Dean is no stranger to nightmares. Red-limned nightmares, the smell of sulfur and shades of ash and darkness. And pain. There's always pain. Pain, and joy, and oily fucking laughter. Blackness broken by the quick shine of silver, by the saturation of blood. A flicker of blinding light, a transitory warmth in the abyss, before it is extinguished, before every last vestige of humanity is consumed by icy flames. The kind of nightmares that leave him drenched in sweat and shivering with a bone-deep chill, the phantom weight of his blade in his shaking hand.
But this – these nightmares, they're something new. Something far more insidious. Something that has taken up residency in his mind, haunting every thought, every action. Something that churns within his gut and tastes a hell of a lot like fear. These are the kind of nightmares that cling to his skin long after he's taken his second shower of the day. The kind that find him wandering the corridors of the Bunker in the small hours of the morning, searching and lost – a feeble attempt at escaping the images of spiraling smoke and painted lips twisted into a lascivious smile that fill in the darkest corners of his room where the lamp light cannot reach. The memory of a tiny, feminine hand, a gentle caress like fire, branding him, seeping underneath his skin, aching to lay claim – it follows him everywhere. Follows him out his nightmares, follows him to the showers where no amount of scalding hot water, no amount of scrubbing, will wash his skin clean. It chases him like a ghost through the halls, settling upon his shoulders when he turns his mind to menial tasks, to distractions. It waits. She waits.
As he wanders, his fingers trail along walls, carve dark paths through the dust gathered on every surface. He imagines that when he's not looking, the furniture in every room retreats, leaving vast, empty spaces behind him, until he turns and is suffocated by the closeness of everything, the walls closing in around him, the lack of space and lack of air. His home - expanding and contracting around him, crawling out of reach, out of his control, along with the rest of his goddamned life.
Dean shivers, shoves the sleeves of his Henley down to his wrists, covering as much skin as he can manage. He raises a hand to his cheek. The one she touched. His skin is burning cold.
He can feel it - the shaking of the ground he stands on. He can feel it in his bones, reverberating within the walls, cracking at their foundations. The Darkness is coming. And it's coming for him. For all of them. They're just grasping for a hold at the edge of total chaos. And apparently just living on Sam's prayers.
Dean huffs a laugh, shakes his head at himself, at the absurdity of this entire fucking situation. The Darkness is coming. The Darkness is God's sister. Sam is talking to God. And he's wandering the goddamned halls with his dick in his hand. None of this makes any sense.
He turns a corner, finds himself in the kitchen. There are only three spaces in the entirety of the Bunker that he will spend more than five minutes in alone, and the kitchen is one of them. He prefers it, really. Prefers it to the bare walls, the stacked books, the crates of his few possessions that were salvageable in the wake of the dramatically failed home invasion, that have all been shoved into the corners of his room. His room doesn't belong to him anymore, not really. It belongs to the memories. It belongs to his demons.
There's at least a measure of comfort to be found in cooking, in cleaning. It's methodical. It is entirely without violence. And that's something that Dean desperately needs. It's a distraction - a distraction from what's out there, from what's waiting for him on the other side of the door, from the nightmares, from the way his skin crawls when he thinks of ever being touched like that again.
Dean idly pulls the cuff of his shirt lower over his other hand as he crosses to the fridge. He supposes he could go down to the garage, play for a bit. Dismantle his Baby's 396 CID big block and put her back together again. But that just sounds exhausting.
And really, what says 'I'm an unhinged insomniac and I don't even care' better than a ten dollar grilled cheese sandwich at five o'clock in the freakin' morning? And not that squared plastic cheese substitute crap. None of that bullshit packaged and processed to hell bread. This right here, this buttery, cheesy sonuvabitch would make Gordon Ramsey shit himself and smile about it. He stacks on layers of the thick-sliced gruyere he bought at the gourmet deli that he's kept hidden on the lowest shelf in the farthest, deepest corner of the fridge where Abominable Snowbrothers could never bend down far enough to find it. Then. Then comes the layers of thin, thin slices of the fine ass French fucking brie he's been hoarding right along with the rest of his expensive coveted cheese. A generous dollop of that spicy, fruity, homemade and jarred jam he picked up at the farmer's market, some pepper, and some butter melted with fresh garlic, salt, and rosemary, and then he pan-sears her to motherfucking perfection.
