A/N: Enjoy!

Chapter 53 - Counsellor

Counsellor.

There's no better name for it, and, in reality, nothing that surmises more accurately what Jimmy Novak seemed to be to everyone.

Castiel holds the copy, sent as an advance, in his aged hands. And they have aged, now. At twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine, Castiel knows that he should feel young and that he is. But at the death of his father, looking down at his hands makes him feel just the opposite. These hands, old in the ways that eyes grow old, are not as good at the concrete as Jimmy's were; Castiel cannot cook, cannot comfort, like Jimmy could. Castiel is centred too far in the abstract, and the abstract within. Something in his hands sings this. But perhaps this will be a year for change.

The cover is blue and black, for two of the things Castiel did inherit, effortlessly, from his father. But outside of the physical, inheritance is something to be practiced. If shiva taught Castiel anything, it's that tradition is a process. One cannot sit back passively.

Counsellor, for everything Castiel lost, that day. Counsellor, for everything he has missed, since. Counsellor, for everything he intends to be, in light of it.

The first of Castiel's poetry that will be published, Castiel is flooded with fear at the small book in his hands. He hasn't told Dean about it. He hasn't told Gabriel. He's mentioned it to Michael and his oldest brother's insistent prodding in asking what Castiel is up to. But he doesn't know how to share this, a painful piece of Castiel's grief cracked open and poured onto a little under a hundred pages.

It makes him cry. Holding it makes him cry, a dead weight around his heart and another in his hand, the book. So heavy Castiel cannot hold it and he drops the copy onto the floor, realising with a thump not unlike the sound the collection makes as it hits the ground, that though he has written pages and pages and unravelled all of this, his grief is not yet over. Has, perhaps, only just begun.

His skull feels too tight and there comes to be a pulsing in his ears, he is reminded of how he felt on the floor of the hospital with Dean lying beside him, as he read his father's final letter to him. He wonders if he will ever be the same, and realises he doesn't want to be, if being himself again means being himself without his dad.

His dear beloved dad.

A pocketful of poems for his father, and another, soon, for Dean. It seems right: the two men who he has loved, who—his heart trips—have loved him best, in this life. One half of it is done, Jimmy's. Now, he realises, the truly difficult task is set: he cannot publish a poetry collection for Dean without any forewarning: he'd be outing Dean, for whom sexuality has been a constant sorrow and struggle. He'd also be ambushing Dean with his own feelings—how would Dean Winchester respond to dozens of pages of knotted love poems dedicated to him? Being released, without Dean's consent?

Perhaps Castiel should send the collection to Dean, long in advance, explaining everything.

But where would he begin? The dedication page is poetic, certainly, but not exactly clear: would Castiel write out an entire explanation—what Dean really said and did the night Sam overdosed, what Castiel has kept secret ever since, why he did what he did. And how would Dean react? Castiel realises, now, that Dean would probably be royally pissed off—Cas lying to him, keeping secrets from him. Dean would be embarrassed, as well, which would cause resentment and fierce defensiveness… What a mess. Dammit. What a mess.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out.

He heart clamps at the notification: a text from Dean.

You free to call right now?

Castiel answers not by replying but by calling.

"Dean," He exhales, holding the book tight in his hands. "What's up?"

"Hey, Cas,"—And Castiel can practically hear the lazy smile that accompanies this. He startles in a nervous inward breath as quietly as he can. "Uh—a few things—but mainly, I just wanted to talk," Dean answers.

"Oh," Castiel fiddles with the spine of the poetry collection. "What about? And isn't it—" He glances at his watch—"pretty late, over there?"

"Not really," Dean's voice comes out coiled with a childish defensiveness.

"Like, four in the morning?"

Dean sighs, and Castiel huffs.

"Okay, yeah. But I can't sleep, and it's Sunday tomorrow, so it doesn't exactly matter—"

"It's Sunday today, Dean."

"It's Sunday for you, maybe—"

"No, for you too," Castiel points out, laughing. "Check your phone."

"Shut up. Anyway, I just got off at the Roadhouse, and I couldn't sleep, and I figured it'd be morning for you, and I wanted to talk."

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Huh?"

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Oh—that's not important. Anyway—how are you?"

"What?" A frown, bewildered, worms across Castiel's features.

"How are you?"

"Are you drunk, Dean?"

"What? No!"

"Oh, like it's such a ridiculous suggestion."

"You know what, it kinda is—and why do you expect it?"

"It wouldn't be the first time you'd called me, drunk out of your mind," Castiel points out.

