not me being away for so long that i forgot how to post on here. embarrasing.
this has a happy ending! for all those who refuse to read sad fics (me) i assure you it ends with everyone happy and safe. sometimes things are awful before they can be great.
enjoy!
It's the cruelest kind of irony, Dean will think in hindsight, that in the span of one night he has gotten something he's longed for the last several years, and has lost something he wanted even more.
Under any other circumstance, this could have been one of the happiest nights of his life.
Slowly, so slowly he actually fears he isn't moving at all, he rises to his feet and takes the deepest breath he can manage at the moment.
Cas is dead. Cas' body is lying centimeters away from his feet, and Dean can't process it.
Cas is dead and this time there is no coming back.
Sam's voice comes from the inside of the house in a panicked yell and when a few hours, minutes even, ago his first instinct would have been to run into the house guns a-blazing; now he struggles to even turn to the sound.
But Sammy might be in danger. Cas might not be alive anymore, but Sam is for now.
Trying not to look back, lest he vomits at the sight of his best friend's dead body, he gets into the house as quickly has he can. The sound comes again, apparently from the second floor of the house, but at least Sam only sounds scared, not in pain or suffering from any fatal injuries.
The scene that greets him is not particularly a pleasant one. The first thing he notices is the blood, seemingly everywhere. Kelly lays unmoving a few feet from him, the sheets around her legs, soaked with fresh blood. Her eyes, open, stare vacant in the general direction of the door, perhaps having spent her last moments desperately hoping for help, unknowing it wouldn't come.
Sam, when Dean finally sees him, sitting on a battered-looking chair on the other end of the room, isn't free of the blood either. The entire front of his shit is darkened, as are his arms and the… the tiny bundle in them.
Dean, in this whole trying to avoid Heaven and Hell from stealing away Lucifer's son has somehow forgotten that after a birth usually comes a baby. A tiny, defenseless baby who can't even hold his own head.
(If Dean is being honest, he was hoping the kid would come out a fully fledged angel —or nephilim, whatever— already grown up and wearing a celestial armor, ready to strike down those who had wronged him. A baby is not the weapon against Lucifer he was secretly anticipating.)
"Dean."
Upon hearing his name, he immediately snaps his gaze back to his brother. Sam looks tired, more tired than Dean has seen him in a long time, which considering their lives is quite a statement to make.
The baby —Jack, Dean thinks belatedly, the baby has a name— is squirming in his brother's arms, too young yet to do much beside whine softly and move his (tiny, tiny) hands around.
Dean is stuck with the sudden thought that if he touches the nephilim, the baby is going to die. Unlikely, and that probably is his baggage talking, but he isn't taking any chances.
"What—" His throat his dry, drier that it has been in a while, and he tries swallowing compulsively to try and remediate the situation. "What are we going to do?"
Hell if he knows. The only plan he had for tonight was trying to make sure everyone got out of it alive and that's completely out of the window now.
God, Cas is dead.
"A good start might be to clean up in here. And then, uh." Sam visibly hesitates, and Dean immediately knows what his brother is going to say next. "And then we should. Um. Burn the bodies."
Bodies, in plural, because it's not just Kelly, it's also Cas that has died.
Dean is honestly trying to come to terms with it, but he isn't really succeeding. Although, he supposes, he can't really be blamed, considering his best friend was fatally stabbed in front of him less than ten minutes ago.
His silence is making Sam nervous, he can tell, but he can't bring himself to speak. The baby squirms once again in Sam's arms and his brother looks at him wearily. Suddenly, it occurs to Dean that Sam has probably never handled a baby this small.
Sam was six months old when he was entrusted in Dean's care, but he was a very small baby, surprisingly. Dean will take this secret to the grave, but he sometimes misses the weight of baby Sam in his arms, and the way his brother used to look awestruck up at him.
"Give me the baby."
It's a miracle Jack doesn't start crying as soon as Dean holds him, but it's also a miracle Dean also doesn't cry. The wave of despair that runs through him threatens to overwhelm him, and he is frankly surprised that the nephilim, however young, doesn't seem to pick up on it.
Dean shushes him gently, still afraid of hurting him. Yes, he is the son of the Satan and one day might be the most powerful being in the universe, but right now he is just a baby.
(A baby for whom his best friend died, the angrier part of his brain reminds him. Cas was ready to sacrifice everything for Jack, for Jack's vision of a new paradise, and in the end it cost him everything. If it wasn't for this baby, Cas would still be alive.)
"Grab me a clean sheet, Sammy, or the kid's gonna freeze to death."
"It's not even cold outside, Dean."
Dean glares at his brother half-heartedly. "Give me the damn sheet, Sam."
They end up using the pillow sheet: the bed is beyond soaked. Dean stands by, trying to wrap a sheet that is much too uncomfortable for a baby this small while Sam delicately wraps Kelly up in her own sheets. They'll have to make a pyre but Dean tries not to think about that right now, fearing he will finally snap. So he chooses instead to rock the child in his arms, but he doesn't know who that motion is meant to calm down—the baby or himself.
