Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam is a one hundred percent certified, bona fide bitch.

That’s the clearest thought Dean has right now. The clearest thought he’d had ten seconds ago was that he was proud of Sam, that he loved him, and that he was gonna goddamn well tell him all that before he bit it. Who knew getting kebabed was all it took to break the stupid dam that’s been stopping him from telling Sam how awesome he is every chance he gets? He had some really good stuff to say, too, and now Sam’s not even gonna hear it because he’s horrible and he won’t let Dean die.

He’s still here, at least; he’s not leaving Dean alone, which is the only thing Dean had really been scared of. Dying alone. But instead of just shutting the fuck up and letting Dean say his piece, Sam’s checking to make sure there’s no exit wound at Dean’s front and talking a mile a minute to the 911 dispatcher. Hence, bitch.

Dean’s feeling kinda floaty. Like his head is three sizes too big, attached to his body by a looooong string. That’s probably the shock. And the piece of rebar he’s got rearranging his insides? It doesn’t even hurt anymore. That’s probably not a good sign for his chances, but Sam won’t see the writing on the wall. He obviously still thinks he’s gonna save Dean’s sorry ass.

Dean tugs petulantly on Sam’s jacket, breathing starting to get more difficult. Punctured lung? Maybe. If it was collapsed, he’s pretty sure he’d know. “Hey. Hey, asshole, listen.”

“No,” Sam barks, desperate and afraid. “No, I’m not gonna fucking listen, Dean, you’re gonna be fine. If you try and give up on me now I swear to god—”  

“Already have,” Dean slurs with a faint, sad grin, ignoring the stricken look on Sam’s face. “This is it, man. Was… was gonna tell you how great you are. But you’re too busy talkin’ on the phone.”

Angry tears skate down Sam’s cheeks. “Yeah,” he says into the phone, glaring at Dean. “Yeah, he’s— he’s giving up, he’s not fighting. Please, get here fast. Please.”

Dean’s eyelids droop a little, his head lolling. Things are fuzzy. He should just… he could let go. It’d be fine. Jack’s up there, waiting for him. He’ll get to see the kid, see Bobby and his mom. Ellen, Jo, Ash. All those guys. Sam doesn’t need him, not really. He’ll be okay.

Then someone slaps him. Hard.

“The fuck?” he spits weakly, eyes flying back open. The slight movement has his ribs grinding against the metal rod stuck through his back, lighting what feels like every goddamn nerve he’s got up in white-hot pain. Sam’s face is like stone.

“Less than ten minutes?” He asks, phone still cradled against his ear. “Okay. Okay, I can keep him awake until then. I’ve got him.”

“Bitch,” Dean grunts. “Y’re a bitch.”

Sam doesn’t even bother to respond.

— - —

Dean drifts.

There are voices; one— no, two he recognizes, more that he doesn’t. There’s crying at one point, muffled, choked-off sobs that trigger something innate and instinctive in Dean’s brain. Make it better. Your responsibility. 

Or, they almost trigger something. He’s so smothered in gauzy, cotton-wool haziness that the impulse fizzles out before it does anything more than catch his attention for a fleeting second, a tug in his gut that fades almost before he registers it.

But he’s tired. And best of all, he doesn’t really feel anything.

It’s nice. He goes back to sleep.

— - —

So, being extubated fucking sucks.

It feels like reverse heartburn and vomiting all at the same time, a continual gag reflex for the whole time it takes to do it, and the plastic tube slithers out of him, all wet and gross-tasting. He can’t believe this nurse had the nerve to tell him it wouldn’t hurt. Yeah, okay, technically it was just uncomfortable. But fuck you, lady. Dean’d love to see her give it a whirl.

Sam sits beside his bed while she does it, looking like absolute shit and angry as fuck on top of it. Which is stupid and useless; he got what he wanted, Dean doesn’t know why he’s still got his panties in a twist. Whatever, let him be angry. That’s his problem.

Sam continues to stew in sullen, scruffy-cheeked silence as the nurse helps Dean put on a nasal cannula and then takes him through some breathing exercises, to make sure he’s not gonna forget how to work his lungs now that there’s no machine doing it for him. Dean obeys, grudgingly. But he’s fine.

Thankfully the nurse agrees, and it’s not too long after that that she leaves Sam with an instruction to call if anything happens and a glass of water with a straw for Dean.

Then she’s gone, and it’s just the two of them.

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean interrupts him. “Gimme that water, huh?” He croaks. “Throat feels like sandpaper.”

Sam seethes as he rolls the lap table over the bed, putting the glass in Dean’s reach. He hasn’t gotten around to lecturing Dean yet: there’ve been too many people around, and honestly, Dean’s been too out of it. That’s the thing about hospitals — they’ve got the good drugs. But now that his breathing tube’s out, and the doctors have assured Sam that he’s more or less stable...

Dean picks up the glass of water carefully, not quite trusting his hands to play along, and raises it in a toast once he’s sure he’s not gonna spill it all over himself. “Cheers.”

“You’re done.”

He takes a drink — god, water. That’s nice — and raises an eyebrow. “No, m’not. You made sure of that. Which, uh, thanks, I guess. Saved me again. But you heard the doc, I’ll be outta here in a week or so. And recovery’s gonna be a bitch an’ a half, but I can handle it.”

Sam clenches his hands into fists. “No. I mean this is it, Dean. You’re done hunting.”

Dean takes his time slurping some water before he puts his cup down. “That’s funny,” he says, very calmly. “‘Cause that’s not your fucking call to make.”

“Right,” Sam bites out nastily. “Well, I guess I can’t stop you from going by yourself, but I’m not taking you on any, and no one else will either. Because you’re not dealing, Dean, no matter how hard you try to convince me otherwise. That shit you pulled back there? ‘Just let me die, it’s my time’? You were trying to tell me it was okay to let you go while I was on the phone with the fucking ambulance.” Dean opens his mouth, but Sam just keeps talking over him. “And I’ve been thinking back over that fight. A lot, actually. The thing is, I don’t know how this could’ve happened unless you let that vamp get a hold of you. You’re reckless, you have even less of a self-preservation instinct than usual, and it’s going to get you killed. Which I’m starting to think is the point.”

Dean laughs mirthlessly at that. It hurts. “What, you think I’m suicidal? Really?” Sam’s expression is all the answer he needs. Dean shakes his head definitively, mustering every ounce of authority he’s got. “I’m gonna get better, I’m gonna start work at that garage in town, and I’m gonna keep hunting on the weekends. That’s how this is gonna go. Because I’m fine.”

Sam blinks, taken aback. “You… you got a job?”

“Yep,” Dean says, popping the ‘p’. “Signed my paperwork before we left.” He makes a face. “Dammit, I’m gonna have to call Joe to tell him I can’t start Monday.”

“But you…” Sam starts, his anger shifting slowly to the back burner. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It was gonna be a surprise. So. Surprise, I guess.”

Sam just looks at him. Dean drinks again, looking at Sam in return. “You should go home. Shower, try and sleep. Eat something.” Then he frowns. “Wait, did someone pick Miracle up from the daycare? You didn’t forget my dog, did you?”

“No, Eileen got him. They’re at a motel here in town.” Sam rubs his neck, his shoulders slumping. “She, uh. She…”

Dean gestures expansively. Well, as expansively as he can. He feels stiff all over, sore and achy. Heavy. “There you go. Call her in to take over babysitting duty and go get some rest. Or even better, let the doctors do their jobs, and let her take care of you. You need some R and R, man.”

Not a snowball’s chance in hell, is what the look Sam gives him says. (Eh. It was worth a try.) “I’ll call her. She said she wanted to see you, anyways. And just so you know, Charlie, Jody, Donna, Claire and Kaia, and Garth have already said they’re gonna be coming down to see you as soon as they start letting visitors in. Which is tomorrow. So, get ready for that.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Great. Now scram. You look homeless.”

Sam gets to his feet with a huff and pushes his hair out of his face. “Yeah, well, you almost died. I think I’m entitled.” He walks over to the door, but pauses there and looks over his shoulder. Dean pretends he doesn’t notice.

“I still don’t think you’re coping,” Sam says eventually. “For a while there, I thought maybe you were starting to…” He shakes his head. “But you’re really not.”

Dean flicks his straw, watching it flop drunkenly around the inside of the cup. “I dunno what you want me to say, man. I’m fine.”

Sam just looks at him for a moment more. 

Then he’s gone.

Alone in his hospital bed, Dean runs a hand over his face. Fuck. He thought he had Sam convinced, if not that he was a-okay then at least that he was somewhat decent. 

Damn it.

Okay. Okay, he’s gonna have to do damage control, but it’s… it won’t be a walk in the park. Especially after what he said. He doesn’t remember exactly what it was, but shock and blood loss loosened his lips. He’s pretty sure it was something along the lines of, “Hey, it’s okay, I don’t really mind dying.” Which isn’t gonna be easy to smooth over.

But c’mon, he’s not… he’s not suicidal.

Sure, maybe he knew that that big fuck-off piece of metal was there. (Seriously, who sharpens those? Who nails random rusty-ass metal spikes up like that in the first place?) And maybe he knew that charging that mountain of a vamp head-on was never going to work out in his favour. But it’s not like he threw himself onto the thing like a disgraced samurai. He didn’t plan this. It just… 

Happened.

He stares at the opposite wall, eyes unfocused. 

Blood loss. A lot of blood loss. A punctured lung, which is fun. Never had one of those before. Bruising on his liver and spleen. A couple cracked ribs. Apparently his heart stopped briefly just after they got him into surgery, so heart failure, too. Not to mention the hole in his back, the one that’s got almost seven stitches holding it closed. On the surface. That’s not counting the sewing they had to do on the inside.

The doctor said he was incredibly lucky. It turned out that even though the rebar slid home in his left lung, it missed his pericardium completely, which would’ve been a whole lot worse for him. If that hunk of metal had snuggled itself up any further to the right, he would’ve been done for almost immediately.

Long story short, he should’ve died. Sam should already be back at the Bunker, drinking too much whiskey and being hugged by Eileen because he had to give his brother a hunter’s funeral and sprinkle his ashes in a lake or something. And Dean should be kicking back in Heaven right about now, sharing a beer with Bobby while they wait for Sam to live to ninety, have thirty grandkids, and die in his sleep. (Y’know, assuming Dean actually goes to Heaven. With Jack in charge, he’s pretty sure he will, but— well, he’ll probably make Heaven. Nepotism, baby.)

Here he is, though. Alive and kicking.

“Thought you were hands-off,” he says to the ceiling. It comes out more bitter than he’d anticipated. “This is pretty much the opposite of that, kid. Just so you know.”

There’s no answer except for the muted beeping and whirring of the machines.

Whatever. It’s not like he expected one.

— - —

The next couple days pass. They’re boring as hell.

He worries, the first night he’s not drooling on so many drugs that his brain can’t pull itself together enough for dreams, that things might get dicey. He’s been having nightmares more often, lately. Old stuff, things he hasn’t dreamt about in years: Sam’s limp body slumped in his arms at Cold Oak. Really bad Hell memories. The awful smell that had filled his nose as he ran from their burning house, cuddling his baby brother close.

But mostly it’s the one thing in particular. Everything else is just window dressing. Appetizers before the main event.

The wet squelch of the Empty is so, so familiar, now. It never fails to paralyze him.

Point is, waking up screaming for his dead best friend probably isn’t gonna do him any favours with the staff. And if Sam finds out, then there’s really no way Dean’ll be able to salvage this situation. He’ll be on the Winchester equivalent of suicide watch until he’s old and grey.

He’s resourceful, though. And recently-impaled or not, he’s still a hot piece of ass. It only takes a little bit of eyelash batting to get his nurse to find him some sleeping meds, and from there on out it’s smooth sailing. In addition to being stupidly effective at knocking him the fuck out, the pills also have the added benefit of not leaving him hungover the next morning. He’ll have to find out what brand they are, stay on ‘em once he’s home again. Jack Daniels doesn’t really work that well beyond actually getting him to sleep. 

Neither does Jameson. Or Jim Beam. Or Maker’s Mark. Or any combination thereof.

He has a revolving door of visitors. Everyone Sam said, plus Eileen, and Patience and Alex (who both wanted to come too, for some unfathomable reason). It doesn’t look like Sam’s shared his fears with any of them, at least: no one tearfully asks if he’s okay or if he’s feeling depressed. Well, Garth does tearfully ask if he’s okay, but that’s just because he’s Garth. Not because he thinks Dean has a deathwish.

There’s a look in Jody’s eyes, though. It’s far too knowing for Dean’s liking, so he tries to avoid talking to her as much as possible. And Charlie… she doesn’t say anything outright. But the very first time she sees him, she wraps him up in a hug and he feels it. Somehow, she… well, she thinks she knows something. He resolves to ignore it and pretend everything’s fine.

By the end of the week, he’s got all of them except Sam laughing at George Weasley ear-humour jokes about getting nailed real good and being hole-y after all. He counts that as a win.

And… that’s that. He’s in the hospital for a week, gets tetanus shots and antibiotics, is given the date of a follow-up appointment and the name of a doctor back at the hospital in Lebanon, and then sent home. He finds out the brand of sleeping pills from his nurse (Paulette, has three kids and a really awesome boyfriend) and complains the entire time Sam brings him downstairs in the wheelchair the nurses insist on. He’s in his own clothes, thankfully. He really hates those open-back hospital gowns.

He grumbles about not being able to drive, but Sam’s turned on his selective deafness and Eileen’s taking her own car, so he has no one to complain to. 

The three hour drive back to Lebanon passes in near silence, but Dean starts to feel himself relax a little as they get closer to the turn off for the Bunker. It’ll be nice to be home. Just a little bit longer, now, and then— 

Hey. Dean frowns, looking over at Sam. “Whoa, hey. Sam? Bunker’s back thataway.”

“We’re not going to the Bunker,” Sam says evenly. “Too many stairs, not enough ease of access to the outdoors. We rented a cabin.”

Dean stares at him. “Uh, no we didn’t. I’m pretty sure I’d remember going house-hunting with you. So what, we’re just gonna go on a little vacation in the woods for six to eight weeks? You’re gonna sit around and play nursemaid?”

“That’s the plan. Our stuff’s there already, and Charlie’s taking care of Miracle until you’re a little better.”

For a moment, Dean considers protesting. He doesn’t want to go to some rustic retreat. He wants his dog, and his bed, and the jacket in the back of his closet with the bloody handprint on the shoulder. He wants his chores and his liquor and the cars to keep him busy.

What’s the point, though? Sam’s made it abundantly clear that what Dean wants is the last thing on his list of priorities. So Dean settles back into his seat with his arms crossed and doesn’t say a word. He wonders if Sam had hoped he’d fight back.

The place isn’t too far outside of Lebanon. It’s beautiful, Dean supposes: situated in a sunny clearing and surrounded by trees. There’s a little walking trail he can see next to it that leads off into the woods, and there are only two steps leading up to a porch that runs along the whole front side of the cabin. It looks lived-in, cosy. Dean couldn’t care less. 

He gets out of the car on his own, mostly because he beats Sam to it. Sam is scowling when he loops an arm around Dean, carefully avoiding his wound and taking some of Dean’s weight. Dean almost protests that, too, but breathing is like being stabbed repeatedly in the chest and his vision is consumed by little grey dots by the time they reach the bottom of the stairs. And, well. Sam is helpfully solid. They pause there for a minute, Dean white-knuckling the worn wooden railing. Probably too soon he grits his teeth and starts up towards the door.

Sam leaves him on the couch when the sound of tires on gravel announces Eileen’s arrival. Dean takes the opportunity to look around, at the old, sagging bookshelf, the walls with their framed watercolours, the threadbare but squashy-looking armchairs. At the motes of dust dancing in the beam of sunlight spilling through the kitchen window.

He’s going to lose it here.

But then Eileen and Sam come in, bearing bags of groceries, so Dean’s mask goes back up. He’s perfected it. Right now it’s mildly disgruntled and a little bored.

Can’t have Sammy seeing how shattered he is underneath it.

“Please tell me there’s a tv hiding around here somewhere,” he groans. 

And so it begins.

— - —

They establish a routine.

Dean gets up at a reasonable time. He sits at the table and reads the newspaper on his phone while Sam makes breakfast, takes his meds with his coffee and eats what gets set in front of him, sprinkling in some annoyance about Sam’s health nut shit whenever the situation demands it. Then they get dressed and go on a walk; doctor’s orders. “Mild physical activity” until he doesn’t feel like an octogenarian, and then slowly working back up to normal levels. Well, normal for normal people. It’ll probably take him a little longer than the upper estimate of eight weeks until he can take out a werewolf or a vampire again. Which he fully plans on doing. But that depends on whether he’s able to convince Sam he’s not about to eat a bullet or walk into a knife.

So, they go for walks. It’s pathetic, the first couple days: Dean only gets about fifteen feet from the cabin. He hates this, hates that his body is betraying him. Sam just silently turns him around and helps him back inside.

Then after the walk they separate, do their own thing. Dean puts on music, or pulls a paperback off the bookshelf, or watches Netflix. Sam… Dean doesn’t know what Sam does. He doesn’t really care. Most days someone’ll come by: Eileen or Charlie, usually, and that’s fine. Eileen wipes the floor with him at cards, and Charlie brings Miracle and her Nintendo. (“Nobody calls it a ‘Nintendo’, Dean, it’s a ‘Switch’. Be cool, get down with the kids.” “Yeah. How about no.”) Dean’s actually getting kinda good at MarioKart, but he’s better at Super Smash Bros. He absolutely refuses to play Rainbow Road anymore.

Then there’s lunch with whoever happens to be there, and after that there’s two options, depending on the day: either Sam’ll help change the bandage over Dean’s wound and then Dean’ll go lie down, because it fucking hurts after Sam’s been prodding it, or they’ll do something together. Eventually Dean gets strong enough that he can last through a trip to the grocery store, so once a week they’ll do that. Sometimes they just watch Sam’s weird Netflix crime documentaries, or Dean’ll bully him into putting a western or something sci-fi on. It’s not as much fun as it used to be, though. Sam doesn’t really put up a fight.

The afternoons are long. Dean usually finds himself at loose ends halfway through, so… he fiddles. Sam gets so fed up with him trying to fix various things around the house and ‘overworking’ himself that he sits Dean down at the table and tells him to find a case. Do the research, then send the details off to someone in Sam’s ever-growing network of hunters. And as much as Dean hates this part of the job, well. It’s something to do.

One of them makes dinner. Dean tries to do it more often than not; it takes up a couple hours where all he has to think about are temperatures and ingredients and seasoning. Then there are the dishes to be washed, and maybe a movie if they didn’t watch one in the afternoon, and then they’re usually both in bed by ten.

Once Sam’s safely in his room, and Dean’s safely in his, then he breaks out his godsend sleeping pills and passes out until the next morning. And then he does it all again.

He’s considering placing bets on how long it’ll take him to break.

To his incredible surprise, though, he’s not the first one to crack. Sure, he’s getting low enough on his stash of sleeping pills that he’s starting to get concerned, and it’s getting harder and harder not to think, but it’s Sam who explodes one night after dinner. It’s been two and a half weeks since he got out of the hospital.

Today wasn’t a good day. It was easier to hide it when they were at the Bunker: Dean would just find a deep corner of the archives, or he’d wrap his hands and hole up in the gym with a punching bag, or he’d take a drive to nowhere with the music blasting so loud it made the speakers futz and crackle in protest. Here, though, he’s got nothing to do, nowhere to go when the howling, cavernous void inside him gets too raw and all-consuming to ignore. So he withdraws. Snaps at Sam, gets pissy. Is miserable, basically, while doing his goddamn best to pretend he isn’t.

He knows Sam notices, and maybe he expected some comment or a look or whatever. Something to tell him Sam wasn’t impressed. What he didn’t expect, at all, is for Sam to literally throw in the towel halfway through doing the dishes and round on him, something like frustrated pity all over his face.

“Dean, what is this?”

Dean hunkers down, setting his shoulders. “What’s what?” he grits out, not looking at Sam. He scrubs at a stubborn spot of burnt-on cheese. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam says exasperatedly. “You’ve been off all day. More off than usual, I mean, and this isn’t the first time. You think I can’t tell? God, Dean, you… if you don’t want to talk to me, fine. That’s fine. But you need to talk to someone, okay? Because whatever this is, it’s not getting better.”

Dean puts the pan he’s working on down in the sink, drops his dishrag into it with a wet splat and turns off the tap. “That needs to soak.” Then he turns away, fully intending to go sulk on the couch.

But Sam grabs his arm. “This is about Cas, isn’t it.”

It’s like a fucking hand closes around Dean’s heart and squeezes. (Associative sense memory’s a bitch, ain’t it? Thanks a lot, Billie.) He stutters to a stop and sucks in a sharp breath. His head is full of static. “Let go of me, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t let go. “Look, I know you miss him, Dean. I know. I do too, alright? But it’s not worth this. You said it yourself, he did this to save us. He—”

“I said,” Dean barks, “get the fuck off me!”

The command cracks through the air like a whip, leaving the kitchen utterly silent in its wake.

Sam releases Dean’s arm.

Dean slams the door of his room behind him when he goes.

— - —

Chuck laughed in their faces. He laughed in their faces, and unless— unless they can scrape together some sort of Hail Mary pass, some kind of fucking deus ex machina, then this is it. (Seriously, the irony here is about as subtle as a stripper at a church picnic. Great work, Chuck. This is some real Pulizter Prize-winning writing, you massive fucking asshole.) It’s Sam, and it’s Dean, and it’s Jack, until they die. Of old age, probably, because Dean doubts Chuck’d let them go any other way. He’s a dickhead like that.

Dean doesn’t know where Sam is. He’d disappeared as soon as they got back to the Bunker, and Dean hadn’t… he hadn’t known what to say to him. So he just let him go. Shit, he’s probably… he’s probably crying himself to sleep over Eileen, over all their friends, over every single person who Chuck snapped out of existence like some kind of short, pouchy-eyed Thanos copycat. (Not even original. God, Dean has had enough of the shitty plot points.) He gets it, though. He does. Sam’s always had a big heart, of course he’s shouldering the responsibility for all of this. Of course he feels like he failed. God knows Dean does, too.

But Dean’s a selfish son of a bitch. Always has been. And as horrible as it is, it’s really only the one loss that’s tearing him apart from the inside out.

The beers he’d downed at the bar have long since worn off, so he wanders down to the kitchen and grabs as many as he can carry from the fridge. He hesitates, not sure where the hell he wants to go; for one wild moment, he thinks about going down to the dungeon. Then he almost throws up right there on the kitchen floor.

He ends up in the library. It’s as good a place as any, he guesses as he sets his bounty down. It’s not like it really matters, anyway. He retrieves a couple half-empty bottles of whisky and a tumbler from the bar cart, too, for when he runs out of beer. Then he strips off his jacket (don’t look at it, don’t look, don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook), tosses it somewhere he can’t see, and collapses into a chair.

He drains half of his first beer in one long pull. It barely tastes like anything. Then he leans forward, resting his arms on the table in front of him and thumbing listlessly at the curling edge of the label.

(Why does this sound like a goodbye?)

(Because it is.)

“Fuck,” he chokes out, dropping his head down into the crook of his arm. He needs… he doesn’t know what he needs. (He needs Cas back.) 

He’s halfway through his third beer when his gaze lands on the laptop discarded a few seats over. It’s his, he must’ve left it here when… he can’t remember when. But he thinks, laptop. And, dungeon. And, Cas.

And then he thinks the worst thing of all. 

Camera.

He almost knocks his beer over in his rush to get his hands on his computer. He wrenches it open, waits, fucking shaking, for it to boot up, and then clicks through to the security feeds they’ve had set up for a couple years now. They have the hallways covered, the library, the War Room, the kitchen, the archives, the garage.

The dungeon.

He doesn’t— he doesn’t remember what time it was. It was still light out when he met up with Sam and Jack, but he— he doesn’t know how long he was down there. Afterwards.

He finds the timestamp for noon earlier today (fuck, how was this only… wait, no. Yesterday? He has no idea what time it is), ramps up the playback speed, and then hits play. He doesn’t blink as he watches the video of the empty room. He’s holding his breath.

He recoils as soon as he sees movement at the edge of the screen, just manages to slam the spacebar and pause the feed before plastering himself back in his chair, as far from the screen as he can get without actually launching himself out of his seat. With trembling hands he pours himself a shot, and then another. Then he grabs his beer again, and forces himself to look back at the computer.

The angle is terrible, but it was the best they were able to get when they set it up. The camera’s in the top corner of the room, to the right of the door, focused on the chair and devil’s trap in the middle of the floor. The hanging overhead light blocks some of the back wall.

But there Dean is, plain as day. And he knows that just out of view…

He sets the speed back to normal and hits play.

He watches himself walk into the dungeon, lean heavily on the back of the chair. Christ, he looks… he looks like he’s completely given in. There’s no fight left in him. He’s done.

Then, at the edge of the screen—

Dean makes a small, punched-out sound and leans in close. 

There’s Cas.

He’s barely in frame. Just a sliver of coat, the rounded swell of a shoulder, a hazy patch of dark hair. Dean already feels like his lungs have collapsed.

On-screen Dean leaves the chair behind, walking closer to Cas. There’s no sound, but that’s not a problem; Dean’s going to remember every single excruciating detail of this conversation for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks along with the video, brushing his fingers over the tiny bit of Cas he can see. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

It gets better — worse? — after that. Cas steps closer, fully in frame now, and just like that Dean’s fucking crying again. He can’t take his eyes off Cas, can’t stop tracing the sharp line of his nose and the curve of his cheek. God, he wishes he could see his face again.

But the look on his own face, when Cas finally lays all his cards out on the table, when he tells Dean that he—

That’s what really destroys him.

He stops the video just as Cas is reaching out to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. He can’t watch what comes next. He can’t.

He finishes his beer and downs another shot before his tears have subsided enough that the screen isn’t just a wet blur. Then, with his hands shaking so badly he screws it up three times, he sets a loop. It stretches from the moment Cas fully enters the frame to when Dean knows he’s saying, “Goodbye, Dean.”

It’s less than five minutes long.

Dean wipes ineffectually at his tears, cracks open another beer, and hits play.

— - —

Sam’s at the stove making oatmeal for himself when Dean shuffles out into the kitchen the next morning. He just spent a good twenty minutes in his room, psyching himself up for whatever he’d have to deal with when he walked out here, but hallelujah for small mercies: Sam seems to have decided to give him some space. They exchange the bare minimum of words in greeting (“Morning.” “Morning.” “Coffee?” “Yeah.”), and Sam opens his laptop next to him once he’s sat down. The silence as they eat isn’t comfortable, but hey. At least Sam’s not trying to pretend everything’s peachy keen.

Dean stands and picks up his cereal bowl when he’s done. “I’m goin’ on my walk by myself.”

Sam doesn’t look up, just goes noticeably still. There’s an awkward pause. Then he clears his throat. “Got your phone?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll text you when Charlie gets here, then.”

Huh. Dean didn’t actually think he’d manage that without a fight.

He dumps his dishes in the sink with a clatter, then sits on the bench beside the door and stifles little grunts of pain as he leans over to lace up his boots. And then finally, he gets to leave the tense, heavy atmosphere of the cabin behind.

He squints against the sunshine as he makes his way towards the stupid little walking path, the light intensifying the headache he’d woken up with. He kinda feels like shit this morning; his sleeping pills didn’t fail him, as far as he can remember, but behind the grey wall of medically-induced unconsciousness there’s the echo of something huge, dark, and painful looming just out of sight. He doesn’t think about it too hard except to wonder, briefly, how long he’s gonna be able to keep this up before the shit he’s suppressing starts working itself into his waking hours. (He might get the answer to that question sooner rather than later, though. He’s got less than a week’s worth of sleep aids left after last night.)

It’s cool out despite the sun, and Dean shoves his hands into his pockets. It’s October, now, and there’s a faint chill that’s started to linger in the air — fall getting ready to dig its hooks in.

It’s been six months, some part of him whispers brokenly. 

He pushes himself faster, like he can outpace that poisonous train of thought, and he’s breathing hard by the time he gets to the little bench that marks the halfway point of the trail. He thumps down onto it, his back twinging painfully at his carelessness, and he lets out a sharp, frustrated hiss. 

Stupid injury. Stupid bench. Stupid cabin.

He scowls out at the trees, his chest tight as his battered lungs try to compensate for the unexpected exertion. 

This is what we did all of it for, he thinks. Isn’t it?  

The unseen birds singing their little hearts out, the distant hum of cars passing on the road, that squirrel scampering around the base of the tree over there. Life. The greater good, if you want to get sappy about it.

And Dean is sitting here alone. 

Royally fucked up in more ways than one, decidedly ambivalent about whether or not he continues to exist in this world he fought so hard to save. There’s a price, there’s always a price; and if you weigh the alternative against the billions of people that are out there today, getting to live lives that are fully their own, then Dean guesses that a single guy’s happiness is a small one to pay. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one. 

That’s some classic Spock there for you. Can’t beat Vulcans for rationalization.

But he knows, knows it right down to his bones, that if he had the chance? If someone gave him the opportunity? There’s not much he wouldn’t give to get his one back.

He also knows there’s no chance that’s going to happen.

His phone buzzes, pulling him back out of his head some, but he doesn’t take it out to check it. He just focuses on getting himself into a mindset better suited for social interaction before Charlie gets here. Depressed doom and gloom doesn’t go over well with other people, and he’s… he’s supposed to be trying. Trying to be happy, to make the most of the sacrifice that was dumped in his lap. 

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and he feels like the worst kind of fraud. He hates being on this end of a deal.

He’s been trying anyways.

It’s not Charlie he sees first, though. A bark echoes through the trees, and Dean’s face cracks like a glacier around a small, honest-to-god smile as Miracle comes bounding up, scrambling up onto the bench next to him and covering his face in slobbery, excited licks. “Hey, buddy,” he says warmly, ruffling the fur below Miracle’s ears and scrunching his nose against the ecstatic assault. “Missed me?”

“Hell yeah he did,” Charlie says as she walks up, grinning. “You should see him on the way here. Getting to come drown you in slobber is the highlight of his week.”

Dean spares Charlie a quietly grateful look. “Thanks for taking care of him,” he says. “Seriously. I owe you.”

“Nah,” Charlie retorts easily, coming to flop down in the scant space remaining at the other end of the bench. “Honestly, I’m probably gonna end up getting one of my own once you take him back. That little fuzzball’s wormed his way into my heart.”

“Yeah, he does that. Watch out, or he’ll sneak into your bed, too.”

“Even though he’s a dude, I’m starting to think I’d let him,” Charlie laughs, and reaches over to give Miracle a belly rub. Somehow, his tail wags even faster, and Dean almost chuckles at it.

They just sit there for a while, talking about random things. What Charlie’s done since he last saw her, how Stevie is, the LARP event she’s got coming up in a couple weeks. It’s easy, being with her; she doesn’t delve into difficult things or look at him like he’s broken. She just treats him the same way she always has.

Eventually they get up and start back towards the cabin, Charlie looping her arm companionably through Dean’s. But Dean’s relatively good mood deteriorates the closer they get to the house, and he knows she notices. She doesn’t even have to say anything; she just looks at him furtively and frowns.

Dean clenches his jaw, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the path ahead. “Did you talk to Sam before you came to find me?”

She’s still looking at him. “A little bit.”

“‘Bout what? The weather?” He presses his lips together. “Or are you guys gossiping about me behind my back on the regular, now?”

“C’mon, Dean. Don’t be a butt.”

He sighs, slightly chastised. “Sorry. I just… I’m fine. All he needs to do is leave me the hell alone.”

“He’s worried,” she says simply. “You can’t blame him for that.”

“Watch me," Dean tosses back. “And you? You’re trying to say you’re not?”

Charlie’s quiet for a long moment, and Dean stops. Looks at her. 

She blinks up at him. “No. I’m worried too.”

Dean doesn’t scowl. She doesn’t deserve that. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he says firmly as they start walking again. “Sam wants me to pour my damn heart out to someone and… I dunno, be healed or some bullshit. But there’s nothing wrong. I just want to get better and get back to hunting. Is that really so bad?”

Charlie makes a soft noise in the back of her throat that could be assent or could be something else entirely. Dean doesn’t bother trying to parse what it means. His head hurts.

Just before they walk back inside, Charlie tugs him to a stop. Dean looks down at her, and he’s just… so tired. “What?”

She curls her arm more tightly through his, and Miracle presses up against Dean’s leg, panting softly. “Just, um. I’m only a text away. Or a call. Y’know. If you ever do want to talk about anything. Or if you need a break from Sam, or you need to bitch about whatever... I’m your girl. That’s kinda what friends are for.”

He chews on that for a second. “Yeah. Thanks, Charlie. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He won’t, and he’s pretty sure she knows it. She doesn’t call him on it, though.

“So,” he says. “Thought we could watch Firefly today.” And Charlie takes that farcically transparent opportunity to snap back into her normal, bubbly, sci-fi nerd self. It’s a nice little reminder that they’re all faking it to some extent. All going through the motions, burying the things they’d rather not talk about. 

Dean’ll get back to playing his part eventually, and when he does, Sam’s just gonna have to deal. It’s worked for the past six months, and it’ll work again.

It has to.

Sam’s made himself scarce, Baby gone from the driveway, so Dean actually manages to relax somewhat as they sprawl out on the couch. Charlie stays for two episodes, then for lunch, and then for one more before she has to head out. “I’ll be back in a couple days,” she says as Dean gives Miracle one last good scratch. “There anything I can bring you when I do?”

There are a few things that pop unhelpfully into Dean’s head. He could ask her to bring a six pack or a bottle of whiskey, because Sam hasn’t bought them a drop of alcohol since they’ve been at this godforsaken cabin. Or he could ask her to get him a refill of those sleeping meds; she’d definitely be able to do it, even without a prescription.

Those are both fucking terrible ideas. And he doesn’t think he could stand the look in her eyes if he asked either one of her.

“Nah,” he says with a tight grin. “I’m good.”

She bids him farewell with a tight squeeze and a kiss dropped on his cheek, flashing him a smile and a Vulcan salute before getting into her Gremlin (how she still has that car, Dean has no idea) and puttering off towards the road.

He stays standing in front of the cabin long after her car disappears from view.

Chapter Text

Six months ago

“Hey, Jody,” Sam says with a small, tired smile. 

Jody is sharp. She picks up on things. So when she sees the gap in between Sam and Dean, that painfully empty space… it takes her all of two seconds to put it together.

“Oh,” she says, her voice heartbreakingly gentle. “Oh, boys. That’s why you came.”

She hugs them both before ushering them inside — long, tight embraces, the ones that always make Sam’s eyes prickle a little. It’s nice, really nice, and he lets it bolster him as much as he can. This is going to be hard.

He glances surreptitiously at Dean as they follow Jody towards the living room, and… well, he sees pretty much what he expects to see. Dean looks like he’s on his way to the gallows. “Hey,” Sam says under his breath. “I’m here. Jody’s here. It’ll be…”

Dean lets out a tiny, derisive noise. “It’ll suck. Plain and simple. And you know it.”

Sam grimaces.

They sit down on the couch, denying Jody’s offers of coffee. Donna pokes her head in, smiling because she hasn’t seen their faces yet; Jody catches her arm and quietly tells her the news. Her eyes snap to Dean and her free hand comes up to cover her mouth.

Dean doesn’t see any of that. He has his elbows braced on his knees and he’s staring down at the carpet between his boots.

Jody manages to sound normal as she calls Claire downstairs, crossing her arms worriedly as she waits. The muffled thump of footsteps on the stairs jolts Dean out of whatever daze he’s in, and he sits up straight. His hands are twisted in his lap.

“—better still be paused when I get back!” Claire finishes yelling back up the stairs as she walks into the living room. She sees Jody first, and Sam watches a little crinkle form in her brow. Then her eyes land on them, and—

“No.”

Sam swallows with difficulty. He can feel the way his expression is pulling at his mouth, pinching at the corners of his eyes. But Claire’s not looking at him. She’s looking at Dean.

He seems to shrink slightly under the force of her horrified, disbelieving stare. “Claire…” he starts helplessly, his throat working as he struggles to speak. “I’m sorry. Cas... he didn’t…”

“No, you— you were supposed to look out for him.” Sam flinches. He sees Dean do the same out of the corner of his eye. “You always— why is it only ever you two that make it out alive?”

Dean’s hands twitch, and he ducks his head. Sam’s stomach turns over.

Claire lets out an angry scoff and turns on her heel, rubbing forcefully at her eyes as she storms out. A minute later, somewhere deeper in the house, a door slams shut with an almighty bang.

Not long after that Kaia appears in the doorway to the living room, searching out the source of the noise and the yelling. She starts blinking hard as soon as her gaze sweeps over the room. “Is… Castiel, is he…”

“Yeah,” Sam forces himself to say. “He didn’t make it.”

Kaia, at least, accepts a hug from Jody. She sniffles a little, but then draws herself up. “I’ll, um. I’ll go find Claire.”

Jody just smiles and rubs her shoulder. Kaia hesitates in the door, though, looking back at Sam and Dean. “I’m sorry,” she offers. And then she’s gone too.

“Well, that went about as well as we thought it would,” Dean says bitterly once it’s just the four of them again. He’s got a worryingly blank look on his face. 

Donna crosses the room at that, perching on the arm of the couch next to Dean and putting her arm around his shoulders. “Hey now, none of that. It’ll be alright. Claire just needs time to process.”

Dean’s mouth tightens, but he stays quiet. Sam breaks the silence when it’s clear that no one else is going to, clearing his throat. “I think we should probably go. You’ll let Claire know she can call if she wants to talk?”

Jody nods with a sympathetic little smile, and then both she and Donna insist on another round of hugs before they go, extracting promises from the two of them — well, from Sam — that once things are a little more settled they’ll have another family dinner. She and Donna stand in the door and wave as the Impala pulls back out onto the road.

Dean doesn’t talk the whole way back to the Bunker. Sam doesn’t, either. He can’t think of a single thing to say that doesn’t sound vapid and hollow.

When they’re ten minutes out, though, his phone buzzes with a text, and he wouldn’t be able to stifle the smile that creeps onto his face if he tried.

I forgot that you leave your socks lying on the floor, Eileen’s text reads. We need to work on that. She ends it with a winking kissy face.

She’s waiting in the garage when they pull in, and she hugs Dean tightly when he gets out of the car. Then she turns to Sam, smiling, and god. Sam is so, so lucky that he gets to have this.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“Hey.” Leaning down to kiss her is a relief, and Sam lets out a long, heavy breath as he pulls her in close and buries his face in her hair. One of her hands comes to rest at the back of his neck, the other smoothing over his shoulder blade, and he sags a little in her arms. She hums happily somewhere near his ear.

When he finally pulls back, he presses a kiss to the top of her head and then to the centre of her forehead. She scrunches her nose and smiles.

“I missed you,” he says, looking into her eyes. “I missed you so much.”

“Me too,” she breathes, her hands slipping down over his shoulders to rest on his arms. “It hasn’t been as long for me, but… me too.” Then her eyebrows draw together sympathetically. “How did Claire take it?”

Sam’s expression must say everything it needs to, because Eileen rubs his arm soothingly. “She won’t be angry forever. She’ll come to you when she’s ready.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs as they start walking, heading for the Bunker proper. Eileen’s hand is warm and calloused in his. “I know. I think Dean took it harder than I did, though.”

Eileen looks at him knowingly. “Do you mean Claire, or Cas?”

“Both. Claire because of Cas. I’m… I’m worried about him.”

She frowns, then. “Wait, where did Dean go? Did you see him leave?”

“No. Probably to his room?” Sam shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I think he’s… he’s gonna need some time.”

“Well,” Eileen says after a moment, squeezing Sam’s hand. “I brought food.” Come make dinner with me? she signs.

Sam smiles.

— - —

But when Sam said time, he didn’t expect… this.

He didn’t actually realize there was anything wrong until around lunch the next day. At breakfast he assumed he’d just missed Dean, but Eileen hadn’t seen him either, and there wasn’t any more food missing than what the two of them had eaten. Sam had gone to Dean’s room, had knocked on the closed door and raised his voice to be sure he could be heard through the thick wood as he asked Dean if he was in there, if he was okay.

No answer.

He’d tried all of Dean’s usual haunts after that: the shooting range, the TV room, the gym, even the archives. All empty. He’d met Eileen in the War Room, on her way back from the garage; nothing there, either. The Impala was still there, and all the other vehicles were accounted for. And Miracle was napping in the library.

Which meant that Dean was in his room after all. He just wasn’t answering Sam, not the questions through his door or the phone calls or the texts.

An ominous feeling had settled over him like a blanket. Something was very wrong here.

It hasn’t lifted since.

Eileen does her best to reassure him, but it’s not very effective; she’s worried, too. Still, Sam doesn’t kick down Dean’s door or anything drastic like that (even though he kind of wants to). He just leaves plates of food in the fridge, texts Dean a couple times a day, and worries.

Because it’s not like there’s anything he’d be able to do, anyways. He’s not Cas, and he doesn’t have a way to bring him back (at least… not yet), so this is the upper limit of his usefulness right now: just being here and reminding Dean he’s not alone. 

He hates it.

He starts praying to Jack. He’d decided he was going to not long after Jack disappeared off to wherever he went: Heaven? To be a raindrop or a blade of grass? Sam doesn’t know. But he doesn’t want the kid to think they’ve forgotten him, that they don’t still love him. So he prays.

Eileen likes your cookie cereal, he sends wryly up over his coffee, two days since Dean’s locked himself in his room. I can’t believe I’ve been betrayed by both of you. I still don’t know how you didn’t get cavities.

I’m worried about Dean, he confesses later as he’s frowning over the string of unanswered messages. They’ve all been read, so. There’s that, at least. He’s taking Cas’ death really hard. I miss Cas, and I know you do too, but Dean… well, you remember what it was like the first time, after you were born. He was so awful to you, it was… you shouldn’t have had to deal with that. But he… I know it’s been hard, lately, but he loves you. You know that? We all love you. So much, Jack. We’re so proud of you. We miss you.

He tells Eileen about it that evening as they’re lying in bed, Miracle curled up at their feet, signing carefully so she doesn’t have to move her head too much from where it’s pillowed on his chest. He’s still pretty shaky, but he thinks he gets his point across; going by the shake of her shoulders, though, he made at least one funny blunder. “I do too,” she says, tracing random patterns over his arm. “I tell him about the sun, or the flowers. Funny things I see when I’m out. How you walked around all morning yesterday without realizing you had toothpaste on your face.”

Sam smacks her shoulder gently, and she laughs.

Dean still doesn’t make an appearance, but after the second day he starts leaving little indicators that he’s been around. Sam knows they’re entirely to keep him off Dean’s back. It just barely works.

The plates Sam leaves in the fridge get mostly eaten. The infuriating little Read messages keep popping up under his texts. One morning he finds a damp towel and a recently used shower stall in the bathroom. The amount of beer in the fridge steadily decreases.