"I'm not out of my mind—I—" Dean makes an angry, indignant noise, "dammit—I'm talking fine, aren't I?"

"I can't say if that's true or not, though," Castiel teases. "Even if I can understand you, you still forget most of what you say, the morning after drinking. You're actually a very coherent drunk, Dean."

"Yeah? Well, I wish I wasn't."

"Why, because you're afraid you'll get yourself into trouble, one day?"

"Hm. Somethin' like that."

"Anyway. Why are you calling?"

"I wanted to talk."

Castiel sighs, making his way into the living room of his apartment and sitting down in his favourite armchair.

"You've said. What about?"

"I dunno—a few things, I guess. I wanted to know how you are—"

"We last called on Thursday," Castiel points out. "Not much has happened, since then."

"What, so I'm not allowed to miss you?" Dean asks, indignant.

"You're missing me?" Castiel asks with a smile. Tiny thrills race their way through him in neat ringlets of motion.

"Shut up," Dean grumbles, but it turns into a laugh. This is how they've been talking, and increasingly talking—Castiel can remember the edge their conversations used to have, a decade ago: the teasing, playful jibes that hid something—or that both of them hoped hid something. Castiel wonders how much of it was there, and how much of it was just them both hoping. If it was both of them hoping, isn't that the same thing? But now, now, they're talking like they used to: deep conversations prefaced and appendixed and punctuated by flirting, or the hope of flirting. Maybe they never really flirted, perhaps they only flirted with the idea of it itself. "You gonna answer, or not?" Dean asks. Castiel chuckles.

"Hm?"

Dean sighs out a laugh.

"How are you"

"I'm okay," He says. "Tired."

"Tired by anything in particular?" Dean asks.

"Hm. A few things, sort of. But it sounds as though you've got news," Castiel points out, noting the expectant, nervous edge in Dean's voice. "What's up?"

"Oh—well—yeah," Dean fumbles, nervousness rising to the foreground of his tone. "I—uh. I guess one of the things—I got a job offer."

"Oh?"

"And, like, a job. As in, I took the job. This is—this is really old news, by the way. I just—anyway. I'm still teaching, but not as many days."

"Oh," Castiel smiles. "And you're excited about it? Or, if this is old news, enjoying it?"

Dean makes a strange, uncertain noise.

"I'm not sure," He admits. "I… I'm a little nervous. Still."

"What is it?"

"You—maybe he told you—he probably did—I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. Um, I'm writing the music for your—for Balthazar's new movie. One of them."

"He did tell me," Castiel admits, but then he smiles, "which is amazing, by the way, Dean—"

"Well, you introduced us…" Dean mumbles.

"Yes, but you were the one who impressed him," Castiel points out. "Which isn't easy, by the way. Balthazar is, if nothing else, one of the stubbornest people I know."

"Coming from you…" Dean says, and it's half a joke, unconvinced.

"Why are you nervous about it?" Castiel asks, frowning. "How far along are you?"

"I've basically finished all the music," Dean answers.

"—But that's a good—"

"No, it's not," Dean says quickly, over his friend. "What if it sucks? Now that I'm all done, everyone's started looking at it, listening to it, they're putting it all together with the film. What if they hate it? What if it sucks?"

"Why would it suck?"

Dean makes a frustrated noise.

"Am I not understanding something?" Castiel asks, frowning.

"No," Dean sighs. "No. I just—I wish you were here."

Castiel presses his lips together, unable to reply.

"And I—I had to write songs—like songs, with lyrics, and sing them—for the movie. And that just… that felt kind of vulnerable. I feel vulnerable, after it. I'm worried who might watch, and what they might say."

"What are the songs about?"

"It doesn't matter. I just—I guess that's why I couldn't sleep."

"Who are you worried will hear them?" Castiel asks. "Anyone in particular?"

"No—fuck—I don't know why I'm bothering you with this—"

"Dean, I'm glad you're calling," Castiel's brows wind together, troubled. "Don't shut me out."

Dean sighs.

"Right…" He murmurs. "I guess… I guess sometimes it's just nice to know you're there, even if I can't tell you why I need you there."

"I understand."

Silence.

"I really do," Castiel emphasises, when Dean doesn't reply. But there's silence again, before a,

"So how are you?"

Castiel laughs.

"I'm okay, like I said. Congratulations on the movie thing, Dean. That's really cool."

"Yeah—I'm hoping the money will help fund Sammy and his Masters—"

"I hope you also use some of the money for yourself, Dean."

"What would I use it for, for me? Nothing I want can be bought."

"And what do you want?"

