Archive of Our Own ^beta

The heavy table in the library was covered in open files and scattered blueprints. Paper rustled every time Dean smoothed out a corner or Cas pulled a page closer. Dust hung in the air, tickling Dean’s nose, though Cas didn’t seem to notice.

“You think this could be something?” Dean tapped one of the endless lines with his pen.

Cas tilted his head, his brows pulling together. “I’m not sure… which level is that?”

Dean grunted, shoved the plan aside, and looked for the small legend in the corner. “Ah. Level three.”

“Three?” Cas lifted his gaze, and to Dean’s surprise, there was the faintest hint of a laugh in his voice. “You mean two below us? That can’t be right.”

“Don’t tell me, tell the guy who scribbled this crap.” Dean dragged the next blueprint over, while Cas’ fingers were already brushing across another sheet.

“This one.” Cas pointed to a nearly invisible marking. “Is that the right one?”

Dean blinked, leaned in, then snorted. “Level zero? I didn’t even know there was anything above the bunker. I figured it was just… nothing. You know, camouflage.”

Cas lifted his head, his voice calm but resolute. “I want to see it. Please.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, fingers scratching through his stubble. “Cas, I don’t know… who knows how stable that place is after seventy years.”

Before Cas could answer, footsteps echoed in the hall. Sam appeared in the doorway, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Hey…” His gaze fell on the paper chaos. “What’s going on here?”

Dean sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Cas is looking for a new hobby. And since we’ve got more downtime than usual, I suggested we finally explore the whole bunker.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and stepped closer. “Okay… that actually sounds like a pretty good idea.”

Dean snorted, one eyebrow climbing. “Yeah, until Angelcake here found some note about a refuge and now he’s obsessed with the idea that we’ve got a damn garden.”

“I am not obsessed.” Cas’ voice was steady, but firm.

Dean jabbed a finger toward the towering stacks of paper off to the side. “You made me haul all that dusty crap out of the archives. Over a footnote!”

Cas tilted his head, eyes narrowing, his mouth a thin line. Dean held his stare longer than he’d meant to. The air between them suddenly felt heavier than the dust hanging around the room.

Sam groaned. “Some things never change.” He cleared his throat loudly. “Can I see that note?”

Cas’ gaze flicked to Dean, a brief flash of something like triumph sparking in his eyes, more eloquent than words. Then he reached for the file and handed it over to Sam.

It was hardly more than half a page of scribbles—chaotic sketches and scattered Latin words: Arborium, Hortus, Refugium, Sanctum. Different terms, but they all circled back to the same meaning: retreat.

Sam turned the page, then lifted his head. “If it even exists—where do you think this garden could be?”

Cas pointed to the faint mark on the blueprint of Level Zero without hesitation. “Directly above us.”

From the outside, it looked like nothing more than an abandoned hydroelectric plant, a relic of forgotten decades. The Winchesters had always assumed it was empty, just another ruin you glance at once and never think about again. Only Sam had given the tall, dusty windows more than a passing look now and then when they drove past the access road.

“I’ve wanted to check that out for ages,” he admitted with a quiet laugh. “But, you know… an apocalypse rarely comes alone.”

But now… now that Chuck wasn’t pulling strings anymore, no fresh disaster waiting around every corner—now might finally be the right time.

“I’m in,” Sam said at last.

“You… what?!” Dean stared at him, baffled, his gaze bouncing between his brother and Cas. Sam only grinned, while Cas watched him with that unwavering calm that drove Dean crazy and melted him at the same time. Finally, Dean grumbled, “Fine. Whatever. How the hell do we get in?”

Sam shifted the plans around, squinting as he carefully overlaid Level Zero and Level One, holding them up to the light. “Dean?”

Dean stepped in beside him, brow furrowed, eyes fixed on the markings. “No way.”

Sam cast him a sideways glance, disbelief in his tone. “How could we miss a giant door next to the garage entrance?”

***

The three of them stood in front of the bunker’s garage entrance. Concrete, gray walls, an overgrown slope—everything looked as ordinary as always. Nothing hinted at a secret. Sam held up the blueprint again, as if he could coax an answer out of the lines. Dean had his arms crossed, jaw already working.

“This is where the access should be,” Sam muttered, more to himself than to the others. “A few yards up the hill.”

Dean immediately snorted. “Yeah, and what do we have? Nothing. Exactly what I said—some Men of Letters doodle after too much coffee.”

