This story's progressing amazingly slowly, considering it hasn't even reached the point of the title yet. It will, eventually, but I'm enjoying letting it sprawl far too much to rush ahead. I think I'd like to live in it for quite a while. And the two chapters per weekend schedule is working out quite well, chemo or no chemo. So, on with the show! We left our boys sharing a bubble bath...

Chapter 9

"Dean!"

Dean gripped the thick plastic wrap in both hands and pulled. It stretched but didn't tear.

"Dean!"

"Give me a freaking chance, Cas!"

He shivered. Water ran off his legs and dripped onto the brand-new plastic-wrapped mattress where, earlier, he'd dumped the brand-new, also plastic-wrapped towels. "Come on, you little-" The wrapping tore suddenly and pink and blue fluffy luxury spilled out. Dean snatched up a pink bath sheet, shook it out and draped it around his shoulders, gratefully pulling it tight. "Thank fuck for that."

"Dean!"

"I'm fucking coming already!"

Cas was still in the bath - warm, and all soft and relaxed, no doubt - which Dean had been too, until he'd had to climb out and run to get the new towels, bare-ass naked, soaking wet and with the chill tightening up his bruised muscles so they hurt like motherfucking bastards.

He grabbed a towel for Cas and left the rest of the bale spilling out onto his super-deep memory foam mattress. There'd been a good deal on mattresses so he'd gone ahead and ordered a couple even though they hadn't got bedframes yet. His sore muscles and his bruised foot and his head, (which had had a brief but intense relationship with a rock earlier for fuck's sake) all agreed that he should lie down on the mattress, plastic wrap be damned and stay there for the duration.

He hobbled back across the landing, trying not to scowl, the towel flapping around his legs.

Cas was leaning out over the side of the bath, his arms taut and straight like a merman surging up onto a rock. No, actually, like that scene in the Little Mermaid where Ariel- anyway, Dean couldn't see the bit where the tail would go, thank fuck.

"Here." He thrust the towel at his friend, straight-armed, turning his head one hundred and eighty degrees away.

Water slapped and gulped, the enamel side of the bath squeaked and bare feet thudded onto bare boards. The towel was tugged through his fingers. He let it go.

"Dean?"

"I'm gonna get dressed."

"Dean, wait."

A warm hand curled around his upper arm. Cas's hands were bigger than Dean's. And if Dean had wrapped the towel around beneath his arms or his waist instead of wearing it like a cape, he'd be able to feel Cas's skin on his right now.

He half turned around. Cas had wrapped his blue towel around his waist. He'd rolled it over and over in a bunch so that friction held it up. It dropped straight down to the floor, because if you were getting new towels you should get the biggest they had, and no messing about with those tiny scraps that were limp and sodden after only drying one leg. Cas's toes stuck out beneath the fluffy blue fabric.

"Dean?"

He flicked a glance upward and swallowed. He was really warm now, which was because of the steam from the bath and not because he could see Cas's bare shoulders (skin soft and smooth from the heat) or his chest (just a scattering of dark hair right in the centre) and definitely not because - even though he tried really hard not to - he could see Cas's nipples (which the evaporating water had made all pebbly and pointy.)

Dean pulled the towel more tightly around himself, gripping a great big handful in front of his chest so that there was no chance of any parts of him getting seen that he didn't want seen, although the big, fist-shaped bruise that was blooming on the side of Cas's ribs gave him a different focus, shifting his discomfort to a guilty feeling in his gut.

"Dean. Are you in pain?"

"I'm fine."

Cas's hand slid upward to his shoulder. And what was it about his shoulder that meant Cas always ended up with his hand on that one spot, fingers spread out around the curving muscle? There hadn't been anything between Cas's hand and Dean when he'd raised him from Hell. Certainly not a fluffy towel. Or even skin, to begin with, until Cas remade Dean around the pathetic remains of his soul.

"No, you're not fine, Dean. I saw all those bruises. And you got cold again just now." He pointed toward the trailing ends of Dean's towel. "You were limping and your foot's turning purple - what happened to it?"

Dean looked down too. His foot was turning purple, which wasn't surprising at all, because it felt purple - sore and tight from stretched, swollen skin.

