Shit goes to hell in Target…as shit is wont to do. Retrospectively, Dean realizes that he should have seen it coming. Things had been going a little too smoothly, you know? They get a house, a couple thousand bucks, a monster free existence. Cas is healing pretty well; Dean has not actually contracted a fatal case of cabin fever; Sam is in state of library induced nirvana. That's not normal for them. Normalcy is not normal for them, and fucking nothing comes for free. So really, Dean should have seen a serious crisis on the horizon. In fact, he had been seeing potential crises—all day, every day—but, as always, these things tend to happen when you let your guard down. And Sam had been all "Dean, you need to relax," and "Dean, seriously, I know that it's difficult for you, but can you just try to enjoy this a little?" and Dean, fucking glutton for punishment that he is, had finally succumbed to Sam's calming mantras and dared to believe for one fucking second that things were gonna be fucking peachy. He's cursing himself ten ways from Sunday for being so fucking stupid. Optimism doesn't do jack shit for anyone, except screw you in the ass repeatedly.

See, the plan was simple: take Cas shopping for some clothes. Get him out of the house, let him stretch his wings (figuratively speaking), get him to, you know, be around other people, give him a chance to exercise some independence, and get some clothes that actually fit. Cas is more slender than Dean and Sam, and he's a few inches shorter. He's been making do with Dean's jeans, with a tightly cinched belt, and Sam's button downs, which are big enough to accommodate his liberally bandaged back and arms and don't require him to put his arms over his head and open up newly healed skin; they hang pretty long on him. He was able to wear one of Dean's ratty old Zepplin tees yesterday without hurting anything, and, yes, Dean's prediction that it would look better on Cas was proved completely right and then some. He needs fewer bandages as he heals, and Sam predicts that 'getting him out of the house, letting him use some autonomy, feel like we're not babysitting him twenty-four seven, might help with the depression.' And Dean has to begrudgingly agree because Cas has always been on the quiet side of the spectrum, but since he's fallen, he's basically silent eighty percent of the time. He looks shut down and closed off, and Dean gets that cause it's not like he's exactly a stranger to PTSD or whatever, but, he's pretty sure that Cas is operating on a whole different level of issues, and, judging by the compassionate Dr. Phil looks that Sam keeps giving Cas, his brother agrees.

So they're taking Cas shopping. Dean shoots down the mall because 'we're not taking Cas to the red-light district of teen hookups, dude," and he vetoes the thrift shop because 'he should get something new.' Which gets an eyebrow raise from Sam because second hand clothes had always been good enough for them growing up, when they didn't shoplift stuff.

"Look, man," Dean rebuffs, "you keep goin' on and on about all this 'new lease on life' bullshit," Sam rolls his eyes, "well that means that Cas can fucking get new clothes from a damn store like a normal person." The implicit: 'he deserves better than what we had, and he is used to heaven, he fell from fucking heaven because of us, for fuck's sake, we can give him this much' echoes between them. Sam gives Dean his brooding and pensive face and starts to open his mouth, but Dean gets up and grabs his keys with an abrupt, "Let's go."

They drive to Target because, as Sam says, "You ruled out literally everywhere else, Dean," meanwhile Cas asks, "Why do we have a target?" And Dean rolls his eyes and sighs because he hates fucking department stores, and he guesses Target isn't as bad as, say, Walmart, but even so, fuck this shit.

It starts off okay. Really it does. Cas takes everything in with a wide unblinking stare. Sam grabs a cart. Dean sticks tight to Cas elbow; he tries to give off calm and easy vibes because Sam has repeatedly pointed out that Cas is pretty fine-tuned to Dean's moods, but, regardless, Dean feels safe in the knowledge that he has a gun tucked into the waistline of his jeans, and he gives a friendly smile to the attendants and the other shoppers, but his eyes are cold and calculating, and he half expects a rogue werewolf to leap out from behind the fabric softener.

