Dean stood in the middle of the yard, eyes drawn to the dark stain in the concrete.

It had been over a week since Bobby had died. Over a week since he'd found out he might not have a job anymore. He knew he should be saving what little money he had instead of drinking it away, but he couldn't face it sober. Couldn't face the thought that he'd never see Bobby again. Couldn't face that he might not be able to keep a roof over their heads. Couldn't face Cas knowing that he hadn't done a damn thing other than cower behind a car.

The garage was no longer a crime scene, but was still closed for business. He'd never seen the yard so empty - not even when business was slow. He knew he wasn't supposed to be there, but he slid his key into the lock anyway and slipped quietly into the deserted workshop.

It was quiet. Too quiet. The background noise he'd become so accustomed to - the music on the radio, the chatter of his colleagues, the clatter of tools - had been replaced by a deafening silence. Even the background hum of vehicles driving by seemed more muted than normal.

As he walked through the workshop, he felt strangely agoraphobic, for the building felt larger than normal now that it was empty. There were no cars, no mechanics, and even some of the tool chests had gone - all the mechanics owned some of their own equipment, as well as using Bobby's, so they'd taken them home the day the garage had closed.

Bobby's workbench was still a cluttered mess of tools, exactly the way he'd left it. He'd never had the chance to tidy things away before... Dean reached out and picked up Bobby's flask that was still sitting at the back of his workbench. Everyone pretended not to notice that Bobby liked to take a drink now and then. He was never drunk, so it was none of their business. He blinked back tears as he slipped the flask into his pocket.

Cas's Lincoln was still sitting in the back, hidden under a dust sheet. Dean had rung around a few local garages to ask if any of them had space for it, just until he got it finished, but as yet hadn't had any luck finding it a temporary home. He pulled back the sheet and stared at the ugly car he'd grown far too familiar with. The flask was a noticeable weight in his pocket, weighing him down like a stone, and a surge of anger coursed through him. He grabbed the first thing that came to hand - a crowbar - and brought it down on the Lincoln's hood once, twice, three times, before sinking to his knees and sobbing.

. * * * .

Across town, Cas stuck his finger into a plant pot. "You can wait another week," he told the sansevieria. He didn't want to overwater the plant and kill it, after all, and Balthazar had told him that if he was in doubt he shouldn't water it as the species doesn't need much. The bromeliad preferred moist conditions, however, so he flushed out the centre of the plant which held some water in a 'cup' and poured a little more into the soil. He didn't have this memorised yet, and had to keep checking the notes he#d made when Balthazar had given him his instructions. Finally he took a damp cloth and wiped the leaves, clearing them of the dust that had gathered on them.

"Balthazar will be home in a couple of weeks, so I just need you to survive until then," he told them.

For a man who partied and had sex like there was no tomorrow, he had a lot of houseplants. It wasn't something he'd have expected, and he remembered being surprised when he'd moved into Balthazar's house for a week and found plants in nearly every room. Eventually he'd asked Balthazar about it, and he'd revealed that one girl he'd been seeing had bought him a plant. Another saw the plant looking a bit droopy and bought him another, thinking that the first would die soon and he'd like a replacement. But the first had perked up, and suddenly women kept buying him plants because they thought he liked them. At first he'd been hoping they'd die, despite finding himself unable to neglect them, but over time they'd grown on him.

Cas ticked off the last plant on his list, before doing his rounds to make sure the windows were still locked and hadn't been tampered with. "Alright, I'll see you all next week!" he called into the house as he locked up.

If anyone asked him why he was talking to an empty house, he'd insist it was so that anyone walking by would think there was someone inside and would be discouraged from breaking in. In truth, he'd read somewhere that plants responded positively to sound, and grew faster if you spoke to them. Of course, if he ever got a houseplant of his own he'd never let Dean catch him talking to it - his boyfriend would think he'd gone mad.

. * * * .

When Dean trudged into The Roadhouse later, he was surprised to see Ellen wiping down tables.

"Your mom's back at work?" he asked Jo, as he took his usual seat at the bar.

"Sometimes," she told him. "Sometimes she's through the back with a drink. At any rate, she's been better since the funeral."

