The party is over and Dean and Cas are heading home.

The song that features in this chapter is Led Zeppelin's 'Thank you' which is one of my favourite songs, although actually, I prefer Chris Cornell's version. Have a listen - it's lovely.


Chapter 28

"Well, I'd call it a success."

Cas made a sound like a paper-shredder when you shove a whole load of credit cards into it - a low, grumbling grind that didn't need any words to tell Dean he was still pissed. Or maybe embarrassed or even simply disappointed with himself. And Dean couldn't have that.

He glanced sideways, his fingers flexing comfortably around Baby's wheel. It was raining and the shadows of the drops mottled Cas's weary face. The bruise didn't help, or the bandaid on his temple. Poor angel. He'd tried so hard and now he was tired and disheartened and kind of crumpled - and it was making a small area of Dean's chest go all warm and melty. Which wasn't fair on Cas - because yeah, he was really cute when he was grumpy, but the guy needed cheering up, not kissy faces and batting eyelashes.

"Seriously, Cas - best birthday ever."

"I was so embarrassed." Cas hid his face in his hands. "And Jody will never forgive me."

"Jody's forgiven you already. No. Scratch that - there's nothing to forgive."

"She had to call in a favour with the local Sheriff."

"So? That's just one of the many benefits of having the law on your side for a change." Dean frowned at the rain beating against the windshield. "Or at least an officer of the law on your side. Because technically, I suppose you could say we weren't totally within the actual law."

"It was disorderly conduct, Dean. At the very least."

Dean snorted. "Disorderly conduct is a way of life for hunters, Cas. We start the day disorderly, work our way through lawless, and end the day with blood and chaos. And count it a day well spent."

"It was embarrassing."

"Yeah, well - we were always gonna get banned from the trampoline park. That was a given. You get that, don't you?"

Cas shrugged - a half-hearted, grudging twitch.

"And you're right that the manager calling the cops wasn't the best end to the party, but, you know… kids. What you gonna do?"

"We should've been supervising them more closely. I should've."

"Nah, come on, Cas. If Claire gets it into her head to take offence at… whatever she took offence at - are you gonna come between her and letting off some steam?"

"No. I value my life more than that."

"Good to hear. Anyway, Jody fixed it. So we can forget about all the fighting-"

"And the property damage."

"And the property damage." Dean rolled his eyes.

"And the lifetime ban."

"Okay, yeah, that one's pretty tough to forget about. But we can find another trampoline place."

"Unless we've been blacklisted."

"Huh. I guess. Well, anyway... I had a totally kick-ass party, Cas. Thanks to you."

The shredder noise started up again.

"Seriously. Look at me, Cas. Go on. Look." Dean caught his angel's eye and grinned wildly. "Do I look happy?"

"Yes."

"Well, there you go, then. Mission accomplished." He glanced away from the road again and waggled his eyebrows at Cas's sad puppy eyes and droopy lips. "And, you know, having the cops called to your birthday party is just a sweet bonus to a badass like me."

Cas snorted a laugh.

"Ah, home, sweet home." Dean slowed right down for the turn into their bumpy lane, which needed some serious work once the weather improved. The painted wooden sign welcomed them. Sunrise. Which was nothing at all like the House of the Rising Sun, although he always found himself humming that tune as he eased Baby over the ruts and dips and bumps.

The rain eased off, stray drops spitting against the windshield, and the leafless tangle of shrubs either side of the lane flailed about in the gusty wind. It'd be getting dark soon, although with the lowering rain clouds it was difficult to tell where gloom stopped and dusk began.

Dean slowed even more to negotiate the deep ruts on the approach to the house. The wheels spun where the rain had mixed with the dirt to make a slick, oozing mess. Getting stuck in the mud wouldn't be a fun way to end his birthday. But the tyres caught and Dean let Baby trundle gently around the house, toward her brand shiny new home.

"D'you want to do the honours? It's in the glove box."

The mess of mixtapes and candy bars rustled. Cas drew out the remote, aimed it at the garage and pressed the button. And the roller door that Dean had installed did its thing, gliding smoothly upward.

Dean pulled Baby around in a wide arc, reversed her into the garage and switched off the engine. He patted the steering wheel. "You're gonna be cosy in here. No more sitting out in the cold for you."

"And no more working out in the cold for you," said Cas. "Everything outside can wait until it gets warmer."

"Everything? You'll be out digging on the first dry day."

"Hmm. Maybe. But I won't stay out too long. Are we bringing all the presents in now?"

"No, Just yours. And the cake. And the Death Star."

"And the panties?"

