Bobby drives out just in time for the Fourth of July. To be completely honest, no one had really registered the approach of the holiday. It's not like they didn't have other things on their minds. Everything went well at the Farmer's Market, but broke down horribly when someone accidentally bumped into Cas in the grocery store a few days later. This resulted in an overturned display of oranges in the produce section and a lot of gawking and general discomfort; it had further evolved into Dean becoming embroiled in a, ah, 'heated debate' if you would, with the general manager of the store, two clerks, and three appalled soccer moms. Sam tried to run interference on both sides with little success.
As much as Cas was bolstered by his progress, anything that set him off or set him back, triggered a downward spiral into silence, dejection, withdrawal, and increased sensitivity. That reaction is totally justified given that the general populace seems to make every single one of these moments about a thousand times worse. Cas gets this lost, beaten puppy look on his face that makes Dean simultaneously want to murder everyone who so much as looks at him wrong and wrap Cas in all the comfort he can muster. He just seems so damn dejected sometimes, there isn't much Dean can do except, as Sam constantly reminds him, 'be here for him.' A hard feat when Dean feels powerless—propelled by the impulse to do something with absolutely no way to channel it out of his system. Those days usually lead to long runs or increased sparring practice in the space they've cleared in the basement.
Sam maintains, with sorrowful puppy eyes, that Cas is 'internalizing' the way that people look at him, like he's a freak nine times out of ten when he's in public. Dean wants to rip their lungs out. He's pretty sure that sometimes, though he hides it better, Sam does too. It's not Cas' fucking fault that he's dealing with angelic PTSD; it's not his fucking fault that he doesn't know the rules of social interaction; it's fucking not his fault that he's got angelic sensory deprivation and human sensory overload at the same time, and can't handle being touched. None of this is fucking his fault and it would be fucking nice if the fucking people, who, incidentally are only alive because of Cas, would stop making him feel like shit. Would stop making him think that he's shit because it is fucking unacceptable. Dean needs to take deep breaths sometimes so that he doesn't do anything that Sam would consider 'stupid.'
All in all, Cas' recovery is built on a pretty vicious cycle. He still has nightmares, every night. Sometimes, if he's extra lucky, he gets more than one a night. They are all fucking terrible; Dean can tell just looking at Cas' eyes, dark and terrified, haunted as if by hell. The worst one so far had been a week ago, when Cas had screamed, in Enochian, loud enough for both Dean and Sam to sprint into his bedroom. They found him clawing at his back, nails digging bloody tracks into the skin of his shoulders, eyes wild and voice piercing. It had taken them a full twenty minutes to get him calm enough to realize who they were (a process complicated by the fact that they had to physically restrain his arms—which, in case you didn't know, were extremely strong and, in this case, wicked determined—and the physical contact had fully quadrupled to force of his freak out). They needed another ten minutes to get him to speak in English, and another half hour to clean him up. He was shaken, badly, they all were. Cas didn't want to talk about the nightmare and that progressed to him not wanting to talk beyond monosyllables for an two days. The silence set Dean on edge and made Sam cast them both concerned glances, which did nothing at all to alleviate the tension that floated through the house and congealed around them like ice.
Dean's inability to sit still in the face of silence—specifically silence surrounding problems he can't fix—is likely going to drive him crazy. It certainly grates on Sam's nerves, and he points out that Dean's 'aggrieved sighing' is going to drive him up the wall. That prompts another frustrated sigh from Dean, which elicits an pained eye roll from Sam, and the cycle repeats.
Cas levels out, but he rarely looks happy or easy. It seems like the farther they get from Cas' fall, the more intense his flash-backs or whatever become; the more likely he is to be triggered, the less sleep he gets. Dean isn't sure what to do and neither is Sam. It seems like every time they think they've got their bearings, the ground shifts and they realize their foundations are actually built on sand. Dean has a headache that not even the soothing rumble of the Impala's engine can fully dispel.
That's what propels Dean's visit to the carpentry and metal work shop on Vine St. He's laid down with holy water, silver, and a gun filled with rock salt rounds, but Jack Wilson turns out not to be a threat. He isn't a hunter and he isn't a Man of Letters. He's something of a liaison between the two. He's got the lore, comes from a long line of people in the life, and he specializes in the creation, care, and acquisition of artifacts of a mystical nature. He chuckles appreciatively at Dean's suspicion and weaponry, willingly goes through all the tests, (and passes with flying colors). He proceeds to show Dean the back room of his shop, laden with furniture, relics, weapons, each, in its own way, a work of art.
"You make all these?" Dean asks, examining a silver knife, covered entirely in almost invisible sigils, so powerful that it practically sings in his fingers.
"Most of 'em," Wilson nods, hands in his pockets, watching Dean, "Like I said, my family helped lay the foundation up at that house of yours. Used to be contracted for big projects…these days;" he shrugs, "select hunters come through looking for things; the rest we sell—"
"Sneaking hoodoo and good mojo out to the civilians," Dean whistles through his teeth. It's smart. Impressive even. He lingers at a wooden rocking chair, hand carved, designs covering the sides, wood chosen for protection, and tiny sigils, only some of which Dean recognizes, spelling for purity and light. Cas would know the rest of them, could read the work like a book.
"I'm impressed," he finally admits. He wishes that he had had access to this place when he was still actively going against monsters and mayhem every day. Would have been useful.
