Their weekend at Grandma's quickly turns into a week. When they told Bobby about Chuck and the house, his response was something to the effect of, "Well what the hell do you want me to do, buy you a damn Ficus?" Sam had laughed, but Dean had muttered, 'forget the plant and send some damn whiskey…," Cas had seemed intrigued by the idea of a potted plant as a welcome gift, and, since Cas has shown little interest in much of anything lately, Dean seriously considered going to a garden store and buying him every damn fern and flower in stock.
Bobby promised to make the drive out as soon as "these damned idjits pull their head out their asses far enough to see what's in front of their damn faces." Hunters seem to be collectively freaking out about the whole post-apocalyptic, post-demonic, world. Sam and Dean are under the impression that it's driving Bobby more insane than normal hunting business ever did, and that he's actually looking forward to getting away from the phones for a few days.
Staying in one place throughout Cas' healing process—his adjustment process—seems like the best course of action, and, though Dean is basically hard wired to run, to keep moving, to never settle or stay, he has to concede that driving aimlessly around when there's no reason, forcing Cas to suffer in the backseat of the Impala while he deals with PTSD dreams and phantom-wing syndrome and the very real marks on his back when they have a legitimate alternative…well, he can't excuse it. Even if there was a case and they had to be on the road, looking at Cas' strained face, and Sam's puppy eyes, would pretty quickly cause Dean to relent and set up a home base.
One stipulation of the whole staying in one place thing is that they don't leave Cas alone in the house…ever. It's Dean's idea, but Sam agrees pretty readily. The older Winchester had expected more of a protest, but Sam had shrugged, "He's not exactly stable right now." Dean didn't need the reminder. Both brothers watch Cas through narrowed eyes, and they don't directly call their mission a suicide watch, but it's not too different from the time Dean had been on the verge of saying yes to Michael…
Dean is not going to admit it to anyone anytime soon (if ever), but having his own room, having a place to call home, it's kind of awesome...in a surreal and vaguely terrifying sort of way. Dean barely let's himself think about it, lest he invite in some kind of insane disaster. He channels his confusion and frustration into leaving increasingly complex threatening messages on Chuck's voicemail (they're more colorful every day; Dean's really proud of some of them; though Sam chastens him for threating to rip the prophet's finger nails out "dude, he gave us several thousand dollars and a house" "and a lot of unanswered questions"), worrying about Cas, tolerating Sam's tentative enthusiasm, and doing some serious home repairs.
Okay, maybe not that serious. The sigils, protective magic, whatever, they've sheltered the house from termites, floods, fire, rot. It's in pretty damn good condition. The problem is more in the fact that no one has lived here for almost seventy five years, and a lot of stuff is outdated. It's no contest between them that Dean is the best with mechanics and Sam the best with tech. Cas is…well, they're not really sure what his skill set is yet, but so far it includes neither mechanics nor tech. He's staying alive, hasn't tried to off himself, or gone completely insane yet, and Dean will gladly take that for now. God knows, those are skills that take some serious damn effort.
The first night, after Dean had replaced Cas' bandages, and the angel had fallen asleep in his new room, the brothers had outlined what they needed in order of importance. It was freaking bizarre creating this domestic life shopping list. Dean had made sure they both had several fingers of whiskey to steady them through. Thankfully, great-grandma or grandpa Mason had laid away some damn good liquor. They drink a silent toast to them in absentia.
The boys decide that the serious appliances should come first, and, since Cas is in no fit state to be alone, they plan to take it in shifts. While Dean is out on the first day, getting the biggies and groceries, Sam and Cas work to clean up the place. Scrubbing floors and windows, sweeping; it's methodic, almost meditative, and it's good for Cas' muscles and the new skin on his back. Physical therapy through practical skills is a tried and true lesson of the Winchesters' upbringing, when there wasn't the time or opportunity to stop completely to regain strength and dexterity.
