Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel draws in a pained gasp. 

He has lungs again, a mouth again. He opens his eyes, and the spinning floor of the dungeon welcomes him as he falls to his knees. He looks to where the brick meets concrete, the last place he saw Dean, the look of remorse and terror still seared into Castiel’s mind. Cas hears a thump behind him. He turns around. 

The portal to The Empty bubbles and shudders to a close, and a crumpled body lies beyond it.

“Dean…” Cas hears himself cough out, throat dry and raw. 

He crawls on shaking limbs to the form on the ground. This feels too familiar. Cas is vaguely aware of a pounding sound coming from somewhere outside the room. Panic rises from his stomach, making his skin crawl. Pulling Dean into his lap, Cas feels for his pulse with one hand, wrapping his other around the open gash on Dean's wrist. 

When he feels a fluttering heartbeat under his fingertips, Cas lets out a relieved breath, still almost foreign in his chest. 

He glances around. His bloody sigil on the door is gone, a different one is in its place. The door is almost jumping, about to rip off its hinges from whatever force is behind it.  Smoke swirls from a collection of what appears to be spell ingredients sitting on a nearby table, blood dripping off it and collecting in a puddle on the floor.  

Dean is ghostly pale. Even his smattering of freckles are duller than Cas remembers, and oh, how Cas remembers. He counted every one of those freckles, and placed them so deliberately all those years ago. Dean’s eyes are bruised and puffy; Castiel longs for the pop of green underneath those fragile eyelids. Cas runs a hand through Dean’s hair, currently matted with sweat and grease. It’s longer than Cas has ever seen it; the strands cling to Cas’ fingers like they missed him.

The door bursts open, revealing Jack and Sam, both looking frantic. 

“Castiel!” Jack rushes in, collapsing into Cas' outstretched arm, the one not supporting Dean. 

“Cas,” Sam breathes out as he pauses in the doorway, shocked. He blinks down to Dean, a look of anger flashing on his face only for a moment, then races to kneel next to them. He’s carrying a first-aid kit.  

“What happened?” Cas croaks out. 

Sam responds while checking Dean's vitals and wrapping gauze around his arm. “Dean found a way to bring you back, but I told him it would be risky. The ritual needed a lot of blood and a lot of soul energy.” 

“Is he…?” Cas can’t even finish the thought. He chokes on his next breath.

“He’ll be fine!” Sam responds quickly, but his hands curl into fists at his sides when he’s done looking Dean over. “He’s just gonna be out for a while—” Sam lets out a tense breath, “—to recover what the spell took.”

Castiel relaxes the tension in his body, leaning more of his weight on Jack. He runs a hand through Jack's hair, unsure who he’s soothing more. 

“Let’s get you both out of this dungeon.”  Sam squeezes his shoulder, smiling at him. 

Jack sniffles, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’ll take Dean to his room.” He scoops up Dean into his arms and stands with ease. It’s then that Cas is finally able to get a look at his son. 

He’s fuller, broader. Freckles spot his face; and his chin and jaw are scruffed with the beginnings of a beard. He reminds Cas of pictures of Dean as a twenty-something; the few pictures that exist, anyway. The sentiment of it burrows deep in Castiel’s core.

Sam stands. “Here,” he says, helping to haul Cas to his feet. Sam ducks under Cas’ elbow and pulls him close, taking the lion's share of Cas’ weight. Sam stays hunched to keep Cas’ feet on the ground; he almost forgot how tall Sam is. They start to shuffle out of the dungeon. 

“How long,” Cas’ throat clicks as he swallows, bone dry, “was I gone?” 

“Three years.” 

“Oh, God,” Cas whispers. 

Sam nods softly, working his jaw.“You’re back now.” He gives Cas an assuring squeeze. “That's all that matters.”

They make their way out of the basement, stopping at the top of the steps. 

“Dean,” Cas huffs, too winded to speak a full sentence. 

“He’s gonna be okay, Cas. He survived casting the spell. That's the hardest part.” 

The blood on the table, how pale Dean was, using his own soul to reach into The Empty. Cas looks at Sam with dawning horror, just now understanding how close Dean was to death. 

“I need to see him.” 

“Cas—” 

“Now, Sam.” Castiel starts pulling Sam toward the line of bedrooms. Sam huffs indignantly but helps Cas along anyway. 

Jack meets them in the hallway, immediately moving to support Cas on his other side. 

As they fumble into Dean’s bedroom, a sense of relief washes over Cas. There Dean is, resting on his memory foam mattress. Still breathing, still beautiful. 

Though Cas is hesitant to leave Dean’s side, Sam convinces him to move to the kitchen to regroup. As Sam and Jack gingerly set Castiel onto one of the kitchen stools, a jabbing pressure starts poking against his outer thigh and hip. Cas shifts, slipping a hand into his pocket. 

“Oh,” he exclaims in muted surprise when he pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

“You did have it!” 

Cas looks up at Jack. “What do you mean?” 

“Dean was looking everywhere for your phone when… when we first lost you.” Jack explains.

“Why?” 

Jack looks to Sam, who’s looking at Cas’ phone with a furrowed brow. 

“We don’t know,” Sam says with a huff, glancing away. “He never told us.” 

Cas glances back down to his phone and tries to unlock it. “It’s dead.” 

“I have a charger that should work with it!” Jack bolts out of the kitchen. 

Cas sets his phone down and leans against the table, taking in the familiar dingy green walls and artificial lighting. Everything looks stale, dusty. 

“Sorry about the state of things,” Sam says as he turns on the kitchen sink and grabs a glass from the cabinet. “We don't stay here too often anymore.” He brings the glass to Cas, who takes it with quivering hands. 

Castiel hears Jack before he sees him, his quick steps announcing his entrance to the kitchen. 

“Here!” Jack hands Cas the charger, lingering close. 

Castiel smiles as he takes the charger from him, shoving it and his phone into his coat pocket. He’ll worry about it later. Cas opens his arms. Jack practically crawls into his lap, and Castiel melts into the embrace.

“Careful, Jack, he’s still weak—” Sam starts to say, but tapers off when Cas shakes his head. 

“I missed you so much,” Jack says quietly into his coat. 

“I missed you too,” Cas answers, though that doesn’t even begin to encapsulate the full force of his feelings. 

Sam grabs the glass from the table, filling it up again and setting it close to Cas before sitting down across from him. “Are you hungry?” 

Cas takes another appreciative gulp of water before answering, “no.” 

“Are you sure? I can make something quick.”

“Thank you Sam, but I’m okay for now.” 

There’s an emptiness in the pit of his stomach, in his core, but the idea of eating right now just sounds… wrong. 

Sam nods, eyebrows furrowing. “Are you— do you—” he lets out a sigh. “Sorry, this is a lot to take in. I still can’t believe you’re here.” 

“Neither can I. How did he even break the deal?” 

“It wasn’t just Dean. We helped!” Jack’s voice is muffled from where he’s buried his head inside Cas’ layers. 

“Jack’s right. We never stopped looking for you. But…” Sam gestures half-heartedly around the room, “...it took a while.” 

“The spell—” Cas starts. Sam’s expression turns pained. 

“Cas, it means the world to me that you’re here, but that was one of the dumbest things Dean’s ever done.” If Sam’s tone and the tension in his body say anything, this was a long running argument between the brothers. 

Castiel can’t help but smile. 

“What?” Sam asks. 

“It’s good to see some things never change.” 

Sam lets out a mirthless laugh. 

Jack pops his head up from under Castiel’s chin. “We have so much to catch you up on!” 

Jack moves to the stool next to Cas, and they talk for around an hour like that, giving Castiel an overview of the last three years. There’s only so much information Cas can take before he starts wilting. 

“Why don’t we put a pin in this for the night? Everyone’s had a long day, and Cas, I’m sure you need some rest.” 

“Someone should be watching over Dean—” Cas starts to stand, legs still shaking. Jack quickly stands to support him. 

“Jack and I will take turns. You need to get some sleep,” Sam states with finality. 

He gives Cas one final hug for the night, speaking quietly against his shoulder, “it’s so good to see you again.” He nods to Jack as he’s leaving the kitchen. “Help your dad to his room. I’ll take first watch over Dean.” 

***

“How are you feeling, Castiel?” Jack asks as they slowly make their way down the hallway.

“Weak, mostly. I’m glad to be back in my body but… It’s strange. I don’t feel like a fully fledged angel, but I certainly don’t feel human, either.” 

Jack smiles. “Guess that makes two of us.” 

When they reach his bedroom, Cas says, “I’ve got it from here. Thank you, Jack.” Cas feels another tear welling up in his eye as Jack lets him go. “Look at the man you’ve become; I’m so proud of you.” 

Jack smiles back softly. “I’m actually… well, I don’t really consider myself a man.” They scratch the back of their neck, bashful, and Cas is hit again with how much Jack reminds him of Dean. “But, we can talk about it more later.” 

Cas nods. “Then let me rephrase: I’m so proud of the person you’ve become, Jack. I’d love to hear more about how you’ve grown tomorrow.” 

Jack grins, all gap teeth and dimples. Cas feels like he’s seeing the sun for the first time in years. 

“O-okay!” Jack stutters, on the brink of crying again. 

“Goodnight, Jack. I love you.” Cas reaches out for another hug. Jack presses in. 

“Goodnight, Father. I love you too.” 

Jack offers one last smile before pulling the door shut behind them. 

Cas takes in his room, or what used to be his room. His small collection of personal belongings are nowhere to be found, including his clothes. The stale air and the hearty coating of dust on everything leave him feeling hollow. He sighs.

Castiel has the wherewithal to at the very least take off his coat, belt, and tie for the night. As he tosses his coat onto the desk chair, a thwap of something solid hitting the wood reminds him of his phone. He pulls it out of his pocket, along with the charger. He plugs it into the wall, setting his phone down on the desk. Cas collapses onto the bed, awake for only a moment before his body falls into a numbed slumber. 

It can’t be more than an hour before a bright light illuminates Cas’ bedroom. His phone starts chiming and buzzing, vibrating in a small circle where it sits on the desk. Cas groans, flicking on the lamp with malice and rising from his bed out of pure spite. He’s about to rip the phone from its charger when he glances down at the notifications—all of which are from Dean. 

302 unopened messages

89 missed calls

40 new voicemails ! Your mailbox is full !

Castiel blinks down at his phone, squinting in confusion. Did Dean wake up and call him? No, there’s no way he was able to leave this many notifications in such a short amount of time. 

He pulls the desk chair out, and plops into it heavily to check his phone while it’s still plugged into the wall. He scrolls through the wall of voicemails, seeing Dean's name repeated like a mantra, only interrupted by a few random numbers here and there. Cas squints at the date they’re labeled under; all say today's date. 

The very first message is only a few seconds long. 

Tap.

Ragged breathing breaks through the tinny speakers, then Deans’ voice, thick with emotion. 

         “Pick up, pick up, pick up.

         …

         …

         Fuck.” 

Click. 

Castiel looks down at the recording. That was entirely uninformative. Scrolling up, he looks at the next message. This one is from Sam; it’s only a few seconds longer than the first. 

Tap.

         “Cas, what’s going on?

         I tried to call Dean and he didn’t pick up. Are you two okay?

         Call me back.”

Click.

Sam and Jack were trying to break open the door when Castiel returned. Did they try to call me? Cas rubs his eyes. This is getting him nowhere. He hits play on the next one, another from Dean.

Tap.

         “Cas. Castiel please

         Don’t do this

         Don’t be gone

         I can’t—

         I didn’t even get to—“ 

Dean takes a shuddering breath. 

         “I need to get off the floor. I need to get out of this room. Billie's gone. You’re—“

Cas hears a choked sob.

         “—You were right here. Now there’s just— fuck, I can’t do this again.”

Click.

A vice grips Castiel’s chest. He plays the message again, listening more closely. He can hear the barely-there echo of Dean's voice, he now realizes, as it bounces off the dungeon walls. This must have been right after The Empty…

Tap.

        “Pick— 

         Please pick up. I don’t know how to—

         —Cas, I’m sorry. 

         If—if you’re not picking up because you’re mad 

         —Which is—hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m mad at me too.”

Dean lets out a nervous chuckle.

         “J–just talk to me, okay? Cas?

         P–please?

         Castiel?

         …”

Click. 

Tap.

         “Dammit Cas, answer the damn phone!

         The calls are going through, why aren’t you picking up?”

There’s a pause, then a soft sigh. 

         “I just thought that maybe— maybe since I can leave these messages I could… y’know. Maybe it means something? 

         Maybe you can hear me.” 

There’s another pause, where Cas can hear a thick swallow and the clink of glass on a wooden surface. 

         “If you can hear me, you better fuckin’ listen. 

         I’m so fuckin’ pissed at you—“

Cas’ eyebrows furrow. 

         “This last week was…Hell. Hell. And I’d fuckin’ know. 

         Do you know how it feels to tell Jack you got his Dad killed? 

         No , you don’t. 

         The kid already hates me—“ 

There’s another sound of liquid sloshing and a louder thunk of glass. Dean's voice starts rising in volume. 

         “And you took the fuckin’ easy way out. Dropping all that on me and fuckin’ bouncing.

         You self sacrificin’ bastard 

         You fuckin’—

         —fuckin’—

         —Coward.”

Castiel bristles. The sacrifices he’s made for Dean, and he has the audacity to call him a coward? Cas is about to pause the recording, thumb hovering over the screen when all the anger dies in his chest as he hears Dean gasp out a sob.

When Dean speaks again, his voice is soft, pleading. 

         “You didn’t even give me a chance, Cas. 

         I keep thinkin’ about it. 

         I can’t get it out of my head—

         What I shoulda done. 

         Shoulda stopped Billie, saved you.

         Stopped you from makin’ that damned deal.

         There had to have been another way.” 

Dean goes quiet for another moment, and Cas presses a hand to his own mouth, tears threatening to spill. 

         “I shoulda—

         I shoulda said somethin’ 

         I shoulda told you that—

         That I—

         —Instead I just sat there doing fuckin’ nothing—!”

There’s a loud clattering. When Dean speaks again, he sounds distant. Oh, Cas thinks, he dropped the phone. Or threw it.

Dean lets out a hushed and broken sob. 

         “Why can’t I say it?

         —He’s already gone—

         why can’t I fucking say it?!”  

There’s a crash, and a raining sound of glass. 

Cas sucks in a breath, tears spilling. He tries to muffle his own stuttering breath to hear the rest of the recording. 

Over the speakers, panicked steps start quiet and get louder. 

         “Dean?” 

Sams’ voice through the receiver is muffled, distant, scared. 

He hears Deans’ heavy boots crunching over glass and the slam of a door. 

         “Dean?! What—?”

         “FUCK OFF.

         …”

Click.

Castiel’s own phone clatters to the desk as he muffles a sob with his hands. Guilt and shame make his stomach turn. 

He checks how many voice messages he still has. 35. He scrolls down to the bottom and taps the next unopened message. Clutching his phone tight, he raises it to his ear. 

Tap.

         “I know it’s been… a while.

         Since, uh, since I last called. 

         Was kinda hopin’ for a call back, but—”

Dean lets out a terse sigh.

         “—no dice. 

         Your voicemail is alive, despite your phone being untraceable by GPS, so I figure it’s with you in…

         …

         So, I just, y’know, thought I’d check in. 

