"Dean Winchester, it has been nearly a week since you graced us with your presence. Get your butt outside or you ain't eating today."
"That," he informs her solemnly, "is abuse, and neglect, and I will file a report against you, Ellen Harvelle."
"Like you'd concentrate for that long," she snorts. Her face softens. "Okay, no, you know I wouldn't do that. But you should still come out. We need our weekly dose of annoying asshole."
"Has Ruby not been here this week?"
"Why yes, Ruby is working today. She'll be so pleased to hear you're asking after her."
"You are not a kind woman," Dean grumbles, but when she holds the door open he follows her out through it. She gives a small, contended nod, and walks with him to the dining hall.
"Dean!" Jo says excitedly.
"I'm not that exciting," Dean says as he takes a place at the table. "Don't go falling out of your chair."
"At least I could get back in mine."
"That's hurtful."
"So's your face."
"Really?" Ellen says disapprovingly. Jo tries not to giggle.
"You haven't come out," she accuses, "in ages."
"If that's a poorly concealed gay joke, then I find it crude."
"Are you gay?" she asks curiously.
"A little," he shrugs. Becky looks up sharply and Dean's pretty sure she's desperately repressing an enquiry about whether or not homosexuality has a genetic basis.
"You think he'd have better fashion sense," Ruby muses, setting his food down in front of him. "Hey, Dean."
"Hey, bitch," he acknowledges.
"I'm sorry, who was filing reports again?" Ellen says, raising an eyebrow.
"Ruby," he changes it grudgingly.
"Thank you," she says sweetly, and sits down by Ava. Dean glances around the table. He counts Ava, Jo, Howard, Maggie and Channing, with Ruby, Ellen, Becky and Meg hovering around.
"On an arguably related topic, how's tall, dark and handsome?" Meg asks. She's stirring a bowl of soup for Ava, while Ruby feeds Howard and Becky helps Channing. Jo and Dean can feed themselves, and Maggie is one of the residents who, whilst not able to physically eat, simply enjoys being around other people. Dean regards this outlook as highly suspicious.
"I'm great, thanks."
"You don't even have dark hair," Jo says disapprovingly.
"I meant Castiel," Meg says, drawing the word out.
"How would I know?"
"Because you two are like, one step away from moving in together?" Jo snorts. "Dean, he's pretty much the only person you ever see."
"I see Sam," Dean argues.
"That don't count," Ellen dismisses. "You're related."
"That's low, Ellen."
"Seriously, though, what was it this Monday? Three hours? Four?" Jo says.
"So what?"
"So, I didn't even know you could put up with people for that long. I thought your skin would bubble off or something."
"What do you two even do?" Ruby asks in fascination, wiping Howard's mouth with a napkin.
"I don't know, normal stuff!" Dean says incredulously. "We talk, mostly. Sometimes we watch TV. It's hardly rampant sex in the bathroom."
"I don't know, I reckon the ensuite ones are big enough that you could give it a pretty good go," Jo comments.
"This conversation has ended," Ellen declares. "Pick a new topic. Any topic. I ain't fussy."
"Is your brother still dating Jess?" Ruby asks Dean.
"Other than that," Ellen says dangerously. Dean wonders why every female in this place is desperate to sleep with the human equivalent of Huggy Bear.
"Engaged, actually," Dean says cheerily, always grateful for a chance to ruin a demon's day. Jo squeals in delight, Ellen grins, and even Channing manages a faint smile. Becky looks a little like she's trying not to cry, but Ruby just shrugs.
"When… did… he… ask?" Channing asks.
"Tuesday. He's been a total pain in the ass about it."
Sam came by again on the 1st of July and spent a good ten minutes angsting about not being sure if she'd like the ring, and what he'd do if she said no, and if he was really ready before Dean finally persuaded him to man up and get the hell on with it. It had felt pretty good, actually- even Sam looked strangely pleased, like he'd missed having his big brother beat his ass about the dumb things he was or wasn't doing. He'd phoned Dean on Tuesday evening to inform Dean, with the desperately-shielded glee of somebody who's been proven wrong and couldn't be happier about it, that he'd asked and Jess had said yes without a second's thought.
Talking to Sam might be getting easier, but it feels a Band-Aid on a festering wound. Dean still feels the same way about Sam coming to visit- the only real difference is that now, he's better at covering it up. Cas' advice about shame and pity and everything else are still alive and well in Dean's mind, but they haven't put down roots. In the dead of the night, Dean can sometimes just about admit that maybe, just maybe, what he thinks about himself is a little irrational- but that doesn't mean he's stopped believing it. It's why he's currently eating a bowl of fries and occasionally shooting longing glances at the club sandwich on Jo's plate.
"Well, good for him," Ellen grins. "Let's see you as best man, huh?"
And fuck, if that doesn't just turn Dean's happy little cloud of Sam's-getting-married into one huge-ass rainstorm. "Yeah, how about no," he says.
"You know he'll ask, right?" Ruby says. "You are his brother."
"He'll at least want you to go," Becky agrees.
"Well, he can count that right out," Dean says, shaking his head. "No way. No way in hell."
"Cool it, Winchester," Meg says, clearly amused. "No one's forcing you at gunpoint."
"Jess might," he says grimly. As kind-hearted as that girl is, when she sets her mind to something, she damn well does it.
"You've got one of two choices, Dean," she'd said, all that time ago when she stood at the foot of his hospital bed. "You can come back home with us, and we'll get you back into therapy- can you not pull that face? If you don't want to go back to the woman you quit seeing- after one session, I wanna add- then that's fine. We can find someone else, but we are gonna have to find someone. That's option one."
"Please let option two be alcoholic," he muttered.
"Two," she said, ignoring him, "is this." She'd handed him a leaflet, her stern look cracking when he winced as he moved his heavily bandaged arms to hold it. He looked over it and felt his face harden into a blank mask- a hard shell designed to protect and shield, one he wears often and well.
"You want to drop me off at the pound?" he said.
"It's not like that, Dean," Jess said, her voice gentler now. "They usually deal with cases more severe than yours, but given the circumstances… you need help, Dean. You need someone watching you, to make sure you don't hurt yourself again. Now, that could be me and Sam- and we can do it, honestly. I can take time off work and Sam can take time off school, and it'll work out. We want it to work out. But it doesn't seem right to not give you some say in this, so I wanted you to know… there's that. If you'd prefer."
He'd wanted to hate her for it. Really, he had. His entire body had itched to apologise sarcastically for stopping her and Sam from fucking like rabbits whenever they pleased, to swear he'd try his very bestest to magic his legs back into life, to spit out some bitter comment about how he could tell when he wasn't wanted. He thinks he probably did say some of those things- he doesn't remember everything. Morphine was one hell of an experience.
Whatever he said and whatever he thought, he had ended up choosing option two. The only reason he moved in with Sam and Jess in the first place was due to the doctor's insistence that he was going to need some time to adapt to his 'new circumstances', and Sam's determination to follow that advice. Well, fuck it. Dean hadn't adapted, not one bit, and the idea of forcing Sam and Jess to put their lives on hold to take care of him made him feel physically sick, made him want to crawl out of his skin. If going into some crappy home (that his insurance would pretty much cover, thank fuck) would let them get on with their lives- if it would make Sam worry even the tiniest bit less- then that was what Dean would do. He moved out a week later.
He imagines the old family friends who sent 'condolences' cards (the ones Dean turned into placemats), and Jess' family who don't know the first thing about Sam's, and Sam's college friends who spent years hearing Sam boast about his older brother's high flying career, all packed into a church hall together. He imagines them turning and looking as he walks in. After that, he has to stop imagining for his own damn good.