That last one makes Sam’s mouth thin out into a line.

Soon, it’s been a week. As he’s made it his habit, Sam passes Dean’s room on his way outside for his run with Miracle, who noses curiously at the doorframe when they pause there. But there’s still no change. The door is just as firmly closed as it has been every other day.

Sam’s not going to be able to let this keep going for much longer. Whether he can do anything or not, he’s going to have to intervene soon. This isn’t healthy.

Not that Dean ever is, but. Sam can try, can’t he?

The run helps him clear his head. He’ll sit down with Eileen later today and try to come up with a game plan. Maybe… maybe Charlie’ll be able to draw Dean out. That might be worth a try.

But Sam hears movement from the kitchen as he walks down the hall, and he shakes his head to try and put this to rest for the moment. Fixating on the problem isn’t going to help. He’s gonna join Eileen in the kitchen, and they’re going to have a nice, calm breakfast, and then they can work on it later.

It’s not Eileen in the kitchen.

Sam freezes in the doorway, staring. Because Dean is standing at the stove, a frying pan in one hand and a spatula in the other.

“Hey,” Dean says, flashing a small grin over his shoulder. “Eggs?”

“Sure,” Sam manages faintly as he takes a seat at the table, his eyes still locked on Dean. He looks… he looks fine. There’s a slight hollowness to his cheeks and his eye sockets, but he’s dressed, his hair looks clean. He looks… normal.

Dean splits the scrambled eggs between two plates on the counter next to him, each one with a couple pieces of toast already on it. He sets one in front of Sam with a little flourish. “There you go. Coffee?”

Sam blinks. “Uh, sure.” He’s still looking at Dean.

When Dean sits back down with their coffees, he raises a teasing eyebrow. “You were late with your run this morning. Eileen tire you out?”

“Shut up,” Sam scoffs weakly, a tiny, cautious smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I just slept in because I felt like it.”

Dean stabs his eggs smugly. “Hey, as long as you kids are being safe, I’m happy. Wrap it before you tap it, Sammy.”

Sam lets out a reluctant, scandalized laugh at that, and Dean grins. It’s odd: a little plasticky, almost… canned. Definitely false. Then he digs into his breakfast like everything’s normal, like he hasn’t just spent a week holed up in his room.

It’s concerning. More concerning than the radio silence, if Sam’s being honest.

“Dean…” he starts, shifting in his seat. “Are you—”

“I’m fine.”

Sam stiffens, because that was a complete one-eighty in tone. Sharp, defensive, cold. Dean doesn’t look up, and Sam is suddenly very, very afraid of what he’d see in his brother’s face if he did. “Just… I did what I had to do, worked through some stuff. I’m good now. And talking about it ain’t gonna help, alright?”

“Alright,” Sam says slowly. 

Dean forces a pleasant expression back onto his face and gestures at Sam’s plate. “Great. Now eat up, those are gonna get cold.”

Sam does as he says.

But he watches. And he keeps watching.

— - —

Now

“Really? You’re good to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m good to drive, asshat. Now gimme my keys,” Dean growls.

Sam just crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “Stomp your foot on the ground. That’s what the doctor said to do the other day to see if driving was a go. If you can do that without pain, they’re all yours.”

Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “I got impaled, not concussed. I remember what he said. But c’mon. It’s mid-morning on a Wednesday. Who’s gonna be ripping around downtown Lebanon causing accidents?”

“Well, usually I’d say you,” Sam shoots back snippily, “but you can’t drive. So. No one.”

“Hey, I’ve never caused an accident in my life. And I can stomp my goddamn foot.”

“Then do it.”

Dean narrows his eyes. Jesus, he really has a Grade A asshole for a brother, doesn’t he?

Bracing himself for it, he stomps his right foot down on the ground. Hard. The fiery spike that lances through him isn’t as bad as he thought it’d be, but he still can’t stop the muscles around his eyes from tightening in pain.

Goddammit.

“Yeah,” Sam says with a roll of his eyes, “nice try. You’ve got shotgun.”

“Bitch,” Dean mutters as Sam lumbers past him.

“Jerk,” he responds. It’s nowhere near as fond as it usually is.

It’s petty, but Dean gives Sam the silent treatment for the entire drive into Lebanon, slouched moodily in the passenger seat. It’s his car. He shouldn’t be getting ordered around like some sixteen-year-old who went on a joyride. A sixteen-year-old who went on a joyride and got caught.

The only upside he can come up with for having Sam in the driver’s seat is that he has to keep his eyes on the road; ergo, he can’t look at Dean. It’s turned into one of his favourite pastimes, lately, and it’s fucking annoying. So yeah. There’s that, he guesses.

God, Dean can’t believe he’d actually thought Sam was going to give him space after that little blowout they had. That’s hilarious. They’ve lived in each other’s pockets for their whole lives, Sam’s not just going to leave him alone. Not a chance.

Things are still quiet between them, their interactions more silence than actual words. Sam gives him all the physical space he could want, lets him go on his walks alone and retreat to his room with the door closed. But he doesn’t give Dean a goddamn inch of — dammit, he hates to call it this — emotional space. The careful hesitancy of that first day has morphed into something more pointed and perceptive. Sam watches him, now. He’s in planning mode, and he’s shrewd, calculating, with an ever-present undercurrent of sadness and fucking pity. It’s like his puppy eyes read up on Machiavelli, and oh boy, is Dean ever fed the hell up with it.

It’s getting on his nerves more than it usually would. (Or, more accurately, it’s just taking less time to piss him off.) He keeps waking up with increasingly bad headaches and the deeply unsettling feeling that he’s had a nightmare, but he can never remember a goddamn thing. It’s shortened his fuse by a frankly comical amount, and he’s not even trying to reign in his frustration and exhausted grumpiness. Which, in turn, catches Sam’s attention and intensifies the scrutiny, so he’s got a real nice little self-perpetuating cycle going here.

Hell, if Charlie hadn’t gotten tied up with some work stuff today, Dean wouldn’t even be here. He’d be back at the cabin with her while Sam went to go pick up more antiseptic wipes and medical tape for Dean’s back, bullying her into playing Smash Bros with him or throwing a ball for Miracle. But he’s tired today, tired enough that with the cabin to himself for a while he could totally see himself justifying trying to take a nap without medical assistance. Just a little one. Just long enough to soothe the burning behind his eyelids. But as nice and harmless as that sounds, he knows he’d just see all the things he’s been doing his best to drown out lately. Probably all at once, too. He’s lucky like that.

So. Walgreens it is.

Sam looks like he’s about to say something as he’s turning the car off, so Dean beats it out of the car and slams the door behind him. Sam’s wearing one of his more annoyed bitchfaces when he gets out, and Dean flashes him a sardonic smile. “C’mon, quit draggin' your heels. We got things to do, errands to run.”

Sam’s just-sucked-on-a-lemon face intensifies.

This is Sam’s show, though, so once they get inside Dean wanders off to the snack section while Sam goes to grab more medical stuff. He considers hitting up the pharmacist and trying to charm his way into some more sleep aids (two nights left), but he’s pretty sure even he doesn’t have the chops to pull that off. Not without a prescription. And Sam’s here, he’d see and he’d ask and then he’d really stage an intervention. Dean’s been able to dodge suspicion about his drinking, but he’s pretty sure drugs is where Sam would draw the line. Because even though he kind of has to be okay with unhealthy drinking up to a certain point — they don’t call it “hunter’s helper” for nothing — drug abuse is something else entirely.

(It was easy to conceal the worst of the drinking symptoms; Dean’s no spring chicken in that department. It didn’t take much to brush aside Sam’s concerns and then close himself up in his room to down half a bottle of jack most nights.) 

But hey, he’s actually managed to cut back in the past couple months. Before that vamp hunt he was only drinking himself to sleep when he couldn’t take the nightmares anymore. 

Which is once a week sans meds, give or take, he thinks glumly as he inspects a package of beef jerky. Wonder if this’ll ever turn into a once-monthly thing.

“Alright,” Sam says as he walks up. Something flickers in the corner of Dean’s eye, catching his attention. Something— no, some one. “That’s it for me. Do you…”

Dean misses the last half of that sentence because he’s too busy whipping around, his mouth filling with sand. Ca—

Oh. 

His heart starts to beat again, each agonizing pulse rattling off his ribcage as his stomach drops to the centre of the earth. 

The guy— the guy doesn’t even look like him. 

His hair’s more dark brown than black, and he’s wearing a normal length suede jacket that only looks anything like a tan trenchcoat if Dean is being extremely generous. He’s got—

He’s wearing red converse. Fuck. Fuck, that’s not even close, he never wore anything but those stupid oxfords for the entire time Dean knew him—

“Dean?”

His head jerks back towards Sam, and for a moment he feels like the floor is pitching under his feet like the deck of a boat. He just barely manages not to stumble. Sam stares at him, eyes wide and concerned. “Are you… okay?”

“Awesome,” Dean rasps unconvincingly. “If you’re done, let’s get out of here.”

He walks past Sam without looking to see if he’s following, heading for the cash registers. He needs out of this fucking Walgreens.

There’s a line, though, because of course there is. Sam watches him with open concern as they wait, and Dean stifles the urge to snap at him. Or to punch that stupid look off his face.

Buddy in the suede jacket is in the lane next to theirs. Dean accidentally gets a look at his face. 

He has blue eyes.

The journey back to the car is done mostly on autopilot, and Dean can’t even bring himself to put up a fuss about Sam driving this time. He just gets into the passenger’s side without a word. Sam looks seriously freaked out by this point; he turns the car on without any preamble and immediately starts on the route back to the cabin.

Driving isn’t soothing. Dean’s stomach churns and he’s clammy, off-kilter. He stares stubbornly down at his phone, letting it take up his attention so he isn’t scanning the mirrors and the side of the road for a familiar silhouette. (Snap out of it. This ain’t Purgatory, and there aren’t any power-tripping lobotomizers around to yank him out this time.) Sam stays blessedly silent, thank god. If he was trying to grill Dean over what happened, Dean thinks he might actually throw himself out of the car, grievous-bodily-injury-inducing speed or not.

Even after Sam parks in front of the cabin, Dean doesn’t move.

That was all it took. Some dark-haired rando in a brown jacket, and suddenly Dean’s a mess again. He’s been… it’s supposed to get better, isn’t it? It was better. There were days before this whole bitch of a situation where he actually felt like himself again. So why the hell is he back to being one vaguely familiar stranger away from the guy crying in a basement, freezing concrete leaching the warmth from his muscles, phone buzzing dully at his side?

“You, uh. You gonna come inside?”

Dean blinks, cutting a glance at Sam. Shit, he… he zoned out. Probably with his eyes unfocused and looking like he was battling some kind of deep internal turmoil. Damn it.

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is flat and dead. “What are you waiting for?”

He leaves Sam sitting in the car, and he tries really hard to care about how much this little episode’ll set him back in his ‘Wow, do I ever wanna live life to the fullest’ routine. 

He can’t bring himself to mourn the lost progress. He’s not even sure he made any to begin with.

— - —

The soft knock on the door of Dean’s room makes him look up. He pinches the bridge of his nose briefly before wiping his expression clean. “What?”

“Hey,” Sam says, poking his head in. “I—”

Dean watches him coolly as his eyes catch on the newly empty space above the dresser. Watches as they make a circuit of the room, as they find the missing mirror leaned reflective-side-in against the wall in the corner. And he’s still looking at Sam when his eyes finally snap back to Dean’s face. He goes faintly pink when he realizes he’s been caught, but Dean doesn’t do anything. Can’t be bothered to, honestly. 

“What?” he says again. Sam fidgets in the doorway.

“I just, uh. I know things were a little weird earlier, but… um. We still need to change your bandage.”

Dean shrugs. “I can do it.” He checks his watch, then, and has a moment of complete Twilight-Zone unmooredness. It’s almost four thirty now, and they went to the store… just after lunch? No way he’s been sitting here for hours.

Sam blinks at him, confused. “By… yourself?”

Dean gets up. “Why not? Pretty sure you’ve got other stuff you’d rather be doing.”

“Uh… yeah,” Sam agrees, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “I… I guess. Sure, if you want. I already refilled the kit, so. It’s on the table.”

“Cool.”

Dean can feel the weight of Sam’s gaze the whole time he’s out in the main part of the cabin: lingering as he snags the blue plastic case from the kitchen, following him back through the living room and down the hall. It’s only once he’s in the bathroom that the feeling disappears.

He can’t really… avoid the mirror, for this. Whatever. He’s fine. He just has to do his thing and then he can get out. No problem.

Besides, he thinks as he turns on the light and sets the kit on the counter, I haven’t even seen what my scar looks like yet. He’s a little curious, in a weird, morbid kind of way. It’s not every day you have a near-death experience.

He pops the kit open and lays the things he’ll need out in a neat line: antiseptic wipe, new piece of gauze, medical tape. Easy. He even gets everything prepped, cuts the medical tape with the little scissors in the case and attaches the pieces to the edges of the gauze patch so he can slap it on, easy-peasy, once he’s ready for it.

He strips off his flannel without any fuss; he’s had to stick with just the flannels, lately, because t-shirts and Henleys are just too hard to get in and out of with his limited mobility. He wants to pass the I-can-stretch-my-arms-above-my-head mile marker soon, though. He doesn’t like not having the option.

Then Dean takes a breath, turns around, and raises his eyes to the mirror. 

Years of being the Friday night special at whatever bar he bums around, of getting possessed and cursed and taken hostage, of doing things to himself he’d really rather not to to save other people, have made Dean pretty pragmatic in regards to his own body. It’s just a body; one that serves him well and is pretty good lookin’, yeah, but he’s not too attached to it beyond that. He can’t be. So it’s with a clinical eye he observes his reflection over his shoulder and finds, once he’s peeled the old bandage off, that no. Sam wasn’t, in fact, lying. It’s not too bad.

The stitches are more suggestion than substance at this point: they’ve mostly dissolved. The new skin is a little red, a little raised, and it’s shiny with fluid, but other than that… it’s two, maybe two and a half inches long. Only slightly jagged. It won’t be the most impressive scar he’s ever seen by any stretch of the imagination.

He’s starting to get antsy, though, afraid he’ll see… he fumbles for the antiseptic wipe and swipes it over the healing wound, then sticks the bandage to his back. He drops his eyes to the counter with a shaky exhale as soon as he’s sure the bandage isn’t gonna fall off, and then he cleans up in record time before flicking the light back off and getting the hell out of there.

Sam’s sitting on the couch with his laptop open, trying to look like he’s not paying attention to what Dean’s doing. Dean scowls a little and puts his shirt on as he walks down the hall, doing the buttons up with numb fingers. He heads for the kitchen.

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks. Sam’s typing pauses.

“I don’t care,” Sam says neutrally. “You choose.”

Bastard. Just for that, Dean makes the veggie pasta Sam likes even though they just had it last week. Cooking doesn’t calm him down at all, but it does give him a nasty sort of satisfaction.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Sam frowns at him all evening.

Chapter Text

What Dean had liked about the sleep aids, in the beginning, was that they didn’t really leave him feeling hungover. 

There’s not much difference now.

He wakes sluggishly, like he’s wading through mud, and with each inch he claws his way towards consciousness he collects a new symptom: dry mouth. Nausea. Headache. 

Cracking his eyelids open adds a whole ‘nother world of dimension to that last one, and the weak, greyish light of morning that’s trickling through his window leaves him feeling scraped out. Hollow. He runs a hand over his face, groaning softly as the déjà vu from a hundred mornings he’s woken up feeling exactly like this washes over him, and glances over at the old alarm clock, squinting painfully at the red numbers. 

07:58.

His gaze slides to the pill bottle sitting next to it and he grimaces. He could’ve tried a little harder, he thinks. To get a refill. He probably could’ve… he could’ve done something. Offered to get the medical stuff and sent Sam off to grab them coffee. Sucked it up and weathered Charlie’s displeasure and pity. Something.

There’s a single pill left in the bottom. It looks like an accusation.

He spends an agonizing few minutes peeling himself out of bed, and lets out a small grunt of pain as he finally stands. His back is always worse in the morning, before he’s limbered up and taken his pain meds. The doc said his prognosis looks good, though: as long as he stays active, this won’t be a chronic problem. He’s supposed to make a full recovery.

Every single medical professional he sees tells him how incredibly lucky he is. That somehow his spine didn’t get in the way, that his internal injuries weren’t too bad, that he’s improving so well. He doesn’t lash out at the kid again; he’d felt… bad, after that first time back in the hospital. But he didn’t take back what he said, either.

Still hasn’t. 

(He does, uh. He does pray about other stuff, though. Sometimes.)

He picks up the pill bottle, staring down at the little white disc sitting forlornly inside. He’s… he’s so done with all of this. Either he takes this tonight to buy himself one more night of oblivion and the killer pseudo-hangover that comes with it, or he sucks it up and flushes this little fucker down the drain. He’s gonna have to deal with the host of nightmares his brain’s been saving up eventually, so what’s one more night of freedom? Might as well stop being a coward and just get it over with.

He sets the bottle back down and gets dressed. That can be a problem for later.

Sam’s on a video call with Eileen when Dean finally emerges; he raises a hand towards the camera in greeting before shouldering past Sam to get his coffee, and then slips out onto the porch when Sam’s back is turned. He just… he just wants a little more time to himself. Just a little bit more before he has to deal with Sam’s staring and judgment all day.

The sky is covered with a solid bank of clouds, diffusing the sunlight into a flat kind of brightness that seems to come from everywhere at once. It smells like it’s going to rain.

The coffee tastes weird. Dean makes a face, giving it a disappointed look as he sets it aside.

He stands there for a while, just staring out into the woods with his hands braced on the porch railing and his coffee slowly cooling beside him. He can’t really hear the road from here. It’s just him and the wind and the trees.

He doesn’t move at all when the door creaks open behind him, doesn’t look over when Sam appears in his peripheral. 

His brother takes a drink from the mug in his hand. “Got any plans for today?”

Dean just shakes his head. Charlie had said she’d be by for a bit, and there’s the matter of the single remaining sleeping pill to be decided. Other than that, no. Obviously not.

Sam stands there for a pretty impressive amount of time, periodically sipping his coffee and pretending there’s nothing he wants to say. Dean doesn’t bother snapping at him about it. He’s not gonna go scuttling back inside just because Sam can’t decide how to get this chick flick moment rolling. 

But alas, nothing gold can stay. (The Outsiders was bitchin’, okay? It was one of the few books he actually gave more than a passing glance in high school. He liked it. And there’s a beat-up old copy on the shelf inside the cabin that he’d reread last week.) Sam finally grows a pair and sets his coffee down deliberately, turning a little towards Dean. “Y’know,” he starts, watching Dean like a hawk, “I realized we never really had a funeral for Cas.”

Fuck. Of all the underhanded— fuck.

Dean’s only reaction, he’s a little proud to say, is to blink. And maybe to stiffen slightly, like he’s turning to stone. 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice flat. “Hard to do that without a body.”

Sam shrugs. “Well, I was thinking the other day, we could… we could have a little ceremony or something. Get Claire and the girls involved. It might be good for them. For us.”

For you, he doesn’t say, but practically screams anyways. Dean grits his teeth. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

But Sam’s a bitch, edging dangerously close to ‘motherfucker’ territory at this point, and Dean just keeps gathering more and more evidence of that the longer this fucking staycation drags on. “Got any suggestions?” he asks neutrally. ”I mean, we could go back to that meadow. The one with the brook and the windmill?” He keeps talking like every word isn’t another twist of the knife. “It seemed like he liked that. It was a nice place.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

Dean turns around and goes back inside without looking at Sam once. 

— - —

So this is what he’s been planning. This is the big “help Dean cope” effort Sam’s been cooking up in that massive, stupid brain of his. 

Dean doesn’t know why he’s decided he has to be so fucking cruel about it.

He’s been expecting some sort of intervention ever since he yelled at Sam that night last week, but this isn’t what he thought it’d be like. Not at all. Sam is relentless. He keeps— the thing about the funeral is just the beginning. He keeps poking and prodding all day under the guise of innocent reminiscing, needling at Dean’s ongoing muteness with exasperated, badly hidden concern. Dean tries to ignore it, tries not to give Sam the satisfaction of knowing it’s cutting as deeply as it is; but he’s no paragon of temperance, and just after lunch, when Charlie’s in the bathroom, he snaps. 

“What’s the deal, Sam?” he bites out, interrupting him mid-sentence. “Why the trip down memory lane?”

Sam looks at him, not rising to the bait in the slightest. “It’s been half a year,” he says, a little sadly. “That’s a pretty big milestone. I guess it’s just hitting harder right now, y’know?”

Dean just lets out a small scoff and goes back to his sandwich.

Sam goes out that afternoon to run some undisclosed errands, so Dean gets something of a respite. Charlie, blessedly, pretends she didn’t pick up on the tension between them and drags Dean into a MarioKart tournament, Miracle curled up on the couch beside them. Dean loses more than he wins; he’s off his game even more than usual today. Charlie does manage to draw a couple little huffs of laughter out of him, though. Her victory shimmies are just… so bad.

They’re halfway through a race when the rumble of the Impala announces Sam’s return, and Dean loses his focus completely as his eyes snap towards the door. The game makes an annoyed beep at him and he starts, cutting a guilty glance at Charlie, but she just smiles and takes his controller. “Go on,” she says, the almost angry glint in her eyes at odds with her pleasant expression. “I’ll fend him off.”

God. What did Dean do to deserve her?

He ruffles Miracle’s ears and presses a quick kiss to Charlie’s temple before beating a hasty retreat to his room. Just in time, too: he’s only just shut his own door when the creak of the front one squeals through the cabin.

He should… he should put his headphones on. These walls are thin.

He stays where he is.

Sam’s footsteps pause somewhere just inside the main room. “Where’s Dean?”

“In his room.”

Damn, Charlie. Way to pull off the mom voice. She must’ve been taking notes from Jody.

“What’s your problem, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t answer right away. “What, uh. What do you mean?”

The couch squeaks, like Charlie’s just gotten up, and she drops her voice to a whisper. It’s probably an attempt to make certain Dean doesn’t hear. It might’ve worked, too, if Dean wasn’t so paranoid and self-destructive. “C’mon, I wasn’t born yesterday. What are you trying to do, here? It’s not helping.”

“Look. I— I have to do something.” Oh, Dean can just see the look on Sam’s face. “I won’t let him keep going on like this, Charlie. Next time, he… he might not make it. And you know there’s gonna be a next time. Don’t try to tell me there won’t be.”

Charlie huffs an exasperated sigh. “That doesn’t make this a good way to handle things. He has to deal with it in his own time, and it’ll take as long as it takes. So back off a little, alright? I get it, I do. But this isn’t how you’re gonna help him.”

Dean lurches away from the door as she says that, moving over to the bed as quietly as he can and shoving his headphones on to drown out the rest of the conversation. Is he— does he really come across that fragile? That… broken? Does he—

He cranks the volume on Born to Run as loud as he can stand.

But whatever Charlie says must work, because Sam doesn’t try to bother him. Dean listens through all of Springsteen’s greatest hits before taking off his headphones, and when he peeks out his window Charlie’s car is gone from the drive. Sam hasn’t knocked, hasn’t stuck his head in, hasn’t even texted.

He doesn’t dare leave his room, though. Sam’s stubborn, especially when it comes to stuff like this, and he’d probably take it as an invitation to start up again. Instead Dean sits back down on the edge of his bed, and after a moment of indecision picks up the clear orange pill bottle. 

It’s already mid-afternoon. His time is running out and he needs to make a decision, one way or the other.

It’s a crutch, part of him points out. Just another way to avoid the reality of this whole thing. You know that, and you know it’s gonna end whether you want it to or not. Don’t be a coward about it.

Fuck you, the other part of him shoots back.

It’s more trouble than it’s worth. 

Eat a bag of dicks. 

The hangovers are almost worse than normal ones, and all they do is make you forget. You hate forgetting things. 

Not if I know what I’m forgetting. I don’t want to remember that. 

So what, you want to forget it? Forget him?  

Shut. Up.

It goes on like that for… a while. Back and forth. Cyclical.

That is, until Dean stands up, shoves the bottle into his pocket, and opens the door with what is probably more force than necessary before stalking down the hallway to the bathroom.

The dreamlessness isn’t worth losing his mind. He’s done.

He closes the bathroom door behind him; wouldn’t do to have Sam popping up like an overgrown daisy while he’s trying to flush his drugs down the can. He opens the bottle with a violent twist and dumps the pill into his palm, then extends his hand over the toilet. He’s going to do this. 

All he has to do is tip his hand. 

He… doesn’t.

Oh, son of a bitch.

He scowls and forces himself to do it. Predictably, he regrets it as soon as the pill slips out of his hand, landing in the water with a pathetic little plop. 

He watches it sink, and he’d say his mood sinks with it, but it doesn’t have that far to go in the first place.

Well. That’s it.

He flushes the toilet and leaves.

— - —

Dinner, when it finally rolls around, is stilted and awkward. ‘Course it is. Dean saw that one coming a mile away. It’s conducted mostly in silence, and Dean is fully intent on retreating to his room after he’s done. He doesn’t really have a plan for tonight except to avoid sleep for as long as possible. He only needs four hours. He can survive on that, has survived on that. He can do this.

Sam tries to help with the dishes once they’ve finished eating, the way he usually does, but Dean snatches the towel from him and slings it over his own shoulder before turning back towards the sink in a clear dismissal. His brother stands there for a second, right at the edge of his field of view. 

Then he turns and walks away.

Dean allows himself a small, grim sort of smile. Charlie must’ve really done a number on him.

It doesn’t take long to get everything cleaned up, and Dean’s just hanging the towel up when he hears some clinking from the main room, glass on glass. He looks up and is caught off guard when he finds Sam already looking back at him, a pair of tumblers in one hand.

He’s holding a bottle of whiskey in the other.

“Want a drink?”

Always, Dean thinks. He doesn’t say that. “So that’s what you were doing when you went out earlier.” That doesn’t get a response out of Sam, though, so Dean stifles a sigh and plays along. “Really? You wanna have a drink?” He raises an eyebrow. “Just a drink?”

A muscle in Sam’s cheek tightens slightly. Ha. Gotcha. “I had an idea.”

Dean leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Oh, great. Feel free to share.”

“Look,” Sam starts. He’s a little hesitant, and it’s weird. He doesn’t waver, though. “I’ve got some questions for you. There’s some stuff I don’t understand, and I want to help. But if you won’t talk to me I can’t do that. So, yeah, I want to have a drink. I just… wouldn’t mind talking while we do it.”

“And I guess we couldn’t just do the drinking and skip everything else?”

Sam doesn’t get pissy. He doesn’t get annoyed. He just looks incredibly sad. “I won’t stop you, if… if that’s really what you want.” He doesn’t leave it there, though. He wouldn’t. “But that’s an answer in itself. So.”

He’s…

Fuck.

Dean stands there, looking at him, and distantly registers that he’s very glad he leaned up against the counter earlier. Because everything about this just snapped into cold, razor-sharp clarity, and Dean can’t… he’s pretty sure his knees would buckle if he was standing up straight.

Sam isn’t going to let himself be reassured. He isn’t going to give Dean the benefit of the doubt. He’s going to dig his heels in, and one way or another he’s gonna force Dean to confront how broken he is every single day until Dean admits it.

That’s it. 

It’s funny, how freeing that realization is. Because if that’s how this is gonna be, then what’s the point in pretending anymore? Easy. There is no point. And abruptly, Dean decides that if Sam wants to know what happened, then he might as well know what fucking happened. Maybe then he’ll finally get it.

“Alright,” he says with what he knows must be a terrifying smile, pushing off the counter and brushing past Sam to sit down on the couch. He gestures at the coffee table. “Have it your way. Pour.”

— - —

They haven’t even started drinking, and Sam is already regretting this. There’s a careless, nihilistic spark in Dean’s eye, in the crooked sickle of his smile, and it scares him. But…

Dammit. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Charlie wasn’t wrong: this is risky. Normally it would be better to leave it well alone. Except Sam already tried that, and you know what that got them? It got them Dean begging to die, on one of their dad’s unfinished cases, with a piece of rebar stuck through his ribs. Sam is not going to let that happen again. Not now that they’ve won. They’ve fought too long and too hard, lost too much, not to get to live their lives. And if Sam leaves Dean to his own devices, sooner rather than later he won’t have a life to live. He isn’t sure what it’ll be next time: maybe a werewolf who got a lucky swipe, a djinn who managed to get the drop on him. Or, the way Dean’s been since he got out of the hospital, maybe just a bullet and a red splatter on some peeling motel wall. 

The point is, Dean’s doing badly. The kind of bad that ends in an early grave, no matter how he gets there. And Sam absolutely refuses to help him dig it.

Which is ironic, given that he’s currently supporting his brother’s alcohol dependency.

He sets the glasses down as he sits in the sagging armchair across from Dean, cracking the bottle open and pouring a measure into each one. Dean picks his up and waits for Sam to set the bottle aside before clinking their glasses together. He grins and it’s flinty, bladelike. “I don’t know about you, but this is gonna be a shot for me. No questions until I’m on my third one, got it?”

This is going to help, Sam tells himself desperately. This is going to help.

He doesn’t try to match Dean. He just takes a few small sips of his drink, waiting until Dean’s done pouring his third measure. Then he raises his eyebrows. “Ready?”

Dean sits back. “Hey, man, this is your rodeo. Ask away.”

“Well,” Sam begins slowly, rolling his glass between his palms. “Since the hospital. It’s been worse, hasn’t it?”

Now that they’re actually getting into this, Dean’s devil-may-care attitude is starting to fade. “Gotta be a little more specific than that, Sammy,” he says. He’s aiming for airy, but it falls flat. “I’m no mind reader.”

“Just… dealing. Life in general. You had some days there where you were pretty okay. Hell, the day of the vamp hunt itself wasn’t bad. But that’s… they’re gone now.”

Dean takes a drink. “Yeah, I guess. It sucks. I don’t know why, though, so don’t use up a question asking me that.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “You say that like I’ve got a limit.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugs. “Maybe you do. I haven’t decided yet.”

Sam pauses as that sinks in, taking another drink to cover how little he likes it. Dean smirks, just a little, and finishes up his glass. He pours another one immediately. “I’m gonna keep drinking, so if you wanna get some coherent answers, you’d better pick up the pace.”

That’s bullshit. Next to Cas, Dean has the highest alcohol tolerance Sam’s ever seen.

“Alright. Did you really think I was just gonna let you die in that barn?”

Dean grimaces a little, then inclines his head. “You know what they say about hindsight.”

“Hey,” Sam says. It comes out harsher than he intends. “Cut that shit out. Did you?”

There’s a pause. Then Dean sighs. “You don’t need me like you used to, man. I guess we can thank Chuck for the toxic co-dependence, huh? You’ve got a way out, now. Or partway out, or whatever. You were gonna be fine. So I was… at peace with it. That’s all.”

That’s not all. Sam notices, to his frustration, that Dean didn’t actually answer his question. 

He’s pretty sure the answer would’ve been, ‘No, but I was hoping you would’.

Dean waves him off. “Now finish your damn drink. I thought we were doing this together.”

Sam’s refilling his glass when he finally asks the next question. “This isn’t anything like last time. Why?”

Dean’s forehead creases in confusion, so Sam elaborates. “Last time Cas was… gone.”

He actually covers his reaction pretty well, considering. But Sam sees the shutters that slam down behind his eyes, at odds with the small, roguish grin that pops onto his face. “What can I say? I’m a wild card. Can’t afford to be predictable in this line of work.”

“Dean.”

The facade gets knocked askew as Dean’s shoulders come up around his ears, his eyes dropping to the bottom of his glass. He swirls the whiskey around. “Look. He did what he did so I could keep on trucking. So. Seemed like it would’ve been a pretty big ‘fuck you’ to throw that away as soon as Chuck was gone.” Then he drains his glass and puts it on the table. “Better to just… try and live. Make sure it wasn’t a waste.”

“What did he do?”

Dean’s head snaps up, and he looks like he’s been slapped in the face. He’s angry. “What is this? Are you trying to get me to say it? That’s— that’s fucked up, Sam—”

“No, I mean— he died, I know that,” Sam says quickly, a rush of heat pricking at his eyes. He ignores the tiny flinch Dean gives and keeps going. “I know, Dean. But there was… it wasn’t sudden, this time. You guys must’ve talked, right? Before it happened. C’mon. I know there’s more you didn’t tell us.”

Dean looks at him for a long minute. Then he nudges his glass towards Sam. “Make it a double.”

Sam grits his teeth. He feels like an enabler, this is— but Dean won’t talk unless he’s at least got a chance at getting drunk enough to forget. So Sam pours him another couple fingers and swallows down his protests.

Dean gulps half the glass in one go, toasting Sam with a mocking tilt of his head before he does. Sam can see what he’s trying to do: he’s trying to goad Sam into commenting on the drinking so he can blow up and storm off. Sam stays as impassive as a brick wall.

Dean looks away. “Remember what I said to Chuck? Right before we left ‘im there?”

Sam frowns. “You said… you said you weren’t a killer.”

“Get the man a prize,” Dean intones, taking another drink. “Well, that was the gist of it. I was the one who jacked up his software and gave him emotions, and he was happy as a pig in shit about it. Cared about you and Jack and everything else because I cared about him. Said I was good.” The brusque, detached way he relates all of that falters a little, and for just a moment, Sam catches a glimpse of the yawning well of grief inside him. “The best, actually. He said I was the best man he knew.”

Wordlessly, Sam tops up Dean’s glass. He’s… he knew Dean wasn’t coping, not really. But this…

How has he kept this to himself for this long?

Still, there’s something missing, and Sam frowns a little as he thinks back to the slightly more in-depth explanation he’d wrung out of Dean in that brief window between Jack’s departure and Dean locking himself in his room. “But… what was his true happiness? You said that was the condition of the deal. So what was it?”

Dean’s face goes perfectly, impeccably blank. 

And just like that, all the little pieces Sam’s picked up over the past six months slot together, coalesce into an instantly recognizable whole. He can see what they add up to. He knows. 

He knows, and he almost wishes he didn’t. 

“Oh god,” he breathes. “Dean. I’m so sorry.”

The smallest, bitterest smirk Sam’s ever seen pulls at Dean’s lips. “Look at you, figured it out all on your own. He made it almost all the way through his speech before I got it.”

There’s a lump in Sam’s throat, and the magnitude of the sorrow rushing through him on Dean’s behalf almost steals his breath. “You didn’t say anything back, did you.”

Dean grabs his drink again. “You know me so well, Sammy.” He tosses it back and thumps the glass down onto the table between them when he’s done, putting both hands on his knees and pushing to his feet. “Well, thanks for the drinks, but I’m gonna call it a night.”

“Dean, wait—”

“No,” Dean cuts him off, his voice bristling with sharp, jagged edges. His jaw tenses. “I sat here, I let you bribe me with whiskey, and I did what you wanted,” he bites out, low and raw. “You know the whole sob story now. So I’d really appreciate it if you showed a little goddamn sympathy and shut the hell up.”

Sam’s mouth snaps shut.

Dean smiles tightly. “There, that wasn’t so hard. If you ever try to talk to me about this again, I will punch you out and then drive to the other side of the country. Got it?”

He doesn’t stick around to see if Sam agrees. So Sam is left sitting alone in the main room of the cabin, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him, telling himself he did this to make things better. 

He’s having a really hard time believing it. 

Because he knows better than anyone that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, doesn’t he?

— - —

Dean is trying to stay awake.

But he was stupid. He doesn’t know what the hell came over him earlier, but he drank just enough that it’s making him sleepy. Like he said. Stupid.

He paces, scowling as he wears a track into the floor, and really leans into all the crap swirling around inside his head. Sinks down into it and lets it yank him every which way, lets it pluck at his fraying seams and dig its claws in deep.

His anger at Sam. The grief radiating through his chest like a bruise or an open wound, throbbing in time with a name he can’t bring himself to say. The weak, childish fear of what awaits him when he finally succumbs to sleep. They keep him stressed and on edge, and most importantly, awake.

Until they don’t.

Overcome with a particularly painful stab of despair, Dean collapses onto the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m trying. I promise, I am. I just…”

Just what? He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

His pale excuse for a prayer ends there. He hasn’t stopped praying in the interminable months, not really; doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. It’s instinct at this point. Even though he knows… even though he knows no one’s listening, and even though he can’t bear to address any of his broken-down whisperings directly. So this is what he has left: sad, disjointed mumbles that dissipate into the air, into the stale emptiness of whatever room they find themselves in. They go nowhere, do nothing. Help no one.

He doesn’t think he could stand after that if he tried. He considers it once or twice, but he’s so heavy. 

From there, it’s only a matter of time until he lists to the side, sealing his fate as his head hits the pillow. Not gonna sleep, he tells himself miserably as he turns his face into the worn, age-softened fabric of his pillowcase. I’m just gonna lie here. Just gonna lie here and think.

He fights, and he fights hard, but there’s no stopping it. The lead weights dragging his eyelids shut and the stones piling up inside his limbs — they’re a slow, inexorable creep he can’t hope to escape. He lost this fight the second that pill tumbled out of his hand earlier today.

The last thing he’s aware of before everything fades out is the hopeless, bitter tang of defeat spreading across his tongue.

— - —

He’s down in the dungeon. 

He’s not mid-breakdown, though, and he’s not drunk either; he’s anxious, his composure balancing on a razor’s edge, and he fidgets impatiently as a tall, blurry Sam does the spell. They’ve been looking for months, but it paid off. They found a way. 

There’s a thin, terrible kind of hope fluttering around inside his ribcage. 

Finally, an indistinct word of acknowledgement comes from Sam, and as they watch an oozing black rip tears itself into existence. Dean shudders, recoiling a little, but squares his shoulders and walks forward, his way back tied neatly around his wrist. It’s a band of joyously glowing light that feels like long drives and laughter and affectionate bickering and a warm hand on his shoulder.

There’s a moment where the oily sludge of the portal flows around him, odd and disgusting against his skin. Then he bursts through, the portal squelching as it springs back into itself, and he’s here.

He’s in the Empty.

The Empty is nothing like a hole is nothing, like a vacuum is nothing. Absence. Void without form.

It’s not cold, but it leaches the warmth from Dean anyways, leaves him feeling disturbingly two-dimensional. Still, he forges onward, opening his eyes as wide as he can as he searches the blank expanse around him for a flash of something familiar. He’s completely focused, his heart and his mind and his body in perfect harmony; there is nothing more important than this. 

“Cas?” He calls, praying and speaking in unison. “Cas, I’m here. You’ve gotta wake up, man. I’m bringing you home.”

There’s no response, not at first. But then, from far off in the distance, there’s a ripple. It’s tiny, barely even perceptible.

Dean turns towards it and starts talking as he moves. 

He doesn’t stop.

The shivery little ripples keep coming, slowly at first and then stronger, more frequently, until—

Dean breaks into a run as the Empty bulges ahead of him, swelling into a blister that breaks with a wet pop and sends not-liquid rushing out into the nothingness around it. It reveals a form: black pants. A tan-clad torso. The back of a dark head of hair.

Dean’s sharp, clear focus crumbles. He can’t breathe right and he feels like he’s about to trip, like his own feet are getting in his way. He makes it to Cas’ side just as he starts to push himself up, and he gets a momentary flash of shocked blue eyes before he’s crashing to his knees and dragging Cas into a hug.

Cas’ arms come up reflexively, tight around Dean’s back, and Dean squeezes him so hard he thinks he’d probably injure a normal person. “Dean?” Cas asks, his voice faint with some unnameable emotion.

Dean laughs wetly, pulling back just enough to show Cas the glowing band around his wrist. “Yeah, Cas, it’s me. We found a spell, man, it took us forever but we found one. You’re coming home.”

Cas looks at the spell, reaching up to wrap his hand around Dean’s wrist and inspect it carefully. Then his face falls, just a little, and Dean frowns. “What? What is it? Cas?”

Cas looks at him, and his eyes roam over Dean’s face like a caress. His expression is stuck somewhere between adoration and agony; or maybe he’s just gone so far towards the extreme of one it looks like the other. “You almost had me convinced,” he murmurs. “You were so close this time.”

Panic starts to bubble low in Dean’s gut, and he tightens his grip on Cas. “What? Cas, it’s me. I’m here.”

Cas gives Dean’s wrist a gentle squeeze, his smile sad and knowing. “You and I both know there’s no spell that could allow this. It’s a little disappointing, actually. I thought you were getting more creative.”

The panic surges up, making Dean’s hands shake and tears rush hotly to his eyes. “No, Cas, I don’t know what the Empty’s been showing you, but I promise, I’m real. You hear me? I’m real. We’re real. You’ve gotta come with me, okay? Sam’s waiting for us, you’ve— you have to. I’m not leaving without you, Cas. I can’t. I won’t.”

Cas sighs and rests a hand on Dean’s cheek. “I know you’re trying to torture me, but I don’t care. Seeing his face soothes as much as it hurts. Love is cruel like that.”

Dean’s crying now, tears spilling over and coursing down his face, because the spell around his wrist is heating up and if he can’t get Cas to snap out of it—

“No, please,” he sobs, his hands on Cas’ lapels, in his hair, cradling his face. “Please, Cas. It’s me. Stay with me. Stay.” But it’s not enough, even though he can see a tiny flicker of doubt appearing in Cas’ face. He knows he has to take that final step.

Something pops in his chest, something vital and important, and just like that the words spill out of him.

“I love you, Cas. Please, I love you.”

For one perfect, shining moment, Dean thinks he’s done it; they’re going to be alright. They’re going home.

Then Cas’ face crumples, but he smiles triumphantly as he drops his fingers from Dean’s cheek. “And that’s how I know you aren’t the real Dean. You got what you wanted, Shadow. Now leave me alone.”  

Dean’s lungs stutter into paralysis, and he stares. And stares, and stares, and stares.

Then he’s pleading incoherently, a frantic, unending litany of please and no and don’t go and I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, like it’s the only thing he knows how to say, like his mouth doesn’t remember the shape of anything else.

It changes nothing. Cas just closes his eyes, lets out a breath, and dissolves into inky darkness right under Dean’s hands.

The spell flashes blindingly, a ring of fire around Dean’s wrist, and then he’s kneeling on the floor of the dungeon again. It’s shockingly full and bright after the void he just came from. His hands are still held out in front of him, cradling someone who isn’t there.

He slumps forward, hunching over the space in front of him as sobs wrack his body. It wasn’t enough. His belated best wasn’t enough, because he’s squandered years brushing it off and shoving it down. Brushing Cas off, shoving Cas down. And now because of that, he’ll never see Cas again.

The emptiness of his arms is the most terrible absence he’s ever experienced. 