Cas appears slightly taken aback at the selections, "I've never considered the effort that humans put into clothing themselves," clearly forlorn.

"You got this, dude," Dean encourages.

"Just pick out something you like," Sam says, and Cas furrows his brow as if to say, 'easier said than done, I have no idea what I like.'

He wanders up and down the rows and racks with narrowed eyes. Touching some shirts and closely scrutinizing others. He sniffs one, which Dean thinks is weird as hell, but Sam is willing enough to go with the process. They try to give him space, even though he seems intent on looking at everything very carefully, and it is taking forever.

"Cas, you wanna maybe pick something out sometime before the end of the century?"

Cas glares at him, and it's the first time Dean's gotten a 'smitey' scowl in weeks, and it makes him smile because 'hey, Cas, there you are, I've missed you,' although, Sam quashes that with an epic glare.

"Here, just pick one, it's not like you have to marry the damn shirt."

Cas looks mildly scandalized by Dean's suggestion that he marry an article of clothing.

"Dean is being an jerk, Castiel," Sam reassures him, "this isn't the only time you're gonna go shopping though, if you don't like something we can take it back, no big deal."

Cas continues his search, but this time he starts to put things in the cart: cotton button downs, t-shirts, hoodies, thermals. He seems to favor all different shades of blue, from navy to cerulean, and earthy greens, with the odd dose of bright orange, soft grey, and black. Turns out that Cas doesn't really like yellow all that much. Go figure. There are several points at which the brothers have to explain logos to Cas, who doesn't get the pop-culture references and reacts to team memorabilia like an anthropologist studying a strange example of native culture. He likes nature patterns on his shirts, sometimes stripes, or nothing at all.

They help him figure out jeans size, and maybe Dean has been paying too close attention to Cas because he can eyeball the right length and width with zero problems. Even though it's June, Cas doesn't seem jazzed about wearing shorts, so they skip those entirely. He carefully handles the pajamas, selecting the softest, most comfortable ones they have, and he doesn't understand why Dean rolls his eyes at the hot pink sleep-tee he adds to the growing pile in the cart. They skip the fitting room rigmarole because getting fifteen odd shirts on someone who just started to be able to pull a t-shirt on over his bandages yesterday, seems overly ambitious, if not downright cruel and unusual. But they're pretty sure that this has been successful, and Sam congratulates Cas on a job well done. Cas doesn't look particularly proud of himself, he looks like he wants to slap Sam across his overly supportive face because 'I used to be a wave of fucking celestial intent and now I'm reduced to this fucking base life form that requires clothing, which I can barely put on myself, and that is not cause for celebration, stop infantilizing me, demon spawn.' Cas does not say any of that. In fact, all he does is narrow his eyes slightly, but Dean hears it loud and clear, and Sam seems to feel it slightly because he says that he's going to go and grab something from the home and garden department, while Dean takes Cas to pick out some shoes.

Cas has been wearing Jimmy's shoes, or a copy of them anyway, because they hadn't been totally destroyed by falling from heaven. The problem is that they aren't really practical, especially not now that Cas walks everywhere. He's been going barefoot most of the time, more comfortable with no shoes than the frustration of laces and the unsupported soles. So shoes are a must, and it seems like it should be straight forward. Except, this is Cas' first foray into human culture as a human, and they haven't really worked out the kinks of this…at all.

Dean helps him pick out some boots—Cas goes through three pairs before he decides on some in simple brown leather. They decide that he'll wear them to go, since he seems eager to ditch the dress shoes. Cas ties the laces with slow, methodical, and definitive loops—plainly suggesting that 'these are mine and I'm not taking them off.' Dean thinks he'll be singing a different tune when they give him blisters as he breaks them in. Sam had suggested sneakers earlier, so Cas is adamant that he gets them. This takes a bit longer, Cas does a weird little hop skip to see if they will actually support him. He does it so seriously that Dean can't help but laugh at the strange, manic sight. He finally picks a pair of obnoxiously lime green running shoes with purple laces. Dean leaves him to box them up, while he goes to grab a couple packs of socks.

