Dean shot up in bed, his hand immediately going for the knife he kept under his pillow. He held it out in front of him, ready to kill the monster he sensed at the end of his bed. When he saw no one was there, he sighed. Sweat covered his forehead and chest, he swallowed trying to catch his breath. He had been dreaming. A nightmare, actually. He saw Metatron stabbing him, and the look on Sam's face. He remembered the feeling of relief that it was over, then the rush of guilt when he remembered everything he'd done under the influence of the blade. All the harsh words he'd said to his little brother, the people he'd killed because he could, the look of horror on Castiel's face when he'd realised Dean had the mark. He dreamt of the voice, calling him back from the sweet nothingness he'd been drowning him, the voice that had pulled him back into the light against his will. Crowley. Dean's blood boiled at the name. He dreamt of the things they'd done together, the people they'd hurt or worse. He remembered what he'd said and done to Castiel, and it had been the look of fear in the angel's eyes that had woken him. Dean stabbed the knife into his bedside table and got up, stumbling into the bathroom down the hall of his house.

It had been a year since he and Sam had parted ways. Dean thought it would be safer that way, with him being a... being Dean. He'd bought an old ranch that had been falling to pieces. In the centre of it was a two story house which looked like it had fallen out of To Kill A Mocking Bird. A crumbling white picket fence, a raised porch with a swing and dead flower beds around the base of the house. But Dean fell in love with it the moment he saw it. Inside when you walked in was a narrow hallway with a stair case, to your right was the living room and adjacent kitchen. To the left was a smaller room which Dean used to keep all his old hunting things. His guns, and various other weapons, his father's journal and all the other books he'd taken from the bunker. He also had a few random bottles of gross looking things for various warding spells in case he ever needed them. But under the floor boards of that room, locked in a chest warded from demons was the first blade. Dean kept that room locked and the curtains constantly drawn. He was prepared to let everything dust over and he could forget all about it. The upstairs of Dean's house was a mirror of the bottom floor but with a wall making the larger room into two bedrooms. The smaller room was a bathroom. The bigger of the two bedrooms was Dean's and the second one he had made up incase Sam ever came for a visit. Though he didn't expect him too. For the last year he'd been fixing the house up with the little money he had. When the money had run out he'd found work in town in an old fashioned mechanics. Working with engines kept him calm and sane, he liked it. Cain had bees, Dean had 1L inline-three engines. When the house was finished, Dean found that the lack of a project and a drive brought back old feelings of rage and they constantly bubbled under the surface. So he'd gone in search for a new thing to dedicate himself to. Dean had a conversation with his boss at the mechanics and set up and club on saturdays for the underprivileged kids in his town. He taught them how to take care of cars, he gave them a job and at the same time taught them discipline and how to make friends. Dean had never been very good at it himself, but he found that they helped him with that. Dean was happy. At least, until the nightmares came.

Dean turned on the lights in his bath room and turned on the tap, he cupped his hands under the water and then splashed it on his face, sighing in relief. He rubbed the coldness over the back of his neck and then opened his eyes, looking at himself in the mirror. His eyes were completely black. He blinked and the dark green returned. He swallowed, splashing more water on himself before grabbing a towel. When he dreamed of himself as the demon, it came back to the surface if only for a moment. But that moment was enough for the self loathing and regret to boil back up. He dried himself and went back into his bedroom, sitting on the end of the bed and running his fingers through his hair. Moonlight poured in through the window and he looked up at it.

"Let's go howl at that moon..." the word were like poison in his mind. He growled lowly, jumping up and tugging the curtains across, blocking out the light. He stood in the darkness for a moment, feeling his eyes begin to sting. He hunched over, feeling sobs of anguish rock through his chest up from his stomach. He sank to the floor, sitting pathetically and let tears roll down his cheeks. When the deep melancholy seemed too much, he cried out, his house too far away from anywhere for anyone to hear him. But someone did.