"I, uh… I dropped a rock on it." The rock I was going to hit you with.

"Oh. No wonder you're cranky."

"Cranky?"

"Yes. You're always cranky when you're in pain because you think you have to hold it in and pretend to be 'fine'."

Ah, the air quotes. It seemed like ages since Cas had air quoted a word.

"Well you'll be cranky too in a minute. This and the kitchen are the only two warm rooms in the house right now."

"Then we'll get dressed in the kitchen in front of the range." Cas's stomach put in a word to show its eagerness to get to where the food was at. "And then we'll eat."

Dean wriggled his toes in satisfaction. He and Cas had scrambled into their clothes in front of the range, which was kicking out a generous wave of heat. And Dean had kept his head down and got on with the job, ignoring any flashes of skin in his peripheral vision - ignoring the contradictory urges to run and hide in the dark basement, but also to turn his head and look and look and look. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Anyway, whatever crap was going on in his stupid (bruised) head, he decided it was the start of a new era in terms of clothing, as well as all the other things he'd been trying out to see if they'd fit into his life. He was done with sturdy fabric that would hold together even around a network of holes and worn-thin patches. He was moving on from shirts so patterned that they'd hide a multitude of blood stains - and other stains that he couldn't even identify.

Of course, his old stuff would do for working in, but when he was relaxing, (he gave his toes another wriggle) it was time to ditch function and embrace fluffiness. Which was a thing a man could do - of course it was - and even Dad wouldn't have said there was anything wrong with what Dean was wearing, would he? Because it was all black and so all fine-and-masculine - and wearing fluffy socks and fleece-lined sweatpants and a matching fleece-lined hoodie over a soft, long-sleeved shirt only made sense, because if Dean was comfortable, he could relax more, so then he'd be able to work harder tomorrow. Or not, because his foot was pretty badly bruised and maybe he should put an icepack on it - later, when he'd finished eating.

"What happened to it, Dean?"

Cas (wearing similarly comfortable new clothes in a mix of blue and grey), regarded the contents of the oven tray unhappily. Or possibly with sympathy.

"What do you mean what happened to it? It's a chicken. Or it was. It's just been… slow-cooked. A lot."

"It bears little resemblance to any living creature."

"Well, it ain't living no more, that's why. And it's our dinner. So dig in." Dean pushed a plate toward Cas, tore the wrapping off the loaf of bread and began sawing it into thick slices. He slapped one down on Cas's plate, and then another on his own. "Eat!" He waved at the chicken, the bread and the assorted condiments, which were essential to making great chicken sandwiches, in Dean's opinion.

He squirted a line of spicy barbecue sauce on one half of his slice of bread. The other half got a curly line of mayo. Then he studied the collapsed form of what was once a chicken, shrugged. and tore off a good chunk of what had probably been the breast. The extremely long-and-slow-cooked bird collapsed even more. But Dean had the perfect sandwich. He folded the bread over, picked it up and took a huge bite. Mmmm… Eyes closed to get the maximum enjoyment, he let his taste buds take centre stage.

It occurred to him that Cas might want a knife and fork for the chicken. And that maybe he'd eat it with something resembling table manners. Dean opened his eyes.

No. Cas had fully embraced the Dean Winchester way. His hands were shiny with grease, his sandwich dripped with unholy amounts of barbecue sauce and a bit of chicken was poking out of the corner of his lips as he chewed an unfeasibly large mouthful. Dean gave Cas a thumbs up, which was returned with enthusiasm.

A piranha might have been able to devour Dean's sandwich quicker than him, but probably not. He popped the last crust in his mouth and set to work making another gourmet delight.

The heat from the range behind him soothed his sore back, which was a good deal less sore since he'd insisted Cas take some Advil and some Tylenol and Cas had insisted in return that Dean take some. He glanced up at Cas, who was sitting on the far side of the old wooden table.

"Are you warm enough?"

Cas nodded, still chewing hard, and gave him another thumbs up.

"Good," said Dean. Greasy leg meat fell off the bone and onto his slice of bread. Maybe he'd go with garlic mayo this time. He was pretty sure that counted as a vegetable.

Cas had never got his water plant root-thing to make them some root-slaw. He'd had a really bad flashback instead. And just now Dean had been 'cranky' at him.