Jack smiles, accepting the compliment gracefully, "There's a spot here for you if you want it," he offers some time later, when Dean has perused every inch of the shop.
"Like a job?"
Jack inclines his head, "I'm getting' on in years, I don't have a son to pass the work to. Way I see it; you've got the eye and the hand for the work. If you want it, it's yours. I'd be happy to have you: boy that stopped the apocalypse."
"How'd you know about that?" Dean blusters. He doesn't like discussing it, remembering the price tag that was attached, the price they're still paying.
"Word travels," Jack replies, "Look, think it over; talk about it with your partner—" it takes Dean a full minute to realize that he's not talking about Sam, but Cas, that he's not here under the guise of FBI agent or CDC official or whatever the fuck else, so when Jack says partner, what he means when he's referring to Cas as Dean's partner…Dean blinks, a weird sense of jittering warmth floods his stomach and heat floods his face before he squashes all of that…incredulity, shock, embarrassment, disbelief, and weirdly of all, hope, (wondering if he should correct the statement), and tunes back into the conversation, "—place is yours if you want it. You just let me know. You know where I am."
They shake hands firmly, and Dean leaves to talk the proposition over with—well, with Sam and Cas. Nothing weird about that, at all, Dean muses, hands gripping the wheel firmly, Being honest with your family, just like you said you would be. Four for you, Winchester. Don't even go there…
Sam is suspicious at first, but that quickly turns into unbridled excitement and support. Dean thinks that Sam is probably gonna try to invade the shop on bring your child to work day.
"I think this is a great opportunity."
"Yeah, you just want to get me out of the house so you can get all kinky with the books in the library."
"Dick," Sam retorts, but he's smiling through his annoyance, so Dean lets it slide, "You do need to do something before you go stir crazy though, and, before you even say it: Cas will be fine here while you're out."
"I wasn't gonna say anything," Dean protests, even though that was exactly what he'd been about to say. Sam just levels him with a stare that quite clearly expresses the fact that he's not buying what Dean's selling. Fucking kid brothers, think they fucking know everything.
"Cas is way better with the library than I am," Sam continues while Dean glowers, blithely pretending he hadn't spoken at all, "and you'll be way better if you've got a project to work on too. No offence, but you really suck at sitting still."
"Bite me, Sam," Dean replies, but his brother is right. Dean needs something to do beyond tinkering around the house (especially now that mostly all the work is done), and this, this is something he can do. It's in his skill set, it's something he's good at even, it's close enough to hunting that he doesn't feel totally alien, and it would mean working to protect people with someone who knows the life and wouldn't treat Dean like a freak because he needs to salt windows and doors. In fact, Wilson would probably teach Dean how to set those glass inlays that they have here in every threshold. It's kind of awesome. Dean is inherently suspicious, and he worries about telling Cas because, well, because he doesn't want Cas to think he's being abandoned. He never ever wants that...again. Cas has lived that more than enough already; he doesn't need it from Dean. He also doesn't want to disrupt whatever tenuous, fragile stability that currently exists in Cas' life. If Cas is not cool with this, Dean decides, he won't do it. No fucking way. It is surprisingly un-troubling how quickly he comes to that conclusion and how totally okay with it he is. Like it's an inevitability that Cas is second only to Sammy in Dean's decision making process. He wonders vaguely when exactly that became the case, but he doesn't question the sentiment itself. He's glad of it in some way. He definitely doesn't dwell on the fact that he's basing his decision on talking to Cas, just as Wilson had said he should, when he'd said to talk the proposition over with his partner…no, he definitely doesn't dwell on that…
Nevertheless, Dean shuffles slightly with a fake smile plastered on his face when he tells Cas about the offer. Cas watches him through narrowed eyes, like he's puzzling out all the things that Dean isn't saying.
When Dean concludes his undoubtedly rambling speech with "but if you're not cool with it, I'll say no, I mean—"Cas crinkles his nose and waves a hand, effectively shutting Dean up immediately, "Why would I not be 'cool with it'?" he inquires, truly puzzled.
"Well, I, ah—" Dean rubs the back of his neck absently.
Cas continues, "You want this. You would excel at this. You've missed having a mission on which to focus your energies. Why would I be 'uncool' with something that will make you happy?"
Like it's that simple. Like Dean's happiness should be a priority; is a priority. A lump forms in Dean's throat: how the fuck does Cas figure this shit out? He feels weirdly naked, exposed, vulnerable, and the feeling intensifies as Cas keeps going, "You shouldn't pass up an opportunity like this out of a misplaced sense of obligation," when Dean blinks, Castiel clarifies, "to me."
"Not misplaced," Dean retorts gruffly, the first thing that pops into his head.
Cas shrugs stiltedly, shoulders still sore from a midnight finger gouging, "I don't wish to 'hold you back.'"
Dean sighs, sitting next to Cas, who blinks clearly startled by the closer proximity. Dean ignores the way that it makes him feel like he's suddenly got a livewire running across his skin, "One: you've gotta stop letting Sam make you watch Lifetime," the joke does nothing but make Cas blink confusedly, and so Dean exhales and continues, "Two, you're not an obligation, Cas."
"I complicate your lives greatly," he replies, regret heavy on his tongue and in his eyes. This is one of those things that he's 'internalizing,' as Sam would point out.
"Hey," Dean replies fiercely, he hates when Cas looks like that, "the way I see it, we're the ones that complicated the fuck out of your life. You were doing just fine for what? a couple billion millennia? Playing harps on clouds and shit before we showed up and screwed everything to hell."
