Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Dean first opened his eyes, nothing seemed to change.

The darkness didn’t seize and the silence dragged on, caging them in on all sides. Dean shifted, pacing where he stood, and the bottomless ground didn’t waver, the emptiness stretching for oblivion.

“You see anything?” Dean asked, squinting through a sea of black.

“No,” Sam swallowed. He spun around anxiously, his hand still gripping the angel blade. “Not really.”

“Me neither,” Dean said. “What gives? Jack said it was like nuclear war down here. It can’t all just be—”

“Empty?”

In the silence, the voice rang like a gunshot, and Dean watched as the walls caved and the floor sunk, the reality around them bending without reason. He raced to wrap his mind around it, the shrinking darkness, the endless black, but a figure was coming into view, growing closer as if floating on air, and Dean was too busy trying to stay upright to focus on the rattle in his skull.

Meg leered at them, her legs thrown over the side of a carved wooden throne that had seemed to appear between one breath and another. She had a glass of whiskey in hand, and she swirled the liquid around as if it were prey, her gaze ravening. Even now, her face still pulled in all the wrong directions when she smiled and said, “Well, you’re a little slow on the uptake, aren't you?

“Meg?”

“That’s not Meg, Dean. It’s the Empty,” Sam told him, his voice already strained, and Dean felt any confidence he had drain from his skin like color, leaving him breathless.

“Oh, wow. Small world,” He smiled through a grimace.

The Empty’s eyes narrowed, but its grin only sharpened. “You look disappointed.”

“Well, figuring as you knew we were coming, I guess I just expected you to choose a prettier face,” Dean said grimly, and the Empty shook with frenetic laughter, its head falling back against the throne.

Dean froze as he watched the figure shift, its body straightening to sit more comfortably. It crossed their legs in front of them, one over the other, the whiskey balanced on its knee, and smiled at Dean.

The change was painfully slow.

The bite in Meg’s smile blurred like watered paint, the shape of her morphing and shrinking and glowing, her features turning delicate in the places they’d been sharp. The lightness in her hair flickered like television static, blooming with streaks of red, and Dean felt his breath catch and shatter.

He knew it was Anna even before her skin changed, blanching in the darkness as a crystal white, but it still threw Dean’s heart through a dreadful ache once the colors had settled and he was looking at yet another angel he’d failed to save.

“Does this do it for you? Or should I use your other angel? I’ve got the top pick of any angel or demon in this place, so there’s no need to be modest,” The Empty preened, and Dean looked away as if compelled, his gut wrenching. The Empty studied him through a smirk. “What? You don’t think I know why you’re here? Castiel’s grace has been screaming for you Winchesters since the moment he fell into my sandbox,” The Empty reached into its jacket pocket, twisting something in its palm, “it’s really grating on the ears.”

“Yeah, I get the feeling,” Dean muttered, and then the Empty raised its hand, revealing a small vial of grace, and it was relief that Dean felt first.

The grace was there, it was real— everything was true. But then Dean looked closer, studying what remained, and what was meant to be the heavenly blue of a burning grace had become something mangled with darkness. The blue glow had dwindled in its shine, and the edges crept with blackened power.

Dean could hardly breathe.

“I don’t get it, why are you doing this?” Sam asked, gaze heavy as he studied the grace. He seemed to come up with the same conclusion Dean had; they didn’t have much time. “Chuck is gone. Billie’s dead. Everyone you hate has been wiped off the game board— why torture Cas’s grace?”

“Almost everyone,” The Empty corrected, curling the grace back into its palm. “Castiel had been nothing but a pesky fly since the moment he arrived. A nuisance that has done far too much and been punished far too little. I sent him back to Earth the first go around, no strings attached— and what does the little twat do? He throws it all away to save the son of Satan himself. Some angel he is.”

“What?” Sam whipped around to face Dean, the confusion on his face becoming painful. “Dean, did you—”

“Drop it, Sam.”

The silence lingered, the tension boomed, and Sam turned back with his jaw clenched tight, something akin to betrayal flashing hot in his eyes.

“Oh,” The Empty smiled. “That’s fascinating. The big one didn’t know?”

“How bout’ you cram that smart mouth of yours and just give us the grace, huh? We’ll be out of your hair in two shakes of a rat's ass, and you can continue your little pow-wow in peace,” Dean tried to bargain, flashing that smile of his that back in the day used to get him free cigarettes and a warm bed, but the Empty merely scoffed at him.

“Peace? There is no peace anymore. I was asleep for all of existence. Before God. Before the Darkness— I was at peace, and Castiel woke me from it with his insistent whining,” The Empty shuddered through a wave of anger, the emotion turning stiff as it forced its way through Anna’s kind features. “Not to mention that nephilim of his only made it worse by waking everyone up.”

Dean felt a shiver crawl up the bolt of his spine, shoulders drawing in as instinct sent him spiraling; his heart rose as a steady beat at the base of his throat, and he turned to look at Sam, taking him in from head to toe, checking for even an inkling of danger closing in around them.

“Everyone’s awake now?” Sam repeated, horrified. “Every angel, every demon…”

“Why do you think they’re all so willing to torture the angel that started it all?” The Empty demanded, breaking apart with a sadistic laugh. “Once we’re through with him his grace will be nothing but embers, and Castiel will have just enough of a connection with his grace so that when he dies— and he will die,” Its smile was softer this time, quieter, more deadly, and every tormented inch of it was directed at Dean. “He will return to me, and peace will be restored. Sleep will come for all of us.”

In all the months Cas had been staggering around with his mind chipping and his wings peeling apart, Dean hadn’t given much thought to what would happen if Cas died. Every mention was brushed past, every doubt was wiped clean with a firm we’ll figure it out, like we always do— because even if Dean didn’t believe a word of it, it was still what kept his soul tethered to the ground.

Dean hadn’t even considered the possibility that Cas wouldn’t go to Heaven. That he wouldn’t be set free from this place. Just the thought brought on a near crippling weight, his lips parting around a breathless tremor.

“Oh, don’t look so upset,” The Empty hissed, and it rolled its eyes as it finished off what was left of the whiskey, the glass vanishing from existence before the Empty could even swallow. “It’s not like Castiel was ever sitting at the popular kid's table, getting angels and demons to blame him for the upwake wasn’t exactly hard. Although, it wasn’t Castiel’s idea to turn the three-year-old into a bomb now was it?”

Dean exhaled, slow and heavy, forcing the air past his nose. He ignored the weight in his shoulders and cut his eyes away; he felt shame when he realized his fingers were twitching for the gun at his waistband.

“Billie was the one who sent Jack here. That is not on us,” Sam said defensively.

“Everything is on you,” The Empty retorted. “Don’t you get that? Castiel has done nothing but fight and resist me, all because he believes you boys actually give a damn about what happens to him. Or, at least he pretends to believe it. I’ve never seen an angel so rotted inside, spewing with human insecurity and worthlessness. You two have done quite the number on him.”

The shot veered too close, puncturing something in Dean that had long since been abandoned, pushed away in fear of ending him entirely, and Dean’s voice shook like a live wire, “Shut up.”

Instantly, the smile returned. The Empty took one look at Dean’s withering soul and dove in blade first, its voice tightening with dreadful intent.

“I’ve been inside his head. I’ve seen his worst fears, his deepest regrets, and you wouldn’t believe how many of them have Dean Winchester as the leading star.”

“I’m warning you,” Dean said. His body pulsed, fire roaring in his blood. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Fine,” The Empty smirked, and there was a moment, terrifying in its passing, where the world seemed to stop all on its own. There was a chilling breath, the undeniable sense that they were being watched too potent to ignore, and when the Empty spoke next, its voice curdled and boomed across the blackened void, “I guess I’ll just have to show you.”

Speaking wasn’t an option. Screaming was impossible. Before Dean could even grasp what was happening, reality tipped and the dark erupted in color, noise splitting through the silence. The ground shook as the vastness faded and Dean was sent sprawling when a force blew through the bulk of his shoulder, ripping a cry right out of him.

“Dean!” Sam screamed, and his voice was nothing but a brush of wind, muffled in the wake of shock.

It wasn’t until Dean landed, his hands taking the brunt of the fall, that the smell reached his nose. His lungs burned with it, his heart swelled, and when his eyes finally adjusted, it was the Earth resting beneath him. He curled his fingers into hardened dirt, and felt sun-warmed grass kiss the groves of his palms.

Dean waited for the change; the inevitable panic of a rug getting pulled from under his feet. But when he turned his head, the Empty was gone, its throne demolished, and Dean was left staring at the retreating shadow of a man on horseback.

His sword gleamed a daring silver in the rising sun.

“What’s happening?” Dean asked, fighting for Sam’s gaze as his brother helped him to his feet, but Sam’s attention was elsewhere.

“Dean,” He said, restless. Sam was staring off in the same direction the man and horse had come from, his eyes pulled wide, and Dean couldn’t help but tighten his grip on him, his heart already pounding before Sam managed to breathe out, “Look.”

In the distance, thundering towards them over flat terrain in a cloud of dust and soot, was an army. There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands— mechanic bodies strapped in blinding metal, their weapons poised and their horses caked in drying blood.

They looked human, charging forward to follow their leading man, but the sky rippled the second they opened their mouths. Dean felt his teeth rattle as they screamed, his limbs shaking apart. They all cried together, their voices peaking with electric static, and suddenly Dean was back in a deserted gas station with his ears bleeding and his spine trying to tear through his back.

The memory of nearly dying beneath a sheet of broken glass is what finally clued Dean in. He spluttered through a stab of panic.

“Run,” He grabbed frantically for Sam’s collar, dragging him sideways, “run!”

They took off down the field without direction, both of them scrambling for weapons that wouldn’t work and coherence that refused to settle. Dean could feel the ground rumbling beneath him, knocking him off balance, and with every falter Sam was there with him, guiding Dean back with a steady hand.

“Where?” Sam panted, his eyes flickering every which way. “Where, Dean?”

“I don’t know!” Dean shouted. “But those are some royally pissed off angels, so we better fucking figure it out.”

“Angels?” Sam whipped his head around, staring off into the distant swarm. His pace stalled, and he threw a hand out to Dean’s shoulder, “Wait a minute—”

“Sam—”

“No, listen. This— this is a memory,” Sam told him, and he pulled Dean to a reluctant stop, both of them heaving between breaths. “The Empty wanted to show us Cas’s memories, right? His regrets?”

“So, what? This some biblical war you recognize?” Dean asked tightly, squinting through a shimmer of sunlight that felt all too real, the burn of it at the back of his neck making his insides squirm.

“Angels fought on Earth for centuries. It would be impossible to tell which one this is.”

The ringing was unbearable now, tearing straight through to Dean’s skull, and the angels charged on, every step dragging on a new wave. The closer they got, the uglier they became, their vessels splitting at the seams and bursting with power, vengeful mouths foaming with searing blue.

They were coming apart, ridding themselves of anything human, and as they drew their weapons, sunlight rippling through thousands of swords and spears and bloodied fists, Dean finally found the voice to ask, “Sam?”

Sam swallowed around dust-dried air, the skin of his throat dripping with sweat. “Yeah?”

“If this is a war, then who’s on the other side?”

Of all things, it was the sky that answered back. The surface split with a glare of jagged lightning, every glimpse of sunlight rolling back behind blackened clouds. The heat vanished amongst a breeze of cold, and Dean stared off into the distant storm to find another wave headed their way, this one broiling with black ooze and virulent smoke.

Dean could barely make out the texture of human skin. Everything else was snarling teeth and molten rot, humanity shredded down to the last tethered bone.

“Demons,” Sam breathed, and it was like dropping a checkered flag, both sides screaming through borrowed bodies and dusted wind as they threw themselves forward, swords and claws readying for the blow.

Dean stared ahead. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said.

“Any plan.”

The angels tore across the land with little effort, the truffle of horses and the flap of wings bearing down around them. The demons were on nothing but their own two legs, their vessels layered in dirt and stitched fabric, but Hell itself was trying to stir in their features and Dean could feel bile circling his stomach.

“It’s not real,” Sam gritted, watching as the field grew smaller and smaller, their enemies closing in on both sides. “None of it’s real— we’ll be fine.”

Dean could feel pressure building in his kneecaps, knocking at his temples, and he staggered back when the watch on his wrist shattered in a flare of white heat. Pain spiraled up his arm, and he hurriedly brushed the feeling away, glass catching at the tips of his fingers.

When Dean withdrew, his hand came back red. He wiggled bloodied fingers in Sam’s direction.

“You were saying?” Dean said dryly.

“The Empty doesn’t want us dead. Not yet at least,” Sam insisted, holding his ground.

Dean wiped his hand down the front of his jeans. “And if you’re wrong, and we just end up as roadkill?”

Sam inhaled slowly, the briefest glint of apprehension letting through to his eyes. With a ray of sunlight, it was gone. His eyes were melted gold.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Dean cracked his head to the side. “Hell of a bridge,” He muttered, but he froze where he stood regardless, his shoulder brushing with Sam’s.

To his credit, Dean barely flinched when the war commenced. He couldn’t see the chaos; the moment of impact. But he could hear them. The clash of metal and bone and screams ringing towards the sky. A force knocked him sideways, the stench of a horse’s breath leering just beside his face, and then it was all gone, fading in a clash of light and dark that was swallowed by instant moonlight.

When the world came to again, it was with a street lamp guiding the way. The air was breathable now, crisp and winter swept, and Dean found himself standing on metal grating, the shadow of a warehouse stretching high behind him.

“Dude, what—”

“Cas?” Sam breathed out, and Dean stared dead ahead, the shape of a trench coat bleeding through the dark. Even with the haze, Dean recognized the doubtful slope of his shoulders.

He was leaning over a metal railing, his head tipped low to the sea beneath him. He listened silently to the lap of the water. Rust was beginning to rub off onto his coat. Within seconds of watching him, Dean knew where he stood.

Before the gold room. Before the fall. This memory, this Cas— this was from years ago, what felt like lifetimes now, and Dean could hardly recognize him. He’d forgotten how much Cas’s body used to drown in that coat, every breath he took and released settling perfectly in his crafted chest, calculated to the very last detail.

He was soulless, lifeless, a machine, the same creature who could sear the sky apart and would char the Earth just to win a war. It was hard for Dean to look at him. He’d come too far to be forced to see this Cas again.

When Anna arrived, her figure appearing back in the gloom, Castiel turned without pause. His eyes were already screaming before Anna could ask, “What did you do?”

Cas didn’t flinch at her anger. But his gaze was a precious, fragile thing that swayed as easily as the wind blew, and his eyes weakened all the more.

“You shouldn’t have come, Anna,” He said, remorseful.

“Why would you let out Sam Winchester?” She demanded, and Dean felt a surge of pain course through his chest, memories of demon blood and lying through blackened teeth making Dean turn his head before he could stop himself.

Sam couldn’t even meet his eye.

Again, through a breath of guilty finality, Cas said, “You really shouldn’t have come.”

Two angels appeared on either side of Anna, their features stoic and cold, and Cas looked on as Anna stared at him, the betrayal rendering her speechless. Anna cowered when they finally touched her, each of them gripping her arms for flight, and they vanished in a glaring blur, a glimpse of Heaven peeling through the darkness.

“Cas, you brainless son of a bitch,” Dean said absently, shaking his head as he watched Cas turn back towards the railing again.

Sam tilted his head up, his eyes shining towards the sky. There was rain coming down around them, just light enough to stare through, and Sam let it cleanse him in silence.

“This is just before you found me in Cold Spring, isn’t it?” He asked, and everything in his voice told Dean that it was hardly even a question at all. They both knew the answer.

If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.

That’s what Dean had said, coughing through blood and clutching his chest, glass crunching beneath him. It was almost surreal, realizing the time that had passed. Accepting that inevitably, despite Dean throwing out the same words John had said on the worst night of Dean’s life, Sam hadn’t left. Not really, not for good.

Even now, every piece of Dean was grateful.

“He told me about this, you know. There’s a reason he never brings up Anna,” Dean wiped a hand through his dampened hair, trying to ignore the itch of emotion at the base of his throat. “He thinks he failed her. She chose humanity, and all he did was shame her just because she’d been brave enough to do it first.”

“He figured it out eventually. You helped him figure it out.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, but that still doesn’t stop him from regretting it, does it?”

“I don’t get it, man,” Sam kicked at a lonely pebble on the ground. His hair was beginning to stick to the sides of his face. “First the war, now this, I— I mean, is it all just random? Why these memories?”

The question hardly got the chance to linger before the warehouse behind them started to flicker, fading in and out like a faulty projection. Time spun quickly after that, gaining speed as if forced with impatience, and everything around them became touchless and soft, nothing staying long enough to solidify.

There was no rhythm to it, no preemptive pattern; a universe worth of history was splayed at their fingertips, and the pages were let loose in the wind.

The flashes were brief, the worlds colorless, but Dean held on to each one. Even the memories he didn’t recognize, moments of death and sacrifice and angels begging for their lives beneath the hands of Cas himself, their true forms erupting in sheets of color and glass and light that bent through the air and made Dean’s limbs feel seconds away from snapping. There were people he didn’t recognize and monsters he’d never killed, but with every one glimpse of a stranger, there were a thousand glimpses of Dean.

He was everywhere, plastered to every corner, sewn into each fragment. Others would rise above the tide, visions of Meg and Alfie and Ishim and Jack— friends Cas had betrayed, family he’d let down, but between all of it, over and over again— Dean was the one who returned.

There was a shimmer of black ooze, Sam collapsing as Cas broke through his wall with a thoughtless press of his hand— and then there was Dean, his silhouette stepping over the lines of a devils trap, Alastair’s screams turning choked and clotted as he hissed through a fountain of his own blood. Castiel’s voice rose above the torture, malicious and ill-footed, calling Sam an abomination without a hint of regret— and it was Dean who followed, his body falling to a bloodied heap in the darkness of an alleyway, Cas standing over him with his fists curled at his sides.

The memories were endless, streaming together in looping intervals. These were Cas’s greatest mistakes— Naomi cried out in the emptiness, forcing Cas’s hand to connect with the line of Dean’s jaw— his darkest regrets— Cas stared as Dean bled at his feet, Dean’s fingers curling into the front of his coat— and Dean understood.

This was Cas repenting. This was him taking every single fucking mistake and hating himself for each and every one of them, and god— Dean knew. Dean forgave him. He only wished Cas would do the same.

There was an undeniable shift, then. A split in the fabric. The outpour of grief stilled as if clipped, the voices softening, the lights dimming, and Dean turned to Sam for answers. When Dean opened his mouth to speak, his words never passed, but his voice rose from seemingly nowhere.

“I swear, if he did something to her, if she’s… then you’re dead to me.”

Dean still remembered the look on Castiel’s face; the way his soul had seemed to erupt at his words, his eyes falling. But somehow, seeing it this time, it was worse. Dean stared as the memory pulsed in focus, closing in sharper, and he watched himself turn to Cas in a blinding rage, his features careless and cruel, knowing exactly where to chip in order to make Cas shatter.

And he shattered.

Dean turned his back on him, moving on as if he hadn’t just ruined everything, and Cas didn’t look away. His body was shutting down, eyes shining, but his gaze still followed, and all Dean could think was that he loved you. This was when he loved you, and Dean couldn’t take anymore.

Dean looked away as the memory was wiped clean and instantly replaced. He could hear them— the sound of Jack begging for forgiveness, the nauseating screams of Samandriel as metal pierced through skin— but it wasn’t until Dean felt the ground rattle with the pounding of a door that his head finally rose.

Dean locked eyes with himself.

“Why does this sound like a goodbye?”

His heart floundered and caved, slamming to the bottom of his stomach. Everything inside of Dean was blaring then, his heartbeat roared and his lungs caught fire, and he watched himself struggle through a feeling he hadn’t understood, not yet, not until—

“Because it is,” Cas said, ridding both Dean’s of their breath. “I love you.”

And then Dean was crying, desperate for the voice he’d lost and the words he’d failed to say, and the dungeon wasn’t just blurring with tears but fading with black, all of it swirling into a lifeless beyond.

Sam was calling to him. There was a hand on Dean’s shoulder. But Dean opened his eyes and saw nothing but empty, everything he thought he knew scattered across the vacant plain.

Millions of years, millions of little times and people and places— and it was this that Castiel regretted the most. It was the moment that had been plaguing Dean for months and the words he’d chanted like a mantra. Cas’s I love you laid in ruins amongst a sea of other torments, and Dean knew what that meant.

Cas had lied to him; the Empty had taken him on a lie.

“This place is where nightmares run havoc,” The Empty reappeared in a glassless shimmer, and Anna’s smile only doubled upon noticing Dean. “Angels and demons live out the rest of existence dreaming of the mistakes they made in their lives. So if you think me sicking my dogs on your angel has been any worse than what you already had him reliving here, you’re wrong.”

“Is that why he did it?”

Sam tightened his hold on Dean’s shoulder, his voice stitched with warmth, “Dean.”

“He ripped himself apart because he couldn’t take it anymore?” Dean asked helplessly, turning to Sam for answers, cowering when he found the truth. His heart ached as he choked out a laugh, hastily wiping the tears away. “He probably didn’t even know if it would work, if he’d get sent back. Cas died because of me and he’s still—”

The Empty rose from its throne without warning, and the brothers collapsed as if pulled, their existence melded by a single string. The Empty curled its fingers, twisting the air as though puncturing a heart, and Dean’s voice broke off into a pain-filled shout.

“I think I’ve just about had enough of this soap opera. Let’s change the channel shall we?” The figure seethed, staring down at them with pure elation. “What about something a little more violent? A little more bloody.”

Dean couldn’t catch his breath, the vice around his lungs tightening unbearably. His throat felt swollen and the black was closing in, but his eyes were on Sam and the sight of blood rising between clenched teeth had his skin broiling. Dean tried to reach for him, needing to do something, but he could barely move without pain sending his vision teetering. He drew back as if burned.

Dean screamed desperately into the void, writhing in nothingness. Blood poured from his mouth.

“Dean,” Sam gasped wetly, his face darkened with color. “We have to— ah!”

“Sammy!”

Sam contorted back against a wave of thrashing pain, hands dropping to clutch at his stomach. There was blood everywhere now, dripping past his eyes, oozing from his nose to bubble at his lips, and he was choking on it. Coughing through gulpfull's of red in a world of endless black, and Dean knew where this ended, right where it almost always did, and he wasn’t going to let Sam die here.

“We have to call Jack,” Sam gritted.

Dean was already way ahead of him. He let his mind drift, picturing the world they’d left behind, and he clung desperately to Jack, imagining him right where they left him; by Cas’s side.

“Jack, if you can hear me, get Sam out of here—”

“Fuck you! I’m not leaving you here,” Sam yelled angrily, and Dean couldn’t see his face, but he knew what that meant, and his plan spluttered and died, diffusing just as quickly as it had been assembled.

Sam wasn’t going to leave here without Dean, and Sam wasn’t going to live if they stayed. That was the reality of it, the horrifying truth, and Dean didn’t have a choice to make; not really, not when it came to Sam. But the idea of leaving still felt like dying, felt like giving up and tossing away everything he’d fought to keep.

Dean knew that the second he’d wake up, Cas wouldn’t wake up with him, and it was like choosing between two deaths. Two infinite nightmares. Either way, a coffin was waiting for him on the other side.

For seconds, Dean couldn’t breathe.

In the Empty’s other hand, Cas’s grace burned on, spinning endlessly in its vial. It fizzed and spat, begging to be spared, and as Dean swallowed a mouthful of his own blood, preparing the words that would clip him, he felt the air shift with a gust of shapeless wind.

Dean could barely hear the Empty’s scream beneath the roar of feathers.

Suddenly, standing behind Anna in a swarm of golden light, was Gabriel. He’d forced his arm right through his sister’s vessel, ripping apart the faulty skin, and Anna’s figure sparked and gasped, flickering through sheets of color before settling back down, every feature of Anna’s now replaced with Meg’s.

Dean gasped as the pain finally ceased, his lungs flooding with air.

“You know, I can’t help but agree. This channel’s much more interesting,” Gabriel mused, and with the same hand still protruding through the Empty’s stomach, he wiggled playful fingers in Dean’s direction, his skin painted in black goo.

It was through a vacant mind that Dean watched the vial of grace slip through Meg’s fingers. It hurdled towards the ground, seconds away from shattering, and Dean was already halfway through a frantic shout when a suited figure appeared in thin air, its hand dashing out to catch the grace in its palm, effortless as anything.

Crowley straightened back to full height, adjusting his tie as he went.

“Hello boys. In a bit of a pickle are we?”

“Crowley,” Dean breathed, not at all understanding the sudden smile on his face. He wheezed through a reluctant laugh. “This might be the first time I’m actually happy to see you.”

Crowley recoiled violently, his eyebrows shooting high. “My god you’ve gotten fluffy, Squirrel. What’s next, a hug? Box of chocolates?”

Dean scoffed. “Not a chance.”

“Guess that’s a no for me too, Dean-o?” Gabriel peeked his head out from around the Empty, grinning ear to ear.

Dean looked over at Sam, his eyes pulled wide. Sam’s only response was to laugh.

“Crowley, since when are you buddy-buddy with angels?” Dean asked.

“Since you boys got me killed.”

Sam winced guiltily, his voice surprisingly sincere, “About that, we’re—”

“Oh, shut it, Samantha,” Crowley threw out a flippant hand. “It was my choice, icing the devil is never an easy feat.”

“What are you doing? What have you done?” The Empty screeched, its tongue lolling through black blood, the boom of its voice trembling through the space in Dean’s ribs.

With a satisfied little hum, and a sickening crunch, Gabriel tore his arm back, ripping through layers of artificial skin and muscle and marrow, the force of it sending the shadowed figure to its knees.

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re screwing you over, sunshine. The good ol’ switcharoo, because believe it or not—” He grabbed a vicious hold of the Empty’s face, digging his nails into its seething sneer. “I happen to like my little bro, and I’ve just about had enough of torturing my family.”

“I am your ruler. You would be nothing without me!” It screamed, writhing unbearably as the hole in its stomach slowly started to meld, the squelch of goop and black blood making Dean’s mouth twist.

“You’re a raging bitch on a throne is what you are. And believe me, I know the look,” Crowley said, smirking infectiously. He turned to Dean, then, his posture oddly relaxed, hands delved into his coat pockets. “How’s mommy dearest doing, anyway?” He asked, trying to look anything but interested.

The Empty gasped brokenly, its skin searing together despite Gabriel’s best efforts. He was clearly holding it off, his eyes shimmering blue while his hands bled gold, but even they knew the Empty couldn’t be killed, not forever, and Dean could feel his seconds spinning.

“Crowley, the grace!” Dean demanded, needing the damned thing in his hand before all hell broke loose again.

Crowley rocked back on his heels, brows lifting. “Oh, right,” He said, pulling the vial from his pocket. “There you are, then.”

Crowley tossed it towards Dean, just as careless as he expected, and Dean caught it with two hands, his heart pounding in his throat. He stared down at it between his cupped palms, his skin drenched in blue light, and felt his chest bloom with emotion.

Dean looked up at Crowley, not at all caring that his smile felt real when he said, “Rowena took a play right out of your book; she saved our skins and then took over Hell.”

And neither of them would ever admit it, not in this life, but Crowley’s eyes visibly softened, his shoulders drooping with what Dean could only depict as quiet relief.

“Classy, that one,” Crowley said, finding his voice again. He cleared his throat, emotion splattered all over his features, and Dean’s smile turned sad. Crowley practically keeled at the sight of it, his trajectory instantly changing, “Make sure she knows that if she touches my drapes, I’ll burn her at the stake, extra crispy,” He threatened, brash and woefully charming, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“Gabriel can’t hold on much longer, Dean,” Sam warned, and his glance towards Crowley was nothing but mournful, their journey having fallen to a clear end.

Crowley gave Sam a curt nod. Sam’s smile was warm.

“Yeah, Dean!” Gabriel exclaimed in the background, exertion clear in his voice.

“You’re gonna be in for a world of hurt for doing this, you know. You and Gabe,” Dean told Crowley, and it was strange, acknowledging the pain surging up in his chest, the reality bearing down around him.

It had been easier last time, the grief of Mary being taken and Cas getting killed overshadowing anything and anyone, but Crowley was here now, playing the hero yet again, and Dean wished he didn’t have to lose another friend.

“Do I look that daft to you? Of course I know that,” Crowley huffed, appearing indifferent. He rolled his shoulders, his smile relaxed, but Dean could see it. Crowley didn’t want to say goodbye. “Anyway, no time to waste. When you see him, tell Cassie to straighten that bloody tie of his. It’s been like that for over a decade, and you know me. I was too polite to ever say anything to the poor bastard.”

Dean laughed through the sudden ache, too overwhelmed to do much else. He stared at Crowley, the years narrowing down, their moments growing dark. Years of being enemies, being allies, being something Dean had never dared to call friends until it was too late— and it was ending like this.

Dean said, “Thank you, Crowley.”

And he didn’t hug him. Though he had an inkling to, and Crowley managed only a second of peaceful silence before he was rolling his eyes, disgust flaring up in his pearl-white face.

“Oh, don’t look so sappy. To hell with the both of you!” He bellowed. “No thanks to you, I’m doing just fine here, and you want to know why? Because I’m Crowley,” He smirked. “And even when I lose—” His figure vanished, and he reappeared by Gabriel’s side, eyes bathed in vengeance, “I win.”

Crowley’s hand darted out for the Empty’s throat, forcing its breath to seize. The gape in its stomach was sealed now, however mangled and rotten it appeared, and its struggle was brief; with a wave of Meg’s hand, Crowley was sent toppling to the ground.

Gabriel’s powers gave a final surge before he too was flung back, his voice rupturing with a groan.

“Dean, now!” Sam shouted, eyes widening in instant terror when the Empty’s attention zeroed back on them, but Dean couldn’t move.

Now, instead of Sam and Dean, it was Gabe and Crowley pinned to the colorless floor, blood rising on their tongues and soaking in their eyes, ridding them of movement. And Dean, for the life of him, couldn’t turn away.

What happened when an angel or demon died in the empty? Dean wasn’t sure there was an answer, but if there was it wasn’t anything good.

He had half a mind to call Jack to the frontline, rules be damned, but rage was what landed first, hot and broiling at the swell of Dean’s gut, the clench of Dean’s teeth, and he had every intention of charging in without a single chance on his side.

Dean made it one step, and then he was blinded.

White flattened his vision, lasting only a single blink before it was gone, and Dean stared out at the swarm that had gathered within the blast, the Empty’s raging shadow turning small amongst the surrounding light. Its features went deathly cold, terror seizing its core. The silence was broken with the sound of ringing.

The angels moved in tandem, confining the Empty on all sides. They were mostly strangers to Dean; about a dozen of your typical feathered dicks with rage pooling at their feet, hands glossed in fractured rays of blue light, but not all of them. No. Some of them Dean knew.

There was Hannah at the ready, stars collapsing in her palms, and Anna— the real Anna, had the tide rolled back in her eyes, her arm linked with Samandriel whose youthful features had been pried apart by the cosmos, his innards spilling out in a storm of raging blue.

“They’re fighting back,” Sam said, voice flooded in awe.

Dean stared into the fire. “For Cas.”

From the shadows, Dean watched Crowley and Gabriel slowly unfurl, air swooping back into their lungs. They stood up on shaky legs, ignoring the blood on their skin, and looked towards the lone angel stepping into the ring of light, stopping just short of the Empty itself.

Balthazar.

The leader, a flare of blond hair and ivory white that was the first to attack, shattering upon impact and screaming as he bled. With him fell an avalanche, the rest of the angels following suit, and they did just as they had on that battlefield bathed in starlight blood; they broke the sky apart.

Beneath Sam and Dean, the darkness rumbled, only this time it wasn’t a memory. It was real, the world turning on its axis, splitting right in half, and Dean was forced to close his eyes against a blinding blimp of power. Air whistled past his ears and down his neck, the scraping sound of metal so violent Dean felt it behind his teeth.

“Sam,” He yelled, wading through open flames, arms outstretched in front of him. Dean couldn’t hear the sound of his own voice; the universe was crying too loud. “Sammy!”

A force knocked into him, making Dean’s pulse stagger. He threw his hand out, looking for anything solid in the blast, but it was Sam who found him first, the sudden grip on Dean’s shoulder turning painful. Dean didn’t hesitate this time. He grabbed a hold of Sam’s wrist, Cas’s grace burning on in the palm of his other hand, and he prayed harder than he ever had before.

Take us home, Jack.

It only took a second. A fragment of time amongst an endless spindle, and as Dean felt the familiar embrace of wings he couldn’t see and power he’d never come to understand, he heard the Empty’s screams fall to a startling end.

Dean opened his eyes against the light.

……

Castiel was born missing the sun.

He could remember loving it, and remember knowing it, and it was a core-driven need that churned blood in his system and breathed color into his paper-white skin. He took his first breath in, the sound of it creaking like wooden beams in a day-long storm, and with his body fresh and winded, he reached out a hand, stretching for the warmth of the sun he’d missed so dearly.

Castiel’s fingers got caught against a hue of light, a stretch of metal-worn skin. He could hardly swim beneath the wave of it, and his throat was nothing but swollen heat and choked emotion as he stared into the heart of the sun.

“Dean,” He said, and the warmth and the light and everything good he could possibly imagine drew even closer; Dean brushed careful fingers through Castiel’s hairline. His thumb lingered over the skin of Cas’s forehead.

“Hey, buddy, I’m here. Don’t you worry,” Dean smiled, and Castiel preened against the stream of sunlight, arching into the touch.

It took a few seconds for Cas to realize he was back in his bedroom again. The first time in weeks. It was just as pathetic as he remembered it. The sheets were cold beneath him and the bed felt endless, everything about it making him ache for the familiar sight of two pillows and a pair of open arms.

There was too much to take in all at once. The wall in his mind had been knocked down, the constant itch between his ears gone without a trace, and Cas was flailing against a turning tide, rising and sinking beneath an endless flood. He could feel his grace tethered in hot, his insides spiraling, but the hand on Castiel’s face is what burned the most.

Everything about Dean in that moment was crippling. As if Cas was seeing him again for the very first time, Dean’s presence wreaking havoc at the forefront of his mind, obliterating anything that dared to try and take its place.

Dean’s touch was more gentle than Cas could ever recall it. His skin was softer. His eyes were greener, the colors of him blown bright and beautiful with the kind of joy that came from realizing everything was finally going to be okay.