"Uh… sorry. About before."

Cas made a quizzical noise around his sandwich.

"I was cranky. And yeah, I was hurting. So that's why. Sorry." Hot pepper sauce - just a few drops, because this stuff was the real deal.

Cas chewed, swallowed and then reached for another slice of bread. "I'm sorry I was impatient," he said.

"Were you?"

"Yes, of course I was. You'd only been gone a minute or so and somehow nothing would do for me but to have you back in my sight immediately."

"Oh. I didn't notice." Cas had a right to be impatient if that was the problem. He'd been alone down by the river. Alone in the dark. And Dean knew what that was like.

"You notice your own faults a lot more than other people's, Dean."

"Do I?" Dean folded over his sandwich and squashed it down. Bright red sauce oozed out through a split in the bread, which probably meant he'd put too much on. Oh well.

"Yes." Cas sprinkled his bread liberally with the hot sauce. "I was impatient. I frequently am. When I had my grace I could take short cuts - make things happen. Now I have to wait."

"That must really suck, if you're not used to it." Dean contemplated his sandwich. It oozed red, aggressively. "I get angry all the time," he muttered. "About the stupidest stuff."

Cas paused, with a sagging drumstick in his hand, the familiar head tilt accompanied by blue searchlights. "You don't get angry as much as you used to, Dean."

"Don't I?"

"No."

Dean waited for the chick-flick analysis of his actions and reactions. But Cas just folded over his sandwich, picked it up and bit into it, chewing with calm enjoyment. Which was a nice trick if you could pull it off with that much pepper sauce.

His own sandwich made his eyes water - in a good way.

When he'd grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and downed at least half of his own, he remembered something Sammy had said last time he'd phoned.

"Are you up for spending Thanksgiving at the Bunker?"

Cas was liberally sprinkling hot sauce on another slice of bread. "When is Thanksgiving?"

"Fourth Thursday in November. Don't you know that?"

"Yes, Dean. But I don't know what the date is now, so I don't know how long it is until Thanksgiving."

"Oh. Well, it's, uh…" Dean squeezed the mayo, letting a slow spiral descend onto his bread. "It's definitely October. Ain't it?"

"I still find human time divisions difficult to grasp," Cas said. "And more often than not, they're completely meaningless." He paused, slid the hot sauce back into the centre of the table and pulled the ranch dressing toward him. "It's much colder in the evenings and the sun rises later and sets earlier."

"Okay. So, let's call it October." Cas was right. The passing of time didn't seem to mean that much. Not when progress was measured by what he'd done to the house and what Cas had done outside and what they'd both done in terms of learning to live peacefully and heal from all the shit they'd been through.

"And Sam has invited us to the Bunker for Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, well not just us - he's got a crowd coming along. Friends. Might be fun."

Or it might not. Did Dean really want to be surrounded by lots of noise and chat and papering-over-the-cracks smiles? Because it wasn't just him and Cas that were healing from trauma - not by a long, long way.

"We would have Christmas here, though, wouldn't we?" said Cas. "Just us. Or us and Sam."

"Yeah. Yeah, Christmas here." The house would be looking real good by then. "We'll get a tree and everything. Have a proper Christmas." Dean's mind flicked back through year after year of Christmases that had gone uncelebrated and even unnoticed, for one (usually traumatic) reason or another. "It's been a long time since I've had a proper Christmas. With all the stuff you're supposed to have." He looked up at his friend. "You've never done Christmas - have you?"

"No, Dean. I haven't."

"We'll make it a good one, then."

"I would like that. Very much."

Cas pulled the oven tray toward himself and began picking scraps of chicken off the pile of bones and arranging them carefully on yet another slice of bread.

There was a bruise coming out on one of his cheeks, probably where his face had got mashed into the grit and pebbles when Dean had held him down. And when they'd been hurriedly pulling their clothes on, Dean had been looking anywhere but toward his friend, but he had heard the little winces and hitches Cas had made - maybe he should check to make sure Cas's ribs weren't broken.

His dark hair was drying in all directions - a halo of fluff. And okay, so he was a bit bruised and battered - but he was smiling, wasn't he? He was warm and dry, well-fed and well wrapped up in comfortable clothes. He looked cared for. He was cared for.