She's pure fucking gold. He's awesome.
And he's not even fucking hungry.
Sitting at the kitchen table, gazing upon the eighth wonder of the world, without motion, without distraction, he hears the silence. The quiet hum of the lights, the drone of the refrigerator, the groaning of the pipes, the dripping water falling against the sink, the ticking of the clock that's on the other fucking side of the Bunker – it's a cacophony raging in his head. It's quiet and it's still and it's loud as all fuck and his fingers are tapping against the table to the tune of abject dissonance until he finally pushes up to stand, grabs his plate, throws the sandwich into the trash and the plate into the sink, the resounding thud momentarily breaking the silence.
Dean anchors himself against the kitchen island, pulling in deep breaths, pushing back the chaos. The Bunker is quiet, it's still. It's 5:30 in the morning, it's still dark outside, Sam is asleep, and he is alone with the specters haunting them within these walls. He can feel them lurking in the shadows, behind every closed door, falling into step with him in the corridors, vanishing from his periphery just as he turns his head. There are gunshots and bloodstains and their entire lives piled in the center of their library, waiting to be burned away right along with him. The memories are visceral in the quiet, in the stillness. They are the ghosts that walk these halls and he's the one that let them in.
The illusion of safety here has been destroyed. The artifice of a home of their own is corroding, layers upon layers of choices and consequences burying the long cherished dream. Another unstable house of cards. More lies, more pretense. All that bluster about changing the way things are, yet the song remains the fucking same.
He pushes back from the counter, swipes a hand along his face, over the stubble accumulated from way too many days of not giving a fuck. His eyes rake over the dishes dirtied in his quest for the holiest of distraction grilled cheese, over the mountain Sam has created beside the sink between Dean's previous performance as master class kitchen maid and now. He sighs, but at least it's something to do.
As he flips open the faucet and grabs the stiff, crusty ass sponge off the counter, he thinks about his conversation with Cas what seems like a lifetime ago now.
We can't live our lives waiting to die. Praying to the only person he has ever unerringly believed in.
I want to change it. I want to live. And he does.
But his nightmares are his reality. He's being split apart, exposed - everything he is, laid open for Amara to explore, to own. His own mind doesn't belong to him, not anymore. He doesn't have a single space left in this world that remains untouched by violence, by death.
That little girl, The Darkness, one touch was all it took to break something within him. Something vital, something built up from his ability to survive the war, even in death.
For all his lack of faith, he's never stopped believing that together - him, Sam, and Cas - they were the wild cards in a guerilla war and if they were going down, they sure as fuck would drag the evil sons-a-bitches back down to Hell with them.
He isn't so sure anymore.
He needs help. He knows this. The nightmares, the late night strolls, the cooking, the cleaning, the hiding, the evasiveness…the being fucking scared all the goddamned time – he can't keep this up forever. It's killing him. Not knowing his own mind is killing him, in every way that matters, at least.
It's bad enough that he's pressing the speed dial, only to hang up before it can ring, that he's staring at the text message box for twenty fucking minutes, trying to conjure an adequate arrangement of words into some form of an apology that could, might, possibly bring Cas back home.
They didn't part well. After Amara and Metatron, everyone was on edge, everyone was falling apart and in no fucking position to hold the other ones together. They were scared, and fear leads to anger, anger leads to words, mostly words that should never, ever have been said out loud, and before he knew what was even happening, Cas was packing up Dean's laptop and said he'd be back when he found some answers. No goodbye. No time for apologies.
Plenty of time for regret.
If Dean's being honest with himself, he could have avoided a confrontation that would ultimately require apologies in the first place, but he didn't and they were and there it is.
Cas is in fucking Gaza and Dean is a fucking mess.