“You’re okay,” Cas choked out, realizing the very same thing. He wanted to reach up and grab Dean’s hand, touch him before he inevitably pulled away, but he didn’t. Cas didn’t know if he was allowed. “You’re okay, I— I wasn’t sure if you— I didn’t know if I’d stopped her in time. I couldn’t see Billie, I didn’t— all I saw was you. All I could look at was you.”

Another confession. Another I love you, plain as day, and Dean seemed to crumble at the force of it, his smile turning pained. He was upset. Castiel knew that much. Sacrificing himself had never gone over well with Dean, and he was angry, behind all that relief— he was angry. Angry at Cas and his choices, angry that while he had been ready to die together, Cas had been planning to die for him, and it was all on the table now.

With the memories back, and the truth revealed, and the tension shared, Cas was ready for the worst. But Dean’s anger was different now; he was different.

“We’re both okay,” Dean said, earnest. “I think it was about time I saved your ass for a change, don’t you?”

It took Dean’s fingers brushing over the bone of his cheek for Cas to notice anything at all. The touch registered as a jolt, a feeling that churned want into the red of his blood. Castiel flinched against the wave of it.

“I can feel you.”

“The grace healed your scar. The bruises on your back too,” Dean explained, his smile big enough to fall in, the care in his touch eons better than the dark embrace of nothingness. “I told you, you’re okay.”

You’re safe.

Castiel breathed in tightly, emotion curling in his features. He couldn’t feel much of the pain the Empty had caused. His grace carried most of the burden, its light dimmed and its power weak, the last of its energy sparking at the center of his being, just awake enough to keep him angelic. But Cas could still remember what it had been like before. The constant reels and flashes, the exhaustion that came with no sleep and the guilt that stayed with no forgiveness.

There was a reason Cas had left. There was a reason Cas had thrown himself into the void and taken a shot in the dark. Anything to stop the hurt. Anything to get back to Dean.

“How much do you remember?” Sam asked, clearly eager for an answer. He rushed to sit down on the edge of Cas’s bed, opposite of Dean, and Dean finally pulled away, his touch going with him.

The only thing that stayed was his smile, genuine and warm where his eyes crinkled fondly. An ache bloomed in Castiel, but he ignored it. Dean’s smile was enough; it had been enough for years.

“All of it,” Cas said. “I feel clear for the very first time. Eons worth of history suddenly… there.”

“Oh, thank god,” Sam laughed, melting with relief.

Dean scowled at him. “Find a different expression, Sam.”

“Right.”

“Where’s Jack?” Castiel asked, and he sat up quickly, straining as he went. Cas would’ve been flattered by the two pairs of hands that surged out for him, instantly wanting to help, but when one glance around the room left him with nothing but gut wrenching fear, all he could manage was to look at Dean and ask, “Is he alright?”

“I’m fine, Cas.”

He appeared from somewhere behind Sam, peeking out over his shoulder, and Cas could hardly breathe through the liberation. His grace spindled and hissed at his center, gasping with tortuous emotion, and it hurt— it’s always hurt to feel. Cas just couldn’t remember the last time he’d noticed the ache.

A laugh tore through him as Jack fumbled across the bed just to reach Cas, just to hold him and shudder in his arms, and Cas smiled into Jack’s shoulder, the biggest one he could muster.

Without his scarring, there wasn’t an inch of resistance. His heart soared.

“Jack, I—”

“I’m so sorry,” Jack spluttered, his voice pressed tight into Cas’s neck. Castiel stiffened the second he felt tears brush his skin. “For taking so long, for not being able to get you out— I was trying and— and then you were gone and I didn’t know how to fix you, I didn’t know how to do anything without you.”

“But you did do something, Jack,” Cas reasoned, pulling back just to look at him. “You found an answer, all on your own.”

“It took me too long,” Jack shook his head, refusing to hear him. His fist curled into the front of Castiel’s shirt, and he choked back a fresh wave of tears to refute, “You were hurting and I—”

“Never stopped trying. You never gave up, that’s what matters,” Castiel finished for him, and he watched the shift in Jack’s features, his innocence shining through the repentant tears.

Jack was halfway through a crooked toothed smile when Eileen appeared at the doorway, a shadow darting past her, and Castiel barely had time to shield his face before Miracle was bounding over the bed and greeting him with a rampant tongue, his happy little whimpers and wind-bending tail making Cas preen with the kind of comfort he hadn’t felt in a lifetime.

“This is Miracle,” Jack beamed, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s really friendly! When I met him, he wasn’t even afraid of me or anything.”

“I know, Jack. Miracle and I have become quite close,” Cas gave Miracle a loving look, “haven’t we, Miracle?”

Cas got a face full of dog as a response, and he jerked back with a joyous laugh, his hands smoothing over the fur behind Miracle’s ears.

“You doing okay? How’s that grace feeling?” Eileen asked warmly, perching at the edge of the bed.

Castiel smiled at her. “I feel good,” He answered, and for the first time in months, he meant it. His head was clear and his eyes were open, everything shining with astounding clarity. The want burned brighter and the love cut deeper, and just looking around the room sent Castiel’s heart spinning, the reality of it comparing only to the sweetest dreams.

It simply felt untrue.

The thought seared him.

Cas looked at Jack suddenly, fear strapping him to the bed. “Something’s different. You’ve—” There was a stench of power radiating off Jack, a flare that hadn’t been there before, and it was enough of a change to have doubt curdling in Castiel’s gut. “What happened while I was gone?”

Somehow, the details didn't dampen Castiel’s fear. Not completely. He watched as they spoke, Sam slow and courteous, Dean relieved but closed off, not wanting to relive a past where Cas had been gone, and it all flooded in tortuously labored, every word smothered with pained suspicion.

“So… the angels fought for me?”

“Crowley too, but, yeah,” Sam gave a timid smile, shoulders jumping. “I guess they cared more than they let on.”

Castiel felt an odd hitch at the back of his throat, this strange mix of guilt and gratitude making for a weakened voice when he asked, “And Chuck’s gone? Permanently?”

“As permanent as it gets. I’m sure he’s wasting away in some cozy ditch somewhere,” Dean said happily, and when he smiled at Cas, his soul flaring with light, all Castiel could do was hope he wasn’t staring through smoke.

“Dean,” Cas started haltingly, his voice careful. He bristled, eyes lowering, and said, “If it’s alright with you, I think we should talk about—”

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Dean’s smile tightened, and Cas felt his chest collapse. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, alright? You’re back. Let’s get you a damn burger first.”

Cas stared at him. “I’m not human anymore, Dean.”

Something in Dean’s features creaked and snapped. His gaze finally wavered, lips parting around a mouthful of words that never came, and he pushed himself off the bed before Cas could even reach for him.

“Fantastic, bacon burger it is then. You still a mayonnaise man? Or did your second go at being human finally knock some sense into you?” Dean asked lightly, trying his damndest, but his words were stilted, scraped raw, and Cas was struggling just to exist.

“Mayonnaise, please.”

And the hope might have been blown out, its light erased with just a few brittle words, but Cas’s heart still shuddered when Dean crossed the room in three easy strides to hug him wordlessly, almost as an afterthought.

The angle was all wrong, and Cas could barely even get his arms around him, but his pulse was seared to the back of his throat and his hands clambered for Dean’s shirt, Dean’s shoulders, anything he could reach, because his world might have lifted but his love wasn’t returned, and Castiel hadn’t even expected to get this.

A part of him wanted to be grateful. A part of him wanted to scream. But Dean was touching him, even now, even when knowing— and he was here. He was trembling in Cas’s arms, his breaths staggered, and Cas took it as relief. Dean might not feel the way Cas thought he did, but Dean was happy to have him regardless.

Dean said, “It’s good to have you back, Cas.”

And this, Cas knew. This was familiar. The friendship, the family print written at the bottom of every memory. It cut just the same as it had before, only this time there was more blood. He could feel it between his teeth. Woven in the dips of his hands. Etched into the shape of his ribs. It blinded him and killed him and god— what would it be like to be loved by Dean Winchester?

Castiel’s life had been nothing but questions since meeting Dean.

Why do I pity him? Why do I care for him? Why do I yearn for him? Why do I cry for him? Why do I love him more than anything else you could possibly conjure?

But questioning the existence of Dean’s own feelings… that had always been the one Cas asked the most. It had the potential to ruin him, and he’d never stopped daring it to try.

When Dean finally pulled away, tearing himself from Cas like he’d been stuck and only then found the strength to break free, Cas watched as he itched for an escape. He was out the door and gone within seconds, his shadow stretching down the hall, and Cas felt another question brim to the front of his skull, tapping at his sanity.

Cas wondered if watching Dean leave would ever stop feeling like the end of the world.

……

Dean didn’t even get the chance to turn the stove on and get the skillet out of the cupboard before Sam was rounding the kitchen doorway, tailing him closely.

“You wanna explain to me what the hell just happened back there?” He demanded, and Dean flinched back on instinct, managing to hit his head on the counter on his way to stand.

“What?” Dean asked sharply. He rubbed the ache at the peak of his hairline.

“The Empty said Cas sacrificed himself for Jack. When did that— I mean, did you know?”

Dean felt the pain vanish as his body tensed up, any other feeling but dread growing numb against a brittle wave. It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting, given what had happened in Cas’s room, but his eyes still swelled, emotion tearing through to the surface.

“That’s what you're stuck on here? The fact that Gabe and Crowley came through for us isn’t yanking your ear?”

“Did you know?” Sam repeated, but he knew. They both did.

Dean spun the metal skillet in his hand, pivoting to the side. Sam sighed the moment Dean turned his back to him to go searching through the fridge.

“I was… made aware,” Dean grabbed for the hamburger meat on the top shelf, securing it with two hands.

“And you just decided not to tell me?”

“Yes, Sam. I decided not to tell you. I do that sometimes.”

Dean didn’t even have the chance to turn and flash his brother a bitter smile before Sam was snatching the food right out of his hands. He tossed the handful of foil onto the counter and kicked the fridge closed, his entire demeanor prickling with the sort of impatience Dean hadn’t encountered in years.

“Yeah, well, I’m fucking tired of it. I want to know what went down with Jack, and what really happened when Billie cornered you,” Sam said, and despite his insistence, it wasn't pressure that seized Dean’s throat.

If anyone deserved to know, it was Sam. That wasn’t the problem, that wasn’t the barrier— the truth might’ve been hard to say, but Dean had been saying it. For years, in his own ways, Dean had already been saying it, and he hadn’t lied; Dean was good with who he was.

The fear of Sam not accepting him had never even existed. Not as a petrified teenager, not as a drifting adult— Sam was the only one in the world Dean could trust with this. But it wasn’t about telling Sam about him and Cas. It wasn’t even about telling Sam about him; who Dean was and who he loved.

It was about speaking a memory that felt like a nightmare, and stripping it bare enough to finally feel real.

“You saw, didn’t you?” Dean asked, and what was meant to come out sharp turned deflated and weak, exhaustion coating his every nerve.

Sam crumbled. “Not all of it, Dean.”

“Sam, I—” Dean paused, startled by the sudden shake in his voice. He looked at Sam pleadingly. “It makes me sick just thinking about it.”

“You don’t have to say it, alright? Not all of it. But… help me out, man. Help me understand.”

Dean reeled himself back with a quickened breath, his entire body rigged. He had to look at it from the outside. Start from the barest detail, and work his way in until he couldn’t look any further.

“Do you remember when Jack was dying? When he got real sick and— and wasn’t gonna make it back unless we helped him pull through?” Dean winced through the memory, just the mention of it making his head drop. Sam nodded slowly. “Well… I guess the Empty had gotten to Jack before Cas did. And to keep it from taking Jack, Cas offered up his own life instead.”

“But… Cas didn’t die,” Sam stared at Dean, a heaviness weighing in his eyes. “He was there right after Jack came back, he—”

“The Empty agreed to take Cas, but on one condition,” Dean hesitated. “It would only take Cas once he was truly happy.”

“What does that—” Sam’s words were clipped short, halted as if his ability to speak had been ripped from him.

The silence returned.

Around them, Dean could hear the vents rattling. There was the distant rustle of Miracle finding one of his toys in the war room. It was all Dean could focus on, all he could force himself to look at as Sam's confusion finally subsided.

His brother’s voice came back shaking, “Dean…”

“And he just— he wanted to save me. If it was the last thing he fucking did, Cas was gonna save me— and he said some things, you— you saw and I—” Dean’s own voice was a mystery to him at that point, every choked word blurred to hell beneath the race of his heart, the scream of his lungs. “I didn’t get to say em’ back before it happened. The Empty and then Billie knocking at our door and it all just— it happened before I could even—”

“I understand, Dean. I do, you don’t have to…” Sam swallowed thickly, eyes shining with tears of his own, and just the sight of them made that fracture in Dean snap back in horror, his instincts hurrying to shove his emotions behind the floodgates once again.

“Look, I’m just trying to make the guy some lunch so that I can feel normal about something for once,” Dean admitted defeatedly. “Can you give me a friggin’ minute before you expect me to go full Romeo on him?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “So... you do wanna get in his pants.”

“That’s your takeaway?” Dean deadpanned.

“I mean, not all of it, but—”

“It’s not like that. I don’t just wanna... sleep with him, or whatever,” Dean muttered, and of all things, it was this that sent heat rising in his face.

Dean felt swarmed, his voice working over words he’d never used, emotion he’d never felt, and he wondered desperately if Sam could hear the depth of it all. If he understood that this was real in a way it had never been; that this was the reason Dean had stopped looking for hookups years ago, the reason he’d died in that dungeon right alongside Cas months before, and had been fighting for air ever since.

Dean hoped he understood.

“Don’t act surprised,” Dean mumbled, eyeing the floor.

“Believe me, I’m not,” Sam scoffed. “It’s just weird to hear you finally admit it.”

Dean waited for the shock to reach him. For the panic of realizing Sam had known all along to make him rethink every word and movement he’d ever made, wondering if he’d stuttered just a bit too much or stared just a second too long at the men who’d send him drinks at bars, at Cas who never left Dean’s side.

The feeling never came. If anything, Dean seemed to breathe a little easier.

“It didn’t feel right before. There was never a time I could... we could—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation. Not a single one. I was there for most of it, you know,” Sam grinned, tracking Dean’s rising blush with knowing eyes, and Dean stuttered out a laugh, not at all sure what to do with his hands.

“Yeah, I know, and I wanted to talk to you about it. Wait until it felt safe enough to have something like that, but it, uh, kinda got put on the back burner.”

“Right,” Sam agreed, his tone turning downright mocking. “To simmer, and simmer, and simmer—”

“Yeah, yeah, you big baby. It was torture for you, I get it,” Dean rolled his eyes, insides swimming with warmth. He could feel the smile on his face as he leaned back against the island counter, the stretch of it mesmerizing, the joy in it real.

A part of Dean found the casualness to be alarming. There was supposed to be yelling, arguing, denial— Sam was supposed to ask him questions, not accept Dean without a thought. But Dean figured this was Sam of all people, this was the kid he raised, the kid he bled for, and not everyone in Dean’s life was going to look at him the way John did; Dean had to start remembering that.

“But things are gonna be different now?” Sam approached him slowly, nervously hopeful in a way that was almost sad. He matched Dean’s position against the counter, shoulder to shoulder. Sam tilted his head towards Dean, “You’ll make it different?”

The pain didn’t erase the freedom. Not completely, not infinitely. But the outcry of relief in Dean softened considerably, his solace to just be looking at Sam clearly for the first time in forty years falling horribly quiet.

Dean stared at the kitchen floor, thoughts spinning, and it occurred to him that he wasn’t sure what the plan was. He didn’t know what to do next. If Cas didn’t want him in the way Dean had been dreaming about, aching for his return, then what else was there? What would happen to the life Dean had been building when Cas was supposed to be at the very center of it?

Dean couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“I don’t know what he wants, Sam.”

Sam balked at him, nose scrunching up with unrestrained judgment. “Dude, you can not be that stupid.”

“He regrets it. What he told me, that he—” Dean blew out a heated breath, head shaking as he said, “Jesus, Sam, you were right there.”

“It’s more complicated than that. It always is.”

“Oh it’s complicated, believe me,” Dean said bitterly, and Sam looked about two seconds away from breaking down.

“If you would just fucking talk to the guy—”

“I don’t wanna hear it. I’ll… deal with Cas when the time comes,” Dean brushed off, needing the damned conversation over with before his body shut down all on its own, unable to accept that his reality had dealt him the shittiest hand imaginable.

Dean pushed himself off the counter and rounded back over to the stove, making it perfectly clear that the moment was over. Regardless, Sam stared after him, looking tempted to speak but lost on what to say.

“Just remember what I said about the sock on the door,” Sam said eventually.

“Fuck off,” Dean laughed, and however brief it was, that feeling was back, his soul smothered into a restless ease.

Cas was alive, Jack was here, Dean was free. There were still things to be grateful for, battles they’d won against impossible odds. Dean shouldn’t be upset, he shouldn’t want more; the sooner he accepted that, the better off they’d all be.

“So, uh, I gotta ask, man,” Sam started out of nowhere, his voice oddly curious. His smile was nothing but kind when he caught Dean’s eyes again. “What does this mean? Have you always… I mean, are you—”

“I’m me, Sam,” Dean said. There were better explanations for it somewhere, a grander string of words that Dean couldn’t piece together in that moment, but this felt right too. This felt like enough. “For the first fucking time.”

And when Sam finally staggered his way out of the kitchen, leaving Dean with a mission and a lingering smile, it felt like the spine of an ancient book coming to a thunderous close.

……

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a meal like this. All of them, together, settled around the kitchen table with their respective plates and drinks and growing smiles.

Vaguely, like recalling an old dream, Dean could remember doing this as a child. Only Sam would be laying on a pallet on the floor beside him rather than across from him, and the spot to his left never knew anything but the gentle hum of his mother as she ate. Dean could remember the way she’d pin her hair back and brush Dean’s cheek as he fumbled with blunt silverware. Sometimes, John would be there. Most of the time he wasn’t.

Now, it was Cas sitting at his left. And it was all the same warmth, the same giddy softness and touch-starved ache that had been churning in Dean since childhood, directed at anyone who Dean wished would love him just as desperately as he loved them. Dean didn’t know how to turn it off. He never had.

And so the moment lasted, and it lasted, and it lasted. Jack grinning through a mouthful of ketchup as Eileen eagerly taught him phrases in sign language, Sam following along with quick hands. Their voices were low but their laughter was high, and Dean was happy. There was a constant ache just below the surface of him, always one tap away from spilling over, but he could manage. Dean could be happy with this, he’d done it before.

If only Dean could just stop looking at him.

Cas seemed to be entranced by his plate of food, his eyes never leaving the table. He’d barely touched his hamburger, but the few bites he had taken had been slow and measured, almost as if Cas had to remind himself to chew.

When the plates were cleared and the rest of the table slowly started making their way out of the kitchen, Dean felt stuck in place. Cas didn’t stir beside him, his eyes moving along as the others fled, and it felt like a silent agreement. A mutually dreaded understanding that something needed to happen, now, and suddenly Dean was glad that Cas had sat beside him rather than across. It was easier not to look at him this way.

“How’s your burger?” Dean asked stiltedly, needing to fill the silence.

Castiel was quiet. “I told you, I’m—”

“Not human anymore, got it,” Dean cut in. “But since when has that stopped you from indulging me? Come on.”

Cas wilted, and his lips rose into a saddened smile. He brushed careful fingers over the edge of his plate, contemplative.

“It’s perfect, Dean,” He said, sweeter than anything, kinder than Dean deserved, and the peace was shattered, everything in Dean tensing up and closing off.

I lied, Dean was ready to hear. I don’t really love you, not— not in that way, I’m sorry.

Dean was prepared for all of it, he had been for years, but the moment was hurdling towards him now, terrifying in its closeness, and Dean wasn’t so sure he could take it anymore.

“Well, go on then.”

Cas stared at him. “What?”

“Talk,” Dean snapped, throwing out a hand. “Speak your mind, drop the other shoe. What’s the point in delaying it, right?”

Dean didn’t understand the look on Cas’s face. Those somber eyes of his fell away, bewilderment setting in, and Cas did what he almost never could; he matched Dean’s anger.

“Delaying what, exactly?” His eyes narrowed, confusion twisting into instant blame. “I figured it was only fair that we talk about what happened, why are you—”

“You died. That’s what happened,” Dean croaked, and the heat was swallowed, leaving behind nothing but phantom smoke. Castiel stared at him, his edges turned soft again, and Dean gathered just enough air to keep going. “You made a stupid deal, and you kept it from me. Kept it from all of us, and you decided to save me as your last fucking hurrah. So, no, Cas, I don’t need a crash course. I know what happened.”

“If you honestly expect me to apologize for saving your life, then you clearly don’t.”

It’s strange, hearing Cas talk about that night. Dean had been biting his tongue around Cas every second of every day since finding him in that hospital, suffering through the memory of it all on his own, and now Cas was the one telling Dean what had happened. Cas was the one insisting he’d read it all wrong, when in reality it was Dean who spent his nights drowning in it.

“You can’t keep doing that, man. You can’t just…” Dean trailed off, his voice burying itself into the table.

“You feel guilty,” Castiel realized softly. “This is about my grace, isn’t it? The decision I made?”

Dean couldn’t look at him. “Some decision.”

Cas sighed deeply, his composure only half-massed. He tried to catch Dean’s eyes, lowering his head as if regarding a child, and that anger roared on, the wave of it rolling back towards the bottom of Dean’s stomach, prepping for the crash.

“I needed out, so I got out,” Cas declared, voice hard. Then, without a thought, his hand flew to Dean’s wrist. “What is the issue?”

“The issue—” Dean staggered back, clamping his mouth shut the second he felt himself reach that dangerous edge. His head dropped, and he breathed into the silence. It wasn’t until Dean slid his hand out from under Cas’s that he was able to speak again, “Is that you gave up something you didn’t know you’d get back. You made a choice that— that most angels don’t come back from, and I’m not saying you did it for me, I’m not saying—”

“I did do it for you,” Cas retorted, and it was the equivalent of getting punched in the throat. Dean blinked at him, dumbfounded, but the fogginess never seemed to clear. Castiel scowled at the expression. “Dean, I was in pain, and I wanted out. Of course I did. But falling from the Empty had never been done before. I didn’t know if my body would go straight to Heaven, or if my grace would burn me alive— I didn’t know. You’re the only one worth taking that risk for.”

“But I’m not,” Dean said. His voice was nothing but a whisper now, all of its strength having caved on the way. “I’m not worth dying over, or being human for, and I think you know that.”

Cas’s eyes wavered, and there was something painful in the way he said, “Dean.”

“You think you believe all those things you told me. You think that I’m— that you—” Dean shuddered through his next breath, head shaking. He forced himself to smile. “You don’t, Cas. You just don’t, and I understand. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not making sense… none of this is making any—”

“And you don’t have to say it, because I already know. Okay? Nothing has to change. We don’t have to change, everything can go back to the way things were, I swear,” Dean promised him, needing to be believed, needing to know they had something if not what Dean wished for, but Cas’s face was unreadable, his eyes guarded and his mouth pressed thin.

He looked at Dean with an untouchable heaviness. “Is that what you want?”

Careful. That was the only way Dean could describe his tone, and even then he was stumbling blind, looking at Cas without a single idea what to say.

This is where you tell him to stay, Dean thought. This is where you do what you never can.

But instead, what came out of Dean’s mouth was, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Cas didn’t seem to have an answer to that. He let silence fill the void.

“Jack wants me in Heaven,” He said suddenly, keeping his voice steady. His eyes lost their shine. “He has plans to rebuild, to heal. He doesn’t want Heaven to be a personal paradise, he wants it to be another life. A second chance. That’s something Chuck never would have dreamed of.”

It didn’t take a genius to understand what Cas meant. Dean had gotten used to all the different ways he said goodbye.

“What’s stopping you then?” Dean asked, and his words registered as anything but casual. His eyes stayed locked onto the shape of his own fist resting across the table.

Cas stared at Dean for a long moment, the seconds stretching in their pain, until finally, he said, “I don’t think anything is.”

And everything fell quiet.

……

When Dean woke up the next morning, aching desperately for the warmth of a shared room again, Cas was already gone. His bed was made and his door was shut, and Dean dragged himself down the hall without saying a word.

Sam trailed him for hours that first night, questioning Dean over dinner, pretending to be busy scouring the bunker’s shelves to have an excuse to keep an eye on him, but the days dragged on, a week came and went, and Sam slowly stepped away if only to spare himself.

Dean didn’t know when Cas was coming back. A part of him thought he wasn’t coming back at all, and the matter of when quickly became a matter of if, only the worst scenarios lingering as a constant loop in Dean’s head.

Still, Dean didn’t pray to Cas. Not this time. Not when he’d made his choice so perfectly clear.

It was on day nine of Cas being gone that Dean felt the air in his bedroom bend and snap beneath a current of wings. Dean was sitting on his bed, the one and only handful of family pictures he had spread out across the mattress, and within seconds, his breath was gone.

It was always the comfort that came first. The relief of knowing he was alive, knowing he was still existing on this planet, honing in this universe. But sitting there, with his heart on his sleeve and his past scattered like ashes, Dean’s first feeling wasn’t solace.

His gut trembled with rage.

“Look who decided to show,” Dean said sharply, not even bothering to lift his head.

There was a distinct pause, and then, in a voice much higher than Dean expected, “Hi, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that it was Jack standing in the corner of his room. His shoulders slumped, the anger coiling in his spine falling helplessly limp, but the tightness in his chest never ceased. Dean could still feel his pulse at the base of his throat.

“Hey,” Dean swallowed. His eyes flitted nervously around the room. “Is… is Cas—”

“He’s still in Heaven. As we speak, he’s helping my mother tend to her garden. He’s grown fond of the rose bushes,” Jack explained thoughtfully, his smile rising to the corners of his eyes.

Dean didn’t quite know how to look at that smile without wanting to flee.

“Didn’t take Cas for a slacker,” He said absently, embarrassment flaring up the shell of his ears as he hastily started gathering his photographs, piling them together much more disorderly than he would’ve preferred.

“His powers aren’t strong enough on their own to make any real changes in Heaven. Only I can do that, but his vision for the future is dependable, and I have a lot to learn from him.”

Just as Dean was about to stow the photos away in his bedside drawer again, his fingers brushed over the last colored image left waiting on the bed. It was a newer picture, new enough to still surprise Dean every time he found it hidden within the pile, and he fumbled for it with shaky hands, holding it up against the lamp light.

Truth was, Dean had acquired more pictures over the last three years than he had over the previous twenty years combined. Captured memories of Sam snoring against the Impala and Cas stitching up his trench coat. Blurry shots of Jack smiling wide and Mary reading in her pajamas and Dean only looking young in the moments he felt free.

Dean didn’t know why he’d wanted more. For the longest time, all the pictures he’d had had been taken by others. By John, by Bobby, by strangers in passing and moments left to fate. Dean didn’t know why he’d been inclined to start snapping and printing everything within sight.

Maybe it had been by accident. Maybe Dean had started to care more about the story he’d leave behind. Maybe Dean liked to feel as if he could still hold pieces of the people he loved even in times where they didn’t want to hold him back.

Maybe.

But this picture, shining in the fold of Dean’s hand, was special. Special in the sense that it was one of a kind; the only one starring both Dean and Jack, taken during one of the many highs between the ever-changing lows. It was before the fallout, before the hatred— and in it, Dean had the biggest smile he’d ever seen.

They were playing tic-tac-toe. Dean was talking Jack through it, drawing it all out on the back of a newspaper Sam had given them. Dean was using a red crayon; Jack had wanted the yellow. And Dean could still remember the feeling of watching Jack struggle to make a perfect circle within the lines, his writing uneven, his fingers weak against the colored wax.

Jack had been happy, even when struggling. Even when nervous about the prospect of challenge and slow at basic creation— Jack was happy, because he was involved. He’d felt seen in a room full of people who weren’t quite sure what to call him, and Dean had sat there and realized that he’d found yet another person he was willing to die for.

In the end, Dean had let him win. Then, and every game after that, Dean had let Jack win.

“Listen, Jack…” Dean didn’t have a plan for this, not a single idea of what he wanted to say, but he staggered on, his breath catching over a nervous laugh. “Fuck, I don’t even know where to start,” He winced, rubbing at the back of his neck. “There’s a lot I gotta say to you. Things I should’ve said a long time ago and things I should’ve never said at all, and I’m trying to do better, I am— but that means nothing if I don’t apologize for who I’ve been.”

This was the first time they’d been alone together in months. Not since that night in the Impala, when the world was coming down on them just as violently as the rain overhead, and Dean had thanked Jack for a sacrifice in the making.

Dean wished he’d known then what he knew now. He wished he’d been brave enough to admit that he was wrong.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Dean,” Jack said, pouting like it was simple, smiling like it was easy. “You’re my family. Cas says that these things happen sometimes. That families hurt each other without meaning to, but only because they love each other so much.”

Dean could hardly take the words. He wanted to ask Cas about them, know if he meant them, see if he felt them the way Dean did, but he couldn’t. And Jack might have thought he found an excuse, but Dean sure as hell didn’t, and it was about more than just forgiveness at this point.

Dean needed to know he could say it.

“Well, then this is for me,” Dean said, straightening up. He looked at Jack from his bedside, something breaking in his features, and said, “Jack, I’m sorry.”

It seemed to hit Jack all at once; the apology that was placed in front of him. He’d already forgiven Dean, there had never been a time where he hadn’t, but Jack still stared at Dean through eyes of glass, his words reaching the parts of Jack that had been skinned by Dean himself.

“After what happened with Mary, I— I spun out. Lost my way. You were a kid without a soul who didn’t know up from down, and I treated you like some monster because it was easier. It was easier than admitting that the anger I saw in you just reminded me of me, and I didn’t wanna think about that— I didn’t want you to turn out like me—”

“That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Dean,” Jack said painfully, and Dean didn’t understand why he looked so sad, why he was fighting back tears alongside Dean when it was Dean who had hurt him, and Dean who had lied to him, and Dean who had claimed he wasn’t family after years of convincing Jack he was.

Dean didn’t look up as Jack made his way over to him. There were no wings, no flight— just slow steps in a quiet room bleeding out. He sat down on the bed right beside Dean, trying to see his face, but Dean was staring at the floor.

His voice had already swelled with tears by the time Dean got the words out, “That thing I said, about you not being family, you— you know I didn’t—”

“You already told me,” Jack said, soft. “It’s okay.”

And finally, Dean turned to look at him, his chest aching miserably, everything in Dean wanting to reach out and force himself away all in the same breath.

“All that time fighting with Sam and Cas about our plan to end Chuck, when it was you I should’ve been fighting with. I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve helped you. I should’ve told you I didn’t want you to die even if it meant saving me and Sam— and I should’ve—” Dean inhaled sharply, razorblades caught in his throat, a tear escaping his eye. He looked at Jack for the longest time. “Fuck, Jack, you were my kid too.”

Something broke. Something mended. Dean didn’t get to see the look on Jack’s face before he was getting arms thrown around his neck, and Dean wasn’t sure how to feel. Jack hugged him tightly, ridding Dean speechless, and his heart grew heavier.

Dean didn’t hug Jack back. He didn’t deserve to.

“I still am,” Jack whispered. Dean felt scorched alive. “Dean, I still am.”

And his words and his voice and the strength at which he held Dean was just enough to make Dean hold him back, his grip starting loose and turning desperate, Dean’s smile getting drowned in his own tears.

Dean hugged Jack tighter than he could ever remember hugging anyone. Certainly tighter than his own dad ever hugged him, and somehow the thought was a comfort.

Finally, Dean was doing something right for once.

It was a lifetime later when Dean spoke again. The tears were dried and the highs had settled, and the silence Dean broke was a comfortable one.

“It’s late, kid. Why—” Dean’s eyebrows furrowed, a thought occurring to him. “Why are you here anyway?”

“Oh, I came to tell you to fix things with Cas,” Jack said easily, not at all understanding the sudden horror on Dean’s face.

“Fix things? We’re fine, Jack, he’s off… you know, living it up in heaven or whatever.

“You’re lying.”

“Am not.”

“I can tell when people are lying now. Cas says it’s a part of growing up,” Jack claimed, looking pleased with himself.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, Cas says a lot of things.”

“What Cas did… falling from the Empty,” Jack started suddenly, shaking his head. “I’ve never heard of anything like it. With Anna, she had no memory of anything of her past life before having her grace restored. I guess that’s just the way it’s supposed to be; less painful that way. But Cas, well,” Jack’s smile was all knowing, something giddy and childlike hidden in the lines of his cheeks. “He’s always had a tendency to do the unthinkable, so long as it pertained to you.”

It was hard to comprehend; the vastness of Jack’s memories, the contrast of knowledge and youth confined within him. He had the mind of Chuck but the sense of a babied deer, and if Jack knew all about Anna, then what else did he know? What did he know about Cas?

What had Chuck kept hidden away?

“Tell me something,” Dean licked his lips, terrified of his own question. “How come I was the antidote? Cas said he felt better around me, and that when I was away, it all just—”

“Fell apart,” Jack finished mournfully. His brows pinched together. “You were his last memory. Before he died, before he fell, it was you he was thinking of. That’s the only way I can think to describe it. The Cas who fell back to Earth was made with you in mind. In every sense of the word, down to the very last atom… he was incomplete without you.”

Dean didn’t think he would've ever been able to take Jack’s words in stride. No matter what, his breath would’ve caught, and his heart would’ve flamed, and his feelings for Cas would’ve spun through his ribcage like a ceaseless current, never quite knowing where to land. But now, with Cas in Heaven and Dean unsure whether they had a future to count on, his world all but stopped.

Dean stared into the floor, his bottom lip trembling, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what to say.

And then, in a voice all too soft and sparing, Jack said, “You really love him, don’t you?”

Dean crippled. He broke and he gave and he ached, and he looked at Jack with bared acceptance. There wasn’t hesitation this time. No panicked denial or flustered indifference, nothing at all like Dean was used to.

This time, Dean smiled, and it hurt something awful and pierced something raw, and he laughed tearfully into the silence.

“Is this the part where I get tossed into hell fire again?”

The look Jack gave him was not a kind one. His eyes hardened and his shoulders rose, and for a startling moment, he looked so much like Cas that Dean had an inkling to turn away.

“That’s not how it works, Dean,” He demanded, needing Dean to really hear him. “I know what you were taught, and I know how you were raised, but your love for my father is the furthest thing from a sin.”

