Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The piano in the corner is badly in need of a tuning. A couple of keys stick, one’s missing its ivory face, and the bartender mostly uses it as a shelf for clean glasses. Nobody pays attention when Dean slides onto the bench, two whiskeys and one beer in, fingers twitchy.

He doesn’t mean to play anything real; he mostly just wants to make noise, to let some of the static in his head release through his fingertips, but the notes stumble into a pattern before he catches himself. It’s the lullaby his mother used to hum under her breath, the one that always seems to play in the back of his mind when things get too quiet. It sounds awkward and off-key on the ancient upright, but still recognisable.

Someone is watching.

An omega, dark-haired, eyes too sharp for a town this small, drifts steadily closer, as if drawn in by the sound of Dean’s restlessness.

‘You play beautifully,’ he says. His voice has the clipped formality of someone unpractised in smalltalk.

Dean huffs out an embarrassed laugh. ‘Aw, this old thing? Just, uh- just killin’ time.’ He downs the rest of his second beer, plinking one of the high notes and winces at the sour twang. He shrugs. ‘Besides, ain’t my tune. Just somethin’ my mom used’ta mess with.’

The omega tilts his head, cataloguing not just the music, but Dean himself. ‘Beautiful, nonetheless.’

Dean snorts, but there’s colour in his ears. ‘You need better taste.’

‘I have excellent taste,’ the omega replies without hesitation. His gaze doesn’t waver, as though he’s assessing a puzzle he means to solve.

Dean shifts on the bench. ‘You from around here?’

A nod. ‘Born and bred.’ He doesn’t sound all that thrilled about it. ‘You?’

Dean shakes his head. ‘Nah, just passin’ through. ’M from Lawrence originally, but now I live with my brother up in Lebanon.’ He doesn’t mention Dad.

The silence stretches, though not uncomfortable. The piano seems to vibrate with the last notes he left hanging in the air, making the space between them feel wonderful and full of delicious possibilities.

Finally, the omega extends a hand, formal as anything. ‘Castiel.’

Dean eyes it for a moment before clasping it, his grip firm and a touch too warm. ‘Dean.’

Their hands linger longer than they should. Dean lets go first — of course he does — muttering something about needing another drink; Castiel trails half a step behind, and before either of them can name the impulse, they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder at the bar.

Conversation stutters at first, but it slowly but surely gains momentum. Talk of nothing that matters — the area, the weather, the local ‘ball team’ (Castiel’s words), the local ‘greasy spoon’ (Dean’s) — soon turns into something warmer, more revealing. Scraps of childhood surface in half-joking stories, favourite songs slip into the pauses, and the wary edges of their voices soften as though they’re testing how much of themselves they can place on the table without it being taken away.

And underneath it all, something sparks. Something Dean has never felt before, not in all his years on the road, all the bars and motels and one night stands. Every glance holds weight; every brush of Dean’s knuckles against Castiel’s sleeve feels deliberate. By the time last call echoes through the room, there’s no question of parting ways alone.

They step out into the night together. The town is quiet, only the soft glow of streetlights and the crunch of gravel under their shoes. Castiel’s pinkie brushes against Dean’s once. Twice. Neither of them moves away.

‘Your place?’ Dean asks, voice low. Heated, but uncertain.

Castiel nods. ‘It’s nearby.’

The walk is short but charged. Castiel fumbles for his keys, finally gets the door open. The room is small, but neat — a bed tucked against the wall, books in tidy stacks, the faint scent of tea leaves and soap. Dean takes it in with a glance, then shuts the door behind him.

There’s no preamble after that. Castiel kisses him like it’s something inevitable, like the moment had been waiting in the air since Dean first touched the piano keys. Dean kisses back hard, urgent, a man who doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to have this again.

Clothes scatter carelessly across the floor. The mattress dips under their weight. It isn’t graceful, but it’s real — the heat of skin, the drag of breath, Castiel’s quiet gasp when Dean mouths at his throat, the way Dean murmurs Cas like a word he shouldn’t know but can’t stop saying.

The night blurs — intense and fleeting — like a song played too fast.

And then morning comes.

