Warning - there's some fairly heavy stuff in this chapter - discussions of life and death and dealing with the uncertainty of the future, which are things my mind runs on a lot and so I have to write them down. But there's reassurance and positivity and humour too, because my Dean and Cas deserve nice things.

Chapter 14

Just one more coat would do it, Dean thought, running his hand along the varnished surface of the bar. He'd sand it down again, using the really fine grain, and then just one more coat of thinned-down, carefully-applied varnish and it'd be perfect. He tapped his fingers against the smooth wood with satisfaction and then crouched down to sort through the bits of sandpaper in his toolbox.

The games room was coming on great. Games room was a stupid name, of course, but he couldn't call it the Dean cave - it was the Dean-and-Cas cave, but that had no style to it, no finesse. He'd have to come up with something better.

Anyway, it was nearly done. The big screen TV was installed, the huge, squishy, curving couch with recliners at either end was ready for relaxed screenings or hectic gaming sessions; there were blackout blinds on the windows, which Dean had made sure were tight against every chink of light that might get in to disturb his and Cas's viewing; they had a pool table and a jukebox and now the bar was almost done and ready to be stocked.

Dean wrapped a piece of fine-grade sandpaper around a block and began smoothing it up and down the surface of the bar.

He should go check on Cas soon. In fact, now - now would be good. Dean left the sanding block on top of the bar and wiped his hands on his jeans. He'd grab a couple of snacky bits and a drink from the kitchen and take them into Cas, who still wasn't eating properly. Or doing anything much, if Dean was honest. But he was still recovering, wasn't he? It'd take time for him to be back to how he was - just a bit more time. Maybe he'd like some really tiny honey sandwiches? Maybe he'd smile if Dean made him a PB and J?

Dean would take a quick look into the living room first and then go and make Cas something to eat.

He had installed Cas on the couch earlier, propped up with pillows, covered in a blanket, the laptop set up so that he could research the hives he needed to order for the spring. He'd lit the fire and drawn the heavy red-and-orange striped curtains tightly against the winter cold.

Dean stepped softly into the room, his socked feet padding on the dark red, fringed rug. Mexican sombreros cast long flickering shadows on the pale cream walls and the flames spit and cracked, making the row of little cactus guys on the mantelpiece dance.

Was Cas sleeping? His night had been restless, again. He'd been awake and so Dean had been awake too - but Cas had hunched away to the edge of the bed when Dean tried to hold him.

He was awake now, staring into the fire, his head at an awkward angle, his eyes barely open. The laptop was resting on his legs, but it was closed. The bottle of gatorade and the plate of crackers that Dean had left on the side table appeared untouched.

Cas was still pale, even with the shifting glow of the flames playing over his face. His features were drawn, his mouth slightly open, curving down in an unhappy line. His collarbones jutted out from the neck of his shirt and the hand that dangled limply from beneath the blanket was eerily skeletal in the flickering light.

Dean's heart throbbed painfully. His fists clenched. His arms tingled with the need to wrap Cas up and smother him with protection, but at the same time he wanted to grab him and shake him and yell at him for being like this.

He's been sick. He's not used to it. He's struggling. Give him a break.

Dean took a breath, licked his lips, pasted on a smile and stepped forward.

"Hey, there, angel. How're you feeling?" He crouched down and took Cas's hand and tried not to look judgy.

Cas's eyes rolled to his. And Dean had to fight really hard not to lose his smile. That blank, lost gaze that he thought had gone - there it was again, just as Cas had looked when he'd got back from the Empty and all those times in the following months when he'd seemed to disappear inside himself. Why now, when Cas had been doing so well?

"I'm fine, Dean." The words were mechanical, without feeling or commitment.

Dean reached forward and placed the flat of his hand on Cas's forehead, which was cool and normal. Cas's brow wrinkled, but he didn't pull away. He coughed, drily, but it didn't turn into a fit where Dean had to help him through it - he was mostly over that stage. He was mostly over the whole thing, in fact, or he would be, Dean thought, if he'd drink and eat and take an interest in stuff.

"Did you find anything?" Dean nodded toward the laptop.

