Then (Alabama, Two Years Ago)

Dean finds Castiel in the little play yard behind the church. He's sitting cross-legged in the tunnel at the top of the slide, shoulders hunched to make him fit. He looks like he's trying to disappear. Dean climbs the short set of steps up the back of the play set and plops down next to him, letting his legs dangle between the bars and watching his own feet intently. Neither of them says anything for several minutes.

"Cas," Dean finally says. "I have to go home."

"I know," Cas says dully. He doesn't turn towards Dean.

"I mean, I have to go home tomorrow," Dean clarifies, hating himself for saying it. Everything in him is screaming wrong, no, stay. He doesn't want to leave Cas alone to handle this. Even if he has no idea how in the world he can make this any better, he just doesn't.

Cas jerks a little, but still doesn't speak, and Dean can't turn to face him. He can't seem to stop staring at his shoes.

"I figure you guys have enough trouble without worrying about me getting in the way all the time," he tries. He doesn't mention that Hester asked him to go; he doesn't want to throw her under the bus any more than he was willing to fight her on it.

"I guess so," Cas says. His voice sounds dead, and it makes Dean sick. He can feel the distance between them growing already, and he has no idea how to stop it.

"I'm gonna miss you, Cas," Dean whispers. He reaches out, tentatively, and places a hand on Castiel's shoulder. Cas doesn't lean into his touch like usual, but he doesn't shove the hand away either. Dean lingers there, unwilling to let go. This was never how he wanted to say goodbye.

"I'm going to see if Anna needs help with the kids," Cas says. He uncrosses his legs and pushes himself down the slide. He's walking away as soon as his feet touch ground, not looking back at Dean or waiting for him to follow. Dean wants to follow, but he's no longer sure of what Cas wants, so he just watches him go.

He doesn't see Cas again before he leaves.


Now

Castiel wakes to an arm thrown across his chest and a warm presence at his back. He leans into it with a smile, letting his eyes drift closed again. Dean tightens his hold and hums contentedly, pressing a kiss to the spot behind Castiel's ear. The sweetness of the gesture catches Cas off guard, and he rolls over to look at the man beside him, searching his face for the answers to questions he's afraid to ask. Are we okay? Are we anything?

Dean looks soft and sleep-rumpled, with his wrinkled shirt and his hair pressed flat on one side, sticking straight out on the other. He grins at Cas, eyes squinting against the watery light leaking in through the thin fabric of the motel room's curtains.

"Mornin'," he says hoarsely, clearly not as awake as Castiel feels.

"Good morning," Cas answers, trying to resist the urge to start pressing kisses to every inch of that face again.

"C'mere," Dean rumbles, pulling Castiel in closer against his chest. He goes willingly, burying his face in the collar of Dean's t-shirt and sliding his arms around Dean's waist under the covers. He revels in something as simple as being able to touch Dean like this. They may have shared a bed for almost the entire three weeks Castiel stayed with Dean and Sam in Lawrence, but it was more comfort than comfortable, too many things between them going unaddressed and each half expecting the other to disappear at any second. It felt like Dean never quite met his eyes the entire time.

When Cas looks up now he's fixed by clear tourmalines, half-lidded with sleep. Dean's freckles stand out stark against his tan skin in the steely gray light. Castiel decides he can't help himself after all and leans in to press a kiss to Dean's lips.

When Dean returns it without hesitation, Castiel's heart soars. For just a moment he's gone back in time two years, and this is everything it was ever supposed to be. They are young, relaxed, lazy creatures, made of warmth and bathed in light, connecting in all the right places. He's refused to let himself hope so far, but now he finally starts to believe that all the things he told Dean in the dark really don't matter in the light of day.

When they pull away Dean's eyes find his again immediately, and there's a softness in them that sets up a quiet, oddly pleasant ache somewhere beneath Castiel's ribs.

"Okay, sunshine," Dean chides quietly. "Let's go find some breakfast."