The bed is still warm where Dean had been, the sheets tangled, the scent of him still clinging like smoke. But he is gone. No note. No number.

Castiel lies back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, the weight of absence pressing in. He tells himself he should have known better. He tells himself he is a fool for believing an alpha’s tenderness could mean anything at all.

Months later, the room is smaller, noisier. A crib pressed into the corner, bottles stacked on the counter, the air thick with the faint sweetness of formula. Castiel sits in the half-light, a newborn curled against his chest.

Every time her eyes open, every flicker of green catches him off guard. They are Dean’s eyes, Dean’s colour, Dean’s weight pressing down on him even in absence. The tilt of her mouth when she fusses, the stubborn line of her tiny jaw — all the echoes of a man who kissed him once, then vanished like smoke.

Castiel presses his lips to her downy hair, inhales the warm, milky scent, and tells himself he should be grateful. She is all he has left of that night. She is everything.

And still, she is a reminder.

The baby stirs — fists clenching, mouth rooting blindly — and Castiel hums to soothe her.

He hums the tune Dean once played on a broken barroom piano, the only other piece of him left behind.

Chapter Text

The bus shudders into the station just past midnight. Castiel holds his daughter tighter, Emma’s small head pressed beneath his chin as the bus’s brakes squeal and the passengers shuffle to their feet in a flurry of wide yawns and stretching limbs. Neon light washes through the smeared windows, harsh and blue-white, announcing a city that feels too large, too loud, too awake.

He waits until the aisle is nearly clear before rising, his knees stiff, his bag heavy with diapers, bottles, the handful of things he could carry. His arms ache from holding the baby through the long ride, rocking her against every jolt of the road. She sleeps now, her breath damp and warm against Castiel’s throat, and Castiel moves carefully, so as not to wake her.

The station smells of exhaust, stale coffee, and urine. A man sweeps cigarette butts into a dented dustpan. A crackling loudspeaker calls arrivals and departures for cities Castiel has never heard of before.

He keeps his eyes down — an unaccompanied omega with an infant draws too many stares. He’s felt them all all day — on the bus, in the rest stops, in the station bathrooms where he mixed formula with tap water and pretended he didn’t notice the pitying glances of strangers.

Stepping into the night air, the city sprawls around him. Tall buildings stand etched against the sky; headlights stream like veins of light. Somewhere in this city is Dean. That name is all Castiel has — the faint compass he has followed through exhaustion and fear. Dean, who once sat at a barroom piano and coaxed a melody from broken keys, who touched him as though he were something fragile and worth holding onto.

Dean, who left without a word.

Castiel pulls his coat tighter. He has no address, only a city, a name, and a child who deserves more than what the law will allow without an alpha’s signature.

By dawn, he has walked half the length of downtown. His feet are aching, the baby fretful. He finds a diner that opens early, the kind that advertises bottomless coffee for a dollar. The waitress, harried and kind-faced, lets him sit in a corner booth, and doesn’t chase him out when it becomes clear he can afford nothing but toast and water.

He cradles Emma against his chest, feeding her in slow sips from a bottle, every swallow sounding too loud in the clatter of dishes. A pair of truckers glance over. One of them mutters something about omegas keeping their legs closed while the other laughs. Castiel lowers his gaze, lets the words slide off his shoulders, even though they burn going down.

When Emma finally dozes, Castiel allows himself to rest his head against the cool wall of the booth. He thinks of the conversation in the courthouse back home — the clerk’s officious tone as she explained that without an alpha registered, his child could not be legally claimed. Father unknown was not an acceptable answer; ‘the child’ would be taken into care unless Castiel produced a signature — either of paternity or relinquishment.

He had not been able to give up either. Not his child. Not Dean.

So here he is, chasing a ghost.

By the second night, what little money he had is nearly gone. Motels refuse him: no vacancies, or suspicious glances at the way he hesitates when asked for an alpha’s name on the forms. He lies once, gives the name ‘Dean Smith’, but the clerk looks at him too closely, and Castiel retreats with a mumbled apology.

He ends up under a railway overpass, Emma bundled in his arms against the cold. Trains thunder overhead, shaking the ground. The baby cries, hungry, until Castiel manages to coax a few ounces of formula into her. He rocks her back and forth, humming under his breath — the same broken tune he’d heard that night in the bar. The only other piece of Dean that he has carried with him.