Dean is weird about leaving Cas alone with Sam. It's not like he doesn't trust his little brother to look after the guy—it's just that some irrational (and maybe selfish?) part of him feels like Sam just can't take care of Cas as well as Dean can. He knows it's ridiculous and childish, but he can't shake it. It doesn't help that, even as Castiel continues to progress physically, he seems to become more withdrawn by the day. He spends a great majority of his time in his bedroom—he chose the tiniest one with a sloping roof, and Dean immediately chose the one across from it, regardless of its size, because he wanted to be close to Cas, just in case—or sitting on the steps of the front porch gazing into the distance.
Dean must make some kind of pained face when he goes to leave on their second day—he knows that he's staring in the direction of Cas' closed door—because Sam reminds him that "we'll be fine, dude, relax," before herding Dean out the front door.
Dean opens a bank account in their names, which, that's just damn weird. Some things that they need he gets second or third hand (Dean hates shopping, but what're you gonna do?) like the washer and dryer. Some things he gets brand new, but he haggles and bargains, gets good deals, not that they need to worry about skimping pennies right now—begrudgingly thanks to Chuck—but saving for the inevitable rainy day never hurt anyone. He buys new faucets and replaces some pipes, installs the new refrigerator and stove, makes sure the electrical fixtures and wiring are good. It's a gradual process
While Dean is shopping, Sam and Cas clean—their first run through the house doesn't take too long, they work mostly in silence. Sam finds more family memorabilia in the attic. There are boxes that he doesn't have the time right now to go through; pictures of long gone relatives, throw rugs, with subtle, downright artistically woven, protective signs and marks from cultures all over the world and some beyond it (Sam and Cas lay them out in the living room and the upstairs hallway, the latter explaining their origins in detail). They draw a devil's trap in paint before laying down a welcome mat because you can't be too careful. Sam studiously avoids the library mostly because his jaw had dropped when he'd seen it yesterday, and his hands physically ached to touch the volumes it contains, and he knows that it would take weeks, if not months, to even begin to broach the contents. As much as it pains him, he recognizes that basic human needs of food and shelter will have to take center stage until they are fully settled—at which point Sam can disappear into the library and not resurface for days. Dean can tell whenever Sam is having a 'library wet dream' because his eyes go unfocused and he smiles dazedly at nothing. He takes the opportunity to tease Sam about it, and blushes and shifts uncomfortably when Castiel inevitably asks what the phrase 'wet-dream' refers to. Dean's discomfort at the question feels like divine retribution to Sam, who grins broadly (until forced to explain).
When Dean comes back, and gets to work, Cas becomes his quiet shadow, watching his every move as if it's endlessly fascinating. He hands Dean's tools when he asks for them—though this process takes somewhat longer than Dean going it alone, because Cas doesn't know which tool is which (or he does, but not necessarily by the names that Dean attributes to them), so Dean has to either point or explain what he wants based on shapes and colors. Honestly, Dean doesn't mind. He's relieved and much calmer with Cas there, even if he sits mostly silent as Dean teaches him about different types of wrenches and how Freon works. Cas doesn't interject, primarily he just frowns, observing Dean's motions and listening to his attempts at light conversation.
Sam leaves only once he's sure that the other two are settled. While Dean and, by extension Cas, work on home improvement, Sam gets other accoutrements of domestic life like new mattresses, sheets, and blankets. Choosing things for Dean is easy, he knows him, knows him well, his likes and dislikes; he can hear his brother's voice in his head as he peruses the aisles alternatively calling things "fugly" or "awesome" or "dude, do I look like a chick to you?" Cas, well, Cas is more complicated. He's never really expressed his preferences for colors or textures, but, then, he didn't really have the human perspective or need for any of these things until a week ago. The guy has worn the same outfit relentlessly for over two years, and he hadn't even chosen it to begin with. There's not much to go on. Sam wants Cas to feel at home, so he takes a great deal of time with his choices; in the end he gets deep blues, creams, browns, earthy colors, soothing ones, at least, Sam thinks so.