— - —

Dean’s face is wet when he bolts upright in the dark, his blankets tangled under him in hot, sweaty snarls. He hunches forward, one hand shoved against his mouth to muffle the helpless little sobs and whimpers trickling out of his throat. His shoulders shake. God, that— fuck, it’s always— 

Please, he prays frantically. Please let Sam have slept through that.

The silence from next door is deafening.

He stumbles to his feet, ignoring the protest of his back, and does the bare minimum to keep it down as he gets out into the main room. Where the hell is the whiskey? Sam’s probably squirrelled it away somewhere, that sanctimonious asshole. Whatever. Dean knows him, he should be able to find it without too much trouble.

He’s rifling through one of the more out-of-the-way cupboards when he hears Sam’s feet on the floorboards behind him. His brother doesn’t deign to say anything, though. He just walks out of his room and then stands there, presumably watching Dean with a kicked-puppy look on his face.

“Where’s the booze?” Dean grunts eventually when it becomes clear that Sam isn’t going to do anything. “Can’t find it.”

“I’m not giving you the whiskey.”

Dean lets out a harsh laugh and stands, turning to face Sam. “Well, that’s a one-eighty from earlier. Did your conscience finally kick in?”

Sam screws up his mouth. “Dean, I… I heard you.” Then, softer, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“No, Sam, I’m not okay. Happy now? I’m not. I’m fucked up, I’ve been fucked up this whole time, and now I want a goddamn drink.”

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam sighs. “No, I’m not happy. I just want you to, y’know. Get a little better, eventually. And I’m sorry, but I’m at the end of my rope. I don’t know how to help you.”

Dean crosses to the living room. Sam wouldn’t have been dumb enough to shove it under the couch cushions, would he? “You can’t. So stop trying.” He pauses, looking at Sam again. “Actually, you can leave me the hell alone, if you’re capable of that.”

“I’ve done that for the past six months, Dean, and we both know it hasn’t helped.”

Not in the closet, either. Did he take it into his room? That’s hilariously paranoid. Also apparently the smart call, given that Dean still hasn’t gotten his hands on the good stuff. He hates that Sam knows him so well, sometimes.

He throws his hands up into the air. “Fine. Then what? What am I supposed to do? What do you want from me, Sam?”

And fucking finally, there’s a spark of anger in Sam’s eyes, in the way his mouth tightens at the corners. “I don’t know. You could talk to someone, that’s a start. I’m not gonna stand by,” he says roughly over Dean’s scoff, “and watch you kill yourself.” He takes a step forward, a flicker of that same desperate fear from the barn where Dean almost kicked it for good edging in next to his anger. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. Don’t make me watch you die, don’t make me lose you. Not now. Not again.”

Dean clenches his fists. He wants to break something. “Talking,” he snarls in disgust, “isn’t gonna help. Not that we’d even be able to find a shrink out there who’d take me. It’s not gonna help, Sam, because—”

“Because what?” Sam interrupts, his voice cracking around his exasperation. “Because you won’t even try? I thought you said that was what you wanted to do to honour Cas’ sacrifice. Live. This? This isn’t trying, Dean. This is that ‘fuck you’ you said you didn’t want.”

Fuck the whiskey. Dean needs to be gone.

“Where are my keys.”

Sam falters. “C’mon, Dean, I’m not—”

“Don’t think I won’t hotwire my own goddamn car. I’m gonna be so pissed if you make me hotwire Baby, Sam.”

Sam opens his mouth to— to argue, or plead, or something, but before he can say a thing the crunch of gravel echoes from outside and a pair of headlights spear through the window, sweeping across the room. Dean whips around, betrayal curdling in his stomach.

“You called someone? Fuck, Sam, what the hell?”

“What? No, I don’t know who that—”

Dean’s already storming towards the front door, and he’s only got the clothes on his back but he doesn’t care. Sam talked about it, talked about it when Dean told him not to as clearly as he’s ever said anything in this sorry life of his, and then Sam threw it back in his face—

The four-door parked in front of the cabin glints dully in a faint patch of moonlight, mist shifting through the strong yellow beams of the headlights. The passenger door opens as Dean spills out onto the porch, Sam scrambling to follow him and grab at his sleeve. He doesn’t need to bother trying to drag Dean to a halt, though. Dean’s already standing stock still.

Because Jack’s just gotten out of the car. His face is lit up by the glow from the headlights, the hi-beams still on. He smiles, huge and ecstatic. “Dean! Sam!”

Sam starts to say something behind Dean, but it’s nothing more than a distant hum. Because there’s a dark figure in the driver’s seat, and— fuck, no, Dean can’t— Dean can’t do this to himself again, can’t keep imagining the impossible, it’ll— it’ll kill him, he knows it will, he can feel the disappointment and loss and grief pressed up against his heart like the point of a knife, like a sword of Damocles waiting to fall—

The driver’s side door swings open.

And Castiel steps out.

Chapter Text

Leaves shush together overhead, a faint breeze rustling through the clearing and setting Sam’s hair shifting ticklishly against his neck.

Dean is like a statue at his side. He’s staring at Cas with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“Hello,” Cas says. He looks anxious. He looks terrified. He looks exhausted. He also looks like he’s trying to pretend he’s not feeling every single positive emotion there is as he regards Sam and Dean. (Mostly Dean.)

He’s doing a pretty terrible job of it.

Sam just stares. At Cas, then at Jack, then back at Cas again. He blinks and rubs his eyes a little, just to make sure he’s not… dreaming? Hallucinating because Dean knocked him out and took the car keys? He’s not sure.

“How are you here?” Sam’s voice sounds strange in the night air, and he swallows. “Either of you? Jack, you said… you said you weren’t coming back. Ever.” Then he stiffens, concern crashing over him like a bucket of cold water. “Wait, is something wrong? Are you alright?”

Jack just smiles even bigger. “No, we’re okay.”

“Then…” How? Why? Why now? “What happened?”

“Tell them the short version,” Cas murmurs, his eyes never leaving Dean. Jack nods and bounces a little bit on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement.

“The Empty almost collapsed.” Sam has a small heart attack. “It didn’t, though, everything’s fine!” Sam has slightly less of a small heart attack. Jack continues, his smile returning twice as big when Sam’s shoulders relax again. Well, as much as they can, given the circumstances. “It’s in a very deep sleep now, but it was weak enough at the end that all kinds of things were leaking through. So when Castiel called out to me I heard him, and I reached in and got him and his friends! And I’m not God anymore.” Jack squints a little. “Well… not really. It’s hard to explain. Aunt Amara said she still wants my help sometimes, but she’s going to watch over most of it, and Michael and Gabriel said they’d help, too.” The slightly befuddled look that had suffused Jack’s expression while trying to translate the state of the universe into human language gets wiped away by another happy smile. “Oh! Michael. He says hi, and that he’s sorry. That wasn’t really him that betrayed us, that was Chuck. He has Adam back so he’s happy again.”

Now. Sam is trying really hard here, okay. But he also just had a huge blowout with Dean and woke up, like, less than fifteen minutes ago, so he doesn’t exactly zero in on the most salient part of Jack’s speech right off the bat. 

“Did you say ‘Aunt Amara’?”

Jack nods delightedly. “I asked if I could call her that and she said yes. I think she likes it. We’re friends now.”

Cas closes his door behind him, and Jack does the same before walking around the car. “Would you like to test us?” Cas asks, nodding towards the Impala. “I know that this is… unexpected.”

Sam flounders for a moment; what kind of test would even work, here? Silver and holy water are the obvious route, but Rowena’s had Hell in a vise grip since Jack took over, and a shifter or some other monster would have to have some pretty damn big balls to try and pull this off. 

And if this is Chuck, somehow, a small, bleak voice in the back of his brain contributes, then you’d never know the difference anyways, would you?

He pushes that thought aside as best he can; he’s not going to let Chuck rule their lives even after he’s gone. Because he is gone. Sam had been worried he’d show up at the Bunker at some point, human and insufferable, but he never did. Maybe he’s dead in a ditch somewhere, maybe he’s bumming around a homeless shelter. Sam doesn’t know and he doesn’t care.

“No, no silver or anything. I’ll just…” He takes a breath and looks at Jack. “What did I tell you after you flew the first time?”

Jack’s smile goes soft and a little bashful. “That you and Cas and my mom thought I was worth it.”

Shit. Sam wants to hug that kid so bad.

“And Cas,” he says, turning to him with a rueful kind of smile. “What was the first thing you said to me when we met?”

Cas winces slightly. “‘Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood.’ I never apologized for that, Sam. I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“Cas,” Sam laughs, already coming down the stairs, “I’m so glad you’re back, man.”

Then Jack is squeezing Sam tight, and Cas is chuckling a little bit from under Sam’s arm, and Sam’s just… 

He has his family back, whole and solid and real. Together.

That’s all he’s ever wanted.

Well, not quite together. It’s only him, Cas, and Jack hugging it out down here on the gravel drive. Sam finally pulls back, keeping Jack tucked up against his side with one arm around his shoulders, and looks back towards the porch in confusion.

Dean still hasn’t moved a muscle.

Cas is looking at him; Sam doubts he ever stopped. Dean’s face has a strange, waxy pallor in the moonlight, and he’s so still that Sam honestly can’t even tell if he’s breathing. Cas takes a small step away from Sam and Jack, moving closer to the cabin. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean sucks in a shaky breath, loud in the silence of the night. Slowly, he starts to descend the steps, his movements reminding Sam of a sleepwalker’s: jerky and uncoordinated, his boots scuffing against the wood. 

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs he takes several unsteady, dreamlike steps across the scrubby grass in front of the cabin that bring him within touching distance of Cas. One hand drifts up in front of him, hovering a scant few inches from Cas’ coat, and the moment hangs in the air like a held breath.

Then his fingers connect with Cas’ shoulder.

Dean lets out a breathless, shuddering, not-quite sob, like no sound Sam has ever heard him make, and staggers into Cas. And then Dean clings to him like he never wants to let go. Cas holds on just as tightly, just… folds into Dean, until it’s hard to tell where one of them starts and the other one ends. Dean’s shoulders hitch once, twice. Then they’re still.

Jack leans into Sam’s side, and Sam squeezes him a little tighter. He’s doing his best not to cry, but this is, uh. He’s pretty sure it’s a losing battle.

Dean and Cas stand there for a long time, longer than Sam’s ever seen them hug. The place where Dean usually steps away and claps Cas on the shoulder, or cracks some stupid joke, or rolls his eyes and acts embarrassed, it just… passes. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t loosen his grip in the slightest. If anything, it looks like he holds on tighter.

Finally, after a small eternity, Dean pulls back. 

And as soon as he has the room, he punches Cas in the face.

Sam shouts and surges forward as Cas catches Dean’s wrists in his hands, but Dean’s already ripping himself out of Cas’ grip and stumbling away from him before Sam can reach them. His cheeks are wet, his breathing hitched and irregular. 

“You and Jack are going back to the Bunker,” he chokes in Sam’s direction, his voice shredded raw. He doesn’t look away from Cas for a second.

Sam opens his mouth to argue, but Dean doesn’t let him speak. “No. Get in the car.”

“Dean—”

“I think we should do what he says,” Jack says quietly. 

Sam turns to look at Jack, incredulous disbelief shooting through him. Jack’s face is solemn, but Sam can see the request in his eyes. The plea, really. And Sam…

Well. Jack’s a smart kid. And he doesn't ask for much.

So Sam sighs tightly, sparing one last look at Dean before holding out his hand to Cas for the keys. 

“Cas?” he asks, dead serious. “Are you good with this?”

Cas hands him the keys, a small, nervous smile flashing across his face. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

Sam reaches out and rests a hand on Cas’ arm. “Alright. We’ll… we’ll come back tomorrow. I’ll text Dean.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, his voice pitched low and sincere. He seems grateful for the reassuring contact, but his eyes are already sliding back towards Dean. “We’ll see you then.”

Sam drops his hand and forces himself to turn away, to walk over to the little car and get in as Jack slides into the passenger seat. He puts the key into the ignition and turns the car on, but then he looks back out at the scene in front of the cabin.

Dean and Cas are just standing there. Staring at each other.

“They’ll be okay,” Jack says. He sounds way more certain than Sam feels. “I think they just need to talk.”

Sam grimaces and puts the car into drive. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of, Jack.”

— - —

He’s here.

It’s him. It’s Cas.  

Dean’s held him. Felt his coat under his hands, felt his breath on his neck. Felt the unyielding line of his jaw under his knuckles and then his strong fingers wrapped around Dean’s wrists.

He doesn’t know why the hell he did that. It’s not like he— he’s just. It feels like there’s a Gordian knot of emotions lodged behind his sternum, and he doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to deal with it. He doesn’t have a sword handy, no easy way to cut to the heart of it. No, he’s stuck trying to pick it apart by hand, and wow he’s going way too far with this metaphor.

The silver four door has long since disappeared down the lane towards the road, but Dean’s still just… standing here. There’s so much, he doesn’t— he doesn’t have the first idea where to start. What’s he supposed to say? Six months. It’s been six months. He doesn’t— he can’t—

“Dean,” Cas starts hesitantly. “Dean, I…”

“No.” Cas’ mouth snaps shut, and Dean points to the cabin. “Inside. Now.”

Without another word he does as Dean says. Silently, Dean waits for him to reach the steps and then follows him up the stairs. He scrubs his sleeve across his face as he does.

He closes the door behind them when he gets inside, turning to find Cas standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He looks like he’s… nervous. There’s something hunted and on-edge about his expression, and Dean’s stomach flops sickeningly. He’s got a bad feeling that it’s his fault Cas looks like that.

“You,” he says. It’s too quiet in here. “You’re back.”

Cas watches him. “I missed you,” he admits softly.

Dean swallows, his mouth going dry. Say something, idiot, his brain screams at him. He doesn’t say anything.

As the silence strings itself out, becoming more and more painful, Cas’ expression closes off. “Apologies,” he says woodenly, his eyes shuttered and dull. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why the fuck not?” Dean asks harshly, another wave of rage taking him out at the knees before he can figure out how to tell Cas that that wasn’t what he meant with his lack of response. “You already let slip your big Hallmark confession. This is pretty tame in comparison, don’t you think?”

A line forms between Cas’ eyebrows, and under his anger he’s obviously hurt. Dean sees it, and part of him is losing his mind because what is he doing? He doesn’t want to hurt Cas. He doesn’t, so why the hell is he going to anyways?

“Don’t mock me,” Cas says, a defensive bite to his voice. “Do what you need to to come to terms with this, but don’t attempt to shame me for it. It’s mine, Dean. It was my choice to tell you and nothing you do or say will change it.”

“I’m not—” Dean nearly explodes, but he cuts himself off with a scoff. “Nice, trying to put this all on me. But that’s not gonna fly. You said it and now you’re gonna have to deal with it, so that sucks for you, I guess, but I’m not letting you brush this one off. You fucked off before you could deal with it once already, but too bad. You’re back now and you’ve gotta clean up your mess.” He scowls, his heart giving a painful throb. “Hell, I bet some part of you was relieved you didn’t have to stick around for the fallout. Got to cut it off nice and clean, didn’t you?”

“Well,” Cas snaps, “it certainly seems like I would have had reason to feel that way if that was the case. I’m sorry I make you so uncomfortable, Dean.”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable!” Dean shouts.

The loudest sound in the room is his heavy breathing.

“You fucking bastard,” Dean forces out, his voice thick and constricted. “How could you… how could you say that and then die? You don’t— you don’t know what that did to me.”

Cas blinks, obviously confused by the direction Dean’s taken, but his mouth settles into a proud, stubborn shape. “It saved you,” he says quietly. Resolutely. And Dean feels sick.

“It gutted me!” He roars, shaking with all the emotions ripping through him. Cas goes absolutely still, staring at him with eyes the size of dinner plates. “I sat on the floor in that goddamn room and cried for an hour! I have no idea how many times Sam called before I picked up the phone! And it’s a good thing everyone else had poofed away, because when I finally got on the road I would’ve wrecked the fucking car if it hadn’t been completely empty!”

But Dean’s not done. Not even close. 

“And afterwards?” He seethes, his hands clenched into fists. “It took me two months before I could get to sleep without a drink or six, because you were there. Every night. Sam and I kept looking for ways to get you out until I had to stop him, because it was a wild goose chase and I couldn’t take any more dead ends. I’ve been taking care of my dog, and going on hunts with Sam, and acting like everything’s hunky-fucking-dory when all I wanted to do most days was crawl into my bed and stay there. So yeah, maybe I was still alive after you let the Empty suck you up. But that didn’t save me. In every sense except the fucking literal, I died right along with you, Cas.”

Cas’ mouth has fallen open at some point during Dean’s tirade. He looks horrified.

“You matter,” Dean growls. “And because I’m a fucking coward I didn’t tell you anywhere near as much I should’ve. I saved it for, for when one of us was dying or something. Or I half-assed it and said you were family. I called you my brother. Which is so fucked up, man, I don’t even… but then you— you died. And— and you thought you couldn’t—”

—have me. 

Dean wants to say it. He wants to say it so badly it’s like a physical ache. Newsflash, asshole, you could’ve had the one thing you were so convinced you couldn’t. You could’ve then and you still can now, because god help me, even though I’m beyond pissed at you right now I think that if you kissed me I’d forget what anger was.

But the words catch on the way out. Because however much Dean wants Cas to know, to understand what he’s gone through, and then to get over here and do something about it, he—

He won’t spit this at Cas in anger. 

He won’t weaponize this.

He’s going to be the person Cas believes he is. So he tucks those words down somewhere safe, and he saves them for later.

“You thought you were expendable,” he finally continues, his voice still harsh but no longer the livid shout it was when he started. “You thought that the only thing you were good for was one last sacrifice. Which is such bullshit, because you do matter and you’re— you’re so much more than that. So much, Cas, to so many different people. To Sam, to Jack. To Claire, fuck, you didn’t see her—” He cuts himself off, taking a short, sharp breath. “To me. You matter to me. So stow that crap right now, and don’t you dare act like you were a justifiable loss. That it was okay. It wasn’t.”

Cas sinks down onto the couch like his knees have turned to water. He’s staring at Dean, so lost and shell-shocked and out of his depth that he’s as transparent as glass.

He never expected this. Not in a million years.

Dean points a shaking finger at him, guilt crawling up his throat like bile. “Say you understand me. Or I could go on, if that wasn’t clear enough for you.”

The room is silent as the grave. Cas doesn’t blink, still staring at Dean. “Yes,” he whispers hoarsely. “I… I understand.”

“Good.”

They stare each other down. They exist.

Dean lets out a long breath and covers his eyes with his hand. “We, uh.” He wets his lips. “We’re gonna need to talk. About stuff.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, still in that whisper. 

“Not… not now. I’ll say somethin’ I—”

Regret? He’ll say something he regrets? He’s already done that. That ship has sailed.

Damn it.

Dean swallows, then drops his hand. “You can use Sam’s room if you want,” he finishes in a clipped, utilitarian tone. “Or there’s books on the shelf. I’m gonna try and sleep.”

Cas nods mutely, his fingers digging into the scratchy, faded upholstery of the couch.

And with that, Dean turns around and walks across to his room with deliberate, certain steps. Not a moment of hesitation. At least, not until he comes to an abrupt stop in his doorway, his hand clenched around the knob. 

“I’m really glad you’re back,” he whispers over his shoulder. 

Then he walks into his bedroom and shuts the door behind him.

— - —

It’s raining outside.

Not a thunderstorm. Just a faint, lulling tap-tap-tap on the window of Dean’s room. He’s sprawled out on his stomach, and he opens his eyes halfway only for them to droop shut again, slow and heavy. He’s warm, he actually feels somewhat rested, and he doesn’t have a headache; overall, pretty good. Better than he’s felt in a long time. He smiles, a little. That, and—

He’s upright in half a second flat, cold, clammy fear swamping him like a tidal wave. Cas is— oh god, did he— did he dream that? He—

He doesn’t remember getting out of bed; one moment he’s there, the sheets pooled around his waist, and the next he’s at the door, yanking it open with his back practically screaming at him. He bursts into the main room, his head whipping around as he looks for something, anything that means he didn’t make up everything that happened last night. 

There’s nothing. No one in the room, no books out of place, no—

Dean runs his hands through his hair, his vision blurring. This— this can’t be—

Sam’s room, he thinks suddenly, and he’s darting towards it before he even makes the conscious decision to. I told him he could use Sam’s room—

Uncaring of what it’ll do to him if he’s wrong, Dean rips the door of Sam’s room open and stumbles inside, Cas’ name rising up in his throat.

He grabs the doorframe to steady himself, eyes glued to the bed.

Glued to the head of dark hair on the pillow.

Cas— because it is Cas, holy fuck, stirs and rolls over, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He freezes when he sees who it is in the doorway.

Wait.

Cas sits up, muzzy and wary, and Dean’s tunnel vision slowly expands to include the rest of the room. 

Several worrying details pile up in his survey: 

• Cas’ shoes are on the floor next to the bed. 
• His tie has been dumped, undone, on the bedside table. His belt is coiled next to it.
• He’s down to a plain white t-shirt, the rest of his usual layers out of sight.

“You—” Dean blurts weakly, taken aback. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yes,” Cas says, his voice flat and sleep-rough, watching Dean. He has a pillow crease on his cheek.

“Oh.”

They’re stuck there for a moment, mired in an awkward silence that neither of them knows how to break. Because Cas only ever sleeps when he’s low on mojo. Really low. 

Or when he’s completely out.

“I’m,” Dean starts, shying away from the implications of that. He swallows and tries again. “You hungry?”

Cas fiddles with the comforter. “A little,” he admits. Dean’s pretty sure that means ‘a lot’.

“I’ll…” Dean says, dropping his hand from the doorframe. He doesn’t keel over, which is good. “Um. I’ll make some breakfast.”

He turns and hightails it to the kitchen before Cas can respond.

He’s hyper-aware of every sound that comes from the direction of Sam’s room as he stands at the counter mixing up pancake batter. He slops some flour over the side of the bowl when he hears footsteps, forcing himself not to turn and look when there’s a slight pause before they retreat down the hall towards the bathroom. He almost drops the package of bacon when he hears the door open back up again. He nearly botches a flip when one of the chairs scrapes against the floor.

“Coffee’s in the pot,” he manages, staring down at his pan. The rest of these’ll need to be flipped soon. They’re starting to get the telltale little bubbles in the top.

Rain patters gently against the window, and a figure comes up next to Dean. A hand reaches for the coffee pot. Dean zeroes his attention back in on the pancakes and flips the rest of them with robotic precision.

Far too soon, everything is ready. The bacon is sandwiched between a couple of paper towels, the pancakes are all piled up on a plate, and— and Cas has gotten out some plates and utensils. Dean thinks, at least. He was trying not to look.

He takes an even, regulated breath. Then he grabs a plate in each hand and turns towards the table.

Cas is sitting facing him, both hands cupped around his mug as he stares down into it. A second mug sits at the empty place laid out just around the corner of the table from him, steaming gently. 

Then he looks up, and Dean lurches back into motion. He crosses to the table, deposits the plates, and sits down, reaching out to flip the paper towel off the bacon.

He doesn’t get that far. 

He stops mid-reach, waylaid by his coffee cup. He stares at it, at the slim, shiny handle of a spoon resting jauntily against the edge. The sugar bowl is suspiciously close at hand. 

“Did you…” he starts, throat dry. He regrets breaking the silence as soon as he speaks, but the damage is done. “Did you put something in my coffee?”

“Sugar,” Cas confirms, and it’s almost a challenge, the way he says it. “You only drink black coffee because it’s convenient for other people. And possibly because it’s one of the things you think you are expected to do.”

Dean just stares at his mug for a minute longer.

He reaches out and takes it. Drinks. 

It’s good.

“Well, go ahead,” he mumbles, nodding at the plates. “Eat up.”

Cas doesn’t say anything back, so the conversation dies again. They just sit in silence, drinking their coffee and eating Dean’s pancakes. Well, Cas does most of the eating, actually, and isn’t that a fucking weird way for their usual dynamic to flip on its head. Dean’s pretty sure his appetite left the building somewhere between thinking Cas coming back was a dream and realizing he was probably dangerously short on Grace, and it hasn’t come back. There are too many things swirling around in his head for him to be hungry right now.

So he looks at Cas instead.

What he’d been desperate to avoid while he was making breakfast is exactly what happens now— he finally lets himself look at Cas, and then he can’t stop. He can’t stop. He’s fucking enthralled, drinking in every tiny, imperfect, impossible-to-fabricate detail about him: the way his hair curls just behind his ears. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The shadow of stubble on his jaw. The faint little mole just above the arch of his right eyebrow.

Cas can’t hide his surprise every time he glances up to find Dean already looking back at him, but Dean can’t bring himself to drag his gaze away for more than a few seconds at a time. It’s still too unbelievable, still just a little too good to be true, and he’s scared witless that Cas’ll just… disappear, if he’s not careful.

“Ask me, Dean.”

Dean’s tongue shrivels up in his mouth as he stares, frozen, at Cas. “Ask… what?”

Cas doesn’t dignify that with a response. He just sets his utensils down, the metal clinking gently against his plate, and then settles in to wait.

And Dean knows what Cas is talking about. The question has been tugging at him ever since he realized Cas was sleeping, since he watched him put away, like, six pancakes. That’s not normal for Cas. That means something bad.

“Alright,” he says. His voice seems too loud for the hush of the kitchen, and he has the absurd urge to whisper. “How much Grace d’you have left?”

Cas is placid, unconcerned. “None.”

Dean gapes for a long second.

“You’re…”

“Human,” Cas finishes. “It was the only way Jack could pull me from the Empty. He offered to restore my Grace after he had me back, but I…” He tips his chin up a little, daring Dean to comment. “I refused it.”

“Why?” Dean croaks anyway, horrified. “Dammit, Cas, you— it better not just be for… for—”

“It’s not,” Cas says. It’s still more gentle than Dean deserves, for all it’s bluntness. And it also stings, a little, because Dean is fucked up like that. “I’ve been a paradox for far too long. I needed to make a choice, and I can’t go back to Heaven— that hasn’t been an option for years. Earth has been more welcoming, historically.”

There’s a slight pause. “Plus,” he continues, running a finger over the rim of his mug. His eyes are piercing. “I’ve always been… partial, to humanity.”

He put just a hair too much emphasis on that last part for it not to be a reference. A reminder. Dean feels strange and hot, almost feverish, and he shifts uncomfortably under Cas’ gaze.

The rain has stopped. Morning sun spills through the kitchen window, lighting up the room. Lighting up Cas. And nature must be getting into irony, because in the warm glow he looks even more like an angel than he usually does.

Then he takes a drink of coffee, and halfway through the motion Dean’s breath whooshes out of his lungs. Because there’s a faint red mark on Cas’ jaw. 

A mark Dean put there. He— he put that there.

“I’m sorry,” he bursts out, shattering the silence. “For hitting you last night, I don’t know why I— and for what I said at the beginning, I didn’t—” Fuck. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

Cas’ mug clunks back down onto the table, a little clumsily, and his hand drifts up to his jaw. He blinks at Dean. 

“Does it hurt?” Dean asks quietly, his voice small, his hands clenched in his lap. “I can— d’you want— I think we’ve got some frozen peas. If— if it hurts.”

“It’s fine,” Cas says eventually. Then, slowly: “You apologized.”

He’s got a less intense version of that shell-shocked look from the end of last night plastered across his face, and Dean’s stomach drops right past rock bottom to some new subterranean low. 

“Fuck.” The curse punches out of him as he drops his forehead into his hand. “I’m such a jackass.”

The ticking of the clock is the only response Dean gets for a long minute. Then Cas sighs. “You can be… difficult. But I— forgive you. For last night.”

Dean snorts weakly, dropping his hand from his face. He doesn’t meet Cas’ eyes. “No, I’m definitely a jackass. And I dunno if that’s— if that’s the smart choice, man.” He stops for a moment, struggling. “Maybe… I think I’d deserve it, if you wanted— if you wanted to leave,” he finishes in a whisper. 

He knows he would. It’s the least he deserves, after everything he’s put Cas through: the brush-offs, the blame, the way he treated him like— like a resource for so long. The anger. The violence. All of it.

He thinks it’d probably kill him to say all that, though. 

“Do you? Want me to leave?”

Dean’s head jerks up, and he’s— Cas looks just as terrified as he feels. “No,” he says quickly, fear lodging in his throat. “No, I— I don’t want you to leave. I never want you to leave.”

Something in Cas’ expression cracks wide open, and he says five of the most incomprehensible words Dean’s ever heard. 

“I’ve never wanted to go.”

Then Dean remembers that other thing he said. The three-word one. And suddenly those five make a lot more sense.

They also threaten to send him into a crisis. Dean shoves them aside before that can happen.

He could say it now, though. He could reach out, could grab Cas’ hand too-tight and lean awkwardly over the table and say, All I’ve wanted for a long time is for you to stay. I want it more than anything. And Cas would ask, breathless, Why? And Dean would answer him.

He doesn’t do that. “Then don’t,” he whispers instead. It still feels like a confession. Of what, Dean isn’t sure.

“Alright,” Cas says softly, and his fingers are wound into the sleeve of Dean’s flannel, his knuckles white. “I won’t go.”

Dean breathes. His body is loose with relief; his unsaid words linger sourly in the back of his mouth. He’s happy, he’s so fucking happy he thinks he might just explode from it, and he wants to crawl into a hole and die because he’s such a yellow-bellied coward. 

He slowly sits back in his seat, and he’s suddenly very aware of how much his back hurts. He needs his meds, like, yesterday, but Cas is still staring at him, and Dean… he can’t get into that can of worms right now. He just— he needs things to be okay for half a minute. Just for a little bit.

Cas draws his hand back, and Dean swallows. “You need to, um. You need to call Claire.”

Cas’ face drains of colour. “Oh, I— my phone, it isn’t— you said she—”

“Here.” Dean presses his phone into Cas’ hands, trying on a faint, tired smile. That was a dick move, distracting him like that, but he does need to call her. She won’t want to hear it from anyone else.

“Thank you,” Cas says, getting to his feet. “Do you need any help cleaning up? I can—” 

“Nah, I’m fine. I’ve got it. Go.”

Cas shoots him a last, grateful look and then walks towards the living room, already dialling Claire’s number. He knew Dean’s passcode. Didn’t even hesitate.

Dean watches him stand there, the phone cradled to his ear, tapping a nervous tattoo against his thigh while he waits for her to pick up. Solid. Human. Real.

He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.

— - —

“I’m not used to being loved; I wouldn’t know what to do.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

Chapter Text

Later, Dean had told himself last night. He’d decided he was going to do the right thing— he wasn’t going to use his confession as a weapon. He wasn’t going to hurt Cas like that. He was going to wait, and then whenever the right “later” rolled around he was going to tell Cas he isn’t in this thing alone. Tell him the way he deserves to hear it.

But possible laters just keep slipping by.

He didn’t say anything during that moment at breakfast. He doesn’t say anything when he hands Cas a stack of his own clothes to change into. He doesn’t say anything when Cas joins him out on the porch, wearing Dean’s flannel and holding their recently-refilled mugs.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it a lot, can practically taste the words on his tongue.

He only thinks about it.

Besides, Cas has been busy. Claire was only the first call he made; once she’d finished yell-crying at him over Dean’s phone he’d talked to all the girls, and then after that he’d started working his way down the list: Charlie. Eileen, even though Sam apparently called her last night. Dean even called Garth and told him, too, so Cas finally got to talk to the guy who named one of his kids after him. (Which… fuck, Dean doesn’t actually know if they ever got around to telling him that. He was going to, what… did fucking Chuck make him forget to mention that? Fuck. They’ll need to— they’ll need to talk about that at some point.) 

It sounded like they’ll get along great, though. That’s really no surprise: there’s not many people Garth isn’t friends with.

But that little exercise only emphasized how isolated Cas is. He’s got Dean and Sam, he’s got Jack, and he’s got Claire, but beyond that he doesn’t have anyone who’s his. All his friends are Sam and Dean’s friends.

It makes Dean sad.

That’s just another thing he’s gonna have to keep close to his chest, though, because they don’t know how to act around each other. While Dean’s not telling Cas he loves him back and casting around for other things to say instead, Cas vacillates between watching him intently and purposely averting his eyes. His confession is sitting in the carefully maintained space between them, huge, unwieldy, and impossible to ignore. Cas knows Dean isn’t disgusted by it, by him, but that’s all he knows; Dean’s still trying to figure out how to live with it, because knowing Cas loved him while Cas was dead was a completely different kettle of fish from knowing Cas loves him and looking him right in the fucking eye.

So, uncomfortable mostly-silence it is.

Dean stares down into his coffee instead of at Cas, pocketing his phone again after having brought it out to see why it was buzzing at him. “Sam and Jack are on their way.”

Cas shifts next to him at the porch railing, a deliberate foot of space between them. “That’s good.” The awkward silence triumphs again for a moment. “Jack was very excited to see you.”

Oh, fuck.

Because— shit, he’s— Dean has so goddamn much he needs to apologize for. He’s started to with Cas, and yeah, it went a lot better than he’d hoped, but Jack. Last night, Dean was— he barely even looked at the kid. And before that… there are so many ways he fucked up, so many things he never said sorry for. Shit that doesn’t go away because he taught the kid how to drive and made him a crappy little birthday cake.

“Yeah,” he says lamely. “Yeah, I’m—” losing it “—excited to see him too.”

Dean’s pretty sure Cas caught the awkward hitch in the middle of that sentence. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, and they lapse into silence again.

It’s… it’s like they’re a couple of goddamn school kids. Cas wandered up to him in the yard at recess and told him he loved him, and then Dean said something stupid like, “Uh… okay. You wanna play cowboys?” And now they’re trying to play cowboys just like they have a hundred times before while pretending that the reason they’re playing cowboys at all doesn’t matter.

Except.

Except they’re not kids and this isn’t that simple and Cas died, he died, and Dean had to stand and watch as he threw himself on his proverbial fucking sword, goddamn rapturous with it. (Nope, don’t get started on proverbial Swords, because Dean is, he’s—) He had to stand and watch as Cas smiled the happiest, most beatific, most horrifying smile Dean’s ever seen in his life, and—

He gulps back a swallow of too-hot coffee and digs the nails of his free hand into the wooden railing.

When the silver four-door finally crunches into view at the end of the lane, Dean wrestles with the tangled swirl of emotions the sight of it kicks up before deciding he’s mostly relieved for the distraction. Then he feels guilty about that and cuts an ashamed look at Cas. Cas is watching the car and doesn’t see it.

That’s probably for the best.

They set their coffee mugs aside as the car pulls to a stop in front of the cabin, Cas slipping around behind Dean to descend the stairs before either of the doors have even opened. Dean follows a beat later, but he only gets as far as the ground in front of the steps, because honestly… he has no idea how this is going to go.

Sam gets out with a grin, clapping a hand to Cas’ arm before closing the door behind him and making his way over to Dean, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Dean saw the sharp, calculated sweep his eyes made over Cas, though, and he bristles. Sam thinks he would— that he’d—

Then he deflates. Because Sam has every reason to think that, after the stunt he pulled last night.

“Hey,” his little brother says, coming to a stop next to him. “How’d things go?”

The sharp gaze is scrolling over him, now. Dean looks over at Cas instead, who’s just released Jack from a hug and is talking to him quietly. “I didn’t hit him again, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good,” Sam says coolly. “‘Cause I’d deck you myself if you had.”

Dean’s mouth thins into a line. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but you can put away the knight-in-shining-armour routine. We talked, okay? We’re fine now.”

Sam sighs. “Really? About what? Did you tell him about the hunt, about your back? About what you told me last night?”

It’s pretty gratifying, the way his eyes blow wide in shock. Because between one second and the next, Dean went from halfway ignoring him to shoving a finger into the centre of his chest and hissing low and angry at him, all up in his face. “I told you not to talk about it, Sam, and I meant it. I’ll get around to it when I fucking get around to it. So in the meantime, shut. Up.”

Sam stares down at him, his mouth hanging open. But as Dean watches, his shock slowly fades into something else, something clear and knowing. Dean grits his teeth and waits for an acknowledgement.

“Okay,” Sam says finally, stepping back. Dean drops his hand. “I’ll go put this inside.” 

Fuck. Dean rubs a hand over his face as Sam climbs the stairs and lets the screen door thwap shut behind him. He’s so goddamn tired of this.

“Dean?”

He looks up, his heart shooting into his throat, because— right. Jack. He plasters a weak smile onto his face, turning to face him. “Hey,” he manages, apprehension fluttering through his stomach. Here goes nothing. “Listen, Jack…”

The kid is flinging his arms around Dean before he can even finish his sentence. “I missed you,” he says in a small voice, made smaller by the way it’s muffled against Dean’s chest.

 Dean just lets out an embarrassing sound halfway between a sob and a laugh and wraps him up tight in his arms, this child — his child — who’s had to… who’s had to do so much. Jesus, he’s three. He’s three, and they let him be God.

He ducks his head down, pressing his lips to the top of Jack’s head. “Me too, buddy,” he whispers throatily. “Me too.” Then he swallows and screws his courage to the sticking place, summoning up the little speech he’d slapped together while he was waiting for them to get here. “Listen, I— I wanna go on a drive with you,” he starts, quiet and hesitant, nearly tripping over his words. “I’ve got some stuff I need to say. Things I want you to hear. Is that… would you…”

“Yes,” Jack says as he pulls away, smiling cautiously. “I think I have some things I want to say, too. We can take turns.” Then he gets a soft, hopeful look on his face. “Can we get ice cream while we do it?”

Dean… Dean actually laughs. He laughs at that, because it’s so unexpected and innocent and so very, very Jack. He ruffles the kid’s hair with a fondness he feels like he shouldn’t get to have for the little guy. “Yeah, definitely. We’re definitely getting ice cream.”

It’s almost by accident that he locks eyes with Cas, then, and it’s like being injected with liquid nitrogen. Because Cas is standing next to the car, looking at them, and his face—

His face is—

He’s trying to hide it, to draw a curtain across his expression, but the love. For Jack. For Dean. It’s so overwhelmingly real, and there, and Dean—

When Cas finally goes a little pale and uncertain, the negative emotions obscuring the love just enough for Dean to breathe, it’s all he can do not to visibly shudder in— god, he doesn’t even know what. Relief? Shame? Mournful loss? All of the above? He rips his eyes away from Cas and looks back down at Jack, a weak excuse for a smile pulling uncomfortably at his mouth. “Well? You want the grand tour?” 

— - —

They don’t actually end up getting around to their drive that day, and Dean doesn’t know whether to be relieved or twitchy and nervous about it. Charlie and Eileen show up midway through the impromptu tour with Miracle in tow, so that’s the whole rest of the day right out the window. Jack loves Miracle: he plops right down in the entryway, legs crossed like the kid he is, and laughs bright and clear as Miracle licks his face. Cas gets swamped by the girls, and if things were normal between them then Dean would laugh out loud at the mildly overwhelmed look on his face and get a wry raise of an eyebrow in response. As it is, he just averts his eyes and goes to stand next to Jack instead. Stand, because his fuckin’ back means he can’t take a knee to pet his dog and sit with his kid.

He’s terrified that someone’ll give away his injury. That they’ll ask how he’s feeling, or Charlie will want to know if he needs refills on his meds, and then Cas will know. 

Because. Because Dean already went and told Cas how fucked up he was when Cas was gone. He let his big fucking mouth and his temper get the best of him and he— fuck, he told Cas about the nightmares. About the drinking, about the hopelessness, and Cas isn’t stupid. He’s a massive fucking idiot, yeah, but he’s not stupid and he knows Dean. So he’s probably put two and two together and at least suspects that Dean didn’t care too much about living anymore, either.

But he can just imagine the look on Cas’ face if he looks him in the eye and confirms it: that his big sacrifice would’ve been for nothing if that piece of rebar had skewered Dean any other way, and that Dean wouldn’tve been too bothered if it did.

He can’t do that to Cas. Or he won’t. 

Maybe it’s a little of both.

Still, he gets Sam to help him with dinner to prevent him from giving something away via cryptic puppy eyes or general moping. Cas faces mostly away from the kitchen, sitting on the couch with Miracle’s head in his lap while he talks to Jack and the girls, and he and Dean don’t look at each other. They don’t even talk to each other, not really. 

It’s easier like this.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Sam says out of the blue at one point, low and serious. “The longer you leave this, the worse it’s gonna be to tell him. You know that, right?”

“I said dice, not slice,” Dean says levelly. “Those onions are way too big.” Sam sighs, but goes back to his sous-chef duties with nothing more than a furrow in his brow.

How he manages to make vegetable prep pointed, though, Dean has no idea.

There are enough people around that dinner is fine. Dean still doesn’t talk to Cas, and it’s not a huge production: everyone else fills in the gaps where the friendly bickering and useless references would go. Dean just does what he’s been doing a lot lately, and pretends everything is okay.

Funnily enough, though, it’s a lot harder to do that when he can look right at Cas, here at his table. Eating the food Dean made. Laughing softly with Charlie, signing with Eileen.

He eats, too. But it tastes like congealed sludge sliding down his throat, not something he’s made and enjoyed a hundred times before. Is this just how it’s gonna be, now? Everything completely wrong even though it should be goddamn peaches and cream? Cas is back. He’s alive, he’s safe, he’s here. Why the hell can’t that be enough?

Dean still doesn’t have an answer by the time everyone heads out, and he and Cas are left alone in an abruptly empty cabin with nothing to do but be aware of that fact.

He says goodnight and hides in his room for a good three hours before he falls asleep.

— - —

The next morning brings Dean to the cusp of another freak-out, sure he’s just woken up from some sick, prolonged fever dream, but the smell of coffee and the tinny pop music he can hear emanating from the kitchen are just enough to settle him until he’s dressed and dry-swallowed his meds behind his closed door. The thick, chalky feeling of the pills in his throat doesn’t subside when he walks into the kitchen to see Cas at the counter, pouring two mugs of coffee, and it still doesn’t even after they’ve exchanged their too-polite greetings and he’s sipping his drink. He watched Cas add the sugar, this time.

“So,” he says after another stretch of silence. “In the Empty.” 

Which, okay, maybe that wasn’t the best topic to start off with at seven thirty in the morning or the best way to broach it, but it’s sure as hell safer than anything else he and Cas can talk about right now. And… Dean wants to know, perversely, if he and Sam ever got close with all the stuff they researched back at the beginning. He wants to know if they’d dug just a little deeper, if they could’ve found something useful.

He wants to know exactly how badly he failed Cas.

Cas sets down the milk, though, looking at his cereal like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever laid eyes on. His shoulders are stiff. But why—

Oh, crap.

It’s because for Cas, this is Hell. The Empty is Cas’ Hell. Dean still won’t talk or even think about his stint if he can possibly help it, and that was years ago. And he just asked—

God. Every time he thinks he can’t possibly be more of an asshole, he has to go and one-up himself.

