for him when he gets back home.

“I hear it’s your birthday?” Dean’s roommate asks. She’s been a silent presence thus far; Dean wouldn’t even know she was there but for the steady heart rhythm and the fact that the orderly who brought in her meal – she’s apparently well enough to keep down a pudding cup and plate of mushy vegetables – dislodged the curtain so Dean can see her shaggy blond head and wan face. She’s got a book open on her lap, marking her place with a finger as she stares at Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean rasps. “Rotten luck, right?”

“Happy birthday,” she replies cheerfully.

Dean’s pretty far from happy, but being a douche about it ain’t gonna help anyone. Nobody likes being in a hospital; the least he could do is be nice.

“Thanks.” He manages a small smile.

“I’m Layla,” she replies. She’s got a tube in her chest, running under her hospital gown, and just as many wires as Dean’s got on her arms. She’s also got a white bandage wound around the top of her head, and there’s a wire snaking up her neck, disappearing behind the back of her skull.

“Dean.”

Layla might have been pretty if she wasn’t in the hospital. But, then again, Dean probably looks like crap, too. She’s gray- and thin-faced; her blond hair likely hasn’t been brushed or washed in the last few days, and her eyes droop with fatigue. She looks a few years older than Dean, but maybe that’s just the result of whatever she’s sick with.

“Postoperative pneumonia.” Layla supplies the answer to the question Dean didn’t get around to asking. She waves a clumsy hand to the bandage around her head. “What about you?”

“Bacterial,” Dean supplies. “Got sick back in December and never got better. Probably because my lungs are crap with all the smoking. Guess my brother was right about quitting.”

“God moves in mysterious ways,” Layla says with a wink. Ordinarily Dean scoffs at those kind of sentiments, but that feels pretty mean-spirited when Layla’s lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Whatever she needs to believe to get through; Dean can’t fault her that.

“Let me meet you, didn’t it?” Dean says with a wink of his own. He’s pretty far from interested in flirting, right now, but it makes Layla grin. Smiling does wonders: she looks pretty and shy like a girl, and she shakes her head with a snort of laughter, half-delighted, half-disbelieving.

Dean wonders how long it’s been since someone told her she was beautiful; hell, that she even looked like a person. There’s something so degrading about being in the hospital, something that makes you feel like a thing – like a thing with something wrong with it. Your body needs to be pumped full of something else before people start treating you normally again.

“What are you reading?” Dean whispers, barely loud enough to carry across the hospital room, with all it’s whirring and beeping, but that’s about all his lungs can manage.

Layla picks up the book and waves it almost ruefully in the air. It’s a Bible. One of those leather-bound ones you find in hotel rooms.

“Oh,” Dean says.

“You a believer?” Layla asks, almost conversationally. Dean wonders if he’s about to get the missionary spiel.

“Um, not really,” Dean says awkwardly.

Layla smiles again. “No faith?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. Seems like the world’s too big for faith.”

“The world’s too big to not have faith,” Layla rejoins, but there’s a twinkle in her tired eyes. Dean doesn’t have the heart to argue with her. “There’s so much bad in the world. Seems only fair there’d be some good, too.”

It’s not long before the nightshift nurses come in for their rounds. The curtain gets fixed so Dean and Layla can both have their privacy during the night. Dean’s vitals get picked over by a woman who’s not as soft as Missouri, but she’s got laugh lines around her eyes as she introduces herself as Kathleen. She asks him a bunch of embarrassing questions about whether he needs to take a dump in the bedpan, and then she tells him to try to get some sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, despite the fact Dean’s so drowsy he’s barely able to pry his eyelids open. His senses are accosted at every turn: the sharp noise of coughing and groaning elsewhere in the ward, the cloying smell of disinfectant and sour stink of sickness, the bright lights of monitors. His nose stings from the stream of oxygen coming through the tubes in his nostrils. He’s been burning a fever all day despite the antibiotics, and there’s a thin film of cold sweat on his forehead and under his arms. His skin itches under his hospital gown. He feels exposed and uneasy with so few layers, pinned to the bed and unable to escape any possible threat.

Someone spilled the beans about his past opioid “addiction,” which means they can’t give him the good stuff. The pain in his chest and head stays at a low drone, barely kept at bay by over-the-counter pain relievers.

He dozes uneasily. He wakes up in the middle of the night by the sheer panic of being unable to draw a full breath, of having his chest crushed under the weight of bent metal. He can smell smoke in the air.

There are hands on him almost immediately: a soothing palm against his forehead, tugging at his shoulders to help him sit up straighter.

“Your oxygen levels are dropping, Dean,” a voice tells him, and hands reach to remove the oxygen cannula. “We gotta switch this out for a mask, okay?”

“No,” Dean moans weakly, voice cracking with desperation. He hates it – he hates it. His mind is too foggy with pain and panic. He doesn’t want something over his face, blocking the air. He doesn’t want another tube down his throat, the horrible pressure down his esophagus, the slick, shifting movement as he gagged on it being pulled back out. “No no no no no no.”

“Can I sit with him?” a careful voice asks across the cloudy darkness.

“If you can help him calm down….” One of the nurses trails off. There are hands around Dean’s wrists, and he only hazily realizes he must have physically tried to bat the mask away from his face. He turns his head desperately, trying to evade the plastic cup, elastic bands, and rubber tubing.

“Dean, we’re not going to hurt you. Calm down,” another voice says – another nurse, clipped and professional and threatening. They’re lying – of course they want to hurt him. Of course.

“Don’t –” Dean wheezes. “S-stop –”

“Hey, Dean,” a gentle voice says from beside him. Narrow, soft fingers stroke Dean’s cheek. He flinches hard. The movement twists his throat, makes the air stop. His chest seizes. He’s coughing now, hard enough to run tears down his face. “It’s me, remember? Layla. You’re okay, honey. Let them put the mask on.”

Dean chokes and sputters, overwhelmed by the pain in his chest, paralyzed by the fact that he is utterly helpless. They can do anything to him – they can – they can hurt him however they want to.

“Hey,” Layla says, touching his face again, guiding his gaze toward her. She’s sitting in a wheelchair beside his bed. “You just look at me, okay?” She smiles wanly. “I know you’re scared, and it hurts, but you’re going to be okay. Okay? You just let them help you.”

It’s a damn trap, because Kathleen takes advantage of Dean’s distraction with Layla to slip the mask over Dean’s face and secure it over his mouth and nose. Dean’s eyes pop wide, he chokes, squirms, tries to feebly shake the pressure away from his face –

“You leave it there, honey,” Layla says, gripping the hand he’d attempted to bring toward his face. “You just take a couple big breaths, okay?”

Dean whimpers. He draws in a week, trembling breath. His throat hitches. “D-don’t w-want it,” he whispers pathetically, but he’s too weak to attempt to pry his fingers away from Layla’s grasp.

Layla’s eyes swim with a combination of pity and worry. “I know, honey. I know.”

At least the two nurses aren’t bending over him anymore. He sees Kathleen hovering nearby, checking the rest of the machines he’s hooked up to. The desire to tug the mask off is nearly as all-encompassing as the suffocating tightness in his chest.

“Just shut your eyes,” Layla tells him sweetly. “Just shut your eyes and try to get some sleep.”

OOO

Dean wakes some indeterminant time later. The mask is still in place; Layla is not. Dean exercises every ounce of will-power not to chuck the thing half-way across the room, forcing himself to lay still and ground himself with one of Pam’s techniques. Layla’s back in her own bed. The curtains once again pulled back, revealing her sleeping, utterly unmoving, below her covers. Dean immediately feels guilty for tiring her out. God, she must have thought he was so pathetic, crying like a little boy about a piece of stupid plastic.

Missouri is back sometime in the next hour. She comes bearing more Jello for breakfast. Apparently, Dean’s banned from anything more substantial until he can keep from puking up his intestines. But she is able to twitch out the mask for the nasal cannula, again, which makes Dean get a little choked up with relief.

She scolds him gently for the rough night he gave Kathleen, but it’s mostly to distract him from the fact that she’s giving him a sponge bath. Gooseflesh of discomfort erupt as soon as Missouri touches the damp cloth to his skin, and again Dean’s transported somewhere else, where he has no control over his body and what’s done to it. It’s somehow horribly like prison – showering in an open room with eyes everywhere: the guards watching above through the barred-ceiling and the other inmates leering at him.

The Jello doesn’t last any longer than it did yesterday.

“Aw, baby,” Missouri coos, a soothing hand on his arm as she holds an emesis basin steady under his chin. “I know those meds don’t agree with you.”

She wipes his face, afterward, and helps him lay on his side to help ease his nausea. She pets his hair back from his sweaty forehead and promises she’ll get him a cup of ice chips to suck on. Thoroughly miserable, Dean tries to get a little more sleep.

Sam is there as soon as visiting hours open, before he needs to go to the office. He spends most of the time talking seriously with Dean’s doctor – a conversation Dean’s too sleepy to follow – but then he spends a couple minutes sitting quietly beside Dean, chatting mindlessly, a comforting presence as Dean dozes.

What little time Dean doesn’t spend sleeping and doing tortuous breathing exercises in the next few days is spent entertaining visitors, because, apparently, he’s become the most popular girl in school. He normally abhors above all else seeing people when he’s in the hospital, but that’s usually because he’s strung out on antipsychotics or dopey on benzos. But Sam brought him one of his zip-up hoodies, so he can at least wear it over the arm that doesn’t have the IV and drape it over the other. Covering his scars makes him feel less like he’s some sideshow freak at a traveling circus.

After Sam has to leave for work, Charlie’s there to replace him, weepy and clingy. She yells at him for scaring the shit out of her before curling next to him in the small space of his hospital bed so they can watch YouTube videos on her phone.

Layla asks him afterward if that was his girlfriend, but Dean sends her another wink and says, “Thought that was you, sweetheart.” It makes Layla laugh, which makes Dean feel better.

“Er – thanks, by the way,” he says gruffly, picking at a thread on the frayed cuff of his hoodie. “For, you know, last night.”

“Don’t mention it,” Layla says kindly – which is nice of her: acting like Dean being such a sorry excuse for a grown man isn’t a big deal. “No one feels like themselves in the hospital.”

Cas appears after Charlie, jittery and earnest. He brings in a box of chocolates from Gabe, which Dean can’t eat yet, but he passes them over to Layla and Missouri. Conversation isn’t exactly awkward, but it is largely silent. A heavy, significant silence that Dean doesn’t know how to maneuver around or break without fracturing something very delicate. But he’s glad Cas came, regardless. There’s a calming presence about him, something that makes Dean feel steady and fixed to this world.

Sam’s back in the evening after work. By then, Dean’s so exhausted that he sleeps through most of the visit. Layla’s got a visitor, too – a woman with graying blond hair who might be her mom – and Dean’s lulled to an early sleep by the sound of soft voices surrounding him.

Smoker’s lungs plus a lowered immune system made for the perfect storm, and everyone keeps reminding him how close he came to dying. His own body does a pretty good job of that, too, seeing as everything hurts, and drawing breath feels like trying to swallow a chainsaw.

His fever spikes again in the middle of the night, so they switch him to a stronger antibiotic that makes him puke so hard, blood vessels pop in his face, polka-dotting his cheeks with miniscule bruises. They’re worried about him getting dehydrated, so his IV keeps well-filled, swinging overhead, and there’s a bruise in the crook of his elbow where the cannula went in, making him look like a junkie.

It’s the first time since the accident that Dean almost died because of something that wasn’t self-inflicted. He doesn’t know how that makes him feel: that loss of control over life and death. The fact that, in the snap of some forgotten and indifferent primordial being’s fingers, Dean’s life could be over. It makes him think about Emma mostly, think about how she’d have to grow up without a dad. How he’d never see her again. Even if he doesn’t get custody, he could maybe keep some visitation rights, watch her grow from afar. That’s something he won’t be able to do if he’s dead. It puts things into perspective, he guesses.

The weekend is when things get boring. He’s well enough that he can stay awake for longer periods of time, but not well enough that he can get out of bed and go home, so he’s stuck in bed, feeling his ass grow numb, as he catches up on soap operas and game shows.

Jo Facetimes him Saturday morning, all righteous fury and hidden emotion when she repeats Ellen’s lecture nearly word-for-word. Dean teases her about being so much like her mom, Jo tells him to fuck off, and then Dean lets her ramble about the discovery of a million-year-old fireplace in South Africa while he measures his breathing.

Sam, Charlie, and Cas become regular visitors. Dean’s not sure if they’re coordinating their efforts behind the scenes, but they rarely cross paths, and they’re always careful about giving him enough recovery time between each visit. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if his brother had recruited some kind of moral support army behind Dean’s back.

On Sunday morning, he's slightly less nauseous, and he’s finally able to keep down the Jello, which means he’s getting soup and crackers for lunch. He’s also finally able to hobble out of bed and go to the bathroom. He’s grateful for the removal of his catheter. He doesn’t care about professionalism or they see hundreds of bodies every day, Dean, they don’t care about one dick – he still doesn’t like strangers near his junk.

Benny stops by on Sunday afternoon, bringing a crayon-scribbled get-well card from Lizzy. Dean displays it proudly atop the filing cabinet that holds his clothes. Garth pops in to show him a sock puppet he made with Gertie. It’s pretty stupid, but it makes Dean laugh until his oxygen levels drop and Missouri shoos Garth out.

Sunday night, after visiting hours, Dean’s mood drops again, aware that he has missed yet another visitation with Emma. He knows she’s too young to register he’s missing, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a terrible father. Donna sent him a message hoping for his quick recovery, but there wasn’t anything relayed from Lydia. It’s stupid; Dean knows he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. It’s not like Emma can draw cards, yet. But he just wants to see her. He wants to treasure what little time with her he might have left.

Worst of all, Layla’s blood pressure drops suddenly and she has to get transferred back to the ICU. It’s not like they were constantly making conversation, but at least he wasn’t totally alone. He’s sick with worry over her half the night before Kathleen takes pity on him and checks with an intensive care nurse, who says Layla’s stable again, but needs to be kept under watch.

On Monday, Dean’s mid-morning Days of Our Lives marathon is interrupted by a familiar mane of bushy dark hair.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Dean rasps.

Kaia steps fully into his room, one hand circling a strand of hair, the other occupied by Claire’s hand, who tails behind her.

“School’s for losers,” Claire answers for Kaia.

“Won’t fight you there,” Dean agrees. Dean would take the time to sit up straighter so he doesn’t look like so much a slob, but he figures Kaia and Claire would just laugh at him. He does flick off the television, though. “How’d you know where to find me?”

“Benny told group you were sick,” Kaia explains.

“Alex got us your room number,” Claire adds. “She’s got clinicals here.”

“Fuck’s sake,” a third girl appears, dressed in scrubs, dark hair pulled out of her face. This must be Alex. “Don’t just tell him that. Patient information is confidential!”

“If you’re so afraid of getting caught you shouldn’t have broken the rules, Miss Prissy Pants,” Claire returns. Dean smiles. Claire and Alex remind him of him and Sam.

“So, you dying or something?” Kaia inquires, and Dean can tell her brash attitude is hiding real concern.

“Nah,” Dean replies easily. “Probably gonna have to quit smoking, though.”

“That sucks,” Claire says companionably. She’s got thick black eyeliner and dirty blond hair. She’s what Dean thinks he would have looked like if he was a girl. Not that he’s ever, you know, thought about what he would look like as a girl.

“Gonna have to find someone else to bum cigarettes off, kid,” Dean tells Kaia.

Kaia shrugs. “That’s okay. Claire’s got a fake. We’ll manage.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at Claire, who blushes. “Dude, I’m twenty-one in less than a year. Anyway, time is a construct.”

“Uhg, I wish you guys would stop implementing me in your nefarious deeds,” Alex complains.

“God,” Dean sighs hugely, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Your moms must have the patience of saints.”

“You know Jody and Donna?” Claire asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

“Don’t know Jody personally.” Dean hesitates, but then he thinks, what the hell, they’re three teenage girls. What are they gonna care? “Donna’s my social worker. I see her every week for my daughter’s visitation.”

“You’ve got a daughter?” Kaia asks, face brightening.

“Yeah,” Dean can’t stop a smile from digging into his cheeks. He reaches for his phone from the swivel tray, thumbs it open, and slides past Charlie’s selfies on his camera roll until he finds the few pictures of Emma that he’s taken on Sunday afternoons.

He hands the phone to Kaia, who beams at the pictures and shows Claire.

“Uhg, kids,” Claire scoffs.

“She pretends she hates children but she’s really got worse baby fever than all of us combined,” Alex says, craning her neck so she can see the pictures, too.

“Shut up.” Claire elbows her sister in the ribs.

“It’s true,” Kaia fixes her with a soft smile, and Claire rolls her eyes but grins, clearly unable to argue with her girlfriend. “She’s really cute.” Kaia hands Dean his phone back, and Dean realizes the loose arm of his hoodie slipped off his shoulder, revealing the marred skin beneath. He tries to be covert about covering himself again, but he knows Kaia noticed. Her eyes follow his arm even after it’s concealed.

“I gotta get back to my shift,” Alex says. “Either of you two breathe a word of this to Jody, and I’ll slip laxatives in your orange juice.” She turns to Dean and, much kinder, asks him, “You, um, need anything before I go?”

She’s obviously concerned he’s actually upset she shared his information with Kaia and Claire, so Dean flashes her a smile. “Yeah, a cheeseburger and milkshake.”

“I can probably get you a pack of chocolate Necco Wafers,” Alex allows.

“You suck at this bedside manner shit,” Dean says.

“Har. Har.” Alex departs with another goodbye and casual wave, leaving Kaia and Claire behind. Kaia sinks into the one chair by Dean’s bedside. Despite her weight gain, she still looks impossibly small and vulnerable, made worse by the fact that she’s dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt that falls to midthigh.

“You lose custody of your kid or something?” Claire asks bluntly. She’s a hard kind of kid, but not in the same way Kaia is hard. Where Kaia is defensive, Claire is combative and prickly. Kaia wears her hardness like armor; Claire wields hers like a sword.

“It’s complicated,” Dean says. “Her mom and I are…not together. I’m in the middle of trying to get her back.”

Claire watches him for a long moment, peering carefully through her mascara-caked lashes. Dean knows she’s measuring his worth as a father in a way only a fatherless kid can. “Good,” she says finally.

She perches on the narrow armrest of Kaia’s chair.

“I’ve got those, too,” Kaia says in a small voice, pointing to Dean’s covered arms.

Dean gulps. “Oh yeah?” he says neutrally, even if his pulse is racing. He doesn’t talk about his scars.

Kaia nods. She rolls up her long hoodie sleeves, cuffing one after the other to bare the pink lines that break across her otherwise smooth tan skin. Dean recognizes the ladder steps of a razer blade and the more jagged-edged, deeper scars that must have come from something sharper.

“I’d tell you it gets better or easier, or whatever,” Dean says. He’s not in the business of motivational speaking. Besides, Dean’s been told it gets better by so many people so many times, even though he’s never seen any evidence that that’s the case. But he thinks about wanting to live for Emma, or wanting to live for Sam and Charlie and Cas. “But it gets…more worth it.”

Kaia nods slowly, like she gets it. Her large dark eyes are somber; Claire has a hand on her shoulder. Dean doesn’t know much about faith, least not in the way Layla talks about it, but Dean thinks they just might be alright.

Chapter Text

“I’m fine, Sammy, really,” Dean says, wheezing breath in and huffing breath out as he makes his way up the complex stairs. And he is fine; it even stops feeling like his lungs are going to split apart after he takes a hit from the rescue inhaler the hospital sent him home with.

“You don’t look fine,” Sam says, frowning.

“He’s got a point,” Eileen says unhelpfully. The two of them trail Dean’s slow progress up the stairs, toting the limited possessions he accumulated in the hospital.

“Thanks,” Dean says wryly, but he doesn’t have much breath beyond that if he wants to make it up the last flight and into his apartment.

He finally makes it back to his door, and as soon as he's across the threshold, he spills himself onto his bed. He only dimly observes that someone has been inside to clean – maybe Charlie or Cas – because his sheets are washed, and the general aura of sickness he left behind when he went to the hospital has been cleared away.

“I still don’t get why you can’t just spend a few nights with me,” Sam says, sulking against the refrigerator.

“I’ll be okay here, Sam, honest,” Dean insists. “I’ve got Charlie next door and Cas downstairs.”

Sam doesn’t exactly look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything else when Eileen puts a hand on his arm and gives him a pointed look. She’s been good for him; Sam’s always had a level head about everything except Dean, but Eileen makes him steadier.

The hospital released Dean after a week, with strict orders to finish out his 10-day course of antibiotics and use the inhaler whenever he had trouble breathing. They told him most of the chest pain and congestion should clear up in three to four weeks, the breathlessness in five to six, and fatigue might stick around for longer. Bobby had told him sternly that he better not see him in the garage until at least next Monday. Jesus, pneumonia sucked.

“You up for pizza?” Eileen chirps.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, because he knows Sam will worry worse if he doesn’t. The anti-nausea meds the docs set him up with helped a little. His appetite is better, but by no means back to normal.

Eileen nods and takes out her phone to make an online order to whichever hipster pizza place she and Sam favor.

“Mick talked to me today,” Sam says gently, tugging off his shoes and moving to sit cross-legged on the end of Dean’s bed, like he used to do when he was a gangly kid.

“Yeah?”

“Hearing’s postponed to February 28th. No problems.”

The glowing sense of relief is almost immediately bypassed by a crashing wave of dread: the end of February means Dean has over a month before this ordeal comes to a possible end. He wonders if Lydia’s pissed at the delay. He wonders if Toni Bevell is going to spin Dean rescheduling the hearing date as some kind of proof that he’s not serious about parenting Emma, despite Sam and Mick’s twin insistence that a judge wouldn’t look at literally almost dying of pneumonia, Dean, as any kind of evidence that he was an unfit parent.