Once Sam is done, Dean figures it's time to do something about Cas, about Cas' body. He knows this is going to haunt his nightmares for years to come.
They go down the stairs together, slowly, trying not to jostle Kelly's body too much or make the baby cry. Jack is almost deadly silent and Dean would be worried about it if he wasn't already worrying about a thousand other things already.
Building the pyre is tricky. Sam has to do everything alone while Dean watches from the sidelines, still holding Jack in his arms. It takes them at least a couple of hours, hours that Dean spends trying not to think about Cas' body, lying just a few yards from the pyre. It's not an easy fit.
"Alright, well." Sam starts after he finishes. "We should, um. Somebody should prepare Cas' body."
"I'll do it," Dean says immediately. Of course he will, he would never forgive himself otherwise. Besides, he thinks chocked up, this is the only private moment he will have to say goodbye to his friend.
Cas is lying exactly in the same place he was a few hours before. Dean was hoping secretly, desperately, that he would have moved. Maybe even walked to them, held Jack in his arms, helped them with Kelly. Dean wants him alive, but he is not.
His skin is colder to the touch now, and he fights the urge to vomit and cry at the same time.
"C'mon man," he murmurs to the body in front of him. "You promised to stop dying on me."
The forever unmoving corpse in front of him doesn't react to his words, no matter how much Dean wishes it would.
Carrying Cas back into the house proves an herculean task, and Dean will never tell anyone, but he couldn't stop crying from the moment he picked him up.
He doesn't know how he finds the strength to carry him to a table when his knees threaten to buckle with every step. Cas looks so small laid down in that table, so ordinary, unmemorable. Cas has always had this… divinity about him, an attitude that could not be contained in his body, a presence so big and important that turned heads around. Dean rationally knows it must have been his grace, but he has always felt the need to follow Cas around and look at him even when he was human, so. Grace might not be the answer, after all.
Covering his body is more difficult than he expected. Not because it's a particularly complicated task, but because he has to physically stop himself every few seconds to try and gather some vague sense of calm.
Nothing has ever felt like this, he thinks. Yes, the first time Sam died and Dean thought he had lost him forever will always remain the deepest, thickest scar in his soul. Still to this day, he wakes up screaming with the image of holding a dead (just out of boyhood and still dead) Sam burned in his mind. And he has lost his brother many times after, anyway; and he has cried and screamed himself hoarse after every one of them, but this…
But this.
He has also seen Cas die several times, he knows this. He knows it on a logical level, but that doesn't mean it makes the space behind his ribs hurt any less.
And now Cas is gone forever. There is even the shadow of his wings burned on the ground outside to prove it.
He has to pause and breathe deeply at the thought, has to stop tying Cas' feet together to process this.
Lucifer stabbed him with an angel blade. Dean saw Cas' grace light up and heard Cas scream in pain. He has touched Cas cold, pale face; has seen his unmoving body lay next to him. Has kneeled in the outline of the wings he has been longing for years to see.
Yes, Dean knows Cas won't come back. But that's the treacherous thing about hope: logic has no place in it.
Cas face is covered with an old curtain, probably dusty, definitely less than Cas deserved, still deserves. At least he will get a hunter's funeral, Dean will see to that no matter what happens. Cas might not have been a hunter in the strict sense, but he was Dean and Sam's family, and that's what counts.
It's too much. It will never be enough.
If it was hard taking the body inside the house, carrying it to the pyre is a thousand times worse. Sam is there, watching him with an expression too close to pity for Dean's comfort, holding the baby in his arms.
A baby, Dean realizes, that Cas will never get to lovingly cradle.
The fire goes up and Dean thinks, somewhat startled, that he doesn't remember putting Cas on the wood. Doesn't remember his last moments with Cas.
Jack suddenly starts crying and all Dean wants to do is accompany him in his grief.
"Dean, can you—can you help me with him?" Sam voice is too high to be passing for normal, high with panic upon facing the unknown. Under any other circumstances, Dean would find it hilarious that his brother can stare at the Devil head on without flinching, but a tiny baby crying is what sends him into a panic.
But the circumstances are what they are, and Dean doesn't laugh.
"What the hell do you want me to do, man?"
"Hold him or something. Dean, I'm really out of my depth here! I know nothing about babies, I don't know what I'm doing, please."
It feels like agony is ripping him apart, cutting up his veins. "Don't ask me that, not right now."
"Why not?"
Something inside Dean snaps, an ugly and vicious creature that leaves nothing but anger and resentment in its wake.
"You can't ask me to hold the creature that got Cas killed while we're watching Cas burn!"
The silence that follows feels deafening, endless. The birds stop chirping, the fire stops cracking, the wind stops blowing.
Or maybe Dean is just so overwhelmed he loses all his senses for a moment.
(He's tired suddenly, he's oh so exhausted. It's the kind of tired sleep won't fix. Only death, or coming back from it.)
When he comes to, the sight that greets him is a horrified Sam still holding a desperately wailing baby. Dean wishes he could care about either of those things.
"Dean, he didn't—He's just a baby."
