A/N: You guys. I just... I really love you guys. *sniff*
Dean, his voice as rough and scratched as the toes of his boots, mumbles something about patching up Cas' busted window and practically sprints back to his house. Sam shuffles around awkwardly for a moment, then trails off after him with an apologetic look at Cas when it becomes apparent that Dean's not coming back.
Five minutes pass, time that Cas spends tearing madly around his house. He tosses out the empty bottles cluttering the coffee table, shoves the piles of dirty clothes littering the floor into his closet, and scrubs the coffee breath from his tongue.
Do I have time to shave? Or maybe shower? When did I stop keeping up with basic hygiene? It's no excuse that I never leave the house and no one comes over, I should still act like a normal human and oh, God, is that a pimple? What am I, a teenager? Who gets pimples at 30?
DAMN IT, CAS. Get it together.
The doorbell rings, shaking him out of his rapid spiral of self-loathing and Cas is sure his heart is going to actually explode before he can get down the stairs, his hand shaking as he twists the handle and flings it open.
But it's just Sam, standing on the porch with a tarp, duct tape, and Dean's word that he'll have a brand new window installed by midweek.
Sam comes in to tape up the window and Cas lurks in the foyer, watching his every motion. He's trying to find hints of Dean in his little brother, like the way Sam's eyes narrow and wrinkle at the corners when he's concentrating or how he rubs his thumb absently around his ring. Cas wants to tell him that he feels like he knows him, that so many of the hundred tiny midnight confessions between Cas and Dean, lying vulnerable and curled around one another in the inky dark of Dean's bed in that room above Harvelle's, were about Sam. How Dean's voice would always go soft and warm as he told stories from his childhood, talking all about his special little brother, the one too brilliant and sensitive to follow in Dean's footsteps, the one that needed private school and the focus that comes with not having to work to put himself through. The one that Dean sacrificed for, over and over in a million different ways while doing his damnedest to keep Sam from ever finding out. Cas wants to tell him because he feels like they're in an exclusive club, he and Sam, a club of people who've been loved - madly, deeply - by Dean Winchester and survived, transformed but burning, brilliantly alive.
But there's nothing in Sam's demeanor to suggest that he has any clue who Castiel is. And of course not, Cas thinks, the old bitterness rising in the back of his throat and burning like battery acid. That's what broke us, in the end.
Sam leaves with a smile and vague promise to see him around, and Cas watches – from the upstairs guest bedroom now, since the front window downstairs is covered in blue plastic – as the brothers finish hauling in the rest of Dean's possessions. Cas feels guilty and torn, like he should offer to help somehow, but the way Dean's face clouds over every time he glances at Cas' home convinces him to stay inside.
And when the brunette comes home with a big smile and affectionate squeeze of Dean's ass, Cas can't stand to watch any more.
Days pass. Dean doesn't actually come to fix the window, but he doesn't break his promise either - he sends someone, a retired contractor who's lacking both his hair and an ass large enough to hold up his jeans, to install a new one. Cas tries to avoid him, but the guy is chatty, telling Cas all about how great the Winchesters are, how Sam really saved his ass when he got into some kind of contract dispute a few years ago, and "I don't know Dean well, but Sam sure thinks the world of him, plus he paid extra to put in the top of the line for you here," at which point Cas has to excuse himself and hide in his bedroom until the work is finished.
He goes down to inspect it later, after the builder's pick-up pulls out of the driveway. The window is nice, thick and tight and far superior to the one that Dean broke. Cas wants to be impressed, wants to believe that it means something that Dean spent the money to buy the best and hire a professional. But Cas only knows the version of Dean that didn't have money to spare, the one that would have spent all day swearing and sweating and accidentally hammering his thumbs, poring over some home improvement manual he'd checked out of the library just to make sure that it turned out perfect for Cas.
It's dumb and petty and Cas knows it, but every time he walks by that window it just reminds him how very different things are now, and how desperately he wishes they could go back to when the two of them were barely scraping by, living off of noodles and cheap beer and each other.
Cas wants to be friends with Dean. Well, he wants a lot more than that, but even he hasn't gone crazy enough to hold out any hope for more. Just the fact that Dean's here is a miracle, one that Cas is reminded of every time he hears Dean through the thin walls – the shower running and Dean's off-key singing of Led Zeppelin's "When the Levee Breaks," the television blaring during every Bruins game, laughter and clanging pots when he and Lisa cook dinner together.
Cas hears other things, too, sounds he wanted to believe that only he could get Dean to make, like that low groan when Dean's toes are curling that vibrates through his entire chest (and Cas remembers exactly what that felt like, their bodies pressed together, the sound etching across Cas' ribs like it could mark him permanently as Dean's own). Cas tries to comfort himself; whispers that at least Dean never calls Lisa's name. He always chanted Cas' like a desperate prayer back when it was Cas' legs he was between, Cas' mouth licking hot and wet and worshiping at his skin.
Cas begs a higher power he no longer believes in to make him forget about these things. He's long past the point of hope and all the memories do is tear at his throat and the backs of his eyes, leaving his breath ragged and vision blurry.
