Dean is warm and comfortable despite the fact that he's lying on a hardwood floor, cushioned only by a blanket and some pillows. In the hazy space between dreams and waking, he recognizes that his comfort has nothing to do with his surroundings and everything to do with his sleeping companion. He cracks open his eyes, still gritty with sleep, to see the figure lying beside him.
Cas is curled into a tight ball, tousled head tucked towards Dean's clavicle, the tips of his hair brushing gently against his chin when he inhales. He's holding Dean's hand tightly to his chest, such that Dean can feel the steady beating of Cas' heart against his knuckles. Dean himself is bowed protectively towards the angel, head inclined towards Cas' crown. His arm is wrapped around Cas, his fingers splayed against his ribs, rising and falling with every breath. Cas' injured palm rests in the scant space that remains between them, but even that reaches towards Dean.
There's a certain sense of timelessness in the dark cocoon of the room, quiet and still save for the cadence of their breathing and the gentle settling of the house. In the shadows and the near silence, Dean can see Cas' dark lashes fanned against his cheek, tanned from time spend in the sun, the pink bow of his lip, the soft lines that frame his mouth and eyes and will one day turn to wrinkles. There is the slightest furrow between his brows, marring his otherwise peaceful countenance, and the mark troubles Dean on an almost fundamental level. It causes an ache deep in his chest that Cas should be having anything but peaceful rest and pleasant dreams.
There is something in the somnolent air between them, the cosseted night (or perhaps morning) that allows Dean to lean forward, when he otherwise, at any other time, would not, to place his lips against the furrow in Cas' forehead. He doesn't even question the gesture. Doesn't think on what it means, ignores the distant part of himself that would be (and is deeply) appalled by his foolish impulsiveness. Instead he closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Cas', and sighs.
Cas' hair is alternatively matted and spiked, sticky and stiff still from the iced tea that Bobby had used to rouse him from his PTSD flashback, but even so, underneath all that, there's a scent that is purely Cas, and so Dean breathes deeply, relishing their closeness, dropping the walls and barriers that he's always so careful to maintain. He wants to stay like this, just like this, forever. It's been a long time since he allowed himself the pleasure (or agony) of wanting something so selfishly, purely for himself, and it's difficult, with his mind muddied by sleep, to remember right now exactly why it is that he can't have Cas. He moves infinitesimally closer, nose damn near burrowed in Cas' hair. He pulls Cas nearer, and Cas, well, he goes, allows himself to be led by the guiding press of Dean's fingers. He stirs just slightly, fucking nuzzling back against Dean, and Dean reciprocates, running his hand down the length of Cas' spine to rest on his hip.
Dean's eyes are heavy, weighted and warm. He hears Cas hum slightly, and his mouth quirks upwards. Dean places his lips against his hair. Cas shifts and he blinks up a Dean with squint tinged with sleep, drowsy and puzzled.
"Dean?" Cas whispers, voice broken and raw.
Dean responds by reaching out his hand, carding his fingers through Cas' matted hair. He brushes his thumb against Cas' cheekbone, traces the curve of his cheek, cups his jaw. Cas' eyes are wider now. He stills fundamentally, tense; alertness resonates from his skin.
"S'okay, Cas," he murmurs soothingly, "go back t'sleep."
Cas hesitates, stares, bites his lip. Dean, still on impulse, still foolish, still sleepy, notices that the frown line is back on Cas' face, and it seems that the only logical thing to do is lean forward and place his mouth against the mark, to pull back and press his thumb gently against the ghostly imprint of his lips, smooth away Cas' frown.
Cas makes a strange sort of "Oh," sound. And Dean huffs a laugh, grins lazily.
"Go back to sleep, Cas, s'early."
And this time, Cas listens—that's a first, Dean thinks—slowly, languorously, he snuggles closer to Dean, who wraps his arms protectively around him, mindful of his injuries. His last thought before he drifts off—with the feel of Cas under his palms and the smell of him in his nose and the warmth of him everywhere, just Cas—is how right this feels.
The next time that Dean wakes, Bobby is looming over him, which, Jesus fuck, is fucking terrifying, like a goddamn looming grizzly bear. The fact that he's been caught red handed fucking cuddling with Cas might also have something to do with his startled flail when he realizes that Bobby is standing above them. Cas jolts awake and nearly takes out the family jewels with an instinctive kick that Dean narrowly avoids.
"Jesus, Bobby," Dean curses, voice hushed, "What the hell?"
Bobby is in silhouette, so Dean cannot interpret his expression, but there is definitely something annoyed and a little smug about his stance.
"Breakfast is on the table if you two sleepin' beauties are ready to get up," he snarks.
Cas groans and presses his face into his pillow, also the three other pillows that he's unceremoniously hogged all night. He tugs the blanket out of Dean's hands, leaving him totally exposed. And that's just fucking great. Traitor. The things you learn about a guy. Dean shakes his head and watches bemusedly as Cas pulls the blanket up until only his mussed hair is visible.
Bobby doesn't even bother turning his laugh into a cough; Dean shoots him a glare that bounces right off. He's torn between burrowing back under the covers next to Cas and bolting to the nearest bar and/or bottle of whiskey. The third option, which smells like waffles and bacon is also a tantalizing escape route.
"Time's it?" he asks, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger, resigned to consciousness.
"Almost eleven," Bobby replies (Dean can feel the raised eyebrows).
Cas mutters something unintelligible, but Dean would lay money that Cas just told Bobby to go fuck himself or the Enochian equivalent at least, which somehow makes everything better and worse simultaneously. Dean is torn between laughing hysterically and smothering himself with a pillow. This is what his life has come to, god help him.
Bobby chooses to ignore Cas' comments apparently, "Your brother made waffles…"
"Hmph."
"Didn't know that damn idjit could cook. Surprised he didn't burn the place down," he offers wryly, "There's coffee," he takes a sip from the mug in his hand, "Ain't half bad either."