The shoe department had been virtually empty when they showed up, but people started to filter in while Cas had been going through his sneakers: a mom with a three kids, a pair of teenagers looking for Converse, an older married couple, a business man or two. The noise level has increased significantly. The socks are only an aisle away. It doesn't take long to get them, but, as Dean grabs three sets, he hears a loud crash and goes into panic mode, running towards Cas immediately.

Cas is huddled, back to the case of shoe boxes, some of them spilling around him, as he grabs the shelf for support. He's breathing fast, and people are crowding around him. The aisle is packed, and the attention of strangers, the overwhelming crowd of them in a small space, is making Cas shudder. The concerned mom reaches out to touch his arm, and Cas jerks back violently, knocking a new shower of shoes from the shelf.

"Hey," Dean runs to his side, "Are you okay? Cas?"

Cas' eyes dart around furiously, and he recoils from Dean. His focus eventually settles on the hunter in front of him, but he seems incapable of catching his breath. He doesn't look hurt, but something is horribly wrong.

He's basically hyperventilating, can't form words, his eyes are panicked. He clutches Dean's arm in a vice-like grip—please, get me out of here, help me.

"Is he all right?" someone asks. People are looking at Cas like he's a freak-show, like there's something wrong with him, like he's defective, and Dean wants to shove the fuckers away. The only reason they're even alive is because of Cas, how dare they fucking…Breathe, Winchester, focus.

"He's fine, lady," Dean's tone his sharp; he does not have time to pacify the fucking nosy-ass civilians, "Why don't you back off?"

There's some kid asking "What's wrong with him?" Some older dude muttering about 'autism' and 'special needs." It takes every effort Dean's got not to deck someone.

"Cas, talk to me man? Are you hurt?"

Cas doesn't respond, he's shaking and his eyes are wide and pleading.

Thankfully, Sam shows up before Dean can even pull out his cell.

He sees the crowd, and instantly clues in that something is wrong, "What's—?"

"We're leaving," Dean barks, and he is incredibly thankful for his and Sam's ability to communicate without words because all it takes is one look of desperation—something is wrong with Cas and we need to get the hell out of here, right now—before Sam jumps in, acting as a buffer between Dean, Cas, and the curious bystanders. Sam, in turn, gives his brother a sharp nod—get him out of here, I'll take care of this and meet you in the Impala. Go.

Cas is still frozen to the spot, and Dean manhandles him, despite the fact that it makes Cas wince and jump, because he needs to get him out of here. He leads him, half carries his tense form, through the store, past all the employees and shoppers, and outside. The first whiff of fresh air hits them in a blast and he guides Cas to the bench beside the automatic doors. The sun is shining, there's a breeze, Dean maintains a gentle press of his fingers on Cas' shoulder, unconsciously mirroring the mark he bears on his arm.

Cas is still spaced out, his pupils are blown wide, he's taking short, choppy inhales. Dean's ninety-nine percent positive that Cas is having a panic attack. This is so not what had in mind when he suggested that they get him out of the house.

"Cas," he ducks his head, trying to catch his eyes, kneeling in front of him, "Cas, man, you gotta breathe, okay?"

"Dean, I—," he grabs Dean's wrist in a grip that may or may not leave bruises, he looks like he's either going to punch him in the face or start vomiting.

"You're all right, Cas," he reassures, slow and calm, "I gotcha, man. You gotta try to breathe." Before you pass out, is unspoken but true.

"I can't—I can't breathe," Cas looks beyond freaked out, which makes extra sense, given that he only began needing to breathe at all, two weeks ago.

"I know," Dean says, "Here c'mon, put your head between your knees."

Cas just blinks. His jaw is clenched so tightly that Dean is worried for his teeth.

