"I have to find a therapist."

"No shit. I've been telling you this for years."

Cas sighs and leans his forehead against the top of his desk, the phone at his ear clanking against the wood.

"Yes, thank you, Gabriel. Your wit is so very helpful for my situation."

"As is your sarcasm, little brother."

Cas can't remember why he thought it was a good idea to make this call. Something about being uncomfortable talking on the phone and needing to ease himself into it with someone familiar. But now all he can think about is how his someone familiar is also someone who's a total pain in the ass.

He keeps his voice even, trying not to let himself be irritated.

"It's a condition of my agent taking me back. I have to be in therapy."

Gabriel's voice crackles with surprise.

"Your agent? Are you working again, Castiel?"

"Sort of. I have a proposal and a few chapters. But I don't know how to do this, Gabe. I've got no clue how to find a psychiatrist, much less any idea what I'm going to say once I'm there."

"Just a suggestion, but I'd start with the total nervous breakdown that led to you spending the last several years like a smelly, alcoholic hermit."

Cas squeezes his eyes shut, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

"Still not helping."

Gabriel sighs, then falls silent for a long moment.

"I'm sorry. I'm actually very happy and very proud of you. Do you want me to come out there and stay with you, help you get your melon shrunk?"

It was a tempting offer - letting someone else face his fear for him, hold his hand to and from the psychiatrist's office - but Cas couldn't take it.

"I think I've got to handle it on my own. I mean, that's kind of the whole point, right? Thanks, though."

"Any time. Love you."

Cas hangs up and starts his computer, typing "psychiatrist" into the search bar. He stares at the list of results and frowns.

He can't decide what he feels more - ashamed that it's come to this or proud that he's doing something about it.

He clicks on the top result, picks the phone back up.

"Yes, hello. I was wondering if Dr. Moseley is accepting new patients?"


Castiel's appointment is two days later, first thing in the morning.

He sets his alarm clock, and then checks it three more times to make sure he's done it correctly. This is only the second time he's had had to get up at a specific time in years – the last being his recent appointment with Pamela, when he was so nervous that he was awake more than half the night anyway - and he's worried he's forgotten how to operate the damn thing.

He pulls out his clothes, pressing them carefully. He tries to think about what he will say to this therapist, this total stranger. How he will explain the fact that he has to be there.

And then he drinks enough whiskey to make the world spin and double, enough to fill up all the empty spaces inside him and leave no room for his anxieties. Enough to make him black out until the beeping alarm startles him back to consciousness, the thin light of morning slipping around his drapes.


A month passes.

Dean's car is missing from its usual place in the driveway next door more often than not, busy with work and helping Sam and Jess with the new baby, but Cas doesn't really seek him out in the few times Dean is home. He's too consumed with therapy and writing.

He hasn't decided if Dr. Moseley is his savior or Satan incarnate, but he can't deny that things are starting to change for him. At his first appointment he could barely speak without tearing up, and he didn't even know why. She just handed him tissues and nodded, making little notes to herself, and told him he'd need to come in twice a week.

A week later she tells him his diagnosis – generalized anxiety disorder with comorbid depression and alcohol dependency. Castiel feels like this should somehow make him feel worse, all these clinical labels slapped all over him like he's some sort of damaged shipping container. But it doesn't. His problems have names; therefore, they have treatments. His issues are separate from Cas himself, things he can hold out and examine at a distance now. It's better, a bit.

The medications and behavioral therapies she implements don't hurt, either.

She makes him go out for groceries instead of ordering them online, an assignment that takes Cas three tries to accomplish because he has a panic attack in the produce section on the first one, then goes back only to run out on a full cart in the checkout line when the cashier looks up and asks him if he'd prefer paper or plastic.

But he gets through it, learns some techniques for quieting the voice in his head that tells him that everyone is judging him. He goes to a movie, even buys himself popcorn. He sits in a coffee shop to write, learns to smile back at the barista and then focus on his work instead of the swarms of people around him.

And then Dr. Moseley makes him talk about horrible things.

"Tell me about something painful in your past."

Cas' breath is sharp, a tremor in his chest like his lungs are seizing. He expects to flash back on some scene with Dean or his drug and sex haze spiral. But he doesn't.

What comes up is so much worse.

"My father was the only person I was completely sure loved me. And now he's dead, and I don't know if anyone will care that much about me ever again."

Cas cries for the rest of the session after that, ugly, body-wracking sobs that he can barely breathe through. But he feels freer, stronger once it subsides.

She sends him to AA. He doesn't participate, not yet, and he hasn't completely stopped drinking, but he can't help but see something serene in the stories of struggle, feel something reverential and peaceful during every Thursday night meeting in the damp basement of Our Lady of Mercy.

He's healing.

And then Dr. Moseley drops another bomb.

"What about the relationships in your life currently, Castiel?"

"Um, there aren't any, really. I've been trying to keep in touch with my brother, but he can be difficult."