Dean shuddered through his next breath. He nearly tripped on his way to stand.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Jack stared after him, watching as Dean moved across the room without reason, itching to get away. “It doesn’t?”

“Cas and I, we’re not—” Dean winced as his voice vanished. He wondered desperately if this— finding a name for the twelve-year ache in his gut, would ever get easier. “It’s not gonna work. Not like that.”

Jack scowled in his direction, head tilted curiously. “Cas did say you were being difficult.”

Dean fixed Jack with a deadpan glare.

“Oh so he gossips now. Wow, that’s— that’s fucking delightful,” Dean dropped his hands heavily. “Used to be a warrior of Heaven and now he’s… bitching to his three-year-old.”

“He’s not bitching—” Jack started to protest, but Dean’s gaze quickly turned sharp, disapproving of the language, and he backtracked with an exasperated sigh. “He doesn’t speak unkindly of you, Dean. He couldn’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s unhappy,” Jack said, putting it plainly enough for Dean to feel the words settle like a mountainous weight. “All I know is that he’s unhappy.”

The realization that somehow, somewhere, Dean had failed, was a fast one. It’s a direct hit right to Dean’s core, his very fundamentals, and it didn’t make sense because Dean was the one who had been left. Dean was the one who’d been abandoned, it was always fucking Dean— not the other way around.

But here Cas was, with his grace back and his mind restored and his insistent unhappiness, and Dean felt all the fight he had left drain from his skin.

Because it didn’t make sense. And it never would. But Dean knew what he’d always wanted, and that was for Cas to be anything but unhappy.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said. He ignored the flare of panic in his gut. “Okay, I’ll… okay.”

Jack studied Dean kindly, and joined him on the other side of the room, his footsteps light.

“And what about you, Dean?”

Dean felt himself tense. “What about me?”

“Are you unhappy, too?” Jack asked, and this was good, this was familiar— Dean had been here a thousand times before. He knew how to take a punch without spitting up blood.

“Can’t complain,” He shrugged, smiling through trembling lips, but the effort was short lived.

Jack’s gaze veered off to the side, bypassing Dean to wander over the mess of his desk instead. He hadn’t organized it in ages, the surface nearly completely covered in junk, but Dean knew the moment he noticed it.

“Wait, that’s not—”

Jack already had his hand on the paper before Dean could even finish, and he held it up in the direction of the light, something soft seeping into his features.

“You want to be a firefighter?” Jack smiled, eyes fumbling over the job application like he couldn’t take it in fast enough.

“I did,” Dean’s voice was quiet. He couldn’t will himself to make it any louder. “It was all I wanted to do as a kid.”

Jack turned to him expectantly. “And now?”

Dean stared at him, fumbling for words in the growing silence. His heart ticked like a bomb.

Even as a kid, Dean used to haul that burly old leather jacket around like a lifeline. Before he was sixteen and cared that it was John’s, he was nine and liked the way it cradled him. It smelt like smoke and felt like a home, and Dean would always imagine that the weight of it was similar to a fireman’s suit. That he was rugged and strong and it didn’t matter if he couldn’t see his hands past the sleeves, because one day he would.

One day he’d get out, and Sam would too, and Dean wasn’t sure how yet, but somehow he’d get his mom back. He’d put on a fire suit and a red-rimmed hat and everything would be fixed. He’d pull his mom from a bed of flames and his dad from a broken bottle, and they’d be on the nearest highway back to Kansas.

But that road never appeared. Dean had lost his mom twice, now. And he’d never learned how to stop drowning in that jacket.

“Now, the farthest I can go is the station front door,” Dean said, spitting it out before it could tear him up inside. “I’ve been trying to look for a job, something fucking normal that I can… I can work for. God knows I won’t just sit here when Sammy starts going out and helping people again. But I can’t answer half the fucking questions on that thing. How are screw-ups supposed to get a second chance?”

It was different before. When Dean didn’t think there was any point of an after and his whole life was this, here, now. His world was narrowed to one motel room a week that he could never leave until he bled something dry, and his life was a constant spindling thread that grew thinner and thinner, weakened by every blow.

It was different to care. It was strange to think there was something other than destiny standing in the way of Dean and his freedom.

“I don’t have a home address. My social security went up in flames with the family home, and apart from the schooling and fire training they want me to get a— well,” Dean hesitated, unsure of his own voice. “They called it a psychological assessment. Which, I don’t really, uh,” Dean’s head dropped, his stomach writhing within itself, and he thought about the scars on his chest. The whitened lines and jagged edges. The hoarseness of his own voice screaming in the dark.

Thought about blood-soaked hands and black bred dogs and the rattle between his teeth every time he found himself drowning in a bottle, unable to stop but desperate to feel healed, and in a voice much unlike his own, Dean said, “I don’t think I’m… well.”

It was a truth that had been born a lifetime ago. A truth that had been there since Dean was four years old and bottle feeding a newborn with John passed out down the hall. It was only now that Dean ever found the words to voice it.

Dean was forty-one years old when he finally voiced it.

“You’re not ready,” Jack said, and there was so much softness, so much care in the way he looked at Dean and told him everything he needed to hear. “You’re not ready, but you don’t have to be, Dean. It’s you who gets to decide these things. So, maybe, instead of looking towards a dream you had as a child, figure out what your dream is now. What is it that you want?”

It never mattered what I wanted, Dean thought frantically. His heart pulsed. No one ever cared until now.

“I don’t know,” Dean said, and he tensed up, almost expecting to be scolded.

He didn’t know how to take it when all Jack did was smile.

“That’s okay, too,” He beamed, and his eyes shimmered gold. The flare was gone too quickly for Dean to think much of it. “Because when you do know, you’ll be free to do as you please. I’ve fixed everything.”

Dean blinked at him. “What?”

“You and Sam,” Jack repeated, nodding along without a thought. “Your identities, your records, all of it— I’ve fixed it. You’re free to be who you chose. Your past no longer binds you, Dean.”

“You—” Dean couldn’t stand the drum beneath his skin. Couldn’t stand it. It reminded him of fear and hope and the feeling of getting everything taken away, and he couldn’t quite let himself believe. Not yet. “You what?”

Jack’s smile was pure radiance, a glimpse of Heaven shining straight through.

“Remember what I said about Cas, okay?” He said, raising a palm in farewell, and Dean barely managed to make it one step before the kid was gone, his departure leaving behind a trail of wind that sent the application on Dean’s desk twirling to the floor.

Dean didn’t allow himself to mull over it. Just standing there felt torturous enough, and within seconds he was tripping over his bedside to grab for the laptop under his pillow. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this. It had been years since he’d researched himself, too afraid of the past that saw he had no future, the records that screamed killer and murderer without any idea of the true blood Dean’s spilled.

There was a time when Dean wore this like a medal. When he’d made it to his late twenties and felt lucky to be alive, any attention at all feeling like the greatest gift in the world.

Now, Dean felt like throwing up, and his heart was racing as he pressed enter.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed, eyes flickering rapidly as he raced to take it all in, his memory stretching to aid him.

For over thirteen years, searching the name Dean Winchester had revealed millions of hits and dozens of police reports scattered across the states. He had charges from aggravated assault to serial murder, his mugshot plastered across every FBI database in existence.

Dean Winchester was wanted, he was dangerous, he was feared, and he and his brother were wild animals let loose in the wind.

Now, the results of Dean’s name had been halved, and the black and white image of his cocky-eyed blue steel was nowhere to be seen.

……

It took days for Cas to show his face in the bunker again, and Dean did his best to emerge from the shadows, slowly and cautiously, careful not to make himself appear too eager.

It wasn’t his fault, really. Dean hadn’t said a word to the guy, their exchanges chalked up to vague grunts, darting eye contact, and now Dean was planning to finally acknowledge that something was wrong, that they needed to deal.

Of course Dean was nervous. He didn’t know where to start, and when he saw Cas, his presence appearing in the library archway between one blink and the next, he wasn’t sure whether he remembered how to use his own tongue.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas greeted, and his voice faltered once his gaze landed on Dean. He nodded, “Dean.”

Cas was wearing his suit and coat again. It was in the same state of dishevel as it nearly always was, tie crooked, his dress shirt bunched up at the bottom, and all Dean could think about was how the last time he’d seen this Cas, he’d been forced to watch tendrils of darkness reach out and cast him away.

“Hey,” Dean replied. He didn’t bother looking up from the table.

“How’s Heaven looking, man? More… heavenly?” Sam grinned, moving his eyebrows in a way that made Cas’s lips twitch upwards.

“Improvements are slow but, yes. I’d say so— oh, hi,” Cas turned as Eileen appeared behind him, his smile so thoughtless and warm that Dean felt his heart tremble as the two of them fell into an easy hug.

“You should stay for a while, Cas. Dean’s making chili,” Eileen suggested, and even though her words batted Dean’s heart up to the cusp of his throat, he straightened purposefully in his chair, thrown into motion.

Dean parted his lips to speak, looking to agree, but Cas beat him to it.

“Oh, that’s— that’s alright. Maybe another time.”

Dean didn’t feel much of anything as Miracle trotted his way into the commotion. Castiel stepped to pet him eagerly, his smile softened into an endearing tilt, and Dean watched with vacant eyes as the born-again angel lowered himself all the way down to the floor.

He crossed his legs together, his coat fanning out around him, and beamed when Miracle followed him to the ground, rolling over to present his belly. Cas’s touch was gentle. His eyes were adoring. He spoke calmly and quietly and he looked at Sam as he did so, not at all deterred by Sam’s questions or Eileen’s persistent touch.

Cas was home again, and he was glowing. He’d missed this— he had, Dean could tell. But he was just sitting there. He was sitting there, and sitting there, and even when he stood up— brushing himself off as he went, his eyes never traveled. Dean’s voice died away at the center of his chest, scorched and killed like a rogue flame in the cusp of winter, and Cas still wouldn’t talk to him, still wouldn’t look at him, still wouldn’t fucking turn around—

Dean pushed himself back from the table, and his chair screamed as it moved.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked him, clearly picking up on the tension now, his eyes moving hastily across the silenced room.

“Baby needs a clean-up,” Dean said. He shrugged. “Just remembered.”

Sam tried to meet Dean’s eyes as he stormed out of the library, looking to pull one of those faces of his, but Dean wasn’t looking at Sam. He was looking at Cas. Staring him down as the steps between them dwindled, and Dean was angling his head towards him when he brushed past.

Cas didn’t look up. He watched the floor as Dean blazed and burned through the archway, his steps falling heavy down the stairs.

It only took a second of Dean standing in the middle of the bunker’s garage, his chest seizing up and his breaths slicing deep, for Dean to regret his plan completely. He swore through the next five minute fumble of gathering what he needed, snatching up the keys, and driving through the narrowed tunnel until he saw day break.

Instantly, he felt calmer.

Living underground had never been an easy thing for Dean. Not since Hell. Not since waking up in a dirt invested casket and dreaming of coffins lost at sea. Dean always did his best to ignore it. He wondered if ignoring it ever really worked for anyone.

Dean slowly made his way through the secret entrance at the back of the bunker tower, and tried not to grind his teeth to dust when he had to drive over a fallen log just to pull out onto the street. Eventually, he made his way back to the entryway, and parked just outside the bunker door. He went there hoping to find some shade while he cleaned the mess of an engine he had resting under the hood, but the sun had been stolen, and nothing but clouds resided above.

It was going to rain soon.

“Go figures,” Dean muttered, and he popped the hood.

Now, he wasn’t going all out here. This had been an excuse after all. But Dean wanted that roar in his stomach gone, and the only other option apart from alcohol was distraction. Dean groaned into the crease of his elbow. He figured one was more upstanding than the other.

Dean rolled up his sleeves, grabbed one of the towels he’d thrown into the backseat, and set the bottle of cleaner down by the right rim. He got to work.

He did everything he could not to think of the single metal door separating him and his angel.

……

“I— I should go,” Cas fumbled backwards the second Dean was gone, his features turning cold.

“No, wait, just— hold on a second, man,” Sam staggered out of his seat to follow him. “What the hell was that just now?”

Castiel shook his head violently. “Sam, I’m needed in—”

“You’re needed here, now,” Sam demanded, and Cas stiffened up as if caught, his eyes beared wide with emotion. He looked at Sam miserably. “You’re always needed here, don’t you get it?”

“Tell Dean that.”

“Tell—” Sam started to repeat, only to realize the insanity of the words. He blinked. “Okay, this has to stop. Whatever this even is, I’m stopping it right now. What is happening? What’s wrong with you and my brother?”

Cas scrubbed a hand down his face, and gestured to the hallway Dean had disappeared. “Have you asked Dean?”

“I’m not asking Dean. I’m asking you.”

“Sam…” Cas trailed off. His gaze drifted to Eileen in the corner of the room, her presence still hollowing something in him that made his chest ache in reply. She gave him a watery smile, and Cas turned back to Sam to say, “It would be nothing but a burden to you.”

Sam’s stance grew rigid. He inhaled once, slow and shaky, and Cas watched his eyes give beneath an unmistakable weight.

“No. No, I’ll tell you what’s a burden to me. My brother acting like he died in that dungeon with you. That’s my fucking burden. Because I knew nothing would change unless we got you back, that I was useless to help him, but now you’re back, and he’s not, and I don’t understand why you both keep insisting on staying unhappy.”

“Wait,” Cas’s heart stilled. He listened to the echo of the room, hoping he’d heard it wrong, wishing he’d mistaken it; unhappy. But the word only came back to him with twice the volume, triple the pain, and he asked, “Dean’s unhappy?”

……

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean managed to confine his surprise into the barest flinch, but there was no stopping the way his pulse spat and hissed, whistling in his throat like a steam pipe. He straightened up from where he was leaning over Baby’s engine, the twinge in his back and the sweat on his brow dropping low on his list of nuisances.

When Dean looked at Cas, his gaze dove straight down, unable to meet his eye. He gestured towards Cas’s trench coat, needing something to voice, “Did Jack magic that back for you?”

“Oh, no— this— this is new. The old one was ripped apart, it ceased to exist the moment I fell,” Castiel looked down at himself, smoothing his hands over the fabric innocently. “It didn’t feel right to part from it. I needed some semblance of my old self back.”

Dean’s body stilled, his functions missing their crest. He tried not to think of the universe and its irony as he tossed his towel and reached for a clean one.

“I see Eileen’s moved in,” Cas said, his voice an odd peak in the resounding silence.

“Sure has.”

Dean held his breath through the seconds that followed.

“I take it things are good then?” Castiel tried. Dean listened as he breathed. “Her and Sam?”

Dean grabbed for a water bottle that had turned over in the gravel at some point, twisting the cap off. He soaked the towel, rung it out, and forced himself back under the hood.

“You didn’t ask em’ yourself? You were in there a while.”

There was supposed to be a plan to this; somewhere, Dean had mapped this out in his head. The confronting, and the talking, and the harsh understandings. The I don’t love you’s and the I want you to be happy’s. But that had all been swept away in a fit of anger, a selfish need to push and pick and scratch— because Dean had been fighting his anger for months now, and the very reason he’d been holding back was now the one motive feeding the fire.

“Right,” Cas said, and Dean could hear the difference in him like a catatonic shift. Cas was giving up. “I’ll be on my way then.”

Dean’s heart seized.

No.

“Happy travels,” Dean heard himself say, and he gripped the towel hard enough to split his knuckles red and white, his chest opening up to swallow an ocean, splitting him at the seams.

There was static pooling in his ears; blood ran hot on his tongue, and somehow Dean was in that library again, in that very same spot with a desk at his back and a blade in his throat. He was in that room, cloaked in that heat, and it wasn’t daylight bleeding through his shirt, it wasn’t grease sticking to his palms— but desperation pouring from his skin, and Cas’s leaving figure was a nightmare that lasted long after he woke.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

With a force like no other, Dean bolted upright.

“Stop!” He shouted, and Cas flinched back as Dean slammed the hood shut. “Would you— could you just stop?” Dean rounded on Cas violently, something desperate and mangled rising in his eyes. “What’s the matter with you, huh? Why do you always wanna turn tail and run the second I fucking—”

“That is not what this is and you know it,” Castiel interrupted, voice turning hard, and maybe this wasn’t the reunion Dean had wanted, maybe he’d rather be kissing Cas than screaming at him under darkened skies, but this was better than silence and better than absence because at least this was something.

“Then how is it? Please fucking explain it to me. Cause’ everywhere I look there’s always someone trying to leave, and I get it— of course I get it— I’m nothing worth sticking around for. But when it’s you…” Dean couldn’t get the words out, not all of them, but Cas didn’t need him to. Standing there, he already looked skinned alive, watching Dean helplessly. “You’re the one that stays, Cas. Don’t you get that? You’re the one that stays until you don’t— and I can’t—” Dean cut himself off, his breath hitching. The realization was a slow one, and his voice turned pressing as he looked at Cas and said, “I need you to tell me.”

Castiel froze instantly, panic striking his features. “Dean, I don’t understand—”

“I need you to tell me what you want,” Dean repeated. “For the first time in our god forsaken lives, tell me what you want.”

This was more than just a week of silence. This was more than Dean feeling misunderstood. This was years worth of wins and losses, gains and drawbacks. There was a flood that had finally cracked and a vein that had finally punctured, and Dean was aching with a twelve-year love that had maimed him too many times to count.

“It’s not about want. It’s about will,” Cas said unyieldingly, his frown carved deep. “And it’s clear to me that you’re not willing to try and look past what I’ve already told you. So why should I?” His expression wavered, emotion chipping him away. “Why should I try to be your friend when you—”

“I don’t just wanna be your fucking friend, Cas.”

It was the most honest he’d ever been. The closest Dean had ever come to ripping himself apart and allowing the blood to flow, and he watched as Cas grappled with it, struggling to take in the words. His face flickered through expressions, shocked to hopeful, dazed to broken, rewinding and rewiring like static frames on a black and white film.

Dean couldn’t depict any of it. He couldn’t see Cas’s truth; all he could do now was voice his own.

“I want you to fight. I want you to stay. I want you to mean the things you told me— and I want you to do something about them.”

“How could you think I didn’t mean what I said?” Castiel asked heatedly, breathless and choking on it. “How do you always manage to—”

“Because I saw it,” Cas went horribly rigid, his mouth parting around nothing but silence. “When Sam and I went to fetch your grace, the Empty gave us a look inside. Showed us the things you dreamed about when you were dead,” Dean raised his eyebrows. He couldn’t help the way his voice turned bitter when he added, “I sure do make up a lot of those regrets.”

“I’ve done wrong by you, haven’t I?” Cas asked. He sounded exhausted, scrambling for meanings in a hopeless void. “Many times. Why wouldn’t I have regrets about the past?”

“Not that,” Dean shot back at him. There was something vicious in his tone; his lips were trembling. “You weren’t supposed to regret that. When Billie cornered us, the things you said— me,” Dean inhaled sharply. “You weren’t supposed to regret me.”

All at once, as if swept away with a deft palm, the anger left Castiel’s face. There had been ice in his gaze, a soul bedded frown carved deep into the lines of his forehead, and now he was stripped bare, his eyes bleeding with something far less describable than anger.

“I have millennium's worth of regrets, Dean. Mistakes I can’t change, lives I took without thought because I was told it was just,” Cas explained, impossibly burdened, his eyes flayed down to the nerve. He sighed deeply, and with the release came a gentle smile, a barely there pinch at the corners of his mouth. “A lifetime of blood on my hands, and I wouldn’t trade a single second of it if it meant I’d still be standing here with you.”

It scared Dean sometimes, just how much Cas was willing to do for him. Just how much he’d do for Cas in return. They would bleed and kill and ruin if it meant keeping the other alive— and this was one of those truths that was a part of Dean now; he’d stitched it into his very skin.

But Dean knew what he’d seen. His reality was split as a fork in the road, and to Dean, anything that didn’t register as acceptance was immediate betrayal. That was the way it had always been, and Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to think now.

Dean stared at Cas, wanting to relent, wanting to believe, but he bit down on the tension with his teeth and said, “Really? Cause’ that’s not what I saw.”

“You’re doing it again,” Cas pointed out, eyes narrowing. He took one step towards Dean, looming as if compelled forward, and Dean felt his tongue dart out to wet his lips, fear pinning him to the Earth. “You’re letting your feelings fuel your perception. Change your reality. You misunderstand me, Dean— I don’t regret what happened. I regret what didn’t.”

Confusion mauled Dean’s features, and he blinked at Cas in a stupor. When he opened his mouth to speak, Cas was already pressing into his space, lifting a hand in the shrinking distance between them.

“Look at it,” Castiel said softly, moving to touch Dean’s forehead.

Dean cowered away. “Cas—”

“Let me show you,” Cas repeated, patient, ever-guiding, and with his heart scattered across every surface, the thrum of it living in the tips of his fingers and the shake of his knees, Dean leaned in and let Cas’s touch burn him blind.

He plummeted.

The dungeon roared to a head and sharpened at the forefront of Dean’s mind, the image of it collected and pieced together as if by sheer will. It wasn’t the way Dean remembered it being that night; distorted and colorless, tears blurring the memory. He wasn’t watching Cas cry through his own eyes and wondering when it was they were supposed to die together. No, this was different.

Just as Dean had when he’d walked through the Empty, he was seeing it all from the outside. Like a stranger looking in, witnessing the break and the collapse and the moment of nothing he’d been left in afterward.

“I love you,” He watched Cas say again, watched Cas lie again, and the wall behind him caved inwards, a blackened ooze spilling through the sudden void.

Dean watched as the memory of him turned to stare at it, realization dawning, and he spun back to look at Cas just as he remembered doing, terror pinning him in place.

“Cas—” Dean gasped.

And instead of reaching for Dean’s shoulder, marking him red and bloody with a final sacrificial touch, this Cas gave in, and his hand rose to Dean’s face instead, cupping his cheek tenderly.

“Goodbye, Dean,” He choked out, smiling, and just before he forced Dean aside, saving him from the darkness that swept out to greet Castiel in a needled embrace, Cas leaned forward and kissed him, desperation forcing his lips flush against Dean’s.

Dean watched himself shatter.

This Dean was too stunned to move, too appalled by the chance he’d missed to even kiss back, and by the time Dean had found his footing well enough to reach a hand out, his fingers brushing over the front of Castiel’s coat, he was already being sent to the floor. This time, in a version far worse than Dean could have ever imagined, Cas left him with more than just a gaping chest and a drying reminder on the bunker door.

He left Dean much in the same way that he met him; with a handprint. Only this one had been gifted on Dean’s cheek, and for hours, he cried nothing but red.

“It’s a selfish regret. That’s all it is,” Cas said as the vision peeled with white. The paint smeared and the edges softened, and Dean opened his eyes to Cas standing in front of him again, the smell of the outside air rushing back. “Being there, in the Empty, I was bitter. I was sad. I regretted that I hadn’t taken what I could while I’d still had the chance.”

“You knew,” Dean breathed. Cas took a guilty step backwards, separating them. “You knew how I felt.”

“Not until that moment. Not until it was too late to have it,” Castiel shook his head wildly, wanting Dean to understand. “All these years I’d been waiting. Waiting for the world to stop collapsing and for you to finally stand still long enough to realize all I’ve ever wanted was you. And there was a time, maybe when I was human— maybe after you’d look at me as if—” Cas’s smile was weak, brimming with memories that made Dean’s eyes begin to water. “I thought you were waiting too. Right alongside me, but you weren’t.”

His words injected an instant fire in Dean, a painstaking need to refuse, to argue, because Dean had waited. He’d spent his whole goddamn life waiting for people to care. But Cas saw this, just like he saw everything else, and he continued before Dean could even try to get a word in.

“Not because you didn’t care. Not because… the one thing I wanted was something I could never have,” There was a real smile on his face this time as he repeated those words, the meaning of them changing as he spoke. “But because you’re you,” Cas laughed. “You’re frustrating and thoughtless and stubborn. You accept what little you have but fight for those who want more— and to you it was impossible. You didn’t even let yourself consider how I might feel.”

Standing there, his defenses demolished, Dean felt picked clean. Cas was seeing him. The way he’d always been able to, the way he’d been refusing over the last week for his own survival because Dean was the one who had gotten it all wrong. Dean was the one who had been lying.

He loves you, Dean’s head offered, and his heart rose like a bird taking flight.

“I didn’t think you could,” Dean admitted. “You’re an angel, you— that’s not how it works.”

“No, Dean,” Cas regarded him like something broken. Like something broken but capable of being healed. “You just thought I couldn’t love you. I wish I would have realized sooner.”

“Would it have changed anything?” Dean asked.

Slowly, Castiel shook his head.

“I wasn’t lying when I said my happiness wasn’t in the having. I’d made my peace with that, just as you had. But, trapped in that room, when I looked at you, what I saw…” Cas slowed as he remembered it; became submerged by it. His smile grew. “I’d never wanted anything more than I had wanted you. And when I realized I could’ve had it, that I’d wasted so much needless time trying to convince myself I didn’t need it at all— ”

“But you had it. You’ve had it for years,” Dean demanded, and the words poured out of him like nothing else had before, “Cas, you’re it for me. Don’t you get that?”

Within seconds, tears were at the surface, glaring like crystals in the storm of Cas’s eyes. “And you still feel that way?”

Dean almost wanted to laugh.

“I can barely remember a time when I didn’t,” He said earnestly, and Cas felt it like a wave, his eyes closing against the crash of it.

“But you didn’t… you didn’t ask me to stay. Before, when you— it didn’t seem like you—” Castiel shook his head, voice breaking. “I thought you changed your mind.”

“Not a chance,” Dean said breathlessly.

Overhead, the sky grew darker, a cold-spun breeze passing through the air. The clouds had grouped and blackened, a storm residing just out of reach, and the surrounding trees grew nervous in the sudden haste, their branches swaying ominously.

Neither of them spared it a glance.

“I wanted to tell you sooner,” Dean said painfully, unable to stop the outpour. “Years ago, man, but— but things would always change, and why should I get to have something like that if the world couldn’t even keep itself out of the toilet? There was just never enough time, everything was against us. And then we learned about Chuck, and I thought that if we could win this, if we could fight God and stay standing, then that was it. I would finally ask for more. But then you…”

They both melted, dreading the mention of it, wishing their journey had been easier. It was bittersweet; having an epiphany that was long overdue. Realizing years too late that maybe Dean could have avoided so much of what had kept him scared into staying silent.

The inevitable what ifs were one hell of a drop to fall down, and Dean was ignoring them like the plague.

“You weren’t supposed to go, Cas,” He said softly, crumbling where he stood. “That’s why I didn’t say it back, I couldn’t— I thought it would kill you. I didn’t say it back because I thought that’d be the end, and I wasn’t gonna do it. I wasn’t gonna be the thing that killed you— not this fucking time and— and so I didn’t say it and you— you—”

Dean couldn’t breathe, his voice held on a wire, tears burning hot down his face. He thought he understood suffering, every aching form of it, but this was extraordinary. This was miserable. This was everything.

“You weren’t supposed to die. If I’d known I woulda tried harder, done something. I’d have told you and made sure you knew,” Dean confessed, centered back to that moment, the desperation of it having come to him in the form of one word he’d barely been able to speak.

Cas—

I love you, too.

Dean should have finished. He should have screamed it as he’d watched Cas slip away.

“What about now?” Castiel asked, hopeful in a way that made Dean’s ears ring, his steps drawing closer. “Can’t you tell me now?”

Right in front of him, was an open door. All Dean had to do was walk through it. But there had always been a difference between wanting and doing, a jagged gray line dividing the two apart. Dean could want to tell Cas he loved him. Just like he’d wanted to stop hunting when he was sixteen, and wanted to have a home, and wanted a father who cared.

It was one thing to want. Dean had just never been any good at what was supposed to come after that, and standing there now, Cas’s expression turned vulnerable, his eyes big and imploring, Dean opened his mouth to find nothing but uneasy silence.

A weight was lodged in his throat, buried deep within the skin there. Dean’s heart was ticking and his face was broiling, and even at the crest of it all he was imagining what it would be like to lose. What would happen if he spoke those words and found himself staring as a pool of black surfaced behind Cas, reaching for him for the very last time.

Castiel stepped closer. Dean was terrified.

“Dean—”

And with that lack of voice, and with that ring of doubt, Dean pressed in and kissed Cas, head splitting outwards with need, his pulse roaring on to the franticity of I have to tell him, I have to tell him— please just let this be the way that I tell him.

It was shitty of Dean, spineless even, and god— if Dean were Cas he’d say a good smack was more than justified. But those three words were like a death sentence for Dean, for the people in his life, and he liked to think— or hope, more so, that this was enough. That Cas could feel Dean’s heart bleeding through the part in his lips, and that when Dean settled two hands to the bolt of Cas’s jaw, holding onto the tremor there, Cas opened his mouth and drank.

Castiel kissed Dean back with a passion that surpassed what was human, and Dean broke and ached and loved him as much as any human could.

It wasn’t until Dean’s hands wandered, trailing back to splay outwards at the back of Cas’s hair, that the rain started. A light sprinkle over the line of Dean’s shoulders, a softened brush of cool air. Truthfully, Dean barely noticed it, but when he swept at Cas’s bottom lip with his tongue, pressing deeper in a way he hadn’t dared to before, the rain poured harder, and Cas’s breath hitched sharp into a distant bolt of thunder.

The rumble of the storm swept through the ground, rising at Dean’s feet, and the threat of it was enough to force Dean back. Once the kiss had broken, and Dean was opening his eyes through a sheet of glistening rain, he found Cas already staring back at him.

His grace burned bright in the heat of his gaze, encasing Dean in a shine of blue, and in the blast of lightning that followed, Dean watched the world pulse white and the briefest shadow of wings stretch wide across the pavement.

Dean shook with laughter, his hands curling limp around the lapels of Cas’s new coat.

Show off.

“That good, huh?” Dean grinned.

Cas didn’t answer. His breath trembled, heavy on the exhale, and he craned forward to kiss Dean hard, sipping the rain from his lips.

……

For the first time in Dean’s life, things moved slowly.

Waking up became a process rather than a feat, this gradual shift of limbs and warmth that would soften into pillow-stuffed groans and smile-creased kisses. Cas became a shadow that never quite faded, and with every shift and roll— his body followed as if compelled, pulling and guiding Dean every which way, their skin never separating.

Castiel didn’t sleep like he used to when he was human. Just weeks ago he was nothing but dead weight, his body burning on like a furnace, but now he could only manage a few hours of restless stirring before he was wide awake. Neither of them minded. Cas seemed to like the excuse of being able to hold Dean without reason, and Dean would never voice it, but he enjoyed the needless company.

It was no longer dread that greeted Dean first thing in the morning, but the slow heat of Cas’s mouth at the cusp of his ear.

Dean wasn’t used to it at first; having time. His whole life had seen him burning rubber and counting his seconds, every touch settling like it was the last. Dean didn’t know how to kiss someone without needing more. He didn’t know how to accept slow embraces and warmed hands without feeling wrongfully indebted. And a lifetime's worth of habit had him floundering those first few weeks of normal, his whole life shuttering to a graceless stop and start-again.

He didn’t know how to do this. Any of it. Dean didn’t know what it meant to belong to someone, or to have someone in return, and so many years of skin-bleeding restraint made asking for it seem unbearable.

He was in a constant state of in-between, his hands and lips and words moving from tentative and uncertain to passionate and fast, the moments rising all on their own. Terror would strike Dean cold one day, and the next he’d find himself plastered to Cas on all sides, his hands frantic and his mouth bruised, every touch searing him alive.

“Dean,” Cas would say, and his voice was like smoke after being kissed. Dean had learned that. He sounded choked and desperate and warm enough to collapse in, but his eyes were soft and he always looked so sad when he had to pull away to steady them. Dean would never get used to the way Cas whispered, “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere— I’m here. I’m here.”

And the heat would drain instantly, every desire being flushed clean. Cas had always known Dean better than anyone ever could; it was part of what scared Dean the most. He could see when fear was masked as desire, and he’d stop Dean every time. That wasn’t how either of them wanted this to be.

For once, they forced the world to wait for them. The days grew longer as time fell deeper, and Dean made sure to feel every second of it.

Some things changed. Others stayed the same. The hallways still echoed and the memories still stung, some nightmare or another lurking at every one of his corners, but the laughter was new and for the first time safety felt deeper than a singular locked door. It felt long-lasting. Worthy of getting used to.

Dean wasn’t going on hunts anymore. That was the biggest change.

Sam and Eileen had started up again, taking about two cases a week, never straying more than a state or two. Sam had no intention of asking Dean for more, and Dean knew that, Dean wanted that, but those first few nights were agonizing. Knowing Sam was out there without Dean being able to have his back made drinking a sport, and Cas was merely a standby.

The adjustment was rough. Dean had never been able to truly relax when Sam was away, hunting-related or not, but this was worse. This was guilt and fear and thinking what if he dies out there and it was supposed to be me— all combined, and when they’d get back, Dean tracking them to the last second, his thumbs hovering over his phone, every fresh scrape and spot of blood left Dean wallowing.

“Let me see,” He’d always try, urging Sam towards him like he was guiding a toddler all over again. “Come on, let me see.”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam would smile, and that was just it wasn’t it? Sam would smile as he brushed Dean aside, sometimes wincing through it, sometimes limping past, but always— no matter what, he was smiling.

Dean didn’t have the heart to take that away. He barely had the strength to touch it. But his reasons for even wanting to slowly ebbed away as the bunker grew in numbers, the hardened silence that often lingered in the tiled corridors slowly becoming replaced with flashes of laughter, spindles of welcomed warmth.

The bunker became a place of legend, a story that spun through bars and pool tables and truck stops, every hunter for miles getting told of a refuge where hunters came and went and stayed if they pleased. First, there were just visitors. Familiar faces Dean had seen over the years, hunters who had stumbled into the wrong part of town and couldn’t help themselves from seeing if the stories were real. But then those visitors became friends, those friends became family, and soon there were people around every corner, nearly a dozen rooms filled in the span of two months.

It wasn’t long before the news reached South Dakota. It took even less time to convince Jody Mills to move closer to her two boys.

“This is temporary,” She kept insisting, even as she finished organizing her dresser, the size of her smile making her cheeks flush red. “I swear— the girls are gonna get stuffy down here eventually, and soon they’ll be scrambling for something new again.”

“It’s okay, Jodes,” Donna told her, and Dean could still remember the way his chest soared when he saw the two women slowly lock hands. Donna grinned at her. “We’ve got Dean here to guide us through this. Everything’s gonna be a-okay.”

