Chapter Text
The Present:
The diner was quiet, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space, but their booth was tucked away from most of the other patrons. The kind of spot where no one was paying attention, where Dean didn’t have to feel like he was on display.
The server had just set down Benny’s water and his coffee and Dean immediately reached for the spoon resting beside the cup and began stirring, though he hadn’t added anything to it. Just moving it in slow, idle circles, the clink of metal against ceramic filling the space between them.
As he realized what he was doing, he huffed, setting it aside and cleared his throat. He curled his fingers around the coffee cup, absorbing its warmth.
Benny finally broke the silence. “So… what set this off, man?”
Dean took a sip of his coffee, more to buy himself time than anything else. It scalded his tongue, but he barely noticed. He set the cup down carefully, rubbing his hands over his jeans.
What the hell was he supposed to say?
After several false starts he finally said, “My brother came by to deliver some news that was… a lot.” The words came out measured, careful. Neutral, even. Like if he said them without emotion, they wouldn’t set something off inside him.
Benny just nodded, letting him talk.
Dean flexed his fingers against his knee, trying to keep them still. “He’s getting married. I’m the best man. So, I kinda have to be there.” His leg started bouncing underneath the table. Dean cleared his throat again, lacing his fingers together on top of the table.
“There was…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He forced them out, but they came slower now, like wading through molasses. “Someone may be... will be there that might be… difficult… for… me.”
The sentence trailed off, hanging in the air between them. His hands curled into fists, nails pressing into his palms.
Fuck, this was a mistake.
Why the hell did he agree to come here?
He suddenly felt seen in a way he didn’t want to be.
"Just tell Benny to take you home. Pretend none of this is happening. Go sit in the dark with whatever’s waiting for you there. At least then, you won’t have to think."
He sucked in a breath, forcing his hands to relax, picked up his coffee again, just to do something with them.
“Yeah?” Benny prompted gently. No pressure, just an open door if Dean wanted to walk through it. “Someone important, I take it?”
Dean swallowed hard. Yeah. But the word stuck in his throat. Wouldn’t come out.
Instead, he just gave a curt nod and took another sip of his coffee.
The server approached them, setting down their plates—burgers, fries, nothing fancy. Comfort food. “Need anything else?”
Dean shook his head.
“Nah, we’re good,” Benny said, already reaching for the bottle of ketchup.
Dean picked up a fry, then tossed it back down, uninterested.
Benny, ever patient, didn’t press right away. Just focused on arranging the onion on his burger with careful precision before finally speaking.
“So this important someone,” he said it casually, like they were discussing the weather and not the meteor sized hole that had been blown in Dean's life. “You haven’t seen them in a while, I take it?”
“About two years.” The words came out absently, almost automatic, as he picked at the edge of the bun.
Dean saw the moment Benny put it together—the way his expression shifted, the way he let out that slow, knowing "Ah."
That was all he said.
One syllable. Simple. But it was the way he said it.
Two years.
Seven hundred and twenty-three days.
Almost the same amount of time he’d been sober.
Annoyance flickered through him, sharp and fast. His jaw clenched.
Ah? Dean thought, eyes narrowing slightly as he picked up his burger with more force than he meant to, his fingers squeezing through the bun until ketchup dripped onto his hand. Ah, like you just fucking know everything? Like you got it all figured out?
He took a deliberately large bite, chewing with a little more aggression than necessary.
Benny just watched him, reaching for his water. He took a slow sip, then asked, “So how’d you meet this important person?”
Abandoning his food, Dean carefully wiped his hands with a napkin, toying with the edges. For a second, he debated lying—saying it was just someone who came and went like anyone else. But that wasn’t even close to the truth. And Benny would know it.
“Met him through my brother, actually,” he said after a moment, voice gruff, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Sam knew him first. Work shit.”
Benny hummed. “And?”
Dean scoffed, grabbing a fry and pushing it through a smear of ketchup. “And what?”