He doesn’t notice the patrol car until it stops.

The beam of a flashlight cuts across him, sharp as judgement.

‘Evening,’ a voice drawls. ‘What’ve we got here?’

Castiel stiffens, clutching Emma closer to his chest in a fruitless attempt to shield her from view. A door opens, a foot emerges. A man steps into view.

He’s tall, uniform stretched over him like armour, eyes seeming to glint yellow in the artificial light from the bridge. His badge reads AZAZEL.

‘Sleeping rough?’ the officer asks. He shines the light directly onto Emma’s face, making her whimper. ‘Not exactly safe, is it?’

Castiel’s mouth is dry. ‘We… we’re just passing through.’

Azazel smirks. ‘Sure you are. Papers?’

Castiel fumbles for the worn envelope he carries, producing Emma’s birth certificate, heart racing. Azazel scans it, his grin widening. ‘No alpha registered,’ he notes. ‘That’s a problem.’

‘It’s being corrected,’ Castiel says, his voice steadier than he feels.

Azazel steps closer, lowering his voice. ‘See, I could bring you in right now. Child Services would have themselves a brand-new bundle to look after. Omegas who break the law don’t get much say in the matter.’

Castiel’s stomach twists; he clutches Emma tighter. ‘Please. We’re not-’

Azazel leans in, the stench of smoke and cologne clinging to him. ‘Or maybe we could come to an arrangement. You want to keep the kid? Prove you can be… cooperative.’

The implication is clear. Castiel’s ribs cinch inward while his mind races for an escape. He can’t fight, can’t run — not with a baby in his arms.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ Azazel murmurs, circling him, breath hot against his nape. ‘Plenty of omegas do what’s necessary.’

‘Back off.’

The voice comes from somewhere off to the side. Low, firm, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Azazel turns, flashlight swinging to reveal a tall man at the edge of the shadows stepping out of a silver car. Dark, shoulder-length hair, sharp jaw, broad shoulders — another alpha. His right hand is raised, but in the left is a cell phone that is clearly recording the scene before him.

‘Sam Winchester,’ the man says, eyes flicking to Castiel, expression softening for a split second before returning to Azazel. ‘Alright, Azazel, you’ve had your fun, now let him be.’

Azazel eyes the phone, but still sneers. ‘Winchester. You planning to babysit every stray omega that wanders into town?’

‘If that what it takes to get them away from you,’ Sam replies. ‘I’ll take responsibility for father and child, so if that’s all you needed, officer…’

He lets the words hang there easily, but his stance radiates authority. Azazel chuckles, though there’s an edge to it now — he knows he can’t push further, not on camera, and not with another alpha staking a claim.

‘Fine,’ he drawls, ‘but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Strays bring trouble.’

He tosses the certificate back at Castiel who catches it clumsily, then turns and saunters back to his car. The engine roars, tires squealing as he pulls away.

For a long moment, no one speaks. Castiel clutches Emma, trembling.

Sam taps his phone screen and pockets it, muttering, ‘Son of a bitch,’ then snorts as though he’s said something funny. He shakes his hair back out of his face, then returns his attention to Castiel, shifting uncomfortably.

‘Uh- listen… You don’t have to trust me — I totally get it if you don’t,’ he starts, and now he sounds young and earnest, not at all like the towering alpha who’d just driven the lecherous cop off. ‘But you really can’t stay here. He’ll definitely be back, and he’s bad news — always has been. So, uh- If you need a place to crash, just for tonight… I have a spare room with a lock… I think I might even have an old Pack ’n Play somewhere from when my buddy, Garth visited with his twin boys a while back. Or I can take you to a hotel or something. Just… don’t stay here, man. It’s not safe.’

Castiel hesitates, every instinct screaming caution, but… his arms ache, Emma is crying again, and he has no strength left.

So, slowly, he nods, and follows this new alpha back to his car.

Sam’s house is warm — almost too warm after being out in the cold for so long. He ushers Castiel inside, shows him the guest room without fuss, then leaves him to settle, mumbling something about going to find the play pen.