“Shit,” he says, “Jesus, Cas, I shouldn’tve— you don’t have to—”

“Dean.” Shut up, he means. 

Miserably, Dean shuts up. Cas takes a deliberate drink of his coffee before setting his mug aside again. “What did you want to know?”

Dean squeezes his hands around his own mug, shifting in his chair. “Just… last time you were, uh, there,” he starts slowly, “You said Jack woke you up. The Empty keeps all it’s inmates under, right? To keep you from breakin’ out?”

“Yes.”

“So why weren’t you off in dreamland this time?” He finishes cautiously, watching Cas’ back the whole time. He doesn’t tense any further, which is good.

He doesn’t relax, either. 

“It tried,” he says, looking out the window. Dean can just see his profile now, the way the sun is shining on him. Cas closes his eyes. “It replayed my worst regrets for me, as it does for the others. But it was only like watching a very depressing movie, not living through it over and over. I managed to stay awake on my own.”

“How?” Dean asks, aiming for neutral. “Jack again?”

Cas doesn’t respond right away. Except— he curls his hands around the edge of the counter, leaning against it for support. Dean frowns.

“It was you,” Cas says softly. “I could feel you thinking about me. Praying.” He pauses, and he doesn’t say it. But he doesn’t have to.

Longing for you, Dean finishes in his head.

“Cas,” he hears himself say. To his horror, he sounds disturbingly like he did in the dungeon that day. He’s got the same tightness in his throat.

“What?” Cas asks, his voice somehow harsh and threatening to break at the same time. “What, Dean? I’m not going to lie if you ask. I told you, I’ve had enough. You know how I— how I feel. Of course knowing you wished I was with you kept me from falling under the Empty’s influence.”

And that, if anything, should be making Dean wig the fuck out: the blatant reference to Cas’— Cas’ love. But it’s not. Because all Dean can think is—

He still doesn’t get it.  

He still thinks, what? That Dean’s “don’t do this” was anything other than “don’t leave me, not now, not again, please god anything but that”? After everything he said?

Except… who’s Dean kidding? Of course that’s what Cas thinks. He’s a goddamn tragic son of a bitch, and Dean hasn’t told him anything that’d convince him otherwise, not in the way he needs.

But he’s…

He’s going to.

It should surprise him, maybe freak him out, how certain he is that he’s going to do this, but it doesn’t. He’s just— he just knows. This is it. This is his later.

Dean opens his mouth, his heart in his throat.

And the sound of a car absolutely ripping down the road outside stops the both of them cold. 

It screeches to a stop out front with an aggressive spray of gravel, and before Dean or Cas have even made it out of the kitchen the front door slams open. Claire stands there, her hair a wild tumble, looking about ready to spit nails.

The three of them just freeze there for a second, staring at each other. Then Claire’s face goes blotchy and red, screwed up as she refuses to let herself cry, and she launches herself at Cas so hard he lets out a huff of air when she collides with him. 

Dean makes an unobtrusive exit to the living room after that. He and Claire haven’t been sympatico in a long time: she’s here for Cas and Cas only.

He very carefully doesn’t think about what almost happened as he walks away.

— - —

Cas and Claire are still in the kitchen and Dean’s still sitting aimlessly on the couch when Sam and Jack arrive. Nodding in that direction at Sam’s questioning eyebrow, Dean says, “Claire.” Sam makes a little ah expression and sits down in one of the chairs before pulling out his phone. And Jack— Jack walks over to sit down beside Dean with a bounce, making the couch creak ominously.

“Can we go on our drive today?” he asks. “And can I drive?”

Dean opens his mouth to say ‘well, I dunno about that…’, but Sam coughs and taps his right foot on the floor. Dean stifles a glower and makes himself change his tune. “Yeah, you can drive. As long as you’re careful.”

Jack nods seriously. “I’ll be very careful, Dean.”

“You’re going out?”

Dean almost gives himself whiplash turning around. Cas is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Claire hovering behind him, and Dean wonders if it’s wishful thinking that she seems a little less like she hates his guts when he meets her eyes. Probably. He hasn’t done anything that would make her despise him less in the last forty-eight hours.

“Yeah,” he says. “Jack and I. We’ll be back, uh, after lunch?”

“Yes,” Jack confirms with a confident nod.

Cas seems to deflate, somehow, even though he looks happy for Jack. “Well, that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Dean says again. It makes Cas look at him, and then they’re stuck like that for a minute. Claire mutters something Dean knows he’d resent if he could hear it.

Then Jack stands up, and Dean follows his lead, and there’s a babble of Sam and Jack and Cas all talking at once as Dean gets his boots on post-haste.

He lets out a small, tight breath as he closes the passenger door of the Impala behind him, sealing himself into the car. Jack gets into the driver’s seat and smiles at him. “Okay. Where should we go?”

Dean shoves the keys into his hands. “Just drive, Jack.”

Jack does.

— - —

The sky goes on forever, out here.

It’s something about Kansas specifically and the Midwest at large that Dean goes through cycles of loving and hating in equal measure: sometimes, having the endless fields and bright, open sky ahead of him feels like freedom. Like he doesn’t have to worry about a thing. How could he, when he’s so small and the world is so big? He’s no different from anyone else that rolls down these roads. He’s just as insignificant as every other drifter that makes their aimless way through these states, and there’s a reassurance in that. A peace.

Other times, it just makes him desperately, achingly lonely.

Right now he’d probably be predisposed to the latter, but Jack is sitting next to him and nodding his head along to the pop station he’s got the radio tuned to. The overwhelming excitement that’s been radiating from him since he got back has subsided, a little, and he’s more like the kid Dean remembers from before they shanked God.

Dean’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. That kid was sad and confused and dealing with shit no kid should ever have to, most of the time. And a fair bit of that shit was directly Dean’s fault.

“Do you want to go first, or should I?”

Dean blinks, tearing his eyes from the horizon and looking over at Jack. “Huh?”

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but his chin is angled slightly towards Dean. “You said you wanted to say things, and I want to too. Would you like me to start?”

“Uh…” Dean scrambles to get with the program, shifting in his seat. He thinks about listening to whatever the kid has to say. Thinks about how it’s probably going to make him fuckin’ cry, because he’s a leaky goddamn faucet these days. He swallows. “Nah. I, uh. I think I should go first, so you can… so you can decide if you wanna say anything once I’m done.”

“Okay,” Jack chirps. Then he just— he waits. In expectant silence.

Dean closes his eyes. “Okay. Uh, just… just gimme a sec.”

Jack doesn’t comment, just keeps on driving and lets Dean struggle in the passenger seat. Dean almost wishes the kid would hate him and not want to have anything to do with him. It’d definitely be better for him, and a lot less nerve-wracking for Dean.

Okay, no. He doesn’t wish that. He does think Jack would be better off as far away from him as he can get, though.

“So,” he finally starts. Jack reaches out and turns down the radio. Dean stares at the dash.

For a long moment, the only sound is the engine around them and the wheels flying over the pavement. Then Dean takes a breath. “Jack. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Jack blinks. He looks like he’s about to say something, so Dean hurries on. “I know that’s— it’s not enough. The things I did to you— what I said—” His mouth snaps shut for a moment as the memories slam into him. “They’re not going away. But I guess— I mean, you deserve the apology. I am— sorry. I’m so sorry. I’d undo it if I could, Jack, in a heartbeat. You didn’t deserve any of the shit I put on you.” Dean sighs. “I get it if you’re mad at me. You probably should be, honestly. Just don’t feel like you need to hang out with me for… for Cas, or something. If you don’t actually wanna see me anymore, I’d get it.”

All is still and silent for a minute. Dean looks back out the windshield. 

Well. That was a start, at least. Only several million apologies left to go.

Then Jack wriggles a little in his seat, a little-kid mannerism that reminds Dean violently of Sam back when he was small. “That’s not what I want. But thank you for the apology.”

“It’s the bare minimum, kid. Don’t— don’t thank me for that.”

When Dean next chances a look over at Jack he’s frowning a little, a thoughtful crease in his forehead. He doesn’t say anything, though; too lost in his thoughts, maybe. So Dean leaves him to it.

He stays quiet and pensive all the way up until they’re perched on the Impala’s hood, the greasy garbage from a couple hotdogs scattered beside them while they eat their ice cream. Chocolate and vanilla twisty cone for Dean, fudge sundae with sprinkles for Jack. 

Dean watches Jack take a considering, appreciative bite of his sundae. It makes him smile a little. Then Jack turns to Dean with chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth, and says, “A lot of what you did to me was because of Chuck.”

Dean goes simultaneously hot and cold, and only just manages to hold onto his ice cream cone. “That—” he starts, his stomach rolling. “That doesn’t excuse it.”

Cool. They’re— well, shit, looks like they’re doing this now.

“No,” Jack acquiesces. “But I’ve seen the echoes of Chuck’s changes, the ways he altered your lives when you started to do things he didn’t like. And the good things I remember— those were you. Chuck didn’t make you teach me to drive. He didn’t make you watch Disney movies with me. He didn’t make you bake my birthday cake.”

Dean stares at Jack. “But… after you were born, kid, and when mom… you can’t tell me that wasn’t me. I was…”

“Grieving. And I forgive you.” Jack smiles softly. “I think we’ll be okay without Chuck controlling us. I want to be okay.” His smile fades a little, his gaze drifting away. Suddenly it’s very, very deep, and very, very old, and Dean is forcibly reminded that even though Jack is half human, he’s also more than… more than Dean can ever comprehend. “Being God was… lonely. I missed all of you very much. I don’t want to be lonely anymore.”

“You don’t gotta be,” Dean croaks, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You don’t. If you— if you want me here, then I’ll be here. However, whenever you need me.”

Because— fuck, Dean still doesn’t know if he can do this. His failures go marching by behind his eyes, trying their best to crush him down small and afraid and make him push Jack away. But god help him, he—

He wants to do this. He wants to be there for Jack. He wants to make up for the shitty run of it he’s had so far, for the childhood he was robbed of— that Dean and Sam were robbed of, that most hunter’s kids are robbed of. He wants—

He wants Jack to be happy. And if that means doing his fumbling, feeble best at— at being a dad, then. Well, he’s gonna fucking do it.

“We’re your family,” he says, because that’s the best he can do, the best he can offer. The best he’s ever been able to offer. “I’m your family. And I wanna make it up to you.”

Jack smiles, and it makes something big and scary and warm swell in Dean’s chest. “I want that too, Dean. I like that you’re my dad.” Then he blinks, looking down. “Uh oh. Your ice cream.”

He laughs as Dean swears and frantically licks up the melty mess he’s got on his hands. And that’s—

That’s it.

They lanced the boil. They did it, and now they’re… 

Fine. 

Okay, maybe not fine. Not yet. But it sure feels like they are. Or maybe just that they’re going to be. Dean’s… strangely light.

Jack smiles and offers him a bite of his sundae. And Dean accepts the spoon with a small, cautious grin.

— - —

Claire is leaning against her car when they get back.

By the way she’s staring them down as they approach, her arms crossed, Dean knows with a sinking feeling that she’s waiting for him. Jack pulls the car to a smooth stop in front of the cabin and pops out with a grin already blooming on his face. “Hello, Claire!”

She thaws enough to give him a small smile. “Hi, Jack. Good to see you.” It fades as Dean gets out of the car, though, and that… that hurts. It’s not like they were best buds or anything before all this, but they were… 

Claire used to call him sometimes. Text him. Just to insult him and get some advice in a roundabout way, because they got each other, in spite of everything. And Dean would try not to freak out and do the best he could to help and maybe recommend a movie or a band. And she’d groan and tell him he was lame or just straight-up not reply, and then the next time they talked she’d drop a reference to it like it was nothing.

He misses it.

“I didn’t tell him about your little near-death experience,” she says as Dean walks up, and he only falters a little. Her face is hard. “I wanted to. But that would’ve been too easy for you, so.”

“Thanks,” Dean manages quietly after a minute. He rubs his neck. “Claire—”

“No,” she says sharply, crossing her arms tighter. “I don’t wanna hear it. Stop being a coward and then maybe I’ll listen.”

Dean drops his hand, stung. “Hey, you— listen, if you hadn’t busted in when you did—”

“He thinks you’re tolerating him.” 

Dean’s mouth snaps shut.

“Just so you know,” Claire adds, glaring at him. “Or at least, I think he does. He’s really confused.”

There are a couple of things that Dean could try and say to that. They’re all watered-down platitudes.

“I’m not,” he goes with eventually. “I’m— fuck. I’m trying, okay? Claire, you don’t…” He huffs. “Believe me or don’t. But I promise, I’m trying. I am.”

She looks at him for a long time. He tries his best not to drop her gaze.

“Try harder.” And with that, she turns towards Jack and forces a small grin onto her face. “Alright. Get over here already, Jack, I know you want to.”

And in this way, Dean is summarily dismissed in favour of the three year old who’s a good few inches taller than Claire. She rolls her eyes a little when he hugs her, already talking her ear off about the new phone Sam got him last night. 

But she hugs him back just as tightly.

— - —

Claire talks to Dean. He flinches slightly, his shoulders tensing under his jacket. Jack turns around, looking towards the cabin, and waves.

Cas waves back from his spot in the window.

Claire must call Jack over then, because he turns away and steps in close to give her a hug. Dean stands apart, putting his hands in his pockets, and the smile that had crossed Cas’ face when Jack looked back at him fades.

There’s something he’s not being told. That much he knows. No one is lying to him, not outright, but there’s something carefully vague in their answers whenever Cas asks about what happened in his… absence. They’re avoiding something. And Cas has the distinct feeling that Dean is at the centre of it.

He wishes that was unexpected.

He runs a hand over his eyes. Having his feelings out in the open… he doesn’t know how he feels. It’s wonderful. It’s a relief. It’s terrifying. It’s awful, when Dean stutters in embarrassment or can’t meet Cas’ eyes or says it doesn’t make him uncomfortable when it clearly does. The night Cas got here, when Dean had hugged him and then punched him and then yelled himself hoarse telling Cas that he— that he mattered, for a moment he’d thought— well, he’d thought—

Cas sighs. He’d thought, briefly and stupidly, that Dean was about to tell him his feelings were reciprocated. 

Like he said. Stupid.

He promised he wouldn’t leave. He doesn’t want to, never again. But after he finds out what it is Dean’s hiding from him, he—

It might be better for both of them if he did leave, for a while. Not far, just… far enough. He’ll give Dean the option, at least. It’s just… 

Maybe some space will let him get his feelings under control, will let him mute them until they don’t make Dean shy away from him anymore. He’s satisfied with whatever Dean can give him, and what Dean can give him is friendship. That’s been enough for years, and it will continue to be enough. That’s no lie.

The problem now, though, is that Cas can’t deny that if more were on the table, he wouldn’t immediately fall to his knees and accept it like communion bread. Like holy wine. That he wouldn’t willingly immolate himself at the altar of Dean Winchester at a mere suggestion, at a word. Dean understands that, now, in a way he didn’t before. And there’s no taking it back.

That was the price of saving Dean’s life, though. And no matter how difficult it makes things now that he has to live with it, as Dean so aptly pointed out, it’s a price Cas wouldn’t hesitate to pay again. And again. And again.

Such is sacrifice.

Such is love.

He watches Dean turn away from Claire and Jack and start walking back towards the cabin. He sees when Dean catches sight of him in the window, and he also sees the split second of trepidation, borderline fear, before Dean averts his eyes.

Cas breathes.

It’s time to ask some questions.

Chapter Text

“I mean, sometimes remembering can really destroy you.”

      — Benjamin Alire Sáenz

People seek refuge from sorrows

Submerged in the grief of my beloved, I smile.

And if life is repeated a thousand times

Still you, you, and again, you.

      — Forough Farrokhzad

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

(…)

Lying on the couch with my eyes closed, I didn’t want to see it this way,

everything eating everything in the end.

We know how the light works, 

we know where the sound is coming from.

Verse. Chorus. Verse.

I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.

      — Richard Siken, excerpt from “Crush”

— - —

Six months ago

Castiel is still crying when he is disgorged into the Empty.

The slick, oily sludge snaps away, sending him stumbling into the nothingness before him, and his face is wet with tears. Whispery, hissing laughter echoes around him. He draws himself up, staring defiantly into the darkness, his heart laid bare. 

He’s still crying, yes. But he’s still smiling, too.

“Dean Winchester is saved,” he says, without even meaning to. He rejoices. He despairs.

Aw, the Empty croons. Cute. 

It doesn’t manifest wearing the face of a friend, and it hasn’t stolen anyone’s voice: the wet burble that clumsily forms itself into human words just flows around Cas, coming from every direction at once. 

But that doesn’t matter, it murmurs in smug satisfaction. Our deal is fulfilled.

It’s weak. Jack’s soul bomb must have injured it more than Cas thought if it can’t even manage to taunt him. He doesn’t mind, though. Seeing Meg’s likeness puppeted by this entity was… painful.

“It is,” he says, his voice cracked and achy from tears. The Empty’s satisfaction laps up against Cas at the admission, and he clenches his hands, disgusted by this… this thing that has taken him from his family.

But…

He was the one who woke it up in the first place. 

He was the one that antagonized it into spitting him out. 

And he was the one who pleaded for the deal when Jack— when Jack was—

So. Selfish as it was, at least he did something admirable with it in the end.

“What will you do?” He asks, looking around. The darkness seems to be thickening around him, closing in. 

To you? The Empty burrs an alien laugh, curling around Cas’ ankles like the coils of a python and starting to climb up his legs. You, Castiel, are going to sleep forever. I’ve had enough of your meddling: you’ll pass into your memories, and then I’ll take care of the others. You won’t trouble me anymore.

The blackness has reached his waist now, but Cas squints in confusion. “The others? You mean…” Oh. His eyes blow wide, and a tiny grin reaches his lips. “He woke them up, didn’t he? Jack.”

The Empty’s anger is sudden and palpable, and Cas wheezes as it constricts around his chest, the glossy ooze going pebbly and disrupted with rage. Don’t say that little abomination’s name. They’ll all sleep, and so will you. And then, once you’re all back under…

Somehow, the darkness grins. Well. Then I’ll get to rest, too. Goodnight, Castiel.

Cas chokes on nothing as the void pours into his mouth, as a closer, more permanent blackness closes over his vision.

And the Empty drags him down, down, down.

— - —

Castiel opens his eyes. 

Confused, he sits up, looking around to find—

Black above him. Black in front of him. Black below him. Black, black, black.

Ah. Yes.

This doesn’t make sense, though. He shouldn’t— how is he aware of this? The Empty drowned him, he should be… he should be immersed in a nightmare. He should be mourning what he lost. (He might never have had Dean’s love, so he doesn’t— can’t— mourn that, but he had… he had his friendship. Sam’s friendship. Jack. Jack, and Claire, and—)

Instead, here he sits. Alone and lucid, with eternity stretching out before him.

And he is very suddenly and very acutely afraid.

— - —

Cas.

Cas’ head jerks up from between his bent knees at the faint sound of his name, but of course there’s nothing to see. That— what was that? Has the Empty finally mustered a torment? Is he just hearing things? He doesn’t— he doesn’t know how long he’s been here. It doesn’t feel like long, but that means nothing. 

Maybe it’s been weeks. Maybe it’s been years.

Maybe it’s been eons.

Maybe Dean is— maybe he’s d—

Cas. Cas, please.

Cas is on his feet in a split second, tense and ready, before he remembers there’s nowhere to go.

It— that was Dean. It was barely audible, and not so much words as feelings, but—

He would recognize the shape of Dean’s soul anywhere.

Please. Just come back.

The soul-voice wavers at the end of the thought, breaking with emotion, and Cas can’t breathe. He can’t— because, because he wants to, oh, how he wants to, but he’s stuck—

With a stutter of something reminiscent of television static, a room shivers into being around him. Everything is a strange sort of washed-out, the textures are all wrong, and the very pregnant Kelly he’s suddenly confronted with has nothing behind her eyes. She’s— it’s blank. A shell, no trace of life in it at all.

The sight of her, one limp hand resting protectively on her swollen belly, still yanks painfully at his heart.

“Cas,” she says in a disturbing monotone. “Were they telling the truth? Am I really…” She swallows mechanically. “Am I really going to die?”

Startled, he blinks at her: he remembers this conversation, remembers the shine in her eyes and the minute tremble of her voice that are conspicuously absent now. And he remembers his response: “I’m going to look for a way to make sure that won’t happen.” He’d tried to be as gentle as he could, even though once he started he’d quickly realized that it was a fool’s errand. Kelly simply wouldn’t survive Jack’s birth, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He doesn’t say anything this time, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides as he struggles to stay focused on the distant echo of Dean’s grief. The puppet in front of him doesn’t seem to notice. “Thank you,” it says. 

“Dean?” Cas calls out, projecting with everything he has. Maybe— maybe he can get Dean to hear him. He might not believe it’s really Cas; he doesn’t— he doesn’t sound like he’s doing very well, and he’s always been quick to jump to the worst possible conclusion. 

But there’s a chance.

“Cas,” fake-Kelly says again. “Were they telling the truth?”

Cas ignores her. “Dean?” He tries again, turning away and walking up to the grainy wall of the nondescript motel room the Empty’s created. He presses both hands against it, pushing, and though it goes spongy under his palms, bowing outwards with an odd, fizzing crackle, he can’t break through. He grimaces, pushing harder. “Dean, I’m here. I can hear you. Dean!”

Cas, comes the voice again, and Cas’ heart leaps.

Why’d you have t’— fuck you. Fuck you, you stupid son of a bitch. I never asked you to— you left me. Why’d you leave me? Come back, asshole. Come back.

His heart plummets back to where it was before, and he swallows back a raw sob. “I’m here,” he pleads, calling out with all the guttering Grace he still has sheltered in his core. “I can hear you. I can— I’m sorry. Dean. I didn’t want— I’m here.”

“Thank you,” Kelly says. Cas spares the shell of her a look. She’s still staring at the empty spot where he was standing.

Cas, Dean’s soul whispers brokenly. Cas.

Cas punches the wall. 

It wobbles and springs back into place.

— - —  

Castiel thinks that the worst part of all this is that he’s not actually dead.

He was— see, it was like this: in some morbid way, he’d taken a little comfort from the idea that he wouldn’t really be aware once the Empty came for him. However much it would hurt when it happened, it would be an end of sorts. He vaguely remembers a greyish sort of haze from before Jack called to him last time, a kind of disturbed doze that left everything he’d known faraway and muted. It hadn’t been peaceful, but at least it was its own kind of nothingness. Its own kind of oblivion.

He’s not dozing now.

He wishes he was.

— - —

“Well, this is quite the pickle you’ve gotten yourself into, isn’t it.”

Cas doesn’t even bother opening his eyes. He’s sitting on the ground, leaning back against a too-smooth facsimile of the Impala’s wheel well as he ignores the shade-Samandriel that slumps against the car next to him, gurgling robotically as it’s gutted by an invisible blade. The car shivers behind him, transitioning to oddly slick motel wallpaper before flicking back to metal. 

The Empty’s representations of his regrets are shoddy at best— they run on a loop, like a skipping record, until the void can pull itself together enough to switch the scene to something else. Glitches are common: the car slipping into some other background scenery, shades freezing in place while their voices float bodilessly on ahead, the fact that none of them can actually interact with Cas. So it’s no surprise to Cas that Balthazar is making a guest appearance in this scene even though he was already long dead at this point.

Dean’s wordless desolation, usually a faint background hum, swells for a fleeting moment, breaking through the Empty’s patchwork defenses. Cas can almost taste it. He presses his head harder back against the car, trying not to cry. 

After all this time, you’d think he’d have cried all the tears he has in him.That he’d have run out.

His mouth trembles.

“Hellooo. Anyone home? Earth to Cassie. You literally stabbed me in the back, mate, the least you can do is give me the time of day.”

That. 

That doesn’t sound like a shade.

Cas opens his eyes, blinking owlishly at the slightly fuzzy brightness of the sky, and frowns. There’s… no one there.

Oh, delightful. He’s finally started to lose his mind.

“Oi, over here. Dear Dad, you’ve obviously been slumming it with those two flannel oafs for a bit too long. Here, you great stupid feather duster.”

Cas sighs, dragging himself to his feet and looking towards the direction the voice seems to be emanating from. “I’m surprised you have the energy for this,” he says to the rubbery trees lining the road. “But it’s not working. So if you could stop playing your little mind games and put me to sleep properly, I’d appreciate it,” he finishes, a little snippily. He’s had enough of this. He just wants it to be over.

“You— you think I’m the Empty?” The voice says, aghast. “You think I’m the Empty. Do you know how insulting that is? You— oh, sod it. Over— here.”

And a hand pops out from the trees.

Cas blinks. The hand waves at him.

Something important slips out of place inside him and he sways slightly on his feet. “…Balthazar?” He asks cautiously, his stomach twisting itself into knots. The hand beckons him impatiently, and Cas braces a hand on the trunk of the car.

“Yes, me,” the voice— Balthazar sighs. “Keep up, little brother. I don’t remember you being this dense. Stubborn, yes; more than a little blind when it comes to a certain hunky American man-child, yes; but never this—”

Cas misses the rest of whatever Balthazar was saying. He’s too busy lunging for the hand and grabbing ahold of it with both of his.

Balthazar’s hand closes on Cas’ like a vise and yanks him forward into the trees, but instead of stumbling into soupy shade and tripping over blocky leaves he hits… well, there’s nothing there. But it feels like a wet, slimy membrane, and Cas can’t breathe for a long moment, his face pressed into it. Then, with a disgusting tearing sound, he breaks through into blackness and hears the sloppy snick of the membrane snapping shut behind him.

He blinks, still holding onto the hand, and his mouth drops open.

Balthazar raises a slightly amused eyebrow. “Still think I’m the Empty now?”

Cas drops like a stone, his knees hitting the not-ground, still clasping Balthazar’s hand in both of his. “Balthazar,” he manages, his throat tight, and his eyes blur with tears. “I’m— I’m so sorry— you were only trying to protect me, and I—”

“Eurgh,” Balthazar says, hauling Cas to his feet. “Enough of that. You’re leaking, it’s terribly embarrassing.” Awkwardly, he pats Cas’ hands. “But, erm. It’s all forgiven. Really. I might even go so far as to say it’s my own fault: working with the Winchesters has never turned out well for anyone. I should’ve been smarter.”

Cas pulls him into a tight hug, not trusting himself to speak. Balthazar sighs again. 

(Still. He does return it.)

“But— how?” Cas asks once he breaks away, baffled. “How did you find me?”

Balthazar slings an arm around his shoulders and starts off in a direction that looks no different from any of the others, tugging Cas along. “Now, that was pure luck. We’ve been poking around for you in various dusty corners since we woke up, but we’ve had to deal with some of the other trouble-makers down here, and that was no cakewalk. Was nice to stretch my wings, though, if you’ll pardon the phrase.”

Cas stops, looking up into the face of the other angel’s lanky vessel. “Lucifer?” He asks quietly, fear sitting cold in his stomach. 

“Nah, the lazy bastard’s been asleep the whole time,” Balthazar says lightly, dropping his arm from Cas’ shoulders. He’s tense with careful relief. “He got himself resurrected briefly, but Michael and your little tyke really did a number on him. He’s into his terrible twos now, isn’t he?”

“He’s three,” Cas corrects absently as they start walking again. “And you said… ‘we’?”

“Little terror,” Balthazar says fondly. “Can’t wait to meet him. But yes. There’s me, of course, and Gabriel as well. Michael’s still a tad groggy, but in a wildly unexpected turn of events he’s not a complete arse anymore. I truly can’t believe I’m saying this, but it seems like he actually wants to save the world now.” He waves a hand. “Those are the important people. Then we’ve got an assortment of other angels and even a few demons who meet the extremely important criteria of both being interested in getting out of this hellhole and not likely to cause too much trouble once they’re back on terra firma. I think you know Meg and Crowley? She’s got a tongue like barbed wire and he’s a slimy little bastard, but I confess, I do like them. And there’s a principality called Hannah who goes all moon-eyed whenever we mention you.”

“Ah,” Cas manages. “Yes. We— we knew each other.”

How… how is he supposed to respond to any of this? To all of it? There— Michael and Meg and Gabriel are out there, maybe even— maybe even Samandriel, the real one, not that soulless shade, and— 

And they’ve been looking for him. Even after all he’s done, after all his mistakes. They—

They wanted to find him.

Balthazar quirks an eyebrow. “Biblically, I hope?”

“No,” Cas says firmly. Ignoring the overdramatic groan that results from that, he blinks up at the other angel and sets his jaw. “But— please. Take me to them. I want to help.”

Balthazar grins, setting one hand companionably on Cas’ shoulder. “It would be my dearest pleasure, brother.” 

Then he winks. “I hope you’re ready for the family reunion.”

— - —

Wings shuffle around him, unseen, and Cas barely knows which way to look first. There’s Meg, there— that’s Gadreel, and Anna, and—

“Ay! Look who it is!”

“Gabriel,” Cas breathes, turning just in time for Gabriel to pull him into a crushing, enthusiastic hug. “You— you’re all here.”

“‘Course, bro,” Gabriel says cheerfully, pulling back to hold Cas by the shoulders. “Where’d you think we were, Vegas? But we won’t be stickin’ around for much longer now that you’ve joined the party. We’ve got a game plan, baby.” He taps the centre of Cas’ chest, his lips quirked into a cryptic smile. “And you’re the star player.”

“Ah,” Cas says, grinning wryly in spite of himself. “Of course. Why am I not surprised?”

But before Gabriel can respond, another familiar voice emanates from behind Cas. 

“So.”

Familiar? Yes. Welcome?

Definitely not.

Cas lets go of Gabriel and turns around to level a glare at Crowley, his shoulders tensing. Crowley smirks. “Look who it is. Sacrificed ourselves again, have we?”

“Crowley,” Cas says icily. He hopes his dislike is being adequately conveyed.

The demon waggles his fingers at Cas in a prissy little wave. “Hello, ducky. How’s our favourite Winchester?”

Then his lip curls, and Cas knows it’s going to be bad. Whatever he’s about to say is truly awful. He’s probably been mulling it over ever since he woke up, what terrible thing he’d say to Cas once they found him. He’s a planner, and he’s cruel. He’s been looking forward to this.

However, it’s difficult to say anything when someone’s fist is colliding with your face. Which is the position Crowley finds himself in before he can even open his mouth again.

Gabriel whoops in delight, and Cas allows himself a small, savage grin, his knuckles smarting. “Very well, thank you.”

And it doesn’t even matter that it’s a lie.

— - —

Something is wrong.

Well, there are lots of things wrong. Cas is still stuck here. Crowley is still just as much of a smug, smarmy ass as he’s always been. Few of Cas’ siblings want anything to do with him.

But most concerning of all, Dean is happy.

Or— maybe “relieved” is a better word. But not in a pure, sweet way. In a brittle, too-wide grin sort of way.

No matter how Cas quantifies it, it’s still incredibly disturbing. It was so sudden: it came out of nowhere, only— a few minutes ago? Cas can’t know for certain: he can’t keep track of time here. But after so long sensing only the faint, melancholic whispers of a man in pain— a despairing, grieving man— this distant buzz of frenetic, euphoric brightness is…

Well. It’s making Cas stare up into the darkness, like if he tries hard enough he’ll be able to see what’s wrong. See past the veil of the worlds and know what’s happening. He’s had no luck, so far. He frowns harder and wishes, a little, that there was someone left for him to pray to.

“Damn, sweet cheeks. Somethin’ eatin’ you?” 

Cas looks over as Meg sidles up, trying to hide his concern with a small smile. “Oh. Nothing, really.”

She quirks an eyebrow and elbows him, hard. “Liar.”

He feels his smile turn slightly more genuine before fading away. “Well,” he amends, looking back out into the dark, “I’m just… I’m worried for them.” Without quite knowing why, he retreats to a safer subject. “Jack, my son, he’s… we didn’t really have a plan, before I…”

“Died?” Meg supplies helpfully. Cas sighs.

“Yes. I’m just… worried. That’s all.”

“Mm,” Meg hums. It’s not a convinced hum. “So… you standin’ out here all by your lonesome isn’t because you’re pining over a guy who couldn’t get his knees to touch if he tried?” She tilts her head. “Huh. That actually explains a lot, though.”

“Meg,” Cas warns, giving her a look. 

Her lips twitch. “Hey,” she says, shrugging. “Demon. Part of the job, hot wings.” She elbows him again. “But am I wrong? About the first part, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I won’t impugn his honour too much.”

He can barely feel Dean, right now. The light of his soul is fainter than it’s ever been.

“I told him I loved him,” he says softly. 

Meg is silent.

“I had a deal with the Empty, and that was how I activated it,” Cas explains. “I made it to save Jack, to— to bring him back. And I paid up my end to save Dean. Death had gone mad, or maybe Chuck was controlling her, somehow. But she would’ve killed him if I hadn’t summoned the Empty, and I couldn’t—”

He swallows. “I couldn’t let him die.”

Meg doesn’t so much as poke him this time. 

“You Winchesters and your damn deals,” she grumbles after a moment. “But c’mon, there’s no way that’s all it took, Clarence. So you love him, whoop-dee-doo. Everyone and their mother knew that. Everyone except your apple-pie idiot knew it. It’s not exactly breaking news.”

Cas breathes for a few seconds. “No. That wasn’t quite it. The deal was that the Empty would collect me the moment I felt true happiness. So I— I told Dean what I’ve always wanted to. And it worked.”

“Did he at least say it back?” She asks, and she sounds like she already knows the answer.

Cas manages to shake his head.

“If I ever see that jackass again,” Meg says pleasantly after a deliberate pause, “I’m gonna punch him right in his stupid, symmetrical face. You need a better boyfriend.”

Cas smiles sadly. “There isn’t one. So please try to refrain from assaulting him.”

“Ugh,” she groans, leaning into his side in a way that belies her words. “And I know you actually believe that, too. You’re unbearable.”

“I know,” he says, still staring out into the dark. He closes his eyes, focusing on the ghostly hum of Dean’s soul, somewhere far beyond his reach. “But I don’t think I’d have it any other way.”

— - —

Samandriel is sitting with Cas when Michael and Gabriel walk up, and Cas looks expectantly to the two archangels as the two of them get to their feet. “It’s time?”

“Yes,” says Michael gravely. “You felt it too?”

Cas thinks of the strange, questioning note that passed through the very fabric of the Empty just a few moments ago, a plucked string resonating in everything. It felt distinctly like Jack. “I did,” he says softly.

“Good. Everyone is prepared. We should commence.”

“I just hope his dad voice isn’t rusty,” Gabriel quips. “There’re juuuust a couple more dimensions to project through than when you’re yelling from the kitchen to the squirt’s bedroom. You really think he’ll be able to hear you?”

Cas smiles a little. “He’s already listening.”

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Samandriel says encouragingly, resting a hand on Cas’ shoulder for a moment. Then he walks off towards the ranks of angels and demons waiting for the signal. The angels and demons who, for the most part, pretend Cas doesn’t exist.

Hannah must see him looking and waves, Gadreel close at her side. Meg and Balthazar both cheerfully flip him off. Anna gives him a solemn nod.

“Alright,” Cas says. And for the first time since Michael and Gabriel explained the plan to him, meant to return them all to life…

He considers the possibility— one that is suddenly, jarringly real—  that they might actually succeed.

It terrifies him.

He straightens his coat. “Let’s go.”

— - —

Cas coughs and retches, curled on his side. Damp grass tickles his cheek. A faint breeze ruffles his hair.

It’s sunny.

“Dad!” Jack’s voice is loud and panicky, his hand tight on Cas’ shoulder. “Dad, I’m sorry— it took so long to find you and I couldn’t stop it from happening, but I can— I can fix it, it’s okay, I’ll just—

“Wait,” Cas rasps, flailing one hand out until it hits Jack’s knee. Jack’s free hand clasps it, hard, holding on for dear life. “I’m okay. Just… just give me a minute. I’ll be okay.”

Jack is silent as Cas tries to remember how to breathe, as the dazzling brightness of the world slowly fades to a more normal glow. He aches all over: his muscles, his head, his eyes. Gall rises in his throat once or twice, and he has to choke it back down. It feels like his insides were inexpertly scooped out, run through a blender, and then poured back in.

And, of course, he’s crying again. 

But this time they’re tears of joy.

“Jack,” he says eventually, “help me up. Please.”

It’s inevitable that they fall into a proper embrace almost as soon as he’s on his own two feet again, so there he stands: on shaky legs, in a warm, green place, with his son in his arms. And he realizes something, in a distant, shocked sort of way:

There are many kinds of happiness he has never experienced. And some of them very much do reside in the having.

Jack’s shoulders are trembling, and Cas nearly pulls back in concern. But then the first giggle trickles out from where Jack’s cheek is pressed to his chest, and he is filled with wonder all over again.

They stand there, together, and laugh.

— - —

“What… what do you mean?”

Cas looks away from the road for a moment to take another look at Jack. He glows, slightly, in some way just beyond reason or explanation. Cas supposes that’s what happens when you’re a three-year-old who took on the powers of the Almighty, though. “I mean I don’t want it back.”

Jack frowns at him. “But— you did before. You wanted your Grace back and you wanted us to be safe. That was your paradise. And I can give it to you now. I know I can.”

“I believe you,” Cas says placatingly, smiling at Jack. The car they’re in, the one that appeared somewhat implausibly at the edge of the clearing Jack brought him back to, bumps over a pothole, and Cas feels the vibration travel up through the wheels and the frame to make the steering wheel rattle under his hands. “But… I’ve changed. And it’s because of my humanity that I’ve changed at all. I know you understand how much there is to love about this world.”

Jack is quiet for a moment. “...yes,” he says slowly. “But...”

“I’m not very popular in Heaven,” Cas says lightly, “for good reason. But I like Earth, and I like humans. Choosing to be one isn’t a downgrade by any means, Jack.” He smiles at Jack again. “And I miss peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They just don’t taste the same when you’re an angel.”

Jack smiles back. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Cas says confidently. And he means it.

“In one point five miles, turn right onto county road forty-two,” comes the tinny GPS voice from the phone they found on the passenger seat, breaking the content silence. 

“Where are we going, anyways?” Cas asks, sparing the phone a slightly perplexed look before focusing back on the road. “You never said.”

“Oh!” Jack says, perking up. “We’re going to see Sam and Dean. I haven’t been able to talk to them, but Sam prayed to me a lot. They missed me, and they missed you too. I thought we could surprise them!”

Cas’ first instinct is to slam his foot down on the brake, wheel the car around, and speed off in the opposite direction.

The most he lets himself do is pull off to the side of the road.

“Jack…” he starts carefully, “I don’t know if that’s… I don’t know if that’s the best idea.” His hands are tight on the wheel; he stares straight ahead.

“Why?” Jack asks, tilting his head. “They missed you so much. Don’t you want to see them?”

“Of course I do,” Cas whispers. “I— there’s nothing more that I want.”

Jack looks so terribly confused. “Then why don’t you want to go?”

Cas breathes, flexing his fingers on the wheel. “Before…” he starts, his voice thick. “Before I— died, uh. I said some things to Dean. Because I thought I’d never see him again.” Cas swallows, looking over at Jack. “I— I told him that I love him. And I don’t know how he feels about that.”

Jack, however, doesn’t look any less confused. In fact, he actually looks more confused than before. “He… didn’t know?”

Cas laughs, and even he can hear the slightly hysterical edge to it. “No. He didn’t.”

Jack just looks at him, his brow furrowed. “But he loves you too.”

“Not in the same way,” Cas manages, trying to keep his voice gentle. “He’s my friend, Jack. My best friend. He loves me like he loves Sam, or Charlie. I love him like…”

“Like Han Solo loves Princess Leia,” Jack offers when Cas doesn’t finish his sentence. “Right?”

Cas does the reasonable thing and takes a moment to rest his forehead on the steering wheel with his eyes closed. “Yes, Jack,” he says eventually. “That’s a good analogy.”

“Thank you!” Jack says happily. “That was the last movie night we had before everything started happening. I’ve been thinking about movie nights a lot lately. And family dinners. Those were fun.”

Cas raises his head back up and they sit there in silence for a moment. Then Jack pokes the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, making it swing back and forth. “Princess Leia loves Han Solo, too. But she’s not very good at showing it sometimes.”

Cas swallows. “Jack, I— I appreciate that. But I’ve known Dean for a very long time. So believe me when I say that I’m sure he doesn’t want the same things I do.”

“…alright,” Jack says, his voice saturated with disbelief. “But they should know you’re alive. They need to know you’re alive.” He turns in his seat to face Cas, his expression so earnest and stubborn that it makes Cas’ heart twinge. It reminds him of Sam. “If I have to believe you about Dean, you have to believe me about this.”

Cas smiles, and it only hurts a little. “I suppose that’s fair.” Suppressing a sigh, he takes his foot off the brake and pulls back out onto the road. “Well. We have a long drive ahead of us. Why don’t you choose some music?”

The radio crackles as Jack fiddles around with the tuning button. “I think there’s a pop channel around here somewhere— oh!” He exclaims delightedly. “Lizzo!”

“—air done, check my nails, baby how you feelin’?”

“Feelin’ good as hell!” Jack crows.

Cas is not feeling good as hell. He’s not feeling good at all, actually: he’s still shaky and nauseous, the prospect of facing Dean again leaves him cold with fear, and in only a few hours it will be night. He isn’t looking forward to the dark.

But…

He’s alive, on Earth. Jack is sitting next to him, happier than Cas has seen him in a very long time. And most of all, his family is safe.

Things could be much, much worse.

— - —

Now

The creak of the door opening is obnoxious in the stillness of the cabin. Dean meets Cas’ eyes for a brief, uncomfortable second before looking away again. “Hey,” he says, frowning at the door as he closes it behind him. “Gotta fix that. Where’s Sam?”

“He went grocery shopping,” Cas says, picking up the mug of tea he’d made himself before Dean and Jack returned and subsequently distracted him. “How was your drive?”

Dean goes slightly stiff as he hangs up his jacket on the hook next to the door, and Cas’ hands tighten on his mug. “It was, uh. Fine.”

“Just fine?” Cas asks. He works very hard to keep his voice neutral and undemanding.

“We worked it out,” Dean admits reluctantly after a tense pause. “The kid, uh. Said what he needed to. So did I.” He hesitates, then turns from the coat rack to brush past Cas for the fridge. “I apologized. Told him he probably shouldn’t accept it, but, uh. He did anyways.”

Cas closes his eyes for a moment. “That’s good. I’m glad.” He looks out the window again then, watching Jack out on the drive, still talking animatedly to Claire. 

The fridge closes, and Dean’s footsteps move towards the hallway.

“Dean.”

The footsteps stop. “Yeah?”

Cas turns around, leaning back against the counter. Dean’s spine is a taut, anxious line. He has a beer clenched in one hand. “We need to talk.”

He waits for Dean to make a joke. To snap at him. To brush him off. To do any of the things he usually does.

Dean is silent.