Cas shrugged and his eyes rolled back toward the fire.

"Okay, let's have a look. You need to get these ordered, right?"

Dean pulled up a footstool and rearranged Cas so that they could sit side-by-side, the laptop between them. Cas lay against the back of the couch, limply, making no move to touch Dean or sag toward him.

"So, this is the place you've been looking at?" Dean tapped at the keypad and brought up the site, which, a couple of weeks ago, Cas had been all over - wanting to go there, talk to the owner, get as much advice as he could.

"Yes."

Dean cast him a sidelong glance. His eyes weren't even on the screen.

"Well, it looks good. These are the ones you were gonna get, right? Four of them?"

"Yes."

"Okay, well, why don't you do that, then? Get your order in - we can go and pick 'em up after New Years'. Do it now while I go make us some lunch."

Cas nodded and shrugged vaguely.

Dean patted his shoulder. He dabbed a kiss on his forehead. He resisted the urge to shake Cas until his teeth rattled and yell: Where are you? Where have you gone?

In the kitchen, he tried not to stamp around and slam the cupboards. He tried not to cut the sandwiches like he was slamming a machete into some fugly's guts. He tried not to let the bitter words rise up inside him and fill the hollow void beneath his ribs and in his mind where he'd got used to having warmth and caring.

Don't expect anything. If you love, don't expect to be loved back. You don't deserve to be loved. Love is for other people. Not for you.

He could tell the voices - his own voice - to fuck off. But it was like snakes stirring in a pit, rising up and hissing at him, like that bit in Raiders.

Dean rested his hands on the edge of the old kitchen table, letting his head sag. He and Cas had been doing well. They'd been healing - together. They'd finally found each other and, yeah, it was a messy, mixed-up what-the-hell-are-we-doing kind of relationship, but it was getting there. They'd even made it to highschool stage a couple of times - fumbling and embarrassed, and Dean hadn't known how far to go or what he could ask Cas to do and they'd really needed to talk about it - but then they'd both gotten sick. And now Cas didn't seem interested - in Dean or in anything.

Was it slipping away? This life they had begun to build together? Would they drift back to the bunker and slot back into that old, bitter hunting life?

Dean's eyes wandered to the kitchen window, framed in blue curtains that Cas had insisted upon. Outside, the light was a stark white, the stiff spikes of grass tipped with frost, ruts in the stamped-up area at the bottom of the verandah iced into hard ridges. The tips of the pine trees shifted in the restless wind. Would the stream be frozen over? Maybe it was protected down in its little valley. Or maybe it was a cold-air sink down there and the water was as solid as iron.

He squinted at the scene and then pushed away from the table and stood so close to the window that he could feel the cold coming from the glass on the tip of his nose.

The sky was moving. Out of the blank whiteness, soft, fat flakes were lazily drifting down. Already they were collecting on the edge of the verandah, on the tops of the ridged dirt - outlining the footprints he and Cas had made when the ground was soft and they'd gone to get more wood from the shed. If it kept up, soon the whole place would be covered in white.

They'd arrived in the summer, when the air was warm and soft and fragrant, and they'd worked through the heat and then through the damp, rich, mould-scent of the fall. Now winter was here in its soon-to-be pristine whiteness. And in a few months time, new green shoots would come up and there'd be spring flowers and sunshine.

This place was home. It was Dean's and Cas's. They belonged here. And they belonged to each other.

Dean tensed his jaw and made a sharp noise of grim determination through his tightly pressed lips. Time to get back on track.

He opened a can of soup to go with the sandwiches and put it on to heat. He set out two bowls, two spoons, two glasses of milk, and put the plate of sandwiches in between, so that he and Cas could share. The soup sizzled. He stirred it for a minute and then poured it into the bowls.

Dean looked at the place settings. Then he grabbed another glass from the cupboard, half-filled it with water and wrenched open the fridge. He sorted through the crisper drawer, pulling out a couple of tired scallions and the remains of one of those long, tall lettuces. He separated the leaves and shoved them down into the glass and flicked them so they sprayed out a bit. Then he dumped the arrangement in the middle of the table, between the two place settings. Picture fucking perfect.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to snarl. He wanted to fight.