But what the hell was he supposed say? So, uh, God's friggin' sister kinda bad touched me and I kinda just let it happen because I was kind of in trance and resistance was futile and she's probably going to use me to destroy the entire freakin' universe and I'm really, really fucking scared. Help me. Please.
Now that he thinks about it, he is actually kind of an idiot. He probably could have said that (or some sufficiently articulate version of that) and Cas probably would have pulled out a chair, taken a seat, clasped his hands on the table and given Dean that deep look of concern (puppy dog eyed frowny face #17) and just fucking listened. To everything. No judgment. No bitch faces. No lectures.
Dean is an idiot. What else is new.
He sighs, reaching a hand up to rub at his forehead in frustration – with himself, with the world, mostly with himself – but aborts the movement and makes a face at the grimy sponge clutched tightly in his fingers. He grabs another dirty pot off the counter, shoulders slumping and eyes rolling into the back of his head when he finds the charred remnants of whatever-the-fuck-that-could-possibly-be coating the bottom. Dean bites down on his cheek and breaks out the goddamned Brillo, shaking his head and silently cursing his brother. Because seriously? The dude is 32 freakin' years old, cooking is not that hard, and this looks like a fucking science experiment gone horribly wrong. Sam is on dish duty from now until forever. End of story.
Until tomorrow. When Dean will inevitably just wash the fucking dishes again.
But the thing is: Dean doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to explain any of this. If he knew how, maybe that would make it easier to just sit Cas and Sam down and talk this shit out. But he doesn't understand it, and he can't explain what he doesn't understand. And he doesn't even fucking know if he really doesn't understand and can't explain it, which makes the entire thing exponentially more fucking complicated. For all he knows, Lady Darkness is just pulling his fucking strings, lulling him into submission so that everyone gets a jolly surprise when she announces Armageddon at her debutante fucking ball.
This. All of this. Whatever he's done, whatever this is doing to him, to the world – it's not something you can just explain when you're standing on opposing sides from your thoroughly pissed off and disenchanted little brother and best friend.
What Dean has seen, what he knows, what he felt – every syllable carries weight. These aren't words meant to be spoken in the glaring light of day. They are secrets meant to be whispered in the dead of night, intended to be lost to the shadows. Even now, he can feel the numbing fire against his cheek, wisps of smoke pressing in on him, crawling up his spine while he's standing still, helpless, and tractable.
In the daylight, even in a whisper, the truth carries the potential to scorch the air they breathe. Every word would fall from his lips to rot into the ground beneath their feet until the earth opened up to consume them. Speaking the words, telling the truth – it makes it dangerous, makes it real.
The poetry writes itself, really, and he'd give anything for a rewrite on the exposition.
All the same, Dean must concede that being swallowed up by the earth would be a preferable fate to whatever Countess fucking Báthory has in store for him.
"Hey."
Dean jumps. Approximately ten feet in the air, give or take. He sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, fantasizes about reeling around and throwing that nasty ass sponge right at his brother's face.
But his hands are empty. The dishes are sparkling clean, neatly arranged on the dish dryer. The sponge is laying at the bottom of the sink, limp and still crusty as fuck. When he subtly checks his watch, it's 6:38am and the dishes are done and Sam is up and he is fucking losing it.
Dean spins around, adjusting his face into some semblance of an acceptable 'it's 6:38 in the fucking morning' smile. "Morning, Sammy," he greets, because that's normal and there is absolutely nothing not normal happening here.
Sam is ambling towards the table, rubbing his eyes, scratching his head. He's like five (as evidenced by the science fair project reject in Dean's fucking pots). An enormous five. But five.
"What are you doing?" Sam manages between yawns and stretches.
"I'm, uh," he's struggling for an explanation that has nothing to do with lost time induced by sessions of manic cleaning and aggressively spacing the fuck out. When Sam finally looks up at him, Dean gestures towards the coffee maker across the room. "I'm making coffee," he finally says, throwing Sam a fake grin that is completely unacceptable at what is now 6:39am.
Sam looks at him, looks at the coffee maker, looks at him. Stares.
"Right now," Dean stumbles forward to grab the carafe out of the machine. "I'm making it right now."