Dean covered his face with his hands and groaned. "Who? That's what I want to know? Who would do that?"

"I suspect we'll never know."

Dean stuck his finger in the icing and licked it off. The trunk and rear seats of the Impala were gone, but the hood and the cookie figures still took up quite a bit of the kitchen table - and everyone at the party had eaten a big slice and been given some to take away. Dean had thought he'd had his fill of cake for one day. But maybe just one more slice…

He set the coffee machine going and got out some plates. Cas might not want cake, though. Where had he got to?

"Dean!"

His voice was faint but distinct, coming from outside.

Dean headed out onto the back porch. It had stopped raining but the dark grey clouds were threatening again. "Cas?"

"Over here."

Dean leant over the railing. His angel was a small, bunched-up lump on the ground, half way between Baby's garage and the treeline. "Cas!" He was hurrying over the churned-up ground before he realised he'd moved, slipping and skidding in the slick, wet dirt. "Cas, what's wrong?"

The crouching figure turned and Dean's heart jolted with relief. He was smiling.

"Nothing's wrong. Look."

He was on his knees in the sopping wet grass, his pants dark with moisture. "Get up, Cas. You're getting wet."

"Look, Dean."

Dean followed the trail of Cas's bright grin and his pointing finger. And even though the light was failing, the fresh, white flecks stood out bright and true, nodding heads hanging above sharp new spikes of green, pushing their way out of the old yellow-white stalks of last year's grass.

"Snowdrops, Dean. They're snowdrops."

Dean bent his knees and his back to get a closer look. The flowers grew in a clump right in front of Cas, but there were more clumps hiding in amongst the windblown tussocks of grass, and more spreading out into a wide swathe toward the trees.

"They do look like snow."

"Hence the name."

"They're not secret flowers any more."

"No. They aren't."

"Ah - you've got more hidden away."

Cas smiled.

Dean took his hand and squeezed it. "Let's go in. It's cold."

"Yes. And you can play with Sam's present while I make pizza."

"Pizza? Aw, no, c'mon Cas. You don't have to start cooking now. We'll order in. Or just eat cake."

"No, I want to, Dean. Cooking helps me unwind. And it's mostly prepared anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I left the dough in the fridge, so that it would rise slowly. You can go and play."

They had reached the kitchen door. Dean pushed Cas into the warmth, closed the door behind them and gave his angel a hug. "You're too good to me."

"I could never be too good. I think that's impossible. Especially on your birthday."

"The best birthday ever." He pressed his lips to Cas's, soft and brief. And then that wasn't enough - the yielding warmth of Cas's lips, the pine-sweat scent of his stubbly jaw, the rounded firmness of his shoulders, the life and reality and nowness of this man that Dean loved and who loved him in return - they drew him in, deeply in, to a kiss, rich and dark and flooded with need and urgency and desire.

Cas moaned into the kiss and Dean let his hand wander, trailing down his angel's chest and burrowing behind the waistband of his jeans to pull his t-shirt loose. His fingertips fluttered against Cas's stomach and then higher and he dragged the flat of his palm across the hard peaks of Cas's nipples - one, then the other, and back.

"I love you, angel. Love you so much."

Cas's chin tipped up and his head fell back as Dean kissed and licked his way down his throat. Grabbing his shirt, Dean dragged it free and tugged, exposing Cas's chest so that he could kiss and lick his nipples. He sucked one right into his mouth before releasing it to flick it with the tip of his tongue.

"Dean." Cas gasped. "Dean, no, please."

No?

"What? What's wrong?" He let Cas's shirt fall and stepped back, leaving cool air between them. He'd crowded Cas up against the kitchen table - not given him a choice. And he'd said no.

"Dean." Cas closed the space between them and held Dean's face, both hands warm against his cheeks. "I just meant later." He smiled and his head tilted to one side, eyes soft. "Later. Because the dough will be ready now."

"Oh. Okay, then." Wow, was he stupid. Cas could probably feel the heat in his cheeks. What an idiot.

Soft lips dabbed the tip of his nose. "You're so silly."

Dean shrugged and chewed his lip.

"But I love you." Another dab. "Now, go and play with Sam's present. And later, we'll play with your anonymous gift."

"Huh. Yeah." A tingling curl of lust sprang back to life - it didn't take much to revive Dean's libido, and the thought of those pink panties, silky and cool, stretched thin and tight across… "Mmm."

"Dean, later."

Sam's present was in its case in the Treehouse, where he had left it that morning.

Like the party, it had been a nurprise. His brother had told him what he was going to buy and asked Dean to choose the one he wanted. And now, here it was, ready and waiting.