Jody had explained it to Dean later, her voice all over the place, emotions strung high. She didn’t seem to know where to begin, where the story was even supposed to have started, but Dean understood. Donna was a simple name but an extraordinary word, and every mention of it sent Jody’s stomach fluttering, her eyes losing all focus.

Dean didn’t even cry when he told her.

He figured he might, thought it was inevitable; you were supposed to cry when you came out to your mom. But Jody had barely even let Dean get the words out before she was smothering him entirely, and Dean was too busy hugging her back to focus on anything else.

Despite Jody’s worries, the girls settled in just fine. Alex had transferred college’s and was studying online, and Patience had taken quite the interest in magic, a skill Sam had been harboring in the late hours of the night when the dungeon was empty and the two of them could mull over spell books until their eyes dried up. Even Claire was adjusting, her fear of uprooting her life for the millionth time vanishing the second she’d seen Castiel from the top of the bunker staircase, his head clear and his arms open, waiting solely for her.

When they collided, Claire scrambling for the lapels of a trenchcoat that wasn’t there, Cas guiding her towards him like something precious and adored, they all pretended not to hear Claire’s cries. She shook as she held him, sobbed as they rocked, and it was Dean’s turn next, Claire charging towards him like this was all she’d wanted for the longest time, and the tide of reality was finally turning.

“Thank you,” She said, and her voice was nothing but a pitched whisper against the shell of Dean’s ear. “Thank you.”

It was Kaia who collected her, taking her back with the utmost care, guiding Claire out of Dean’s arms and into her own. Over the shake of Claire’s shoulder, Kaia gave Dean a soft smile. Dean kissed her on the head as he brushed past.

Their forces had never been this strong before, not collectively, and soon every casual hunt became an insurmountable force. Simple salt and burns turned into child’s play, and week-long escapades that would have normally sent Dean into a frenzy were becoming nothing more than a few days of work, everyone playing their part, honing their skills.

It was no surprise that Sam found himself at the center of all of it.

Dean had seen this once before. His escape from Michael’s clutches had brought him back to a bunker full of strangers and a mysterious scar on his shoulder, this one much less welcomed than the first. He’d been miserable and outcasted and Sam had thrived while he’d been gone, that’s what really hurt the most.

He’d grown a beard and forged a unit, a team, urging everyone from the Apocalypse world to feel like they belonged, but this was different. This wasn’t Sam building something out of pity, or misplaced guilt. This was Sam finally realizing what he wanted in a world that had never bothered to ask, and leaping for it desperately.

After that, Dean didn’t have much of a reason to worry. Everyone was hunting in groups, checking in on schedule, and once Bobby finally made his way down from a fishing trip in Washington, stumbling in with nothing but a duffel bag and a pack of jerky he’d snagged from a gas station in Utah, everything else seemed to align in harmony.

It was only natural that Dean’s feelings, too, fell soundlessly into place.

There was a change in the air. Dean knew it, could feel it with each passing day. Privacy was harder to come by now, and it made every second with Cas feel charged in a way it hadn’t been, every glance chipping at Dean’s sanity. The touches had become easier now, the words smoother, and Dean knew it was coming. Could feel it like a burn at the back of his throat, a dizziness that never truly faded.

He’d wanted this, ached for it desperately in dozens of lightless dreams, and nothing had ever seemed to matter more. Nothing had ever felt so imperative to who he was, what he wanted. Sex had always been an outlet for Dean, but the idea of it now made his heart beat all kinds of different.

It was all Dean could think about as he and Cas watched Dorothy Gale skip her way down the yellow brick road, her slippers clicking as she went. This was the only place they could truly be alone now; Dean had made sure to keep the Dean Cave strictly off limits, his time with Cas too precious to spare, and he’d even traded out his matching recliners for an equally tattered couch that made movie watching particularly more difficult.

Dean didn’t really know why he bothered. His focus ceased the second Cas would curl up beside him without a word, a hand on Dean’s arm, his chin on Dean’s shoulder. Breathing through that weight in his chest might come easier now, but just the thought of Cas still sent Dean’s heart battering like a frantic bat, every flap of wings taking a burst of air with it.

This time was no different.

Dean could feel his pulse in his ears, the heat of it rising over the dulling sound of tin and cobblestone and softened music. He’d finally gotten his hands on a colored version of The Wizard of Oz, a feat that deserved to be appreciated, but all Dean could do was watch the colors reflect over tanned skin, wondering how it was that seeing light bending over the bridge of a nose and peaking at the curl of a mouth felt like falling in love reimagined.

There were shadows carving divots in Castiel’s cheekbones. A stretch of emerald green kissed the cusp of his forehead, and his eyelashes were bathed in blue. Dean wanted more than anything to lean down and kiss him.

With the way they were laying, it would be easy. Cas was nearing sleep, eyelids growing heavy, and he was nothing but warmth in Dean’s arms, his head pillowed against Dean’s chest. Dean wondered if Cas could hear the way his heart pounded. Dean wondered if Cas was just human enough to have his heart pound the same.

When Dean pressed a kiss to the hollow of Castiel’s throat, his hand a gentle pressure at the bolt of Cas’s jaw, the credits were rolling in tandem. The room was darker now, but Dean still saw the way Cas’s eyes fluttered, his gaze falling on Dean with instant warmth.

The start of a smile rose at the corners of his eyes.

“Dean?” Castiel yawned obscenely, his body creaking with a twist. “Is the movie over?”

He stretched out gracelessly, his sweater riding up the plain of his stomach, and it occurred to Dean that this should be odd for them. It should be weird to watch your best friend wipe sleep from their eyes and feel nothing but adoration. It should be strange to find yourself clinging to the briefest sight of skin.

It should be a lot of things, but it wasn’t. It just wasn’t.

Dean smiled at him. “Since you were paying so much attention, how bout’ you tell me?”

Cas squinted at Dean tiredly, his mouth softening into a thoughtless pout. He tilted his head to the side and glared at the television screen, wincing just violently enough at the brightness to make Dean laugh.

“It’s very clearly over,” Castiel said pointedly.

“Clearly,” Dean grinned.

Cas’s mouth twitched, his eyes shining in silent amusement. “Clearly,” He repeated, and he didn’t seem all that surprised when Dean leaned forward and kissed him, his mouth curling between gentle presses, hands quick to come up and hold either side of Dean’s face.

It was when Dean placed a warm hand over his bare stomach that Castiel jolted. They quickly broke apart, Cas’s breath suddenly too short to continue. He didn’t say anything, though he looked desperate to, and Dean didn’t bother straying far. Their foreheads never had the chance to separate before Cas was arching up to reach Dean’s mouth, wanting more, hopeless to voice it, and Dean could feel the pull of him in his chest, everything brightened with sudden purpose.

“Come on,” Dean mumbled, struggling to speak between deepened kisses, his voice getting drained away. The feeling of Cas laughing against his lips made Dean’s chest hurt. He said it again, “Come on, Cas,” and this time, when Dean pulled away first, there was no argument.

They moved quickly, their figures dancing through vacant corridors. Hands tangled in the dark.

When they finally made it back to Dean’s— their room, it was with Dean dragging Cas inside by the front of his shirt, and they collided once again, Dean pushing forward while Cas caved back, needing and taking as one.

A part of Dean wanted to tease Cas for being so eager. So easily tossed around, his body practically limp beneath Dean’s impatient hands, but there was something about it that killed Dean a little bit too. Made him want to press at the thing like a bruise, needing to watch how far the color dared to spread.

Castiel hardly reacted when Dean shoved him back against the door. He’d only had sex once from what Dean understood, but somehow none of this was confusing him, everything was just as it should be, and Cas gave.

Dean kissed him hungrily, and he gave. Dean’s hands scrambled for his waist, digging for muscle and clawing at fabric, and Cas gave. Gave him everything, shaped to Dean’s liking, flushed to Dean’s touch, but the second Cas let his own hands wander, his thumbs tracing gentle circles into the flash of skin at the bottom of Dean’s shirt, Dean stopped.

Their lips parted, his breath stilled, and that’s as far as Dean got.

Dean looked up at him, “Cas.”

And Cas understood. Without another word, without another second, he stared at Dean and understood, and then it was Dean being shoved back against the door. It was Dean gasping through blood-red lips and trembling over the warm glide of an eager tongue, and it took everything in him not to burst apart.

A noise spilled out of him when Cas broke free, craning his head back to look at Dean. There was no sense in it; nothing tangible beyond a timid whimper, but Cas’s eyes bled and Dean’s gut churned, and Castiel barely found enough air to ask, “Dean, is this—”

“Yes, yeah, don’t— don’t stop, Cas,” Dean clambered for the chest in front of him, fingers bumping over warm skin, his senses blown wild. “I don’t want you to stop this time.”

Dean wished he could tell Cas he’d never wanted him to stop. That just being kissed by another man was enough to make his knees limp and his brain scatter, Cas’s touch like a direct line to anything and everything good. Dean wished he could tell Cas that he’d always wanted him, and that the only reason they hadn’t done this weeks ago was because Dean hadn’t figured out if he deserved it or not yet.

But with every word that came to Dean, every explanation and fractured truth waiting to pass, Cas was already one step ahead. He didn’t need to hear Dean speak to understand him. He didn’t need to hear Dean stumble over the wreckage of his own voice to peel back and raise both hands to Dean’s face, cradling him like something precious and whole.

He just did.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Cas whispered, and for as soft as he spoke, Dean didn’t think it should have broken him as much as it did. “I promise. I want—” He swallowed. His thumbs brushed over the hollows of Dean’s cheeks. “I want this to be good for you.”

It was so much different than anything Dean could remember. So much different than being used in a bathroom stall. Different from being seen as a mouth and a pair of hands that could be useful for five minutes they’ll never remember but five minutes Dean won’t forget, and it's a shock to the system to feel the contrast of it. Everything that had been purred in the dark and ugly was now pushed into the light of day, jarred by the first taste of real love in a lifetime of failed attempts, and Dean was craning towards the warmth.

“It will be. It’s you, Cas. It’s you,” He told him, chanting it for the first time as a reality, and it was in a flooded haze that he pulled Cas’s shirt over his head, his hands flocking to bare skin like something crazed and starving, realizing for the first time that he was dancing with the body of a man without a single motive but unabashed want.

It wasn’t money fueling the rise of Dean’s hands over corded muscle. It wasn’t guilt forcing his head to duck as Cas pressed his mouth to the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, forcing Dean’s skin to flush and sing.

It was faith and love and thinking I deserve this, I deserve this— let yourself have this, and that was more than Dean ever hoped to reach.

Dean was crying before he even reached the bed, his breaths shuttering like wind-blown leaves. He did his best to hide it, turning his face into frozen sheets and warm skin, but Cas was faster, his hands coming up slowly to circle Dean’s wrists and pull his hands back from his eyes.

“Dean?” He asked, more worried for Dean than he had any right to be, and Dean knew it in an instant that he was ruined.

There would never be anyone else.

“I’m okay,” Dean smiled, and he knew Cas would never understand. Not this. Not the tears and the shakiness and just how much this meant to Dean, but he could understand a smile. “Fuck, I swear m’ okay, really, just—” Cas watched helplessly as a tear rolled down Dean’s cheek, and in a spout of punctured air, Dean said, “it never fucking feels like this.”

The way Cas smiled was kept solely in his eyes as he looked at Dean.

“I love you,” Cas said, and in reply, Dean’s heart screamed back, that’s why.

…...

The moment Dean’s head hit the pillow, his skin still buzzing and the heat of phantom hands lingering low on his hips, his first instinct was to flee.

He could feel it in his gut, an instant glance towards his shedded clothes, a nervous grip on the moving sheets. Dean had never done this before; this was the part where he was supposed to leave. He’d gather his shit, patter across the room, and depending on just how lonely he felt he’d either kiss the girl goodnight or walk right out the door.

Dean didn’t know what to do when it mattered, and he suddenly felt trapped beneath warmed covers. He couldn’t hide the subtle flinch he gave when Cas drew an arm around him, pulling Dean into the flushed burn of his chest.

“Are you alright?” He asked, and even with his words slurred and his skin still shining he was impossibly gentle. His fingertips drew a path down Dean’s shoulder; Dean shivered in the cold.

“Never better,” Dean croaked, curling into Castiel, baring himself plainly.

He didn’t try to talk through it. There weren’t words for the feelings rising within him.

But Cas was heavy and warm, the hair on his legs scratching against Dean’s bare shins as he pressed in close, their bodies slotting together. He felt wonderfully human in Dean’s arms, real and imperfect and not at all like the men in romance novels who were all smooth skin and hard muscle. Cas didn’t smell like pine or chocolate or the air after it rains; he smelt like shaving cream and deodorant and Cas and Dean buried his nose into the hollow of his throat, breathing him in.

It wasn’t about what Dean was supposed to be doing, what he was and wasn’t used to. This was about Cas. Dean had never paid all that much attention to who was in bed beside him, but now it was all there was, every lingering glance leaving Dean with the dreams of a future he once claimed impossible. A future where Dean was Dean and Cas was Cas and this was the way they woke up every morning, not just on the good ones.

It took Dean forever to notice Cas’s smile, his mind about a million miles elsewhere. But once he did, he laughed softly, budding his hand into Cas’s chin.

“What’re you thinkin’ about, asshole?” Dean asked, unable to stop his touch from lingering now that he had permission, his fingers playing over darkened stubble.

“Truthfully?” Castiel finally pulled his eyes away from the ceiling to look at Dean. Dean’s hand froze. “When we’re going to do that again.”

It was a laugh that shot out of Dean first, sharp and high-pitched, his whole body shaking with it, but it was the flush that lingered, painting his skin crimson. Dean could hardly take the eyes on him; he didn’t need to look at Cas to know what he’d find there.

“We’ve got the time, sweetheart. Don’t you worry,” Dean smiled, tangling their fingers absently. His heart swelled when he realized what he was doing.

“I’m not worried,” Castiel said.

“No?”

“No,” He confirmed. “You enjoyed yourself just as much as I did. I could feel it,” Cas’s eyes softened. “You were glowing.”

And it should’ve been impossible for Dean to feel any more in love than he already was, but Castiel’s voice was awed and his touch was warm and the shimmer of lamp light behind him was a wondrous halo dangling above his head, daring Dean to go ahead and try anyway.

“Is there ever a time when you’re not keeping tabs on my soul?” Dean asked, turning over completely to lay across Cas’s chest, his chin cushioned by his own hands.

He could feel Cas’s heartbeat thundering against his palm. Dean didn’t dare move.

“It’s impossible to ignore, Dean,” Cas answered. “I’ve always been drawn to it, but ever since you’ve stopped hunting it’s been overwhelming. It’s been beautiful. You’re…” There was a word resting on his tongue, an emotion in his eyes that tore Dean up. Cas didn’t speak it, but he resorted to moving his hand to Dean’s hair instead, fingers sliding through dampened strands. “You’re happier. And that’s more clear to me now than it’s ever been.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment. The hand in his hair was distracting and the feeling in his limbs was much too soft, everything that was usually pulled taunt inside of him unfurling for the very first time.

He closed his eyes against the feeling, and finally allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have this feeling last.

“What if I said I wanted more?” Dean opened his eyes to look at Cas, too vulnerable to miss his reaction. “That I… that I wanted a real house. One where you can’t hear the pipes rattling in the walls or feel metal everywhere you step. A house that lets you breathe. A home that feels like it’s supposed to. Just… a place. Somewhere. Does—” Dean faltered when the hand in his hair moved down to his cheek. “Does that make me selfish?”

Cas shook his head. “Of course not,” He said earnestly, and Dean nodded like he believed him. Like he was certain of Cas’s next answer before he even opened his mouth.

“And if I said I want you there with me?” Dean asked, turning his face to look up at Cas.

Blue eyes peered back at him. Slow, like they couldn’t remember how to move anymore. Soft, like they’d just been told everything they’ve ever wanted to hear. And it was funny, because while Dean was holding his breath, Cas couldn’t seem to find his at all.

Castiel’s smile was a gradual thing that grew along with him. The corners of his eyes wrinkled.

“Then, yes,” Cas said. “I’d say yes, Dean.”

And with that one word, Dean’s mind spiraled into a place he never allowed it to wander. A place where floorboards creaked beneath his steps and sunlight pooled around open curtains. A place where he could settle down and spread out and live without anyone trying to tell him he couldn’t.

Dean clambered up to his elbows with a dopey smile, figuring he might as well get the whole question out.

“Cas, do you—”

But Cas kissed him before he could finish, shutting Dean up entirely, and the rumble of laughter prodding at the seam of his mouth only made Dean want to get closer, press harder, chasing that feeling with the weight of his tongue.

“I already said yes,” Cas chuckled as he pulled away, but only barely. Only enough to be coherent.

“Nothing wrong with being thorough,” Dean told him, his voice drifting along with his mouth, his lips finding sanctuary at the crest of Cas’s cheek.

“There are other ways to be thorough, Dean.”

There was no mistaking the suggestiveness of Cas’s tone. His words ran warm and his hand traveled fast, fingertips skimming down the line of Dean’s back. Dean felt an instant kick in his stomach.

Leave it to Cas to pick up on these things so quickly. He’d been managing all of this better than Dean had; the talking and the touching and the togetherness. But somehow this was still surprising to Dean. It was still a shock to find that they’d finally reached that sense of normalcy Dean had spent all these years bleeding for.

“You don’t see me arguing,” Dean smiled, and he leaned in to kiss Cas the same way he’d always dreamed he would.

……

“Got any idea where you’re going yet?” Sam asked, giving Dean this eager-eyed look as he helped him load up the trunk with two heavy duffle bags.

“No, no not really,” Dean smiled shyly. He squinted against the clouded white sun, something in his chest stirring when he finally closed the trunk and looked Sam’s way. “But I promised him a trip, anywhere he wants to go, so I’m sure he’ll milk it for all it’s worth.”

Sam hadn’t even faltered at the news. It was as if he'd been expecting it, waiting for the moment Dean would creep in his room with his face burning alive, muttering something about taking a road trip with Cas.

See the sights, check the boxes, that sorta thing, Dean had phrased it. But Sam’s smile had been too wide to ignore, and Dean hadn’t fooled him for a second. Sam knew this was something more. Something unspeakable, at least for now, and he had every intention to fall right in line with them.

“I bet he’ll enjoy being shotgun for a change,” Sam laughed, and Dean didn’t know why, but he found himself scrambling just to memorize the colors of him, wanting to remember the distinct way Sam looked when he smiled.

Dean didn’t understand why this felt like him and Sam were saying goodbye.

“Yeah, and he’ll be twice the company you ever were,” Dean joked, glancing over to find Cas still standing by the hood of the car, talking quietly with Eileen.

Despite the autumn breeze starting to make its way through Kansas, Cas wasn’t wearing his coat today, and Dean couldn’t help but admire the slouch of his shoulders and the line of his neck. He was wearing one of Sam’s cardigans that hadn’t seen the light of day in probably ten years, a sort of maroon color, and Dean found himself itching just to get his hands on him.

Sure is a handsome bastard, Dean thought amusingly, and suddenly Cas’s head was turning towards him, his eyes meeting Dean’s.

Their smiles were shy.

“Call me if anything happens, you hear? You know we’ll come running,” Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, wanting a hug but nervous to ask, and Sam laughed brightly as he pulled his brother in, squeezing mercilessly.

“Nope, not a chance. You don’t bother the parents when they're on vacation. That’s rule number one,” Sam said, and Dean drew back to look at him sourly.

“Dude, that rule never applied to us, like, ever.”

“Well it applies now,” Sam insisted, giving Dean a firm pat on the chest before making his way towards Cas.

Castiel smiled when he noticed Sam— it was the easiest thing in the world to him now, smiling, and his arms were already open when Sam tugged him forward into a hug. Sam bursted into laughter when Cas rose up on his toes to get a better grip on him.

“See ya, Cas.”

“We’ll be back soon,” Castiel replied, tilting his head up to squint at Sam as they drew apart.

Sam’s smile was hard to read, too many emotions shaping the curl of it. Dean knew he saw sadness and he knew he saw love, but what lingered was the joy, so unabashed and palpable that Dean almost felt like looking away.

“No you won’t,” Sam said easily.

And maybe this wasn’t goodbye, not for good. But it was the end, a cutting of ties that stemmed back from a hoard of flames and an empty casket. A mother long gone and a father even more so, and a life scattered across vacant highways that had never led back home.

It wasn’t Sam he was leaving. It never would be.

Dean rolled the windows down the second he fell back behind the wheel, just the sight of Cas sitting next to him again making his heart shudder to life. He flicked on the stereo, laughed as Cas cringed, and sped out onto the road with his sights set further than they’d ever been before.

He just managed to stick his arm out the window and give Sam the finger before he and Cas were engulfed by the autumn tree line.

……

The randomness at which they traveled the roadside was something Dean had craved for years.

All his life he’d been dragged from one town to the next. Whether it was by John’s hands on the wheel or his voice over the phone, Dean had been following a jagged path over tarnished maps, every journey leading back to the leather journal stashed away in his trunk bed. He’d followed the rules and executed the orders— how else would he get the praise he lived for? But Dean had always wanted more, and this was his very first taste.

They wandered without direction and were tossed about with the wind, sauntering through towns they didn’t know and bars they’d never return to. Dean met a man wearing lipstick at a restaurant bathroom in New Mexico. He took shots with his partner until he was hiccuping with every laugh. He watched Cas stumble his way through a movie theater trying to balance two large popcorns, and grabbed Cas’s hand the second they stepped back out into the street.

Dean had Cas try cinnamon rolls for the very first time. Cas did everything he could to try and get Dean to sing for him. They stopped for gas every few hours and argued over snacks until the next station arose, smiling between insults. Dean was kissed beneath every red light imaginable and loved between every waking breath, and on most mornings he woke with the kind of smile he hadn’t worn in years, the shape of it starting to linger in his features.

Silence almost never came, but when it did they did their best to fill it, honesty weaving between empty slots of time.

I shouldn’t have yelled at you the way that I did—

My patience with you was thinning, but you were hurting and I should’ve—

Cas, I didn’t mean what I said about Jack, you gotta know that—

I’ve never realized how my disappearing must have affected you until now, but I’m not leaving, Dean, I’m never going to—

I should’ve saved you.

Their truths came out just as aimless as their destinations, at random times, in random places, but that didn’t make them any less significant. Dean held onto every word he was given, and Castiel held onto Dean.

“I was a mess after you died,” Dean admitted one week into their trip, standing at the boardwalk of a moonlit lake in Wyoming.

He’d always wanted to look at the stars with Cas. It was something he and Sam had done all the time as kids, but Dean knew Cas had stories to tell here. While Dean was used to having hardly any answers at all, he took comfort in knowing Cas had all of them at that moment. All Dean had to do was ask.

But it was only then, standing there in a fall brushed chill with the sky shining overhead, that Dean realized it didn’t really matter. He would rather look at Cas anyway.

“You weren’t ready to lose me,” Castiel said, inclining his head to stare at Dean, and Dean felt his heart ache at the sight of him.

With his hands buried deep in his pockets, he shrugged. “Have I ever been?”

Cas didn’t try to disturb the silence. There was a distant screech of a train grating over worn tracks, far off into the night. Cicadas rustled in the nearby trees, too tired to chirp and hiss, and in a voice sounding far too certain, Castiel finally said, “No,” He paused. “Not yet.”

Of all things, it was Dean’s idea for them to stay at a hotel that night.

Thanks to Jack and his fairy godmother moment, money was something they could spare now. They could afford to be classless douchebags who slept in stainless sheets and fell victim to the thralls of complimentary breakfast. Dean sure as hell wasn’t above it, and so he turned into the first lot he could find, parking in front of this towering monster of a building that looked more like a casino than a place of rest.

Cas took one look at the hotel, craned his head back in surprise, and said, albeit politely, “This is… out of character.”

“Stop, man. This is a moment for me.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “A moment?”

“This place looks like something straight out of a Bond movie,” Dean said emphatically, grinning as he stared through the front windshield. He turned to look at Cas, hitting him lightly on the leg. “Say, Cas, you think they’ll rub my feet if I asked them? Maybe make us a rose petal bath?”

“That sounds wonderful, actually. I am a bit sore from all the driving,” Cas replied, not at all catching on to Dean’s joke. Or at least what had been a joke for all of five seconds.

Dean stared at Cas through a rising flush, just the thought of him and Cas and water making his throat turn uselessly dry.

“Same here,” He managed to say, and there was a twist to Cas’s lips at that, the sweetness of it lingering as he turned in his seat and climbed out of the car.

The hotel was just as excessive on the inside as it was outside, the walls stretched with glass, every step echoing against marble floors. There was a valet out front and a doorman in a velvet suit, and Dean walked in with his tattered flannel and mud-stained boots feeling like shit on a stick.

“Dude, we’re gonna get power hosed in here. Do you see how clean this place is?”

Cas looked up through the high-rise skyline at the center of the hotel. “Or maybe a lifetime of staying in motel’s has altered your definition of—” He lifted his hands to make air quotes, and Dean hastily batted them away, “clean.”

“I’ll show you clean,” Dean grumbled with no real bite, the punchline nonexistent, and Castiel smiled as he leaned into him, softening Dean within seconds. He threw an arm around Cas’s shoulders and led him to the front desk.

The manager was already looking at them as they approached, his features perfectly cooled. He was a stubby little fellow with outdated frames and a failing hairline, and Dean hardly spared him a glance as he slapped his card down on the hardwood.

“One king, please,” Dean grinned, and for a precious moment, he stayed oblivious.

Cas slipped his arm around Dean’s waist, his hand somehow finding its way beneath jacket and flannel to press in close, and Dean’s attention was drawn elsewhere. But when the man took Dean’s card, his eyes darting up, he withheld them in such a way that even the warmth of Cas’s hand couldn’t derail Dean from noticing it.

The man’s expression turned razor sharp. He looked away quickly once meeting Dean’s gaze, but that flash of repulsion never quite left, the majority of it lingering as he typed at his computer and retrieved their key from the wall behind him.

He handed it over with a disbelieving laugh caught somewhere in his voice, and looked Dean right in the eye as he said, “Sure thing, princess.”

And it really wasn’t that bad, not with the vile Dean’s heard from other men, from preachers and prayers and people who act like they run their mouths because they care, but it was different now that Dean had a person. It’s different now that Dean could put words to how he felt without choking on them, and how at the end of the day, he had a hand to hold because of it.

A storm gathered in Dean’s stomach. He could taste the anger like blood at the back of his throat.

But he swallowed once, averted his gaze, and tore the keys right out of the bastard's hand. Dean walked away without saying a word, grabbing a vicious hold of Cas’s hand as they retreated.

Not every battle had to be Dean’s anymore. Not every wound had to be deep enough to scar. Dean’s done a lot of bad, and past him might have thought he actually deserved that. It would have torn him up and bled him dry, but now it was a quiet sort of fury, a rage that wasn’t even about him at all.

It was the fact that it happened. That it’s something that always happens, everywhere, in the most obscene places by the most unsuspecting people. It was the insanity of knowing that Dean was still hearing the same shit he’d been told since he was sixteen, and that twenty years wasn’t enough time for the world to change.

“Dean,” Cas grabbed his arm once they were safely in the elevator, the doors shutting with a noiseless hitch. “Are you alright?”

And this was the part where Dean half expected himself to break. There was a cliff somewhere here, hidden in the shadows. He was going to plummet any second now, just like he always did, just like he’d been born doing, and maybe he’d scream, maybe he’d cry— maybe he’d curse himself to oblivion, damning himself all over again, but it never came.

He stared at the sliding elevator doors as they rode their way up to the tenth floor, and nothing ever came.

“What a fucking asshole,” He finally said, and it came out as this gritty, snarling, hatred of a noise Dean could barely recognize. He looked at Cas incredulously, eyes wide and stunned. “Jesus— did you see that? That guy, like, totally wanted to hate crime me.”

Cas’s hand slid down the length of Dean’s arm, uncertainty guiding his touch. “Dean?”

“You think it’s a personal problem? Some internalized shit that’ll come back to bite him in the ass?” He was rambling without a purpose now, not at all understanding the feeling in his chest when he wasn’t too paralyzed to feel anything at all. “That’s where my vote’s at, anyway.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Castiel asked again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m—” Dean stopped. His throat worked slowly. “I’m actually more freaked about… not being freaked, you know? Like, yeah, it’s not great. The guy’s a dick, and he ruined a perfectly good night. But I’m not…”

Cas understood before Dean could even get there.

“Scared,” Castiel said for him, and the doors to the elevator parted way to an endless hallway.

Dean stepped out.

“Exactly,” He said. “I used to get so scared. Shit would happen and I’d always think I was the fuck up. That I was being too obvious, or I wasn’t careful enough so it was my fault,” Cas looked at Dean as they breezed past room after room. Dean didn’t need to look back at him to think I love you like a promise in his head.

“But it wasn’t,” Cas said.

“It wasn’t,” Dean agreed. His breath shuttered, a hollow laugh spilling out of him. “God, it never was, was it?”

Cas didn’t answer him. Instead, unprompted, he said, “I’m proud of you.”

And it was then that Dean’s emotions awoke, unfurling from the depths of his chest in white and gold. He bit at his bottom lip as he stepped up to their hotel room, determined to hide the sudden tremor there, but Cas’s hands were on his waist and his warmth was pressing deep, and Dean barely managed to get the door open before he was grabbing the asshole by the collar.

“You better be. I paid for one of the best views in the building, so pucker up.”

He kissed Cas fiercely the moment they crossed the threshold into their room, torn between angry and sentimental, unsure which emotion held the reigns. Dean led them quickly over to the bed, the one they had every intention of sharing and using despite the shitstain downstairs, and Cas held on for dear life, his mouth peaking into a dizzying smile once he was pressed into the mattress, Dean hovering over him.

The position didn’t last long.

Once Cas rested his hands on Dean’s thighs, and a weakening Dean melted into his chest because of it, Castiel’s laughter was fond, and he rolled them over with practiced ease. Dean stared up at Cas once his vision settled. His heart refused to follow, remaining as a frantic beat in the shell of his ears.

“The best view in the building, you said?” Cas raised his eyebrows, staring down at Dean with a rising heat. He brushed a thumb over Dean’s cheek. “I think I’d have to disagree.”

“Oh, he’s a charmer,” Dean teased, but his face was on fire and his smile was sky bound, and he curled desperate fingers into the back of Cas’s hair. “C’mere,” He said.

And Castiel stopped everything just to comply.

They left the hotel early the next morning, both of them ransacking the muffin stand down at the lobby and booking it to the Impala before the doorman could find it in himself to care, and by week two they were back on Kansas soil, soaking up what remained of the sun.

The days rolled faster as reality set in. They were going to have to go home eventually, there was only so much to see in Kansas. But then it was Thursday, their fifteenth day of being happily lost, and Dean took the back road of a back road that until then he’d only ever seen on a map.

“I thought you said we were going back to Lebanon today,” Castiel squinted over at Dean from the passenger seat, not demanding, not upset, just intrigued.

Dean reached over with his free hand and squeezed Cas’s knee, trying not to think about every way this could go wrong when he said, “There’s one stop we gotta make first.”

They drove under the fall awnings of trees shedding with color, the pavement beneath them slowly softening to rubble, then air sodden dirt. The Impala rumbled in the brisk-plained silence and sunlight pierced through jagged leaves, shining into the windows to cast their figures in golden shimmers.

When Dean turned off the private road, pulling into a winding driveway that opened out through the trees and made their destination perfectly clear, he could hear the moment Cas’s breath stilled.

The house was a two story beauty just old enough to look lived in. The siding was a warm shade of white, almost tan in the afternoon sun, and with it came a porch of the same color and a surrounding area of land too big to call a front yard. There was a fireplace rising from the back of the house. At the front, a willow tree held the weight of a tire swing rocking in the wind.

Dean looked at the For Sale sign resting by the mailbox, and turned to stare at Cas.

He hadn’t said a word yet. He’d barely moved. But Cas’s eyes were stuck on the house’s front door, and Dean rushed to get some semblance of a speech out before he lost his nerve entirely.

“I swear this wasn’t the reason I wanted to go on this trip, okay? But I’ve been looking at places not too far from the bunker, and I just— I figured we’d check it out. There’s three bedrooms, so if Sam and Eileen or— or the girls wanna come over they could. And it’s just a few minutes out from town, no shitty neighbors. I’ve got pictures of the inside on my phone if you want to see and, uh, you know, I’m not saying it’s perfect and nothing’s set in stone yet but—”

“It’s beautiful.”

Dean turned to Cas in the evening light, his heart bared raw, his face wiped clean. Dean wanted this to work. He wanted Cas to want this as terribly as he did. But he didn’t expect Cas’s voice to sound so touched, or his eyes to burn so blue, or his cheeks to already be wet with tears.

Dean didn’t expect any of it. And so he stared, and he stared, and he fell in love with Cas for the umpteenth time as Cas fell in love with their future.

“Really?” Dean breathed. His voice broke in a million different directions.

Castiel reached for the door handle eagerly, his hands shaking as they went. “Can we— can we go see it? Will they let us see it—”

Dean’s smile was euphoric, and he grabbed for Cas’s sleeve, trying to settle him.

“Not today, no. We’d have to schedule a time with the owner.”

“Let’s do that, then.”

Dean’s smile ticked and wavered, only slightly, only visible to those who cared. Cas stared at him with knowing concern. He leaned in, hoping to comfort, but Dean spoke before he could touch.

“It might be a little hard, you know. Some people around here don’t take very kindly to… people like us.”

Cas pulled back slowly, his eyes turning helplessly sad in a way that made Dean frown without thought. He framed Cas’s face with his hands, hoping to make that look go away, but Cas just held his wrist and said, “People like us?”

“Well, I—” Dean hesitated. He dropped his hands. “I guess I’ve never really asked how you identify, have I?”

“Must I identify as anything?” Cas asked softly, on the near side of sounding insecure, and Dean scrambled to grab his hand, their fingers lacing together.

“Course’ not, man,” He assured. “But, um… I like dick. So. Some people might not care that I bat for both teams. They’d rather sell the house to a straight couple.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed at that, his jaw rolling with the kind of words that were strong enough to bend metal.

“That won’t be a problem.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “You can’t smite the owner, Cas.”

“I want the house,” Castiel argued plainly, and Dean choked with laughter, his head rearing backwards.

All this time he’d been worrying about forcing Cas into this, forcing something normal on a being meant to reside in the stars, when Cas was just as willing. Maybe even more willing. He wanted a home and he wanted Dean, and he wanted those two to equal and cancel out as all good things should.