The worry sticks with Dean long into the night, and it's still festering at the back of his skull when Cas shows up three days later- and, unfortunately for Dean, he's got that look in his eyes that says he Has A Cause.
"I have been," Cas says, "unforgivably lax."
"Huh?" Dean says, like the eloquent bastard that he is.
"I wanted to get you more involved with things," Cas says, "I seem to have had the opposite effect."
"You're not about to lure me out with breadcrumbs," Dean says. "I left my room like, three times last week. That's hardly hermit-status."
"That isn't going to cut it, Dean," Castiel says firmly. "After all, it's a beautiful day outside."
"Outside?"
"As in not in the building."
"As in not happening," he says. Leaving his room is one thing, but leaving the building? Shit, it's been… Dean can't even say when the last time he left was. Certainly not this year.
"You continually do things you once claimed you couldn't."
"Like?"
"Joining the others," Cas says. "Talking about things that are uncomfortable. Taking off your sweatshirt, eating when you aren't well- you've come a long way, Dean."
"Would you knock it off?" Dean says. "I'm not some dog you're training." He knows Cas doesn't mean to be rude, but it just sounds pathetic. He's listing things like they're accomplishments, like they're things to be proud of, when they're just strange, pointless peculiarities of Dean's strange, pointless life.
"I'm aware," Cas says. "But Dean, there's so much more you can do. There's a whole world out there, and whilst it's very tempting for me to just stay in here with you, I wouldn't feel right doing so."
Dean decides to ignore any implications of that, falling back to bitterness like an alcoholic falls back to a bottle. "You wanna know what's out there? Fine, I'll tell you. One: people staring. Two: not being able to get through doorways. Three: people staring. Four-"
"You said 'people staring' twice."
"I'll say it a lot more times if you let me finish the list."
"Then I'll end it pre-emptively," Cas says. He sits back and regards Dean, who folds his arms.
"Oh, no," he says. "I'm not getting sucked in by the whole 'baby blues' thing today. You want to go out and frolic through the flowers or whatever? Do it yourself."
"Does the home have a garden?"
"Yeah, but no," Dean says, seeing where Cas is going with this.
"Why not? Nobody would be able to see you there."
"What's the point?" Dean damn-near whines.
"Vitamin D?"
"What does that even do?"
"I don't know, but I'm assured it's important."
Dean squints at Cas. "How likely are you to give up on this?"
"I think you know the answer."
Dean rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. "Ugh. You are the worst, you know that?"
"I had suspicions," Cas agrees. "You're going to have to lead the way."
"And if I lead us into a supply closet?" Dean says, running a slightly-shaking hand through his hair. He's pretty sure he looks like shit- he showered earlier, but he's wearing the same kind of thing he always does, and fuck, he's only wearing a t-shirt-
"I trust you to stick to your word," Cas says, as Dean wheels himself over to his dresser and yanks out his sweatshirt. He pulls it on over his head and, for once, Cas doesn't comment; Dean's guessing that's a 'one hurdle at a time' thing. Cas holds the door open and looks at him enquiringly.
"Okay," Dean says. "Let's go."
He leads Cas down the hallway then turns right instead of left, bringing them to a set of sliding glass doors. Dean hits the door release button and waits, glancing around guardedly. The only thing that could possibly make this worse would be if someone made a big deal of it, and the idea of Becky cooing or Ruby mocking is enough to make him want to turn right back around. He catches a glimpse of Lilith passing by, but she doesn't stop to make conversation. That's alright with him.
Dean rolls himself out into the sunlight, almost blindingly bright. Cas follows, the door closing automatically behind him, and Dean heads for the corner of the garden. There's a high fence around the place, the grass underneath carefully mown and lovingly maintained, and whilst it's not exactly exotic, it's certainly not unpleasant. There are usually more people around, especially when the weather's this good, but there was some big trip out to a park in town and a lot of people went on that. Dean's pretty grateful- it means that, for now at least, he and Cas have the space to themselves.
Cas finds a chair from somewhere and drags it over as Dean positions himself against the fence.
"So," Dean says, leaning back and closing his eyes. "How's life in the land of Castiel?" He still thinks this is stupid, and he keeps expecting faces to pop over the fence and start cackling or something- but the sun is warm on his face and birds are twittering away in the trees, and if everyone else stays the hell away, he thinks he could maybe learn to like it.
"Slow," Cas says. "As ever. Work is… soul-destroying."
"Dude, just quit," Dean says. "There's so much else you could do."
"In a perfect world, yes," Cas agrees. "But I need the money. I'm not really interested in translation work, and most of the work I do want to do is either volunteer or too low-paying for me to consider it as a genuine career option."
"I thought you said your parents were pretty rich?" Dean says, trying to drag up what little knowledge of Castiel's family he has.
"My father is, yes. He lent me the money to purchase my house, but I'd rather not ask him for any more."
"How come?"
"We're no longer in regular contact. It would be…. I would prefer not to."
"Fair enough," Dean says, storing that away with the decision that he can always ask more later. Sitting outside, surrounded by the fresh air and bright sunshine, is neither the right place nor time to get into the convolutions of Cas' family situation.
"I guess I'm lucky," Dean says. "There's not much I have to spend money on. 'course, I have to pay to stay here, but I've got pretty good insurance. That handles a pretty big chunk of it. Sammy pays some, Dad left me cash in his will, and it all pretty much works out."
"I make enough to get by," Cas says, "I just don't make enough that I could afford to not make that much anymore."
"Yeah, I get it," Dean says. Shit, it's hot out here. "Still sucks to be trapped in something you don't wanna be trapped in."
"Very true."
Dean pushes his sleeves up a little- not enough to show off the scars, but enough to get some cool air to his flushed skin.
"When are you seeing Sam again?" Cas asks.
"Uh, not 'til the first. He might call before then, though. I don't know."
"You could call him," Cas suggests.
"I guess," Dean says, and fuck it, this is ridiculous. He struggles his way out of his hoodie, bunching it up on his lap. In the sunlight, his scars look worse than ever- no matter how much he turns his arms, he can't quite hide them. He's just gonna have to hope no one comes over to say hello.
"Is there anybody else you're in regular contact with?" Cas asks curiously.
"Like who?"
"Family? Friends? A partner?"
Dean actually snorts with laughter at that one. "C'mon, Cas, I think I would have mentioned that by now."
"Nobody?"
"Nope. Sam's the only family I got left, I don't really have any friends, and it's not like anybody's gonna date this," he says, gesturing at himself.
"What do you mean?" Cas says, frowning.
"Uh, it's called baggage- and it's not so much that I have it as that I am it. Can you imagine anyone wanting to try and handle this clusterfuck? I sure as hell wouldn't."
"I would," Cas says, and the of the air in Dean's throat solidifies all at once.
"Hypothetically speaking," Cas continues, as Dean attempts not to choke on oxygen. "I wouldn't be put off by your 'baggage', as you insist on calling it. I think you'd be surprised by how few people would."
"Maybe," Dean says weakly. "I'm kind of out of touch with the whole dating scene."
"Yet another reason to venture out of the home."
"One-track record, Cas," Dean says, some normality restored. "How about you? You got a girlfriend? Boyfriend?"
"Open to both, currently with neither," Cas says.
Dean nods. "Same here. Like, same situation. You know."