Then (Alabama, Two Years Ago)

It never occurred to Castiel that Michael might have known people outside of their family. That just makes him feel worse as he takes in all of the unfamiliar faces that have turned up to bid his brother farewell. There are people of every size, shape, and color, and seemingly from every walk of life. A cluster of elderly men stand with their stooped shoulders squared as much as possible and their heads held high, maintaining a dignity in their grief that Castiel can't begin to fathom. He wonders where they met Michael, what he did to command such straight-backed respect from men whose backs haven't been straightening easily for decades. He sees his Aunt Rachel and her daughter Ruby standing close together. Ruby looks unfamiliar to him in her misery; his only memories of her include pranks worthy of Gabriel and a wicked smirk.

He is hugged and touched and offered condolences from what seems like an endless line of strangers after the funeral. He bears it all with as much stoicism as he can and viciously thinks that when he dies, there will be no funeral at all. It doesn't feel like closure so much as a spectacle, an opportunity for everyone in the world to reach for pieces of a pain they have no right to. He doesn't want to be pitied and consoled by strangers who doubtless think they knew and loved Michael as well as he. Castiel wants to curl up around his love for his brother and guard it from their sight, gnash his teeth at anyone who comes too close and howl at anyone who dares to say they're sorry or they understand. Michael was theirs. No one else should get to act as if they understand what Castiel and his family are going through.

By the time they get home, Castiel is exhausted. He goes straight up to his room and slides the latch on the trapdoor shut behind him. Reaching under his bed, he pulls out a wooden box and crawls onto his bed with it, dumping the contents out in front of him.

Dean has only been gone for a week, but there are already three letters in front of him. He suspects Dean has been writing one every day, but Castiel hasn't had the energy to write him back yet. He feels horrible about the way he left things between them, or he would if he had room to feel more horrible than he does already. All things considered, he thinks Dean will understand if he takes a little time before responding. In the meantime, it's a comfort just to pull each one out and read the words in Dean's slightly messy handwriting. He writes the way he talks, and even now it has the power to make Castiel smile. He conjures up Dean's voice in his head and pretends he's here, pretends he never left. Castiel reads those letters over and over until the words swim in front of his eyes, and falls asleep with one of the pages still clutched in his hands.


Now

The weather hasn't actually improved much from the day before, but with the mood Dean's in it might as well be swimming weather. Anyone looking at him would think he's lost his mind with the way he can't stop grinning from ear to ear. He can barely chew his food for smiling at Cas across the rickety little dining table. Cas grins back and feeds him a piece of bacon, rolling his eyes when Dean nearly drops it because he really can't stop smiling. They're in a world of their own, oblivious to the people around them—both the young couple glaring over their cups of coffee and the old woman behind the counter who sends their waitress over with twice the amount of pancakes they actually ordered.

They took their sweet time getting up and leaving the motel, and they linger over breakfast. It's late in the afternoon before they actually get back on the road. The day just gets gloomier, but not even the low-hanging sky and the muted threats of coming thunder can put a damper on Dean. It's like a parody of yesterday in the best way possible; the radio is on, but otherwise they sit in companionable silence, each hyper-aware of every twitch and breath of the other. They keep glancing at each other, eyes just barely catching before they turn away, blushing and grinning. Cas' hand finds his at some point and their fingers twine together, resting on the console. Faced with a choice between shifting gears and holding Cas' hand, Dean simply learns on the fly how to drive without the necessity of letting go.

Dean insists on taking what he calls the "scenic route," meaning they stick to the winding, bumpy southern backroads as much as possible. Even then, he estimates it will only take them three hours to reach their destination. He's both looking forward to it and unaccountably nervous. Cas is still Cas, but he's also different. Dean can't help but wonder how loss and two years of distance have changed the rest of the Miltons.

It's nearing eight o'clock by the time the Impala turns onto the narrow, twisted gravel driveway that leads to the house, and it still feels too early for Dean. The Impala bumps along, drawing him closer and closer to the place where he last remembers feeling really and truly happy. His stomach turns over with every jolt.