They're pretty set on furniture, but Sam buys some things they don't have. He gets lamps, throw pillows, paper, pens, a new bookshelf. He grabs some DVDs and a DVD player, a radio (because Dean's life is incomplete without an accompanying Classic Rock soundtrack), a TV. He knows Dean will want to build shelves for the study-turned-armory on the first floor himself (and will have a very exacting ideas about the specific raw materials he'll need for the project—because he's incredibly picky about these things), so he doesn't bother with stuff like that. In the course of Sam's travels, he gets a microwave, a coffee maker, a toaster, a waffle maker (what the hell right?). He buys four coffee mugs, each with its own label or joke on the side (one for each of them and one for Bobby). He acquires a coat rack and a drying rack and towels and digital alarm clocks and a vacuum (he hopes that using them on supernatural rugs won't cause some kind of bizarre electrical response). He picks up more cleaning supplies and restocks their first aid necessities.
Dean glowers at all the crap when Sam brings it home even as he helps to lug it inside the house. Sam's hopeful face, reminds Dean forcibly of the time that his little brother was five and tried to convince Dean to let him keep a puppy he'd found abandoned in the park. It was a mutt, but definitely had some Lab in it. It had freaking huge paws and this overwhelming jubilant energy, with its tonguing lolling out in a something that looked like a smile. It was damn cute, licking Sam's face with anexuberance that made the kid giggle. It tried to do the same to him, but Dean was nervous and shifty and afraid of the consequences of letting it in, even though he really wanted to—because John would flip out if he came back and realized that Dean had let Sam get a pet. Dean feels like that now, only instead of a puppy, Sam is bringing home all these small things that will inevitably turn this place from a temporary camp into a more permanent settlement. Settling runs the risk of being turned out, and Dean is afraid of the consequences. To be honest, so is Sam, but Sam has one advantage here—he has let himself want this, imagined it as something that he could have one day…whereas Dean has denied wanting this, pushed his ever present desire for a home—longing for the one he lost, for a new one—away as something impossible, something that he could never have and didn't deserve. Now, he's finally got the one thing that he's spent his whole life convincing himself he didn't want, and he is freaking out and totally unsure what to do. He's 'extra surly' as Sam says, and it's no wonder really.
Dean finds it easier to deal with the changes that he's making to the house. Installing a fridge? Well, they need somewhere to put the leftover pizza. Washer and Drier downstairs? There's not a laundomat in town and it's the middle of freaking June, they need to wash their clothes. Oven? Well, Dean does make fucking awesome burgers, so how can he deny himself and Cas that pleasure…Fixing the pipes? When Sam had raised his brows at that one, watching Cas hand Dean the necessary bolt, Dean had spat "What? The water pressure in this place is shit, we're not savages here, dude," and gone back to work.
The stuff Sam is doing is different, maybe Dean could justify the DVD player and the TV ("I can't live without Doctor Sexy, seriously, you want me to go through withdrawal?"), but the blankets and shit? The lamps? The throw pillows and scented candles and 'decorative accents' and whatever the fuck else? He can't come up with a lie, even to himself, about what those things mean…they mean getting comfortable, letting your guard down, setting up shop...
It takes a few days for Dean to realize that he has a room. His room. With a bed, a desk, a bookcase, a chair, dresser. Windows. He spends his first week there still living out of his duffle, but then he starts to leave things outside of it. His beaten up copy of The Illiad and Vonnoguet, a collection of Bukowski poems, they end up on the top shelf of the bookcase, and they look good there. They look comfortable, right. He finds an old record player in an antique shop, while he's looking for a particular type of fixture, and he sets it up on an end table by his bookcase that Sam got at Target. He starts to collect albums, slowly and with care: Dylan, Zepplin, Springsteen. After he does laundry for the first time in the new house, he hesitates for a moment with his folded clothes, starring at his dresser and his duffle with an intense, gut knotting sense of uncertainty and anxiety before he puts them in a drawer. He leaves the duffle open on top the dresser, just in case, but when things come out of it, he doesn't put them back. Sam got him an AC/DC concert poster, which he hangs on the wall, and a deep green comforter with flannel sheets and memory foam pillows, which Dean finds ridiculously exciting and kinda sweet…not that he's gonna turn it into a chick flick moment or anything. He very carefully places a picture of him and his mom on the desk with a bittersweet smile. It's the first he's ever been able to take the photo out of his wallet for more than a minute or two at a time. He has, for the first time probably ever, the strangest desire to take more pictures, and hang them on the walls, set them up on his desk: pictures of Cas with paint splotches in his hair and Sam grinning like a maniac as he arranges throw pillows on the sofa. Dean's never wanted to commemorate his life like that. Ever. It's a new and startling feeling.
