Welcome back to the story! I have this chapter for today and will probably get chapter 7 out tomorrow, because it's nearly finished - they seem to be getting longer each time and I'm not sure where to stop. Anyway, here are Dean and Cas working away and dealing with things as usual. And Sam comes over for the evening. Enjoy!

Chapter 6

Swish. Swish. Swish.

Dean grabbed the sides of the thick plastic trash sack and shook it hard. Broken up chunks of plaster and fragments of wooden batten shuffled together and compacted down - plenty more room in there yet.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

He straightened up, pulled off his tattered gloves - ripping down walls was hell on the fingers - and pressed his hands into the small of his back. He'd done the upstairs, including completely gutting one of the attic rooms, which luckily was the only one with significant damp - due to a crack in the water tank in the roof space above. Then he'd started on the downstairs and was currently working on what had probably once been a dining room, its rectangular shape and proximity to the kitchen giving a couple of clues. Dean wouldn't have it as a dining room, though. It'd make a great cinema and games room instead. He'd get blackout blinds to cover the windows.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

Just the one area to replace in here, anyway. Most of the old plaster was pretty much intact - a bit of filler would sort it out. Perfectly smooth walls were overrated, Dean decided. He'd strip the old paper, slap on some filler, paint over the top and call it rustic. Or maybe put some wood panelling here and there. Plenty of time for decisions like that in the coming months anyway.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

Cas was still at it. At this rate he'd have the arms of a blacksmith, scything steadily and evenly through the overgrown wilderness for hours upon hours. He never seemed to tire or falter, except occasionally when Dean was pausing in his own work, and Cas then would stop and look up and peer toward the house and only resume when Dean had come to the window and waved.

He wasn't going to say anything to Cas about his friend's need to keep him in eye or or at least earshot at all times, being very well aware that he himself was deliberately working his way around the house in tandem with Cas's movements. All it took was a sidestep or a quick duck out the window for him to see his friend working steadily away, his body twisting in Sam's cut-off jeans and a succession of bargain multipack shirts, which started off each day white and by the evening were mottled brown from dust and pollen. Cas also wore a broad-brimmed straw hat that Dean had been fascinated to watch him weave together in one evening out of long stalks of grass that he'd cut during the day.

They were making good progress, especially since they'd got hooked up to the electricity, and power tools were now an option where brute force and persistence weren't enough. And they could charge up the laptop, which meant Dean had had to supervise Cas's online ordering or the ancient celestial being would forget that there were such things as ride-on mowers and powered hedge trimmers and stick with medieval technology. At least he'd got the guy to wear some shoes, even if he had picked out some sandals that probably dated back to biblical times.

Dean pulled his gloves back on and carried on with his work, chipping off the crumbling plaster to a sound vertical edge where later he'd insert a section of drywall and then fill in any gaps.

His phone rang with familiar guitar chords.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Hi, Dean. Are you still good for tonight?"

"Yeah, sure. Got a nice pile of stuff to burn. D'you get the steaks yet?"

"Yes, Dean, I've got all the food - you can't just have steak on its own."

"Why the hell not? It's all a red-blooded man needs!" The expected sigh whistled out of Dean's phone. He smirked. "It's okay, Sammy - I know you'll bring your girly frilly green bits no matter what."

Another sigh. "Dean… You can't just live on-"

"Can it, baby bro. If you haven't converted me to salad-munching by now, what hope d'you think you've got?"

"None."

"Glad to hear it. See you tonight."

"Bye, Dean."

They were having a bonfire. Dean had ripped out a lot of old wood, including most of the stairway down to the basement and a fair bit of batten and lathe from the walls, which would burn like tinder. He'd piled it all up in a safe area of the driveway, clearing away any vegetation that might catch and send the whole place up. And with any luck there'd be no wind tonight, because he wasn't risking flying sparks - not at this end of the long, dry summer.

"Dean? Dean!"

It was still there - just that slight edge of strain in Cas's tone that would push over into worry then maybe even into panic if Dean didn't respond. He hauled up on the old sash window till it opened wide and stuck his head out.

"Hey, Cas."

His friend was gripping the scythe tightly in both hands, staring toward the house, but the tension dissolved out of his body as Dean called and he changed his stance to lean casually on the handle of the sharp tool.

"I couldn't hear you, Dean."

"I'm still here."

"Yes."

They stared at each other. Sometimes that was how it went - both of them needing to see but not really needing to exchange any words in particular.

"Sammy's coming over tonight."

Cas nodded.

"He's bringing steaks. And potatoes. And beer."