"It doesn't matter," Dean grumbles. But then he says, "I don't know. In all seriousness, a family."

Castiel sighs, sad smile slipping onto his lips.

"I see," He replies. "You already have a lot of the pieces of one, you know."

"Yeah…"

"A lot of people would even say you already have one."

"Yeah…" Dean says again, but it sounds reluctant and unconvinced.

"You disagree?" Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows to the bookcase he stares at as he speaks to Dean.

"I've told you, haven't I?" Dean says. "I wanna be a dad, a husband. And I wanna see Sammy safe, and happy—and with a future. Which I can buy him, sort of, if I help him recover. So yeah."

Castiel's jaw is locked. He rubs his watery eyes.

"Yes… That… That makes sense."

"But maybe I'll get a new guitar, too," Dean laughs. "If I have any money left over, after everything—y'know, rent, medical bills, setting up an account for Sammy for the next couple of years. And if I have the money, I'll get a new guitar. A really nice one."

"I think you'd deserve that," Castiel smiles. He curls up his legs beneath him on the chair. "But seriously, Dean, congratulations. This is so amazing. You're so amazing. You really deserve this." Dean doesn't say anything. Castiel guesses he's going a little red. "How's Sam?" He asks.

"Sam? Uh—yeah," Dean answers, sounding a little flustered. "Yeah, good, I think. Doin' okay, yeah. Obviously cold turkey was pretty horrible…" Dean trails off for a moment, but Castiel remains silent. "It's weird, havin' him come so—so back to normal. Or so close to normal. All the time, I think, I'll feel like we're only pretending to be normal, only performing it, but…"

"Most things in life are just a matter of performance, you know."

"Right. And he's smiling, again, like real, Sam Winchester smiles with the dimples and his head tipped back. And he's reading so many books, and he's started playing pranks on me—which," Dean laughs, "honestly? I kick up a fuss about them for pretence's sake, but… I don't mind. I don't care. I kick up a fuss because it makes him laugh, and if he's laughing, he's happy. I literally don't give a shit if he spikes my coffee with salt, or whatever. It's great, him doing that—'cause it's like, it shows he's not afraid of pissing me off, any more, you know? Like, for a while back there, he used to walk around on eggshells around me. It—it felt horrible: it was how I used to feel around John, only this time I was John and he was…" Dean stops. "So the fact that he's happy risking getting glared at for covering my bedroom floor wall to wall with cups of water, or…" Dean laughs. "It's a good thing. It's a really good thing."

Castiel beams.

"I'm so glad."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Is he dating that doctor, yet?"

"Who—Eileen?" Dean asks, then sighs. "No. He's awkward as hell, and convinced she can do better. Which—I get it, we've talked about it: I think he still sees himself as—as someone who's not a safe bet, a flight risk. It's sad, you know—it sucks to see your little brother thinking that way. And obviously I think Sammy's great, and a real catch. And man," Dean laughs again, "by the time he was discharged, the two of them—well, it wasn't exactly flirting. You can't call it flirting, when Sammy's involved—he totally sucks at it—"

"And what, you're so much better?" Castiel asks with a chuckle.

"No—well, yes," Dean admits, smugly. "But actually I get it. I'm great at flirting until it's with someone who actually matters, then I get all nervous. Can't get a sentence out right, when I do it. I start fumbling and end up talking about nothing at all, it's awful."

"I'm sure people find it very endearing," Castiel smiles. He beams when Dean stammers out, and fails to articulate, his response.

"Anyway," Dean says quickly, "Sam and Eileen doesn't really look like—well, if it happens, it won't happen soon. I'll put it that way. Not unless he manages to pull a total one-eighty on his performance so far."

"Couldn't Eileen ask him out?" Castiel reminds.

"I mean, yeah, sure—but at this point, he's acted so weird around her I'm not even sure she knows if he likes her. He clamps up and doesn't know what to talk about—just goes really awkward. And 'cause I can't sign, I can't exactly carry the conversation, even though she can lip read pretty well; it's just—y'know, it's Sammy's thing, as well. I can't exactly mediate his flirting. But we bumped into her at the grocery store, and then he kept on suggesting that we went back at this specific time, on that specific day, in the hope of bumping into her again," Dean laughs. "Damn. He's awkward. He's hopeless."

"Does he have her number, or anything?"

"Yeah," Dean confirms. "She literally gave it to him, tellin' him to get in contact with her if he had any problems, if he needed anything. But he couldn't take the hint, I guess, and hasn't."

"Have you told him he should just text and ask her out?"

