Dean startled awake from his place at the end of Sam's bed. His neck creaked, and he stood and stretched, trying to ease the kinks. He was getting too old to be falling asleep on the edges of a mattress. Sam was watching him from his nest of blankets.
"You're getting old," he commented, and Dean rolled his eyes.
"Not too old to nanny after your frail self," Dean said, sinking into the kitchen chair they'd set up at Sam's bedside, "You with me today?"
"Yeah," Sam answered, breathing slow and deliberate, each pull of air an eerie rattle in his chest, "I'm all here."
"Can I grab you anything?" Dean asked, "Some water, a Scotch maybe?"
Sam grinned weakly at Dean's attempt at humor, his long legs too heavy under the thick blankets, his skull sunken against the extra pillows Dean had used to prop him up this morning. At least his eyes were clear, indicating a mental presence that had been missing for almost two days.
"Make it a double," he suggested, even the tug of a smile against his mouth quickly wearing Sam out. Dean's own attempt at cheerfulness was fading fast, and he worried the edge of Sam's bedspread. Castiel's promised return was both a relief and a new set of worries. Dean was torn up, worried that Cas wouldn't get here soon enough and then worried about how to act when he did get here.
"Something on your mind?" Sam asked. Dean hesitated, wondering how much to tell.
"When Cas comes back," he began, "We're gonna…we want to try…things are gonna be different."
"With you and Cas." Sam relaxed, and his expression was now one of patience. Okay, so maybe Dean was more transparent than he thought.
"With everything," Dean continued, hands restless, "But...yeah. And I'm bringing it up now, because when Castiel shows up and I'm six kinds of freaked out, I need you freaking out to not be one of those six things. You got me?"
"No offense," Sam told him, "But what you and Cas get up to behind closed doors is not exactly the first thing on my mind right now."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Dean agreed, shaking his head with a grin, "I'm trying to think long term here. Are you gonna be okay with this?" "This" was a lame, half-hearted gesture towards himself, now representing one half of a possibly same-sex relationship, or maybe trying to indicate the parts of himself that might not represent their father's idea of a man anymore. Either way, Dean was holding his breath.
"Dude," Sam grinned again, "You're my big brother. And Cas is pretty damn close to stepping over that line himself. I just want us to be a family again. And if that means you two holding hands at the breakfast table then I'm down."
"Okay," Dean agreed, relieved, "But then how do you feel with graphic make-out sessions at the breakfast table? 'Cause there's a few uses for maple syrup that I feel like Cas would really-"
"Jesus Dean," Sam exclaimed, trying futilely to cover his ears, "I'm on my sickbed here and you want to make me more nauseous? Jerk."
"Get used to it bitch," Dean laughed, loud this time, "Cas and I have a lot to make up for."
"I hope I'm there to see the non-gross parts of that," Sam said, his smile cracking a little, crumbling back to exhaustion and nerves.
"I guarantee it," Dean vowed somewhat rashly, "I told you: me and Cas have some big plans to get you better." Sam nodded, as though he wasn't sure he believed him, but didn't want to hurt his feelings.
"Can you make me a promise?" Sam entreated.
"Sure. 'Cause we've gotten real good at keeping those," Dean joked, but Sam's brow was tight.
"Don't take it out on him." Dean frowned. Sam's face was going slightly desperate, with the speed only a guy with a fever climbing steadily past one hundred could manage.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
"If something happens, or he doesn't get here in time," Sam said, enunciating each syllable carefully, "Don't take it out on Cas."
"You're gonna be fine, man," Dean insisted, "Cas has a plan-"
"But if it doesn't work," Sam implored, "You can't fall apart and lash out. I know it's a lot to ask but if I don't make it out of this one, it's not on you and it's not on Cas. Please, Dean."
"I think I like you better when you're hallucinating," Dean mumbled, but Sam's gaze was unyielding.
"Dean."
"You know me, Sammy," Dean sighed, "When things get bad I clam up and explode. I don't do it because it's fun. It's just the way I've always been. But…me and Cas have been talking. About changes like that."
"And?" Sam's eyes were starting to get far away.
"And I can't promise I'll be able to carry on in domestic bliss without you," Dean continued, "We already know how that turns out. But I promise to keep talking." Sam relaxed against his pillows, relief evident in his oversized frame.
"Close enough," Sam smiled, eyelids fluttering, "And don't worry."
"Worry about what?" Dean could see Sam slipping away, his breathing steady but the fever pulling his thoughts back to the surreal.
"Don't worry about Dad," Sam assured him, patting Dean's arm, "We'll find him. And when we do, he'll be so proud he won't even care that you're a little gay. I know it."