He hears Sam digging through the cupboards as he's filling the carafe with water from the sink, foraging for wild hippie sustenance. Dean smirks. Little does he know that they're down to Pop Tarts, Froot Loops, and a stick of butter for breakfast. Dean used the last of the cheese. And the delicious gourmet bread. He probably should have saved the ten dollar grilled cheese for Sam.
The fridge slams shut and he hears Sam's discontented sigh. Dean rolls his eyes, his sandwich guilt was short lived.
"So, I talked to Cas."
Dean freezes, the coffee scoop nearly falling from his hand. He clenches his jaw, squares his shoulders, resumes scooping coffee into the filter. "Yeah?" he asks mildly. "He find anything?"
"Not so much. He's kind of thrown in the towel at this point. He's, um," Sam pauses, Dean pauses. He's going to shoot that fucking ticking clock, wherever the hell it is. "He said he's coming back, didn't exactly say when, though."
Dean flips the coffee maker on and turns slowly around. Sam is leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, watching him. Smug sonuvabitch.
Dean nods, crosses his own arms, leans back against the counter. Sam is still watching him. "Okay," he says, staring right back. "It was a good shot, but it's not the end of the line. We'll find something."
Sam huffs out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a vague noise of exasperation, Dean's not sure. He doesn't move, he's still watching Dean, like he's waiting for him to slip up, to trip and fall on all his dirty little secrets and Dean just stares right back. Two can play at this game. There's no innocent party in this room. And he gets it. Wanting to believe in messages from God because the world is crumbling at their feet. But messages and guidance don't come free of charge. There is always, always a price. And what's it gonna cost them when he tells Sam about Amara and what she's doing to him? Guilt? Anger? Another cataclysmic alteration of the natural order to pull his ass out of the fire again? Fessing up to Sam just ain't that easy.
"So, I caught a case," Sam says, way more brightly than the atmosphere merits. Dean blinks at him, releases his arms, and turns back around to grab a couple of coffee cups. He spoons a few teaspoons of sugar into his cup. He likes his coffee very strong and very sweet. So sue him.
When Dean doesn't respond, Sam continues, "It's not too far from here. Couple of college kids hanging out on a campground by a lake. One of them apparently just got up in the middle of the night and walked right into the water and never resurfaced."
Dean makes a face. No matter how many years it's been, how many deaths he's seen, knowing someone has died because monsters still walk the Earth still makes his heart ache. He turns back around to face Sam. "Water wraith?"
Sam nods. "Sounds like. Apparently the other kids are saying they heard stories about an old lady in green that wandered around the lake and thought it would be cool to go all Ghost Adventures on it."
The coffee maker beeps and Dean startles, turning suddenly to grab the carafe from the machine to hide his reaction. He can feel Sam's eyes on the back of his head. It's really just too early for this shit. Death and mayhem and silent judgment could as least wait until respectable business hours.
Dean clears his throat and throws Sam a glance over his shoulder as he pours the coffee. "You need me to come with?" he asks, praying that Sam will be insulted at any implication that he couldn't handle a water wraith on his own.
"Dean," Sam says, stern, no-nonsense. Damnit. Dean shoves the carafe back into place and turns. "Look. I don't know what's going on with you. But you can't keep this up forever." Dean crosses his arms and narrows his eyes as Sam continues, "We haven't taken a case in weeks. Hell, you haven't left the Bunker for more than a pizza run in weeks. You've been acting cagey, I know you're not sleeping." Dean feels the truth like a thousand pounds of bricks, but he doesn't waver.
Sam sighs, raises his hands in surrender. "I'll take this one, no big deal."
Sam is walking toward the door when he raises an arm to pat Dean on the shoulder in passing. He tenses, holds his breath, and Sam's arm falls away immediately. Dean desperately searches the room for something to focus on that isn't his little brother's soft, wide-eyed, puppy dog gaze.
