Sam was right – this mattress is too goddamn big.

It's a barren wasteland; acres of empty real estate between Dean and Lisa's sleeping form. And every time insomnia strikes and he lies there at 2 am, staring over at her in the green glow from his alarm clock, the space is bigger.

Dean knows he's a jackass. He doesn't try to be, he really doesn't, he's just terrible at anything that involves emotions and commitments and thinking about what he really wants. Somehow he always manages to hurt the people that love him and he hates it... but he's got no idea how to stop it.

So he watches Lisa retreat from his side of the bed and he keeps his mouth shut about it. Because she's a smart girl - it's part of why he liked her in the first place - and Dean's sure that she knows something's up with him. Something serious. But having that conversation means someone leaving, means giving up, and neither one of them is willing to face that yet.

So the space grows, and Dean keeps being a jackass.

And then, a month after he moved in, he just can't take it anymore. Maybe he can't say anything to Lisa, but that doesn't mean he can't try to work it out for himself.

So, even though he'd rather remove his own spleen with a rusty spoon, he goes to talk with Sam the next day.

They're on the tiny balcony outside Sam's 400-square-foot-but-in-a-trendy-neighborhood Boston apartment, the sweating beer in Dean's hand nowhere near enough alcohol to make him comfortable with what he has to say.

He knows that his brother has done the basic arithmetic – putting together Dean's big bisexual coming out speech from back in college and his current weird vibe with Castiel. So at least he won't have to start by explaining things like butt sex or, worse, epic gay love and shit.

And Sam, as usual, deftly bypasses Dean's emotional constipation and gets to the point.

"You don't know what to do about Lisa."

"Jesus, dude, quit it with that Sylvia Browne shit. You gotta let a man speak his mind in his own time, ease into things."

"Sorry." Sam presses his lips together, looks out at the city's skyline. He flips a bottle cap between his fingers, crosses and uncrosses his feet beneath his chair. "You ready yet?"

Dean sighs and slouches, defeated. "Yeah."

"Are you in love with her?"

Dean sighs again, and groans to go with it this time, squirming in his seat like that will somehow let him worm out of answering the question.

"I thought I was. It had been so long since I'd felt anything for anyone, and, you know, Lisa's great. Who wouldn't fall in love with her?"

Sam's quiet for a second, knowing that he's about to get into the real meat of it. "But then, Cas."

"Yeah. Cas."

"I thought that wasn't a possibility anymore."

"It's not. At least, I don't think so. You read the book, you know how awful I made him feel. What'd that Kakutani chick say in her review? 'A tragic story, ostensibly about love, that is in reality a case study in internalized homophobia and the utter ruin it brings upon everyone it touches.'" Dean huffs and takes a long pull on his beer.

"Dude, you memorized it? How many times did you read that damn review?"

"Look, Sammy, when the New York fucking Times passes judgment on your romantic failures, you tell me how well you handle it."

Sam raises his hands in surrender. "Fine. So anyway-"

"So anyway, no. I'm not counting on Cas ever coming back from that. But being around him... it makes me remember what it can feel like. How it can be."

Sam's eyes are practically laser beams boring into the side of Dean's skull.

"You don't feel it with her. What you felt with him, I mean."

Dean picks at the corner of the label on his beer bottle, shredding the paper until it makes confetti that rains down on the streets of the Back Bay district.

"No." It's bloody and raw, like Sam fished into the very depths of Dean until he pulled this confession up, painful and festering. But he's lighter once he gets it out. "I don't think I ever will."

Sam waits a minute, lets Dean recover from that revelation. "You deserve to be happy, Dean."

"Maybe not, Sammy. Maybe you get one shot, one chance to be happy, and then you're fucked."

"I don't think that's true."

"Oh really?" Dean laughs, but there's no humor in it. "So if something tragic happened and you lost Jess, you really think you could be happy with anyone else?"

Sam stays silent. He knows the answer; he knows that it won't help Dean.

A seagull flies by, loud and irritating. A ship horn blows in the distance.

Finally, Sam speaks. "So what are you going to do?"

Dean's chewed on his lip so hard that it's swollen, his jaw tense as he replies.

"I don't know, Sammy. I mean, it's not perfect, what I have with her, not by a long shot. But it's easy, and it's pleasant enough. Maybe that's all I get now. Maybe that's all I deserve."

Sam wants to say that Dean and Lisa are both great people, that they deserve to be happy, really happy, and shouldn't settle until they find that intangible magic that he shares with Jess. But it's not his place, and Dean wouldn't believe him anyway.

Not until he learns it on his own; not until he earns it. So Sam drains his beer and says the only thing he can.

"Whatever you decide, Dean, you've always got a home with me if you need it."

Dean sighs and picks up their empty bottles.

