Dean comes in off of the walkway with a burgeoning tension headache and a heavy heart. Just a few days ago he'd been in this very room, his world broken down and everything he'd previously held to be true proved to be nothing but a deception, a cruel trick played by time and circumstance. Dean had shaken free of his own careful control, and in those awful house he had promised, promised himself and Sam that he would never, ever think of Castiel that way again.
He had chosen to make it right, to leave Castiel well alone and continue with his life, carrying the knowledge for the both of them.
Only...it had not proved so simple.
When Castiel had begged him to tell him why made him so unlovable, what made him so bad – Dean had felt a stab of concern, and of love – almost unbearably strong...and not in any way platonic. In that moment he would have gladly put his arms around Castiel, taken him out of the graffiti covered toilet cubicle and walked him home – not to Michaels house, but to his own squalid apartment, to wrap Castiel away on the single mattress of his own bed, and to crawl in beside him until neither of them felt the pull of despair that had so laden their exchange in that dank, institutional room.
Slowly Dean was becoming aware that, although his mind could grasp the wrongness of him and Castiel. The fact that they were half brothers, sharing the same blood from the same father...the rest of him could not quite become convinced of the taboo.
He was awakening to this knowledge, subtler and as undeniable as that of Castiel's parentage.
He loved Castiel.
Alongside that, deeply ingrained in him as surely as if the teenager had burnt through to Dean's bones with his ecstasy – he still wanted Castiel. Of course, each burst of want was shackled to shame and guilt, but all the same, as he'd spread out, sleepless, in his bed – he had missed the warm weight of the teenager next to him, missed his time lying in Castiel's bed, breathing in the scent of white soap and incense. His hands twitched whenever he remembered the smooth skin of Castiel's neck, his lips worried against each other at the thought of Castiel's soft mouth. Without Castiel's steady pulse where their chests met, Dean's heartbeat thudded on, lonely and without Castiel's ear there to catch the sound.
It confused Dean, drove him round and round in circles. He loved Castiel, missed him so strongly he could almost feel the place inside of him that had been hollowed out, and the thought of Castiel stuck in a depression somewhere else, believing himself to be unloved, was intolerable.
But Castiel was his brother.
That thought did not marry well with the rest, and it had Dean panicking, stuck and maddened like a dog on a chain.
Sam looked up from his seat on the couch, homework forgotten on the table. On the stove a pan of noodles and chicken waited, covered in some kind of chilli and vegetable combination. Sam got up and dished Dean up a plate, treating him like he had a bad case of flu. But that was what Sam was like, treating hangovers, detox, heartbreak - all as a simple illness that could be cured with a little care, a blanket and some proper food.
"What did Mr Novak want?" Sam asks as Dean spools up noodles and puts them into his mouth. There's a pang of chilli flavour, which he's glad of – he'd almost gotten used to his food being tasteless.
"He wanted to know what I'd done to Cas." Dean murmurs, moving chunks of bright vegetables and meat around.
"You didn't do anything." Sam says automatically.
"I broke his heart Sam." Dean feels a stab of guilt. "I knew what I was doing and I didn't stop to think that he wouldn't know...he'd just...break."
Sam frowns down at his plate.
"Is he mad? Castiel's dad?"
"He's..." Dean doesn't know what Michael is. He'd been worried about Castiel, angry at Dean, but also understanding. The news of Castiel's parentage had clearly been a blow, Michael had been shaken – but his quick mind had soon pieced together a solution – had worked out a way to make Castiel happy again.
Dean just didn't know if it was right. What 'right' even meant for them. Was it right to be with Castiel now, knowing that they were related? Would it be right to leave town, leave Castiel behind, broken and miserable? What was 'right'? How could Dean possibly know, when he knew he was only good for passing through life, that he could be selfish and stupid and...and this decision was Castiel's whole future – how could he do this?
"He wants Castiel to get better - to not be sad anymore." Dean says simply.