Cas inhales deeply through his nose, speaks deliberately as if Dean is slower than most, "One," he parodies, "I have never played a harp; celestial 'music,' as such, is not made with human instruments; that is a great misconception propagated by the Hallmark corporation," Dean laughs despite himself at Cas' smitey face, and Cas looks shocked by the sound and then exceedingly pleased with himself, or, as pleased as someone can look when he doesn't quite know how to smile. I need to fix that, Dean thinks, cause Cas has a great smile—he refocuses, "Two, you have greatly complicated my life," Dean averts his gaze, but Cas moves infinitesimally closer, rough voice near to Dean's ear for emphasis, as if to say, if you will not look at me, you will at least hear me, "that is not always a bad thing, Dean."
Dean's head snaps up, swiveling to meet Cas and for the briefest second their faces are only an inch apart and their eyes meet and the air disappears and Dean wants to surge forward, close the distance and the need is so strong in him that he is almost brushing—
"Dean!" Sam calls, and Dean comes back to himself. Cas takes a deep breath, like he'd stopped for a moment, and blinks; Dean moves back and drops the hand that had risen unbidden, reaching towards Cas. He's not sure if he's relieved or frustrated, decides that he's an uncomfortable combination of the two and groans, getting to his feet.
"What?" He yells more jovial than he feels.
"Bobby's on the phone, better get down here," he shouts up the stairs, then, in a quieter tone, "No, yeah, he was talking to Cas. Uhuh. Tell me about it—" his voice trails off and Dean really doesn't want to know. At all. He clears his throat.
"So, uh, I'm gonna—" he gestures vaguely towards the hallway.
"Yes, of course," it could be Dean's imagination but Cas' voice is deeper, disappointed, and he's glancing away pointedly, "Send Bobby my greetings."
"Right, yeah, will do," he hurries towards the door and pauses at the threshold, "Hey, Cas?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
Cas does smile then, a small, almost invisible smile that makes Dean's heart beat uncomfortably hard, because he's the only one that Cas looks at like that.
"Of course."
When they get off the phone with Bobby, Dean calls Jack Wilson and takes the job.
Dean has done all kinds of side work over the years. He's dabbled in carpentry and he's good with mechanics, with metal, with tools, with knives. Even so, this is different, this is new. He's an apprentice of sorts. Mixing together those practical skills with his hunting knowhow and what Jack calls his 'natural artistry' 'more like natural bullshit,' Dean mutters. But Dean's a fast study, a quick learner, and, he's gotta admit, he's good at this, he likes this, and honestly it's surreal but amazing to use sharp objects to create something other than an artfully decorated corpse…and he's still helping people in the process. He gets lost sometimes in the work. Learning the proper tools and sigils and marks, the appropriate materials and the timing and the importance of intent—sometimes he gets homework and he treats it more seriously than he ever did the shit he got assigned in high school. He whittles in the evenings now, when Cas and Sam work on their latest adventure in supernatural literature. Dean feels less inclined to jump out of his skin, and, hey, maybe Sam and Cas were right, he needed something to focus his energy on besides pacing around the house and worrying. Constant motion is what he's used to, it's what he needs, and he can have it and stay still. This is keeping him from climbing at the walls. Sometimes, in the evenings, Cas will sit close to his shoulder, and softly correct the set of Dean's hands on the knife or the curve of a sigil, before teaching Sam an Enochian phrase. Sam will comment on how nice the piece Dean is working on is coming, and they both thank Cas for his help, and everyone feels slightly more settled, feels more stable.
Between the new job, the library project, home repairs, and fielding Cas' sharply oscillating ability to cope with his species reassignment, it's no wonder really that they lost track of time. It's not like they necessarily wanted to count down the anniversary of Cas' fall. Dean isn't the best at social niceties, but he's a hundred percent positive that getting someone a cake with "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" "Welcome to mortality, you're stuck here till you die, congrats" or "Sorry you lost your wings, bro" would be in really poor taste. Maybe they intentionally lost track of time. Dean sure as fuck isn't sure.
It's a bit of a surprise when they realize that Bobby is gonna be there in seventy-two hours and they've got to get their shit together. The Fourth of July thing is off the radar until Bobby actually pulls into the driveway and calls their patriotic inclinations into question because there's not a hint of red white or blue on the place. It takes Dean about ten minutes to process why there should be and oh, OH, they kinda missed the boat on that one. He shares a glance with Sam, who looks just as surprised, and then nods his head pointedly in Cas' direction, before he snarks that, "Never seen you decorate for the holiday, old man."
"It's the principle of the thing, idjit."
They hug gruffly with back thumping and spine crushing intensity, and damn is it good to see Bobby. Cas stands awkwardly to the side, and Bobby comes up to him last, after Dean and Sam have been embraced.
"Good to see you too, boy," he greets, mindful of what the boys said about letting Cas initiate physical contact of any kind ("I ain't gonna grope the birdbrain," he'd retorted). Cas' mouth twitches upward, and Dean feels a surge of affection for them both: for Cas being included, for Bobby caring about all his damn lost boys and strays. After a moment of deep seated consideration, Cas offers his hand and Bobby smiles, taking it in a firm grip, Cas only winces slightly at the contact of their palms and Dean, Dean's proud of him for that.