"Duh. But you know that won't work. When Sammy's convinced he's not worth something, he's convinced. There's no swaying him."

"I wonder where he gets that from," Castiel remarks dryly.

"Anyway," Dean says, indignant frown evident in his voice, "he's fine. Weird as ever, but then I say that about all intellectuals, so."

"You say that about me?" Castiel raises his eyebrows.

"Bold of you to assume I consider you an intellectual."

Castiel barks out a laugh.

"Dick."

"Oh—" Dean says, suddenly, "that's the thing I forgot to say—in fact, I probably should've led with it—if anything constitutes news, this is it."

Castiel frowns.

"What is it?"

"Damn, I don't—I don't even know where to start. Okay, so basically, on Friday—damn," Dean starts laughing, "it's so fuckin' weird, Cas. Like, I don't even know what to say, I don't know where to start, it's so fuckin' weird. Basically, on Friday, I came home from work, totally worn out, and collapsed on the couch, to binge watch something. It was after workin' on set, in Topeka. I know it's not exactly a long journey, but it is an hour, and I'm not used to commuting. So there I am, completely exhausted—and I notice something's up. I've gotta set the scene for you here, Cas," Dean laughs again, "'cause I can't emphasise enough how fuckin' strange it was. So I'm watching TV, and I look over to the armchair, and there's this weird wire brush on it, covered in hair, and a tennis ball. I stare at it for like a good two minutes, not able to work out what it's for—the hair on it is blonde—like, ruddy blonde—gold—I can't describe it. So it's not Sam's hairbrush, much as he needs one. So then I start wondering if it's a girlfriend's, or something, except Sam's not told me about a girlfriend, and like I said, he's been pining after Eileen for three months. Also, the hair is really short, and thick, and I can't work it out."

"So what was it?"

"Well, I'm gettin' onto that, Cas—you've gotta practice a little something I like to call patience."

"Oh, you like to call it patience, huh?"

"Shut up, dude. And if anyone should appreciate the craft of weaving a story, it should be you. Anyway, I sit back down, 'cause I'm too tired to try working it out, jus' fiddling with the hairbrush, watching TV. It's pretty late—like, just past six in the evening, and I'd expected Sam to be back, and it was his turn to cook dinner, anyway, so he should've been in, but I just figured he'd forgot. Anyway, about thirty minutes later, I hear him fumbling for the door, and I get up, and make my way over to it, 'cause I think maybe he's gone to Walmart again, looking for Eileen—"

Castiel laughs, and Dean chuckles again.

"—So I guess he's carrying loads of bags, and can't get the door open, because of that. But I open the door, and," Dean starts laughing. "…You're never gonna guess it, Cas."

"What is it?" Castiel asks.

"Guess."

"Well, you've just said I never will, so no," Castiel points out. "Just tell me."

"Killjoy," Dean grumbles, but he's too excited by the story to insist. "Okay," He says, obviously animated, "so I open the door, and what do I see? I see Samuel Winchester, my dear, beloved, idiot brother," Castiel can hear the beam in Dean's voice, affection not eking into but flooding his words, "with three fucking dogs in tow—"

"What?"

"Three dogs," Dean laughs, and can't stop for a good minute. "God, I was so pissed, Cas. He—he adopted, all at once, three rescue dogs. I was—" Dean bursts out laughing again, "I nearly lost my mind. I literally thought I was going crazy."

"Does your landlord allow pets?"

"See, that's just the thing—Sam hadn't even thought of that—he literally told me he was gonna keep them secret, I guess 'cause in his old place, no pets were allowed—but they are, here. Well, like, I'm not exactly sure about the details of it. They say pets are allowed, and that includes dogs, but I don't know if that includes three fully grown rescue dogs."

"What are they?"

"An Australian Shepherd, a Golden, and an Alsatian."

"That's… A lot," Castiel frowns.

"You wanna know the worst part?" Dean asks. "Well—no—not worst, it was just stupid and fucking hilarious—he had to carry the Australian Shepherd up the stairs—all the stairs—of our building, 'cause the elevator is still broken, and the dumbass dog had hurt his paw, on the walk Sam had been taking all of them on."

"So…" Castiel frowns. "I still don't understand…"

"So the Australian Shepherd is called Riot—which, I've gotta hand it to him, is pretty cute. The Golden is called Efa—apparently she used to be this little old lady's dog, but then the lady died, which is sad—but this dog is adorable, Cas, she's such a fucking sop—"

"I'm not asking for their names, Dean, I'm asking why Sam—"

"Don't interrupt," Dean hushes. "The Alsation is actually this mix of a bunch of breeds, maybe some Doberman, and Sam thinks some Collie, too, just mainly German Shepherd—he's a street dog, he's so cool, but a bit weird and wary. We've called him Alexander. Alex, for short."