Dean’s dark thoughts are interrupted by rapid knocking on his door. He levers himself onto his elbows and blinks at the door, because he definitely didn’t doze off, so it can’t be the pizza delivery yet.

Eileen is closest to the door, so she shrugs and checks the peephole. “It’s a man with shaggy hair and messy clothes,” she announces.

Dean’s core fills with comfortable warmth. “That’s Cas. You can let ‘im in.”

Eileen swings the door open and Cas immediately stumbles in.

“Dean, you’re back!” He exclaims. His face is red. It looks like he took the stairs at a run. “Gabriel texted to say he saw you arrived and I wanted to come see if I could assist you – and – and I see now that you have company, and I should – I should go –” Cas turns on his heel and moves to leave as abruptly as he came in.

“Cas – wait –” Dean calls, coughing just a little as he shifts onto his back and pushes himself into a sitting position.

Cas does wait: turning around rapidly and freezing there like a deer in headlights.

“This is Eileen,” Dean says. “Sam’s girlfriend.”

“Hello,” Eileen greets him with a warm smile.

“Hello, Eileen,” Cas says. And then he fluidly signs, like he’s been doing it all his life: “My name is Castiel.”

Eileen’s smile only gets brighter. “You know ASL!”

“Yes,” Cas answers. He’s obviously forgotten his previous discomfort, eclipsed by the earnest, straightforward tone of voice he always adopts when he’s explaining something. “I was nonverbal until I was seven-years-old. My mother hired a tutor so I could learn to communicate.”

“It’s nice that you remember it,” Eileen replies, signing along with her speech. “Do you want to stay for pizza?”

Cas smiles. It’s nice to see; Dean remembers that Cas didn’t do a whole lot of smiling while Dean was in the hospital. “That would be very nice, thank you.”

The pizza place might be one of those trendy, sourdough crust, wood-fire roasted, arugula on the menu, kind of spots, but Eileen is a sensible girl and doesn’t order any vegetables on her pies. There’s one with tangy barbeque sauce and chicken and another with pepperoni and sausage.

Dean eats propped up in bed, feeling a little like an invalid, but trying not to let it get him down. Cas and Eileen get along right away, holding secret conversations in sign language and talking about foreign movies neither of the brothers have seen.

“Would you look at that, Sammy,” Dean teases. “Out-classed by your girlfriend.”

Then Eileen tells the story about how, when Sam first met her, he accidentally signed the word for fuck instead of thank you, so she’s not surprised that she’s got more class than him. It makes Dean laugh so hard he has to take another hit from his inhaler.

It’s a surprisingly good evening, considering the fact that Dean was a pile of grubby, dejected blankets in a hospital bed earlier that day. And Sam seems to be reassured by the presence of Cas; at least he knows he won’t be leaving his brother totally alone.

Eileen and Sam eventually take their leave; they both have to get up early for work tomorrow. Eileen kisses Dean on the cheek before she leaves and tugs Cas into a hug, telling him sternly to keep an eye on Dean.

After Eileen and Sam are out the door, Cas hovers awkwardly, evidently unsure if he’s being kicked out, as well.

“You wanna watch a movie?” Dean asks to put him out of his misery. Besides, Dean may be dead tired, but he’s not totally ready to be alone for the night, just yet.

“I would love to, Dean,” Cas says, face splitting into another of his bright, soft smiles, like he’s never been so pleased by a question before. It makes Dean’s chest squirm, but not exactly in a bad way.

They watch Tombstone, which Cas has never seen – a wrong Dean needs to right as soon as possible. If Sam was there, he’d have teased Dean about sounding like the wheezing, consumptive Doc Holiday, but Cas is a silent, captivated movie-watcher. Dean dozes before the first “I’m your huckleberry,” when Doc confronts a drunk Ringo in the street.

Dean wakes up to find himself slumped against Cas’s shoulder, drooling a little into the soft fabric of Cas’s sweater.

“Sorry,” Dean croak and sits up. The movie’s over. His laptop is asleep, and he doesn’t know how long Cas has been watching a black screen.

“It’s alright,” Cas says, eyes unbearable soft. Dean looks away. He shuts his laptop and moves it off the bed.

“You, ah, you like the movie?” Dean says, trying to keep his voice level. Trying not to think about falling asleep on Cas.

“I enjoyed it,” Cas says. Dean’s not so sure he’s talking about the film.

Dean’s face feels flushed. He makes sure there’s a good few inches between he and Cas before he leans against the backrest again. Cas keeps looking at him: solemn and intense.

“You worried me,” Cas says finally, like people just say that kind of shit, all gentle and serious, like they really mean something. “I don’t like seeing people I care about in pain.”

Dean doesn’t know how to confront that kind of honesty. “I’m okay, Cas, really.”

Cas keeps looking at Dean, like maybe he wants to say more, but he finally looks away, gnawing at his bottom lip.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, yeah,” Dean says, his voice a little high-pitched.

“Who’s Emma?”

Dean doesn’t know whether to be relieved or scared out of his mind. He doesn’t remember a lot at the height of his fever, but he knows he was freaking out, delirious and paranoid about missing his hearing. Of course, Cas would probably wonder about some of the shit he was babbling about. It’s kind of nice that Cas waited to ask Dean instead of asking Charlie or Sam.

“She’s, ah, my kid.”

“Oh,” Cas replies. “I didn’t realize you had a child.”

Dean’s face is hot. It’s not like he ever lied to Cas about having a kid; it’s just that he never got around to telling him.

“Sorry,” he says limply. “I should have told you earlier – I know it’s, ah, kind of a big thing.”

“You’re under no obligation to tell me personal things, Dean,” Cas says, and he sounds like he actually means it, not like he’s hiding any resentment or betrayal.

“Yeah, but it’s – you know.” Dean tries to shrug away his discomfort. “It’s a big deal. You’ve told me things that are a big deal to you.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Cas says. He’s back to his pointed, penetrating eye-contact. Dean deals by staring a little off-center at Cas’s mouth, but that definitely doesn’t help, because it puts his lips front-and-center, so Dean stares at his forehead, instead.

“I just – ah – knew you didn’t like kids,” Dean stammers. He never has known when to stop talking. “I didn’t wanna make you…uncomfortable or something.”

“I don’t not like kids,” Castiel says, frowning.

“Oh,” Dean says stupidly. His head is warm enough he’s a little worried he’s running a fever again. “I – Meg said…at your party. Your friends were talking about global warming or something –”

“It’s true creating more humans can have an adverse effect on the climate crisis,” Cas replies seriously. “But – I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t realize that – of course that kind of discussion would offend you. I’m so sorry –”

“Jesus, Cas, I didn’t wanna make you apologize,” Dean says. It’s all messed up. Dean messed it up. He can’t ever have a normal fucking conversation without messing something up –

“Yes, but you deserve an apology,” Cas insists. “You were made uncomfortable by my friends.”

“Didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Dean mutters, even though this is technically a lie.

“Regardless,” Cas continues. “I don’t dislike children. Gabriel mocks me because I reacted poorly when my brother Alfie was born, but that was more because I was disquieted by the immense change in routine. And Meg teases me because a coworker of mine had me babysit for her while I was in school. It was not very successful. But I – I do like children. I just don’t know very many.”

“Oh,” Dean says. Embarrassment crawls up his spine. He changes subjects quickly. “Emma’s a year in two weeks. I had to postpone the custody hearing because of all this crap.”

“Is that why –” Cas hesitates. “Is that why you can’t be in a relationship, right now?”

“Yeah, partly,” Dean says, not wanting to mention the fact that Dean’s trying not be a whore lately, in both the literal and figurative meanings of the word. He struggles to keep his face calm, because his stomach has erupted into a mass of nerves. He doesn’t know why Cas is asking – he didn’t think Cas would still be interested in that. He – sure, Dean’s thought about kissing Cas a couple dozen times since he swore it off back in September, but he didn’t think – he couldn’t think that Cas maybe still thought about it, too.

“If you can ever conceptualize that changing,” Cas says, levelly, so Goddamn sweetly. “Please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Dean’s mouth goes dryer than the Sahara Desert. “Okay,” he rasps.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says – and then he honest to God – honest to fucking God – bends forward and plants a kiss on Dean’s forehead. The spot burns welding iron hot, leaving Dean speechless as Cas climbs out of Dean’s bed and leaves through the door.

“Goodnight, Cas,” Dean whispers, five minutes later.

OOO

Emma’s officially walking. It both makes Dean feel giddy with joy and absolutely devastated. She’s grown so much in her one year of life, and he’s missed more than half of it.

“Mamamama,” she babbles as she totters on wobbly legs into Dean’s waiting arms. He tugs her onto his lap and kisses her on the nose.

“Dada,” he rectifies pointedly and shakes his head in mock resignation when she just opens her mouth in a wide smile and squeals loud enough to hurt his ears.

“Don’t worry,” Donna tells him from the chair. “She’ll get it sooner or later.”

Dean’s on the floor today, and he’s staying there until he has to leave. Making the journey from his apartment to Lydia’s left him tired enough to take a three-hour nap, but no way was he gonna miss out on the afternoon with his daughter. Besides, he’s going back to work tomorrow. He can’t be a wimp.

Depressive episodes have left him in bed for weeks at a time, but when he’s been mentally stable, he’s never been one to spend extra time in bed. The lack of movement left him on edge and itching for any kind of distraction.

Charlie and Cas have been there almost unceasingly. When she didn’t climb through his window to watch TV, Charlie convinced Dean to sprawl on her loveseat and play video games as long as the screen didn’t make his head hurt. And Dean worked up enough energy a couple of times to go downstairs to sit on the floor in Cas’s studio while Cas painted his way through commission pieces; Cas even stole pillows from Gabe’s so he’d be more comfortable. Sometimes Dean dragged Bobby’s guitar down with him to pluck at the strings. Cas said he liked to hear Dean play, and Dean entertained himself by imagining what the music looks like to Cas: what colors and splashes of light jump across Cas’s vision as Dean plays?

But Dean’s still fucking bored. He sometimes grumbles about working at the garage. It can be monotonous and labor-intensive, and dealing with customers is always a drag, but at least it’s something to do, and usually something he likes to do, as long as people let him alone while he works.

And he can’t fight back the feeling that he’s losing so much time just sitting on his ass while he heals. It’s his fault he got sick in the first place; now he’s just making it worse lazing around the complex when he should be out earning money for Emma or working on the upcoming hearing.

Visitation is the first time he’s left the house. Pam called for a brief check-in on Friday, but talking too much makes Dean’s lungs hurt, so it was only a few minutes. She talked him through strategies for quitting smoking. It’s not like Dean’s had the lung function this week to pull out a cigarette, but the urge is still there, which he’s been channeling into cutting, despite what he implied to Kaia about it getting better or whatever. Well, it’s no surprise that Dean’s a fucking hypocrite.

You need to remember that you just lost a tremendous coping mechanism, Pam reminded him. It’s only natural that you’ve turned to another, very familiar coping mechanism to replace it. Obviously, it’s not ideal that you’re hurting yourself, and we’ll work on finding alternatives. But, for now, if it happens, don’t beat yourself up about it. Clean it off with alcohol and smack a bandaid on.

It’s sound advice, but it doesn’t stop Dean from feeling like those little piles of rounded dirt worms shit out. And he’s tried all the techniques before: snapping rubber bands, drawing on himself with a red sharpie, taking a hot shower, holding an ice cube. Nothing’s ever seemed to work.

But there’s no use giving up now. He physically can’t turn back to smoking, so he’s stuck with the razor blade to work out his anxiety. But he keeps a tray of ice in his freezer at ready, just in case. Although it hasn’t worked, yet.

“Eh!” Emma tells him, and Dean figures that means she wants to climb off him so she can show off more of her fancy walking skills.

Dean lifts her off his legs, cuts on his left arm pulling a little under their bandages and his sleeves, and places her on her feet. Emma takes off immediately, stumbling toward the couch, cheered on by Dean and Donna’s coos of appreciation. Once to the couch, Emma snatches ahold of one of the books Dean got her for Christmas. Lydia told him she loved them, especially the one about talking trucks, which had even eclipsed the classic Goodnight Moon in terms of favorites.

“Babababa,” Emma tells him, waving the book and falling onto her butt. She bounces a little but seems entirely unbothered by the change in altitude. Dean rolls onto his side and crawls over to her, which hurts his bad knee, but whatever, he’s not risking a headrush by standing up.

“A book,” Dean enunciates carefully, popping the b. “A book from Dada.”

“Babababa,” Emma nods in agreement.

“Dadadada,” Dean corrects her, shaking his head close so he can kiss her cheeks and her neck and her tiny knuckles as she waves the book around. She’s got a pretty strong grip, so he has to catch the edge of the book so she doesn’t smack him in the nose with it.

“You wanna hear about the trucks? Wanna hear about how your daddy fixes trucks?”

Emma shrieks in excitement, so Dean assumes that’s a yes. He spreads the book open; Emma likes to hold the stiff, cardboard pages herself, so he lets her flip to whatever page she wants.

He stares at her, entranced. She’s so Goddamn beautiful. With her flush, chubby cheeks and bright eyes. And she – she’s so innocent. So untouched by all the awful stuff Dean’s seen and done. He can’t imagine her growing up and someday asking about his scars, of him having to explain all the horrible shit he’s gone through and done to himself. He doesn’t want to have to tell her those stories.

Again, there’s the horrifying rush of terror that maybe she’s inherited whatever it was that made Dean go crazy. How is he supposed to protect her from that? How is he supposed to be better for her – be something Dean never had growing up?

“That’s the red truck.” Dean points, shoving down his dark thoughts. He doesn’t have to worry about that, now. Christ, she’s a week away from one. There’s time. “He goes vroom even faster than the blue truck.”

“Vavavava,” Emma says.

“Ah, now you’re just screwing with me,” he teases her. “Dada. You can do it. Dadadada.”

He hears a snort behind him, and he turns to find Lydia staring at the two of them with an amused grin on her face. Dean didn’t hear her come back in. Donna’s already getting her coat on; Dean was so occupied with Emma that he didn’t notice.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. Dean’s cheeks burn and he shifts into a slightly more dignified position so he’s at least not lying on his belly on the floor.

“Don’t apologize.” Lydia shakes her head, still smiling. It occurs to Dean that it’s one of the most genuine smiles he’s seen on her before. “You two are cute.”

Dean still blushes, but he drops a couple more kisses on Emma’s face before he eases himself slowly off the floor.

“See you next week, you two,” Donna calls before she lets herself out the door.

“How are you feeling?” Lydia asks, clearly noticing how gingerly he’s moving.

Dean shrugs, “Okay. Better than I was.”

“I, ah, would have brought her in to see you,” Lydia says awkwardly. “If, you know, not for the whole hospital thing. All the germs.”

“That’s totally okay,” Dean says at once, “Completely understandable.” He doesn’t mention how the words make a tiny bubble of joy grow in his chest.

“Mamamama!” Emma says. She uses the couch to pull herself into a standing position, and Lydia and Dean both watch her with a little awe as she totters over to her mother. Lydia crouches so she can gather her into her arms.

“Hello, angel!” Lydia pulls her to her chest and straightens out. Emma babbles happily, grabbing for Lydia’s hair. Emma’s hair has darkened, catching some of her mother’s red tones. Sometimes when the light catches them right, Dean can see hints of green in her eyes.

Dean swallows, but it’s impossible to entirely chase the sense of betrayal, watching Emma with Lydia.

Maybe Lydia catches a glimpse of hurt in his eyes, because she suddenly looks uncomfortable. Dean coughs clumsily, not wanting her to feel bad – it’s not her fault he’s such a screw up.

“I better get going –”

“Wait,” Lydia stops him. He turns. It’s her turn to blush. She shifts Emma from one arm to the other. “I, ah, wanted to, um, talk for a minute, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, sure, yeah,” Dean says at once. If this coparenting thing is going to work out – if Dean’s going to be given the chance to try – then he has to suck it up and confront these kinds of conversations, even if they scare him shitless.

“I, um, talked to my mom after – after our, you know, conversation, a couple weeks ago.”

Dean’s stomach drops to his toes. Because talking to Charlene can’t possibly mean anything good. Is Lydia changing her story? Is she going to agree with her mother and offer him money to leave Emma alone –

“I just…it bothered me, what you’d asked,” Lydia continues. She’s not quite meeting Dean’s eye. She jogs Emma slightly up and down in her arm so she won’t get bored. “Because I’d never worried about our, you know, encounter before. And I assumed you felt the same. Which is why I thought you must have talked to someone. So I asked my mom, and –”

Lydia doesn’t look mad. She just look embarrassed. Which means maybe she isn’t planning blackmail, right now.

“She, ah, she told me what she asked of you. How – how she threatened you so you’d drop the case, and I –” Lydia looks up abruptly, eyes sharp, cheeks flushed. She is beautiful, Dean thinks not for the first time, but this time there’s no desire behind the thought. She’s beautiful, and she’s strong, and she’s responsible for the little miracle she’s holding in her arms. “And I wanted to apologize,” she finishes firmly. “My mom had no right to ask that of you. Or to treat you the way she did. Like it or not, your Emma’s father. You have the right to fight to be in her life.”

“Thanks,” Dean says shakily. He has to talk himself down: this is not a threat. He is not in danger. She’s apologizing. She’s not attacking him.

“And,” Lydia takes a deep breath, “for what it’s worth, I do want Emma to have you in her life. The idea that you turned my mother down, that you kept going even though she told – well, you know – that tells me you really care about my daughter. Our daughter. It means a lot to me. So, I wanted to let you know,” another deep breath. “At the hearing, if the judge rules for 50/50, I’m not going to appeal. I’m gonna accept it. I think – I think I can learn to share her with you.”

It’s a strange feeling, like a deluge of warmth rushing down his spine and into his arms and legs, making his skin tingle. It feels a little like he’s high. Or drunk. That sleepy, sloppy, happy feeling of rightness in his body. He’s grinning before he can stop himself. His throat hurts. His eyes sting. But the relief is unimaginable.

“Thank you,” he chokes out. “That’s – that’s awesome.”

Emma senses she’s being ignored, so she lets out a high-pitched gurgle and beams at him. The sight makes Dean’s eyes sting worse. His vision goes blurry.

“Dada?” Emma squeaks.

And it’s like someone hollowed him out with a spoon and filled him up again with pure sunlight. He laughs, delighted, but the light is made of magma, and the searing heat is like getting punched in the stomach.

Lydia laughs, beaming sympathetically. Emma eats up the attention, bobbling in her mother’s arms and gurgling in glee.

It’s gonna be okay. Dean suddenly knows it, and it’s a rush of warm, numbing peace unlike any he’s felt before. Emma’s gonna be okay. She’s got Lydia rooting for her. And she’s got Dean, too, in whatever capacity he’s able.

“That’s right, baby girl,” he says, bending at the waist so he can give her one last kiss before leaving. “That’s right.”

Chapter Text

February 28th dawns cold and soggy. Dean dresses carefully in the suit he dropped the extra cash on to be dry-cleaned and pressed the weekend before. His hands shake as he knots his tie, and he foregoes the hair gel in favor of a neat side part he hasn’t worn since his last court appearance.

The streets are coated in a thin film of slush, and Dean takes extra care on the way to the courthouse so he doesn’t skid. It’d be just his luck to ram the car through a glass storefront. The idea makes him laugh a little hysterically, enough that he chokes and almost has to take a puff from his inhaler. He doesn’t need to use the inhaler often anymore, just if he physically exerts himself overly much at work or attempts to take the stairs at a run. He’s got a follow-up chest x-ray scheduled in two weeks, and he’s hoping the doc will tell him he doesn’t need to use the stupid thing anymore.

He parks carefully behind the courthouse. He’s early. And he wants to kill the time with a cigarette, but he chucked out all the half-empty packs he had littered in his car and apartment to eliminate temptation, or whatever. He flexes his hands over the steering wheel, tendons pulled taught as bow strings across his knuckles.

Wanting alcohol comes in insurmountable waves. It knocks him on his ass as the need crests and crashes through his chest. But, as long as he claws his way onto solid ground, he can usually withstand the drag. Craving a cigarette is in some ways worse. It’s like a mosquito bite, constantly itching. Unforgiving and incessant. And Dean wants so badly to scratch it. Wants to dig his nails in and make it go away, and the more he resists, the worse it nags. It makes it difficult to sleep sometimes. He goes through packs of Nicorette every week.

Dean definitely does not wait inside his car until he sees Sam and Mick pull up. Dean makes like it’s a coincidence they arrived at the same time, and he walks in with them.

“You okay?” Sam asks. He looks as nervous as Dean feels, and it doesn’t do much for his confidence.

“Fine,” Dean says, voice clipped. God he wants a smoke. He wants the cool, calming rush of nicotine through his body, anything to still the unbearable tension skittering under his skin.

“You’ll be fine, Dean,” Mick says with a friendly pat on Dean’s elbow. Mick, unlike Sam, looks perfectly at ease – probably because, unlike the brothers, he doesn’t have any personal stock in this case, just professional.

Dean’s just one case in a string of child custody cases being heard that day, so they have to wait in the hall for the previous case to wrap up. He notices Benny, also suited, down the hall, but he’s way too nervous to send him a friendly grin.

Finally, the previous case files out, and Dean’s party files in. The courtroom isn’t like the ones in the movies – no gleaming, carved molding or magnificent decorations. It’s just a few rows of straightforward chairs, completely void of spectators. There are two Formica-topped tables, petitioner on the right and respondent on the left. And the whole thing faces the slightly raised judge’s bench with a black leather swivel chair behind it and the witness stand. The whole structure is framed by an American flag on one side and the Missouri state flag on the other. A uniformed bailiff stands at attention near the door at the back of the room that will let in the judge.