Dean sat down on the recliner, the case on his lap. He flipped up the clasps and eased back the lid, holding it open with one hand, his fingers hovering above the gleaming wood. It had been a long time - a long, long time - since those few guitar lessons when he'd lived at Sonny's.

"Hey, baby. You and me are gonna make beautiful music together. Which is real corny, but you don't mind, do you?"

He stroked the smooth surface - dark-stained spruce fading through gold to a pale sunburst around the bridge - and let his fingers trail across the strings, making the guitar reply in a whisper of sound that wanted to be music.

Dean lifted it out of the case.

"You're beautiful."

He set the case down on the floor and held the guitar close, his arms falling into the shapes he'd been taught, his body supporting the instrument while at the same time it was supporting him.

Sonny had asked him, Do you want to learn to play? And Dean had shrugged, like he didn't care. But every time Robin's mom had arrived at the farm, Dean was hanging around in the shadows by the stairs, leaning against the wall, picking at his fingernails. He didn't care about guitar lessons. But if it was that or work on the farm, he might as well show up, mightn't he?

You're a quick learner, Robin's mom had said.

And Dean had shrugged, because he didn't care. And between lessons, he didn't practise because he cared, but because he had nothing else to do with his free time. When he was on the road, Dean never had free time. There was always Sammy to look after, weapons to clean, meals to be prepared, clothes to take to the laundromat. So he was just bored, that was all. And he'd get out Sonny's old guitar and sit and strum for a while, because he had nothing else to do.

But when Dean had fixed the tractor, Sonny had said Good job, Dean. And when he'd replaced the rotting boards of the chicken coop Sonny had said it again and smiled at him and there'd been a pitcher of lemonade to share with the other boys.

Dean's left hand curled around the neck of the guitar, his fingers shaping themselves by faded memory. His right hand ran across the strings and the instrument trembled to life. E minor. E major. E minor, E major - the press and release of one finger the difference between sadness and happiness.

The other boys hadn't known what Dean knew. None of them had seen what was out there, in the dark, or even in the daylight if you knew the signs. They didn't have to know, did they? They were just ordinary boys that had run into ordinary trouble, one way or another - ordinary boys who didn't know about monsters, but didn't know other stuff either, like how to change a spark plug on Sonny's old truck, or how to fix the fence so the chickens didn't get out, or how to stand up to the kids that were always waiting for them on the way home from school - waiting with their taunts and their fists ready. Dean knew about plenty of things apart from monsters. And when the other kids needed help, he couldn't stand there and pretend like he didn't care.

E minor, E major, A minor, C major. His fingers remembered the chord patterns even if Dean didn't.

After Sonny's he'd had to go back to not caring. He'd got in the car and Dad had driven away and he was Dad's son again, Dad's servant, Dad's soldier, Sammy's protector. And that Dean Winchester didn't miss Sonny or the other boys or the life he'd begun to think he could have. He didn't care that he'd walked away when he could have been dancing with Robin.

A major, G major, D major, D minor.

The Treehouse slowly filled with music as well as the warm-sweet smell of baking dough.

E minor, E major, A minor, A major.

Dad wouldn't buy the old guitar in the thrift store and Dean didn't have any money.

C major, A minor, G major, E minor.

Cas was singing in the kitchen and Dean had sung to the guitar he'd found in the old cabin, two strings broken, its neck warped from the cold, damp air.

Dad wouldn't let him bring it when they left.

D major, C major, G major, D major.

But this guitar belonged to Dean. This guitar, this home, this life were his.

D, D sus 4, D, C, G.

His left hand remembered the shapes slowly, his fingers searching, stinging already, their calluses - old ones from weapons, new ones from mending and making their home - in the wrong places for guitar strings. His right hand faltered over its pattern of plucked strings and resorted to a basic strum. It was far from perfect and his voice was soft and husky, but Dean sang the familiar lyrics:

If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you

And he kept going, singing about love that would never die, nearly to the end, when his fingers were throbbing and he stopped to clear his aching throat and blink away the blurring in his eyes. A scuff against the wooden floor told him he wasn't alone. Cas sat down next to him.

"Finish it. Finish the song, Dean."

He struck a D major chord.

If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you

And then he looked at Cas and waited. And his angel sang.

Mountains crumble to the sea, There will still be you and me

He smiled and Cas smiled back.

D major, C major, G major, D major.

The vibrations stilled, the music faded away.

"Thank you," said Dean.


And I'd like to say thank you to everyone who's reading and enjoying my story. It's lovely to have you along for the ride.