"Look, man," Sam's tone is gentle, careful. It sounds a lot like pity and makes Dean bite down on the inside of his cheek to halt the temptation to fling insults he doesn't even mean to turn Sammy's care into ire. Sam takes a step back towards the door. "I get it. We kind of have a lot on our plates right now. But if you're not gonna talk to me, and you're not gonna talk to Cas, you need to handle your shit, Dean. We've had this conversation before. Locking yourself up in your room won't help you deal with whatever this is," Sam gestures at him, at the kitchen around them, and Dean shifts his gaze to the floor, bows his head. "We're gonna beat this, man. Just… don't go giving up on us yet."
And with that, Sam turns on his heel and walks out the door.
Dean grabs the teaspoon and pours some sugar into the second cup he had filled with coffee, grabs both, and heads for the corridor towards his room.
He's definitely gonna need that extra caffeine.
ǂ
The best dreams that Dean ever had... None of them had anything to do with hunting, with monsters, with violence, pain, or loneliness. They were always about family, devotion, never a doubt in his mind that he wasn't alone, that he had always done the best that he could. That he could be proud. Whether it was his mom or dad, whether it was Sammy or even Cas… He never doubted. He was loved and he lived a life.
The small space he's called his own for almost three years now – there's nothing to it but violence. Weapons on every surface, tucked underneath the mattress. Books filled with lore, copied pages from religious tomes, newspapers with the obituaries highlighted in red stacked in empty spaces, strewn across the floor. It's all violent, old, and reeks of death. The hunter's life. His life.
But there's a reason he keeps his arsenal locked away in the truck of the Impala, and not all of those reasons have to do with staying out of handcuffs and the threat of a reprisal as one of America's Most Wanted. For most of his life, his Baby was his home. The Impala and Sammy were all he had. He and Sam had enough violence between them. He didn't need to see it littering every inch of his house. Bloodstains were removed immediately. Weapons were always locked away at the end of the day. Baby was a taste of freedom in a life devoid of choice.
This room was meant to be his. Something that he could afford himself. Something that he could let himself have, removed from the trappings of The Life. A space that echoed the serenity of his best dreams, where he could be selfish and entirely his own.
This room has become a nightmare.
Dean is leaning against the doorframe, one foot crossed over the other, cradling his third cup of coffee this morning and pondering the limits of acceptable insanity in regards to being haunted by the existence of a past, present, and future.
Dean has considering switching rooms several times in the past few weeks. Grass is greener on the other side, fresh start, clean slate, all that bullshit. Perhaps the recycled air would be fresher or some shit, wouldn't taste so much like his particular brand of gunmetal and failure. He refuses, though. He won't allow himself to give up this room, because that's letting them win. The Stynes, the Mark, The Darkness - in the end, they may break him, but they can't fucking erase him. He won't allow it.
So he stays, relying on the reach of the dull yellow glow of his lamps to fight against the shadows that creep up all around them. Dean doubts the strength of his resolve, the strength of his own mind, in this twisted dance with the Unholy fucking Spirit. But he made a promise to a guy.
Order and chaos, freedom and peace. The Universe is always going to try to tear them all apart all for the sake of power, or revenge, or a million other things that just really don't fucking matter.
He made a choice to live in the midst of a terrible war. To live in spite of it.
Dean Winchester keeps his goddamn promises.
And so he puts his empty cup down on his bedside table, pushes up his sleeves and gets to work, his soundtrack naught but his softly sung rendition of Ten Years Gone in harmony with his own resounding relief.
He removes the violence from his room. He sweeps up the rock salt still scattered across the floor, empties a box of books onto his bed and loads it up with guns and knives and ammo to be tucked away in the armory. Old newspapers and empty bottles are thrown in the trash. Lore books are returned to the library, case notes are filed away.
In their place, he leaves pieces of himself:
The record collection that he vows to start rebuilding, neatly aligned next to the record player on the shelf above his bed; the remnants of his painstakingly preserved collection of classics he's picked up along the way (Vonnegut, Bradbury, Burgess, Lee), and he commits to dragging Sammy and Cas to a used bookstore so that he can finally fill in the gaps; the family photos he tapes to the wall above his desk (stopping only to drag a thumb across his mother's smiling face, to take a breath in Bobby's honor), with a promise to remember that picture frames are things that actually exist; the map of Moondor he hangs with reverence, along with a print out of the only picture he ever had of him and Charlie (At the Jubilee an entire freakin' century ago, Sam had snuck a photo on his phone. Dean was kneeling into the mud, head bowed, Charlie looking down at him – the picture of benevolence – her sword resting upon his shoulder); the fisherman's hat he arranges on the corner of his desk after finally mustering up the courage to dig it out of the trunk of the Impala (to dig up the memories of another best friend lost to the war).
