A/N: Forgot to post these here.
"Hey, Cas, come here. I want to have you do something."
Castiel looked up from his phone, an eyebrow raised in interest. He took in Dean, and his rolled up sleeves, the knife he held. Despite holding a weapon, Dean's face was relaxed, and the sweet, subtle scent of comfort wafted off of him. That was easily enough for Castiel.
He set his phone down on the table, and walked over to where Dean was.
"Anything, Dean."
Dean stared for a second, and Castiel tried to not fall and drown into that gaze. Dean was licking his bottom lip, mouth open a bit. If anything, he seemed a bit startled, but in some kind of pleasant way. (Humans were odd.)
"Whoa, jeez. Don't have to put it all out there like it's a Catholic wedding night.
Utterly confused, Castiel tilted his head at Dean. He had so many questions.
"So, here," his friend continued, putting the knife in his hand. Dean then took him by the wrist and brought him over to the table with the Winchesters' initials carved into it. "I've been thinking, you've more than earned your place here, man. Hell, you earned it about a decade ago. Which, maybe not much for you, but for a human—"
Castiel, not really thinking about it, stretched out a hand and put a finger to Dean's lips to shush him.
"You're rambling."
He blushed, freckles popping out in stark relief. "Right."
Castiel came forward, and looked at the initials. Such beautiful initials. The two brothers he loved like family, thanks to one of them having taught him how to love. That man's keen eyes were on him now.
Picking a spot was easy, but of all things, he grew worried that he would mess up.
Castiel looked back at Dean, eyebrows raised in a request. He held the knife out awkwardly and then mimed stabbing the table with it. "Could you—?"
Dean grinned. "Don't even have to ask."
Before Castiel knew it, Dean was in his space, and then he was touching him, commanding where to put his hand. He even nudged him as a sign for him to lean forward more to get a better angle.
Was this what humans would call a dream?
Dean helped Castiel carve his name into the table, and when it was done, Castiel flipped the knife in his hand and then handed it back to Dean. Dean was just finishing up brushing away little slivers of carved wood. And he was still in Cas' space.
He blew on it, and then grinned. Castiel found himself doing the same.
"There. Looks perfect."
"Thank you, Dean."
"No, nope. You're not the one who has to do the thanking. Cas, you changed my life in the best ways, and I hope… well, I hope this is just the start of me showing you that it… it means a lot. Thanks."
Castiel was so happy he thought he was practically glowing (he could do that if he wanted to), and he didn't bother to rein it in, to hide.
Beneath D.W. was him, his name: Castiel . Maybe that's all he could ask for.
Was Dean Winchester a little tipsy? Yes. Did that mean he didn't still know how to use a knife? No.
He eyed the six pack of beer he was planning on continuing to consume, and then gripped his bowie knife tighter.
I have to do this, he told himself.
Hell, maybe knowing what he had to do was why he was drinking so much, why he was planning on going till he died, or Sam found him passed out on the floor somewhere.
Dean sauntered over to the Winchester table in the bunker's library, and gazed down at it. Fondness was easily something he felt while looking down at it, but through a sheen of tears, that fondness was almost lost.
It's missing something, Dean thought.
It was. It was missing the same thing Dean was missing.
Dean had a final swallow of his beer (for now), placed it on the table, and set to work.
Despite the couple of drinks he'd had, his hand was as steady as ever. This was the one thing in the world that he couldn't mess up. He'd messed up everything else, had even messed up his final moments with him.
I didn't-
Dean paused, squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his jaw.
No, no.
Still, it came to him: I didn't say it.
"Cas, I don't know if you can hear me," Dean said, praying to him for the hundredth time since that moment, "but this one's for you. It's for... for what I couldn't say."
Dean worked. He carved. Not a single cell or molecule of him was content until he stood back and looked upon CASTIEL carved into the table beneath his own initials.
A tear fell.
Dean held his beer up to the ceiling, to Cas, maybe - if Cas was up there.
"I miss you, man. I'm sorry I didn't say it."
After, there was no way for him to go on, to continue speaking. His prayer continued as a wordless, sobbing thing. Dean looked for salvation in drink. When he didn't find it, he just kept drinking.
By morning, he was passed out next to the table, CASTIEL burning into his mind.
Sam lightly whacked Dean's bicep, and moved to put his beer down.
"Hey, we doing this?"
This was finishing with the table of their family's names. For years it'd had S.W. , and D.W. , and then they'd added M.W. Now, there was a giant hole where someone they loved was supposed to be, and not having them on the table, was like they'd been erased. Like he'd been erased. Castiel.
"You want to do it?" Sam asked, taking a knife out of his pocket, and offering it to Dean.
Their eyes met, and Sam passed through that connection, I know.
He did know. He knew what Castiel meant to Dean, what Dean had never said, what Castiel had probably shared with Dean in his final moments.
And Sam knew that his heart ached for the other brother he had never expected to have. The angel that had once called him an abomination, and threatened to kill him to stop him from drinking demon blood. He'd blamed Sam for what he had unwillingly been turned into. Then he'd turned it around, and he'd loved. He'd shown Sam that he wasn't an abomination. That through it all he could be a brother, a best friend, a father.
With Castiel gone, Sam didn't know what to do. But this? This was a start.
As an answer to Sam's question, Dean took the knife, and started carving. Sam was silent as he watched, and Dean was silent as he worked.
Cas, you're one of the best parts of family, Sam prayed to him, hoping that somewhere out there, he could hear him.
Before Sam knew it, Castiel's name was etched into the table.
If that was so, then why was Dean holding out the knife to him?
"What?"
"Your turn," Dean said. "You tidy up his name, and then we'll work on Jack's."
So Sam took the knife, and he carved his heart out into the table. He told Castiel what he meant to him, thanked him for being his brother, his friend... And then he set to Jack.
The pain from Jack's absence wasn't wholly bitter. There was that faith and belief and knowing that Jack had mentioned, and Sam saw it in every grain of wood, in every shaving he peeled off the table. He saw it in the way the name JACK glowed on the table under the lamp. Saw it in the way that Dean held back to tears, and in the way that he felt when he brushed his hand over the name.
Jack. His son.
Sam stood back to admire the table with Dean, and Sam wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders.
The table was complete.
Their family, while not whole - never whole - was complete. And inside, they were almost complete.
There was just one thing left.
"We gotta get Cas back," Dean murmured.
"Yep."
Now there was no way they wouldn't get him back. He was a Winchester. Jack was a Winchester. They were family.
The decision was easy for Jack. In fact, it hardly took deciding. He simply was . He was in all things, in everything. He was in the way the people crowded the earth, and loved each other. He was in Sam and Dean's tears for their friends and family. He was in the bunker, at home, with his dads. And he was in the table with their names, existing, finishing what should have always been. Jack flitted his attention away and looked out to the universe once he was done with his work. He hoped Sam and Dean would be happy with this, would thank him. This wasn't interfering. This was just stating what was. Jack was there, existing in the very air, as Sam and Dean beheld CASTIEL , and JACK now carved into their table.