15.28 In Bobby's House
It was a nice day, the day Cas fell. It was mid-September, and the air was chilly but not cold, and the sun was just warm enough that jackets were only necessary if one was attempting to make a fashion statement. The sky was blue, blue like Cas' eyes, clear and intense and breathtaking.
Dean remembers the entire day in exquisite detail. He remembers he had pancakes and Irish coffee for breakfast. He remembers how Sam had pillow face, and how this stray cat had turned up, and wouldn't leave until Bobby fed it. It was black and white and scrawny as hell and it yowled incessantly, but Dean remembers feeling sorry for it. He was the one who told Bobby to just give it some damn milk already. Maybe add a splash of whiskey, and it could be a boozer like the rest of them.
He remembers being bored out of his fucking mind because it had been nearly two weeks since they'd caught wind of anything even remotely hunt-related. He'd cleaned every weapon twice already and Sam was starting to get pissy, so he'd gone wandering around the yard. By lunch, Dean had found an old '65 Corvair. The body was rusted and there was a crack the size of the San Andreas Fault in the engine block, but the frame was straight and the tranny looked all right. He figured if he was going to be stuck in fucking South Dakota for a while, he may as well make himself useful. Maybe if he fixed it up good enough, he could sell it. Corvairs rolled something awful, but they were still sharp looking, and there was probably some rich collector willing to drop a few grand on it somewhere.
He remembers trying very, very hard not to think about where Cas was and what he was doing because he was on the verge of driving himself mad with it all. He remembers chastising himself for pining like some lovesick teenager, especially since Cas was an angel and Dean was so damaged, and seriously, what the fuck? Dean remembers when 'thanks for pulling me out' turned into something more like brotherly love, but he must have missed the memo they sent out when brotherly love turned into I need you.
He remembers hating himself for finally admitting that the only time he felt like he had a handle on his life was when Cas was around, even if they were fitting together like a square peg and a round hole lately. Bickering over stupid things was better than nothing, and sometimes Dean felt that if he didn't goad Cas into an argument the angel would disappear that much faster. He remembers hating how weak it made him feel, how vulnerable.
He also remembers hating Cas, just a little, for dropping off the face of the fucking planet.
Dean remembers how the setting sun had lit the roof of Bobby's house on fire as he returned for dinner. He remembers hoping Sam went for fried chicken like he said he might because he was starving.
He also remembers how, two sips into his second beer, there had been a flash of light out the window so bright that it lit the entire yard, followed by something crash landing on the roof with such force the whole house vibrated. The three of them had stared at each other for just a handful of heartbeats before rushing upstairs, grabbing weapons as they went: Sam the demon-killing knife, Bobby a pistol with silver bullets, and Dean a shotgun with salt rounds.
The hallway was wrecked, a hole in the ceiling straight through to the sky, and all the debris to fill it. Wood, plaster, insulation, floorboards and shingles, and lying in the middle was Cas, naked and bloody and entirely too still for Dean's liking.
Dean hadn't hesitated, not for one second, in going to him and flipping him over, nudity be damned. He had tried not to think about how cold the angel was when he wrapped an arm around his back, or the way Cas' blood clung to Dean's skin and clothes as he held him.
Stupidly, Dean had pressed two fingers to Cas' neck, searching for a pulse, but the second he'd found one he had frozen, utter disbelief welling up inside.
"Dean. Dean. Is he all right?" Sam had asked crouching next to them. Bobby had vanished, going for towels and bandages and whiskey.
Dean had spread a palm wide against Cas' pale chest, had felt the slight, unsteady rise and fall of his chest as his lungs filled with air, over and over again.
"He's breathing," Dean had croaked, reality washing over him.
"Okay," Sam had said, making his Reassuring Face. Dean hates that face. "That's a start. Let's get him to bed and-"
"Sam," Dean had insisted, something in his voice stilling his brother. "He's breathing."
Sam's eyes had widened after a moment, and his jaw clenched.
"What the hell does an Angel of the Lord need with oxygen?" Bobby had snapped. He'd returned just in time to catch Dean's words.
"I don't think he's an angel anymore," Dean had said.
Bobby had made his Well, What the Hell Do We Do Now Face before gesturing toward the guest room. "Well, don't just sit there in the rubble like a couple of girls with mud on your shoes. Get him to the guest room so we can clean him up."
Dean remembers feeling relieved that Bobby was willing to take charge because Dean's brain had shut down and all he could do was stare at Cas' slack face like he could make him open his eyes with the power of his mind.
Dean had looked up, past the broken ceiling, past the ruined roof and into the clear autumn sky where a thousand stars stared coldly down at him and his fallen angel. He'd shivered.