"'We'?" Castiel repeats incredulously.

"It's actually such a good feeling when you earn his trust, Cas, you have no idea. Like, right now, all the others are sleeping on Sam's bed, but he's right here on the couch with me, head on my lap. He's amazing."

"Dean, why did Sam get them? And why are you so okay with this? There are three dogs in your apartment, that weren't there, a week ago."

"Oh—well, basically, at first I was like, 'what the fuck'. Like, I opened the door, and I think that's immediately what I said. 'What the hell, Sammy?' And then he was like, 'Let me in, Riot's hurt his foot'. And I was like, 'who the fuck is Riot?' and he was like, 'this dog I'm carrying, who do you think?' and I was like, 'don't be a smartass, Sammy, why've you got a dog in your arms, and another two at your heels?' But Sammy pushed right past me, and suddenly the hairbrush and the tennis ball thing clicked for me—the hairbrush isn't for people, it's for dogs, Cas."

"Yep, I'd got that much, thank you, Dean."

"Right. So Sammy distracts Alex with the ball, 'cause Alex is kind of scared and glaring up at me and growling when I get too close, and then starts looking at Riot's paw, which it turns out has a splinter in it, and I'm standing over Sammy as he lays Riot down on the couch and gets some tweezers to try and pull it out, and I'm telling Sam he can't put a dog on the couch, let alone in the apartment, and why the fuck does he have dogs, where did he get them from, is he just borrowing them or is he gonna keep them forever?"

Castiel chuckles as Dean speaks—well, rambles—and closes his eyes, enjoying the sound of Dean's affection and amusement and excitement, even if it's only over the phone.

"And he says he got them an animal shelter, and all this time Efa is begging me for love, like staring up at me and wagging her tail, then headbutting me and whining when I ignore her," Dean laughs happily, "and I'm like, Sam, why have you adopted a load of dogs? What are you gonna do with them? And he tells me he's gonna look after them, and he can manage it just fine, and he knows what he's doing, and he loves dogs. And I'm like, dude, I've gotta draw a line somewhere, you didn't even consult me about this: you can't keep them, and you can't keep them here. It's my apartment and I don't think I can cope with three stinky dogs whining and asking for walks and hugs and food and cluttering up the place, making it smell bad… Anyway, no wonder Sammy loves dogs so much, he looks so much like them—"

"Dean," Castiel gasps, but he laughs as well.

"Trust me, he'd take it as a compliment," Dean counters. "And anyway, I only say it, 'cause he turns from where he's crouched down in front of Riot, and pulls the biggest fucking puppy eyes, and I'm like no. But he pulls the splinter outta Riot's foot, and then tells me that he didn't really mean to get them and it was only an accident," Dean begins practically giggling, "which, honestly, man… How do you accidentally adopt three dogs? Three dogs? I love him," Dean chuckles. Castiel imagines the beam he wears. "He's such an asshole. Like, seriously, he expects me to believe that? But he says it, anyway, and maintains, even now, that it was an accident, that he only went to the rescue centre to look at dogs, not to get one. And then, somehow, by implication of the word 'accident', I guess he must've filled out all the adoption papers for three separate dogs, bought food and collars and brushes and toys for them, and driven them all home, all while I was at work. Damn," Dean chuckles, "what was he thinking?"

"Yes," Castiel agrees, "What was he thinking?

"It's 'cause you don't like dogs, isn't it, Cas?" Dean asks.

"Um, no," Castiel frowns at the accusation and the injustice, "I'm fine with dogs. If disliking dogs means not going out and adopting three at once for the fun of it, to live in my two bedroom apartment with me, then fine, I don't. But if disliking dogs means disliking dogs, then I resent your accusation."

"Well, it's whatever. You'll love them when you meet them, so it doesn't even matter."

"So they've won you over, have they?"

"No," Dean says, quickly and sharply. "No," He says again, a lot more steadily. "I still think it was stupid. I'm still in shock. And—damn, I guess they can stay, sure—"

"What made you come to that conclusion?" Castiel asks with a chuckle.

"A lot of persuading, on Sam's part," Dean answers, matter-of-factly. "Like, a lot. He sat me down at the kitchen table, 'cause I kept on saying they couldn't stay—and obviously all the dogs swarmed around us, looking up at Sam with these massive doting eyes, 'cause all dogs love him, apparently. And the floppy-haired twenty-three year old sat, staring at me, as I was like, 'what the fuck, dude', and he answered in like, the most frustratingly hilarious essay I've ever heard."