Cas has been alone - truly, painfully, alone - for over five years. That's when his cell rang at 2 am and he was too drunk to bother answering it, in an alley behind a flashy club with some random's mouth on his cock. It wouldn't stop though, loud and insistent in his coat pocket until Cas swore and fished it out. That's how he learned learned that his dad was dead. Chuck Novak, his beloved father and the only part of his family that Cas was still in contact with, had suffered a stroke and died on the other side of the country. "It was quick," the nurse said over the crackling connection, like that should somehow ease the black hole that had opened in Cas' heart.
He hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket, suddenly all too sober and aware of the rough brick wall scratching at his shoulders, the sloppy, spit-shiny lips that were still trying to suck him off. And he heaved, spewing the contents of his stomach, every drop of the night's debauchery, there beside him on the wet pavement.
And then he ran, desperate and hollow, drinking for months on end and raging at friends who tried to reach out to him, missing deadlines and book signings until his agent and publisher dropped him. No one could stop him, not until he'd burnt every bridge he had left. He can't remember most of that time, the drugs and liquor and shock combining to give him a blessed blank of amnesia.
Finally, there was nothing and no one left to break, so he bought the condo and retreated, silent and defeated behind its old walls, living off his dead dad's money and floating like a ghost through empty rooms. He thinks, looking back, that he'd convinced himself that if he would just be quiet and still, it would somehow make space for his father to come back to him; like his dad had just gotten lost and would turn up one day, smiling and drinking tea in Cas' armchair.
It never happened, of course, and he has slowly reached a bitter truce with the truth – Cas is on his own, drifting alone and broken through the universe as a washed-up, frightened alcoholic, praying that no one from his brief life in the spotlight ever discovers how he's ended up.
He can still picture the Times' book review from April 10th, 2009, bold and black and seemingly immutable, proclaiming Cas as the resurgence of great American literature. "Please Don't Give Me Up, the debut novel by 22-year-old Castiel Novak, showcases an indisputably gifted writer, one with talent surpassing even the best of his generation." That article is somewhere in the townhouse's basement now, growing yellow and damp, just like the half dozen novels he started but never found the nerve to publish (or, in several cases, finish).
There's a sliver, lodged somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, that says that Dean is the answer to all of it. That if he can resolve this - not the way he wanted to back then, obviously, but get closure of some kind - that he will finally be able to go on with his life. Get his career back, leave this tomb of a house and move among society again, maybe even meet someone...
No. Cas can fool himself into believing he could write again. That he could go to the barber shop and the grocery store and maybe even the corner bar, but even he knows he's full of shit if he thinks there could ever be anyone else.
Eight years ago, he and Dean were broken beyond all recognition. Cas can't come back from that. He knows it. He's always known it.
But showing that weakness to Dean, again? He'd crawl through the broken glass of his window every day for the rest of his completely fucked up life first.
"Closing time, boys. Better head on up to your room."
Dean turns on his bar stool, trying to follow Ellen's face even though she's spinning and has sprouted a second head.
"Can't tell me what to do, Ellen," he slurs, cocky.
She raises an eyebrow. "Sure I can. I'm your boss and your landlord, and you love me. Even when you're too drunk to remember why."
Dean grins, lazy and content. "'Course I love you. Just trying to show off for my new friend here." He turns to Cas and winks. "We just met tonight and I gotta show him that I can keep up with his class-skipping rebelliousness."
Cas, already too susceptible to Dean's bad influence and therefore more drunk than he's ever been in his (admittedly limited) experience, feels Dean's arm sling across his shoulders, heavy and warm and drawing Cas in against his side. Cas, as usual, has no idea what to do, staring across the beat-up bar at Ellen silently, his eyes huge and dark. He can feel Dean's voice in his chest when he speaks.
"But I can't just head on up. Cas doesn't have a room here, or a car, and I'm in no condition to take him anywhere."
Ellen huffs, turning to haul an empty keg into the back room. "Ash didn't come in tonight – your little buddy can have the pool table."
Dean snaps his fingers and points at her retreating back. "Oh, right, yeah! Great idea. Ever slept with a bunch of balls, Cas?"
Panicking, Cas grabs at Dean's hand hanging over his shoulder and turns those giant blue eyes on him. He wants to beg for something better than a green felt table to sleep on, or to tell Dean to call him a cab (even though he can't afford the fare and isn't even sure he remembers his own address right now). But Cas' brain is too busy doing the backstroke through a lake of bourbon to find any of the necessary words.
It doesn't matter though – Cas can finally see it in the sparkle of Dean's eyes, the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He's fucking with him. Cas flushes and looks away, embarrassed. He never can catch onto these things in time.
Dean, mercifully, lets it go, leaning heavily on Cas as he slides off the bar stool."'C'mon. My room's a craphole but it's right upstairs and I'll even let you have the bed, which isn't crappy at all. It's magical, dude. Made of bunny tears and mermaid's hair or some shit."