"How is that going to work?" Sam asks. "What does he want you to do?"
"I don't know Sam, ok?" Dean feels a tight flare of sickening panic, he honestly doesn't know what to do, and questions aren't helping.
"Ok, ok..." Sam raises a hand as if calming a spooked horse. "Just...what did he say?"
"He said..." He shakes his head. "I wasn't going to tell him, but after John...he knew, so I...I told him the rest."
"What did he think?" Sam asks, after a small silence.
"I don't know, I think he's taken it hard, but he's more worried about Cas than what it all means...I think he wants me to go back...to being with Castiel."
Sam blinks.
"He wants you to...be with him...like...you were before?"
"Don't look at me like that – I didn't say I would."
"But you're thinking about it." Sam points out.
Dean says nothing.
"Dean...he's our half brother."
"I know that."
"What you were like, after you found out...how can you even consider going back?"
Dean clenches his hands on his lap, plate abandoned on his knees.
"Because I...love him."
Sam remains silent.
"Yeah, it's...beyond stupid, and insane and...wrong. But...I do, I loved him almost as soon as i met him and...I thought I could let him go, but I can't."
Sam gets up and walks away. Dean sits, shame and guilt curdling in his stomach. But Sam returns, a few pieces of printer paper in hand.
"I looked it up at school." Sam says hesitantly. "There are...a few cases, more than I thought – where people met their separated brothers, sisters...or people whose parents used the same sperm donor...and their kids met." Sam shuffles the pages. "It's happened before, people with the same blood, they just...find a connection that they thought was..." He falters nervously. "...they thought they were in love."
"Maybe they were." Dean mutters. "I don't even know what it would feel like to love anyone else. This is it." He rubs the knuckles of one hand against the back of his head. "I don't know what it's supposed to feel like."
"Maybe...you'll find someone else, it'll feel different." Sam says hesitantly.
"It's been a long time Sam, and I haven't wanted anyone, anyone specific, to stick around." He rubs his arm defensively. "Not that I couldn't have used someone to just...be there."
"That doesn't mean he's the only one."
"He's the only person, aside from you...aside from...Dad." He makes himself say it. "And Bobby, Jim...that I actually...love."
"You love Dad?" Sam murmurs.
"You don't do all this for someone you hate." Dean mutters. "I used to love him...now...I still do but...it's hard."
"Bobby and Pastor Jim are like family." Sam points out. "And Castiel..." he flushes slightly. "He is...family."
Dean looks down at the stained carpet.
Sam can't bring himself to tackle the point that, perhaps Dean is only capable of the fierce devotion that family justified. That real love, with someone new, a stranger, might be beyond him. Instead he changes the subject, at least a little.
"Do you still love Dad, even a little, after what he did, telling Castiel's dad?"
Dean looks sadly at the patch of carpet by the door, scrubbed almost every morning, so much so that the dark colour has been eroded and bleached to a sickly pink, like old blood. He's done so much for John, patched him up, fed him, clothed him, given him money to pay off his debts, taking him top hospital, putting up, shelling out, talking down...
"No." Dean says, surprising himself.
Sam nods sadly. "I don't either."
"Sammy, you don't..." Dean turns to his younger brother, wondering when Sam stopped being the cute kid who still bothered to make John cards for father's day. "You don't have to say that, just because of me."
"It is because of you." Sam counters, sadly. "I can't...love him, not after everything he's done to you."
All the slaps to the face Sam has endured, punches and cruel words. The money John has stolen from him, the belongings he's pawned. The time John managed to hurl all over Sam as he slept on the floor at their last place, the teachers meetings John missed (or worse – attended drunk) and every, single time that John had forgotten that Sam existed, raging at him as a stranger, an intruder after a heavy nights drinking. All of that, and it was John's behaviour towards Dean, the responsibility he'd heaped on him by default, that had pushed selfless, accepting Sam over the edge.