         Things are… things are okay. Sam’s helping Eileen out with a hunt, so it’s just me n’ Jack this weekend. 

         He’s been quiet, since you— after— 

         —for the last couple months. 

         I can’t blame him. 

         After my dad was gone I barely wanted to talk. Hell, all I wanted to do was scream.”

Castiel has half a mind to run to Jack's room and give them another hug. 

         “We’re gonna look through the bunker archives, double check every entry about The Empty, see if we missed something. 

         There’s gotta be something. 

         Sam keeps bitchin’ at me to get out more. 

         But I still can’t—I walk by the door to the dungeon and I just—

         I can’t even look at it. 

         …

         I’m not running away. 

         I’m not leaving you behind. 

         There’s something here to find you. 

         I know it. 

         I’ll talk to you soon, Cas, promise.” 

Click. 

“This was my decision Dean. You can’t blame yourself,” Cas says to the phone, to himself, to an unconscious Dean three rooms over. Castiel scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the press of his cheekbones under his fingers. 

He put Dean through all this; Dean left these for him to hear. The least Cas can do is keep listening. 

Tap.

         “Hey, Cas. 

         If you’re able to hear these, at all, 

         I’d love a response. 

         A call back, a text, a dead crow on the doorstep, something.

         Anything to know there’s even a chance you can hear me.

         I know you probably aren’t… awake, or whatever. 

         I just— trail’s startin’ to go cold.” 

Dean lets out a heavy sigh. Cas hears the thunk of a bottle. 

         “We still haven’t found any leads. 

         Turns out there's not a ton of info about the Empty out there.  

         Funny, considering how often it’s fucked up our lives.” 

Dean huffs, then takes a long drink. He continues, exhaustion laden in his voice.

         “It’s really, really not funny. 

         It mostly just sucks. 

         Sucks major fucking ass. 

         But hey, I’m still kickin’. I’m gonna keep lookin’

         I gotta. 

         I don’t know what else I’m gonna do if I don’t.”

Click.

Dean and Jack’s search must not have turned up any leads. If Dean didn’t find the spell they used in the bunker, where in the world did he find it? Cas squints down at his phone.

Tap.

         “Heya, Cas.”

Dean's voice sounds weary, strung thin. 

         “I dunno why I keep doin’ this… calling. 

         Old habits, I guess.

         Just been thinkin’ about everything and…”

Dean lets out a slow, controlled breath.

         “The deal’s why you stopped me from talking in Purgatory, isn’t it? 

         I coulda lost you right then and there. 

         If it’s true, when you said you heard my prayer, I hope you know—

         —God, I hope you knew—

         I—“ 

Dean takes a sharp breath in. Cas holds his. 

         “I love you.”

The world feels like it stops for a moment. Cas wraps his arm around his own chest, feeling like if he doesn’t, his heart may spill out.  

         “I don’t— I don’t even know if that’s worth anything, now. 

         If it’s worth anything to you. But I—

         I do. 

         I love you, Castiel. 

         I have for a while. Years, probably.” 

Dean lets out a ghost of a lifeless laugh. Castiel savors the sound, as bitter as it is. 

         “We’re a couple a’ idjits, huh? That’s what Bobby would say. 

         I miss him, too. 

         I’m tired, Cas. I’m tired of losing people. 

         But we’re not done yet. 

         We’ve been searching for a way to get you outta there. 

         It’s been… months of nothin’ but dead ends, but—

         —We’ve done more with less. 

         I wanna say it to you in person, Cas. 

         A—and I will, soon. 

         I love you. 

         Bye.” 

Click. 

“I love you too, Dean,” Cas says into the microphone, voice a hoarse whisper. 

It’s only a recording, but Castiel closes his eyes and smiles, soaking in the exchange anyway. His heart is hammering, hands shaking. Before he presses play on the next message, Cas can’t help but glance behind him, expecting the gaping maw of the Empty to swallow him again. All that greets him is his disheveled bed. 

Tap.

         “I…”

Dean clears his throat. 

         “I fucked up big time, Cas.

         We were on a hunt and shit just wasn’t goin’ according to plan—

         —when does it ever, with us—

         —our lead for a vamp coven was wrong. It was those fuckin’—

         Uh,

         — Shit , what did you say they were—?

         The—the Werepires, like the pack we ran into in 2015. 

         We thought we were ready for this case but we just weren’t. 

         Eileen was helping me take one down and Sammy was coverin’ Jack.

         But they just kept pilin’ in— the pack was huge.”

Dean pauses, takes a breath, stress from the hunt still pulling his vocal chords taut. 

         “Sam got flanked. I shoulda been more aware of where he was at. I coulda helped block that blow. 

         I was tryin’ to hold ‘em off while Eileen got Sammy out. 

         I didn’t see one of the fuckers rushing from my left—but Jack did. 

         He got right between me n’ the thing. Stopped it from biting my head off. 

         But it—

         —God, it tore into him. 

         I thought it was gonna kill him.” 

Dean chokes on his own emotion. Cas swallows thickly. He saw Jack and Sam only an hour ago; he knows they’re fine. But the pit in his stomach still makes him nauseous. 

         “I know Jack’s hardy. He doesn’t have all his powers but he’s still a nephilim. He’s sturdy and can heal quicker. 

         But seeing him hurt I still— 

         I just—”

Dean takes a shuddering breath. 

         “We all got back to the bunker, mostly in one piece. 

         But then I got—

         I—I’ve—“

Castiel hears a slam from somewhere close to the mic on Dean's phone. Cas wonders if he hit the wall or a table with his fist. 

         “My… alcohol was— is—

         I mean, who am I kidding.

         It’s been a problem for a 

         long, 

         long, time. 

         And with you being gone…”

Dean pauses, clears his throat again. 

         “…I was drunk. 

         I was drinkin’ before the fight—

         They got hurt and I—

         I was drunk and angry at myself for not being—

         For—for letting it happen—

         For being drunk and letting it happen

        —so I drank some more an—

         —And I saw Jack all bandaged up and I just got so—so scared that I wasn’t gonna be able to protect him or Sammy or Eileen or anyone—”

He stops with a gasp, then continues, so, so softly.

         “...I tore into the kid, too. 

         Hell, I don’t even remember what I said, Cas. 

         He didn’t even yell back. He shoulda—

         He was protecting me—

         No kid should halfta—“

Dean hiccoughs. 

         “He said he was sorry. 

         I didn’t want him to apologize, he should’ve been the one chewin’ me out for fucking up. 

         I was— it was— Sammy—

         … 

         Sam got between us. 

         That snapped me out of it. 

         Bec—“

Dean chokes on another sob and swears under his breath. 

         “—Because Sammy n’ I have done that dance before. But—

         —but it used to be me protecting him from Dad.

         …

         Fuck."

Dean coughs out a few more sobs. He swallows, thickly. 

         “I don’t wanna be this man, Cas. 

         I don’t wanna be a drunk, angry man.

         Who—whose family’s afraid of him. 

         They don’t deserve that.

         You don’t deserve that.

         …

         I don’t wanna be a violent man.

         …

         But I don’t know if I can help it. 

         I was written this way.”

Click. 

Castiel sets the phone down. He runs his hands through his hair, vaguely aware of how cold his own fingers are (he should probably put his coat back on). He sits in the too-cold room, hands in his lap, staring at the ceiling for a century of moments, processing. 

He should be angry at Dean. He is angry at Dean, he realizes. But his heart aches for Dean too. 

Had Cas been there, well…

he wasn’t. 

But he is here now. He does the only thing he can. 

Cas keeps listening.

Chapter Text

Sitting up, Castiel pulls his phone off the charger. He hesitates over the play button of the next message. Cas glances back to his bed. 

He could rest. 

He should rest. 

But something tugs him back to his phone. There’s still dozens of messages he hasn’t listened to yet; moments of the life he lost captured in Dean's words. They give Cas a sense of comfort. 

Worrying a fingernail between his teeth, Castiel scrolls up and down the voicemails, seeing Dean, Dean, Dean. He wants to talk to him— and scold him, and comfort him— and be with him, in every way. Just being in the same room, both of them alive and well, would be more than enough.

But with the quickening of his heartbeat and a shiver up his spine, Castiel realizes there’s no backing out of what’s been said. 

‘Don’t do this’ was the only thing Castiel heard before being taken. For the first time since he’s been back, Cas stops and thinks for a moment about what Dean could have meant by ‘this.’ Did he mean don’t die , or don’t be in love with me ? 

With the messages he has heard, Castiel knows how Dean feels— or at least, felt, three years ago— about him. The poignant, unspoken tension between them has been broken. What happens now?

He has no idea if Dean really wants him, or just wants him because he doesn’t believe he is allowed to. Maybe the only thing that Dean wanted was the ability to want. 

Castiel scrolls down to the next sequential voicemail. 

He licks his chapped lips. Feeling a strange concoction of selfishness, sentiment, and apprehension, he plays the next message. 

Tap.

        “I really wish you were here right now, man. 

        We’re workin’ on this case and it’d be real nice to have a billion-year-old being with limitless knowledge on the team.”

Cas rolls his eyes. 

Dean lets out a sigh, then a soft chuckle.

        “Not even for the case—

        —just so Sam could pester someone else about fuckin’ Sumerian farming techniques. 

        Haunted scythe is a fuckin’ haunted scythe. ‘Mesolithic era it hails from’ be damned!

        Or…whatever time frame he said. 

        You’d know, wouldn’t you? 

        I never understood a word exchanged between you n’ Sammy but, hey, sometimes it was nice to kick back and listen to you two nerds bore me to sleep.” 

Cas feels bad for rolling his eyes. 

        “We all miss you, Cas. 

        I’ll talk to you soon. I love you, bye.” 

Click.

It’s not just Dean who has felt the echoes of Castiel’s absence— the thought didn’t cross his mind in the heated moments before The Empty. A part of him feels guilty for hurting so many people with his death. He wishes it could have been avoided. 

In a selfish way, Cas admits to himself, he’s happy to hear that he was missed as a companion and friend, and not just as a tool. 

Tap.

        “Hey…

        Still no leads. I’m… startin’ to get desperate. 

        I’m not giving up on you. 

        I—

        I love you, Cas. 

        You deserve better than this. Better than me. 

        I’m gonna make it right.” 

Click. 

Tap.

        “Still no answer… 

        Playin’ hard to get, huh?

        …

        D’y’know it’s been years since I’ve taken Baby to a drive-in? 

        What a damn shame, right? 

        When you’re back, I’ll get her all cleaned up, inside n’ out. Get her lookin good, 

        take you out on the town for burgers n’ milkshakes, then a movie at the drive-in.

        It’ll be… 

        It’ll be good. 

        I’ll be good to you, Cas.

        We’ll be like Cherry and Dallas. 

        Heh, that makes Sammy Sodapop. 

        Actually… I guess if anything we’re more like Ponyboy and Johnny. 

        …

        Stay gold, Castiel.

        Stay gold.”

Click.

Castiel closes his eyes and pictures it. 

How the light from the theater screen would cast Dean’s profile in a flickering golden glow. The sound from the film would filter in, tinny and intimate, through the car’s speakers. Cas wouldn’t listen to the movie, not really. He’d listen to the way Dean’s laugh would fill up the cab, hearty and rasping. The front seat is big enough for them to sit comfortably apart, but Cas imagines that they’d sit close together. Shoulders pressed together, knees touching; a solid, grounding pressure. Imagines the weight of Dean’s hand on his thigh. How his fingers would splay out, his thumb absentmindedly playing with the outer seam of Cas’ slacks.

How Cas could feel the push of Dean’s chest against his, warm with a stuttering heartbeat, if he leaned in to kiss him. 

How their stubble would scratch together, if Cas ran his lips along Dean’s jaw.

How, if he kissed Dean (would Dean let me kiss him? ), he’d taste the salt of the french fries and the sweetness of their shared milkshake on his lips. 

He opens his eyes, greeted again by the dim and dusty bunker room. Castiel shivers. He puts his coat back over his shoulders, pulling it tight around himself. 

Tap.

        “Heya, Cas. 

        I’ve got some news. It—it’s good news. Yeah, good news.”

        Not ‘we’ve found your ticket out of The Empty’ good news, but…

        I joined a support group, uh, thing. For drinking. Er— for not drinking. 

        To stop drinking.

        Sam found one for me. That was… a conversation I never want to have again. 

        But he’s trying. 

        And—“ 

Dean lets out a soft chuckle.

        “—And he does that big, stupid, kicked-puppy look and damn it, it makes him look 12 again so…”

Dean pauses. Cas can hear music in the background playing quietly. He recognizes it as one of the Led Zeppelin songs that Dean put on the mixtape he made for Cas. 

        “...so I’m trying, too. 

        He had brochures n’ the website up and knows the whole fancy acronym and all the statistics. Something, something… ‘more secular and less focused on releasing control to a higher power.’ 

        Turns out Sam hates AA. Who knew. 

        Heh, Sammy looked so proud to see me off from the bunker when I left for it.

        He— Cas, It was a whole speech. 

        Thought I was in friggin’ Wisconsin with the amount of cheese in it. He was saying all kinds of ‘glad you're investing in your own health and happiness’ blah blah blah.

         —Oh, and—!”

Dean giggles. Cas gasps softly. 

        “Eileen was at the bunker when I was leavin’ and saw the whole damn thing. We both exchanged looks after Sam got off his soap box n’ she signed to me:

        ‘Go fuck ‘em up’.”

Dean laughs earnestly.

Castiel hasn’t heard that laugh in so long, he can’t help the noise he makes; it’s close to a whimper. 

        “She’s a real spit-fire, I’m glad she’s been hanging around more. Sam’s really glad she’s been hanging around more. Heh. 

        But uh, anyway, I’m going to these meetings—er, I’m about to start

        —like, 

        I’m-sitting-in-the-parking-lot-of-the-damn-place—

        —about to start.”

Dean lets out a sigh. 

When Dean pauses, Cas can hear the music again. The song playing ends and another Zeppelin song begins, from a different album. Castiel realizes the song order is the same from the mixtape. Is Dean listening to the mixtape?  

        “Okay, yeah. I should quit pretending to be on the phone and go in. 

        I–yeah. 

        I should go. 

        I’ll talk to you soon Cas—I love you—Bye.”

Click. 

“He’s right Dean. You should be proud of yourself for taking these steps,” Cas comments softly. As much as Dean mocked Sam for his ‘speech’, Castiel could hear the fondness leaking from Dean’s voice as he talked about it. 

Tap.

        “Jack got his— or, um, they got his—no—

        Jack got a letter back from a college today.”

The excitement in Dean’s tone makes Castiel’s chest feel light.   

        “It’s about an hour away, up in Nebraska. 

        I think they’re gonna accept.”

Jack had mentioned going to school earlier that night, but it still makes Cas’ heart swell to hear it again. 

        “You shoulda seen the look on Sam’s face when Jack showed him the letter, 

        I think Sam was damn near more excited n’ Jack. 

        I dunno what he was so worried about, kid’s got the brain of a demi-God

        and Sammy and I are practically Gods at forging legal docs. 

        There’s no way the school wouldn’t accept him—them. 

        Says they’re gonna go for—get this—a writing degree.

        Kid’s got a sense of humor, I’ll give ‘em that. 