"We need more beer. Like, enough that I can forget that I intentionally chose to have this stupid chick-flick conversation with my brother."

He slides open the door to the apartment and yells.

"Hey, Jess? I must have lost my balls when I got here earlier. If you see 'em laying around, be a peach and just stick them in your purse where you keep Sam's, okay?"

He doesn't even have to turn around to know when to duck the bottle cap Sam chucks at his head.


It's the next Saturday afternoon, sunny and warm, and Dean's in his driveway under the hood of his baby. There's grease stains on his jeans and under his nails, there's a cooler of beer at his feet, and they're playing AC/DC on the radio.

So basically, if heaven exists, this is pretty damn close to it. Only way it could be better was if Cas was -

"Hello, Dean."

Seriously?

Dean stands and crosses his fingers. "I wish I had a million dollars."

Cas does that funny head-tilt that makes him look like a confused puppy.

"Are you asking to borrow money from me?"

Dean laughs and swipes at the sweat trickling down his forehead.

"No, man, I'm good. I was just testing a theory."

Cas frowns like he always does when he doesn't understand what's going on, so Dean decides to move on before he asks.

"Haven't seen you around a whole lot lately. Everything okay with you?"

Now Cas smiles, that big, rare one that seems to swallow his entire face. "Yes, thank you, I'm quite well. I've just been wrapped up in a new project."

Dean's bent back over the car, the look on Cas' face doing things to him that are totally inappropriate given his current relationship status. So his voice is muted when he answers.

"Oh, yeah? Back to writing or are you taking on something new?"

"Writing. It's the only thing I know how to do. I can't imagine what else I would even attempt."

Dean smirks, glad his face is bent over the engine since he can barely restrain his natural urge to flirt.

No, Cas, you know how to do plenty more than that.

But he's made a deal with himself that he's going to actively work against fucking stuff up from now on. He's still with Lisa, something that confuses him even more since his little revelatory heart-to-heart with Sam, but he figures the answer will come to him eventually. He's always been a little slow with stuff that has to do with emotions.

And until that's settled, Dean's not going to say or do anything that could hurt Cas. He's not even sure what that would be since he's got no idea how Cas feels about him anymore, whether flirting would be perceived as sexual harassment or leading Cas on or just embarrassing for Dean.

So. Friends-stuff only. They started out that way; how hard can it be to go back?

Twenty minutes later, and Dean's got his answer.

Really, really hard. Like shit that only John McClane or Rambo could pull off. Because the sight of Cas, happy and relaxed in the sunshine, is like seeing a sparkly unicorn with rainbows streaming out its ass. Pure magic and beauty, just begging for Dean to put his hands on and ride until they're both panting and sweating and-

GOD DAMMIT, DEAN. You've really got to work on your self-control. You're a grown man, for Christ's sake.

So he doesn't let himself look up very often, instead fiddling with hoses and belts that don't need any work, topping up the washer fluid, checking the oil at least three times in a row. And he listens, all about how Cas has finally found this great idea for a story and how fulfilling it is to be writing again, how he feels like he's finally getting back a part of himself that he'd thought was long dead. Dean gets the feeling that he's the first person Cas has been able to tell all this to, he's so worked up with all this pent-up excitement that's spilling out of him and all over Dean-

-and then his brain is vacationing in Gutterville, USA once again.

Dean sighs and straightens up, rubbing at the muscles in his lower back that are protesting his posture, reminding him once again that he's not exactly young anymore.

"Hand me a beer, would you?"

Cas slides off the cooler he's been perched on and fishes a couple of bottles out, popping the tops like he's done it a thousand times before.

Which, judging by the number of empties that fill the recycling bin in front of his house every Monday morning, he probably has.

Dean takes a long drink and leans back against the shiny black of the car.

"Lisa didn't want to join you for your little stint as a mechanic?" Cas asks.

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, I'm on my own for the week. She's in some friend's wedding back in Indiana and they're running around doing dress fittings and bridal lunches and fuck-if-I-know-what-else."

"You aren't accompanying her?"

"Jess is due to pop any day now. Just wouldn't be right if the godfather wasn't there to witness the blessed event. Well, witness it after it's all over, and everybody's all cleaned up and aren't in pain and don't have their private bits just hanging out there."

Dean's still traumatized, having made the mistake of watching part of one the birthing videos Sam brought home in the name of "research" when they first found out they were expecting. They'd made it exactly seven minutes and twelve seconds – until the first extreme close-up – until he and Jessica had both fled the room screaming.

"Jesus Christ, Sam, what the hell?! Did you get this from the horror section or something?"

"It just looks so angry," Jessica cried. "I don't want to make my body that angry. What the fuck was I thinking – Sam, you're like seven feet tall! Imagine what it's going to be like with your giant hellspawn fighting its way out of me-"

It'd taken two hours and many promises from Sam that she would get all the drugs in the known universe the second she went into labor before Jess calmed back down, although she still gets queasy every time someone mentions how close she is to her due date.