It's then that Dean makes a decision, a small one, given the much harder and more tangled resolutions he has yet to make, still, this decision is one he knows will change everything.
He stands up, putting the remainder of dinner aside.
"Dean?" Sam looks up at him questioningly.
Dean looks at his father's bedroom door, testing himself, working out if he really intends to do this. His mind offers no complaints, no pangs of guilt. This then, is something he has long since prepared himself for.
He gestures for Sam to follow him into the room where John lies sleeping. In whispers, Dean explains what he has a mind to do.
Sam offers no argument, like he can sense that this is the time to do this, this is what they have been waiting for, without even knowing it.
So it is that, when John shakes off the effects of a nights drinking and stumbles out into the living room, he is confronted by Dean, a suitcase, a small pile of neatly folded bills. Sam is gone, on his way to school. Dean has taken the day off to do this, to clean house, entirely. And Sam didn't want this memory, on top of all the rest.
John glares at him sourly.
"Going somewhere?" He grunts, eyes casting about for something to soothe his hangover, finding nothing, as usual.
"No." Dean lifts the handle on the wheeled case, a fifth hand thing that had belonged to Sam. "You are."
John meets his eyes, a challenge in their bleary depths.
"You're not sending me to rehab again."
Dean wheels the case to the door.
"I won't go." John protests, louder. "You're problem, boy, is that you never know when to quit. Still trying to get back something that never was anyway – trying to fix..."
"I'm not sending you to rehab...Dad." Dean interrupts.
John frowns at him. "So what the hell is this about?"
"You're leaving." Dean tells him, "Today."
"Now hold on a second." John spits. "This is my home, you're my goddamn son..."
"I pay for this place...and maybe without you, we won't be here much longer." Dean says firmly. "But you don't live here anymore – you're going to take your things, and go."
"You're going to throw me out on the street?" John narrows his eyes. "There's gratitude."
"For what?" Dean surprises them both by shouting. "For making me an orphan? Because that's what we are, me and Sam – you killed mom, accidently...but you did...and then you disappeared into a bottle. So what, what is it that I should be grateful for?"
"For the only person you ever loved." John spits sarcastically.
Dean freezes.
"Yeah, I heard your little speech before I went to sleep." John says victoriously. "Lying there, listening to you...made me sick as a dog."
"That'd be the whisky." Dean tells him blandly.
"I need it." John growls. "Who wouldn't with a son who hides money from me, won't even look me in the eye...and you, twenty-five and still working as a janitor – you're a joke. Fucking fag for a son, who wants that?" John thunders.
Dean looks at him levelly.
"Six."
John blinks, expected backlash not arriving.
"I'm twenty-six...you asshole." Dean's hand is white knuckled on the suitcase. "Suppose I should be glad you remember my name."
"Dean..." Johns anger falls into a pathetic plea so fast it almost makes Dean reconsider. He hardens his heart. Now or never – now is when he gets his and Sam's lives back.
"Well done." He says pointedly. He brandishes the small bundle of notes. "Now you're going to take this...this is what I've been saving for rehab...most of it. Because Sammy...he's smarter than everyone, he's getting a scholarship or Hell'll freeze over. So this is for you." He opens the top pocket in the suitcase and stuffs the money in with shaking fingers. "So...take it, and drink yourself to death...or get better...it's on you now."
John looks at him, and for a second Dean thinks he can see a flash of shame in his beetle black eyes.
"If Bobby knew what you were..."
"He does, and Jim...and they think I should have done this years ago." Dean tells him. He steps away from the case, opens the door.
"This is your last chance...take it and get out." Dean says.
John stands for a moment, indecision clear. But he eyes flick to the case – more money than he's ever allowed, enough for weeks. He walks towards it like a mutt after a rotting animal. Takes the case by the handle and wheels it onwards, slowly. Dean watches him go out the door.
"Have a great life Dad." Dean mutters.
And those are the last words he speaks to his father.