        …

        I gave him my copy of Timequake a while back, seemed to really

        take a shinin’ to it. Told me they wanna write like that. 

        I hope he— that we could—

        —If he’d show me—

        —I’ll be happy to read whatever he makes. Whatever they write.” 

Dean clears his throat, sniffling.

        “We’ll have to work on a cover story for all of their not-life,

        y’know, 

        the 18-ish years they definitely have real memories of? 

        …

        God, I hope he’s ready.

        I think— d’you think he’s ready? 

        I’m sure he’ll be ready.

        Sam’s done the whole college business before,

        He knows what to do for stuff like that.

        …

        and I’ll be here, if Jack needs me. 

        Yeah, just a phone call away. 

        …

        You—

        —We’ve got a good kid, Cas. 

        I’m—

        —I’m trying to be good back. 

        …

        Sometimes, I wish I could go back.

        Be unstuck in time again. 

        Even if it wouldn’t change anything, 

        I’d still—

        I’d—”

Dean lets out a soft breath. Cas nods, understanding. The temptation to go back, to fix things, to make things better with more knowledge and experience. Castiel sighs. There’s no way to change the past— not without consequence— but the self-destructive itch to watch the events all unfold again is a feeling that never fully goes away. 

        “Jack’s not leaving for a couple months, 

        but we gotta make sure they’ve got a good car to take to school.

        Drivin’ up 281’s gonna be a bitch in the winter time.

        Gotta go check out a couple used ones for sale at the lot.

        Oh, and Eileen’s got a connection to some Historian that 

        just might have a book with some info on The Empty.” 

Cas can hear a rustling against the phone, like maybe Dean is rubbing his face. 

        “I’ll talk to you soon, Cas.

        Bye.”

Click.

Tap.

        “I love you! 

        Forgot to— forgotta say it before I hung up.

        It’s probably kinda stupid, but I feel like—

        —like I gotta make up for it.

        Make up for lost time. 

        And, just in case this is the one message you do hear. 

        I want— you should hear it. 

        …

        I love you, Castiel.” 

Click.

Cas smiles. “You’ve been saying it for years, haven’t you, Dean? Now I’m the one playing catch-up.” 

Castiel ruminates, realizes, revels.

“We’ve both been saying it for years and years and years.”

Tap.

        “Hey, Cas. 

        I’m 100 days sober. 

        I don’t think I’ve gone this long without booze since…” 

Dean trails off for a moment, thinking. Cas can hear the rumble of the Impala's engine in the background; he wonders if Dean called him right after his meeting. He can hear another song from the mixtape.

        “…Lisa, probably. 

        I never touched the stuff when I was there, with them. I was always worried I’d hurt Ben. 

        Some good it did him, huh? 

        I haven’t thought about them for… ages now. 

        Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision, askin’ you to mind wipe ‘em. 

        …

        Cas, it’s…

        It’s tough. Going to those meetings? 

        They—they do help—

        but…”

Dean swallows.

        “Everybody’s got horror stories and sob stories and—

        I wish I could be honest. 

        I wish I could tell ‘em what really happened. 

        To me, to you. 

        To… to us.  

        But I just can’t.”

Castiel can faintly hear the sound of Dean drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. 

        “Some of the things the other people talk about—

        —I hear all that and—

        —I wonder how many of ‘em were hunts we missed. 

        Dead spouses, absent parents, violent kids…

        Nobody gets through life without scars, huh?

        And we—

        —We can’t save them all. 

        I can’t save them all.”

Dean takes a long, slow breath in. Then out.

        “I think—

        —Well, Sam insists on taking me out to dinner tonight to celebrate, and I told Jack we’d get Shirley Temples—”

Melancholic joy fills Castiel, picturing his family celebrating Dean's accomplishment. He’s so happy to hear about Dean’s healing, but he wishes he could have been there with them. 

        “—but after that—

        I think I’m gonna look for a job. 

        Not— not a case, but like a steady job. 

        Somethin’ nearby. 

        Contract work, mechanic, a line cook maybe. 

        Just… something. 

        I’ll still help out on cases when Sam needs—

        —not that he needs it much, him and Eileen are a deadly pair—

        —but I think I’ll stick a little closer to home. 

        Jack’s about to head to school

        an’ i just wanna make sure h–they’ve got help nearby if they ever run into trouble.”

Dean lets out a soft chuckle. 

        “They’re your kid after all, so they’re good at getting into trouble. 

        Good trouble, of course. Reminds me so much of you sometimes…”

Dean sniffles. 

        “Anyway, I’m probably ‘bout outta time for this one. 

        I’ll talk to you soon, Cas. 

        I love you.” 

Click.

If Castiel thinks for too long about Dean working a regular job, using his hands to build and fix and create… tears start beading at the corner of his eyes. He quickly plays the next message, dehydrated enough as he is. 

Tap.    

        “Jack’s off to school. 

        Sam’s helping them drive up. 

        Jack asked if I wanted to come but…

        I decided to hold down the fort.

        I just—

        —I dunno. I’m no good at all that—

        —that ‘new beginnings’ schmaltzy crap.

        Sammy’s always been the Hopeful Speech Guy.

        I’d just get in their way.” 

Dean pauses, and Cas can hear his knuckles rapping against something wooden, drumming an absent-minded rhythm.

        “I’m on phone duty for Eileen anyway.

        Gotta pretend to be uh…” 

Papers rustle through the phone speakers.

        “‘Andrew Brennan,’ head of the anthropology department at the Kentucky Municipal Historical Society, vouching for my associate by the name of… ‘Nadine Hurley.’

        Eileen’s pretty sure there’s a cursed object somewhere in that museum that’s making high-ranking academics die. It’s hard to say, since the deaths look like suicides—

        —A real bourgeoisie blow-out, if you ask me. Heh. 

        She’s good at keeping her nose clean, so she probably won’t even need me for back-up. 

        That— that’s alright. 

        I’m still on the lookout for a job. 

        We’ve actually been kinda busy with cases the past couple weeks,

        n’ getting Jack all packed. 

        But I think the lumber yard downtown is hiring. 

        We’re—

        —things are—

        —things are okay, considering. 

        Yeah. 

        Love you.

        Bye.”

Click.

Cas furrow’s his brow. He’s surprised to hear Dean didn’t go to drop Jack off. Castiel wouldn’t have missed it for the world. He’ll ask Jack more about it in the morning.

Tap.

        “Start my new job next week. 

        There’s a mechanic shop a town over that was hiring.

        ‘Otto’s Auto Parts.’

        Heh, thought that was funny. Car guy named Otto. 

        Did he pick his job or was it too funny not to be a mechanic? 

        I actually, uh, y’know, applied with a different name. 

        Since ‘Dean Winchester’ was supposedly shot dead in,

        Hell, when even was that, ‘05? ‘06?

        …

        Huh, guess I can’t really joke about poetic names… 

        …I went with Singer. 

        Used Bobby’s yard as a reference.

        Just—

        —Y’know, just felt right. 

        Dean Singer.  

        It’s got a decent ring to it, huh?” 

Cas hums in agreement, sentiment blooming inside him. 

        “Yeah, Dean Singer ain’t too shabby.

        The drive’s short, but it'll still be good to get outta town. 

        Poor Baby’s been cooped up in the garage way too much, lately.

        I’ll let you know how the job goes. 

        I love you, Cas.” 

Click. 

He pictures Dean leaning into the hood of an old car, grease and sweat smudging his brow and clothes. It brings a warmth to Cas. It suits him, he thinks. 

Castiel rubs the back of his neck, massaging out the knot beginning to form from hunching over the desk for so long. He sighs. Closing his eyes for a moment, he feels the beginnings of Grace start to bubble through his vessel. Despite the small amount of rest he got, he is still growing stronger the longer he’s back from The Empty. Exhaustion pulls at his limbs and eyes, but Cas pushes it out of the forefront of his mind.

Tap.

        “You’ll never guess who called me today.

        Claire Novak, the one and only!

        When I saw her name on my phone I was ‘bout ready to grab my .45 and a wooden stake, with how her calls normally go—

        —but Cas, take those holy eyes and lo and behold this—

        —It wasn’t an ‘Emergency: Send Backup Yesterday’ call! 

        I guess her n’ Alex were having some great debate about the best music of all time, and got into an argument about the Beatles vs. the Rollin’ Stones.

        Was she calling to ask for my expert opinion on the subject? No— 

        —Stones beats Beatles, if you were wondering—”

Cas laughs softly. It almost shocks him, in a way, how much he’s missed hearing Dean talk about the things he loves. He could listen for hours.

        “Claire called because her n’ Alex couldn’t agree on which cover for ‘Sticky Fingers’ was the official one. 

        Guess they needed some kind of visual for a… ‘Powerpoint Night?’

        —Couldn’t tell ya’ what sorta new drug that is but I do know my Stones so—

        Cue her Phone-a-Friend to Rock Music Aficionado and Surrogate Father Numero Dos, 

        ~yours truly.~

        Now I wouldn’t say ‘Sticky Fingers’ is even their most influential album—

        —Claire was not ready for that conversation—

        But… I told her the album has three official album covers. The original release—

         —I guess four covers, if you count the one with a working zipper—

        —The Spanish cover, featuring a can of literal fingers—

        —And the rare Russian cover, released in 1992, complete with a female model and a sickle and hammer on the belt buckle. Hah!

        Jody’s gonna get a kick outta this next time I get her on the line.” 

Dean lets out a wistful sigh. 

        “Claire said she misses you. 

        Said she’s keeping an eye out for ways to get you back.

        She’s a damn good hunter, at this point.

        No stopping that landslide, hard as we tried. 

        She— yeah. She’s doin’ alright. 

        I’ll talk to you soon, Cas. I love you. 

        Bye.” 

Click.

Castiel re-listens to the last message a couple times, feeling warmed from the inside out. He will call Claire soon to let her know he’s alive.

After skimming their transcripts, Cas deletes the next couple of voicemails. He finds only telemarketers trying to sell him insurance and, surprisingly, the blood bank from Mitchell, SD. He’s not sure how or why they have his number; he’s certainly never donated blood there. 

Tap.

        “Hey, Castiel.”

Cas feels his mouth pull down into a frown. Dean sounds exhausted.  

        “Eileen's lead from the museum was about The Empty,

        but it didn’t tell us anything new. 

        …

        I dunno what we’re gonna do. 

        I can’t—

         I don’t know how long I can keep pretending—

         —everyone’s acting like it’s fine—

        —like I’m fine—

        —and I’m trying, Cas—

        —I’m trying to be, but…

        I don’t wanna do this without you, man.” 

Dean pauses for a moment. As he does, Castiel can hear the sound of glass moving on wood. He remembers how Dean would roll his empty beer bottle on the table, lost in thought during quiet nights of case research. Oh, Dean…

        “I love you, Castiel. 

        We’ll get you back. 

        As long as it takes.” 

Click. 

Tap.

        “Hey, Cas.

        It’s… it’s been a year. 

        A year since you… you—

        —and what a fuckin’ year it’s been. 

        Jack’s at school. 

        Sam’s… uh, somewhere.

        Probably with Eileen. 

        They’re not here, anyway. 

        So it’s jus’—

        —jus’ me n’ you, tonight.

        …

        Just me.” 

Dean takes a heavy drink of something. Cas’ heart sinks. He hear’s Dean’s lips unseal from the bottle with a ‘pop’. 

        “I know, I know. 

        I’d love to tell ya’ this isn’t what it is. 

        …but it is. 

        Jus’—

        —just felt like shit. 

        Didn’t wanna feel anything at all. 

        Guess what happened? 

        Now I’m drunk and I feel like shit. 

        Probly’ gonna hafta call into work tomorrow. 

        Otto… probly’ won’t fire me. 

        If he does—”

Cas hears Dean shuffle the phone around, along with the sound of liquid splatting onto something solid. 

        “—so it goes.

        …

        Yeah, so it goes.

        …

        Y’know,

        I think the bunker’s haunted. 

        I mean, with the amount a’ spooky old shit we got in here, 

        like it has to be, right? 

        At first…

        First I thought it was you—

        —hoped it was you. 

        Kept waitin’ for a sign, somethin’. 

        I don’t think it is, though. 

        The universe, The Empty, whatever— whoever—

        couldn’t give me that. 

        Wouldn’t give me that.

        That hope. 

        …

        Maybe—

        …

        …maybe it’s me. 

        Maybe I’m haunting the bunker.

        …

        I wish you woulda taken me with you, that day. 

        Wish The Empty woulda swallowed us both up. 

        Or I just died, 

        pointless n’ bloody—like I was supposed to—

        on some dime-a-dozen hunt. 

        It would have been easier.” 

The lack of emotion in Dean’s voice chills Castiel to his core. Cas shakes his head, hot tears spilling down his cold cheekbones. 

His hands shake. He can feel the quiet, measly thrum of Grace still trickling through his veins vibrate and energize. He spreads his broken and rotted wings. 

Go back. Tell him he survives. 

Tell him he succeeds. 

Go back.

Save him.

The bedside lamp hums, buzzes, then bursts into shattered glass and dancing sparks. The Grace fades from Cas’ body, lying dormant again. Cas watches the sparks fade to nothing. Head pounding and fatigued, he sits in the dark.

(you can’t.)

        “Instead I just have to keep going. 

        No big bad to fight, no world to save, no—

        —no angels watching over me. 

        Just… just livin’.

        Keep being alive jus’—

        —just fuckin’ cuz. 

        —guess I… 

        …I mean. 

        Sammy n’ Jack…

        They’ve lost enough.

        Eileen, Jody n’ Donna, the girls, Garth…

        They’ve all lost too many people. 

        I couldn’t do that to ‘em.

        I couldn’t do that to you. 

        What’s the point of your big, heroic sacrifice

        if I…” 

Dean lets out a long, slow breath. 

        “I—

        I just—

        I feel like I’m already dead, Cas. 

        Like I’m just a ghost.

        Maybe—

        Maybe that’s why I still can’t go into the dungeon.”

He takes another drink. Castiel almost stops the recording; his thumb hovers over the pause button, shaking. Every part of him is shaking. 

        “If I go back in there…

        I’ll find my own rotting corpse 

        still sittin’ on that concrete floor.

        N’ realize when you died that day…

        …

        …

        I died, too.

        …” 

Click. 

Chapter Text

Castiel knows what Dean’s body looks like when he’s dead. 

Their first moment together, even before Cas rescued his soul, was brushing away the rotting flesh and sewing up the holes in Dean’s corpse. 

It didn’t scare him, or upset him. Why would it? That was his holy mission. Retrieve the sword, prepare the vessel. 

Castiel knows what it feels like to kill Dean, too. 

He remembers the way his angel blade felt, being plunged into Dean’s chest; feeling how his heart stuttered for one, two desperate beats, then stopped. The blood on Dean’s lips glistened as he let out a wet cough, clinging to Cas’ arm.

It wasn’t real.  

He saw body after body litter the warehouse floor. All Dean. All green eyes, staring at him and then past him as they took their final breath. Naomi’s searing light bathed him, cleansed him. He heard her everywhere and nowhere saying ‘Good. Good seraph. Good work, Castiel.’ 

Bile rises to the back of Castiel's throat.

It wasn’t real. 