Dean walks toward the front of the courtroom to take his seat beside Sam and Mick, and he remembers, like it was yesterday and not almost four years ago, the last time he stepped foot in a courtroom.

He was in cuffs then, led by a hand on his shoulder by a uniformed guard. He sat between Sam and Mick then, too. Anxiously fretted over by his little brother like he hadn’t seen him for a year, not the twenty-four hours since he’d last conferred with his lawyers.

Dean’d spent a month in county because bail was too steep; no fucking way was he letting Sam shell out more money on him. Most of that time is fuzzy. He was coming down from one of the worst manic episodes of his life, which left him hollowed out and all but unresponsive. He did what Mick told him to. He said what he was supposed to say. He went where he was supposed to go. He didn’t interact with the other inmates in county. He didn’t believe Sam when he told him he was fighting for him.

He wasn’t surprised when the judge called out the sentence. Wasn’t fazed when Sam hugged him goodbye, whispered fervent promises that Dean’d be okay. That Sam’d get him out. Him and Mick would keep fighting. But Dean was done fighting. He didn’t want to fight anymore.

And then it goes blurry. He vaguely remembers being strip searched at intake. He remembers being leered at by the other prisoners. Dean can barely remember the monotony of filing into chow hall every day. He worked in the kitchen; he thinks that’s true. But he doesn’t remember what he did there. He doesn’t remember –

Alastair – according to Sam, Alastair was Dean’s celly. But Dean doesn’t remember that. The name conjures up the weak, hazy image of a man with a narrow face and straight white teeth. But Dean doesn’t – he doesn’t know why he can’t remember.

He remembers Boris, barely. Boris coming at him. Boris – and hands. Dean remembers the COs pulling them apart, yanking Dean away from Boris's hands. He remembers getting dragged up to seg. He doesn’t remember – he doesn’t –

“Dean,” Sam says beside him, fingers butterfly light against Dean’s arm, but Dean jerks back in surprise. “You’re really pale.”

“I’m okay,” Dean says.

Don’t think about it, he orders himself, struggling to shutter his mind. Something inside it keeps thundering its fists against his skull. He swallows hard. He’s not going back. They’re not sending him back. That’s not why he’s here.

The bailiff calls the court to order, “All rise. The Kansas City Municipal Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Timothy Cain presiding.”

Dean stands with the rest of the court. There’s a weird swoop in his stomach, and it’s like his center of gravity shifts, because he has to grip the edge of the table to keep himself on his feet. Sam’s hand is suddenly clutched tight around his elbow, obviously noticing Dean’s stumble.

Judge Cain comes in. He has surprisingly shaggy hair for a judge, but the salt and pepper strands are slicked back from his face and his beard is neatly trimmed. He has a heavy brow, stern expression, and piercing eyes; Dean feels their effect even from across the room.

Cain takes a seat behind the bench. “Good afternoon. You may be seated,” he says gruffly.

Sam tugs Dean back into his chair.

“Dean, listen to me,” he hisses into Dean’s ear. “If you need to step outside, we can arrange a recess.”

“I’m okay,” Dean whispers. His chest is tight. He’s okay. He can’t breathe. But he’s okay. He has to be okay. He’s not going to have a fucking panic attack in the middle of a hearing. He’s not – the suffocating, painful squeeze in his chest is like he gets when he needs to take a hit from the inhaler, but he knows that won’t help for this. Inhalers increase your heartrate, and Dean sure as shit doesn’t need to increase his heartrate, right now.

The bailiff says, “The court will now hear the case of Winchester versus Penn.”

Petitioner goes first, so Mick stands to make opening statements. Dean tries to pay attention – he tries to stay grounded. He digs his fingernails so tight into his palms, he thinks he might draw blood. Sam keeps sending him worried glances, but Dean ignores him. There’s no way he can face his little brother’s concern, right now, and still come out standing on the other side.

They’re not sending him back, he repeats. They’re not – he’s not going back to prison. They’re not going to lock him up.

And then Toni Bevell stands to make Lydia’s opening statement. This is the part Dean should pay attention to, the part Mick and Sam were only able to cobble together from the bits and pieces that came forward in the discovery process.

But Dean isn’t quite present anymore. He feels faraway. He’s drifting. Maybe this is a fever dream. Maybe this is just another nightmare. He had enough of them, after all. Like being in school again: nightmares about waking up late, showing up to court in his underwear. White boxers with red hearts like a Looney Tunes spoof.

Mick explained it like this: “our side goes first. It means you’ll have to face Ms. Bevell’s cross-examination early in the process, but at least it’ll get the worst over quick. Whole thing won’t take more than two or three hours, anyway. It’ll be over before you know it, you’ll see.”

But Dean isn’t at all assured by Mick’s assessment when Dean’s the first witness called to the stand. He’s there to state his case, answer Mick’s well-rehearsed questions, keep his head on when Bevell comes at him. But Dean isn’t really there. Dean’s –

Think about Emma, he orders himself furiously. Because his mind is just a blank sheet of panic. And his brain is swirling around and around an unplugged drain in the bottom of the sink. This is for Emma. Think about Emma –

From the witness stand, Dean can see that Bobby and Ellen are sitting near the back. They’re the only ones Dean told that the hearing was today because Ellen insisted on being there for moral support. Irrationally, Dean wishes he’d told Charlie. Or Cas. It would have been nice to have more friendly faces.

Benny is there, too. And Victor, of course, to give testimony that Dean isn’t crazy. Or, at least not the kind of crazy that would make it dangerous for him to take care of child.

Charlene glares at him from the row directly behind the defendant’s table. Lydia is sat there with a neutral look, the only thing betraying her nervousness the fact that her hands are clasped tight on the tabletop. Bevell watches him like a hunting lioness.

“Would you consider yourself to have a strong emotional bond with Emma?” Mick asks, and this is five or six in the list of questions Mick planned to ask. Dean memorized them, so he knows that Mick’s already asked five or six, but Dean doesn’t remember being asked them – doesn’t remember what he answered.

“Easy son, you’re not on trial, here,” Cain interjects, not unkindly, so Dean knows he must look weird. He must look wrong. Maybe he looks crazy or sick or otherwise unfit to be a father because he can’t even answer one stupid question –

“Sorry,” Dean breathes, feeling ridiculous.

Easy son. He had a lisp, Dean remembers. Alastair had a lisp. A snarling, rough, and nasally voice. And the knowledge rockets through him like a bolt of lightning.

“Sorry,” Dean says again. “Can you repeat the question?”

“Do you think your emotional bond with Emma is a strong one?” Mick repeats patiently. He’s well-schooled to keep his face measured during tense situations, but Dean catches the glint of concern in his eyes. Mick’s worried Dean’s gonna mess this up, too.

“Yeah,” Dean croaks.

Fucking pull yourself together, boy! Dad yells into Dean’s ear, spit flying, teeth bared.

Mick asks him more questions about why sharing custody of Emma is important to him, how he thinks he can provide emotional and physical support for her as she grows up. Mick asks about support structures in Dean’s life, so Dean talks about how Bobby, Ellen, and Sam will all want to play an active role in Emma’s upbringing.

Dean knows about Emma’s schedule – knows she’s sleeping through the night, now, and she wakes up at seven. She naps at 10:00 for an hour and again at 3:00. Her pediatrician is Dr. Kessler. She’s at daycare from 8:00-4:00 while Lydia works during the week; it’s a home nursery named “Eden,” run by a hippie-dippie couple, Serafina and Adam. She loves fruit, especially bananas and strawberries. And she hates eggs, but cheese and peanut butter are okay. He explains how he’s been going to AA and therapy and only missed visitation because he was sick.

Mick finally finishes his direct examination, turning it over to Bevell. She stands with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She is predatory and exacting. If ever there was a time to pull his head out of his ass, now would be it.

Dean tries to meet her eye. He tries to take steadying breaths of air. But when Bevell starts in on him, it’s not as bad as he feared. Maybe it’s just because Mick and Sam have built her up as some kind of monster, or maybe he’s just well-rehearsed enough that she doesn’t take him by surprise. But it’s definitely not nearly as terrible and suffocating as the deposition.

She picks apart what he told Mick, asks follow-up questions, spends a lot of time talking about his past mistakes. The worst part is when she drills him about his relapse at the end of November, but Dean already came clean about that with Mick’s examination, so it’s not like it’s a big aha moment. It’s just excruciating and embarrassing, being laid bare like this with Bobby and Ellen in the audience.

Sooner than Dean thought, Bevell steps back, giving the floor back to Mick for his redirect examination, but he merely stands and says, “No further questions for this witness Your Honor, I would ask that the witness be excused.” Which Dean hopes means that Mick is satisfied enough by Dean’s performance and Bevell’s cross examination didn’t do too much damage.

When Dean gets back to the plaintiff’s table, Sam grabs his elbow again and pushes him firmly into his chair.

“Jesus, Dean. Drink something,” Sam hisses furiously into Dean’s ear. He fishes out a bottle of water from his satchel and stuffs it into Dean’s hands. Dean realizes his fingers are shaking. “I thought you were gonna faint.”

“I’m okay,” Dean insists. He’s light-headed and wobbly, like the rush of low blood pressure when he stands up too quickly, except it’s not fading. It just keeps billowing inside his head.

Mick sends him a concerned glance and a swift smile, but he’s already moving on to the next witness. He calls Benny, first. Once again, Dean knows he should be paying attention. More than that, he should at least be relieved by the knowledge that his part, at least, has finally ended. There’s nothing else for him to do except sit and listen. But his heart is still slamming against his chest like his lungs are playing racquetball. His stomach is so twisted up, he’s not sure if he feels like he’s going to puke or start bleeding internally.

Mick presents Dean’s more recent AA certificates and older rehab documents to Judge Cain. He asks Benny to talk about what Dean’s like in meetings, if he’s an active and willing participant, if he’s been making progress and seems dedicated to the program.

“You need to breathe,” Sam tells Dean, and he doesn’t sound pissed-off, just concerned and gentle, and Dean tries to hold on to that. Sam’s not angry at him. Sam doesn’t think Dean’s messing anything up. He just needs to breathe. Needs to keep breathing. Needs to stop thinking about the orange peels he wore from county before they let him change into his suit for trial. Needs to stop thinking about the judge – skeletal thin like Death, face like a gravestone, a goddamn funeral director – announced guilty as charged.

“Your Honor,” Mick interrupts his questioning of Benny, “I would beg the Court’s indulgence for a moment, please.”

“Go ahead,” Judge Cain says. It’s funny – he’s the most important person in the room, but Dean’s barely registered his presence. He glances across Dean discerningly. Cain’s eyes are piercing and bright; Dean is oddly reminded of Cas, and for the first time, it makes the ache in his chest lessen.

Right. Think about Cas. Think about going back to the apartment after this is over and sitting on the floor of Cas’s studio, watch him paint and listen to whatever eclectic music he’s listening to – Polish Death Metal or Taylor Swift.

“You holding up okay?” Mick asks, one heavy hand clasping Dean on the shoulder. Sam must have signaled to him somehow, got across the message that their client was in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

“Fine,” Dean grits through his teeth.

“You need us to ask for a recess?” Mick insists.

But the idea of dragging this ordeal out more makes Dean’s stomach bubble with nausea. “Just get it over with,” he says weekly. “Just, God, I just want it over with.”

Mick claps him twice on the shoulder, but he exchanges a glance with Sam before straightening out again. Sam’s frowning, and he stays frowning when he sends Mick a shrug.

Mick proceeds. He finishes up with Benny. Benny gets cross-examined by Bevell. Mick calls Victor after Benny sits back down. Victor testifies about Dean’s psychiatric progress over the years. He talks about the psych eval he gave Dean a couple weeks ago. He talks about how, with continued use of his meds and psychotherapy, Dean poses no risk to himself, society, or a child.

When Mick cedes the floor to Bevell, with a “That is all the questions I have at this time. Please answer any questions the respondent may have for you,” everyone at Dean’s table is astonished when Bevell replies with a, “No questions, Your Honor.”

Dean’s mental health history was the main sticking point of the case. Everyone expected Bevell to kick up a fuss about Victor’s testimony, to order another psych eval, to protest that Victor, as Dean’s psychiatrist of several years, was obviously biased toward his patient.

Mick chokes through an, “I rest my case, Your Honor,” and Cain accepts the moment like it wasn’t the most surprising incident of the day.

It’s Bevell’s turn to call witnesses. Lydia is up first, and she outlines the past year raising Emma on her own and emphasizes how much she wants her baby girl to have a supportive and stable environment to grow up in. It isn’t particularly damning. Dean sees Sam breathe a sigh of relief, and Mick waves aside the opportunity to cross examine her with a, “No further questions at this time.”

The smarmy private investigator, Marvin Armstrong, with his nose like a rat’s and dopey, droopy eyes, gets called next. He goes into detail about seeing Dean in bars when he was supposed to be sober, talks about how he saw Dean leave the Cobalt Room with Shaylene. It’s not a dramatic reveal; Dean already covered this during his testimony. Benny vouched for Dean during his. But it’s still ugly. It still makes sick, hot shame jolt in Dean’s stomach. Mick cross examines Marv, asks him whether, except for the Cobalt Room, if he actually saw Dean take a drink while he was at the bars. Marv replies, a little sulkily, that he didn’t.

Marv apparently stopped tailing Dean after his cover was blown. Dean wonders if Charlene hired anyone else to follow him, whether someone’s been watching his every move. The idea sends goosebumps up his skin. The last thing he needs is more paranoia.

The rest of Lydia’s witnesses wrap up quickly. Mostly stuff about how Lydia’s such a great single mother, how she’s doing so well for Emma, how she’s providing the perfect environment for a child to grow up in. How she’s not sure if interrupting Emma’s routine with an absent father would be the safest thing for Emma’s growth.

The hearing concludes with closing arguments. Mick goes first, establishing for the last time that Dean’s made immense progress, that he promises more forward momentum, that he cares deeply for Emma, and every child would benefit from the involvement of both her parents.

Bevell goes last. She talks up Lydia more. Points out Dean’s flaws. “Further,” she adds, and her lip curls a little in disdain as her eyes drift past Dean. She continues reluctantly when Lydia looks at her with calm expectation. “My client insisted I add that she is not interested in any further dispute with Mr. Winchester. She has acted out of what she believed to be the best interests of her child. As she has gotten to know Mr. Winchester over the preceding months, she has become less reluctant to allow him the time and privilege of interacting with Emma. If Your Honor is confident that Mr. Winchester will be a positive actor in Emma’s life, then she is prepared to accept Your Honor’s decision. Thank you.”

And then it’s over. They stand again as Cain hits the gavel, court adjourned until they return for the judge to cast judgement in three or four weeks.

It feels anticlimactic and hollow. It feels like a dream. Dean needs Sam’s arm on his elbow to make himself walk out of the courtroom. He’s met in the hall by Ellen, who squeezes his ribs and plants a kiss on his cheek with a just wait and see, it’ll all work out. Bobby cuffs him rough on the shoulder with his palm, but his eyes are heavy with sympathy when he wishes him good luck. Benny tips the newsboy cap he wears in the winter and sends him a wink.

“See you around, chief.”

“You did really well, Dean,” Mick tells him gravely. “All we can do is wait for the judge now. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“Thanks.” Dean tries again, because his voice is raspy and strange. Heavy and unwieldy on his tongue. “Thanks, Mick.”

Mick shakes Dean’s hand. He turns to Sam. “Can I drop you back at the office?”

“Um, sure,” Sam says. His eyes are pinned to Dean. There’s a crease between his eyebrows. Dean knows he’s worrying his brother, but it’s a distant and unconcerned knowledge. “Unless you wanted me to stay with you, Dean…?”

“Nah,” Dean says. Voice still heavy. But he does his best to look okay. Blinks to get the film out of his eyes. Smile. Just fucking smile. He’s fine. “I’m wiped. Gonna go crash.”

“If you’re sure…” Sam says unhappily.

“I’m sure, Sammy,” Dean says. Hearty clap on the shoulder like Bobby. Wink like Benny. Take bits and pieces of the performances of everyone around him so he can disguise himself. Easy as pie. “You get back to saving the world.”

“Okay,” Sam says. Still frowning. Fuck. Dean doesn’t want Sammy to be frowning. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

“Absolutely,” Dean replies.

Sam finally tugs away to follow Mick out of the building. Dean follows, making sure to stay far enough behind that Sam won’t turn back around to ask him again. Dean’s fine. He’s –

He’s fine, Dean tells himself as he climbs into the impala. The cold rain has turned to sleet, fucking winter mix of the cursed Midwest. There’s a film of slush across the pavement. Dean’s careful with the accelerator so he doesn’t send Baby into a spin, keeps his foot hovering over the break as he makes his way back through the city streets.

He’s fine. A-okay. He’s not worried. There’s no fucking point of worrying about what the judge will decide when he won’t know for another month. No point worrying when Dean’s doesn’t know anything.

Doesn’t fucking know anything about any of it. About Emma or prison or Alastair.

And Dean’s starting to get a really bad feeling every time Alastair’s name comes up. He’s beginning to think that – but he doesn’t want to put a name to it. He doesn’t want to solidify the idea.

Dean never looked at his medical records from when he landed himself in the hospital after seg, but he knows Sam did. And surely Sam would have said something if – but Dean doesn’t even know if there was anything to record. Or if prison would even think to ping those kinds of injuries. If there were even those kinds of injuries to begin with.

The idea that Dean doesn’t know. That it’s just one more thing about himself he has no clue about is terrifying. It’s impossible and appalling. His body is treacherous and vindictive, full of wire traps and landmines. Dean hates it. He hates himself so much he gags on bile.

He’s shaking hard by the time he’s pulling the car into park outside his building. It’s a damn miracle he didn’t run the car off the road. Or maybe a damn shame. All Dean wants is a blade. Sweet relief of sharp metal diving deep below his skin, slicing the wrong out of him. Giving him the solid sting of it to hold onto.

He wants a fucking drink. He can taste whiskey on his teeth. It’s like he’s dragging 20-pound weights on his ankles as he makes himself slog through the slush to the apartment’s door. He stuffs his trembling fingers into his jacket pockets, automatically looking for his cigarettes.

The heavy door shuts behind him with a clang. Dean needs to shut his brain up, and he needs to do it now. He needs – he needs –

Dean’s in front of Cas’s door before he makes any conscious decision to go there. He’s breathing hard, slight wet rasp at the tail because he took the stairs at a run.

He knocks hard on the door. He barely waits for Cas’s expected, “Come in,” before he’s turning the handle and opening the door that Cas never seems to lock.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, although he doesn’t look away from the painting he’s frowning at. “Are you already back from work?”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says easily. Smiling. Easily. “You busy?”

“I’m trying to decide how many trees I should add,” Cas says, still not tearing his eyes away from his canvass. Dean wanders over; Cas has never complained about Dean looking as he worked, before.

“Wow,” Dean says, momentarily sidetracked by the starkly beautiful landscape Cas has brushed into the canvas. It’s full of towering, wispy trees, ethereal and majestic.

“It’s called ‘Purgatory,’” Cas explains. “It is a place of waiting. Fulfillment deferred.”

“It’s beautiful,” Dean says, watching over Cas’s shoulder in the literal sense, face close to Cas’s neck. He must be able to feel Dean’s breath on his skin. Dean’s heart thuds within his ribs. His mind is full of nothing. He wills away his thoughts, his doubts, his fear – there’s nothing to worry about here. It’s just Cas. Just Cas. He’s so close; there’s nothing stopping Dean from reaching out to touch him. “You’re still on your religious kick, huh?” Dean says.

“Yes,” Cas says seriously, barely registering Dean’s unusual closeness. The brush in his hand is tapered near the end, beading with red paint. “It’s a Roman Catholic belief – limbo between death and your final resting place. Popular imagination considers it to be a place of punishment, but anywhere Hell adjacent must be Heaven adjacent, as well.”

“That so?” Dean whispers. He presses his lips to Cas’s neck, just below the perfect softness of his earlobe. Cas is wearing earrings today, tiny gold balls. Dean wants to see what they feel like against his tongue.

This finally gets Cas’s attention. His spine goes ramrod straight. He fumbles the paintbrush.

“Dean –” he says. His Adam’s apple hitches in his throat.

“Tell me more about Purgatory, Cas,” Dean murmurs into Cas’s skin, mouthing upward until his nose bumps Cas’s ear. He pulls back, lifts his chin, takes Cas’s earlobe into his lips. Runs his tongue under the soft flesh, finds the pointed back of Cas’s earring.

“Dean – I –” Cas says. He puts his pallet down on the lip of his easel.

Dean grins. He wraps one arm around Cas’s rigid chest, ghosts his hand across Cas’s baggy, paint-spattered smock, dips lower until he can hook one finger into the elastic waist of Cas’s low-slung sweatpants. Tugs him away from his painting.

“Tell me no, Cas,” Dean says, angling his head so he can kiss below Cas’s jaw, tongue dragging over rough stubble.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says stiffly.

Dean wants him to relax. He wants Cas to lean into it. He loosens his hold on Cas’s waistband, reaches for his side, instead, presses his palm flat against Cas’s ribs.

“Tell me to stop,” Dean breathes. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but the words sound right. Like he’s repeating something he remembers in a dream. His lifts his head enough to press a kiss to the ridge of Cas’s jawbone. Dean steps closer, edges his dress shoe between Cas’s two bare feet.

“Dean –” Cas says, voice strangled. Hoarse and lovely. Dean wants to taste it.

“Tell me no,” Dean offers. He kisses Cas’s chin. Kisses the dip below his bottom lip. Kisses the side of his mouth.

