Leave the car running
I'm not ready to go
It doesn't matter where
I just don't want to be alone
And as long as you're not tired yet
Of talking, it helps to make it hurt less
Julien Baker, Hurt Less
Dean is halfway through his second cup of coffee, the shake in his hands barely conceivable, when Sam enters the kitchen.
"Hey. How –" he starts, but then leaves the question hanging in the air, in what looks like a mindful attempt to respect Dean's wish to be left alone with his struggles and his darkness.
"I was thinking, – Sam tries again – maybe we could, you know, try to work a case. It could help you focus on something else, besides Michael."
Dean can't help a reproachful look as he hears the name leave Sam's lips. It takes a strength he wasn't sure he had to direct the conversation to where he was headed to begin with.
"Actually, there's something I've gotta do. With Cas."
"Oh,"
"Yeah, well, I think you know what I mean." And, for once, Dean really hopes he does.
Sam, however, is looking at him, wide-eyed and hesitant, "Sure…".
"This whole Michael thing, man, I know we are trying our best to find a way out. But since I've locked him up here, I've realized that if anything should happen to me, there's a few things I want – I need to get off my chest first." And it is the truth, to be fair. The only difference is that there is nothing hypothetical in what Dean is about to do.
For a moment, it looks like Sam is about to cry, but then he inhales sharply, and – smiles, a big, warm smile Dean hasn't seen in a long time. "Of course, of course. You go ahead. Dean, I'm so pr- "
But Dean interrupts him, getting up from the table, a hand on Sam's shoulder, "we're not gonna have this conversation now, Sammy. I'll see you later."
Sam nods, a small chuckle coming out of his mouth.
Dean is almost through the door when Sam speaks, his face darker, his gaze firm: "You will get to live this, Dean. I'll make sure of that."
And Dean has to walk away before Sam catches him choking back tears.
Dean doesn't have to ask Cas twice before he accepts to join him on a day out, eagerly following him all the way to the garage. There is not much he wants to know either, if Dean is alright, if he remembered to take his wallet, just the regular things. And Dean's chest tightens when he thinks of how little Cas knows of what is to come.
The shakes are worse when he's driving, and he knows withdrawal is partially to blame, after all the decision to stay away from alcohol – or sleep, as much as possible in order to prevent Michael from taking over in a moment of weakness, inevitably comes at a cost. What he is about to do, though, eclipses any celestial possession or death sentence, in its gruesome power to overturn Dean's life, or whatever is left of it, just with a couple of words.
"Where are we headed?" Cas asks, putting an end to what, if their circumstances where different, Dean would have called a comfortable silence.
"McConaughy Lake. I haven't seen the sea in forever, but it'd be like a two-day drive, so I figured this was the second-best thing."
Dean doesn't tell him about the stinging desire that is persistently wrapped around his throat, drowned in shame, but still strong. He doesn't tell him about how badly he wishes to see his skin, his arms, his shoulders, his chest, underneath all the layers that are always separating them. He doesn't tell him, and Cas seems satisfied with his answer anyway.
"Sounds nice."
When they arrive, they find the beach deserted. It's a Wednesday and the weather isn't ideal for a day at the lake, but Dean is thankful an audience won't be there to witness his miserable attempt to tell the truth.
"Bobby took us here a couple of times when we were kids."
"That's a long way from Sioux Falls." Cas comments and there is a steady smile on his face, it's barely visible, but Dean has learnt to spot it and cherish it a long time ago.
"Well, not so much. We used to camp here for about a week, Sam would complain from the car ride here up until we packed to leave. I, on the other hand, I loved every second."
And he hated what he was coming back to, his guts twisted the moment he saw the Impala parked outside Bobby's house and his father leaning against hit. He remembers a time when Bobby hugged him particularly tight and told him you'll be alright, son and before Dean could hide it, John had seen the tears in his eyes, I know you missed me, but there's no need to cry like a little girl about it he joked sharply as soon as they got inside the car.
Cas seems to read Dean's mind when he says: "Looks like the perfect place to escape from reality for a while."
"Yeah, as good as any, at this point."
"Do you feel him, right now?"