Dean has no idea why it's always men who make him flustered. He can charm a girl out of her dress in five minutes and two martinis, but a guy? Hot guys have a way of turning him into a gibbering wreck- a man incapable of finishing a sentence, much less using it to seduce. Really, it's incredible that Castiel has gotten more than two words out of him.
"Hey, douchebags," a voice calls, and Jo wheels herself towards them. Panic rips through Dean, his stomach seizing like someone has it in a vice. Does he have time to put the hoodie back on? Will that seem even weirder? Shit, she's going to see, she's going to see and she's going to realise-
"Breathe," Castiel says out the side of his mouth as he smiles and waves at Jo.
"What?" Dean half-gasps.
"Breathe," Cas stresses, and then Jo is next to them.
"You okay?" she says to Dean, who tightens his grip on the wheels of his chair.
"Fine," he says, his voice strained. Motherfuck, didn't he use to chase criminals for a living? Breathe, you moron. He swallows hard, and then again. "Yeah. Fine. You?"
"Bored," she shrugs.
"You didn't wanna hit up the park with the others?"
"Nah," Jo says. "I was never really into the whole 'sitting back and watching' thing. Like, it's a tree. Okay. Can I shoot it? No? Then why am I wasting my time?"
"Like you could shoot a gun," Dean scoffs. Jo raises an eyebrow.
"Because I'm disabled or because I'm a girl?"
"Try because you weigh, like, one hundred and ten pounds," he says. Anxiety still crawls under Dean's skin, like ants chewing their way through his muscles, but if Jo has noticed the scars then she isn't saying anything.
"I mean, how old are you?" Dean continues, the casual nature of the teasing helping a little. "Nineteen? Twenty?"
"Twenty-three, thank you very much," she says, glaring. "And I've been shooting since I was four. I mean, I used to. Lately, not so much. You know how it is."
Sure, Dean knows how it is. He knows Jo's been given a new anticonvulsant for the pain in her spine, and that she's started carrying a notepad around with her to write down the things she forgets. He knows that her diagnosis has been changed from relapsing-remitting MS to secondary progressive; the kind that doesn't get better. He knows that most twenty-three year old women don't end up in care homes.
Jo's made it very clear that she isn't looking for pity, though, a school of thought Dean can well and truly get behind. They talk for a while longer and, slowly, the tension begins to drain from his muscles. By the time he and Cas go back inside, he's feeling almost good.
"Was that as bad as you had imagined?" Cas asks as the doors slide open for them. Jo's still in the garden, but Dean's starting to crave the reassurance of having four walls he knows around him.
"Could've been worse," Dean admits grudgingly as they slow to a stop by the guest book where Cas needs to sign himself out. Cas checks the time and scribbles it down.
"Would you be willing to do it again next week?" Cas asks, setting the pen down.
"If you really want," Dean says.
"I'll hold you to it," Cas says, and he flashes a quick smile. "Have a good week, Dean."
"You too," he says.
Cas nods and leaves, and Dean watches him go. It takes him a few seconds to realise that he's still smiling, and when he does he scowls at himself before turning to go. Something stops him, though, and on a whim he leans over and picks up the visitor's book. He's never occurred to him to look through it before, but he's randomly curious.
Dean flicks through the pages, looking at the different people who have come and gone in the past few months. It hurts a little to watch the 'Sam Winchester's get further and further apart. "Only got yourself to blame," Dean mutters as he keeps on turning pages.
Volunteers have to note the times they arrive and leave- some fire safety bullshit- but there's another section next to 'name' and 'date' labelled 'reason for visit'. A few are individualised- 'visiting Channing Ngo' turns up every two weeks in tiny, neat handwriting, and Sam writes 'visiting family' every single time- but the majority are just a generic 'volunteer'.
Dean gets through February and March and reaches April, and that's when Castiel's name starts showing up.
"Castiel Novak," he reads out loud. How the hell did he not know Cas' surname? That's a shitty thing, Dean thinks, as he starts counting entries for 'Castiel Novak- volunteer'. There are three months of signatures in the book, which is a little jarring- Dean feels both like Cas has been coming for much longer, and like he only just arrived. He reaches the last page and goes to put the book away when something catches his eye.
"Well, I'll be damned," he murmurs as he looks down at the most recent signature.
Castiel Novak- 2.45PM – 5.05PM- visiting Dean Winchester.
"They aren't looking at you."
"Did I say they were?"
Cas gives Dean one of his trademark 'cut the bullcrap' looks. Dean stares back insolently.
"They're not going to come over here," Cas says.
"And if they do?"
"I'll make them leave."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, good luck making Meg do anything."
It's warm outside, though clouds are gathering above them, and Cas managed to win the war of inside-or-outside. It's about four in the afternoon, and Meg's sitting on the other side of the garden with two of the home's other residents. That Dean is out here- without a sweater, or even sleeves- is nothing short of a miracle.
"I can't come next week," Cas says unexpectedly. "My apologies."
"Dude, it's no big deal," Dean says. "I don't own you. You don't have to spend your free time slumming around here- I mean, I'm pretty sure you've got enough good karma by now."
"That isn't even remotely why I come."
Dean goes to answer, but something wet falls on his face. He looks up, only to be hit in the eye by another raindrop. "And God has heard my prayers," he says. Cas rolls his eyes good-naturedly and then stands.
They head back to Dean's room, and Dean tries not to care that Cas is blowing him off next week, because it's really nothing worth caring about. Cas has a life, and he can spend that however he wants- if he's found something he enjoys doing more than hanging around here, then hell, who is Dean to blame him? He's not gonna come every week anymore- so what? If his visits get less frequent and after a while, he stops coming altogether, it's no big deal. Not one bit.
It's pretty bad, Dean reflects, when not even you believe your own bullshit.
It's full-on raining by the time they're back in Dean's room. He stays in the wheelchair rather than fumble about with awkward transfers, and Cas pulls up a chair to sit by him. Dean tries to think of something to say that is not completely pathetic.
"So what're you doing next week?" he says. "Hot date?"
Motherfuck.
"Hardly," Cas says. "Family."
"Oh," Dean says. "Then, uh, good luck?"
Cas smiles, but it's a brief, pained-looking thing. "That isn't necessary. I'm just seeing my brother."
"Which one?"
"His name is Inias. He's two years older than I am."
"You two talk often?"
"Not at all. We're only meeting because-" Cas falls silent suddenly, looking at Dean like he isn't sure whether or not to go on.
"What?" Dean says. It's rare for Cas to talk about his family, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued.
"It's the anniversary," he says - and then, when Dean's face betrays that he has no idea what Cas is talking about, he adds "Anna's death. It's been a year."
"Crap," Dean says. "I'm sorry, man."
Cas nods slightly, drumming his fingers on his leg. "We're visiting her grave. She's buried in Colorado, about eight hours from here- near where we used to live."
"Family home, huh?"
"Actually, no, I'm from Illinois. Anna went to college in Colorado and remained there afterwards."
"And you went there too?"
"No, my college was in Oregon."
"Damn," Dean says. "Pretty long way from home, man. You didn't miss your family?"
"I started boarding school at eleven years old," Cas says. "I was used to it. The only reason I moved to Colorado was to- was after what happened."
"Cas?" Dean says. Cas looks sad, scared, like he's trapped in somewhere he really doesn't want to be and he can't find a way out. He looks at Dean and there's something almost apologetic in that look- like anxiety, like guilt.
"Anna was disabled, Dean," he says.