He can see that terrified look in Dean’s eyes, back pressed to the dirty brick wall, staring at the space where Castiel had stood a moment ago. He can see what Dean’s face would look like as his expression melts from shock to sorrow to lifeless acceptance. Castiel looks down at his hands, expecting to see blood. 

It’s not real. 

Castiel knows Dean is alive. He is— he has to be. 

He glances toward the door.

Castiel couldn’t be happy without saying what he wanted. Dean couldn’t be happy without having what he couldn’t want. 

The solution: take away the temptation. Castiel gets his one moment of true bliss, and Dean is free to move on, to find new things to have. It was supposed to save him. He was supposed to confess his love for Dean and die. Dean was supposed to live on; have a happy life without him. 

Instead, it got him killed.

Cas opens his bedroom door, trailing a hand along the wall for support. He moves towards Deans’ room. 

I killed him.  

Castiel pushes Dean’s cracked door open, finding him in the same pose as earlier: resting on his back, hands gently folded over his stomach, legs parallel to each other. He’s too still. 

Cas has watched over Dean while sleeping before. In the beginning, out of duty; later, curiosity; after that… a selfish fondness. Dean is often restless, moving from his side to his stomach and back. Castiel still can’t shake the image of the countless bloody clones on the floor. Dean looks too much like a corpse. 

“Castiel? Is everything alright?” 

Cas tears his eyes from Dean, taking in the rest of the room. Jack is sitting cross-legged on a chair nearby with an open book resting in their lap. 

“You look like you’ve seen a…” Jack continues before tapering off, watching Cas' expression grow more concerned. 

“I… couldn’t sleep,” Castiel explains; a half truth. 

He sits down on the edge of the bed as gracefully as possible, trying to tamp down any visible signs of panic in his body— for Jack’s sake. Cas places a hand along Dean’s jaw. A warmth radiates back, stark against his cold palm. A subtle blush along Dean’s cheekbones hints at blood running through his veins. Castiel feels the fluttering of Dean's pulse under his fingertips. He revels at the feeling of life in his hands. Letting out a soft sigh, Cas feels his shoulders soften in relief.

When Castiel glances back up to Jack, they are already looking, a soft smile on their face.

The panic may have subsided, but a spiraling storm of questions still swirl around Castiel’s mind. He wants to know about everything: the world he’s missed; how Jack has been spending their time in it; how everyone has been doing; what the spell that brought him back is and where they found it. He wants to ask Jack about Dean. 

As Cas takes a moment to collect his thoughts, he looks over Jack. The old flannel they’re wearing is one of Sam’s. Under the flannel, Jack’s shirt has the words ‘Improv Club’ on it, along with other words too wrinkled for Cas to make out.  A plastic clip holds Jack’s fluffy bangs out of their face. He notices a gemstone stud in each of Jack’s ears and sleep-smudged mascara along their waterline. He moves his hand from Dean’s jaw to rest on the bed.

“What book are you reading?” Castiel asks. Jack’s smile grows. 

“‘Momo, oder Die seltsame Geschichte von den Zeit-Dieben und von dem Kind, das den Menschen die gestohlene Zeit zurückbrachte,’ or just ‘MOMO’ for short. It was an assigned reading for a class, but I like it so much I’m writing my next paper about it, too." Jack holds up the book so Cas can look at the cover. It has a sketchy drawing of a sprawling city in the background. A small figure in a ragged coat walks toward the city, accompanied by a small turtle. 

“You read German?” 

“I read the English version, first.” 

Cas hums in acknowledgement. “What do you like about it?” 

“I’m writing my paper about the story’s critique of consumerism and the commodification of time—” Jack starts. They prattle off a laundry list of bullet points supporting their main argument. Castiel nods along, listening intently. Jack is normally animated when they dig into a topic they really enjoy. While there is passion in their words, Cas can’t shake the feeling that what they’re saying sounds scripted. 

“It sounds like you have a very clear outline for your next paper. I wonder though, what do you like about the story?” Castiel emphasizes. 

“Oh. ” Jack huffs out a small laugh, looking a little bashful. “I like Momo, the main character, a lot. She’s a little girl who lives in an amphitheater and wears a long, ragged coat. She doesn’t know how old she is or where she came from, but she’s a really good listener.” Jack drums their fingers on the cover of the book as they speak. 

Castiel nods. “She sounds like a wonderful person.” 

“Yeah!” Jack exclaims, then, glancing at Dean, lowers their voice as they continue. “She helps her friends by fighting the Time Thieves that infest their city, with the help of her other friend, who is a turtle.” 

“What a fantastical story.” 

“It is. I want to write stories like that. I’m actually working on one in between assignments.” 

“What’s it about?” 

“A prince without a heart; a raven who loves the prince, but is destined to be defeated by him; a knight who fights against his role in the story; and a duck who learns to dance.” 

Castiel lets out a soft laugh, “you have the makings of quite a fantastical story of your own.”

Jack glances away, donning a half smile. “A lot of people in my classes tease me for liking childrens’ fantasy. For always talking about fairy tales and children's books so much, but…” Jack shrugs, “...I just think they’re neat.” 

“Do you like the morals and lessons often found in children's fantasy?” Castiel asks. 

Jack hums. “That aspect of them is fun to play around with and subvert, but that’s not the main reason.” 

Cas tilts his head, waiting as Jack collects their thoughts for a moment. 

“I think I like those kinds of stories so much because most of them have a happy ending. No matter how deep in despair the characters get, I know the situation can always turn around.” 

Castiel shifts his hand on the bed slightly, brushing his little finger against Dean’s bandaged forearm. “I think your classmates are wrong for teasing you, Jack. Wanting to bring more hope into the world with your stories is a very beautiful thing.” 

Jack smiles. “That’s why he wanted to bring you back, you know.”  

Cas furrows his brow. “...What?” 

“He thought you deserved to have a happy ending, too.” 

“Oh.” Castiel’s voice cracks, tears welling in his eyes. He brushes them away, clearing his throat. “You don’t know how happy it makes me that you two are still close.” 

“I…” Jack starts, thinking, “...yeah, me too. I didn’t— for a long time I was never sure where we stood with each other. But we’re good now.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Jack shrugs, eyes on the floor. “Well, first with Mary, then… then you … I just—” they glance back up to Castiel, “—I thought he hated me for it.” 

Castiel’s heart sinks. “Jack, it’s—”

“—not my fault?” Jack finishes, expression weary. Cas gets the feeling this is a conversation they’ve already had multiple times; Castiel hopes one of those times was with Dean. 

Cas closes his mouth, glancing behind him to watch the even rise and fall of Dean’s chest. 

“After you were taken, and Chuck was gone— after everything— Dean and Sam and I, we’d still watch movies and stuff. Just kinda going through the motions. I don’t really remember how it started, but eventually Dean and I started talking about stories,” Jack continues. Castiel looks back towards him, head tilting. 

“We talked about types of stories: comedy, drama, epics, flash fiction. He’s never said it directly, but I think he really likes hearing about the stuff I learn in school.” Jack gives a fond and exasperated look to Dean. “One time, I told him about the elements of a tragedy, and the catharsis of inevitability. He didn’t say much at first, but then…” A complex look crosses Jack’s face. “...he came back to it— back to me about it later. He said he understood. Mary was dead the moment Amara put her back on earth.”

Jack looks to Cas.

“The knife may not have hurt you, but you were dead the moment Dean stabbed it into your chest.” 

Castiel remembers the look of shock, awe, and terror on Dean’s face. He remembers the heft of the knife in his hand as he pulled it from his ribs. He remembers feeling righteous, and holy, and so, so sure of himself. 

And when Dean looked at him, scared and angry and distrustful—

‘What’s the matter? You don’t think you deserve to be saved.’

—that was one of the first times he remembers feeling.  

“I… that’s not…” Castiel starts, shaking his head. 

“There’s nothing either of us could have done,” Jack states. “All that matters is what we do now. We both get that.”

Jack carries a fatigue in their posture; a look Cas recognizes all too well. Castiel wants nothing more than to take their pain away. His hand curls into a fist on the bed cover. 

He can’t.  

“I’m—“ Castiel starts to say. 

Jack’s gaze hardens. 

“—Don’t,” they warn.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“—If you’re about to say you’re sorry, let me first ask you this: would you do it again, if my life was in jeopardy? Would you make the same choice?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then you’re not sorry,” Jack says curtly. 

Castiel’s lips part, brow furrowed, at a loss for what to say. “Didn't I… hurt you with my absence?”

“I— yes, of course it hurt when you fucking died!” Jack bites. 

Castiel leans away from them, taken aback. 

Jack swallows, expression pained and angry. “You think I didn’t miss you? You think there wasn’t a hole in my life where you used to be? You’re my father— of course it hurt for you to be gone.” 

Tears bead at the corner of Jack’s eyes. Cas reaches out to them.

Jack leans away, curling in on themself.

Castiel lowers his arms back to his lap. He clasps his hands together tightly, pressing his nails into his knuckles. Watching Jack curl away from him stings, but Castiel understands. 

“It hurt when you left— when you died— but… you don’t get to say you’re sorry. I’ve imagined having this— getting to talk with you again— hundreds of times. What I’d say, what you’d tell me, if you’d be proud of who I am—”

“—I am— ” 

“—and every time I pictured you coming back and saying ‘sorry ’ it made me so… it felt so wrong. It’s— because— you can’t say sorry. I mean, you can, but— that’s not good. Not now, for this— Saying ‘sorry I hurt you’ isn’t a good apology. ‘Sorry’ is a promise— you—” They let out a terse sigh, frustration written on every tense muscle. 

A tear escapes the inner corner of Jacks’ eye, trailing a black streak down their face. “Apologies mean you’re gonna change. Change your behavior. So if you’re sorry for— for leaving, for taking my place in The Empty, that means it was a bad decision— that means you regret it.” Jack begins crying in earnest. 

“No—” Cas starts, but Jack shakes their head. 

“You, Mom… you’ve both sacrificed everything for me. And I’m so, so grateful to have you as parents. But, because of that, I’ve had to work really, really hard to not feel guilty about my life. An–and to not feel guilty about enjoying these last three years of my life because you died to give them to me.” 

Jack takes a few shuddering breaths. Cas shakes his head, crying too. His head throbs with the motion.

“So— so don’t say it. Don’t tell me that you’re sorry.” Their voice cracks. “Because I can’t keep feeling guilty for being alive.”

A horrible concoction of shame and terror crawls up Castiel’s spine and sits at the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe. If there was anything in his stomach he would be throwing it up. 

“No, no, no, Jack— Jack, that’s not what I mean at all. I’m sorry for—” Cas stops himself as Jack hiccoughs into another quiet sob. “I— I am remorseful, not guilty. I feel remorse for hurting you. That’s all I want you to know. You being happy— enjoying your life— that is why I did it. That is what makes my sacrifice worth something— why I have no regrets about it, whatsoever.”

Jack shakes their head, frustration still curling their posture. “Feeling remorse but not feeling regret… Aren’t they the same?” 

“Maybe the semantics don’t matter,” Cas sighs, “but I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling guilt and remorse. To me, there is a difference. Guilt and regret are negative feelings about the actions one has taken. Remorse is the negative feeling when one’s actions have impacted other people in a way… unintended.”

“Remorse is just… the feeling?” Jack asks.

“Yes, it’s—” Cas draws in a breath, trying to collect his thoughts. “Taking your place in The Empty was my decision. It hurt you— hurt a lot of people, and that harm is something I wish I could have avoided, not the action itself.  But, I would rather have you alive and nursing an emotional wound than…” Cas glances over to Dean, “...than anything else.”  

Jack nods, processing. “...O–okay. Yeah,” they croak out, before clearing their throat. “I think—” They glance at Dean, brow furrowed. Cas watches another tear roll down their cheek. “You—” They sigh, words caught in their throat. They look back to Cas. “I’d like a hug, now.” 

They leave their book on the chair and sit next to Castiel on the bed. Cas pulls them in close, kissing their hairline as he lays an arm around Jack’s shoulders and rubs their back soothingly. Jack wraps their arms around Cas’ waist. 

When Jack’s breathing starts to steady, Cas says, “Parents are supposed to make sacrifices for their children. But that sacrifice is our burden to bear, not yours. Your life is a beautiful thing; I am filled with so much joy that I get to keep being a part of it.” Cas sighs softly. “I just wish my role in your life didn’t so often come hand-in-hand with pain.” 

Castiel can feel Jack shake their head before they speak. “I disagree,” they say, muffled from underneath Cas’ chin. “I think when you love someone, and they hurt you, but they keep trying to love you better, that’s how you know it’s… good. It’s a good, true love.” 

Cas takes a soft intake of breath, letting that sit with him for a moment. As their hug breaks, Cas attempts to wipe the mascara streaks off Jack’s ruddy cheeks. All he succeeds in doing is smudging the makeup around further. 

Jack’s laugh is quiet and still thick with tears when they bat Cas’ hands away. They look down and the black smudge on Cas’ thumbs. “I probably look like a raccoon right now, don’t I?” 

Cas tuts, tilting his head. “Well, maybe a little. But, a nice raccoon. I would be very delighted to find you rooting through the trash cans.” 

As Jack squints their eyes shut to stifle a laugh, another tear escapes their eye. They look back up at Cas, smile lopsided. “I’ve really, really missed you, Castiel.” 

“I’ve missed you, too. And now, I’m not going anywhere.” Cas fixes a flyaway tuft of hair on the side of Jack’s head. “Your maturity has grown ten-fold, Jack. Regardless of your actual age, you are wise beyond your years.”

“Yeah,” Jack sniffles, “having this many mommy and daddy issues will do that to a guy.” 

Cas lets out a breath of laughter. “Don’t be smart,” he says lightly before kissing Jack’s forehead. 

“Mm, that’s a no-can-do. I’m a college kid, now. Being smart is my whole job.” 

Castiel nods. “You’re doing wonderful at it, Jack.” He pulls them in for another tight embrace. 

“Could you watch over Dean for a minute while I go get cleaned up?” Jack asks after they break the hug. They display their mascara-covered hands to Cas. 

“Of course.” 

“Thanks,” Jack says, making their way towards the door. They look back at Cas before entering the hallway. “Thank you for everything.” 

Castiel gives Jack a smile as they leave, then looks back to Dean. He leans down and tucks a few flyaway strands of hair back into place on Dean’s forehead. 

“You weren’t right about everything,” Cas says to him quietly, “but if you were right about anything—” 

He glances back towards the open door. 

“We do have a great kid.” 

*

Once Jack comes back looking less ‘raccoon-like,’ Castiel excuses himself to his room; allowing himself one last glance back to look at Dean's sleeping— not dead— form before moving down the hallway. 

When he settles back into his desk chair Cas sighs. He feels simultaneously rejuvenated from his talk with Jack and incredibly drained. He presses his fingers into the space between his eyebrows, pushing the skin back toward his temples. His head has a quiet, yet ever-present ache to it; no doubt from all the stress and tears. 

Cas squints at the harsh blue light as he unlocks his phone, now the only thing illuminating his room. He scrolls to the next unopened voicemail.

Tap.

        “Heya, Castiel. 

        Um, sorry that it’s been a while, since my last call. 

        Sammy’s been hoverin’ pretty close since—

        —after my last call, so, 

        hard to find a moment to myself. 

        Plus work at the shop’s been keepin’ me busy.

        But, y’know, busy is… good.” 