He sees them for a moment, in his mind's eye: Anna laughing, her bright hair shimmering in the sun and a stripe of pink across her pale cheeks; Luci, cracking dry jokes in an even dryer voice without ever pulling his head out of whatever book he's reading, surprising a laugh out of Raphael; Hester glaring at him while Inias peeks out from behind her legs with big, shy eyes; Gabriel putting maple syrup on everything, including the inside of Luci's pillowcase, and insisting it was to give him sweet dreams; Michael, straight shoulders and a big smile, keeping his family together through every difficulty and making their home a safe harbor in an uncertain world; Uriel hero worshipping his older brothers from a distance, following them around and trying to be just like them.

And Castiel, leaning over Dean's bed on the morning they met, sitting by him at breakfast, standing at the edge of the woods, reaching out his hand with an unreadable expression, eyebrows lifted in a silent challenge. Castiel obscured by bees, doing the impossible and then shrugging it off. I do it all the time. Castiel taking a flying leap into the lake off the pier, coming up laughing and dripping, black hair plastered to his forehead and blue eyes sparking with mirth. Castiel's lips on his, Castiel's hands in his hair, Castiel's smiles. Castiel offering him a jar of honey, looking so worried. Don't be mad at me, Dean.

"Dean," Castiel's voice breaks into his thoughts. He realizes he's let the car roll to a stop, just before the bend in the driveway that will bring the house into view.

"Are you alright?" Cas asks him softly. He offers a grin in response, but it's small compared to the smiles they've been trading since breakfast. Dean compensates with a gentle squeeze to the hand he's still holding across the console.

"Just nervous I guess," he admits quietly. "I haven't been here in so long."

"You wonder if it's changed much," Castiel says. If it's changed as much as me, he doesn't add.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I just…you guys were like my second family once. I keep wondering what kind of mess I left you in."

"You didn't make the mess, Dean. There was nothing you could have done."

"I could have been there," Dean disagrees quietly. Castiel just shakes his head and squeezes his hand back.

"We didn't let you. Let it go. And let's get inside before my legs are permanently bent to the shape of your seats."

That earns him another small smile, and Dean continues up the drive, staring straight ahead and trying not to take it in, trying not to really see it when he sees it. But he does anyway.

The house looms black at the top of the hill, imposing and strange. The windows are all dark, save for one corner on the bottom floor that Dean knows is the kitchen. A familiar red Sidekick is parked in front of the house, which strikes Dean as weird—they usually park in the back—until he remembers that Anna doesn't live here anymore. Seeing that little bit of evidence that it's true makes him feel sadder than he expected.

Dean parks his car beside Anna's and kills the engine. He and Cas sit there quietly for a moment, listening to the motor die down, before they finally pry their hands apart and climb out of the car. Dean stretches, feeling the satisfying pop and crack of bones and joints forced to stay in the same position for far too long. He pulls their bags out of the trunk, slinging two over one shoulder and tossing two more to Cas. He's bone tired all of a sudden, and he thinks nostalgically of that little bed in the attic.

You don't even know if that's still Cas' room, he thinks sleepily. A second later his brain screeches to a halt, wide awake and stumbling all over the implications of what just ran through it.

Easy, Winchester, he admonishes himself. You're only here until you figure out what to do next. Don't go painting your name on the mailbox and writing up the wedding vows just yet.

He shakes himself out of his own head and follows Castiel up the handful of porch steps. The front door opens before they reach it, and Dean finds himself wrapped up in skinny arms and smothered by an abundance of red hair before he fully knows what's happening.

"Dean Winchester," Anna effuses. Her voice is higher than he remembers, and there's a slightly shaky note to it that sets off alarm bells, but when she releases him she's all smiles and those big, blue Milton eyes, just like he remembered. He drops his duffels and pulls her back in for another hug, lifting her off the ground and laughing.

"Anna! As I live and breathe," he exclaims, setting her back on her feet and grinning at her. "It's good to see you."

"It's great to see you," she agrees. "Now grab your bags and get inside. And stop giving me the death glare, Cas. I wasn't going to run off with him."