Dean sits in silence as Cas keeps talking. "She was attacked when she was thirty years old. A knife attack- we never did understand the motivations of the man who did it. He caused irreversible damage to her spinal cord, and she never walked again. She could barely move her arms. She needed a carer, and I wasn't willing to leave her in the hands of strangers, so I moved to be with her. I was there until she died three years later- pneumonia. I thought she just had a bad cold. I didn't- I missed the signs.
"I moved out almost immediately- I couldn't bear to be around her things. I picked Kansas on a whim. I was- I wasn't okay, Dean. I arrived in late July and I don't think I left the house for more than two minutes at a time until November. Eventually, the grief started to clear, and in December I found a job. I don't know how the others are coping. I haven't seen my family since the funeral."
Cas is still looking at Dean, desperately looking for something, but Dean doesn't know what it is or whether he's even capable of giving it. Fuck, he's no good with this kind of thing. He can barely even understand his own emotions, much less someone else's. He's really not somebody you want to come to for advice.
All the same, hearing Cas' story is like having someone put his heart in a vice and slowly tighten it, because all he can imagine is standing over Sam's paralysed body, sprinkling dirt on Sam's grave, and it hurts Dean in a way he didn't know he could still hurt. He finds himself reaching forward before he can talk himself out of it, making a clumsy grab for Cas' wrist to administer what he hopes is a reassuring kind of pat, one of those 'grab-and-shake' deals for men who aren't sure how words work.
Instead, though, his hand clutches too early and he finds himself curling his fingers around the curve of Cas' hand. Cas' eyes flicker down, surprised, and whilst Dean's instinct is to pull away like he's been stung, he makes himself leave it in place; he's pretty sure yanking his arm back could only make things worse. He watches as, slowly, a smile pull at Cas' lips- it's small, and it's saddened, but it's there.
"Thank you," he says quietly- but there's still that strange look in his eyes, that guilt. Dean wants to ask about it, but he has no idea how to phrase the question. Besides, there's something more than empathy in his gut- something bubbling up thick and black like tar, curdled and heavy inside of him.
"So that's why you come here, right?" he says, hating himself even as the words leave him mouth. "Because of her?"
That's what you see when you look at me? is what he's barely refraining from saying. I'm your way of making amends for the sister that died on your watch? I'm your charity case? It's not fair on Cas to think that way, and Dean's trying as hard as he can to burn the bitterness from his stomach, but it has no interest in going without a fight.
"It was why I started volunteering here, yes," Cas says. "Having seen what Anna went through- how isolated I know she felt- I wanted to try and help others in similar situations."
"Yeah?" Dean says, and he can't believe that he's actually angry to hear it, can't believe that he's so fucked-up that he's making this about him. He just- he thought, just for once, that there was somebody looking at him and seeing something other than the damn chair. That Cas wasn't coming to exorcise his sister's ghost or to try and peel another layer of guilt away- that he was here because he wanted to talk to Dean Winchester, not because he wanted to visit a Disabled Person.
"Yes," Cas says. "That was what made me come for the first time."
It's more than Dean can handle. He goes to pull his hand away, unable to keep pretending everything's okay, but Cas just grips tighter. The strange guilt in his eyes has changed to a quiet kind of determination, a slowly burning fire.
"It is not," he says, "why I came back."
Later that night, Dean eats dinner with the others without needing to be asked, much less coerced. He's not sure why, except that the knowledge that he won't be seeing Cas for a little while has made him feel weirdly empty. He pretends not to notice the way Becky keeps smiling at him like a proud parent and takes care not to mention Castiel's name. They're assholes about the whole thing already; Dean's not going to tell anyone that he gave Cas his phone number.
"Here," he had said, pushing his mobile towards Cas. "The number's saved under 'me'. Put it in your phone or whatever. If things start going down shit creek and you need a paddle… I'm here, okay? Usually I check my phone about once a month, and I can't promise I'll be any use, but-"
"Dean," Cas had cut him off. "Thank you."
Dean had shut up and waited while Cas pulled out his own phone and entered the number in. In his old phone, he'd had his own number saved as 'Batman', along with 'Bitch' for Sam and 'Master of the bitch' for Jess. His mobile had been destroyed in the crash, and the replacement one Sam bought him has everyone listed by first and last name- no pictures, no custom ringtones, nothing but strings of digits. It wasn't a big thing; he just found he didn't feel like laughing all that much anymore.
Cas slid the phone back over, the screen showing a new contact.
"My number," Cas had provided. "For the same reasons."
After Cas left, Dean had taken his phone back out and changed 'Castiel Novak' to 'Cas'. Just 'cause.
Now, Dean's listening to the phone ring and wondering if Sam will pick up. He's not sure that phoning is the right idea, and he's starting to wonder if he even wants Sam to pick up. Before he can come to a verdict, the ringing stops, the line clicks, and Sam answers.
"Hello?" he says. Dean can hear the TV in the background, thinks Jess is probably there, and he seriously debates hanging up. Only the knowledge that Sam will phone straight back if he does keeps him on the line.
"Hey," Dean forces out. The silence from the other end lasts a fraction longer than usual.
"Dean?" Sam says eventually.
"No, the Queen of England. Of course it's me."
He hears Sam laugh, and it's a good thing to hear. "Is everything okay?"
"I haven't set fire to the place, if that's what you mean," Dean says, rocking the wheel of his chair under one hand. "I don't know, man. I thought I'd check in on you. I guess you've spent the last few weeks stressing over which kind of roses you want in your bouquet."
"Do you even get different kinds of roses?"
"Sure you do. Different colours, right? Didn't you read Alice in Wonderland?"
"No, I actually graduated above a third-grade reading level."
"Shut your bitch mouth and tell me about the wedding."
The conversation is surprisingly easy. The awkward pauses are still there, but they're less frequent, and Sam doesn't seem to feel as obligated to fill them- the desperation that comes with grabbing onto anything Dean says, like it could be the last drop of rain in a long, long drought, has gone. It makes things much easier for both of them.
"So I'll see you next week?" Sam says, over an hour later.
"Like Becky would let you miss it," Dean says.
"Is she the scary lady who makes dirty jokes every time I say 'brief'?"
"No, that's Ruby."
"Wonderful," Sam says dryly. "See you then." Dean hears him swallow, and when Sam speaks again, he's rushing his words. "Dean, I just wanted to say how great-"
"Sam," Dean interrupts. "Can we not?"
Think of how things were before. Dean doesn't want to think of reasons why they should be different; he's afraid they'll be too persuasive.
"Sure," Sam says. "Sure, sorry. I just- you know, right?"
"I know," Dean confirms, and Sam seems happier for it. They say their goodbyes, and for once, Dean finds himself going to bed with a smile on his face.
The week… passes. Dean calls Sam twice and leaves his room three more times, which he thinks is pretty good going. He's starting to find that when he doesn't see anyone, he actually feels worse rather than better, and he really doesn't know what to do with that information. Friday morning, he gets called to see Bobby, and he almost welcomes the distraction.
After Bobby's done poking and prodding, Dean goes to pull his hoodie back on.
"Ain't you hot?" Bobby says. Dean shrugs.
"A little."
"Then leave it off, you idjit."
Dean's ready to tell Bobby to go screw himself, but at the last second he hesitates. "If you're that desperate to get my clothes off," Dean grunts, and he pulls the thing back off. He thinks that when he gets back to his room, he'll probably throw it in the back of his wardrobe and leave it there. It doesn't mean anything, but then again, it kind of really does.
"So how're you?" Bobby says, oblivious to the minor milestone he's just witnessed. "Honestly."
"I'm okay."
"Dean."
"Fine, maybe I'm not okay," Dean admits. "But I'm… closer than I've been in a while. I think."