Dean pauses. Cas can hear Baby’s rumble and low music.

        “Group’s been… it’s—

         I—I, uh, told them about you, actually.    

         Not everything, of course—

         but when I talked about fallin’ off the wagon—“

Castiel pauses the message, narrowing his eyes. He opens up the encyclopedia app on his phone and searches ‘falling off wagon’ in it, nodding as he reads the definition. He taps back over to his voice messages, hitting play. 

         “—they asked if somethin’ triggered me.

        Told ‘em you were in a coma.”

A small, humorless laugh escapes from Dean.

        “Maybe it was stupid, but—

        figured it’d be easier to explain

        if you— when we get you home. 

        It hurt like hell to talk about it… 

        to bitch and moan about my shitty little life,

        But—”

Dean lets out a quick sigh. 

        "—it was also real fuckin’ nice to tell my own story for once.  

        It’s… 

        it’s not a pretty story, Cas, 

        or a good one.

        But damn it, it’s mine. 

        And they listened.

        Thought they were gonna chew me out for fuckin’ up, or…

        …call me— call us… 

        …fags or…

        …

        but they just listened.” 

Castiel feels his stomach drop, hearing fear creep into the edges of Dean’s voice. For Dean to focus so much on the both of them being endangered for loving… for being in love … Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose, willing his headache to dissipate. 

Dean clears his throat. 

        “I asked ‘em— or I said, 

        ‘I don’t know what to do.’ 

        They said keep counting. 

        So… I’m 30 days sober.

        The group doesn’t do the whole ‘chip’ thing, 

        but I mentioned to Eileen I was gettin’ close to 30 days. 

        Next time I saw her she pinned a ribbon on me. 

        Musta made it herself.” 

Dean laughs quietly to himself. 

        “I keep it on the inside of my jacket, 

        —no use for that flask pocket anymore so—

        Yeah. 

        A lady from group— Rita, that’s her name—

        came up to me after we were done.

        There’s always snacks n’ coffee for people

        —I haven’t really stayed to shoot the shit after group’s done 

        —but I did, last time. 

        Anyway,

        Rita told me that when her granddad was sick, 

        she’d go play guitar for him in the hospital. 

        Nurses told her it helped. 

        She asked if I’d done something like that for, uh, for you.

        Told her I didn’t play

        —well, I haven’t played, in years—

        but she said if I was interested, she’s got an old guitar I could have.

        She’d even give me a few lessons. 

        …

        I just might take her up on that. 

        …

        I love you, Cas.

        I’ll talk to you soon.” 

Click.

Cas wonders if everyone else adopted the lie— that he’s been in the hospital. It will make his presence now much more explainable. He has no memories from his time spent in The Empty, so he might as well have been in a coma. 

He sits for a moment, and thinks. God is dead, or gone. The world is safe. Heaven is… functioning, at the very least, since Castiel is able to draw upon his Grace (though, he’s unsure if he’ll ever regain a full connection— if he even can). It dawns on Castiel, now, that he must start again. Carve out a new place for himself in the world.

Tap.

        “Hey, Cas. 

         Y’wanna hear a funny story? 

         Sam and I went on a hunt the other day. 

         With Jack at school and Eileen up North, 

         it was just the two of us. 

         Like old times. 

         Nothin’ special, regular salt n’ burn. 

         We actually got the lead from Marshal—

         —he’s one of the guys I work with—

         Said none of his family go to his great aunt's house since she died in ‘94. 

         Always said weird stuff happens in it— 

         Cold spots, flickering lights, flying objects

         —the usual spook’um junk. 

         So I told him Sammy was an electrician and asked if we could check it out. 

         Surprise, surprise, Great Aunt Nelly did not go gentle into that good night. 

         We did our tried n’ true Ghost-be-Gone

         —askin’ Marsh where his aunt was buried was as weird as it alway is—

         but the bone burnin’ did the trick. 

         So we report back to Marsh and tell him the place should be all clear.

         And you know what he did next?” 

“Do tell, Dean.” 

         “He offered me the fuckin’ house!

         Guess he inherited it. Said it’s been too much trouble to fix up,

         but he wanted to sell it to someone he knows. 

         Ain’t— I mean, that’s wild, right? 

         So I laugh him off but he says the offers still on the table 

         if I change my mind. 

         We get back in the car and Sam says I should consider it. 

         Get outta the bunker.” 

Dean huffs out a forced laugh. 

         “Sammy, that bitch, told me I was lookin’ too damn pale these days. 

         Said he almost couldn’t tell me from Great Aunt Nell. 

         …

         I must be losing it. 

         If I think Sam’s makin’ good points I have to be. Heh.” 

Cas tilts his head, a spark of familiarity flashing in his mind. He smells the dust that’s settled on every object in his room; remembers how empty the bunker looked when Sam helped carry him through the hall. It felt abandoned.

         “I mean, it’s a nice house. 

         Old n’ run down, right now,

         —reminds me of the ones Sam n’ I used to squat in on cases—

         but it’s got good bones. 

         Sam n’ Eileen could have the downstairs. 

         Jack could have hi—their own space, 

         with enough room to bring along any lucky girl—

         —or guy or… if they wanted to bring someone home. 

         Be a little weird to bring friends back home to a bunker, huh? 

         And Cas— you should see the kitchen. 

         Huge. Window over the sink with a view of the backyard.

         Cabinets out the wazoo. 

         Oh, you’d love this— green tile.” 

Dean’s voice is light and airy as he speaks. Castiel swallows thickly. He struggles to pinpoint the exact feeling he gets, knowing Dean saw something as innocuous and simple as a kitchen backsplash, and thought of him. 

Dean sighs. 

        “Maybe I’m just goin’ stir crazy in the bunker. 

        It’s— I’m— the ‘apple pie’ life isn’t—

         S’not supposed to be for me. 

         But, maybe…

         …

         I just— why me?

         Why do I get to be up here while you’re—

         …

         I don’t—

         I don’t deserve this. 

         After the things I’ve done. 

         Taking out my anger on—

         —hell, on everyone—

         I—

         I hurt the people I care about the most. 

         So why am I still topside? 

         Why am I the one who gets to play house? 

         …

         If I leave the bunker, 

         I’m leaving you. 

         I can’t—

         I can’t.

         I love you, Castiel. 

         I won’t leave you behind.” 

Click. 

Castiel rubs his face with his hand. 

“Stop punishing yourself,” he demands. He’s only met with silence. 

He sighs.

Tap.

        “Hey, Cas.”

Deans voice sounds distant, with a slight distortion. 

         “Get a load a’ this—”

Castiel hears the strum of a guitar. The notes clang and buzz, but there’s dedication in every strum.  

        “I’m uh, I just got done with my first lesson. 

         Just— y’know. Just figured it’s something to keep busy. 

        Somethin’ to do with my hands. 

        I haven’t played since… God, in years.

        I picked it up when I was huntin’ solo.

        Ended up droppin’ it after Dad said… 

        …

        Well, I barely remember any chords,

        but they’re comin’ back. 

        Rita’s ‘bout as patient as a saint. 

        Last time we were at Group together, she asked about you. 

        It was… felt sweet, I guess. 

        Felt nice to have someone askin’ about you,

        instead of— 

        —’stead of saying sorry. 

        She asked how long we were… together. 

        I—heh, I didn’t know what to say. 

        Told her I met you when you dragged me outta Hell. 

        She laughed at that. 

        Said she was like that’s what it felt like 

        when she met her first wife, too. 

        …

        I’ll introduce you two when— when you wake up. 

        I think you’d get along. 

        I love you, Cas.” 

Click. 

Tap. 

        “Howdy, Cas. 

        It’s been a minute, I know. 

        Well… maybe you don’t. 

        Maybe time moves differently where you’re at. 

        Time’s a funny thing, huh? 

        I wonder if you experience it differently, anyway. 

        Older than the solar system, 

        all that Great Celestial Power, 

        A year and a half—”

Dean huffs out a breath. 

        “Probably—

        —hopefully— 

        feels like nothin’ to you. 

        …

        I wonder— 

        —wonder what a lot of things feel like to you, actually. 

        Everything’s just molecules to you, right? 

        —Except coffee. Heh. 

        Didn’t matter how hot it was—

        You’d tilt your head back, down it in one go—

        —shoulda seen how your adam’s apple—”

Dean clears his throat. 

        “I just— I never thought we could—

        —that you could—

        I mean you’ve been human, sure. 

        But— but I never knew you could—

        —in a human way—

        in— in any way—

        want… me.  

        I know it’s too little, too late— 

        when is it not, with me—

        but I feel so stupid for takin’ so long to realize.”

Castiel hits pause. He squints down at his phone, trying to piece together the intention behind Dean’s words. He’s unsure what is confusing Dean; maybe he didn’t explain his desire effectively enough? He relistens to the last few seconds of the voicemail. ‘In a human way…’ He listens again to the way Dean starts to describe how Cas’ throat looks as he… Oh.

A blush starts to creep up Cas’ neck. 

        “I was at the shop the other day. 

        Lot of the guys hang around after we close— 

        —grab a beer, shoot the shit. Shop talk. 

        I usually skipped out. 

        But the other day, 

        I was about to leave when Otto said

        ‘Sit down, Singer. Have a drink.’ 

        I told him me n’ beer aren’t exactly on speaking terms.

        He nodded. Then, he poured some decaf into the coffee pot—

        —the one we keep in the break room—

        and he said it again. 

         …

        Decaf coffee tastes like ass. 

        But y’know somethin’ funny, Cas? 

        I think it was the best damn coffee I’d had in my life. 

        …

        I love you, Castiel. 

        When you’re back, 

        we’ll go out for coffee.” 

Click. 

Castiel suddenly craves the feeling of the acidic taste of coffee coating his teeth and sliding down his throat. How the hot liquid would settle in his stomach and warm him from the inside out. How, sometimes, when he was still in the process of falling, he’d deny his own cup of coffee in preference of stealing a sip from Deans’. Cas smiles at the memory, feeling hard pressed to remember how he rationalized his actions back then. 

His stomach growls, empty. He ignores it. 

Tap. 

         “Hey, Cas.

         So uh, 

         I’ve been talkin’ with— with everyone, 

         Y’know, ‘Team Free Will 2.0.’ 

         Well, minus one. 

         —and plus one, with Eileen—

         Not that she’s replacing you! 

         No one— not—

         I’m—

         We’re moving. I’m… moving. 

         That’s what we talked about.”

Dean sighs. Castiel smiles, fond and a little self-satisfied. 

         “Sam… needled me about it less than I thought he was going to. 

         It was— 

         I made the decision. 

         I asked Marsh if it was still on the table, 

         and here we are. 

         ‘S gonna take a while to get the place fixed up—

         —Marsh offered to help out, as thanks for

         ‘fixing the faulty wiring.’ Heh.

         Guy’s more clever than I gave him credit for—

         but I think she’ll be move-in ready before the year’s out.”  

Castiel hasn’t seen Dean living in a house, wearing domesticity since…

He feels phantom tendrils of the Leviathan press against him from the inside out. The taste of black tar lingers in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out. He shakes his head. That was a long time ago. 

         “The wiring will actually need to be replaced,

         and the floor will need to be re-stained—

         —not replaced. Sammy needs to get his head out of his ass

         if he thinks I’m gonna rip out red oak—

         but with a little spit n’ polish,

         it’s gonna be good.

         I’m gonna make it good for you, Cas. 

         Give you someplace nice to start over, 

         when you’re back. 

         If— if that’s something that you’d want, too.

         It’ll be—

         I want it to be nice for everyone.

         It’s gonna be work, 

         but I’m gonna get it done.

         I love you, Castiel.”

Click.  

He looks down at his phone; feels the phantom press of Sam and Jack’s arms around him, supporting his weight. Cas pictures Eileen's smile. 

Maybe he doesn’t have to carve out a place in the world for himself. Maybe a place has already been made for him. By Dean; by everyone.

Tap.

        “Heya, Cas.” 

Dean’s voice sounds distant again. Cas figures he’s on speaker phone. He can hear the hollow clunk of something wooden.  

        “Uh, so I promised Rita I’d— I’d play this one for you the next time I visited you. 

        Figured this is… close enough.

        It’s only got three chords so it’s—

        I’m no Jimmy Page but—

        —I hope you— you’ll like it.”

The first few chords ring out; clear and confident. There’s still some buzzing in the strums, and a few times where Dean restarts the chord progression, but Dean’s improved since the last time he’d played in a voicemail. Castiel lets out a soft gasp when Dean starts to sing.   

“I am an old woman named after my mother

My old man is another child that's grown old

If dreams were lightning, thunder were desire

This old house would have burnt down a long time ago.

Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery

Make me a poster of an old rodeo

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go.”

Cas presses a hand to his mouth, tears spilling onto his fingers. Dean’s voice is vibrant; rich and rasping and roiling with emotion . 

“When I was a young girl, well, I had me a cowboy

He weren't much to look at, just a free rambling man

But that was a long time and no matter how I try

The years just flow by like a broken-down dam.

Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery

Make me a poster of an old rodeo

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go.”

Dean takes a moment to pause from singing, letting the chords ring out on their own. It’s only a pattern of three chords, but Castiel is still captivated by the rhythm. Through the crackle of the speaker, he hears the vibration of each individual string. He imagines what Dean's hands look like, splayed along the neck of the guitar. 

“There's flies in the kitchen, I can hear 'em, they're buzzing

And I ain't done nothin’ since I woke up today

How the hell can a person go to work in the morning

And come home in the evening and have nothing to say?

Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery

Make me a poster of an old rodeo

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go."

He repeats the chord pattern once more, letting the first chord he started with ring out, echoing around the room he’s in. 

Dean lets out a short burst of laughter. Castiel lets out his breath. He had been holding it, too focused on listening to the song. 

         “That’s ‘Angel from Montgomery’ by John Prime. 

         It’s uh, I think it’s comin’ along. 

         I hope if you heard it, it helps— 

         —just, with whatever.

         I’ll play it for you in person, sometime. 

         Yeah. 

         I love you.”

Click.

Castiel replays the voicemail once, twice, three times. He sobs. He’s not even sure why he’s crying. To hear Dean creating, making something, expressing himself… all for him. It’s almost more than he can bear.

Maybe not entirely just for Castiel; he hopes Dean is doing it for himself, too. 

“This is what… this is what I wanted for you, Dean. To relax , to be happy , to learn new things and meet new people.” Castiel looks down at his own hands. His veins are small, thin, and blue; they’ve shrunken down to hide from the cold under his pale skin. “What exactly did you sacrifice to bring me back?” 

Tap.

Dean's breath rattles.

         “We found it. Sam—

         —Rowena’s journal. 

         Sam found a spell. 

         Cas— I—

         …

         I love you. 

         We’re getting you out of there.” 

Click.

Chapter Text

Tap.      

       “Heya Cas.

       You, uh, 

       happen to know where a fella can get some Stardust? 

       …

       Yeah, me neither. 

       It’s for you—

       —er, well—

       for the spell to get you out.

       Its—“

Dean sighs.

       “We’re still working on the translation.

       The text is in some ancient,

       lost-to-the-sands-of-time

       language, 

       so we’re not 100% sure what the ingredients are yet. 

       All Sammy can guarantee right now is

       Blood, Soul, and Stardust. 