Dean gives Cas a look as if to say, "ooh, she caught you." Cas just scowls at Anna and rolls his eyes at Dean, but his slight blush gives him away, and Dean laughs again. He feels a little out of step in presence of another person he knows. He's been practically on another planet with Cas for the last three days, and the sudden re-entry is loud and bright and disorienting.

He follows Anna's bouncing steps into the front hall, dropping his bags where she points and heading into the kitchen ahead of Cas. He's met with the sight of Hester leaning against the counter on the opposite wall, looking uncharacteristically casual and somehow younger in jeans and a long button-up flannel shirt. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back from her face in a haphazard approximation of the neat bun he remembers. When she sees him all she does is smile at him over her coffee mug, and Dean never thought he could miss someone glaring at him so much.

There's a pair of boys at the table, bent over what looks like math homework. The dark-skinned one with the round, serious face takes no notice when they come in, and it takes Dean a moment to realize he's looking at a teenaged Uriel. The pale, sandy-haired one looks up with wide eyes, face splitting into a slow grin when he sees Dean. Inias. It blows Dean away how much older they look; he remembers them as such little kids.

The kitchen is empty other than that, though, and Dean realizes that the house in general is too quiet for this early in the evening. There's no thump of music from Gabriel's room in the back of the house, no sounds of familial bickering filtering through the old walls. He thinks of the lightless windows he saw from the road. The hallways at his back are dark and empty, and it sends a chill down Dean's spine.

"Welcome home, Cassy," Hester says sincerely. "And hello again, Dean. Anna tells me you'll be staying with us for a while. Please make yourself at home."

"Thank you ma'am," he says, earning a laugh from Anna.

"Oh, don't call her ma'am. You'll make her feel old."

"Just tryin' to be polite," he mutters, and Hester smiles at him again.

"I appreciate that, but please…don't ever call me ma'am again." She makes a face that is so incongruous with how he remembers her, wrinkled nose and squinted eyes. It's more like something he would expect from Anna…while Anna's bell-like laugh is too loud and bright, more like something he'd have expected from Gabe once upon a time. He wonders who got the Michael seat in this game of sibling musical chairs, or if anyone did.

"Anyway," she goes on, clearing her throat and setting her mug aside, "the two of you must be tired. And hungry, if I know Cassy."

Cas groans at Dean's shoulder, sounding embarrassed, but Hester ignores him.

"Leftovers in the fridge, Anna was kind enough to help me return Cassy's room to a semi-inhabitable state, and you have the run of the house. I'm going to head to bed as soon as these two finish their homework. We'll have to save the full reunion for tomorrow."

And with that she goes to the sink with her mug and then busies herself checking over Inias' answers—long division, by the look of it, poor kid. It's abrupt, but much more like the Hester Dean remembers. He turns to Cas and Anna.

"So…food?"


Then (Two Years Ago)

Castiel finally makes himself come downstairs after the fourth time Anna bangs on his door. He hasn't eaten in a couple of days, but he doesn't feel particularly like doing it now. The gnawing in his stomach is buried under too many other pains to bother him much, and more than anything he just wants to stay asleep. Unconsciousness is relief, and the waking world barely feels as real as his dreams are anyway.

The sun is shining, and it shouldn't be. The house is still standing, there's still oxygen to breathe, the world is going on around them and it shouldn't be. It doesn't feel like the world should keep existing without Michael, and Castiel resents the universe's implication that Michael wasn't all that important to anyone but them. He hated those people at the funeral yesterday for daring to be sorry when they couldn't possibly know how hollow he felt, but he hates this more. He hates that there are people in the world going on with their lives as if nothing dire has happened because for them, nothing has. He wants the whole world on its knees and wailing.