Finally, Cas moves. It’s a small jerk of a movement. He snatches ahold of Dean’s hand on his side, catches Dean’s wrist and squeezes tight.

Dean smiles against Cas’s mouth. “Just tell me no, baby,” Dean whispers.

Cas shakes his face away from the reach of Dean’s mouth. Dean moves to follow him, but Cas steps back. His hip bumps his easel. It makes his canvass wobble. Cas’s hold on Dean’s wrist tightens until it’s almost painful. He pulls Dean’s hand away from his shirt.

“You’re not alright,” Cas says plainly.

“Cas –” Dean protests. He wants to be touched. He wants to hold Cas. He wants to kiss Cas – he’s so fucking tired of waiting –

“No, Dean,” Cas says firmly.

Dean stops. He blinks. This is – this is not supposed to happen. Cas has gone off script. He’s staring at Dean with bright, worried eyes.

“I want you to stop,” Cas says.

Dean’s arm drops from around Cas’s waist. He totters back a few steps before he finds equilibrium again. With distance, he finds his heart has bypassed adrenaline rush into a freeway gallop.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks. He looks so earnest. He sounds so kind.

Dean’s throat is tight. Nausea rears its ugly head so intensely inside Dean’s stomach that for a second he thinks he’s going to upchuck in the middle of Cas’s floor. Dean presses a hand hard to his belly. He backs up another step.

“I’m fine.”

He’s not fine. It’s like he’s emerged from the depths of a smoke-filled battlefield. He can see again, and everything is too bright. Too sharp. The colors hurt his eyes.

“I’m – sorry,” Dean gasps. He can still taste Cas on his tongue. “Sorry. I should leave.”

“Are you okay?” Cas insists.

“I’m fine,” Dean says. He turns around. Walks toward Cas’s door. “I need to go,” he murmurs.

“Dean –” Cas comes after him. Dean hears the soft tread of his feet on the carpeted floor. And Dean can’t look at him. He can’t see the unbearable blue of his eyes. The soft pinkness of his lips. The way his dark hair falls in gentle strands across his forehead.

“Don’t!” Dean snaps. Growls in his throat. Tosses over his shoulder at Cas like he’s throwing a punch. “Just – don’t.”

Chapter Text

Dean yanks open Cas’s door. He’s in the hall. He’s on the stairs. He’s in his apartment. He can feel Cas’s skin on his hands like he’s got his flesh and blood caught under his fingernails.

Abruptly, Dean remembers Bela. From the hospital. He wonders if she ever got out. If she got away from her mother. He hopes she’s okay.

Dean trips forward and throws up into his kitchen sink. He gasps there for a minute, bile stinging his throat. He swallows unsteadily. He runs the water to wash out the basin. He bends to rinse out his mouth and spit.

Kill yourself, the thought presents itself like the most natural solution in the world. Pam talked about that, explained how thoughts could become so common that they formed well-trod pathways inside his brain. The pathways beaome trenches, difficult to reroute. Not impossible – she was always using five-dollar words like neuroplasticity – but still damn hard.

He’s got plenty of benzos in his medicine cabinet. Handful of valium and his sleeping pills will do it. Sounds like a good way to go. Calm. No blood. No fuss.

He opens the cabinet. There’s a post-it note stuck to the inside of the door with the suicide hotline scrawled on top. Under that is Sam’s number. And Bobby’s. And Pamela’s. He nearly laughs. It scrapes up his throat and comes out a sob. Good old Pam with all her contingency plans.

Instead, he sinks to the floor. Pulls his knees tight to his chest and puts his face against his kneecaps. His slacks pinch where they bunch too tight in the crease under his knees. His dress shirt is sweaty and stuck to his back under his jacket. His tie is too tight, looped like a noose under his collar. He runs his hands through his hair and tugs hard. Hard enough he can feel the skin of his scalp move against his skull.

“Oh, God,” Dean whispers. He’s not praying. He’s always kinda zoned out at AA meetings whenever they start talking about higher powers, or whatever. Dean Michael Winchester doesn’t pray. At least he hasn’t since he was four years old and he’d kneel at the side of his bed, Mom watching him from the doorway. Now I lay me down to sleep.

“I don’t – I don’t know what to do. P-please, I don’t know what to do –”

There’s a gentle tap on his door. Dean doesn’t need to hear his deep, concerned rasp, “Dean?” to know it’s Cas.

Fuck.

“Leave me alone. God, leave me alone,” Dean whimpers, too low to carry through the door. He rocks against his knees. There is a pressing ache in his chest, like something clawing it’s way through his chest. He’s gonna rip open from the inside out like that guy from Alien.

It’s not like Dean had the foresight to lock his door, so Cas twists the doorknob and pops his head through the crack.

“Dean…I don’t understand what happened, but it made me very uneasy…” Cas trails away when he sights Dean on the kitchen floor. His blue eyes go wide with shock and worry, and Dean turns away. He doesn’t want to see. He doesn’t want Cas to be here, right now –

“Are you hurt?” Cas asks immediately.

“F-fucked up,” Dean says. “Oh God, Cas, I’m sorry. I fucked up again.” He can’t look at him. There’s painful embarrassment crawling up Dean’s neck, choking him tight. He’s sick with shame about how he treated Cas. He knows he ruined it. Messed it up again. Maybe this time irreparably.

Cas shuts the door. The latch snicks into place. He crouches in front of Dean, so low his long smock brushes the floor. “Dean, please tell me if you hurt yourself.”

“Oh God,” Dean chokes again, half a sob and half a laugh because of course Cas is concerned about Dean now. Concerned about Dean when it’s Cas that – like Dean didn’t just accost Cas in his apartment – didn’t just fucking throw himself at his feet like a two bit whore.

“Dean, please –” Cas says, reaching for Dean’s knee.

And the fear erupts so immediately, it’s an unstoppable freight train inside his body; he shoves himself away from Cas’s reaching fingers like it’s a knifepoint.

Don’t touch me! He shrieks inside his head, recoiling so violently he smacks the back of his skull against the fridge behind him. He can feel the skeletal brush of a million fingers against his skin. God, no. Don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me!

Maybe Dean says some of that out loud, or maybe his flinch is enough, because Cas withdraws immediately, overbalances so he lands on his ass, eyes bulging in alarm.

“D-don’t…” Dean tries to explain, but he can’t talk. He can’t – he can feel him. Him. He can smell his breath.

“No,” Dean wails and shoves his head back down, covers his head with his hands like that will help, like that will stop him from getting to him –

And no. No. Dean doesn’t want to remember. Dean doesn’t want to remember the stink of his cell. The slippery crud the mops left on the floor. The thin polyester sheets, pilling with use. And him – him – Dean doesn’t want to remember him.

“Fucking stop – fucking stop – stop,” Dean mutters. Low and fast. He begged then, too. Dean remembers the fear. He remembers the desperation. The high, pained keen that left his throat. Pathetic. Disgusting. An animal.

“Please, please, please,” Dean pleads.

Alastair laughed. Dean remembers that now. The spider-legs of his laughter crawling up Dean’s skin, threading into his flesh, a thin silk webbing that’s clogged up all his pores, held everything inside his body like a jailcell, made it impossible to sweat out.

“Dean, please, tell me what’s wrong,” Cas asks, so shockingly calm. Dean tries to latch ahold of that. It’s 2012. Dean’s not in prison. Dean got out. Dean dug himself out of his own grave, and he’s in his apartment. He’s not pinned against a wall – pressed face-first into his cot, one hand tangled hard in his hair, keeping his neck down so he could barely breathe –

He remembers Alastair used to cover the window in the door with a pillow so the guards wouldn’t see in. So everyone else on the block could look over and know what was happening –

Something heavy and soft drapes itself across Dean’s shoulders. Dean flinches again.

“It’s a blanket,” Cas explains gently. “You’re shaking.”

Cas is right. Dean is shaking so hard it’s like he’s having a seizure. God, he wouldn’t be surprised if he pissed himself. His body is outside of his control. Dean vibrates helplessly in the corner between his cabinets and the wall.

“I – I think s-something happened,” Dean says croakily. Because Cas needs to know – needs to understand that Dean’s – Dean knows he’s scaring Cas, right now, and he doesn’t want to do that. Not after what he just did to him downstairs. Dean knows he’s worrying Cas. He knows he sounds unstable and frightening. But he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. He doesn’t know how to talk about this – this terrible, nameless fear.

“You’re having a flashback, Dean,” Cas explains.

“F-fuck,” Dean whimpers. Because he can’t get out. He can’t fucking escape. Alastair whispers coarse and soothing into his ear. Skitters kisses down Dean’s back, said he loved how Dean’s skin was all marked up.

And Boris cornered Dean in the showers, presses hard against Dean’s naked, wet skin and growled it wasn’t fair that Alastair got to have all the fun. So Dean hit him. Kicked him. Would have ripped his head off if he could – because didn’t he fucking know that Dean was Alastair’s? Didn’t he fucking know what Alastair would do if he saw –

Alastair had the keys of half the inmates. Ride with Alastair and no one else would touch him. So, fuck yeah, Dean let him turn him out. Let him. Because Dean could have stopped it if he’d – but he hadn’t wanted to get jumped or get hit by the parole board if he got caught fighting ‘em off. Dean let him. Alastair was a stringy guy. About Dean’s height, but not as brawny. Dean could have easily fought him off. He could have easily – it wasn’t – it wasn’t rape.

Dean shudders hard. He grips his arms with his fingernails and pulls because he needs the pain – God, he needs anything so he can pull himself up for long enough to take a breath – just needs to take a fucking breath. Rakes his fingernails down his arms, catching flecks of skin on the way down, leaving red ropes down his forearms.

“Hold this,” Cas tells him and stuffs a handful of ice cubes toward Dean’s chest rapidly enough that Dean fumbles to catch them. The cold is stark and biting. He grips the ice hard in both fists, trying desperate to latch ahold to the tingling, sharp pain of the chill.

The sensation is enough to shock himself out of his head. He’s on his kitchen floor. He’s on the fourth story of his apartment building. He lives in Kansas City, Missouri. Sammy is a fifteen-minute drive away.

Cas sits back on his haunches and peers at Dean through his clear blue eyes, face lined with wrinkles of worry.

“Are you feeling better?” he inquires.

“M okay,” Dean says unsteadily. The ice in his hands melt into slippery drips of water. It’s cold enough that it makes his fingers ache. He shuts his hands into tight fists around the cubes and bows his head back into his knees.

For a while he just breathes. Dean’s exhausted. His head aches. Son of a bitch, he’s bone tired. He doesn’t want to be awake to deal with any of this stuff anymore. He shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at it. There’s an ugly taste in his mouth.

“You’ll give yourself frostbite,” Cas reproaches him gently, and his warm, nimble fingers pry Dean’s fists apart to take away the ice cubes. Dean hears a flurry of clinks as Cas tosses the cubes into the sink. Cas returns with a dishcloth, which he offers to Dean so he can dry his hands. Dean takes the towel and twists it in his fingers, tugging the fabric taught.

“Are you hurt?” Cas prompts again, like they’re playing some fucked-up game of 20 questions.

“No.” Dean shakes his head feebly. The motion makes him dizzy.

“Would you like to get off the floor?”

Dean doesn’t bother replying. He reaches up for the counter and attempts to hoist himself to his feet. His left leg aches from keeping it bent against his chest. He totters. Cas’s hand grabs his upper arm, keeping him steady. Dean tries not to flinch from the contact, but Cas must feel the shudder run through his body, because he drops his hand immediately.

“Sorry,” Dean says dully.

“You don’t need to apologize, Dean,” Cas says.

Dean limps over to the couch and falls against the cushions. He sinches the blanket still draped around his shoulders over his chest. He’s cold. He can’t meet Cas’s eyes.

“Would you like to change into something more comfortable?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs.

Cas crosses the floor to Dean’s closet, pulls open the door, and emerges again with a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Dutifully, Dean drops the blanket. With shaking fingers, he snakes his tie out of his collar and shrugs off his jacket. He hesitates before reaching for the buttons of his dress shirt.

“Your scars don’t bother me, Dean,” Cas reminds him. “But if it would make you more comfortable, I can wait outside.”

“Whatever,” Dean says listlessly. He undoes the buttons and shucks his shirt. He tugs the hoodie over his head. He toes off his shoes and kicks off his slacks, tugs on his sweatpants, and then curls onto his side. God, he feels wretched. There’s a cramp of anxiety and nausea in his stomach, festering there like a parasite.

Cas approaches to fix the blanket over Dean’s body. Dean doesn’t bother protesting. The idea of lifting his voice up his throat is too much. Cas pushes one of Dean’s pillows toward his chest.

“It helps to hold something,” Cas explains.

Without a word, Dean pulls the pillow into his arms. Cas is right: holding the softness against his belly is soothing.

“M sorry,” Dean tries again, whispering into the plush creases of his pillow.

“You don’t need –”

“No,” Dean protests weakly. “About – I’m sorry about earlier. Downstairs.”

“You stopped when I told you to,” Cas says simply. “There’s nothing else you need to apologize for.”

Dean doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t have the breath to argue. His lungs hurt, but not badly enough that he needs his inhaler.

Cas settles on the floor by the base of the couch, sitting cross-legged like he doesn’t have plans to leave any time soon.

“Did you know that bees can get drunk off fermented nectar?”

Dean’s breath shudders on the way in. “Yeah?” he whispers.

“Being drunk effects bees in many of the same ways it does humans.” Cas nods gravely. “Discombobulation. Difficulty navigating. They often have trouble flying or can’t find their way back to the hive. But, if they do, guard bees at the hive won’t let them in. Probably because the drunk bees can’t properly execute their identification dance, and the guard bees recognize them as part of a rival colony. Drunk bees are attacked by the other bees, who chew off their legs.”

“Fucking hardcore bouncer bees,” Dean mutters.

“Yes,” Cas agrees. “A worker bee’s lifespan is five to eight weeks. During that time, she’ll fly the equivalent distance of one and half times the Earth’s circumference.”

“You a bee encyclopedia or something?”

Cas blushes. “I’ve always wanted an apiary. Honeybees are really quite tame. It’s easy to pet one if you’re gentle. They’re soft.”

Dean stares at Cas’s side profile and his breath catches in his throat. He’s not exactly at the top of his game. He’s wrung out and shaken. He just had one of the worst flashbacks of his life. But Cas is – Cas is beautiful. Cas is kind and patient and earnestly reciting facts about bees just so Dean won’t feel alone. Dean’s chest twists painfully – and it’s not the terrible fear of before. It’s a softer pain. An ache.

Dean doesn’t want to lose him. Dean doesn’t ever want to do something that will push Cas away for good.

“Tell me something else about bees,” Dean says.

The embarrassment fades from Cas’s face when he smiles. And he supplies, “a worker bee can carry a load of pollen equal to 80 percent of her own body weight. And I say ‘her’ because all worker bees are female. The only male bees in a colony are drones, who’s only purpose is to mate with the queen.”

“Not a bad purpose,” Dean jokes shakily.

“You are incorrigible,” Cas says, shaking his head, but he’s still smiling.

It makes Dean’s heart trip. His body is too twisted up with pain and anxiety and horrible, hollowed out fear to understand what he’s feeling now. Whatever it is wells up until it sits in his throat, clogging his breath.

“Can – can you stay?” Dean asks pathetically.

Cas looks at him, confusion evident in the wrinkles on his forehead.

Dean doesn’t have the strength to pretend like he can be left alone, right now. He still knows where the pills are. He knows how to use a blade. His body is too heavy to think about moving off the couch, now, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting –

From not wanting to be here.

“I could –” Dean hastens to explain, because he didn’t mean it as an obligation. It’s not Cas’s job to look after him. Dean isn’t anything to Cas. Cas doesn’t deserve to be saddled with him for the night. “I could call Sam, instead. If you – I mean –”

“Would you prefer for Sam to be here?” Cas asks.

“No,” Dean says, because it’s true, and he’s too tired to lie. He doesn’t want to deal with Sam’s fussing. Cas’s steady, matter-of-factness is a relief.

“Then I’ll stay.”

It makes Dean’s eyes burn. He buries his face is the crook of his arm, leaves his stiff left leg extended but brings his right knee toward his stomach. God, he’s not worth it. Can’t Cas see that Dean’s not worth it? Can’t he see that this is what life with Dean means? That there’s no future like this – that the ups and downs don’t stop.

Speaking is hard. The idea of looking at Cas is harder, so Dean stays curled up on the couch, breathing into his elbow. God, his whole body aches like he just went three rounds with Hulk Hogan. His head aches, split from ear to ear with a grinding pain. Pam’s talked to him about trauma living in the body, about bodily responses to anxiety and panic, but he feels like he’s been taken out by a physical illness. Like he’s been hit by a truck, not just repressed memories.

Dimly, Dean hears the first strains of “Smoke on the Water,” coming from his cellphone speaker, buried somewhere in the wrinkled lump of his discarded clothing. It’s only natural that Sam would call tonight; it’s not like Dean left the courthouse in an especially encouraging state of mind. But the idea of speaking to Sam, right now, of trying to explain any of this crap –

Abruptly, Dean remembers how Sam accused Dean of lying about Alastair. Of looking him up and discovering he was Dean’s cellmate. The memory makes Dean unbearably nauseas, again. He swallows bile. He can’t – he can’t possibly tell Sam the truth. What that would do to his brother – how terrible Sam’s going to feel for bringing it up. It was awful enough to see how Sam looked at Dean after he found out about the hooker thing. But this – this is going to be so much more.

Sweat beads on Dean’s forehead. He wonders what the statue of limitations is on – on that. Sam’s a Goddamn lawyer. If Sam finds out, of course he’s going to want to prosecute. Of course, he’s going to make Dean drag it all out into the open. And for what? For fucking what? Alastair’s in jail. He’s already locked up – he – he –

But Dean can’t remember what Alastair was in prison for. He can’t remember how long his sentence was. What if he’s getting out? What if –

“Dean,” Cas says calmly. His hand squeezes Dean’s elbow. Dean snatches ahold of Cas’s fingers. He’s not there, he tries to remind himself. He’s not in prison anymore. “I’m here. You’re safe, Dean.”

“I hate this,” Dean rasps. “I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.” He hates feeling so out of control. Utterly debilitated by the crushing sense of despair in his chest. Unable to grasp ahold of any one thought; they’re all whirling in a vortex inside his head.

“Is there something you can take?” Cas asks.

And, duh. Of course. The solution is a dawning light. He almost sobs from relief. He doesn’t think he has ever been so willing to let drugs drag him out of his misery.

“The – the valium –”

Cas is on his feet in a flash, returning before Dean can miss him with a rattling pill bottle and a glass of water. Dean’s fingers are shaking; he’s glad when Cas tips out the small blue tablet into the bottle cap for him. Dean levers himself up on his elbow, pops the pill immediately and sucks down a few sips of water. Then he collapses back onto the couch, covers his face with his arm, and waits for it to take effect.

It usually takes twenty to thirty minutes. There’s nothing to do now but wait. Aching, terrible waiting. His heart patters desperately inside his chest. He brings in deep breaths to settle his stomach. He doesn’t want to throw up the pill after he just downed it.

Finally – finally – the million tons of panic that threatens to snap his ribs retreats. The fear and nameless sense of anxiety eases to a background whir of unease. It’s not gone. His skin still tingles with a wash of disquiet, the idea that something is wrong, but it’s covered with a thick, dark blanket now. Muffled and softened.

Dean pulls in an experimental drag of air, and it doesn’t stutter in his throat. His muscles are already relaxing of their own accord, and Dean breathes as he deliberately loosens his hold on his body, letting his limbs flop heavy onto the cushions. His brain sloshes a little inside his skull; diazepam always makes him dizzy.

Dean’s phone rings again. Right, Sammy. Dean moans, and he lets his arm drop. Cas is staring at him intently, every muscle primed. Dean offers him a weak smile, and Cas deflates a little, but he still looks keyed up.

“Can you, ah, grab my phone?” Dean asks.

Cas jumps up immediately. He’s way too edgy. Dean makes a mental note to take care of that in a second. First, Sammy.

His phone’s stopped ringing by the time Cas hands it over. Dean uses his heavy feeling, sloppy fingers to type out a text to his brother.

Bad night. Can’t talk. I’m okay. Cas is here.

Hopefully the idea that Dean isn’t alone will ease his little brother’s worries enough to leave his questions for the morning. Dean will deal with the consequences then.

Thankfully, Sam texts back almost immediately. OK. Call me if you need anything.

Dean puts his phone facedown on his belly. Then he turns back to Cas. Cas is on his feet, tapping his fingers.

“M okay,” Dean says, hoping he comes off as reassuring and not loopy. “I – thanks. And sorry. You shouldn’t have had to –”

“I’m glad I could be here,” Cas interrupts him.

“Okay,” Dean says, because it’s easier than arguing. He realizes his face is sticky and itchy from crying. There’s not much time before the meds will send him crashing out, so he gets off the couch to wash his face, knowing it will make him feel better when he wakes up. He takes a leak because he doesn’t want to piss himself in bed – which only happened once or twice in the hospital, but…yeah, not an ideal experience.

When he comes out of the bathroom, Cas is awkwardly perched on the arm of the couch, obviously not sure what he’s supposed to do now.

Dean would feel bad, but he’s exhausted, so he presses out another closed-lip smile. It’s like every part of his body is drooping toward the floor. He’ll melt where he stands if he doesn’t lay down soon.

Under the swiftly encroaching medicated haze, Dean can still feel rumbling shame, but it lowers his inhibitions enough to ask, “Can you stay the night? I’m – not sure what I’m gonna be like when this crap wears off.”

“Absolutely,” Cas says, and he almost looks grateful for having something to do.