       Blood’s blood, and, well…

       You’ve saved my soul, once—

       more n’ once, really. 

       You said I saved you, but—

       I didn’t—

       —I think I—

       Maybe, 

       maybe we both—

       …

       Let’s just call it ‘Even Steven’ after this, okay?

       …

       So, 

       so yeah, bring it on. 

       blood, soul energy—

       uh… something, something, ‘remnant.’ 

       whatever it is,

       we’ll get it.

       Because—

       hav—”

Dean’s voice cracks. He clears his throat.  

       “If it’s to get you back…

       …

       ask me for the fuckin’ moon, man,

       and I’ll find a way. 

       I love you, Cas. 

       I’m—

       I’ll see you soon.”

Click.

The spell doesn’t sound like it’s angelic in origin. Cas wonders which of Rowena's cursed books Sam pulled it from. He rubs the line of his jaw, trying to ease a tense muscle. His own stubble prickles over his finger tips. 

“Blood, Soul, and Stardust,” Castiel muses to himself. “It sounds… human.”

Tap. 

A clumsy lick of guitar chords spill out from Cas’ phone speaker. They’re much more complex than the last song Dean played.

The pattern breaks, and the chords twang. 

       “Ah— Fuck. 

       Some heartthrob I am, eh Cas?

       Thought I’d try a cold open with this message, 

       knock your socks off with some Tracy Chapman,

       but I guess I’m not there yet.”

Dean sighs.  

       “If my slipshod fingerstyle has put you to tears,

       dry those holy baby blues—

       ‘cause I’ve got great news: 

       —heh, that rhymed—

       Jack figured out another component of the spell.

       They’ve been helping translate before their new semester starts.

       So, sounds like an ‘item of sentiment: to evoke the heart of the lost’ 

       is also on the grocery list. 

       I have…”

Cas hears Dean pluck his guitar strings absentmindedly. 

       “ … a few ideas.

       Sammy, uh, 

       Sammy kicked me off research duty. 

       For— for the spell. 

       Just—“

Dean lets out a quick breath.

       “Stress and old research habits…

       ain’t exactly good for my—

       —for sobriety. 

       …

       I’m no Carnehan, anyway, so…

       I’ll be on reconnaissance when the gang gets the full translation.

       I’ve always been more of a Dravot.

       …

       But the final touches on the house renos are keeping me plenty busy—

       And we’ll need—

       —or, if you want, anyway

       to live— in—

       with me—

       Well, gotta have a place first. 

       And, y’know—“

He offers another chord on the guitar. 

       “Rita stays on my case to practice. 

       She told me not to bother with Fast Car.

       ‘It’s too advanced for a beginner,’ blah blah.

       But I actually knew a bit of it already. 

       It was, well, 

       was Cassie’s favorite song, actually.”

Cas tilts his head, feeling for any sparks of familiarity in the name. Dean lets out a whisper of a laugh.

       “I’d practice in her dorm room.

       She’d say, 

       ‘Oh Dean Winchester, how you serenade me.’

       I was about as good at guitar then as I am now,

       so—

       I told her to raise her standards. Heh. 

       …

       Y’know she’s married, now? 

       I ran into her the other day.

       That’s why I… 

       I thought I’d give Fast Car the ol’ college try again. 

       …

       When you’re back, Cas, 

       think up some songs you’d—

       y’know, 

       want to hear— from me. 

       I’ll learn ‘em, for you. 

       I’ll see you soon, Castiel. 

       I love you.” 

Click.

Castiel feels the corners of his mouth uptick into a smile, thinking of songs he could request Dean to play. He runs through a rolodex of possible options in his mind; Leonard Cohen, Simon & Garfunkel, Willie Nelson— Cas finds himself wondering what songs Dean already knows. His smile stretches into a devious grin. Maybe I could ask for a Taylor Swift song. It would make Jack very happy; Castiel, too. Dean might balk and complain, but Cas thinks he would, secretly, be very pleased at the request. 

“Blood, Soul, Stardust, and Sentiment.” Castiel glances back down to his phone. “Definitely a human spell.”

Tap.

       “Guess who’s got two thumbs 

       and is all moved into his new house…!

       This guy!

       …

       You—

       you can’t see it but I—

       —I’m pointing with—

       —Nevermind. 

       The house is done.  

       Ain’t exactly The Ritz,

       but she’s functional.

       Plumbing, lighting, heating, AC—

       —which was a bitch to not have in August, lemme tell ya—

       laundry, excellent water pressure, 

       the whole nine yards. 

       Still gotta add bits n’ baubles n’ all that,

       but I guess that’ll come with livin’ in it. 

       I, uh, 

       I moved your stuff from—

       —from the bunker. 

       Hope— I mean, it’s alright, 

       right, Cas?

       Everything was gettin’ real dusty in your room so I—

       —I moved it into our—

       —er, my room.

       It could—

       …

       It’s ours. 

       For now, it’s ours. 

       If—

       —unless you say otherwise,

       it’s ours.”

Dean pauses. Castiel melts. 

       “It’s uh, 

       —well, I was gonna surprise you—

       ‘probly— ‘probly still be a surprise anyway so—

       In our room there’s a—

       Eileen calls it a ‘reading nook.’

       It’s a window with a bench and bookcase built into it. 

       It was— the house had one but I—

       I built the bookshelves around it. 

       If you—

       I mean, I got Vonnegut on one shelf, 

       and Tolkien— and Hinton, 

       but—

       I saved lots of shelves for you. 

       An’—

       The window?

       You can see the backyard from it. 

       I thought we could put a garden there.

       Where you can see it from our room.

       Thought you’d like that.

       …

       Marsh wanted to show off our hard work to the rest of the shop—

       so I thought ‘why the hell not?’ and decided to throw a little house-warming party. 

       Just, y’know, 

       couple people from work, few from Group, Jody, Donna, the kids. 

       Show off the new pad and my skills in the kitchen. 

       Y’know who gave me the best house-warming gift?

       I didn’t—

       who even gives those—

       but, Garth.” 

A ghost of laughter escapes Dean.

       “He was helpin’ out on a case or somethin’

       and came across this big-ass record player. 

       Straight outta ‘74. 

       Guess some ol’ witchy disc jockey didn’t want someone taking over his talk show time slot, n’ put a curse on it. 

       But, a few spells n’ some holy water later, it’s good as gold. 

       I’ve… 

       I never had—

       Always been a cassette guy, y’know?

       Just what worked on the road. 

       But I’ve always thought it’d be cool.

       How Garth knew, I got no fuckin’ clue—

       it’s Garth, so that’s as good an explanation as any. 

       Before the party started,

       we got a table for it an’ plugged it in.

       He brought a vinyl to try it out— 

       Oingo Boingo, as it were.

       The player works like a dream.”

Dean huffs. 

       “And hey, I like Weird Science as much as the next guy, 

       but, it’s really not my jam. 

       I give Garth a big thanks for the player and the vinyl—

       —Garth gives me a patented Garth Hug, 

       and I told him to keep an eye on my brisket while I made a mad dash to the record store. 

       ‘Course, first thing I’m gonna get is some Zepp. 

       So I grab IV. Figure that’s a good place to start. 

       Snatch some ACDC, Kansas, Blue Öyster Cult, Lynyrd Skynyrd— 

       the basics. 

       Record player spun the whole night through—

       —well, save for when Rita whipped out her spare acoustic from her pickup. 

       Then we had ourselves a jam for a while. 

       It was…

       It was real nice, Cas.

       Man, I wish you coulda been there.

       …

       Late in the night 

       —most everyone had packed up n’ shacked up already— 

       it was just me, Sammy, Eileen, and a couple stragglers. 

       I put Zepp IV back on again. 

       ‘Going to California’ has always been one of Sam’s favorites. 

       When it came on, he offered Eileen a dance. 

       She tucked her head under his chin, pressed up close to his chest.

       Sammy hummed the whole song.

       So—

       so she could feel it.

       …

       House had been chock full a’ people all night, 

       but right then, 

       —don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for ‘em—

       but I don’t think I’ve felt lonelier in—

       —in a while.”

Dean sniffles. Castiel chokes on a sob. He thought he’d run dry of tears at some point in the night, but both Dean and his body keep surprising him.

       “I got it all ready, Cas. 

       When you’re home, 

       I’ll cook a brisket—

       —or some burgers—

       —or whatever you want, just say—

       and we can—

       we’ll slow dance together. 

       I love you, Castiel.”

Click.

There’s a house waiting for him. A home. It almost makes his head spin; it feels too good to be true. Despite the itch of doubt crawling over his skin, he tries to imagine it.

A bustling house full of friends and family; how their laughter and chatter would bounce off the walls, mixing with the swirling sounds of the record player. The smell of wood-smoked meat (and vegetables, for Sam) would linger in the air. It would catch on the breeze carried through by the open windows, letting in the cool night. Cas pictures what Dean would look like, smiling and laughing and blushing with a guitar in his hand. Cas’ breath hitches, imagining what Dean’s arms would feel like wrapped around him, once the party had ended and they were alone together in their home, dancing softly to an old rock ballad. 

Guilt bubbles, nauseating, in his gut. Do I even deserve this?

Tap.

All he hears at first are broken pants from Dean, and wet, frantic, slapping sounds that begin to slow. Cas takes a soft intake of breath, shoulders tensing, a heated blush spreading down his neck. 

       “C—Cas! Hah. 

       Ugh, fuck.”

Dean's breath comes out in rapid pants that slow into a long, drawn out sigh. 

       “I’m glad you recorded your voicemail response thing. 

       I don’t have many recordings of you.

       No videos— barely any photos. 

       Your answering machine is all that’s left of your voice.”

Did Dean just come to a recording of me? Cas shifts in his seat, feeling his own heartbeat quicken. When he keeps speaking, Dean's voice is quiet and rasping.  

       “ God, I miss your voice. 

       All gravel n’ rocks. 

       The way you say my name—” 

Dean lets out a hiss. Cas can’t help but imagine Dean palming his softening, oversensitive cock. 

       “I gotta be stingy about how often I do this. 

       I can’t fill up your mailbox ‘cuz I’m busy jacking off like some lovesick teenager. 

       It’s just—

       You— we—

       —I almost have you back. 

       We’re so close to translating the spell and— 

       I just—“

Dean lets out a slow release of breath. 

       “You were wrong. 

       You can have me, Cas.

       In every way. 

       I want you to have me in every way.”

Dean lets out a soft chuckle. It sends sparks down Cas’ spine. 

       “The ways I would let you have me.” 

There’s another beat of silence, and Cas can hear shuffling, like maybe Dean is moving around on his bed. Cas likes to think he was settling in, imagining Cas holding him. 

Castiel imagines holding him. 

       “I want you back, Cas.

       I—

       I want you . 

       I love you. 

       G’night.” 

Click. 

Arousal buzzes under Castiel’s skin, making his jacket suddenly feel scratchy against his arms. A heat radiates from him despite the cold room. Cas takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders and trying to calm himself down. He didn’t expect Dean to ever voice his desires so earnestly. Castiel wasn’t even sure if Dean’s desire for him was that… physical. He adjusts himself in his dress pants. He can take care of that later. 

—Or maybe Dean can help take care of that later.  

The thought ignites Cas’ mind like a spark of kindling. Images of Dean’s hands on his thighs and his blushed, freckled skin flash before Cas’ eyes. He tries to will the thoughts away, but can’t help lingering on the way Dean’s eyes would look staring up at him through his sweat clumped lashes. He barely refocuses his attention to the phone before hitting play. 

Tap.

       “Hello!

       We’ve been trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty—”

Castiel, with a scoff, quickly and angrily deletes the message. He’s not sure how he missed deleting a telemarketer from his earlier purge. He makes sure the next one is from Dean before playing it.

Tap.

       “Ground control to Major Tom:

       We got your Stardust. 

       It was—

       We had a bit of a—”

Dean suddenly lets out a hiss of pain and curses under his breath. Castiel hears the sound of muffled, wet, clacking. Cas blinks, eyebrows furrowed. 

       “There were a few… hiccups 

       at the museum, but nothing we couldn’t manage. 

       The meteorites were

       —of fuckin’ course— 

       locked in glass cases,

       so we had to wait until they were rotated for cleaning and inspection. 

       Turns out they only do that right before Galas. 

       So, 

       Eileen and Sam went undercover as a geologist and curator—

       I’m tellin’ ya, like Jones and Ravenwood, those two—

       to get into the behind-the-scenes part of the Gala.

       Jack, Claire, n’ I, 

       well, heh, 

       we were on distraction duty.”

Cas hears more shuffling sounds, like Dean is readjusting his position. He lets out a stiff groan. 

       “We called Jody n’ Donna down for backup.

       They worked security for the place to make sure we didn’t have any trouble getting in. 

       Claire got a job working as a server for the event. 

       Jack was—”

Dean smacks his lips, letting out a breath. Castiel can practically hear Dean rolling his eyes. 

       “—a foreign and ‘ultra famous’ popstar 

       leaving me as their personal bodyguard.

       Plan was for Claire to serve the floor while Jack 

       —in an outfit that makes Elton John look like a fuckin’ news anchor— 

       flaunts around, mingling with the fancy folk,

       while I tailed ‘em.

       Claire plays ‘overzealous fan’ and gets up in Jack’s grill.

       Jody, Donna, n’ I escort her out of the building. 

       While all that is going on,

       Sam n’ Eileen were supposed to have grabbed enough rock dust for the spell

       and slip out the door and not be checked by security. 

       But, Murphy’s law; 

       things didn’t quite go accordin’ to plan. 

       An older curator kept an eagle eye on Sam n’ Eileen. 

       So Sammy had to, well, 

       ‘Pull a Sam’ 

       and hike up his slip-skirt a little. 

       It distracted the old broad enough for Eileen to do all the excavating,

       but that made our quick distraction plan uh, not so quick. 

       A few glasses of spilled champagne and many minutes 

       of ham-fisted acting later,

       Claire and Jack were startin’ to lose the crowd just as Eileen got the fuck out of dodge. 

       A guard was about to see Sam skirt out the door, 

       so Jack ‘accidentally’ pushed me down a 

       ~small~

       two flights of stairs.” 

Castiel balks. Dean lets out an exasperated snort of laughter. 

       “It was a big enough distraction that everyone else got out scot-free. 

       I… can’t even be mad.

       If anyone deserves to push me down a flight of stairs, it’s Jack. 

       We got the Stardust, 

       and I’m only icing a dislocated shoulder and a minor concussion.

       That’s a ‘win’ in my book.”

Dean lets out a sigh. 

       “I love you, Castiel.

       First thing we’re watchin’ when you’re back: 

       Oceans’ 11.”

Click.

Castiel can’t help but chuckle, his laugh is hoarse and rasping. He’ll have to thank everyone involved for aiding in his return from The Empty. 

Sam, Eileen, Jack, Claire, Jody, Donna, Dean…  

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat. Fondness blooms, small and stuttering, in his chest, when he thinks of how many people did come together and help. When Dean says he loves him, Castiel is swept up in a wave of emotion; when he hears what everyone does out of love for him, the wave floods him.

Tap. 

       “Heya, Cas.”

Dean’s voice is distant and distorted.

       “It’s, um, 

       well, you’ve been gone two years now. 

       I don’t—”

Dean lets out a sigh. 

       “I don’t even know what to say. 