“Dean…” Sam lowered the plans, his gaze sharp. “You saw the markings yourself. There has to be something here.”

Dean waved him off. “Or it’s just a mistake. Surprise—turns out not everyone who drew these plans was a genius. Sometimes a line’s just a line.”

While the two of them raised their voices, Cas barely moved. He stood a little apart, head tilted, like a hawk following a trace only he could see. His eyes tracked the seam where concrete met earth. Pale streaks marked the stone—old water stains, scars left by decades of rain. Cas’ gaze drifted higher up the slope, toward the thicker cluster of trees. His face hardly shifted, but the tension in it was obvious.

Then, suddenly, he looked down at his feet—and jumped. Just a short hop, like a test. Then again. And again.

The argument broke off instantly. Dean’s eyes went wide, staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “Uh… Cas? Buddy? What the hell are you doing?”

Cas stopped, turned to face them, dead serious. “We’re standing on a hill.”

Sam pressed his lips together, trying not to grin. Dean just blinked at him, frown deepening, as if searching for something smart to say—but only managed a flat, “Okay?”

Cas looked back up the slope. “The door’s buried.” He pointed to the water marks. “Rain carried soil down. Year after year. The entrance is behind it.”

Dean’s brows shot up, torn between being impressed and being even more annoyed. “Huh.”

By now, Sam had moved along the wall, his palm sliding over every inch of stone as if a hidden mechanism might reveal itself. But all he felt was cool concrete. “Cas, I don’t know… there’s really nothing here.”

Cas stepped over, took the blueprint out of his hands. “From the garage entrance. Twenty feet up the hill.”

He turned on his heel, lined himself up perfectly with the garage, and marched forward, steady and deliberate.

“Cas, what—?” Dean started, but Cas didn’t react. After exactly twenty feet, he stopped abruptly.

“Here.” He stood still, the paper loose at his side. “The door should be right here.” His gaze flicked back toward the driveway, then down at the slope again. “The grade’s wrong. It should be level with the entrance, but we’re standing too high.”

Dean planted his hands on his hips. “Fantastic. And what now? You want me to grab a shovel so we can dig like the dwarves from Snow White? All for your fairy-tale garden?”

Cas lifted his head, eyes locking onto Dean’s. He didn’t say a word. Just that look—heavy, unwavering, with the faintest flicker of persistence Dean had fallen for too many times already. The barest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Dean groaned, shoulders sagging as he tipped his head back. “Son of a bitch.” He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets. “Fine. I’ll get the damn shovels.”

***

With Cas’ help, it went surprisingly fast. After barely three heavy shovelfuls of dirt, the outline of an old stone doorway emerged.

Dean dropped his shovel, eyes going wide. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

Cas glanced at him—serious, but with the faintest spark in his eyes—and the corners of his mouth twitched up. “I told you it existed.”

It didn’t take long before they had cleared the entrance completely. Cas braced himself against the rusted metal, fingers digging into the corroded handle, and with an awful screech the door finally gave way, swinging inward. What lay beyond was something like a hidden winter garden—forgotten, locked away, untouched for decades.

Darkness poured out to meet them. The power must have been cut off sometime in the last seventy years; no lights came on. Only the beams of their flashlights revealed the interior: massive stone walls, dry and solid, no sign of damp. Dust clung thick in the corners, cobwebs strung across the beams. Wooden shelving lined the walls, sturdier than expected but buried under grime. Clay pots sat in rows, some still whole, others cracked, each filled with dried, crumbling earth.

The air was dry, but stale. It smelled of dust and old soil, like an attic that hadn’t been opened in generations.

They stepped further inside, their footsteps dull against the stone floor. And then, turning a corner, the space opened wider: above them stretched a heavy glass dome. From outside it had been buried, layered with decades of earth, leaves, and branches. Two of panes were cracked, but most of it still held.

Dean swung his flashlight upward. “What the hell?”

Sam stepped in beside him, brow furrowed. “It must be buried too. Same as the door.”

Meanwhile Cas had stopped at one of the shelves, eyes roaming carefully over the rows. They lingered on the pots, the aged planks. Something glimmered in his expression—a mix of curiosity and that restless thinking Dean knew too well.

Dean turned toward him. “You knew the dome was here. That’s why you were out there hopping around like a damn kangaroo.”

Cas looked at him. No words, no argument—just that quiet, confirming smile.