Cas doesn’t take his statement back. He stands there, watching Dean, and he’s shocked to find that he has no idea if Dean is going to ignore or acknowledge him.

If he acknowledges Cas, then… well, Cas supposes he’ll start asking the many questions he has. If he ignores him…

If he ignores him, Claire had said that Jody and Donna and Kaia wanted to see him. Maybe he will gather a few things and get into Claire’s car with her when she leaves.

“‘Bout what?”

Cas blinks, and it takes him a moment to register that. The strained breath Dean let out, the defeated slump of his shoulders, and the words that followed those two things. Carefully, he sets his mug down next to him on the counter.

“About whatever it is you’re not telling me,” he says. “You and everyone else. I’ve noticed.”

Dean sighs, turning around and putting his beer down. “‘Course you have.” He crosses his arms. “It’s, uh. It’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well. Maybe I don’t want you to know. Maybe I’ve got my reasons.”

“I don’t care.”

That actually draws a wry, reluctant grin out of Dean. Yeah you do, it says.

It’s true. Cas does.

“Tell me,” he says quietly. “I deserve to know whatever it is.”

It comes out sounding like a demand— like a threat.

Because… it is.

Dean’s grin fades. 

“Fine,” he says eventually, obviously struggling to maintain eye contact. “But you’re not gonna like it, man. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And it’s—” He grimaces. “I can’t… it’s not all comin’ out at once, I’ll tell you that right now. So you’re just gonna have to deal with that.”

“Well,” Cas says after a moment. “I… I owe you that much.”

Dean’s left hand clenches and releases, just once. “No,” he manages, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “You don’t… you don’t owe me a goddamn thing. You really, really don’t, Cas.”

“Why?”

Dean closes his eyes. “We’ll get to that.”

Cas looks at him, standing there in the kitchen. He’s beautiful. He always has been and he always will be, to Cas. But… it doesn’t look like he’s shaved for the past few days, at least: there’s a definite shadow of scruff on his cheeks, more than he usually has. There are bruise-coloured bags smeared under his eyes. There’s a slight leanness, a haggardness, to his face that Cas doesn’t like at all. 

And he looks… older, somehow. Not because of any of those other things, but because of something else. A kind of tiredness that seems to be suffusing his entire person.

“Alright,” Cas murmurs. “I believe you.”

Then, hoping with everything in him that he’s guessing right, Cas takes a few slow steps across the floor to close the space between them, watching Dean the whole time. And when Dean doesn’t so much as twitch at his approach, Cas brings up a hesitant hand to rest on his shoulder. 

Dean’s breath hitches, his eyes flying back open. He’s staring determinedly at Cas’ shoulder, his brow creased and his mouth a severe line.

Cas just keeps looking at him.

It’s a long time before Dean finally reaches up and curls his fingers around Cas’ wrist to remove his hand. He lingers like that for a moment, Cas’ wrist encircled in his grip, and even after he lets go the phantom warmth and pressure of his hand remains.

“Thanks,” he says, barely loud enough to be audible. Then, passing a hand over his mouth, he turns away and walks to his room. He shuts the door behind him.

Cas stays where he is, frowning after Dean. Absently he replaces the ghost of Dean’s hand with his own, smoothing his thumb over his own pulse point.

And all he can think is, How bad can whatever this is possibly be?

— - —

Nobody gets

what they want. Never

again are you the same. The longing

is to be pure. What you get is

to be changed.

      — Jorie Graham, excerpt from “Prayer”

Chapter Text

Shit.

Dean leans back against his door, closing his eyes. His shoulder is still warm from Cas’ hand.

God damn it.

Cas knows something’s up. Sure, Dean’s no Oscar-winner, but he thought… he thought he was doing okay. 

Well, he thinks sarcastically, apparently not. I’m not even C-list. I’m one of those chumps at the beginning of a Tupperware organizer infomercial who doesn’t know how to fucking function.  

And not only that, but Cas is dead set on pulling at the loose threads he’s found until one of two things happens: either Dean’s little secret unravels, or something snaps. And given how hard he’s pulling… it’s lookin’ like it’s gonna be one hell of a snap.

Stubborn son of a bitch.

As if in response to that train of thought, Dean’s back starts to twinge, unhappy with the way he’s putting pressure on it. He doesn’t move except to pinch the bridge of his nose and let out a quiet sigh.

How’s he even supposed to… where does he even start? ‘Hey, by the way, I almost died last month. How ‘bout you? Oh yeah, you were still in super mega angel Hell ‘cause you decided I was worth giving a shit about. My bad.’ 

He curves into himself a little, holding in a burst of slightly hysterical laughter. Fuck no. That’s… nope.

But he has to do something. Because Cas is— he can see that Cas doesn’t know what the fuck’s going on. Claire was right. He’s confused as hell, and if Dean keeps blowing him off, keeps shutting him out…

He might decide he’s had enough. He might leave again.

And just like that, Dean doesn’t really feel like laughing anymore.

— - —

Creak.

Dean freezes, squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace. Friggin’ bitch ass cabin. Of course he stepped on one of the three boards in this whole hallway that squeals like a stuck pig whenever you so much as breathe on it. 

There’s nothing more that happens, though: no sound of bedsprings creaking or anything. Just darkness and the faint hum of the fridge emanating from the kitchen behind him.

He lets out a quiet breath and eases off the board, rubbing his suddenly clammy palms against his thighs. He needs— he needs to focus on what he’s doing if he’s gonna go through with this. Not— not on—

“What?” Sam asks, a concerned-looking Eileen tucked under his arm. She and Sam are both too sharp, too defined, and it’s hard to look at them. “Dean, what do you mean?”

“Cas, man!” Dean shouts. The kitchen is full of light. “Where the fuck did he go? Did he text you? The car’s gone, he’s not answering his phone, he— I don’t know where he is. He was here last night, I—”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, his voice devastatingly soft. Sadness and pity lance out from his face like floodlights, like blades, and Dean’s breathing stutters as they slice into him. “Cas is dead.”

“No,” Dean says, his stomach plummeting. “No, he— he was just here, I—”

“He died a long time ago,” Sam continues. His hand comes up to settle on Dean’s shoulder, heavy and real. “I know you miss him, Dean, but when is this gonna end? He’s not coming back. There’s nothing you can do.”

Dean stumbles away from Sam, his mouth falling open in horror. “No…” he says again, the hallway looming huge and dark and endless behind him. “No, you’re… you’re wrong, he’s… he’s here…”

“He’s gone, Dean,” comes Sam’s voice from the darkness. (It doesn’t really sound like Sam anymore, though.) Dean whips around, but there’s nothing to see. Nothing at all. “And it’s like I told you. He’s not coming back.”

—that. Dean clenches his jaw, ignoring the fear that’s still drawing cold claws up and down his spine. His back aches. He takes the last few steps down to Cas’ door and stops.

This feels so stupid. He feels so stupid. This is creepy as hell, and— so hypocritical, god. How many times did he snap at Cas about watching him sleep, way back in those first couple years? How many times did he bite his head off about that for no good reason?

It’s… a lot. Lotta times.

But he reaches out and wraps his hand around the doorknob anyways. Is that shitty of him? Maybe, he admits to himself, worrying at the inside of his cheek. That’s kind of his thing, though. So slowly, as slowly as he can, he turns the doorknob. And he inches the door open. 

Just a little. Just enough to see.

His breath rattles out of his chest in a shaky sigh the second his eyes land on Cas’ sleeping form. He must’ve left the curtains open last night; the moonlight coming through the window has turned him all pale and soft. He’s sprawled out on his back, one hand flung out to the side and the other flopped over his stomach. His lips are parted slightly. His hair is shockingly dark against the pillow. 

Cas sleeps, peaceful and unaware. And Dean looks on. 

He stands there, silent in the doorway, and watches the rise and fall of Cas’ chest until he doesn’t feel as much like he’s dying anymore. Lets the quiet, rhythmic sound of a used-to-be angel’s breathing lull his heart rate back to something closer to normal.

Eventually, Cas stirs. Even though it’s only to shift a little, it snaps Dean out of his trance and makes him hastily— quietly— shut the door again before turning back down the hallway. 

That’s enough. He reassured himself, assuaged his stupid fear, and now he’s gonna stop being a fucking creep. Time to go back to his own damn room and try to eke out a few more hours of sleep before he has to get up for the day. 

Because…

He’s got shit to do. Important shit.

Back in his own bed, he stares up at the ceiling, his stomach in knots.

Yeah.

He’s gotta start talking to Cas.

— - —

When it comes down to it — when Dean finally musters up the courage to say something, anything — he starts way back at the beginning.

He’s too much of a coward to rip the band-aid off the most important bit first.

But c’mon, he— breakfast was awkward. Dean asking if Cas wanted to come with him on Miracle’s walk was awkward. The two of them getting ready to go was awkward. It’s all so fucking awkward, and Dean doesn’t know how he’s supposed do this, and right now all he wants to do is hand Cas the leash so he can ralph into the pretty ferns next to the path.

He has to spill, though. Cas was right, dammit— he deserves to know what Dean’s deal is, what happened to him. Dean’s not twisted about that. And no matter how much he hates it, he knows goddamn well that the only way that’s gonna happen is if he forces himself into it. It’s gonna hurt and he’s gonna hate it, but tough fucking luck. He’s just gonna have to deal.

So. “Poor guy really got the short end of the stick for a while, there,” he says abruptly. “After everything settled down.” 

Well. Shit. Fuckfuckshitfuck shit. No taking it back now. He studiously ignores the way Cas’ head whips towards him and keeps walking, eyes forward. Miracle noses at a tree, his tail going a mile a minute. Dean’s stomach churns.

“…Miracle?” Cas asks after a long moment.

Dean nods jerkily. “Yeah. I, uh. Kinda freaked the hell outta Sam and Eileen too. Didn’t see much of anyone for a week or so after everything… yeah.”

He focuses on where he’s putting his feet. He focuses on keeping his shoulders and his hands relaxed. He focuses on the even inhale and exhale of his breath.

“I see,” Cas says carefully. 

He doesn’t. Dean can’t bring himself to explain any further, though.

(It’s been half a year since that week he spent holed up in his room. It’s been a month since that stupid hunt.)

(Cas has been back for four days.)

They come to a stop when Miracle gets distracted by what’s apparently a really interesting moss-covered rock, and the two of them just stand there in silence. Side by side. 

Cas puts his hands in his pockets. “You know,” he says slowly, “I would appreciate it if you could tell me how everything happened, after…” 

He trails off. I died, is what he doesn’t say. The well of nameless grief in the pit of Dean’s stomach, the one that’s still here even though Cas is standing next to him and talking to him and wearing his clothes, howls it’s misery and surges up inside him, clawing at his ribs.

Cas clears his throat. “How you defeated Chuck. Jack told me some of it, and Sam has mentioned other things, but…”

“Yeah,” Dean says. It’s only because of how hard he’s trying to sound normal that it doesn’t come out as a wet croak. “Well, uh. I… I met up with Jack an’ Sam. Chuck had, uh. Poofed everyone away except for us. We linked up with Michael, but we still couldn’t read Chuck’s book from Death’s library. And, uh…”

His voice fails him for a moment as he remembers that phone call. Miracle finishes with the rock, and Dean just kind of lets the tug of the leash pull him into motion again. “Lucifer,” he starts, “he, uh… he came back. Called me sayin’ he was— that it was you. It was, uh. Your voice.” 

Fuck, he— why did he say that? Cas is about to say something, Dean knows he is, so he hurriedly pushes on. “Anyways, I— I let him in. He betrayed us, Michael killed ‘im. We’d noticed Jack was sucking up power by then, though, so the three of us hatched a plan. We met up with Chuck, Michael decided to try an’ side with the old man again and got himself nuked for it, and then Chuck threw a temper tantrum and beat Sam an’ I up for a while ‘cause we sucked at playing our parts or some shit. Idiot barely even looked at Jack, so he never saw the kid comin’. And then…” he swallows. “That was that. Chuck was human, Jack was all weird and godly ‘cause I think he woulda been a mess otherwise, and after he brought everyone back, he just… left.”

Silence reigns for a while, broken only by Miracle’s intermittent snuffling and the sound of their boots on the leaves. 

Then Cas lets out a slow breath. “I… I’m sorry. That I couldn’t be there. Dean, I—”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts harshly, stopping in his tracks. “Don’t fucking apologize. Not for— not for that.”

He’s glaring at Cas. Cas is looking back at him, startled. 

“For not telling me about the goddamn deal,” Dean growls, “sure. Apologize all you want for that shit. That was fucked up, man. But not for— no.” 

Because… fuck. Even though he did it in the shittiest way possible, Cas— Cas saved him. And even if Dean has wished more than once since then that he hadn’t bothered, he knows he’s only got the luxury to wish that at all because he was still around to help get Chuck out of the picture. He’s not sure Sam would’ve had the motivation to keep going if both he and Cas had died in that fucking basement. So Cas— the fucking strategist, fuck him— made the right call, given the options he had. Given the corner he’d painted himself into and refused to fucking mention.

“Alright,” Cas says, small and soft. 

Dean looks away and starts walking again. He hears Cas’ footsteps start up a beat later, following him like a shadow. 

God. Again with the— with the anger. The yelling. 

God damn it.

He clenches his jaw, mostly so that his mouth doesn’t start to fucking tremble. And then he slows his pace so that he falls back in next to Cas. “Whaddya want for lunch?” He asks gruffly, back to not meeting Cas’ eyes. “I know it’s early, but, uh. So I know when I get around to it.”

There’s a short, stilted pause. “I wouldn’t mind some grilled cheese,” Cas says cautiously. “If that’s possible.”

“Sure,” Dean says. “With, uh. With mayo on the one slice, right?”

He catches the smallest glimpse of Cas’ tiny, surprised smile. “Yes.”

“Right. Cool.” 

To Dean’s surprise, he feels his shoulders start to relax of their own accord in the silence they fall back into after that. And it’s not as tense as it was. It’s easier. Almost…

Friendlier.

So, after a moment more, he takes a risk and holds the end of Miracle’s leash out to Cas. “You want to take him?”

Cas smiles again, but this time it sorta sticks around: the whole set of his face is just happier, even after his initial grin fades . “If you don’t mind,” he says, and when Dean shakes his head, he takes the leash. Miracle circles back around to nose happily at Cas’ knee before trotting back out in front of them.

Then Dean puts his hands in his pockets, and doesn’t think about how he can still pinpoint the exact spot where Cas’ fingers brushed his.

— - —

It’s Cas who kicks things off next. It’s pretty hilariously transparent of him, but Dean’s in a good mood right now, so he doesn’t mind too much. His back doesn’t really hurt right now, he actually managed to spit some stuff out earlier, and the cabin’s little kitchen is permeated with the smell of cheese and toasting bread. All things considered, he could be doing worse.

“So, you were saying earlier. Chuck is… human?” Cas asks, grilled cheese in hand. “That’s…”

“Fitting,” Dean says, a slight smirk nudging its way onto his face. “Serves him right, if you ask me.”

Cas doesn’t voice his agreement, though. His expression is pensive and shadowed as he looks down at his sandwich. “I’m surprised you and Sam didn’t kill him,” he says. “After everything he did to you. You would’ve been justified, I think.”

Dean shrugs, cutting his own sandwich into diagonal halves before setting aside the knife. “That, uh. That was the plan, right up until it came down to it. Thing is, he woulda loved getting taken out by us. By me, really.” Dean lets out a mirthless laugh. “He called me ‘the ultimate killer’. But that’s— that’s not—” 

He meets Cas eyes then. His heart lurches, and he stalls, paralyzed. He— shit, no. He can’t say that. He can’t. It’s— it’s too much. He just can’t.

But… he has to. Because Cas thinks he doesn’t matter, and this fucking proves him wrong. He needs to hear this.

So Dean screws his courage to the sticking place and makes himself say it anyways. “That’s not me.” 

And the anger drains from Cas’ face.

“No,” he says softly. “You’re right. It’s not.”

Dean’s own face is hot as he drops his eyes from Cas’, the mixture of things he sees there too much to handle.

He picks up one of his halves of grilled cheese and dunks it in the puddle of ketchup on his plate. “Yeah, well. That and I was done playing along with his bullshit. Both of us were. So, uh. I told him that to his face and then we just… left ‘im there. Got Jack in the car and let him eat our dust.”

Dean takes a bite of his sandwich then, because grilled cheese is gross when it’s cold; it gets all rubbery and limp. But Cas is frowning at him in concern again, and his sandwich is still hovering halfway between his plate and his mouth. “But what if he comes back?”

“Then he’s even more of an egotistical moron than we thought,” Dean says darkly through a mouthful of bread and cheese. “Let him come. We’ll even let you throw the first punch and everything.”

The crease in Cas’ forehead doesn’t really ease at all, but the corner of his mouth does twitch up into a small, wry smile. “How considerate.”

Dean shrugs, stifling the instinctive urge to throw some of his own sarcasm back. “Whatever. Now eat your sandwich. You need it.”

And Cas— he rolls his eyes. Only a tiny bit, just enough to say I know, Dean. Stop fussing. 

So obviously, Dean has no choice but to kick his leg under the table. 

And then immediately regret everything he’s ever done that’s brought him to this point in his life. Nothing is okay, they’re nowhere close to fine, and when has he ever done that to anyone but Sam? He can barely talk to Cas, can barely meet the guy’s eyes for more than a second. Fucking footsie, though. That’s fine, for some reason. What the hell.

But then Cas kicks him back. 

Not hard— it’s more of a nudge than a real kick. But he does it. And he quirks his eyebrow at Dean when he does.

Dean has to kick him back after that, which is apparently a declaration of war. So then they sit there, at the table in the kitchen, kicking each other in the shins like a couple of fucking five year olds. 

It goes on until Cas lands an erratic, retaliatory hit to one of Dean’s chair legs that sends him scooting back a couple inches, producing the most ridiculous squealing noise he’s heard in a while. He can’t help the snort of laughter that slips out of him at the sound, and it’s a shock— hearing his own genuine, unstrained laugh again. But the off-kilter strangeness of it is completely swept away when Cas grins at him, simple and triumphant, before taking another bite of his grilled cheese. “This is good,” he says. “I like it.”

He’s not talking about the sandwich. Or at least, not only about the sandwich. Dean just clears his throat and scoots his chair back in, wondering in a vaguely embarrassed way if his expression is as transparently happy as he’s afraid it is. “Shut up and eat.”

— - —

How’s everything with you guys?

Sam’s text glows accusingly up at Dean as he leans back, relaxing in one of the armchairs in the living room after dinner. There’d been a little typing bubble that had popped up underneath it for a while. It’s gone now.

Y’know, he’d bet his left arm that Eileen is coaching Sam through this. It’s way too… not-judgy, for how Sam’s been lately. Very neutral, not pushy at all. 

Dammit.

Cas walks across to the bookshelf, and Dean watches him run a finger over the spines. “Do you have any recommendations?” He asks without looking over at Dean. “I’m not sure what I want to read.”

Dean straightens up a bit, still holding his phone. “I mean,” he starts, his eyes on Cas’ profile. “Why not just go with one you don’t know?”

Cas hums. “That’s the problem. I know the plots of most of them even though I haven’t actually read them myself.” He spares Dean a look. “Metatron.”

“Dick,” Dean mutters. At his feet, Miracle lets out a well-timed huff and rolls over.

Cas is smiling faintly when he looks back to the shelf. “But I suppose the only thing I remember about The Great Gatsby is a woman with short blonde hair and someone throwing shirts off a balcony.”

“Aw man, he force-fed you DiCaprio? What a psychopath.” Cas huffs a laugh at that as he plucks the book off the shelf, flipping it over to read the back. Dean just keeps watching him for a minute.

Then he shifts, the chair squeaking. Cas looks up. 

“‘Let us learn to show our friendship for a man’,” Dean says, “‘when he is alive, and not after he is dead.’”

Cas goes all quiet and still. Their eyes are locked.

Finally, Dean clears his throat and shrugs a little. “I, uh. Re-read it not too long ago. There’s not much to do here, so I just…” He fiddles with his phone. “Anyways. You’d probably like it.”

“I think so, yes,” Cas says, looking back down at the book as he wanders over to sit across from Dean on the couch, rubbing his thumb along the spine. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Dean replies, sinking down into his chair and focusing deliberately back on his phone. 

Good, is what he texts back to Sam. Then he turns it off.

— - —

And… that’s pretty much how it goes.

Dean will work himself up to offering a carefully offhand anecdote, or maybe a story about something that happened while Cas was gone. Cas listens, sometimes asks an equally careful question. They don’t discuss it. They both look too long, and sort of let touches linger, and basically do all the shit that used to make Dean start doubling down on the friendship rhetoric. Or start picking fights.

He’s trying not to do that anymore.

Still. It’s not all sunshine and roses.

It’s a shitty goddamn morning, and it’s taking everything Dean has in him to pretend it doesn’t feel like someone is slowly pushing a white-hot iron rod through his fucking back. Maybe he slept weird last night, maybe his body’s just throwing a fit for shits n’ giggles— he’s got no idea. But his meds are feeling worse than useless, and all he wants to do is lie the fuck down.

Cas is starting to look like he’s noticing Dean’s discomfort, though, so he tries to do a better job of ignoring his stupid back and plucks at the sleeve of Cas’— his— shirt. He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve really gotta get some new duds,” he says. “I’m gonna want this back eventually.”

Cas looks down at himself. “Yes,” he says. “I agree. Your jeans are too tight in the thighs.”

Which is. 

Ha.

Y’know. Totally fine. Completely understandable. Not everyone’s got the same… anyways.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, withdrawing his hand and hoping Cas doesn’t notice the quality of his voice. “Well, just— don’t, uh. Rip ‘em.”

Cas gives him a bemused look. “I’ll try not to.”

Shoving aside the static that fogs his brain for a second at that, Dean takes a sip of coffee and nods at Cas’ phone. “You should get Jack to go shopping with you. I bet he’d love that. He’s probably bored out of his mind, stuck at the Bunker with Sam.”

Cas smiles. “I think he would too. I’ll text him.”

Success. Dean closes his eyes for a second while Cas is typing on his phone, trying to breathe through the pain radiating out from his wound. 

“I might text Charlie as well,” Cas muses aloud, and Dean quickly opens his eyes again. “She told me she wanted to ‘hang out’ with me soon.”

Dean shrugs. “Go for it, she loves that shit. Just don’t let her drag you into Hot Topic and you’ll be fine.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Uh…” Dean cocks his head, frowning. “No? Why would I? You keep asking me that, dude, what’s the deal?”

Cas sets his phone aside. “I don’t know, I just… she’s your friend, Dean. I don’t want to… impose.”

Oh.

Dean puts his mug down. “Cas,” he says slowly, “I don’t… have dibs on her. That’s weird.” He gestures at Cas. “She thinks you’re awesome. You fixed her carpal tunnel and let her explain World of Warcraft to you. If she heard you say what you just said, she’d punch you for being a moron.” He tilts his head a little. “And then buy you some weird smoothie drink and make you talk about your feelings. And then probably punch me too because she’d think it was my fault.”

“Ah,” Cas says after an awkward pause. “I see.”

Then his phone chirps, and he looks down. “That’s Jack,” he says quickly, moving on from whatever the hell that whole conversation was. “He said Sam will drop him off here in half an hour. I’ll… text Charlie. As well.”

“Good move. You want the car?”

Cas blinks at Dean in confusion. “…Baby?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, the pink VW Beetle out back. Obviously I mean Baby.”

But that, Dean realizes with a dawning horror as Cas continues to frown at him, might have been a fatal mistake. Shit. Because he— he’s anal about his car at the best of times, he’ll own that. He’s never— jesus, has Cas ever driven Baby? Shit. Shit shit shit. Okay, damage control. He can play this off. He can do this. “Y’know,” he blurts awkwardly. “So. So Jack can practice some more. He, uh, drove the other day, an’ it… it made him really happy. Y’know. So I just thought…”

Thankfully, Cas’ frown relaxes— oh wow, that only had, like, a thirty percent chance of working— and morphs into a soft kind of expression that makes Dean’s ears warm. “No, I… I see. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that very much.”

“Yeah,” Dean says with an uneasy half-laugh. “Hope so.” He clears his throat. “Could you pass me the…”

Wordlessly, Cas slides the paper across the table to him. Dean swallows and picks it up. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Cas says as Dean flicks the paper open and drops his eyes to some sports page he’s not actually going to read. “So you’re not… coming with us?”

“Nah,” Dean says to the baseball scores. “I’ll pass. Have fun with the kid, though.”

“I will.” A pause. “I’ll say hello to Charlie for you.”

Dean meets Cas’ eyes just long enough to shoot him what he hopes is a small, reassuring grin, and then goes back to his paper before Cas can see the strain behind it. “You do that.”

Only half an hour. Then Cas’ll be safely out of the way and he can go be miserable in his bed instead of sitting in a hard, uncomfortable chair.

Half an hour. He’s got this.

—

“So I’m guessing you’re not up for a quick hunt.”

Dean turns his head towards his bedroom door, his cheek squashed against the pillow. “Well, you’re definitely not Sam, so I dunno if I have a choice. Come at me, you shifter bastard.”

Eileen snorts, reaching down to give Miracle’s ears a ruffle as she leans against the doorframe. “Aw. I forgot how funny you are.”

His tail wags, and he licks her hand before trotting back out to the main room. 

“That’s right, I’m a fuckin’ comedian.” Dean gestures to the chair by the wardrobe. “You can take a load off, y’know. Quit creepin’ in the door.”

Eileen puts a hand on her chest, letting out a little gasp. “And a gentleman, too.” She grabs the chair, pulling it over to come sit next to Dean’s bed, and then tilts her head at him. Her smile fades a little. “Bad day?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Ya think?”

“Mm,” she hums, resting her hands on her knees. “And here I thought you were just lying facedown on your bed because you felt like it.”

“Well, I am. Technically.”

“As in… you got up, maxed out your admittedly high pain tolerance, and then came right back in here as soon as Cas walked out the door?”

Dean doesn’t deign to answer for a long moment. Then he sighs. “...maybe.”

Eileen’s mouth twitches up at the corner. “Good for you.”

An eye roll, this time. “Shut up.”

“Now why would I do that? It’s not like you can do anything about it.”

Dean smacks her leg. Or, he tries to. She dodges it no problem. So he eyes her shrewdly and tries a new angle. “Nice of you to text me last night.”

She breaks into a full grin at that, shaking her head a little. “You caught me. Was it that obvious?”

“Are you kidding?” Dean asks incredulously. “Sam’s been an asshole for a month straight, there’s no way that’s what he woulda gone with if that was all him. He woulda called or something.”

“He wanted to,” Eileen admits. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate that.”

Dean lets out a snort of his own. “No. So, uh. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Her eyes have gone a little steely, though, and Dean grimaces a little. That can’t be good. “Except you didn’t really answer the text, either,” she says pointedly, and yep. There it is. “I’m just going to assume that Cas doesn’t know about your back yet.”

“I’ll take ‘questions that don’t need to be asked’ for seven hundred, Alex,” Dean mutters. “Answer: what is, ‘no duh’.”

“Hilarious,” Eileen says, deadpan. “But he’s been back for more than a week, now. He isn’t curious? He hasn’t asked why you’re here instead of at the Bunker? That doesn’t seem like the Cas I know.”

Dean picks at a seam on his pillowcase. “He knows I’m not tellin’ him something, but… I dunno. The first night he got here was, uh. Eventful. Lotta shit happened. And he’s human again, so he’s been… he’s been dealing with that. It’s been busy.”

That just sits there for a minute; Eileen doesn’t respond right away. Dean shifts his legs uncomfortably.

Then, eventually, she shoves his shoulder. Gently, because she’s not a total asshole. “He’d get it if you told him. He wouldn’t think less of you.”

Dean closes his eyes. “Sure. Just, to be clear, you’re saying he’s not gonna be royally pissed that I kept it from him? Yeah, okay. Talk to me in a week.”

Eileen pauses, like she’s about to say something else. But then she sighs. “Do you want a hot water bottle for your back?”

Dean cracks an eye open, and she raises her eyebrows. He frowns a little. “You think that’ll help?”

She lifts one shoulder, cocking her head. “It can’t hurt. And it works for period cramps, so.”

Dean does not alter his expression except to remove the frown. “I mean. If you make one, I can’t exactly say no, can I.”

Eileen’s own expression goes thoroughly smug. “Good answer. Can I ask how many times Claire’s punched you for saying something stupid?”

“Okay, jeez, give me a little credit,” Dean grumbles. “I’ve had a girlfriend or two. I’ve bought tampons before.”

Eileen laughs as she gets up. “Oh, calm down, I was joking. I’ll be back in ten.”

“Wait,” Dean says, raising his hand a little to keep her attention. Then he brings his hand to his mouth. Thank you, he signs.

It’s funny how much easier that is to sign than it is to say.

Eileen smiles. You’re welcome, she signs back. 

And it’s great— he’s smiling a little, feeling a bit lighter. That is, right up until she’s gone again. Because then there’s nothing to distract Dean from the pain anymore.

Fuck.

So he buries his face in the crook of his elbow, and goes back to trying to think of nothing at all.

Yeah. Stuff like that? Not a blast. Sucks pretty hard, actually. But then, on Wednesday, there’s also…

Well. On Wednesday, Dean has one of his bad days.

Remember those? Yeah. Nevermind that Cas is back, fucking sleeping right next door to Dean every night; nevermind that he eats the food Dean makes and lets Jack talk him into a Taylor Swift shirt at the mall and puts sugar in Dean’s coffee every morning. Nah, apparently all of that means shit all, because Dean is sitting across from Cas right now and he’s not sure what he wants more: to snap at Cas for making an unholy racket stirring his tea, to break something, or to shut himself up in his room, in the dark, and climb into his bed for another week.

He can’t, though. He’s got stuff to do. He’s gotta figure out an excuse for where he’s gonna be this afternoon; he can’t say he’s got a doctor’s appointment, so maybe he’ll just… Charlie? No, crap, she’s working. Shopping trip with Eileen? Eh. Cas’d probably believe that. He’d want to come with, though, and that’s— fuck. Dean doesn’t know. His brain isn’t working, goddamnit.

At least it’s, like… a classy Taylor shirt, he thinks, trying to distract himself from the mess in his head by watching Cas. Doesn’t have her face plastered all over it. There’s just a lyric on the breast pocket that he hasn’t looked too closely at for reasons he’s not gonna address right now. It’s a dusty kind of blue that looks really good on Cas, and the sleeves are cuffed a bit. It shows off his arms.

And Dean wants to slam his head into the table, because even that thought isn’t enough to keep him from feeling like a sack of shit. Normally that would freak him the hell out, thinking something like that, but he’s just— it barely even registers over the hollow, void-like grief— anger— whatever the fuck it is that’s swollen up huge, taking up all the available space inside Dean’s ribcage. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him?

Cas, of course, picks that moment to take a sip of his tea, tilt his head, and then go to put another spoonful of sugar in it. After which he picks up his spoon and starts stirring it again.

“Do you mind?” Dean snaps. “Tryin’ to focus, here.”

Cas goes still, frowning. “What? My tea?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dean mutters, going back to his phone. He’ll… whatever, he’ll text Sam. Sam can drive him to the fucking doctor’s office so Dean can get permission to drive his own car again, and he’ll tell Cas they were just hanging out or something. Getting coffee, he doesn’t know. Sam can use that big brain of his for something useful and figure out a believable excuse for him. It’s the least he can do.

Cas puts his spoon down. “What’s wrong?”

Dean tries not to scowl, fails, and then gives up on trying to fix his face completely. He keeps his eyes glued to his phone. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Cas sighs. “Really, Dean?”

“Yep.” Dean smiles tightly at Cas. “Doin’ great.”

Shocker— that doesn’t make Cas happy. He sets his jaw and fixes Dean with a look. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

Dean can’t quite pull his eyes away from Cas’— fuckin’ lazer eyes over here— and puts his phone down. It hits the table a little harder than he’d intended. “So what? Take a hint, Cas. I don’t wanna talk. Stop asking.”

Cas doesn’t back down, though. “No. You’ve been acting strangely all day. I know—” He stops, and his voice softens a little. “I know it’s been hard for you. You haven’t told me everything that happened while I was gone, but I can tell that it’s weighing on you.” One of his hands inches a little across the tabletop, like if he was braver he’d reach for Dean. Something deep inside Dean’s chest aches. “I can help,” Cas says, so earnest. So kind. “If you let me.”

And Dean laughs in his face. 

It’s a sharp, bitter thing that comes up like bile, making his throat ache. “Yeah,” he drawls. “Okay. But what about you, huh? You got any more deals you wanna tell me about before I spill my guts? ‘Cause pouring my goddamn heart out doesn’t help me when you’re dead, buddy. It hurts, actually. Like a bitch. So I think I’ll pass, this time.” He gets to his feet, pocketing his phone. “I’m going out in a bit. Do me a favour and leave me alone ‘til then, ‘kay?”

Cas’ mouth tightens, and the hurt in his eyes cuts Dean like a knife. God, he— he hates this. He hates that he’s like this, that he always ends up hurting the people he cares about. But—

Some twisted up knot inside him loosens, just a little. 

Because there was truth in that, cruel as it was. He’s— he’s ecstatic that Cas is back, of course he is. Him coming back? That’s the best thing that could’ve possibly happened. Except now that Cas is here, and okay, Dean is also fucking angry at him in a way he’s been avoiding up until right this minute. Cas chose not to tell him about that stupid fucking deal. For so long. They could’ve— at least they could’ve tried, if he’d said something. But no. Cas just did what he always does and made the decision he thought was best for everyone involved. And just like always, it fucking destroyed Dean.

He starts towards his room, but Cas shoots up from his chair and grabs Dean’s wrist, holding him in place. “What is wrong with you?” Cas asks, anger and pain spilling over into his voice; Dean struggles, to no avail. Cas’ grip is unrelenting. “One day everything is fine and then the next you’re— you’re distant, combative, sarcastic for no reason I can think of. What is it? I’m trying, Dean, but you keep—”

“What, and I’m not?” Dean barks, finally pulling free. “Well, hate to break it to you, Cas, but it turns out getting impaled isn’t as awesome as it fucking sounds. So yeah, I guess I’m a little pissy.”

Cas’ face loses all expression. “What.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Dean’s irritation burns off like dew in the morning sun, leaving him cold, and he can’t— he can’t breathe right.  “I— shit, Cas. I didn’t— I didn’t mean…”

Cas just keeps looking at him. Dean only manages to hold his gaze for a few seconds longer before he can’t do it anymore. He hangs his head in defeat. 

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he says, quiet and strained.

He only looks up when he hears Cas’ feet on the floor, expecting to see him walking away. But he brushes past Dean instead, and Dean turns to watch in confusion as Cas sits down on the bench next to the door, pulling on his boots and starting to lace them up in short, brutal movements. “Where were you going,” he asks, still in that harsh monotone.

“Doctor’s office,” Dean admits after a moment. “I’ve got a, um. Check-up.”

Cas finishes with his boots and stands, his face like stone. “I’ll drive you.”

“Nah, you— you don’t have to, man,” Dean starts, still so ashamed he can’t meet Cas’ eyes for longer than a second or two at a time. “I’ll— I was gonna call Sam, he can—”

“I said,” Cas growls, stepping into Dean’s space, “I’ll drive you.”

They stand there for a minute, staring at each other in silence.

Then wordlessly, Dean pulls his keys out of his pocket. Cas snatches them out of his grip before he can hand them over and turns on his heel, and he’s all tension and sharp lines as Dean watches him open the door and walk outside.

Dean just stands there in the kitchen, the hand he’d had his keys in still halfway outstretched in front of him, and listens to Cas stalk down the steps. Boots crunching across gravel, then Baby’s driver’s side door opening and slamming shut again.

Slowly, he lowers his hand.

— - —

Dean slows as he reaches the end of the hall, his eyes on Cas. He’s still sitting in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, his hands in his lap and his head tilted back. Staring up at the square tiles of the ceiling.

Dean swallows and walks over. “Hey.”

Cas looks up at him, his face blank. “You’re done?”

“Yeah. All good.”

Cas gets up, the keys clinking against each other in his hand. “Do you need to go anywhere else while we’re in town?”

“Nah,” Dean says, his prescription sticking to his hands as he folds it up and pockets it. “I’m, uh. I’m good.”

Cas nods, his eyes cool. And then he turns and walks towards the door.

Fuck, Dean thinks.

He follows Cas outside, trading the dry air and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights of the doctor’s office for the oppressive silence of the car. It doesn’t abate even after Cas has turned the ignition; if anything, the deafening growl of the engine just makes it worse. 

As they pull out of the parking lot, Cas watches the road. And Dean, helplessly, watches Cas.

They make it all the way out of town without either of them saying a word; Dean doesn’t want to shatter the precarious balance they’ve got going on right now. He fucked up. He fucked up big time. Sam’s and Eileen’s and Charlie’s and Claire’s voices all blend together in the back of his head, all of them telling him the same thing: I told you so. I told you this would happen.

He knows they’re right.

The road spools out ahead of them, straight and unending, and Dean wishes he was a better man. 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he says, soft. “I should’ve told you.”

Cas’ hands tighten on the steering wheel. He doesn’t say anything in response, but Dean’s not really surprised. He wasn’t expecting him to. And no matter how much he wants to keep going, to— to start explaining, he—

He doesn’t. He closes his eyes, leans back against the headrest, and waits. Cas’ll ask about it when he’s good and ready. And when he asks, Dean will answer. No more lying by omission, no more putting it off. 

He’s done enough damage today.

— - —

No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

- Nick Carraway, The Great Gatsby

Chapter Text

Dean can feel Cas watching him. 

As he gets out of the car, as he walks up the stairs, as he takes off his boots: the weight of Cas’ eyes is there. Dean’s confused about what’s changed since the drive back, until he finally realizes that Cas is watching the way he moves.  

He’s looking for indicators, little tells that give Dean away. Or, the way he’d probably frame it, stuff he should’ve noticed. Dean doesn’t think there’s much, though; with his injury being more than a month old, and with all the walking he’s been doing… it’s almost invisible unless he’s having a really bad day. And Cas has only been back for a week and a half. Between that and how hard Dean’s been trying to keep him off the scent, it makes sense that he didn’t pick up on it. Shit, that’s what Dean was going for.

Not like that matters, he thinks with a sinking feeling when he looks up from his boots and accidentally meets Cas’ eyes. He’s gonna beat himself up about it anyway.

There’s a tension in the air, like the cabin is holding its breath; but then again, that might just be Dean. Cas has turned his back on Dean by the time he’s finished with his boots, though, so it’s with no small amount of trepidation that he sets his jaw, stands, and follows him into the kitchen.

Cas looks over at the sound of the floorboards creaking under Dean’s feet. He’d been looking out the window, standing by the sink with his arms crossed, and now he seems almost surprised to see Dean where he is. It’s not his fault, even though it hurts a little; Dean’s never been one to face this kind of thing head-on before, so why expect him to now? He’s still not, really, or they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, but… well. Like he said, he’s trying to be better. And Cas deserves to have his questions answered, for real and in full. Dean should’ve given him that right from the beginning.

He puts his hands in his pockets, shrugging a little. “So,” he says. “You, uh. You want to sit down to do this?”

Cas looks at him for a minute, his brow furrowed. “Only if you want to,” he responds eventually. “Or we could go to the living room, if that would be more comfortable for you.”

And there’s test number one. Dean shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good here if you are.” The words ball up in his throat. He clears it and says them. “My, uh. Back doesn’t really hurt today.”

Silently, Cas gestures at the table. Dean sits.

Cas doesn’t join him, though, and that only intensifies the feeling that this is an interrogation. Dean, nervous and on-edge, wishes he could crack a joke — “What’s the plan here, huh? Good cop or bad cop? Pretty sure there’s a lamp in the other room you could use if you need something to shine in my face.” — but that would be… um. Bad.

So instead, he sits. And he waits.

Cas is looking out the window again. “I don’t know where to start,” he admits quietly. “There are so many things to ask.”

“Well,” Dean makes himself say after a moment. “There was a, uh. A hunt. That’s sorta… where it started.”

Cas’ arms pull in a little further. “Then that sounds like as good a place as any,” he says.

Dean nods, staring down at his hands. And then he takes a breath.

“I, uh. Found it. Picked up on a couple of weird disappearances, some deaths. Exsanguinations. Sam wanted to hand it off to one of the hunters in his and Garth’s network — it was in Ohio, y’know, not exactly a half hour drive — but… I dunno. I pushed him. I wanted to get out, we’d been cooped up in the Bunker for too long. An’ he was still… he was watching me. Wasn’t as bad as it was right after everything went down, but it was still like he was… I dunno, waiting for me to snap or something.” Dean gives Cas a flat sort of half-smile. “I’ve been hiding how I feel about shit from Sam for years, though. Have to be good at it when you spend as much time together as we do.”

Cas is frowning. “When was this?”

Dean’s smile fades. “Uh. ’Bout a month and a half ago.”

He shuts his eyes for a second in the shocked silence that emanates from Cas after that hits.

“Even after all that time?” Cas asks faintly. “I’d been gone for—”

“Five and a half months,” Dean interrupts, his voice rough. “I could tell you down to the day, but I think you get the picture.” 

After a short pause, he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Now do you want me to keep going, or not?”

Cas nods.

“So. I played it up, I guess. We— we went to a fuckin’ pie festival in Akron, and I acted my ass off. ‘We’ve gotta move on’, ‘we’ve gotta live so their sacrifices mean something’, all that crap. I think it actually started to work on him, though. He finally started to act like maybe I wasn’t about to have a breakdown.” Dean shakes his head a little, tracing a whorl in the wood of the tabletop. “Anyways. There was another attack while we were there— obviously vampires, but they wore these clown masks, and they were taking kids. Turned out it was actually a nest Dad cottoned onto, way back when he was hunting Yellow Eyes; there was an entry in his journal that mentioned the masks. Didn’t know it was vamps, back then, but… eh. That helped distract Sam, too.

“It wasn’t hard to find these guys. They got sloppy; recent change of management, I’d guess. They were hiding out in a barn about ten miles outside town, so Sam an’ I just drove out there once we’d narrowed it down and walked right in. The plan was to kill the vamps, get the kids out, and be back at the Bunker before Monday morning. Easy.”

Cas’ mouth has settled into a line. “It’s never easy.”

Dean has to pause for a second after that. Give himself time to let the lump in his throat go back down. “Yeah,” he croaks eventually. “It, uh. Started to get complicated as soon as we got in there. There were more than we thought— not too many more, just enough to make it interesting. But then— I dunno, their new alpha, she pulled off her mask and tried to have a moment. I guess we hunted her a while back and she got away; pissed her off that I couldn’t remember her name. Don’t know what she was expecting, though, that was like… ten years ago. More. I don’t fuckin’ know.