“And how’d you get from ‘met through my brother’ to ‘haven’t seen each other in two years but you still look like you got sucker-punched at the mention of him'?”
He shook his head. “Ain’t that simple.”
“Never is,” Benny took another drink.
Dean exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw, and for a second, he almost saw it—the way Cas had first walked into his shop, looking for Dean Winchester, a quiet, serious kind of guy with dark, messy hair, a rumpled suit, and an oversized trench coat.
Dean clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Long time ago,” he muttered. “Feels like another life.” But it wasn’t, not really. It was still right there, just under the surface. Waiting.
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “He came in needing body work done on his car. Said Sam sent him. He dropped the car off and then a few days later he came and picked it up." With an amused huff, he says. "I was actually worried he was there about my dad at first. "
Dean took another bite of his burger, shrugging. "It was late when he came to get it. I was working on my car, fixing her up."
"Baby?"
Dean nodded. "She was a rust bucket then. He said that most people would have scrapped her by now. I told him that most people didn't know what the hell they were looking at. And he said, get this, 'You see value where others see ruin'."
Benny made a face as though he were impressed. "Nice."
Dean snorted softly, "Yeah." He stared down at his half-eaten burger, the image of Cas standing beside his rusted out Impala, one hand touching the frame, saying those words and looking at him as if he were talking about more than just the car.
And then you went and fucked it up real good, didn’t you, Winchester?
"So when did you see him again?" It was an innocent enough question, but for Dean, it was a landmine. The next time he had seen Cas...
Cas kissing him in the snow, his hands curling tight into Dean's jacket.
Cas looking at him like—
Nope .
Nope, nope, nope .
“I know you don’t like talking about the past. And I ain’t asking for a confession. But I am telling you this,” he met Dean’s gaze. “Whatever this is, it’s just gonna sit there, festering. And one day, you'll be too damn tired to keep holding it back.”
Dean clenched his jaw, staring down at the table. He hated this, being under a microscope, being picked apart.
He wanted to tell Benny to fuck off. Anger bloomed in the center of his chest, fist banging on the table once, sharply, causing the silverware to rattle around. "Dammit, Benny," he growled.
Benny barely flinched, just sat there, eyes steady, letting the moment settle between them and Dean felt the walls creeping back up, the way his ribs went tight, the way his body reacted before his mind could catch up. He took a deep breath.
"I just don't see the point in digging all this up. It's not going to change a damn thing." He sighed, pushing his plate aside. "Look, I just didn't want to be alone at the moment. That's all. I did something stupid and I just... I didn't want to have a therapy session, okay? Just drop it, man."
Benny studied him for a moment longer, then nodded like he was letting it go. But Dean wasn’t stupid—he knew Benny wasn’t really letting anything go. Just putting a pin in it.
With a sigh, Benny flagged down the server. “I got this one,” he said, voice firm, like it wasn’t up for discussion.
Dean didn't even pretend to reach for his wallet.
The server dropped off the check, and Benny took one last sip of his water, setting the glass down with a quiet thunk . “Thing about white-knuckling it?” He tilted his head. “Your hands get tired.”
Dean's leg bounced underneath the table. He focused on his plate, the check, the napkin dispenser. Anywhere but the man in front of him.
Benny fished a few bills from his wallet. “Then what?”
Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek, jaw tight. He didn't have an answer to that.
The question just sat there, like a lead weight in his stomach.
Benny let the silence stretch, then tossed the bills down and made his way out of the booth. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
Dean hesitated, just for a second, then grabbed his jacket and slid out of the booth.
He didn’t argue.
Benny pulled up to the curb, the truck’s engine humming low in the quiet night. Neither of them moved at first. The street was empty, save for the occasional porch light burning in the distance. The kind of quiet that settled heavy, leaving too much room for the shit Dean didn’t want to think about.