"He'll bring salad too."

Dean shrugged. "I guess."

The familiar head tilt and squint was accompanied by a twist of Cas's lips that was almost a smirk.

Dean ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck and then looked at Cas again who was definitely smiling now.

"Yeah, as you were, sunshine," said Dean.

Cas resumed his scything and Dean carried on with his own work, thinking about words and how few of them needed to be actually said out loud.

Over the last few days, since Cas had stopped fussing over Dean's ankle - which had really, genuinely been fine after a night's rest - they'd established a simple end-of-day routine. They'd work until late afternoon and then Cas would appear. And he'd be carrying two little woven-grass baskets. This was Dean's cue to put down his tools and head out, following Cas across the cut-short wilderness, down through the pines and into the shady woodland, and often right down to the river bank. And after just twenty minutes or so, they'd make their way back up the path to the house, both of their baskets full with little green leaves to go with their evening meal. Dean would often nibble a few as he walked along, especially the garlicky ones which he reckoned would go nicely in burgers, once he'd got the kitchen up and running.

So Sammy might not have been able to convert him, either with his prepackaged mixes of lollo rosco and frizzy or whatever the hell they were called, or with his dirt-filled farmer's market baskets of so-called 'goodness'. But Cas knew where the best wild leaves were, and untamed salad had struck a chord and won Dean over.

One evening they'd finished pretty late, and when they got down to the riverbank the air had been cool and blue with fading light. Cas had stooped over a tangle of creepers and blooms, his hair falling forward over his face, one cheek and the side of his nose visible, pink from heat and not enough sunscreen. He'd brushed aside a creeper to get to some tender shoots and a sweet scent had drifted across to Dean.

It had been one hell of a long time since he'd sat in an English lit class, and Dean didn't recall paying any attention whatsoever all that long time ago - maybe he'd been trying to impress a girl? - but some lines popped into his mind.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

The lines seemed to fit with Cas in that moment - he knew the land and the growing things, as he'd said. And, hey, maybe he'd been the inspiration? Shakespeare was a flick of a finger away to a guy who'd seen stuff evolve from primordial slime.

Anyway, Dean would never say the lines out loud, but they fitted.

"Are you sure, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. This is how real men cook on a bonfire." He didn't need to look at Cas to see the eyeroll. Dean wrapped the final steak in tinfoil and lobbed it into the edge of the fire, where he'd futzed about with the burning wood to make a kind of flat area where stuff would cook if you just left it alone. The wrapped-up potatoes had already been baking for twenty minutes or so. They'd be done at the same time as the steak - and yeah, maybe their skins'd be charred, but split them open and pop in a good dollop of butter and they'd be perfect.

"Seriously, Dean. We could afford to just go ahead and buy a proper grill."

"No way. I said I'll build one, and I'll build one when I'm done with the house. This is fine for now. Proper campfire cookery."

"What do you know about camping?"

"Enough," said Dean. "Enough to know that if your steaks are the best quality all they need is a quick look at the flame and then to get themselves into my belly. So the question is, Sammy-boy, did you get the best steaks?"

"Yes, Dean. I did."

"Well, good."

Cas kept out of it, as usual, when Dean was enjoying needling his brother. The ex-angel sat in one of the new camping chairs, his legs crossed, a blue plaid fleece blanket wrapped around his shoulders against the evening chill. That was the trouble with bonfires - you only got cooked on one side. Dean backed up a few steps away from the flames - the heat was intense. He picked up his beer from where he'd stood it on a flat rock and took a grateful swig.

"You've done a lot," said Sam. "Both of you. It's looking good."

"There's a long way to go yet," said Dean. "But, yeah. I'm pretty pleased."

The flames crackled and roared. It wouldn't burn for long. All that light, dry wood - a half hour more'd see it reduced to ash. The food would be done before then, though. Dean's stomach was well ready for a feast. Nothing like hard, physical work and fresh air to work up a good appetite.

They watched the flames and talked about nothing in particular, sitting in the new camping chairs which rocked on the uneven ground. Sammy looked like a crane fly, his knees stuck up near his chin.

After a while, Dean hooked the food out with a length of twisted fence-wire and used his work gloves to open up the foil packages. As he'd predicted - fluffy potatoes, steaks charred on the outside and pink in the middle. And the bonus of a suitably staggered face from Sammy when Dean chowed down on Cas's foraged salad, with all the style and grace of a horse ripping into a stack of hay.

They'd nearly finished what qualified as a top-notch feast when Sam said it:

"I thought I might head over to Rexford tomorrow."