"Fine," Dean grumbles, struggling to his feet with a discernible grimace. He's clearly getting too old to sleep on the floor. The hunting life keeps you in great shape, but it also wracks up a bill that apparently gets handed to you in the form of stiff joints and aching bones in your early thirties. He rubs his neck.
"You comin', Cas?" Bobby queries.
Cas mumbles indecipherably, whether from language barriers or feathered pillows is anyone's guess.
"Uh, I think he needs a minute," Dean responds on his behalf.
"Well hurry up. Early bird gets the grub."
"All right, Mr. Rogers."
Cas will get up soon; Dean knows for a fact that he happens to really like waffles.
When Dean stumbles into the kitchen, Sam is bustling around the counter. Bobby takes his place at the table, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a sip of his coffee. Dean suspects that it's heavily laced with whiskey, and he wonders how quickly he can get himself the same. He needs it this morning. He's about ninety five percent positive that he kissed Cas sometime around three in the morning. And, though it was definitely not a kiss that involved tongue, or even lip on lip contact, it was also not the sort of kiss that Dean would consider 'friendly.' It was the type of kiss he would consider 'intimate' (he grimaces at his own word choice, and the fact that Sam is apparently infiltrating his brain). He contemplates, as he pours coffee and alcohol into his mug (before Bobby snatches the bottle away, the fucking hypocrite), how much he can rely on Cas' lack of human know-how to play it off as unimportant, insignificant, or meaningless. He also wonders, with some degree of nausea, how much Cas will freak out, or, you know, how close to freaking out he himself is. That last bit, he realizes, is about two seconds away from happening and the former is a fifty-fifty shot.
He takes a deep fortifying breath, followed by a deep fortifying sip, and he settles next to Bobby at the table, popping the crispiest piece of bacon into his mouth and chewing with a degree of gusto that he doesn't actually feel.
"Mornin' Sammy," he says, mouth full.
"Hard to get out of bed?" He can hear the smugness. He hates Sam a little bit.
"Goin' soft in your old age boy," Bobby affirms, with a smirk, "Damn near slept the day away."
Dean shrugs and tries to ignore the fact that his family is comprised of terrible, unfeeling dicks, "Just catching up on my beauty sleep."
"You need it," Sam retorts from the counter, and Dean chucks a napkin at his head. He walked right into that one.
"Bitch."
"Was Cas okay last night?" That's a too innocent question if ever he's head one. He's not sure if he's reading too much into this. He's becoming paranoid. His palms are sweating, his leg won't sit still, keeps bouncing under the table. He sputters his sip of coffee, almost chokes.
Dean hesitates for the barest moment, mouth open, poised to reveal the latest horrific nightmare story, but…there hadn't been one. Not a single damn dream, or, at least, none that had Cas screaming bloody murder in the dead of night. His jaw snaps shut and he blinks in confusion. He has the strangest sensation, as if Sam hit him in the face with the hot waffle iron. He opens his mouth again, forcibly relaxes his knuckles from where they're clutching his mug, and allows the strange white noise in his brain to cover the majority of the combined elation and panic that is threatening to overtake him. This is the first time that Cas has slept the night through without nightmares. It's the first night that Dean's spent the whole night through with him, fucking cuddling. He's not an idiot, he's not an optimist, but he doesn't think it's a coincidence, and he's not sure if that makes it better or worse or what the fuck it even means.
"Uh, actually, yeah," he replies, wondering if his voice sounds strange, "slept like a baby."
"Huh," Bobby grouches under his breath, "Wonder why?" he pauses, and Dean swears it's for dramatic effect. What the fuck even with these assholes? He hates everyone, including himself, "You and birdbrain looked pretty comfy this morning"
Sam can't fully stifle a laugh, so he clears his throat, changing the subject before Dean can intercede with a sharp, 'What the hell?!'
"That's really great," he snorts, "Really great." Sam is clearly trying hard to find a balance between his genuine happiness for Cas and his nascent desire to mock Dean. Bobby is not even trying to suppress the latter and definitely gives Dean a look that reads loud and clear that he thinks they're both morons. Dean is torn between: "that's not fair" and "oh my god, I am such a fucking moron."
Just then, Cas stumbles into the kitchen. The circles under his eyes are less pronounced, but his hair is crazier than ever. He waves vaguely at the greetings cast his way and drops into a seat after he gets his coffee. Dean and he make eye contact for a split second. Cas blushes but maintains his gaze; Dean immediately averts his eyes and clears his throat. Sam 'accidentally' elbows him as he sets a plate of waffles on the table, and Bobby mutters something that sounds remarkably like 'idjits' before spearing the first waffle off of the stack.
Cas is really methodical about his waffles. He fills each individual square with exactly enough syrup before moving on to the next. Dean slathers his in butter and syrup, cutting them into uneven chunks, shoveling them into his mouth, and sliding his bacon through the gooey runoff. Sam has always looked mildly disgusted by this, which has always encouraged Dean still farther in his eschewal of table manners as such. Today is no different, and Sam carries on most of the breakfast conversation with Bobby's help. Dean is focused primarily on heaping food into his mouth (to distract himself), and avoiding Cas' stare. Cas is quiet and precise as he consumes his own breakfast.
"It's nice not to be woken by the damn phone," Bobby says, over his coffee.
"I bet," Dean responds, mouth full, grateful for the diversion.
"Who's covering for you?" Sam frowns, sipping his juice damn near daintily, as if seeking to demonstrate the appropriate way to behave at table. Dean spares him a snort of derision, and then turns back to Bobby. It's hard to imagine being on a hunt and not having him for back-up when the lore or the monsters get particularly dicey. They've come to rely on him as a constant resource…and they're the best, so the other poor shmucks must be drowning without him.
Bobby snorts slightly, "Garth Fitzgerald."
"Never heard of him."
"He's a good kid," Bobby replies gruffly, "Used to be a dentist."