He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on his own porch light, dim and flickering, like it couldn’t decide if it was going to burn out completely or keep hanging on. He understood the feeling.
Benny shifted in his seat, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel before stilling. “You gonna be alright? I can come in for a while if you need company.”
Dean huffed, the sound more automatic than reassuring. “Ain’t my first bad night," he said, reaching for the door handle, but Benny’s voice stopped him.
“Look, man,” he said. “You don’t wanna talk about this, fine. But don’t let it eat you alive before you even get to the damn wedding.”
Dean’s fingers tightened around the handle, and his jaw ticked.
Too late.
But he didn’t say that. Just swallowed around the knot in his throat and stared out at the house.
“You need anything, you call me. I don’t care what time it is.”
Dean hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "I'll talk to you later, man." He pushed the door open and stepped out.
The cold hit sharp and sudden, cutting through his jacket. Boots crunched against gravel, the sound too loud in the quiet. The house stood in front of him, dark and waiting, windows hollow and empty. The truck’s headlights stretched long shadows across the porch, reaching for him.
He forced himself forward.
The wood creaked beneath his weight as he climbed the steps, each step heavier than the last. He shoved his key into the lock. It stuck—
"Dean, we have got to get this stupid doorknob fixed," Cas grumbled, jiggling the key violently, one fist giving the door a solid thump.
"Hey, whoa, whoa! Let’s not break the damn door down," Dean muttered, prying the keys from Cas’ grip. "Let me get the door, okay? I'll get the doorknob fixed."
—before finally giving way, the mechanism clicking over with a groan.
The door swung open into darkness and Dean stood in the doorway for a moment, staring into the black void of the house, the weight of it settling over his shoulders.
Behind him, Benny’s truck idled for a second longer before the tires crunched over gravel, pulling away from the curb.
Dean didn’t watch him go. Didn’t look back.
He stepped inside, let the door shut behind him.
The couch sat in the dark, waiting for him. But tonight he headed down the hallway instead, feet carrying him past the half-open bathroom door, past the small office space he never used, and finally to the bedroom door.
It had been two years.
Two years since he’d last stood here, hand on the knob, staring at the space that used to be theirs.
For the first week after Cas had left, he drank.
And he drank hard .
Not the way he used to, the controlled kind, the just-a-few-beers-after-work kind, the I-can-quit-anytime kind. No, this was something else. This was obliteration.
It was enough that Sam had to intervene, for real, this time, when things spiraled out of control.
Then:
That first night, he sat at the kitchen table with a full bottle, staring at the empty chair across from him.
Dean poured a glass.
Then another.
By the time the sun came up, the bottle was empty, the chair was still fucking empty, but Dean was full of self-loathing.
So he kept going.
The second day, he called to say he wouldn't be in the shop. The third and fourth day, he didn't bother calling and when Charlie called him, he ignored it. When Sam called, he ignored those too.
The fifth day, Sam came by. Dean didn’t answer.
But Sam had a key.
He stormed inside, took one look at the disaster of a living room, empty bottles, no food to be seen, curtains drawn tight against the light, and his face hardened.
"Jesus, Dean."
Dean barely lifted his head from the couch. "Leave it alone, Sammy."
"Like hell I will."
Sam yanked the curtains open, flooding the room with daylight, and Dean hissed, arm flinging over his face like some kind of feral animal.
"You’re just gonna sit here and rot? That the plan?"
Dean gritted his teeth. "There is no plan. Besides, it's not your problem."
Sam’s jaw clenched. "Cas left because of this."
Dean’s stomach dropped.
"Because you wouldn’t let him in. Because every time he tried, you shoved him away and buried yourself in this bullshit." He gestured at the bottles, the mess, at Dean. "And now you’re doing it again." Sam shook his head. "You wanna drink yourself to death? That’s on you. But don’t act like it’s some fucking mystery why he’s gone."
