Act 2, Scene 1
December 10, 2016
It had been the kind of day that felt as though angels above were chorusing down to Dean, "Yes! You are on the right path!" In the busy hospital where he'd done his med school rotations, he'd felt trapped in a whirlwind of lab results, treatments, and diagnoses, often to the point where he had to continually and consciously remind himself that there was an actual human person behind all the numbers and medical terms.
When he'd realized that it was more than mere homesickness that was plaguing him during those hectic years, it had felt like a revelation. He didn't just miss his family and friends – he missed the breathing room afforded by his small, slow-paced community, and he missed the type of people who embraced that laidback, rural existence. He'd wanted to change the world, but suddenly he recognized that there was more than one way that he could do that. He didn't want to eat, sleep, and breathe medicine; he wanted to eat, sleep, and breathe people.
And so here he was, a resident in a rural health program in a town that felt so much like his own hometown that it was almost unnerving to see the few differences. Of course, he was only about an hour from home, so that was unsurprising. His mom had been thrilled to have him so close, and it made her especially proud to "show him off" to friends who could now drop by the clinic where he had been assigned to work for the past few years. Occasionally that became uncomfortable, such as when old Rufus Turner had refused to listen to Dean's dietary suggestions. "Boy, I knew you when you was stealing candy bars off my store shelves!" he'd grumbled. "Don't you go telling me how I'm supposed to lay off the junk!"
But he loved it. He loved the bred-in-the-bone stubbornness that Appalachia seemed to grant. He loved the way he not only was encouraged to take his time listening to each patient, but that each patient demanded it. These were not people who would appreciate a God Complex in their doctor, and the other doctors at the clinic warned him that failure to connect personally would likely result in patients simply staying away from medical care, even if their health suffered.
This morning, he had found himself playing a role he knew damn well was something he'd never have done outside of the rural health track, and it had his energy thrumming. Ice and snow had fallen the days before, and many of the clinic's regular patients were going to be unable to make their scheduled visits. The first time that had happened, during his first year of residency, he'd been surprised to arrive at the clinic to find his supervising physician shrugging into his winter coat.
"Don't get cozy," he'd said, leading Dean back out the door and to his truck. They'd spent the day traveling winding country roads from house to house, tending to patients whose needs couldn't wait for a thaw. The experience had been inspirational for Dean. This was a level of care that part of him had always wanted to be able to give. It resonated deeply within him, and he knew the sort of doctor he wanted to become.
At this point in his residency, he was trusted to do house calls on his own for routine cases, his supervisor staying behind at the clinic. Most of the patients he'd visited today had been elderly, with complaints related to aging: blood pressure problems, arthritis, emphysema. All of them had wanted to chat more than to be examined, and getting out the door on schedule was a losing battle. His last visit, Mildred, had flirted shamelessly with him while he tried to insist that she check her blood sugar more frequently.
"I'm not sure I remember how the thingamajig works, Doctor. Maybe you can show me again?" She'd batted her eyelashes, and he'd sighed and grinned. He didn't mind playing along, as long as the end result was that she used the meter.
He was still smiling, crunching one of the homemade cookies she'd pressed upon him, as he drove to the last house on his chart. It was a hospice patient, which made him nervous; he didn't typically see those, but the clinic was small enough that occasionally duties were shared, and the resident who would have checked in on…Dean glanced at the chart for the name. Right, Mr. Shurley. That resident was out with the flu, so he was filling in. Apparently, Mr. Shurley was sleeping most of the time now, nearing the end of his battle with heart failure. All Dean should need to do was make sure the pain medication was doing its job and answer any questions the family might have. That was going to be the worst part, he thought, cringing. He could already hear them asking, "Why?" as though he had any answers beyond the physiological ones.
Morbidly humming "Dust in the Wind" under his breath as he stomped through the snow drifts in front of the tiny, old house, he braced himself and put on his most professional face before knocking.
In retrospect, he should have braced a bit harder.
"Cas?"