Fifteen minutes, and several muffled grunted curse words later, he returns, triumphant, toting a port-a-crib, complete with a mattress covered in a sheet printed with woodland creatures.

‘Garth likes wolves,’ Sam says by way of explanation. He also hands Castiel a stack of clean towels and a change of clothes. ‘They’ll probably be a little big, but- better than nothing, I guess, right?’

Castiel nods, but does not thank Sam. He does not speak. He is still too shaken from the encounter with the police officer, still too on edge from the precarious situation he’s put himself and his child into.

Sam seems to get it, though, because he just shakes his hair back from his face again, gives Castiel a gentle pat on the back, and exits with a murmured, ‘Let me know if you need anything.’ Castiel watches him go, then gets up to lock the door behind him.

Then, he lowers Emma into her crib and sinks onto the edge of the bed, hands still shaking, heart still hammering.

Tomorrow will bring questions, but… against all odds, it does appear that for tonight, at least, they are safe.

And somewhere in this city, an alpha with green eyes named Dean, is waiting.

Chapter Text

The house sounds different with a baby in it.
 
Sam hears it in the small hours: a soft, skeptical burble that gathers itself into a cry; the slow padding of feet crossing the hall; the hiss of the kettle; the clink of a bottle against the rim of the sink. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling until the crying quiets again, then tells himself to stop listening.
 
He’s not used to this. He doesn’t make a habit of bringing strangers home — not as one night stands, and not as ‘strays’ as Azazel had so insultingly declared. Sam tells himself again that he stepped in under the overpass because Azazel is a lecherous, abusive bully, and because he could. The camera in his hand, and the weight of the Winchester name were enough. This isn’t something he does; this isn’t a role he wants.
 
Morning smells like over-steeped tea and something lightly burnt. Sam finds a small procession in his kitchen: an empty bottle in the drying rack, a tea towel folded with precision that would even make John Winchester proud, a line of pacifiers laid out to dry along the counter like pale little fish. Castiel stands by the window with the baby tucked under his chin, swaying on the balls of his feet. The baby — Emma — makes a hiccupping noise and falls asleep again, mouth puckered in concentration.
 
‘There’s coffee,’ Sam says, because that’s what he can manage. ‘It’s not good, but it exists.’
 
Castiel nods. ‘Thank you.’
 
He says it like a formality, as though gratitude is something he’s obligated to offer, not something he feels. Sam fills two mugs anyway. He sips his black and pushes the other cup across the table. Castiel stares at it for a fraction too long before settling Emma in the crook of one arm and lifting the mug.
 
‘Do you-’ Sam starts, then cuts off whatever he was going to ask. Do you have anywhere else to go? Do you have people? Do you have a plan? None of these questions are kind in the way he wants this to be kind.
 
‘We won’t stay long,’ Castiel says without looking up. He speaks in that careful way of his, precise, even when exhausted. ‘I appreciate your hospitality. I will contribute towards any expenses we incur.’
 
‘You don’t have to-’
 
‘I will,’ he repeats, and there’s no room to argue.
 
Sam lets it go. He opens a cupboard and takes out a box of cereal, a loaf of bread, the jar of peanut butter that is probably a month past its best-by date, but is still fine. He is halfway though making toast when he remembers there is formula to consider, diapers, wipes, the litany of small necessities he has never had reason to know.
 
He’s just trying to inconspicuously type how much formula per day newborn into his phone when the baby sighs and Sam’s chest tightens with a feeling he can’t name.
 
‘If you need anything,’ he says, forcing the words to be simple, ‘write it down on the pad by the fridge and I’ll pick it up when I go out later.’
 
Castiel surprises him with a short nod. ‘Thank you. I’ll pay you back.’
 
‘It’s a loan,’ Sam lies, and leaves it at that. 

The guest room becomes a border. Castiel keeps the door shut whenever he is not in it. He is unfailingly tidy: he washes bottles as soon as he uses them, he folds the towels that Sam loaned him into perfect rectangles. He keeps his few clothes in a stack on the chair by the window and never lets them bleed into the rest of the house. When he goes to the bathroom, he takes a small basket with him containing exactly the items he needs: diaper cream, muslin, a bar of unscented soap in brown paper.
 