Dean flinched, hands balling into fists at his sides to keep from reaching out for the half empty bottle sitting on the coffee table.
Sam exhaled sharply, shoulders stiff. "If you actually want him in your life, want me in your life: Get. Help."
Dean didn’t answer.
Sam stood there for another few seconds, waiting for something that never came. Then, without another word, he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Dean sat there, staring at nothing, ears ringing.
The house felt different in the silence he left behind, heavier, hollowed out. Sam’s words still echoed, rattling around in Dean’s skull, sharp and undeniable.
"Cas left because of this."
Dean squeezed his eyes shut.
Then, without thinking, he reached out.
The burn hit his throat, sharp and immediate.
Dean woke up face-down on the mattress.
For a few seconds, he just laid there, the weight of the past week pressing down on him. Then slowly, he forced himself upright, taking assessment.
His mouth was dry as hell, sour and stale tasting. His head was pounding, stomach twisting with nausea, even as it grumbled from lack of food. His entire body felt heavy, an almost bone deep ache settling in. He needed water. And aspirin.
He swallowed against the bile creeping up his throat,
"Day one."
The words barely made a sound, catching in his raw throat, but they settled into the space around him like something solid.
It was the first thing he’d said to himself in days that wasn’t bullshit.
Now:
That was the last time he set foot in this room.
Dean stopped at the door, fingers curling around the knob, but didn’t turn it right away.
He told himself it was just a room. Just a bed. Just a door he hadn’t opened in two years.
His grip tightened, heart squeezing painfully in his chest. And then, before he could think better of it, he twisted the knob, the door opening silently.
The air inside hit him—stale linen, dust, the lingering ghost of something he’d lost. The bed was made, but not in a way that felt lived-in. Just another thing frozen in time. He felt his throat tighten as he stepped inside, the mattress dipping under his weight as sat on the edge.
His hands scrubbed over his face, dragging through his hair.
What the hell are you doing?
His fingers curled into the comforter, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him here.
The room hadn’t changed much. The bed, the dresser, the nightstand—just furniture. But standing here felt like standing in the wreckage of something sacred. A place where Cas used to be. Where Dean used to be whole. Being here wasn’t just hard—it was punishment.
The last time Cas had stood in this room, his face had been a mix of frustration, sadness…fear. Not of Dean, but for him.
Dean could still see the way Cas’s eyes had flicked to the half-empty bottle in his hand, the way his voice had wavered when he said:
"I love you, Dean, but I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself."
And Dean, drunk and defensive and furious, had fired back without thinking.
"Then don’t."
Cas had looked at him for a long time.
Then he’d walked away.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling sharply through his nose. He let himself fall back onto the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The pillow barely felt familiar. The sheets were rough beneath his fingertips.
He told himself to stop thinking about him.
And yet, the memory still came. Unbidden, intrusive, aching .
Dean remembered watching him from the doorway.
Cas leaning back against the headboard, hair a mess, black-framed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, a book balanced in one hand. Cas’s other hand rested on Dean’s side of the bed, just there , barely moving, except for the occasional absent-minded stroke of his fingers against the sheets. Like some part of him had to be touching something that belonged to Dean, even when he was focused on his book.
Dean had teased him about it, smirking as he leaned against the door frame. "You that desperate to cop a feel, Cas?"
Cas had glanced at him over the rim of his glasses, completely unfazed. "I like knowing you’re there."
He said it so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like of course his hand was there, on Dean’s side of the bed. Like of course he reached for him, even when Dean wasn’t close enough to touch.
Dean snorted, pushing off the frame and made his way over. "You’re a sap, you know that?"
Cas didn’t look away from his book. "Maybe." Then, softer, more to himself, "Or maybe I just don’t like when you’re too far away."
Dean paused mid-step, something catching in his chest. Cas kept reading, but his fingers curled slightly into the sheets, as if tightening his hold on something unseen.
Dean swallowed, then slid into bed beside him, pretending he wasn’t affected.