"Yeah, a baby Cas gave everything up for. If it weren't for him—"
"He isn't even three hours old! None of this is his fault! Besides," Sam tries to gather himself, "Cas made his choice. He chose to protect Jack and we, as his friends, should respect his choice. Yes, the outcome is awful, but this is what Cas chose to die for."
"Yeah, well. Cas didn't have the best track record with choices, did he."
"Dean—"
"Sam. This is really not the moment. It's Cas' funeral," his throat closes up at his words, "and I don't give a shit about you defending the kid right now. So please, either say some kind of eulogy to Cas or shut the hell up."
Sam doesn't speak after that. He doesn't ask Dean to hold the baby either, even though Jack never stops screaming.
Dean wishes he could scream too.
They're loading their things back in the Impala, Sam gingerly having declared himself Jack's nanny for now since Dean won't do it, and Dean keeps searching the house and the surrounding area in case they have missed something.
(There is nothing to miss. They picked everything up. This is his fourth time checking the south corner of the house.)
His feet stop to a halt. Here, under his feet, are the burned remains of Cas' wings.
He does throw up this time.
When he finishes, heaving and with his mouth tasting like blood and bile; he stares at the shape, really looks at it. The only vestige of Cas' angelic nature. He sidesteps so as not to disturb it, them. Cas will never have a grave: maybe this can sort of be a memorial for him.
They seem to mock him, taunting him with thing he was always wanted but will never have: Cas, to sum it up. Cas being a human, Cas staying with him, Cas loving him.
He wonders how long it will take him before he can think about Cas without wanting to kill himself with remorse for not acting on his feelings sooner.
It's barely nothing, yet it means so much. Charred ground and dust should signify nothing. But to Dean, it symbolizes everything he's missing out.
Half-blind with rage, full-stricken with anguish, he finds himself kicking the soil under his boots, making the dust fly around; falling to his knees and scratching the ground, letting out a scream that hurts his throat and his soul.
The only earthly relic that remained of Castiel is destroyed, and it was his hands that did it.
Back at the bunker, things are… different. Dean immediately locks himself in his room and refuses to come out no matter what. He hasn't showered or eaten in two days.
Sam does his best taking care of Jack, but he is sadly not very successful.
Jack is a calm baby, at least. He doesn't fuss too much when you put him to sleep and he only cries a little bit when he's hungry. All in all, Sam could be in a much worse situation.
The baby sleeps peacefully in the middle of a crib Kelly bought and they took home. His tiny chest moves up and down when he breathes, but he's otherwise still. Sam caresses his cheek—it's softer than he imagined.
Sam's heart aches for him. He somehow sees himself reflected in Jack. He knows what it is to lose a parent when you're too young to remember them, knows how it feels to live your whole life with only borrowed memories of your mother: memories that don't belong to you, memories that people tell to you, sometimes with pity, sometimes with resentment.
He also knows how it feels like to be something abnormal, an experiment of nature. Knows how it feels when your parent hates you because of it.
But for now, Jack is only a baby and sleeps peacefully. And until Dean comes around, Sam will watch over him and care for him the way he wishes he was cared for when he was a kid.
Cas might not be there to protect the nephilim, but Sam will try his best.
Jack won't stop crying.
He has been at it for hours, and Dean has honestly lost count of how many.
(Dean is sure what he heard twenty minutes ago was Sam crying too. Babies will do that to you.)
"For fuck's sake."
Getting out of his bed and consoling a crying baby nephilim is the last thing he wants to do, especially considering he was just about to fall asleep when Jack started screaming, but the kid is going to scream himself hoarse if he doesn't stop soon.
The sight that greets him upon entering what has apparently been deemed Jack's room is a howling baby, thrashing in his crib, and Sam sitting on the floor next to him, hands buried in his hair and rocking back and forth.
Maybe Dean should have come sooner.
"C'mon, he's crying and you didn't even pick him up?"
Sam looks up to glare at him, eyes red-rimmed and a little bit wild. Dean resists the urge to step back. Considering how exhausted Sam looks, it's unlikely he'd snap and start ripping Dean apart, but Dean has taken care of babies before. He knows how easy it's to go unhinged after listening to incessant crying one too many nights.
"What the hell do you know, Dean? You lock yourself in your room for days and now you want to lecture me on what I should do with him? I told you I had no idea of how to take care of a baby and you didn't care!"
It's the exhaustion talking, Dean tries to assure himself. Sam has been taking care of Jack ever since they came home, and he just wants to nap.
(Tries not to listen to the voice saying that Sam's right, that he's doing the same thing John did to him.)
"Okay, touchy-touchy, I get it. C'mon, kid," he walks to the crib, bends over the inconsolable baby, "let's leave Sammy alone so he can catch some shut eye, how 'bout it?"
Holding Jack in his arms again hurts more than he expected. He's just a baby, but he's also the person Cas gave everything for, died for. Him being the son of Satan doesn't even factor in Dean's resentment.
Walking to the library (far enough from Sam's room to let him sleep), Dean reflects on this. He feels sorry for Jack, he does: he knows a thing or two about dead mothers and absent fathers.