"Uh-huh? What did he say?"

"He was like," Dean chuckles again for a moment, "Dean, these dogs are gonna help me. He goes on about how they're gonna help him with his depression, and how he's gonna look after them—I won't even know they're here, apparently—and he goes on and on and tells me how awful it would be if he returned them, now: 'they've got used to it here, Dean!' 'What, over the past four hours?' 'They think it's home!' 'It's not even been a day, Sam!' But in the end—I don't know," Dean chuckles. "Maybe I'm spoiling him. But he persuades me. I kind of give up. And—and the argument about them being good for him—it really kind of swayed me. And he was right. Well, it's only been a couple of days, so I guess it'll take some time to see. But while he'd been talking, all three of his dogs had slowly come over to me—Efa first, of course, and I'd started petting her instinctively while I argued with Sam. Then Riot, and then finally Alex. And—dammit—they're pretty cute. They're all pretty cute. And Sam knew the moment he'd won. He started smiling like a total fucking goof. He just smirked, and then I glared back at him, like, you haven't won, Sammy, but then he just started grinning. And," Dean sighs, but it isn't frustrated, "here we are. Three dogs in a two bedroom apartment, like you said. Alex's head on my lap, me gushing about a bunch of canines to my oldest friend, who's five thousand miles away."

Castiel smiles.

"I think it's great you're looking out for him in this way, Dean."

Dean chuckles.

"Like I said, spoiling him. But he's my little brother, so what are you gonna do."

"What's he gonna do, when he goes to do his Masters? With the dogs, I mean?"

"Yep. I asked him that. He was kind of vague," Dean laughs. "I guess he wants to take them with him. But he was kind of vague. Maybe I'd have to look after them."

"Then you'd be the weirdo with too many dogs."

"Right? Like, we always laugh about spinsters with too many cats—but what about bachelors with too many dogs?

"But maybe you won't be a bachelor," Castiel points out. "Who knows?"

"Good joke."

"I wasn't," Castiel frowns. "But anyway. Your brother is lucky to have you. I mean it."

"I'm glad I have him," Dean says, seriously. "There—there were points, back there, where I was afraid I wouldn't. That I'd lose him, completely. Forever."

Castiel presses his lips together sadly and nods.

"Yes," He finds himself saying. "Of course. But—he's still here, you know. A lot of that is down to you, you know."

"I can't take credit for his healing—"

"Dean, you let three rescue dogs into your apartment, all in the name of his healing."

"Well, I wouldn't have let them in if they were asshole dogs," Dean points out. "Them being so cute had a lot to do with me being swayed. I had four sets of puppy-dog eyes fixed on me, Cas. You can't know what that's like."

"You'd be surprised, Dean."

"Huh?"

"You have quite the puppy-dog look, too, you know. You always rant about Sam's, but you've fixed me with your own so many times."

"No way," Dean says, grin evident in his voice.

"You know it," Castiel chuckles, "you sound so guilty."

Dean laughs.

"It ever work on you?" He asks.

"You know it did! It does—it's how you persuaded me to do everything you wanted to do, that I didn't."

"You do puppy eyes as well! You'd do them all the time! When I met you, you had your puppy-dog eyes on."

"I can't help it if I was cute—and there's a difference between that and puppy dog eyes, which are utilising a specific way of looking, for personal gain—"

"Ugh, don't phrase it like an academic," Dean grumbles. "You ruin the whole thing, that way."

"I'm gonna write a whole paper on puppy eyes, just to spite you, Dean."

"I cannot emphasise this enough, Cas, but if you wrote a paper about puppy dog eyes, the only person you'd be spiting would be yourself."

Castiel belly-laughs.

"I'm coming back in May," Castiel says, warmly, purely because he's so happy talking to Dean he can't stop thinking about the next time he'll get to be face to face, talking with the other man. "May thirtieth, probably."

"That's soon."

"five weeks," Castiel agrees. "Under. Not long at all."

"How long for?" Dean asks. He sounds a little breathless, voice cracked and dry.

"A few months," Castiel shrugs. "I'm not really sure. Term starts again early September. Hopefully until then."

"It's weird how you say 'term' instead of semester," Dean laughs.

"One of the many Anglicisms I've picked up, here, I suppose."

"Until September, though?" Dean asks. "That's a while."

"It is."

"What're you gonna do while you're out here?"

"I don't know," Castiel shrugs, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling.