"Is that so?" Bobby says with interest. "That's good to hear, boy. That's damn good to hear. Anything I can do to get you the rest of the way there?"
"Leg transplant."
"Ha, ha," Bobby says dryly, and Dean smiles charmingly at him. "For real."
"Thanks, but no thanks."
"You considered going back to PT?"
"Right, because me and PT got on so well." Dean quit physical therapy as soon as it became apparent walking was never going to be back on the cards. He's had hundreds of fights with Sam and the care home staff about it, but they can't make him do anything, a lesson Sam learned the hard way.
"You know how important PT is," Bobby says. "Especially for your hands. You could get a lot more use out of them than you do now."
"I heard that makes hair grow on your palms."
Bobby's face twitches as he stifles a laugh. "At least tell me you'll think about it?"
"I'm not going back to the same doctor," he warns. His last physical therapist had been the most patronising bitch he's ever had the displeasure to encounter, something he wasn't afraid to say straight to her face.
"Funny you should say that," Bobby says. "I started working with a new guy a couple weeks back. He's good- he's sure as hell not gonna patronise you. Let me give him your name."
"Fine," Dean groans. "If it's gonna get you off my case."
Bobby shifts awkwardly, and Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Something you wanna share with the group?"
"You're not gonna wanna hear it," Bobby begins.
"Not exactly filling me with confidence here, Bobby."
"Dr Singer," Bobby corrects, temporarily distracted. "But shut up and listen for a minute. I know you've said no before, but this place has got a damn good counsellor, and I wanna put you in contact with her. You got someone for your hands, and that's good- but you need someone for your head too."
"What's wrong with my head?" Dean says defensively, ridiculously.
"I'm thinking it can be a pretty dark place sometimes," Bobby answers. "Could be useful to let someone with a flashlight and a map take a peek."
Dean goes to give his answer, but finds he doesn't have one.
"Well?" Bobby says.
"I'm thinking, okay?" The instinctive, obvious answer is 'are you fucking kidding me?'. After all, working for the FBI was a lot more stressful than sitting on his ass all day, and Dean coped just fine then- whiskey is one hell of an effective drug when self-administered. He doesn't even want to think about what his dad would say if he heard his oldest son was considering 'talking to someone'. Counselling is for the pathetic and sad, therapy for the plain friggin' mad, and everyone else just smiles and gets on with it.
Except, you know, that's not working out so well.
If Dean could drink and drive and fuck his feelings away, it wouldn't be an issue, but sitting in a room by yourself for twenty-four hours a day has a certain way of making you face the facts. Cas is a good listener- Sam too- but there's only so much they can do, and only so much Dean's prepared to let them try and do. He can't help but feel like he burdens Cas enough as it is, and there's a plethora of crap he refuses to go anywhere near with Sam. He figures it's about time he learned some better coping strategies, for their sake if nothing else.
"I'll give her your name," Bobby says- but it's cautious, questioning, giving Dean the chance to fight back.
"You seriously think I can change things?" Dean blurts out, and shit, out of all the things he could have said, why did he pick that? Bobby doesn't laugh, though; he fixes him with a despairing look that just screams 'really?'
"Dean," Bobby says, "that you even asked that makes it pretty clear you already are."
When Monday turns up, Dean keeps as busy as he can. He's spent a year and a half being bored out of his mind, but it's only lately that it's actually starting to bother him. Rather than dragging him down into apathy, the boredom twitches beneath his skin like an itch he can't scratch, urging him to get out of bed and do something. The problem isthat there's not exactly a lot he can do.
Ash is working, and he spends a few hours in Dean's room talking cars and classic rock. As pathetic as it is, Dean finds himself glancing at his phone every few hours, but nothing comes through. Good, he thinks as night comes and he still hasn't heard from Cas. That means things are going well. It'd be nice, though, if Cas could just let him know that things are going well.
It rains on Wednesday- a heavy, vicious downpour, underpinned by the bass line of heavy thunder-claps. Dean opens his window to watch, though his body's general suckishness at regulating temperature means he keeps a blanket draped over him. He hangs his hands out of the window, letting the water drum against his skin, relishing the jolt that goes through him every time the sky flashes white or the air fills with noise. Storms make Dean feel alive.
When his phone beeps, at first he thinks he imagined it. He decides to ignore it and holds out for a whole five minutes before curiosity wins out and he shuts the window. Dean wheels himself over to the table where he's left his mobile and sees 'One New Message' for what's probably the first time in… uh, ever.
Cas – 19:01:
Can I come and see you?
Dean raises an eyebrow at the phone. The winds are reaching gale-force outside and the sun's clocked off early, plunging the outside world into darkness. Does Cas seriously mean now?
With '10' being 'near-normal' and '1' being 'please just fucking amputate them', Dean's hands today are probably a… 4? Maybe a 5? He concentrates and, thanking the wondrous creation that is autocorrect, manages to send a reply.
You – 19:06:
Now?
Dean waits, drumming his fingers against his chair, for the next message. It doesn't take long.
Cas- 19:08:
If you don't mind
"Of course I don't mind, you dumbass," Dean tells the phone. Right, like he's gonna turn Cas away two days after the anniversary of his sister's death because he's not in the mood for visitors. This is the least he owes Castiel.
Besides, Dean misses the stupid bastard.
He tries to put as much into writing, but he thinks that '5' might have been over-generous. In fact, things are probably closer to a '3'. He tries stabbing at the buttons with an outstretched finger, but his fingers keep tightening or slipping so that he hits the wrong button. The third time he has to delete the word 'Anna', he narrowly refrains from launching the phone at the wall, and decides that he probably needs to lower his expectations.
You- 19:14:
Sure
It's not the most welcoming-sounding thing, but Dean figures it's clear enough. Whilst the care home has 'preferred' visiting hours, their general philosophy is that visitors are welcome at any time as long as they don't disturb the other residents. He should probably let someone know, though.
Dean wheels himself out into the corridor and finds himself face-to-face with Ruby. Not ideal, but it'll do.
"Got someone coming by," he says before she can open her mouth. "That's okay, right?"
"You've got someone coming by?" Ruby says, torn between amusement and disbelief.
"Do you need me to say it again slower?"
"Have you ever considered a career in comedy?" she says. "But yeah, of course it's okay. Sam, I'm guessing?"
"Castiel, actually," Dean says, in a carefully-casual tone of voice that pretty much dares her to make something of it.
"Huh," Ruby says, after just a beat too long. "Well, have fun."
It's not much of a win, but Dean will take what he can get.
Dean retreats to his room and waits, getting distracted by the storm again. Most people wouldn't dream of leaving the house in this kind of weather- what the hell is Cas playing at?
Twenty minutes later, Dean hears a familiar knock at his door.
"Come in," he yells, and shit, Cas has definitely looked better. There are dark rings under his eyes and his hair is plastered to his face. His clothes don't look wet, which Dean puts down to the thick tan coat bundled in his arms. He smiles when he sees Dean, but it's small and very, very tired.
"You can shove your coat wherever," Dean suggests- and then, nodding at a chair, he orders "Sit."
Cas puts his coat by the door and obeys without comment, dropping down opposite Dean.
"Hello," Cas offers eventually. His voice is even more gravelly than usual, like he hasn't slept for a couple of years now.
"That bad?" Dean says with a sympathetic wince. Cas considers this.
"Worse," he says, but he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to elaborate. He's staring down at his hands, dragging his nail back and forth across the fabric of his pants. Dean feels like he should ask something, but he has no idea what to ask.