On the second day, Sam finds a neat list on the fridge:
 
-formula (brand doesn’t matter
 
-size 1 diapers
 
-baby wipes
 
-second-hand stroller if cheap
 
Sam notes Castiel has added nothing for himself as he pulls the list off the fridge and tucks it into his pocket. It’s the restraint that unsettles him the most — as though Castiel himself doesn’t count, only the child in his arms. Sam doesn’t know if that makes the man selfless, or just hollowed out. 
 
By the time the house goes quiet again, Sam has already decided he’ll go into town that afternoon.

Later that day, Sam returns with two heavy bags. He leaves them on the kitchen table without comment. Castiel appears a moment later, silent as always, and begins sorting through the contents.
 
Formula, diapers, wipes — everything from the list.
 
At the bottom of the second bag is a pair of plain cotton shirts and a packet of socks. Castiel pauses, fingers hovering above them as though they might burn.
 
‘I didn’t put these down,’ he says, his tone one note shy of accusatory.
 
‘I know,’ Sam replies, opening the fridge to hide the awkwardness in his face. ‘But you need them.’
 
Castiel folds the shirts back into the bag, neat as origami. ‘I will manage.’
 
Sam shuts the fridge door harder than he means to. ‘Yeah, well. You don’t have to.’
 
The silence between them grows taut, like a rope drawn too tight. The baby fusses in the next room; Castiel looks grateful for the excuse to step away.
 
When Sam hears the soft hum of a vaguely familiar lullaby drift through the door a moment later, he exhales. He doesn’t know if it’s relief, or just the ache of knowing that this stranger has already built borders inside his own house that Sam doesn’t know how to cross.

The stroller takes Sam an afternoon and two consignment stores to find. It’s a bit scuffed, but the wheels turn, and the brakes don’t squeal. He scrubs it down on the back steps until his hands are raw, then carries it inside with a sheepish, ‘Found this.’
 
Castiel studies it as if it might bite. Emma sneezes and opens her eyes, unfurling a milk-drunk fist. 
 
‘It will serve,’ Castiel says at last, and for him, that’s close to delight. He runs a finger along where the handle foam has split. ‘Thank you.’

They fall into a rhythm because the body insists on one. Emma sets the clock with her stomach; the rest of them revolve. Sam learns the sound of her hungry cry versus her overtired one. He learns to hold his breath when screwing a nipple onto a bottle so he doesn’t over tighten it and create an air bubble. He learns the exact angle that the guest room door needs to be ajar to let a thread of music through when Castiel hums at three in the morning.
 
It takes him three nights to realise that the tune is the same each time. It’s crooked in the middle, like a path that knows where it’s going, but won’t take it in a straight line. It reminds him of something Dean used to hammer out on their mom’s old upright piano when he thought no one was listening. Sam lies there and stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about his brother.
 
He doesn’t talk about Dean — there’s no reason to. He certainly doesn’t mention John. There are hours where the house is three separate countries — the guest room, the kitchen, and Sam’s room — and it feels wise to keep all borders intact.

Azazel drives past twice in three days. Sam isn’t sure if he’s being paranoid, or if afternoons and evenings with Azazel are about to become a grim new feature in his life.
 
The first time Sam clocks the number plate, the back of his neck prickles. He is at the sink, sleeves rolled, soap on his wrists. He dries his hands on his jeans and steps onto the porch just as the cruiser glides by slow as a shark. The officer doesn’t look at him; he doesn’t need to.
 
Sam buys a cheap motion camera and screws it above the door. He puts a little sign in the window that says ‘SMILE FOR THE CAMERA’ and feels both ridiculous and marginally better. 
 
That night, he drags a chair into the hallway and sits just outside the guest room door while Castiel, too exhausted for protesting pride, sleeps with Emma tucked against his chest. Sam lowers the brightness on his phone and doom scrolls late into the night, keeping his body between the outside and the vulnerable.
 
In the morning, Castiel says nothing, but there is a mug of tea waiting on the hall table, stream curling like a blessing.
 
‘You don’t have to,’ Sam protests, because he feels compelled to push back against any suggestion that he is doing something noble.
 