"I'm gonna touch you, okay?" He waits for permission this time, now that the immediate crisis is over; Cas nods sharply, bracing his already tensed muscles.

Dean sighs, very carefully, places his hand on Cas back, helps him to bend forward until his head is between his knees, "There you go."

Cas releases his grip on Dean's arm, and buries his hands in his own hair, gripping the strands tightly, as if trying to keep his head from flying apart. Dean moves to sit next to him.

He hesitates for the barest moment before putting his hand on Cas shoulder blades, as lightly as he can manage, and he rubs slow circles there.

"It's okay, man," he soothes. Cas' breathing starts to slow, Dean continues his ministrations, mindful of the damage to Cas' back and his psyche, muttering quiet, comforting nonsense, until Cas' inhales and exhales are more steady and the muscles under Dean's hands start to relax, feeling less like stone and more like pliant flesh.

Sam comes out and rushes towards them, ready for battle.

"Go get the car, Sam," Dean calls, tossing his brother the keys with his free hand. Sam nods, sparing a deeply concerned look for Cas, before he jogs across the parking lot, purchases in hand.

"We're gonna take you home, okay?" Home. Not the motel, not the house we're squatting in. Their home. Dean hopes to hell that Cas is thinking of the same place that he is, and not heaven, because Cas can't go back there, and Dean can't take him. He doesn't want Cas to want to go back to heaven, he can't—focus Winchester, a voice the sounds like Sam in head says, you can get him to calm down, help him through this, you can try.

The real Sam pulls up, and leaps out of the car, rushing to help.

"Here we go, all right?" Dean says, "You okay?"

Cas doesn't respond, but he allows himself to be moved and is too exhausted to give off a 'don't ask stupid questions, vibe.'

"D'you want to—" Sam gestures towards the driver's seat, hovering around Castiel.

Dean glances at Cas, clearly on the brink, and then back to Sam's concerned face, "You take it, man."

The drive back is quick, but not fast enough for Dean, who spends the trip muttering to Cas and snapping sharply at Sam to drive faster. The reflection of Sam's face in the rearview mirror clearly suggests that this was the reason that he had wanted Dean to drive in the first place, well, that, and clear concern for Cas' wellbeing.

When they pull up the drive, Dean helps Cas out, and Sam ushers them into the house, flitting around them like an anxious mother duck. Cas hasn't said two words, he lets himself be led to the sofa. Sam hastily gets him a glass of water. Dean sits next to him offering blankets, pillows, telling Cas to breathe. Cas looks vacant, expressionless, blank. His inhales and exhales are regular and even, maybe even deeper and more controlled that usual, like he's more conscious of the act of drawing air into his lungs than he had been previously.

Sam comes back with a cool glass of water, condensation beading the sides. Dean tilts his head in a 'I don't know what the fuck to do,' sort of way, and Sam's mouth twists into a hard line, 'Neither do I. We'll wing it, as usual.'

"Brought you some water," he says gently, "How're you doing?"

Cas accepts the water, but doesn't drink or answer. He stares at the glass in his hand. Sam perches on the coffee table. Dean has stopped touching Cas, hands tightly clasped in his lap to resist the overwhelming urge to run his hands across the knobs of Cas' spine, the slope of his shoulders, try to ease the pain in the memory of lost wings. He wants to soothe, to take that hurt away, god does he want to, but he can't. His touch will do nothing but cause Cas more grief, his stupid idea is what did this to him, just when he was on the mend. Fuck.

"Can we get you anything?" Sam offers tentatively.

Cas shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw jumping with tension. He looks tired; it's not often that Dean thinks of Cas as being old, but in this moment Dean can see in his eyes the millennia he's lived, every seconds of them weighing on him.

"Cas d'you wanna—?" Dean trails off: Talk about it? Fly away from all of this? Away from us?

Cas just blinks, slow and solemn, "I would like to be alone."