Cas fidgets with the button on his cuff, twisting it hard enough that he almost snaps the thin thread holding it on.

"You mentioned something once about a neighbor, an ex-love."

Cas nods, spreading his fingers on the knees of his jeans like thin, white spiders against the dark fabric.

"Yes. Dean."

The name is difficult to say here, in this place where all his pain and darkness have been pulled out of him and shoved into the sunlight.

"How is your relationship with Dean?"

"It's good. We've been able to discuss our history, make amends to one another."

"And that's the extent of it? Friendly neighbors, no residual romantic feelings?"

He thinks about how his heart still leaps every time he hears Dean's voice rumble through the shared wall of their homes, how his dreams - when he's lucky enough to have pleasant ones - are filled with green eyes and a hard jaw, stubble and strong fingers.

He thinks about the bouquet of pens he'd found on his front step the day after their trip to New York. Two dozen of his favorite ball points in a rainbow of colors, arranged with rubber bands and standing in the same empty jar that used to sit on his nightstand in Dean's room. The note tucked into the top was simple, perfect. "Congratulations, Cas. I'm so proud of you."

"...There are still feelings there, yes."

"Have you discussed those with Dean?"

"What?" Cas is shocked, the idea so unfathomable that he can't believe Dr. Moseley would even ask the question. "Of course not. Dean is in a relationship."

"And yet you persist in having feelings for him, hidden under the pretense of a friendship. Do you believe he may reciprocate those feelings?"

Cas can't sit still now, fidgeting and flushed and anxious. His body feels too big, too obvious, but when his voice comes it is very, very small.

"I don't actually know."

"Then I suggest you find out."

"What?"

"Open, honest relationships are a necessary and integral part of a healthy life, Castiel. This man is significant to you, and not just because of your past. So be honest with him, and ask for the same."

Cas sits in shocked silence, his mouth literally hanging open.

"At least think about it, Castiel. Our time is up for the day."


Cas thinks about it. A lot.

At first he just thinks that Dr. Moseley is clearly a quack to have suggested such a stupid thing. And then he starts thinking about what it would be like if he actually went through with it, if he really tried to have a future with Dean beyond small talk on the porch and the odd day when Lisa was out of town.

He thinks about it while sorting his laundry, while making a sandwich, while staring at his ceiling and waiting for sleep to claim him. He thinks about it in the shower, and lets his thoughts spill over into fantasies of Dean coming back to him, joining him in the hot spray of water every morning and pressing hard and wet against his back, his mouth teasing at the nape of Cas' neck until all thoughts of getting clean are forgotten.

He thinks about it so much that it soon becomes the only thing he can think about, which is a problem because (a) he's learned that obsessive thinking is unhealthy and (b) it's impossible to move forward with his book when all he can do is imagine a thousand scenarios where he tells Dean he's still in love with him.

Cas can't see any way around it. The only way this is going to end is if he actually does something. So with a feeling somewhere on the spectrum between petrified and giddy, Cas starts doing more than thinking about it. He formulates a plan.

He makes a list and goes to the grocery store. Then he even braves the mall and picks up a new shirt, one the sales clerk assures him highlights his "movie star looks." Castiel laughs at her, but some small part of him is pleased; hopeful. He goes back home and spends hours making sure the house is spotless, and then he sits by his front window and waits for the Impala, cursing the fact that he's reduced to stalking since he still hasn't gotten Dean's number.

Dean pulls up just after six o'clock, early for him, and Cas is out his front door before Dean even gets the car door closed behind him.

"Hey, Cas. What's up?"

"I would like to invite you to dinner some time this week, Dean. There have been some... developments, in my life, and I would like to share them with you. But, um, I think it may be best if Lisa doesn't join us this time."

Dean raises his eyebrows at Cas' stranger-than-normal behavior, but then shrugs.

"Sure, man. I've got client dinners for the next couple of days, but I'll be free on Friday night. And don't worry about the Lisa thing – we've been... well, our schedules aren't really syncing up right now anyway. So it'll just be me."

"Excellent. I will see you Friday at 7."


6:57 on Friday and Cas has showered and shaved and dressed and wasted ten whole minutes trying to control his crazy hair. The burgers are ready to go on the grill and a thousand fancy condiments and sliced vegetables are arranged on the counter so Dean can build his ideal hamburger. Cas has even made hand-cut french fries and baked an apple pie, put a variety of sodas in the fridge.

(He knows Dean would prefer beer. Cas isn't strong enough to have it in the house.)

And while he prepared all that, his hands were busy enough to distract him from thinking too much about his plans for the night, the way he was going to bare his soul and (probably) let Dean trample across his heart once again.

Ding Dong.

Cas smooths his hands over himself one last time and walks to the door. Deep breath in, slowly out. And he turns the handle.