There had been a brief discussion in their preparations for Bobby's arrival about where the old man would sleep. Cas had offered up his bed, but both Sam and Dean had immediately shut that down. "No way" "You have enough trouble sleeping in your own damn bed, you're not sleeping on the fucking couch, Cas." Dean offers his room, but Sam gives him something of a discerning glance, and says, "Nah, he can take mine." "We can take turns." "Don't be stupid" "Shut up." Dean is torn between his desire to be close to Cas in case he needs him and his determination to not let Sam bunk on the couch.
The issues still isn't resolved when Bobby shows up at the house and Sam, rat that he is, drags Bobby's duffle up to his room in the initial melee. Dean glares, Sam smiles triumphantly, Cas frowns in confusion, and Bobby gives Sam a nod that looks way too approving for Dean's taste.
"You gonna invite me in, or we gonna spend the week camped out in the driveway?" Bobby eventually blusters.
Sam laughs, Dean throws his arm around Bobby, and Cas follows in their wake like a duckling. Dean makes a mental note to start calling "make way for ducklings," when Cas crosses the hall. He's not sure how but Sam seems to catch that thought apropos of nothing because he gets bitchface #18 I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it is you're thinking; NO. Dean pulls and extremely innocent "I didn't do anything" expression in return and Cas narrows his eyes at the two of them. Sam's right, the poor bastard is a barometer for Dean's moods. Bobby just shakes his head.
"Before one of you gives me the grand tour," he says in the foyer, forcing his eyes away from the salt and sigils, "I got you boys some house warming gifts."
"Aw, Bobby, you shouldn't have," Dean sasses.
"Shut up."
"Yeah, Dean, shut up," Sam cuffs him over the head.
"Ow, you shut up."
"I drove fourteen hours for this shit," Bobby mutters.
Castiel glances at him and the boys, "I empathize with your aggrieved state."
"Thank you," Bobby says, "at least one of your morons is a grown up."
"Hey!" the boys reply in unison.
"Here," he shoves a package into Dean's hand.
"It is a pony?" Dean mocks, but sobers quickly under Bobby's scowl, clearing his throat and opening the envelope.
"Frank Devereaux, friend of mine, hooked it up, you'll be needin' it."
"Frank Devereaux?" Sam frowns.
"Isn't he that crazy dude with the CIA conspiracy theory?"
Bobby raises his brows, "Only conspiracy theories if they ain't true."
"C'mon, Bobby, I thought you were BBFLS with Uncle Sam?" Dean jabs.
"I'm gonna pretend you didn't use the BBFLS unironically in a sentence," Sam deadpans.
"Don't be jealous cause you're not hip anymore, Sammy."
"No one says 'hip' anymore, Dean."
"Shows what you know."
"I love my country," Bobby interrupts with his eyes reaching heavenward, probably praying for patience, Dean beams, "Don't mean I trust the idjits who run it."
"That's wise," Castiel notes, "They are responsible for many atrocities; a good portion of them are on hell's payroll."
"Reassuring," Dean snarks.
"You gonna stop foolin' around and open your present or you gonna stand there staring all day."
Dean rolls his eyes, shakes himself, and opens the envelope. There are licenses, passports, birth certificates, social security cards, everything they'll need and a lot more legit than anything they would put together on their own. There're copies for Dean, for Sam, and for Cas. Dean deliberately doesn't look closely at Cas' doesn't want to see the name that written there or the fabricated details of his life.
"Nice mug shots," he says instead, passing the contents to Sam.
"Shut up."
"Thanks, Bobby," Sam offers sincerely, and Bobby shrugs.
"You boys need more as you get settled, you let me know, I'll make a call."
"Thank you," Castiel says looking very thoughtfully at his very own license. Not that Dean is going to be letting him drive Baby anytime soon. He mentally adds driving to list of things that Cas needs to learn.
"Yeah, well," Bobby continues, gruffly and somewhat sheepishly, "There's whiskey and a Fichus in the car."
Dean laughs then sobers when Bobby doesn't join in, "Wait, are you serious?"
"No, I brought you a damn unicorn," he rolls his eyes, "One of you boys gonna show me around this place, or what?"
Sam practically skips with excitement, rambling as he goes. It's kind of adorable, precious even when Gigantor does a riveting impression of a five year old girl. All he's missing are some fairy wings and a tutu. Dean should get on that, it'll make one hell of a birthday present for next year. He snickers to himself as Bobby follows behind Sam, shaking his head in bemusement.
Cas watches them, but doesn't immediately follow, "You okay, Cas?" Dean asks shaking him from his reverie.
"Yes, of course," Cas frowns, attempts to feign a smile and fails horribly.
"Where were you just now?" Dean is all concern, an instant transition from levity to solemnity.
"Right here," Cas replies puzzled.
Dean rolls his eyes, "Physically, yeah, I meant mentally," he taps his own temple for emphasis, "you looked like you zoned out."
"I—," Cas begins, "I—just became lost for a moment."
Dean is about to push the issue further, but Sam calls out for them to "come on, already" and Dean sighs as Cas shakes his head and follows with Dean a pace behind to join Sam in giving the magical mystery tour.
Bobby is impressed with the foundations of the house. He's more impressed with the library Sam goes into fits and raptures and is about a second away from swooning like a damn maiden in a fairy tale when Bobby points out a section of tomes that Sam hadn't recognized and offers to translate the Japanese collection. It's pretty damn funny, and not even Sam's glare is enough to make Dean stop laughing. Bobby continues onward; he examines the protective sigils with a scholar's trained eye and he glances fondly, almost softly, at their bedrooms. The warmth in his expression is a bit much so Dean shifts away after briefly showing Bobby his growing record collection, closing the door and fighting the weird heat in his neck and face, not meeting Bobby's eyes, his too understanding gaze.