At the sight of the tousled black hair and blue eyes staring in shock, Dean almost stumbled backwards into the snow, catching himself on the doorframe just in time. He didn't really need to ask whether it was Cas or not; that face, a decade older than he had last seen it, could belong to nobody else. In a flash, Dean was standing in that driveway, all those years ago, feeling the pain of his heart being ripped from his chest. He hadn't even understood why it had hurt so much – not then, not yet. Understanding had come far too late.
Cas was obviously as thrown as he was. "Dean? What are you doing here?" He suddenly shivered, and Dean was abruptly reminded that he was standing on the cold doorstep.
"Tessa McKeon, the hospice resident, is sick, so you get me today," he said, trying to regain his sense of balance. "I'm just here to check on, uh, Charles. Charles Shurley? Are you…?" He was still trying to reconcile Cas's presence here, in this house. He couldn't remember Cas ever mentioning having family in this area, let alone anybody with that name.
Maybe it's one of Meg's relatives, a poisonous-sounding voice whispered meanly. Maybe it's an in-law.
Cas seemed to come to his senses then. Running a hand through his hair, mussing it even further, he stepped back out of the doorway. "Come in, it's freezing out there," he said. He was wearing only a thin tee shirt and jeans, the house being kept warm and snug. Dean followed him into the small front room, dominated by the bed and oxygen machine. On autopilot, his eyes scanned the man lying on it, checking for any telltale signs of discomfort. Moderate cyanosis of the lips. Jugular venous distention. Dean walked to the bedside and paused, taking a moment to collect himself.
"Mr. Shurley, my name is Dean Winchester."
"He can't hear you." Cas was frowning, an odd, unreadable expression on his face.
"Maybe," Dean answered. "We don't really know what he can hear right now. But he's still my patient, and I introduce myself to all of my new patients." Stay professional. He's upset because this man is dying.
Cas rolled his eyes. "If you feel like you need to," he said, moving to his chair and dropping into it roughly.
"I do." Dean was feeling traces of anger trickling through his waning shock. Cas seemed almost irritated that he was there. If Dean had ever really allowed himself to imagine a reunion between the two of them – which he hadn't, of course – it certainly would have looked nothing like this. He didn't know what to say to soften the strange tension.
Continuing his swift examination, Dean concluded that all was going, if not well , at least as expected for Mr. Shurley. "I believe the current respiratory and pain treatments are still where we want them," he said. "Has he been having any changes in symptoms? Anything new?"
"He's fine," Cas said. "What you see is pretty much what there is. He's not even waking enough to eat anymore. Not that he was eating much before that." Sighing, he added, "I suppose his last words are going to be 'Didn't your mom teach you to make soup?'"
Dean coughed, trying not to laugh inappropriately; Cas didn't look amused. "So, he is a relative of yours?"
"My dad."
Now it made sense. The anger, the bitter tone in Cas's voice. What didn't make sense, still, was how it had come to pass.
"I'm sorry," Dean said, almost automatically. That was what you said when somebody's father was dying, right? Except that he knew damn well that this man had never been a father to Castiel, or at least not in the years Dean had known him.
"Thank you," Cas returned, providing the socially correct response to Dean's statement. It was a horrible parody of a church call and response, all ritual and no meaning.
"So, this is his house?" Dean tried again to make sense of the situation.
"No, it's mine."
"I didn't know you guys moved." Stupid, why would you? It stopped being your business years ago.
"Yes," Cas said, biting his lip and glancing to the side. Obviously there was something going unsaid, but he'd leave it for now. It wasn't his place to push for details to which he wasn't entitled.
"And your dad…he's living with you?" Well, that was the most stupid thing he'd said in a while. Cas stared at him, not even deigning to reply with a sarcastic answer that he was simply visiting for the day. "What I mean is, you asked him to stay with you…for this?" Dean fumbled over his awkward question.
Folding his arms, Castiel bluntly said, "You're asking why I'm the one taking care of him now, after all this time." When Dean nodded, grateful for the rescue, he continued, "Because he showed up here and asked. And I, apparently, am still capable of making stupid and reckless decisions."
It could have sounded hostile, coming from anyone that Dean didn't know as well as he did Cas. Despite their time apart, though, Dean was able to easily spot the hurt and sadness behind the words. Cas had always been in the habit of levying the most vicious criticisms at himself when he was feeling vulnerable. This time, Dean was pretty sure that his feelings of vulnerability were only partly related to the dying man in the room.