Dean looked back up at the house through the front windshield. He took in the shape of it. Held the feeling in his lungs. Allowed himself to wander, and wonder, and picture it all in color, for the very first time.

When he blinked, there were Christmas lights hanging from the roof. The path was iced and the trees were barren cold, the only source of light coming from a glow in the living room window where a fire was set to roast. Dean pictured spring flowers and summer storms, the creak of a footfall bounding up stairs. He could see Miracle running in the fields and Cas baking in the sun, the faceless body of a child— Sam and Eileen’s probably, but also, maybe, just maybe— giggling as they crawled on the porch.

There was a life to be lived here. There were nightmares to cleanse and peace to be made, and Dean was going to fight for this. Harder than ever before, Dean was going to fight.

“We’ll figure something out, alright? We will. But no smiting. Not even homophobes,” Dean said, and though Cas huffed, he agreed without complaint, his attention falling to the speed and pull of Dean’s hands as he reversed the Impala, and guided them back out onto the main road.

It was an odd feeling, speeding without motive. There was no monster Dean was chasing. Sam was safe only half a state away, and they were heading back to the bunker. But Dean was on the home stretch now, in more ways than one, and he pressed harder on the gas for no reason other than stupidity and adrenaline and watch this Cas— and he snorted as Cas scrambled to get a grip on his arm.

Cas’s fear didn’t last long. It only took him a few panic-stricken seconds to realize he was flying again, his wings cut loose of their ties, and he relaxed into Dean’s shoulder. His smile was all teeth, and he closed his eyes against the onslaught of wind and motion.

“So who’s the winner?” Dean shouted over the drowning sound of air, his smile big enough to hurt.

Cas looked over at him. “What?”

“The place you love the most. Did you figure it out?”

Because that had been the point of this hadn't it? This was Dean following through with a promise he’d made, a promise that had been rooted in fear and question and a silent confession of I don’t know you yet, but I’d love to try and find out.

Or, at least that’s where it had started. Dean had a tendency to veer off track when his heart was involved.

Castiel shook his head as Dean continued to stare at him, an incredulous smile trapped in his kiss bruised lips.

“What? You don’t wanna tell me?” Dean pressed. Again, Cas shook his head, this time more violently. His cheeks were stained with red.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Dean,” Cas finally answered, melting into the seat, his hand warm where it curled against Dean’s thigh, and Dean blinked at him.

Oh.

Something warm took a slow descent into the swell of Dean’s stomach, and he swiveled his head back towards the road. When he took his next breath, his eyes came back wet.

Oh.

They both found freedom somewhere on that road, on that journey like no other, and their souls spilled through open windows, crashing beneath clouded skies.

……

By the time Dean made his way down to the last step of the grated staircase, Sam was already on the verge of a joke.

Dean could see it on his face; the cagey excitement, the gooey-eyed joy. He was a lightning struck boy trapped in a muscled blown man, and he fidgeted as Dean made his way into the war room, Cas’s steps only a beat behind his.

“Happy honeymoon, then?” Sam grinned, looking far too happy with himself.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You and Eileen are the ones supposed to be honeymooning, remember? What about our deal?” Dean tossed his duffle onto the map table, raising his eyebrows daringly.

“There was no deal,” Sam corrected. “Plus, you and Cas have a decade on us. I figured if anyone was gonna tie the knot it should be you two.”

Dean didn’t have the stomach to turn and look at Cas at that moment, but he could hear him— a muffled laugh just short to his right, and the terror in Dean’s chest softened ever slightly, caving in against a rush of warmth.

“Let’s save the holy matrimony speech for another time, okay? I’m beat, Cas is toast, and we’ve been running on nothing but road food for two weeks. Besides, I’m sure nobody else wants to hear about—” Dean stopped abruptly, the surrounding silence suddenly registering in its bizarreness. He frowned at Sam. “Where is everyone?”

“There were two cases in Oklahoma, so we split up groups to go check it out,” Sam explained, pulling out his phone. “One’s a vamp nest for sure, the other we’re not certain of yet. Bobby and Eileen were chosen to be team leaders this time, and they seem to think it should only be a few days.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly, wondering when things were supposed to start making sense. “But why didn’t you go?”

Sam sighed, almost defensively, and stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

“I don’t know. Guess I just… missed you guys. I wanted to be here when you got home,” He admitted, and it was timid, and awkward, and Dean felt his skin crawl just as much as his heart sang, but it was Sam, and this was the longest Dean had gone without seeing his little brother in a very long time.

Dean cleared his throat. Sam made a face.

And finally, after a tortuous beat of silence, Dean dropped his hands defeatedly and said, “Fuck— are you gonna hug me or not?” and Sam laughed the whole way into Dean’s arms, youth splattered across his features.

Sam didn’t even bother waiting until Dean got a good hold on him.

He said, “I know about the house, Dean.”

And Dean pulled back out of pure shock, keeping a hand on Sam’s shoulder to steady more than just himself.

“What? How?” Dean asked.

“I saw it on your computer.”

“You stole my computer?”

“I didn’t steal it— come on, just— hear me out, alright? I think you should go for it,” Sam told him earnestly, his smile never dropping. He looked like he’d been waiting for this moment for months. Maybe even longer, and Dean wanted to fucking hug him again.

Dean’s gaze was warm. “You think so?”

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, Dean,” Sam said, eyebrows furrowed. He’d never looked more sincere than he did right then. “Why wouldn’t you?”

These were the questions they asked now. It wasn’t a matter of if or when anymore, but the prospect of why not. Dreaming was encouraged and freedom, for once, was something that reigned true. Dean knew how this talk would go, and Sam’s smile was about as enormous as Dean thought it would be, but to hear it in words was something different altogether.

Why wouldn’t you?

Dean didn’t have an answer for him. Instead, he said, “You’re right,” and Sam beamed like the little shit he was, his happiness leading him to pull Cas into a hug as well, the two of them swaying as they patted each other on the back.

Later that afternoon, Dean called the homeowner, looking to settle the arrangement. Cas was pressed up against him the whole time, trying to listen in, and Dean spent the call elbowing him out of the way and stumbling through the smile in his voice, wanting to appear respectable.

Needless to say, it was a short call. The woman was surprisingly young, a photographer who wanted a new start in a state where the land wasn’t so mundane. She barely batted an eye when Dean mentioned he planned to live there with another man, and was nothing but welcoming as she scheduled them in for a house tour just the next day.

Dean offered to let Sam tag along, but he had research to send out to the hunters in Oklahoma, and he waved them off from the library, a pencil tucked behind his ear.

They hit the road early, their excitement stamping out the dull dread at being on the move so soon again. The drive was familiar now, the intentions clear, and Cas was just as mesmerized the second time as he’d been the first as they rolled up to the house.

The woman led them eagerly through the hallways, commenting on everything from the bricked fireplace to the spacious back patio that overlooked a pond, and all Dean could think was that it felt like a home. This wasn’t Lisa’s house, or Bobby’s cabin, or any other pieces of wood glued together in a pointless contraption. This was a place that Dean knew his heart would be safe in, capable of stretching and growing and loving without fearing everything around him, and nothing else mattered.

There was no discussion. There was no debate. Dean and Cas had already had their answer long before they stepped inside.

“We’ll take it,” Cas said, beating Dean to it, and they turned to one another in the doorframe of their new bedroom, sunlight from the curtainless windows bleeding in behind them.

Together, they smiled.

……

Dean didn’t even bother acting surprised when Sam attempted to throw them a going away party, and, as a result, ended up with over half of the bunker turning up drunk within the first hour.

“You brought fucking tequila shots to a party filled with hunters. Hunters, Sam.”

“They look like they’re having fun to me,” Sam shrugged, leaning back against the library wall with a drink of his own, his smile already half liquid at this point.

It wasn’t like hunters were wild partiers. Dean wasn’t witnessing stage dives off the map table or vomit flying through the air at astral speeds. But hunters were loud, creating a constant thrum and hollar that Dean could feel rattling in his limbs, uncertain of the feeling it should be stirring up within him.

“Told you this was a bad idea. We’re not… party people,” Dean grimaced. He looked off into the stir of people, trying to take the idea that all of this was for him and shove it to the back of his mind where it belonged.

It felt weird. Not this many people should care about him getting out of the life, so why were they here?

“You know, for a guy that loves attention you sure are shy sometimes,” Sam observed fondly, grinning at Dean from the rim of his beer.

Dean’s gaze turned sharp. “I’m not shy, I just… hate this,” He corrected lamely, and Sam covered his face through an ugly burst of laughter, his dimples shining bright.

“No? So you’re ready to make your speech then?”

Instantly, Dean’s stomach took a deadly swan dive, plummeting to the soles of his feet. Before Dean could even begin to argue, Sam was already pushing himself off the wall to grab Dean by the elbow, pulling him towards the library archway.

“Speech? Come on, Sam, this isn’t—”

“Hey, everybody, listen up!” Sam yelled over him, announcing it to the bunker that went shockingly quiet, every pair of eyes flocking to Sam and Dean. “Dean’s got something to say,” Sam added, just for good measure, and this, right here, was why Dean never let the bastard get tipsy.

Dean looked back as Sam stepped away. He gave Dean a final thumbs up, not even a little bit sorry, and Dean turned to look at the audience waiting for him, his heartbeat pounding in his blood.

He could see Jody and Donna by the staircase. Max had made his way here at some point and was standing with Alex. Charlie and Stevie were talking quietly in the corner, watching Dean with matching smiles, and Claire was waving at him from the crowd, trying to coax him on.

Dean smiled down at his feet.

“This isn’t gonna be anything note-worthy, but, uh,” He cleared his throat, rubbing his palms together. “I just wanted to thank you all for being here. Some of you have already made this place your home. The rest of you drove for days just for shitty beer and a piss poor excuse for a host,” Dean let out a breath when the laughter returned, his insides flooding with it. “But either way… thank you. This life isn’t easy to walk away from, so for me to even be standing up here I—” His voice caught. “I’m grateful.”

The cheers rose first and the drinks quickly followed, lifting into the air with matching reverence. Dean didn’t have a drink of his own to toast with, but it didn’t seem all that important once he noticed Cas sneaking in beside him.

“You spoke well,” Castiel said. He had amusement crinkled in his eyes, his lips pulled into a gentle smile.

“So you were in on this,” Dean scoffed, hating the sudden heat in his face. “Remind me never to leave you and Sam alone again. You two are unbelievable.”

Cas was halfway through a rumbling laugh when a pounding started on the bunker door. It was loud enough to cut through the noise, menacing in its suddenness, and in a room full of hunters— instincts went haywire. Within seconds, every gun in the bunker was drawn, knives were pulled from their waistbands, and they all watched intently as the door broke free from its lock.

Slowly, the metal creaked open.

“So sorry to interrupt, but I believe there’s been some sort of mistake,” A voice purred, and Dean felt the tightness in his chest give way as Rowena stepped into the light, her manicured nails curling over the railing to peer down at them. “My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.”

“Rowena?” Dean said, sounding breathless, and the weapons slowly fell away as Rowena made her descent, conversations steadily rewinding back to normal.

“Oh, dear boy, you remembered my name! Come here, you,” Rowena waddled over to him with open arms, struggling with her towering heels. Dean stood there awkwardly as she hugged him, his arms left uselessly by his sides. “I would have thought you’d forgotten me. Considering you failed to call—”

“I thought Sam had it handled,” Dean tried, and he winced as Rowena pulled back, her face pinched with annoyance.

“I’ll show you what was handled you—” She stopped when she finally noticed Castiel standing off to the side, her words clipping short with a delighted gasp. Dean almost went blind by how violently he rolled his eyes. Carefully, Rowena asked, “Is he yours then? Officially?”

“Back off, Red,” Dean said, but her smile only sharpened.

“What a shame, really. The dating scene in Hell is getting worse by the day,” She looked at Cas expectantly, batting her lashes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Tweety Pie?”

Cas jolted when he realized he was the one being spoken to, his focus veering left and right. He squinted at Rowena, clearly not understanding, and the shape of his face morphed into this perpetual scowl; Dean dropped his head with a smile.

“Well, I…” Cas threw a desperate glance at Dean. His voice worked slowly, deepening with bewilderment. “I’d suspect that demons aren’t the most dependable choice of romantic partnership.”

It certainly wasn’t the answer Rowena had been looking for, but she sighed past it, her lips pressing thin as she muttered, “Right you are, angel. Right you are.”

“I’m sorry, uh—” A man appeared beside them, forcing his way in with a timid wave. Dean wracked his brain for a name, but came up uselessly short. Not that it mattered. The guy only had eyes for Rowena, and his face was a damning shade of red as he said, “I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?”

Dean’s eyebrows shot high into his hairline. He took an uneasy step backwards, clearing his throat as he went. When Cas didn’t follow, Dean slapped him hard on the backside, pulling him back by the shirt.

“Rowena MacLeod, darling,” Rowena said sensually, her eyes perking with interest. “And don’t be mistaken, MacLeod is a family name. There’s no husband or wife in the picture, I’m afraid.”

She offered the man her hand, far too formally for a blood-bred hunter, and he accepted it hesitantly, shaking with too much grip.

“And you’re a hunter?” He asked innocently.

Fear seized Dean’s lungs. “Well—”

“Heavens no. I look dreadful in flannel,” Rowena shuddered at the thought alone, careless about the disgust on her face, and Sam took that as his que to swoop in from the sidelines, guiding her away with gritted teeth.

“Rowena,” Sam sighed. “You wanna try and be a little more discreet? You’re a dead ancient witch in a bunker full of hunters. Read the room.”

“Well, Samuel, I’ve got a bone to pick with you too,” She spun around to face him, craning her head back just to glare. “Where the hell was my invitation?”

Sam stared at her for a long moment, his eyes turning vulnerable. “I didn’t… I mean I wasn’t sure if you’d—”

“I’d what?”

It was obvious Sam was hesitating, uncertain whether he should say what he really wanted, but Rowena was there now, alive in a way she hadn’t been since that night at the cemetery, and in a wary voice just short of sounding bashful, Sam explained, “I didn’t think that you’d care.”

Of all things, it was anger that scorched her first. Rowena took one look at Sam and Dean, inhaled deeply, and reached up to adjust her necklace. The skin around her neck stretched as she clenched her jaw.

“Let me make one thing clear to you ignorant meatheads,” She hissed, accent heavy, eyes attempting to pierce straight through them. “I might be the new Queen of Hell, and a ghastly witch who could turn your insides to slop. But don’t think for one second that I don’t give a damn, because you—” Rowena stilled. She lifted her eyes as the tears appeared; anything to prevent her makeup from smearing. “You boys taught me to do as such. Understand?” She sniffled, smiling delicately. The brothers were silent. “Now, what does a lady have to do to get a glass of wine around here? It was a long trip up.”

“I’ve got it,” Sam said quickly, clearing the emotion from his throat. He squeezed Rowena’s shoulder as he moved past her.

“I’m gonna go get a beer,” Dean said. His heart felt warm as he looked at Cas. “You want one?”

“I suppose. How many have you had?”

Cas had been asking that more and more lately. Really, Dean should be used to it by now. But it still made him tense up in all the wrong ways, his throat closing with a bitter swallow. Realistically, Dean knew it shouldn’t be a problem. It was only when he realized his instinct wasn’t to tell the truth, that he learned to fear it.

“One or… two? I dunno. I don’t keep tabs,” He shrugged forcefully. “I’ll be right back.”

Dean practically ran away then, failing to take in Cas’s reaction before he was fleeing the scene, a pit growing in his stomach. He didn’t look at anyone as he walked to the kitchen; he ignored those who eagerly shouted his name.

A sigh escaped him when he found the kitchen empty, and he slinked inside with an odd sense of secrecy. Dean didn’t like this; drinking wasn’t supposed to feel like a crime. This used to be a release for him, but everything in his life was changing, he supposed. Even the things that were once deemed good.

Dean was already in the middle of rustling through the fridge when he heard footsteps appear somewhere behind him. They stopped abruptly, and Dean’s pulse followed in tandem. He grabbed the closest beer.

“Dean Winchester, you sly dog,” The voice teased, and Dean straightened up as if pulled by a string, his head turning towards the door. “Your party’s out there, silly. What are you doing raiding your own fridge?”

“Garth,” Dean sighed in relief, and before he knew it he was rushing forward to hug the guy, slumping into his shoulder. “Man, am I glad to see you.”

“Clearly not as much as that booze. Is that beer number one?” Garth was grinning as he said it, not at all meaning it the way that it sounded, but Dean felt thrown as he pulled away, the bottle in his hand growing twice as heavy.

“Now you’re startin’ to sound like Cas,” Dean laughed, though it came out dry. The thought of taking a drink now made Dean’s chest tighten up in the worst way, and he wordlessly set the beer down on the counter.

Garth’s eyebrows shot up, thinned and eager. “Castiel’s here? At the party?”

“Yeah, of course he’s here, he’s— he’s my….” Dean’s lips shaped for the word boyfriend, but his heart shamelessly disagreed. What a disappointingly simple word. It couldn’t even begin to encompass the half of it, and so Dean settled with, “We’re together, now. Like… a couple.”

And Garth gave that slow rising smile of his, the one that made him look like a sunny old man and a babbling newborn at the very same time, all of it deriving from an innocence that was startling just to look at.

“Well does the sun shine? Of course I knew that, Dean. With all the gushing you’ve done telling me about him. I mean, why did you think I named one of my boys Castiel? I wanted the names of the two people you care about the most.”

Dean wanted to be embarrassed. Slowly but surely finding out that everyone in their lives had been perfectly aware of him and Cas’s standstill with one another had been humiliating, to say the least. But Garth was safe, and he was kind, and all his words did was force a lump into Dean’s throat.

“Jesus, Garth,” Dean swallowed. His head dropped when he realized his eyes were damp. “Sometimes I forget you pack a punch.”

“Now I don’t mean to get you all blubbery, but… I want you to know that I’m proud of you, Dean,” He said, and it didn’t matter how old Dean was, or how many years went by— those words used to be the rarest ones of all, and Dean still got caught in their whirlwind. “I’d been telling Bess for years that you were gonna get out. That you were a family man— see I just knew it. And when Sam called me about the party, about you taking off and starting a normal life, well I—” Garth could barely talk through the size of his smile. He looked inflated with it. “I just knew I had to come. I had to see you for myself.”

For a moment, Dean was too nervous to speak. Then, in a voice more vulnerable than he’d ever allowed, he asked, “And?”

Garth beamed. “And you look happy.”

Dean nodded quickly, attempting to look unaffected. He cleared his throat, the grit of it coming out horribly forced.

“Thanks, Garth,” He said, hoping to sound genuine. By the look on Garth’s face, Dean didn’t think it would’ve mattered; Garth’s smile seemed to be permanent. Garth turned to leave, then, his figure shifting in the doorway, and Dean opened his mouth to blurt out, “Can I ask you something? You know, before you go off to stalk Cas by the punch bowl?”

“Shoot,” Garth said immediately.

It was the answer Dean was hoping for, but to receive it so earnestly made him falter. He took a steadying breath, and let honesty steer him blind.

“How do you do it?” He asked. “The quiet, and the boring, and— and— and— the cable tv with the never-ending commercials— how do you deal? How do you turn it all off? The part of you that checks every exit the moment you walk into a room. The part that feels safest knowing there’s a gun within five feet of you.”

There was guilt in fearing what he wanted; Dean still didn’t know how to deal with it. But Garth was looking at him like he understood, like Dean wasn’t the most selfish man to ever walk the Earth, and Dean was holding his gaze with a vice-like grip.

“Because I’ve tried normal, and it was a fucking bust, but it didn’t stop me from wanting it. I’ve always wanted it. I just don’t know how,” Dean admitted.

It was a lot to voice with his future waiting for him in the other room, his own goodbye blaring through the walls. And Garth merely smiled at it, his dimples rising warm in the lines of his cheeks.

“Practice,” Garth said simply.

Dean gaped at him. “That’s it? Practice?”

“Dean, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that you didn’t fall onto God’s green Earth shooting bullseye’s with that M19 of yours. Does that sound right?”

“I guess so.”

“And the only reason you can do that now is from practice. Days of it. Years even,” Garth explained, using the kind of voice Dean could imagine he used on his twin boys. Dean found solace in the warmth of it, nodding slowly as he spoke, “Everything takes time. Anything can become a habit if you try hard enough.”

Garth reached out to squeeze Dean on the shoulder, the wolf blood in him making his touch unnaturally warm, and Dean cupped his arm gratefully, smiling with his eyes.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean said.

“And, for the record,” Garth pulled back, stopping just outside the doorway. He turned his head to look at Dean. “It sure doesn’t hurt to have a special someone tagging along for the ride.”

Dean’s heart felt too big for his chest. “I’ll be sure to tell that to Cas.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Garth waved him off, a sudden spring in his step. “I’m already on my way.”

It wasn’t until days after the actual party, once the attention had faded and the finality of it had become so much more than words, that Dean stood outside the bunker entrance and handed Sam the keys to the Impala.

“She’s all yours,” He said resolutely, his smile softened with emotion.

Sam stared at the keys in his palm, distressed beyond recognition. His face contorted— spinning through a snapshot of emotions too fast to comprehend, and he looked back up at Dean.

“What?” He laughed, incredulous. “Dean, this feels like you’re giving me your first born. Don’t— what the fuck is this?”

Sam jerked his arm forward, attempting to give the keys back. Miraculously, his face got even bitchier when Dean didn’t make a move to grab them.

“I figured she should stay with the family. You’re the hunter, Sam,” Dean tried again, and this time, his smile finally wavered, sadness leaking through the cracks.

Sam shook his head. “Dude.”

“What?”

“This is stupid.”

“You’re stupid. Take the fucking car, Sam, it’s a gift.”

“A gift? Since when do we give each other gifts?”

Dean sighed loudly, resigned. What a dumb fucking argument. What a dumb fucking brother.

Adjusting the strap of his duffle that was beginning to weigh his shoulder down, Dean threw out a hand and said, “Are you gonna take the keys or not?”

“No, man.”

“Oh thank fuck,” Dean bursted out, doubling over with his breath coming short. “I knew I’d feel bad if I at least didn’t ask but shit, that— you had me scared there for a second—”

Sam threw the keys right at him, hitting Dean square in the chest.

“You’re a dick, you know that?” He scoffed, watching with fake indifference as Dean laughed wholeheartedly, spinning the keys around his finger.

“And you’re a saint, Sammy,” Dean said, smiling big.

Sam seemed to remember then, when Dean didn’t even bother jabbing back, that this was supposed to be a goodbye. Or, a goodbye for now, at the very least. It still hurt like hell, no matter the permanence of it, and Sam looked on as Cas and Eileen ushered Miracle into the backseat, making sure he was comfortable for the drive ahead.

“If you start crying on me, I swear to god I’ll kick your ass,” Dean grimaced, ever attuned to the dramatics, and the smile Sam gave him was decidedly tearful, helpless to stop it.

“I'd like to see you try,” Sam said.

…...

The first thing Cas did upon entering the house was comment on the dining room chandelier.

It was bigger than Dean remembered it being when they’d visited, grander in a way he’d hardly ever had the chance to experience, and it was a normal conversation he was having in a normal house in the outskirts of a normal town he’d never explored. A town that rained and snowed and grew dreadfully bright in the summertime. A place where kids roamed and leaves fell and the worst news in the world was when the local grocery store stopped their bake sale early.

Ten steps inside, and Dean was already leaning into the kitchen’s archway, too emotional to move.

Dean heard more than he saw the way Cas rushed to him, his steps frantic but his hands soft where they fell over Dean’s trembling shoulders.

“Are you alright? Do you need me to step outside?”

“God, no, don’t go,” Dean said abruptly, just the thought making his hands dart out to hold him, his fingers curling into Cas’s shirt, bumping against his ribcage. Cas followed as Dean pulled, leaning into him graciously. Dean closed his eyes against the feeling in his sternum, and whispered, “C’mere, Cas.”

It was all there was. The only thing Dean knew to ask for, and Cas kissed him sweetly, his hand on Dean’s shoulder moving to the edge of his jaw. Dean sighed into him, relaxing fraction by fraction. He sank and unraveled into a love-warmed touch, and drank up the sound of Cas’s breath spilling slow over his bottom lip.

Dean barely noticed when they started swaying.

“What are you doing?” Cas pulled back to ask him. He looked good like this; up close and almost human. His grace was fading fast, a choice that Cas refused to revisit, and Dean could already pick out the most minute changes.

His scruff was graying around the chin. His eyes were beginning to soften. And as Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’s waist, leading them into a gentle dance in the middle of their freshly shared kitchen, he tried to figure out how being cleansed by humanity had somehow made Cas look even kinder when he smiled.

“This is what couples do, Cas. They dance in the kitchen for whatever reason and call each other honey. We got a lot to practice,” Dean explained simply, trying to soak in the look Cas sent his way. It was far too loving to comprehend, and Dean groaned as he pressed their foreheads together, his heart close to bursting. “Come on, I’m losing it here, man. Distract me.”

“There are much more entertaining ways to distract you. Ways that don’t require my lack of coordination to be tested,” Cas said tensely. He was having a hard time looking anywhere but his feet, his movements turned jerky and skittish. There was color rising in his face; Dean preened at the sight.

Dean tightened his arms around Cas, smiling big and obnoxious. “What, you think I’ll laugh at you?”

“I know you’ll laugh at me,” Cas said seriously.

“There’s nothing funny about an angel in sweatpants doing the macarena. Not a damn thing,” Dean deadpanned, and Castiel broke, his composure splitting with a humored smile.

Finally, he relaxed in Dean’s arms. His head lolled to the side, eyelids drooping, and there was something so willing in the way he let Dean guide him. The way he hummed and leaned in for more when Dean nuzzled into his cheek, pressing a kiss to his hairline.

“I won’t be an angel for much longer you know,” Cas whispered, not a misfortune, not a regret— simply a reminder.

Dean was quiet for a moment, waiting for the initial rise of guilt to draw back behind the tide.

“I know,” He said eventually, closing his eyes. “And you’re still set on that? Because say the word and I’ll—”

“How many times do I have to say it, Dean? I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

It was one thing to imagine it, to read between the lines and depict what all of this meant. The togetherness and the decisiveness and the unspoken promise that this was it, this was their forever. But for Dean to hear it, feel it like a jolt to his system, accept it while he held Cas in his arms and watched their kitchen turn an amber gold as sunlight crept in through the window— that was something else entirely.

“But you could do that as an angel. If you really wanted to,” Dean shook his head, a heat building in his throat. “Don’t worry about me.”

Castiel smiled at him, slow and languid, the words oh you wish it were that easy so clearly written in his eyes.

“There’s a reason my grace can’t replenish on its own anymore. Not without Jack’s help, and it’s because I want this. More than anything,” Cas said firmly, snaking his arms around Dean’s neck.

Soothing fingers curled up into the back of Dean’s hair, playing absently, and Dean closed his eyes against an onslaught of feeling. His smile was shy when he felt Cas’s touch graze over the tips of his ears, observing the sudden redness.

“You’re awfully good at this couple thing, you know. I’m getting outshined by a celestial being, it’s fucked up,” Dean sighed.

Cas’s laughter was deep and sweetened, the kind of sound Dean could grow old with. Would grow old with. He’d heard it more over the last year than he had in a decade, and he found himself chasing it with a steady heart, wanting to coax it out of Cas fondly and deliberately, aching for the magic of it.

“Come on,” Dean said suddenly, giving Cas a quick kiss on the forehead before moving away. Cas stared after him in a daze. “We oughta get our stuff moved in before it gets dark. Hey, you want a beer?”

“You’ve already had one today,” Cas said carefully. His voice stayed flat, but his eyes lifted nervously, studying Dean with tension set in his brow. “What if you drank soda instead? I know I packed some in the cooler.”

It wasn’t a demand. It never was with Cas, but sometimes Dean wished Cas would get a little angry with him, if only to stop him from looking so sad every time Dean tried to cave.

It wasn’t easy, getting sober.

Dean thought the hardest part had already passed; he’d come to terms with the itch at the base of skull, the odd tremor that would set in his hands after twenty-four hours of stone cold restraint. Dean had asked for help in a voice all his own, and thought it to be the worst punishment in the world, but the hardest part about all of it was realizing just how far he had to go.

Each day, each hour, all of it reminded Dean of the journey he had ahead of him.

Alcohol had become more than a habit, he realized. It was a part of his basic function, a manual code that needed to be rewritten entirely. The problem lied in more than just control, and half the time it wasn’t a matter of Dean choosing to have a drink or not; he just couldn’t remember there wasn’t supposed to be a choice anymore.

Dean had already fucked up a few times. He’d go to reach for a beer thoughtlessly, the movement still familiar to every fragment of his being, and Cas would appear at his side, too gentle with the way he’d peel the glass out of Dean’s hand, too understanding as he listened to Dean cry and comforted him as he yelled.

I’m becoming human, Cas had told him their last night in the bunker, their voices bleeding across the kitchen floor. I won’t be able to heal you forever.

And Dean had apologized until his voice was hoarse, his hold on Cas lasting and lasting into the early hours of the morning where Miracle had found them huddled on the floor. It had never occurred to Dean, until that moment, that Cas had always been aware of the bottles he chugged and the terror he washed away with the flavor of whiskey.

For years, Cas had been healing more than Dean’s scrapes and bruises. He’d been cleansing Dean wholly, patching up his liver, wiping through his blood, making sure to be kind to Dean in all the places he wasn’t kind to himself— and before anyone else, the act of healing became about Cas.

This was never going to work if Dean felt like he was doing it for himself. He knew better than that. Fighting for Cas had always worked in Dean’s best favor, anyway.

“Soda sounds good,” Dean answered, and on his way out the door, passing Miracle who was bolting up the porch steps to greet their new home, he quickly decided that the way Cas smiled back at him would always be worth it.

……

Effort be damned, it was Cas who ended up finding a job first.

While Dean had been scouring the local paper, looking for anything that required as little as a GED and didn’t involve shoveling horse shit, Cas had been visiting the local library each Thursday and Sunday.

I’m settling in, Cas had told him. But really, Castiel had been spending his lulling afternoons striking up a friendship with the town librarian, a widowed woman named Marisol whose stories left even Cas magnified. She’d send Cas home with handfuls of books and pockets filled with peppermints, and by week two he was walking through the door with his first schedule and his name printed on a thin gold plaque.

“Looks like someone’s adjusting,” Dean called out upon his arrival, doing his best to crane his head over the top of the couch to see him.

“I prefer the word befriending,” Cas hummed. He peeled his coat off and draped it over the rack by the front door. Dean felt his throat tighten just watching him. “Any luck with the paper?”

“Nada. This place is a ghost town career-wise. Guess we should have looked into that sooner, huh?” Dean tossed the newspaper aside, not at all hiding the bitterness in his face.

Cas gave him a softened look. He rounded the couch to gently place his work items on the coffee table, carefully avoiding the glass of lemonade Dean had resting on a wooden coaster, and took the spot next to Dean.

Immediately, Castiel smoothed his hands down the front of his thighs, only to remember he no longer had a trench coat to neatly tuck in around him. He smiled timidly.

“There’s really no rush, Dean. You know Jack’s placed us in a position where we have everything we could ever need.”

“I know, I know,” Dean frowned, sitting up on the couch to see Cas better. “I just hate feeling like a useless sack all the time. What’s the fun in letting you bring home all the money? Do I look like some housewife to you?”

Castiel stared at him. “It’s probably best that I don't answer that.”

Dean didn’t hesitate to give Cas’s thigh an indignant smack.

“Okay, asshole. I’m never touching another dirty dish again— let’s see how you like it.”

“You’re not a housewife,” Castiel agreed begrudgingly, and then, in a voice as warm as summer and a tone as thick as smoke, he added, “though I wouldn’t mind seeing you in a skirt.”

Dean balked at the honesty, his eyes stretching wide enough to make Cas’s grin turn gummy.

“I’ve created a monster,” Dean deadpanned. He could hardly think through the blaze in his cheeks. “I don’t think I can go on for much longer.”

“You’ve fought far worse monsters than me.”

Dean made a face. “Debatable.”

Cas rolled his eyes with mocked affection, throwing an arm around the back of Dean’s shoulders to press closer. When he placed his other hand on Dean’s chest, there was only a single passing beat before Dean covered that hand with his own, holding him there.

“You’ll find something eventually. Something that’s you. Don’t force it. Don’t settle because you think you can’t have more— none of this will work if you start that again. You’ll be great. What’s the saying…” Almost unconsciously, Castiel’s hand had been slipping inch by inch as he spoke, drawing down the front of Dean’s stomach in a way that had the other man stirring where he sat. “Oh! I believe it’s ‘trust the process.’ So, do that.”

“The process,” Dean repeated stupidly, fixing Cas with a narrowed look. “Which process are we talking about here, Cas? Cause’ you’re about five seconds away from taking my pants off and you gotta know it’s hard for me to concentrate on a good day, let alone when—”

With the laugh Dean managed to rip out of Cas, this surprisingly high-pitched burst that made his voice crack, Cas had no choice but to lean in for a hasty kiss. The kind of kiss that said you’re an idiot and shut up and I love you so fucking much all in the same press of lips.

“Forget the process. How about me?” Cas asked him, cradling Dean’s jaw. “Just trust me.”

“Done,” Dean said, and he didn’t bother waiting for Cas’s smile to drop before he was craning forward to kiss him again, pressing him lax into the couch cushions.

The process, as it seemed, turned out to be a slow one. September bled into October, the heater resting in the corner of their living room vanishing as the fireplace roared instead, and Dean watched as the colors changed but he stayed woefully the same.

It wasn’t all bad, of course. The days were calmer and Dean had always enjoyed cold weather when it wasn’t something he was forced to tremble in. He’d gotten used to the footing of the floorboards, and could walk the halls with nothing but moonlight. His hair was longer and his nails were healthier, and the breathy memories of Cas’s moans in the late and early were more enticing than the screams of Dean’s past.

Dean hadn’t so much as smelled an ounce of alcohol in weeks. His urges had been directed elsewhere, from sugary drinks to handfuls of hard candy, anything to keep that buzz in his skull preoccupied.

But the job thing, well, that was a problem that just wouldn’t let up. See, Dean could manage when he wasn’t alone. He’d grown up thriving in chaos, and could take on the day just fine so long as Cas was burning down the kitchen or Miracle was chasing birds down the driveway. He could handle the constant hum and stir, the ever-changing shift of people in his presence.

