He's dreaming again. He knows this because he made damn sure the bottle of whiskey he polished off last night would prohibit him from moving from his bed, and going out to find some asshole to punch or some chick to bang, because really, he needs neither of those things. What he needs is for the nightmares to stop but as predicted, upon failure of the booze not doing its goddamned job at shutting off his brain, or rem sleep or whatever the fuck a drunk induced slumber is supposed to do, he's back there, seeing it again.

He'd be lying if he said that he has any idea why the hell he's reliving this screwed up time. Why he's dreaming about that infected city in some dystopian future, bought and served to him by the most awesome Zachariah. The buildings, just skeletons of a town that once had life and hope, had been the center of an outbreak that Lucifer unleashed upon the earth, because why just kill everyone when you can turn them into cannibalistic zombies, and then watch them all do that job for you?

And then there was the fantastic moment of watching himself die. Not him, but his future self's (now past?) neck crack under Lucifer's (Sam's) foot. If that asshole Zach taught him one thing back then, it was to never become an angel's bitch, fallen or not.

Of course, that leaves him with the vivid memory of the one fallen angel that would make him forget all about that rule and he's the center of every dream. Not his Cas, but the -love guru hippy fallen angel- who stood by that dick… his other self's side, just to end up as cannon fodder. Poor Castiel, who'd given everything for him and that Dean probably never even said, "Thanks, man"

Now he has to stare at those blue eyes as that blade sinks deeper into his gut, by a hand he can't even see. Cas, who's falling to his knees as Dean gets there just in time to watch him die in his arms. He always tries to say something to him, his dry lips move without sound and Dean always responds the same way, "Cas, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

That's when he usually wakes up, but this time the dream is a little different. There's someone else there with them in the cabin. Dean scans the area, without letting go of a now very dead Castiel but the cabin is empty, aside from him and a rapidly cooling former angel. He hears the beads on the door move as the wind from outside blows through, sending a new kind of chill through Dean that he never thought he can possible feel.

"Who's there?" Dean cries out to the absolute eerie silence of his surroundings, save the tapping of the beads as they shuffle in the breeze.

He knows he's dreaming and yet he's compelled to let it play out. There's a reason why these nightmares have been tormenting him for the last few weeks since the Darkness was released. There's a reason why, when all seemed quiet, despite the hell he helped unleash on the world, his mind keeps coming back here to this time, to this very scene, over and over, almost every night.

This never happened when he came here all those years ago. Cas didn't die by a blade to the stomach in the middle of his love den. No, he followed Dean and all those other hopeless sacs into the death star. He went into battle and most likely died during the skirmish.

Then again, Dean never saw Cas die. He had that wonderful conversation with his brother aka Lucifer and then he was back in his time. Lesson supposedly learned but the look on Zach's face was so fucking worth it when Dean gave him his usual, "Nah," just moments before being zapped to the side of a road where Cas had been waiting for him all night. All damn night.

" I'll just wait here then." Dean thinks of the song from Marie's musical. His heart breaks.

"Cas, man. Why do you always have to be so stubborn? Why do you always stand by my side and never give up on me? Why would you walk into a certain death, just at the off chance I'd survive a showdown with Lucifer?"

" All we have left I think, Dean and me, is each other."

Those words are now repeating in his head. Cas, high, drunk, probably riddled with stds, had only one person he needed to be loyal to. Dean fucking Winchester. Him. He never deserved Cas. He doesn't deserve him, now or in whatever reality he's living in. He'd taken a beating by him, only because Dean was out of his damn mind, and still, he went to Sam as an aid to help cure him.

"Dammit, Cas. You and Sam, you're both fucking idiots. You never give up, but that's why I lo-"

He doesn't want to let go of Cas, but when he looks down at his own pants that are now covered in blood, he moves Cas' head from his lap and gently lays him down on the floor. A few frozen moments are spent staring at him. His eyes are closed, his messy dark hair, which should really be illegal for how adorable it is, his sad expression that is probably the one image that will haunt him forever.