Sam's smile was wide and Dean knew the brother he was talking to couldn't be more than twenty two, or at least he thought he was. Dean just nodded, squeezing Sam's hand until he nodded off into a restless, fevered sleep.
The firing range was becoming one of Dean's favorite rooms. Tough hunt? Firing range. Cabin fever? Firing range. Brother losing touch with reality as he slowly dies of an angelic immunodeficiency disease? Firing range. Yeah.
Dean was on his third clip when he heard the door open and heavy footsteps sounded on the concrete floors. Too heavy. The weight of a smaller guy trying to measure up to the two giants he was currently living in close quarters with.
"You're not allowed in here Kev," Dean chided without looking away from the target.
"I'm not a little brother you can boss around," Kevin shot back. Dean fired off another round; pretending Kevin's comment didn't sting a little.
"My secret bunker, my rules," he huffed at last, flicking the safety back on his handgun before turning to address the young prophet, "You're not going near a weapon until I know you're not gonna go after Crowley with it."
"He killed my mom."
"He killed a lot of people," Dean snapped, "He also knows the name of every demon topside and down under, so we're all gonna have to cowboy up." Kevin's anger flagged and the prophet sagged against the concrete wall of the range. Dean's steady drip of guilt surged.
"Kevin," Dean said, softer, "I don't mean that your mom doesn't matter."
"Don't you?" Kevin asked, a healthy bite still in his words, "Dead moms? Girlfriends? It's like I'm joining the hunting fraternity and this is just the initiation. So I'm pissed. I haven't been through anything you and Sam haven't already. What does any of it matter?"
"Okay that is exactly how I don't want you to think," Dean groaned, "Speaking from experience, that is gonna leave you looking back on a long string of dead friends, not girlfriends, and a soulless brother addicted to demon blood. If you're pissed, be pissed. In the end it's the touchy feely crap that gets you through the day."
"Right now it feels like the touchy feely stuff is killing me slowly." Kevin was still slumped against the wall, and it was almost like a blow as Dean realized the kid was just as tired as he was.
"Welcome to the club," Dean grimaced, "It's called angst. Don't undervalue that shit. It's what stopped the Apocalypse in '09."
Kevin laughed, some of the bitterness falling away.
Dean crouched beside the prophet, reminded suddenly of the pep talks his dad used to give him during training. John always took to one knee, talking with Dean eye to eye as he corrected his aim or his stance. It made Dean feel like they were equals, two men having a conversation instead of a boy taking orders from his dad. Dean was glad to remember that amid all the baggage John had dumped on him over the years, he'd still taught Dean a few things worth knowing. Looking Kevin in the eye Dean gripped him by the shoulder.
"I know our lives aren't fun," Dean began, "And I know I'm not the best guy to try and confide in, but don't ever feel like what you're going though is meaningless, or that you're alone in it. If I ever said that, or made you think that, I was wrong, and I'm sorry."
Kevin considered Dean carefully, nodding slowly.
"You've really been working on your life philosophies lately, huh?" Dean groaned, giving the prophet a good cuff upside the head for being smart.
"I was trying to have a moment here, Kev," Dean complained, "And now it's gone."
"Ooh," Kevin laughed, "Have you told Castiel about your new feeling sharing policy?"
"Shut up," Dean grumbled, ruffling the young man's hair. Kevin was being a sarcastic little shit, but Dean saw through the bravado. Things were gonna be better for them now.
"So when Cas gets back are you two gonna do it or should I start gearing up for more unnecessary sexual tension?"
"I'm going to check on Sam," Dean hedged loudly, practically booting Kevin out of the range and locking the door behind him before redirecting toward the small bedroom that Sam had long ago claimed for his own.
They were en route when Dean stopped Kevin with a raised hand.
"Do you hear that?" he asked, straining for a low sound muffled by the thick walls.
"No," Kevin grumbled, "Hear what?"
"Voices," Dean breathed, and suddenly his feet were carrying him swiftly to the war room, the sounds growing stronger as he scaled the iron stairs. It was definitely voices, strangers, most of them anyway. But Dean stood before the entrance to the bunker, waiting to hear the one familiar gravelly tone that would make all the difference.
Please, everyone! And there it was. Still muffled as to be barely audible through the thick steel. The other voices died down as Castiel addressed them. Please remain calm. We will be safe once we are inside.
Inside. Castiel was here. Dean pictured the former angel, attempting to control the throng of his brethren, expression harried and hair a mess. Silence fell, and Dean imagined Castiel raising a hand to knock on the impermeable access hatch.
Dean couldn't wait that long.
Dean swung open the heavy door and there was Cas: tired, beautiful, and surrounded by a baker's dozen worth of angels.