He wanted to still be loved.

"Cas."

The ex-angel hadn't moved on the couch.

"Cas, have you done it? Did you get your order in?"

"No. Not yet."

"Right, well, after lunch then. Come on. Up you get. It's all ready."

Cas blinked up at him.

"In the kitchen. It's all set. And you need to eat. You're fading away, man. Let's get some meat on those bones, yeah?"

"I don't think I want-"

"Well I do. I want."

"Dean-"

"Cas, come on - I get that this is hard for you. I get that you're not used to having to wait for your body to get its shit together so you can feel better. But you have to help it along - you have to eat, you have to get up, get things moving again, get your blood pumping - you know?"

Hard eyes glittered up at him. "No, Dean. I don't think you do 'get it'. I don't think you understand at all."

Dean dropped onto the couch heavily. "What then? Tell me, Cas. What don't I understand? What don't I get about being human? Cos, you know, I've been one for a while."

A shoulder hunched in his direction and Cas's head turned away so that Dean could only see the tight bunching of his jaw and a pulse throbbing at his temple.

A single syllable emerged in a strangled growl: "Life."

"What?"

"Life is… short. And… it's fragile."

Well, duh. No, that wouldn't be okay. Not when the defensive shoulder was trembling and there'd been a watery hitch to the words.

Dean waited.

"This…" Cas waved a hand at the room. "All this is just a flicker in time - like a rainbow that's beautiful one second and gone the next." He turned toward Dean violently, the blanket twisting around his body. His face was haunted, his eyes wide and intense. "This will be over so, so quickly, Dean. Over. Like that."

He snapped his fingers, but his hand stayed floating in mid-air, trembling.

Dean tried to catch it, but Cas jerked away to tug at the collar of his shirt as if it were tight on his throat. He stretched the fabric roughly, then stuck a finger in his mouth, chewing on the nail and staring into the fire.

Okay. So Cas was freaking out. And Dean would have to deal with it - or what? Would Cas reject this life? Reject Dean? Would he charge off around the world trying to find a way to get his angelic grace back?

No. Dean's fists bunched into tight, white clusters of determination. No.

He slowed his breathing - just like that time Sam'd made him try meditation but he'd hated it and downed a six-pack of beer instead. Forcing his aching fingers to uncurl, he covered his face with his hands and rubbed hard. Then he blew out a breath into the dark shelter before slowly setting his hands in his lap, clasping them together.

"Well, you're right," he said. "Life is short. And maybe I don't get it. I don't understand. Because you - you've seen it all. All that history. All that stuff going right back to when we were monkeys in trees. So, yeah, if life seems short to me It must seem like nothing much at all to an angel. But you're not an angel now. You're human."

"I know. I know that, Dean. And I could be gone - tomorrow. You could be gone - any time. It'll be over. All over." Cas hugged himself, trapping his hands under his armpits. He closed his eyes and all those lines and wrinkles between his brows and over his forehead sprang to life.

"Yeah, you know what? We could. Any minute - snap of your fingers. A heart attack, a bad burger, some monster out for revenge - an infected papercut, for fuck's sake. But life's not about what could happen, Cas. It's not about what shit you've got coming up - what if this, maybe that - it's about what's happening right now."

He grabbed Cas's wrist, broke one of his hands out from its armpit prison and pushed it against his angel's chest. "You feel that? That's real, Cas, that's now. That's you, alive and kicking. And this is me."

He jerked Cas's hand toward himself and flattened it out against his own chest - and the way his heart was thudding like he was fighting for his life, there was no way Cas wasn't feeling that. "Feel it. Feel my heart. That's my life, pumping around in there. That's me. Right here, right now."

Tears filled Cas's eyes and spilled over and ran down his cheeks. "But it'll end. You'll die, Dean. l'll die."

"Yeah. And we're the lucky ones here, aren't we? Because we know Jack'll take care of us."

"Do we? But what if he-"

"Nuh-uh. Jack's got this. Me and you - we're human dudes, with human souls - yours fresh off Jack's production line. And that means we get human heaven - together."