And even though they've spent the last – Cas checks his watch, willing the gold face to hold still so he can read the roman numerals, wishing for the first time that he just wore a digital one like everyone else – almost seven hours together, laughing and drinking and talking and doing something that looked an awful lot like flirting (at least from his socially dim-witted perspective), Cas is suddenly as awkward as he was the second Dean first spoke to him. His face grows hot and he can't even bring himself to look up at Dean now, despite having spent half the night staring at him hard enough to memorize every freckle and line, each slope and plane and shadow of his skin.
Dean doesn't notice, either too drunk or too unfamiliar with Cas to see his anxiety. He just lifts his arm from Cas' shoulders and reaches out to help him to his feet, Cas unbalanced and clinging tightly to Dean's taut forearms for a second longer than he should, their eyes sliding away from one other uneasily.
And then Dean is leading him, slow and fumbling, through the bar's tiny manager's office and up a creaking back stairwell. A dim bulb, yellow and caked with dust, hangs from the ceiling and tries to illuminate their path but only succeeds in throwing their features into stark relief, Dean's once-green eyes now dark and shadowed as he reaches the top stair and twists to fumble in his pocket.
Cas swallows and looks away, because even he knows that it's not normal to stare at someone the way he is right now. Dean is swearing and drops the keys, twice, trying to work the lock with fingers that refuse to respond correctly. Finally, thankfully, Cas hears the sound of metal sliding on metal as Dean wrenches the beat-up door open and stands back, ushering Cas into his home.
After their night at the bar, Cas knows this much about Dean – that he's damn near broke but sends every spare penny to his brother, that he's a business major but only because he thinks it will provide the most stable future for his family, that the only true loves of his life thus far have been his family and that rusted-out bag of bolts he calls a car, and that if you're lucky enough to make it into his tiny circle of friends he will be fiercely, almost frighteningly loyal. All of which lines up with the nearly-Spartan inner sanctum of Dean's room - a twin bed, rickety desk with ancient laptop, and nearly every surface covered in stacks of books.
Cas presses his lips together and steps into the room, wanting to commit every second to memory even though he fears he won't be able to recall any of it by the morning. The floor is bare, scuffed wooden boards that squeak under their feet, and a tiny bathroom is half-hidden behind a pocket door at the far end of the room. A boombox, some giant '90s relic, sits in one corner, a stack of CDs piled on top of it and Cas is yearning to flip through them, or skim over the broken spines of the books piled beside the tiny bed, but Dean doesn't even turn on the overhead light.
He shuts the door behind Cas, plunging them both into darkness with only the sounds of Dean's rustled clothing between them as he tugs off his jeans and t-shirt, fumbling in a trunk at the foot of his bed for a second before finding a spare blanket and pillow. He steps past Cas, a brush of warm bare skin that makes the hair on Cas' arm stand on end.
"Bed's there, dude, and I just washed the sheets last weekend, so you should be good to go. See you in the morning?"
Cas nods for a second before remembering that Dean can't really see him. He wants to tell Dean that sleeping on the hard floor is unnecessary, that Cas would be more than happy to share the bed, but even with the tremendous amount of liquor in his system he can't find the nerve. So Cas just toes off his shoes and shrugs out of his trench coat silently, folding it primly at the foot of the bed before sliding between soft sheets that smell like Old Spice and whiskey.
"Thank you for letting me stay with you, Dean."
Dean doesn't answer beyond the deep, slightly nasal exhale from the floor that tells Cas he's already fast asleep.
And suddenly Cas can't fight it anymore, the itch in his fingertips to reach out for Dean, the vast chasm of need for human touch yawning wide in his chest and threatening to swallow him whole. Gently, Cas reaches down, tracing his fingertips lightly over the soft warmth of the inside of Dean's arm. Dean shifts and for a fraction of a second Cas' heart stops as he tries to think of a way to explain his touch, but Dean's still asleep. His hand just reaches up to clumsily capture Cas', his calloused fingers winding haphazardly through Cas' soft ones, pale and grasping in the silver moonlight.
"How do you like your burgers?"
It's muted through the condo's walls, but Cas is pretty sure he would recognize that voice from two states over. And he can feel his stomach flipping at at the response, high and feminine and playful.
"Still moo-ing."
"That's my girl," Dean chuckles, and Cas has moved to his back door now, sliding it open quietly and watching over the short railing dividing their decks to see the smoke rise from Dean's barbecue, his girlfriend sitting a plate with lettuce, sliced tomatoes, and onion on the table on their small outdoor table. Cas wants to tell her to bring honey mustard, because it's Dean's favorite and he'll never love a burger without it, but it's not his place.
He belongs here, with the dark and the quiet and the bourbon he pours himself, swirling it around the ice in his glass. He settles down on the floor to eavesdrop, haunted by the past he lost and the bleak future he's earned.
Cas doesn't make it up to his bed that night. Instead, he passes out on the cold tile of his kitchen floor, his ear still pressed to the screen of his back door, the ghost of a beloved voice rumbling through his dreams.