"Yeah?" Dean set down his plate and picked up his beer. He took a small sip, his full stomach twisting with unease. "What's happening in Rexford? Some fancy farmers' market?" No. It wasn't that. Not with Sam's carefully neutral tone.

His brother shrugged. "Just sounds like there might be something going on. You know…"

Cas stopped licking the steak juice off his fingers. "What?" he said, sharply. "What's going on, Sam?"

"Oh, well, maybe nothing. Some cattle were attacked. It just sounded a bit… our kind of thing maybe."

Dean shifted, his boots scraping on the rough ground, his chair creaking. He grabbed its arms and shuffled it another length back from the bonfire, but though his face was near scorching hot, the evening chill struck a shiver along his spine.

"You want me to come with?" The words fell from his mouth and out into the still air and they might have been written in bonfire flames, leaping up and out and threatening to burn down what had only just begun.

"No! No, Dean, you don't need to come. It's probably nothing."

"You shouldn't be hunting alone, Sammy - you know that." He'd have to go along. He'd have to. To protect his brother, to save whatever lives could be saved.

"Really, Dean, it's nothing." Sam scrubbed his hands over his face. "Dammit, I should've kept my mouth shut."

The warm circle of bonfire light had been like a cave a moment ago - a safe, bright haven in the darkness, just the same as the house and its plot of land had seemed like a small, safe haven away from the wide world of danger and death.

But it had all been an illusion, hadn't it? The bonfire would soon burn out and the darkness would engulf Dean once again. And, even though, just these past few days he had got a taste of freedom, of what he really wanted to do with his life - it was all just a trick, all a falsehood.

Because what choice did he really have? What choice had he ever had? Who was he trying to kid, thinking he could give all that up and let people either save themselves or die?

Dean's throat ached and the back of his neck tightened, setting off a chain of jabs throughout his scalp. The trap was closing on him again.

He couldn't look at Cas. And he didn't want to look at Sam, because he knew there'd be a mix of guilt and worry and maybe relief, and then Dean's big brother/pseudo parent instincts would kick up another gear and he'd be right there in full-on hunting mode. Something tore inside him.

"Look, don't worry about it Dean. I won't go."

"Sammy…"

"No, really. I won't. I shouldn't've… I'm sorry."

Sam hauled himself out of his camping chair, long legs catching on the criss-crossing frame and tipping the flimsy structure over.

Dean stood up and reached out to his brother but was held back by a sudden iron-hard clamp around his wrist.

"Dean." Cas's voice was as hard as his grip.

Dean shook his arm, but it was like being handcuffed. "Let me go."

"No. I will not. Let you go. Dean."

Cas's eyes blazed in the firelight, burnt down now to a red glow.

"Okay, look, I'm really sorry," said Sam, holding up both hands and backing away toward his brand new chunk of silver Audi. "I'm just gonna… uh, thanks for the food." He was halfway into the car. "And sorry."

The door slammed, the wheels crunched and spun and kicked up dry dust as Sam pulled away way faster than his usual over-cautious style.

Dean was frozen, staring after his brother's tail-lights.

His mind and his heart were screaming at him - to grab Baby's keys, to get in and drive - to follow, follow, follow - to catch up with Sammy and be with him, whatever he got into, and keep him safe and fight off whatever needed to be fought, no matter the cost to himself, because this was his brother.

"Dean."

He couldn't… He couldn't do this. He couldn't stay here and let everything - Sam, the rest of the hunters, the world - go to hell. He couldn't. Saving people, hunting things - it was still the family business and it was his business and always would be. That was who Dean Winchester was.

"Dean."

It wasn't a trap - not really. Those confining, constricting walls were built all around him for a reason - so that he could be strong to protect people - to save as many as he could, to spend his life in blood and fighting, before what was out there finally called time and he left the world forever.

Then Dean was jerked off balance, spinning and nearly falling, and both of his wrists were cuffed - crushed so tight the bones grated painfully together, Cas's long, strong fingers whitening, his knuckles standing out with the force of his grip.

"Dean, look at me!"

Dean looked at his hands, he looked at Cas's hands - red light on one side, blue shadows on the other, their forearms coming together in a diagonal cross, muscles straining and rigid.

"Dean!"

The blazing heat drove away moisture on one cheek but on the shadow side warm tracks trickled down. Why wasn't he going? Why was he still here and not racing after his brother?

"Dean Winchester, you will look at me now!"

His gaze jerked up and Cas was nose-to-nose with him, his face split half red and half blue like an ancient warrior painted for battle.