Cas helps him unfold his bed because his muscles are shaky from the exertion of just staying on his feet. After that, Dean pops his evening lithium dose. He’s not layering benzos on top of benzos, so he doesn’t take his sleep aid.

“M just gonna…” Dean slurs, already crawling on top of his mattress. “Just gonna lay down, but if you need food…there’s stuff. Sorry, I’d get something….”

“I’ll make do, thank you, Dean,” Cas says kindly. Dean curls under his blankets again. His bed is warm and comfortable. He doesn’t know whether he’s going to fall asleep, but he’s definitely going to be immobile.

Cas makes himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the supplies he finds in Dean’s cabinets, and he settles himself on the edge of Dean’s bed to eat it. It’s funny, taking the time to think about it, Dean realizes the two of them end up spending a lot of time in bed together for not even being in a relationship.

Not that Cas would want to –

Yeah, he mentioned that thing after Dean got out of the hospital, but Dean can’t imagine Cas still feels that way. Not after watching Dean flip out over seemingly nothing.

Shit. Dean thinks about the past hour from Cas’s point of view: Dean barging into his apartment for the sole purpose of seducing him. Dean retreating to his apartment. Finding Dean on the floor hyperventilating, probably muttering about a lot of indecipherable and alarming crap. Dean’s face burns with mortification. He wants to apologize again, but he figures Cas will just shut him down.

“I have, um,” Dean falters when Cas turns to look at him, one finger in his mouth as he licks a stray drip of jelly. But he figures he owes Cas some kind of explanation. “I’ve got, ah, PTSD. For, um, some stuff that happened a while ago. It’s not usually…it’s not usually like this.”

A pinched look crosses Cas’s face, sadness and pity. Dean’s stomach tumbles. He doesn’t want Cas’s pity. He’d rather have Cas’s disgust.

“Did something I do…trigger you?” Cas asks haltingly.

“No,” Dean says immediately, interjecting whatever sincerity he can into the word, but it’s hard. The heaviness of his words makes everything that comes out of his mouth sound monotonous and dull. “Wasn’t your fault. It was…from earlier. Something that happened, ah…in p-prison.”

“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to, Dean,” Cas says, so carefully Dean’s throat aches.

And Dean’s going to have to tell someone someday. The thought makes his skin itch. It makes a pain like a knife wound stab through his stomach. The mere idea of Sam someday finding out – Dean telling him, or Sam digging too far into Dean’s records – or, God, of Bobby or Ellen or Jo or Charlie or any of the guys at the garage – it’s too terrible to think about. The idea of burdening them with that knowledge. How they’ll look at Dean differently. How they’ll think about him – the pity and the sympathy and the concern.

It was easier when he didn’t remember. It was easier when he didn’t have to stare it straight in the face. When he didn’t have to recognize his body as something that had been –

Because it’s somehow different than hooking. And it’s different than his social studies teacher. There’s something in the vulnerability of it. In the complete loss of control. Dean had plenty of uncomfortable sex with men when they were paying money for it, so maybe it’s the fact that it was free. That Dean was so cheap he didn’t charge a penny. That he just gave in. Gave up – gave –

“Dean, I don’t know how to help you,” Cas says unhappily. He’s closer to Dean now, hunched up against the back of the couch, close enough to touch, and Dean’s chest hurts again. His vision swims.

“M okay,” Dean whispers. “Just gotta…gotta stop thinking about it.”

“Will it help to,” Cas swallows before continuing. “Will it help to hold you? I have a friend who…she used to have panic attacks, and she liked to feel warm and comforted afterward.”

It makes sense, the idea that Cas knows someone else like Dean: makes sense that he knew about the ice and the blanket and the pillow. And it comforts Dean a little, the idea that Cas doesn’t tell Dean the name of his friend, makes Dean believe that Cas won’t be spilling any of Dean’s secrets, either.

And the idea of being held – yeah. That sounds nice, too.

“Okay,” Dean says. He shifts to make space for Cas to slot in behind him, knees nestled behind Dean’s legs and arm draped over Dean’s chest. They’re spooning. That’s definitely what this is. But Dean’s so far removed from any sexual desire, that he doesn’t even have space inside him to feel awkward. It reminds him about how Dean held Cas after his meltdown at the wedding. It’s just solid pressure. A warm body. Something to hold onto.

“A bee can beat their wings almost 200 times every second,” Cas says, and Dean smiles. He eventually drifts to the sound of Cas’s steady, rumbling voice, spouting bee facts into the dark.

Chapter Text

Dean wakes and the world is not real. He blinks at the ceiling, which is too far away, and too heavy, and not real. Cas is a pillar beside him, not quite touching him, but exuding warmth, breathing steady and slow with a slight snore on the exhale. He is distant, incommunicable. Dean is swimming in a plastic covering, incapable of touching anything outside of his bubble.

Dean slides his feet off the bed. He is momentarily startled to feel the scratchy carpet against his bare soles. His brain rolls inside his head when he sits up, and he waits out the terrible sense of vertigo. He looks at his hands, moves his thumb to the tip of each finger like he’s seen Cas do so many times – and his hands aren’t real. It’s as if his arms are mechanical – those robotic surgical systems that move at the command of someone else. There’s a joystick in Dean’s head, and someone else’s fingers are on the trigger.

Dean shuffles into the bathroom. His body aches, deep and incessant, muscles straining and bones brittle. He tries to shower away the fog in front of his eyes. The hot water slaps his skin pink, but the sting is distant and unimportant. He stares at himself in the mirror for a full five minutes before he remembers he meant to shave. But the idea of pulling out his razor and lathering his face with shaving cream makes him want to drop to the floor. He is so tired.

Pull yourself together, he tells himself. For fuck’s sake, he’s lived with it for four years already. He shouldn’t be taken down by it now. Pony up, golden boy. He’s got a job to get to. He’s got a daughter to provide for. He’s got a fucking life – a Goddamn miserable, pathetic life, but it’s one he can’t just forget about so he can have a pity party on his bathroom floor.

It was just sex. Just sex. Dean’s had sex with countless partners before. It’s never been an issue before now. Who gives a fuck? What does it actually matter if Dean was Alastair’s – if Dean was Alastair’s bitch –

I’ll always be inside that pretty little noggin of yours, Dean, Alastair whispers into Dean’s ear, and he can feel Alastair’s sour breath on his neck.

The memory hits him like a freight train, catching him under its wheels and drags him down the tracks, 100 miles per hour.

Dean’s knees crack against the floor, and he’s dry-heaving over the open toilet, drool dangling off his lower lip, coughing out of his painful lungs. And he’s not dreaming. He wishes he was fucking dreaming.

“Dean…” Cas eases the door open.

“Oh God,” Dean rasps, half-sobbing, half-choking. “F-fuck, Cas –” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He just wants it to stop. He wants to forget again. He wants it to go away. He doesn’t want to be this – this thing. This used, broken thing.

“Can I touch you?”

Dean coughs again, a hopeless, wet sound of disbelief. And his heart is wrung out like a dirty rag. Fuck, the idea that Cas would ask – that he asks even though Dean was fine with him holding him last night, but maybe Dean wouldn’t be fine with it this morning –

“God, why do you have to be so nice?” Dean says hoarsely.

“I’m sorry my kindness upsets you,” Cas says with a wry smile.

Dean spits acid out of his mouth and sits on his heels. He grabs for a wad of toilet paper so he can wipe his mouth, but Cas gets there first, unspooling a length from the roll and handing it to Dean. Dean drags the paper across his mouth, drops it into the toilet, and flushes. He gets up on shaky legs; Cas gently offers a hand to his elbow, and Dean drops onto the closed lid of the toilet.

“Sorry,” Dean says, shoving his damp hair away from his forehead. There are cold circles of sweat under his armpits.

“You have nothing you need to apologize for, Dean,” Cas says yet again. He's so damn patient. He crouches in front of Dean. His blue eyes are unbearably kind.

“You don’t know what I am,” Dean rasps. There’s a knot in his throat, and it’s going to choke him. “What I’ve done. What it’s like putting up with this.”

“You’re nothing monstrous, Dean,” Cas says, like he’s split open Dean’s brain and reading it like a book. “You’re not inhuman. You deserve gentleness. You deserve kindness.”

Dean shuts his eyes. Anything to get Cas to stop looking at him. He breathes for a while, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“You’re cold,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “You should go back to bed.”

“I got work,” Dean says helplessly, and the idea of getting dressed and going to the garage makes him want to cry.

“I don’t think you should go,” Cas says.

Dean huffs a humorless laugh. In another world – one in which Dean wasn’t so fucked up – it would be a come on: Cas tempting Dean back to bed, coaxing him to stay home from work. Dean’s eyes burn. It’s not funny.

“Whenever I have a meltdown, it’s important for me to listen to my body afterward. If I’m tired, I need to rest.” Cas says it so calmly, Dean finds himself leaning into it. He wants someone to tell him what to do, right now. He doesn’t want to make decisions. He doesn’t want to do anything.

“I should call my boss,” Dean says weakly.

“Of course,” Cas says. He stands. Dean realizes he’s wearing the same sweatpants and oversized smock that he was last night. He never left to get changed. He never left Dean at all last night.

“Cas –” Dean starts.

“Yes, Dean?”

“You – you don’t have to do this,” Dean protests like he did last night. It’s so much. Dean is so much. Cas doesn’t deserve to have to carry any of it.

“But I’d like to,” Cas replies with an easy smile. He moves out of the way so Dean can get off the toilet lid. He’s still unsteady on his feet, but he’s able to rinse the bad taste out of his mouth and splash cold water over his face – it shocks him enough into the present to make a plan: call Bobby. Go back to bed.

Dean presses his thumb to Bobby’s speed dial icon before he can talk himself out of it. The guilt is making him want to throw up again. He lays on his side on the bed and draws his knees up to his chest, back to Cas, who sits patiently at the foot of the mattress.

“The hell you calling for?” Bobby’s gruff voice comes through the line, crochety as always, but that in itself makes a lump of painful emotion stand in Dean’s throat. Because Dean knows Bobby picked up as soon as he saw Dean’s number on the screen, and Dad never would have even looked at caller ID.

“Can’t come into work today,” Dean says, and he sounds awful. Bobby’s gonna know something’s wrong just by his voice.

Sure enough, Bobby doesn’t ask questions. “Alright, then. I’ll see if Cole will come in. He’s always begging for morning shifts, anyway.”

“Thanks,” Dean says tonelessly.

“You got someone with you?” Bobby inquires. Shit, yeah. Dean must sound really bad.

“I got Cas.”

“Good,” Bobby says. “You need anything, you call me.”

“Bobby –”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“What if I’m like this – what if I get her, and I – I won’t be able to take care of her like this, Bobby.”

“Then you’ll call Sam, or me, or Ellen. Hell, Ellen’s always gonna be head over heels for the rug rat. It’s what family’s for, Dean.”

Dean lets out a shaky breath. “Kay.” Bobby makes it sound so simple. “I – I’ll make the hours up tomorrow –”

“You’ll take whatever time you need,” Bobby interrupts him.

“Already take too much time off,” Dean objects.

“Who the fuck told you that?” Bobby demands.

“There was August and all the days in fall and then I got sick –”

“If you’re worried Rufus or I are gonna let you go, than you’re crazier than I thought, boy.”

Dean chokes on a noise that’s too near a sob to be a laugh.

“Fucking lose money having me around.”

“Don’t tell me how to run my Goddamn business,” Bobby replies sternly. “You work your ass off for me, and you have since you were nineteen. Every one of my employees have hit rough patches – shit, I miss more’n a month’s worth of days cuz of this bum leg – and damned if I’m gonna let someone go just for that.”

It’s like Bobby’s words are a trowel digging a little patch of relief in Dean’s chest. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby says, as uncomfortable with sincerity as Dean is. “Put your boyfriend on the phone for a sec.”

“Bobby he’s not –” Dean says feebly, but he knows Bobby’s just trying to rile him up on purpose, trying to drag him out of his head a little.

“Whatever he is, let me talk to him,” Bobby says.

Dean flops onto his back. He pushes the phone toward Cas, who looks a little confused at the gesture. “Wants to tell you to hide the sharps,” Dean says. Maybe Cas isn’t quite ready for Dean’s specific brand of dark humor because his eyebrows jump from confused to alarmed in less than a second.

Cas fumbles for Dean’s phone. “Yes, hello? Yes, this is Castiel. Pleased to speak with you again, Mr. Singer…Bobby. Yes…of course. Yes… I would never wish to harm a single hair on his head or anywhere else on his body –”

Dean inwardly winces. He buries his face in his pillow. He really doesn’t want to know what Bobby and Cas are talking about.

“Of course. Thank you, Bobby. Dean likely doesn’t say it out loud often, but he cares for you very much. It’s clear that you feel the same for him.”

With that incredibly awkward burst of earnestness, Cas ends the call, likely leaving Bobby just as flustered as Dean is.

“Bobby threatened to come after me with a shotgun if I hurt you,” Cas explains calmly when he returns Dean’s phone to him.

“Oh God,” Dean says, momentarily too embarrassed to worry about being depressed.

“He also said to call him if I needed any help,” Cas replies. He settles against the backrest. It’s still early morning. Dean can see the tiredness in the way Cas’s limbs deflate against the mattress. Dean’s own eyelids tug downward. “He didn’t tell me to hide the knives, but I trust you to tell me if you want to hurt yourself,” Cas adds with disarming seriousness.

“Okay,” Dean agrees, because it’s easier. And he’s too tired to hurt himself, right now. It’s too hard, anyway, with Cas less than a foot away from him on the bed. It’s not long afterward that he’s being pulled back toward sleep and silence.

OOO

“So,” Pam says. Her presence is steady and commanding. Dean would rather be anywhere but here. He’s long held the belief that Pam possessed psychic abilities beyond being a shrink, and he really doesn’t want her flipping through his head like it’s a dirty magazine, right now. “What happens if the judge rules against you? What kind of guiderails are you putting up to keep yourself on the road if you haven’t got your daughter to work toward?”

Dean wonders if Pam and Benny are somehow in cahoots. AA last week was all about how to stay sober for yourself, instead of sober for anyone else. But that discussion feels so far away in the wake of Dean’s revelation about Alastair that he couldn’t cough up the specifics if someone held a barrel to his forehead.

“I don’t know,” Dean says. It’s the truth. He barely stops himself from saying don’t know. Don’t care. The staticky, listless feeling that’s coated his body and mind like sticky cobwebs since Wednesday makes it nearly impossible to think.

He’s due to hear back from the judge about Emma in three to four weeks. It’s not that Dean doesn’t want to think about the crossroad of possibilities Cain’s decision opens up. It’s that Dean can’t. There’s a solid, unscalable wall inside Dean’s head that prevents him from peaking over at that future.

Either Dean’s gonna get shared custody and have an even more active part in ruining his daughter’s life, or he’s not gonna get custody, and he’ll probably slink back off toward the deep end. He can’t deny that the mirage of just stop trying looks pretty damn alluring, right now. It is, admittedly, pretty shitty to start questioning whether petitioning for custody was a good idea only after the whole rigmarole – complete with countless dollars spent and hours’ worth of work – but Dean can’t help but agree with Charlene; he’s not a fit parent. He probably never will be.

“What are some things – other than having access to your daughter – that make maintaining stability worth it to you?”

Dean doesn’t see much worth in anything, right now, but he plays the game, anyway – happy he at least doesn’t need to plaster a smile on his face.

“Stay out of prison.”

“That’s good,” Pam encourages him.

“And the hospital.”

“Both great things to work toward,” she says.

So I won’t kill myself, Dean thinks Pam would like to hear, but he’s not sure if that’s a positive, right now, so he says, “Sam won’t worry so much.”

“That’s great that you want to ease your brother’s worries, but that’s staying healthy for his sake, not yours. What are some more advantages you see in your life?”

“Christ, I don’t know,” Dean says aggressively. “It’ll be nice not to have him breathing down my neck so much.”

“So, independence?” Pam prompts him.

“Sure, what the hell,” Dean gives in.

“Have you considered having a conversation with your brother about boundaries? About how to build trust now that you’re in a better place?”

Dean has avoided Sam like the plague after the thing about Alastair. Dean can’t shake the idea that strangers can smell the guy’s body on Dean. Hiding that shit from his little brother? Sam will know in a second. It coats Dean’s body so heavy it’s like he’s sweating sulfur.

“No,” Dean says dully.

There’s a small pause. Dean can tell Pam’s reorienting herself on how to deal with this sullen, surly version of Dean Winchester. Finally, she posits carefully, “It seems like you’re a little disengaged today, Dean. Is there something else you wanted to talk about, instead?”

There are probably about fifty things Dean should talk to Pam about. Chief among them the thing about Alastair. As one of his main pillars, Pam should probably know something that big. But Dean can’t say it out loud, yet. The big R word is something that remains formless and hostile inside Dean’s head.

Instead, Dean says, “I think I want to have sex with Cas. No – fuck that – I really want to have sex with Cas.”

“Again?” Pam asks, and yeah: touché.

“Yeah, sure, again,” Dean agrees. “He – he’s always there.” And Dean doesn’t know how to tell Pam about it without also confessing what it meant for Cas to spend the night when Dean had his Goddamn nervous breakdown. Because he can’t mention a breakdown without also divulging what that breakdown was about.

More than that, he can't quite explain what it feels like that Cas keeps asking Dean to spend more time in his studio while Cas works. He can’t describe the tingling that breaks across Dean’s skin at Cas’s tentative yet persistent touches: a hand on a shoulder, a poke on his back, the faintest brush of Cas’s fingers against Dean’s hand because Cas doesn’t have much of a sense of personal space, and he keeps standing just an inch or two too close to be perfectly normal.

It’s like they’re in a holding pattern. Dean’s not exactly blind. He knows flirting. He’s been in the game long enough that he can sniff out I’m interested from a mile away. But he’s never been so paralyzed by it as he is with Cas.

The problem is, they’ve had so many false stops and starts that, by now, it’s like they’ve reached a permanent stall. It’s not like Cas is going to proposition Dean – not after the way Dean treated him after their hookup in August. Not after he saw Dean completely fall apart after the hearing. And Dean sure as hell ain’t gonna take the first step.

“Do you think this is just some pent-up sexual frustration,” Pam pokes a little deeper at it, “or is it something more than that?”

She means: is he just horny, or does he actually want a relationship with Cas. Relationship, even the word sends a shiver up Dean’s spine. A few months ago, and Dean would have thought the shiver was entirely disgust. Now, however, there’s something else. Something electrifying and a little…alluring about the prospect. Cas is – Cas is nice, for one thing. Sexy as hell, sure. But he’s kind. And funny. And Dean really likes spending time with him.

Dean likes Cas. In a terrifying, almost entirely alien way that feels a helluva lot bigger than just wanting to get into the guy’s pants. Again.

But it’s – it’s not that simple.

“It’s not that simple,” Dean says.

“Let’s try to untangle it, then,” Pam suggests calmly, and Dean hates her a little.

For one thing, Dean’s a total nutcase. He can’t just stroll up to the guy – the guy he stranded fifteen minutes post-coitus, the guy who wiped the vomit off his face when he had a flashback about prison, the guy who talked Dean down for hours by rambling about bees – Dean can’t possibly stroll up to that guy and ask him to be in a relationship. A relationship with a man who’s never had a successful relationship; proof in point, a man who may or may not get shared custody of a living, breathing, one-year-old human in three weeks.

Even thinking about dating Cas is so blinding hot and faraway that Dean can’t look at it too long; it’s like staring at the sun. So that’s stupid. Dean’s stupid. Who is he to think that Cas would even still be interested? Cas probably is – probably is having plenty of sex with plenty of beautiful people because Dean’s too slow getting his head out of his ass.

“He doesn’t – I’m not the kind of person he would want –” Dean attempts haltingly.

“You feel like you don’t deserve him?” Pam guesses with disarming intuition.

“Whatever,” Dean dodges the question, letting himself crash against the backrest of the couch, breath whooshing out of his mouth in something that’s more huff of annoyance than resigned sigh. “Not like I’m supposed to be having sex, anyway, right?”

“It was never about setting up sex as something wrong,” Pam corrects him. “Finding a balance between sex and the rest of your life – that’s what’s important.”

“Sure,” Dean says. He crosses his arms over his stomach. It’s not like he expected a lecture – but he – Pam’s calm reassurance doesn’t exactly leave him feeling like peaches and cream, either.

“You don’t sound super thrilled about it,” Pam says with a cheeky wink. Might as well put out a news bulletin: Extra, Extra, Read all about it! Dean Winchester, depressed, useless as ever. “Unless mine ears deceive me. It’s been a while, right? It can take some time to get back on the horse. If you wanna work on that, we can. Setting some boundaries, making sure you can approach sex healthily.”

Right now is when Dean should make a crude comment about working on that with Pam. But nothing comes to mind. Pam evidently notices the absence, as well, because she taps her fingers against her knee for a moment before she breaks the silence,

“Let’s break it down a little, okay? What attracts you to the idea of having a relationship – it doesn’t have to be with Cas – and what frightens you?”

“I’m not frightened,” Dean growls, aggressive enough to make himself inwardly flinch. But it’s too late to soften his tone.

“Okay,” Pam says slowly, eyebrows creased slightly over her nose. “Let’s break it down further, then – try to describe a sexual encounter that didn’t feel healthy. Something where you were out of control beforehand or maybe regretted afterward. And compare it with sex that made you feel good: in terms of healthy, safe, and in control.”

Dean doesn’t know how they ended up focusing such a sharp point on sex, but it makes his palms break into a cold sweat. His hair stands on end on the back of his neck, like there’s someone watching him.

“I don’t – I don’t know.” Dean’s throat pinches shut. It takes a moment to work down a swallow. He wipes his palms on his thighs. “I like – I like it when I can make someone else feel good.”