All of them work together to organize the new stuff and the old stuff. They place the family photos that Sam found in the attic in the living room; some of them are labeled and dated. There is a young girl with Sam's smile, John's eyes, and long dark hair that they discover is Grandma Rebekah. There are a few shots of her early childhood with her parents, posed and formal, but there is also a picture of her has a teenager arm in arm with a tall young man with Dean's chin who must be Henry. Sam places the photos on the shelves with tenderness—familiar with affection for family that he will never know—and Cas regards the process with the solemnity of a ritual. Throughout it all, Dean watches Cas like a hawk. He watches when Cas thanks Sam for his thoughtful selections at the store (they aren't technically gifts, but Cas hasn't ever received one to know the difference and he accordingly treats the new belongings with reverence). He watches when Cas pushes his food around his plate without eating. He notices when Cas continues to wince at causal touch. Is hyper aware of the fact that, even as Cas' surface wounds heal, the deeper ones in his psyche begin to fester.
Dean watches and he worries. Cas still has nightmares, and Dean knows because he hears them, leaves his door open so that he can hear them. He goes into Cas' room, and wakes him up. It still takes Cas some time to realize who Dean is, and he initially recoils away from him in fear and confusion. Something about that lack of recognition just hurts, pierces Dean like a damn bullet. Cas' pain elicits a respondent ache in Dean's chest; the fact that his attempts to comfort only seem to make it hurt worse make him curse himself and any god who could be responsible for this. This whole thing with Cas is making Dean realize that he's a tactile person, he keeps trying to touch him, to comfort him, to be close to him, but the problem is that Cas can't stand physical contact. So Dean constantly feels like he's running into walls, full of half-completed motions and frustration.
Cas still doesn't want to talk about his dreams. He avoids Dean's gaze when he tries to broach the topic, so, more often than not, they'll sit in silence together until Cas feels calmer. In the grey light of pre-dawn, sitting side by side on Cas' bed, knees brushing slightly, Dean can understand why Cas chose this room; it's the smallest, but that gives it a certain element of safety, like a cocoon or a nest, and he imagines that's what Castiel needs more than anything.
Most of the time they'll wait out the aftermath in Cas' tiny bedroom, but sometimes they'll take it down to the kitchen instead. Dean will make Cas (and occasionally himself) some tea—he's too tired and strung out to judge himself for that. They had had a conversation once in the later days of the apocalypse, about what Dean had seen in the future, about how far Cas had fallen, about the drugs and the women. Neither of them have mentioned it since, but there seems to be an unspoken understanding between them to make sure that Cas doesn't come into contact with anything addictive—the morphine was worrisome enough, but he doesn't want him join the ranks of barely functional alcoholics either…hence the tea.
Dean comes back one afternoon in their second week at Grandma's, from a medical supply run, and tosses his jacket on the coat rack by the door. He finds Sam (surprise, surprise) in the library, he's got his manic geeky joy face on. Dean just leans in the doorway and shakes his head fondly—where the kid got this from, he'll never know.
"How's it goin', Prof. Thatch?"
Sam looks up, "Who?"
"Milo? Atlantis the Lost Empire? The nerdy professor dude who—You know what, never mind."
"You're such a freak, Dean."
"It's like the cartoon Indiana Jones, c'mon, that's respectable."
"Did you just hear the words that came out of your mouth?"
"You're so uncultured, nerd boy."
"That's kind of an oxymoron."
"You're an oxymoron."
Sam sighs and rolls his eyes, but smiles reluctantly, so Dean grins back. He's missed their banter.
"So how was the shopping spree?" Sam taps his pen against his notebook.
Dean shrugs, "Got what we needed."