He remembers thinking last time he was here that he'd love to take a pair of scissors to those messy bangs that rested, unevenly, right above his eyebrows, but then he thought that he'd miss it. It's cute, it's Cas. It's exactly how Cas would look if he became human, smack dab in the middle of an apocalypse. The only other time Dean saw Cas human was when the angels fell, and well, thankfully his Cas hadn't gone the orgy route because really, Dean thinks he would have had a major issue with it.

Even while he tried to explore his newfound humanity, and died at the hands of a reaper who'd taken advantage of Cas, he was hopeful. He trusted her. He thought she was good, helpful. He spent the night with her and when Dean had arrived, he wasn't even sure what his heart was doing. It was breaking, yeah, he remembers that, but that look on Cas' face, so sad. So fucking sad . Sinking that blade through that reaper bitch was the most gratifying thing he's ever done.

Cas is older than dirt, yet so naive, sometimes. Angels don't have hearts? Bullshit. Cas' heart is bigger than most humans he knows and that, my friends, is why Cas is different than those dickbags in the penthouse.

He looks down again at him and wonders why he's seeing this, every night. Why Cas? Why not Lucifer? Or Sam...cifer ?

It's too quiet. Where is everyone? Where's Chuck? They hadn't brought the whole camp to the city, so where did they go?

There's movement to his left and when he snaps his head, all he could see is a silhouette, due to the sun shining too brightly in his face. He can't make out who it is, but someone's there and he realizes at that moment he's unarmed. He quickly turns to his dead angel and feels like a complete asshole for doing this, but he picks up the very blade that snuffed out his friend's life and turns back to the figure, who is now gone.

"Son of a…"

Dean wakes in a cold sweat, again. Sure, nothing new. His mouth is dry, head pounding like someone has gotten a hold of a hammer and decided to have fun with his skull. His stomach, queasy as all hell, and when he blinks his eyes open, he glances at the tall glass of water Sam left for him on the bedside table.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean groans as he sluggishly lifts and turns to grab it. He swallows every last drop before clumsily placing the empty glass down. Scrubbing his face with his clammy palm, he moves to the side of the bed and plants his feet onto the floor. He takes a second look at his hand and thinks, "I just wiped my face with my own sweat, good job."

His feet are cold so he finds his trusty dead man's slippers to go along with his equally ancient robe, and he silently thanks the men of letters for thinking of such things. Really, why hadn't he ever thought of buying stuff like this while on the road? Then again, motel nights were usually spent fully clothed, if they hadn't been ruined or soaked in blood. Being caught in a dire situation in his drawers was never on the table.

He can hear Sam already up and in the kitchen, if the clangs and bangs of pots and pans were any indication. He assumes Cas is there with him, filling him in on his vast knowledge of the Darkness, and by vast, he means, jack squat. It's not that he blames Cas, he's a young angel compared to the rest of them, and he's pretty sure those dickbags upstairs kept all sorts of important crap from him. I mean, why give anyone knowledge of a goddamned mark of Cain being the lock and key to the very thing that can destroy the universe? That would just make too much sense, right?

And poor Cas, trying so hard to help after being cured from the witch's spell, which had honestly left them all dumbfounded as to how in the hell she was able to whammy him in the first place. They filled Dean in on the shenanigans that led up to the Rowena/Book of the Damned fiasco, but there's still a hell of a lot more that they haven't told him and he might sit them both down today and have that 'talk' they've all been putting off.

First and foremost, Dean has to have a deep one on one with Cas, because if these nightmares aren't enough to freak him the fuck out, the painful reality that he had hurt his best friend, when all he was doing was trying to save Dean from the monster that he was becoming, chills him to the bone. Every time he looks at him now, it's all he sees. Oh and the image of a blade through his gut. Thank you, dreams.

Their first few days back after the Darkness was released and finding Cas somewhere in a dank, empty warehouse, were uneventful. Then strange shit started happening, as it always did. So for each run of the mill job they completed, they weren't any closer to finding out how to stop whatever they unleashed, and was it even gank-able? Dean likes his made up words, even when Sam rolls his eyes and Cas looks at him with that eye-squint-head tilt he does.