"Well that's weird," Dean is quite certain, having only rarely visited dentists in his life, that they are all sadistic. That being said, they'd probably make the transition to hunter fairly easily—all those drills…
Bobby continues, "Hopefully, the idjit doesn't screw anything up too much. He means well, but sometimes, I swear, he doesn't have the good sense god gave a flea. Probably gonna have more to clean up when I get back than when I left."
Sam and Dean share a look. Bobby put everything on hold just to come and visit them. Lives literally might hang in the balance because of his sabbatical. The gesture is not unappreciated, and somehow they're both tremendously humbled and unsure of what exactly to say.
"Well that's just—"
"Shut up."
They laugh awkwardly and move on to other subjects.
When they finish eating, Sam dashes off almost immediately to find something in the library. Bobby offers to check out Cas' stitches. Dean heads to his room and gets dressed. Doing his best not to think about Cas, or the kiss, or the way they had slept together last night. He shucks off his jeans and t-shirt, exchanging them for cleaner jeans and a new t-shirt. He does his level best not to think about anything while he's lacing his boots and half jogs down the stairs. It's only when he comes to a stop in the kitchen, where Sam is washing dishes and Cas and Bobby are conspicuously absent, that he lets his thoughts clarify and none of them are good.
"Where is everyone?" he demands.
Sam stills briefly. He's wearing his tense and uncomfortable shoulders.
"Sam," he warns.
"They went out."
"Out where?"
He shrugs, "I don't know."
Dean is nonplussed.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" For a crazy moment, all he can imagine is Bobby's arsenal, and his heart stops.
Sam sighs heavily and turns around, dish and sponge still in hand, "Relax, Dean, it's not like Bobby's gonna leave Cas' corpse on the side of the road somewhere. It's Bobby."
Dean glares fiercely, the image a little too sharp
"Jesus, Dean, Bobby's not gonna leave Cas' corpse on the side of the road somewhere," Sam is almost smiling, and it so, so not the time, "You know what I think?"
"I really don't care."
"I think that you're scared he's gonna threaten Cas over your precious virtue. Hate to break it to you, but the ship's kinda sailed on that one, big brother."
Dean's jaw drops, then snaps shut and clenches. He may be turning a lovely shade of magenta.
"That's not—you fucking—god damn it, Sam."
Sam bites his lip, but can't contain his own triumphant smile.
"What did happen last night?" His tone is teasing, but Dean is spectacularly un-amused.
"None of your damn business," he snaps, "Where did they go?"
Sam makes a placating gesture, "I really don't know. Bobby just wanted to talk to him. They'll be back."
Dean glares at Sam because, clearly, this whole thing is his fault, and he storms out of the kitchen and across the lawn to the garage.
Tinkering is therapeutic, Dean has always known this; so is art, which is kind of a surprise for him. The garage is his space, it's a shed really, and he comes out here to work on his Baby, but also to work on his projects. It helps him to calm down and it grounds him. Cas says it's a meditative practice. Sam knows Dean needs to be doing something always. There's an order for a crib, and Dean is laying as many protective sigils into it as he can. The trick is organizing them into a design such that the civilians don't realize they've got mumbo-jumbo set into their handcrafted artisanal work. It takes a lot of concentration to mark them correctly into the proper arrangement and design, so it's really the perfect thing to do right now, when thinking about last night, or right now, or how much he hates Sam are really not available to him. He doesn't want to deal, so he doesn't, and, oh, hey, in the process he's being productive...saving babies. The anti-fire sigils are particularly numerous on any and all things that relate to children. It's a special policy of Dean's in his new line of work.
An hour ticks by, then two. He gets lost in his craft. When hour three rolls around, Bobby and Cas roll up the drive. Dean is remarkably relieved that they're both alive.
"Hey, Cas," he calls, but Cas either doesn't hear him or doesn't want to talk. He avoids Dean's gaze, goes inside, and closes the door behind him with something like finality.
Dean rounds with his jaw clenched, "What the hell, Bobby?"
The older man shrugs, "Give him time," is all he says.
"What the hell did you talk about?"
"That's for Cas to tell you if and when he's ready," the shade of his trucker cap makes it difficult to read his expression, but Dean knows he's not getting any more out of Bobby. He stalks back to the shed.
He's too distracted to work on the crib anymore. He feels an overwhelming desire to throw it against the wall, but he knows that if he follows through on that he will regret it. It's not the damn crib's fault, and Dean's spent hours working on the fucking thing. Sam would likely consider his self-restraint a sign of emotional growth. Dean just finds it fucking frustrating.
He moves to Baby instead. Baby understands. She's sleek and shining, almost lethargic. She hasn't been getting a lot of road time lately.
"Well, you deserve a vacation," he mutters, lifting the hood. He turns on the radio, and fiddles with the engine. It's soothing. Communing with his baby brings him some measure of peace, gets his mind off of things that he would really rather not think about. He spends the afternoon working on her.
When he finally heads back to the house, he feels less edgy. The sun is setting and it's quiet. Too quiet. Bobby is napping in the living room. He seems to have claimed the blue armchair as his own. His hat is tilted down over his face and he's snoring. Dean knows that if he gets too close to the peaceful visage, he'll likely wind up with a broken nose and a knife in his gut, so he does the sensible thing (yet again: twice in one day…a new record. He'd pat himself on the back if not for his colossal stupidity last night) and gives him a wide berth.
Sam is in the kitchen, brooding. His face is contemplative, distracted. He's gonna give himself wrinkles if he doesn't ease up on the frowning.
"What's with the long face, Sasquatch?"
Sam looks up at him with a glare, but doesn't answer.
"Seriously, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," Sam answers too quickly.
"Sounds like it," Dean hops up on the counter.
Sam sighs like the goddamn big bad wolf, "I had a talk with Bobby."
Dean snorts, "I hear that's goin' around."
Sam glances derisively at him, "Cas is in his room, by the way."
Dean's eyes dart towards the stairs, but then he focuses again on his brother, "You're not getting off that easy. What'd the old man say that's got your panties in a twist?"
"Bite me, Dean."