"Are you gonna spend much time in Lawrence?"

Dean's question comes out nervous, half-formed; it implies more than it says.

"Of course," Castiel confirms, laughing breathlessly. "Where else would I be?"

"I dunno," Dean says, offhand. "Just… Y'know… You could be anywhere."

"And I'm saying I'd rather be home," Castiel states. Dean is silent for a few moments.

"Home…" He repeats. Castiel presses his lips together, hardly able to exhale, and smiles.

"Will you be around?" Castiel asks, after a moment's pause.

"I—yeah. Yeah," Dean says. "Of course. Where else would I be?"

"Will you want to hang out?"

Castiel hears a stuttered breath followed by nervous, light laughter.

"Yeah—yeah—of course. So much. Wow. Please."

"Okay," Castiel laughs.

"We could go fishing like we used to?"

"Sure."

"Maybe on a roadtrip?—If you—if you've got time, I mean. I wouldn't want to—"

"That sounds great, Dean."

"And what about camping? I used to love camping with you. Would you wanna go camping, again?"

"Why not?"

"It'd be so awesome—we—we never got to do that last camping trip, when we were eighteen."

"We didn't," Castiel agrees. "I guess we're righting those wrongs, now, though."

"Yeah," Dean states. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Making up for lost time."

"Yeah—yeah. Totally," Dean says, sounding relieved.

"Except, you know," Castiel says, slowly, fiddling with the seam of a cushion, "I don't really think of it, that way, any more."

Dean pauses.

"Why not?"

Castiel isn't quite sure how to answer without giving everything away.

"I don't know…" He says, voice as soft against his lips as the thought of Dean is against his heart. "I guess… I guess now, I'm just grateful for the time that we do spend together. I'm sorry for those lost years, in-between… but only because of what they did to you, did to us. I'm sorry for how I thought of you during that time—"

"It was my fault you thought of me any kind of way, Cas. However you thought of me, that was me… It was 'cause I messed up…"

"Well, anyway, I count it all deceit, now, what I thought of you, for however long. And 'making up for lost time' doesn't really make sense to me, since we're friends, now, there's nothing to rush. Only each other to enjoy."

"You're way too forgiving, Cas…"

"Not at all," Castiel disagrees.

Dean is silent, something in it frustrated and inarticulate. Castiel wonders what he's thinking.

"How are you?" Dean asks at last. Castiel's lips twitch.

"Alright, thank you. Sleepy."

"Oh—sorry—"

"It's no kind of time for me to be getting to bed, Dean—no matter what time it is over there—so don't worry. It's not even the afternoon, yet."

"Oh, okay. Why are you tired, then? Are you not sleeping well?"

"I'm sleeping fine," Castiel shrugs, and it's a half-lie. "But I've been busy. And—worried. I, um, I've written a poetry book, for him. For Jimmy, my dad, I mean," He laughs, lightheaded with the words, realising the strangeness of his language. "I wrote a collection, for him. It came today." He glances down at the book in his hands, right palm grazing over the cover and he realises in a limp heartbeat that the colour resembles, startlingly, not only Castiel and his father's eyes, but also the colour of the Dylan Thomas collection Dean gave him after Jimmy's death. "The advance, I mean—the, um," He presses his lips together, swallowing, "the kind of—final product, before it's released, to show me what it looks like. I'm holding it, now," He looks down at it surreally. "I'm holding it," He says again. "It's here, in my hand."

"Oh," Dean says, the word broken and staggered.

"Yes," Castiel agrees, not knowing what with.

"You've—you've never released poetry before."

"No," Castiel agrees again. "I haven't. It felt—for my dad, it felt like… The first—it should be for him."

"Yeah…" Dean agrees, breathless, voice numb yet pricked with weight. "It should—you're right. It's right."

Castiel, eyes burnt, mouth hanging open, is comforted in raw tenderness at the knowledge that Dean understands, or seems to.

"How many poems?" Dean asks.

"Around—" Castiel looks down at the book, "less than a hundred pages' worth. It…" He laughs unhelpfully. "It depends on what you call a poem. Around thirty. Some are long and sprawling, some…" Some intimately short.

"That's… That's so amazing, Cas," Dean says, voice crackling, either from poor connection, or from… "Wow. I'm so proud of you—I—it's getting published?"

"Yes," Castiel confirms with a laugh.

"Wow," Dean laughs too, breathlessly. "Wow. That's like—that's the coolest thing I've ever heard. Like—published, Cas."