"Great," Sam looks thoughtful, "Are you—"
"Where's Cas?"
"His room," Sam offers.
"Everything okay with him?"
"Everything okay with you?"
"Bite me, Sam."
Sam looks annoyed as hell, as Dean turns away, he mutters something that includes the words 'Cas' and 'realm of expertise.' Dean ignores his brother's disgruntlement with an insouciant backwards wave.
He knocks on Cas' door. Quick raps. "Hey, Cas?"
He pauses, "Can I come in?"
He's all about respecting personal boundaries—unlike Sam or Cas (who disregard them in totally distinct ways), thank you very much—but not right now. As far as he is concerned, they are a state of emergency. Just keep telling yourself that, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his brother whispers in Dean's head. He promptly tells it to shut the fuck up, one Sam is enough, and pushes open the door.
Cas is seated cross legged on the floor in a patch of sunlight flooding from an open window. His face is tilted up towards it, casting him in silhouette.
"Hey, Cas," he tries again.
Cast turns, "Hello, Dean."
"Woah, man," Dean fumbles slightly with his words. Cas, who has, for the better part of a week been acquiring some serious scruff, is suddenly clean shaven. Dean doesn't think that he's ever actually seen Cas' face so bare. When he'd been wearing Jimmy, he'd rocked a perpetual five-o-clock shadow, but now, his jaw is all clean lines and angles. He looks younger somehow.
He tilts his head at Dean's silent stare and seems to realize the cause of it, because his hand involuntarily travels to his face and he ducks his head shyly, a blush blooming along his cheekbones. Dean is floored because he's never seen Cas do that before. Ever. It stirs something strange in his abdomen, a flutter accompanied by heat; his hand wants to reach out and feel the newly exposed skin, and—Okay, where the hell did that come? Dean clears his throat.
"Sam showed me how to shave this afternoon," Castiel explains looking back at Dean and speaking clearly, but still with that slight rosy hue to his features, "I expressed discomfort at the facial hair…it was 'itchy.'" Cas uses finger quotes for emphasis.
Dean chuckles, and drops down next to Cas, "Guess you're not gonna miss the peach fuzz, huh?"
Cas frowns in confusion, so Dean taps his own cheek in illustration—he forcibly restrains from touching Cas.
Cas' nose crinkles, and Dean smiles a bit brighter at the expression, "No, I will not."
"Well it looks good, man."
"Thank you."
"So what've you been up to today?" He asks, feeling strange about the banality of the question juxtaposed against his anxiety in the asking.
Cas narrows his eyes, "I was permitted to dress myself today."
There's no mistaking the frustration in his voice—the resentment, it strikes against a sensitive spot in Dean.
"You know we're just trying to look out for you, right?"
Cas' face softens and he sighs, "I know."
"Cause we do the same damn thing to each other, too, it's not cause we think you're some damsel in distress or whatever," Dean rubs the back of his neck, which may or may not be turning red.
Cas cocks his head to the side again, noticing Dean's gesture, and giving off the uncanny sense, that Cas has retained, even during the transition to mortality, that he can see straight through to Dean's soul. The hunter stops the gesture abruptly.
"I do know, Dean," Castiel admits, resigned.
"Then what's up, man?"
"I feel—" at those words and the pause that follows, Dean absurdly wishes that Sam were here—he has way more experience in dealing with this shit—at the same time, if Cas is about to come clean, fess up, however uncomfortable it may be, Dean's happy to be the one that he trusts with this.
"I feel helpless, Dean," Cas face is a storm of frustration and anger, "Simple things, they should be simple, but they are not."
"Like what?" Dean prods. He's pretty sure this is how caring and sharing works.
Cas looks at his hands as if they have severely betrayed him, "Buttoning my shirt, tying my shoes. These tasks are basic and I couldn't even—"
"Woah," Dean interjects and Cas looks at him, annoyed and embarrassed, "Cas, man, that's normal."
"Nothing about any of this is normal," he retorts, which is ironic considering that they are collectively, the closest to normal they've ever been. That's some Shakespearean level shit, right there. That thought does not bring any comfort.