‘I am capable of making tea,’ Castiel retorts, and something about the prim delivery makes Sam smile into his mug where Castiel can’t see.

He wants to ask: Why this city? Why now? Who are you looking for? but the questions snag in his throat. Castiel’s shame sits in the room like a fourth person, always. 
 
Sam can almost see it — the rigid set of Castiel’s shoulders when a deliveryman calls him ‘honey’, the way he slides his gaze to the left whenever Sam asks anything with a ‘why’ in it, the careful formality that says I have misstepped enough already; I will not give you another reason to measure me short.
 
So, he doesn’t ask; he buys more wipes. He learns which supermarket has the cheapest diapers. He texts Garth to borrow the baby monitor that the twins have outgrown, and sits on the living room floor, surrounded by cables, swearing under his breath.
 
Castiel watches from the doorway with Emma in the crook of one arm. ‘You could have asked me to do that,’ he says mildly.
 
‘You were sleeping,’ Sam lies, because he had arrived at the door, seen Castiel curled around the baby like a living brace, and tiptoed back out again, rather than break that quiet.
 
‘We will contribute towards the cost,’ Castiel says when the monitor blinks on and emits a tiny, victorious beep.
 
‘It’s a loan,’ Sam says again, and Castiel almost — almost rolls his eyes.

They do not talk about staying, but it happens. Castiel stops carrying the baby’s basket of things back and forth, leaving it on the counter instead. A spare muslin appears on the arm of the sofa as if it has always lived there. Sam finds a pair of baby nail clippers in the drawer where he keeps the takeaway menus and, without comment, moves the menus to another drawer. 
 
The house makes room. Even Mary’s old upright piano in the corner of the living room seems less like a piece of furniture and more like a kept promise. Sam dusts it for the first time in a year; he doesn’t know why.
 
The decision arrives in the most prosaic way: Sam is on the floor with an Allen wrench and a second-hand baby bouncer that has so many cheerful warnings printed on its fabric that it looks like a legal document. He has sweat in his hair, and determination in his teeth. Castiel stands over him with Emma slung in her wrap, and a measuring tape in his hand, like they are assembling siege machinery.
 
‘If we move the chair half a foot to the left,’ Castiel says, ‘we will be able to see her from the kitchen.’
 
‘Sold,’ Sam says, and tightens the final screw. He pushes the bouncer into the measured space and, for the first time, the room feels finished.
 
They both breathe out. It’s almost funny. It is also, against all reason, a kind of grace.
 
‘We… we could stay,’ Castiel says, appearing to startle himself with the admission. ‘For a while. If it’s not an inconvenience.’
 
‘It’s not,’ Sam says too quickly, and when Castiel glances at him, he amends, gentler, ‘For as long as you need.’
 
Castiel nods, as if a contract has been signed. Emma hiccups and then, almost in formal approval, falls asleep.

John returns on a Thursday. There is no warning beyond the thud of boots on the porch and the doorbell leaning on itself like an elbow. Sam wipes his hands on a tea towel and opens the door to find John Winchester filling the frame — grey stubble, eyes like flint, a jacket that looks as though it has been on more continents than either of them can name.
 
‘Samuel,’ John says with a nod, as though Sam has done something to warrant the use of his full name. He steps inside without being invited. ‘Where’s your brother?’
 
‘Behind you, I assume,’ Sam replies, and Dean is, in fact, behind him — hair too long, rucksack on one shoulder, a bruise half-healed on his knuckles. He looks like he slept in a different time zone and hasn’t been told he’s arrived here yet.
 
‘Heya, Sammy,’ he says, and swallows him in a hug that smells of exhaust and the particular soap of cheap motels.
 
‘It’s Sam,’ Sam complains into his shoulder.
 
‘Never gets old,’ Dean says into his hair, and when they separate, Sam sees the exhaustion tucked behind Dean’s grin.
 
John has already moved into the kitchen like he owns it. He opens the fridge and pops the top on a beer as though he pays the bills. ‘We need to talk schedule,’ he says. ‘We’ll be in town a few days. Then we move.’
 
‘‘We’,’ Sam repeats, the word flat as stone. ‘Who’s ‘we’, Dad?’
 