"Touchy."
"Yeah, well," Sam positively glowers, looks a lot like he did at sixteen after a fight with John about moving for a hunt, changing schools mid-semester, missing his Mathlete tournament. It bodes ill as far as Dean is concerned, "he's already gotten to me and Cas, just wait till it's your turn,"
"Fuck." He hadn't thought of that…If Cas and Sam got the third degree (he shudders) what the hell is in store for him?
"Exactly," Sam tilts his beer in sardonic salute, "good luck."
Dean pushes off of the counter and propels himself out of the room with a new weight on his shoulders, trepidation sitting heavy in his bones. The door of Cas' room is cracked, the man himself sitting on the floor. He's meditating: straight spine, palms open on his knees, eyes closed. Dean can't tell whether he looks peaceful or not, and he exhales heavily. He's not going to interrupt however much he might want to. He turns away and droops back down the stairs, disappointed, annoyed, and vaguely relieved as well; wipes sweaty palms on his jeans as he stalks away.
The afternoon passes without incident. Cas is holed away in his room for all of it. Sam sulks. Bobby wakes from his nap and sorts through some of the curse boxes in the basement. Dean hides out in the garage; he fiddles around with the crib some more, but his heart's not in it and he's not exceptionally productive; easily distracted, mind circling in aimless, stressful circles that make him stop and mutter, 'son of a bitch,' at random, but frequent, intervals.
They order pizza for dinner since no one is in the mood to cook. Cas refuses to speak or make eye contact with anyone and scurries off to the armory immediately afterwards, shutting the door behind him. It's vaguely catlike, and therefore disturbing. Dean wants to chase after him; he also wants to slam his face into a brick wall. The latter might even be less painful. Sam offers to clean up. There's not much of it to do. They'd used paper plates, but Sam scrubs the few dishes they did use with something like righteous indignation, and Dean figures it's best to just leave him to it. If the OCD freak out helps settle the kid, he's all for it.
The house is eerily quiet, and Dean figures he might as well just succumb to the inevitable. He takes two beers out to the porch and waits. It doesn't take long for Bobby to come out and join him. He offers the older man the second brew without turning to look at him. Bobby pops the cap and sits beside him.
"Ain't you a boy scout."
"Well, they say no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, just tryin' to prove them wrong."
Bobby chuckles, "You think this is an Inquisition?"
"Just tryin' to be prepared."
"Well, damn, I left my manacles back home."
Dean smiles, wry and twisted, tries not to think of the manacles he'd felt, seen, and used in during his extended stay in hell, swigs his beer to chase away the images. They sit in silence. It's a nice night. The sun is setting and the lawn is cast in golds and oranges; the trees the line the property turning into shadows and the moon starting to crest.
"Well," Dean says after a while, when the silence gets too loaded and he begins to feel jittery with it, "let it out."
Bobby raises his brows.
"The talk," Dean replies, "Hit me, I'm ready."
"Boy, you want me to give you a talkin' to?" Bobby looks something like incredulous, suspicious, and just a little bit disappointed.
Dean shrugs. Honestly, he's not sure. Hearing what Bobby has to say will probably hurt like a bitch. There's a vaguely masochistic part of him, though, that wants the old man to tear him to shreds. Might feel good, purifying even. God knows there's enough for him to be reamed about.
"Am I gonna tell you anything you don't already know?" Bobby sighs gruff, exasperated.
Dean glances over at him, and Bobby shakes his head.
"Way I hear it," he continues, "Sam damn near chewed your ear off couple times over 'bout you bein' a damned fool—"
Dean winces. Did Sam bitch to Bobby? Did Cas? Jesus fucking shit.
"—and you been readin' yourself the riot act, actin' like an idiot to prove it—"
"—well don't pussy foot around, Bobby—"
"—I don't mean to," Bobby reminds him, "You said you were ready for the Inquisition."
"I lied."
Bobby snorts.
"Son," he continues more gently, "I'd give you a talkin' to if I thought I would say somethin' you ain't heard already."
"I ran out on them," Dean confesses, stiltedly, without looking towards Bobby. He can't meet the old man's eyes.
"And it was a damn stupid thing to do," Bobby confirms.
Dean nods, rueful and resigned.
"You came back, didn't you?"
"Yeah, but—" Yeah, but it was a near thing; yeah, but I still want to run some days; yeah, but I don't know what the fuck I'm doing; yeah, but what if next time I don't come back; don't come to my senses?
"You gonna do it again?"
Dean answers virulently, without question, almost bites out the word "No." His denial is strong and quick, too quick, but the truth is, he doesn't know the answer, not really. He doesn't mean to run, doesn't want to, but…he doubts himself. What if he fucks up again? It wouldn't exactly be the first time. He remembers his father driving away, leaving him and Sam behind, not knowing when or how or even if he would come back. He doesn't want to do that—couldn't bear doing that to Sam or Cas, feels sick at the thought.
"Son, you made a damn mistake," Bobby interrupts his thoughts, perhaps sensing their direction, "you ain't the first and you won't be the last. Way I hear it, you been beatin' yourself up about it plenty."
Not enough, as far as Dean is concerned.
"You've been tryin' to make up for it and you're doin' good."
Dean snorts disbelievingly and shoots Bobby a sharp, baleful stare, cocks his eyebrow, "You sure that's your first beer?"
"Ha ha."
Dean shakes his head.
"Boy, anybody ever told you that you got a self-punishing streak that a Catholic saint'd be jealous of?"
Dean huffs, "You mighta once or twice"
"You gotta stop this shit," Bobby sounds less patient, "You ain't hiding out in Nevada, you didn't run for the border, I don't see you sipping margaritas in Fiji."
"Doesn't mean that I didn't think of it."
"Doesn't make you guilty either," Bobby continues, "You set up a house here, you're lookin' after your brother and your angel. You're looking out for yourself more'n you have in a long damn time. You got a job; helpin' people, doin' somethin' you like, that you're good at…Boy, you're doin' good for yourself, so no, I ain't gonna give you a talkin' to."