Cas shook his head. "I can't… I can't see heaven like I used to. It used to be a place that I was sure of. Now… being here, living with an actual human soul… I don't know if I can really trust it."

"Yeah? Well that's just another fun feature of the human mind - you've had doubts before as an angel. Welcome to human doubt. Welcome to worst-case-scenario we're-all-fucked-and-there's-nothing-when-you-die doubts. And I've seen it. I've seen heaven - or Chuck's version anyways. Hell, Cas…" - Dean slapped himself on the side of the head - "these melons weren't built to hold all that. We're not meant to know what comes next. So cramming all your shiny angel thoughts into one of these babies - it's like trying to get a - yeah, like trying to get one of those fuck-off massive Detroit truck engines - the DD16 - into a little Chevy Vega - it ain't gonna fit. None of that shit's gonna make sense any more, if it ever did. Stuff's gonna leak out through the cracks."

Cas's fingers bent against Dean's chest, dragging at the fabric of his shirt and the skin beneath. Dean lifted the struggling hand, wrapping his own around it and pressing it to his lips.

"Life is now, Cas. Right now. That's all any of us ever has. That's what's important." He kissed Cas's fingers, over and over, pressing his lips to them as he pressed his belief - his actual fucking philosophy of life - into the skin. "So, you gotta think to yourself, man - what am I scared of? What's got me so freaked out I'm shitting like Old Faithful?"

Cas's head had fallen so that Dean could see just the mop of dark, tousled hair and the tip of his nose. "I'm afraid of weakness, Dean - of ending." He looked up, as if it were all he could do to drag the weight of his fears up to meet Dean's eyes. "I'm afraid of you and me - being over."

"Yeah, well, we're not, are we? We're here right now. Alive. You've got what you're scared of losing right now. You've got your life. So you'd better live the hell out of every moment, hadn't you? You'd better not waste a single second fucking yourself up over stuff that isn't happening right now."

Cas's lips wobbled. A tear trickled over his spiked lashes and ran down to the corner of his mouth.

A tight, aching sadness travelled up from Dean's chest to his throat. He'd take all Cas's fears on himself if he could. He'd take the burden and let Cas float through life, free and happy. But it didn't work like that. He'd tried it with Sammy often enough - sheltering him, protecting him, hiding stuff from him that would hurt him. It didn't work.

Dean swallowed and cleared his throat. "Hey, did you know it's snowing?"

"I've seen snow before."

"You've seen snow as an angel. Hell, I bet you've seen, like, Ice Ages."

Cas nodded vaguely and shrugged.

"Well, you ain't seen snow here. Not with me, in our place." Dean thrust himself up from the couch and in a couple of quick strides he had the heavy curtains gripped in two hands and he flung them apart, letting in a flood of bright, white light. "Awesome!"

Out the front of the house, the world was white. Dean turned around. His angel was blinking and squinting and shielding his eyes, but Dean hauled him up from the couch, his arm muscles bunching as he supported Cas around his waist - and he wanted Cas to feel that strength in his arm, to feel the support that was there for him.

He manhandled the staggering Cas over to the window.

"Look. Look at that."

The ground was covered just lightly, but flakes were still falling. They'd stuck to the apple trees already, outlining each branch in white, picking out each tiny twig for a fine edging, so that if it stopped and the sun came out it'd be like the trees were made of silver. The Impala, under its tarp, was covered, and Dean really wasn't happy about his Baby being out there in the cold. He'd drive her in the house if he could and wished he'd had time to build her a decent garage - but that was a project for the spring.

Cas's breath misted against the glass where frost had formed curling fern fronds.

And the snow fell straight down - falling, falling, falling in a hypnotic scrolling conveyor that made Dean feel a bit like the house was rising up into the air, Wizard of Oz style. But the trees were there, anchored to the ground, and Baby was there, and he and Cas, next to each other, and the gently spitting fire behind them. It was peace - the steady descent of cold beauty outside, the warmth and golden light and protection inside.

"See?" Dean's arm was still around Cas's back, his hand curling around his waist. "It's not an Ice Age with mammoths and shit. It's not like when you could go out in it and not even feel the cold. And it's not like you're a flappy celestial lightshow, up there in the clouds. It's different."

