Three days pass, and Cas is fine.
He goes to therapy; he talks to Pamela. He writes. Then he reads back over everything he's written and throws it out, starts over. He washes his whites. He dozes through some cheesy Molly Ringwald movie from the '80s on TV.
Cas' mantra has become this – he can't change who Dean is and he can't control how he chooses to live his life. The only thing Cas can control is his response to it, so he does.
That's what he tells Dr. Moseley, anyway.
And he believes it, sort of, until he walks through his kitchen and, for no real reason, stops and stares at the leftover pie; the one he baked for that disastrous dinner with Dean. He must have seen it there, sitting on the counter and covered in tin foil, at least a dozen times since that night.
But this time is different somehow, because the sight of those sad, forgotten slices of sugar and apples rips a giant fucking gash in the blissful bubble of denial Cas has been living in. And then the bubble collapses in on itself and creates a black hole in Cas' chest, wide and yawning and sucking in all the rage in the known universe.
Cas lets out a strangled cry and rips the foil from the pie plate, scooping up gooey handfuls of pastry that drip from his fingers for a moment before he flings them at the sink.
Goddamned pie that he wasted so much time on, just because he knows how much Dean loves it.
At least he knows how much Dean loves something.
He destroys the pie, mutilating it with his bare hands as if it were a voodoo doll that would make Dean magically feel all the pain Cas is inflicting on it. He doesn't stop until the dish is scraped bare, his hands shaking and sticky where he braces them on the side of the sink, bent over and gasping for breath.
He looks down at the mess and sighs, tries to calm down. He flips on the garbage disposal and shoves every speck of pie down the drain and out of his sight, but it doesn't help. The anger burns, consuming Cas so completely that all he sees is a hazy red.
That's how he finds himself pounding on Dean's front door at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday morning, growing even angrier when he realizes that it's a work day so the bastard probably isn't even home.
Lisa is, though, answering the door in yoga pants and a loose t-shirt, her stupidly shiny brown hair in a perky ponytail that Cas wants to hack off with dull garden shears.
Calm down. It's not her fault that her boyfriend's an idiot.
He takes a deep breath, his voice even rougher than normal under the strain of controlling his rage.
"Is Dean home?"
Lisa raises an eyebrow, leans against the door frame. "Well, that's an interesting question, Castiel. I mean, Dean's not here, but it's entirely possible that he's at home."
Cas frowns, tilts his head. "I don't understand."
"He doesn't live here anymore. It was time, really. From the day he moved in, there was just always something... missing." Lisa shakes her head, remembers who she's talking to. "Anyway, he moved out Friday night. I kind of thought you knew?"
Friday night. Right after Cas told Dean he loved him and Dean ran out the front door. He didn't run out because he was afraid or ashamed.
He ran out to end things with Lisa.
The anger drains away, leaving Cas weak and stunned and hollow. He feels his whole world shift, shattering apart and slowly reforming around this new knowledge. And then everything is suddenly shining; the Earth becomes such a beautiful place.
"No, I didn't know that." His voice is softer, shaking a bit at the edges. "Why would you think that I did?"
Lisa looks down, crosses her bare feet at the ankles.
"Well, because I thought it might have something to do with you. Thought that maybe something had... rekindled." She twists at the ends of her ponytail as she stares at him, shrugging when she sees Cas' confusion.
"Dean told me about his history with you after that dinner party I dragged you to earlier this summer. Sorry about that, by the way. I mean, he'd told me when we met that his only other significant relationship had been with a man during college, but he never actually told me your name, so I didn't put it together that you were his ex until he spelled it out for me."
Lisa is the picture of nonchalance, discussing her ex-boyfriend's romantic history with Castiel like she's talking about weather patterns. Which tells Cas two things – she really was ready for things to end with Dean, and she has known he's bisexual for a long, long time.
"Dean's... out?"
"Yeah, I told you, he moved-"
"No, I mean," Cas blushes, he's always hated this particular phrase, "of the closet."