"I've been published before," Castiel points out.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, "but this—this is different, isn't it? This is poetry—you've never done that before—"

"—It's always felt more intimate," Castiel explains, "too intimate—"

"—Of course," Dean agrees. "And it is. It's so brave. I'm so proud. And it's about Jimmy?"

"Yes."

"He deserves it. I couldn't think of anyone better. He'd be so proud. He… he is, I bet."

Castiel laughs and closes his eyes again. He cries a little.

"Thank you," He murmurs softly.

"Can I read it?" Dean asks. "When it's released, I mean. Can I read it?"

"I'm not exactly gonna bar you from being able to," Castiel points out, laughing.

"Yeah, but you might not want me to," Dean counters gently. "Like you said, it's intimate, and you might not want me to. I'd respect that, if that's how it was."

"Dean," Castiel says softly, but he doesn't know what he'd been going to say.

"But damn, it's so cool," Dean chuckles softly. "My—my friend's a poet!"

"You pretty much write poems yourself," Castiel points out.

"Not really. My songs suck—"

"The job you got given by Balthazar, with no prior experience, would suggest otherwise."

"Shut up. This is about you. Have you been worrying about it, then?" Dean asks. "The book? And how people will receive it?"

"Something like that," Castiel nods vaguely. "It's difficult to… If people hate it, it'll feel like they hate Jimmy, you know? Hate my relationship with my own father and one of the ways I've been trying to process his death. That's scary. I hate that thought. It terrifies me. It makes me want to be sick."

"That is scary," Dean agrees softly. "I hear you. And you've been losing sleep over it?"

"Sleeping, waking, it's been on my mind."

"I'm sorry, man. I guess—I guess the question is whether you think the good the book will do will outweigh the bad of any criticism—whether harsh or constructive—you end up getting."

"I guess…"

"The way I see it, any book on grief written by someone who knows what it's like is gonna be a good thing. Especially when—especially when that person is you. You're amazing with words, with ideas. Maybe better at writing them down, than speaking them," Dean laughs, and Castiel closes his eyes again, smiling, "but whatever you've written, it's gonna be so good. I just know it. You're so talented, and you're writing about something raw, something you know—the fact that you're worrying about it shows how close it is to you. I don't—I literally can't imagine it being bad. So any criticism you get, it might be painful, and hopefully they'd recognise the sensitivity of the subject—but you'd just have to take it as literary criticism, right? Not criticism of the relationship you had with your dad. Not of your dad himself. I don't know what negatives people could possibly say about you, honestly, but… I guess you're worrying about it, anyway. You could even ignore any criticism, you know, just not read it. You don't have to, you don't have to engage with it. You're publishing this really intimate, beautiful thing—I think that's so brave. Do it on your own terms."

Castiel doesn't know what to say. Again.

"Thank you, Dean…"

"I know I'm crappy at advice, and I know being an amazing comforter is your forte, but please listen anyway. I'm so excited to read it. I'm so proud of you. I bet Jimmy is, too."

"Dean," Castiel grazes his hand over his forearm. "The friend you've been to me these past few months… Honestly… I'm so grateful…"

"It's nothing—it's been nothing—"

"Accept the fucking compliment, Winchester," Castiel groans, tilting his head back, and Dean laughs.

"Yeah, okay. Fine. Just give me a signed copy of your new book, to make it up to me."

"I'll give you a signed copy of every book I write, for the rest of my life," Castiel states seriously.

"Neat. I could probably sell those for a pretty sweet profit."

Castiel chuckles.

"I think you overestimate the popularity of my writing," He answers dryly.

"Dude, all my students have read your stuff—"

"That's because I visited their school that one time—"

"No, dammit, it's because you're good!" Dean exclaims, laughing. "They were so excited—like, literally in awe—when they found out I knew you. They still ask after you. So."

He misses Dean so much that it causes an ache at his chest. Dean Winchester, who, a little over six months ago, Castiel was convinced was an ass and a bigot and unkind and unforgivable. Dean Winchester who allowed himself to be thought of as such to allow Castiel a shot at what Dean thought would bring his friend happiness. Dean Winchester who has endured so much. Dean Winchester who proved Castiel so wrong and can't even remember doing it. Dean Winchester who deserves so much.

"I can't wait to see you again," Castiel states. Dean exhales softly.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Me neither."

...

A/N:

So I knew when I started writing this that it'd be one of the slowest burns in history, but like... wow. I've gotta say wow. This is the slowest of the slow. Anyway, if I haven't already told you, Cas's big reveal will be coming in chapter 59, which is pretty soon, and I'm about to start writing it. Just so you have something concrete to hold onto :)