Hi everyone! So I've been working on this piece for a while but all writing kinda halted because I lost my nan on Sunday and there has been so much to sort out and help my family with and stuff so I haven't really felt like writing much lately.

...But this piece was starting to annoy me and I wanted to get it out before the new episode.

It's set in between 14x03 and 14x04.

It's pretty short, just a missing scene that I wanted to write.

Enjoy ^_^

Dean stood in the shower stall while his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He needed to shower; he was covered in over 80 hours' worth of sweat, blood and grime. He stunk, he felt filthy, he liked showers, but all he could do was stare at the unassuming silver knob, unable to bring himself to twist it, overwhelmed by the thought of water crashing down on him, hitting his torso, his throat, constricting his breath. He began to shake.

Come on, he berated himself, come on, you can do this, it's just a shower, you do this every day.

But he hadn't done this since the day before he said yes and he'd been drowning ever since.

What kind of pathetic asshole can't even shower?

Him, apparently.

He turned away, disgusted with himself, stepping out from behind the cheap, plastic curtain to snatch a washcloth from the sink and wet it from the tap, giving himself a cold but thorough sponge bath instead, ghosting over the scar on his right shoulder, the one he felt sick even thinking about.

He was shivering by the time he finished, and humiliated. He wrapped a towel around his waist and left the bathroom, jumping when a small group walked by his door, talking loudly amongst themselves. He wasn't used to that yet, this place being a hub rather than a home. It set his teeth on edge having so many strangers in a space he'd once thought safe and private. Now, the hall light was always on, the kitchen was always full of people and there was always a phone ringing somewhere.
He'd get used to it, he told himself, he had to get used to it. Until Michael was permanently out of the picture it was an all hands on deck situation. But why did all the hands have to be here?

Dean had to keep reminding himself that this was what the bunker had been built for, it was far too large for just the four of them anyway and it was a good way to keep everyone in the loop as much as possible, but it made him anxious in a way he couldn't explain. It set off a strange fluttering sensation in his stomach and unease prickled at the back of his neck as though someone was constantly watching him. Even in his own room he couldn't fully relax just in case someone decided to knock on his door, someone who was looking for guidance or who wanted to question him about Michael or just gawk at the man who had caused so much death. He palmed at his suddenly tight chest and reached for the bed with his other hand, following it down to sit heavily on the unmade sheets, his ears felt waterlogged, all sound had grown muffled, which only increased his panic.

Stupid, he yelled in his own head, trying to force air into his uncooperative lungs, you're not there anymore. He's gone. You're home. Do you really wanna complain about how it's not exactly how you left it? Get over yourself, you've still got to face him. This is nothing.

And yet, it was a long time before he could calm himself down enough to even get dressed.

He'd only been back for a few days. His initial homecoming barely counted, considering it had been less than a day before they'd been on the road again on the way to Sioux Falls. After that whole debacle was finished and they returned to the bunker with even more questions than answers, the image of that spear seared into his retinas, Dean had spent most of the time in his room, telling himself that he had to adjust to being not-possessed before he could even attempt to adjust to the changes that had happened in his absence, trying not to think about the knot of guilt in his stomach for hiding when he should be out there with his brother, fighting the good fight, doing everything he could to try and find Michael.

His stomach growled at him but he ignored it. He tended to avoid the set mealtimes. All of the Apocalypse World survivors—were they hunters now? People of letters?—seemed to have made a rota for cooking and chores that ticked over like clockwork and Dean felt like a spare gear. He usually waited until the rush was over and then would sneak out to grab a bowl of something as inconspicuously as possible. The good thing about having so many people around was that there was almost always a vat of something bubbling on the stove or a plate piled high with sandwiches. He hadn't had to cook once since being back, although that wasn't an entirely comfortable feeling either. It had the feel of a dormitory to it, or a military base. Like he wasn't really living here, just staying for the duration of the mission.

He hated it. He hated it so much he wanted to scream. How was it possible to feel so isolated when this place was stuffed to the gills with people? He'd barely seen Sam or Cas since being back; whenever Sam got a spare five minutes it was more often than not interrupted with a, "Sorry, Chief, but-" and an apologetic look from his brother. And whenever Sam wasn't around it was Cas they turned to, looking for his opinion or an obscure piece of lore or even just a casual hello. Mary had integrated herself so well with the survivors that beyond their initial reunion he'd barely seen her. Even Jack seemed to have a place of authority, able and willing to deal with minor disputes, although he looked a little paler these days and less talkative, something that Cas was using every spare second he had to worry about.

It was small and petty but sometimes he wondered why they bothered saving him at all. It's not as though he was any use here and it was clear that they had everything under control. He kind of felt like just another item on the checklist, now he was ticked off they could move on to other things. Sammy was clearly the leader here, and Cas his right-hand man. Dean couldn't just bust back in shouting orders and taking over everything his little brother had so painstakingly built. Not that he was in any kind of position to be giving orders right now, pitiful as he was, sat on his bed, massaging his chest and waiting until it was late enough that there would be less people outside so he could go and get something to eat. It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. He'd just spent weeks as Michael's goddamn muppet, he should be freaking grateful.