They've been back for four days straight with no jobs to do and without being able to fight something, Dean is left with his own brain and that can be a very dangerous thing. So each night is spent with a fifth of whiskey, some beer if he's feeling adventurous, Netflix binges, and a deep, deep burial of his feelings.

So, is this supposed to be something new?

"Dean, I thought for sure your liver would have given out by now," Sam says as he wipes his hands on a dish towel. Was he just washing dishes? How domestic.

"Yeah, that makes two of us."

Dean reaches for the pot of coffee and when he notices that it's cold, he growls. While he begins to make a fresh pot, he looks around the room. "Where's Cas?"

"He's out. He said he needed to pick up something."

Dean freezes with the empty carafe held under the running water. Did he just hear that right? "He what?"

Sam frowns. "What? He said he'll be right back."

"Mother fu… Sam, is he even okay to be out there, alone? He's not even… he's still healing from…"

That's another thing that's been going on. After Cas was cured from that attack dog spell, he hasn't really been himself. Dean chalks it up to hoodoo residue, but then he thinks it might be a little deeper than that.

Cas is an angel and Dean has no idea what kind of relationship he still has with Heaven, but Cas was able to have a spell put on him and well, there's something up with that and if he will bet any amount of money (that he doesn't have), it has something to do with his grace. The grace that Meta-Douche stole and used to make the angels fall. Cas' very essence that made him the all powerful badass he is, was used against him.

So has Dean been an overprotective prick over Cas lately? You bet your ass he has. He suspects the nightmares are playing a role in that as well.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect for Cas to walk in, a plastic shopping bag hanging over his wrist and his hair a little messed up. Must be windy outside. Dean turns to him, smiles, and a flash of hippy Cas is right in front of him, so he shakes it off.

It's weird seeing different versions of people you know, including yourself, but he's seen two versions of Cas now. The hippy and the one known as Misha, when they were sent to Balthazar's bizarro world.

Dean admits that it was fucking weird, as both versions were nothing like the Castiel that's standing before him now.

"Where the hell-"

"Good morning, Dean. Sam," Cas says with the hint of a smile.

"Hey Cas," Sam says, quickly turning to Dean.

"Why-" Dean is pissed. He's mad at Sam for letting Cas out of his sight and even more mad at Cas for even thinking it.

"I noticed you guys were out of coffee and I know how much you depend on it every morning, so I went to the store and-"

"Decided to buy us some? Alone?" Dean interrupts. "And whose car did you take? 'Cause I know your wings aren't working."

"Dean!" Sam shoots him a glare and turns back to Cas. "Thanks, Cas. That's awesome."

"I took Sam's car, knowing how you would probably be against me taking the Impala. Is this okay, Dean? You seem upset."

Upset doesn't even describe how he feels right now. As absurd as the two of them probably think it is, it's still not fucking safe to be out there alone with a certain doom looming over their heads, ready to strike at any given moment. And if that's not enough, Cas isn't one hundred percent, he's not entirely himself, and fuck all if he's going to let anything happen to him, to any of them, because they needed fucking coffee.

His jaw clenches and his hands curl into fists but he breathes slowly, calming himself before unleashing a holy hell on Cas. It's not right, he knows that. Cas is just… Cas, he does this shit, whether he can fly or not. He thinks, 'oh coffee' and just goes, not thinking twice about it.

So instead of scolding him like a goddamned child - because Dean knows that's exactly how it looks - he accepts the bag from Cas, gives him a watered down, "Thanks", and continues making himself a pot of much needed caffeine.

Hangovers suck. Patience is usually non existent after a night of drinking and this morning is no different. He could be a complete asshole and chew Cas out for being a goddamned idiot but he won't. He'll bite his tongue (and his inner cheek), maybe mumble to himself, incoherently enough so that his brother and Cas can't understand him, he'll drink his coffee, and start the day a new.

And be as bitter as the contents of his mug.

Although, Cas did buy a good brand, a name brand at that, not the usual no frills - no name ones he usually buys. They've been living at the bunker for almost three years now and neither one of them can figure out the good coffee brands as opposed to the shitty ones. They've been so used to just single cup servings from motel lobbies, or whatever Sheila the waitress offered at any truck stop or road side diner they'd rest in.