The statement is toneless, but Dean feels it like a slap across the face, a confirmation of fears predicted and dreaded.

"Are you sure that—" He's not sure what he wants to protest. He feels like this a profoundly bad idea, letting Cas out of his sight, at the same time, he knows how often he's wanted or needed to be alone in the wake of a crisis…hell, maybe that's why he thinks this is a terrible plan, but, before he can get a word in, Sam puts a restraining hand on his arm.

"Okay, Cas," he assures, careful and reassuring; "We'll be here if you need anything."

Cas gets up and ascends the stairs without a backwards glance. He shuts the door of his room with force, and Dean actually recoils as if it had been slammed in his face. Closed off, separated, rejected.

"You really think he should be alone right now?" Dean hisses, tone harsh and accusatory, almost wrathful. He's edgy as fuck, feels like he might jump out of his skin. He wants to run up the stairs and bust down the door and just…he can't do that, the only alternative that he can see is to just get the fuck out of here, screw this. Dean wasn't meant for this shit and this shit was never meant for him. He knew that he would fuck it up. Here's the goddamn proof.

"I think," Sam says, not backing down, frowning at his brother's stormy countenance, "That we have to give him some space, if that's what he wants."

Fuck this whole damn thing. This is the first step in Cas leaving, Dean can just tell, can feel it, why the hell would he want to stick around? It's Dean's fault that Cas is here in the first place, he dragged him into this mess of humanity, he made him rebel, got him to fall, got him stuck here on earth. It's a wonder the guy can even look at Dean, let alone be near him…no wonder he flinches away anytime Dean comes close…

"Dude, he's confused," Sam is clearly trying to invoke some sort of level-headedness in his brother, but he's only nettling the beast of uncertainty and anger that lies coiled in Dean's chest, waiting for the slightest provocation to lash out, "he's probably embarrassed, this is all new, and he's scared and hurting," Sam sighs, "We've gotta give him some time to figure this stuff out."

Dean can't handle Sam's consoling looks; they're burrowing under his skin, into his soul or something. He doesn't want Sam to know what's going on inside his head. His fingers twitch, there's not enough air in this place. He launches himself to his feet with ferocity. Sam startles slightly.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Don't you think we should talk about this?"

"No," and Dean slams the front door shut on Sam's disappointed sigh.

He wants to get in the Impala and just go.Rev it up to ninety, outrun everything, race away, the world a blur out the window and his thoughts drowned out by AC/DC. He wants to hunt something, fucking kill something, if not god, for doing all this shit…he needs to shoot something, decapitate something. Zombies, fucking zombie hunt would be goddamn perfect right now.

He can't do any of that. He can't leave—Sam and Cas, they're his center of gravity, and he can't ditch them, especially not now. He's not a deadbeat dick face. There's no demon to kill with the Colt. There's no ghost to salt and burn. There are no Zombies to pin in their damn coffins, no fucking vamps to chop to bits. He can't even use a gun because he's only a couple feet away from goddamn civilians and he has the presence of mind to know that the last thing anyone needs right now is the damn prying neighbors raining down on them with uncomfortable and unanswerable questions.

He feels like he's coming out of his skin. No, that's wrong, he wants to get out of his skin, but he's trapped and he can't stand this tension, he fucking can't. He kicks the porch rails, barely even registers the respondent throb in his foot. He storms across the lawn, breathing heavily, face like a storm, eyes cold as ice; it's the expression that has struck fear into legions of supernatural creatures across every damn plane of existence.

He's not sure where he's going, but he ends up in front of a tree. It's fucking massive, probably hundreds of years old, and Dean doesn't give a damn, because bile is rising in his throat, and his skin is on fire, and he swings without even thinking.

His knuckles connect hard with the rough bark. His skin splits, bleeds. He hits it again, and again. Methodic, forceful, he throws a kick or two for good measure. They send reverberations up his arms, jolting sensations, the steady burn of his muscles, the sting of torn flesh. It feels good. He feels in control for the first time in forever.