His hand falls upon the wooden cross that lay flat atop his shelf. He considers it. Considers his lack of faith. Or perhaps his abundance of faith. He pushes the cross to the center of the shelf, tilting it up to lean against its side on the wall.
Dean regards the changes for a moment, smiles as his eyes rove over the memories, over the pieces of himself on display. He's exposed. And for once, it doesn't feel like a bad thing.
He allows himself a private smile. He's not any safer in this room than he was yesterday, but the ridiculous notion that the mementos - the pieces of some of the people he loved most in the world, the people he lost - could lay their ghosts to rest, well... He supposes that letting go isn't always about forgetting.
Dean glances back towards the picture of him, Sammy, and Bobby, and a passing thought has him crossing the room to his vinyl collection, fingers dancing along the albums until they find his copy of Back in Black. He slides the record out of the sleeve with gentle hands, revealing a banged up, but carefully preserved copy of Iron Man: The Iron Age Vol. 1 - a relic from an old life, his first life.
He steps around his bed towards his desk, carefully turning the pages of the comic. When he was nineteen, Sammy had begged him to ditch Dad and spend a couple of weeks with him at Bobby's while he was on summer break. As had become tradition since they were little, when he got there, he found a bedroll for him laid out next to Sam's and the brand new Iron Man comic laying on his pillow. Dean had never wanted to waste his own money on keeping up with his favorite superheroes, so he always looked forward to indulging that particular quirk every time he and Sammy stayed with Bobby.
Sam would always read his comic once and hand it over to Dean, but Dean would savor them. He can admit now that part of the reason he didn't buy any comics for himself was because he liked the idea of Bobby picking theirs out specifically for them. He always imagined Bobby reading through the latest issues in a dusty old shop with purpose, searching for the one with the right plot and the exact right message to send to his boys.
That summer, Dean had read and reread The Iron Age, over and over. It drove Sam fucking nuts, but more than once he caught the small smile on Bobby's face, the carefully averted eyes. He'd read this damn thing until it was torn, stained with coffee and engine grease, and the pages started falling out. At some point, he had started scribbling notes in the smallest, neatest script he could manage in the margins.
He pauses on one page, runs his thumb over his own writing.
Sometimes being a hero isn't about saving the world.
There has never been a single day, in that life or the next one, that Dean didn't wish he could believe that.
"I didn't know you enjoyed comic books."
Dean startles, slapping the pages shut and grimacing when the loose cover landed askew.
"Damnit, Cas," he bitches, turning to grace Cas with his most unimpressed expression. It's entirely ineffective because Cas is leaning against the doorframe, smirking and laughing on the inside, and Dean really can't even pretend he's mad.
Cas is home.
"Apologies," Cas holds his gaze and shrugs, not even the tiniest bit sorry. "I knocked, and called out, but no one answered."
Dean rolls his eyes. "We need a freakin' butler."
Cas has turned his attention over Dean's shoulder, taking in the new decor, so Dean spreads his arms in a general 'what do you think?' gesture.
Cas' smirk turns to a warm smile. "I like it. It – " he pauses, tilts his head, seeming to consider his words. "It feels a lot more like you."
Dean ducks his head, and if a small blush is blooming across his cheeks, he doesn't know a goddamned thing about it. He huffs out a laugh, scratches at the back of his head. "That was the idea, I guess."
Cas must mercifully sense Dean's internal litany of pleasechangethesubjectpleasechangethesubjectpleasethesubjectpleasechangethesubject, because he steps into the room and gestures at the comic Dean is still holding in one hand. "Is that the only one you have?" Yay.