They show him the stack of hex boxes and chests and various occult objects that no one has opened yet and Bobby responds with a sigh somewhere between exasperation and anticipation.
Sam blathers on about Legacies and Men of Letters and craftsmanship and history and blah blah blah. Cas occasionally chimes in with a mild correction, which Sam accepts glibly—going off on a tangent of questions—before continuing his narration. Dean doesn't really care very much about the details right now, this is stuff he knows and, yeah, he's heard Cas make that same correction before. Shame on Sammy for not paying better attention.
When the grand tour ends with them back in the living room, Bobby takes up residence in an armchair, Sam stands, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, and Cas sinks onto the sofa, and pulls his knees towards his chest.
"You done good work sprucin' this place up," Bobby nods.
"Dean modernized the house," Sam says with a lopsided smile.
Dean rolls his eyes, "Wasn't a big deal."
Cas notes that, "Sam is largely responsible for the décor."
"Yeah," Dean snorts, "Rachel Ray over there went to town on the place."
Sam glares, "Shut up."
"The appliqué pillows were all you, man, I'm just givin' credit where it's due," Dean continues, "Better homes and gardens is coming out for a photo shoot next week."
Bobby rolls his eyes, Sam glares, and Cas shoots a 'this is one of those stupid human conceptions that I really just do not understand' scowl at him and Dean shrugs.
They have what Dean calls a "Red-Blooded American" dinner that night. Steaks and potatoes on the grill…and, begrudgingly fish because Sam is a giant pussy and had bitched about the amount of red meat in Dean's diet.
"Dude," he'd said before they headed to the grocery store (because grocery lists are a largely interactive process these days and increasingly garner more variety as their kitchen experiments continue with varying degrees of success), "We are not having red meat every day for a week."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because I'd really rather not clog my arteries any more than they already are."
He had thrown around "cholesterol" and "high blood pressure" and, so help him god, "you aren't seventeen anymore, you can't just throw whatever you want into your system."
Dean had shaken his head in complete disgust and annoyance, but Cas who had been at the table, crafting a list of produce, had perked up considerably and, to Dean's dismay, sided with Sam.
"It's important to take care of your cardiovascular system, Dean, Sam is right," he had agreed with a pinched mouth and a squint of doom, "according to leading cardiologists, it's recommended that men over twenty-five—"
"Please, tell me you did not let Cas on WebMD."
"Of course I—"
"I actually engaged in a conversation with several physiologists at Johns Hopkins."
Dean and Sam just kind of blinked at that pronouncement, before Dean rounded on Sam, poking a finger into his giant brother's broad chest, "This is your fault."
Sam stood his ground and gave him bitch face #229 it's not my fault that you continually disregard your life and cavalierly throw yourself into danger without even thinking of the consequences. Dean was momentarily floored by the fact that he was getting #229, when had red meat become a danger? Fucking domesticity. Fucking brothers. Fucking angels. Jesus Christ.
He turned to Cas, "We're limiting your internet access."
But Cas had a look of defiance as if to say, "I'd like to see you try." Dean has the first niggling fear that Sam and Cas are going to create a united front to undermine his life choices, which is just not fair. The two of them are a formidable obstacle when united. Fuck my life.
The actual trip to the grocery store (alternatively entitled Cas' Adventures with the Stupid Humans Part III), had not been that terrible, which basically, for them, meant that it was good.
Dean stuck to Cas like a second shadow. Sam manned the cart. Cas glared at everyone within smiting distance, a warning not to fuck up his day. He probably scarred a couple of kids, Dean's plenty aware of how fucking terrifying it is to be on the other end of that look, but, as Dean was giving the stink eye to everyone—from the harried moms, spending twenty plus minutes trying to decide between cereals, to the greasy teenagers on a junk food run, and the babies riding shotgun in strollers, gnawing contentedly on bagels—he didn't have room to judge. In fact, he may or may not have experienced a vague sense of propriety over Cas, a certain sense of 'yeah, that's my boy, don't fuck with him,' which, yeah, he wasn't gonna analyze, no fucking way, especially given that Sam was the only one who looked like a normal human being, smiling vaguely at other shoppers in a 'please forgive my overly aggressive brother, he's having a sexual identity crisis, and my socially inept friend, he just fell from heaven, don't worry, I won't let them commit any homicides today' sort of way.
Cas likes the produce section the best. All the shapes, colors, and textures are like a smorgasbord for the senses. He loads things into the cart with the air of a museum curator examining the merits of a work of art. He talks about where Papayas grow, and how he's always wondered what they taste like and 'how does one cut a pineapple?" and 'have you ever tried starfruit, Dean?' 'Why not?' 'What about Kiwis?" 'Can we grill a coconut?' 'What is the best way to prepare a yucca?' 'I have never heard of a pluot.'
Dean feels like he's on an adventure with a curious five year old who works for National Geographic. The combination is exceptionally Cas and extremely endearing.
They end up with a little bit of everything because every time Dean cautions, "what if you don't like it?" or "how about we get that next time?" or "broccoli again, Cas, really? Broccoli?' Cas counters with a pout that has no right to be that adorable on someone over a billion years old, and, 'Broccoli is delicious, Dean, and it looks like tiny trees." Dean rolls his eyes, to cover his traitorous heart melting, and adds two extra things of fucking broccoli to the cart while Cas collects apricots.