"Oh. Yeah, of course. He has been, since college. He even does some volunteer work with the Boston GLBT Alliance now and then. He's got a soft spot for young people having trouble coming to terms with their sexual identity."
Dean isn't trying to hide who he is, he hasn't hidden his history with Castiel. He's just trying to do the right thing for Lisa... and, just maybe, for starting over on the right foot with Cas.
Cas can't feel his legs, can't feel the porch beneath his feet. He grips the door frame tight enough to hold himself up, his blunt nails biting into the wood, and asks the only question he has left.
"Lisa, do you know where he went?"
"He's crashing with Sam until he finds a place." She takes in Cas' anxiety, his laser focus.
"Would you like the address?"
Cas can hear the baby crying before he even reaches Sam's door, so it takes a few tries knocking before he can be heard.
Finally, Sam appears, looking wrecked. His long hair is tangled, there's something that looks like dried spit-up on his shoulder, and he's got a screaming bundle of blankets in his arms.
He sees Cas and makes an attempt at looking confused but it's half-hearted at best, like he's too exhausted to fully express anything anymore.
"Castiel? What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for Dean."
Sam nods, because of course that's why his brother's ex-boyfriend has shown up at his door in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, looking like he's going to stroke out if he doesn't talk to Dean in the next five seconds. Too bad Sam won't be much help.
"You just missed him. But you're welcome to come in and wait-"
John starts screaming again and Sam steps back wearily, bouncing the baby as he motions for Cas to come in with his head. Cas walks in quietly and closes the door behind him.
Sam and Jessica's apartment is a complete disaster – baby accessories covering all but a small pathway through the living room, the couch piled high with a haphazard collection of blankets and pillows, and the surrounding area littered with Dean's suitcases, clothing, and work files. Papers are strewn across the coffee table with a laptop perched on top of them, open and asleep.
"Sorry," Sam offers over his son's cries. "We have too many people living here right now, and it's such a little space. Jess just needed a break. So I sent her to a spa and said I'd get the house straightened up but John just won't go to sleep... we're all kind of a mess right now."
And Cas feels like he might literally vibrate right out of his skin if he doesn't track down Dean soon and find out what happened, why he hasn't come back to explain things to Cas, where they're going from here. He's confused and hopeful and nervous and about a thousand other things that leave his nerves wound tight enough to fray... but this is Dean's only family standing before him, adorable and desperate and pitiful.
So Cas just smiles, small and resigned, and reaches out to squeeze Sam's arm reassuringly.
"Go take care of your son, Sam. I'll see if I can get things straightened up a bit for you out here."
The look of relief on Sam's face is enough to convince Cas that it was worth the small sacrifice of his sanity to help Sam reclaim some of his. Sam turns and slowly walks off, disappearing into a back room while making cooing whispers to John.
Cas sighs and frowns, taking stock of the mess and trying to determine where to start. In the end, he decides to simply follow the stench to the kitchen first, taking out the trash and scrubbing the sizable mountain of crusty dishes in the sink. Then he works his way out to the living room, collecting toys and blankets and pacifiers and baby clothes until they only occupy one corner.
Which leaves nothing but Dean's stuff left to organize – his makeshift bed of mussed sheets and a pillow that smells like Old Spice and Dean's skin, rumpled clothing spilling out of the two suitcases and all over the floor. Cas wants to be respectful, wants to make sure that Dean doesn't feel like he's intruding where he shouldn't, so he tries to disrupt as little as possible while carefully folding the clothing, making up the couch.
He straightens the papers that cover the coffee table, unsure of how to arrange them. And in doing so, he accidentally bumps the laptop, the screen brightening back to life. Cas expects to see a log-in screen or maybe some spreadsheet of revenue figures or whatever it is that Dean does for a living, but it's not. The screen is mostly white, the cursor blinking slowly at the bottom of a short document.
It's a letter, actually... one that has his name at the top.
So Castiel throws any thoughts of respecting Dean's privacy out the window – it's addressed to me, after all - and sinks down onto the couch, his eyes devouring the words before him.