He threw on an extra sweater, still cold from his pathetic attempt at hygiene and huddled inside it.

When the knock came on the door he flinched and was on his feet in seconds,

"Yeah?" He called, wincing at the suspicion in his voice, sure, that would make him friends.

"It's me," Cas said quietly, "may I come in?"

Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding and his whole body relaxed.

"Sure, Cas, come on in."

"Um… can you get the door? I brought you some food."

Dean lurched forward, grabbing at the handle, suddenly desperate for some real, human—well angel—social contact.

Cas stood there, balancing a tray in both hands. A large bowl of chili and rice was in the centre with a fork, and a glass of water bled condensation on the side. Dean stepped aside to let Cas in but didn't close the door behind him. Considering the last few times they'd spoken, Dean fully expected the angel to walk straight back out again with a smile and a pat on his shoulder, reminding him to rest. Instead, Castiel placed the tray carefully on Dean's desk before turning to him.

"You should eat," he said, "Mary said she hasn't seen you at meals."

Dean shrugged, "I've been eating," he said defensively, just as his stomach gave a loud gurgle. Cas raised an eyebrow and perched on the end of the bed while Dean rolled his eyes at his own body's betrayal before shutting the door.

"I just don't like the whole communal meals thing," he said quietly, walking casually over to the desk to pick up the chili, using the over-long sleeves of his sweater to insulate his fingers against the heat. Holding the bowl in one hand he took the fork in the other and began to eat. "Thanks for bringing me some," he said in between mouthfuls, "this is good."

It was good. The warmth was pleasant in his stomach and the rice wasn't sticky the way most people seemed to make it and the chili itself was nicely seasoned; clearly, one of the better chefs was on kitchen duty today.

"Robin made it," Cas said, smiling. Dean nodded, although he had no idea who Robin was. Cas seemed to realise this so he added, "he's the one with shoulder length brown hair. He usually wears a band hoodie."

"Right."

Dean still didn't know who Cas was talking about, he hadn't really been memorising faces or names. Cas waited patiently until Dean had finished eating before broaching more conversation.

"How are you doing, Dean? Really? And please don't lie and just say you're fine."

Dean had opened his mouth to do just that but stopped at the request, scowling. He pushed the tray away and turned to face Cas, his best friend, who was here and clearly worried about him. His eyebrows were pinched together and he leaned forward, staring at him earnestly.

"I'm not a toddler, Cas, you've got bigger things to worry about."

Cas eyed him, "I'm going to worry about you regardless, Dean, so you might as well be honest."

Dean sighed at that, perhaps a little too dramatically, weighing his options, then he stood and went to sit next to Cas on the bed, mere inches between them. Dean didn't look at him, though he saw the angel's head turned to follow him in his peripheral vision, those eyes boring into his cheek.

"It-" he began, running a hand through his hair, "It's just a lot, you know? A lot's changed and I've gotta catch up, that's all."

"That's not all," Cas chided gently, Dean almost chuckled, the guy knew him too well. Then he sobered very suddenly because he'd missed that feeling and he hadn't felt it at all since he got back, because Cas had been way too busy to come and mother him. But he was here now, and he was asking Dean for the truth.

"This is supposed to be my home, Cas," his voice was quiet and it grated against his throat coming out, "but it's full of people who are just waiting for me to hulk out and start smiting. This was supposed to be the one place people don't look at me like that."

Cas said nothing, but a movement and slight rustle drew Dean's eye. Cas had half-raised his hand, almost like he wanted to touch Dean with it. Dean wished he would, but the hand dropped back into Cas' lap as soon as he saw Dean looking.

Disappointed, Dean turned back to staring at the chest of drawers ahead of him and continued, Cas had asked for honest after all,

"Can't even blame 'em," he said bitterly, "what if Michael's not really gone, Cas? What if he's got a plan? Don't you think it was too easy? Why'd he just decide to leave? I'm his sword and he had me, and I couldn't expel him, so what? I'm supposed to think he'd just let me go?"

"Whatever Michael's plan or thought process was, it doesn't matter," Cas said, and this time he did raise his hand and placed it on Dean's shoulder. Dean tried not to lean in to the touch, "he's no longer possessing you, I would be able to see him if he was. And that means he can't possess you again without your permission."

Unbidden, tears pricked at his eyes. Cas wasn't saying anything that Dean hadn't thought himself, but to hear it said out loud brought a relief so strong that he nearly collapsed. Indeed, he did slump to to side a little before he realised that his head was almost on Cas' shoulder and he righted himself, clearing his throat.