Sam and Cas have a really, really long discussion about the merits of various fish and Mercury levels in the water, and humane treatment of animals, and Dean has to intervene because he would rather not spend the rest of his life at the meat counter. They end up with Tilapia and Salmon (Sam insists they're brain food, and Dean counters that they all know he needs it). Cas seems horrified by the Lobster tank and Dean makes a mental note to take him to the beach when he's up for it.
The trip was a success; no one panicked, no one freaked out, and they made it home without serious injury, or Dean getting a lifetime ban. Small victories.
So now, the day before the fourth, they're grilling up a storm. It's hot and gross. Dean is vaguely concerned that his eyebrows will get singed off from the flames (which "wouldn't be an issue," Sam calls, "if you would step back from the fire." "All right, Carebear, you're the one that's gonna bitch when Flounder goes up in smokes" "You're grilling Salmon" "Freaking Pyro." "Idjits").
Dinner turns out okay. The steak is amazing, and Dean keeps making outlandish noises to piss off Sam. Cas seems relatively content with his fish and his veggies (even though Dean knows that he's gonna be the first one on the cheeseburger train tomorrow, cholesterol or not). Bobby declares the meal 'better than I expected' and Sam threatens to get Dean a 'Kiss the Cook' apron.
The problem with forgetting a holiday is that you forget the things that go along with it. Or, maybe that's not it, maybe it's that you don't really have time to put the trappings of the season or whatever into the context of your daily life. You realize that the Fourth of July is tomorrow and you kind of just go with it. Maybe pick up some extra beer (if you're Dean) or look up local events (if you're Sam), or offer up a shit ton of critiques (if you're Cas), or grumble and bitch slightly (if you're Bobby). What you don't do, because you're not really thinking about it, is realize that the Fourth of July involves fireworks, or, rather, you do because one of your fondest memories is of setting off fireworks as a kid and because Sam had found out that in addition to the town parade (no way are they submitting Cas to the crowds there, 'forget, Cas,' Sam had quipped 'we're not subjecting those people to you.') there will be fireworks locally too. Fireworks are awesome, they're a normal civilian thing…only no one really put two and two together and realized that fireworks might be a trigger for Cas. It's not technically anyone's fault, they haven't had lightning storms since Cas fell and they haven't had fireworks and there's no basis for comparison…
There's no basis for comparison until they're on the porch—Dean and Bobby with beers, Cas and Sam with glasses of iced tea—and someone, a fucking stupid idiot local, sets off a firework somewhere in town. It's all silver sparkles and a loud crack and Cas just freezes. Every muscle in his body goes rigid. Dean feels him tense, the exact moment, like there's some kind of fucking electric charge coming off him. Cas' hand clenches so tightly that the glass in his hand shatters. Sam and Bobby both turn, but Dean is on his feet moving towards Cas, whose body is fucking vibrating like a bow string, pulled tight, pulse visibly jumping in his throat, pupils blown wide, eyes fixed on a distant point, unseeing, a fine sheen of sweet across his forehead, breathing shallow and rapid.
"Boy," Bobby cautions gruffly, and Dean doesn't know if it's him or Cas that he's speaking to, could be Sam for all he knows.
Dean holds his palms up, unthreatening.
"Cas," he tries.
Sam walks up next to him, eyes fixed on Cas' form, "Castiel," he offers.
Cas tilts his head just slightly towards the noise and Dean has the a foolish moment of thinking that they're gonna get off easy with this one, he reaches a hand out tentatively towards Cas. That's when another fucking dick sets off a firework. Red this time. Louder than the first. The explosion splits the night, reverberates. Dean has a split second this think, well shit, and promise himself that he will track down that damn asshole and skin the bastard for this. But that's all he has time for because Cas shifts suddenly, grace and fluid motion, fucking warrior of god shit, and, Dean, Dean is the closest. It's only years of instinct that have him flinching back to avoid a sharp shard of glass slashing across his abdomen.
Cas crouches back in a fighting stance, face blank and way, way too much like a heavenly soldier. It's fucking scary as hell, and damn near alien after the past month, the past year. Dean's more upset about that, than the near disembowelment.
"Jesus Christ," Sam pulls Dean back by his shoulder when Dean attempts to get closer to Cas.
Dean glares. The two brothers might have gotten into a fistfight then and there if not for Bobby, who shoves between them purposefully.
"Castiel," he shouts, sharp and loud, and then something else that, fuck if Dean knows what the hell that was. Castiel turns still zoned out to Bobby at the sound, face furrowing. Bobby repeats the phrase again, louder. Sam looks just as confused. Dean is about to intervene, but then Bobby throws a pitcher of iced tea at Cas' face. Cas sputters and shakes his head, blinking, confused. He looks at his bloody hands, the shard of glass, and he drops it. It clatters against the porch. Bobby says something in the guttural lingo, and Cas focuses, he responds in kind, more easily. Dean realizes somewhat distantly that Bobby has apparently learned how to speak angel.
Bobby puts a hand on Cas' shoulder, and Cas flinches so sharply that he hits his elbow with a resounding crack against the railing. Bobby pulls back immediately, holds his hands aloft, and says something else, watching as Cas struggles to find his balance. Cas stares at Dean and Sam like he's never seen them before and then averts his eyes, ducks his head, clearly upset and embarrassed. Well, fuck.