Dean isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed; maybe both. He doesn't know what to say to any of that—isn't sure that he deserves any of the credit that Bobby seems inclined to give him. Cas is a mess, and, no matter what Dean does, he can't seem to make it better. Sam is edgy, lost in his own world, and he's taking better care of Dean than the other way around. Dean himself is on the verge of fucking up, running away, or slamming his head into a wall every other day. Bobby's faith is misplaced at best.
"Do I get a diploma or somethin'?"
"Don't get cocky," Bobby retorts, "Just cause you don't need a talkin' to today, that don't mean you won't be due for one soon enough."
"Thanks, for that."
Somehow the pragmatism makes Dean feel slightly less panicked. Bobby will keep him from being an asshole, and there's something vaguely comforting in the knowledge that he'll continue to rip Dean a new one if and when it becomes necessary.
They sit in an easier silence. The sky is full dark now, velvety blue layered with deepest purple with the barest hint of dying red on the horizon. Fireflies blink in and out of sight across the lawn. Dean's beer is almost gone before either of them speaks again.
"You and Cas looked awful cuddly this morning."
"Jesus, Bobby," Dean rasps, choking slightly. The hairs on his nape rise in slight panic.
"Can I give you some advice, son?"
"Can I stop you?" Dean snarks defensively.
Bobby glowers, not menacingly, but certainly intent.
"You got a rare opportunity here."
Dean blinks, "Yeah, I know."
Bobby leans forward, looking at an indeterminate point in the distance. He shakes his head, face shadowed.
"You know, a week before Karen died, we fought hard…"
Bobby rarely speaks about his wife, and Dean is startled, intrigued despite himself, afraid of what's to come. Nevertheless, when Bobby seems loath to continue, Dean prompts him.
"'Bout what?"
Bobby takes a deep breath, shakes himself out of his contemplation, "She wanted kids, I didn't—I was afraid I'd end up a sorry drunk bastard like my daddy."
Dean isn't sure what to say.
"Week later, she was dead," Bobby's voice is gruffer than Dean's ever heard it, "I regret that more'n you can imagine. Sometimes I think: what woulda happened if I hadn't been such a stubborn ass, where we woulda been today; what I'd do if I had the chance to do it over; a fresh start; if I could go back…"
"Jesus, I'm sorry, Bobby," Dean is at a loss for words. He has his own share of 'what ifs', of regrets and sorrows, but he can only imagine what Bobby must feel like. Unbidden, he's confronted with the image of Cas, lying dead on the side of the road, wings etched in ash, chest still beneath the falling rain. He clenches his jaw against the burn in the back of this throat, and blinks hard.
"I ain't askin' for your sympathy, son," Bobby continues, quiet and firm—there's a strange sort of understanding in his voice, almost like he can sense Dean's thoughts, or, at least, it seems so to him, "It's too late for me to change what's happened, and I'll regret that till my dyin' day," he pauses, crickets chirp in the night, and Bobby places a warm, steady hand on Dean's shoulder, "but the world's different now, Dean. I'm saying you got a rare opportunity here, and I'm askin' you: what're you gonna do about it?"
Bobby's looking at him now, and Dean tries to keep a poker face, struggles to hide the weird clenching in his heart and his stomach. He swallows, but he doesn't avert his gaze. Bobby's mouth twists wryly.
"Think about it, son," he advises. He squeezes Dean's shoulder, nods, and heads inside, leaving him alone in the night.
Dean sits there in silence, turning his empty beer bottle over and over between his hands. He remembers Karen; the shadow of her. Her kind smile and warm eyes, even in death. He remembers Bobby with her: the look on his face when he looked at her, how he would have done anything to protect her. He imagines what it might have been like before everything went wrong…what Bobby would be like if Karen had lived. It seems unfair—not that life, or death, is ever fair—that Bobby won't have a chance to make things right with her.
Bobby's words go around and around in his head. For some strange reason, Karen's words find their way into the mix. It's not like she and Dean had chatty tea parties or lengthy heart to hearts, but she said something to him, something about being in love, and it catches and claws within him, working itself into the convoluted knot in his chest, the one with Cas at its epicenter.
Dean breathes out slowly, stares at the shadowy trees that surround the property. The lights from the house leave golden squares against the lawn. The yard's going to need mowing soon. His thoughts drift to Sam: Sam in this brave new world, Sam in the old one. Sam running towards normal every chance he got. Sam being dragged backwards into the deepest pits of fucked up abnormal shit on hell or on earth. He thinks of Sam and Jess; of Sam and Sarah, Sam and Madison, Sam and fucking Ruby. Sam's every attempt at happiness, thrown back in his face, bloody, broken, utterly destroyed.
He bites his lip. Hard. He thinks of Cas: the inscrutable angel, the fallen friend, the person he's becoming. Cas lying dead on the side of a highway, Cas with tears on his cheeks, screaming in languages older than time, Cas curling towards him, tethered close. Dean closes his eyes against the images, swallows, sighs. It doesn't stop. Dean sees Cas reading in the sunlight, color blooming across his cheeks, brow furrowed in concentration; Cas' scars—wings written anew in flesh; his own hands on Cas' bare skin, Cas shivering beneath his fingertips—he sees Cas trying peaches, and Cas listening to music; Cas meditating, back straight and breathing even. He sees Cas with haunted eyes, Cas with the barest upward tilt to his mouth, Cas with his hair wet from the shower, Cas in Dean's old Zeppelin tee, sitting on the sofa with his knees pulled protectively to his chest.
Dean can't stem the tide of images. Neither can he stop the overwhelming sensations that accompany them—the riotous churning in his heart, in his head: sorrow, want, happiness, fear, awe, worry, and a thousand other things that Dean is unable or afraid to name.
He blinks his eyes open and gazes up at the sky. The night is illuminated by sporadic bursts of light and accompanied by the distant cracks of premature fireworks. His thoughts continue to swirl in a vicious, confusing, terrifying mess punctuated only by sharp jolts in his abdomen and Bobby's echoing words.