“At that point it wasn’t lookin’ so good, but we’ve had worse, y’know? And the kids were still alive, there was a padlocked door in the back. So we started fighting. It wasn’t going too bad, honestly: three of ‘em went after Sam, but he was fine; I decapitated the leader chick pretty much as soon as she came at me, and then there was just this big ass guy left to deal with. Built like a linebacker.”

Then Dean takes a breath. But when he next opens his mouth to continue, nothing comes out.

Cas’ arms loosen a little as the pause lingers, quickly spooling out into extended silence territory. “Dean?” He asks, and fuck. Because there’s a bunch of concern creeping into his voice, and it’s— god, he shouldn’t be concerned. He should be angry at Dean. He should be livid.

“Sorry,” Dean croaks. “So, um. Big guy. He came at me and I dodged him a bit, but I couldn’t get close enough to do anything. I knew the only way I was gonna get a chance was if I let him grab me.” He swallows. “So, there were these, uh. These hooks, on a bunch of the vertical support beams. Dunno what they were for, but uh. Straight, made of rebar, probably…” He holds up his hands to demonstrate. “Six or eight inches long? Yea big.”

Cas goes a little pale.

“Anyway,” Dean says hurriedly, moving on. “I got in front of him, yanked his chain a little, and when he rushed me, I just… stood there. Fucking stupid, though, I— machete flew right out of my hand.” He shakes his head a little, letting out a short laugh. “Typical. So he rammed me up against a beam, and just as he was about to go to town on me, uh. Sam got him. Clean off in one swing.”

In the dead silence of the kitchen, Dean’s back twinges. Phantom ache. 

“Took me a second to realize. Took Sam a second longer.”

Dean doesn’t dare look at Cas’ face. “I was, uh. Pretty sure I was done for. And I was okay with that, y’know, I… I’d had a long life. Maybe a little too long. And I love Sam, ‘course I do, but… he had Eileen. If I kicked it, he’d be sad, obviously, but then he’d get over it. The grief wouldn’t eat him up inside like it does to me, when I lose somebody.”

He stops, hesitating. Does he… how much does he say? Is it really gonna help Cas to know how fucking happy he was as the edges of his vision started to go dark? That’s just… Cas doesn’t need to know that. C’mon, he doesn’t.

Dean can’t stop now, though. It’s all the way, or it’s no way at all; he’s bad at doing things by halves. And he’s already committed to the former.

“I just…” he starts, his throat sticking with shame. “I was okay with it. I was, uh…”

“Relieved.”

Dean’s head snaps up, his eyes locking with Cas’. And Cas smiles at him, desperately sad. “I felt it,” he says, his voice wobbling. “I felt you. I couldn’t understand what could have possibly made you feel that way, after so long. I was… so worried. But I convinced myself that you were fine, because—” 

Cas ducks his head, then. But Dean still sees the way he’s pressing his lips together, fighting for his composure. “Because there was absolutely nothing I could do,” he says quietly. “Because you had to be.”

And Dean. Dean feels like Cas has reached into his chest and split his heart open like a ripe fruit. His eyes prickle. “I— fuck, Cas. I— I didn’t—”

“Why?” Cas asks, still smiling that horrible, devastating smile. “After all this time, after everything I told you. You still think you’re not worthy of being saved. That you’re not worthy of sacrifice. All I want, Dean, is for you to see—”

Dean slams his fist down onto the table, desperate for Cas to understand. “No!” He shouts, his voice breaking. “I don’t wanna be worthy of sacrifice, Cas! ‘Specially not yours! And ‘specially not if it kills you!”

The first tear falls down Cas’ face, skating down his cheek.

“Don’t you get it?” Dean pleads, raw. “Nothing fucking matters if you’re dead. Not if— if who I am is what killed you. Because it’s always my fault.” He shakes his head sharply, and it’s all he can do to keep it together. “Never— and I mean, never— do that again. Next time, just let me go. I don’t wanna be worth more than your life.”

Cas, though— he’s not fading under the force of Dean’s vehemence. He’s…

He’s getting angry.

He steps forward, his hands balled at his sides. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he hisses, his eyes sparking. Dean stares at him. “I am free to do whatever I choose, and I will always choose to do what ever is necessary to keep you safe. No matter the consequences. You will live, Dean Winchester, and there is nothing I will not do to ensure that, up to and including dying for you. I have before, and I will again. As many times as I need to.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean barks, a laugh slipping out. “Do you hear yourself? That’s so fucked up, Cas, that’s— we’re so fucked up. You realize that’s the fucking opposite of normal? That’s insane.”

“I don’t care,” Cas snarls, slamming both hands down flat onto the table across from Dean and looming towards him. “We’ve never once been normal, Dean. Don’t pretend otherwise now.” His jaw tightens. “Tell me you wouldn’t do the same for Sam in an instant if it was him in danger. Even against his express wishes. Tell me.”

Dean doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t want to, though.

Because he can’t. 

“Exactly,” Cas bites out. “It’s not even a question. So why would you attempt to deprive me of the same? I learned how to love by watching you, Dean. Pardon me if you don’t like what you see.”

Dean flinches, at that. Just a little. And the shock and regret that flare in Cas’ eyes a split second later sting like a motherfucker.

“Fuck you,” he manages eventually. “Fuck you, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t say a word. He just shoves a hand into his pocket to retrieve the car keys and throws them down onto the table with a jarring clatter. “I’m going for a walk,” he snaps. His eyes are wet and red, but the set of his mouth is as furious as Dean’s ever seen it.

He slams the door behind him when he goes.

— - —

Castiel is no stranger to anger. 

Before Dean — before either of the Winchesters, before the Apocalypse, before his spectacular headfirst dive from Grace, before all of it — he knew wrath first and best. It was a tool to be wielded in the name of righteousness and glory, with the precision of a scalpel or the indiscriminate devastation of a nuclear bomb. It was clear and right; fiery justice raining down from on high. Nothing was so simple, so good, as to enforce the will of God. And though he came to learn that what he thought was love was not really love at all, and that there are many other things one can feel besides blind loyalty and the wrath of God, he’s always thought he’s understood anger. He’s never struggled to identify it, and it doesn’t often completely get the better of him like it does Dean. Maybe a large part of that volatility was Chuck, but Dean has never been one to do things in half-measures anyways. He loves with his whole being, and mourns the same way. It only stands to reason that his anger swallows him whole, too. Cas, though— Cas has always kept things closer, more contained. He has to be pushed hard before he snaps.

So if he were in any state to consider it, he would probably find something significant in how utterly unprepared he is for the strength of the emotions surging through him as he stalks down the path away from the cabin. 

He— he wants— 

He doesn’t know what he wants. To throw something. To smash something, shatter it into a handful of tiny, irreparable pieces. To howl his rage at the sky.  

At Dean.  

He wants to take Dean by the shoulders and shake him. He wants to shove Dean into a wall, stun him into wide-eyed silence and make him listen. He wants to kiss Dean too hard and dig bruises into the muscles of his arms, into the skin over his hipbones. 

(Yes, even now. Ever. Always.)

(The wanting never stops.)

The shame he feels for that only feeds the blaze further. It’s anger, yes, but it’s also despair and bitterness and frustration and confusion and love, love, love— and he doesn’t know where to put it. He doesn’t know what to do with it. So it just scorches his palms and blooms up his throat and spews forth like magma, oozing from every crack and fissure.

It’s just— nothing he does has the effect he wants it to. Not even his death. Even that, the greatest gift he had to give, was useless in the end. It didn’t save Dean, not really. It was… a bandaid over a bullet wound. A temporary patch. 

That’s all Cas’ sacrifice amounted to. A stopgap.

He comes to an abrupt halt, his breathing sharp and fast and his knuckles aching from how hard he’s been clenching his hands into fists. 

No, he thinks deliberately, closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply. No. That’s not true. His death did matter. It sealed Jack’s safety, and it made sure that both of the Winchesters were there to defeat Chuck, and it— it did save Dean. Maybe not the way Cas had hoped; not all the way. But enough that he could go on to help Sam and Jack do what they had to. And really, that was the only thing that mattered anyways: making sure Chuck was gone. 

Love and death and betrayal only count at all if there are people left for them to hurt.

So if Dean feels that way— fine. He’s more than entitled. But he’s wrong, in at least a few important respects, and Cas will not allow himself to doubt that his choices were the necessary ones. Now, were those choices kind? No. Did they hurt Dean? Yes. Obviously. But they were unavoidable. The other option — that he could’ve done things differently, done them better — is a step too far. He’s not sure what would happen if he started pursuing that train of thought, and he doesn’t want to find out. He already feels too precarious as it is.

He opens his eyes, letting out a long, slow breath. Maybe— maybe he just needs to accept that Dean will never believe him. That this isn’t something he can fix; that only Dean has the power to change the way he perceives himself, and that nothing Cas does or says will change his mind unless Dean himself is trying to see things a different way. 

Maybe Cas needs to let it go.

His mouth twists into a bitter little grin at that, and he starts walking again. That’s not going to happen; he couldn’t give up on Dean even if he wanted to. He knows, because he’s tried a couple of times. (“I think it’s time for me to move on.”)

It hasn’t worked. But deep down, he doesn’t think he’s ever really wanted it to. Not all the way.

Cas is forgetting his part in all this, though. He winces at the memory of the last thing of substance he said, the echo of the words sitting sour on his tongue. Pardon me if you don’t like what you see. He knows where to hit Dean to make it hurt just as well as Dean knows where to hit him. They fight, and both of them come away bloody. No one ever wins.

It’s beginning to get dark, Cas notices. When he looks over his shoulder, he can see the squares of the cabin’s front windows through the trees, glowing faintly.

He turns away and keeps walking. He’s not ready to go back just yet.

— - —

Shit, didn’t you have an appointment today?

I just remembered now

Why didn’t you text me?

Cas took me

You told him??

Bingo

Fucking told u he’d be pissed

Crap. Did you guys fight?

Jesus christ

You’re supposed to be the smart one

I’m sorry, Dean.

Shut up

Alright. Text me if you need anything.

Or someone, at least. Charlie, Eileen. Even Garth.

(read 4:46)

I really am sorry.

— - —

The door creaks open. Dean looks up. 

Cas doesn’t say anything, though. He just stands there, silent, with one hand resting on the doorknob. 

Then he steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him. And the thing in Dean’s chest that didn’t snap the moment Cas left, only because of the keys still sitting on the table in front of him, loosens the rest of the way; the pressure releases, unravelling with a quiet shudder of relief. 

“You came back.”

Cas’ mouth tugs downward at the corners. “You thought I wasn’t going to?” His eyes slide to the keys for a moment. “I just… needed to be alone. I thought you understood.”

Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead in one hand. “I, uh. I did, but. I dunno.”

The ticking of the clock takes over, keeping track of every second that passes where neither of them say anything. But Dean can’t let it go on forever, or Cas… crap, he’ll try and apologize again or something. And he— no. He can’t. Dean won’t let him. It feels like all he’s done since he got back is say sorry for shit he didn’t do.

At least that gives Dean the push he needs to actually say something. He raises his head from his hand, looks at Cas, and swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Cas sighs. “No, I—”

“No,” Dean interrupts, shaking his head. “Don’t. None of this is your fault.”

“I was cruel,” Cas shoots back, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to be, but I was.”

“Yeah, well—”

“And you didn’t deserve it.”

Dean shrugs. “Kinda think I did.”

“No,” Cas says, shaking his head, “you didn’t. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not true.” He pauses for a moment, like he’s considering whether or not to add something else; but then he draws himself up, lifting his chin. “You’re the reason I understand what love is. The only reason. And without your example I wouldn’t be who I am today. You have your flaws, yes, but so do I— I’ve made that painfully obvious.” He gazes at Dean, frank and confident the way he only seems to be when he’s baring his goddamn soul, these days. Clear as a mountain lake, a thousand times as deep. 

Dean feels like he can see all the way down.

“All that to say,” Cas finishes quietly, “that I am undeniably better for having had you to emulate.”

Fuck. 

Dean has to look away, shaking his head. “I didn’t do shit.” He runs his thumbnail along a groove in the table. “But, uh. You’re welcome. I guess.”

And it’s not much, but when he says that, the tension in the room sort of… relaxes.

He looks back up. “But I meant it. I’m sorry. Just—” He pauses, his jaw working. “I’m serious, Cas. Don’t put me on some fucking pedestal, alright? Cut that shit out. I can’t— I can’t deal with you deciding my life is worth more than yours, ‘cause it’s not. It never was, but now it really isn’t.” Dean’s eyes are hot, and even from across the room he can see that Cas’ are shiny. “It’s just us, man,” he says, smiling a faint, tired smile. “No more Chuck screwing us around, no Death coming after us, no deals. None of that shit matters anymore. So just… don’t.”

Cas just looks at him. “I can’t promise that,” he rasps. “If something were to happen, I can’t pretend that I wouldn’t do the same again. I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

“Then—” Dean’s throat is tight. “Just the first part. Say you’ll believe me when I tell you you matter just as much as me or Sam or anyone else. Do you know what it’s like, hearing you say shit like that? That you’d throw your life away without a second thought?” He looks down at his hands. “It fucking sucks. And… you don’t get it, man, because you die and then you’re gone, so you don’t see— you don’t know—” 

He shakes his head, a lump rising in his throat. “I just— shit. It still feels like you don’t think you’re worth a damn. But I guess if both of us had died there, then I don’t…” 

He pauses. 

“I don’t know,” he says deliberately, “if Sam and Jack would’ve made it.”

Quiet.

Dean raises his eyes to Cas’. “So,” he says, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit. “You weren’t… wrong. About making sure I got out. But goddamnit, Cas. If you’d fucking talked to me earlier, maybe you wouldn’tve had to die to do it.”

Cas’ shoulders slump slightly. “I know,” he whispers dejectedly. “I don’t think it would have changed anything, though.”

Dean inclines his head in agreement. “Maybe not,” he says, getting to his feet. “But it will now.”

And maybe it’s fucked up of him, doing this when Cas still thinks he doesn’t feel the same way, but he can’t bring himself to care. Cas freezes as soon as Dean starts to cross the floor, his eyes going wide, and he looks jarringly lost— painfully human— right up until Dean pulls him into a hug.

He immediately goes stiff and awkward, but even so, having him this close calms some of the jagged things bundled up under Dean’s sternum. He tightens his grip, tucking his chin more securely over Cas’ shoulder. “I think we can work on the talking thing,” he says quietly. “Long as we both stop each other from getting away with crap. I— I wanna try.”

For a long moment, Cas doesn’t say or do anything. But then he lets out a slow, measured breath, and Dean’s eyes slip closed as Cas’ hands settle on his back. “I’d like that.”

They stay that way for a long time; long enough that Dean starts to feel the familiar jittery prickle of anxiety over how long he’s been holding on. He doesn’t let go, though. He doesn’t let himself. Not yet.

When he finally does loosen his grip and starts to pull back, Cas’ hands drop from his back so quickly that it’s obviously not a coincidence. That hurts a little, Dean’s not gonna lie; but then he thinks about it for half a second and the hurt slowly fades away. ‘Course Cas isn’t completely… he’s probably still sorta pissed at Dean. Hell. Dean’s still sorta pissed at him, even though they technically just hashed all this out. And there’s the whole— the whole love thing, too. Having Dean this close to him probably freaks Cas out as much as anything, since he… since he still doesn’t know. Christ, why does this have to be so goddamn hard?

So Dean doesn’t pull all the way back. He only backs off enough to rest his hands on Cas’ shoulders and see him properly. He looks down at his shirt, then back up at Cas’ face. “Did, uh. Did Jack talk you into the Taylor merch?”

Cas blinks. “Ah. Yes. Taylor isn’t my favourite artist, but the colour is nice. And I like the quote.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes slide back down to said quote for a second (or, y’know. More like the outline of Cas’ collarbone under the fabric. And the span of his chest. And—) and a bolt of adrenaline shoots through him. He could— no, he shouldn’t. It’ll be confusing as hell for Cas. Jesus, they just finished having a goddamn argument. This isn’t the time. 

He shouldn’t. 

But… 

Goddamnit. He wants to. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? He’s already made himself vulnerable tonight, sliced himself open and let a bunch of the things he swore not to talk about flood out into the open for everyone to see. What’s a little more of the same?

So he meets Cas’ eyes and shrugs, feeling a little like he might shake apart at the seams. “It looks good on you.”

Cas stares at him. “...um. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Dean takes a quick step back then, awkwardly patting Cas’ shoulder before he does. “Well, uh. I think I’m gonna hit the sack.”

He doesn’t make any moves to fulfill that statement.

“Goodnight, then,” Cas says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Something in his tone makes Dean think of the way the sky lightens right before the sun rises, the pale, pinkish glow that bleeds softly over the horizon. That’s usually when the birds start to sing.

He blinks, swallowing. “Yeah. G’night.”

Like he has all day today, he feels Cas’ eyes on his back as he finally drops his hands, turns, and heads for his room. This time is different, though; not in any way he can pin down, but it’s…

It’s something.

And against all odds, he thinks it might just be something good.

Chapter Text

Hey there guys.

I just wanted to throw this little update out to you; you’ve all been such great supporters through this process, and I wanted to keep you in the loop. The crux of the matter is this: due to some personal medical stuff and a schedule that’s a bit more full than I was expecting, I’m not too sure when the next chapter will be up. It took me a long ass time even to type this out, lol, and I had to do it on my phone because keyboards just aren’t my friend right now.

I’m pretty bummed, because I love this story and I really want to keep writing it, but there’s gonna have to be a pause. And it is only a pause; I fully intend to come back and finish this bad boy eventually. I just wanted to let y’all wonderful, supportive readers know: I’m not dead, I haven’t abandoned this, and an ending is still coming. It’s just gonna have to sit for a while until I’m well enough to really sink my teeth into it again.

Love you guys, and thank you for all the comments, love, and tears (lmao).

Nep <3

P.S. As always, I’m on tumblr at @deanisthegayuncle! I’d love to see y’all in my ask box on there, be it for microfiction prompts or brainrot or meta— whatever. I can handle a couple sentences of devastation here and there /j

Chapter Text

The sun is warming Dean’s face. His back doesn’t hurt.

“Hello,” Cas rumbles, his arms sliding around Dean’s waist from behind. His chin comes to rest on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean smiles.

“Morning, sleepyhead. Finally decided to join the land of the living?”

Cas humphs. “Yesterday you stayed in bed until lunch.”

“We stayed in bed until lunch, you mean,” Dean tosses back. “I don’t remember being allowed to leave.”

“You wanted to?”

Dean shivers a little at the puff of Cas’ breath against his cheek. “Nah, not really. You made it worth my while.”

“Yes. I did.” Cas’ arms tighten around Dean’s waist, and Dean laughs at the smug tone of his voice.

“Jack’s coming over today, isn’t he?” Dean says after a moment of content silence, one hand resting over Cas’. “I was gonna take him into town and get him those school supplies he wanted.”

“Yes,” Cas says, pausing to press his lips to the side of Dean’s neck. “I’ll make dinner later. Jean from the garden centre gave me a recipe I want to try.”

Dean shrugs, grinning. “Hey, as long as you think you’re not gonna blow up the stove…”

“I didn’t blow up the stove.”

“It was on fire, Cas.”

“Well, I didn’t know you hadn’t cleaned it yet. I don’t see how failing to realize that the bottom of the element was covered in crusted-on cherry pie filling is my fault.”

Dean turns around, laughing. “Alright, alright, I—”

And his eyes fly open.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” he whispers aloud, grimacing and covering his eyes with one hand, blocking out the dim view of his bedroom ceiling.

The distant hum of the fridge is deafening. His back throbs. 

He just breathes for a minute. It’s all he can think to do, really, to fight the cold, frustrating feeling of loss that’s opened up in the pit of his stomach.

Stupid. He never even had that to lose in the first place.

(And he still doesn’t have the balls to try and get it.)

Ignoring his back, he rolls onto his side, away from the door, and tries to go back to sleep.

He doesn’t have much luck.

— - —

“Here,” Dean says, putting one of the mugs he’s holding down in front of Cas. Then he takes a seat just around the corner of the table, careful to make sure their arms don’t accidentally brush. “I, uh. I saw a thing the other day about putting cinnamon in with the coffee grounds, so. Tell me what you think.”

He stirs a little sugar into his coffee while pretending not to watch Cas lift his mug— cream and more sugar than Dean would ever put in a cup of coffee on his own— to his nose, inhaling deeply. He closes his eyes, contemplative, and then takes a long, slow sip. Dean’s spoon slows to a stop as he waits, his own eyes glued to Cas’ face.

Cas is smiling tiny and involuntary when he lowers his mug, laugh lines crinkling the skin near his temples. “It’s very good. I like the smell.”

The spoon clinks against the side of Dean’s cup as he starts stirring again. “Yeah,” he says, suppressing a fragile little grin. “S’nice.”

He wonders if Cas can tell that he doesn’t just mean the coffee.

But it’s weird, too. Because y’know, for all that they’ve been at each other’s throats for the past few days, this morning has been strangely… easy, so far. Like— things don’t feel strained anymore. And maybe it’s just that they’re both too tired of being angry to keep it up, but… he wonders if it’s something else. If that by telling the truth and sweeping aside all the lies that had piled up between them, things are just… better.

Dammit, he thinks as he catches Cas looking at him over his next sip of coffee. He hates when that bullshit about sharing your feelings turns out to be right.

Something tugs at the back of his brain, though, trying to get his attention. Something else he’d wanted to tell Cas…

Oh. Right. He sets his spoon aside and takes a sip of coffee. “Hey, uh. Did you know that Garth has kids?”

Cas smiles a little. “I think you’ve mentioned it, yes. I don’t know much more than that, though. Why?”

“Eh, I just…” Dean lifts a shoulder. “I was gonna call him today, wondered if you’d wanna sit in and say hi.” He pauses. “You’d like ‘em, that’s all. They’re cute.”

“I do like children. What are their names?”

Dean pulls out his phone, his elbow grazing Cas’. “Well hey, lemme just shoot him a text to see when he’s around, and he can introduce you himself.”

Cas gives him a slightly sidelong look. “Alright.”

Dean ignores him, trying not to smile too suspiciously, and busies himself setting this thing up.

— - —

Hey, Eileen texts him. You need me to come drag you out of your depression nest? I’ll even get Jack to distract you-know-who.

What the fuck is a depression nest? Dean texts back absently. Most of his attention is currently focused on Cas, who’s weighing a tomato in one hand while chatting with the lady in the booth he’s standing at. Charlie called him earlier and told him about a farmer’s market she saw in town, so here they are: Dean had liked both the idea of getting out of the house for a bit and of seeing Charlie. It’s been a minute, and he’s been kind of a shitty friend lately. She deserves better than what he’s been giving.

“Your queen has returned!” Dean looks over, smiling, and Charlie beams at him. “I’ve got a hazelnut mocha or a coconut latte. Pick your poison.”

“Really? You couldn’tve just gotten me a coffee?” 

She hip checks him. “Um, no? Boring. Anyways, I think you should take the mocha. Chocolate cures all ills.”

“Alright, alright. Wait, like, two seconds, Professor Lupin.” Dean grins at Charlie’s eye roll and pauses to text Eileen back. You guys should come for dinner tomorrow though.

Really? Eileen says. Huh.

“Okay, give it here.” He slips Miracle’s leash properly around his wrist, shifts his phone to his other hand, and accepts the mocha, taking a dutiful sip under Charlie’s watchful eye. It’s, like, good though, and it catches him off guard. Charlie laughs at whatever she sees on his face, he ignores her and pretends like nothing happened. The usual.

After she’s finished snickering at him, she nods at his phone. “Who’s that? Anyone important?”

“Eileen.” Dean shrugs, squinting off down the row of tents for a moment. “Sam, uh. I haven’t talked to Sam in a week or so. She’s running interference.”

Charlie shakes her head, sighing a little. “I told him to lay off. He didn’t, did he.”

“Ha. Nope.” Dean looks back at his phone again. “I mean… it’s only mostly his fault. I haven’t exactly been a delight to be around.”

She takes an aggressive sip of her latte. “Not the point. He should’ve listened better.”

Dean grimaces slightly. “Yeah, well.” He looks back down at his phone, considering the blinking cursor.

Just tell Sam he’s not allowed to talk, he types carefully. He hits send without thinking about it too hard and takes another drink. “So, how’ve you been?”

“Good, but…” Charlie sighs wistfully. “Missing Miracle. I haven’t managed to convince Stevie that we need a dog yet.”

Dean laughs. “Just get one and let the combined puppy eyes do the work for you.”

No problem, Eileen responds. He needs to work on his signing anyways.

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches. Cool. Bring some pie.

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Ugh, I should’ve known you’d be useless,” she groans. “Why did I even ask you for advice in the first place? That’s not how this,” she gestures playfully between the two of them, “works. You come to me for help, I fulfill my role as gay Yoda, you maybe sort of listen to me and get yourself into more trouble, and then we start over again!”

Dean lets out a laugh and winks at her. “Yeah, that’s me. Trouble’s my middle name, Charles.”

She giggles, shaking her head, and Dean hides his big stupid smile with another sip of mocha. Across the way, Cas has moved on to the baskets of fruit on the other side of the booth.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you laugh,” Charlie says. 

Dean looks at her, and she looks back at him. She shrugs. “Just now, um. You laughed. Last time I saw you, you were barely smiling. Now, you’re all… happy? Ish? I don’t know, it’s just.” She pauses, smiling hesitantly. “I’m glad.”

Dean shuffles his feet a little, his eyes sliding inexorably back to Cas. “Yeah, I mean. I guess.” He pockets his phone and leaves his hand in there with it. “Got a lot to be happy about.”

There’s a smile in Charlie’s voice when she responds. “Oh yeah? You do?”

Dean’s ears go warm, but the only other concession he makes to acknowledging what she’s implying is a warning glance in her direction. “He’s alive,” he says quietly. “He’s here. He doesn’t hate me. Jack’s here. Jack doesn’t hate me. I’m startin’ to heal up. I’ve got my dog and my best friend and my family all safe an’ sound.” He clears his throat. “So yeah. I think I do.”

Charlie reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. “No, you’re right,” she says, a little apologetically. “I just…”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Dean snorts. “Wrong order, Red.” Still, he ducks in to press a kiss to the top of her head. “You too, though.”

She hums contentedly. “Yeah.” Then she smiles out across the lane, and Dean follows her gaze. “All done?”

Cas has brown paper bags in both arms and a happy set to his whole face. “Yes, I think so,” he says, coming to a stop in front of Dean. “There was one tent near the entrance I wouldn’t mind revisiting, but otherwise I’m ready to go.”

“Here,” Dean says, holding out his free hand for one of the bags and jiggling his to-go cup in the other. “Trade ya.”

After a few moments of reshuffling, they’ve each got one of Cas’ bags and Cas has Dean’s mocha. He takes a sip at Dean’s encouragement, and Dean can’t help but laugh a little at the way his eyes go wide with delight. Charlie joins in, and Cas is smiling, and just—

Goddamn. This is all so good.  

Better than Dean could’ve ever imagined, honestly. Better than he ever hoped for. But it’s still not enough; his nightmare (dream? He can’t decide what to call it) from this morning pricks at his memory, and his heart gives a painful, ashamed kind of squeeze. 

The bottom line is, he still wants more. He’s just too damn scared to try and make it real unless he’s halfway through some sort of active emotional crisis.

God. What is wrong with him?

“Go ahead and finish it,” he says brusquely before Cas can try to hand the cup back to him. “I don’t mind.”

Cas blinks, surprised. “Oh. Thank you.”

Dean smiles. It feels a little tight. “Well. Let’s get this stuff to the car.”

He pretends he doesn’t hear Charlie’s sigh behind him and starts off down the lane of tents. 

— - —

Hey

Hey Dean

Guess what

What?

You’re stupid

No u

Nope bc I had to watch you be awkward as heck!

Cas didn’t know wtf was going on!

Who even says heck anymore

He was fine. He had a mocha and a bag full of tomatoes

Me, I say it

Don’t disrespect ur elders

I’m not

And you’re not even close to being my elder

I don’t care and also I was going by maturity level

By that reckoning I’m ancient and ur like. Five

But! My point is, just talk to him!!

I promise it won’t be as bad as u think

(read 1:33)

1:54

I rlly dont know what the fuck you’re talking about

Sigh. Nobody can say I didn’t try

Whatever that means

You were right tho

You need to get a dog so you can baby it instead of me

Tell that to Stevie

And lol u say that as if I can’t multitask

Seriously. Leave it, Charlie.

…

K. Sorry.

Dw about it.

I’ll try not to. See you l8r this week?

Yeah, I’ll text u

Nerd.

Nerd. :)

— - —

“Oh, and tell Sam I said hey too.”

“Hundred percent. See you, Garth.”

Garth tilts the phone so the kids are in the picture again. “See you, Dean. Gertie, Sammy, Cassie— say bye-bye!”

Gertie waves halfheartedly, too absorbed by her colouring book to care much, but the twins both look around and wave chubby hands furiously at the screen. Dean grins a little and waves back. 

A beat later, Cas follows suit. 

Garth turns the screen back to himself and beams. “It was great to meet you, Castiel! Get Dean to bring you down to visit sometime, I make a mean casserole.”

“Thank you,” Cas says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Bye now!”

Garth hangs up. Dean turns off his phone and lays it down on the table.

Cas is silent.

He’s staring off into the distance, eyes unfocused, with his hands folded in his lap. Dean doesn’t bother trying to hide the fact that he’s watching Cas; not much point, given how close they’re sitting. They had to be pretty much shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip so both of them could fit in the frame. Cas’ body is still a warm line all down Dean’s side.

Cas still doesn’t do anything, though. Dean suppresses a sigh and gets up.

He seems to have snapped out of it, at least, by the time Dean walks back down the hallway. He hadn’t counted on that, though, and he comes to an awkward stop outside his room with the extra roll of medical tape in hand. Cas frowns at it a little. “What’s that for?”

Dean shrugs. “Oh, just, uh. I ran out, in the medical kit.” When Cas’ frown still doesn’t budge, he adds, “Y’know. For the bandage on my, uh. My back.”

Cas absorbs that for a minute. Dean waits.

“Can I help?”

“Uh.” He… hadn’t expected that. Doesn’t really look like Cas did either, going by the look on his face. “What do you mean, ‘help’?”

Cas doesn’t back off, though. “It’s in the centre of your back, correct?” At Dean’s cautious nod, he gestures at him with one hand. “Well, then I assume it’s difficult to reach. I could do it for you.”

This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea, actually. 

“Sure,” is what Dean still says after an incredibly long pause, because he can’t think of any good reason to say no. “Lemme just, uh. Grab the kit.”

What the fuck am I doing? He thinks to himself as he gets the blue zipper pouch from where it’s been living in his room ever since Cas got back. He— he could’ve just said no. Why the hell didn’t he?

He still doesn’t have an easy answer to either of those questions when he sits back down on the couch next to Cas. The expanse of scratchy brown upholstery between them feels like a chasm instead of a mere few inches.

“Turn around, please,” Cas says, and his voice is completely neutral. There’s nothing in it.

Dean still has to close his eyes for a second as he obeys. The gingerly sterile absence of tone says more than enough in itself.

He doesn’t think he’d actually survive Cas telling him to take his shirt off, though, so he just goes ahead and starts undoing the buttons of his flannel without prompting as the sounds of Cas unzipping the kit start up behind him. Fuck, if only he’d worn a goddamn tee this morning. Then he coulda just hiked it up around his armpits. It would’ve looked fucking ridiculous, yeah, but at least it would’ve been better than— than this. But no. He had to go for comfort, and now look at him. Taking off his fucking shirt so Cas can… can change his bandage.

Fuck. That’s gonna involve Cas, like. Touching him, too.

He really didn’t think this through.

Cas clears his throat. “How do you usually—”

The rustling dies as Dean shucks his flannel in a series of calm, utilitarian movements. Calm except for the way his hands are shaking. He looks down at them for a moment, observing the fine tremble, then folds his shirt in half and sets it aside. “Y’just cut a square of gauze, put tape around the edges, and then replace the old bandage with the new one. That’s all.” He fixes his eyes on a cobweb clinging to the junction of the ceiling and the panelled wall. “It’s really just to keep my shirt from rubbing against it too much.”

The scissors make a satisfying snick as Cas starts cutting the gauze. “Yes, that makes sense.”

Dean can’t help but focus in on the soft sounds of Cas moving, without anything else around to distract him. Every minute shift of the couch, every rasp of skin against plastic or gauze, every breath. He zeroes in on all of it, hyper-aware to the point that he swears he can almost feel the heat of Cas’ body radiating off him.

It’s unbearable. He clears his throat. “So. Garth.”

Cas pauses again. “Yes,” he says, stilted. “I was… not expecting that.”

Dean’s fingers drum against his knee. “What were you expecting?”

The sound of fabric moving against itself; a shrug. “I don’t know.” The scissors clink against the glass top of the coffee table when Cas puts them down. “I hadn’t met him before; I assumed you were simply trying to introduce me.”

“Nah.” Dean tucks his bottom lip between his teeth for a second. “I think Chuck… made me forget. That Garth had named his kid after you. Because he helped us out on a case, and we did the whole ‘meet the family’ shebang, and… see, I remember holding little Cas and thinking, ‘man, wait ‘til real Cas gets a load of this’, but then…” His hand is a fist now, resting on his thigh. “Nothing.”

“You remembered eventually,” Cas says. The jarring sound of him ripping a piece of tape off the roll almost makes Dean jump. “And you told me. Which I appreciate.”

“How do you, y’know…” Dean shakes his head a little. “Feel about it? Is it weird?”

“That the child of a man I’ve never met bears my name?” More tape. “Yes, Dean. ‘Weird’ is a good descriptor.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, yeah, but… I dunno. Do you hate it? Do you wish he hadn’t done it?”

Cas is silent for a moment, presumably still assembling the new bandage. “I… don’t know. On one hand, it is… flattering, I suppose. He must have a remarkably good impression of me, and given that his only knowledge of me comes through you and Sam…” He pauses. Dean’s ears feel like they’re on fire. “Well,” Cas says softly. “It’s nice to know that you think so highly of me.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Dean mutters. “How many times do I have to say it? ‘Course we ‘think highly’ of you. Moron.”

Cas doesn’t quite laugh, but Dean can hear the smile in his next words. “Yes. Well. Apparently more times than you thought. But…” The smile fades. “I don’t know why he didn’t name the child after you. That makes more sense, I think. And perhaps it’s just me, but I can’t help but feel like my name is… fraught. It’s not a burden I would place on a child, if I had the choice.”

“And my name wouldn’t be?” Dean lets out a short, hollow laugh. “Cas. The hunters like Sam, for the most part. And if they don’t, well, at least they respect him. But me?” He shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure most of them are almost as scared of me as they are of the things they hunt.”

“Dean.” Cas’ voice is sharp, and the only reason Dean doesn’t look over his shoulder is that he doesn’t think he’d be able to look away again if he did. “You are just as deserving of respect as Sam. You’ve done more for them than they can understand.”

“Yeah, well. What they understand is that I’m a scary, unstable motherfucker who’ll go off the deep end if anything happens to my family. Damn good at my job, sure. Hell yeah. But unstable.” He swallows, looks down. “I wouldn’t wanna saddle a kid with that. Not a chance.”

It’s then that Cas finally touches Dean, and Dean snaps upright, his spine going ramrod straight as he bites back a curse. 

Cas nearly pulls away at the sudden jerk of movement.

But only nearly. 

“Sorry,” Dean manages gruffly. “Surprised me.”

“No, I should’ve warned you,” Cas says. Then he starts peeling off the old bandage, his fingers warm against Dean’s skin. “You know, I, uh. I struggled with what being Jack’s father meant to me. Not so much recently, but—”

He doesn’t do anything crazy dramatic; he doesn’t gasp, or even make a noise. He just comes to a sharp, mid-sentence stop. 

It’s pretty obvious why.

Dean considers, for a second, what route he should take. Whether he should address the elephant in the room or try to distract Cas with his previous train of thought. But Cas takes the decision from him in such a way that he doesn’t think he could speak even if he tried.

Because Cas brushes the tip of a finger, feather-light, over Dean’s scar. 

“It’s larger than I thought it would be,” he whispers.

Dean only starts to breathe again when the sensation dies away. 

“It’s smaller than I thought it’d be,” he retorts. His voice is a hoarse rasp.

When Cas says nothing, does nothing, Dean turns a little; just enough so he can see the edge of Cas’ profile. “Hey,” he says, and it’s even softer than he’d intended. “It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore. I promise. Doc said I’ll probably be good to drive and everything by the next appointment.”

“Really?” Cas shoots back, full of hollow skepticism. “It doesn’t hurt anymore?”

Dean sighs. “That’s not what I said.” He swallows, trying to muster up the courage to crack open the dam a little. “Sometimes… sometimes I’ll wake up in the night and it feels like my ribs are on fire. Sometimes I stand up too fast and I feel it all the way down my spine, into my legs. Sometimes it’s still hard to breathe.” He dares to turn a little further and make the tiniest sliver of eye contact out of the corner of his eye. “But it’s better. And it keeps getting better the longer I baby it, just like they’ve been saying it will. I’m… I’m getting there.”

Finally, Cas lets out a long breath. “I need you to sit up straight if you want me to put the new bandage on.”

Dean turns back around, does as he says. But this time, when Cas touches him, the only thing he does is close his eyes. 

“I could’ve healed this with a thought, once,” Cas says softly as he smoothes the edges of the bandage down. “I wouldn’t have even had to touch you to do it. I could have willed it away like it never existed in the first place, and left it better than it was before the injury.”

He finishes attaching the tape. The warmth of his hand doesn’t retreat. 

Dean takes a couple of measured breaths, trying not to fixate on the feeling. “But you gave it up. That’s what you said. Jack was gonna give it all back to you, and you still said no.”

(He fails. Cas’ hand is a furnace against his skin.)

“Yes,” Cas says after a long moment. “I did.”

“Why?”

The warmth disappears. Dean does not make a sound. He does not move.

“I told you. I’ve changed too much for Heaven. I don’t belong there anymore.”

“Why else?”

A pause. “You know why else.”

Say it again anyways, his heart sings. Please say it again. 

And yet, for all his yearning, he stays silent.

The couch squeaks as Cas stands. “It’s done,” he says, unnecessarily. “I’ll… be in my room. I was going to call Jack.”

Dean finally opens his eyes. “Cool,” he manages. Jerkily, he grabs his shirt and slowly starts to put it back on. “Tell the kid hey.”

“Of course,” Cas says.

Dean makes it to a count of three before the sound of Cas’ footsteps start up, moving away from him. For his part, he takes his time carefully doing up the buttons of his shirt, and once he’s done that, only then does he give himself permission to turn around.

Cas isn’t standing there. Of course he isn’t, he said he was going to his room, but…

Still.

He just sits there for a moment, alone in the living room. Then he looks over at Miracle, resting in his dog bed; he notices Dean looking and lifts his head, his ears perking up a little.

Sighing, Dean pushes himself to his feet. “C’mon, boy. Let’s go for a walk.”

— - —

Castiel sits on the edge of his bed, his elbows propped on his thighs and his hands tangled into a tense knot between his knees. He’s hunched forward with his shoulders up around his ears, staring blankly down at the carpet between his feet.

His phone sits, untouched, on the bedside table.

Out in the living room, Dean doesn’t stay still for long: it’s only a few seconds before the murmur of his voice filters through Cas’ door, followed by the clatter of Miracle’s nails on the floor and eventually the familiar creak of the front door as it opens and shuts.

And then, finally, silence.

It doesn’t help Cas relax, though. He stands with a frustrated huff, beginning to pace on the carpet next to his bed. 

Why? Why does Dean insist on making this harder than it has to be? He keeps bringing it up, and Cas— he’s not ashamed. Not anymore. But he can’t keep doing this. It’s like Dean is testing the waters to try and find out where Cas’ limits are: how far he can go, how close he can get, before Cas snaps and shows his hand again. It’s starting to hurt, though. Doesn’t Dean know that it’s tearing Cas apart? Can’t he see?

But to be honest… Cas isn’t doing himself any favours. What was he doing, offering to help Dean with his bandage? He hadn’t really expected him to say yes, but he’d still asked anyways, and where had that gotten him? His stomach swooping dangerously and a staticky hum shuddering to life between his ears, watching the muscles in Dean’s back and shoulders shift as he’d pulled off his shirt. The only way he’d managed to maintain his focus well enough to assemble the new bandage was by not looking at Dean at all.

Of course, the broad, freckled expanse of Dean’s back ceased to be a distraction the moment the old bandage came off. Cas comes to an abrupt stop in his room, his eyes slamming shut and his nails digging into his palms as he remembers.

The raised, jagged ridge of new scar tissue, pink and shiny. The rows of tiny divots snaking along either side; marks from the sutures. The way the end of the scar quirks almost teasingly towards the bumpy column of Dean’s spine. 

And most of all, the gaping void inside Cas himself where his Grace used to be.

The power that would’ve once flowed in the wake of his fingers, obliterating every trace of damage— gone. Reaching for it makes him feel like one of Dean’s cartoon characters, suspended momentarily over an unexpected void in the moment just before gravity snaps its jaws shut and yanks him down. 

Vertigo, he thinks, and opens his eyes. He sways.

His phone chimes. He blinks, looking blankly over his shoulder; then he turns and walks over to the bedside table to pick it up.

Jack 💙

Hey Dad. Are you okay?

Cas laughs, a little. It’s a slightly damp sound. “Yes, Jack,” he says softly to the empty room. I’m alright, he types, but his thumb hovers over the send button.

Is he?

Because… he knows that if he said “no Jack, I was wrong, please give me my Grace back” — that Jack would do it. Happily. He would do it in a heartbeat and then Cas could go to Dean and lay a hand on his shoulder and hear that particular surprised gasp he always makes whenever Cas heals him. And he might be confused or angry or some combination of both, but he’d be well. He’d be free of the medications, the pain, the physical weakness he hates so much.

But then Cas thinks of coffee with cinnamon. Of the tag inside the neck of his new shirt that he’d had to carefully snip off because it was so itchy. Of the soft scent underlying Claire’s shampoo that he noticed for the first time the other day, the one he’s fairly certain is her. All of those and the thousand other tiny, insignificant things, both good and bad, that have struck him daily since he’s been here. Since he’s been human.

He looks out the window, and somewhere in the distance he hears Miracle bark.

Yes, I’m alright. 

Dean says hello. :)

— - —

“We only really change when the pain of staying the same is more than the pain of change.” 

- J. Decker

Chapter Text

The next day, Dean sends Cas on a grocery run.

He’s got good reasons, okay? He needs stuff for tonight and he still can’t drive. Plus, he has to get his ducks in a row here so he’ll have everything ready; no time to be wandering around a grocery store. Cas is around, though: he isn’t busy, and Dean trusts him with Baby, and— see? Lots of good reasons.