John looks at him as if the question is a test he should have studied for. ‘Your brother and me,’ he says, deliberately slow, like a teacher with an especially thick child. ‘Plenty to do.’
 
‘Of course there is,’ Sam says, and it comes out like metal scraping.
 
Dean, who has made a career out of keeping the peace with his shoulders, slides himself between them. ‘We just got in,’ he says lightly. ‘Maybe we talk about the world ending after we eat?’
 
‘Nobody said anything about the world ending,’ John says, which is exactly what a man says when he means the world is ending only on his terms, and he intends to be in charge of the ceremony.
 
Sam grabs his brother the beer his father didn’t think to offer him and keeps his mouth shut because there are guests in the house and because he is tired and because he refuses to let himself be sixteen again in his own kitchen. He puts the bottle into Dean’s hand and lets his fingers press just a fraction longer than necessary to say I see you. You look like crap. Sit.
 
Dean sits. He drops the rucksack by the door. His eyes skim the room with the unconscious catalogue of a man taking measure — new camera by the door, stroller folded next to the coat rack, a soft toy bumblebee on the chair. His gaze catches on the piano and his mouth twitches.
 
‘Ya still got the old beast,’ he says, already moving towards it as though the instrument has a gravitational pull.
 
‘I dusted it,’ Sam tells him, unreasonably proud, before he can stop himself.
 
‘Call the papers,’ Dean says, grinning for real this time. He lifts the fallboard; the keys look like a tired grin. He sits as though by instinct, setting his fingers down like a man lowering his hands into water he knows will be frigid and wanting to feel it anyway.
 
John mutters something about making a call and disappears down the hall. The house narrows around the two brothers — Sam with his back against the worktop, Dean on the bench with his hands hovering.
 
‘You look thin,’ Sam says, because if he doesn’t say something ordinary, he will say something he can’t take back.
 
‘You look like a man who alphabetises spices,’ Dean says, because he’s a bastard.
 
‘Shut up and play,’ Sam says, and Dean, who never does what he’s told until the exact second he decides it was his idea all along, lets his hands fall.
 
The first notes are half a joke, testing the left-hand action, seeing what keys stick. Then, he finds something. It’s idle, mindless — not a performance, just a man’s hands remembering what they know.
 
The crooked tune knits itself out of the air as though it has been waiting in the wood for someone to coax it free. Sam feels the back of his neck prickle. He has heard this in the small hours through a half-closed door. He sees, in his mind, the way Castiel sways when he hums it. He opens his mouth to say something that will not be useful.
 
A board creaks in the hall. The sound is soft enough to be part of the house’s usual chorus; it drifts into the room like weather anyway.
 
Sam looks up.
 
Castiel stands in the doorway with Emma in his arms, the baby wrapped against his chest, very still, colour drained from his face. His eyes are on Dean’s hands, and then on Dean’s mouth, and then — finally, painfully — on Dean’s eyes.
 
Emma’s eyes.
 
He looks as though he has seen a ghost and been seen by it in return.
 
Dean’s fingers stop moving all at once, as if the keys have gone hot. The last note hangs, then surrenders.
 
For a heartbeat, no one speaks. The song has not ended, so much as stepped back, waiting.
 
‘Cas?’ Dean breathes, very quietly, as though the air might crack if he dares raise his voice.
 
Emma makes a small, cross noise, as if to remind the room she exists and has opinions. Castiel’s hand moves instinctively, patting her back once, twice. He doesn’t look away from Dean.
 
Sam is standing before he knows it, and in the half a dozen steps it takes him to cross the living room, he understands everything he has not known for three weeks: why Castiel came to this city, why he locks the guest room door, why he hums a particular tune to a child who sleeps with her mouth open in trust.
 
‘Dean,’ he says, and Dean, without taking his eyes off Castiel, says, ‘Sam,’ the way a man says, Here we are, then.
 
John’s voice barks something from the end of the corridor, and the sound feels like a memory from another life. The three of them hold in a moment’s amber: a brother on a piano bench, an omega in a doorway, a baby drawing breath as if the room is new.
 
The last note finally fades. The house waits to see what comes next.