"Seriously," Dean persists, because Cas probably won't appreciate the irony right now, "One time, when I was sixteen or so? I got thrown on a hunt, some asshat witch mojo, whatever, I hit a wall and this cabinet came down and fell on my hand. Mother fucker crushed three of my fingers and a couple of knuckles."
Cas looks both pained by this news, empathizing with Dean's pain years later and perhaps lamenting that he wasn't able to heal those wounds. He also appears dubious as to how this relates at all to his predicament.
"The point is, my fingers were in splints for months and when I finally got them off, I couldn't work them for shit—couldn't write, brush my teeth, tie my shoes, buttons, you name it—I had to relearn how to do all that."
"I don't understand how—"
Dean rolls his eyes, and, without thinking, he reaches out and touches Cas' hands. Cas shudders and flinches, but then consciously steadies himself, while Dean internally curses gods who throw their kids to the fucking wolves.
"Cas, you see this?" He squeezes Cas' hand, tries (and epically fails) to ignore the warmth that spreads up his arm from the contact.
"Yes…" Castiel looks like he's questioning Dean's sanity and it's so much like his old, 'I do not understand the crazy humans' look that Dean has to keep from grinning.
"It's brand freaking new, dude," he argues, "hot off the presses—it's an expression—you're still learnin' the ropes here and, seriously, before today, had you ever tied your shoes or buttoned a shirt?"
"No," Cas frowns, "it was hardly necessary, but I understood the principle."
Dean shrugs, "There's a difference between knowing the principle and putting it in practice, dude. You'll get better, it's just gonna take some time. Look, I'm not gonna lie: this blows, but you'll get it…Just hang in there." He squeezes Cas' fingers in reassurance and realizes that he's still holding his hand, before licking his lips and pulling back again. He needs Cas to hang on.
"It's frustrating," Cas admits.
"I bet," Dean offers sincerely; he can only begin to try to imagine the extent of what Cas is going through…especially given that Cas doesn't really want to talk about it, "but it will get better."
Cas raises his brows, a ghost of a smile on his features, perhaps surprised by the optimism, "Will it?"
To be honest, the glass half full mentality that just slipped past Dean's lips shocked the hell out of him too, but the uncertain look on Cas' face strengthens his resolve. It will get better; Dean will make it better, or he will die in the attempt, so help him fucking god. "It will," he repeats, steely edge to the reassurance in his voice.
"Sam will be pleased to hear that," Cas says.
"Why?" Dean is confused as hell.
Cas suddenly looks shifty, his eyes skirt away from Dean, "I may have thrown a shoe at him while he was trying to help me."
Dean bursts out laughing. The force of it startles both of them, so much so that Cas grins slight and sheepish. Dean will take it.
"I believe I alarmed him," Cas seems contrite, though he had probably been in a 'throw you back into hell' frame of mind during the altercation.
"Sammy's a big boy, he'll get over it. I've done worse."
Cas tugs on the sleeve of his shit—a plaid hand me down that was once Sam's—unsure, and Dean suddenly has an idea.
"Hey, Cas, what d'you say we get you some new clothes this weekend?"
"Am I no longer permitted to borrow your things?"
"Course you can—my ratty tees are your ratty tees—" and they would look way fucking better on you, he thinks but doesn't say aloud, "but it might be nice for you to, you know, pick some stuff out for yourself or whatever."
Cas considers this proposal carefully, much like a wine-taster considers the quality of a vintage, "I think that I would like that."
"Awesome," Sam is going to be so proud of him for this one—helping Cas 'exercise his free will and autonomy.'
They sit in a comfortable silence for a beat.
"You wanna help me make dinner?"
Cas appears ambivalent.
"C'mon, I'm gonna make my famous burgers, they fucking kick ass," Dean cajoles.
The corner of Cas' mouth twitches slightly, and Dean absurdly feels like he won the lotto at the proto-smile, "You are ridiculous."