But later, when Cas drifted off, book slipping from his fingers, Dean stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.
Now, the bed felt too big.
He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow, but it didn’t smell like anything anymore. He laid there for a long while, staring at the empty side of the bed. As sleep eventually crept up on him, the last thing he thought of, the thing that refused to let go, was Cas.
Not at the end.
But in the beginning.
Cas, standing by the fire, looking across the room like he was searching for something.
Catching sight of Dean and looking relieved, like he’d been hoping Dean would be there.
Smiling in that small, almost private way he did when he was pleased about something. It’s a smile that Dean got to know very well.
Dean's breath hitched, his eyes slipping closed.
Then:
Dean hadn’t planned on going to the party.
It was a bunch of Sam's coworkers—IT guys, professors, library clerks. In other words, nerds.
Sam and Ruby had invited him weeks ago, but he hadn’t given them a solid answer, figuring he’d just decide at the last minute. New Year’s was fine, but it wasn’t exactly his thing, and the idea of standing around in a crowd, making small talk with people he barely knew? Hard pass.
Then, over dinner a few nights ago, Ruby mentioned something about the party, and Sam, casual as ever, said, "Oh, I talked to Castiel today. He'll be there."
And suddenly, Dean showed up early.
He barely knew the guy—had maybe twenty minutes total of interaction with him, months ago when Castiel picked up his car from the shop. But something about him had stuck with Dean longer than it should have.
And several hours later, when he finally spotted him standing by the fireplace, Dean's stomach did this strange little flip-flop.
Cas was dressed nice. Not in a flashy way, but in a way that made Dean’s eyes linger just a little bit longer. Black dress shoes, dark blue jeans, a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and over it, a dark blue vest that fit snug, like it had been tailored for him. His dark hair was artfully messy, like he’d run his hands through it a few times before heading out the door. There was a shadow of stubble across his jaw, a little rougher than the last time Dean had seen him, and damn, he looked really fucking good.
Dean watched as Castiel tried to politely listen to the guy standing next to him, but he seemed preoccupied. Cas would lean in and listen, either nod or shake his head, and then glance around the room, searching.
After a few minutes, Dean watched as Castiel managed to slip away, muttering something to the guy before making a beeline for the dining room.
Dean took several large swigs from his beer bottle and made his way toward the kitchen, losing sight of Cas for a moment before spotting him again on the other side of the room. He approached from behind, leaning in slightly and letting his voice cut through the noise.
"Didn’t peg you for the office party type."
Castiel turned toward him, and Dean watched as something in his face shifted.
Surprise. Recognition. Pleased .
"Dean," Castiel said, lips curving up into a small smile. The way he said it, warm, easy, sent a flicker of something straight through Dean’s chest. Cas gestured vaguely. "Sam invited me, and it seemed rude to decline, so…" He trailed off, a little awkward, and Dean caught the way the tips of his ears turned pink.
He flashed a grin, taking another slow sip of his beer, shifting a little closer.
"So, if I remember right, you work at the library? You restore books."
Cas nodded. “I do. I specialize in archival restoration." He leaned in slightly, voice dipping lower. "My official title is Book Conservator, but I also conduct research.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Research? Like what?”
"I have a degree in anthropology, so occasionally, I assist with archaeological digs. So it depends on what we're digging up.”
Dean blinked, a little impressed. “Damn, Cas. You're like Indiana Jones. ”
Castiel frowned. “Indiana Jones is a deeply inaccurate portrayal of proper archaeological work.”
Dean grinned wider. “Yeah, but he’s hot. And the hat’s cool.”
Cas studied him for a second. “Hmm.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Cas took a thoughtful sip of his drink. “You have a thing for rugged, adventurous types with a penchant for history.”
Dean scoffed. “Well, that...That’s a hell of a leap.”
Cas turned slightly toward him, voice even. “Is it?”