But sadly, this is no normal baby: this is Lucifer's child. Will probably be the most powerful creature in existence in just a few years, might decide to destroy the whole world if he so desires.
So yeah. Dean's a little wary of the kid.
But then again, Dean supposes he would be much more forgiving if Cas was alive. Might have even enjoyed having a little kid around to spoil and dress up in batman onesies. Being a father was never something he was destined for, but he would have rocked the cool uncle role.
He wouldn't have cared (much) about the whole Satan-is-my-father thing. Hell, he has been a Knight of Hell, Sammy was addicted to demon blood for a whole year. Being somewhat of a freak runs in the family.
But being the reason Cas is dead, Dean can't get past that.
Cas would have been a great father figure. Father-adjacent, whatever. To this day, Dean hasn't figured out what was going on between Cas and Kelly; if it was just an angel trying to help a pregnant woman not lose her child to the forces of Hell, or if there was something more romantic between them.
(Dean usually tries not to think about it. Few things have made him so nauseous with jealousy.)
Whatever the role Cas had in this child's life, he would have excelled at it. He doesn't want to admit it, but he thinks fatherhood would have suited Cas, not only in the attractive sense (imagining Cas holding a toddler and singing softly to them makes things to Dean's insides), but also like. Mentally. Emotionally. Connecting with his half-angel child, teaching them how to fly, telling them stories about the beginning of the universe, watching the bees with them. Yeah. Cas would have been an awesome father.
He would have loved to be part of that; ideally as Cas' husband and father to their child. That is literally his wildest dream. But he would have also been okay with being the godfather, spoiling Cas' kid forever and making sure they would be safe and happy. Cas deserved that much.
Dean knows he would never get to start a family with Cas, doesn't even know if that would be something the two of them could make work. But his late night fantasies don't consist only of erotic dreams where he wakes up gasping Cas' name; he also dreams about lazy Sunday mornings spent having breakfast in bed, afternoons in the park chasing a laughing child that has Cas' smile, the pitter-patter of small feet running across the living room to them.
He aches with the possibility of all the things he will never get to have.
"I can't forgive you," Dean murmurs to the baby. "You took Cas from me, man. I can't just forget that. I… I can't forgive you. Not right now, at least."
The baby does nothing but gurgle and suck on his hand. Dean suddenly realizes that, at some point in the last hour, while he was busy daydreaming about sharing a life with Cas, Jack quieted down. He looks calm right now, with still reddened cheeks and wet eyes, but he doesn't look like he's going to start screaming anytime soon.
Dean takes his wins however he can, so he heads back to bed. Maybe Jack will behave for now and he can catch a few hours of sleep. He hesitates when he stops in front of Jack's door. What if he starts crying again and wakes Sam up? Dean can't risk it, not after how much of an asshole he's been the last few days.
"Guess you're rooming with me, kid," Dean tells him as he opens his bedroom door. Jack looks like he's on the verge of falling asleep, thank God. Dean is exhausted and he doesn't think he could take it if the kid started crying again right this instant.
He gently puts the kid in the middle of his bed and makes a 'wall' with his pillows on Jack's right side, hoping it's enough to avoid him rolling off the bed. Do babies this young even move around in their sleep? Whatever. Better safe than sorry, he guesses.
He lays down facing Jack. His round cheeks glisten with shed tears, and Dean gently wipes them off with his finger. Jack is undisturbed by that.
"I'm sorry you got dealt such a rough card," Dean murmurs, aware the kid can't neither hear nor understand him. "But you gotta understand. Cas was everything to me and you took him away from me. He abandoned us to go with you and left us again to die for you. I understand that hating on a baby is a shitty thing, but I can't help it. I'm sorry."
Jack doesn't respond to Dean's confession, thankfully.
Rolling on his back, he stares at the ceiling until he feels himself go cross-eyed with sleep. Stealing one last glance at Jack to make sure nothing is wrong, he's hit suddenly and violently with the realization that, had Cas survived, this would have been everything he ever wanted. A baby that was Cas' in every way that matters, a baby Cas would raise in the bunker with Dean, letting him have a role in the kid's life. He can picture it: Cas, on the other side of the bed, his right hand resting on Jack's chest to make sure his breathing is stable through the night.
But Cas isn't here, and his absence feels like a black hole inside him.
It feels like he has never known grief like this.
He tries tolerating Jack from then on.
It doesn't always go well.
It's not like he tries being his father, or something. But he gets up when Jack cries, changes him when needed, feeds him and then cheers and calls him champ when he burps.
(To be fair, his burps are impressive for such a tiny body.)
And Dean tries to forget. Not forget exactly, since these are fantasies and not memories that he's holding on. Can you forget something that never happened? Can you forget an impossible dream?
Dean tries to let go of his fantasies starring Cas, both R-rated and PG. Fantasizing about screwing your dead friend is morally a crappy thing to do to your friend's memory, and dreaming about sharing a life with that friend threatens your sanity completely.
So Dean doesn't think about it. He keeps on going, never letting himself stop for fear that if he's alone with his thoughts for even just one second, it will all come crashing down.