Dean gives him a devil may care grin, as Cas slowly gets to his feet, and he has to fight the urge to throw an arm around his shoulders as they head down the hallway, "You, my friend, are in for a damn good experience." And maybe if he has a hand in the prep work, he'll actually eat more than a bite or two.
"Hey book-boy," he calls to Sam, "Come help us make dinner."
"Be there after I finish this…"
Dean rolls his eyes conspiratorially at Cas and stage whispers, "Wanna sabotage Sam's dinner?"
Cas looks scandalized, "Why would we do that?"
"Fuck you, Dean," Sam shouts.
"Any time, princess," Dean smiles and winks at Cas.
Castiel looks confused as fuck and Dean kind of likes it? Is it wrong that Cas' concerted facial expression at something as innocuous as brotherly mockery, gives Dean hope that they will all pull out of this okay? Because it does.
In the kitchen, Dean shows Cas the ropes of making burgers. He throws open the windows, cranks up the classic rock station on the radio (setting the mood, he assures the former angel, is an essential part of the process). It's Cas' job to mix the meat and seasonings (to Dean's top secret recipe, which cannot be committed to writing), and he makes weird faces at the texture of steak sauce and ground chuck oozing between his fingers. They haven't gotten a grill yet—Dean adds it to his mental list of things they should have if they're sticking around for a while—so he's gonna broil the shit out of these. He heats the oven and stands next to Cas at the counter, only an inch or two between them so that their elbows brush occasionally. It's strange and familiar at once: having Cas up in his personal space (or maybe it's Dean who's invading Castiel's) is just part of their relationship, always has been, despite Dean's scolding and complaining, but doing something so ordinary, so domestic, in such close proximity—it should be awkward or wrong, Dean expects it to feel that way—but it isn't, it feels good, comforting, right. It's a strange sort of shock to his system that he could get used to this. He could hang out with Cas in the kitchen, cooking and listening to music, talking, quiet, it wouldn't matter, he could do this every day for the rest of his life and he would be happy. That revelation floors him, startles him; something strange and warm is spreading through his chest, and he is afraid to embrace it, so he distracts himself by showing Cas how to shape the meat into patties. Cas seems quite proud of his handiwork, and Dean smiles, encouraging. He works on the toppings, slicing tomatoes with gusto, because he really doesn't want to give Cas sharp objects. When Cas has finished making the burgers, he helps to tear leaves of lettuce off the head—slowly and methodically, as if preserving them in tact is essential.
"Where did you learn this?" Cas asks. It's the first time he's initiated a conversation since he fell.
Dean glances at him from beneath his eyelashes, continues chopping, onions this time, "All over, man."
Cas cocks an eyebrow in question.
"When we were real little and dad went on hunts, he would leave us with friends, baby-sitters, whatever—he stopped doing that pretty quick—but, I used to be pissed cause I thought I was too old for that shit."
"You were five, Dean," Cas corrects gently, almost mournfully.
Dean shrugs, "I was a very mature five."
Cas smiles slightly and knocks his shoulder against Dean who grins, "I think that Sam would disagree."
"Whatever," Dean rolls his eyes, "I might've been a little rambunctious—all the best kids are—and sometimes the people who would watch us didn't know we were coming or have stuff for kids, so they would let me help with the shit they were doing, keep me from getting into trouble…learned how do a lot of stuff that way that way, including cook, not that we had much opportunity for it—Pastor Jim taught me how to do burgers," he smiles at the memory, "we stayed with him over Memorial Day one year, and he let me help work the grill, said I was a natural."
"I am sure that you are a master of the craft," Cas nods gravely, acknowledging that Dean entrusted him with a memory from his childhood—a time that he rarely recognizes or shares with anyone. Dean realizes that, too, and feels suddenly like there's not enough air in the kitchen. Cas looks like he's about to say something, but Sam comes in just then.
"Took you long enough," Dean complains good-naturedly.
"How did the translation go?" Castiel asks, and, after he sticks his tongue out at his brother, Sam replies enthusiastically as he starts to slice rolls.
Dean puts the burgers in the oven; Cas sets the table; Sam grabs everyone a glass of sweet-tea and busts out the fruit salad he bought to "make sure we don't die of scurvy."
