He's standing in the middle of a dusty graveyard.
It's strange. He doesn't have to dig here. The dead are all piled up above ground. They're caked in the dust that fills the air. There's yellow grass clinging to their old bodies. Dean thinks that maybe, maybe, he could fix them up again. He can bring anything back to life. Always has. Long as the cars still have tires and engines, he can do something.
But he doesn't. Dean just stands and listens to the wind.
Bobby's been dead for a couple of years now. His house has been gone a bit longer. There's no remains of that. Dean was a construction worker, once. If there was any wood left at all, he'd try. He'd get down on his knees and start building. But the flames had torn the whole place down. Nothing left.
"I'm still sorry."
Dean turns. Castiel is sitting in the back of a pickup truck. It's rusty, light blue. He looks out of place there. "What are you doing in that?"
Cas smiles. Shrugs. "I've seen some people ride in the back of these. It looked fun."
"Fun? You're interested in fun now?"
He's bitter. He knows that. Cas knows that. Everyone knows it, even if they don't know why. Dean does his best not to carry the anger with him. He's good at it. He's good at carrying things on his back, where no one can see them, but where his grip is still tight and true.
Dean finds it hard to be standing here in a car graveyard and look at Castiel and not see him as the guy who got his sort-of father killed.
"I'm interested in happy now, Dean." Cas presses his back to the small window that separates him from the cab of the truck. His trench-coat is the same color as the grass. Everything's too dry here.
"Yeah, sure. You're real happy, Cas. We're all so damn happy." Dean figures that if Cas is looking for happiness, the least he could do is go somewhere else to find it. He hears that the Caribbean is nice. Even angels need vacations.
Cas sighs. It's a soft, dry sound, kind of like the wind. Cas is as much of a graveyard as this scrapyard. "I'd like to talk to you."
Dean takes a step closer. "I already forgave you." His feet are too damn loud.
"If you already forgave me, then why are you here?"
"Just because I forgave doesn't mean I forgot."
He climbs into the pickup. Sits next to Cas. They lean slightly away from each other and stare out at the field. Dean can see the shadow of the house, of the man who used to drink and watch soap operas there. The trucker cap's missing. So's the dog. Everything's missing.
"When I became human," Cas says, closing his eyes. "The first time. I was sore. My back hurt. Jimmy was – you were right – he was a tax accountant. He sat in a stiff chair all the time, and it took its toll on me."
Dean doesn't care about tax accountants. The one plus about this lifestyle, about the saving and hunting and all the blood, is that he's never had to worry about taxes. It's the illegal life, and it's the good life. The most comfortable illegal lifestyle a guy could have. It's nice, knowing that his illegal activities are helping people. He's not robbing houses or anything. It's really nice.
"Bobby had nice furniture."
That is the one comment Dean never expected to hear from anyone. He can remember those couches and armchairs. They were rough. Old. They stunk up the place. Books were hidden beneath the cushions. Beer stains were practically built into tables. "You're kidding me."
Cas smiles. "I know. Hard to believe. But Dean." He opens his eyes. "They were lived in. You and Sam and Bobby, you all sat in those chairs, you stitched each other up on the table. That house was disgusting and it was because you made it that way."
"Wow. Thanks. Really appreciate it."
"I don't think you understand, Dean. I'm an angel. I'm from Heaven. It was so clean there. Too clean. Like everything had been washed over, polished, thousands of times. Which isn't far from the truth." He shudders. "That was my family for millions of years. And yet we hardly knew each other. My own brothers were strangers."
Dean pulls his knees to his chest. His jeans are stiff. There's a loose thread and he tugs on it, not sure if he wants to tear it off or if he's just clutching it because he needs something. "What's your point, man?"
"My point, Dean, is that sometimes we need to make a mess. We need to break things." Cas reaches over. With one swift movement, he's snatching the thread out of Dean's hands. His grasp is strong. The thread goes flying and then it's gone, and Dean's hands are dangling over his legs, not quite sure what to do with them. Cas leans back and he folds his own hands over his lap. "We need all that to really appreciate what we have."
For a while longer, the two men sit there. They watch the field. They don't look at each other. They just breathe and feel each other live.
Eventually, Dean catches sight of a baseball. It's an old one, and he remembers throwing it to Bobby with a strong, desperate arm. Bobby always tossed it back gently. Gave him the chance to actually catch it. "It's not about force," he'd say. "It's about getting it somewhere."
The ball is nestled between two cars, stuck between the tires. Like it's never going anywhere again. Dean jumps out of the truck and heads towards it.
Castiel watches him. "Dean? What are you doing?"
Dean grabs the ball. He holds it up. "You ever play catch, Cas?"
His friend climbs out, his steps careful and measured. They end up standing across from each other, with broken cars surrounding them. The heat's aching. Cas is buried in that trench-coat of his, seemingly unaffected, and Dean is sweating even though he's got his t-shirt on. Angels are completely unfair.
"I'm ready," says Cas. He doesn't look ready. Dean throws anyways.
It's a rough throw. A powerful one. The ball rushes at the angel like a lightning bolt.
Cas catches it anyway.