It all happens around Bumfuck, Nebraska (exact location unknown). They have both adamantly agreed to never take Jack on any hunts, Satan's spawn or not; but apparently Sam woke up the other day after a divine revelation came to him in a dream, where apparently he realized that a baby spending his first few days inside an underground bunker might not be the best thing for his development, so he has insisted on two-day short trips every other week or so to get Jack used to 'the real world' and, exasperatingly, so Jack will see more of the country, even though he's just a few weeks old and will likely forget all about this in a short while.
Dean grumbled and argued at first, but he loves driving too much to truly complain about it. The road relaxes him in a way few other things could; even though travelling in a car with a baby is a terrible thing.
They have stopped for the night in a motel in a tiny town that has nothing, basically; nothing but pastures, cows and a convenience store. At least the views are nice, he supposes. And tomorrow they will be back at the bunker, so he doesn't complain too much.
Everything has been relatively peaceful, up until three in the morning, when Jack suddenly started screaming bloody murder out of nowhere, making him jump out of his bed and Sam run into a wall. It would have been hilarious if it hadn't hurt so much.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll take him," Dean throws before Sam can start saying things like 'It's my second time today waking up for him, Dean' or 'You only take care of the fun stuff, Dean'.
Sam might be a little bitch, to no one's surprise.
"Hey, buddy," he coos gently, but considering the volume of Jack's cries, he doubts the baby hears him. "You wanna go for a drive? That always calmed baby Sammy down. Do you wanna drive? Yeah, c'mon, let's go out for a while, just you and me. Get us some good ol' bonding time."
By the time he stops blabbering and softly cradling him, Jack has stopped crying and only looks like he's about to pierce Dean's eardrum if he cries again. But he's quiet for now, so Dean counts that one as a semi-win. A tie, at least.
They bought a chair for Jack three trips ago or so, after Sam had to suddenly step on the brakes to avoid hitting a deer, and Dean almost went out of the window, holding Jack in his arms. So yeah. Car chair it was.
The convenience store is open which is… convenient, and Jack doesn't look like he's going to start howling again in the next ten minutes, so Dean figures he can pop in there, buy some snacks and formula if they have it.
The store is deserted except for two teenagers who look way more interested in grabbing each other's butts than the drinks in front of them and a middle aged woman who's apparently astral projecting the fuck out of herself if her vacant stare is anything to go by.
Yeah. Convenience stores during the night are a weird thing.
He makes a beeline for the beef jerky and sees something in the corner of his eye that catches his attention. He can barely believe it.
"Well, would you look at that, man," he murmurs to the baby. "Tiny cowboy boots for a tiny cowboy like you. What do you say, Jack? Wanna be cool like me?"
Jack does nothing but stare at him, so Dean figures that's confirmation enough. The boots are too big for him, probably made for a toddler rather than a weeks-old baby, but he'll grow into them. He will.
"Hey, sir?" Comes a voice behind him. Dean tenses up on principle, not liking when strangers sneak up on him. He turns and sees a pregnant woman that must just have come inside since she wasn't here when Dean scanned the store earlier.
"Uh. Yes?" He asks warily. He really hopes she isn't a demon trying to kidnap Lucifer's son and bring Jack back to him.
"I just wanted to say you have a lovely baby. How old is he?"
Seems like an innocent enough question. Besides, if she's pregnant, maybe she's just trying to make friendly conversation about babies, the only possible topic they could have in common. That's a thing well-adjusted people do, right? Talk about their kids? What the hell does Dean know about that.
Dean does the mental math and when he comes up blank, he figures the woman won't know either way if he's lying or not.
"Just over a month old, actually."
"Aw, how adorable. What's his name?"
"Oh. Um. J—Jason?" This might be just a regular mom and not a demon sent from Hell, but he really doesn't want to take too many chances.
"What a cute name! He is such a handsooome baby, yes he is," she singsongs to the baby. Dean's throat threatens to close up. "Yes, you are! Where's your mama, Jason?"
"Actually," he interrupts, begging his voice not to waver. "He's not my son. His parents were killed in a freak accident a few weeks ago."
"Oh no." In her defense, she really looks stricken with grief and guilt, clearly recognizing she screwed up. "I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine what he'll go through. Or you! Were you… related to them?" she asks cautiously.
"Yeah, yes. He's my—my brother's kid."
No he isn't, he will never be, because Cas was never a brother to Dean. But he figures this lady right here doesn't give a shit about Dean's complicated feelings about his celestial best friend.
"I'm sorry for your loss, really. And also, I'm sorry I asked. I just wanted to say you had a cute baby and then—then I started asking things that really don't concern me. I'm really sorry, and I hope you have a good night for what it's worth."
The woman practically runs away, clearly embarrassed, and Dean is once again alone with a baby that isn't his and a grief too deep to be anyone else's.
He drops the jerky and runs. He doesn't know where, but away from here sounds really fucking good.
Jack doesn't even whimper when Dean starts sprinting to nowhere.
The night is cold around them and Dean has never felt more awake, never has he wished more he was asleep.