It was when Cas left for work, and Miracle settled down late in the afternoon, that Dean felt the most restless. It wasn’t like he had many hobbies; a lifetime of mindless wandering had made sure of that. And so Dean would sit in the silence and listen to the empty house creak as the wind blew, trying to find purpose in the smallest things.

He’d walk through the house, checking all the sigils hidden behind picture frames. Sometimes, Dean would cook. He’d whip something up and leave Cas a plate in the fridge. Other times, Dean would read. They didn’t have many books, but Sam had felt sentimental enough to give them a few of his own, and Dean clung to stories of hobbits and knights and adventures far greater than his own.

It was nice, for a while. Having the luxury of being bored, finding things to pass the time. But Dean had gone from one extremity to another, his environment shifting with no time to adjust, and Dean discovered rather quickly that there was a fault to living aimlessly.

He didn’t know how to.

It was late in the last week of October when Dean took one look in the fridge, groaned inwardly, and reached for Baby’s keys hanging on a wooden grove in the kitchen. One downside of cooking as needlessly as he did was that ingredients went fast, and the grocery store down the road had become a familiar route.

Dean drove carefully, mindful of the downpour that had happened just the night before. The roads were slick and the water was standing, and Dean turned into the parking lot with spinning wheels, a curse spilling past his breath.

It was there, parked in Dean’s usual spot right at the far corner of the lot, that Dean noticed a girl standing off beside her truck. She was on the younger side, creeping on seventeen, maybe even younger, and she had a weariness to her that made Dean truly alert for the first time in weeks.

He felt his worry sky rocket when he realized she was crying, and Dean didn’t think much at all before he was parking beside her and stepping out into a puddle. The door groaned as he slammed it closed, and Dean rounded the Impala with outstretched hands.

“Kid? Are you alright? Do you need me to call someone or—”

“No, no, no, please don’t,” The girl cried, spluttering through the words frantically. She hastily wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her jacket. “Not until I know something’s wrong with it, not until I have to— it might just— it might not be anything. I was probably just going too fast.”

There was mascara smeared all across her eyes now, making her skin look even more sunken. She was bundled up warmly but trembling within an inch of her life, and Dean felt his chest tighten at the sight of her, his throat bobbing nervously.

“You mind if I take a look? I know a thing or two about cars, I could probably tell you if you’re good to go,” He suggested, wanting to do more, maybe offer to buy her a coffee somewhere, but the last thing Dean wanted to do was come off like a creep.

The girl blinked at him widely, brown eyes turned black in the graying light. “I guess so.”

She sounded uncertain as she said it, her feet tipping back ever so slightly, almost as if she was prepared to take off if needed, and Dean flushed with sympathy. He tried to give her one of his darling smiles, hoping to relieve the tension.

“Alright, then. Go ahead and pop the hood for me,” Dean pointed over to the driver’s seat, stepping towards the truck. The girl stumbled as she pulled herself up behind the wheel. “What’s your name?”

The girl hesitated. “Nala.”

The truck popped open with a resounding click, and Dean lifted the hood, easily setting up the latch.

“I’m Dean,” He said. Dean moved to look at Nala over the rise of the hood. “Is this your truck, Nala?”

“My dad’s.”

Dean didn’t respond to that, but her panicked gaze suddenly looked much more familiar. A pit surfaced in Dean’s stomach, and he peered into the engine cap, dreading the thought of being the bringer of bad news.

“Can you give it some gas for me? I’m looking for something specific.”

“Sure,” She said quietly.

Dean lifted his eyes, leveling her with a serious look. “Make sure to keep it in park, kid.”

“Obviously,” She pouted through the words, looking to sound annoyed, but fell miserably short. Instead, her brown cheeks turned a flustered red, and she said nothing as she pressed on the gas pedal.

The engine roared beneath the press of Dean’s fingers, and a sputtering started from within, the harshness of it startlingly. It was a meticulous clicking sound that went on and on, even as Dean poked and prodded for anything loose, and he stepped back with a heavy look, waving at Nala to stop.

“Okay, okay, that— that’s good.”

Nala turned off the ignition, and the air fell silent again, the engine brewing with heat. She kept her eyes on the pavement as she stepped out of the truck and joined Dean back outside.

“Is it bad?” She asked.

“It’s not… awesome,” Dean grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think you’ve got yourself a hydrolocked engine. Have you driven over any deep puddles recently?” Nala’s eyes widened, her body straightening to a point. Dean sighed, “That’s what I figured.”

Nala watched restlessly as Dean closed the hood of the truck, her voice coated in disbelief, “So, what? Some water broke it?”

Dean shrugged.

“It happens more often than you think. Fluid gets up in the engine, makes the pressure rocket up so much that the parts bend and break. That knocking noise we heard when you started it? That was the cylinder. It’s filled with water.”

“And that’s bad,” She said slowly.

“It’s expensive to fix, for one,” Dean gave her a gentle look, head tilting with what he hoped was a little reassurance. “But this truck’s on its last leg. Something like this was bound to happen, whether it was now or years down the line.”

Dean’s effort didn’t seem to matter. Nala sniffled loudly in the dampened air, her teeth sinking deep into her bottom lip.

“My dad’s gonna kill me,” She spluttered through a wet laugh, choking on it. Dean shook his head before he understood what was happening.

“Hey, don’t worry about that, alright? I’ll talk to him, we’ll— we’ll figure something out. I can fix this for free if I find the parts. It might just take me a little—” A truck turned into the entryway to their left, close enough to clip the moment completely, and Dean stared openly as the vehicle stopped just beside them.

It was an old piece of junk with a tow cable strapped to the back, and a man that looked like the perfect embodiment crawled out of the cab with a tampered groan, his limbs creaking with every shift. The truck’s doors were a rusted metal that probably used to resemble the color blue, and when the man slammed the driver’s side closed with an echoing squeal, Dean noticed the title Kenny’s Repairs stamped straight across the side.

“You two okay? Store owner called, said there might be a towing issue down here,” The man— Kenny, Dean assumed, looked them up with rising concern. He had a patch over his left eye, distorting it from view, and yet when he turned to look at Nala, his gaze portrayed an unfathomable amount of kindness. “Did you run into some trouble, Nala?”

The girl's only response was to frown, fingers curling into the bottom of her sleeves.

“The kid’s truck won’t start right,” Dean offered in wake of the silence. “I stopped to help her out, see what I could tell just from looking at it.”

Kenny slid his gaze over to Dean, eyebrows rising with a look of disbelief. It wasn’t an unfriendly expression, exactly, but he had one of those faces. The kind that probably used to intimidate neighborhood kids, the years worth of laughing lines around his features making him look far more menacing than he ever tried to be.

His beard was heavy, and his hair was unkempt, brushed messily behind his ears. But even with Kenny’s slackened appearance, and the glaring fact that he’d lost his left eye some way or another, what struck Dean the most was the aged ball cap he was wearing, an accessory that looked permanently settled to his scalp.

Dean felt a pang of remembrance.

“And did you?” The man asked expectantly. His southern drawl was heavy, twisting something right at the center of Dean’s chest. “Help her out?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s got a hydrolocked engine. These drain lines around here don’t do much after three, four inches of rain. Can't be sure until she’s pried open, but, by the sound of the engine it’s a water influx.”

His words drew nothing more than a responding hum, but Dean looked on, satisfied, as Kenny opened the hood of the truck and did just as he had; testing the acceleration, listening in as the engine chortled and the cylinder spun.

“I’ll be damned,” Kenny slammed the hood shut and wiped his palms down the front of his blue jeans. He gave Dean a roused smile, his voice pulsed with awe as he said, “You know your stuff, son.”

It was so different to anything Dean’s had before. It was so familiar it tore him apart, making him speechless save for a timid nod and a quiet, “Thanks.”

“This is gonna be expensive, Nala. Even if the damage is at a minimum, water leveling on an engine ain’t something you can just dry away,” Kenny explained wearily.

Dean frowned. “How expensive?”

“Well, as of right now, I’d say at least two grand.”

“What?” Nala gasped. “But my dad’s—”

“Gonna throw a bitch fit, I know,” He sighed, yanking off his hat to scratch at his graying head of hair. “Look, we won’t know nothin’ until we open up the engine, but—”

“I’ll do it,” Dean said suddenly, straightening up when both pairs of eyes snapped over to him. “No cost.”

Nala’s smile was hopeful, her voice willowed soft, “Really?”

“You can dismantle an engine? By yourself?” Kenny asked, and this time he was skeptical, staring at Dean with a low-rise grin, expecting him to back track.

Dean just shrugged. “I’ve done it before.”

“And where are you gonna get the parts?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find em’ somewhere, always do. Even the oldest machines refuse to die completely.”

Kenny whistled lowly, running a hand down his wiry beard. He was clearly impressed, patently trying to hide the fact, and he looked Dean up with a steady brow, offering his hand out.

“What’s your name? It’s not often that I run into a face I don’t recognize around here.”

Feeling a little flattered, Dean accepted the man’s hand, “Dean.”

“You just move into town, Dean?” Kenny asked him.

“Sure did.”

“Well, the name’s Kenneth Ornell,” He dropped his hand good-naturedly, offering a warm smile. “But folks around here call me Kenny. Truth is, I’m about sick of being the only grease head out here. I’m not what I used to be, and despite what people think, I can’t always be two places at once.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, looking to find more answers, but Kenny was waiting on him. Expecting Dean to speak.

“Sir?” He asked.

“I’m gonna tow this thing back to my garage. It’s right down by the police station, you can't miss it. If you find yourself down that way, don’t hesitate to stop by,” Kenny said, and then he was moving on again, pivoting back to his tow truck.

“Wait, what— what about the truck? What’s gonna happen to the truck?” Dean scrambled after him, sounding desperate enough to make Kenny glance at him over his shoulder.

“Boy, maybe if you’d listen,” He grunted out, lowering the hook and chain. He clamped the piece onto the axle of Nala’s truck, and walked back to his own vehicle. “What I’m trying to say is, if you come by my place and fix this thing the way you say you can, you’ve got yourself a job, and Nala here has herself a steal of a lifetime.”

It fell into the palm of Dean’s hand, and he stood there gawking at it, too shocked to move. The offer was better than anything Dean could have anticipated, some sort of goddamn miracle, and he stepped up to the window as Kenny climbed into the truck.

“What about the parts?” Dean asked, not wanting to push his luck.

Nala hopped up into the passenger seat next to Kenny, peeling off her coat. She looked exhausted, her emotions rung through, but she didn’t seem terrified anymore and Dean figured he’d count that as a win.

Kenny pulled the shift back, setting the wheels into a steady roll as he turned towards the exit way.

“Don’t worry about the parts,” He assured, giving Dean a wink, and they peeled off into the dampened street with practiced ease, spitting up water over the tarnished sidewalk.

……

Tommy Bueler was a doting husband and a father of three whose sideways smile probably would have been the kind of thing Dean fell for in the light of his teenage years.

Once he’d arrived at Kenny’s garage, walking up the gravel path with a nervous gaunt to his steps, Tommy had been the first to greet Dean. He was the only other employee Kenny even bothered to have, save for his wife Rita who came and went as she pleased, and he looked at Dean almost like a god sent.

“Man, you’ve got no idea,” Tommy said, bypassing a handshake to throw an arm around Dean’s shoulders, leading him towards the garage. “I’ve been waiting for Kenny to enlist some other poor bastard for years.”

Dean could remember feeling jostled. Unfamiliar with the flow of it all, the suddenness of a presentable friendship that wasn't forged in blood and imminent survival. He let Tommy guide him through the wide metal doors of a garage far bigger than the piss poor shed Bobby had built in his scrap yard, and allowed the feeling in his chest to bloom.

“Should I turn tail now, or after the first paycheck?” Dean asked, grinning when he managed to weed out a charming laugh from the other man.

“Oh, it’s not that bad. I like to give the old man a hard time. He’s got this whole trust thing going on, he doesn’t hire just anybody.”

“Huh,” Dean processed that slowly, frowning to himself as Tommy made his way to a row of lockers at the back of the building. “The guy seemed to take to me just fine.”

“Exactly,” Tommy smiled. He rummaged through the locker’s compartments until he found a spare jumpsuit, and he tossed it Dean’s way. “Try that on, would you? If it fits, you should be good to get to work on that truck of yours.”

Dean pulled the outfit up to inspect it, trying to gauge the size. It was a typical navy blue made from decent material, real mechanic-wear meant to take on oils and grime and all kinds of shit Dean had been dealing with for years, free handed.

Dean couldn’t help it; his chest warmed with excitement.

The jumpsuit ended up fitting surprisingly well despite Dean having gained a little weight over the last month, and he watched through the pale reflection of the stingy bathroom mirror as he zipped from chest to collarbone. He folded the material at the neck. He ran nervous hands down the sleeves, smoothing over nonexistent wrinkles.

Dean was so caught up in the feeling of it, the realization of what this all meant, that it took him far too long to notice the name tag velcroed on his chest.

“I thought you were the only other mechanic,” Dean said once he’d joined back with Tommy, finding him by Nala’s pick up truck.

With his back facing Dean, Tommy was right in the middle of raising the vehicle by machine, wanting to make sure Dean had access to all the under compartments.

“I am,” Tommy replied, confused.

Dean stared at the back of his head, and with the violent screech of the machine, raised his voice to ask, “Then who’s Bram?”

The car lift stopped with a whirring click, Tommy’s hands falling limp over the control panel. For a long moment, he was stuck there, unable to turn around. But when he did, his features were drawn, and he looked with a watchful eye, regarding Dean quietly.

“Not you, sure enough,” Tommy said. With quickened steps, he approached Dean and ripped the name off his chest, holding it up in the air. “You do what you say you can on that piece of junk, and you’ll get yourself a name tag soon. Don’t sweat it.”

Anger looked vile on Tommy. It was misplaced, estranged, and Dean nodded with a spinning head, suddenly realizing from the pit in his stomach that he wanted to avoid this from now on. He wasn’t good at making friends. He wasn’t good at starting anew. And what he was building with Tommy was one of Dean’s only connections to normalcy that didn’t feel like it was trying to sear him alive.

Dean didn’t want to fuck this up.

“Sorry,” Dean muttered. Tommy nodded, once, short, and the conversation was over.

For the next few days, Dean buried himself in work.

He’d spend five to six hours a day in the bed of that truck’s engine before surfacing with fire dancing in his limbs, every piece of him sore and aching. He was dirty more often than he was clean now, the smell of dirt and motor oil taking up permanent residence on his skin, but Dean was too elated to care.

There was a purpose in this. A formula, a code, something Dean could follow and meld with his own hands, fixing it in a way only he could. Maybe he wasn’t saving live’s outright, but he was mending what mattered, and Dean loved it. Dean loved what he did.

“Who are you?”

It was on a Friday evening downpour that Dean craned his head at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. He rolled his way out from under the awning of the pick up, and saw the upside down features of an eight-year-old boy staring back at him.

“Uh,” Dean said. “Dean. New guy.”

“What are you doing here? Hey—” The kid snapped his head over to Tommy who was lounging in a turned over tire, “what’s this guy doing here?”

“Kenny’s making him prove his worth, offered him a job. By the looks of it we’ll be seeing him a lot more often,” Tommy grinned. “Dean, this is Dennis. And no, thankfully he’s not mine.”

“Uncle Tom!”

“He’s my sister’s. Little squirt has quite an interest in cars, much to her hatred. Kenny let’s me bring him to work every now and again,” Tommy explained, completely unfazed by his nephew's insistent pout.

Dean rolled out the rest of the way, figuring he was being impolite. He planted his feet on the ground, bent at the knee, and offered the boy his hand, smiling warmly.

“Nice to meet you, kid,” He said, and Dennis’s eyes turned glaring, judging Dean from the soles up.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Being a mechanic is dangerous stuff, you know,” Dennis drew his arms back in a protective cross, purposely ignoring Dean’s hand.

The kid seemed to panic when Dean’s only response was to smile wider.

Dennis was something, now. Blonder than what was thought possible, paler than any vamp Dean’s ever come across in his fifteen years of hunting them. He had blue eyes the size of saucers and a grand canyon right where his two front teeth were supposed to be, a real Kevin McCallister type.

Dean could tell he was one of those kids that made you want to pull your hair out at times. The kind that Dean probably would’ve been had he not been scared out of his mind most days.

“Oh, I know. But you know what’s even more dangerous?” Dean asked, and just as expected, Dennis listened in with frightening attention. “Fighting monsters. And where I come from, I used to do that. Like, all the time.”

“Really?” Dennis gasped. “What kind of monsters?”

“The worst kinds.”

“Like— like— like Dracula?” Dennis asked, the excitement too powerful for his own body, vibrating right through him.

“I’ve tussled with plenty of Dracula’s in my day, yeah,” Dean chuckled, nodding along.

“There’s more than one?” Dennis let his jaw drop, blue eyes wide with amazement.

He turned to Tommy expectedly, wondering if he was the only one stunned by this, and Tommy hurriedly forced a look of surprise, this grossly exaggerated expression that made Dean choke back a laugh.

“What about Godzilla? Or Bigfoot? Or Darth Vader?” Dennis shot off rapidly, watching Dean closely.

Dean smiled.

A little excitement was all it ever took, really. Kids like Dennis wanted to feel like they were being talked to, not talked down to, and Dean had no problem putting himself in the mind of a child. Hell, he’d been doing it all his life, trying to find solace in anything he could.

“You know, Vader and I haven’t crossed paths yet. But if we do, you’ll be the first to know,” Dean assured him, offering up his fist rather than a hand this time.

“Cool!” Dennis beamed, and he bumped their fists together, rearing back with fake explosion sounds. “Dean’s pretty cool, Uncle Tom.”

Tommy smiled as Dennis grew closer, flopping himself into the same tire. “You think so?”

“Mmm hmm. He fights monsters. You and dad don’t do that.”

“Can’t say we do, no,” Tommy said, amused, and Dennis curled into his side, finally falling still to the sound of rain battering against the metal roof.

Dean was quiet for a long moment, watching the water pour out over the open door, flushing straight from the gutters and onto the empty street. He was tempted not to push it, to let what was meant to be a story stay a story, but it was a growing need in the hole of Dean’s stomach, and Dean had been trying to do better about actually giving himself what he wanted.

He just needed to say it. Just to say it out loud would be—

“I used to fight monsters, Dennis. I don’t anymore.”

Dean breathed in, swelling with it. He smiled to no one but the floor.

“Why not?” Dennis asked, peeking his head up from where he was lying down.

“I didn’t want to.”

“That’s weird,” Dennis frowned, but even as young as he was, his voice held no judgment. He shrugged. “If I fought monsters, I’d be like a superhero! I’d save people and get to see explosions. I’d never quit.”

It was an eight-year-old boy looking at Dean, talking to him through a barely there lisp and a smile the size of an ocean, but all Dean could see was a younger version of himself. A crisper copy, a shinier draft. A time when the wins held up against the losses and the justice of it all looked appealing to the brazen shell of a boy who had only ever wanted to feel important.

It made sense to Dean now, just as it had then. And he smiled at Dennis, accepting everything that he was.

“That’s awesome, man. Whatever you want to do… you should do it,” Dean said.

Dennis didn’t get a chance to respond before Tommy was forcing them vertical again, groaning as he lifted them both out of the tire.

“It’s lunch time, pipsqueak. Let’s leave Dean alone,” He said fondly, rustling the boy’s hair.

“Okay,” Dennis agreed, moving to follow. He had only managed a few steps in the opposite direction when he gasped out, “wait,” and spun back around. Dean looked at him earnestly, not quite knowing what to expect, but still coming up shocked when he asked, “All those times you fought monsters, did you live?”

It was one of those oblivious questions, the kind only a kid would ask with full sincerity, and Dean felt torched by it, his breath running thin.

Tommy’s shoulders slumped, a wince coursing through him. “Dennis, that doesn’t make any—”

“I did,” Dean said.

Tommy lifted his eyes to look at Dean, hearing in his voice that this had gone so much further than just playing along. Dean didn’t pay it much mind. His gaze was on Dennis, and there were tears he was forced to swim through before he was able to repeat himself:

“I did. I lived.”

Or… I’m starting to.

Dennis smiled at him. “Awesome.”

……

With Nala’s truck being a common visitor to the shop, and Kenny being a hard-headed son of a bitch who couldn’t seem to throw anything away, the parts Dean needed were present and abundant, and the truck was up and running again within a week.

“I finished it,” Dean said, walking into Kenny’s office with a rag wrung nervously between his hands. “I took the truck for a test run and everything, Nala can come pick it up whenever she wants.”

Kenny barely moved, his eye fixed solely on the laptop in front of him. “Good to hear.”

Dean brushed a thumb over the sweat on his upper lip, more likely than not smearing some grease in the process. He felt tension in his shoulders, a creak in his neck. It took him a few long, agonizing seconds to pointedly clear his throat.

“Sir?” He asked. “Does this mean… well, at the store, you said that if I fix the truck, I’d get the job. Is that still the, uh, resume, or is there something else I need to—”

“You were already hired by the first day, Dean,” Kenny interrupted, finally lifting his gaze to fix Dean with a look that was all too genuine. “I asked you to walk through that door and prove yourself, and you did. Simple as that. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family now. So settle in, cause’ it’s all tough love here.”

Dean swallowed down the immediate ache, trying to settle on the gratitude. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh good lord— drop the sir bullshit. I don’t want any of that. It’s not necessary,” Kenny demanded.

“Yes—” Dean stilled, catching himself with a glowing smile, “Sure thing, Kenny.”

Kenny smiled back, the action softened beneath his beard. “Good.”

When Dean went quiet again, standing there with puffed cheeks, thumbs twiddling over his discolored rag, Kenny let out a sigh. He leaned back in his chair with a mighty creak.

“Anything else, Winchester?”

“Can I ask you something?” Dean said in way of a reply, skittering forward to sit on the singular chair set up in front of Kenny’s desk.

Kenny shrugged, gesturing towards the seat he’d taken. “You just did. But, by all means.”

“You don’t gotta answer if you don’t want to. I was just wondering, um,” Dean squared his feet, elbows settling over his knees. “Who’s Bram?”

The shift was jarring. Kenny’s smile fell away, slow and painful, and it took a great effort for him to nod, urging strength back into his voice.

“He was my son,” He said shortly. Then, almost mechanical, he added, “Car accident. Not his fault.”

Dean felt a lurch in his stomach. “Fuck, Kenny, I’m—”

“Thomas already told me you’d asked about him,” He shrugged, forcing his face perfectly still. “It’s alright. There’s no shame in it. We’re all running from something.”

Dean stared down at his shoes, hands sliding together. His breath was thick and his guilt was strong, and he couldn’t mutter much of anything in the seconds that followed.

“Tommy and Bram were best friends. I’ve been feeding that boy in there since he was a preschooler,” Kenny continued, gesturing towards the office door where Tommy was somewhere on the other side. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. But, you gotta understand, he wasn’t expecting you to ask about it.”

Dean straightened in his seat. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t,” Kenny assured him, smiling. “It’s been years now. Since Bram, since I nearly drank myself to death and lost an eye because of it,” His fingers lingered over the cap of his eye patch, contemplative, reminiscent. “They tell you time will fix you right up, but there’s no fixing it. Not this. You heal a little every day, sure, but that’s a gap you won’t bridge, and there’s a way to be happy with that. There’s still happiness to be had, you just gotta be honest with yourself about it.”

It took Dean a few more moments to realize this was more than just a story being retold. That there was value in shared experience, a strength in common struggle. Kenny had been through hell and back in a way even Dean hadn’t, and he could learn from him. Beyond the cars and the tools and the scrap metal, Dean could lean on Kenny.

“I’m trying,” Dean said quietly.

And he knew Kenny didn’t know the details. He didn’t know about Dean’s nightmares or his scars or how everyday was a battle not to look like those soldiers who left and fought and never came back. Kenny didn’t know, and Dean didn’t plan on telling him, but he didn’t have to.

Kenny didn’t require it.

“I know you are,” Kenny said, looking at Dean like he was stuff made of miracles. He pointed at Dean, face turned serious, and with a tremor coursing through his hand, said, “And don’t you ever stop.”

……

It didn’t take much to set Dean’s instincts off. A single misplaced bump in the middle of the night, and Dean was straining out of bed to reach for his gun, his thoughts skewing outwards in every direction, reminding Dean of the man laying beside him and the flask of holy water buried at the bottom of his bedside table.

There was a reason he and Cas had littered the place in sigils the moment they moved in. There was a reason Dean would rather be safe than sorry and make the sacrifice of still needing a gun by his side to sleep at night.

They had already lost too much in their lives not to. Dean could have his normal; he just wasn’t blind to the understanding that a balance was needed.

And when a creak echoed through the quiet of the night, forcing Dean wide awake in a matter of seconds, there was no exception. The covers were flung, the mattress dipped, and by the time Dean had his gun aimed at the dark figure lurking in the doorway, the bedroom was erupting in a lamp side glow.

“Dean! Dean— it’s me!”

Of all people, it was Jack standing there in the dark, both hands raised, eyes wide with fear as though a bullet would even pierce his skin. It was the first time they were seeing Jack since he left to repair Heaven, after months, and he looked blissfully the same.

“What did I tell you?” Cas groaned, not even bothering to lift his head from the pillow. “Proceed with the same caution you would a bear.”

Jack’s smile was something sacred and all encompassing, a flash of white in the murky dark. Sighing heavily, Dean relaxed back into the bed and placed his gun on the nightstand with a clatter.

“Jack, it’s not that I’m not happy to see you, just… this couldn’t have waited til’ morning? Or any other time I’m wearing pants?” Dean asked.

Without even bothering to respond, Jack raced towards the bed, sprawling out over the covers. He wiggled and squirmed until he was centered between Dean and Cas like a toddler scared of a thunderstorm, and smiled as if it was the very first time.

“I finished it. All of it, and the angels couldn’t be happier, Cas. Families are together again for the first time in years and— and there’s purpose again. It’s not all just memories. It’s… life,” Jack glowed from the inside out, speaking with an overpowering awe that had Dean sitting up with full attention, ignoring the urge to pull the sheets up over his bare chest.

Next to him, Castiel had risen with surprising ease. While waking him usually took the whole coast guard and then some, Cas had surged upright the moment Jack started talking, his eyes pulled wide.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Cas?”

“He’s talking about Heaven. He’s finished rebuilding,” Cas clarified, almost speaking too softly to hear. In the shadows of the lamp light, Dean could just make out the shimmer of tears before Cas asked, “Is it beautiful?”

Slowly, Jack covered Cas’s hand with his own. His smile ran all the way up to his eyes, and he looked at Cas with an understanding Dean knew he’d never be able to possess.

“You can still see it, Castiel. If you’d let me try and heal your grace, we could—”

“No,” Castiel shook his head without a thought, gathering himself. “I’ll see it one day, Jack, but not today. Not for a long time.”

Dean couldn’t look at him. Warmth spun in his chest, dancing into his lungs, and he knew looking at Cas would only steal his breath away too. Dean settled with the hand that fell to his wrist; he expressed everything he could in the way he twisted and linked their fingers together under the covers.

“I knew you’d say that,” Jack smiled, sad but happy, disappointed but glad. Emotions were running a course through the youth of his features, and he looked away, his fingers moving thoughtlessly over the bedding. “I just thought I’d ask one more time while I still could.”

Through the line of his hand, Dean felt Cas tighten up, tension cording itself into every muscle.

“Jack?” Cas asked.

“Amara wants out. She wants to be let free,” Jack revealed, sounding far too casual for Dean’s liking.

“No way, we’re not touching that cosmic mess with a ten foot pole,” Dean demanded, instantly on edge. “Forget it, Jack, she’s telling you what you wanna hear. I get that you two are, uh, relatives, and you’ve been shacking up in that head of yours this last year, but you're not thinking straight. This is Amara. Bringer of evil, starter of death, fucker of… everything.”

“Dean’s right,” Castiel said. “The only way to let Amara free would be to let her take back the power you stole from Chuck. We have no way of knowing her intentions.”

“You don’t, but I do,” Jack insisted, trying to sound hopeful. “We’ve been together all this time. We’re one being, one force. Everything I did in Heaven was with her by my side, and I know her. She will be a just God, better than Chuck ever was.”

“She tried to destroy the world, Jack.”

“No,” Jack inhaled sharply, distressed beyond reason. “She wanted to destroy Chuck, and the only way to do that was to bury the things he loved the most: his stories. She’s changed, Dean. She doesn’t see the world as her brother’s toy anymore, she sees it as her savior.”

He spoke with such passion, with such an aching reverence that Dean had no choice but to will himself to consider, his heart weakening. Dean stole a glance at Cas, trying to play as a team here, but Cas was unmoving, his hesitancy towards the situation becoming pure refusal. He wasn’t budging, and Dean grimaced as he looked back at Jack.

“Even if that were true, there’s nothing stopping her from killing us. The last time Sam and I saw her we lied to her face,” Dean tried to reason.

But Jack didn’t waver, not in the slightest. He shook his head. “She wouldn’t harm you. Any of you. We’re the same.”

“And what about you? What happens once she takes your powers?” Castiel finally asked, barely raising his voice.

“I’m… not sure,” Jack frowned. “Amara said she’ll give me what I want most. I have no reason to doubt her.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean scoffed, remembering his own promise and the haloed outline of a nightgown moving in the wind.

Cas breathed in slowly, eyes closing. He had stress gathering in his brow and an edge to his jaw, everything in him screaming no and why and how. There weren’t answers to these cosmic questions. There never had been, but especially not now.

Not when Dean and Cas had so much to lose.

“Jack, how do we know Amara won’t—”

“This isn't just about Amara,” Jack interrupted sharply, looking at Cas with a pained sort of anger that had both men staring in shock. “What if I want out? What if I want to be let free? Me, Amara— what difference does it make? Don’t we deserve to feel like ourselves again?”

“Of course you do,” Cas said. “We all do! But this is more than just a decision, this has the potential to put everyone at risk— the world at risk, don’t you understand that?”

“I’m not here asking for your permission, Cas,” Jack conceded, even if his eyes looked all kinds of guilty. “I’ve been fighting my own strength since the moment I was born, terrified of messing up. And I have. I’ve hurt people without meaning to. I’ve killed people that— that I loved,” His head dropped, shielding itself away, and the name Mary echoed around the room, unspoken. “The last thing I wanted was more power. I just want it gone. I want it all—” A cry escaped him, choked and desperate, and Dean leaned towards him just in time to hear Jack whisper, “I just want to be me.”

Dean cupped a hand to the back of Jack’s neck, whispering gently as the kid bowed his head, wiping frantically at his eyes. The options were dwindling now; Dean knew his answer already. But he looked at Cas for guidance, for a sign, wondering where it was he stood, and Dean found exactly what he’d expected.

Within seconds of seeing Jack’s tears, Cas had crumbled down to his very foundation.

“Jack, whether you want it or not…” Cas started, uncertain. His eyes softened. “You have my blessing. Of course you do.”

Castiel’s words were a signal and Jack took them like a gunshot, winding up as if called to a race, his eyes burning gold. Jack’s tears were gone, his soul at ease, and he stood up from the bed in a cloud-like trance, walking straight out of the room.

Dean and Cas stared at each other in the sudden silence. The shock was too thick to speak through, too absurd to acknowledge, and without a word they both bolted out of bed, scrambling for the nearest clothes. Cas managed to get dressed first, having only needed a pair of pants to appear decent, and he was out the door before Dean could even call to him, his curses turning loud in the growing quiet.

By the time Dean found a shirt and got his legs squeezed into a ragged pair of pajama pants, Cas was already standing on the porch, and Dean ran down the stairs with freezing feet, bursting outside to find Jack glowing brilliantly in the trimmed grass of their front yard.

“Jack!” Cas shouted, moving to run to him, but Dean grabbed Cas by the arm, steadying him on the porch.

“Listen to me, Cas,” Dean said, frantic and rushed, his grip on Cas’s sleeve turning painful. “I know what you’re thinking right now, and you gotta stop. No matter what happens, you made the right call on this one, okay?”

Cas wasn’t even listening to him. His eyes were flickering, his voice crushed, and he was a restless current in Dean’s arms, resisting and resisting.

“He’s just a kid,” Cas cried, staring into the night as Jack shuttered and hummed, his body ripping itself apart. “He’s just a kid, Dean, this isn’t—”

“He’s our kid. You, me, and Sam’s, which means he’s the toughest son of a bitch I know,” Dean cut in, smiling with all that he had, his hands moving to frame Cas’s face. Immediately, Castiel faltered. He stared up at Dean widely, breathing Dean in as he said, “He’s gonna be alright. We’ll be alright, I promise.”

“Dad,” Jack gasped out, vibrating in pain, power pooling past his teeth. They both turned to him, looking to give Jack anything he wanted, but there were flames in his eyes and a star dying in his throat, and in that moment, his words were focused solely on Cas as he cried out, “I love you.”

His smile pierced through the night like a wounded spotlight, his skin morphing in color. Jack’s edges were softening in a candescent glow, features buzzing and stirring, trying to decide, and Dean watched Cas watch him with his breath clipped, everything inside of him falling deadly still.

Even as he shifted, Jack's smile remained. His outline slimmed and his features softened, every inch of him becoming someone else, and that smile of his lingered until it wasn't even his smile at all.

The second Dean spotted Amara amongst the blur of features, any thoughts of turning back were demolished. Jack was nothing but a shadow at that point, stepping back to let Amara pass through, and there was a final gasping burst of energy before it all went silent.

Standing there, her face soaked in tears and her arms cradling what was left of Jack’s white jacket, was Amara. Real and whole, her presence existing in the absence of another.

“What did you do?” Cas demanded, voice strained. He stumbled off the porch with bare feet, too hysterical to even notice the cold. “What did you do to him?”

“Wait, man, just hold on—”

“Where is he?!” Castiel screamed over Dean, charging forward as if tempted to strike, but Amara stayed unnervingly motionless.

Even when Cas came to a stop right in front of her, his figure looming, heat pouring in wisped clouds around his mouth and nose, Amara didn’t budge. Her gaze remained emotionless, unfixed, lacking all focus. The tears flowed freely from her unblinking eyes.

“So much pain in such little years. I’ve never seen someone so… he was drowning in it,” Amara whispered, lips trembling. She swallowed, thick and ugly, choking, and shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be that way anymore. I gave him what he wanted most. A chance.”

She was blanched with emotion, barely able to speak, and as Dean ventured over the front yard to reach them, he found himself dazed by the oddness of it. This was more than just Amara. This was good and bad living in harmony, humanity and the darkness combined into one. She held the balance of the universe in the marrow of her bones and looked at Dean and Cas with nothing but warmth, an understanding laid out in the plain of her eyes.