But Cas bought them Maxwell House and sure, bitter, but good to the last drop. Those fuckers weren't lying.

He's left alone in the kitchen to shake off his hangover and who could blame them? He's not the nicest person the morning after and he sure as hell isn't a pleasure to be around, by any means. It would have been nice to have a warm breakfast waiting for him, but since it's well after eleven, he's pretty sure Sam's already been there done that, and sneaked in a jog while he was at it.

So he'll sit here, ponder about life, how much more whiskey he could drink tonight, maybe contemplate searching for a new porn site, because even he's bored with it all lately. That fact alone has him questioning his own sanity. When Busty Asian Beauties no longer offers him a night of self indulgence, something has to be going on, and if cats and dogs start living together, he'll know why.

"Dean."

And there's Cas. He can't just let Dean be, can he? He always knows. The fucker. Always. Knows.

"Cas, have a seat."

"Dean, I could tell you're upset. I'm sorry, I should have told you, before-"

Dean looks up at him and for a second, he sees the cold dead eyes of the Cas in the cabin, his wispy bangs clinging to a moist brow, the look of utter despair and maybe shock? Dean has to close his eyes and open them again to get rid of that image and focus on the very real, very alive Castiel that is now taking his seat across from Dean.

"Look, we're in the dark, pun intended. I just need you to be more careful. You're not fully juiced. You lied about that."

"I know, I… I'm so sorry, Dean."

So are they going to do this now? No, his head hurts too much and he doesn't want to think about the weeks of lies and deceit his best friend and his brother had been involved with. Greater good, yeah he gets it, hell he would have done the same but still, lies man, fucking lies, always grinds his gears.

Those lies that covered up Charlie working with them, Rowena working with them. The Book, oh yea, not burned, and Cas' adventures with the now human Metatron, who by the way, has a demon tablet.

Sure, Cas got his groove back, he wasn't going to burn out on borrowed grace, but that fucking scribe did something to it and they have yet to discuss it. Of course, Dean is aware that this grace business is, well, Cas' own business. He really shouldn't meddle, provoke any kind of explanation because what right did he have? It's personal to Cas, he knows that, but then the very real sting comes that usually follows the realization that Cas doesn't trust Dean enough to talk to him about it.

Or maybe he just can't stand him now. That's probably more likely. He did thank Cas for helping Sam with a nice fist to the face (or five), and a kick to the stomach, some more pounding of the head against whatever object was conveniently in the way, and yeah, almost sinking an angel blade through him.

Then there's hippy Cas again, confused, his eyebrows arched in such a way, the look alone could make a grown man cry. Clutching his stomach, blood beginning to pool and spread over his stupid hippy shirt, the white turning red and…

"Dean?"

Right. Bunker. 2015. Not Chitaqua.

"Yeah, sorry. Head still pounding." And heart breaking, throat closing, sweat beading…

"Oh." Cas reaches into his trench that he isn't wearing and is draped over the other chair next to him, and pulls out a bottle of… aspirin?

Oh Cas, you son of a bitch. I could kiss you right now… or, I mean...

"I remember you gave me these when I drank too much." Cas hands him the pills and Dean grins as he opens it, swallowing two with a coffee chaser.

"Yeah, but you drank an entire liquor store. Man, we should hustle people with drinking contests, Raiders style, don't you think?"

"Marion Ravenwood?"

Dean barks, almost choking on his drink. "Yeah, I forgot how much shit you know now."

"I know that it's a very dishonest way to make money," Castiel says with a blank expression.

"Yeah well, so is credit card fraud and pool hustling. You don't see me complaining."

"So you would like me to be your… partner in scamming people?"

Dean sighs. Although, the idea is fucking awesome and yeah, imagine that; taking Cas out, doing a shot for shot with some machismo barfly, Cas pretending he's getting drunk but keeps on, until the other sucker passes out and then boom, easy money. Maybe a few years ago that would have been exactly what they would have done, but now?

"Nah, I'll keep your integrity in check."

"Oh well, thank you. No brothels then too, I assume."