Dean opened his mouth to argue—but hesitated. This was not the same guy who had shown up at his shop months ago, stiff and serious, while Dean rattled off repair estimates. Then again, that had been a really bad day for him. Car totaled, insurance probably being a bitch, and now that Dean thought about it, Cas had looked about five minutes away from setting something on fire with sheer force of will.
Tonight, though? Different story.
Cas thought for a moment. “I could get a hat.”
Dean damn near choked on his beer. “What?”
Cas just blinked at him. “You said the hat was cool.”
Dean shook his head. “That’s…I mean,” he rubbed the back of his neck, tipping his bottle back.
Cas hummed like he was considering it. He squinted. “Or is it more about the whip?”
Dean froze mid-drink. His brain short-circuited entirely.
Cas took another sip of his drink, utterly calm. “Because that might take more practice.”
Dean sputtered, coughing into his sleeve. “Are you…Cas,” He gestured vaguely. “Are you messing with me right now?”
Cas tilted his head. “I’m just trying to understand your... preferences.”
Dean did not like the way Cas said “ preferences .”
Cas held his gaze for a moment, then, very deliberately, added, “I could learn.”
Dean stared at him, every cell in his body overheating.
“I…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, desperately searching for a way out of this. “I think you’re drunk.”
Cas arched an eyebrow. “I’m drinking water.”
Dean blinked. His gaze flicked to Cas’s glass.
Cas’s smirk was small, but it was there. “I think you’re deflecting.”
Dean had to look away. He took a long, very necessary sip of his beer, willing himself to focus on literally anything else.
Cas watched him struggle, then took a slow sip of his water, completely composed.
“So that’s a no on the hat, then?”
Dean let out a breath, shaking his head. “You are messing with me.”
Cas hummed like he wasn’t denying it.
Dean pointed at him. “You’re trouble.”
Cas just gave a small shrug. “So I’ve been told.”
Dean was absolutely not touching that one. He cleared his throat, shifting topics. “So, what kind of digs do you go on?”
Castiel relaxed slightly, his voice warming as he spoke about fieldwork—handling delicate artifacts, digging through layers of time, discovering pieces of history that no one currently alive had ever seen. Dean listened, genuinely interested, but he couldn’t help but let his gaze wander over Cas’s face.
The sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips moved as he got into nerd mode, how his blue eyes lit up, bright and clear, full of passion.
Cas seemed to realize he’d been talking for several minutes and hesitated, giving a sheepish grin, the tips of his ears turning pink again.
Dean smirked, taking another slow sip of his beer before leaning in just slightly. “You know, Cas,” he drawled, “you get real cute when you talk about nerd shit.”
Cas blinked, mouth parting slightly like he wanted to respond but couldn’t quite process the words fast enough.
Dean grinned, watching that blush deepen.
He wasn't sure how long they stood there talking, Castiel asking him how the restoration of his car was going, Dean asking him if he'd ever found anything cursed, and then Sam was clapping one hand on his shoulder.
"Midnight's in about five minutes, guys."
Dean nodded, then glanced at Cas’s almost-empty glass. “Need a refill? I could—”
Cas set the glass down abruptly. “Actually, could we go?”
Dean blinked, caught off guard. “Go?”
“I mean, step outside. Just…” Cas gestured vaguely at the crowd. “It's a bit crowded. I could use some air.”
Dean studied him for a second, then nodded. “Oh, yeah, absolutely. It’s cold out there, but yeah. Come on. I’ll keep you company.”
The air was crisp, cold, biting against Dean’s exposed skin.
They stood side by side against the house, hands shoved in their pockets, breath curling into the winter air in white plumes. Snow drifted lazily down, just enough to dust the ground.
The music inside was muffled—only the rhythmic thump-thump of the bass reaching them, distant and unimportant.
They stood in silence for a long moment.
"It’s pretty," Cas finally said, looking up at the snowfall.