Dean sits on the porch for a long time, head bowed, beer bottle long since discarded, hands clasped loosely, as if in prayer. Who he'd pray to, or what he'd pray for, he has no fucking clue. Yet, sitting in a penitent attitude somehow feels right after his confessional, after an absolution that didn't alleviate anything, that only made him more confused, even guiltier.
When he finally rises to his feet and goes inside, his ass is numb and the house is nearly silent. They left the lights on in the sitting room, but the rest of the ground floor is draped in shadow. The door to the armory is closed, just the tiniest sliver of light along the edge to indicate that someone might be inside. Dean hesitates outside of it for the barest second before he goes up the stairs.
Bobby is crashed in Dean's room; the snoring easily discernible from the hall. At least someone is having a descent night's sleep, he thinks ruefully. Sam's room is unsurprisingly empty, and Dean finds his brother in the library.
He leans against the doorframe, "Burnin' the midnight oil there, champ?"
Sam hasn't showered, his hair is a mess, and he's scruffy. There are dark circles under his eyes, which he rubs with the heels of his hands.
"Just trying to finish this before I go to bed."
"You look like you're cramin' for finals: you know you don't have a deadline, right?"
Sam scowls at him, but the hostility is undermined by his wide yawn. Dean smirks. The expression comes much easier to him than he feels, but it's a nice distraction, the act; falling into the role of the cocky, obnoxious big brother. He cocks a questioning eyebrow in the face of Sam's frown.
"You survived your talk with Bobby," Sam notes.
Dean shrugs, "No visible scarring."
Sam shakes his head, and, if Dean didn't know any better, he'd say it was in solidarity.
"Try to get some sleep, Sam, you look like shit."
"Yeah, go look in a mirror, asshat."
Dean takes a shower, pulls on grey sleep pants and his oldest, rattiest Guns N' Roses t-shirt. His hair is still damp when he walks barefoot down the stairs.
There's still a light beneath the armory door. It should be inviting, but, even so, Dean pauses before he pushes against the wood.
Cas is sitting in the far corner of the room. He's got his legs folded and he's leaning forward, almost folded in half, reading a book that rests before him on the floor. Dean takes a moment to appreciate Cas' flexibility.
"Hello, Dean," he says without looking up.
"Heya, Cas," Dean hasn't moved farther than the threshold.
Cas marks his place, and sits back. He's haloed in the golden glow of the solitary lamp, and the sight is strangely arresting.
He blinks and tilts his head, and, suddenly, he's just Cas again. Dean's not afraid to admit that he likes that better.
"Are you coming in?"
"Uh—yeah, sure."
Dean walks across the room and drops to the floor across from Cas, who tracks his movements with wide blue eyes, hands folded neatly in his lap—the injured one resting lightly atop the one that is whole. Dean catches sight of the lurid paperback's cover—Cien anos de soledad.
"How was your conversation with Bobby?"
"Not sure," Dean answers honestly, "How about you?"
Cas takes a deep breath (on anyone less dignified, Dean would call that a sigh) and frowns down at his bandaged palm, "It was…enlightening."
"Enlightening?"
Cas narrows his eyes in the face of Dean's skepticism, "It helped to put some things in perspective."
"Right."
"Did he not offer you wisdom and insight?"
Bobby's echoing question, 'What're you gonna do about it?' resounds ever louder.
Dean shrugs, "Yeah, something like that."
Cas squints at him and nods, apparently satisfied.
The sit silently for a moment.
Dean's almost afraid to ask. His mouth is dry and his jaw clenches and he feels a weight on his shoulders, but he has to anyway: "Is that why you've been quiet all day? Cause Bobby helped you achieve enlightenment?"
"No." No hesitation, no wavering, no eye contact. Dean's stomach drops; he feels sick and desperate. He's become an insecure twelve year old girl (though Sam might say that he's just becoming more emotionally developed: upgraded from a teaspoon's range of emotion to a much more varied and impressive tablespoon's, to the benefit of everyone else but himself); he wants to hide his face behind Cas' book, but he remains perfectly still instead.
"Then why?"
Cas doesn't immediately respond. He focuses on his hand, the good one, which he flexes, slowly and carefully. Once, twice, three times; he closes the digits into a fist and rests it gently atop his gauze clad palm. Dean is entranced by the motion, the play of Cas' fingers, long and thin, unmarred, as his own are, by breaks and scars.
"Bobby's presence here has illuminated some things for me," he finally intones, solemnly, almost dejectedly.
Dean wonders vaguely if the stilted language is being intentionally deployed for dramatic effect. If so, it's working wonderfully. The unintentionality makes it worse somehow, some cruel universal joke to add to the list of things meant to break Dean to pieces.
"I don't have a birthday," Cas finally admits, looking at Dean with wide eyes.
Dean, who had been expecting almost anything else, just sort of gapes like a fish and blinks bemusedly, and wonders if he ought to clean his ears out or something because he can't have heard that right.
"What?" Good going, Winchester, great, super helpful.
"I don't have a birthday," Cas repeats, more slowly, for clarity since Dean is clearly an inattentive moron, "The license that Bobby provided, the identity cards and papers," he shrugs stiffly, "they had a date on them, a place, but they aren't mine."
Dean takes a deep, steadying breath through his nose: he is in way over his head, "It's not my real birthday on mine either," he offers.
Cas shakes his head, frowning more intensely, "Dean, I don't have a birthday," he affirms, "I was never born. My Father created me amongst multitudes before time had meaning…I don't—I don't have parents, in the human sense, my Father, he cast me out from my home, and my brothers and sisters…"
Cas trails off with a distant look in his eyes that just about breaks Dean's heart in two. He continues, much more quietly, so much so that Dean has to strain to hear the words, "I miss them."
Cas, Dean realizes, is homesick. This, he thinks with a distant, but resolute mindset, is yet another reason why god deserves to be punched in the fucking face.