There was less weight on Dean's arm now, as Cas leant forward so that the tip of his nose actually pressed against the glass and a small patch melted in the ice fractals. And with a slide and catch of fabric at his back there was an arm resting lightly around Dean's waist.

"Yes," Cas said, his breath misting against the glass. "It is different."

Dean studied his profile, the jut of his jaw, the slightly parted lips, the look in his eyes that held more puzzlement than Dean was happy with.

"I just thought… I thought that life would make a different kind of sense - that, for humans, it would have a different kind of meaning, of purpose."

"Nah," said Dean. "You just gotta live it as best you can - look after each other, have some laughs, you know? There's no big mystery meaning. Not for us."

"Oh."

Cas's face was pale. He was struggling. Maybe he'd always struggle to reconcile who he'd been - that Angel of the Lord who'd existed for countless aeons - with who he was right now in this small world. But his hip was butted up close against Dean's and his arm was curled around Dean's back.

There was no one like Cas. There never had been and there never would be again. "Well, I guess if you're looking for meaning…"

"What?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck with the hand that hadn't worked its way under the loose edge of Cas's shirt to touch the smooth skin of his waist. "I mean, there's, uh…" He shrugged. "You know."

"No, what?"

"Well, what you said. Remember? Before you got-" Dean cleared his throat. "Before you got taken. Uh, you said that I did all the stuff I did… for, you know, for, uh…"- why was it so hard to just fucking say the word? - "Okay, for love, basically. So… there's that." And once he'd said it it was like he couldn't shut up. "If you're looking for a meaning. A purpose. Something to keep you going, you know? It's no mystery, just - I figure - it's what we're meant to do. So-"

Two firm hands gripped his biceps and rotated him firmly so that he was face to face with his angel. And then he was being held and kissed, hard and urgent and determined, like the aim was to hammer the kiss home and make it stay instead of to actually enjoy it.

And then Cas's head slid around to his shoulder and strong, wiry arms were squeezing him painfully tight.

Dean squeezed back and pressed the side of his face into the side of Cas's neck and closed his eyes. There wasn't a micron of space between their chests and everything else was squashed together, right down to their legs, squeezing between each other alternately and closing up tight so that they were unbalanced and ended up toppling over to lean against the window frame. Maybe it was the tightest, closest hug Dean had ever had.

They hugged until their muscles were trembling with the tension, their breaths short and fast and shallow. Then Dean let it all go. He let the tension flood out so that his limbs felt rubbery, his body hollow and his head light. And Cas leant against him, limp and spent.

"Let's eat," said Dean.

Cas nodded into his shoulder.

The soup was cold. Dean poured it back into the pan and reheated it.

"Is this a salad?"

He turned around. Cas was prodding the lettuce leaves and scallions in the glass. They looked quite perky from being stood up in the water for a while.

"Uh, no."

"Dean." Cas turned his face up and there was light in his eyes. "Is this a decoration? Is this a table centre?"

Dean shrugged. And smiled.

"I love it," said Cas. "I love it. And I love you and I'm sorry." His eyes fell to the plate of sandwiches, but he didn't take one.

"That's okay, Cas. You feel what you feel. I shoulda probably been more patient."

"You were patient, Dean."

"Yeah, well… Hey, anyway, it was probably just those electrolyte things getting out of whack."

"What?"

"You know, when Sammy says his electrolyte balance is off and he makes those green slimy shakes? The ones that look like there's something living in them? Well, maybe Sammy's right this time - that kinda thing can make you feel down." Dean poured out the soup again and pushed the plate of sandwiches toward Cas. "Eat. You'll feel better."

Cas picked up a sandwich and dunked one corner in his soup and stirred it around. A scrap of ham fell out and floated in the swirling orange liquid.

Dean drew out the chair next to Cas's and sat down and picked up a sandwich and dunked it and swirled.

They both dipped and ate and dipped and ate.

And the snow fell and the kitchen was warm.

Soup and sandwiches, warmth and love - what more could anyone want in life?