He thinks of Cas, terrified, confused, in pain. He thinks of the ashes of his incinerated wings, the fucking agony in his eyes, his muted screams. He thinks of his father, telling him to man up; never good enough. Zachariah's smug face. Sam falling into the Pit. Castiel exploding into thousands of pieces; Bobby, stone cold dead, neck snapped. Dean thinks of the rack and Alistair, being torn apart, tearing others to shreds…liking it. He's a goddamn monster. He deserves this pain. Cas doesn't. Sam doesn't. Dean sure as fuck doesn't deserve either of them. They're fucking stuck with him though. He'd be doing them all a favor if he just ran, took off and never looked back, but he's too much a coward for that.

He can't do anything. He can't fix anything. He can't help anyone any more. What good is he at all? There's nothing to hunt. Sam can have a normal life if that's what he wants, and Cas, Cas is lost, lost and he doesn't fucking deserve that. What kind of fucked up father lets this happen? What kind of a complete asshole would do this to his own kid?

Dean's thoughts blur, scattered images and memories rise to the surface and disappear quickly as he keeps throwing his fists against the trunk, leaving smears of red. He's so fucking angry, so frustrated, and he keeps going, like the damn tree is everyone and everything in this world that has screwed over the people he loves. He attacks the tree like it's a goddamn mirror.

He eventually takes a final swing, and pulls back, panting, blinking away stars. He sighs, adrenaline coursing through him; his hand is gonna hurt like a bitch as soon as it wears off. He looks down at the offending digits, thinks he might have busted at least two knuckles, doesn't really care, isn't sorry at all. He deserves the pain. He rests a palm against the oak, above the tracks of blood, almost apologetically. The damn thing didn't really deserve the beating it just took.

He leans for a moment collecting himself. Rubs his face, realizes there might be tears mingled with the sweat, though he sure as fuck didn't notice them falling hot and wet from the corners of his eyes. He wipes his cheeks with the inside of his wrist, not yet covered with the blood dripping from his split knuckles. He's less restless, less inclined to claw his way out of his own skin. The frustration still sits with him though, low and steady, but it's farther away, less immediate—a buzzing hum, rather than a scream, locked up and buried where it usually goes for now.

He's not sure how long he's been out here. Probably a while—the sun sits a little bit lower in the sky, he's done some serious damage to the tree, and his hands. He walks slowly back to the house and sinks onto the front steps with a groan, bent forward, hands palm open on his knees.

Dean momentarily wonders if Sam still has some psychic abilities because he comes out silent as a damn shadow (impossibly quiet for someone so large) about five minutes later. He glances up at his little (ginormous) brother, who is making a resigned face and carrying two bottles of beer and a first aid kit. He sits next to Dean on the steps.

"Feel better?" he asks.

Dean shrugs, "Not really."

Sam sighs, weary and unsurprised, "What d'you want first?"

"Alcohol," Dean says, "The answer is always alcohol, Sammy."

"Figured," Sam opens the beer and passes it to his brother.

It runs smooth and cold down Dean's throat.

"How's Cas?"

"Sleeping," Sam responds, "once the adrenaline wore off, he was exhausted, but he's okay, considering."

"Okay."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No."

Sam's mouth is a hard line, "Well, we're gonna have to talk about it, Dean."

"Why?"

Sam rolls his eyes to the heavens, "Because you just beat the shit out of a tree, Dean. And it's not just that, you've been acting weird for weeks."

"So?"

"So," Sam spits, "you can't just keep bottling this stuff up. You're gonna have to talk about it sooner or later, and I would really much rather if you do your purging now, instead of going postal the next time you go to Home Depot, or the next time Cas has a breakdown."

Dean clenches his jaw.

"Give me your hand," Sam orders.

"I got it," Dean snaps.