Yes, Michael is screaming in his head so loudly that he thinks someday his eardrums will bleed and his cover will fall.
"A bit, he's always here, but it's manageable." He lies, it comes easy to him, he even manages to put on a smile.
They end up sitting on the sand, eating the sandwiches Dean prepared in the morning and drinking a new brand of iced tea that Cas insisted they tried when they stopped for gas earlier.
Dean does his best to enjoy everything, from the sound of Cas's laughter to the pale rays of sunshine on his face, but the finality of his situation constantly pushes him underwater.
"This tea sucks, man." he says, taking another sip.
"Mine tastes good, – Cas answers earnestly – I mean, it's not too high on the disgusting molecules scale."
"Let me be the judge." Dean stretches a hand to take the bottle from Cas's hands.
"Red apple green tea" he recites from the label before he places his mouth where Cas's lips used to be, as one the many rituals he has crafted through the years just to feel closer to him, to taste intimacy as safely as possible.
"So?" Cas asks, dragging Dean out of the thick fog of his brain.
"Not a big fan of apples, but still better than the strawberry lemonade flavor, that one tastes like diluted metal juice."
Cas lets out another chuckle, light and sincere, and Dean feels tears pricking the corner of his eyes. He needs two deep breaths before he can look at Cas again.
"Dean, I know what this is about." Cas says, playing with the film his sandwich was wrapped with.
"You do?" and Dean hears his voice shake as he asks.
"This day-out, spending some quality time together – he echoes Dean's words –, visiting the places from your childhood. I know you feel hopeless, I can see it. But this doesn't have to be the end."
Dean can't pinpoint the reason just yet, but he feels anger heating the back of his neck.
"You don't know everything, Cas."
"I know this, though."
And there is something about how calm Cas seems to be that makes Dean's skin crawl, he doesn't know. If he did, Dean wouldn't feel as if his ribcage was seconds away from breaking with the weight of his lungs and the beating of his heart.
"You don't." he says through gritted teeth.
"Then tell me." Cas persists and quickly what used to be anger turns into frustration, sadness veiling him with a smooth trick of the hand.
"You're right, Cas. I don't see a way out, but this is not why we are here. Well, not exactly, at least. – as he breaths in, Dean considers bailing out, he could change the subject or maybe jump in the lake and never come back to the surface, but he can't, there's no time. – I want you to know… I don't expect anything from this… I'm sorry it took me so long to… You don't have to say it back…"
"– I love you."
Eventually he spits it out, harsh and quick, before he can stop himself.
Cas is silent for a while, long enough for the outline of his face to appear blurred to Dean's dizzy sight.
"Dean, are you – are you sure?" he asks, tilting his head to one side. Dean is so tense at that point that he lets out a small chuckle.
"Yeah, look, I've had a lot of time to think about it."
Cas carefully places a hand on Dean's, his thumb rubbing Dean's scarred knuckles. On his dry lips rests a smile so big that it seems on the verge of cracking them.
It's only when their skin touch that Dean feels it slip, his control of Michael weakening as the screams start to be audible again, like a banshee's wail.
His sight goes hazy, then black for a moment, panic tightening his throat and his hand escaping Cas's touch.
He tries to focus on his breathing, on the lock holding the door, on how Michael is nothing but a prisoner condemned to a remote corner of his mind. Air burns when it reaches his lungs, he can't ground himself.
"Dean? Dean!" Cas yells as he kneels in front of him; his hands now on Dean's shoulder, back to the strong grip he is so familiar with.
"I'm here, okay? It's just me, please stay with me." Cas repeats, over and over until Dean eventually opens his eyes, only to be confronted with blue and worry.
They both exhale, Cas' touch softening as his hands trace down the length of Dean's arms in what seems like the closest thing to a caress Dean has felt in a long time. Cas lingers on his forearms, where his nails have sunk and cut the skin, slowly unclenching Dean's grasp.
Cas doesn't back off, still a few inches away from Dean when he collapses against Cas' chest, the tension in his body suddenly gone, leaving him with just a widespread feeling of desperation.
"It's all wrong. He shouldn't be here; it was supposed to be me and you." He mutters, unable to move from Cas's embrace, despite his pride urging him to compose himself, at least a little.