Dean laughs. Fucker can't let that go, ever. Five years? Six years later? And he still gives him a hard time about it. "Come on, man. I-I know, low move. I'd never, geez Cas."

What he wants to say is, I will never take you to a place like that ever again because you are way too damn special to be giving away your shit to some hooker. He wishes that night never happened, although, it had been a hell of a good time. Cas trying to console a fucking prostitute. Only Cas.

"So no drinking contests, no brothels. Is there anything else we should add to the list?"

Dean frowns, because now this is about to get serious. "Cas, what the hell is going on with you?"

Cas' tilts his head, his eyes focusing intensely on him and Dean almost forgets what they're talking about.

"With my grace? My wings?"

"Okay, start there."

"Well, I don't really know. I should be okay, but… something's wrong. I feel charged but at the same time, I know my wings are broken and I can't resurrect or else I would have… uh,-"

"Charlie, not your fault, and I know you would have. Keep going."

"It might have to do with Metatron using it for the spell, or something else, maybe… maybe it has something to do with Heaven."

He's holding back, Dean knows it. There're more possibilities as to why he's flightless and at half power but he's not saying it. It's okay, Dean won't pry although he really,really wants to know. It's gotta suck and honestly, he can't even imagine what Cas must be feeling right about now. An angel who can't fly. Fuck, that's gotta sting.

"Alright so look, until we know what's what, you gotta lay low. You're not all powerful and if anything… you just gotta be careful, man."

"I will, Dean."

"When we've been doing jobs, it's all three of us, all for one, one for all, right? So let's keep it that way, just for now."

"I understand, Dean."

Sure he does, this is Cas we're talking about. Castiel, angel of the lord, who knows Dean inside (literally) and out. Who has put Dean back together again after his fall in hell. Cas understands Dean. He gets it. He knows why he's on edge, paranoid, and being a total prick.

He will get up the courage one of these days or millennia to talk to Cas about the 'thou shall not be discussed' topic of when he beat him to a pulp. He's pretty sure Cas understands that as well. Dean, not in his right mind, and hell, Dean's seen Cas like that a time or two. He'll never forget that moment in the crypt, Cas' determination to protect that stupid tablet, and pummeling Dean was the only way out.

Funny thing about that night, when Cas took off with that dumb piece of rock because he didn't trust Dean with it, hurt a hell of a lot more than any punch he'd delivered.

"But thanks for the java. Really. My very being thanks you."

Castiel smiles and... where are we again? Bunker, right. "Anytime Dean, of course, with all of us buying it together, next time."

"Good."

And now it's time for the silent staring contest. Who's gonna break this time? Usually Dean, and usually because his face is so red he has to turn away before it literally ignites on fire. Why does Cas' eyes do that to him? Fuck if he knows, but it's been like that since day one and there's not a damn thing he can do about it.

This time, though, Cas gets up and leaves. Dean watches him walk into the other room and pick up a book, making himself comfortable in one of the oversized comfy chairs along the wall. The overhead lamp is shining on his head and Dean swears it looks like a damn halo.

Angel. His angel. He's gotta help him sort out this grace crap.

He's gotta stop him from being stabbed in the cabin. No wait, wrong Cas .

He tries to see it again in his mind, because why not torture himself with a recurring nightmare that he is sure to have again tonight or tomorrow night. Waiting's for suckers.Dean's mind is analytical and if he's going to be having the same dream for weeks, he's going to dissect the fuck out of it and figure out what in the hell it's trying to tell him.

Because no one has that shit happen unless it's for a reason.

So he sees the cabin, those damn stupid hippy beads, Cas' fru fru throws and curtains separating the bedroom from the living room, the coffee table, rug, there's a bathroom? Yeah, there's gotta be, right? Who the hell hosts that many orgies without a place to wash off the filth? The sex fluids of a dozen people, contaminating the very space that Cas spends every waking hour. And okay, Dean's not bitter.

He sees the bed - king sized, very nice for a shit hole existence, and he imagines how many people he's had in the bed at a given time. Four? Five? More? He's seen enough porn to know what happens in orgies but has never been past the threesome mark. Unless he counts his misadventures with Crowley, and well, he'd rather not go down that road of ick. As far as Dean's concerned, what happens in demonland, stays in demonland.