Dean smiles at that. "Yeah, I, ah…" he glances between the comic book and Cas, before offering it up. Cas takes the comic, his fingers brushing Dean's lightly. He resists the urge to jerk his hand away, but only just. If Cas notices the tension, he politely ignores it, turning his attention to the comic book, regarding it as though it were some priceless artifact Dean had uncovered from the ruins of fucking Cappadocia.
Dean clears his throat and continues, "It was the only one I kept. I didn't have a lot of opportunities to get my hands on them as a kid." He gestures towards the books lining his dresser. "Most of the stuff I read was assigned reading in school and I just kept the books whenever it was time to pack up and haul ass outta town."
He watches as Cas turns each page slowly, carefully, taking in the artwork and no doubt reading every note he had left in the margins. Dean pushes his sleeves back down over his wrists and steps toward the opposite side of the room, borderline embarrassed because literally no one gives a shit about his book collection or his idolization of fucking Iron Man. But Cas is moving farther into the room now, eyes glued to the pages before him with genuine interest, not just bullshit flipping through the pages to placate his man-child bestie.
Dean grabs a pen off the top of the dresser to occupy his hands before leaning back against it, crossing one foot over the other. "So, uh, when we were kids, our dad would dump us off on Bobby sometimes. For a few days, for a few months. Whatever," he waves dismissively. "Bobby would always have the bedrolls already laid out for us when we got there, and he'd leave us each one comic book on our pillows."
Cas is still holding the comic, but his eyes are locked on Dean now, intense and wide-eyed amazement (Amazement at what? That's a fucking mystery) all at once, and Dean licks his lips, resisting the urge to squirm under the attention.
"Anyway, uh," he takes a breath, scratches at his stubble, allowing a small smile to settle in. "This was the last one Bobby ever gave me. Last summer I spent there as a kid. I read that damn thing every day, multiple times a day, 'til it was time to get back on the road."
Cas' smile is just this side of sad. "It must have meant a lot to you."
Dean smiles easily at Cas' ability to cram everything he actually wants to say into one simple sentence: It must have meant a lot to you to spend that time allowing yourself to be a kid. It must have meant a lot to you that Bobby could be every ounce the father you deserved. It must have meant a lot to you that he would gift you with something that could move and inspire you to this day.
"Yeah, I guess." Dean taps the pen against his thigh before dropping it back on top of the dresser and moving to pick up the album he had left lying on his bed. He inhales, glancing up at Cas beneath his eyelashes, exhales, trying to shake the innate fear that comes with vulnerability. "I dunno, man. There was something about that story. Stuck with me. I mean, it's just this one guy, trying to save the world and trying to save himself. And don't get me wrong, this guy was no saint. Everybody thought he was a dick, and he was. But the whole point of that story was the two people that cared most of him in the world, the people he cared the most about -" he pauses, meeting Cas' eyes, "-they uh, they finally saw him as he really was, without the armor. Pretty sure Bobby picked that shit out for me on purpose."
He laughs nervously, eyes focused on discerning the various shades of black on the album cover.
"Is there any way that you could restore it?"
Dean ponders the question for a moment, remembering he'd had the same thought when he'd hid the comic book away in this album for safe keeping.
"I think so, yeah." Tears and holes are no problem. He didn't see any serious discoloration so he wouldn't bother with it, but if the time comes, he can always just science the shit out of it. "Couple of staples, some rice paper, wax paper, little bit a glue, probably an eraser. Kid's stuff. I'll work it out," he says with a grin.
Cas' gaze falls back to the cover of the comic book, a brilliant smile splitting his face. Dean idly considers the exigency of installing defibrillators in every room.
Dean replaces the album in its proper place in his collection, his thoughts on heroes.
A man can spend his whole life trying to live up to the name, trying to save the world one poor lost soul at a time and still never really believe he's made a damned good bit of difference.
He watches as Cas places the comic in the very center of the desk with something like reverence. He watches as Cas turns back around to face him, leans against the desk and tilts his head at Dean, something akin to adoration in his eyes and Dean can't bring himself to ignore it.