Dean glanced at him, then up at the sky. "Yeah. Never really thought about it much, but yeah, I guess it is." He hesitated. "I remember being told in school that no two snowflakes are alike."
Cas nodded absently. “Yes, they’re all unique.” He smiled softly, like the thought meant something to him.
Dean checked his watch. 11:57 PM.
"It’s almost midnight," he said.
“Mmm.” Cas hummed.
Then, after a few moments, quiet and careful, Castiel said, “Dean, I want to kiss you at midnight. If that’s okay.”
Dean, who had been slouched against the house, suddenly stood up straight. “What?”
Cas glanced over at him, eyes steady. “At midnight. I want to kiss you.” Then, softer, “If that’s okay.”
Dean’s breath caught. “Yeah. I mean—yes, absolutely.” He hesitated, then narrowed his eyes. “Do we have to wait until midnight?”
Cas chuckled just as the countdown started inside. “No.”
The countdown inside reached zero. Cheers erupted. Fireworks cracked in the distance.
Dean didn’t hear any of it.
The only thing he knew was Cas. Warm, solid, right there, kissing him like he meant it.
It started slow, careful, like he was giving Dean space to back out if he wanted.
He didn’t.
The second Cas started to pull away, Dean chased him, fingers tightening against the back of his neck, refusing to let him go. Not yet.
Cas gasped and then he was right there with him, pushing back, pressing in, his fingers clutching at Dean’s jacket like he needed something to hold onto or risk getting lost completely.
Dean tilted his head, deepening the kiss, heat curling in his gut as his tongue swept against Cas’, slow and deliberate, teasing at first, then demanding. Cas shuddered, his grip tightening, and then…
That sound.
A soft, wrecked noise, muffled between them, half a moan, half a sigh, like Dean had knocked the breath right out of him.
Dean's pulse pounded in his throat, his ears, everywhere .
Cas’s hands slid up, gripping at his shoulders, then his jaw, like he needed to touch more of him, like he was memorizing him, like this wasn’t something that could be taken for granted.
Cas shifted against him, and Dean lost whatever control he thought he had. He backed him up, guiding him until Cas’s spine met the side of the house, his breath ragged, uneven as Dean kissed him harder, deeper, hands gripping, roaming, aching to feel, to remember, to burn this in.
Cas let him, gave as good as he got, his fingers threading into Dean’s hair, pulling just enough to make him groan, hips barely brushing. Teasing, promising, dangerous.
And then, just when it felt like it would spill over, like neither of them would stop, Cas broke away, breathless, lips flushed, eyes dark and unreadable. His voice was low, rough.
"Happy New Year, Dean."
Dean exhaled a breathless laugh.
"Yeah," he managed, feeling a little dazed.
"Happy New Year, Cas."
Now:
Dean woke up with a headache. Not the kind he used to get, the ones that came with too much whiskey and bad decisions, but the kind that came from thinking too much. Remembering too much.
Sunlight slashed through the half-open blinds, burning hot and sharp across the sheets. One arm was flung over his eyes, like blocking out the light might stop the day from happening. His mouth was dry, muscles aching from sleeping at an awkward angle. But worse than all that was the weight that had settled deep in lungs, making it hard to breathe properly.
Cas.
He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face, trying to force the thoughts away, but they clung to him, relentless.
He hadn’t let himself think about Cas in a long time, that part of him had been tucked away, labeled Do Not Open, buried under work, routine, and a whole lot of not dealing with it.
And then Sam had shown up with his damn wedding announcement, and Benny had sat across from him at that diner, listening to him ramble about Cas like he hadn’t been doing everything in his power not to.
Now, the box wasn’t just cracked open—it had been ripped apart, memories spilling out faster than he could shove them back in.
Dean pushed himself up, running a hand through his hair, ignoring the way it trembled slightly. He needed coffee. Something to get his brain off this.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took a deep breath.