And fuck Crowley for trying to never let him forget (okay, on that road now). Really, Dean must have rocked his world because even the goddamned King of Hell won't leave him alone. Funny thing about Crowley, he talks a good evil game, but chip off all the demon crap, and he's just another man who wants to be loved. Too bad Dean isn't the dude to give it to him. Okay, not too bad, the fucker doesn't deserve shit, but who is Dean to judge? He participated in the debauchery while living the life of a carefree demon, and thought howling at the moon meant singing karaoke off key and banging waitresses.

Crowley had other things in mind and when he wasn't orchestrating his own group sex sessions, he was trying to convince Dean to be his partner, in more ways than one. Okay, he wanted Dean as his - and dare he even think it - boyfriend. Life partner? Mate? Like seriously, Dean laughed when Crowley said it and he didn't mean to be a dick. Okay, he probably did because… demon , but there was nothing that Dean would not have given back then, just to tell that guy to fuck off. He needed Crowley, though, the mark and the blade were becoming really hard to handle, and even with the black eyes, he needed someone there to keep things in perspective.

And then that blew up. They, uh broke up? as Crowley put it. Honestly Dean hadn't even thought of them together. The casual sex, that yes, he and Crowley had here and there, did not, by any means make Dean his bitch. The only thing Crowley did have over the others is, he knew Dean wasn't straight. He knew he was into guys as much as girls and… he's not saying this out loud right now, right? okay good.

Dean really hasn't been with a guy in many, many years. It's not that he's been repressing it, and okay maybe he was, is , who knows, but things had gotten so out of hand, their lives turning upside down and sideways, he barely had time for any extracurricular activities. One night here and there, but few and far between, and it had made the art of jerking off more of a habit than past time for him.

Maybe that's why Busty Asian Beauties bores him now. Too much of a good thing?

Wait, wasn't he trying to remember his dream? Right, so he's in the cabin, Cas' hippy dippy love den, okay. Bed; check, right that's where he got carried away by group sex thoughts and his dry spells with men and women . Nice bed, then there's Cas looking at Dean, that face, dammit, that face, and why, why, why would anyway stab this Cas? He's clutching his stomach, blood dripping, and seeping…

He's missing something, someone . Cas didn't stab himself, this wasn't a suicidal event. Cas was shocked, confused, he wasn't brooding over losing his only friend to the hands of his brother, and oh, Dean's brother too, how convenient. But every time Dean can almost make out the other figure in the room, it's gone just like that. It's like it's in his peripheral, only to disappear once he faces it head on.

Who the fuck can it be? The killer? Someone trying to help? An actual friend trying to stop Cas from being stabbed in his very human body?

It's going to drive him crazy, he's almost tempted to find that nasty tea crap Sam made that time to make them go to sleep, just so Dean could revisit this and find out what in the hell it's trying to tell him. He'll sacrifice his taste buds and drink that concoction that tastes like ass, just so he can solve this riddle, and maybe then, the damn nightmares will stop.

But that would require him getting Sam involved, which means Cas too, and they'll definitely want to come with, and having the both of them in his subconscious is just not gonna happen. His luck he'll have that dream where he's trying on panties in Victoria's Secret and secretly jerking off in the dressing room, seeing himself in silky, lace underwear and… fuck, he has a hard on now. He shifts in his chair and starts to chuckle at just how fucked up his mind really is.

Not that wearing girl's panties is fucked up, because honestly, don't knock it 'til you've tried it, but the fact that he's so embarrassed by his own fantasies that the thought of his brother and best friend seeing them is just too close for comfort. Even if there's a chance they wouldn't see that at all and actually help him in figuring out why he's seeing Cas stabbed to death in a 2014 parallel universe, that he had been sent to in 2009, to teach him a lesson by the assholes running Heaven at the time, Dean still feels uneasy about it.

He should tell them, include them, but not now. He wants to see how long it takes for him to figure it out because maybe there's nothing to even worry about. Could be some weird traumatic memory from the time he was there, or maybe after everything that's happened, he's feeling guilt over what he's done to Cas, so really, maybe this is all just something that'll blow over. Eventually. One of these days.

