A/N: I've mixed (third person) POVs in this chapter to get the story going. I hope you like it - please do review and comment! :)

Welcome to Heartbreak

Part V: Postcards from Far Away

Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls

Crowley is a proud man. It is one of his many sins, but he will never consider it a flaw. He doesn't like to think of himself as flawed, but he knows that there are sides of him that could – possibly – make him less desirable in the eyes of a human. Especially so to a human that has been to Hell.

Crowley knows what Dean remembers when he thinks of Hell. Crowley knows what kind of images Dean dreams of at night. It might be different now, but that isn't the point. The point is that Dean remembers hot, sweaty days hung on hooks attached to thin air while being skinned piece by piece. Dean recalls icy nights and sticky touches to his healed skin, big hands caressing over his body almost lovingly before tearing him apart yet again.

Even so, Crowley is aware that this isn't what Dean fears. After all, even torture becomes familiar after a few decades.

The King of Hell closes his eyes and lies back on the bed in his top-side mansion, his favourite fantasy immediately springing to mind. A small smirk plays on his vessel's body – it's more than muscle memory, because Crowley really fancies wearing this man – and he loses himself in daydreams.

It isn't until his dogs start yowling and whining that he opens his eyes again, feeling refreshed motivation after an hour-long nap.

"What are you yapping about?" he asks, beckoning his favourite doggy forth with a lone finger. "Don't worry, you little munchkin, Bobby isn't staying for much longer."

"There's something seriously wrong with you," Singer says from his place in the sofa. Crowley ignores him in favour of soothing his animals. "I got the point, Crowley, I got it. Now, let me go, damn it!"

"Just a little while longer," Crowley admits. "Just long enough to make them edgy."

The dogs seem to calm down considerably at this information, their nervousity disappearing slightly upon knowing that the hunter is leaving soon. Of course, Crowley knows that it might have been a foolish move to bring Bobby with him to his favourite mansion, but persuasion and manipulation are best done in a comfortable environment.

"I've been gone for three hours, you idjit. I think they got the memo."

Crowley sighs, deep and long, forcing himself not to sic his boys on the elderly man. How could he have forgotten that Singer had such a nasty attitude? "Drop the sass," Crowley commands, and Bobby stays quiet. "You'll be my father-in-law in due time, Singer, and you'll like it."

"That might be the weirdest shit someone's ever said to me."

"Well, congrats to me," Crowley replies. Patience thin as air and mood ruined, he snaps his fingers and sends the cocky human back to his car. His dogs growl in satisfaction, curling up together on the warm spot that Singer just vacated.

Dripping with sweat and shaking with fury, Sam arrives at the junkyard when the sky is already dark and the wind turns chilly. He slams the car door shut with a little extra strength, not even feeling guilty when the hinges whine in protest. His day has been so awful that he can barely feel the relief upon knowing that Bobby is home and safe.

Castiel is already there, Sam knows, but he suspects that the angel is already upstairs and entertaining Dean with old battle stories or scenes from the Bible. That happens to suit Sam fine, because he is this close to tearing Bobby a new one.

Wrapped in worry and anger and frustration, Sam walks inside to find the house just as it was before he left to search for the elderly hunter. The clean, lemony scent from the spray Sam used yesterday is gone, but so is the smell of dust and burnt food. The piles of books in the study are still intact, no windows are broken and Bobby seems completely whole where he sits behind his desk.

"Jesus fuck, Bobby," Sam says, and he feels all pent-up rage leave his body as he exhales. "I've been looking for you all day. Where did you go? Was it Crowley?"

Bobby doesn't look up, keeping himself busy with the thick book in his hands. "Yeah, he dropped by."

"What did he say?" Sam can't help himself – he can't feign indifference, not when his heart has decided what he believes is right. "What do you think? He has some pretty interesting theories—"

"Sam."

"—right? I agree on some points, but we gotta read the fine print extra careful—"

"Sam. Boy, listen." Bobby sighs and takes a big gulp of Scotch, not even bothering with a proper whiskey glass and drinking it straight out of a mug. "If he said the same things to you as he did to me..."

Castiel watches.

He watches with gentle eyes, listens to Dean's soft breathing in the otherwise silent room. He can hear Sam's excited voice coming from downstairs, but he doesn't focus enough to make out the words. He doesn't care, not now when all his attention is turned elsewhere.

Castiel watches, but he doesn't see the same things a human would.

Sam would see his older brother, a fighter and a protector, slumbering and finally at peace. He would worry, upon seeing his brother weighing less. Castiel can tell exactly how many pounds that Dean has lost, but Sam would only see a smaller man.

Bobby would see a boy, lonely and worried, a young man that has done nothing but give. Bobby would see John's soldier, would think of John's words and how they shaped this boy into the fighter and protector that Sam sees.

Castiel sees the Righteous Man, strong and selfless even when he seems down. Castiel sees a young soul. A bright soul, cracked and broken; fixed together by sheer determination and will. Castiel sees a beautiful face, a beautiful mind. Even the muscles in Dean's body seem troubled, stiff as if waiting for an attack.

There are footsteps in stairs, then a soft knock on the open bedroom door. Castiel doesn't need to look up to know that it is Sam.

"How's he doing?"

"He sleeps better now."

Sam smiles. Castiel can feel it, even though he is still looking at Dean.

"Might be 'cause you're here," Sam says, aiming for nonchalant and failing completely. The smile grows. "Could you come downstairs? Y'know, whenever you're done, uh, doing your...thing."

"Yes, of course."

Castiel tears his eyes away from his charge, getting up to follow the younger Winchester down to the study. As he takes the first step in the stairs, he hears Dean mumble something. Just a small mumble, nothing more than a word, but Castiel knows the sound better than anyone.

"You coming?"

Castiel closes his eyes for a second before heading downstairs.

To Be Continued