***


Two days later, the dome was cleared, glass freed from decades of dirt and leaves, the doorway properly dug out. Dean would’ve sworn he’d never pick up a shovel again for as long as he lived. Four days later, though, he still found himself in a full-blown argument with Cas.

“No! That’s my final word!” Dean slapped his palm flat on the table like he could hammer the point into the air.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice was calm, but his eyes were steady. “I can’t restore the garden without fresh soil.”

Dean spun on him. “I already shoveled enough dirt to dig that damn thing out of the ground!”

Cas opened his mouth, started to speak.

“While you were busy,” Dean cut him off, “mourning the dead bugs we found in there!”

Cas exhaled softly, shaking his head like he was dealing with a stubborn child. “I need actual potting soil. Not forest dirt.”

Dean crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “Hell no! I am not driving an hour to the nearest Home Depot just to load up Baby's trunk with dirt we already have in spades!”

“You don’t have to.”

Dean blinked, arms falling to his sides. “What?”

Cas looked at him, serious as ever, but with a faint gleam in his eyes. “I know you still have my pickup. We’ll take that.”

Dean jerked back like he’d been hit, staring at him with his mouth half open.

“And I’ll need plants. And tools. And—”

Dean closed his eyes, shaking his head, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

“Please,” Cas added softly, with that almost-innocent tone that wrecked Dean every damn time.

Dean opened his eyes, looked up at him from under his brows, let out a long sigh, and grumbled, “Fine.”

A good three hours later, Dean actually found himself standing in the parking lot of a Home Depot. Burger from the food stand in one hand, a beer can in the other, he watched Cas heave bag after bag of potting soil onto the bed of the beige pickup.

And not just soil. Of course not. Cas had gone all in: pots of herbs, trays of vegetable seedlings, planters of every size, wooden boards—“because some of the shelves don’t look reliable anymore”—and a watering can. Plus tools, the kind Dean muttered Cas would “sure as hell never use.”

And then there were the two panes of glass. Dean stood in front of them, doubtful. “I’m thinking those might be too big.”

Cas leaned in, close enough for his breath to ghost against Dean’s ear, and murmured, “Size doesn’t matter. I can make it fit.”

Dean choked hard, coughing, and when he glanced up, an older lady down the aisle was staring at him with her mouth wide open.

***

Another week later, it was done. Cas had brought the winter garden back to life: leaves and dust cleared away, shelves restocked, the beds filled with fresh soil. Where once only brittle remnants had sat in clay pots, new green now sprouted. Herbs, vegetables, even a few flowers Cas insisted on adding—despite Dean’s skeptical commentary—were beginning to thrive.

Sam managed to get the power back on, finally throwing some light into the place.

Two more months later, Dean had let himself get talked into another trip to Home Depot—this time for two garden chairs. “So we don’t have to keep sitting on crates,” Cas had said simply, and after plenty of grumbling, Dean gave in.

Since then, they’d spent more evenings out in the little stone chamber that no longer had anything in common with the dusty crypt they’d first stepped into. Surrounded by pots of herbs, raised beds, and the soft trickle of a watering can, they’d found an unexpected retreat.

They were sitting there again tonight. Dean sank down onto one of the new chairs with a soft creak, two bottles of beer in his hands. Cas watered the last plant before taking the seat beside him and relieving him of one.

Dean let his gaze wander: across the shelves lined with herb pots, the little raised bed where vegetables were shooting up strong, and finally to the workbench in the corner. Tools hung neatly in place—tools Dean had, just weeks ago, sworn Cas would never use. Now they gleamed, clearly well-handled and regularly put to work.

Dean took a pull from his beer. “Who would’ve thought? From angel army commander to gardener. All you’re missing is a garden gnome.”

Cas didn’t rise to the jab. His voice was calm, almost gentle. “It’s good, creating something instead of destroying it.” He paused, eyes settling on the plants that stirred faintly in the air. “It feels… peaceful.”

Dean huffed a quiet breath, mouth tugging sideways. “Never thought we’d get something close to peace.”

He leaned back, head tilting up to the dome. Through the cleared glass, the first stars were starting to shine. For a moment he kept his gaze there, then lowered it—straight into Cas’ eyes. Just a second too long, but enough for something to hum in the air between them.

Without a word, Cas reached out. Dean’s hand closed around his, as naturally as breathing. No hesitation, no explanation—just that quiet understanding.

“I never doubted you,” Cas said softly.

Dean swallowed, his fingers squeezing Cas’ just a little tighter. No words came, but in that moment, none were needed.