Relieving his guilt could be a way to stop it. He could talk to Cas, open up, let him know how sorry he is for hurting him, beg him to forgive him, and all that. Dean's never too eager to have these kinds of talks, but he does have them. What did Marie call them? BM scenes? Boy Melodrama. Yeah, Dean's got that down to an art form.

He can admit it. He doesn't have to hide behind his once 'no chick flick moments' persona, because he knows how full of shit it all was. Dean likes to get things off his chest, he likes to make sure others do the same. He's just really, really bad at doing it. It usually ends up with him ending the conversations too early and assuming all is right like rain, whatever the fuck that saying means.

His coffee is now cold, because he completely forgot all about it. Oh well. His head feels much better now. Thanks Cas. He rises from the chair and peeks over at the angel, his face deep into that book and damn, it must be some good reading material because he's all up on that shit. He has no idea where Sam is but if he has to guess, he's probably on his laptop in his room, investigating something that's pre-biblical and probably has less info about it than the mark of Cain did. But go Sam, go. If anyone can find anything on anything , it's Sam.

Dean finds himself back in his room, after grabbing a sandwich from the fridge, his bed not made which is strange, even for him. He falls on his back, the mattress molding to his curves and he closes his eyes. He's not sure he'll be able to fall back asleep but being bored out of his mind is why he's left to just do… nothing. He could jerk off, maybe try and bring back the panties scenario, but even as aroused as that makes him, he just blows it off.

He needs some kind of closure. With the dreams. With the hell that they've all been through in the past couple of years. It's all in the air, all these unspoken words, all this regret, and pain, it's going to strangle him if he doesn't do something about it soon. Why isn't Sam bringing it up? He's usually the one who initiates these Lifetime moments. Why does it have to be Dean?

And just as he thinks that, he knows the answer.

He lived almost two years with a curse that turned him into something that scared even himself. He was out of control, lost, angry, a fury that he'd never felt before. Sam and Cas are giving him space, giving him time to adjust. Damn. He doesn't want that though. He doesn't want time, or PTSD therapy, he just wants his brother and best friend back. He wants them to be like it was, screwing around and doing jobs, and fighting the good fight. An unbreakable team. Team Free Will.

Can they ever get back there?


"Dean, I'm so glad you made it."

That voice… Dean spins around on his heel and there's Cas, strolling across the floor in his Birkenstocks, and okay he takes good care of his feet, probably uses oils and all that shit. He's smiling… not bleeding , good sign. This is all entirely new, a new dream, a new setting, and he can go with this, because now he can probably talk to him and get some information.

"Cas, what's going on, why are you-"

"Come sit, eat. Then we can talk," Cas says as he lowers himself onto the sofa and gestures for Dean to join him.

He's not bleeding, dying, and he did go through all this trouble to make a damn steak dinner that, to be honest, Dean has not had in ages. The aroma alone is making his stomach start begging for it, so he takes his seat next to Cas and glances briefly at him, before reaching down for his plate.

"It's great meat, we have the best livestock and cattle in a one hundred mile radius. Eat up."

Hell if Dean's not going to and wow, this is the best steak he's ever had. Cas is watching him with a pleased look on his face, probably proud of his culinary skills, you know, in dreamland.

"This is fucking great, Cas. When did you learn how to cook?"

"When I realized this body needed nourishment," he says with a smile.

"Good call."

He finishes the food all too fast and who cares, it's a dream. He can do what he wants, and in that case, he should find out how that bed feels…

"I've really missed you. You need to visit more often."

This is still a dream and Dean is pretty sure their conversation isn't going to make a lick of sense. Dream convos rarely do. "Sure thing. You have a nice little set up here. It's… cozy."

He ain't lying.

Castiel erupts in laughter, the corners of his eyes wrinkling and he's all toothy and fuck, Dean loves that. He wishes his Cas did that. Just to laugh like this and let himself feel the joy of something, it's awesome to witness.

Dean watches him settle back onto the sofa, sinking deep into the cushions as he pulls out a joint and lights it. He takes a drag and slowly blows out the smoke, coughing a little while doing so.