Sam gives him bitch face #100 you are a dumb masochistic son of a bitch and you're gonna listen to me before you do something else stupid. It's the bitch face that reminds Dean the most of Bobby, and, is therefore, twice as effective.

"No, you really don't," Sam retorts, taking Dean's closest hand in a death grip at the wrist, and busting out the antiseptic, "You'll leave it until you get gangrene because you're punishing yourself like an idiot."

Dean winces, grimaces, glares, and punctuates all that nonverbal communication (which Sam pointedly ignores) with a swig of his beer.

"Ouch, man!" he yelps at the sharp bite of the Peroxide, "take it easy."

"Shut up, ya baby," Sam is enjoying this too much.

"You shut up," not one of Dean's wittier retorts.

"So…" Sam prompts, and it's clear to Dean that his brother is not above using first aid tools as weapons in an interrogation.

"So what, Sam?" Dean barks, and, just as expected, he gets an extra shot of antiseptic into a deep scrape and he hisses.

"Fuck, dude."

Sam just gives him the puppy dog eyes, all innocence. He is so getting pay back for this.

"You gonna talk willingly or am I gonna have to force you?"

"Bite me, Sam."

It's quiet for a minute.

"Cas is gonna be pissed," Dean admits looking at his raw and bloody skin. Because now that the adrenaline is wearing off he realizes that Cas is probably gonna be upset as hell about the fact that he can't heal Dean's stupid mistakes.

"Probably," Sam ducks his head in agreement, "But it's not like you can just hide in the basement until they heal."

Dean just blinks at him, considering.

"Dude, you cannot just hide in the basement until your hands heal," Sam is so done with Dean's shit right now, and Dean is equally done with Sam. They glare at each other while Sam continues patching up Dean's hand.

Dean takes a pull of his beer. The last time Cas had been cut off from heaven, and hadn't been able to heal somebody, he'd looked defeated as fuck, frustrated as hell…how Dean could have forgotten that, even momentarily…He shakes his head. He'd been thinking about Cas this whole time, but he hadn't been thinking about Cas, about the fact that the newly fallen angel might have another existential crisis in relation to the loss of his healing mojo. Another existential crisis caused by Dean. Fucking perfect.

"Cas isn't the only one who's upset here, Dean," Sam says pointedly, "I'm upset, you should be upset about this—" Should care about what happens to you, his eyes say almost pleadingly. Dean know that expression far too well on Sam's face.

"Look," Sam says, going more gently as he wraps up Dean's hand, "I know you're worried about Cas; about me…" he reaches for Dean's other hand and Dean obliges, taking a swig of beer as he transfers the bottle from right to left, "I know you're angry, but…"

"It's not just that," Dean's voice is gruff, "It's just…what're we doin' here Sam? All right you, sure, yeah, fine, suburbs, picket fences, that's what you've always wanted, and you're gonna be fine…but me?" he shakes his head, "I'm not built for this shit. I'm not made for this—" I don't deserve this, "—what the hell am I gonna do here? Make everyone an apple pie? Impersonate Martha Stewart full time?"

Dean doesn't look at Sam's softening countenance, can't stand to see the pity and understanding there, can't believe he even just said any of that.

"Dean, look," Sam says, slowly and deliberately, "I know you don't think that you deserve this. You got a lot of shit, hell, we all do, but Dean, I know that you want this."

Dean scoffs derisively, but stares pointedly at his boots, so Sam won't see the truth in his words.

"And you're scarred of wanting it, scarred it's all gonna go to hell, I mean, Jesus, Dean, so am I," Sam admits, Jessica a ghost at his side, in his words, at that moment, "but, dude, after everything we've been through…we deserve a chance at normalcy, at happiness, and I say we take it for as long as we can—"

"Sam," Dean starts almost admonishing, but Sam, ever hopeful in the face of everything—which is proof that miracles can happen in some perverse way—perseveres in the face of what Dean would call "realism" and he would call "pessimism."