Anna and Gabe are at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee in hand. No one else is around. Anna isn't smiling and Gabriel isn't joking, and Castiel's desires shift; he suddenly just wants this all to be over. He wants Gabriel to be laughing and he wants Luci to come downstairs and yell about some stupid prank Gabe's played on him. He wants to hear Raph and Luci bickering about religion and politics. He wants Uriel and Inias running around like wild things and Hester reprimanding them for it. He feels a sudden flash of anger at Michael, because it isn't bad enough he had to go and die, but he broke the whole family too and it's more than Castiel can take.

But did you know sometimes I'm mad at her? My mom, I mean.

They come echoing up out of nowhere, those words Dean spoke to him one sunny day in what feels like another life. He remembers not understanding what Dean meant. He wishes he didn't understand them now.

Castiel turns around without saying a word and goes back to his room.


Now

Dean is standing at the foot of the ladder leading to Castiel's room in the attic. He looks up into the darkness above him, wondering if it's changed as much as everything else about this place has. He feels a gentle nudge at his shoulder: Cas.

"You're holding up the line, Dean," he says. Dean rolls his eyes and starts to climb, wincing at how loudly the ladder creaks every time he places his foot on the next rung.

"Two words, dude. WD-40."

"Technically, that barely counts as one word," Castiel says from behind him.

"Smartass," Dean shoots back. He pulls himself into the room and reaches up the wall for the light switch he remembers. It's still there, and when the light comes on Dean's breath catches for a moment.

It's like going back in time again. He could be seventeen, having just come in from swimming in the lake with Michael, Gabe, and Luci, dodging Hester as she yells at them about dripping water all over the rug in the hallway. Dean moves around the room slowly, taking in every familiar detail with a growing lump in his throat. The blue rug, the crisp white curtains at the little square window, the odd symbols carved into the bedposts...it's all there. Dean runs his fingers over the grooves in the cool wood. He's almost certain if he gets down on his hands and knees he'll find a stack of dusty books shoved underneath the edge of the bed, with Alice's Adventures in Wonderland sitting right on top.

"Dean?" He turns to find Castiel watching him from the hole in the floor, eyes slightly apprehensive. Dean tries to say something, but it gets caught and his vision blurs.

Castiel pulls himself into the room and is at Dean's side in a handful of seconds, grasping his upper arms gently and peering into his face, concerned.

"Dean?" He asks again. Dean shakes his head; he can't explain.

And just like it used to be, he doesn't need to.

"I know," Cas says softly. "Dean, I know. I needed just one thing to stay the same."

Dean holds Cas close and tight and just breathes it in, the same smell he remembers, clean wood and linen starch and Castiel, and the lingering old-dust scent of an attic just underneath. He feels like an idiot for getting teary-eyed over a room, but it's like rediscovering hope to stand here, in the one place preserved as a memorial to the last summer of his childhood.

He gives himself a minute to just take it in before he lets out a sigh and pulls back from Castiel.

"So…are we…I mean…" he trails off pointedly, and it takes Cas a moment before he catches on and immediately turns red.

"Hester and Anna made an assumption," Castiel mumbles, not meeting Dean's eyes. "Of course you're welcome to any vacant room in the house. We can get you unpacked and settled in tomorrow if you like." He doesn't ask, but Dean hears the request anyway: stay with me, just one more night.

Dean looks around at the room, then back at the blushing man standing so close to him, shoulders drawn in tight in preparation for a rejection and eyes fixed on some random point on space beyond Dean's shoulder. He decides to stay.


Author's Note: First of all, let me apologize profusely for being a fail at keeping update deadlines. I wish I could say I had some big, wonderful mitigation for being over a week late, but I unfortunately do not. It was more like a ton of little reasons. Be that as it may, the chapter is here now. I know it's a little short and a little fluffy, but there will be plottiness coming up soon that I need to set the stage for. That being said, I want to let you all know that there will be a two to three week hiatus between this and the next chapter. Life is busy and inspiration is flagging, so I want to give myself time to make sure the next chapters are exactly what I want them to be before I go ahead. Thank you for reading my little story and I'll see you in a few weeks! And thanks a billion times to ohamandalynn and D, the two people keeping me sane and grammatically correct.