"He's not here, Dean, he has no power over this moment. I am here and – I love you too, with everything I have."
Dean remains still even then, buried in Cas's smell, with his eyes closed as the man he loves strokes his hair and an irrational fear runs through his body, that maybe it's all an impossible dream and opening his eyes means getting back to a time when their hands are meant only to kill and destroy, when the blood never really washes away.
Comfort, however, replaces fear in the end. So that when their gazes meet again, Cas's thighs brushing against Dean's for how close they are sitting, Dean doesn't have to ask himself if it's real, if his lips leaning into Cas's are nothing but a sick little trick of his mind, because it feels real and, for a moment, Dean forgets time. The ticking clock on the back of his head falls silent and Michael fades and melts into the background.
The last meal of a condemned prisoner, a thought Dean can't contain when Cas cradles his face, as if he waited a thousand years just to get to that moment.
"Let's go for a swim." Dean suggests, already starting to take off his shirt. Cas gives him an amused look.
"Won't you catch a cold?"
"Not to flex, but I'm pretty sure I've seen worse." Dean manages to sound casual, trying not to stare as Cas proceeds to unbutton his own shirt.
The weight on his chest feels light enough for him not to be swallowed down by the lake and dragged to the bottom, which is something. His face, though, is still burning, craving to meet the freezing cold water.
"The Dean Winchester, who survived two Apocalypses and fought all kinds of monsters, angels and demons, tragically dies of pneumonia because he insisted on taking a bath in Nebraska's waters in early April. Oh, that would make a story."
Dean hasn't even started to overthink Cas's joke yet when he is faced with the almost naked body of the man he loves, and who loves him, he takes pleasure in reminding himself. All he can do is stare in disbelief, biting his lips as hard as he can, hoping to fight back a sadness that is restless and resilient.
He places both hands on Cas's bare chest, trying to immortalize the memory of how it feels to act directly on his desires. When they share another kiss, slow and chaste, Dean prays this sort of holiness finds his way underneath his skin, as some sort of companion for the eternity of nothingness he is about to step into.
Once Dean gets close to Cas again, they are past where their feet can touch. He looks into Cas's eyes, the same color of the water, just brighter, and sighs: "I wish I could keep swimming forever." But he can't, he can only sink deeper and deeper until he reaches the seabed.
Cas frowns, the smile on his lips fading slowly, until he says, "Your human condition makes it technically impossible, so despite how tempting the thought of dragging your fatigued body to the shore sounds, may I suggest we swim back? The sun is starting to go down."
Dean throws a splash of water directly at Cas's face. "You'd love to drag my fatigued, but still handsome, body to the shore."
"Don't start acting up now." Cas gives him a grin and Dean really wants to stop it from fading away by stamping a kiss over it, pressing his lips against Cas's until his chest stops aching. And so he does, still partially struck by disbelief in front of his new freedom. Except his chest keeps hurting and it does the whole ride back.
It's not only pain, though, it's also warmth and comfort, like when Cas reaches for his hand in the car and Dean kisses his knuckles, tears threatening to cloud his vision. For a moment, Dean allows himself to imagine another way, another life, one that's kinder and slower, where they get to have time. But constellations are all falling on them at a breakneck speed and moments like that one are merely a blissful fracture before they reach the end of the line.
"I love you." He tries again, and this time it's a little easier. His throat is still tight, but at least Michael is silent, it's just the two of them and the open road.
Dean sometimes feels like it's all just a cycle of pain, never-ending and keeping him stuck in the mud since he was 4 years old. Yet, as he is sitting in his father's car, driving down the same old road back to Kansas, he just needs to take a quick look around to see. His hand is on another man's lap, there's no liquor or guns in the backseat, but empty tea bottles and a few cheese sandwiches, and, for once, not a drop of blood in sight. Nothing cyclical about that.
John would hate to know that his war tent has been turned into a place of defiant love and acceptance, and it's the very soldier he tried to shape in his image and likeness who has made it so, him and his family. It's not a cycle, it's a line and it can't stop moving forward, Cas taught him that.