Dean may not believe that he measures up to much, but the people who love him give him reason enough to keep trying, to not give up on the idea of heroes. To not give up on himself.
The idea that Dean needs to tell Cas everything is already scratching at the back of his mind, but now isn't the time. Right now, he just wants to enjoy the fact that Cas is here, that he seems content to be here.
"Welcome home, Cas."
He's rewarded with another heart stopping smile. Teeth and all. Dean is puddle of mush all over the goddamned floor.
They fall into a lull, exchanging glances from across the room. Dean has the urge to bash his head into the fucking wall because this shit is just ridiculous, but that would probably wreck the moment.
"Sam's out on a hunt," he blurts out. Because wrecking the moment is his fucking specialty.
Cas nods. The smile falls away from his face and Dean seriously reconsiders the whole bashing his head into the wall thing. "I assumed. I spoke with him last night," Cas pulls out squinty puppy dog eyed face #103 (Sam told me everything because you're a stubborn ass and I'm worried about you). "He said you've been... Not entirely yourself."
Dean crosses his arms, sets his jaw. It's not like he expected any differently. Cas has been quiet, indulgent, keeping more than a respectable distance between them, so it's not like he didn't know this was coming from the second Cas walked in the door. But fuck, man, he was trying to enjoy the moment.
Cas lifts his hands from where they were resting against his desk, mollifying. "You don't-" he pauses, offering Dean a crooked smirk that's just a tad bit too self-deprecatory. "I understand."
The veracity of the statement coupled with the wide-eyed openness when Cas lifts his gaze twists something in Dean's chest. He never said he was a saint, definitely never said he wasn't an asshole. But sometimes he still forgets he's not the only one in pain.
Dean drops his guard. It's pointless, and he sure as hell isn't looking for a fight.
Cas gives an actual fuck, maybe even several. And Dean just keeps slamming doors on every possible opportunity there is to acknowledge it.
"Look, I've been meaning to make a run for a few days, so..." Dean implores, and a small smile returns to Cas' face. He gestures toward the door, aware that Cas may not exactly like the idea any more than he does, especially since he just got back from out there. "We can... If you want, I mean."
Cas is already pushing himself away from the desk, sparing one last fond glance at the Iron Man comic book, at the pictures lining the wall above the desk, at the picture of Dean and Charlie on the wall. "I'll meet you at the car. Take your time."
From across the room, Dean focuses on Charlie's face. He can't help the sting in his eyes every time he thinks of her, of how she saved him, in every way imaginable, until the very end. He's here now because of her. Because she never stopped fighting for him. And he misses her. Every fucking day.
"Dean."
He sucks in a breath and comes back to himself. Cas had paused at the doorway, allowing Dean a moment he hadn't realized he needed. "I am. Happy to be home," he offers a lopsided smile, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Just so you know."
And with that, Cas is gone and Dean is left standing there, mouth hanging open, caught somewhere between mystified and a little sad and so fucking gone over this guy that he's back on that notion of making his head one with the wall.
He gets to have this because of Charlie. Because his family never gave up on him. And he's grateful.
After Dean goes through the reboot process to regain some level of control over his limbs and emotions, he takes a deep breath and laughs it out, shaking his head as he shrugs on his jacket, pockets his keys, wallet, and phone.
They've got a lot to talk about. A shit ton of crap they gotta deal with.
But they're due a five minute break. Right now, all Dean wants to do is suck it up and brave the world outside just to do something normal like going fucking grocery shopping with Cas. The Darkness can take a fucking number.
Dean stops by his desk, runs his fingers over the Iron Man cover, looks up and around at his own life put on display.
It's not perfect.
There are still dust particles floating in the lamp light, he hung the Moondoor map a little crooked. There are still shadows lurking in the corners, waiting for the lights to go out. There's still a gun tucked away in the drawer of his nightstand, and he knows he's going to crack that drawer open every night before he goes to sleep because that's just his life. It's still a part of who he is. So fuck it.
It's the chaos in the order that he's brought to his space. It's an offering of peace of mind in a place of freedom, relative to perception.
It's not perfect. But he thinks he did alright.