Dean is there, filling the doorway and looking like sex walking. He's wearing dark jeans and a green plaid shirt that highlights his eyes and summer tan. He actually shaved and smells amazing and Cas thinks that there is no way in hell he is going to find the strength to follow through on tonight.

And all through the meal, as he makes small talk and listens to Dean's stories about his new nephew, John, Cas completely avoids the reason he scheduled this stupid dinner in the first place.

I really am going to be too frightened to do this.

But then they're washing the dishes, Cas up to his elbows in the soapy sink, Dean at his side with a dish towel to dry. So Cas can't see his face, doesn't have to see Dean's reaction, and can pretend that he's just saying this to himself again like the hundreds of times he's practiced it.

His voice seems too loud, too disconnected. Cas feels like he's hovering somewhere near the ceiling, watching this scene play out beneath him, beyond his control.

"Dean, I have to be honest with you about something."

Dean barely hesitates, oblivious and focused on swiping the towel across the dripping dish Cas has handed him.

"Sure. Shoot."

"I've been going to therapy and working on myself, getting to a healthier place in my life. A big part of that is assessing myself and my relationships."

Breathe. Slow down.

"I know you're with Lisa and that it's been a very long time. I know that you are successful and happy and have moved on with your life. But it's not fair of me to continue being your friend and pretending that I don't feel something more for you."

He stares out the small window over the sink, the night beyond offering him no distraction. It's just featureless and blank, swallowed by blackness.

"I'm in love with you, Dean. I think I always have been."


Dean's hands are shaking.

Very carefully, he puts down the dish, lays the towel on top of it. His chest is wrecked, his heart pounding so quickly that it's like one solid beat, his breath caught and choking in his tight throat. And he's got no fucking clue what's happening, because his brain is static and the only thing he hears is the rushing of blood in his ears.

But his trembling hands know what to do, reaching out and wrapping themselves around Cas' slim hips, turning him until he's facing Dean. He's close enough that Dean can feel the shudder of Cas' uneven breath, every exhale ghosting over Dean's skin. He can see the stutter of Cas' heart in the fluttering pulse of his neck, the bob of his throat when he swallows, the flexing tension in his jaw.

But it's not enough, not nearly, so Dean steps forward, crowding Cas back until he's trapped between Dean and the kitchen cabinets. Dean exhales, slow and ragged, the corner of his mouth twitching up as his eyes rake over every curve and line of Cas' mouth. His thumbs dip just below the edges of Cas' waistband, tracing small circles against hot skin.

They're so close now, nothing between them but heat and charged air and Dean can practically taste the salt of Cas' skin, remember perfectly how soft his hair is when it's threaded between Dean's fingers.

And it's all suddenly so clear, so obvious. How he really feels about Cas, how much is missing from his relationship with Lisa.

How much of a complete dumbass he is.

Because Dean wants this more than anything he's ever wanted, more than the Impala, more than his degree, more than his own life. He wants it so much that he's consumed by it, every cell of his body screaming for Castiel.

And it's right there, Cas pressed in a hot, hard line between Dean and the kitchen counter, his full mouth inches away and practically begging for Dean to capture it and pour out every word he's holding back, lick and suck and bite until his tongue remembers the inside of Cas' mouth as well as it knows his own. For Dean to show him everything he's feeling, everything he's kept buried inside since he tossed his mattress through Cas' window months ago.

He thinks that maybe it wasn't a mistake, that maybe fate isn't always a bitch. That maybe this was where he was always supposed to be; he just got the address a little wrong.

And that now it's time for Dean to come home.

His tongue darts out to lick across his lips, his mouth parting as he inhales... but then he remembers his vow.

You're not fucking things up anymore, remember?

Especially not things that are as important as this.

So Dean stops.

He groans and tips his face down, his forehead coming to rest against Cas' as he tries to catch his breath. And then he has to close his eyes because the only thing he can see is a field of burning blue, and that's not making this any easier.

Dean wills Cas to understand the things that he can't say yet.

I love you, too. I'm pretty sure I always will. And I want nothing more than to tie you to your bed and spend the next fifty years having my way with you, but we've got to do this right.

There's something I have to take care of first, someone who deserves better.

With what he's sure is a super-human display of strength, Dean manages to pull himself back from Castiel, stumbling.

"I can't Cas, I can't do this."

And he practically runs for the door.


Cas stands alone in the kitchen, dirty dishwasher still dripping from his fingertips onto the tile, and stares toward the door that Dean just slammed shut.

He'd bared his heart, and he was sure he'd seen love in Dean's eyes, felt it in his touch.

But nothing had changed; all Dean had said was that he still couldn't be with him.

Eight years, and Dean still can't face who he is, what he wants.

Cas slides down the cabinets until he's on the cold floor, hugging his knees so hard that his knuckles turn white. As if he squeezes hard enough he'll be able to hold himself together.

Hot tears course down his cheeks, falling to mix with the cold water on the floor.