Cas takes a drink, looking past Dean at his baby.

"You've done a great job fixing her up."

And now it's Dean's turn to wear the face-splitting grin of pride, turning to admire the Impala's beauty.

"Yeah. It took me forever and cost a metric fuckton but she's worth it. She's perfect now."

Cas steps closer, peering at the car's shiny black lines, the perfectly polished interior. It really is a beautiful car, although he can't help noting the only part that doesn't appear to be restored.

"You didn't re-cover the back seat."

Dean flushes, his eyes drawn to the cracked black leather, the white stuffing showing through in patches.

"No. I, uh, I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Cas does the fucking head tilt again and Dean stares at the ground, raising the beer up to hover in front of his lips as if the glass could hold back the words that go against his new resolution.

"Some things are sacred, Cas."


"Hey, hand me that compression gauge, would you?"

Cas obliges, barely hesitating as he scribbles in his notebook. A year ago he didn't know the difference between an oil filter wrench and a can opener, but ever since Bobby had given Dean permission to use his garage to work on the Impala – an offer that had prompted Dean to vault over the bar and hug Bobby hard enough to lift him off his stool until he protested, "Don't make a big deal about it, ya idgit. We're closed on Sundays anyway," - it had become an integral part of their weekend. Dean liked to joke that it was his equivalent of attending church.

And more often than not, that joke would turn into another one about how most people fall to their knees during religious experiences, which would then lead, naturally, to groping and blow jobs in the backseat.

Leave it to Dean Winchester to get from God to giving head in two steps or less.

Which is how Dean finds himself sitting on the worn leather of the backseat with Cas kneeling in the floorboard before him, those full lips pink and shiny and sucking enthusiastically on Dean's rock-hard cock, when Bobby walks into the garage.

"Hey Dean, have you seen my phone lying around? Ellen says it's not at the Roadhouse and that's the only other damn place I go besides here, so-"

Bobby looks up, finally, noticing that Dean's just sitting in the backseat instead of actually working on his car. What he can't see from that distance is that Dean's half naked with his boyfriend's tongue gliding over his balls.

Dean's not sure what the closed car doors are protecting more – his dignity or Bobby's sanity.

"Everything alright there, boy?"

"Yeah, Bobby, doing great, just - ah!" Cas has taken this moment to decide he likes practical jokes, swallowing Dean down until he's practically deep-throating him, humming softly to himself as he pulls back to lick at Dean's precome before plunging back down.

"Just...?"

"Sorry, I must be, uh, still hungover from last night or something. I was – oh, fuck – I'm testing out the upholstery. You know, seeing if I can get by with it for a few more years or if it needs to be – Christ – if it needs re-covering."

He's panting by the time he finishes speaking, straining to hold back the string of expletives that he wants to scream over the obscene things Cas' mouth is doing.

"Yeah, alright." Bobby's face clearly says that he doesn't buy it but that he probably doesn't want to know. "So have you seen the phone?"

Oh, Christ - he glances down and Cas winks, the little fucker. He opens his mouth wider so Dean can see his tongue dragging over him, doing that THING to the tip that Dean still hasn't figured out how to do himself - and then he remembers about Bobby, who is staring at him like he's wondering if he should call in some sort of medical professional.

Dean tries to speak through his clenched jaw, his teeth grinding together. Cas has picked up the pace and brought his hands into the action, the friction and heat nearly impossible for Dean to think through.

"Toolbox. Far corner. Next to my keys." He pants for a second, catching at Castiel's hair, but he's not sure if he wants to pull him off or urge him on. "Iwasgoingtobringittoyouatthebartonight."

Bobby picks up the ancient Nokia clunker. "Thanks. Guess I'll see you later, then. Good luck with that whole..." he waves his hand vaguely in Dean's direction,"...upholstery analysis."

Dean throws up a hand in what he hopes is an approximation of a wave until Bobby disappears from sight, the sound of his old truck starting up rumbling into the garage.

"Fuck, Cas, I'm gonna-"

That's all the warning he gets out before he's coming, hard and long from fighting it so much, blacking out for a second as his head drops onto the seat back.

Cas wipes his mouth and crawls up into the seat next to him, smiling, his eyes sparkling.

"Do you think Bobby suspected anything?"

"Nah. His dick's rustier than the junkyard out back. He probably doesn't even remember what sex looks like."

Cas wants to believe that the relieved tone in Dean's voice is out of modesty, that he just wouldn't want anyone knowing the details of his sex life. But he's heard too many salacious stories going around the bar of Dean's past conquests to believe that could ever be true.

He doesn't say anything though; he never does. And then something feral slides over Dean's features. He shoves Cas down in the seat and growls against his ear.