Why the hell did he have to tell the woman Jack isn't his son? She didn't give a shit about his life and Dean wouldn't have had to say out loud Cas was his brother. God, what a mess. He should have accepted the compliment with his mouth shut and made an excuse about his inexistent wife being asleep back home, or something.
But now he has been once again reminded that Cas wasn't his, would never be his. And that he's never coming back. He really thought he was making progress with this whole moving on thing.
Shows what you know.
Grief is a tricky thing, he knows. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts until it doesn't and then you feel guilty for not suffering. It takes your sanity and serenity and it crumbles them with its wiry hands, wringing until there is only a mess left, little pieces scattered everywhere. Little pieces that you, forever on your knees, will spend all eternity picking up and trying to make them fit, trying to get back what you had before; but you never do.
It never works.
Instead, all you have is jagged pieces that cut into your palms and make you bleed, and a lumping shape that terrifies you. Not much for what it its now, but because it's trying to impersonate what you had before when it's clearly an impostor.
So yes. Dean knows a thing or two about grief.
Dean looks down at Jack, at this tiny thing so full of innocence and sorrowful cries, at this constant remainder in his life that Cas is never coming back.
Dean hates him. He also hates himself for that.
"I'm really sorry, kid," he says as his own way of apologizing, "you'd have rocked those boots."
Dean tries to be better, but every time he's reminded of Cas, he has to stop holding or even looking at him for days. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to fuck Jack up the same way John did to him, but sometimes the resentment and anger are too much: he has to stop looking at the baby, lest he does something he'll regret.
They had made such progress, too. Dean was even joking with the baby sometimes, calling him things like buddy and champ and man but with an undeniable fondness that made Sam relax every time he heard it.
But the encounter in that convenience store has shaken him to his core, taken down everything he tried to build in his relationship with Jack, has reverted him to the same state he was the day Cas died.
It's been forty six days. It hasn't gotten any easier.
Sometimes Jack cries when Dean has been gone for too long, almost as if he notices his absence. Dean tries not to think about it, he already feels guilty enough. What kind of asshole hears a baby cry and runs away instead of helping?
Dean is many things, most of them bad, but this takes the cake.
He feels guilty. That's not a new feeling to him, has probably felt guilty ever since he was four and his mother died, and he has never stopped since then. Feels guilty about hating his father, feels guilty about loving him, feels guilty because Sam had a normal life and he pulled him back to hunting, feels guilty for all the times he made Cas suffer. The list is never ending.
(He's an amalgamation of guilt and pain, shaped like a human.)
The thing is, he feels so guilty about Cas' death, of course he does. None of this would have happened if Cas hadn't pulled him out of Hell, for starters. But also. He could have tried harder to save Cas. Not let him be alone in another dimension with fucking Lucifer would have been great. Maybe Cas would have been alive today if Dean tried a little harder.
So yeah. It's safe to say he feels horrible about anything that involves Cas' death, especially because. Well. He hasn't yet mastered the art of not dreaming about doing some decidedly not kid-friendly activities with his dead friend. God, he's a piece of shit.
But most of all, he feels guilty about how he doesn't constantly feel guilty about it.
It's not that he has forgotten about Cas' death, because the memory of Cas' grace flaring up will forever be burned in his mind (he sees it every time he closes his eyes, hears the sound Cas' body made when it hit the ground resonating through his mind at all times), nothing will make him forget it because it's carved into his soul. It's not a memory: this pain is now a part of him.
But he was learning to live with it. He wasn't constantly crying on his knees, scratching a throat that wouldn't scream. Having to take care of a baby helps, too. Being always busy taking care of a child is a great way to not think about things, but more than that, a baby carries an inherent tenderness that melts you, polishes your roughest edges, makes you softer.
Dean had found himself learning to care for Jack, learning to understand that nothing was more important than his safety, even if only because Cas had given everything up to keep Cas safe, and honoring that was the least Dean could do.
Dean wasn't spending every waking moment in agony about Cas' death, and being reminded of that by the lady in the store is the thing he feels guiltiest about.
He feels guilty about not feeling guilty for Cas. He's a real piece of work.
It's less than two days before Sam gets sick of his ass again and corners him when he's making a late night trip to the kitchen, hoping to be left alone.
It clearly doesn't work.
"I hope you're happy with this arrangement, because the rest of us are tired of it."
"The rest? What, a baby who doesn't understand what's going on and you, someone known for bitching about everything? Yeah, sure I bet you're real tired of me."
"Not of you, Dean, of your attitude! What the hell's wrong with you, man." Sam shakes his head at him. Dean tries to pretend his brother's disappointment doesn't affect him whatsoever.
"What, you want a list or something? Could be here for ages," he jokes.
The joke is apparently not well received.
"I'm talking about the fact that you apparently can be all loving and caring towards Jack and the suddenly you just up and leave him! What kind of—of—of father does that!"
"I'm not his father!" Dean roars with more fury he expected. "I never wanted to take care of a kid, Sam, and now that I have to do it, I'm supposed to it willingly and without complaining?!"
Sam is quiet for a few seconds, which is never good in Dean's opinion. It always announces a storm in the horizon.