"I'm sorry," Cas says suddenly. "Coming here was selfish."
"What? No! I told you I'm here if you need to talk about this crap, and I meant what I said."
"But I don't need to talk about it," Cas says. "I actively don't want to. I just- I got back this afternoon and-" He breaks off and takes a breath. "Ghosts followed me home. I didn't want to be alone with them."
"I get it," Dean says. "You're always welcome here, Cas. You know that."
The surprise in Cas' eyes when he looks up makes Dean realise that holy shit, no, he actually didn't. Well, there's something new for the both of them.
"Would it be awful to ask you to distract me?" Cas says, and the mental images that conjures up in Dean's head are really not family-friendly.
"Like how?"
"Talk. Tell me what you've been doing. How things are with you."
"You really want to hear me bitch about my life?"
"I like talking to you, yes."
"Poor misguided bastard," Dean says- but he's never seen Cas this flat, this empty-looking, and he finds that he really doesn't like it. "I don't know, things have been… average? I called Sam a couple times."
"Really?"
"Yeah, we did wedding talk. He's letting Jess handle most of it. She's the kind of person that never has to hunt around for a pen, if you know what I'm saying. She's super-organised, she'll make it work out."
"Have they set a date yet?"
"They're thinking late summer, so not for like a year yet. Not that you'd know it's July," Dean says, nodding towards the window.
"It does seem to insist on being terrible," Cas agrees. Almost on-cue, lightning splits the sky. A few seconds later, a rumble of thunder shakes the room, and Cas jumps slightly.
"You scared of thunder?"
"Indifferent," Cas shrugs. "You?"
"Love it," Dean says. "Always did, but even more these days."
"Like with the music?"
"What?" Dean says.
"The volume."
It's only then that Dean remembers the conversation he had with Cas about headphones. Geez, why does he have to remember this stuff? It's disarming. Dean's not used to people treating him like he's really here, much less like he matters.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it's the same thing."
Cas nods silently, and Dean scratches around for something else to say. He spends so much time locked inside his own head that trying to drag someone else out of theirs is hard work. There's only one thing he can think of that might work, and it's not exactly sunshine and rainbows, but it's all he's got.
"I saw Bobby," he says.
"Who?"
"Dr. Singer. He's a, uh, doctor."
"Is everything okay?" Cas asks immediately, and guilty pleasure ripples down Dean's spine at the concern in his tone.
"Just a check-up. They're a giant pain in my ass, and they're usually a huge waste of time."
"But not always?"
There's a decent sized gap before Dean speaks again. "He thinks I should go back to PT. And that I should talk to someone- like, a counsellor or something. He was surprisingly non-dickish about it."
"Oh?" Cas says. Dean swears, if the words 'and how does that make you feel?' come out of Cas' mouth he won't be held responsible for his actions. "What did you say?"
"Said I'd give both a try," Dean says, and Cas' face lights up like the brightest shop window at Christmastime, his lips curving into a soft smile. "My crazy really does make your day, huh?" Dean snorts.
"It's rare to hear you taking care of yourself," Cas discloses, still smiling, and wow, Dean is so done talking about this.
"How about you?" he asks, nodding at Cas. "You gonna be okay?"
"Yes," Cas says. "I needed some time away, that's all. Both from my family and from myself."
"Too much time to think?"
"Something like that," Cas says, suddenly closed-off. "When do you see the counsellor?"
As far as attempts to change the subject go, that one was pretty freakin' obvious, but Dean's prepared to let it slide.
"Next week, I think," Dean says, pulling a face. "Bobby offered meds too- for the, uh, crazy- but I said no. Other than that, he said to just… keep doing what I'm doing. Take things step-by-step and all that. Which I found offensive, by the way," Dean adds, nodding down at his feet. Cas' face creases into a smile as he tries not to laugh.
"It sounds like you have a plan," Cas says. "If you'd let me, then I'd like to help."
"You probably should," Dean says, "seeing how this is all your fault anyway. I'd never even have moved away from the TV if it wasn't for you sticking your nose in and bothering me."
"Maybe I should bother you more often."
"Whenever," Dean shrugs. "I don't have many hobbies."
"Then I'll come back tomorrow after work. If it's stopped raining, we can sit outside and you can abuse me for not understanding your pop culture references."
"Only if you'll insult me in Mandarin."
Cas says something that Dean sincerely hopes is 'bite me'.
Dean hears from the physical therapist first, a fucking bear of a man who turns up in his room early one morning.
"You gonna get up, or am I gonna have to drag you?" is the way the guy chooses to introduce himself.
"That doesn't sound very supportive," Dean complains into his pillow.
"On the contrary, I'm very supportive. Just not to people lyin' in bed. You want that kind of thing, you gotta hire someone a whole lot prettier than me."
"Tease," Dean complains, but he drags himself up all the same, twisting so that he's leaning back against the wall. He's only wearing a t-shirt and boxers, so he makes sure the blankets stay pulled up to his hips. "Alright, I'm up. You're the new PT guy?"
"Name's Benny," the therapist says. "From what I understand, we're gonna be workin' mostly on your hands. That right?"
"Unless you got a magic cure for legs not working, then yeah."
"If I find a magic cure, brother, you'll be the first to know about it," Benny says, drawing up a chair. "Why don't we talk options?"
Benny's clearly coming into this with a No Bullshit mentality. Dean can get behind that. Benny seems like a good guy- he's got a wife and a kid and despite his curse-heavy, tough-guy act, he's clearly crazy about his family. By the time Benny leaves, Dean's starting to think he could actually enjoy working with this guy.
His therapist (a term Dean tries not to think about too much) turns up a few days later. Luckily, Dean's dressed this time- it's mid-afternoon, a couple of hours before Cas normally arrives.
"My name is Tessa," she says, sitting down opposite his chair. She's dressed in black from head to toe, which seems a little moody for a therapist, but her smile is bright enough to make up for it. "It's good to meet you. I really hope this can be the start of something good for the both of us."
"Dating clients doesn't sound professional."
Tessa laughs. "Okay, so therapy can be intimate, but not like that. I'm just here to talk."
"About what?"
"Whatever you want," she shrugs. "Whatever's helpful."
"How am I supposed to know?" he complains. "You're the therapist, not me."
"You're the patient, not me," she challenges, pushing Dean's respect for her up by another notch.
"You don't work here, do you?" he asks, and she shakes her head.
"No, I'm independent- I met Dr Singer through a mutual friend. He did his research, decided I was good enough for his patients, and every couple months he hands me a referral."
"Way to make me feel special."
"He clearly thinks very fondly of you," Tessa says. "He said as much himself."
"He actually said that?"
Tessa hesitates. "More… implied."
"Yeah, that sounds more like it," Dean chuckles. The day Bobby delivers a plain, open compliment will be the day Dean friggin' tap dances.
They don't really talk about anything in actual depth- at her request, Dean outlines what he does most days, then tells her a little about his accident and his condition. He is very brief in his coverage of the incident that led to his file containing the cheery refrain 'history of suicidal behaviour- one previous attempt, warranting brief hospitalisation'. He can tell she's interested in that, but when she presses it and he clams up, she backs off instantly. Tessa says she'll come back at the same time next week, and whilst Dean's left feeling a little uncomfortable- like someone's opened him up and tried to map his colours, tried slipping fingers under his skull to reach the prize within and not quite set the bones back right- it could definitely be way worse.
July draws to a close and August takes its place. When Sam arrives on the first, Dean's already waiting in the hallway.
"We're going outside," he says by way of introduction, "because Cas will kick my ass if we don't."