"Your turn. And I'm going to tease like a motherfucker, make you beg for it. Payback's a bitch."


"You know, I never thought I'd be able to look at an Impala again."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "They're everywhere, Cas. They're just generic as fuck now."

Cas shakes his head and leans back. They've talked for hours - Dean catching Cas up on how everyone's doing back at Harvelle's and telling him about his work; Cas smiling and nodding, proud of himself for being outside and holding a real conversation.

The sun has drifted lower in the sky, the light a darker gold and catching on the scruff of Cas' chin, playing up the flecks in Dean's eyes.

"I don't mean literally, Dean. I just didn't think I'd be able to look at one and appreciate it. The last time I ever saw you was in that car."

"Uh, no it wasn't," Dean answers slowly, afraid to step this deeply into the territory of their shared history. "It was in my room, after that fight."

Cas shakes his head. "It was half an hour after that. I was walking back, and then I saw you peel out of the parking lot."

Dean wants to wonder if it would have changed anything if he'd seen Cas there, if he'd waited another five minutes, but he knows that it wouldn't have.

"So you wrote a note instead."

Cas clears his throat and looks away. Dean chews on his lip for a moment, debating, then decides there's nothing wrong with what he's about to say... except that it's eight years overdue.

"That's not the last time I saw you, you know."

"No?"

"Nu uh." Dean leans back against the side of the car and stretches his legs out before him. He's in the thick of it now, might as well get comfortable. "I went to one of your book signings. In Miami."

Cas can remember that one, sort of. He'd been more on edge than he usually was, afraid that one of the crew at Harvelle's would have heard about it, maybe felt compelled to make the four hour drive down and attend.

And if they were there for the reading, a selection that described green eyes and strong hands, passion and fear and self-incrimination, he would feel like he'd bared not only his soul but Dean's - and against his will. So Cas had scoured the crowd inside that stupid Barnes & Noble. There were no familiar faces; he was sure of it.

"I didn't see you there."

Dean stares at the bottle in his hand, catches a drop of condensation that was about to drip off the glass and onto his thigh.

"Yeah, I didn't want you to. You'd been hiding from me – dodging my calls, blocking my emails - and I thought it might throw off your game if you knew I was there. So I hid in the back, in the stacks. Watched you from between copies of War and Peace and listened to the reading. You have a great voice for that, by the way. It was captivating."

"You came all that way and didn't want to say hello?"

"It was the first week of the book's launch, Cas. I hadn't read it yet. I hadn't seen the reviews. All I knew was what you had told me – that it was a fictionalized account of our relationship. So when I heard the specifics about how I'd hurt you every day, just by hiding things... I mean, I knew that I'd screwed up by not telling Sam. You made that clear, and I got it. But until I heard our story in your own words, I really didn't understand how big of an asshole I'd been, how much damage I'd done to you.

"I'd been planning on approaching you. Figured you'd at least have to talk to me for the five seconds it would take to sign my copy of your book. But after I heard about the depression, the jealousy, the anger... I just lost it. I was heartbroken, guilty, miserable, furious with myself... just a giant mess, really. I fled before you even started taking questions. Walked right out the front door with your book in my hand, and it wasn't until I was about 30 miles up the turnpike that I realized that I hadn't even paid for it."

Dean had been staring off as he spoke, but he makes himself lock eyes with Cas now, makes sure that he is understood.

"I don't even know how to say sorry for what I did to you. I just... I was an idiot, and I understand now how wrong it was to try to keep you as my little secret.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Cas. Never. It's my biggest regret."

Castiel nods and swallows, thickly, carefully blinking back the tears in his eyes.

"It's alright, Dean. I forgave you a long time ago. And I hope you'll accept my apology – I'm sorry that I never really talked to you about how I was feeling, at least not until I published it for the whole world to read. And I'm sorry I never picked up the phone after I left, never said a proper goodbye."

Dean clears his throat and nods.

"Water long under the bridge, Cas."

And just like that, the gaping chasm of pain and guilt and thousands of unsaid things that has been between them for so long closes, the ground scorched but smooth, solid.

Dean smiles, lighter than he's felt in years. He leans over to fish his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Now that I've confessed to my criminal act of shoplifting, I can make amends for it. What do I owe you? Fifteen, twenty bucks?"

Dean starts pulling out bills and tossing them at Cas, who's laughing and throwing them right back.

"I wish I'd had you negotiate my contract if you think that's what it's worth to me. I only get pennies per book, Dean."

Dean reaches back in his pocket but comes up empty. "Sorry, dude. I don't carry change."

Cas tilts his head, an idea coming to him.

"How about we just say that you owe me a favor?"

And Dean should know better than to just accept, but he's new to this whole not-fucking-things-up concept. So he smiles, nods, and finishes his beer.

"Deal."