"You took care of me without complaining when you didn't have to."
The storm is a hurricane, and it's already here.
"That's different."
"How so?" Sam's tone is challenging, angry, ready to explode and destroy everything in its wake.
Dean deflates visibly. "Sam, you… You were my brother, you are my brother, of course I had to."
"So it should be the same for Jack."
"No, it shouldn't. He's not my brother or my son or any type of family."
Sam looks at him, face serious and eyes glistening with frustration and barely contained rage.
"Of course he's family! He was Cas' kid, or as good as! And Cas is family, he was our brother!"
If Dean had to look at his whole life laid down and pinpoint the moment when he feels he was most unhinged, when his brain was the most dissociated from his actions, when he felt despair and pain and anger and rage like no other, he would say this is that moment. Not when he was taken to Hell, not when he was a demon, not any other time. He never has hurt like when Sam says those words.
"Don't call him that!" His ire is explosive, white-hot, it scratches at his throat and the back of his eyes. "He was never my brother! What you and I have is nothing like what he and I had!"
Please hear what I'm not saying, he silently begs Sam. Please understand what I myself am still trying to come to terms with.
Dean knows how this must look to the untrained eye, knows most people would think him an asshole, someone who silently hated his friend for years and thought him so unworthy that being called his brother would be an insult of the gravest kind to Dean.
But Sam is not most people, and he knows Dean more than Dean knows himself.
Sam will get it.
"Oh." It's a soft sound, almost silent and it makes Dean want to cry like a little kid. "Dean. If you didn't think of him as a brother, why did you call him that?"
And that's the million-dollar question, isn't it.
"Maybe… Maybe I didn't have a word for what he and I had."
Sam understands. He leaves Dean alone in the kitchen to give him privacy and time to mourn. Dean cries like he never has before.
Making it to Jack's room after that is a bit like a walk of shame, he supposes. Trailing back with his tail between his legs, knowing he was wrong but not yet ready to admit it.
Jack isn't sleeping but it's a near thing: his eyes are half-closed and he's breathing softly through his mouth.
Dean's heart swells at the sight.
"Hey kid," he murmurs gently. Jack doesn't even stir when Dean caresses with his index the apple of his cheek. It's incredibly smooth and plump, with a light red tinge to it. "I'm sorry for running out on you. I'm back now, if that helps."
He knows from personal experience that it doesn't, that every time coming back is only the announcement of the next time leaving, that sometimes having the bad thing it's better than having the good one. Dean knows this intimately: when John was gone, he struggled, yes, but in a weird way he was full of hope, excitedly waiting for the moment his father would arrive; but when he was there with them, there was nothing to do but dread for the moment he disappeared again.
Dean knows that absence is a life-long wound that never stops bleeding.
"I'm really sorry, Jack. You deserve so much better."
Dean looks at the child in the crib, really looks at him. Tries imagining how his life will be: most probably not easy. Dead mom, demonic father… that doesn't make for a good start.
Dead godfather and protector, his mind supplies. Asshole caretaker.
And that's without taking into account his supernatural nature. God, this kid is going to have it rough.
"Having a dead mom is shit," Dean starts, because he's apparently an idiot and severely lacks emotional intelligence.
Jack starts fussing, maybe sensing the grave topic ahead, and Dean lays gently his hand on his stomach to calm him, like he always did when Sammy cried. Jack's eyes, when they open, are a clear blue and free of tears.
"You know, my mom is dead too. Was dead. Is dead again, I guess," he confides in Jack. "It's weird. I was very young when she died. The first time, I mean. I barely have any memories of her. I'm sorry you won't get to know your mom. Kelly was a nice woman, I think. And she wanted to be your mother so bad. Losing that hurts a lot, I know."
Jack doesn't answer, but he does look up at Dean with a focus too intense for such a young kid. Dean wonders if he understands him, at least in some level.
"And I know what losing a mother does to you, especially in this job. Even more if the person taking care of you is an asshole like me," he chuckles weakly. "But I won't take you on any hunts, I swear. I can't give you a normal life most probably, but that doesn't mean I'm going to drag you across the country and face literal nightmares when you're a kid. I swear to you I won't. You deserve better than that, better than I ever had."
"You deserve a mother, Jack. Or well. I guess not a mother, not in the way of a woman that has given birth to you, but a parent. You deserve someone who will love you unconditionally, who will be there to cheer when you succeed and hugs you when you fail. And I can't be that for you, Jack, I'm sorry. I'm too fucked up for that. But I can care for you and I can make sure you'll be safe and happy, or at least try my best. I can love you in my own way. Sorry it's not enough."
He looks down at Jack and gently caresses the tip of his nose. Jack goes a little cross-eyed trying to look at it. It's adorable.
"Nothing like the warmth of a mother, I guess." Jack only smacks his lips in response. "Yeah. I'm very she won't get to see you grow."
Jack sleeps with him that night. Dean is trying to make amends. He'll screw up again, he knows, but for now he's trying.
The baby sleeps peacefully a few inches away from him, undisturbed by Dean's never-ending conflict.