Cas,
I don't know what to do. I mean, I know what I want to do – I want to kick down your front door and beg you to fuck me into the mattress until I can't see straight, but I don't know if that's the right thing.
I'm trying to do stuff the right way now, trying to keep from ruining things anymore. So I didn't kiss you before I ended things with Lisa. That was right, I know that much. And now I'm single, but it's only been three days – if I go to you now, does that make it some sort of rebound thing? I don't feel like it would, because things have been essentially over with Lisa for so long that there really isn't anything to rebound from. But is that still disrespectful? Is it just me being so in love with you that I can't think straight? I don't know.
Here's what I do know: I know that I'm miserable without you. I know that I think about driving to your house at least 67 times a day, and not even to see you necessarily, but just because I know I would feel better if I was closer to you, even a little bit. I know that I re-read sections of your book every night before I go to sleep because even though I was an idiotic little shit back then, it chronicles the happiest time of my life. And I know that I've written seven different drafts of this letter because you're the one that's good with words but I really want this to not suck.
Because of all the things I've been trying to not fuck up lately, you are the most important. And I just need you to know that I'm in for real this time. 100% out and proud and devoted, and I'll do anything to prove it to you. I'll march in the pride parade and stick a giant rainbow bumper sticker on the back of the Impala. I'll hold your hand when we walk down the sidewalk and kick the shit out of anyone who's got a problem with it. I'll tattoo your name across my ass in big black letters. I'll give you the keys to my house (...once I have one).
Damn it, Cas, I'll do whatever you want me to do, I'll give you anything I have. Just say the word, and it's yours.
I'm a different man now – a better one, I hope. And, if you'll let me, I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.
Yours, always and completely,
Dean
Cas sits there for a long moment, reading every word over and over again as if he could sear them into his retinas, trying to memorize every letter and space and punctuation mark until he's sure he will be able to read them behind his eyes for the rest of his life. He drags his fingers over the words, smudging the computer screen, his eyes growing blurry. He can practically feel Dean's confusion, his sincerity. His love.
It takes Cas a few tries to find his voice around the huge lump in his throat;when he does, it comes out desperate, too loud in the the now-quiet apartment.
"Sam? Sam, where did Dean go?"
Sam tiptoes quickly out of the baby's room, silent but frantic, with a hand at his lips in the universal gesture of for-the-love-of-God-please-shut-the-hell-up.
"I just got John to sleep," he whispers.
"Sorry," Cas is still loud, his chest so tight that he feels lucky that he's able to speak at all. "But I really need to find Dean. Right now."
Sam looks away and tries to run his fingers through his hair, but he hits a tangle that's cemented with what looks like dried milk. His hand falls to his side, defeated.
"I don't know exactly where he is," he says, so quietly that that Cas practically has to read his lips. "But he's got this favorite bar, McGreevy's. It's a couple blocks down and it's probably not a bad place to start."
And Castiel, in a fit of uncharacteristically-physical affection, flings himself at Sam, smiling when he feels those giant octopus arms wrap all the way around him and squeeze back.
"Thank you, Sam," he whispers into his shoulder, rough and ragged.
Sam chuckles, pats softly at Cas' back.
"Go get him, Cas."
Dean thinks he might hate Boston.
He hates the smell of the coast and the squawking sound of the fucking seagulls. He hates that half of the sidewalks are made of this uneven, weather-beaten brick that Ben Franklin probably took a shit on two-and-a-half centuries ago so they're too "historical" to ever be replaced, no matter how many times Dean turns his ankle. He hates the tour buses, these obnoxiously painted amphibious vehicles that rumble through the streets and the river, and the swarms of tourists that crowd the city in the summer months.
He hates that his home office is now just a corner of the couch he sleeps on, that he has to try to make phone calls in a tiny apartment with a baby that never seems to stop screaming. He hates that it cost him over a week's pay to park his car in a garage four long blocks away from Sam's stupid home and he hates that it's probably a good thing he can't drive around much anyway because he stays lost in the old, crooked streets that make no damn sense.