Great, Cas is getting high next to him, another weirdorama thing to see but whatever, this is his place, his timeline, his universe. Smoke 'em if you got 'em, Cas.

"Why am I here, Cas?"

Castiel smiles, blowing smoke from a another drag. "Because I asked you to be."

"Okay, but why?"

Dean settles back on the couch, his hands between his thighs as if he's cold but he's not. Cas just smiles again, taking another toke of his joint and then extends it to Dean. Dean raises his hand, blocking the transaction.

"Nah, I'm good. Cas, answer me."

"Because of things happening. All things at once. You're there but you're here. Do you think our bond is limited only to your reality?"

Dean's head is spinning, trying to make sense at what Cas just said and it all kinda does, like yeah, he gets it but then it still leaves a million more questions. Why does he keep seeing Cas stabbed?

"Who's trying to kill you, Cas."

Cas' eyes widen and his face ashens to a sickly grey. Dean swallows the nervous lump in his throat because, damn, what the hell. Cas won't stop staring at Dean and suddenly, the room isn't warm and cozy anymore. It's cold and dank, wind blowing through, sending the beads into a frenzy. It distracts him and when he looks back at Cas, he's gone.

"Cas?"

A figure emerges from the bedroom, moving the fabric that separates the room aside and just like that, he's gone and Dean wakes up, back in his bed. He glances at his watch, his eyes widen when he realizes he's been asleep for six hours.

Six hours? Already time for dinner.

He doesn't get out of bed though. He thinks of the dream, and what he saw. Cas cooked for him, he was expecting him, he said something about bonds through different realities, and fuck it's leaving his brain the harder he tries to remember.

Is Cas, that Cas, alive? Is he trying to communicate to him? Impossible right? That reality shouldn't even exist anymore. Dean said 'fuck you' to destiny and then that universe should have disappeared. He thinks . What the hell does he really know about any of that crap and he's aware of the one person - who's probably in his room watching the second season of Breaking Bad- would be able to answer that question, but Dean is just too chicken shit to bring it up.

He's going to have to. He knows that.

But for now, he needs to take his mind off of that cabin, off of a pot smoking Cas, who made him dinner and was so happy to see him, and was looking at him like he's the most important person on the face of the planet.

That Cas is so relaxed, except for when his bleeding out, of course. But he was just sitting back on his couch, puffing on a joint, like it was the most natural thing to do. He thinks of that huge bed and Cas with a woman, no a dude… he's sure that Cas swings that way, and maybe his Cas does too, who knows. He knows nothing about angels and their sexual identities or preferences and maybe some did have them, some didn't.

He starts to imagine Cas out of those hippy clothes, because really, focusing on something better than watching his friend die is pretty much a necessity at this point. He bets Cas looks damn good naked, in fact, he's pretty sure of it. His skin, supple. His muscles, just perfectly toned for his body. His stomach, which Dean admits is really fucking sexy, the trail of hair that leads down to the hemline of his pants, his meaty thighs that's all muscle and…

Dean's so hard, he's throbbing and so he reaches under his sweats and grabs hold of himself and begins stroking, slowly, getting a good scenario in his head of him and Cas in that love den, in that bed. Dean's running his hand down that stomach of his and touching Cas, making him hard as he kisses his lips, his neck and fuck, yeah, those lips are so perfect. What Dean would give to really kiss them one day.

Cas is straddling Dean, taking both their cocks in his hand and jerks them, slow and steady, their tips pressed together and holy shit, Cas knows what he's doing in this fantasy.

Yeah, Cas, make us come.

Cas moves his fist faster, staring at Dean the whole time, those blue eyes burning right into his soul, the way he always does. That glare that holds thousands of unspoken words. Thousands of wishes, promises, a deep sea of secrets and knowledge that has always given Dean's heart a flutter.

And just like that, he's coming all over his stomach.

Dean exhales and loosens his grip and chuckles, staring at the ceiling while catching his breath, because damn that orgasm was intense, he's still shaking from it. Two things just happened here. One; he finally jerked off after what has been way too long of not doing so and two; it was over a fantasy of Cas.