"Thanks buddy," he said, using those handy (hah!) sweater sleeves to subtly wipe his eyes as he rubbed a hand down his face.

Cas patted his shoulder twice before withdrawing his hand, Dean held back a shiver at the patch of cold it left behind.

"You need space to recover," Cas said, his voice filled with such understanding that Dean felt something twinge in his chest, shame maybe? It was usually shame, "and you can't get that when you're surrounded by strangers."

Dean shrugged, "I'll get over it."

"I have no doubts. But maybe this time you should try getting through it."

"What's the difference?"

Cas twisted his torso to face Dean properly and didn't continue talking until they locked eyes.

"The difference is between burying what happened to you, or dealing with it."

"Same thing," Dean said with a wry grin, slightly uncomfortable at the intensity in his friend's… well, everything. The voice, the eyes, the posture, they all screamed 'I want to help.'

"No, it's not," Cas said gently, "dealing with it means you don't have to do it alone."

Dean looked away then.

"I already – I told Sam a bit."

"Good."

"Not really. Now he looks at me different, like he looks at kids that just saw a monster for the first time. The only reason I haven't punched him for it yet is 'cause I've barely seen him since then."

Now that caused a hollow ache in his gut.

Cas sighed, that particular sound that meant he was frowning, "I suppose we have been neglecting you lately," he said,

"Yeah, 'cause that's not patronising at all," Dean shot back, his voice rising, "I don't need the kid gloves, okay? I've been through worse things than a house full of people and a freaking shower. I'm not broken. I'm not."

Perhaps if he said it loud enough he might believe it. He realised that his knuckles were white with the force of his fist and he could feel his nails digging into the meat of his palm. He was also standing though he didn't remember getting up. Cas was standing too, just far enough away to be out of reach if Dean tried to take a swing at him.

"I don't believe that there's a force in this universe that could break you, Dean Winchester," Cas said in that annoyingly calm voice, his eyes steady as he stared Dean down, they way you would stare down a nervous horse, "but I hate seeing you in pain, and you are in pain and I haven't been there for you and I'm sorry."

"That's not what I-" Dean said, his fists releasing, sending the delayed sting made by his nails shooting up his arms, "-I didn't mean – I know you've got a lot goin' on," he finished lamely, "Sam too."

Cas smiled at the bitter edge in his tone and took a tentative step forwards, "I know it's hard for you to see Sam as the leader here-" he began, but Dean cut him off,

"Whoah! Hold up, I'm not jealous!" He exclaimed, wanting to retch at the thought of having to organise and take care of so many people.

"Did I say jealous?" Cas asked, tilting his head, "Sam is your younger brother, but more than that he is your child, and you have always pushed yourself to the front to show him the way. But he doesn't need direction anymore. You've taught him well, Dean. And as good as it would be for you to let him take the reins for once, he needs this too. He needs to show you how good he is at this. So let him, and be proud."

Dean's fingers itched to curl up again, he started toying with the hem of his sleeve instead, and he couldn't bring himself to look at Cas as he spoke,

"I am proud. He's always been better than me; stronger, smarter, kinder, but he's always looked to me like I was top of the food chain, you know? And I wanted to be that for him, so I could keep him safe, so I could scare off the monsters and the bullies and- and now I guess I don't know who I am without it."

"Much the same, I would think." Cas said, a soft smile playing at the edge of his mouth, Dean felt his own lips twitch just to see it. "You said you were having issues with the shower?"

Dean's half-smile disappeared before it had even fully formed, "No," he lied, then, seeing that Cas was about to call him out on his bullshit, "I mean, it's working fine."

"So…"

"So nothing."

"Dean," Cas said, exasperated, "if this is something related to Michael that you're not ready to talk about, I understand, but please don't insult me by lying."

"Right, sorry. You're right, it's a uh- a Michael thing." He tried to keep the disgust out of his voice and failed miserably.

"Is there anything I can do?" Cas' voice was carefully bland, the way Dean knew he got when he was trying not to pry despite his curiosity. He appreciated it, especially with that fear crawling just beneath his skin.

"No, Cas, I don't think there is."

"Well, if you think of something," Cas offered, turning for the door before hesitating, "you know, it might help to play music. As long as you can hear music, you're not underwater, right?"

"How-"

But Cas had already left. Dean stared at the closed door, a faint burning sensation climbing his neck. So Cas had figured it out, or maybe Sam had told him. He didn't know how to feel about that. Either way, he might just try out that music thing, it might stop him having a freaking panic attack every morning.

Maybe it was okay for him to keep to himself a little while longer, Cas was right, Sam had everything under control and that was a good thing. It's not that he's not needed anymore, he's just entitled to take some time for himself. Michael was gone. He just needed to learn how to be himself again.

So there you have it :) What do you think?

It may feel a little rushed at the end but I wanted it to lead into 14x04 rather than completely diverge from canon.

All feedback is welcome and appreciated.

Love Tibbins xx