But mostly he hates it because he thinks of Cas every time he sees "Boston" printed on street signs, on the sides of buses, on t-shirts in shop windows. It only makes him think of how Castiel left everything and moved across the country, all because of a cheesy song on a jukebox and giving Dean's half-baked philosophies entirely too much credit.
Dean's trying to give them both some time and distance, to figure out what the smart thing to do is, and being reminded of Cas at every street corner is making it exponentially harder.
He trudges out of the bar without having ordered anything harder than a Coke, because if he doesn't keep his head clear he knows he'll find himself pounding on Castiel's door in less than an hour, getting the timing right be damned.
He's just not sure if he's ever going to know when the right time comes or what's the right thing to do. He'd give anything for a little insight, some clue of how to move forward from here.
Dean sighs and stops under a light pole, caught between its circle of orange light and the last rays of the setting sun. He puts a cigarette between his lips and fishes his old Zippo out of his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the inscription carved in the silver, now worn and faded from years of use.
For when you need sparks beyond the ones between us. -C
Dean blinks back the tears and lights his cigarette, inhaling deeply.
"Dean!"
For a second he freezes, unsure of what he heard. But there it comes again, that familiar grit and gravel voice, closer now and slightly breathless.
"Dean!"
Dean turns, slowly, convinced that he's finally become so heart-sick that he's lost any grip on reality and is now experiencing full-on hallucinations.
But, no. It's really Cas, jogging over those stupid cobblestone sidewalks toward him, his shirt wrinkled and only half-tucked into his dark pants, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed pink.
And Dean barely has time to register that much before Cas is slamming into him, his arms tight around Dean's shoulders. The cigarette falls, forgotten, from Dean's fingers as his hands come up to run over Cas' sharp shoulder blades, slide down the hard muscles of his back.
"Did you mean it?" Cas' voice is rough and deep in Dean's ear, his lips so close that they brush over his skin like feathers.
And Dean wants to just say yes, to take credit for whatever miracle has brought Cas here to him, warm and perfect and pressed against him in the street. But he has to make sure, has to be clear in what's happening.
"Mean what?"
Cas tangles his fingers in Dean's too-long hair, messing it up as he tugs his head down the few inches to his own level, his eyes locked on Dean's and only inches away.
"The letter. The one on your computer that you wrote to me. Did you mean it?"
Dean doesn't bother wondering how Cas saw the draft he'd been working on back at Sam's. He just tells the truth.
"Every word."
And then he can't say any more, because Cas' mouth has claimed his, hot and wet and insistent, the taste of Cas on his tongue so familiar and sublime that Dean can't help but groan. They stumble back a few steps until Cas is pressed into the wall of the building behind them, too wrapped up in each other to hear the cat-calls from passers-by.
Cas' body is hot and hard against him, the rough brick biting into the skin of Dean's hands where they're braced on the wall as he leans into Cas, Dean's thigh sliding between his legs. And Dean can taste the bitter smoke on his tongue, but beyond that, so much more, he tastes rain and peppermint and Cas. He sucks Cas' bottom lip between his own, drags his teeth across it as he gasps for breath, his lungs filling with the warm smell of Cas' skin.
They're desperate, starving, trying to make up for eight lost years in one kiss, and when Cas grinds his hips against his leg, Dean thinks he actually might die if they aren't naked and sweating together soon.
But - for now, at least - Dean's content to just keep kissing Cas on the street, re-learning the curves and planes of his body beneath his hands. Feeling like he's finally where he belongs, knowing that he's come home. And it overwhelms him, all-consuming and so much better than he remembered, because he knows now that there will never be anything else for him.
There never really was.
Dean leans back, just far enough that he can see Cas in the dim light, and takes a shaky breath. He slides his hands along either side of Cas' hard jaw, the stubble rough on his palms, and strokes his thumbs over those sharp cheekbones. And Cas is looking back at him like he always has, like Dean's the eighth fucking wonder of the world or something, and he's so overcome that all he can do is smile, bright and wide enough to wrinkle the corners of his eyes, before closing the distance between them and capturing Cas' mouth once again.
And, suddenly, Dean decides he actually loves Boston after all.