It’s just that he also couldn’t take the tension anymore. And the relief in Cas’ eyes when he suggested it makes him think Cas felt the same way.

Don’t get him wrong, it has been better than it was; he’s only got one secret pressing down on him now. But after everything that happened yesterday, it’s just been…

Well. Like he said. Tense.

At least he can breathe now, as he finishes planning dinner. He’s gonna make some French chicken thing he can’t pronounce out of a dusty copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking he found in one of the cupboards, and that just goes over some rice. It’s a lot easier than he would’ve expected. God bless Julia Child or whatever. Then there’s the lone case of beer in the fridge, and milk for Jack — he’s growing, he needs it — and Eileen texted earlier to say Sam was getting a couple of pies.

Which, unfortunately, is another thing he can think about now that Cas isn’t taking up all the available space in his brain. 

The Sam issue.

They’re still not talking; Sam hasn’t been by the cabin in weeks, at this point, and the last text conversation they had was that dumpster fire after Cas found out about Dean’s back. Dean was in a good mood when he’d told Eileen to bring the gang over for dinner, and it’s not that he’s regretting it, exactly, but he’s not… y’know. He’s not jumping for joy. That’s all.

‘Cause he— he hates the way things are between him and Sam. Duh. But there’s only so much he’s willing to apologize for, and things are gonna break down pretty quick if Sam thinks he oughta be sorry for more than he is. Because he’s not the only reason they’ve gotten to where they are. Sam’s gotta shoulder some of that responsibility too.

Dean sighs, rubbing his forehead. Fuck. This is gonna suck ass. And there’s nothing he can do but deal with it.

His phone buzzing against the table startles him out of his thoughts. He drags it towards him, peering at the caller ID.

He presses his lips together when he sees who it is, but he picks it up and hits accept anyway. He closes his eyes as he puts the phone to his ear. “Hey, Cas. What’s up?”

“You asked Claire to come tonight?”

Shit. Dean leans back, frowning. “Uh… yeah, I did. She texted you?”

“Yes,” Cas says, and he sounds almost… wary? “She wanted to know what time she should plan to get here.”

Dean shrugs, looking at his recipe again. “Well, uh. The Bunker crew is aiming for six-thirty, seven. So.”

Silence, for a minute.

“Why did you ask her?”

‘Cause she makes you happy and I fucking love you, Dean thinks helplessly. He flips a page of the cookbook. “I dunno, I just… thought it might be nice. You were happy to see her when she was here. She, uh. Never responded, though, so I wasn’t gonna mention it.” He thinks of watching the little time stamp under the text turning into “Read”, and then the complete lack of anything that followed. It stings a bit. Like he’s sure she meant it to. “Guess you’d better get a little more of everything so we have enough.”

“I will,” Cas says. Then he takes a breath, like he’s about to say something else— but he doesn’t.

“…Great.” Dean swallows, his gaze unfocused. “Well. See you.”

Love you.

He bites his tongue.

“Yes,” Cas says awkwardly. “Goodbye, Dean.” Then he hangs up. 

God. 

Goodbye, Dean.

Dean tilts his head back, his eyes squeezed shut, the phone still pressed hard to his ear. Goodbye, Dean. Goodbye, Dean. Goodbye, Dean.

“Fuck,” he says to the empty kitchen.

His phone hits the table with a clatter, and he walks away.

— - —

“Hello!” Jack chirps, bursting through the door and throwing his arms around Dean’s neck. “I missed you!”

Dean laughs in spite of himself, hugging the kid back. “Missed you too, Jack.”

Then they’re all kind of smiling and talking over each other, and Dean’s moving aside so everyone can get in, and just— damn. Thank god for Jack. 

(Thank Jack for Jack? Dean doesn’t really know how any of that stuff works anymore. But to be honest, he’s okay with that.) 

Anyways. He’d been sure this was gonna be six kinds of uncomfortable, and he’d only gotten more sure as zero hour approached, but it’s… mostly fine. Sure, Sam’s shoulders are a little high and tense, and he doesn’t really look Dean in the eyes, but it— it could’ve been weirder. Could’ve been a lot weirder.

Eileen’s waiting when Jack finally disengages and goes off to give Cas a hug, and Dean’s smile turns a little wry as she pulls him into a hug of her own. “How are you?” She asks after she lets go, eyeing him sharply. “I wasn’t expecting a dinner invite the other day.”

Dean lifts one shoulder in a shrug, closing the door behind them. “Not too bad. And, uh, yeah. I dunno. I missed the kid.”

He doesn’t fail to notice that Eileen stopping to talk to him allowed Sam to slip by without saying anything; he can hear him talking to Cas in the kitchen. He can’t blame him, though. Dean didn’t have any idea what to say either.

Eileen raises an eyebrow, but lets him have this one. “And Claire too?”

Dean nods to the living room. “Yup. Pretty sure she’s hangin’ out over there if you wanna say hi.”

Two crisp knocks on the door, six thirty on the dot. Dean opens the door to find Claire standing there with a six pack in hand.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

She’s kinda glowering. Not in a particularly directed way, though. It’s more of a generalized glower.

That’s something, at least.

She raises the six pack halfheartedly, eyes meeting Dean’s for just a second before sliding away again. “Brought some booze.”

That snaps Dean out of it, and he stands aside to let her in. “You’re not legal yet.” He frowns a little. “...Are you?”

“No.” She lifts her chin. “And?”

A beat; then he shrugs. “Nothin’. There’s room in the fridge.” 

Eileen shakes her head slightly, looking at him in that disturbingly piercing way of hers. “Huh.”

Then, finally, she pats his arm and leaves him alone. Once she’s turned away, Dean lets out a small, contained breath. Fuck. She really knows how to put him on the spot.

He retreats to the kitchen after that. He’s gotta finish a few things up, and, y’know… prepare himself for dinner. The only person here right now who isn’t a) pissed at him, b) watching him like a hawk, or c) both, is Jack. So. Game plan: be polite, talk about the fuckin’ weather or something, and don’t take any bait. And… possibly just avoid Claire all together.

Great. 

Well, he thinks, decisively turning off the stove. Let’s get this thing done.

Jack wanders in as he’s putting everything into some bowls and helps him set the table, claiming the seat next to Dean’s with one of the plastic Care Bears cups in the back of the one cupboard. He smiles briefly at Dean when he does it; and Dean, absurdly, feels a little like crying.

Getting everyone seated is interesting; they all pretend that placement doesn’t matter when it very, very much does. They manage it, though, and it actually kinda works out: Jack on Dean’s left, Cas on his right, Claire next to Cas, Sam next to Jack, and then Eileen right across from Dean. No one has any inescapable eye contact with anyone they can’t stand, and even though Eileen’s in a perfect spot to watch Dean the entire time… eh. He’ll take the lesser evil. It could’ve been Claire. Or Sam. And that wouldn’t have been fun for anyone.

But actually, it goes… pretty smoothly, all things considered. There are a couple near misses, yeah, but for the most part the conversation revolves around safe topics. Dean cracks a joke or two later on in the meal and… they do the job. (Sam lets out an involuntary snort and Claire almost smiles.) Eileen chats with Cas about a hunting hypothetical she came across. Jack chatters about what he’s been doing at the Bunker.

Dean has one beer. He actually forgets about his back, for a while there in the middle.

It’s good.

Jack stays close by him, sticking to his side like an affectionate burr. Talks his damn ear off all through dinner and then helps him clean up, does the dishes with him while everyone else heads into the living room. (Dean insists, even though Sam makes a slightly distressed face and hovers awkwardly by the table until Eileen pulls him away. Dean doesn’t let it get his hackles up, though. He needs the break too much.) 

Claire helps, too. Dean washes, she and Jack dry.

“Careful,” Dean says gruffly as he hands her one of the big serving bowls. “Slippery son of a bitch likes to get away from you.”

“Thanks,” she says. That’s all.

But she says it.

Jack is smiling.

Between the three of them it’s quick work, and it’s not long before they rejoin the group in the living room. Eileen’s dragged a Scrabble game out of god knows where and set it up on the coffee table, couch cushions spread helpfully on the floor. Sam, oddly, volunteers to tap out, circling around to perch next to Eileen on the arm of the couch; Claire and Jack huddle together on the other side of the board to be a team, and Dean finds himself bumping knees with Cas. 

“Hey,” he says. He’s aiming for casual, and he thinks it might almost be believable. “Doin’ alright?”

Cas pulls his hand out of the plastic bag of Scrabble tiles and hands it to Dean. “Mm. You?” Their eyes meet. “Dinner was good.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, getting his own tiles and passing the bag on to Eileen. “I’m… alright.” He shrugs as he starts lining them up on the holder, his voice dropping a little. “Well. Better.”

They’re quiet for a second, the other conversations masking the silence. Then Cas nudges Dean’s foot with his, unseen. “I think I am, too. Tonight has been good.”

“Yeah?”

Cas gives him a tiny smile. “Yes.”

It’s still weird. The tension’s still there. Saying it’s gone would be a damn lie. But… it’s a little lighter. Dean thinks.

“Huh,” he says. “I guess you’re right.”

And he nudges Cas’ foot back.

— - —

At some point during the game, Sam slips away.

It bothers Dean that he doesn’t notice it until long after Sam’s gone; he’s better than that. Or at least, he used to be. 

That bothers him too.

He was already losing the game despite Cas’ penchant for trying to use Sumerian and ancient Hebrew, and Claire arguing that slang should count too, but that seals the deal— being distracted isn’t good for thinking up words that’ll get him a ton of points. Eileen manages to edge Cas out, Claire and Jack coming in with a valiant third and Dean trailing behind in last place— but honestly, he couldn’t care less. Jack’s ready to play again, though, and Dean sees his opportunity. 

“Here,” he says, getting up and shuffling out of the way. “Take my spot, Jack. Show Claire how it’s done.”

“Fuck off, loser,” Claire says lazily, taking another sip of her beer. Jack laughs, Eileen high fives her, Cas shakes his head. Dean steps out of the way.

And as Jack settles in, tossing impish little comments back at Claire, Dean catches Eileen’s eye.

Sam? He signs.

Nonplussed, she nods towards the door. There, she signs, small and unobtrusive. Go.

Thanks, he signs back.

“Cas,” she says with a smile, “I’m getting another beer. Are you thirsty?”

He’s sure Cas notices him leave — Claire and Jack too, for that matter, he’s not kidding himself — but there wasn’t really any avoiding that. At least they don’t call him on it; at least he doesn’t feel their eyes on him as he walks quietly to the door. They let him have this.

He shuts the door behind him without a sound, and for once he’s grateful for his own inability to rest; he’d never have oiled the hinges into smooth silence, otherwise. 

Sam doesn’t move from where he’s standing at the porch railing, staring moodily out into the night. But he shifts to the side a little when Dean comes up next to him.

“Hey,” Dean says, his hands shoved into his pockets. 

Sam’s hands tighten on the railing. “Hey.”

A breeze drifts by, ruffling Dean’s hair. It’s cool out, tonight. And it’s definitely fall now: he noticed earlier today that the trees are changing, yellow and orange starting to bleed into the green.

He stays quiet. Just looking out at the trees in the same direction Sam is.

Sam breaks first. He starts to fidget a little: shifting his weight, shooting Dean wary looks. That sort of thing. He never was good at staying still for very long when they were kids, not unless he had a book or something to keep his attention. He hated stakeouts like nothin’ else.

The fidgeting kind of makes it feel like he’s about to say fuck it and dive right into things, though, and Dean’s not sure that’s how he wants this to go. So, awkwardly, he clears his throat. “How’s, uh. How’s Jack doing?”

Sam stares at him for a moment. Then he shrugs. “Uh… pretty good. I’ve been, uh. Teaching him some stuff? He’s talked about high school a couple times since he’s been back, so I’m gonna try to catch him up on what he should know.” A small, chagrined smile. “He’s good at history, and he likes science, but, uh. We’re gonna have to work on math.”

Dean grins. “Yeah, well, math sucks ass. I don’t blame him.”

“Ha,” Sam laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

And… the conversation dies there.

Fuck. Neither of them have ever been good at this. Not really. Sam’s usually better than Dean, but that’s when he’s talking to other people. They’ve always been bad about hashing shit out when it’s just them.

But Dean’s gotta deal with this. He can’t let it keep festering, and he… he has to have everything else more or less sorted before he tries to take on The Big One. He’ll just make excuses, otherwise, and that’s not fair to Cas.

As if on cue, a burst of Cas’ laughter filters out from the living room, deep and genuine. And Dean remembers the last time he and Sam were out here like this. The night they fought about Dean being dead and then he stumbled outside and came back to life.

“Listen,” he says, a little hoarsely. “I wanted to, uh.” 

His voice stops cooperating, briefly. Sam goes still. 

His nails dig into his palms. “I wanted to apologize.”

Sam eyes Dean warily. “Uh… okay?”

Dean lifts his shoulder in a half shrug, guilt spiking through him. “C’mon, I just… I was an asshole. ‘Cause you were, uh. Right on the money.” He lets out a breath, trying to make sure he doesn’t sound too accusatory. That his voice stays even, controlled. “And you wouldn’t let me forget it. I hated that.”

Sam’s looking down at his hands again, his shoulders up around his ears. “I shouldn’t have pushed so hard,” he says quietly. “I know that. I know. But you were so…” He finally looks at Dean, his eyes big and shiny, his face drawn. “You were so… hollow. You had this facade up, but it was just empty underneath it, man. And it scared me. Every morning I woke up, Dean, and I didn’t know if I’d walk out of my room and find you—”

He can’t finish. 

(He doesn’t need to.)

“I know,” Dean manages. He runs a hand over his mouth. “If, uh. If it matters. I never… I never really thought about it.” He stifles a wince, closing his eyes for a second; he hadn’t meant to say that. He looks over at Sam, gauging his reaction. “Does… does that matter?”

Sam’s got his elbows leaned on the railing now, hunched over as he glowers out towards the woods. “Sorta.” He sniffs sharply and blinks a few times in quick succession. “Not really.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Somewhere out in the forest, an owl calls, low and soft. The hairs prick up on Dean’s spine, and he shivers a little.

“Fuck,” Sam breathes, dropping his forehead into one hand. 

“Look, Sam, I just—”

“Stop.”

Dean shuts his mouth.

Eventually, Sam takes a deep breath and straightens up. “Okay. Just… listen to me for a minute. Alright?”

Dean nods.

Sam looks at him, half his face in shadow. “First of all, I… I accept your apology. Okay? You’ve done enough. You’ve covered all your bases there. Alright?”

“Alright,” Dean manages after a long second. “Cool.”

Sam’s expression softens. Just a little.

“Second of all…” he says. He stops awkwardly for a second, then blows out a long breath. “I… owe you an apology, too. I was too hard on you. I thought that if you’d just face it head-on instead of trying to pretend you were fine, you could… I dunno, try to move on?”

Dean can’t quite hold back a mirthless little snort of laughter at that, and Sam’s lips twitch into a small, sad smile. “Yeah, uh. Not my most solid logic.”

“You can say that again.”

Sam shakes his head, still smiling a bit. “Anyways. That’s where I was at. But it wasn’t right, how I tried to make you deal with it.” He looks at Dean, the last of his smile fading away. “Could you… forgive me for that?”

Dean shrugs, shaking his head immediately. “‘Course. Always, Sam. I know you were— I know you were tryin’ to help.” 

Sam looks down. “Thank you, Dean.” 

“It’s nothing,” Dean says, out of habit more than anything else. 

But he means it. 

He looks up, willing away the burning at the corners of his eyes. “Then I guess, uh. I just wanted to know if… y’know, if you could… forgive me t—”

“Oh my god, Dean, yes,” Sam says over him, raising his voice a little to drown Dean out. “I forgive you, jesus christ. Really? Do you need it on a billboard?”

They stare at each other for a second in the wake of Sam’s outburst. Dean taken aback, eyes wide. Sam wearing his favourite look of Dean-specific exasperation.

A beat.

And then they completely lose it.

Snorting, gasping, Dean has to brace himself on the railing as Sam’s shoulders shake with laughter. It’s harder than he’s laughed in… in a long time. Forever.

Damn, it feels good.

“C’mere, asshat,” he laughs, grabbing Sam and pulling him into a hug. 

Sam thumps him between the shoulder blades, holding on tight. “You’re an idiot,” he says fondly, his voice bright with mirth. 

Dean gives Sam one last squeeze before pulling back, grinning huge. “Bitch.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Jerk,” he says, shaking his head. “Can we go back inside now? I’m cold.”

“Hey, you’re the one who came out here to mope in the first place.”

“I wasn’t moping, Dean, I was taking a—”

“Yeah, okay, sure you weren’t. Get in there and beat Jack at the nerd game.”

Sam tips his head back and laughs. “Fine, fine. Whatever.”

And even though that’s an obvious moment to clap Sam on the shoulder one more time and then head back inside, neither of them do much more than turn a little towards the door. Dean’s… not quite done, just yet. And Sam can probably tell.

Scratch that. He can definitely tell. He can almost always tell. And if Dean looked at him, he’s pretty damn sure he’d find Sam already looking back and doing his best not to show that he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean scuffs at a warped board with the toe of his boot. “I’m, uh. I’m glad we did this. Or whatever.”

A pause. “Yeah,” Sam says with a sigh, mirroring Dean and putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m tired of fighting with you, man.”

“Me too. And…” Dean swallows. “Y’know. I’ve got a lot of people I’ve gotta make things right with.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up, you know I do.”

“...Yeah.” Sam nudges his elbow a little. “Seems like you’re doing a pretty good job, though.”

Dean grunts something that could be construed as a thank you, mostly because he’s not sure his voice would work. But then he clears his throat. “It’s, uh. It’s pretty much just Cas left now, though. So.”

He inspects the porch light, watching a moth bump into the plastic cover over and over again. Sam is quiet beside him.

Fuck, his chest is tight. Shit.

“You’re gonna talk to him?”

Dean means to say something— really, he does. But no sound comes out. So he just nods once, tersely, and keeps watching the moth batter itself against the light.

Thunk, thunk-thunk. Thunk.

“Don’t…” Sam pauses. 

Dean waits. 

“Don’t think too much,” Sam says eventually. “Don’t get in your head.”

Sarcasm bubbles up, the desire to deflect so strong it almost wins out. But Dean just stands there and presses his lips together, waiting for it to dissipate.

And to his surprise, it does. 

“No promises,” he manages. “But, uh. I’ll try.”

“Good.” Sam turns to him, then, and Dean finally risks a look. There’s nothing judgmental or knowing in Sam’s eyes, though. Just a slight smile on his face and a nose that’s gone pink from the night chill. “Now I don’t know about you, but I could use some coffee.”

Dean smiles back, just a little. “Yeah, sure. You’re makin’ it, though.”

“Deal.”

And without another word, they head back inside.

— - —

Don't turn away, don't tell me that we're not the same

We face the fire together, brothers 'til the end

Don't run away, our time will come but not today

I stand beside you, brother, with you 'til the end

- Brother (Last Ride), Lord Huron

Chapter Text

“Well,” Dean says as he closes the door. “That wasn’t half bad, was it?” Everyone’s finally gone home, and he’s trying not to think about how it’s just him and Cas, now. He’s decided he’s just gonna keep doing what he has been all night and pretend everything’s fine. It’s worked so far.

Cas wanders over to the coffee table and sits down on the couch to start putting away the remnants of the last Scrabble game. (There was badly hidden cheating involved and Claire kept threatening to flip the board.) “Not at all,” he says. He spares Dean another one of the fleeting little looks he’s been favouring all night before returning his full and undivided attention squarely to the tiles he’s scooping into a bag. “How is Sam?”

‘How is Sam’. Not ‘how did the talk go’, or ‘are you still fighting’. How is Sam? 

God, Dean loves him.

Dean clears his throat and gives himself a hard mental shake, starting to pick up the blanket nest Jack had made for himself on the floor. “Y’know, he’s… good. Better than he was.”

“That’s good to hear,” Cas says carefully, his hands stilling for a moment. Then he puts the bag of tiles into the box and starts folding up the board. “I, uh.” The board goes into the box and Dean turns away, putting a couple pillows back onto the chair and shaking the crumbs out of a blanket as he waits for whatever Cas is considering whether or not he should say.

“I heard you laughing,” Cas says quietly.

Dean stops, the blanket clutched in his hands. “Yep.”

The room is quiet.

“It was good to hear, Dean. You sounded… happy.”

Dean brings the corners of the blanket together. He folds it in half, then half again, before draping it neatly over the back of the chair.

“Well…” he says slowly, still facing away from Cas. “Yeah. I was.”

A pause. “Was?”

Dean swallows. 

“Am.”

He looks over his shoulder, and it’s no surprise to find Cas’ eyes on him. But it does surprise him a little when Cas doesn’t look away. And Dean sure isn’t gonna be the one to break first. Not this time.

Cas tilts his head a little, his eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. Dean raises his eyebrows. “I’m not messing with you. Seriously. I am.”

He turns to face Cas head-on, then; arms at his sides, relaxed. Letting Cas look at him. He’s got nothing to hide this time. He’s not lying, as insane as that is. Tonight wasn’t without its… sticky points, sure, but. Yeah. He’s happy.

Cas doesn’t say anything more— but after a moment, something in the guarded set of his face changes. Falls away, almost. And then suddenly Dean isn’t being appraised anymore, like he has been so often since Cas found out about everything. Suddenly they’re just looking at each other, like they always used to. And it’s…

It’s a lot. 

He lied. He breaks first.

— - —

The coffee maker, being old as shit, doesn’t make a noise when Dean presses the on button. Which he appreciates. He gives it an almost affectionate pat before easing his way over to the door, putting his boots on, and getting Miracle outside with as little noise as possible. And, as he shuts the door behind him, he’s pretty sure he succeeded.

It’s not that early, honestly. Only six fifteen. But early for Dean is zero dark thirty for most people, so he realizes his barometer is pretty off. Still, Cas’ll be happy to wake up to coffee— he’s not a morning person. Not quite as bad as Dean is when he’s not all fucked up, but pretty funny in his own way, all groggy and rumpled until he has at least half a cup in him. He bumps into things. It’s cute.

That still takes Dean’s breath away when he thinks about it too much. That he knows such a private, mundane thing like Cas’ goddamn morning routine as well as he does. He’s been able to read Sam like that for ages, has always had a rough mental schedule of when Sam usually gets up and what he likes to eat and when he’ll run out of orange juice because he drinks the stuff like there’s no tomorrow when he’s all punch-drunk and sweaty after his morning runs. But he’s known Sam for a lifetime. He’s known Cas for, what… twelve years? Which isn’t insignificant, but he hasn’t lived with Cas for twelve years. He’s lived with him for…

Well. That’s the root of all his issues today, isn’t it?

It’s been one month since Cas came back.

That’s why Dean’s out here. Why he’s been up since three a.m., why he spent an hour standing at Cas’ door listening to his sleep-heavy breathing. Why there’s a panicked part of him that gets stronger with every step he takes away from the cabin telling him that Cas won’t be there when he gets back. That he’ll walk back in to find a full pot of coffee and an empty bedroom, no trace left behind. The Empty doesn’t leave a mess, for all that it looks like that fucking goop monster that killed Tasha Yar in Next Gen. The Empty does things clean.

Miracle whines and nudges his knee, and Dean blinks. Loosening his hands from the fists they’d curled into, he reaches down and gives the dog’s ears a ruffle. “Sorry, boy,” he mutters. “M’okay.” He looks over his shoulder, finding the shape of the cabin through the trees and considering it for a moment.

They haven’t gone very far at all, yet. Miracle needs his exercise. So does Dean. And it’ll still take a while for the coffee to finish brewing.

He turns and forces himself on in the same direction he’d been going.

He’s known today has been coming up for a while. He’d been keeping track the whole time Cas was gone— not intentionally, but he had— and after he came back he just… hadn’t stopped. Twelve days since Cas came back. Two weeks. Twenty-two days. It was just something he was aware of, like what month it was or the general time of day. Easy and thoughtless as breathing. 

So he’s not surprised. But he hadn’t been expecting today to be like this.

The bottle-it-up-and-ignore-it approach he’s been trying for the past couple hours is already showing cracks, and he doubts it’ll make it past eight o’clock. He’d wrestled it on after his little vigil at Cas’ door earlier: just like last time, he’d felt like a hypocritical creep, and he couldn’t… he couldn’t keep doing it, as much as he wanted to. As much as it made him feel better. Fuck. So he’d gritted his teeth and tried to go about his morning as usual. Got dressed. Fed Miracle. Made coffee. Taken the dog on a walk.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do instead of act like everything’s fine and ignore the anxiety that’s making him feel like he’s on the verge of hurling every two seconds, though. Hover like a mother hen until the minute hand ticks over to 12:01 tomorrow morning? Tell Cas he’s worried he might get sucked up by a petty eldritch entity, so if he could stay in Dean’s sights and also preferably in a warded room for the next eighteen hours or so that’d be great? No. Christ. 

He turns around and starts back towards the cabin, at that. That train of thought was a mistake. His chest has gone all tight and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

Miracle whines again, more urgently this time, looking up at Dean as he breaks into a trot to keep up. Dean’s heart thunders in his ears.

Fifteen feet. Ten feet. Up the stairs, clammy palm closing around the doorknob, and—

Cas, standing at the counter with the coffee pot still in his hands, looks up as Dean bursts through the door.

The sick haze of panic dissipates as quickly as it had overtaken him, and he’s left jarringly aware of how stupid he must look in its swift and brutal absence. Cas’ brow furrows in concern. “Dean?”

Fuck. “Uh…” Dean swallows. “Hey.”

He quickly turns his back to Cas, shutting the door and unclipping Miracle’s leash before sitting down heavily on the bench and attacking his bootlaces, his hands still slick with sweat. His face feels uncomfortably hot.

There’s the slightly off-kilter sound of the coffee pot being settled back into the perc, then the soft sound of footsteps advancing toward him. He gives up on the lost cause of his boots, planting his forehead in one hand instead so he doesn’t have to see whatever expression he’s sure Cas is making.

Cas’ clothes rustle as he crouches down next to Dean, the bulk of his body displacing the air. And then he puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Because of course he does.

“What is it?” Cas asks. His voice— hell, the warmth of him, the awareness Dean has of the space he’s taking up, the smell of him— rolls over Dean like a slow exhale. It’s so comforting it’s stupid. Dean wants to pull Cas into his arms and never let him go.

“You gonna kick my ass if I say ‘nothing’?” he mumbles. He’s not really sure if he even means for Cas to hear it.

“No,” Cas says. “That wouldn’t be fair. You’re an invalid.”

That wrings a weak snort of mirth out of Dean, at least. Cas’ hand tightens on his shoulder. “However,” he continues, “I will keep asking until you tell me. That was the agreement, wasn’t it?”

Dean, his head still buried in his hand, bites back a curse. “Yeah,” he mutters eventually. “Yeah, it was.” He sighs. “Just… gimme a minute.”

Cas obligingly withdraws his hand from Dean’s shoulder. Which Dean kinda hates. But he doesn’t go any farther than that; he stays right where he is, knelt at Dean’s side.

Dean breathes. Dean listens to Cas breathe.

“You’ve been back for a month,” is what he says eventually, into the expectant emptiness of the room. “As of today. And I just…” He swallows, his mouth going dry again, the fear rearing its blunt, ugly head. “I figure the Empty’s got a real fucked up sense of humour.”

Cas is quiet for a long second. “You’re afraid it’ll take me back.”

He says it like a statement, not a question. So Dean just keeps it simple and jerks his head in a tiny nod.

“Jack wouldn’t let that happen,” Cas says softly. “He may be ‘hands-off’, but even he has his limits. And besides, there’s nothing left for the Empty to take. It still has whatever was left of my Grace; that stayed behind when Jack pulled me out. It doesn’t have dominion over humans, Dean. Only higher order beings.”

“Hey, now,” Dean croaks.

He meant it as a joke even though it didn’t really come out that way. Cas huffs a laugh anyways. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m including myself in the ‘humans’ category. So if anyone is being insulted, surely it’s me, given that I chose this.”

Dean raises his head from his hand in time to see Cas gesture at himself with a kind of awkward pride, and he can’t help but smile a bit. “You’re cracked,” he says. “Think about it. Achy knees. Colds. Taxes.”

“Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Libraries.”

“Having to piss all the time.”

“Hot showers. Sweatpants. Coffee drinks with whipped cream on them.”

“Bug bites. The police. Gas prices.”

“Pie.”

Dean opens his mouth. Then he shuts his mouth. Cas smirks, the motherfucker.

“My point,” he says, still a little smug, “is that I’m not going anywhere, Dean. I’m here for as long as you want me to be. And the Empty can’t change that.”

Dean’s hesitantly lifting mood fades again, washed down the drain like a curl of blood. “Okay, sure,” he says, his voice abruptly flat and emotionless. “You’re in it for the long haul. But—” His jaw goes tight, cutting him off involuntarily. Cas cocks his head in confusion.

“But that’s meant shit all, every other time,” Dean finishes hoarsely. 

Cas stares at him.

“Every time,” Dean says, his eyes roaming helplessly over Cas’ face. “Even if you’re trying to stay. Even if you’re not throwin’ yourself on your sword. You always die anyways.” He passes a hand over his mouth, looking away. “So.”

Thank fucking god that Cas isn’t dumb enough to try and tell Dean he’s wrong. Dean doesn’t think he could take that.

After a long moment, Cas shifts back on his heels and stands up, sliding his feet into the dumbass Birkenstocks Charlie got him. “Come on.”

Dean blinks up at him, his eyebrows drawing together. “What?”

Cas smiles a little. “Come on, get up. I have an idea.” The crinkles around his eyes deepen slightly. “Do you trust me?”

Dean sighs a bit but gets up anyway, instinctively grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. “I’ll bite.” He hesitates, a quip nudging at the back of his brain. It feels… a little wrong to reach for humour, right now. Chuck’d hate it, though— Dean interrupting a dramatic, scripted moment with a wisecrack he hadn’t planned for. So he says it anyways, and thinks, fuck you, you five foot asswipe, while he does it. “But the only magic carpet ride I care about is the one by Steppenwolf.”

Cas’ smile widens. “Then it’s a good thing you’re driving, isn’t it?”

— - —

Dean stares out through the windshield. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Not at all,” Cas says blithely, and gets out before Dean can say another word. He’s already halfway across the parking lot by the time Dean’s pulled himself together, gotten out after him, and locked the car, so he has to jog to catch up with him. 

“C’mon, though,” he says in disbelief when he’s finally fallen into step next to Cas. “Really? Mini-putt?”

“Yes,” Cas says absently. Then he smiles at the bored-looking cashier. “Two clubs, please.”

Dean just sort of watches in dumbfounded silence while Cas takes the clubs and the balls and starts off towards the start of the course. He… he feels like he’s dreaming. Is he dreaming? He bites the inside of his cheek— fuck, yep, definitely awake. Not dreaming.

“Score cards are there,” the girl says pointedly, and Dean blinks owlishly at her. She snaps her gum and points at a little wooden stand full of blank cards. “Pencils too.”

“Right.” Dean takes one of each, almost forgets to acknowledge the teenage nightmare who told him to, and then stutters to a stop mid-step to give her an awkward nod. “Uh. Thanks.”

She doesn’t even look up. Dean shuts his mouth and goes over to Cas.

Cas sees the scorecard and lights up a little. “Oh, I forgot about that. Thank you.”

“Cas,” Dean says— very normally, if you ask him— and Cas raises his eyebrows. Dean stares at him. “What are we doing here?”

Cas squints at him for a second, then purses his lips briefly. “Because I saw this place last weekend and I’ve been wanting to go, and because it’s not a very good backdrop for my death.”

The scorecard develops several creases. “What.”

Cas shrugs. “I mean, it’s not something Chuck would pick. It’s not dramatic. There’s a pirate over there, Dean. One of the holes has a cartoon giraffe standing over it.” He holds a club and a ball out to Dean with the same gravitas he’s previously handed over a knife or his own sword. “I’m not going to die on the eighth hole of a mini-putt course marketed to children between the ages of seven and twelve.”

And—

Shit. He’s right.

Dean takes the golf club. “Y’know,” he says, inspecting it carefully, “I’ve been thinking about that too. What I could do that’d piss Chuck off the most if he was still running things.”

Cas smiles. “Would you like to go first, or should I?”

So. They mini-putt.

Dean wins by a landslide, even though he’s in recovery and still reeling from… pretty much everything that’s happened so far today, actually. Cas is surprised at how good he is, but he shouldn’t be: Dean’s played a million games of mini-putt at a million vaguely similar courses across the great US of A from the time Sam was old enough to make the walk from the motel with him. It was a great way to spend an afternoon, and cheap, too: he was usually pretty good at either scrounging up enough to pay for a couple clubs or, at worst, batting his eyes at some Midwestern mom who’d coo over him and Sam for a minute or two and then shell out a few bucks so they could play. He’s done this more times than he can count, and his aim’s always been good anyways. He even makes a couple holes in one.

Cas, on the other hand, is terrible. Like, hilariously so. He hits his ball into the mucky little water feature twice. Dean has to stop him from climbing in after his ball the second time and just go get a new one.

By the time they get to the last hole he’s gone all squinty and annoyed; he seems to have forgotten that even though he’s now… well, human- ish, he’s never done this before. The expression is weirdly familiar, though, and Dean puzzles over it for a moment before realizing in a disorienting swoop of deja vu that it’s the same look Cas used to wear whenever they had to drive somewhere, way back when they first knew him. God, Dean remembers enjoying that so much, in a stick-it-to-the-man kind of way. Making this huge, stupid powerful being sit in the backseat and get places the way every other miserable human had to. 

Now, though, it’s just funny. Dean has to suppress a smile. “I’ll bet you five bucks that goes into the drink again.”

Cas stops the complex mental calculations he was obviously doing to skewer Dean with a truly poisonous glare. “Seeing as I would have to hit the ball backwards and skip over three holes, I think I’m safe.”

Dean shrugs, a grin breaking through. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

Cas goes back to lining his shot up with a huff, but at least it’s grudgingly good-natured now. “I should be better at this,” he says, adjusting his stance. “You have no concept of the skill and coordination required for flight. Calculating the trajectory of a golf ball should be child’s play in comparison.”

“Yeahhhh,” Dean says, drawing the word out as he stares at the severe, focused crease between Cas’ eyebrows. “Sure. That’s what they all say.”

Cas hits the ball. And it rolls right over the little bridge, through the pirate’s treasure chest, and directly into the hole.

Cas’ grin is sudden, huge, and blinding. Dean claps him on the shoulder, letting out a triumphant whoop. “That’s more like it! Hell yeah, Cas, nice one!”

“Thank you,” Cas says graciously. He’s still smiling, and god. It’s something else when he turns it on Dean. 

He realizes how close they are, then; angled in towards each other, his hand still resting on Cas’ shoulder. Cas, looking right at him. Not even trying to hide it.

He breaks away, his cheeks warm and his pulse hammering. “Not as good as me,” he says as he sets his ball down on the tee and lines up his shot. “But, y’know. You’re not half bad for a beginner.”

Cas laughs out loud at that. 

Dean, understandably distracted as he is, ends up hitting two above par.

— - —

The thing about distractions, though, is that they’re only good for so long. Cognitive dissonance only goes so far: Dean’s too old and too fucked up for that to work on him for long, anymore. And he’s never been good at letting shit go.

So for the few hours they’re playing mini golf, things are great. (They play a second round at Cas’ insistence, in the hopes that his hole-in-one wasn’t a fluke.) (It definitely was.) It’s so far removed from everything Dean’s been worried about that it lets him be free of the fear for a while. But as soon as they’re back in the car, it starts to creep back in. Slowly, so slowly that Dean almost doesn’t notice it. 

Key word: almost.

They stop at a diner for lunch and Dean finds himself watching the door, the windows. Keeping up a scan. They swing by Charlie’s to say hi and he can’t quite make himself sit still. Charlie notices, and Cas has been watching Dean a little more carefully than he was, but neither of them say anything. Cas just wraps things up quick and keeps them moving.

“It’s only one forty-five,” Cas says as they’re getting back into the car. “We could stop by the grocery store, I think we were getting low on a few things.”

Dean considers it, okay? He does. Thinks about a wide-open space full of fluorescent lighting and tinny top 40 crap and maybe loud kids and Cas, still watching him the way he is right now. He shakes his head. “Nah, we can do that, uh…” He stops. Doesn’t say ‘tomorrow’, or any of those other treacherous absolutes that make it sound like he thinks they’ll get out of this scot free. He swallows, feeling Cas’ eyes lying heavily on him. “Let’s just go back to the cabin.”

He doesn’t really want to do that, either, but there’s nowhere else to go. The only course of action that holds any sort of appeal right now is locking the car doors and flooring it out of town, just driving and driving and driving until they’re safe. That’s a child’s impulse, though. It wouldn’t make this any better, and at some point an open road at the ass end of nowhere would be just as bad as anywhere else.

It’s kind of an exercise in futility, when the thing you’re running away from is your own brain. (And if he’s not just having the longest, most fucked up panic attack of all time… if he’s right, and there is something coming…)

He clears his throat and pulls away from the curb. “Y’know, uh. Miracle could probably go for another walk.”

Cas is still looking at him. Dean doesn’t look back.

“Alright,” Cas says eventually. “Maybe we could watch a movie or something.”

Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Sure,” he says. “Good idea.”

They both fall into silence, then. And neither of them make any more attempts to break it.

— - —

It gets worse as the daylight fades. The afternoon was… fine, Dean guesses. They watched a movie. They did the breakfast dishes. They took Miracle for that walk.

(Cas had asked Dean what he thought about the end of the movie, and all he’d been able to do was stare blankly back at him because he couldn’t remember a single goddamn plot point.) (He’d insisted on drying so he could keep his eyes up, stay alert. The water was so loud he’d never be able to hear the squelching noise over it if he was standing at the sink.) (The forest started to look uncomfortably dim, towards the end of their walk. It reminded Dean of purgatory.)

He isn’t really hungry but he still goes through the motions and helps Cas make dinner. Picks at his plate. Covers it with plastic wrap when it’s sat there long enough, untouched, and puts it in the fridge. Feels like a dick because he can tell he’s worrying Cas, but doesn’t stop any of the things he’s doing. Can’t. He wants to apologize, for more things than he knows how to put into words. Doesn’t.

He watches Cas constantly.

The windows are squares of darkness set into the walls, flat and disconcerting whenever they happen to catch Dean’s eye. All the lights are on. Cas, after asking if it’s alright, puts on some music, and that makes it… just this side of bearable. Dean actually manages to smile a little when it first comes on, believe it or not. It’s a classic rock mix.

God. He feels so stupid.

There’s nothing he can do, though. He doesn’t think he could logic himself out of any of these fucking compulsions he’s having if he tried. He doesn’t go so far as to plaster the walls with sigils and runes, but that’s mostly because they wouldn’t do jack, not because he’s winning out over his brain. He just has to pace and keep his eyes glued to Cas and never get farther than about five feet from him. Close enough to lunge out and grab ahold of him, if he needed to.

Cas, for his part, doesn’t say a word about any of it. He just sits on the couch and reads, even though Dean can see that he’s barely making any progress through the book. He talks, too. About some confusing joke Jack sent him earlier. About the physical inaccuracies of the giraffe at the mini putt course. About flying. Dean does his best to respond when he can, if only to make sure the worried crease in Cas’ forehead doesn’t deepen. Neither of them suggest turning in, and Dean is more grateful than he knows how to deal with.

Time passes. The beat-up clock on the wall ticks over to ten thirty.

Dean sits down in one of the armchairs across from Cas, and Cas raises an eyebrow, quizzical.

“Sorry,” Dean rasps. “This is, uh… it’s stupid. Just a couple more hours, then—”

“Don’t apologize,” Cas says calmly, cutting off his stuttering. “I’ll sit here all night if that’s what you need from me.”

Dean’s eyes burn, and he swipes a rough hand across his mouth. “Nah, just until midnight. Then I’ll be fine.”

“Alright.”

It’d be so easy to pick a fight about the tone of Cas’ voice. That’s literally the last thing Dean wants to do right now.

“Talk to me, Cas,” is what he says instead.

Cas tilts his head, setting his book aside. “About what?”

Dean’s left thumb digs into the tendon at the base of his right, rubbing a tight, anxious circle. “Anything, man. I don’t care.” He closes his eyes, just for a moment. “It, uh. Helps.”

So Cas talks. He starts with the stars: the sun, actually. He saw its birth. The planets, Earth itself, the moon. He talks about Pangaea and how most of the big mountain ranges are the remnants of one huge, unbroken line. The slow-trickle formation of the Grand Canyon, how one of Cas’ brothers was sent down to move a rock two inches to the left to make sure a three-hundred foot chasm would form in a few million years’ time. People, too. A child in the desert who looked up into Cas’ face and said hello, without a trace of fear. The laughter and song he’d heard emanating from a town he’d been charged with protecting, and how even then he’d been curious what they found so funny. 

All that and more. His voice is soft, soothing, and— and Dean does lose himself in it, for a while. The familiar rhythms and pitches lap against him, soporific, and his shoulders lose a little of their rigidity. His vigil becomes slightly less white-knuckled and frantic. 

What that means, though, is that all his fear comes crashing back down over him like a bucket of ice water when he happens to look up at the clock again. Cas stops mid-sentence when Dean shoots to his feet, and he turns, following Dean’s gaze. “Oh,” he says. And with that one word, Dean knows for sure that for as serene and unbothered as Cas appears, he’s been preoccupied with all the same shit Dean’s had running through his head since three this morning.

It’s ten to midnight.

“Cas,” Dean says. Why, he’s not sure. There’s nothing else he can think of to say. Just his name, strained and pleading.

Cas turns back to him, getting to his feet and rounding the coffee table to put himself between Dean and the clock. His hands land on Dean’s shoulders, forcing him to pay attention. “I’m here, Dean,” he says forcefully. His fingers dig into Dean’s skin through his shirt, and Dean grabs his elbows in return, keeping him close. Distantly, he registers the rough, wheezy sound of his own breathing. Cas looks him square in the eyes. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

“No you’re fucking not,” Dean gasps. “Not if I’m here.”

Cas nods. “Not if you’re here,” he agrees. “I promised.”

He lets out an odd, squashed little sound when Dean muscles him in closer, wrapping him in something between a hug and a death grip. He holds on just as hard, though, his hands fisting in the back of Dean’s shirt and his heartbeat thudding against Dean’s chest. Or maybe that’s Dean’s own heartbeat. He can’t tell, and that ignites something visceral and possessive in him.

“It can’t take you,” he growls, his fear transforming bit by bit into hot, black anger as the minute hand ticks another notch towards the twelve. “I won’t let it. Not again, Cas, you hear that? Not again. Never fucking again. You’re staying right. Here.”

Cas just holds Dean tighter.