Dean's mouth worked open and shut, but nothing came out. He choked, swallowed, tried desperately to hold it all in behind the stone-built walls whose foundations went deep, deep down into his soul - but then he was shaking. His whole body and his whole mind were shaking and he collapsed and would have fallen, had those strong arms not shifted their grip to his shoulders and guided him down to kneel on the hard earth.

Then Cas was all around him, his arms wrapping around Dean's back, stroking up and down his body, his head pressing over one shoulder and then the other, holding him together, stopping him from flying apart and scattering into the night - rebuilding Dean even, as he had done once before from the ragged streamers of his tortured human soul and the scattered dust of creation.

"Cas…" Dean's voice was as ragged and tortured as his soul had ever been.

"Shhh."

Firm, gentle hands stroked through Dean's hair.

"Cas, I have to…" He hiccuped and sagged limply but was still held tight against Cas's chest.

"No, Dean. No you don't."

Dean took a hitching shuddering breath, but Cas wouldn't let him speak.

"You are one man among billions, Dean. One man. And you have done enough. You have done enough."

Dean sniffed. "I have to save them, Cas. I have to save them all."

Then he was being held at arm's length, both shoulders gripped tight enough to raise a dozen souls from perdition.

Cas's eyes locked with his and compelled him to listen. "Are you an Angel of the Lord, Dean? Are you divine? Are you God?"

Dean had asked Cas that once, and meant it. But Cas was glaring at him, like he was expecting a response.

Dean shook his head. "No." He sniffed again. A drip fell from his jawline onto the front of his shirt. "But I still have to-"

"No. No, Dean. You've saved many, many lives and souls. Now it's time for you to be saved."

Dean huffed a cracked laugh. "You already did that."

Now the blue eyes that met his were hooded with sadness and tinged with red not just from the bonfire. Cas's voice cracked too, worn down to a soft, defeated thread. "And you still don't think you deserved it, do you?"

Dean's eyes prickled again. What the hell was up with him? "I don't know," he said, and then whispered, "I don't know, Cas."

One hand left Dean's shoulder and cupped the side of his face and he couldn't help but lean into it.

"You're tired, Dean. You're one man and you're tired and you've done enough and it's time for others to save you for a change - especially me."

Dean started to croak a protest. It was Cas who needed saving. Cas who'd been dragged off to the Empty and come back broken and hiding and confused.

"And it's time for you to save me, Dean. Again. Just like you did before."

"I didn't…"

"Yes, you did. When I raised you from the pit, you saved and rebuilt me just as much as I saved your soul and rebuilt your body."

Dean just stared at him. He stared at Cas's familiar face - so very familiar and yet so different from the mix of innocence and certainty and righteous fervour that had first shone through Jimmy Novak's features. Cas had aged, not just in his human appearance but so much more in the limitless depths of his eyes. Perhaps he had aged more in these past few years than he had in his whole existence before coming to Earth and living with humanity - and being with Dean.

"You taught me how to live, Dean. You taught me how to feel."

How to feel? How could he have taught an angel anything about feeling, when mostly he couldn't separate one tangled emotion from another? And there'd been so many, many times when Dean didn't want to feel anything at all.

But he trusted Cas, and Cas was right here with him, kneeling on the ground, making him listen, giving him things to believe in and live by, telling him that they could save each other.

And he was so tired.

The dry, compacted ridges of earth dug into Dean's shins. The bonfire had burned down and a chill breeze shivered beneath his shirt. But Cas's hands were warm, one on his shoulder, one on his cheek. And, for just a brief moment, Cas's lips were warm on his forehead.

Then the ex-angel unfolded himself from the ground, wincing and brushing grit off his legs below the ragged cut-off edges of his jeans. He reached down to Dean and Dean took his hand and let Cas pull him up.

"We'd-" Dean cleared his throat. "We'd better tidy up," he said.

"Yes." Cas hadn't let go of his hand. "And tomorrow?"

Dean looked down at their hands - him and Cas, joined together by a simple touch, and joined together in this new, small place, both of them trying to find a better way to live, after all that had happened to them.

He sniffed and blinked. "Gonna drywall the attic room," he mumbled. "And start on the kitchen - scrub the rust off the range." He should let go of Cas's hand. It was starting to get weird. "Uh, how about you?"

"Oh, well," said Cas. His eyes fell, hidden beneath his lashes, and he scrubbed the toes of his Jesus sandals in the dirt. Then he looked up at Dean with a small, secretive smile and said, "I have a long, long list."

Ooh, another angsty crisis ending in softness. The boys are slowly healing, but they have a long road ahead.