One day at a time. Benny’s words from a long time ago drifted through his mind, unbidden.
Dean swallowed thickly, body aching.
"724," he muttered, voice hoarse from sleep, and pushed himself to his feet.
Dean made his way to the kitchen, the smell of stale air and old coffee lingering as he grabbed a mug and started the machine.
He leaned against the counter as it brewed, rubbing at the back of his neck.
He should check in with Charlie. Get back to work.
He should call Sam. Let him know everything is fine.
He should do literally anything other than sit here, feeling like something inside him was unraveling. His eyes flicked toward the back door, toward the place where the unopened bottle of whiskey still sat, patiently waiting.
The coffee pot beeped.
Time blurred.
Days bled into each other, indistinct. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. No room for much else. No room to think.
Dean threw himself into the grind, letting it consume him. It was all he knew how to do. The shop was steady—predictable. A busted axle, an engine replacement, a rusted-out classic that needed more love than it probably deserved. That was something he could handle. Machines made sense. They didn’t wake up with ghosts of old conversations rattling around in their heads.
Nights stretched too long. Too quiet. Too much time to think.
Dinner was whatever he grabbed on the way home, Chinese, burgers, gas station tacos if he was desperate enough. Most nights, he ate standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the window. Staring at the bottle still sitting on the bench outside. Untouched.
There was a night Ruby had invited him over for dinner. He ate without really tasting anything. Sam talked, Ruby talked, Dean nodded and said “yeah” in the right places, and for an hour and a half, he played the part of someone who wasn’t currently unraveling.
But then he went home.
And the routine continued.
There was a day he spent in the office, sorting through invoices, payroll, shop orders. The numbers blurred together. He hated office work. Hated being stuck at his desk, hated the silence. But at least it kept his hands busy.
The next day, he was under a car, grime under his nails, grease up to his elbows, deep in the work. This was better. This was something he understood. Something that stayed fixed. His chest ached, but he ignored it, wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm. Kept moving. If he stopped, even for a second, the thoughts he’d locked away would start clawing at the edges, rattling the flimsy mental chain he’d wrapped around them.
So he didn’t stop.
Then, there was Benny.
They met up at the usual spot, a diner with good burgers, decent fries, and a staff that didn’t bother you unless you needed a refill. They did this at least once a month—just to check in, keep in touch, even when things were fine.
Dean wasn’t fine.
And Benny knew it.
He didn’t say it outright, but Dean could tell. It was in the way he looked at him, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. The way he didn’t ask how’re you holding up, but instead let the conversation drift, giving Dean space to say it himself.
He didn’t.
Instead, he smirked, sipped his Coke, and steered the conversation away from himself. Asked about Benny’s life, how business was going, if he was seeing anyone. Kept his mask locked in place, grinning through it, keeping it casual.
Benny played along, for a while.
But then, toward the end of the night, he leaned back in his chair, appraising Dean with a look that saw right through the bullshit.
"How’re your hands feeling?”
Dean knew exactly what Benny meant. His grip tightened around his glass, the ache in his knuckles suddenly impossible to ignore.
Benny had said it before, weeks ago. Thing about white-knuckling it? Your hands get tired.
Dean swallowed, forced a smirk. "Very funny. Nah, man, really. I’m good. Just busy at work, you know how it is."
Benny hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. Just shook his head a little, then grabbed the check before Dean could argue.
He made it through the rest of the night. Got in his truck. Drove home.
And when he got inside, he didn’t bother turning on the lights.
He just stood there, staring out of the back window, at the bottle sitting untouched on the stone bench.
His hands ached.
The days stretched long, then disappeared before he could hold onto them. Mornings were colder. The shop doors rattled when the wind picked up, and he caught himself standing too close to the space heater. He didn’t notice the leaves turning, didn’t notice the way the light shifted—sharper in the mornings, softer in the evenings.
He avoided looking at the calendar. It didn’t matter. The date still came.