"Dude, note the tomatoes, that's a fruit."
Sam looks a long way down his nose at them, "Not really substantial, Dean."
"I can make us fries—potatoes are totally vegetables," he's half screwing with Sam for the hell of it.
"No, they're starches."
"When did you become the food pyramid police?"
"One: the food pyramid is outdated. Two: when I decided that we couldn't leave Cas to suffer from what you call 'food.'"
Dean glares.
They all sit down together, and Castiel has something pretty damn close to a foodgasm when he takes his first bite. Sam looks amazed by Dean's culinary prowess. They eat and talk (Cas manages to finish his entire burger, and Sam and Dean both have seconds), and, when they're done eating, they leave the cleaning for later, and head out to the front porch. Dean turns on the radio and Sam brings out beer for him and his brother and tea for Cas. The Winchesters drop at either end of the second step, and Cas seats himself one step above, as close to Dean as he can be without touching. He's a reassuring warmth at Dean's back.
The sun sets, casting the yard and the trees into twilight shadows. Crickets start to sing their nightly song, with fireflies dancing in accompaniment; Cas watches them enraptured. It's peaceful and it feels like home for the first time since they got here—with Cas and Sam discussing Welsh verb forms, and Dean and Sam reminiscing about a concert they went to near here a few years ago and, damn, what a show. Sam is stoked about Cas choosing some of his own stuff—for the reasons Dean thought, and he gives his brother a very proud look. Cas suddenly gets up and leaves the porch and lies down in the middle of the yard.
The boys share a confused glance.
"Whatch doin', Cas?" Dean calls.
"I want to see the stars," he replies like it's obvious.
Sam smiles softly at Cas and then at Dean, "I'm gonna go clean up," he says, but his words are laced with meaning and he shoots a look at Cas like he's trying to tell his brother something.
"Thanks, man," Dean says and, though he's not totally sure why Sam seems to have suddenly developed an eye twitch. As soon at the door shuts behind him, Dean walks across the lawn and lies beside Cas in the grass. It smells like summer—grass and earth and fire; the sky is blue and velvety interspersed with sparks of silver and white.
Dean's hand is an inch from Cas' and he can feel the distance—like there is an electric charge between Cas' fingers and his own and they want to ignite. It's a heady sensation that he hasn't experienced in years, if ever. He wonders if he's going crazy or if Cas can feel it, too.
Castiel tells Dean stories of the constellations—mapping the stars across thousands of years and thousands of cultures, and Dean listens enraptured, occasionally interjecting with comments at Cas' tales of heroism and tragedy. They talk intoxicated with the summer night, as the air cools around them, and Cas yawns widely his nose crinkling in a way that Dean find adorable (and he must be tired if he actually just thought Cas' nose was adorable).
Dean teases him for being sleepy, and Cas grumbles.
They make their way inside, and Sam is waiting for them in the sitting room. He looks at them expectantly, eagerly, scrutinizes their faces and their hands, but whatever he's looking for, he doesn't find it. He sighs and bids them goodnight.
Dean ruffles his hair; Sam blusters and swats at him. Cas makes his ways slowly up the stairs, and Dean follows close behind making sure that he doesn't fall. When they reach Cas door, Dean feels a strange anticipation rising in him, the air is tense and something like adrenaline courses through him. Cas looks at Dean, stares at him, and the blue gaze is so intense that Dean momentarily forgets to breathe.
"Well, ah, sweet dreams, okay?" he says, his voice a higher timbre, the words rushing out in one swoop, "I'll, ah, be across the hall."
Cas bites his lower lip, and looks at his feet, "Goodnight, Dean," he replies, before turning into his room and shutting the door, leaving Dean standing in the hallway wondering why the hell he feels like he just missed something important.
AN:
Hey, lovelies, I have no idea how these chapters keep getting longer, but they do. Lots of domesticity in this chapter. Some drama in the next two/three. What fun. Thank you all for taking the time to read and comment on this story. I just want to hug all of you, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter.
Thanks for rolling with my Grandma Winchester headcanon. More soon! xo