They stand like that, Dean seething with righteous fury, for the whole time it takes midnight to make its snails-pace approach. The fear is there, too, but it’s turned as hard and sharp as a diamond under the pressure of today. Hell, of the past year. Of every goddamn nightmare and dark moment and wish for release he’s had since his universe crumbled to dust in that fucking basement, and since it exploded back into life on the porch of this godforsaken cabin. There’s a reckless, unhinged part of Dean that almost wants the Empty to show, if only so he could show it exactly what it created when it ripped Cas away from him that day. If only because he wasn’t even half this angry when they faced Chuck, and he’d like to see anything try to take Cas from him right now.

Because they wouldn’t succeed. He’d burn down the world before he let that happen.

Midnight strikes with a mechanical click of plastic. Dean crushes Cas to him, his eyes flicking around the room, every sense tingling with focus. 

And nothing happens.

It’s silent, except for Dean’s own ragged breathing and the unremarkable ticking of the clock. No wet, slimy squelch. No feeling like the pit of Dean’s stomach is being dragged towards a rip in the fabric of the world. No tears. No confessions. No goodbyes.

The room tilts. Cas grunts in surprise, the two of them sagging as Dean’s knees buckle, but he catches Dean. Just like he always does. 

Dean’s face is wet. “Cas,” he manages. “Cas.”

Cas’ forehead knocks into his, awkward and too hard. “I’m still here,” he says fervently. “I’m here, Dean. I’ve got you.”

A sound tears itself out of Dean’s throat. A sob, he supposes. He doesn’t know what the hell his body is doing, shaking all over and clammy with fear-sweat and still holding Cas closer than he’s ever let himself for more than a few moments at a time. He doesn’t move, leaving their foreheads pressed together as he gulps in uneven breaths of the hot, damp air trapped in the scant space between them. Cas’ air. Cas’ breath, puffing against his neck.

His heart hasn’t stopped thundering in his chest, but that’s increasingly for different reasons. Like the way he can feel Cas’ hands on his back, solid and firm because they’d probably be shaking like his breathing is if they were settled any less squarely. The way he can feel Cas plastered all the way down his front, the kind of close he’s wanted him all day. (All week. All month.) The thing he can feel rising up inside him, slowly working its way out from the twisty, labyrinthine depths he’s been shoving it down into since he first started feeling it all those years ago.

Cas gingerly — reluctantly — starts trying to disengage, then. Dean doesn’t let him. Not now, when it’s all finally coming together. So he grips the back of Cas’ shirt more tightly and presses mulishly forward again, their noses bumping this time. 

Cas’ breath hitches, and Dean hears— sees— feels— every exquisite facet of it. He hasn’t felt this alive in ages.

“Are you… alright?” Cas asks, his voice very neutral and his body very still inside the crush of Dean’s arms. His hands are on Dean’s shoulders, though.

“Cas,” Dean says again, his voice a wreck. “Just… listen.”

Cas’ fingers twitch, spasming delicately against his arms.

“In… in the, uh…” Dean’s throat threatens to close up on him, but he fights it back ruthlessly, determined to make it through. “In the basement. Everything happened so fast, I just… it didn’t compute. Wouldn’t. I didn’t wanna let it, ‘cause both of us dying was bad, but what— what was happening, what did happen, it was… God, Cas.” He has to stop. Take a breath. “It was so much worse.”

“But,” he continues, his voice nearly abandoning him, “that wasn’t the worst part.” He wets his lips, hot new tears blurring his vision at the memory. “The worst part was after, Cas. Y’know what the worst part was?”

Cas swallows. “Dean.” 

And it’s with a bolt of shock that Dean realizes Cas is scared. He doesn’t know what Dean’s gonna say— or maybe he hopes he does, and he’s scrambling, trying not to, trying to protect himself from the disappointment and heartache. Stop, is what he’s saying. Pleading, really. Think it through. Don’t say something you can’t take back.

Please don’t hurt me.

He doesn’t have to worry. That’s the farthest thing from Dean’s mind. 

“It was the regret,” he says, undeterred. “Cas, the worst part of all that was that you ripped yourself open right there in front of me, and I just stood there.”

Cas pulls back so he can look Dean full in the face, all his features perfectly blank and smooth except for his eyes. God, his eyes. “Dean. I— I don’t.” He searches Dean’s face, lost, trying so hard to keep his composure. “What do you mean?”

And it turns out that maybe all Dean needed, all along, was for someone to ask him just like that. Clear and direct. Because he finds that answering Cas is the easiest thing he’s ever done. 

“I mean I should’ve said it back.”

Cas’ expression crumples, and now he’s crying too, tears escaping down his face like he’s still trying to hold it together, his hands clamped onto Dean’s shoulders for dear life. “You— no, that— that doesn’t—”

“I love you,” Dean says, giddy with the feeling of finally, finally saying it out loud. It’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to the brain stem, lighting up every nerve end in his body like a goddamn firework. “There were so many times when I should’ve said it, Cas. So many fucking times. And I can’t go back and fix it, but I can try and make up for it now, if you’ll let me.” He leans in, closing the space between them despite the way Cas instinctually twitches back like he’s trying to maintain the careful few inches of space they’ve always tried to. The tip of his nose bumps Cas’ cheek, and Cas sucks in a ragged, high-pitched breath. “Please let me,” Dean whispers. He practically says it right into Cas’ mouth, and fuck, there’s nothing he wants to do more right now than close that last inch of space and show Cas he means business, but— he waits. This isn’t about him, anymore. He’s had his moment. This is about Cas, and what Cas wants, and what Cas needs.

And he realizes as he stands there— suspended, frozen in time— that suddenly, like a streak of lightning splitting him straight down the centre, he understands exactly what Cas meant. 

It really is just in saying it.

Cas is all but hyperventilating, and Dean’s sure he’s gonna have finger-shaped bruises on his shoulders tomorrow morning, but that’s maybe the best thought he’s had all day. Not blood this time, cooling and drying down and flaking off his jacket when he moves. Not a burn, tight and angry and red. Just the outlines of Cas’ fingers on his skin.

“Dean,” Cas whispers eventually, his voice trembling. Teetering on the edge. “Dean, I—” His throat works. “You’re… you’re emotional.”

“Yeah,” Dean shoots back, a strangled laugh roughening the edges of his words. “Fuck, ‘course I am. You were when you said it.”

Cas absorbs that. And by degrees, he goes still.

“When I said what?” He asks, and it’s barely a breath. Barely audible.

“I love you,” Dean says again. And he’s never meant anything more in his whole sorry, too-long life.

Cas’ hands jump to Dean’s jaw, holding him right where he is. “Again,” he growls, a rough, reckless edge to his voice.

“I love you, Cas,” Dean gasps, so far fucking gone that he doesn’t give a rat’s ass how breathy and pathetic that sounded. “I love you. I—”

Cas kisses him.

Dean’s pretty sure his brain goes offline for a solid two seconds. His heart might take a short vacation too, actually. Full out-of-body experience style as his organs momentarily shut down.

And then he’s slammed back into his body and he’s kissing Cas back, he’s kissing Cas back, and christ, how did he ever live without this? How the fuck did he ever convince himself he didn’t want this? He’s so deeply, royally fucked. He never wants this to end.

His head is spinning when he finally comes up for air, and he rasps out a stupid little brain-dead laugh, his forehead pressed to Cas’. “Fuck. We should’ve done that sooner.”

“All I care about,” Cas says, stroking Dean’s temples with his thumbs in a really fucking distracting way, “is that it’s happening now.”

And— god, if Dean hadn’t gotten himself run through with a ten-inch piece of rebar in recent memory, and if he hadn’t just had maybe one of the worst days he’s had in a good fucking while, he’d already be dragging Cas towards his room. But now that he’s not actively kissing Cas his body is reminding him exactly how wrung out and scraped raw he is, and even he can’t bullshit his way past this one. Unfortunately.

He sighs, his hands sliding down Cas’ back to rest at his hips. “I feel like shit,” he mutters. He can’t help but lean in again, though, the memory of Cas’ mouth reeling him back in for more. “Like I got,” he says in between kisses, ”run over by a semi.”

“I’m not surprised,” Cas says, a dry lick of humour quirking his lips under Dean’s. “Your day was… stressful.”

Dean huffs a weak laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

They just stand there for a minute, then. And it’s just… it doesn’t feel real. How the fuck is this real? How does Dean just… get to have this?

It’s not thanks to any God, that’s for sure. But then the only explanation is that it’s thanks to them.

Cas’ hands go gentle to Dean’s shoulders, and Dean opens his eyes. Cas smiles. “Can we go to bed?”

Dean can’t help but raise an eyebrow, but the flush that slowly warms Cas’ cheeks is totally worth it.

“To sleep,” Cas says firmly. He’s still smiling a little. “You’re in no condition.”

Dean shrugs, giving him a deliberate once-over. “You don’t know that.” But he lets Cas step back a little and take his hand, tugging him away from the living room.

“Yes I do,” Cas retorts. Then he looks over his shoulder, meeting Dean’s eyes, and Dean’s breath momentarily sticks in his throat. “We can… revisit this conversation in the morning, though.”

“Hell yeah we will.”

And weirdly, the idea of there being a tomorrow morning is what sticks with Dean as he follows Cas down the hall. He’s spent so long afraid that this’d be the end of him, one way or another. That saying it out loud would kill it, or kill Cas, or kill him. That it’d end the world, somehow. When he was younger he hadn’t been that clear-headed about it— hell, if things had gone just a little differently any number of times those first couple years, he might’ve even… well. The point is, he hasn’t been that far up his own ass in a long time. This thing has been too big and too important to really ignore for ages, and that had scared him right down to his bones. He guesses it’s just that… he’s spent so long running damage control, and so much energy trying to keep his shit on lockdown, that he hadn’t ever bothered to consider the possibility of there being an… after.

He’s in it, though. ‘After’ is right now.

Tomorrow will dawn, just like it always does. And Cas will still be right here.

Chapter Text

It’s quiet, the next morning.

Dean doesn’t know what time it is, or how long he’s been awake. He could look at the clock and figure that out, but that’d mean sitting up and probably disturbing Cas. And he’s not gonna do that.

It doesn’t feel real, honestly. It should: the pillow is soft against his cheek. He can hear birds chirping outside. Cas is letting out these soft little almost-snores, his shoulder rising and falling with his breath. But for some reason it still feels like it has to be a dream. 

Well. Dean knows the reason. It’s because the hazy, lamplit memory of last night’s comedown seems way too good to be true. Because yeah, he’s still wearing the tee Cas gave him to sleep in that used to be his in the first place, and yeah, he’s got his feet all comfortably tangled up with Cas’. But it’s… it’s so good. It’s all peace and comfort and ease. And there’s a stubborn, bitter part of Dean’s brain that’s hands-down certain that can’t be right.

Good things do happen, a time-softened memory whispers at him. And his eyes get a little hot.

But then Cas shifts and opens his eyes, and Dean’s breath goes constricted and wonky as everything else is blown clean out of his mind.

“Good morning,” Cas says, and fuck. His voice. He sort of shuffles in closer to Dean, seeking warmth. One of his hands finds the centre of Dean’s chest and the other settles on the side of his neck. “What time is it?” He asks, laying his cheek on Dean’s pillow so they’re almost nose-to-nose. 

“Dunno,” Dean manages. He’s blaming the way his voice sounds on regular morning disuse. One of his hands migrated to Cas’ waist at some point, and he’s got bare skin under his palm where Cas’ shirt has ridden up. He thinks he might die. “Didn’t wanna wake you up.”

Cas pulls back far enough to look at him and hit him with a sleepy smile, slow like molasses and just as sweet. “So you were… watching me?”

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, fighting an embarrassed smile. “I’m just trying to even us out.”

Cas’ smile goes a little smug and smirky. “It helped you sleep, you know. That’s why I did it.”

“Creep,” Dean says. There’s no trace of a bite to it. “You just liked lookin’ at me.”

Cas’ eyes twinkle. “Perhaps.”

Dean huffs, going for exasperation but landing more on the side of fondness. His eyes land on Cas’ shoulder instead of his face when he finishes rolling them, though. “I’ve been playin’ catch-up for a while, actually. Just… being able to see you, hear you breathe, that kinda thing…” He shrugs, his voice going quiet. “It, uh. Helped.”

Cas’ thumb sweeps back and forth over Dean’s sternum in a slow, calming rhythm. “I thought I heard something, once or twice. I convinced myself I dreamt it, though. It seemed…” His smile goes a little sad. “Too good to be true.”

And despite the apprehension about what exactly last night means for them, and the lingering undercurrent of fear that this’ll all dissolve into nothing between one second and the next, Dean just won’t let Cas hurt on his account anymore. Not if he can help it. So he takes that opportunity to lean in and kiss him again.

And just like that, he knows it’s not a dream.

“God, Cas,” he whispers when they part, their foreheads still pressed together. “This is…”

“I know,” Cas confesses into the breath between them. “It’s… hard for me to believe, too. But it’s real,” he says, suddenly fervent, his fingers pressing into Dean’s skin. “I know it is.”

A rough, shaky breath rattles out of Dean’s chest and he pulls Cas closer, hiding his face in the sleep-warm skin of Cas’ neck. “Me too,” he says, his lips moving against Cas’ throat. “S’like… remembering I’m alive again.”

And somewhere in there, between Cas’ rough exhale and the way Dean can’t help but mouth at the beautiful, strong thud of his pulse, Cas’ concerns about Dean’s back apparently lose their urgency. Mostly because right now, there’s nothing more important to Dean than getting as close to Cas as is physically fucking possible.

He’s a vision, there in the morning light. Head thrown back against the pillows, eyes screwed shut, keeping Dean close. He’s practically glowing. And it’s not… it’s not the rushed, rough thing that’s occasionally (often) wormed its way into Dean’s dreams, over the years. It’s easy; it’s as normal as it is a revelation, even though that doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s like slipping into a warm bath. It’s like coming home.

If he was in any state to be aware of it, afterwards, Dean might’ve been embarrassed by the tears drying on his cheeks. But Cas was there, his fingers roaming absently over Dean’s skin, drawing constellations between his freckles. So it didn’t occur to him in the least.

— - —

Once they’ve eventually dragged themselves out of bed, the day meanders along pretty much like any other day. Which, again, seems wrong given how much has happened in the past twenty-four hours, but… that makes it better, almost. If it was suddenly, gloriously nice out, or November kicked in full-force and stirred up a big ‘ol snow storm, it’d put Dean on edge. But other than the light coating of frost glittering on the grass and the snappy chill of the wind, nothing’s out of the ordinary.

Nothing except how Dean’s holding Cas’ hand as they walk down the path, Miracle trotting ahead of them. Or the soft little smile Cas gives him. Or the way Dean only hesitates for a second before kissing it off him, feeling like a cross between a junkie and a skydiver the whole damn time.

“Y’know,” he says softly when he pulls back, his heart still in his throat. “You don’t have to, like… wait for me.” He swallows. Fuck, he can’t even keep looking Cas in the eyes, his cheeks burning as his gaze skitters helplessly away. “You can just, uh. Kiss me. If y’want to.”

The embarrassment doesn’t last long, though; it gets swapped out for a completely different kind of buzz as Cas backs Dean into the nearest tree, his hands sneaking inside Dean’s jacket to find his waist. “What about this?” Cas asks, and it’s fuckin’ impossible not to look at him, now. “Is this alright?”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean says immediately, breathy and warm. Then his brain catches up and he blushes again, like some kind of goddamn schoolgirl. “I mean— yeah, sure, you can—” 

Cas is nice, though. So he takes pity on Dean and kisses him before he can find a way to put his foot in his mouth. Which is a way better and simpler way to be occupied, anyways— partially because Dean’s brain dissolves into happy goop and doesn’t let him have any higher order thoughts.

It takes Miracle bumping Dean’s knee insistently with his nose for them to finally snap out of it. Well, for Dean to snap out of it; Cas just refocuses on a mark he’d made on Dean’s neck earlier this morning and starts making it very hard for him not to make some very embarrassing noises. “We’re trying to have a moment, here,” he says, looking down at the dog with one hand still knotted in Cas’ hair. “You’re worse than Sam. Go chase a squirrel or something.”

Miracle barks at him. Cas laughs into Dean’s neck.

The walk stretches on like that, a blissful little interlude that grounds everything in a way that nothing else really has yet. They’re outside in the world and Dean hears someone blare their horn indignantly off in the distance and he’s got Cas’ hand in his, Cas’ eyes on him. And maybe it’s just the giddy exultation of it all, but he’s sure he’d kiss Cas silly even if they were walking down a crowded city street instead of this secluded forest path. And he wouldn’t bother giving anyone who had a problem with it a goddamn sliver of his attention.

Not that he’d even notice in the first place. Kissing Cas makes everything else fall away.

They manage to make it back to the cabin without annoying Miracle too much more, and to make up for it Cas stays outside to play fetch with him while Dean heads in to pull together some lunch. The only way to describe it, as Dean watches them through the window above the sink, is cute. Cas is smiling, and Miracle’s tail is going a mile a minute, and it’s just… perfect.

Which, once again, begs the questions of how the hell Dean deserves this. 

But he’s got more important things to do: namely, making sure he doesn’t get the sandwich with pickles (his) mixed up with the decidedly no-pickles one (Cas’). And in the face of such a monumental task as that, the self-doubt gets more or less left in the sink with the dirty dishes.

Cas, coming in with Miracle, helps too. His nose is red and cold when he leans in, pressing his face mischievously into Dean’s neck.

— - —

Yo, Charles

Whats up

Not much Cap’n Crunch

I bet there’s something up with you tho

What makes u think that

Dean. I love u so much. 

But?

But ur abt as opaque as a window                              

Ouch

Ok so what happened

Do I need to go kick Sam in the dick again

As funny as that’d be, nah, he’s fine

(...)

(...)

I talked to Cas.

SCREE

I mean uh. I’m so normal abt this. How’d it go?

Lol, u dumbass

Good. Really good.

You’re the first person I’ve told.

I—

So I’m gonna ugly cry all over u abt that when I see u next

Fyi

But like

I’m so proud of u and so happy

Ik u probably have a lot of feelings abt it but. You deserve it

Even when it feels like you don’t

Thanks.

Wow no rebuttal? Hot damn

Christ

I’m going to hate whatever you’re about to say so much

Yep

I just didn’t know all it took to get u to accept ‘feelings crap’ 

Was getting railed into next week

Stfu

HAHAHA SO YOU *DID*

Course u did, Cas isn’t dumb

If you need a gatorade delivery I gotchu

Will plug my ears and sing during dropoff

Cabin’s a rockin’, won’t come a knockin’ etc

I’m uninviting u from dinner on Saturday

Stevie can still come tho

Yeah ok

I’ll bring pedialyte for u and a gift basket for Cas

Try it and I’ll strangle u

MOI? YOUR QUEEN??? rude

Time?

6pm. Sam, Eileen, Jack etc there too

Claire, Kaia, n Jody are a probably and Donna’s a maybe

Perf! The wizard (me) and her gf shall arrive neither early 

Nor late

But exactly when they mean to

Aka prob after 6 bc Stevie’s slow

K, sounds good

(...)

Love u, Red.

I know. ;)

— - —

But despite the easy perfection of that first morning, the rest of the week — their last one at the cabin, actually, after a final follow-up at the doctor’s office the other day — passes not so much in a blissful honeymoon haze as it does in shivery fits and starts of happiness, anxiety, and everything in between. They go on walks and kiss wherever they want to and laugh themselves stupid over cheesy 80s flicks Dean’s seen a million times before, but one morning he woke up alone in Cas’ bed and almost made it into a full-blown panic attack before hearing the tap turn on in the kitchen. They ventured out to get groceries and coffee yesterday afternoon, and driving Baby with Cas in the passenger seat was fucking awesome, but Dean went kind of stiff and weird when Cas hooked a hand round his elbow to drag him towards the baking section — suddenly, painfully aware of the mom and kid down the aisle, the old man perusing the vegetables, the teen girls at the magazine rack. 

It’s a little demoralizing, honestly. Not that Dean had thought everything was immediately gonna be sunshine and roses, but… still. He’d thought he’d be better than this.

There’s a few times where something blunt and ugly stirs restlessly in the pit of his stomach, too, breaching the surface like some oily sea monster waking up from a long dream; like the shark in Jaws, bumping up against the boat in a blur of teeth and a rolling black eye. It always subsides again, sinking back into obscurity with a brush of Cas’ hand or a smile coming Dean’s way. It puts him on edge, though. Makes it feel like there’s something coming.

The dinner on Saturday night is a good distraction, at least. It’s a boisterous, celebratory potluck: everyone — except Garth and his crew, who’re way out of state, and Donna, who got tied up with work but sent her love and a casserole — managed to make it, and the cabin is packed. Dean barely gets a chance to think, let alone consider telling anyone what’s happened, and Cas — thoughtful, self-sacrificing bastard — had cornered him before everyone arrived and told him firmly that he was leaving it completely up to Dean how much contact he wanted. So that Dean doesn’t have to be stressed or uncomfortable or get forced into making some kinda fucking announcement in front of everyone.

Which means, of course, that Dean retreats to what used to be their usual distance and doesn’t touch Cas at all. By the end of the night he’s fucking itching to have the small of Cas’ back under his hand, or even the brush of Cas’ fingers against his, but he just… can’t quite bring himself to make the leap. Which pisses him off. He does his best to keep that shit locked down, though; the last thing he wants is for Sam or Eileen, or— god forbid— Jody to pick up that he’s got something stuck in his craw. Despite all her threats, Charlie’s been a goddamn poker-faced saint, and he’s not gonna waste her efforts by sulking where everyone can see him. (Dean makes a mental note to take her to the comic book store on his dime sometime soon as a thank you.)

So he grins, and makes sure there are enough serving spoons, and drums his fingers against his thigh like an addict going cold turkey when no one can see.

How the fuck had he ever convinced himself that this was enough? That the buffer of distance between them, small as it’s always been, isn’t a fucking chasm? Cas keeps his word and sails through the evening with his usual serenity, and if Dean didn’t know things were different… hell. He almost questions it himself. Cas shoots him a few looks, though, where he can. Small, private ones that remind Dean he woke up in Cas’ arms this morning. So it’s… just this side of bearable. 

Just.

There’s distraction in the form of Claire that helps a bit, too. She’s suspiciously… normal, with him. Not at all like she was last time. Cas hadn’t mentioned that he’d said anything to her, but… it’s possible, Dean guesses. He hasn’t exactly mentioned spilling the beans to Charlie yet, but he’s been busy. Regardless, she fucking, like. Asks if he wants a beer when she gets up to grab a refill, halfway through dinner. Dean kind of stares at her like an idiot for a few seconds before managing a yeah, sure, and she rolls her eyes as she heads off to the kitchen. 

Jody, sitting next to him, nudges him with an elbow and leans in. “Told ya,” she says quietly. “She just needed a little time, that’s all.”

“I guess so,” Dean says, still in shock. “I just… figured it’d take longer than this. She was…”

“Pissed?” Jody offers. “You don’t know the half of it. My truck doors took a lot of slamming for a few weeks there. The both of you forgot something important, though, and I think she’s finally remembered.”

Dean looks at her quizzically. “What?”

Jody squeezes his arm. “How much she missed you,” she says simply. 

“Here,” Claire says as she walks back up, holding out a sweating bottle.

Dean takes it. “Thanks,” he says. And cautiously, he smiles.

Claire raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get used to it.”

And somehow. Somehow, it almost feels like the way they were before.

— - —

“I coulda carried him,” Dean mutters, opening the rear door of Sam’s Prius. “I’m officially good to go. That was the whole point of this shindig, remember?”

Sam, who’s in the process of depositing a dozy Jack into the backseat, doesn’t get a chance to make an exasperated face at Dean until he’s straightened back up. “That’s not what your doctor meant, and you know it,” he says, standing out of the way so Dean can shut the door. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” Dean shoots back, but then he grins. And, somewhat grudgingly, Sam does too. “Alright, bring it in.”

Sam hugs him gently, and if Dean was in the mood to pick a fight that’d be great fodder for it. The thought just makes him tired, though. And a little sad. He smothers the impulse with extreme prejudice and puts his hands in his pockets. “So. Me n’ Cas’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sounds good. You guys gonna need a hand getting everything packed up?”

Dean shakes his head, maybe a little too quickly. “Nah, we got it covered. There isn’t much to do anyway.”

Sam nods. “Cool. Eileen’s gonna be here until Tuesday, then she’s off to follow up on a lead she picked up earlier today. So we can handle food, let you and Cas get moved back in. I’ll leave clean sheets and towels in both your rooms.”

Both their rooms. 

Fuck. Dean’s throat closes up a little, his heart rate kicking up. He needs to tell Sam. Fuck, he— he wants to. Sam would be so fucking annoying and happy for him. And it’d be so goddamn easy too: Just my room, actually. Cas is staying with me.

That sticks somewhere down in his chest, though, and he knows there’s no getting it out. Not right now, after he’s spent all evening being too chicken to even hold Cas’ hand.

“Great,” he says after far too long of a pause. But Sam’s looking at him now, fuck, with his goddamn— his squinty-eyed, perked up ‘I-know-there’s-something-you’re-not-saying’ look. So even though Dean can’t… can’t say it, right now, he swallows down the fear crawling up his throat and shoves his hands further into his pockets. “We, uh. We should go on a drive when I get back.” He shrugs stiffly. “Catch up.”

“Yeah,” Sam says slowly, even though they’ve been ‘catching up’ all goddamn night. He pauses, and Dean prays to anyone who’s listening that Sam picks up what he’s putting down. He can’t— jesus. If Sam tries to ask if it’s about Cas, Dean’ll— he doesn’t know. Punch him, maybe. Tell him to piss off. Something.

But then the moment passes, and Dean sees the exact second that Sam decides to bank his curiosity and let whatever this is be. He’s so relieved he could cry. 

“Sounds good,” Sam says, conspicuously casual. “There’s a, uh, new craft brewery I’ve been meaning to check out, up north of Lebanon. We could swing up that way?”

There are very few things less appealing, Dean thinks, actually, than spending his afternoon choking down double IPAs and fruit-infused monstrosities with a bunch of hipster beer nerds. But it’s so much better than being grilled about Cas that it sounds like heaven in comparison. “Deal. They better have some normal shit, though,” he can’t help but add.

Sam rolls his eyes, smiling a little. “I’m sure they’ll have something that won’t offend you too much.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “I’ll hold you to that. And, uh. Let us know when you get back to home base, alright?”

Old habits die hard. Sam briefly rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Will do. See you tomorrow, Dean.”

It’s a matter of minutes, then. Sam walking around to the driver’s side, Cas and Eileen wandering down from the cabin. Everyone saying last goodbyes and exchanging hugs. Cars pulling out and away down the lane until their taillights are pinpricks, then dim smudges between the trees, and then nothing.

Dean feels more than sees the way Cas, standing at his side, turns to look at him.

“Inside?” He asks softly, his arm a warm line against Dean’s.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

The timer that’s been ticking down in the back of Dean’s head, ever since Jack’s eyes started to sag forty minutes ago, dips into the single digits and starts flashing urgently as he follows Cas up towards the cabin. Cas still hasn’t initiated anything, that beautiful, stubborn, principled idiot. Even though they’re alone. Even though there’s no more reason to hide.

And despite the way he still regrets that Cas felt like he needed to offer this in the first place, it makes something warm swell in Dean’s chest.

Cas stands back to let him in, giving him a tiny smile as he passes. Dean stands there in the small entranceway, watching Cas close and lock the door. And the timer hits zero.

“Oh,” Cas says, his hands leaving the lock to find Dean’s hands where they’re clasped around his waist. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Dean says over his shoulder, plastered to Cas’ back like a particularly clingy barnacle. “Missed you.”

Cas hums, his head falling back onto Dean’s shoulder. “I was here the whole time. But I think I catch your meaning.”

“M’sorry,” Dean says quietly. “I— I wanna tell them. I do. It’s just…”

Cas strokes Dean’s fingers. “I know.”

Dean deals with that by grabbing Cas’ hands and pressing a brief kiss to the skin just above the collar of his shirt. “Still. It, uh…” He closes his eyes. “It means a lot. You shouldn’t have had to, y’know? But you did.”

“You know why. That’s all that matters.”

Dean can’t help but laugh a little, a note of incredulousness slipping out. “You’re a fucking… saint. Something. I dunno.”

A slight pause from Cas. A stillness as he decides something.

“Well…” he says slowly, cautious. But then he squeezes Dean’s hands. “No. Not most of the time, where you’re concerned.”

Dean lets out a surprised laugh. He lets Cas turn in his arms, gently backing him up against the door when he’s facing Dean again. “Oh, really?” He asks, his grin taking on a devious edge. “Are you sayin’ I was on your mind?”

Cas sighs, exasperated and fond. “I’m saying,” he says, running his hands up Dean’s arms, “that my behaviour in regards to you has always been far from the meek, selfless obedience of any saint I can think of. I have been…” His eyes roam Dean’s face, something a little mournful surfacing in his expression. “Uniquely selfish, at times.”

Dean opens his mouth, about to protest. Are you cracked? I’m the selfish one, dumbass.

He stops, though. Shuts his mouth as Cas watches him in slight confusion. 

“Just curious,” he asks finally. “Is, uh. Is that something you’d let me get away with sayin’ about myself?”

Cas frowns at him. “I…”

Dean raises his eyebrows.

And there it is. A small, wry smile. “No,” Cas says quietly. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

Dean shrugs. “Well. That’s that, then.”

Then Cas shifts, and— well, it’s not like Dean forgot he had the guy boxed up against the door. But he’s very suddenly, very violently reminded that he’s got Cas’ waist under his palms and the solid bulk of him all up Dean’s front. Which is. Nice.

“Is it?” Cas asks innocently. The effect is somewhat undercut by the way his voice has gone all breathy, though. 

Dean grins, his thumbs stroking back and forth along the curve of Cas’ ribs. “Not quite. Thing is, I’ve been thinking of you all night.” He ducks in to press his mouth to the point of Cas’ jaw, the strong jut of bone and the taut muscle below it. “And… even though you just did it ‘cause you rock, I… well.” 

His grin is gone as he looks back at Cas. ‘Cause he… honestly, he’s been thinking about this in some fashion or another for years, and the frequency with which the thought pops into his head has only ramped up since that first morning together last week. Especially since he knows, now, that Cas’ breathing goes all quiet and strained when he gets close. That when he really starts to lose his composure it’s Dean’s name that falls from his lips, breathless and reverent. All those fresh, shiny revelations are so addicting that the desire to make Cas feel that good again almost outweighs the shame, teetering on a knife’s edge.

Most of the time, that is. Right now it’s outstripping all Dean’s more well-thought out reservations and hyperaware, embarrassed squirmings in every way that matters.

So even though he’s nervous as fuck when he sinks down to his knees, he’s sure he wants to. And the way Cas’ eyes blow wide makes it immediately worth it.

“You—” Cas chokes. Which is hilarious, given who’s offering what here. “Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean says. His face is hot and his voice shakes a little, but his hands are steady on Cas’ thighs. “Just… let me. Please?”

The question hovers between them, the moment heavy. 

Because… Cas has put him on his knees before. Has stood above him, tall and terrifying. And Dean has looked up into his face and asked— cried— snarled— a host of different things. Prayers and pleas. Half-truths. Lies.

It’s never been like this, though. And it’s a good thing Dean knows blasphemy doesn’t matter, because this is the most religious he’s ever felt.

Cas’ hand comes to rest on his cheek. “Promise me you’ll stop if your back starts to hurt,” he says finally. Despite the colour in his face Dean can tell he’s dead serious. “Or if it’s— too much.” He strokes his thumb across Dean’s temple. “I don’t want to hurt you, Dean.”

“You couldn’t,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’ wrist and turning in to press a kiss to his palm. “Not as long as you’re here.” But he wants this, so before Cas can huff exasperatedly and pull him back up he makes deliberate eye contact and says it the way Cas needs to hear it. “But uh, yeah. I promise.”

Cas stares down at him, his eyes fixed on Dean’s face. And even though he’s completely inscrutable, Dean… Dean relaxes, a little. ‘Cause that’s the truth, isn’t it. Even if Cas does still say no and drags him back up to his feet, the only thing that’ll happen is that they’ll kiss about it and then relocate to a bedroom or something. Cas won’t leave. He won’t say something that slices into Dean like a filleting knife. He’ll still be here, looking at Dean with love in his eyes and holding his scarred, broken-down old body like it’s something precious.

Christ, he thinks, his chest tight. He’s gotta try and be someone who deserves all that devotion.

But then finally, Cas interrupts Dean’s thoughts with a nod. “Alright,” he says quietly. His hand trembles a little against Dean’s cheek. “Yes.”

It makes Dean think about vessels. About holding, or being held. About what it might’ve been like, if they’d ever flipped the script and it’d been him saying yes to Cas. And he thinks that even though he’d have done it in a heartbeat, it would’ve scared him like nothing else.

It occurs to him that this might be as big for Cas as it is for him.

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs soothingly, his hands going to Cas’ belt. “It’s okay.”

And… he feels it. He feels the moment Cas chooses to let go, to trust him, the tension draining slowly from his body. The weight of the faith Cas is putting in him settles onto his shoulders and he breathes out, slow and shaky.

It’s not a bad weight, though. It’s not a lodestone. It’s a blanket, or a companionable arm, or maybe a favourite shirt. Warm. Familiar.

And he thinks, as he thumbs the button of Cas’ jeans open, that he could get used to it.

— - —

It really doesn’t take long for them to pack up when it comes down to it. Clothes and toiletries into their duffle bags, various books and phone cords and dog toys into the reusable tote bags Sam left last night. They’re busy, so there’s not much conversation.

No other reason.

Yeah, Dean thinks bitterly. Right. 

He woke up this morning with Cas breathing heavy against his collarbone, and within the minute it took for him to fully regain consciousness, that unnamed thing that’s been threatening to bubble up all week surges up to the surface and latches on, teeth sinking in deep.

It starts, predictably, with a thin scum of shame. He’d extricated himself from Cas’ grasp not long after, the prickly, slimy feeling rolling over his skin propelling him out of bed. Cas hadn’t really started to wake up until Dean was doing up the last few buttons of his shirt, but he’d been easily mollified by a soft kiss pressed to his forehead. “Making coffee,” Dean had whispered, and Cas had hummed happily, and then Dean fled the room.

He thinks he’s managed to make sure Cas knows it’s not, like, something he did or some shit— he’d left a cup of coffee sitting at the empty seat across from him, doctored up just the way Cas likes, so that when Cas did eventually shuffle into the kitchen it wasn’t just the tense set of Dean’s shoulders that he clocked.

After a long, horrible moment, he’d smiled a little sadly and thanked Dean for it. Which is about as good as Dean could’ve hoped for, but it still sucks. Even more because he sees how fucking stupid it is, now.

It’s not like he— he doesn’t regret last night. He wanted to do it, he enjoyed it, but— fuck. He’s got this, like. Phantom shame collecting deep in his bones, dragging him down like rocks in his shoes and making him feel all fucking exposed and awful despite how sure he’d been last night.

Right now part of him hates that he did it, though. And he hates that he hates that ‘cause the vitriol is in Dad’s voice, and he hates his stupid fucking brain, actually, for having this many goddamn wires crossed and putting a fucking pall over what he has with Cas. One of the few good things in his sorry life and he can’t even let himself enjoy it like a normal person. It’s… 

He has to put in concerted effort to uncurl his hands from the pair of jeans he’s strangling and put them in his duffle. Fuck. It’s frustrating as hell and yeah, this is a Bad Day, it’s not how he really feels, but he just. Christ. He’s so tired of feeling like shit for no goddamn reason. He’s so tired of the ghosts.

It doesn’t really get any better as the day goes on. They manage to wrap pretty much everything up by early afternoon, though, and they have grilled cheese again for lunch. Dean doesn’t eat much— Cas doesn’t comment— so he’s left leaning up against the sink while Cas is still finishing his sandwich. 

He doesn’t know what does it. He never knows why any of this strikes him when it does, on days like this. But whatever fucking barrier it is that’s been keeping him near-mute all morning can’t take the pressure anymore and bursts with all the abruptness of a soap bubble.

“D’you know what I mean when I say I need you?” 

Cas’ eyes snap to his face. 

“I don’t mean I need you like I need a gun,” Dean continues, the words coming short and harsh, tripping over each other now that they’re flowing free. “I mean I need you like I need air. I mean I can’t fucking— I mean I start to suffocate as soon as you’re gone. Every time you’re gone. I— I can’t do it without you. I can’t, Cas. And I don’t want to.” He searches Cas’ face, his heart suddenly shooting into his throat. “That’s— it’s shitty and fucked up, I know, but it— it is love. Right?”

Cas looks a little spooked at Dean’s outburst, and Dean chokes back a curse. Congrats, idiot, you did this the only way that could possibly make it worse. Nice.

Cas puts his sandwich down. “If this is about yesterday—”

Dean barks a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s not,” he lies. Even he can tell it’s transparent as hell. He keeps going anyway. “It’s not anything. This is just—” He spreads his arms, a grin splitting his face, feeling weirdly like he’s about to cry. “This is just how I am now, Cas. I fuckin’— I think I broke, somewhere along the line. Worse than before. So I can say I love you now but you still get this whenever my brain decides it feels like it.” He spits that last part. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He hopes to god that Cas can see it isn’t aimed at him.

Slowly, not looking away once, Cas gets up and comes around to stand in front of him. He just looks at Dean for a second, letting the silence absorb some of the ringing aftershocks of his outburst. 

“May I?” he says finally. No explanation, but that’s… fine. That’s really good, actually, the simplicity of it creeping through Dean’s mind like the wintergreen numbness of pain relief gel, leaving a blank buzz in its wake.

“Yeah,” he rasps, and then Cas’ arms are around him. 

He shudders into the embrace, his eyelids fluttering shut as he breathes in the familiar scent of him. It jars him back into himself, anchors him solidly to his body again— the panic, the sick gallop of his pulse, it all screeches to a halt the second Cas’ arms go around him. There’s a reason why this has always been the one thing Dean’s never denied himself, with Cas. The one weakness he can’t help but allow.

It’s good. It’s always so good.

“I don’t know how you keep forgetting,” Cas says gently, “that it’s the same for me. But I’ll remind you as many times as is necessary.”

Dean bites his tongue and holds Cas tighter. 

“And as for the relative acceptability of how you love,” he continues, “as much as I dislike putting it that way…” He runs a hand soothingly down over Dean’s spine, lingering over the place where his scar is. Dean hitches a small sound into his shoulder. “I know you think you love too intensely. Too ravenously.” He pulls back a little, then, putting a hand on Dean’s cheek and looking him solidly in the eyes. “You’re wrong. You love exactly as you should. And I want it all. Everything you have to give. I will take whatever you give me for as long as you will allow.” A small smile tugs at his mouth. “That said, you always remember how I like my grilled cheese and my coffee. And you take me to the farmers market even though you think it’s slightly ridiculous. Being loved by you isn’t as frightening as you think.”

Something approaching a strangled little laugh trickles out of Deans’ throat at that. “You say that now,” he rasps. Still fighting it even though he doesn’t want to. “See how you feel next time I’ve got a knife to your throat.”

Cas pulls back a little to look at him. Dean stares back, his memory supplying ghostly overlays of Cas bloody, beaten, leaking Grace— all at Dean’s hands. His eyes burn. He does not look away.

Cas just grins, though. A small, close-lipped thing, tinged with that gallows humour of his. “That’s the point, Dean,” he says. “We’ve been there before. And I can tell you truthfully, I have never been scared for myself.”

A good man, a really good man, would probably hear that and try to get Cas as far away from himself as possible in response. Hell, a really good man wouldn’t ever have to hear it in the first place. Dean thinks again about Cas telling him he’s the best man he knows, and has to choke back a raw, painful sound. What a crock of shit. He knows what he is. 

But— maybe it’s something in Cas’ face, or maybe it’s something else. It hits him, though, that…  that all that only matters if he makes it matter. It’s not written somewhere that Dean’s never allowed to have anything, here in this new world they live in where God is pathetic and powerless and peace is as easy to find as another fight. He thinks of letting things go he could’ve fought with Sam about; he thinks about Jack, telling him the good stuff was all him; he thinks about Cas, still here after everything. Clawing his way out of hell and dragging himself to Dean’s doorstep again, and again, and again.

So he stops fighting. And he just kisses Cas instead, hard and desperate, like the weak, unbearably human creature he is.

And just like always, Cas meets him right where he’s at.

— - —

What a fucking trip.

That’s all Dean can come up with, standing in the doorway of the now-empty cabin. There aren’t words for how strange it is to stand in the same spot he did all those weeks ago and feel like a completely different person. That guy— scruffy, dead-eyed, hunched over from pain and his struggling lungs, who looked in and saw a kitschy, wood-panelled tomb— is all but gone. He ghosts in the back of Dean’s mind, in the anger and the black pit Dean fights to stay out of as much as he can, but that’s all he is, really. A ghost. And god knows Dean’s dealt with more than a few of those fuckers in his lifetime.

He’s standing straight, now. Not so much as a twinge in his back. Quiet. 

Y’know, he might actually miss the place.

“Dean?”

He turns, a small smile pulling instinctually at his mouth. Cas is standing at the passenger’s side of the car with the door open, one elbow resting on the roof, and he’s looking at Dean like he loves him.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I’m comin’.”

He steps out, closing the door and remembering to jiggle the doorknob just so when he locks it. There’s no fanfare when he drops the keys in the mailbox; no exit music to send them off into the… well, not even the sunset. It’s the middle of the day.

It satisfies him to no end. 

He’s still disquieted from earlier, yeah, but it’s not the urgent, vicious thing it was. Cas helped with that. They’ve got stuff to move back into the Bunker, and Jack wants help putting up some posters he got at the mall, and… shit. It’s just beautifully, achingly mundane, and if it wasn’t one step too far into little-bitch-dom for today he might cry about it right here on the porch. 

It turns out that suddenly realizing you went and got everything you ever dreamed of without even trying is one hell of a gut punch.

He comes down the steps, smiling at Cas again as he rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat. Cas gets in and shuts the door a half-second later, the sound off by a beat.

“It’s strange to be leaving,” Cas says as he puts on his seatbelt, his eyes on Dean. “Even though it will be nice to be back at the Bunker, it’s…”

“Weird,” Dean finishes, giving Cas a knowing look and resting a hand on his thigh. No matter how subtle he was trying to be, Dean knows what he’s doing. “I’m ready, though.” He tilts his head a little. Squeezes Cas’ leg. “I think it’s time to take this show on the road.”

Judging by the way Cas’ fingers curl over his and the crinkles that form next to his eyes, he knows what Dean means. “I’d like that,” he says softly. “I’d like that very much.”

Dean does too. He really, really does.

And when they pull away from the cabin, it’s to the sound of nothing more than gravel under the tires and the beginning of something sweet on the radio.