Once Dean was standing beside Cas, there was no mistaking the restless stirring coming from the jacket in Amara’s arms. A dark head of hair peeked out over the fabric. A whimper drifted into the cold, and Cas was reaching for it before Dean could even find his breath again, taking the baby with an unyielding gentleness.

“This is what he wanted?” Castiel asked, looking down at the creature in his arms, mesmerized by every feature.

Hesitantly, he brushed a finger down the baby’s cheek, transfixed by the innocence, and Jack’s only response was to reach for him, wrapping Castiel’s whole finger in the center of his fist.

Slowly, Amara nodded, “Yes.”

Cas looked at her. “Then I’m grateful.”

“So is he,” Amara smiled, looking down at Jack with unabashed love. There was a beat of silence, the night stirring with the promise of winter, and then, “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you for not trusting me. I just hope this gives you a reason to think otherwise.”

“What happens now?” Dean asked, voice hard. He couldn’t let his guard down, not yet. “Are you God? Something worse?”

“If that’s what you wish to call me, yes,” Amara said, smiling softly. “Because I’m Chuck’s equal, his powers are at rest with me. Unlike Jack, I can use them to their full potential.”

“Well, that’s not reassuring.”

Amara tilted her head at him, studying Dean with a sort of amusement that had Dean’s stomach twisting in all the wrong ways, his eyes snapping towards the ground.

“Isn’t it?” Amara countered back, and when Dean looked back up, there was power charging in her fingertips, her eyes chilled blue.

It barely lasted a second, the light seeping straight back into her skin, but Dean could feel the difference. In the air, in the balance, as if the ground beneath him had been angled ever so slightly to the right.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked harshly.

“Restoration,” Amara replied. “The Empty is quiet now, as it should be. Every entity is set to sleep for eternity with no dreams, no regrets. The way the universe intended before Chuck bent the rules for a certain angel,” She gave Cas a pointed look, almost sympathetic. “And there’s plenty more where that came from. I intend to fix things this time. Not break them.”

Dean looked at her, deducing her every intention. It wasn’t an easy thing to let go, almost destroying the world. Amara wasn’t going to be winning any popularity contests anytime soon, not in Dean’s eyes, but maybe they could give her this.

Maybe there was a chance here.

“I would thank you, but, uh,” Dean smirked, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll cash that in another time.”

While Dean’s smile had been laced in sarcasm, Amara’s was nothing but sincere.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

And as she straightened to leave, preparing to vanish, there was something in her features that told Dean she meant it. That this goodbye was final. That unlike Chuck, she wouldn’t be seeing them again, and she had no intention of watching their lives unfold like the pages of a storybook.

Suddenly panicked, Dean forced his voice awake.

“Wait,” He said, needing answers, realizing with great horror that this might be the very last chance to get any. “There’s this kid… Kevin Tran. He— he’s dead. He died a few years back, and uh, when Chuck opened up Hell, he managed to claw his way out,” Amara’s face smoothed with understanding, a smile gracing her lips. Encouraged by this, Dean continued, “I know that soul’s from Hell can’t get to Heaven, but could you at least tell me if he stayed on Earth? Like he planned?”

By the time Dean voiced it all, Amara was already wielding an orb in the cusp of her palm, the flare of blue swimming in the air like a living being. Amara closed her eyes, relaxed her fingers, and pushed the soul outwards into the night sky.

All of them watched as the light reached the stars.

“I’ve just sent your friend to Heaven. He’s with his mother now,” Amara said simply, as if the news wasn’t enough to boil Dean’s mind and send his heart into a frenzy.

“What? But that’s not—”

“Full potential,” Amara explained. “I can bend the rules just as easily as Chuck could. It’s only a matter of whether I chose to or not.”

Dean could hardly revel in the relief of Kevin finally getting a home again, his shock too prevalent. This was the same creature who had fought a war on Earth’s soil. The same being who had kept Dean bonded and complacent while she scorched the world around her.

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asked incredulously, and Amara sighed. She blinked up at him with charcoal eyes.

“Because I love Jack more than I’ve ever loved anything. More than my brother. More than you,” She threw out sharply. “I can’t hurt you, Dean. I’ve told you that. But even if I could, I’d never dare to. Jack needs you, and you need him,” Her gaze made its way back to Jack, his coos growing louder as Cas rocked him with the breeze. Amara smiled tearfully. “It’s time you both got what you deserve.”

And then she was gone, vanishing without a single brush of noise. Dean stared off into the empty space left behind. He stayed there for a few seconds, existing as if in a dream, before retreating back to Cas.

“Is he okay?” Dean asked, craning his head in to get his first real look at Jack.

It was astounding just how easy it was to recognize him, even like this. His eyes still marveled in that deep ocean blue, his mouth still curved like a cherub, and his innocence was almost unbearable now, pouring from Jack in an endless current.

“His memory’s been wiped. He’s a true newborn,” Castiel said, still holding just enough grace in his limbs to be certain of it. “He’s still a nephilim. Though his powers won’t come into being until he’s older.”

“How much older?” Dean asked.

“If I had to guess, I’d say once he’s the physical age that he was before,” Cas turned to Dean, a smile gracing his lips. “He’ll need parents until then. People who will care for him.”

Dean felt his chest give way, breath hitching as his breastbone collapsed. “Oh, I’m not—”

“You are,” Cas said plainly, not a trace of doubt in his voice, and Dean coughed out a laugh, tears rising to the back of his throat.

“Do I look like father material to you? There’s no way, Cas, no, I— I’d screw that kid up in a heartbeat,” Dean gritted, forcing Cas’s smile to slip in place of a tremor, his features bursting with refusal.

“I sincerely doubt that,” He said lowly, urging Dean to see his side. “I understand your apprehension, Dean. The way you were raised was—”

“Shit,” Dean said. “It was shit, Cas. But it’s more than that, more than John, and I—” He stopped short when Jack stirred in Cas’s arms, his eyes torn elsewhere. Dean shook his head. “I just fixed my last mess with Jack, and you want me to pretend like nothing happened? Like I can just be his parent and sit at the dinner table feeding him Cheerios?”

“This is about more than just you,” Cas insisted, brimming with passion. “You’re sorry for what you did to Jack. For all of it, and you’ll seek penance for a long time, maybe forever. But this, right now, is how you fix it. Giving Jack a new life, doing what you couldn’t do before,” Castiel’s smile was something made of magic, all starlight hope and oncoming dreams as he looked at Dean and said, “We’ve all been given a second chance, Dean. This is it.”

And Dean believed him. Dean trusted him, blindly, thoughtlessly, endlessly. Their future had shifted into more than just a plot of land and a house sitting pretty at the top of it. There was a miracle resting in Cas’s arms now, looking as if he belonged there, and Dean wanted and wanted and wanted—

“What if I hurt him again?” Dean asked, because he had to, because he needed to before the words stayed buried and bruised.

“You won’t,” Cas said, breathing it like a promise. Emotion battled in his features, and he cupped the back of Dean’s neck, leaning into his cheek. “Dean, you won’t,” He assured, and Dean nodded, and caved, and grew, “All I’m asking is for you to try.”

……

Dean had never tried harder in his entire life.

With Sam, it had been easy. Taking care of a baby at four years old feels like a superpower, like an elaborate game of house. Dean had taken to the role of caregiver with little effort, and even when he’d been a kid running on three hours of sleep trying to spoon feed a crying Sam, he’d just been glad that John was finally in the opposite room getting some shut eye.

This, Dean could admit, was a completely different ball game.

“Jack’s a what?” Sam exclaimed over the phone, effectively making Dean regret calling in a matter of seconds.

“A baby, Sam. The real deal— spit, diapers, projectile shit, you name it.”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture,” Dean could feel Sam grimace over the line. “Sort of, but, what the hell? Amara changed Jack into a newborn and you just… let her?”

Dean winced. “It wasn't like that.”

“Then what was it like?” Sam asked.

Explaining it felt impossible, understanding it felt even worse. The situation had been dire and Dean had been worried for Jack, of course he had. But Dean wasn’t upset by the outcome. He wasn’t bothered by the fact that Jack was finally getting to have the childhood Dean had begged for.

Dean wanted this. That’s why he couldn’t explain it. Even if it scared him, this was a responsibility Dean actually wanted.

“She gave Jack what he wanted most. It was merciful, it was a gift, she didn’t— she didn’t do anything Jack didn’t want, alright?” Dean assured him.

“And you and Cas, you’re gonna… take care of a baby now?” Sam asked stiltedly, uncertain.

“Basically.”

“Christ,” Sam breathed, rustling over the other end. “Eileen and I can head that way, it’ll only be a few hours and then we can—”

“Woah, woah! Slow your roll, buddy boy, this is nothing to go code red over. I do know how to take care of a kid, you know. I changed plenty of your shitty diapers,” Dean said smiling, though his defense didn’t seem to land all that well.

Sam’s sigh crackled through the receiver, pinging against Dean’s ear. “I think this is a little different, Dean.”

With a sigh of his own, Dean leaned up off of the kitchen counter, stress making his limbs jitter. He swiped a hand over his forehead, and found himself moving towards the archway, his eyes peering through to the living room.

There, Dean found Cas sleeping desperately on the couch as Jack dozed against his chest, doing his best to follow. Jack’s fingers were curling idly, fidgeting in the silence, but he was exhausted, they all were, and his soft skinned eyes slowly fell shut.

Dean felt his heart shudder.

“Believe me, I know, but it’s not just me this time, right? I’ve got Cas. We’ve got each other, this— this doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know?” Dean whispered, retreating back into the kitchen.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Sam asked tensely, catching the insecurity in Dean’s tone and stripping it bare in a way he wouldn’t have years ago.

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t think he could handle it. This went far beyond the premise of capability, and besides, things had been going fine so far. Cas had been prepared for this years ago, and he wasn’t any less prepared now. He’d gone and gotten everything they needed, from diapers and formula to ointment and spit rags, their list of necessities at the grocery store multiplying within a night.

Yesterday evening had consisted of nothing but crib building, and Dean had worked on that piece of junk until he was pouring sweat in the middle of the second bedroom, Miracle weaving his way in and out with far too much excitement for Dean’s shrinking sanity. Cas had already made decoration plans for Jack’s room, and they could both change diapers in their sleep by now, Jack’s vigorous routine of sleep, eat, shit— quickly becoming familiar.

Dean could do this. He could be a family man, a father of a child— this time, on his own terms. His own choice. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified of the years to come.

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “I’m just a little scared, I guess. I don’t have the greatest track record of being a dad.”

“And you think I do? Do any of us?” Sam laughed, steering Dean out of his head long enough to have Dean crack a smile of his own. “Dean, neither of us are experts on this, alright? But if there’s anyone cut out to raise Jack, it’s you. You won’t mess this up, man.”

Warmth bled into the back of Dean’s eyelids, sharp and stinging, and he brushed it away with the back of his hand, letting out a weakened laugh.

“Thanks, Sammy,” He murmured. With a distant shuffle, Dean’s eyes flocked back to the living room, contemplative. “I could use your help though, if you’re offering. Cas is startin’ to lose it after all these late nights. I saw him almost put the milk carton in the trash can this morning.”

“You got it,” Sam laughed, not even wasting a second. “Can you believe we still haven’t even seen the place yet?”

Dean frowned, a little saddened by the reminder. “No, not really.”

“Listen, we’re gonna be better about that, alright? I promise,” Sam said, incredibly heartfelt. “Things have just been crazy lately, we’ve been tied up with cases all over the states. How bout’ tomorrow? Eileen and I can pick up dinner or something?”

“No, I’ll cook,” Dean said, the words shooting out of him like a rocket, and Dean staggered with the normalcy, his heart beating excitedly at the center of his chest.

“Sounds good, Dean. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Sam said, and his voice was lilted, turned upwards with a smile.

Dean could all but picture it.

……

The moment Sam got his arms around Jack again, peeling him from Dean as if plucking his very heart, it seemed as though nothing had changed. Jack still adored Sam more than anything.

He shrieked and giggled as Sam bounced on his lumberjack legs, spinning in place just to garner a reaction. Sam talked to Jack as if the change in age made no difference, filling the void with hey there’s and I missed you’s and other nonsense that had Dean fighting through tears faster than he’d anticipated.

He’s got some serious baby talk going on right now, Dean signed to Eileen, and her nose scrunched in amusement.

I’ll tease him later, he’s having too much fun, Eileen signed back, and they both broke into matching smiles, snickering under their breath. Then, with genuine surprise, she signed, you’ve been practicing.

And Dean flushed from head to toe, his smile turning bashful.

I’m trying to do better, Dean told her carefully, moving his hands with budding confidence.

Her gaze was warm.

Thank you, Dean, she signed gratefully, putting a hand over her heart, and Dean decided that wasn’t quite enough. He pulled her into a bruising hug, cupping the back of her head as they watched Sam make a damn fool of himself.

For dinner they had pork chops and potatoes, the whole nine yards. Dean happily grilled out in the freezing cold and stole warmth from Cas whenever he could, constantly bargaining kisses for food with a shit eating grin. The company was good and the meal was even better, and Dean preened at every compliment thrown his way, ears burning under the sharp glare of their dining room chandelier.

There was possibility here. A routine Dean wanted to establish, and as he washed dishes with Eileen, every now and then forced to glance over his shoulder towards the laughter in the living room, Dean knew this was where he belonged. With a family, a happy family, one that could afford to get together once a week for dinner and sit in front of the fire until their cheeks grew rosy and fond.

Safe to say, it was a routine that stuck.

“You’ve got yourself something good here, man,” Sam told him during one of those evenings, their footsteps creaking under the frozen mist splayed across the front yard.

Dean glanced over at Sam, trying to see his face. “You got something you wanna tell me?”

“No, no, not really just…” Sam stepped out of the way as Miracle sprinted right past them, chasing some shadow of an animal weaving through the taller grass. “I guess with seeing Jack more and more, I can’t help but think about having the same thing.”

“What? Kids?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

There was a vulnerableness to Sam’s features that surpassed anything Dean had seen before. Sam was grappling with this. Struggling to make the same decision Dean had, and Dean stared at his brother with pride swelling up in his stomach, his mouth splitting with a boisterous grin.

“Shit, you know I’m in. I’d dominate the uncle game, you wouldn’t stand a chance,” Dean teased, impassioned and insufferable, forcing Sam’s eyes to roll.

“Honestly, I think Cas would give both of us a run for our money.”

“How many?” Dean asked distractedly, running a hand back through his hair, still forever shocked by the length. “Kids, I mean. How many?”

“Oh, not—” Sam hesitated. “Probably just the one. With everything that happened to me, I—” Pain flared in Sam’s face, white hot and unavoidable, a plethora of memories crashing in his eyesight. Dean waited patiently for him in the silence; always waiting. Sam’s smile was weak when he looked at Dean. “Seems like it would be too much of a risk to have a second one, don’t you think?”

Years ago, Dean thinks his first reaction would have been to punch the idiot. Slap him around, knock some goddamn sense into him. It had worked the other times Sam had been caving in, trying to give when all Dean wanted him to do was fight. But this was different, Dean was different, and Sam wasn’t his to guide by the hand anymore.

“I don’t know, Sam. I think you should do whatever you think is best,” Dean said lowly, heartfelt. He waited a beat, and then, a little more honest, “But, just for the record, that’s a bunch of horse shit. If you and Eileen wanna go off and pop em’ out by the dozen, you go on ahead. Just make sure this idea that our family’s ‘cursed’ doesn’t get a vote on that decision.”

Sam didn’t say anything, but his mouth trembled shut, eyes dashing away. He swallowed heavily, pushing a weight down with it.

With false nonchalance, he shrugged, “I’ve got time.”

Dean nodded wordlessly.

“You do. We all do,” Dean agreed. “No sense in worrying about it. You’ll figure it out,” Dean looked at Sam, his smile veering sideways. “Isn’t that what we always do?”

Winter blew in fast and Christmas came and went, ending with a sprinkle of snow that was dead and gone by early morning. Sam and Eileen stopped by briefly for pot roast and cherry pie before they were well on their way, leaving Dean to sip coffee in the living room and kiss Cas with added warmth, the spirit of the day not lost on any of them.

But it was late that evening, amongst the crackle of a nearby fire and the meticulous scratching of Dean turning a page in his book, that a surge of light bloomed around the front door, pulsing through the windows to stretch in winding shadows across the hardwood.

“Are you seeing this?” Dean asked idly, frowning at the door.

Cas sighed. “Unfortunately.”

They rose from the couch in tandem, creeping towards the door. It could be anything out there. Hell, the last time Dean had seen a light like this, Jack had been size warped. But the house was protected, Dean was certain of it, and when he peeked through the windows on either side of the door, he saw nothing but moonlight.

“I’m gonna take a look,” Dean said.

Though he looked apprehensive, Cas didn’t disagree. He simply said, “Be careful,” and Dean nodded as he opened the door.

Instantly, Dean’s gaze was drawn down to the porch. It was a vase. An intricate one, the designs etched in white and gold, unfurling from top to bottom. There were flowers in it, beautiful buds of pink and blue, and Dean stared out into the yard, listening to the whistle of leaves.

From behind him, Cas said one word, “Amara.”

And Dean bent down to pick up the vase, his chest oddly warm. There was no card on it, no nothing, but they knew. They knew what it meant, and the two of them scaled the stairs together just to step quietly into Jack’s room, careful not to wake him.

As Dean placed the flowers on the dresser, right next to the rotary light display that casted neon stars across the ceiling of a sleeping angel, Jack stayed blissfully unaware.

……

There had been a tremor set in Dean’s hands for the past hour now, but it wasn’t until the clock read ten that he really started to slip.

“Your dad was supposed to be home by now, you know that?” Dean spoke absently, peering down at a baby who did nothing but stare back. “He’s supposed to be home.”

Thunder sliced through the windows, ravaging the walls, and for a brief burning second, the light wrapped itself around Jack’s head like a haloed glow, allowing Dean to see him.

Dean wished he had the strength to offer a smile.

The storm had come out of nowhere, carrying the sort of power that Dean thought would have made him believe in God had he been born into a life much different than his own. There was a moment, brief in its lasting, where Dean thought about this being Amara’s doing, but he barely allowed himself to entertain the idea. She had been nothing but good to them in the months following her disappearance, and much like Dean, he knew that she’d rather die than risk hurting Jack.

No. No, this was just life, and without Cas, Dean was sinking. Miracle couldn’t settle. Jack couldn’t sleep. Dean couldn’t breathe, and Cas—

Cas hadn’t come home yet. He was nearly two hours late from his shift at the library, no phone calls, no fridge taped note. He was out in this storm with nothing but a beat up car and a sweater vest, his whereabouts lost somewhere in the dark, and Dean was buckling at the knees.

With a jolt of thunder, Miracle bolted out of the living room, brushing past Dean fast enough to send the lamp by the couch teetering in a threatening loop. Dean caught it just in time, straightening the shade back in place, but not without jostling Jack who instantly broke out in tears.

Dean’s heart sank.

“Jack, baby, don’t— don’t cry,” He whispered, straining through a visceral ache, his throat clamping as he spoke. Dean could feel a numbness flushing towards his ears. “Please don’t cry. I don’t know how to help you I— I can’t do this without— and Cas isn’t even here to—”

Before Dean could pinpoint the wave, a crash was sweeping through, obliterating everything that stood. His vision tipped sideways, jarring him on all fronts, and his chest tightened into something unbearable, something that made his skin burn and his eyes spring with tears.

“Fuck… fuck—”

He was swaying. Sinking. Falling.

The floor hurdled towards Dean and he caught himself by the forearm, just managing to brace himself enough to scramble towards the nearest wall. He leaned into the weight of it, knees pulled up to his chest, Jack pressed tight against his collarbone, and fought for just an ounce of air, his breaths nothing but rasped pleas in the echoing dark.

Distantly, Dean could hear Jack screaming in one of his ears. In the other, the storm had risen to a violent head, and all Dean could measure were the seconds between lightning and thunder.

What happened next was an incandescent blur. Dean couldn’t remember moving; couldn’t imagine lifting a finger in fear of the world at his feet opening up to swallow him whole. But somehow, he found his phone pressed to his ear, and the humming line rocked him as he fell.

It wasn’t until the fourth, agonizing ring, that Kenny finally picked up.

“Hey, Dean—”

“Have there been any car accidents tonight?” Dean asked quickly, panicked and careless to hide it, his future balanced on a tightrope.

“Dean?” Kenny audibly stiffened. The line hitched as he moved, voice edged with concern, “Is that a baby? I didn’t know you had a—”

“Kenny, please!” Dean gritted, voice breaking. He choked through a sob, crippling at the sound of it. “Just— I need to know. Is anyone hurt? Have you seen anything?”

“No, no, nothing. No towing’s in this weather, thankfully,” He answered, forcing himself to yell over Jack’s wailing. It didn’t do much good. Dean could barely hear him. Then, with devastation clear in his words, Kenny asked, “Son, are you alright?”

And it rang louder than Dean ever thought possible. He ended the call before he could do something stupid like answer truthfully.

Even with Kenny’s assurance on his side, Dean still couldn’t find relief. He waited for it, inhaling with anticipation, wanting it to breach his skin and patch the winding cracks, but nothing ever came of it. So maybe Cas didn’t get into a car accident, maybe he wasn’t stranded in some ditch with half of his face ripped open like last time— that didn’t mean he wasn’t in danger.

For all Dean knew, Cas wasn’t even in town anymore. He’d been found by some back road demon still looking to get even. Amara hadn’t silenced the Empty quite like she thought, and Cas was being hunted all over again. Maybe Cas was dead. Or, worse, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he’d just left Dean behind.

It was a single thought; just one. But it was powerful enough to uproot Dean entirely if he wasn’t careful. Enough to bend and burn and break him so profusely that he would gladly pick death over any given day that it were true.

The feeling lingered. Dean did much the same, and by the time a key was fitting through the front door and the storm was sweeping in behind two frantic figures, Dean’s legs were nothing but pins and needles. It was no wonder why he flinched so hard when he felt someone touch him, brushing over that strange sensation.

“Dean? What happened? Why are you—”

The moment Dean realized who was kneeling in front of him, alive and breathing, scared and dripping wet, his hands reached out all on their own, mindless and frenzied, scrambling for anything he could reach.

“You— you— I thought—” Dean sucked in a harsh breath, fingers curling into the front of Cas’s rain soaked sweater. He wanted to strangle him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to yell at him. He wanted to cry for him. But ultimately, Dean settled with, “Where the fuck were you? I thought something happened, I thought you were— what what I do if you’d been—”

“Can I take him?” Cas interrupted, straining forward as if physically pained, his gaze moving between Dean and Jack. There was something nervous in his eyes. Almost fearful. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay, I’m safe. I just want to hold him. Is that alright?”

Dean felt the bob of his own head more than the answer itself, and it wasn’t until Cas was leaning in to take Jack, sweeping him effortlessly into his arms, that Dean realized how distraught the boy really was. He was hysterical, writhing with terror-struck limbs, his face an angry shade of red as he cried and kicked and screamed.

The guilt was paralyzing.

“Did I hurt him?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked up at Dean, eyes wide and flooded. “No. No, of course not,” He said, desperate to comfort him. “He’s just overwhelmed, with the storm and… and you. He can tell you’re upset.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, instinctive as anything.

Cas shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Dean.”

They both fell silent beneath a clash of thunder, the never ending patter of rain drowning them away. Dean was exhausted, he realized that now, and he raised his head at the sound of the front door being shut and locked. There, he found Kenny’s figure stepping around in the dark, his boots squelching as he moved, and before Dean could even get a word out, Kenny was making a beeline towards the fireplace.

“My car got a flat on the way home from work,” Cas started, once he’d managed to get Jack calm again. “I would’ve called, but the internet at the library was down and my phone battery died quicker than I anticipated.”

Dean didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to voice it even if he did. He just knew that sitting there, with his knees bent and aching and his eyes shot red from crying, was something wretchedly abnormal in their otherwise normal existence. People didn’t do this. Regular people, good people— the people Dean tried to imitate every minute of every day, they didn’t react like this.

There was something wrong. Even with a white picket fence and a baby pouring life into the halls, there was still something wrong.

“Dean,” Dean snapped to attention, staring up at Cas in a way that was meant to come across as anything but broken. Dean wasn’t sure it worked. “Dean, I’m okay. Everything’s fine, I was never in any danger.”

“Let’s get you two by the fire. Then we can chit-chat,” Kenny spoke up, staring at them from the living room, doing his best not to intrude.

Dean and Cas turned to look at him in tandem, wordlessly grateful. Dean had been so caught up in his own downfall, he hadn’t even had the sense to build a fire when the storm set in. But Kenny had gotten a blaze started within minutes, a real monster of a fire that breathed light across the walls and ceilings, welcoming them to an embrace, and there wasn’t even a question whether they were going to accept it or not.

As Dean moved to stand, a hand followed him graciously. He didn’t even have to ask. Cas was just there, balancing him out and pressing him soft, his hand finding a steady grip at the bend of Dean’s waist. Normally, Dean would probably be conscious of the other man in the room. The same man who, until now, hadn’t even known Dean had a family he came home to after every late-night shift at the garage, but Dean wasn’t in a position to be denying himself anything.

He needed this. Right now, he needed Cas’s touch to bring him back.

“I found him hitchhiking in the freezing rain about five miles back,” Kenny said, letting out a quiet groan as he lowered himself into the nearest recliner. He didn’t hesitate to kick his shoes off, wanting his feet to get dry. “After you called, I went looking for any strays on the road. Figured you were missing someone,” He smiled at Dean from his spot by the fire. “You never told me you had yourself a fella, Winchester.”

Naturally, Dean’s eyes darted over to Cas, guilty as ever. Cas had taken his shirt off to try and get warm faster, at least for the moment, and he was sitting in perfect view of the fire, the warmth of its shadows bending over wide shoulders and effortless muscle.

And once again, Dean’s heart felt full.

“It never seemed to come up,” Dean replied, shrugging towards the fire.

“Bull,” Kenny scoffed. “You thought it’d cost you a job. The hell do you take me for? A bigot?”

“You can never be too careful these days,” Dean chuckled, hiding just how relieved he truly was. There was a reason he’d kept it a secret, for as long as he could. Job or no job, if Kenny had taken the news badly… Dean didn’t know what he would’ve done.

Kenny sighed woefully. He scrubbed a hand through his beard, suddenly distressed.

“Don’t I know it,” He said sadly, looking at Dean with the kind of sympathy that made his chest tighten up. Thankfully, the moment didn’t last all that long. Kenny’s attention quickly fell to the bundle of blankets splayed out beside the couple, and he finally asked, “Who’s this then, huh? A trouble maker, I’m sure.”

“This is Jack,” Castiel smiled. He brushed a gentle finger over Jack’s cheek, melting when it made the boy coo. “He’s our son.”

And there was something about the way Cas said it. The certainty maybe, the absolute definitive our instead of the reasonable my, but Dean’s breath all but stopped, and he looked at Cas in the firelight glow, realizing for the very first time that it wasn’t just Cas he’d managed to ring in.

He’d been given two beautiful boys. And it was when Dean looked at them, that his whole life stared back.

“I’ll be damned. Would ya’ look at that,” Kenny leaned down from the recliner, noticing Jack’s outburst before it could even really begin. But, sure enough, when Jack started to weep quietly, disturbed by nothing at all, Kenny looked at Dean with sheer joy and said, “He’s got your bitchiness, boy.”

……

The smooth glide of a tie rustling between Dean’s fingers had become familiar enough over the years, his history of dressing up and playing a part teaching him far more than how to become someone else.

At this point, he could tie one blindly. The steps are engrained and the movements are nothing but instinct, leading him along. But it was different this time; everything was different. There was a tremor in Dean’s hands and a warmth in his ribs, and when he looked into the polished white glare of the dressing room mirror, he wasn’t standing alone.

“I have a confession to make,” Cas said, glaring at himself in the mirror as his hands fumbled over the tie at his neck.

Dean grinned sideways at him. “Another one? You’re like a vending machine for those bad boys.”

“I’ve never quite got the hang of this,” Cas admitted with a scowl, dropping his hands altogether.

“What? You used to wear a tie almost everyday.”

“Yes, and Jimmy had been the one to tie it. Anytime I took it off I would just make it appear tied again.”

Dean grated to a stop, his hands falling still at the base of his throat. “You’re kidding.”

“Does it look like I’m kidding?” Cas huffed, turning to Dean with an exasperated sigh, his tie nothing but a tangled mess of fabric hung like a noose around his neck.

“Jesus, you big baby. Come here,” Dean laughed as he reached for him, fondness bleeding through to his voice. “And stop pouting.”

Reluctantly, Cas tucked his bottom lip back in, his gaze becoming pleasantly distracted as he watched Dean’s face.

“Why do humans have to make everything so needlessly complicated? Clothes and—” Cas gestured viciously to the item in Dean’s hands, “Accessories.”

Dean scoffed, thumbing at the fabric, being careful not to pull too hard. “You’re human too, Cas.”

“That’s irrelevant. My question still stands.”

Grinning, Dean maneuvered Cas’s tie through the last hoop and straightened it at the neck, pulling gently until the fabric was nestled against his throat. There, Dean’s fingers lingered unapologetically, and Cas looked on with a rising smile.

“Well, as much as I’d like to see you rock your birthday suit for the rest of your life, I gotta say you look damn good in a tie,” Dean said, brushing his hands down the other man’s chest.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas smiled, still so shy about taking compliments, receiving them like a gift. He looked at Dean then, eyes wide and comforting, and asked, “Are you nervous?”

Dean pulled away, his features suddenly rigid. He looked at himself in the mirror again, and quickly finished his own tie.

“Why would I be nervous?” Dean asked, distracted.

“This is a big day. Anxiety is normal in these circumstances,” Castiel reasoned, no longer bothered by this game of push and pull. He knew he had the power to get Dean there, at a place he was comfortable enough to speak in.

Sometimes it just took an extra word or touch.

“I’m good, Cas,” Dean told him, nodding as he got the words out, convinced it made it easier. “Better than good, actually, this is—”

The wide double doors leading into the dressing room opened without a single knock, baring wide with a glare of light. Amongst the shadow, was Bobby, his figure nearly indecipherable when he was wearing something as formal as a polished suit.

“Time to roll, boys. Stop the smacking and get your asses out here,” Bobby called, waving them on, and there, resting against Bobby’s hip in a baby blue jumper, was Jack.

He squealed the second he caught sight of Dean and Cas, mouth bubbling with incoherence as he reached out for them in the distance. Jack couldn’t quite talk yet, save for a few choice words that came out different each time he tried them, but his mind was growing by the day and he could spin circles around his parents at this point, giggling with every step he took.

“I’ll be right there, Jack,” Cas said, waving at the boy with a beaming smile. Jack kicked and giggled.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean said, taking Cas’s hand to lead them outside into the courtyard. Cas looked back at him, his features encased by the sun. “You’re right out there with me.”

Sam and Eileen got married early that new year, the second flowers started to bloom, and it was with a splitting smile that Dean stood by Sam’s side, the rings in the cusp of his palm feeling like the single most important items in the world.

Dean had cried when he got the call, and cried when he read the invitation, and cried when Sam asked him to be his best man, but somehow there were still tears left to give, and Dean spent the entire ceremony choking them down.

It was all deemed pointless the moment Cas grabbed his hand. Dean cracked and spilled, weeping there at the altar as his brother was promised a long life and a partner to share it with. The ceremony was perfect and the liveliness of the evening was unlike anything Dean had ever seen. There was music and lights and flocks of people dancing between tables and singing in the moonlight, the joy too palpable to explain.

Dean steered clear of the drinks and Cas steered clear of the dance floor, but Dean still managed to guide them under a flowering oak tree where they swayed under the lights strung up over weaving branches. Cas grumbled the whole way through it, his cheeks a delicate pink, but his hold on Dean never faltered, and if there was anything Dean wanted to stay the same as they turned old and gray, it was this.

The rest of the wedding stood in waiting as Sam and Eileen walked hand in hand towards their honeymoon car. It was one of the classic Buick’s that had been stored away at the bunker, a damn beauty that turned into a jewel beneath the sun, and the crisp red body was an easy color to wave to as they vanished down the road.

……

There was no speech he rehearsed. No grand gesture or bend of the knee; Dean awoke that day with an understanding, a mission, and by nightfall he climbed into bed with his fist tightly curled, his future held within the depths of it.

“Gimme your hand, Cas,” Dean said, forcing his voice to sound nonchalant. When Cas easily obeyed, offering up his hand with a confused little tilt to his brow, Dean sighed and said, “Other hand, dumbass.”

Castiel quickly switched hands, offering Dean his left, palm facing up. He looked at Dean innocently, helplessly curious now, and Dean’s heart raced in the silence, charging up and shooting off. With his face burning, and his insides warmed into a softened mess, Dean took Cas by the wrist and turned his hand over.

Dean’s touch was the most tender it had ever been as he opened his palm, and slid the revealed ring onto Cas’s finger.

There was a long moment of staring, and an even longer moment of not understanding, before Cas eventually looked at Dean and said, rather matter of factly, “This is your mother’s wedding ring.”

“Yep,” Dean said.

“And you’re giving it to me.”

“Looks like it.”

Sitting there, carved in lamplight and ridden with bed head, Dean thought Cas looked the most beautiful. When he was comfortable, when he was sleepy, when he was happy. He looked like he belonged here, stashed away in a human house with his reading glasses put away by the dresser and his new wedding band gleaming as he moved.

Cas was at a loss for words.

Despite the ring being a simple silver, no jewels, no indentations, he couldn’t quite take his eyes off of it. It was all John and Mary had been able to afford at the time, not that Mary cared, and Dean had thought he struck gold when he’d found it buried away in his dad’s wallet when he was eighteen. John was too drunk to notice the night it went missing, and when Dean tossed all his spare money just to resize it, any possible conversation surrounding the ring quickly fell through.

Dean hadn’t worn it in years.

Cas finally looked at Dean, his eyes softened in the light. “Dean, I—”

“You don’t have to say anything, man, just—” Dean swallowed with great effort, needing this over with before Cas could do something irrevocable like hand the damn thing back. “You know what it means, right?”

“Yes,” Cas smiled, slow and melodic, looking at Dean in a way that even after all this time still made Dean retract as if he’d been perceived by the sun.