       So, so I thought I’d just show you. 

       Just—

       —how far I’ve come with, 

       with a lot of things. 

       So, here goes.” 

Castiel hears a rhythmic plucking of guitar strings. The pattern is more complex than anything else he’s heard Dean attempt. The notes jump from low to high and back again in a bittersweet dance. There is a gentle buzzing in some notes, but overall, the tone is confident and clear. As Cas keeps listening, a tingling spark of familiarity dances along the plucked strings. 

“I close my eyes

Only for a moment, and the moment's gone.” 

When he hears the lyrics, recognition ignites through him. He’s heard this song countless times: in the Impala; floating through the bunker; on crackling, run-down, motel room radios. 

Castiel closes his eyes. 

“All my dreams

Pass before my eyes, a curiosity.

Dust in the wind

All they are is dust in the wind.”

A memory bubbles into Castiel’s mind. 

Invisible, righteous, and under the guise of duty, he watched Dean drive alone down an old service road and pull over next to an empty field. 

“Same old song

Just a drop of water in an endless sea

All we do

Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see.”

Dean flicked off the headlights, left the engine idling, and turned up the stereo volume. He rested on top of the hood of the car; back on the windshield, head pillowed by Baby’s roof. Eyes heavenward, he listened to this album, this song , on cassette. Castiel watched him— watched the way Dean’s breath stuttered— curiously.

“Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind.”

Castiel listened to the chords ring out into the echoing night as Dean laid there, silent. Looking down over him, Castiel noted how Dean’s eyes had shone in the moonlight; wet with unshed tears. He moved closer, unseen, noting the reflection of the Andromeda constellation in the darks of Dean’s pupils. 

“Now don't hang on

Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky.” 

With a tilt of his head and a furrowed brow, Castiel noted the expression Dean wore: a subtle mix of pain and solace. The look on Dean's face burned itself into Cas’ memory. He hadn’t had a name for the emotion to match the expression, then.  

“It slips away

And all your money won't another minute buy.”

Castiel does, now.

“Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind

Dust in the wind

Everything is dust in the wind.”

Dean plucks out the same chord pattern as the beginning of the song, slowing the tempo and fading the volume to a reverberating end. 

       “I’m—

       —yeah I’m, uh, 

       pretty proud of myself for this one. 

       I think—

       I think you’d be too, right Cas?

       Yeah, 

       I think so. 

       I love you, Castiel. 

       I’ll see you soon.” 

Click. 

“Of course, Dean. I’m so, so proud of you,” Castiel murmurs. 

It strikes Castiel, suddenly, that he’s listening to someone grieve him. No, not just someone— the man I love . He’s grieving because he loves me back . Castiel’s heart aches, realizing Dean Winchester— a man so full of love it bleeds into everything he does— only voices his love in grief. 

Cas thinks back to those frantic moments before The Empty. That fleeting taste of joy— that ‘ I love you’ — was his downfall. Love had filled his chest near to bursting as he finally voiced the feeling that had driven him, consumed him, killed him, and rebirthed him. Love fills him now.

He loves Dean. He loves the whole world. He was never supposed to.

It’s a love that nestles deep in his heart and courses through his blood. He feeds it with every breath in; it escapes his body with every breath out. 

Castiel’s creation was an explosion of violent light. He was a sharpened blade to be wielded by God’s absent, echoing hands. Dean’s birth was a domino falling in line. He was a toppled toy leading to the beginning of The End. Birthed for battle and branded for Chuck’s entertainment, they’ve fought against everything— monsters, demons, angels, God, even the very fate they were designed for.

To love anything, but especially each other , was to mourn a life they could never grasp with their own hands.

Castiel can’t fault Dean for loving loudest in his grief; not without faulting himself (which he does).

Perhaps, Cas thinks, love is but a precursor to mourning. 

Tap.

       “You’ll never guess what I’m holding in my hands right now.

       Sticky Fingers, for one, and—

       a bag of hair.”

Castiel’s eyebrows furrow. 

       “Not just any hair, 

       about a foot n’ a half of cornfed blonde, 

       courtesy of Claire. 

       She couldn’t make it to the houseparty from a while back,

       but she hightailed it to Kansas when I asked for help with your spell. 

       She brought the album as a birthday present.

       I— can you believe I’m 43? 

       Never thought I’d—

       —I’m getting off topic. 

       Guess she heard about the record player from Jack. 

       It was real sweet. 

       She’s— well, prickly as ever, but—

       —now don’t tell her I said this—

       she cares more than she’d ever say.” 

Castiel can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him. “Is the irony of your statement lost on you, Dean?” 

       “Like the hair— 

       I tell her we need a ‘physical remnant of the vessel’ to bring you back.

       She says ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to get a buzz, anyway.’ 

       So, Biker Barbie be-gone, heh.

       It suits her. 

       Hopefully, kid-of-vessel DNA is enough. 

       I was worried it’d be more blood—

       Claire’s bled enough for us, as is—

       but according to Lore Master Sam, hair should be fine.

       Blood, hair… DNA’s DNA right?

       …

       Y’know, Cas, 

       Sometimes…

       sometimes I think—

       —it’s stupid, but—

       …

       You think Claire and Emma would get along?

       Emma’s my— my other— 

       my only—

       …

       I always kept an eye out for her, the first time we were in Purgatory.

       I mean, you were always the priority, but…

       I figured, well…

       Benny hitched a ride out in one arm—

       and we didn’t exactly need to smuggle you out—

       always thought if I ever ran into her,

       I’d see if she’d want to go topside. Start over. 

       …

       Doesn’t matter, of course. 

       Never caught a glimpse of her.

       When we were back the next time there was just…

       not enough time. 

       But she—

       —I doubt she’d wanna see me anyway.”

Castiel wracks his brain, trying to remember an ‘Emma’. No one comes to mind. He’ll have to ask Dean about her.  

       “It doesn’t matter, now. 

       …

       We’ve got all the ingredients, Cas, 

       just gotta figure out the baking instructions. 

       Sam’s pretty sure it’s a celestial event—

       just gotta figure out which one. 

       We’ll get you home soon. 

       I love you.” 

Click. 

Castiel sighs, downtrodden at the idea of Claire making more sacrifices for him. He should apologize to her. Cas thinks back to his conversation with Jack. Perhaps an apology is not what she needs. He will thank her next time he sees her. Without Claire’s help, the spell may not have worked. Or, even if it did, Castiel would have been resurrected without a body. 

He looks down at the hands he considers his own. 

The fact that The Empty took his body with him could be a testament to how much he considers this vessel a part of himself. There is no more separating ‘body’ from ‘Castiel.’ 

Tap.

       “Alright, so, 

       I’ve got good news, and bad news.”    

       Good news: the celestial event required for your spell?

       A new moon.

       Easy street— happens like, every month. 

       Actually opening the portal, though? 

       That’s gonna be… 

       a little more dicey.

       This is where the Soul part of the ingredient list comes in. 

       We thought it would just take soul energy to open the portal—

       ‘souls have power’ and ‘little nuclear reactor in all of us’ yadda yadda. 

       We’d all just go Dutch with it— pull you out together. 

       With the final translation Sam and Eileen cooked up from this damned book, 

       uh, guess that’s not quite the case. 

       Turns out, spell’s a setup to transform a Soul, uh,

       into the portal.”

Castiel’s stomach drops. 

       “We’re gonna try to find a way around it, see if there’s a safer way. 

       We don’t—

       Nothing in the spellbook says what happens to the Soul afterward.

       But, we’ll find something. 

       I love you, Castiel. 

       I’m gonna see you soon, okay?

       Bye.”

Click.

“Dean, you didn’t. ”

Castiel scrolls through his phone. There’s only a few voicemails left. 

Tap.

       “Sam doesn’t know what he’s fuckin’ talking about.”

Dean's voice has an air of fatigue to it; it sounds raw.

       “No leads for months—

       We’ve all been searching—

       Sammy tells me there’s no work-around for the Soul part of the spell.  

       I told him ‘fine, point your wizard staff my way, make my Soul a two-way ticket to The Empty.’ 

       N’ he got pissed at me!”

“As he should!” Cas chastises into his phone. 

       “Look, I get it.

       We don’t know what will happen to said Soul after—

       well, after. 

       But is that gonna stop us from trying at all?

       Bullshit! 

       It’s—

       …

       It’s actually the worst Sam n’ I have fought in…

       … a while.” 

The anger bubbling in Cas cools some; Dean sounds hurt.  

       “Look, I don’t—

       He thinks I’m on some—

       some fuckin’ ‘suicidal holy mission’

       and it’s not—

       I’m just not. 

       I mean— Christ, Cas, 

       this is probably the longest I’ve ever gone without wanting to die. 

       …

       Thing is, I want to live.

       But—

       I want to live with you.” 

“Dean…” Castiel presses a hand over his mouth, feeling his own stuttering breath warm his fingertips.

       “I didn’t— I’m not—

       I didn’t build this life only for me. 

       I—

       It wasn’t just for you, but

       damn it, 

       you’re my best friend and I want—

       …

       For the first time in my life I’m living for myself.”

Castiel can hear a distant thudding sound.  

       “But if there’s even a fuckin’ crumb of a chance

       I can live with you, 

       I’ve gotta try.

       I can’t ask that of anyone else.”

The thudding continues, increasing in volume.  

       “I can’t ask anybody else to risk their life for this.

       But I know what I want—

       An’—”

Castiel hears a muted shout, sounding like his name. It’s not coming from the recording.

       “—if it kills me, I’ll die doing what I want. 

       If it brings you back, I’ve got a good life set up for you.” 

He lifts his head up from his phone.  

       “I’m not gonna leave you high and dry—”

It’s coming from somewhere in the bunker.

       “I love you, Castiel. 

       Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from you.” 

Dean keeps talking in the voicemail, but Cas barely registers what he’s saying. He’s listening to the sound coming from the hallway: frantic, thundering footsteps. They’re getting louder as they near his room.

The footsteps stop outside of Castiel’s room, leaving only a heartbeat of silence before the door is slammed open. 

Chapter Text

Castiel stumbles out of his chair and onto his feet, dropping his phone in the process. He vaguely registers the sound of his screen cracking. 

Dean keeps a hand on the doorknob, using it to support his weight. He’s standing, breathing. Alive. Half his face is illuminated by the yellow, artificial hallway light. There are still bruises under his eyes, but they’re open. Emotion races across Dean’s face: shock, awe, anger, reverence, relief. Castiel struggles to pinpoint which one is strongest. 

Cas hesitates a beat, then two. Then, Dean holds out his arms.

All thoughts leave him when he falls into Dean. He wraps his arms tightly around his waist and buries his head into his chest. A stuttered breath escapes Dean at the contact. His arms press into Cas’ shoulders, hands fisting into his button-down. Castiel feels his ribs contract and expand under his weight; his breath escapes him half as a gasp and half as a sob. Castiel feels overwhelmed and desperate, listening to Dean’s heartbeat. It’s a hammering engine cylinder in his core. Cas reveres its song, but it’s not what he’s listening for. 

Castiel presses impossibly closer into him, ear pressing into his sternum. He pleads for his Grace, shallowly pooling inside him, to reach out once again for Dean’s soul. It bubbles to life and creeps into him. He feels, and feels, and feels . Searching, scouring, feeling for any sign of the yawning maw of The Empty. He’s met only with a sputtering, overflowing feeling of belonging, and his own name echoing back to him. 

Castiel, Castiel, Castiel.  

He breaks their embrace, loosening Dean's tight grasp just enough to look at his face. One hand stays buried into his shirt. The other moves to hold the base of Castiel’s head. Dean's thumb presses into the muscle at the hinge of his jaw. Cas can feel the calluses on his fingertips.

“Hello, Dean,” he manages to rasp out. 

Dean sobs out a laugh. “Hey, stranger.”

From one heartbeat to the next, Dean’s lips are on his. 

Castiel makes a noise of surprise that quickly melts into a whimper. Dean sighs into his mouth and Cas shivers at the sensation. Years and years and years he has craved these lips on his. They’re chapped, but plush. It’s almost painful, to have a want for so long it feels like a part of the body, and to have it met, crushingly so. Castiel groans with the notion. 

Dean’s heat seeps into Castiel at every point of contact; his mouth, his chest, his hands, even where their calves brush against each other. Cas shivers. The hand Dean runs through his hair alights his nerves. He has to focus on the feeling of the floor beneath his feet to not fully lose himself in the sensation. A tear escapes the crinkled corner of Cas’ eye and rolls down his face. It squeezes between his skin and the meat of Dean’s thumb. Dean breaks the kiss for a breath. 

“I gotcha,” Dean says against the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “I’m here, Cas. ‘Sokay. You’re here— ’m here— I’ve got you. ” 

“You got me,” Cas echos between fervent kisses. “You brought me back.” He tastes the salt of sweat and tears on Dean’s lips. “You saved me, again. ” He savors the way Dean’s ill-kept stubble scratches against his own skin. “Using your Soul…” Castiel almost lets himself get lost in the sounds Dean is making; the heady pants and desperation-muddled humming. His hands slide up Dean’s waist and rest below his collar bones. 

With a gentle push on Dean's chest, he breaks the kiss. Dean looks at him, tongue darting out to lick his swollen lips. His eyebrows furrow, and he starts fiddling with the front of Cas’ shirt. He’s still too pale, too bruised under the eyes. Cas glances down at the bandage wrapped tightly around Dean’s forearm. A red stain hints at the angry gash hidden beneath it. 

Castiel can’t forget the way Dean looked, a bleeding half-corpse on the dungeon floor. 

His blood goes cold and his voice follows suit. “You’re injured.” 

Dean meets his eyes again, before following Cas’ gaze to his arm. “What? This? This is nothin’. It was for the spell.”

“No. You’re hurt.” He takes a step back from Dean. They had been pressed up against the wall, but as he moves away, Dean slumps against it. “Can you even stand by yourself?” 

He scoffs and pushes away from the wall, swaying before steadying himself. “Okay— you made your point. I’m lightheaded— but really, Cas, I’m fine—” 

“How could you think it’s fine ?” The words spit out of his mouth like venom; his tone cutting. Self preservation was always a language foreign to Dean. How many times will I see you broken and bleeding? How much more can I even take?

“You’re mad about a friggin’ scratch?”

But it’s not just a break in your skin. It’s the use of blood— his lifeforce , the concussion, the dislocated shoulder, the drinking, the ‘ I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I’m fine, ’ the flippant use of his very Soul . 

We’ll always be tools, won’t we?

Castiel rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m mad because you were reckless!”

“Hey, it worked! The world isn’t ending— for fucking once — God’s gone, we’re both alive — how is that not a ‘win’ for you?” Dean spits back.

“I sacrificed myself so no one else would have to— so you wouldn’t have to. Why must you insist on putting yourself in harm's way?” 

“Like you’re able to fuckin’ talk. You couldn’t have told me about your deal? We could have helped you!”

“And done what, Dean? Ensured I never experienced a moment of happiness? Sent Jack back to The—” 

Dean tenses at the mention of Jack. The vitriol in his voice is reminiscent of a wounded animal. “I wouldn’t—” 

‘ I wish you woulda taken me with you, that day. Wish The Empty woulda swallowed us both up.’ They could have both died, if he had let Dean get what he wanted.