The next morning Dean was up early, he showered and got dressed. He wore a dirty pair of jeans and a old plaid shirt. It made no sense to wear good clothes to work, they'd just get covered in grease and oil. He was sitting at his kitchen table, reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee when there were two hesitant knocks on his front door. He looked up and at the door at the other end of the hall, all he could see was a silhouette. He frowned slightly, put the mug down and walked slowly over to the door. He opened it and froze when he saw the familiar face standing there. Castiel gave him a small smile. Dean almost laughed when he saw he was still wearing the same shirt, trousers and trench coat. But his eyes looked older, worn and Dean recognised a sadness he saw in his own eyes.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel's deep voice was gentle, like someone sticking a toe in first to check the temperature of the water.

"Hey, Cas... what are you doing here?" He'd said it before he could stop himself. He didn't mean it to sound suspicious or angry, but the shock of seeing his old friend made it seem that way.

"I was just... in the neighbourhood and I thought I'd stop by and say hello... and I've done that now, so I'll just..." He trailed off, obviously he didn't want to leave but Dean's tone made him feel like he wasn't wanted.

Dean smiled suddenly, stepping aside. "In the neighbourhood my ass, get your feathery butt in here."

Castiel smiled and walked inside, turning and giving his old friend a hug. Dean hugged him back fiercely, not realising how much he'd missed him until now.

"It's good to see you." His voice was muffled in his tench coat.

"It is." Castiel closed his eyes, feeling relief wash over him.

They went into the kitchen and Dean poured him a coffee.

"What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Well... after you left, Sam and I went looking for Crowley."

Dean's grip tightened on the mug he was holding. But he forced himself to remain calm. "Yeah?"

"We got close a few times but... he's got better at running."

Dean brought over to coffee and put it down in front of Castiel, he sat opposite him, drinking his own, now slightly cold, coffee and moving the newspaper to the side.

"What about you?"

He was silent for a moment, then he told him everything. But fixing the house, the saturday club and everything. Castiel listened and smiled slightly.

"That's really good of you, Dean."

The ex-hunter shrugged. "Least I can do, really. Speaking of work, I've got to get going." He paused, looking at the angel. He didn't want to say goodbye yet, but he had to go to his job. "Make yourself at home... you could even stay for a while, if you wanted. I've got a spare room upstairs."

Castiel thought over this offer for a moment, then nodded. "That sounds great."

Dean smiled. "Awesome, well we can go for a drink or something tonight after work. See you later."

Dean picked up the keys to his truck and started to head out.

"Uh, Dean?"

He turned, looking at him. Castiel held up a set of keys and the then threw them over to him. Dean looked at them and recognised them instantly. His lips parted in surprise, and then he looked at Cas again. He smiled happily and practically ran outside. His Impala was packed next to the old truck he'd been driving. He walked over and touched the hood as he walked to the drivers door. He unlocked his car and got in, breathing in the leather and gripping the steering wheel.

"Oh, baby I'm home... did you miss me?" He said out loud, running his hand over the dash. "Yeah, I missed you too."

He looked up to see Cas standing on the porch watching him, a vaguely amused expression on his face. Dean cleared his throat, trying to pretend that hadn't just happened. He started the engine, letting out an excited giggle before pulling away and driving into town.

He pulled up in front of the mechanics and killed the engine, getting out and heading in. Jake Foster was the owner of shop. He was a stereotypical jolly man with a large stomach under his overalls. Dean mused that if you put a beard on him, he'd be a ginger santa. Jake whistled lowly.

"That beast yours?" He called out, nodding to the Impala.

"Yeah, she is." Dean couldn't help himself from grinning. He'd missed Castiel and his car so much, and now he had both of them. All he needed was a visit from Sam and he'd be a very happy man.

"I'm paying you too much." Jake laughed, it was a kind of booming laugh that could make anyone smile. Jake was part of the reason Dean thought working there helped him, it was impossible to be mad around Jake.

"We got two new ones in this morning, you mind taking a look?" He walked into the shop with Dean, telling him about the cars as he put on his overalls.

"Sounds simple enough." Dean smiled, heading over. Jake watched him.

"What side of who's bed did you wake up on, son?"

Dean looked over as he picked up his tool kit, frowning slightly, but still smiling.

"You're so damn chipper, it's freaking me out."

Dean laughed slightly. "Today's just a good day, is all."

"I'll have what you're having." his booming laugh returned and he walked away. Dean smiled slightly and turned on the CD player, Metallica playing throughout the shop. Dean felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The night previously had been a bad one, but this morning had been the best morning he'd had in a very long time.