"—we've been through enough," his tone is final, gentle, "and we're never gonna be totally normal, but we can try to be happy, we can be a family." Him and Dean and Cas and Bobby. They can be a family. They can have a home. A place to call their own, a place to stay and plant roots, a place to grow. The idea is heady, impossible. It's an idea that Dean's been trying to hide from, and Sam has forced him to look straight at it—well, he's at least put it in the room, in the spot light, waiting for Dean to take a chance on it.

Sam releases Dean's bandaged hands, takes a gulp of his own beer, and gazes at some indeterminate point on the horizon. Dean glances at his brother, who sounds calm and grounded, baby Sammy holding him together like always.

Sam senses Dean's gaze and he smirks, "If you turn in to Martha Stewart, I will stage an intervention, I swear."

That surprises a laugh out of him, and Sam echoes it.

Dean's mouth has an upward tilt when he brings the bottle to his lips, and Sam copies the motion.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

"I think this is stupid as hell, but, I'll try, Sammy," Dean finally says, and Sam smiles though he tries to contain the joy because this is a promise, and Dean doesn't break those.

"That's all I'm asking," Sam says.

"All right then."

"All right."

Sam gets up and takes the empty bottles inside, Dean follows after a moment with the first aid kit. Sam puts sandwiches together for dinner. Dean checks on Cas, who has apparently fallen into a restless sleep. He and Sam eat and drink in the living room, taking turns to look in on Cas and make sure he's okay every hour or so. They don't talk much. They catch the news, and compete against each other in Jeopardy (Dean wins in the final round, but it's a narrow victory). They catch The Mummy on TNT. The boys snark at one another throughout, wonder about the factual accuracy of mummies and Egyptian witchcraft. They call bobby as a tie breaker, "Whadda you idjits, think I am, your phone a friend?" and tells them that "that tv'll rot your brains if you're not careful, and you boys didn't have much grey matter to start with." The brothers laugh for the first time all day.

Sam decides to stay up and read for a little bit—"I'm trying to finish translating that Sumatran text"—,but Dean is exhausted and sore and the idea of going to bed sounds pretty damn good. Sam promises to look in on Cas.

"Thanks, Sammy," he says, voice full, and Sam smiles and nods, "'Night, Dean."

Dean cracks open Cas' door, pads softly across the floorboards, looks down at the fallen angel. Cas seems relatively peaceful, tired, not tormented by nightmares, at least, not yet.

Dean feels a strange tenderness looking at Cas' face, the softness of his eyelashes, the gentle flow of his breath, his hair, dark and mussed. Thinks, maybe for this, for Sam down the hallway buried in his books, and Cas, safe in bed, maybe for them he can try this whole thing…maybe…

"Night, Cas," he whispers, reaches out to ghost his fingers across his brow, but pulls back at the last moment.

He leaves the door of his room cracked open, a habit in this new house that he never had before, open for Cas, for Sam, if they need him. He lies in bed and closes his eyes, but he feels the restlessness build.

AN:

I hope everyone is okay in the wake of the season finale! I, personally, am still recovering from its epic-ness. Thank you to all of you who read, comment, favorite, or follow this story; you guys are seriously amazing and I really appreciate your support and encouragement.

A few notes:

I keep writing thing that then happen on the show several weeks later, and it's starting to freak me out. I wrote this chapter the week before 8x21 and was so beyond flailing when I saw the scene of Cas shopping. What even?

I'm sorry if this chapter is angsty. Like I said, I've usually written two to three chapters ahead of the most recently posted one, and I somehow did not tally emotional fic angst with emotional finale angst.

Finally, I personally am stoked for all of the excuses to write domestic Team Free Will/ DeanCas this summer, so while I continue this, there will likely also be some one-shots set post-season 8.

I would love to hear what you think of this chapter! Love and hugs.