The confusion on Sam's face is a beautiful thing, but he follows all the same.
Say what you like about Castiel, once he fixes himself on something, he goes the whole nine yards. Cas has taken his mission to heart, and between him and Benny, it seems the days of people putting up with Dean's bullshit are very much over. It might not feel like a good thing, but it probably is.
Once they're settled outside- and Dean's gotta admit, he's getting to like the feeling of the sun on his face- Sam launches straight in.
"Cas is that volunteer, right?"
"Yeah," Dean says warily.
"How come he's weirdly invested in getting you outdoors?"
"He's trying to drag me back into society."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "And how's that going for him?"
"He's probably drinking a lot more than before."
Sam laughs. "Seriously, what's brought this on?"
Dean stiffens. He's not about to discuss his own personal brand of crazy with a kid who still looks at the broken, flickering lightbulb of Dean's soul and sees a sun. "What's it to you?"
"Do you like him?"
"He's a friend, sure."
"No- do you like him?"
"Really?" Dean says. "Really? Way to channel your inner preteen, Sammy. What, you wanna paint my toenails and complain about your training bra rubbing you?"
"I'm just saying," Sam says, holding his hands up, but he's got that shit-eating grin on his face that says 'oh, you've got it bad'. Dean scowls, which only serves to make Sam smile harder.
He and Cas start spending pretty much every visit in the garden- and Cas comes three, four times a week now. By the end of the second week, Dean barely even notices other people coming into the garden or going back indoors. He guesses you could call that progress. Somewhere in the first week of August, Cas comes up with something new.
"Nuh-uh," Dean says as soon as he hears it.
"It's a Sunday," Cas says. "Barely anyone will be in town."
Dean doesn't answer.
"What's stopping you?" Cas asks.
"Nothing's stopping me-"
"Good," Cas interrupts smoothly. "Then let's go."
Dean glares; Cas looks back calmly.
"How long do you wanna go for?" Dean asks warily.
"Ten minutes?" Cas suggests. "Fifteen?"
"I am losing track of the number of times I've said this," Dean says as he turns to the door. "Hobbies. Get some."
Cas follows, pausing by the office door. "I have hobbies," he says distractedly as he peers through the glass.
"Not enough," Dean responds as Pamela opens the door.
"He said yes?" she says incredulously.
"Love you too," Dean replies.
"We'll be back in under twenty minutes," Cas promises.
"Be careful," Pam warns. "You got our number, right?"
"Are you serious?" Dean complains. "It's a goddamn walk, not a trek to Mount friggin' Doom."
"Just following protocol," Pam shrugs.
"I understand," Cas says. "Yes, I do, and my mobile number is on my volunteer agreement form."
"Good man," Pam says. "Take care of him, wouldya? He's a grumpy little thing, but we'd miss him if you lost him somewhere."
"He's like the bad-tempered cat everyone's weirdly fond of," Ruby calls from where she's doing paperwork.
"I am actually here, you know," Dean calls irritably.
"Did you hear something, Ruby?"
"Children," Dean says. "My care is in the hands of children."
He looks up at Cas, who's looking thoroughly confused by the turn of events. It's rare for Dean to see Cas standing up, and the way he has to tilt his head back to try and catch Cas' eye only worsens the heavy pull in his stomach. He nudges Cas' hip with his hand instead, and spreads his hands in a gesture of 'why are we still here?' when Cas looks down.
"We'll return soon," Cas tells the staff, and then he's hitting a button and the doors are sliding open. Dean watches, his eyes sliding out of focus for a second as the mechanical whirring fills his ears. It's sunny outside, the sounds of cars in the distance and birds nearer by, and when Cas steps forward it takes a beat before Dean follows. He pauses once they reach the end of the drive, twisting his head around and looking back. The name of the home is written on a sign above the door- a sign Dean hasn't seen in eighteen months.
"Dean?"
"Give me a sec," Dean says. His hands are shaking. His hands hurt. They feel like somebody's grabbing them and squeezing, clenching the flesh like they mean to mince it, and he's not so sure he should go ahead with this. After all, if his hands are bad, then he's in bad health, and it's not a good idea to go outside when your health is bad, right? Cas will get that.
"I don't know why you continue to insist I don't have hobbies," Cas says before Dean can make his case.
"Because you spend your free time hanging out with a cripple?"
"Don't call yourself that," Cas says, instant and harsh like a dead man's finger jerking closed on a trigger. Did Anna get called a cripple? Dean doesn't know- it's best, he decides, not to ask. He shrugs instead and tries to ignore the weight of Cas' eyes on the side of his face.
"Language stuff doesn't count as a hobby, y'know," Dean says- and then, as Cas starts walking, he finds his hands pushing forward rather than letting himself get left behind.
"Why not?"
"It's school."
"It's learning."
"Same thing."
"Learning can be enjoyable."
Dean barks out a laugh. "You definitely need to meet Sam. I bet you were one of those kids who brought the teacher apples."
"Why would I bring my teacher fruit?"
"I… actually have no idea. But hobbies are supposed to be fun. Learning lists of verbs or whatever can't be fun."
"What do you do for fun?"
"Is that a trick question?"
"No. I'm genuinely curious." It's a little embarrassing how hard Dean has to think. He's never liked filling out the 'Hobbies' section of forms, because once he got past 'babysitting' and 'shooting', he was pretty much stumped. 'Waiting for Dad to come home' doesn't look good on a resume.
"I watch TV, I guess," Dean says.
"And that's… fun?" Cas saying that word sounds like Dean trying to speak French.
"Calm down, Spock," Dean says. "It's not like I can go out and play tennis."
"Did you do that before your accident?"
They're nearly halfway down the road now. The home is only a five minute walk away from a local town, small but with enough people to make being seen less of a risk and more of a certainty. Here, though, there are no cars on the road; nobody to hear the squeak of the chair's wheels or the sound of Cas' feet. Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the pavement in front of him, his thoughts focused on the conversation.
"Running around a court after a ball? Thanks, but no thanks- I'll leave that to the dogs. The only exercise I really did was for my job."
"Yes- the FBI?"
"More paperwork than punching, to be honest," Dean admits. "That is, until I started work with my dad."
Dean's never really told Cas about his job in any level of detail, but Cas doesn't seem to mind hearing it. Dean doesn't know how much he wants to talk about it, but he figures it's as good a distraction as any.
"I didn't know your father was an FBI agent."
"Pretty much his whole life. After mom died, though, he really threw himself into things. He always said that if they'd just have caught the guy who started the fire earlier- well, you know," he says. Cas has known Dean is an orphan for months now. There's no need to go into it. "He was the best damn agent there."
"So you followed in his foosteps?"
"Hell, yeah," Dean says. "Ever since me and Sam were kids, he made sure we knew what he was doing. He'd bring us on stakeouts sometimes, or tell us stuff about suspects, or take us out of school for a few weeks if he was working on some big case far away from home. Not exactly conventional, I know, but he liked taking things into his own hands."
"I can't imagine the FBI looked fondly on that."
"Shit, no. Luckily for us, they never found out half of it. He was good at covering his tracks, making it look like we'd done everything by the book- I don't even know how he arranged things so we ended up working together. He originally wanted to work with Sammy, see, but Sam preferred the more orthodox kind of law. After Sam broke the news that he wouldn't be going down that route, Dad came and found me and we partnered up. I am telling you, we got into some crazy shit."
"Go on," Cas says when Dean doesn't elaborate. Talking about things he knows he cannot experience again has a way of driving ice-cold spikes through Dean's core, and when he thinks of the stories he once told at parties, they sound more like lines from a euology.