"Cas," he said. "If this was a stupid decision, then it was stupid for the right reasons." Castiel's eyes darted up to meet Dean's, suspicion filling them. "Anyway," he said, "I don't know that I'd call it stupid. Unexpected, sure. And I'm sure you did have reasons."
Cas huffed quietly, staring back down at the ground. Then he jerked his head toward a doorway leading to the kitchen, a silent invitation that Dean accepted with a nod. A coffeepot on the counter filled the room with a dark aroma, and Cas poured them both mugs before joining Dean at the table. "What if my 'reasons,'" he said, gesturing with the air quotes Dean hadn't known he'd missed until then, "were simply a base need to watch the old man die and finally leave for good?" He looked as if he were expecting judgment from Dean.
"Probably understandable," Dean said, shrugging. "You'd be amazed, the kinds of feelings people express when somebody's dying, loved one or not. Doesn't mean it's that simple, usually. You can't judge people by what they say at a deathbed. I can't imagine what your mom had to say."
"She's gone," Castiel said. "Few years back." This time, there was the predictable twinge of sadness in his eyes as he spoke, and Dean's murmured condolence felt more honest. "And my brothers…well, they decided to sit this one out. I'm the only one with the right combination of morbidness and masochism to deal with this, so I'm alone here."
"What about…" Dean hesitated, worried that mention of Meg would disrupt the fragile, and probably temporary, peace between them.
Cas sipped his coffee slowly. After a moment, he said, "It's just me. Meg and Jesse are in Morgantown now. She's nearly finished her nursing degree at WVU."
"Wow," Dean said. "Meg, a nurse. That's…that's great. Hey, maybe we crossed paths, depending on when she started; I went to med school there." Cas hummed noncommittally. Dean dropped his eyes to Cas's hands, cradling his mug, and noted that he wore no ring. It didn't necessarily mean anything – he hadn't been wearing a ring when he'd announced that he was married – but Dean couldn't help but wonder now. "How's motherhood treating her? Jesse, you said?"
"You'd be surprised," Cas said with a small smirk that hinted that he himself hadn't been. "It's been fascinating to watch Jesse grow. He's so smart, and every bit as sassy as Meg ever was."
Dean smirked back. "And I'm sure his father has nothing to do with that."
"I wouldn't know." Cas tilted his head, thinking. "Oh, you meant me."
"Uh, yeah," Dean said, squinting in confusion. "Obviously."
"Not as much as you're thinking, I gather." Frowning, Cas studied Dean's face. "Dean, I told you. Meg is my friend. We married out of necessity, not romance. We were housemates, partners. I helped babysit Jesse, but…" He shook his head. "He was never my son ."
"Oh." Dean was completely speechless. Years of assumptions were being thrown out the window, and he didn't know how to react.
"You didn't honestly think that I somehow transformed into some sort of straight-laced, boob-loving family man, did you?" His expression was a mix of amazement and amused curiosity.
"No!" Dean scoffed. "Maybe. Shut up."
"Dean – "
"Well, what was I supposed to imagine?" he protested. Cas was grinning at his discomfort, and his cheeks were burning hotly.
"You didn't need to imagine anything. You could have just listened to me."
"Yeah, because you were always so open with me." Dean hadn't intended to be so pointed, but he couldn't help it. It was not his fault that he had misunderstood, not entirely. Cas knew that, too, and his grin faltered.
"There was a lot going on that you didn't know," he said, closing his eyes.
"Because you didn't tell me," Dean said, "not because I didn't care. Cas, you turned everything upside-down for me that day, and you got mad when it made me dizzy."
"You were angry, not dizzy, if I remember correctly." Cas focused on refilling his empty cup, offering more to Dean as well. He shook his head, not needing the caffeine setting his nerves even more on end.
"I was angry. I thought we were always honest with each other, but it turned out you were hiding from me. It…it hurt." He breathed deeply. "And I handled it really damn badly. Shouldn't have yelled. Should have let you explain better."