“Sex – good sex – involves a give and take relationship,” Pam adds. “It’s not just your job to make the other person feel good. You should be getting something out of it, too.”

“I shouldn’t have to – to take something to feel good,” Dean says weakly.

Pam nods after a second’s reflection. “You’re right. Maybe I used the wrong word. Sex involves a desire to give someone a part of yourself, and it involves the acceptance of something someone wants to give to you.”

You’re wrong, Dean almost says on reflex. Because the gentle thing that Pam’s describing isn’t sex. Sex is a fever dream of boiling desire and startling pleasure. Or sex is unforgiving and brutal lust. There isn’t compromise in sex, not in Dean’s experience. Someone always gets the short end of the stick – and Dean’s been on both sides of the equation. God knows he left plenty of girls unsatisfied back when he was a selfish twenty-something kid. Just look at Lydia, for Christ’s sake. Or Cas, back in August. And the idea of doing that to Cas again is so repulsive, Dean wants to pluck his eyes out rather than look at the possibility.

“It’s good – it’s admirable, really – that you want to put your partner’s pleasure before your own,” Pam adds when Dean doesn’t speak. “But you deserve to be put first, too.”

“No, I don’t,” Dean really can’t keep from saying, this time. “I don’t,” he insists when Pam’s eyebrows twitch in interest. “It’s not about – I don’t deserve anything. I – fucking shit, all I do is take.”

They’re not talking about sex anymore. Dean’s not sure what they’re talking about now. But the cold sweat has flooded his underarms, too, and it drips down his spine. He stifles a shiver that starts in his core and spirals outward.

“What do you mean?” Pam asks.

“I mean –” Dean sputters. “Christ. I mean, look at Sam! Look at all the shit he puts up with from me. Or Bobby. Or Rufus. Or Charlie. Shit, all I do is fucking take from them, and what do I give them in return? Just more of my fucking crap.”

“Dean, you practically raised your brother. You took care of your father time and again when you were too young to even take care of yourself. Don’t you think you deserve to have people take care of you for a change? Besides, care is not a merit-based system. It doesn’t matter whether you deserve it, or not. As a human being, it is your inherent right to receive love.”

“That’s not –” Dean chokes, ears fuzzy with the building pressure inside his head. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Okay, so what’s it about?”

“I’m so – I’m so sick of it. I don’t want to need things from them.”

“What does it make you to need things?” Pam challenges him. “Does it make you weak? Does it make you somehow less then?”

“Yes!” Dean blurts out. “I’m not supposed to – it’s not supposed to be like this. I’m supposed to be able to take care of my own shit.”

He’s supposed to take care of his daughter. He’s supposed to take care of this crap with Alastair – he’s supposed to be strong enough to do this without dragging everyone else down with him.

“So, was your father weak for needing your help?” Pam counters shrewdly. “What about Sam? When you help your brother, is it because he’s weak?”

“That’s not the same,” Dean stammers helplessly. “Sam was just a kid – And Dad – Dad did the best he could.”

“And you weren’t a kid? You’re not also doing the best you can?”

“I screw up every fucking day – no way is this the best I can do!”

“Doing the best you can doesn’t mean working yourself into the ground,” Pam retorts. “Doing your best needs to mean you let yourself rest and ask for help when you need it.”

“No it doesn’t,” Dean insists, unable to vocalize why or how Pam is wrong, just knowing that she has to be wrong. Dean doesn’t want the easy way out. Dean doesn’t deserve more excuses for why he’s a shit terrible person. Dean can’t be doing his best, because than his best sucks. His best winds up with him pinned to a concrete wall, biting his lip until it bleeds so he stops himself from crying.

“Let’s dial it back, okay?” Pam says from far away. “Just breathe with me for a minute, Dean. We’ll just sit here for a minute.”

And they do. They just sit there while Dean remembers how to breathe, and Pam runs him through a grounding exercise. Dean tells her what he can hear and see and smell and touch. And Dean tries not to hear Alastair’s breathing in his ear, and feel the man’s breath on his neck, and remember the red welts the man’s nails left on Dean’s back and ribs and hips.

By then, the hours is up, and Dean feels wilted.

“We’ll come back to this next time, okay?” Pam says, and she means it like she means most things she says at the end of a session: an innocuous blueprint for next week, something Dean can give some thought to before next session, but it sounds like a threat when she says it now. And Dean can’t help leaving the office feeling worse than he felt coming in.

Chapter Text

“Cash or credit?” the guy behind the counter asks, and Dean blinks. The store is – too bright. The fluorescent lights sting his eyes like chlorine. The soft rock coming through tinny, muffled speakers echoes inside of his head.

“Dean – man, you okay?” the guy asks, forehead wrinkling in a frown.

Dean’s standing in front of a counter. He’s in the middle of a small store, surrounded by shelves of…bottles. And the lights glint off the distorted glass, creating kaleidoscope sparkles in the corners of Dean’s eyes.

The guy manning the cash register looks familiar. He’s a couple inches shorter than Dean: dark-haired, handsome, wearing a gray-plaid shirt. Donnie, Dean’s brain sluggishly supplies.

Donnie, the owner of Dean’s favorite liquor store. Dean’s been here enough that he and Donnie know each other by name. Dean knows that Donnie’s got a wife and elementary-school kids at home. Donnie tossed him a grin when Dean came through the door tonight, remarked casually that he hadn’t seen him in a while.

There’s a six pack and a brown bag of liquor on the counter.

“Fuck,” Dean says.

“Dean, ah, how much have you had to drink tonight?” Donnie asks, concern evident in his warm brown eyes. “Cause, gotta tell you, you’re kinda worrying me, here.”

“Shit – I don’t – I don’t think I’m drunk,” Dean says, a little breathless against the surge of panic. Because is he? Dean doesn’t remember walking into the store. Shit, he doesn’t remember – he remembers sitting in Pam’s office. He remembers getting into his car and – and trying to scratch away the phantom press of Alastair’s fingers on his arms – and then – and then –

Fuck.

Did he drive here? Did he walk? Did he stop at a bar?

Dean doesn’t think he’s drunk, but he can’t tell. Everything is too bright, too loud, too confusing, all blurred.

“I don’t think I’m going to sell to you right now, okay?” Donnie says carefully, like he’s afraid maybe Dean’s going to lash out.

“Shit, yeah,” Dean says hoarsely. “Fuck.” He pushes the six pack closer to Donnie’s side of the counter. Donnie lifts it off without taking his eyes off Dean. Dean musters a weak chuckle – knowing he looks crazy. He feels crazy. He’s definitely coming across as crazy.

“I –” Dean runs a hand through his hair, trying to conceal the fine tremble in his fingers, trying to come up with some kind of explanation. “I fucking quit, man. Sorry – I’m not – I’m not supposed to be here.”

Donnie’s eyes widen in sudden, pity-laced understanding. “Damn, man. That’s okay. You need me to call someone?”

“No,” Dean says at once. He’s okay. He’s fine. He can’t remember how he got here. He doesn’t know what time it is. But he’s fine. He’s pretty sure he’s sober – he feels weird and half-present and heavy-limbed, but he doesn’t think – he doesn’t know – “I’m good. Thanks. Can I – will you get me a pack of those Marlboros?”

“Whatever you need,” Donnie says at once. He unlocks the little cabinet by the register where the store keeps its cigarettes and e-cigs, and comes back out with a pack of Reds.

“Thanks,” Dean says, voice clipped. He just wants to get out of this damn store, get away from Donnie’s judgement. Dean feels embarrassed heat creep across his face as he picks out the bills for the cigarettes; thank God he still has his wallet on him.

He leaves the store at a near-run. The little bell jingles over the door as he shoves it open. The cool night air slaps his face as he spills onto the sidewalk, and it’s not quite dark out. There’s a film of lighter sky peaking overhead the buildings, so Dean knows he can’t have lost much time. It was sunset when he left Pam’s; it can’t be more than an hour after.

Dean scans the curbside desperately, sickened panic thrumming in his stomach, feeling like he’s been spawned in the middle of nowhere by one of Charlie’s video games. The surroundings are familiar, but there’s no denying the disturbing sense of displacement that coats the inside of his skull.

Dean tugs a cigarette free of the pack, fishes around his jacket pocket for his lighter – he never did get out of the habit of carrying one – and lights up to keep his hands steady. The thought of Nicorette gum has never been farther from mind. He doesn’t give a shit about quitting. He needs something to steady himself. Anything to steady himself, and if he doesn’t suck down this cigarette, he’s gonna go back into the liquor store and buy half a shelf.

“Oh, thank God,” Dean mutters under his breath when he stumbles forward a few steps and sights the impala parked on the other side of the street. “Holy fucking shit, Baby.” Dean darts across the road without looking left or right; thanking Christ again that it’s a quiet street and there’s little incoming traffic to speak of.

Dean’s all-encompassing relief at seeing his car is almost immediately eclipsed by a sharper, icier sense of panic. Because he drove here – he drove here and he can’t fucking remember it. He doesn’t remember getting behind the wheel; he doesn’t remember taking the turns to get to this street; doesn’t remember pulling up to the curb.

Son of a bitch. He could have killed someone. He could have fucking wrecked the car again –

Dean’s going to puke if he doesn’t pull his head out of his ass, so he finally takes a deep drag from his cigarette, which loses a quarter-inch head of ash because it’s just been smoldering untouched between his fingers. Nearly as soon as the smoke touches his throat, Dean sputters, doubles over, and starts coughing. Rattling, deep coughs that scoop out his belly and leave him breathless, blinking away tears.

Dean gags, drops the cigarette, where it sizzles out on the pavement, slightly damp from the nearly constant barrage of sleet and freezing rain springtime brings to the Midwest, and fumbles in his pockets for his inhaler. Shit – he hasn’t had to use it in a couple days – he – fuck, but it’s not in his pockets, but then he remembers he stuffed it in the glove box, so then he’s fumbling his keys, wheezing helplessly, and he dives across the bench seat, unlatches the glove box, and – yep –

The first blast of soothing medicine is like a breath of fresh air after being held under water for too long. He drops heavily against the backrest, shuts his eyes, clears his throat a couple more times, trying to chase away the lingering tickle, and slowly gets ahold of himself.

He’s fine. He’s okay.

Dean peers through the windshield; he can still see the liquor store’s huge, street-facing windows, illuminated from within by blinding white light. Dean swallows. It feels like shards of glass scraping down his esophagus. Dean grimaces and shuts the inhaler back into the glove box. After a moment of hesitation, he snatches another cigarette before tossing the pack after the inhaler.

He climbs back out of the car. Slams the door shut behind him. Plants his butt against the trunk so he’s not standing in traffic.

Dean wonders if he’s being watched. He wonders if his old buddy Marv is out there somewhere, ready to report back to Charlene.

He takes it slow this time: makes sure he clears his lungs with a couple gulps of cold air before lighting up again. He takes a sip from the end of the cigarette and holds it right behind his teeth, like when he was 15 taking his first drag and didn’t want the other kids to laugh at him. He breathes the smoke out slowly. His lungs ache, feeling like dried-up sponges inside his chest, but he doesn’t cough again.

He feels washed out but somehow wired. Aaron and him used to get high after school, shotgunning weed before they worked up enough courage to kiss each other outright. They’d pop speed sometimes. The mixture of upper and downer feels like what’s happening in Dean’s body now: he’s strangely numb yet energized. Vibrating with nerves and residual emotion from talking to Pam, blacking out and finding himself in a liquor store. He just wants to calm down. He just wants to take a couple slugs of whiskey and lay down.

He pulls out his cell and punches in a familiar number.

“Heya, chief,” Benny says on the second ring. Dean clutches his phone so tight he thinks he might crack it in half.

“Hi,” Dean says, trying for casual, but knowing he fails, especially when Benny’s voice turns clipped and serious:

“Where you at?”

Dean laughs a little wildly, runs a hand through his hair; it’s straw-like from sweat. In fact, his entire body feels stale. His t-shirt is crispy under the arms from dried perspiration and his face is itchy from crying.

“Outside a liquor store.”

“Not to be the bearer of bad news, brother,” Benny says, “but that’s not a great place to be.”

“Yeah?” Dean laughs again, strangled and definitely unhinged this time. God, he wonders if he’s turning manic. Fuck. He doesn’t want to lose his head in the middle of the sidewalk. He doesn’t want to get carted off by the cops like last time. “It’s always gonna be like this, huh?” he chokes.

There’s always gonna be these landmines. Trip wires waiting to get pulled, splatter him on the pavement every time. And he’s never gonna be able to just sit down and have a Goddamn beer with his brother, again –

“That’s future tripping, brother,” Benny says calmly. “You don’t gotta do that. One step at a time, right? First step is getting away from the liquor store.”

“I didn’t buy anything,” Dean defends himself weakly.

“That’s great,” Benny says gently.

“It’s not great,” Dean snaps. “It’s fucking pathetic.”

“What’s the address?” Benny cuts across his self-recrimination.

“You don’t need to come get me.” He’s not some kid calling home after getting scared at a sleepover.

“Well, how ‘bout you head over my way, then?” Benny suggests. All southern hospitality and comforting charm. Dean hates it. He fucking hates it. Dean doesn’t want fucking nice – Dean wants –

Dean wants someone to pull his head back by the hair, bear his throat, suck bruises into his skin. Dean wants to hurt. His body tingles with a sudden, irrevocable, and startling need. And he almost opens his mouth. Almost opens his Goddamn mouth. Because maybe Benny –

Maybe Benny wouldn’t mind –

Benny’s got big hands. Broad shoulders. Could pin Dean down, firm palm against the point on his spine where his neck meets his back.

What the fuck is wrong with him? Dean’s mouth is dry. He’s halfway hard in his pants; dick tight against the fly of his jeans.

“I’m fine, Benny, really,” Dean says hoarsely, cutting off the guy’s fussing. Would you? the thought thunders through Dean’s skull. Would you bend me over a car in the garage? Would you strap my wrists over my head with your belt?

Dean’s going to say something unforgivably stupid if he doesn’t hang up right now.

“I’m okay,” Dean insists. “Thanks – I’m okay now. I’ll – I’ll text you when I get back to my place, okay? I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Dean,” Benny protests. “I’ve been where you are –” Dean barely chokes out a laugh. Because has he? Has he? “And it’s not a good place to get through alone.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says.

“C’mon, chief –”

“I’m fine.” Like a fucking parrot. Dean thumbs the end call button. He puts his phone on silent because he knows Benny’s gonna try to text him back.

I’m fine.

So, Dean won’t go to a bar. There’s plenty of other places – plenty of other ways.

There’s an itch under his skin. Dean wants to burry his fingernails into his flesh until he draws blood. Strip his skin, piece by piece, off his bones.

He just won’t go to a bar.

And it’s easy. So fucking easy. Pam made Dean delete all the apps off his phone about a year ago, now. All the hookup apps that make it so easy to shop for what you want. Where you want it. How you want it.

And Dean’s fine. He’s even level-headed. He’s not manic. He’s not drunk. He’s not high. He’s not gonna go to a bar. He knows what he wants, and it’s okay. It’s been way too long, anyway. It’s been since – shit – since August? Has it really been since fucking August? It’s not like he ever got anywhere with Shay back in November.

The guy’s name is Nick. He’s a cop. His profile is a selfie in the front seat of a squad car. Dean usually steers clear of cops out of principle, but tonight Dean wonders if maybe Nick’s got an extra pair of handcuffs around. Dean wonders how Nick would feel about Dean being an ex-con. Maybe Nick would get off on the power trip.

Nick’s a couple years younger and a couple inches shorter than Dean, but the same weight, and it’s all solid packed muscle; there’s a picture of him in a sweat-stained wife-beater, posing like a douchebag in a gym mirror. Dean doesn’t mind a douchebag tonight. He’s single. Just looking for a good time. HIV negative.

And he doesn’t mind meeting at his place. Dean messages him from the front seat of Baby, dick staying at half-mast, heart beating hard in his throat. That’s why Dean likes apps like this: no room for doubt or nuance. Spells it out for you.

Dean tells him he’ll be there in 15 minutes. He makes it in 10.

Nick’s good looking. Maybe a little less good looking than the lighting in his pictures suggest. He’s got a military haircut and a wide face, heavy-lidded gray eyes and plush lips. He offers Dean a beer. Dean brushes him off with a casual nah, man. And see? See? Dean’s fine. Sober and everything. He’s fine.

It’s a regular bachelor pad. They don’t even head toward the bedroom. There’s a ratty sofa against the wall, facing a gigantic flatscreen TV that would have cost two months of Dean’s rent. Nick probably has guys over every Sunday for football and wings. Dean wonders if Nick’s buddies know he picks up guys off Grindr in the middle of the night.

It doesn’t take long to get down to business. Not long until Dean lets himself be crammed up against the wall, Nick’s tongue down his throat. Nick grips Dean’s wrists tight in his hands, draws Dean’s arms over his head, thumbs bruising against Dean’s pulse points.

“God, show me what those lips can do.” He whispers wet into Dean’s mouth, like the guys in the alleys behind truck stops used to. Had to watch for broken glass before he got down on his knees.

“Fuck me,” Dean tells him, instead. Dean is in control. Dean wants this. He wants this. And Nick smiles, slow and pleased, eyes glinting with intrigue.

“You want me to get you off first?” Nick asks, like it’s a matter of course. And maybe he’s not a shit guy. Deep down maybe he’s not. But Dean doesn’t want that.

“No,” Dean growls.

Nick dives for Dean’s belt. Dean intercepts him, batting his fingers away so he can undo his own buckle, pop the button at the top of his jeans, and unzip his fly. Dean’s in control. Dean’s taking off his own clothes.

Nick grins, showing all his teeth, and he busies himself with his own jeans, slipping his pants down his thighs. His dick is a bulge in his boxers. That’s going to be in me. That’s going to be in me, Dean thinks a little wildly, and the twist of arousal in the pit of his stomach is so harsh it’s almost a cramp.

Dean shoves his jeans down until they get caught on the slight bow of his knees. He turns to face the wall before he tugs his boxers down. He doesn’t need to look at Nick for this part. He braces one hand flat against the wall, his other arm comes up so he can press his forehead against it. And they don’t even need to be in an apartment for this. Dean doesn’t want a couch or a bed. Alastair used to fuck him against the wall. Sometimes with Dean on his hands and knees on the floor.

“Fuck,” Nick breathes. Dean hears the rustle of fabric as he frees himself from his boxers. He crowds in close behind Dean, all heavy, warm body and strength. His hot mouth finds Dean’s neck. He plants an open mouth kiss to Dean’s skin; Dean feels the edge of his teeth. Alastair liked to mark him up. Liked to bite his neck and scratch his back and leave bruises where the other inmates and COs could see.

His hand finds Dean’s ass. Dean doesn’t flinch, but he feels a ripple up his spine as his muscles clench. Dean needs to relax. He only makes it worse when he doesn’t relax.

Dean hears the click of a bottle of lube. No lube in prison.

“You don’t have to use it,” Dean says.

Nick laughs a little disbelievingly, but he doesn’t question it, just says, “No fuckin’ way I’m getting friction burn on my dick, man.”

Nick’s fingers do the work, cool and slippery at first pass. A little painful because it’s been a while, and Nick’s moving too fast. Dean’s egging him on. Dean’s cock is hard and red. And see? It’s just sex. It’s just another body. It’s just sex. Dean’s fine. Nick makes a grab for Dean’s dick that’s bumping free against the wall, tries to make an attempt at a wrap-around.

“Don’t,” Dean says. Sometimes Alastair would let Dean get off. Sometimes he’d tug an orgasm out of Dean, tortuous and rough. Or sometimes he’d put Dean to bed, still aching hard. Sometimes Dean’d shamefully jerk himself off after he heard Alastair’s breath drop off into sleep.

Dean doesn’t touch himself now. He is aching and heavy, and Nick’s obviously done this before, because his fingers know how to find Dean’s prostate, and Dean arcs into the touch, making a keening, needy, disgusting sound in the back of his throat. Dean bites his lip hard against another sound. He has to be quiet. He can’t let the others hear. The steady, rhythmic thumps and Alastair’s wheezing breath are noise enough.

“Jesus, you’re a slut for this,” Nick says into Dean’s ear, pinning Dean in place against the wall with his broad chest. Tell me I belong to you, Dean begs inside his head. Tell me.

There’s the crinkle of a condom wrapper.

“I’m clean,” Dean grunts impatiently. “Just do it. It’s fine.”

“Well shit,” Nick huffs, there’s a grin in his voice. Something triumphant and blasé that makes a whorl of cold curl down Dean spine. Cas wouldn’t – but Dean cuts that thought off at the head. This isn’t Cas. Dean doesn’t want this to be Cas. “If you insist.”

For the briefest of moments, before Dean’s body adjusts, it hurts. And it feels so fucking terrible, and so fucking good, that Dean’s eyes burn behind his closed lids. There’s something sharp in his throat that might be a scream or might be a sob.

Nick fucks like he wants to win an argument. Brisk and too-the-point, just on the edge of rough. He’s commanding. Keeps one hand on Dean’s waist, hard enough to press a bruise into Dean’s hip with his thumb. The other hand scratches through the short hair at the base of Dean’s skull. His fingernails are short squares.

Nick punches a grunt out of Dean’s throat, and he pushes hard against the wall to keep standing. He’s going to be sore tomorrow. Dean’s body is hot. There’s that twist in his gut again, harsh enough he gasps through it.

Good boy, Dean. Good boy.

Nick comes with a choked moan. For a minute he just stands there, riding out the shivers of his orgasm, leaning heavy against Dean’s back, forehead rested against the back of Dean’s sweaty neck. Then he pulls out. Dean feels empty and cold and there’s the uncomfortable feeling of wetness between his legs. Dean’s still hard. There’s a pinched, swollen feeling in his balls.