"Hey," he moves so that he's no longer across from Cas, but, instead, next to him; both of them together in the corner, in the circle of light, "it's normal to miss your family." Dean doesn't even hesitate. Not even the memories of Zachariah or Uriel or Raphael propel him into some insensitive shtick about how Cas is better off—though he is tempted.
Cas shakes his head, "It's not the first time that I have been away from them, but it is the first time that I have reacted in this way."
Dean wants to reach out to him more than anything, but he stays his hand, "Part of being human—human feelings, Cas."
"They 'suck,'" Cas says this with all of the vehemence of a wrathful angel, and all the nuance of someone trying out a new phrase for the first time. It's a miracle that Dean doesn't laugh, but instead nods in sympathy.
"Sure does, but where would we be without 'em?" he thinks of the brief interlude in which lovey-dovey Sam had been soulless and shudders. The agony of feeling—grief, doubt, fear, anger, (he glances at Cas) longing—could eat you alive, but, without those damn messy human emotions, they'd all be monsters through and through.
"Bobby is your family," Cas continues, "he loves you—"
No one has ever said that, and, though he knows it to be true, it's arresting to hear the confidence in the statement—like Bobby's love for Sam and Dean is as sure a fact as the sun rising in the East.
"—it's humbling to observe that."
Dean would wager that it's lonely on the outside of it, too. Bobby cares about Cas, worries about him; in time, he might take him in as much as Sam and Dean, but it will take time.
"Fuck the papers," Dean says, and Cas looks at him sharply, "Fuck them, you can pick your birthday, whenever you want it to be. We'll make you a cake, and sing, and get you a damn piñata if you want one—"
Cas' eyebrows rise higher with every word.
"—and screw whether you were born the human way or god pulled you out of his damn hat, you're here now, and we're gonna celebrate that, all right? No matter what the fucked up circumstances—"
He can't stem the tide of words, and he has to look away from Cas to continue without blushing or getting flustered, because, yeah, teenaged girl, only worse.
"—you know what, Cas? Your dad? He's a colossal dick. The asshole makes a huge mess, leaves you to clean it up, and then fucking punishes you for it? What the fuck? Way I see if you deserve a damn medal for what you did, and your dad can kiss my ass. You don't deserve this shit. And I don't know if Bobby said this or not, so I'm gonna go right ahead, cause fuck it: I'm damn proud of you for dealing with this fucking shit so fucking well. 'Cause I'd have gone mental by now."
By the time he's finished, he's breathing heavily, flushed, angry, and embarrassed as fuck.
He's almost afraid that he's pissed Cas off or made it worse somehow. Dean's too much of a coward to read Cas' face or even look at him, so he glares at the cover of Cas' book like it's done him a great personal wrong. Fucking screw solitude.
"Dean," Cas says after a full minute has passed. Dean can feel his gaze, tangible, heavy, focused, "Dean, look at me."
Cas rarely demands anything of him (these days anyway; he's been a damn bossy little shit in the past), but Dean doesn't move, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when gentle fingertips come to rest on his jaw.
"Jesus," he curses, but he allows the fingers to guide him, forcing his chin upwards, forcing him to meet Cas' gaze.
Cas' eyes are a deeper blue somehow, they're alert and alive and they are intent on Dean, scrutinizing him, absorbing every inch of him, looking through him. Dean swallows, couldn't look away if you paid him; he's trapped.
"Thank you," Cas whispers, like a prayer, like a plea, like a damn benediction. Like Dean is the center of the universe, and Dean is humbled and terrified and floored by the fact that he must have done something right for once.
He clears his throat, "Any—Anytime, Cas."
The tiniest smile ticks the corner of Cas' mouth, "Why must you always make light of things?"
Because it's the only way I make it out of this alive, the only way I make it out in one piece, the only way you don't burn me to ashes, because that's what you're doing. You're doing it more than if you used your grace and burned me clean out.
Cas still has his fingers on Dean's chin—white hot points of contact, even though Cas' skin is cool to the touch—and he's searching him with his eyes. It's giving Dean chills. He needs to pull back, he needs to move away. He's about a second away from leaning into the fire—it's warm and inviting and frightening all at once—he needs to back off or he's going to get burned.
Dean sighs, and it takes all his willpower to move away, to disengage. Cas looks confused and somewhat disappointed.
"I'm sorry," he offers.
Dean shakes his head, "You got nothin' to be sorry for."
Cas looks determinedly away; Dean wants to bash his head into a wall repeatedly.
It's with his bandaged hand covered by his good one, and his eyes fixed firmly away that Cas asks, "Will you stay tonight?"
Dean startles, "You want me to?"
Cas turns toward him quickly, quizzically; "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because I—" –kissed you last night? Because we cuddled? Because I wrapped myself around you? Because you're becoming my center of gravity and that has to freak you out? Because I want you and I shouldn't? Because you should run away from me as fast as you can? Because I'll fucking hurt you?
Cas tilts his head to the side, scowls, confused.
"Never mind," they won't talk about it. Sam would pitch a fit about missed opportunities and stupidity and give him bitch face #51 have you learned nothing?, but Sam doesn't need to know, and if Cas doesn't remember or Cas doesn't want to bring it up, then far be it from Dean to talk about it. Denial is the better part of valor (he can hear Sam's correction and chooses to ignore it). He shoves the memory in some deep, dark corner of himself locks it away, safely to be ignored and torment him in equal measure undoubtedly. Dean makes healthy decisions like that, "Sure, I'll stay."
They rearrange the nest from last night, turn out the light, and Dean hesitates for only a second before he lies down, facing Cas facing him.
"You know," Dean whispers, somehow it's easier in the dark, "You can talk about them—if it'll help, if you wanna—your brothers."