Dean nodded shortly. “Good, then—”

“And I’m saying yes.”

Dean’s lungs ruptured, his throat burning up. He told himself this was going to be fast, painless, the decision itself being offered like a given rather than a ceaseless want. But Cas was good at these things; good at making Dean weep in the moments he’d once been forced to be strong.

With a warm palm, Cas reached across the bed and cupped Dean’s stubbled cheek. Dean felt the cool press of the ring like a second first kiss.

“I was really hoping you’d say that,” Dean said, and the feelings lasted, and lasted, and lasted.

By sunrise they were just as glaring. Bone deep and limb impairing, the kind of warmth you felt from the outside in. Even waking up to an empty bed wasn’t enough to stir Dean’s mood, and he brushed his teeth in a rush, stumbling out of their bedroom with Miracle hot on his heels.

“Go mess with the kid, buddy. It’s not time for a walk yet,” Dean told him, shooing Miracle off into the living room where Jack was watching cartoons.

As Dean walked off, making his way into the kitchen, he heard the telltale gasp of Jack noticing his companion. Only a moment later, there was laughter. Infectious and belly deep, rising over the crash and kick of Batman’s heroics. Dean was already smiling by the time he reached the kitchen archway.

He leaned into the wooden beam, bashful despite the answer he’d been given the previous night, and stopped the second he spotted Cas, everything in that moment coming to a jarring standstill.

It was different in the daylight, somehow. When the ring was more prominent, the contrast of it against warm skin and direct sunlight bringing on an even wider pit of emotions for Dean to work through. But it was more than that too. More than the ring, and it’s meaning, and the beautiful understanding that this was real for Cas in the same way it was real for Dean. The same way Dean had been forced to watch Cas forget and remember all over again.

This— the amazement, and the bafflement, and the constant glow pouring from the brink of Dean’s chest— it was never about just one thing.

Not when it came to Cas.

“I love you,” Dean said, unprompted.

Cas was sitting there on top of one of the counters, using his thigh to scribble away at a dated crossword. There was coffee brewing in the pot by the window. His sock clad feet knocked against the cabinet as he shifted.

When he looked up at Dean, lips parted with disbelief, his fingers tightened around the pen he was holding. His ring shined in the morning haze.

Dean swallowed. “Do you… you, uh. You know that, right?”

Cas’s eyes wrinkled, and he set his newspaper aside. “I know,” He said, smiling. “Dean, I know. You say it all the time, in your own way.”

“Yeah, but—” Dean’s voice got caught in his throat, and he hated that this was a struggle for him. That this was an edge he tiptoed, terrified, and yet every time he dared to go near it, it was Cas that held onto him anyway, knowing he could fall too. “But do you know that I— how much—”

“Dean,” Cas interrupted gently. He was doing it again; using that tone and voicing Dean’s name in that way he did, like something sacred, like the only person he’d ever found worthy was standing before him.

He said “Dean,” like I know you. “Dean,” like I love you. “Dean,” like I know you and I love you and all parts of you are precious to me.

“Dean,” like he’d already been given the world, every answer he could hope to receive, and he didn’t need to hear Dean say it to know.

“I love you,” Dean said anyway, just because he could now, he'd taken the power of those words back, and Cas decided that was enough.

In two easy strides, he crossed the kitchen to kiss Dean good morning.

……

Not even a week later, a matching ring appeared on Dean’s nightstand.

In the light, the silver looked white, reflecting from every angle, and Dean sat there on the edge of the bed for what felt like decades, his heart beating a vibrant crescendo in the shell of his ears.

It took him ages just to try it on. Dean was gone the moment he did.

And in the emptiness of his own room, the fan overhead spinning in a calming circle, the insects outside chirping in the overgrowth, Dean smiled to no one but himself.

……

It was one of the bad nights. Those happened sometimes.

Dean had thought he’d been imagining it at first. The restless stirring, the roiling heat as it bloomed beneath the covers. But then his eyes opened to nothing but darkness, his only sense of direction coming from the orb of moonlight pooled beneath the curtained windows, and Dean looked over to find Cas tossing around in his sleep.

Dean was wide awake in an instant, reaching for the other man’s shoulder.

“Cas? Cas, hey, you’re—”

“Let me sleep,” Cas cried miserably, ripping himself from Dean’s touch. He rolled over, desperate to get away. “Please just let me sleep.”

“It’s a dream, Cas,” Dean shook his head, craning closer. “It’s just a dream.”

Dean reached for him, swiping his thumbs over sweat laced skin, a pulse pounding in his eardrums. This didn’t happen often; Cas’s nightmares about being in the Empty were far and few compared to Dean’s, but it was Cas who had the hardest time coming back. Once he was pulled under, it always took him longer to breach the surface.

While Dean’s nightmares were tied to reality, the brutal makings of a child soldier, Castiel’s were tetherless, and they were the type of ghosts even Dean didn’t know how to fight.

“Let go of me!” Cas heaved, and in a blindingly vicious panic of swinging hands and desperation, Cas’s nails caught against the bolt of Dean’s jaw.

The pain simmered low beneath the weight of everything else. A hiss rose out of Dean, more instinctive than anything, and he sat up rather than away, framing Cas’s face with two determined hands.

“Sweetheart, wake up. Come on, Cas, open your eyes.”

And all at once, it registered. Cas’s eyes flew open and the room went deathly quiet. It wasn’t until seconds later that Cas finally remembered how to breathe again, and the silence was ruptured as he gasped and cried, limbs flailing with the inexplicable need to escape.

“You’re safe, you’re safe— it’s okay. Don’t— you’re gonna hurt yourself, Cas, stay still, it’s alright. Breathe.”

Cas’s hand flew to Dean’s wrist. “Dean—”

“Breathe,” Dean repeated. Silently, he followed his own advice, and together the two of them inhaled in the warm and dark. They released it as one. “Say the list.”

Castiel shook his head. His throat ached as he swallowed, heat billowing off of him, “I don’t—”

“You do know it. Just think,” Dean interrupted, knowing the path and acting accordingly. Once reassured, it never took Cas long.

“My name is Castiel,” He finally said. His name rang around the room in circles, sounding right, feeling good, and Cas visibly sank into the bedding, confidence peaking on the next tide as he added, “I’m a Winchester.”

“Good. Now, what else?”

“I’m in my bedroom. I live in Kansas… with Dean, and our son, Jack. Dean—” Cas stopped as if forced, everything steady beginning to crumble. In the moonlight, his tears looked like stars. “Dean saved me.”

For as many times as Dean had been here, in this moment, hearing these words repeated back to him, it was a mystery how his heart still managed to beat. Seeing Cas like this wasn’t easy; human, fragile, living in a way only Dean had prompted. Sometimes it drove Dean mad. Sometimes it was during nights like these that they cried together.

But morning was something promised to them now, an oasis that stayed long after the nightmares ran, and tonight, Dean’s only response was to smile.

“Damn straight. Anything else?”

Cas sniffled, blinking up at the ceiling. His breathing had slowed considerably now. A flush had settled in his cheeks.

“I’m safe here,” He said softly, not a hint of doubt coming with it, and Dean buried his nose into Cas’s hairline, eyes closing against an oncoming crash.

“You are,” Dean breathed. “I promise.”

……

It was during a sun-infested Saturday with the heat bearing down on Dean’s back and the humble beginnings of plant compost pressed damp into his aging knees that Dean squinted at Cas and said, “I gotta say somethin’.”

Castiel was too engrossed in the soil to do much more than hum. Dean couldn’t blame him, really. He’d been wanting Dean to make him a garden for over a year, his own sanctuary where he could plant and tend and do whatever he wanted with his ever-growing curiosity. It wasn’t his fault Dean was only now getting around to making him some damn soil plots.

Dean peeled his gloves off one at a time, building himself up slowly. He stretched, popping his tired joints, and used his arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He didn’t feel ready. Though he never really would, and so he dove in with both feet, saying, “I think I could live without you.”

That got Cas’s attention. He looked up from the little hole he’d been digging, preparing to plant some of the seeds he’d bought, and stared at Dean with open confusion.

“What?” He asked.

“I don’t want to. Not ever. God, it'd be the hardest thing I ever did, but—” Dean swallowed once, dry and heavy, pushing his way through it. “I’ve been thinking. Ever since that storm last year, the one where you didn’t come home and I just… lost it.”

There was instant recognition on Cas’s face, the memory still dreadfully fresh in both of their minds. They’ve grown a lot since then. They weren’t pros by any means; Dean still forgot to check the mail from time to time. Cas still hadn’t gotten into the habit of turning on the dishwasher before they fell asleep. But they were better, together in a way that didn’t feel so much like entanglement anymore.

Dean chose to wake up beside Cas every morning. Cas chose to be there when he did. Nothing had changed and yet everything felt different— and it was because fear, for the first time in Dean’s life, had finally decided to turn tail and run.

“I realized I needed to change some things,” Dean admitted, looking at Cas without any intention of pulling away. “That there’s no point in doing this if I’m just gonna go on putting everything that I am onto one person. It didn’t work with Sam, and it’s not gonna work with you, and I just wanted to tell you because—”

Dean hesitated.

It was a lot to say, even if he was certain of it. But Cas’s breath was stilled and his eyes were longing, and he was waiting for Dean to finish, the barest hint of a smile curling into the softness of his mouth.

Dean wished so badly that he could just kiss Cas and make him understand, have him coax the words right out of Dean’s birdcage of a chest. But Dean knew how much this meant to him, to both of them, and he needed to get it right, he needed to bite the bullet and bleed the truth and tell Cas that he—

“Because I think I’m finally there. I understand. I don’t wanna live for everyone else anymore. There’s more than that, more that I have to give. I guess I just… haven’t had the chance to realize that until now.”

There was a sense of pride, almost, in Dean realizing just how far he’d come. In drinking, in healing, in being. But when he thought about Cas, and losing Cas, and what extremities he’d fallen victim to in the past when his grief had been too thick to swim through, that’s when he saw the biggest difference.

Before, Sam and Cas were the only definitions of ‘life’ Dean had ever known. He woke up for them and breathed for them and stood there in perpetual waiting for the moment he needed to lay down his own life to make sure they could keep theirs. It was miserable. It was instinct. It was the only kind of living Dean had been taught.

But if Cas died tomorrow, inexplicably, horribly, without rhyme or reason, Dean knew he wouldn’t toss himself right back into the fire. He wouldn’t stop his own heart on the ancient stairwell of some ghost-infested mansion. He wouldn’t die. No. Not after Cas had taught him so beautifully what it was like to truly live.

Cas gave himself a few seconds to linger on Dean’s words. Soak them up and deem them worthy, his smile stretching to its full size. And then he was bounding for Dean with an enchanted sort of happiness that had Dean melting into the press of his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as his skin baked hot under the sun.

“What’re you kissing me for?” Dean laughed, grinning in bewilderment as Cas continued to lean in for more. Dean rolled his eyes fondly, and gripped Cas by the forearms, holding him at a respectable distance to ask, “You’re really not mad? You don’t wanna kick this pretty face in?”

“Mad? Why would I be mad?” Cas demanded, breaking out of Dean’s hold to envelop his face with dirt-caked hands, eyes shimmering. “This is what I wanted. What I’ve always wanted,” Cas traced him with his gaze, looking at Dean like he was anything other than tired and sweaty and dreadfully sun-kissed, “for you to be happy with yourself.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughed tearfully. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Cas’s wrist, unbothered by the dirt and grime. “Thanks for that.”

It wasn’t meant to be a barrier. A truth that hurt them, or pushed them away from one another. Having the ability to carry on after years of it feeling impossible didn’t mean he loved Cas any less. It just meant Dean loved himself a little bit more.

……

It was in the downfall of Sam’s 40th birthday that the key to the bunker was finally handed over to Jody and the girls.

“We’re ready for something different,” Sam had told Dean, simple, earnest, and Dean hadn't planned on pushing it.

He figured it was Sam’s way of saying he was getting too fucking old, anyway.

But the moment Dean and Cas arrived back in Lebanon to help with the move, leaving Jack to stay with Kenny and Rita for the weekend, the reality of the decision came into full light, glaring with astounding clarity.

“You’re pregnant,” Cas said aloud, barely managing to reach the bottom of the grated staircase before he was blinking widely at Eileen, dumbfounded.

Amongst the bustle of other hunters passing through the bunker, some greeting Dean and Cas, others moving in silence, Dean could still hear Sam’s indignant snort.

“That didn’t take long.”

“Sorry— come again?” Dean asked, not at all understanding the words being spoken to him. He stared at the sudden swell in Eileen’s stomach, his feet staggering to a stop. Dean pointed at Eileen, eyebrows rising incredulously, “You’re telling me you’ve got a bun in the oven? Right now? And Sam didn’t even care to tell me?”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, clearly expecting an argument, “don’t make this into something it isn’t—”

“Oh, I’ll tell you what it is,” Dean interrupted. His voice pitched high with just how big he was smiling. “It’s the best day of my fucking life,” He said, and he choked out a useless “come here,” just before pulling them both into a searing hug, the three of them squeezing in together like they all weren’t jarringly different heights.

“Jack’s going to have a cousin,” Cas grinned.

“I’m gonna be an uncle!” Dean added, almost hysterical with it, and as the day went on, the four of them moving only a few boxes worth of items into a cozy two bedroom apartment in the heart of the city, that feeling in Dean’s chest never quite went away.

Dean didn’t think it ever would. Especially once Junior was actually born, and the outcome of everything Dean had sacrificed was staring Dean right in the face, bearing his own name like a gift.

“Can I see him?” Jack asked, his voice nothing but a softened brush somewhere by Dean’s feet. He lifted his little toddler arms, wanting to investigate the bundle of cloth his dad was holding, “Let me see, please?”

“Give him a second, Jack,” Castiel said, grabbing the boy's hand. “DJ was just born. He has to meet everyone else first and then you’ll get a turn.”

Jack pouted into Cas’s thigh, shielding his face from view.

There was too much Dean wanted to say. Too much for a room full of nurses, too much for his open wound of a heart and his sleep deprived eyes. Dean was holding something he never thought possible, something he’d hoped for, yes, anything for Sam. But to actually have it come true, to actually be here to witness it—

Dean inhaled shakily, trying not to crack.

Too much to say, and yet Dean suddenly couldn’t think of a single word. All that came to him was, “Eileen, sweetheart, you did amazing,” and he reached for Eileen’s sweat-dampened hand, the exhaustion on her face letting up just a fraction at Dean’s words.

Her smile was darling, all pretty teeth and warm eyes. Dean hoped DJ would grow to smile the same way.

As for Sam, Dean was at a loss. He turned to Sam with a wobbly smile, eyes wet with tears. “You’re gonna make one hell of a dad, Sammy,” He said.

And amazingly enough, that seemed to be all Sam needed. Dean wiped at his brothers tears with the back of his hand.

……

“Dean?”

He stirred in the humming quiet, craning towards the sudden touch. Fingers delved gently into his hair, skimming bare and nimble over his skin, and Dean raised his head with a creaking neck.

Cas’s smile was bathed in the shadows.

“You should be more careful with that thing. Claire’s been wanting you to teach her. She’ll throw a fit if you break it.”

Wordlessly, the guitar tucked in Dean’s lap was moved to the floor. He propped it up against the recliner opposite his, Cas’s usual spot, and wiped the remaining sleep from his eyes.

“She’ll throw a fit anyway,” Dean argued with a smile, and before he could even reach out, Cas was already sneaking in and sitting himself down on Dean’s lap.

“She has a habit of that,” Cas said fondly, throwing his legs over the armrest.

Dean stifled a laugh at the sight of them, two grown men lounging around like they were half their size. As if it mattered. They were three years into this thing, and breaking some furniture just to achieve superior comfort was the least of Dean’s worries.

“You ever wonder where she gets it from?” Dean asked, turning to look at Cas who immediately shoved his head away, launching Dean back into the chair hard enough to tear a laugh right out of him.

“Overreacting is one of your most prominent traits,” Cas argued stubbornly.

Dean scoffed. “Says the guy who just tried to bottlecap me.”

Cas stared at Dean, amused and hating it, in love and rueing it, and he decided kissing Dean would be better than any other response he could give. Dean easily agreed, and his lips parted in earnest, taking in everything Cas dared to offer.

It wasn’t long before Cas’s hands eventually found their way to Dean’s hair, nothing too purposeful just— innocent, explorative, comforting. It was a habit that had grown along with Dean’s hair itself, and with time, Dean’s confidence had followed.

He was at a point now where he didn’t feel panicked when he’d notice his hair curling over the shell of his ears. He didn’t feel one breath away from a drunken reprimand about safety and monsters when he found it long enough to brush his hands through, long enough to feel it graze the line of his brow when he moved and bended.

Somehow, it was the little changes that proved to be the most meaningful in the end.

Like the rings that had appeared on Dean’s fingers. Or the bracelets that now took up his wrists, some made by Jack, others gifted in stockings and gift bags and birthday wrapping. It was the most minute blessings, like the new sweaters in Dean’s closet, or the guitar resting by his feet, or his favorite scented candle glowing from the kitchen, that made living finally feel like something he’d been gifted rather than cursed with.

When Cas finally pulled back, taking in a flustered breath that made his smile turn dopey and love drunk, it took everything in Dean not to follow him like a guiding breeze.

“There’s a child present,” Cas reminded him, glancing over his shoulder to point out Jack on the couch. He’d fallen asleep just as Dean had, only much more uniquely, his limbs sprawled up and over the cushions in random directions.

He had a checkered blanket tucked under his chin, and his favorite toy, a green dinosaur whose name changed every other week, was left forgotten on the floor.

Dean smiled against Cas’s cheek. “I’m well aware. I was looking after the kid, you know.”

“I think you tired him out,” Cas hummed, his eyes crinkling in that way they always did when he was happy and soaking in it.

Within seconds of Cas speaking, the couch creaked beneath a growing stir, and with a good big stretch, two little feet poked out from beneath the blanket.

“No more music?” Jack slurred tiredly, sitting up with a cute sort of confusion as he took in his surroundings.

Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he rolled, peering over the side of the couch. His shoulders softened instantly. With a great sigh of relief, he snatched his dinosaur up off the floor and cradled it against his chest.

Dean fixed Cas with a teasing glare.

“You gotta quit with that whole speaking thing, sweetheart. You’re always getting us in trouble,” He sighed, and just like that, Cas was crawling off of him with a shaking head, moving to sit next to Jack.

“I’m sure you can convince your dad to play one more song, Jack. But after that it’s bedtime,” Castiel told him, getting his own payback in a matter of seconds.

When Dean looked at him, feigning betrayal, all Cas did was smile even bigger. He watched, satisfied, as Dean reached for the guitar again.

It wasn’t anything special as far as instruments go, just a simple acoustic. But god did Dean treasure it. He didn’t own many things like it; something enjoyable rather than practical, something that was actually his before anyone else’s. It was the only reason he even had calluses anymore, and Dean preferred the dull throb in his fingertips far more than the kickback of a gun tearing up his palms.

He could still remember a little of what Robin had taught him all those years ago, her voice carrying a tune with the summer breeze, their notes drowning over the slow creak of the chipping porch swing. But Dean had been at this for a while now, improving all on his own, and sometimes, on quiet afternoons, he’d even find the courage to awaken his voice too.

Cas seemed to like those days the most. When the strumming fell in tandem with Dean himself, his voice lifting and falling with surprising ease.

At sixteen, Dean had started learning guitar to impress a girl. But evidently, it seemed to impress boys too.

“What are we thinking, kiddo?” Dean asked, smiling over at Jack. “A little Bob Seger? Lynyrd Skynyrd?”

Jack didn’t even need a moment to think before he said, “Kansas!”

His favorite.

Dean smiled. His chest pulsed with warmth as he pressed his fingers flush over the strings, and he watched, enraptured, as his family settled into the couch, their eyes focused solely on him. Almost instantly, Jack’s head fell limp across Cas’s lap, his fingers curling into the soft material of Cas’s pajama pants.

Cas’s smile was crippling. He drew a comforting hand over the top of Jack’s hair, urging him not to fall asleep just yet, and looked back up at Dean.

Dean was playing before Cas could even tell him to, the music flowing free; first from his hands, and then from his mouth. Thick and drawled, smooth and deep, the kind of sweetness that made Castiel’s eyes go soft and lidded in the wake of it all.

Dean sang gently. Sang about soaring and dreaming and healing, the feeling of taking flight from all your troubles and settling down without a reason.

He used to dream about being a rockstar, somehow making a living doing this very same thing, but this— the living room concerts, the lullaby bedtimes, music carved into the very walls for the people Dean loved, not the ones he didn’t— no, this right here? This was the real dream.

And as Dean played one last song, speaking of an inevitable peace that begged him to carry on, he reveled in the dream he'd brought to life.

……

The sun was blinding as they breached the tunnel, and it was then, with the beach bathed in gold and the skies cloudless, that the ocean rushed into view.

From behind him, Dean could feel the eager kickings of a six-year-old's excitement against the back of his seat, and in that moment, Dean didn’t have the heart to scold him; he’d been waiting years for this too.

When Dean pulled the Impala out into the clearing, careful of the sandier areas that could potentially do some real damage if caught in his wheels, he noticed Sam and Eileen’s car was already parked up ahead. Jack squealed at the sight of it, and Miracle dove towards the window, the incessant thump thump thump of his tail making Dean crack a smile as he stepped out into the summer air.

“About time you two showed up,” Sam’s voice appeared, blown in by the wind, and Dean turned his head in an eager spiral, finding his brothers towering figure with ease. Dean smiled at the sight of him, happy all the way up until Sam decided to quip, “Was Google Maps too confusing for you, Dean?”

And then it was all out war, the two of them forgoing their usual hug to tease and swat at each other while Cas and Eileen embraced in the breeze, a heard of children screeching at their feet.

“You better quit it with all those old man jokes, Sammy,” Dean warned, forcing a whopping five feet of distance between them just to make sure things didn’t get too hairy. “Let’s just say there’s a reason you’re graying and I’m not.”

“Dude, if you would actually look in the mirror once in a while, maybe you’d finally see that—”

“Boys,” Eileen interrupted. She pushed her hair back in visible annoyance, tucking it behind her jewel studded ears. “Let’s save the bitching for when we get in the water, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam and Dean said as one, and the chaos dispersed, all of them obediently turning down the concrete pathway leading towards the ocean.

They walked in easy tandem, Miracle darted out and about without reason, trying to decide whether he wanted to stick with his owners or run on ahead. All his options were decided for him the moment Jack called his name; he trailed back with a lolling tongue, barking with excitement as he nuzzled into the boy’s hand. It wasn’t too long ago that Miracle had decided Jack was undoubtedly his favorite.

“Uncle Dee!” DJ exclaimed suddenly, appearing at Dean’s side with the kind of doe brown eyes that could get him just about anything he wanted. Him and his sister couldn’t quite pronounce Dean all that well, it took far too much effort to commit all the way to the ‘n’ so, naturally, there had been a bit of a compromise.

Dean didn’t mind it in the slightest. Sam had done the very same thing at that age.

Dean grabbed for the boy’s hand, careful of the sandy terrain. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Dee— what— what is that?” He stammered, high pitched and painfully soft-spoken, a quizzical little four-year-old with enough conviction to make up a full grown man. He pointed at Dean’s chest, blinking in a stupor. “Did you get stickers?”

When Dean looked down at himself, discovering with a smile that DJ was staring directly at the possession tattoo peeking out from his swim tank, he couldn’t hold back the laugh rooted deep in his stomach. It rose out of him like a wave, high and land bound, crashing over Dean in a blissful rush.

“It’s called a tattoo,” Dean told him earnestly. From a little ways away, Dean could tell Sam was listening in, his head craned back to hear them. He had a silent smile on his face. “Like a drawing that you put on your body. Your dad’s got one too.”

“Why?” DJ asked, stumped and hating it.

Dean squeezed the boy's hand, his heart melting. The kid might have had Dean’s name, but he was Sam through and through, every little word and shift and habit dating back to a shaggy-haired, snot-nosed kid who had begged for Dean’s knowledge and yearned to know more.

Mindful of the whole truth, Dean answered, “It protects us.”

“From what?”

“From people that aren’t nearly as nice as you,” Dean deflected easily, smiling big and wide, and DJ preened at the praise, swinging their clasped hands just a little bit more excitedly now.

“Can I get one? I don’t like mean people either,” He scowled, shaking his head. “They’re the worst.”

“Maybe when you’re older, kiddo,” Dean sighed, letting go of his hand. He reached up and rustled DJ’s mop of a haircut, making a mental note to give Sam shit about it later. “You’ll have to convince that sweet mom of yours, though.”

“Mama,” He slid out from under Dean in an instant, darting towards Eileen where his little hands broke out into sporadic ASL. “Mama, did you see what Uncle Dee said? Did you see?”

“Oh, I saw,” Eileen said absently, too focused on covering DJ’s sister in sunscreen to really give him a convicted answer. Dean couldn’t blame her; the girl was a damn handful.

Two years after DJ had come along, and Sam had continued insisting that having a second child was just trouble waiting to happen, Eleanor was born. She was a spring baby and a loose cannon, testing all of them in their patience, but Dean liked her better that way. It was only natural that a Winchester girl had some moxie to her. Sam had a tendency to call her by her middle name; just saying the word Mary still brought him all kinds of comfort. But Dean, mostly, just called her Elle.

Eleanor was barely two, the poor thing could hardly even stand up once they were in the fumbling sand, and Dean pulled her into his arms with ease, struggling to get a grip as she giggled and squirmed.

“Down! I want down!” She shrieked, pawing at Dean’s face in resistance.

“Oh, you want down? Elle wants down?” Dean coaxed her, grinning wide against her tiny palm. She smelled like sunscreen and sugar, green eyes blow bright in the sunshine, and Dean playfully dipped his arms to let her go, only to lift her again at the very last second.

“Dee!” She giggled wildly, and it was one of those laughs that seemed neverending, the kind of sound that had the beauty to summarize life on any given day. Dean smiled into the breeze and kissed Eleanor on the cheek, softening all the more when he felt her hands reach up to cup his face, little fingers playing over the strands of his beard.

“Be careful, Jack,” Cas called out suddenly, and Dean turned to watch as his son bounded across the beach towards the ocean, kicking up sand in his hurry. “Stay close to the shore!”

“He’ll be alright,” Dean assured, passing Elle back to her mother with nimble hands. He brushed a strand of golden hair off the cusp of her forehead, wanting to see her eyes as he smiled. She mirrored him faithfully, teeth bared white with giddiness, and Dean finally turned back to Cas, eyebrows raised. “Last time I checked, nephilims can’t drown, right?”

“It’s not that he’s indestructible. Just, stronger, I suppose. More durable,” Cas said, never taking his eyes off Jack as he sprang into the water, drenching himself in a single plunge.

Dean hummed. “And when he’s at full charge?”

“He’ll be the same as he was before Chuck,” Cas shrugged, “but less burdened this time.”

“Good,” Dean said instinctively, feeling relieved as he threw himself down on a patch of sand. His back ached in protest, knees threatening to wobble, but his soul was at ease and that was just about all Dean listened to these days. When Cas joined him, laying out a towel before taking a seat, it struck Dean out of nowhere, and he said, “Wait a minute.”

Cas looked over at Dean, adjusting his swim trunks as he settled. “What?”

“When Jack gets his full powers back, won’t he, like, stop aging?”

“If that’s what he chooses,” Castiel answered.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean wheezed, doubling over at the thought, amusement making his stomach cramp up. “We’re gonna be kicking the can at eighty with a twenty-year old son. That sounds like something straight out of a sitcom.”

“We’ve faced stranger,” Cas smiled.

Dean scoffed. “You can say that again.”

“Not to mention our age difference is significantly more alarming than—”

“Are you two gonna get in the water?” Sam appeared in front of them, interrupting Cas much to Dean’s embarrassing relief. Sam stared at them in obvious judgment, shirtless and eager for the water, sunscreen smeared over the bridge of his nose. Then, slowly, his smile turned devious, “I know your swimming years might be behind you, but I’m sure we could find a floatie somewhere.”

“Tell me something,” Dean squinted through the sun to look up at Sam. “Is your ass jealous of the shit that’s coming out of your mouth right now?”

A laugh sprung out of Sam, the force of it tipping him backwards.

“Whatever, dude. This was your vacation plan, remember? The retirement dream?”

Of course Dean remembered. How could he forget? And now that they were here, almost a picture perfect copy of what Dean had imagined, plus the rugrats and minus the Hawaiian shirts, Dean couldn’t quite stare at it head on, his emotions too capable of slipping.

In the midst of the silence, Sam’s smile turned a little sad, an understanding striking his features. “Look, spend this time however you want. But, Eileen and the kids and I are gonna be out there waiting for you.”

And then he was turning to leave, sprinting out towards the ocean with Eleanor screeching as he approached, hands clapping frantically while Eileen held her up just above the water. DJ wasn’t so much in the water as he was in the dampened sand, drawing shapes into the bizarre texture, and Jack was a pure whirlwind, moving between land and water with an excitement incapable of being extinguished.

Dean smiled as he watched them play, an overwhelming sense of pride forcing heat into the back of his eyelids.

“I hate all this age talk, man,” Dean sighed. Cas looked over at him, always so curious, never anything but gentle. Dean shrugged forcefully, “As long as I can still get it up and shake it up, getting old doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

“You’re forty-eight, Dean. In no way is that old.”

“I know, I know… sort of. It’s just weird sometimes, you know? I never expected to get this far, and now it just, keeps going,” Dean’s face twisted up at his own words, hating the way they sounded, how ungrateful it all came across. It was just one of those things. A blessing that oftentimes felt too good to be true, too surreal that he couldn’t help but question it. “You know, my dad was fifty-two when he died. Which, as a hunter, seems like a lifetime. But I think about how old I am now, and realize just how much life he didn’t get to live.”

“What about you?” Castiel prodded lightly, expression tender. “What about how much life you do get to live? Do you ever think about that?”

It wasn’t so much the suggestion, as the way Cas said it that really drew Dean in. His chest opened and his lungs gave, and he stared at Cas with wonder pooling in his blood, realizing for the millionth time that everything he’d ever wanted was right here on this beach. That Cas was someone who would listen to him and hear him and understand that living wasn’t just a choice, but a constant question that was asked every single day.

Dean just had to keep reminding himself why the answer was, and would always be, yes.

“Guess I oughta start doing that, huh?” Dean murmured, dropping his head with a timid sort of smile that made Cas bump his knee against Dean’s, encouraging him. And like a charm, Dean was up and on his feet in a matter of seconds, brushing the sand off his ass as he reached for Eileen’s beach bag, “Alright, time to get off our asses. You wanna hear the game plan?”

“Of course,” Cas replied easily.

“We sunscreen up, get in the water, and work together to drown my little brother,” Dean pulled out a bottle of sunscreen, flipping it over in his hand. “Got it?”

Of all the things to question, it was the first step that had Cas scowling up at Dean like a child, “Sunscreen?”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean said. He crouched down in a hurry, popping open the sunscreen lid before Cas could try and talk his way out of this. “How many years have you been doing this human thing? And I still gotta remind you to put on sunscreen?”

There was no elegance in the way Dean started lathering Cas in the stuff, just tension-fueled speed and parent-like annoyance. Cas was so much like a child in some ways, it sometimes drove Dean mad, but the longer Cas sat there, bare chested and sun-warmed, the bulk of his shoulders growing softer and softer as he relaxed into the press of Dean’s hands, the less bothered Dean became.

Dean had always liked taking care of the people he loved, anyway.

“I’m fully aware of the necessity of it. It’s the application that… stumps me,” Cas insisted, but his voice was utter bullshit and his mouth tilted sharp with a knowing smile. He looked up at Dean with those startling blue eyes of his, cloaked in the kind of confidence he’d grown comfortable with these last few years, and said, “I think it’s better off in your hands.”

Dean threw his head back with a laugh. “You are so full of shit, man.”

“Perhaps,” Cas hummed, sounding entirely too satisfied for Dean’s liking, and before Dean could even realize what his plan was, he was grabbing a fistful of sand and dropping it over the top of Cas’s head, smothering him and his boldness in an instant.

Dean didn’t give himself the time to process; he was bolting before Cas could shake the sand out of his hair, his laughter rising high into the skyline, the sound of it dissolving into pure hysterics. Dean fought through the wind as Cas chased him relentlessly, the two of them spiraling around the beach, weaving in between strangers, their bare feet leaving memories in the golden land.

The game of chase stopped somewhere, eventually. Dean wasn’t really sure how it happened, but he ended up pressed back into the sand with Cas hovering over him, his silhouette turned sharp in the sun. There was sand stuck all over his skin, little particles caught in his curves and edges, a few sprinkled by his eyes, hidden in the age wrinkles Dean often grazed with his lips.

He smiled down at Dean, looking as though he’d caught something precious.

“I got you,” He laughed, thumbs sliding over Dean’s cheekbones like they were made of glass, and Dean felt everything all at once.

“You got me,” Dean whispered, and when the tide finally caught up with them, leaving them soaked and gasping and running back to the car within minutes to fetch another towel, it was there that Dean saw it.

Further down the shoreline. Just beyond the crowds. A woman, her presence like an aura, her sundress twirling by her feet like the sails of a ship, around and around. Dean wanted to call to her, thought about running towards her light, saying thank you even, but Jack appeared before he could find the will to move, and he wrapped both arms around Dean’s leg.

“Daddy,” Jack panted, smiling through gapped teeth, his eyelashes dark with saltwater. “Daddy, look, my necklace glows!”

Resting there on Jack’s bare chest, much in the same way it used to hang off Dean’s bony frame, was the amulet. It was all the same rusted metal and chipped tarnish, the oldest gift the Winchesters had ever owned, and yet it flared with a sudden light, brighter than anything.

It wasn’t a reflection. It wasn’t a shine. It was pure Heaven, right at the center of Jack’s chest, and it cradled Jack like a physical being, sparking with intent.

Wordlessly, Dean looked out into the crowd again and caught the eyes of the woman in the distance. Her smile carried in the breeze, reaching Dean with ease, and he couldn't help but mirror her. She looked kinder, happier, than the last time Dean had seen her.

And within seconds, Amara was gone, the amulet’s light fading with her. But even so, Dean’s smile didn’t follow. It carried on with ruthless abandon, bending to his very will, and it stayed long after Jack started pouting, and Cas started parenting, and the wind gathered strong enough to whisk them all away.

It stayed, brighter than anything, through all of it. Even when Dean buried his toes in the sand again, and made a break back towards the sea.