“Shit, man,” Nick says with a breathy laugh. “You sure I can’t –” he waves noiselessly toward Dean’s dick. But he’s shaky and lazy with release. Dean doesn’t want a pity hand job.

“I’m fine,” Dean says tightly, already maneuvering away so Nick’s not breathing down his neck. Nick gets the point and backs up a few steps, bends to pull up his boxers, kick his jeans away from his ankles.

Nick smiles wide and dopey, “You do parties?”

It’s a joke. Dean knows it’s a joke, in the tasteless, tactless way people make jokes when they’re feeling awkward. His fingers bit into his palms. He hides it by bending to pull up his own underwear and pants.

“Gonna go clean up,” Dean says.

Nick points him in the direction of the bathroom down the hall. Dean’s glad to get away. He still feels flush and off-balance. His legs are shaking a little from pent-up frustration as his body tries to relax, realizing by now that he’s not getting off. Good. Dean didn’t want to get off. The worst thing was when Alastair made Dean feel good.

Dean doesn’t linger in the bathroom. It smells like too much axe body spray. There’s no soap bottle by the sink, so Dean has to go in the guy’s shower to grab a bottle of head and shoulders shampoo. He cleans himself up as well as he can with toilet paper, because it’s not like there’s a spare hand towel or even a box of tissues lying around.

“You sure you don’t want that beer?” Nick says when Dean comes back out. Nick looks sheepish, a little red on the ears. Dean knows he’s counting the seconds to see the back of him.

“Nah,” Dean says, and he throws in a wink just for the hell of it. “Already got what I came for.”

It’s easy enough to leave after that. Easy enough to get back into the impala. To turn toward his apartment. There’s the beginnings of a muscle strain in the backs of both his thighs. His head hurts over his right eye. Dean wonders if he’s gonna get a migraine. He used to get them all the time for that first year after the accident, when his brain was trying to knit itself back together.

When he parks the car, it takes him a minute to want to get out. He back hurts. He’ll probably have a limp. Will people be able to tell? Will – God, if Cas sees him, will he be able to see it? Dean tries to shove the irrational thought from his head. Cas and he aren’t – they aren’t whatever Dean’s brain keeps trying to trick him into thinking they are. It doesn’t matter that Dean had sex. Cas won’t care – even if Cas somehow found out, Cas wouldn’t care.

But Dean can’t shake the feeling of dense shame that settles on his shoulders. He feels like that horrible morning after Shay, when Benny nursed his hangover with a glass of water and a couple pills.

Thinking of Benny makes Dean remember he was supposed to send the guy a text. Shit. It’s been over two hours since they talked. Sure enough, when Dean unlocks his phone, there are a couple concerned messages flashing on the screen from Benny – but, strangely, they’re all level-headed and direct.

Hope you’re ok. Send text when you see this.

Getting kinda late out, brother. Let me know when you’re home.

I’m still here if you need anything.

And that’s it. No threats to call the cops if Dean doesn’t reply in an hour. No cavalry called in and waiting in Dean’s apartment to pounce on him. It’s so unlike Sam that the relief propels Dean for long enough to type out a quick message: home safe. Sorry. I’m ok.

And Dean is, he thinks almost angrily. He’s fine. He’s sober, at least. Strangely the thought just manages to crest another wave of despair in his chest. Fucking sober. Great.

And Dean’s angry. He’s so fucking angry and fed up. Because he’s a grown man. He’s allowed to have sex, for Christ’s sake. Why the fuck does it have to feel like this?

The ache left behind in Dean’s ass guarantees that he remembers exactly what Alastair – no. Fuck. No. Nick. What Nick felt like when he was nuts deep inside him. Dean remembers the pounding rhythm the – the – ragged breathing – the – shit –

There’s that painful twist in the base of his stomach again, so sharp it’s like he’s being gutted, and it snaps into place as Dean grits his teeth against the pain – it’s not nerves. It sure as hell ain’t arousal. It’s fear. Plain and simple. Fear so powerful it makes him sick.

And suddenly fear is all there is. It surges up from his belly like a tentacle and unfurls in his throat, choking him. Dean gags on it. It’s the second time today he’s been knocked breathless on his back. It’s like he’s pinwheeling, spinning without a tether through outer space. There’s a Ray Bradberry story like that. Spaceship explodes and sends the crew careening into open, gaping blackness. Their radios still work, and all the guy can listen to is the screaming of his crewmate as he hurtles through the darkness toward his eventual death.

Dean’s hands are numb. His arms are filled with pins and needles. He can’t feel his toes or his face or the tips of his fingers. He’s having a stroke – he must be having a fucking stroke. He tries to swallow, but the spit gets stopped by something blocking his throat and pools in his mouth, drools out of his lips as he bends forward over his stomach, smacks his head against the dashboard.

Dean comes out of the panic slowly and unevenly, leaving a shaking, heaving residue in its wake. His muscles tremble and his head aches. There’s a lingering cramp of fear in his stomach. He wants to curl up where he is and never leave his car. The scent of well-worn leather in his nose is calming. He breathes for a long while. By the time he feels capable of sitting up from the bench seat, he checks his phone and sees it’s well after midnight.

Dean swallows nausea and carefully, slowly extracts himself from the front seat. His bad knee buckles under his weight. He catches himself on the top of the impala. And he stands there, barely able to suck the freezing winter air through his mouth, gawping pointlessly into the darkness, before he stumbles toward the apartment. There’s nothing more to do but keep moving forward.

Chapter Text

“Dean Winchester,” Billie greets him with her deep, soothing voice, and Dean stands sheepishly in the open doorway of her office. “I’m glad to see you back.”

“I – sorry it’s been so long. I’ve been –”

Billie raises a hand. “It’s alright,” she says. “You don’t need to explain. I’ve had plenty of clients decide we're not a good fit, or they’re not ready. When I say I’m glad you’re back – I really mean only that.”

Dean falls silent, unhappily feeling like he’s been somehow jilted. It’s not like he wanted Billie to ream him out for playing hooky like a school boy, but not getting reprimanded is off-putting and anticlimactic. He’s spent so long worrying about not booking another appointment with her, feeling like he was doing something wrong, that he should at least get yelled at for it.

“So, would you like to tell me what convinced you to give it another try?” Billie prompts once Dean’s sitting across from her. Billie grabs her clipboard. She flips through a couple pages, and Dean knows she’s refreshing her memory on what they discussed back in December. Dean barely remembers what they talked about then – the crash and Dad slamming Dean’s head into a wall, he guesses.

Dean doesn’t know where to begin. He had a flashback so bad he almost wet his pants in front of his friend? He remembered he was some guy’s bitch in prison? He dissociated so hard after therapy he drove to a liquor store and couldn’t remember it?

“I – ah –” Dean begins uncomfortably. “It just felt like…like maybe things were getting out of control again. I figured – I don’t know – this crap was supposed to help with that. I might be getting shared custody of my daughter, and I can’t afford to lose my shit if she’s around.”

“What things felt like they were out of your control?” Billie asks, dropping the note pages so she can fix her eyes on Dean. She has a commanding presence. She’s a beautiful woman – high cheekbones, carved jawline, plush lips, heavy eyelids – but Dean’s doesn’t think he’s ever been less interested in flirting.

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “I was – I don’t think I’m manic. It just felt like – like I got sick back in January and I still can’t run – and I’m waiting for news about the custody shit – and I started having sex again and, ah, I haven’t, ah, really been doing that much so it – I’m just not used to it.”

“Okay,” Billie squints at him a little, clearly trying to muddle through his nearly indecipherable stammering. “Are you having sex with someone you know? A new partner?”

Of course a shrink would latch onto the sex thing.

“No,” Dean says, and the sick feeling of shame is back when he remembers his night with Nick, along with it anger – split two ways between frustration at himself for falling off his self-imposed celibacy wagon and exasperation that he feels bad at all, because he’s thirty-three years old and he should be trusted to have a one-night-stand.

“How’d that make you feel?”

“Oh, God,” Dean groans, “can we not do the kumbaya after school special crap, right now?”

Billie shrugs. “You brought it up,” she says. The bitch.

“Yeah, well, my mistake,” Dean snaps, aware that he is sulking like a child. He narrowly avoids crossing his arms over his chest like he’s an angsty teenager.

Billie nods slowly. Like she’s testing the waters, she tries again. “You planning on seeing them again?”

“No,” Dean says with a snort. He continues with some force, “And it was a guy, okay? So you can stop playing the pronoun game.”

Billie’s eyebrows furrow in obvious interest, “Does it bother you that it was a guy?”

Dean worked out his closeted bullshit with Pam years ago. Dean is comfortable where he stands now: not out in the sense of all-guns-blazing, rainbow underwear proud, but out in that he’s comfortable with people knowing as long as they aren’t gonna rub his face in it.

“No,” Dean says again, stony. He doesn’t know how to tell her that that’s the point. It was a guy because Dean needed it to be a guy. He needed to be fucked and fucked hard by an anonymous man. In the moment the desire had been unquenchable, so he did the only thing that made sense. He doesn’t understand why it didn’t make anything feel better. In fact, he feels a lot worse. Not least of all because he spent the entirety of the next day wincing every time he moved, making him remember walking around prison after getting stuck by Alastair, feeling like everyone could see him limp.

“Can I ask if it was a safe encounter?” Billie asks with a little too much knowledge in the way she lifts her eyebrows.

Dean squirms in front of her. “Yeah, sure. It was – yeah, it was fine.”

And he could mention the condom thing, sure. Billie wouldn’t judge him. Therapists are supposed to be all about the not-judging thing. Not like Sam. As if Dean would talk about condoms with his little brother. The two times in his life condoms have come up in conversation between the brothers was when Sam was fourteen and going to his first high school dance, and Dean tucked a rubber into Sam’s inner coat pocket with a wink and a make sure you suit up. The second time Sam was yelling at him after they both found out about Lydia. Dude, seriously? you’re just gonna roll the dice?

But Dean doesn’t know how to articulate this nameless frustration, the sense of disquiet his encounter with Nick left in its wake.

And dirty. He feels dirty. He sat in the base of his shower for forty-five minutes after he got home from Nick’s. He scrubbed his arms and legs raw. He can’t look at himself in the mirror. He keeps remembering Alastair’s hands on his body, leaving putrid, slimy trails of wrongness across his flesh. He can’t erase the feeling that he’s infected. There’s something wrong in his very blood. And he spreads it to everyone else he comes into contact with. Almost hourly, he has to fight the desire to hold his lighter to his skin to sterilize himself.

“Was it only fine?” Billie prompts further.

Dean laughs a little wildly. Thinks, fuck it. “It was shit, actually.”

“How so?” Billie inquires.

“I’m sure I don’t need to describe bad sex to you.” Dean rolls his eyes.

“Do you feel like he forced you into doing something you weren’t comfortable with?”

“Christ. No.” Dean breathes. “I – I told him we – I didn’t want – it wasn’t – I just left feeling like shit,” Dean says, not wanting to tell her how his skin erupts into gooseflesh even at the thought of Nick’s body against his, or the delayed reaction when he panicked helplessly in his car afterward. “I feel like – like I cheated on someone.”

“Like you cheated on someone in particular?”

“What?” Dean scoffs again. “Like myself?”

Billie’s smile ticks into her cheek. She holds her hands up at shoulder height. “You’re the one who wanted to avoid an after school special.”

There’s silence for a moment. Billie taps the cap of her pen against the metal clip of her clipboard. A tiny tap tap that feels unaccountably large in the square, bookshelf-lined office. Dean finds himself unconsciously mirroring the beat with his foot laid across his knee. He reads the titles on some of the books behind Billie’s head: The Complex PTSD Workbook, Healing from Hidden Abuse, When the Body Says No.

“Do you want to try to dig into that feeling a little?” Billie asks. “It sounds like you might be feeling guilty. Sometimes when we try to suppress something about ourselves it’ll end up spilling over in a way that feels overpowering. Like if you break a diet by going on a junk food binge. It doesn’t mean that a junk food binge is inherently wrong. It just means it was less controlled than we wanted it to be.”

“Okay,” Dean says noncommittally.

“What about having sex again made you feel out of control?”

“I dunno.”

“Was it that having sex with a stranger reminded you of a manic episode? Or was it being physically intimate with someone after such a long time?”

Dean swallows. It wasn’t like that. But he doesn’t know how to explain what it was like. Like he said – he’s not manic. He doesn’t feel out of control like that. Even Pam didn’t really get it. She noticed his mood was low, sure, told him to watch for manic warning signs, seeing as a depressive episode was the perfect breeding ground for another bipolar cycle, like his mind suddenly gets sick of feeling listless and overcompensates with mania.

“It didn’t feel like it was –” Dean hesitates, runs his tongue over his teeth, and continues warily, knowing he’s gonna sound like a headcase and trying to reassure himself that Billie already knows he’s a headcase. What the fuck else is he doing back in her office? “It didn’t feel like I was there.”

“Like you were disassociating?” Billie suggests.

“No –” There’s a lump in Dean’s throat, and he doesn’t even know when it showed up. “Like it was all – it was too sharp. But it was like I was…living something else when it, you know, happened.”

Billie’s eyebrows bow low again over her dark eyes, and Dean knows he’s getting to the real juicy bits now. The parts that make a head doctor duck low and really breathe it all in.

“What else did it feel like you were living?”

Like it was four years ago. Like I was in prison. Like I was getting fucked up against a wall while the COs laughed about it on the other side of the door.

“And I – I had a panic attack after,” Dean says instead of answering her question. It’s been four days, and Dean’s still recovering. His muscles are still achy and stiff, and he’s not sleeping well.

He stops looking at her face. He looks at his hands, instead, the way his fingernails are cut short in an effort to stop himself from scraping up his arms every night.

“Has that ever happened to you after having sex?” Billie inquires.

I don’t know.

“It was just sex,” Dean says, a little desperately. “It was – fuck –” Dean bows his head over his knees, rakes his fingers through his hair hard enough to tug. It’s getting hard to breathe again. “It was just supposed to be sex.”

“Dean,” Billie says calmly and soothingly over his head. “I’m going to ask you again – did this man hurt you in any way?”

“Fucking no,” Dean says, and his neck snaps up so quickly he almost gets whiplash. “Aren’t you fucking listening to me?”

“You’re right,” Billie sits back in her chair like she’s trying to look as nonthreatening as possible, and Dean feels bad about snapping at her. He doesn’t – he doesn’t know why he got so angry. “I won’t second guess you.”

Dean should apologize to her. Dean should tell her sorry for getting angry. He didn’t mean to – he wasn’t going to – to yell at her or something. He wouldn’t hurt her.

“Have you been having a lot of panic attacks recently?” Billie asks, obviously changing the subject, giving Dean space.

Dean shrugs, but he feels like he owes her some honesty, so he says, “I, um, had a really bad one a little over a week ago. It knocked me on my ass.”

“Did something trigger it?”

Dean’s throat is all scratchy and weird. He tries to gulp back the sticky wad of saliva he finds suck there.

“It was – ah – the trial. I mean the hearing. For my daughter.”

“Okay.” Billie nods sagely. “Do you think it was the stress, or was there something specific that occurred that upset you?”

“It was –” Dean says. He makes himself keep going. “It reminded me about – about prison.”

Dean has Billie’s sole attention. It’s kind of intimidating.

“Okay,” Billie says. “Something specific about prison?”

“It was – it was a lot of everything at once.” Dean cuffs his hands on his pants. He swallows again. The lump won’t go down. He hopes to God he’s not gonna spew all over Billie’s office carpet. “Some stuff that I hadn’t remembered before was suddenly – right there.”

“When you say you hadn’t remembered…?” Billie’s eyebrows duck in concern, and – yeah – no shit copping to amnesia in front of a shrink is gonna raise a couple red flags.

“Like it was all just hazy before. My brother would mention something that happened, but I wouldn’t know what he was talking about. Most of – like – six months was like that. I just assumed it was because, you know, going batshit crazy in there.”

“You went catatonic after you were in prison, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not uncommon, then, to lose a little time. And you had ECT to treat the catatonia?”

“Yeah.”

“ECT can result in retrograde amnesia, usually for events that occur in close proximity to treatments, but it can stretch back for months, even years, for some patients. Some people recover; others never retrieve those memories.”

“Okay –” Dean says. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not, to know there’s a medically sound reason for why he lost such a substantial chunk of time.

“What was the first thing you remembered?”

“There was, um,” Dean starts. God, he wishes he were anywhere but here. “This guy in prison. We were in the same cell, and – I –” shit. He can’t even say it. His throat clicks. The words just stop, leaving him gaping like a fish and soundless.

There is terrible, terrible silence for nearly fifteen seconds.

“It’s not what you think –” Dean breathes. “It’s not – it’s not what you’re thinking, right now.”

“What do you assume I’m thinking, Dean?” Billie is frustratingly calm, nearly unreadable with her heavy, manicured eyebrows and liquid dark eyes.

Dean’s not like those girls who get picked off by wolves in bars. He’s not some kind of battered wife, stuck to a guy who doesn’t understand marriage ain’t a catch all for consent. He’s not some kid walking by a dark alley or who got bad-touched by their Boy Scout leader.

There’s a split second under Billie’s suffocating gaze where it could go either way: Dean could cry or Dean could get angry. He gets angry.

“It wasn’t fucking rape, okay? It wasn’t fucking anything – and there’s nothing to fucking report because nothing fucking happened! So you can stop – stop thinking it – because it’s not.”

Billie just let him yell at her, immoveable and patient. Dean falls against the chair’s backrest, breathing hard, dizzy with the force of his spiraling thoughts, sick to his core with it. A disgusting squeak of air creeps out of his tight throat. He lifts a hand so he can cover his face, and his fingers are shaking.

“Okay,” Billie says levelly. “So, it wasn’t rape.”

Dean closes his eyes. It’s such an ugly and violent word. It’s something distant. A horrible thing that happens to other people, but not to Dean. And God – oh God – what would Dad say?

“And, just so I’m clear, we’re not talking about the man you had sex with a few nights ago. We’re talking about the man you knew in prison? Your cellmate?”

Dean nods mutely. He doesn’t want to say his name out loud. A little hysterically, he thinks about the Harry Potter movies Sam made him watch, each and every one. He Who Must Not Be Named. But Alastair is worse than that – worse than that because he isn’t some unspeakable evil overlord. He’s a man. Just a fucking man. A living, breathing, real person who Dean’s talked to and touched and been in the same room with.

“Did you want to have sex with him?” Billie asks baldly.

Dean flinches; he can’t stop himself. “It – wasn’t that simple.”

Billie nods. “Were you in a position where you felt like you had to agree? That you might be harmed if you said no?”

“It’s – shit. I’m not some girl who got roofied at a party. I’m – Jesus Christ. It’s not like that.”

Billie raises both hands in a typical everybody just calm down gesture. “We can agree that you weren’t roofied. But can I ask you why you’re so opposed to the idea that it was a nonconsensual experience? Is it because you’re not a woman?”

“Jesus – no. It’s because I’m not – I’m not like that. I’m not a – a victim.”

“Is it wrong to be a victim?”

“That’s not what I meant. They couldn’t – a girl against someone stronger than her or who drugged her or who – she couldn’t stop it. I could have stopped it. I’m...” stronger, Dean wants to say, but he can’t. That’s not fair. Of course, people who survive that kind of thing are strong. So Goddamn strong. A lot fucking stronger than Dean is. Dean didn’t survive shit. There was nothing to survive.

“Dean,” Billie says gently, leaning forward with her elbows braced on her knees and eyes sharp on his face – Dean can’t look at her. He looks at the floor. At the pointed-toes of her boots on the carpet. “I understand you don’t want to think about it. I understand that. But in order to talk about it, you’re going to have to face it. I want you to know that it’s safe here. You’re safe here.”

And there it is: the safe place talk. Dean’s gotten this spiel so many times – with Pamela, with Sam, at hospitals, at fucking AA – that Dean could recite it word for word. But his heart snags on his ribs every other breath. It’s too hard to summon up enough energy to manage disdain. Dean just lets Billie’s words drift over him, cuffing against him like sandpaper.

“I’m not going to judge you. I’m not going to tell anyone else. I won’t pressure you to report anything if you don’t want to do that. I’m just going to help you work past this. I understand if you can’t say it out loud yet – but do you think you could try to quietly admit it to yourself – that’s the first step, okay? You can close your eyes. I’ll give you a minute. Just try to tell yourself: he hurt me. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t deserve it, but he hurt me.”

Dean closes his eyes, but it’s not to conduct Billie’s little exercise. Instead, his brain rages he didn’t he didn’t he didn’t. And I did I did I did deserve it because I let him. I could have stopped him.

His breath stutters in his throat. Grounding – fucking grounding. What’s Pam always telling him? Fucking breathe, Winchester.

He can hear the creak of leather under Billie as she shifts her position – hear the – hear the wind batter fitfully against the window – hear – hear his heart and – hear Alastair as he grunts –

“I know you’re afraid of falling apart,” Billie directs him gently. “You’ve been taught all your life not to fall apart. You’ve been given grounding techniques to keep you from falling apart. But, it’s safe to fall apart, here, Dean. You don’t need to be afraid to lean into it. The emotions can’t hurt you. The memories can’t hurt you. You’re safe here.”

Oh God. Dean can’t – he can’t. He doesn’t want to fucking face it. Looking at it straight on, getting caught in its sights like it’s a tiger ready to pounce and claw him apart – Dean can’t.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Dean says, eyes still shut. And he’s giving up. Giving up again like the useless, pathetic, piece of shit Dad always said he was –

“Okay,” Billie says.

“Fuck,” Dean croaks. He puts both hands over his face. His cheeks are wet. Shit. “I – I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he tells her. “God – I just want it to go away –” It’s not fair.