"Well." Cas was staring sadly, tiredness in his eyes. "I suppose it's all water under the bridge now. And the result…you left, I stayed, and life went on."
For a breath, Dean felt himself being tugged along in a river of regrets and loss. A beep from the oxygen machine sounded from behind him. The sound jarred him out of his resignation. The man was dying, as inevitable as sunset. There were some things that could never be avoided, never changed; free will could only alter so much.
This was not one of those things. He'd walked away then, and he'd never stopped regretting that. Not this time; he wouldn't let it happen again.
"In case you hadn't noticed, I came back," Dean said slowly. "And unless I miss my guess, you didn't exactly stay in the same place. Ten years changes a lot, don't you think?"
Narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, Cas said, "I did wonder, now that you mention it. Why are you here, Dean Winchester? This wasn't ever part of any big plan you described."
"Like I said, time changes things. I'd make a joke about not being able to take the country out of the boy, but that would be too simple. Maybe when it came down to it, I realized that I still had things I wanted to do here. Unfinished business." He searched Cas's face for his reaction, trying to read his thoughts.
"You were going to change the world," Cas murmured.
"I am," Dean said. "We all do."
Castiel put his mug on the table, rubbed his temples. "Not all of us," he said. "Some of us never find our way out of the woods. All we can do is watch other people leave, praying they make it."
"Like Meg." Cas nodded. "And me." He nodded again. "And you don't think that you changed the world by helping us become better people, just for having known you?"
Surprise flashed across Cas's eyes. Then he shook his head. "You'd have been who you are without me. You'd have become this man I see. Your heart was always too good to be anything else."
"I'm not so sure, Cas," Dean said, keeping his tone deliberately light. "See, the way I see it, I don't think I really knew who I was without you. Even when I left, you were there. For the record, you give really good advice inside my head. I probably could have worn some kind of 'What Would Castiel Do?' bracelet sometimes."
Cas laughed. "If my decisions have been the compass by which you've steered your life, I'm surprised you ever became a doctor at all."
Dean held up a finger. "Putting other people first." A second finger. "Helping shoulder the load for people who can't on their own." A third. "Not turning away from the hard choices." A fourth. "Staying committed to your decisions, even when it hurts." Finally, he held up his thumb. "Acknowledging who you are and what you want, even if other people might judge you, even if you might not ever actually get what it is you want, because you deserve to want things."
Cas was looking at him as if he'd never seen him before. Dean paused, then committed. All in . He leaned across the table and rested his hand on Cas's. "I knew what I wanted, all those years ago, but I didn't have either the courage or the understanding to acknowledge it until it was too late. Only maybe it wasn't too late. Cas, I loved you. I don't think I ever stopped."
"I know," Cas whispered. He looked stricken, unable to move. "I didn't want to know."
"It's been years, and I have no idea if we would have worked back then. We were kids, and we were stupid. Both of us," he said, cutting off Cas's attempt to protest. "I know that I grew up and changed, and you did, too. But I'm done with walking away from you. I'm done with failing without trying. If this thing between us fails, this time, I'll be damned if it's because I didn't give it everything I could."
Cas shuddered, hand clenching at nothing under Dean's. "It would be easier to walk away. Less pain."
"And since when do you make the easy choices?" Dean squeezed his hand around Castiel's knuckles. "Look, I'm not asking for your hand in marriage. Hell, for all I know, you're still married. Uh, are you?" Cas snorted and shook his head; Dean sighed in mock relief. "See? That's one hurdle we don't have to worry about. Anyway, how about we start with coffee. More coffee, I mean. Not that this isn't good. I just mean…" Suddenly he jumped to his feet, startling Cas. "I mean coffee some time when I'm not technically supposed to be back at the clinic, on duty! Crap!"
He spun on his feet, searching for his charts and his discarded coat. When he turned around again, Cas was there, holding both out to him. "Coffee," Cas said, the tiniest of smiles escaping to play at the corner of his lips. "I can do coffee."
As Dean drove back down the country road toward the clinic, away from Castiel, his heart raced as hard as it had ten years ago. This time, though, felt like a beginning instead of an end.