"You idjits gonna stand there gawking or you gonna help me get him inside before another fucker sets off a damn sparkler."
Dean and Sam share a glance before scurrying in his wake.
"You got a place without windows in this joint?"
The 'study' which is slowly being turned into an armory, is windowless, and it's on the first floor, so they take Cas there. He doesn't respond when they ask what he wants or needs. Bobby takes complete control of the situation. He sends Sam to the kitchen to make tea and get some ice. Dean is ordered to get blankets and bandages. "And some damn chairs," he snaps. Sam looks like he's walked into a wall. Dean glowers, torn between his desire to be helpful and his total reticence to leave Cas, but Bobby's glare, and Sam's hand yanking the collar of his shirt force him into action.
Bobby stitches Cas' palm. Cas doesn't even flinch. He stares blankly. Bobby keeps talking to him though, quiet and slow, but clear. Cas won't look at any of them. The last time Dean experienced anything resembling this sensation in his chest, he was being mauled by a Wendigo. He would take the monster over this any day. Sam frets, he sits damn close to Cas the whole time. He'd probably offer to hold Cas' hand if he thought Cas would accept it. Dean is standing, arms crossed, fucking glaring at Bobby and the door. He doesn't realize he's doing it until Sam's kind and supportive face morphs into a 'knock it the fuck off' glare. Dean's scowl fades, but he remains standing and tense. Since when did Bobby, who is, FYI, fucking fixing Cas, a damn threat? Since he fucking took your place, an insidious voice whispers. Dean doesn't want to even go there. So he decidedly doesn't.
The doors and walls muffle the fireworks. When Cas is bandaged up, Bobby gives him ice for his palm. Sam offers him tea. Cas shakes his head at both, but Bobby forces the ice. Cas doesn't speak. Doesn't move. He still has tea on his face and in his hair, staining his shirt. Sam speaks gently. Mostly they just sit, like they're in a foxhole. Dean feels the rising panic, the sense of complete failure, the need to hit something, the need to run. It's a burning bile in the back of his throat, he swallows it down. He can't freak out. He promised he wouldn't.
They give Cas a moment alone. While in exile, they confer briefly. Cas might have to camp out down here for a few nights. "You can have my bed, Bobby," Dean offers, his voice dark and deep, "I'll stay here with Cas."
Sam looks only slightly dubious, opens his mouth, maybe to protest, but snaps it shut, shakes his head, clasps Dean on the shoulder and heads upstairs. Bobby evaluates him with a look and a sharp nod. Approval or resignation, Dean can't read it.
He goes back into the darkened study. They'd only been gone for ten minutes tops, but Cas has changed his position. He's hiding in the farthest corner, knees pulled up to his chest, head bowed. Dean walks over and sits next to him, his joints creak.
They stay like that for a while. Dean can still feel the tension, knife bright and sharp between them, rising off of Cas' skin.
"I don't know what Bobby said to you," he admits, "but it wasn't your fault. What happened out there."
"I very nearly hurt you, Dean," Cas whispers, refusing to look at him.
"Don't underestimate my reflexes," Dean snorts, but the attempt at flippancy fails utterly.
Cas still won't look at him.
Dean tries again, more forcefully, "You didn't, Cas."
"I could have."
"You always could have." Because that's what happens when you're an epic, infinity old celestial being. Cas actually has beaten the ever-loving shit out of Dean, but they don't talk about that, "It was an accident, Cas, it wasn't you. No harm, no foul."
"You have a deplorable irreverence for your own life."
"Yesterday's news, man."
He's really not helping. Clearly. Because Cas still won't look at him, and Cas always looks at him, intensely, extensively, creepily. He's got that freaky Occulemency thing going on, except how, really, he only does that with Dean. It used to make Dean uncomfortable to the point that he wanted to climb out of his skin because Cas looked at him with freaky x-ray eyes and it felt like he could actually see straight inside of him; past all the bullshit that makes up ninety nine percent of his personality, and maybe found something there that was worth it. Cas never looks away, and, now, of all fucking things, Dean wants him to look. He fucking misses it.
Dean tries to push his feelings on the issue aside. It's selfish and stupid and he's got more important things to worry about, but he's not sure what he ought to say. He scoots incrementally closer to Cas under the guise of getting more comfortable. If he moves another inch they'll be brushing shoulders, which he desperately fucking wants to do. He wants to touch Cas, make sure that he's okay, use his hands to take away the guilt and the pain, show him that he's here and he's not leaving and he's not mad at all. Dean's always been better with his hands than his words, but now they rest in his own lap, fucking useless and not anything near what Cas needs. He needs to suck it up...and sit on his hands if necessary.
"Seriously, Cas, you didn't do anything wrong."
No response, just the slightest twitch of his shoulders and tensing of the muscles that shape his spine. If Cas still had his wings, Dean's pretty sure, they'd be curled protectively around him. The thought twists the knife already lodged in his gut, but not as badly as the realization that, if he could, Cas would be flying away, as far away from this whole damn mess as he could, and Dean, well, Dean wouldn't blame him.
"Cas—" he persists, his voice breaking over the syllable.
"Just stop, Dean," Cas almost snarls, "Leave."
That's Cas' serious voice, and Dean falls silent, but he doesn't move, he doesn't leave. He stays. The pressure between them just builds.
"Go," Cas repeats, still hiding his face.