Dean flipped the lid on the garlic mayo, then clicked it shut, then flipped it open again.

He'd always cared about Cas - since they'd somehow made the transition from Castiel, Angel of the Lord and a mixed-up, messed-up human, fresh from torturing souls in Hell - to simply Cas and Dean, best friends.

He'd rarely cared for him, though. Not like he was trying to now. And yeah, he'd had plenty of excuses - local, global or universal disasters piled one on top of another on top of another and so on. And he was supposed to be working on not feeling guilty about stuff. He'd done what he could. He'd done what he could.

But Dean had a deep-rooted need to take care of people that he'd been denying for years, especially when it came to Cas. Now was the time, though. Now. And that sneer that bubbled to the surface of his mind every so often could fuck right off. He was over that too, just like he was over having to dress like a 'man's man' twenty-four seven. John Winchester might have been happy with arm's length caring, or actually a lot further than arm's length for most of Dean and Sam's childhood - county's length, state's length - God knew how far he'd gone when he'd left them alone to fend for themselves. Or for Dean to fend for both of them.

Anyway, even if Dean found it difficult, even if his Dad's voice would be in his ear all the time, sighing and muttering curses and telling him to 'man up,' he was going to make sure Cas had what he needed. And that included things like- Dean's mind swerved away from the words with a screech of tyres. But he steered it back, the way he steered Baby on a rough road, hands tight on the wheel but arms slack to let her take her own course through the ruts and dips and rocks.

Cas would have soft things. And hugs. And time to talk about what he was afraid of - what triggered his flashbacks. And if it would help his friend, Dean would say stuff about what went on in his own head too.

He picked up his beer, which had gotten warm while he was thinking. He took a sip and then planted it deliberately back in the wet ring it had left on the table.

Cas was eating more slowly. His hair had dried completely and was more fluffy than ever. His shoulders were rounded with weariness and he stared at his sandwich between bites, like it held great secrets.

"Cas?"

The ex-angel looked up and smiled.

"Yes, Dean?"

"Uh, I just wondered… Do you… I mean, d'you wanna talk? About before? It's okay if you don't." He shrugged and studied the label on his bottle.

Cas put down his sandwich. He rubbed his stubbly jaw, frowned and then wiped his greasy fingers and his face on the dish towel. Then his eyes fell to fix themselves on a spot on the surface of the table. They stayed there, staring blankly, while he held the towel in both hands, twisting it one way and then the other.

Finally, he spoke. "I enjoyed the walk through the woodland."

He paused. His brows twitched. He licked his lips and then pressed them tightly together.

Maybe Dean shouldn't have asked him. Cas had been smiling and happy a minute ago. Nice job, Winchester. But he began to speak again, his voice low and rough to begin with, then smoothing out as he continued.

"It was cool and peaceful and the night creatures were waking up. I felt like I could talk to them again, like I used to when I could alter my voice to sound on the same frequency as certain animals and plants." He looked up and there was a faraway smile in his eyes. "Some of the angels used to be able to speak to any living creature, from the greatest of the trees to the tiniest gnat, but I never completely mastered the art."

Dean smiled back. It was difficult to believe that this ordinary man with an unshaven face and a drip of barbecue sauce on his hoodie had, not long ago, been an ancient celestial being whose true form was way beyond the capacity of Dean's tiny human brain to understand.

"The riverbank was peaceful too," Cas continued, "and I stood and listened to the music of the water for a while."

Dean could well believe it. Cas would listen to the sounds of nature like Dean would watch TV - the river, the birds, even the cows in a distant field. Maybe he could understand what they were saying. Did cows talk amongst themselves? What did they say?

"I found the clump of rushes I was looking for, and I was about to pull some of them up. But there was something on the other side of the river - moving about just behind the tree line. I thought it might be a deer and I wondered if it would come to drink if I stayed very still. And if I-" Cas stopped and took a breath. "If I switched off my flashlight."

"Oh," said Dean. "Okay."

"I switched it off," said Cas.

Poor Cas. I think they'll both need a hug after this little chat. And then they'll be tired, won't they? And cosiness will be required.