"She'll get there," Dean assured her.

"I hope so. Who was the old guy there?"

"You mean Rufus? Grumpy guy? He's a friend of Bobby's. Owns a garage way out... somewhere," he said, gesturing vaguely.

"Oh. Okay." Jo glanced around for her mother, then dropped her voice as she asked, "Did you know she asked if she could have his ashes? He didn't have any family to take them, so I guess she... I don't know."

"Family doesn't end in blood," Dean said. "You guys were family, as far as he was concerned."

Jo reached over the bar and took his hand. "So were you."

"I was a pain in the ass mechanic."

"He looked out for you. He looked out for all of you, but more so you."

"I guess because he knew Dad?" Dean shrugged. "So what did she do with them? The ashes?"

"Oh, she hasn't got them, yet. It takes a couple of weeks, apparently. I don't know why. I don't even know if she's thought that far ahead. I just hope that having them here doesn't upset her all over again. I hate seeing her like this, and Ash and I need the help with the bar."

"Well I know three soon-to-be-unemployed mechanics looking for work."

Jo rolled her eyes. "Just because you're good at drinking booze doesn't mean you're good at serving it. What goes into a Sex on the Beach?"

Dean smirked. "Tequila. A picnic. Followed by a long walk, maybe some skinny-dipping..."

"How to Get Laid: The Dean Winchester Guide," Jo quipped. "Nice."

"But I wouldn't recommend it because the sand gets everywhere."

She shook her head. "I can't believe I ever had a thing for you," she said, reaching for a glass and pouring him a beer.

He took a long sip. "So, the thing between Bobby and your mother..."

"She wanted it to be serious. Bobby wanted to take it slow, from what I gather."

"What happened to his wife?"

"She died. Long time ago."

Dean hesitated, before pointing out, "He still wore his wedding band."

"Yeah. Just because people move on doesn't mean their love disappears."

"And Ellen was okay with that? With being... being second best? A consolation prize?"

Jo frowned at him, and shook her head pitifully. "Mom wasn't 'second best' to Karen. Just like Bobby wasn't second best to Dad. Especially at their age, it's not about finding 'The One' - if there even is such a thing. It's about not being alone - about finding love and companionship with a friend."

As Dean drank, she added, "Sort of like you and Cas."

Dean sputtered into his glass.

. * * * .

As Cas unpacked the last of the groceries, his mind was buzzing with worries about their finances. They still hadn't heard what was happening to the garage, and if Dean was going to have to look for a new job it needed to be sooner rather than later. They didn't have much in the way of savings, and he'd spent more than he'd meant to in the grocery store - but it was all stuff that they needed.

Dean wasn't home, but he had a pretty good idea where he would be. Even with the friends and family discount Jo and Ellen generously gave them, they couldn't afford for Dean to be eating out every other night. They couldn't afford for Dean to be drinking so much again, either. He wondered what his chances were of persuading Dean to come home before he got too drunk, and share a late dinner with him?

With the last of the groceries put away, he slipped on the jacket he'd taken off not five minutes ago and headed back out.

As he locked the door, he could hear their phone start to ring inside. He hesitated, then unlocked the door again and went back in to answer it.

"Hello, Sam."

"I'm sorry I missed your call the other day. It's not a bad time, is it?"

"I was just on my way out, but I don't have to leave right now. Was it important?"

"I don't know," Sam told him. "Dean was supposed to send me some money, but he hasn't. There's no rush, and if he needs more time that's fine, but I've sent him a few messages and he hasn't answered. I tried calling his cell but it went to voicemail. Is everything okay?"

Cas let out a shaky breath. "No," he admitted. "No, it's not."

He talked for twenty minutes, catching Dean's brother up on everything that had happened recently. Sam did his best to comfort him as he cried, mourning Bobby and fearing for Dean's well-being. He'd been trying so hard to hold it together, to be there for Dean, that he hadn't allowed himself to grieve as much as he needed to.

Half an hour later, Sam wished them well and Cas hung up so he could go and bring Dean home.

But when he walked into The Roadhouse, he stopped dead - his heart sinking like a stone when he spotted his boyfriend kissing an unfamiliar woman.