Today is the first time Dean has noticed Jack's got blue eyes. He knew before of course, has looked at him too much not to notice, but it's the first time he has interiorized it, he guesses.
It's the first time he's realized that it makes him look a little more like Cas.
The ache inside his chest settles heavily at the realization.
"My god, Cas," he mutters, soft as anything, running his finger over the bridge of Jack's nose. "You should be the one doing this shit, not me. You'd love to spoil this little devil spawn rotten."
It shakes him to his core, these words that free themselves from him. He doesn't mean to say them, he doesn't mean to talk to someone who isn't here, someone whose absence hurts him like a phantom limb.
"You'd love Jack so much, man. And I know he would love you just as must. I think he would start screaming bloody murder every time he couldn't see you, I just know it."
It hurts talking to someone that can't hear you anymore. Before, when Cas was alive, whenever he prayed he knew for sure that Cas was on the other end, always listening, sometimes answering. But now there's only silence in response to his sorrows.
It's the first time he has prayed since Cas died, since he realized that whatever he said from then on in prayer would never be anything other than a secret: Cas wasn't listening anymore. His secrets and sorrows would now forever remain his own.
Jack gurgles but remains otherwise still, laying on his back with his tiny fists on the bed near his face. Dean watches him, enraptured, feeling his right side press into the soft bed below. This is scene is so peaceful, so quiet, so worthy of keeping it close to his heart 'till his last day. He makes sure he remembers every small detail of it: he never wants to forget something so precious. Cas should have been the one having this, he thinks. Cas should have been the one watching Jack asleep in his bed, watching over him like he always did.
"Think you'd have made a good dad, Cas?" He asks to the empty pace next to him. "I know you have your hang-ups about fatherhood, with your dad being the absent creator of the universe, but dude, I've seen you with children. You'd have nothing to worry about, you'd be dorky and cool at the same time, which is like. Almost an impossible feat. And, and, you'd be a hit with those PTA moms, man, with your cool attitude and your ugly ass trench coat and they would go crazy for it! It'd be hilarious to watch them hitting on you while you panic and say thinks like 'Dean, why are they asking me about my fall from Heaven? Don't they realize it's a sensitive issue for me?' Oh my God, Cas, I would've paid anything to see that."
He laughs more than he has in years, tries to do it quietly to avoid disturbing Jack. He misses Cas something fierce, misses even more all the things Cas will never get to have.
"What am I even doing here, Cas." His tone is now much more subdued, his happiness and excitement form a few seconds ago completely vanished. "I never thought about having kids, thought I was done raising them after the whole mess with Lisa happened. I had my chance being a dad and I ruined it, but you never had that. You should be the one here watching over him every night, not me. You should be the one to raise him so he can be like you. The world needs a little more Cas and a lot less Dean."
The answering silence hurts more than he can physically admit without breaking down in tears, so he starts talking again, saying whatever comes to mind to fill the blank space.
"He has already lost a mother. He shouldn't have lost you too."
No, he shouldn't have, he should have Cas here, raising and loving him, but even though Dean can picture it more clearly than he cares to admit, there had always been a kind of other-worldness that made Cas too ethereal, too light for this world, like he belonged somewhere better, somewhere more pure; which, Dean supposes, was true. He never understood why an angel would choose to stay here on Earth rather than on Heaven.
"You always liked leaving us a bit too much, man." He chuckles, but he isn't laughing. "Guess you got what you wanted, huh. You'll be forever gone now."
The tears are too much, but if he doesn't say his piece now, he never will.
"Did you really hate being with us so much? We treated you horribly, so it's not like I blame you, but. It's hard having to come to terms with the fact that you just wanted to leave when the thing I wanted the most was for you to stay."
Cas doesn't answer, never did when Dean asked these questions in prayers before. There's some things even death can't change.
He shouldn't have said that, making Cas feel guilty for leaving is a shitty thing when the reason he always left was because of him.
But some things can't be helped, even when he knows they only harm everyone he loves: sometimes the hurts runs too deep to control it. He has been this way since he was a toddler, and now it's too late to change. He wants to change, doesn't want to make everyone around him miserable with his bullshit, but he doesn't know how.
And now most of them are dead. He supposes improvement was a little too late to be of help.
He turns on his stomach, mindful of a sleeping Jack, and thinks about Cas again (when is he not?), about Cas being alive right now, with him and Jack and Sam, waking up next to him and refusing to speak before his first cup of coffee. He aches something fierce.
Will there ever be a moment in his life when he doesn't miss Cas? He has been this way for so long that he has forgotten how it is not to be long for him every second of every day.
(Miss you when you're here, miss you when you're not.)
"You always seemed unreachable to me," The words claw their way up his throat, hurting him in the process more than he could ever admit. He always knew Cas was too good for them, too god for him, but he has never externalized it, never let another soul know he acknowledged it. "Even when we were centimeters apart. You were always too far away from me."
And now they will never be close again. He tries not to think about it.
Dean goes to sleep, and tries to ignore the part of his mind conjuring images of Cas lying across the bed from him.