"Not gonna happen," Dean replies.
"Get out, Dean." Cas hisses, fire and brimstone and fucking wrath in his voice.
"No," he refuses, point blank.
Cas looks up scowling, glaring, but there's something off about it. There's something broken in his expression and there's a respondent ache somewhere in Dean's ribcage.
"Please," Cas pleads, brow furrows and eyes glaring even with the tears standing in them.
Dean scoots closer then, maneuvers so that he's directly in front of Cas and he leans forward catching Cas glare, watching as moisture falls from his eyes.
"I am not going anywhere, Cas," he growls out the promise, "I'm staying right here. With you."
Cas jaw works and his nostrils flare and he glowers at Dean with the fury of a thousand fucking suns, but his voice, it's a shattered rasp when he says, "Please, Dean, just…please."
"No," and then Dean he just throws caution to the fucking winds, because everything else be damned and he reaches forward and lays and tentative hand on Cas arm. Cas shudders, and then just, bucks forward, choking on a sob, and that's fucking it. Dean moves with no hesitation, like it's a natural extension of his body, like he's magnetized, and he wraps Cas in his arms, like he's wanted to for fucking weeks. He pulls him close, flush against his chest, so that Cas' face is pressed into Dean's neck and his shoulders are beneath Dean's palms and Dean can feel his ragged breaths and his tears and his muscles as he struggles to get away.
"No," Dean says, holding Cas tightly to him, "I am not going to fucking leave you, Cas, and nothing about this is your fault. And I am going to fucking stay here until you realize that."
"Dean," Cas rasps on a strangled sob.
Dean bites his lip and presses his face into the sticky mess of Cas' hair and places a soothing hand on the exposed skin above his shirt collar, rubbing his thumb against the nape of his neck, and holding as tightly as he dares to Cas' shaking torso.
"I'm right here, Cas," he whispers, promises, "Right here."
And all the fight goes out of Cas in a rush and he just folds into Dean and he cries. He cries broken fucking sobs, muffled into the cotton of Dean's shirt and the muscles of his chest and the pulse-beat of his neck. Dean holds him through it all, holds him until the sobs even out. He uses his sleeve to wipe at the wetness of Cas' face; he smiles weakly when Cas blinks at him in embarrassment and confusion and an unmistakable fear that he's overstepped some invisible line, done something to chase Dean away.
"I'm not leaving," Dean reminds him, with a half-smile and the most sincere expression in his eyes that he's ever had. Cas still looks unsure and Dean frames Cas' face with his palm, brushes his thumb against the shadowed, still dampened skin beneath Cas' eyes, and more than anything he wants to close the distance between them, press his mouth to Cas', and kiss away the pain, but he can't, so he doesn't. He ruffles Cas' hair instead, and when he moves to let go, Cas reaches out, quick as lightning with his good hand to latch onto Dean's wrist. Desperation stands in his eyes. Naked and raw.
"You can't get rid of me that easy," Dean soothes, gruff, and so far beyond the point of caring what a fucking sissy he is or how fucking sappy that is because this is fucking him and Cas and that's all that fucking matters.
Dean builds a nest out of the blankets and pillows that they brought down earlier, and Cas watches with wide, wounded eyes. When he's finished, he walks over, crouches down, and offers his hand to Cas, who takes it, after a moment's hesitation, and allows Dean to pull him to his feet and lead him over to the makeshift bed on the floor.
"It's not gonna be as comfy as your bed," Dean says, and Cas settles, still silently watching, "but it'll be quiet."
He starts to move away but Cas catches his wrist again, vice like, and pulls Dean down beside him. Dean refuses to listen to the voice that's screaming something about Cas pulling Dean into his bed and the warmth flooding through his whole body at the fact that Cas is reaching for him, that Cas, for some fucking insane reason, wants him. He takes that feeling and locks it down firmly in a box in the very farthest corner of his brain because no, not now, not thinking about it.
"You said you wouldn't leave," and, wow, Cas voice is about twenty times raspier and deeper than usual, and Dean so does not think about the direct pull that has to his gut.
"I was just gonna crash in one of the chairs, I'll—" Cas blinks, and looks away for a moment, rejected, and, fucking hell, is Sammy giving him private lessons or some shit? Cas looks back up, eyes dark and hooded and hot as fuck, so, yeah, no, he didn't learn that from Sam. He sighs, forces himself to think of the process to reassemble a car engine, "Move over."
He curls towards Cas like a parenthesis. Cas doesn't take his hand from Dean's wrist. Dean watches him, and he only hesitates a minute before he reaches out. He stops and waits for permission, a glance at Cas' face, the tiniest of nods, before he runs his fingers through Cas' hair. It gets messier with each stroke, but Dean continues his ministrations in the dark, where Cas is all lines and shadows, until his breathing evens out and he falls asleep, exhausted. Dean watches him still, continues the gentle brush, trails his thumb softly across Cas temple. Cas, fucking nuzzles into the touch, the constant frown on his face softens for just a moment, and Dean, pulled towards Cas' warmth, to his breath, shifts closer, his last conscious thought is that nothing has ever felt so right, before he drifts off with his hand against Cas' side.
Hey everyone! Welcome to the newest chapter. Again, I must apologize for the delay. I won't bore you with the details, but things have been crazy for me lately. I'm absolutely not abandoning this story, the updates will just be slow for a while. That being said, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing and following this story. You guys mean the world to me and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Much love!