Cas places his injured hand atop Dean's in the negative space between them. There's maybe a foot of separation and somehow, to Dean, it feels simultaneously like an aching chasm and yet no space at all. He's not sure how that's even possible. Cas' hand on his is warm and steadying. It's strong and vulnerable and it makes his heart leap in some sort of agonized joy that confuses the fuck out of him. He feels like he could climb a damn mountain and should throw himself off a cliff at the same damn time. He's a contradictory fucking mess, and it's confusing as fuck, but he wouldn't give it up if you paid him. He wouldn't trade this for anything, and he doesn't care how fucking pathetic that makes him. Mooching off a goddamn vulnerable fallen angel whose millennium old ass should know better than to trust Dean or reach for him like he's his fucking rock. The fact that Cas had seen Dean in hell and is willing to fucking lie here next to him, offer up his injury and his weakness and himself—Dean feels the magnitude of that, wants to shy away from it; it's like looking into the sun, and the lump in his throat makes it hard to breathe.
Cas is quiet for a long time before he speaks.
"We are not like you and Sam."
Dean shakes his head with a rueful laugh, "Most humans aren't like me Sam."
"I suppose so."
Cas starts off stiltedly, slowly, but becomes steadier as he goes: he tells Dean about Samandriel's kindness and Inias' faith. Hester' protectiveness and Rachel' fierceness; Balthazar's playfulness and loyalty; Hael's artistry and grace. He sounds pained when he speaks of Uriel, whose betrayal aches more now than ever, and Anna, whose death brings Cas new depths of grief. Dean listens to these secrets and stories that Cas has never told another soul. He laughs and he sighs, and, when Cas sheds a tear or ten, Dean wipes them away.
"I wonder what's happened to them," he admits, gruffly, and Dean can tell that this, most of all, is what troubles him, the way the words are torn from him, "If they were punished as I was…it was not their fault…they should not be punished for my sins."
Dean doesn't know what to say, so he just holds Cas' hand pulls it so that it's resting over his heart, waits for Cas to go on, which he does.
Eventually, Cas' words slow and slur; Dean's eyes become heavy.
"Thank you," Cas whispers, still clutching Dean's fingers.
Dean's smile is soft and somnolent, tender, "Anytime, Cas."
They fall asleep together, and though they move in the night—closer to one another, Cas tucked to Dean's side and Dean curled around him—neither wakes till morning, and neither dreams.
Bobby stays for another week, which passes more or less without incident. The actual holiday is celebrated with a red-blooded American barbeque and two of Jamie's pies: triple berry and apple. True to form, Cas demolishes two cheeseburgers, and Dean eats half a pie on his own. They watch The Patriot, which Sam and Cas are determined to ruin for Dean; between Sam's grudge against Mel Gibson and Cas' disgust with the historical inaccuracy. Bobby finds the whole thing hilarious.
Dean takes Bobby to Ms. Liddy's diner. It's across from the shop, and Dean pops by for coffee on a regular basis. Ms. Liddy fucking loves him. She also makes the best pancakes he's ever had in his life. Ever. Bobby agrees with Dean's assessment. The proprietress herself comes out to meet Dean's 'daddy' and says that she can 'see where your boy got his good looks.' Dean snorts into this coffee and doesn't correct her. Liddy flirts so hard with Bobby that the old man actually becomes flustered and it's kinda adorable. Dean's gonna tease him probably forever.
Bobby makes friends with Jack Wilson—turns out they know of one another through the complex network of hunters. Wilson's met Rufus Turner a few times, and he and Bobby share some stories and a bottle of Johnny Walker blue.
Sam and Bobby work on the library. Bobby spends time with Dean in his shed, looking over his work with a proud and discerning eye. Cas and Bobby sit together in the town square in the afternoon or on the porch in the evening; silently, occasionally speaking. Dean wonders what they talk about, but neither of them volunteers that information, and Dean doesn't ask.
Sam is still quieter than usual. He looks tired and troubled, but no matter what Dean says he won't spill. Cas seems quieter as well, but it's a steady sort of quiet, not quite peaceful, but not too far off either. Contemplative, maybe, thoughtful. The circles under his eyes are less pronounced, and he's healing relatively quickly. He and Dean have been sleeping together every night (ostensibly because they collectively decided that Cas should camp out in the armory until the danger of firework triggers have completely passed, which doesn't actually necessitate Dean's presence, but Dean's presence continues regardless.); there have only been two nightmares in the past week. No one comments on it; especially not Dean, though Bobby shoots him knowing looks and Sam makes bitch face #12: how are we related? every morning.
Before they know it, Bobby's car is loaded up with his duffle, five hex boxes, the Japanese collection from the library, and two of Jamie's pies for the road.
Cas is waiting by the car for his farewell, and Sam goes back inside up to grab a codex that he forgot, leaving Bobby and Dean alone on the porch.
"You boys behave yourselves," he says gruffly.
"Don't be a stranger, old man," he returns.
Bobby nods, as if to say just try to keep me away, "We'll see if Garth managed to start another apocalypse."
Dean chuckles appreciatively, then clears his throat and shuffles his feet.
"You know, Bobby," he doesn't look at the man as he continues, "You aren't like him…your dad. You're a better man than he ever was," a good father.
Bobby works his mouth, but he doesn't say anything for a minute, "Thanks, son."
Dean shrugs, embarrassed.
"I'm prouda you."
"Thanks, Bobby."
"All right," Bobby clears his throat purposefully, "Im gonna hit the road before we start sob into our handkerchiefs."
Dean laughs.
Hugs are exchanged, promises to call are made. Bobby drives away, leaving his three boys in the driveway, with real life to return to.
AN:
Welcome to Chapter 15. I can't believe we've made it this far, and I just want to thank all of you amazing people for reading and commenting and encouraging this fic. You're the reason that it keeps going, and I cannot express how much I appreciate your support.
I hope you are all okay in the wake of that traumatic premiere ('cause I'm not). I was worried that the new season would make writing harder, but instead I think that writing is going to be a cathartic form of canonical denial, where hurt/comfort and domesticity reign supreme.
I would seriously love to hear what you thought of this chapter. Sending lots of love your way until next time. xo