Unfair. Fucking unfair? What kind of a pansy-ass wimp is he to whine about how fucking unfair his life is?

“I don’t – I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s going to get better, Dean,” Billie says with so much conviction Dean can’t help but believe her just a little, even if there’s a hiss inside his chest that warns liar. “It’s going to be hell to get there, but I promise it’s going to get better.”

Against his better judgement, Dean does not flee the session, but they spend the next twenty minutes talking about something called a containment strategy.

“Your brain wants to heal itself,” Billie reminds him. “That’s why it makes you relive these traumatic memories. It wants to properly process them so you can move on. It’s not uncommon for intrusive memories to become more prevalent when you begin working through that trauma. It’s one thing to work through those emotions and memories while you’re here, but it’s another to handle them when you’re alone.”

Billie continues, “Your brain has a natural ability to contain things. It likes to sort things and store them. A containment strategy lets your brain store your traumatic memories when you’re not able to process them right away. That way you hopefully won’t feel so overwhelmed when thoughts or feelings get stirred up. You can imagine letting the traumatic material into the container temporarily. Our sessions will let you open that door again, bit by bit, so we can slowly filter through and store those memories properly.”

Dean thinks it sounds like more idealist, woo-woo bullshit, but Billie makes him picture some kind of container – a box or a vault or a trunk. For some reason, Dean lands on a storage pantry in a bar he worked at for one summer.

Dean was maybe seventeen. Dad had dumped him and Sam in Washington, near the border, for a couple months during the summer. Rainy as all fuck. He’d been hooking for a while by then. Knew how to wait outside a bar with a pack of cigarettes, ask for a light from the right kind of guy. But one night he got caught by the owner – some brawny guy with a dark beard and broad shoulders. Named Asa.

Asa didn’t threaten to call the cops. Dean’d already been picked up for that shit back in Tennessee, managed to slip the lock and hid out in their motel room until they left the state. Dean just assumed Asa wanted a bj or a fuck, but instead he gave Dean a job. Dean didn’t have his diploma yet, and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask his dad to sign off on his working papers, but Asa paid him under the table. Let him wash dishes in the kitchen behind the bar. Kept anyone from hitting on him, not even any of the creeps who recognized him from out back.

In his mind’s eye, there’s a monstrous, steal door in the back of the bar where they kept the extra booze: barrels of beer and glass bottles of liquor. The door is heavy and indestructible, secured with a pin through its handle. The hinges shake, but it doesn’t budge. Alastair roars within, but nothing’s getting out unless Dean lets it.

Billie wraps up the session. They schedule a week out. Dean doesn’t want to come back, but he doesn’t see a reality where he can keep walking around with this shit rattling free in his head, so he resolves to make it next time, even though it sucks.

Chapter Text

“What’s up with you and Dreamy-McDreamboat, lately, anyway?” Charlie says, crunching her way through a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos; she didn’t wait to dig into her half of the road snacks. To be fair, Dean didn’t either, and there’s an open family-sized bag of Peanut M&Ms between his thighs as he glides the impala off the ramp onto I-35N.

Charlie asked him to drive up to Iowa together to pack up some of her parents’ stuff to move it into storage. It’s a Saturday, and Dean doesn’t have anything better to do. Lately he’s been trying to spend as little time alone with his thoughts as possible, so her company is welcome, and it will be good to use his hands. Charlie balked at making Dean drive, but no way was he going to pass up the opportunity to take his baby out for a spin; besides, the impala had more room in the trunk in case Charlie needed to transport anything.

“And don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Not with the way you’re blushing, mister,” Charlie adds direly.

“There’s nothing going on,” Dean protests before stuffing a handful of colorful candies into his mouth in an effort to dodge the question. Rendering himself silent, however, proves the wrong move, because it just leaves more quiet for Charlie to fill.

“Ha! It’s not like I haven’t noticed you two mooning over each other.” She waves an accusing Dorito toward him. “Half the time you’re in the building, he’s in your apartment. I hear him through the walls. You’ve made him grilled cheese – I’ve smelled it. And this schnoz doesn’t lie.” She taps the Dorito against her nose before she realizes what she’s doing, scrunches her face, and rubs the dust off.

“If you’re feeling neglected you coulda just said,” Dean replies. “We’re not members-only. You can just come over.”

“Don’t turn this back on me,” Charlie says. “I’m just saying, man…you’re getting pretty cozy. What? Is your chastity belt still on?”

“Jesus,” Dean says, taking one hand off the wheel to rub his face. Charlie doesn’t know about Nick. Dean doesn’t want to tell her about Nick. In fact, he’d rather forget about Nick, himself. “It’s complicated.”

“So,” Charlie waggles her eyebrows. “Spill the deats, man! Fine, I give in. I’m jealous. It’s not like I’m getting any.”

“We’re not –” Dean sputters, “We’re not sleeping together, okay?” He feels ridiculous. He feels like a teenage girl at a slumber party.

“But you are dot-dot-dot…” Charlie leads him with a significant look.

Dean’s face goes hot. He doesn’t know how to talk about Cas. He doesn’t know how to talk about any of it. “We’re not anything, cross my heart. It’s just – it’s fucking complicated, okay?”

“The way he looks at you ain’t complicated,” Charlie says, and, dammit, there goes Dean blushing again. He shoves another fistful of candy into his mouth and pretends like he has to lane over so he can get away from Charlie’s knowing, gleeful eyes.

“I ain’t exactly relationship material here, Charles.” Dean retorts, and the phrase damaged goods leaps to the forefront of his mind, but no way is he gonna open that can of worms.

Billie had given him homework. It wasn’t like the homework she’d given him back in December – he didn’t have to listen to a recording or answer questions on a worksheet. He hadn’t even graduated to telling her the story of a specific event, yet. Instead, they were working on unraveling some of his emotions around the concept as a whole, working on the big I didn’t want it. I didn’t deserve it thing. It felt near impossible, and more impossible still was Billie’s request that Dean think about telling someone about it.

Someone you trust, she’d explained in her deep, gentle tone. It was important for Dean to face it, and part of facing it meant verbalizing it. And the next step up from verbalizing it to himself was verbalizing it to a therapist and then verbalizing it to a friend. It’s not like she’s put a timeline on it; she just wants him to think about it and plan for it.

So, Dean weeded through the people in his life – people who already know the very worst of him – trying to find someone to tell. Obviously, there’s Sam, but Dean can’t – the look on his little brother’s face when he found out about the hooking was bad enough. This would be worse. Or there’s Bobby. Bobby’s a maybe. Bobby wouldn’t make a big deal about it. He’d be gentle in his gruff way and ask Dean what he needed, but he’d still know. And there wouldn’t be anything Dean could do to make him not know again.

Dean only fleetingly thinks about Cas, but even he knows that’s not the kind of boundary you plow down when you’re – whatever Cas and he are. It really isn’t fair of Dean to keep piling things on Cas’s shoulders if Dean’s not prepared to open himself up to more from the guy.

Dean even thinks about Jo for a wild moment, but even though they’re texting again, they’re not nearly close enough to warrant a secret like that. Besides, Jo’s never been good at keeping secrets. She’d probably spill to Ellen. And as much as Ellen’s been an occasional almost-substitute Mom, she’s definitely not on Dean’s list of people he could handle knowing about this.

Which leaves Charlie, basically. Which doesn’t make Dean feel all that great. He gets the feeling that she – like Sam – will urge him to report it. And that, more than anything else, is something Dean doesn’t want to do. Reporting it means making it public. Dean already feels enough eyes on him as it is.

“That’s bullshit, you know that, right?” Charlie says earnestly as Dean continues to glide the impala down the highway.

“What?” Dean scoffs. “I’ve never had a relationship last more than two months.”

“So you are thinking relationship, then?”

“Charlie…” Dean warns.

“Okay, okay,” she says, backing off with raised hands. “Just so you know, though, we’ve been in a relationship for about nine months. Not the kind of relationship you’re thinking about, but it’s still a relationship. And you’ve known Sam for like one-hundred years, right?”

“Sam’s my brother, he doesn’t count – and you – you’re – it’s not like that,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. Arguing with Charlie is like arguing with the Bridgekeeper on the Bridge of Death in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

“But what is romance other than just a deeper form of friendship?” Charlie insists. “And sex, I guess. If you want. I mean – that’s why it sucked so much when Gilda and I broke up. She was my best friend.”

“Okay Socrates,” Dean snorts.

Charlie swats his arm, “I much prefer to be Diogenes.”

Thankfully, Charlie drops the conversation about Cas. They make the drive listening to one of her favorite podcasts. Dean, as a rule, thinks people who listen to podcasts are losers, mostly because Sam listens to podcasts, but Charlie’s ain’t half bad.

They stop for bagels before arriving at Charlie’s old house. When they do pull into the driveway – nestling beside a ginormous dumpster Charlie rented for the occasion – Dean sees that Charlie’s first twelve years of life were spent in a stereotypically suburban, but pretty little house in a quiet neighborhood, not unlike the house that burned with Mary Winchester still inside. It's light blue with gray shutters and a red door. Charlie’s either kept up the maintenance or paid someone to do it, because the house doesn’t look like it’s been standing empty for the past nearly twenty years. The stubby brown grass in the lawn is well kept, and the bushes are trimmed.

“Welp,” Charlie says when Dean tugs the lever into park. “Here’s home.”

“It’s a cute place, kiddo,” Dean says because Charlie’s eyes are flat as she peers through the windshield.

Charlie and Dean get out of the car together. They stop to grab the armful of plastic bags and folded boxes they grabbed to pack things in. Charlie trails a finger along the corrugated side of the dumpster on their way up the driveway.

Charlie lets them in with her key. The inside of the house, though clean, smells like that combination of empty and neglected that all houses smell like when they’ve been without inhabitants for so long. There isn’t a speck of dust on the picture frames or banisters, though, and the carpets look they’ve been vacuumed recently; Charlie’s clearly paying for a cleaning lady. Together, it makes the house feel unnatural. No way would a house that was supposed to hold Charlie Bradbury stay so clean.

“I think I’ll, um.” Charlie stops in the middle of the hallway at the top of the stairs, looking lost even though she grew up there. There are family pictures in the hallway, three people in various poses in front of various landscapes: a woman with dark hair and familiar dimples, a tall man with a bald head, red beard, and cheerful eyes, and a kid-shaped Charlie, who’s got her same goofy smile and lanky build. “Maybe I should start…?”

She trails off with a frown, clearly unwilling to make a decision. Dean doesn’t blame her; it’s a sucky task.

“You wanna tackle it room by room?” Dean suggests. “We could stick together – go faster that way.”

There’s a brief wave of relief across Charlie’s face, and she nods eagerly. “Yeah, okay. Bedrooms first?”

Dean nods his assent, and, with renewed purpose, Charlie leads him down the hall to the bedrooms. They do Charlie’s old room first. It’s relatively empty, and the things they dredge up are knickknacks and old toys that make her smile and launch into long-winded stories about how she used to cut off all her Barbies’ hair and conduct elaborate surgeries on her stuffed animals. She dislodges a couple ribbons from when her parents made her go out for track and field when she was in fifth grade.

“Participant,” Charlie says with a snort. “I think I got this for coming last in the 400 meter.”

“Sammy was the athlete in our house,” Dean reminisces. Dean never had the time for sports. It was a rule at Sonny’s that you had to be involved in one after-school activity. Dean joined the wrestling team. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to being a jock. He never would have admitted it when he was sixteen, but part of the allure was rolling around on the floor, all sweaty with another boy.

“Always begged to join a team wherever or whenever we were. He did everything – basketball, baseball – even the bowling team once. Soccer was his favorite. Think he still plays pickup in the park during fall. Bobby’s got one of his trophies from sophomore year when the team went all the way to regionals. Lost by a goal. Kid was devastated. I took him out for sundaes to cheer him up.”

“God, I’d have killed to have an older brother like you,” Charlie says. “Never did forgive my parents for making me an only child.”

“Say the word, I’ll take you out for sundaes any time, kiddo,” Dean says with a wink, only half kidding.

Charlie beams at him when she teases, “Careful I might just take advantage, big bro.”

From Charlie’s childhood room, they move to the less personal guest room. There’s a box of Christmas decorations in the closet that Charlie gets misty over, but most of the rest of it gets tossed into the junk or donate piles. Then they move on to the upstairs bathroom, the living room, and the dining room.

Charlie wants to take care of her parents’ room by herself, and she sends Dean off on the mission of detaching all the family photos and framed art from the walls. Dean carefully removes each frame, layering them gently in a box with folded newspaper so the glass won’t scratch: Disney World, grassy parks, Washington D.C., blowing out birthday candles, Christmas morning, dressed as characters from Lost in Space for Halloween – all of Charlie’s childhood memories get packed away into cardboard boxes.

When Charlie emerges from her parents’ bedroom, balancing a box on her hip, her eyes are scrubbed a little red, and she pauses in the hallways, mouth dropping into a little o of disbelief when she sees all the blank space that used to be filled by her parents’ smiling faces.

She blinks wetly, dazed, before Dean intervenes, “Okay, pizza break. I’m starved.”

It’s after one o’clock, and they’ve made good headway. Dean’s sweaty and starting on sore from lugging furniture and boxes down the stairs to store in the garage for the moving truck that’s scheduled for later in the week.

Dean shoulders a couple laden trash bags and tosses them in the dumpster before heading out to pick up the pies, a box of energy drinks for Charlie, and a bottle of ginger ale for himself. He already had a coffee this morning, and he’s trying to be good: playing a game of substitutions. If he doesn’t overdo it on the caffeine that means he gets to smoke every once in a while – keep the cravings at bay.

When he gets back, Charlie’s face looks bright again. The hair framing her face is slightly damp, and Dean wonders if she doused her head under water. They sit on the floor in the kitchen, seeing as Dean and Charlie already disassembled the dining room set.

“You know what you’re gonna do with the extra dough once you sell?” Dean asks between chewing a slice of meat lover’s.

“I ‘unno,” Charlie mumbles. “Thinkin’ ‘bout moving.”

Dean supposes he should have known, but it still hits him like an uppercut. Of course she’s thinking about moving. Of course she’s thinking about leaving. Who wouldn’t want to move out of that Godawful dump of an apartment building? Who wouldn’t want to get the hell out of fucking Kansas City, smack dab in the middlemost of the Midwest? It’s not like her job means she has to stay in one place. She could go anywhere. California or New York, clear across to Europe. Madagascar or Timbuktu. Dean doesn’t blame her – he doesn’t –

Everyone leaves.

“I meant, like, get a bigger place,” Charlie says immediately, like she saw something cross Dean’s face, and he feels guilty about being so needy. “I’m not up for anything cross country, or anything.”

“Oh,” Dean says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. “I mean, ‘cause, I’d get it, you know? If you wanted to…um, leave.”

“Dude,” Charlie says, tapping him on his outstretched knee with her paper plate. This close, he can feel her warmth beside him. She smells like the slightly citrussy flavor of Red Bull. “How could I possible want to leave you?”

“It’s not like I’m all that great,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

“You kidding me, dude?” Charlie says kindly. “You unclogged my toilet that one time when I was debilitated by period cramps. If that’s not a valuable friend, I don’t know what is.”

Dean cracks a smile. “That was really fucking gross,” he says.

“Hush,” Charlie says, flicking a piece of sausage at his nose. Dean ducks, laughing. “The women’s reproductive system is a miraculous thing.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Dean says rakishly.

“Why do I feel like you are somehow still being sexist?”

“It’s my specialty,” Dean winks.

“Besides,” Charlie shrugs again. “Living somewhere is who you live with. And, you know, I’ve got people here. Like you and Jesse and Cas and, um, Meg.”

“Meg?” Dean says, rocketing an eyebrow up.

“Shut up,” Charlie says. It’s her turn to blush. “We’re friends.”

Friends like Cas and me are friends? Dean wants to needle, but no way is he giving Charlie that kind of ammunition. Besides, he really fucking doesn’t want to think about sweet, cheerful Charlie falling for bitchy, acidic Meg.

“She’s so –” Dean struggles for a word that won’t have Charlie calling him a sexist again. “She’s just so…sharp.”

“You just don’t like her because she’s Cas’s ex,” Charlie says with a discerning look.

“No,” Dean says too quickly. “I don’t like her because she’s pushy and overprotective.”

“So…like you?” Charlie’s smile is devilish.

Dean sulks at his pizza. “Shut up.”

Charlie laughs at him without a trace of pity. “I’m a big girl, Dean. I can look out for myself.”

“Yeah, well, just don’t come crying to me when she cheats on you,” Dean warns.

Charlie rolls her eyes with a little more force this time. “Right, ‘cause everyone who’s poly is a dirty cheater.”

Oh. Deans face takes it up another ten degrees. His stomach squirms: he deserved that. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Charlie says graciously. She gives him a gentle smile. “You won’t do it again.”

She’s right, Dean won’t. And he feels a little guilty for thinking badly about Meg because of that: something she can’t change about herself and shouldn’t feel ashamed of. After all, part of the reason she and Cas broke up was because she was poly and he wasn’t. So Dean knows they were open about it. He knows she didn’t cheat.

“Anyway,” Charlie says. “Like I said, we’re not dating. We’re not even having sex. In fact, we haven’t even kissed. And I have kissed almost every single female identifying person in Kansas City’s queer community – even some who were just curious, so that’s saying something.”

“So?” Dean says, not believing he’s actually encouraging this line of thought. “Why not?”

Charlie purses her lips, gives him a little sideways grin. “Baggage.” She sweeps her hand across the room in a literal and metaphorical survey of such luggage, seeing that the corners are stuffed high with packed cardboard boxes and jutting garbage bags.

“Yeah,” Dean says. He swallows, throat suddenly dry despite the gobs of grease that went down with the pizza.

This is it, he knows: this is his chance. He could just say it. Open his mouth and let it fall out. Speaking of which, when I was in prison, I let my celly turn me into his personal whore, how’s that for baggage?

“Charlie, can I –” Dean's voice clicks. He huffs out a cough. Charlie turns to look at him, brown eyes open with curiosity. It’s going to kill her. He’s going to make her cry. He’s going to make her face crumble with the awful knowledge that her friend – her self-proclaimed best friend – is just some prison bitch. Fucking shit. What kind of a shit awful person is he for bringing this up on today, of all days, when she’s already raw from digging through her dead parents’ detritus?

“Can I ask you something?” Dean says in a rush.

“Sure thing, Dean Bean,” Charlie says, liveliness in her voice already partially eclipsed by concern. Why’d Dean’s face have to be so open? Wear his heart on his fucking sleeve. Can’t just keep things buttoned down.

“There’s this – there’s this inmate at Crossroads Correctional,” Dean trips over his words. If he stops now, he won’t be able to start up again. He can’t look at her. He stares at the grease-stained cardboard box on the floor in front of his foot. “That’s where I was four years ago…spent four months before I, ah, transferred out.”

“Okay?” Charlie says carefully.

“And there’s this inmate – Alastair – Alastair Heyerdahl.”

“Friend of yours?” Charlie asks casually. Too casually. She can obviously tell the answer’s no. But Dean doesn’t think she’d think to guess why. After all, Dean knows he’s not the typical build for a punk. When he was a teen and early-twenty-something and all wiry, pretty-boy twink? Yeah. But not now at six-one, pushing two-hundred pounds.

“Can you look him up?” Dean asks instead. His outstretched knee, the bad one, starts jiggling. Something it used to do during his year of physio when the muscles got too tired and twanged like a vibrating guitar string. Dean puts a hand on his knee, pressing his leg into the hard tile, kneads the side of the kneecap with his thumb. “Find out what he – how – how long he’s in for.”

“Um, sure,” Charlie says. She sounds confused, but she tugs out her phone and immediately starts poking at the screen.

There’s a prickle on the back of Dean’s neck as the hair stands on end. Dean’s sure Alastair wasn’t a chomo. Guys who hurt kids don’t do well in prison. But he still doesn’t want to know – because it could have been something else: prostitution ring or human trafficking. Guy like Alastair – the kind of power he held – he was probably used to passing a lot of money. Dean’s afraid of what kind of hands he let on his body.

“This him?” Charlie asks after a surprisingly short moment.

Dean doesn’t look at the screen, just passes his eyes over the brightness and looks at his knees again. “Yep.”

“He’s – Jesus,” the disgust is clear in Charlie’s voice. Dean goes cold. His throat clenches. He can’t swallow.

“Don’t –” he says suddenly, not entirely in control of his voice. He suddenly can’t face it. He’s going to lose his mind if he knows what Alastair did, if he finds out what kind of violence those hands were capable of – those hands that picked him apart, that held him down, but sometimes just held him, that worked him to orgasm and petted his hair and told him he did well, so well.

The door inside his head rattles. There’s a roar of rage and fear behind it. Dean puts his back to the door, braces his legs on the floor so it stays shut tight.

“Don’t tell me what he did.”

Charlie looks at him, confused and a little worried. Dean can’t – he can’t look at her.

“He got fifty years in ’05,” Charlie answers his other question. “Parole comes up in twenty-six.”

26 years. The relief is cold, makes him feel a little sick. Dean will be – he does the math quick – 59 by then. Never thought he’d make it that long. Maybe he won’t. He’ll have had time, by then, to work through this shit, maybe.

Emma will be 27. The thought hits Dean like a sucker punch to his solar plexus. The same age Dean was when Dad slit his throat in the hospital boiler room. He won’t – he won’t do that to her, Dean thinks with renewed vigor. And tries to bury the guilt and shame that comes with the memory of the fresh pack of cigarettes waiting in the glove compartment of the impala. Sam would kill him if Dean got taken out by something as mundane as lung cancer after all the shit they’ve been through. Dean would feel a little cheated, too.