"The crash wasn't an accident," he says, because at least that has carried nothing but pain; there are no traces of better days to taunt him, no flowers turned to rot. The sadness there is pure. "We were tracking a suspect we shouldn't have been tracking, a big-time bad guy. Dad was all set to go on this big stakeout alone- "leave it to me, Dean-o. I can handle it". And you know, I wasn't okay with that as it was, but then he didn't come back. He didn't answer his calls, and I must've called like, twenty times. A day.
"So I went and found Sammy," Dean says. They've reached the end of the road, and they aim for the dip in the curb where Dean can cross. The road is plain, dark tarmac, and Dean studies it like it's got the secret of life scrawled across it. There are people here, a couple walking hand-in-hand and a few kids on bikes. "The FBI didn't know what we were doing, and there was no one else I could ask. So I got Sam, and we went after dad, and we fucked things up. The guy realised what was going on, spooked, got away. Dad was furious- wanted to know who the hell I thought I was, why I'd suggested something so dumb, why I'd put Sam in danger. We were still arguing in the car on the way back. I never even saw the guy coming. He was driving a goddamn truck, and I never even saw him coming."
"The suspect you were tracking?"
"The one I let get away, yeah," Dean says tightly. The kids are looking at him.
"What happened to him?"
"Died in the crash. Can't say I cared too much about that."
One of the kids points at Dean- mutters something to his friend, who bursts out laughing. Dean's hands turn white on the wheels of his chair, and he finds he cannot bring himself to push them down, to keep on moving. Cas realises almost immediately, and instead of walking past Dean, he waits by his side.
"Take all the time you need," he says, while Dean tries to get the lumps of meat on his wrists to move, to do something. Despite the pain in his hands, they've been working so far today, so why aren't they working now? The kid's gotta be under ten- eight, maybe nine- and kids do stupid things, say dumb, mean things, it doesn't mean anything-
"I can't," he says, and it's a breathless, broken thing. Everything is too much, the world too large as it stretches around him, nowhere to hide and fuck knows he can't run, not anymore. He's pinpointed, exposed, and his breathing's getting quicker and quicker until it catches in his throat, sharp enough to kick out a cough, and then another and another and he can't stop and he can't breathe and-
Suddenly, there are eyes inches from his, wide and blue and fixed on his face. Then comes the warm weight of a hand on the back of his neck, another on his back, and Cas pulls. He pulls Dean forwards until his forehead hits Cas' shoulder, eyes pressed into the material of Cas' shirt but lower jaw free.
"Breathe out," Cas says, his breath against Dean's hair.
"What the fuck are you-" Dean tries to get out, but it just gives way to more coughing.
"Leaning forward and exhaling is the best way to handle this- as I'm sure you know."
"People are gonna-" More coughing.
"I don't care what people think, or what they say. I care about you, you ridiculous, infuriating man. Now please breathe out before you choke and I have to explain to Pamela why I let you die."
Dean breathes out heavily, coughs bubbling in his throat and cutting him off. He tries it again and again, coughing and coughing, until a breath of air manages to sneaks out without interruption. Mucus crowds his mouth, a slimy, disgusting mess that he forces himself to swallow. The slow, controlled breathing helps to calm the desperate beating of his heart, bring his body back into something like normality, and by the time Dean realises Cas is gently rubbing his thumb against the back of his neck, he is ashamed enough to cringe away from it.
Cas releases him instantly, moving away but staying crouched down. "Are you alright?"
Shame is coagulating in Dean's veins, the self-hate as familiar and heavy as a worn woollen blanket. "Just get me home."
Cas nods and then straightens up. "We can go back."
They turn around and start back the way they came. The time for talking is seriously over, but Cas doesn't seem to get that. "What else did you like to do before the accident?"
It's like being hit full-force in the chest. "You seriously want to do this?"
"Do what?"
"Talk about pre-chair stuff like that didn't just happen?" Dean doesn't even know what that was. Coughing fit? Panic attack? Either way, the idea of lying down and not getting up again suddenly seems so very, very appealing. He's craving dark rooms, still and noiseless air, shutters that hide burned and broken creatures from the world outside.
"I want to know what you used to like to do. And as for that-"
"Don't," Dean says, sharp. "I don't want to hear it, okay? I don't want to hear about how I was already tense from what we were talking about, or how this is my first time out in forever so it's only natural I freaked, or how it's not my fault I suck at coughing. I don't want to hear the excuses. Don't tell me it's okay, Cas, because it is not."
There's no reply. When Dean glances over at Cas, he looks like he's absorbing the information.
"Alright," Cas says after a few seconds. "No. It wasn't okay. Yes, it was understandable, but that doesn't mean you can't do better."
Dean barks out a bitter, incredulous laugh, but Cas means it. "And if you're wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if you're wrong, Cas? Maybe I really am too damn pathetic to even go down a street- what then? What if I can't do better?"
"You can," Cas says, "and you will."
It's with a sudden, split-second of clarity that Dean sees his choices laid out in front of him, a kind of crossroads with he and Castiel standing in the middle.
Dean could return to the home and shut himself in his room. He could refuse to see Cas or Sam, cancel his appointments with Benny and Tessa, let the world go on with its business somewhere far away from him and wait as the feeling of sunlight on skin fossilises to memory. When everybody knows you're angry and bitter and that you have no interest in making things better for yourself, they leave you to it- and if you never try, there's no way you can disappoint. It is easy to cloak yourself in your failure and let the sadness and the suffering become all you are; it is tempting to wear your flaws like a label, because that way you aren't surprised when they decide to come together and put on a show. It's certainly easier than trying to overcome them, because if you want to learn to swim, you first have to accept that you cannot.
Then again, no one ever got off an island by staring at the water and hoping it'd just move out of their way.
It's the five-dollar basket-bullshit all over again, turning things that everyone else does unthinkingly into challenges that might as well come with a sticker chart. Another person might find this easy, but Dean is not another person. If he says yes to this, if he agrees to try to talk and learn to smile, then he is choosing his path. It's daring to believe that he's worth something, reaching for a better life because he might just deserve it.
It'd be easier to do it for Cas. It'd be easier to do it for Sam. But Dean can't- not forever. Not anymore. He can't keep doing this because Cas wants him to or because it eases Sam's worries. At some point, he has to pick the path he wants to go down- and whilst he can have anyone he wants cheering him on to his destination, he can't let them push him there.
Think of how things were before.
Once upon a time, in the age marked Before, Dean's supervisor had told him- over bonding beers in a shitty bar that always smelt of piss, no matter how far from the toilets you were sitting- that their department was envied for having one of the best agents in the whole damn United States. Dean had started to enthuse about his dad, but the man had cut him off.
"I don't mean John Winchester," he had said. "I mean you."
Dean had wanted to be good at his job, and so he had done it. He had been good at what he did, goddamit- and even if he can't do it anymore, nothing can take those achievements away from him. He saw what he wanted, he worked for it, and he got it, because that was who he was and what he did. Dean Winchester never said 'no' because something was hard; Dean Winchester grinned, leant back and said 'I like a challenge'.
They're nearly at the doors now. Dean can see Pamela through the glass, can hear another car coming up behind him, but he ignores both of those things. He ignores everything but that one phrase that he can't seem to shake, the one that always seems to rattle through his head when he's alone and he's itching for something more.
"Dean?" Cas says.
Think of how things were before.
"Come back tomorrow," Dean says, "and we'll try again."