“Then what ? Go yourself? You always jump at the chance to be the martyr—”

Dean’s voice crescendoes. “Don’t you fucking dare call me a martyr—” 

“You can’t save everyone! The deal was my choice. You didn’t need to punish yourself for it.” His throat burns as he raises his voice over Dean’s. 

Dean shuts his mouth, letting out a breath through his nose as he glares at Cas. The air around them feels palpable. Cas swallows around the dryness in his throat. 

“So that’s what you think this is; a punishment.” Dean’s voice is quiet, clipped. “Buddy, I stopped doing that a long time ago.”

He absorbs Dean’s words, but the echoes of the voicemails ring louder. All of Dean’s sorrow, anguish, and his grief pull on Castiel. 

‘I feel like I’m already dead, Cas.’ It haunts him.

“I…” He begins without knowing what to say. 

He looks at Dean. He notes the beginnings of new wrinkles on his skin, the length of his hair, and the way he holds his body. It’s different. It’s still him, still the man Castiel loves. But, with a silent intake of breath, he realizes he doesn’t know the man standing in front of him. 

“I can’t— maybe that’s what it used to be, but not this time.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. It falls to his side as he glances toward the door, looking drained. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep trying to turn the clock back—tryin’ to undo what’s been done. I’m not an angel— ‘m not you.” 

“Dean, I can’t—”

He looks back to Cas. “I don’t blame myself for the deal. You made your bed; you died in it. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna do whatever it takes to drag your ass back here to tell you it’s bullshit.” 

It was selfish, he knows, to pour his heart out to Dean and escape without any consequence. 

He’s right. I am a coward. Castiel scoffs. “So this is my punishment.” 

“ No — it’s not about punishment, Cas! I get why you made the deal. I don’t blame you for it either— or Jack! No one has any dues to pay.”

Never to be uttered and never to be seen, Castiel has always shown his devotion through penance. With flogging self-pity, he’s always reveled in being a bleeding Lamb. 

But Dean is no God. 

Dean continues, “as far as I’m concerned, this was just another fuckin’ trolley problem Chuck threw at us to get his rocks off. What’s bullshit is what you said. ” 

“You think I would lie —” 

“You weren’t lying— you got it wrong! ” Dean takes a step towards him. “I had to get you back to tell you that— that you were wrong. You can have what you want. We can have what we want. I couldn’t— you didn’t even give me a chance to argue.” 

Unbelieving, Cas shakes his head. “You could have been happy without me.” 

“Yeah, I could be dead right now too, but I’m not. Getting you back was a gamble, but I decided it was worth the risk. I gotta— I had to set the record straight. That was my choice.” There are tears in Dean’s eyes. “Make all the deals you want— kill yourself eight ways ‘till fucking Sunday— but you don’t get to tell me how I feel.” 

‘The one thing I want is something I know I can’t have.’ Castiel had been so sure it was true. 

Dean takes another step toward him. His hands grip Cas’ shoulders. 

“I love you, Castiel.”

He grabs onto Dean’s arms, needing something to hold onto. 

“I couldn’t— I’d never be happy if you died thinking that I didn’t,” Dean continues. “So this wasn’t a suicide mission, or— or me being the universe’s punching bag, or some masochistic power fantasy. I wanted you— I needed you to hear it. You deserve to have what you want.”

Castiel shuts his eyes, overcome with emotion. The press of his eyelids throws tears down his cheeks. 

Dean’s hands move from his shoulders to his chest. They curl tightly into Cas’ shirt, and he pulls him closer. As he meets Dean's eyes, his grip tightens on his arms. There is an intensity to his expression; a fire in his eyes. Shockingly familiar, it takes Castiel’s breath away. Dean looks righteous. 

“I risked my life because you deserve to be saved.” 

Cas draws in a shaking breath. He nods, finally understanding. This wasn’t an act of retribution— for Dean nor himself. This was an act of love. 

He moves his hands from Dean’s arms to cup his face. Dean’s expression softens at the touch. “Thank you for saving me.” 

“Of course,” Dean rasps. 

Despite his best efforts, he sways a bit in Castiel’s grasp. Cas glances behind them, and tugs Dean over to the edge of his bed. They sit heavily. Knee to hip they’re aligned, a firm pressure; a reassurance of each other's presence. Dean folds over himself, scrubbing his face with his hands. Cas wraps an arm around him, pressing his fingers along the rigid line of muscle traveling from his ear to his shoulder. 

“I was wrong to call you a martyr.” Cas says when Dean sits up, meeting his eyes. “You worked so hard to bring me back, and for me to think you were being self-flagellating…” I was the one punishing myself— punishing the both of us. Cas shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, well, can’t fault you for callin’ it like you saw it. I kinda had a knack for…” As Dean speaks, Castiel watches as he grabs his right forearm unconsciously, pressing where the Mark of Cain was seared onto his skin. “But not this time— not anymore.” 

“Look at how far you’ve come. You’re beautiful.” Cas’ voice cracks, “I love you so, so much.”

He pulls him in close. Dean eases into the motion and slots his chin in between Cas’ neck and shoulder. His overgrown stubble scratches against his skin. He savors the feeling. Their knees bump into each other. Cas runs his hands up and down his back, trying to soothe his stuttering breath. The threadbare flannel Dean wears leaves a tingling sensation on his fingers. He smells like sweat and blood and residual magic— a spiced, ozone scent. Castiel smiles, noticing the whiskey-tinge normally present on his skin is absent. 

“Don’t—” Dean says into the meat of his shoulder, barely audible. “—don’t leave me again.” It’s a command, but it reverberates between Castiel's ribs like a prayer.

“I won’t. I couldn’t.” Cas presses a kiss into his hair. “I’m staying for as long as you’ll have me.”

Dean’s breath catches, then breaks into a proper sob. He fights it for only a moment, then years of held-in emotion pour out of him. He clings onto Cas’ coat. Castiel does the only thing he can; he holds him. For as long as Dean wants, he holds him. 

They hold each other like that for a while. 

“Ah, fuck.” Dean sniffles and wipes his face when he sits up. Cas keeps a hand on his back. He takes a deep, steady breath. “Okay. No more crying. No more sacrifices.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees gravely. “We are considering our Stevens evened.” 

Dean’s eyebrows furrow, searching his face. His lips twitch into a question; “what?” 

“I sacrificed myself to save you; you risked your soul to bring me back. You said we’re ‘even Steven’ now.” Castiel uses finger quotes when he says the phrase. 

The next breath to escape Dean is somewhere between a scoff and an incredulous laugh. He glances over to the desk, eyes landing on Cas’ phone, lying forgotten on the floor. 

“I got your messages.” Cas smiles when Dean looks back to him, eyes wide. “Not when I was in The Empty, but, as soon as I got back.” 

“I— uh,” Dean stutters as realization and blush bloom on his face. 

Castiel grabs his hand, running his thumb over the calluses he finds on his fingertips. He brings them to his mouth, kissing them softly. “You are a wonderful guitar player.” 

Dean's mouth falls open slightly. Cas watches Dean’s tongue as it nervously runs over his teeth. “O-oh. You liked it?” 

“I adored it. Your voice is beautiful, Dean Singer.” 

Dean laughs, bashful. 

“You built a home.” Castiel kisses his palm. His other hand twitches on Cas’ knee; his thumb dances in circles on top of Cas’ thigh. 

“Renovated— house was already built.” 

“You took a house— empty, abandoned, haunted— and you made it worth living in. You built a home, ” he repeats. 

Dean swipes a hand over his eyes, catching more tears before they fall. “I— yeah, I did.”

Castiel kisses his wrist. “You’re sober.” 

Dean gasps as Cas’ lips linger. “For— for almost a year, now.”  

“I’m so proud of you,” Cas murmurs against his skin. 

Dean closes his eyes, soaking in his words. Castiel places a hand along his jaw, and he grips it with his own. He moves Cas’ palm to his lips, kissing gently. 

Castiel looks at him, reeling. “You love me.” 

“So much.” Dean pulls him in close. His hands are frantic, hungry. They run up and down Cas’ back and card through his hair, revering every inch of Cas’ body in his arms. 

Castiel kisses his jaw, his cheek, his hairline, his ear. 

“You want me,” he says, somewhere between a laugh and a revelation. 

“I want you,” Dean echoes, hands tightening at Cas’ back. 

“Carnally. ” 

“Carn—” Dean draws in a quick breath, stuttering out a laugh. “That— That’s a way to put it, yeah— yup.” 

“There’s nothing I want more than to have you,” Castiel confesses, ghosting his breath against the shell of his ear. 

Dean lets out a gasp that stands on the precipice of a whimper. He starts to mouth at Cas’ neck. As he works his way towards his collar bone, he pauses, fiddling with the same part of Cas’ shirt he had earlier. 

“I— how did— is this mascara?” 

Cas leans away from Dean, looking down at his own chest. A noticeable black smudge is smeared around his shirt collar. He looks back up to meet Dean’s eye, seeing a brief flash of recognition on his face before he speaks. 

“Jack,” they both say in unison. 

Dean barks out a laugh and Cas follows suit. 

As they quell their laughter, Dean stands with a grunt. He turns back, holding his hand out to Castiel. 

“Let's go home.” 

A smile settles on Cas’ face as he takes Dean’s hand. They don’t release their grip on each other as Castiel grabs his coat and scoops his phone off the floor. 

They support each other as they walk down the hallway, both still a little weak. As they pass by Dean’s room, they find Jack, still reading. Dean whistles. They look up from their book. 

“C’mon, Slim. We’re getting out of this fuckin’ bunker.” 

*

A burst of crisp autumn air kisses Castiel when he opens the heavy bunker door. It’s early; the sun has barely begun to poke over the horizon, bathing everything in a creeping blue light. As they walk outside he closes his eyes, relishing in the sensation of the fresh air rushing into his lungs.

“Castiel!” A familiar voice rings out. Cas opens his eyes, seeing only a flash of long brown hair and red flannel before being pummeled into a hug. 

He squeezes back tightly, before breaking the hug to sign, “it’s good to see you, Eileen.” 

“Welcome back, Cas.” She uses the sign for ‘wing’ when she says his name. He smiles. 

“Thank you for everything you did to help bring me back.”

“Well, you know what they say about dying and being resurrected…” she signs, the sarcasm clear on her face. “Third time’s the charm.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh. “I’m pretty sure this is my…” he thinks for a moment, “...sixth.”

“Damn.” Eileen grimaces. “You’re getting a plaque. Do you want bronze or silver?”

“Uh—”

“Alright you two, quit bein’ morbid,” Dean cuts in before Castiel selects his preferred metal. He starts herding them toward the Impala and Eileen’s Valiant. 

She whirls on Dean. “Don’t think you’re out of the doghouse! What you did was beyond stupid.” 

“I know, I know,” Dean mumbles, but his hand etches out ‘sorry’ on his chest. 

“Dean,” Sam says when they near the two cars. He’s leaned up against the passenger side of Eileen’s. “How do you feel?”

Dean’s shoulders tense when he sees his brother. “Uh, still a little woozy— from the blood loss, probably— but, overall, good.” He reaches up to squeeze Cas’ arm. “Great.” 

“Awesome,” Sam deadpans as he starts to approach. “As soon as you’re 100% I’m gonna fucking kill you.”  

“I—” is all Dean utters before Sam pulls both him and Cas into a hug. 

Castiel lets out a breath as Sam’s arm wraps around his shoulder. The collar of Sam’s bomber jacket rubs against his cheek. Dean’s arm wraps around his back. He can feel whispers of laughter from Dean, or perhaps a stuttered breath. Sam smells like kombucha. A rightness settles into Castiel. He lets out a long sigh. 

As a wave of sentiment washes over him, he has a thought. Cas breaks the hug. 

“The spell required blood, Soul, stardust, and an item of sentiment, correct?”

The brothers both nod. 

“Dean never mentioned what the sentimental item was.” Castiel says. 

Sam scoffs out a laugh and Dean scratches his neck, bashful. 

“Since we weren’t exactly sure how to quantify sentimentality, we were,” Sam smirks, “thorough.” 

“What?” Cas tilts his head. 

“Everyone offered up something to the pot,” Eileen says.

“I gave Dean my yellow bowl. I always liked having your soup from that bowl,” Jack supplies from the Impala. “And Claire gave Dean a cat plushie.”

The one with the chip on the rim; Jack always had a preference for that bowl. The dishes in the bunker were all from a set. Jack had been drawn to the yellow ones. Castiel took note, and always tried to save the yellow dishware for them. He learned to cook, and watched, carefully, to see what dishes Jack preferred. They were always drawn to soup. He knew so little about cooking, parenting, and love, but he tried. He roamed the aisles of that plastic-scented store with studded belts and loud music and looked and looked for something perfect for Claire. When he saw the rumpled cat with the dour expression, it reminded him of her. 

To know that they looked at a chipped dish, a stuffed animal, and thought of him in return, makes Castiel sore. 

“Remember when you, uh, you shoved that massive needle into my throat?” Sam asks Cas, tapping on the vein under the bolt of his jaw. 

Castiel thinks for a moment. “To extract Gadreel’s grace, yes.” 

“Well, uh, I kept the syringe.” Sam shrugs, a soft smile on his face. 

Castiel remembers the friction of the needle tip as he buried it into his skin. He remembers how Sam’s pulsed raced under his finger tips. He remembers feeling desperate, guilty, and worried, and for probably the first time since they had met, a kinship with Sam. He had felt, in that moment, incredibly human. 

“Woah, woah, that old-timey perfume bottle thing was a—” Dean blinks at Sam, then turns to Cas. “—you did what with it?”

“It was for a spell—“ Sam starts.

“He was very insistent—“ Castiel says over top of him. 

Eileen tugs on Sam's arm, drawing his attention to her. ”How big was the needle? ” Once he references the size with his fingers (Castiel notes he’s only mildly exaggerating), she signs, “and you kept it? ”

“Yeah! Well, not the needle— just the syringe. I thought it was, I dunno, kinda metal?” He tries to explain, hands floundering. 

As they keep talking, Castiel looks back to Dean. 

“Top Zepp Traxx. I found it in your room.” He gives Cas a bittersweet smile. 

He feels a building ache in his chest. It bubbles and wells from his core and pools in his throat. They thought of him, missed him, loved him. Still love him. Holding his head in his hands, that love pours out of Cas in a sob. 

“Woah— hey—” Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer. 

Sam mumbles his name and Eileen lays a hand on his other shoulder, and he’s surrounded by them. Embraced by them. He hears the gravel crunching as Jack nears, and Castiel pulls them in. 

Perhaps love is a precursor to mourning.

Castiel has been worshiped as a god, savored as a lover, and admired as a tool. But to be shown this much uncomplicated fondness for his companionship is overwhelming. He wracks out another sob. 

“You’re home now, Cas. It's okay,” Dean murmurs into his ear.

But, equally so, mourning is love with nowhere to go.

Eileen runs a soothing hand up and down his back. He can hear Sam’s stuttered breath as he holds back his own tears. Jack grips his coat, impossibly tight.

“I—” Castiel clears his throat, taking a deep breath and breaking the hug. “Thank you all, so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank us, Cas. We’re family,” Sam says. 

Dean nods at Sam, then, noticing his teary expression, says, “Okay, okay— cool it with the water works, Ferdinand.” He pats Sam on the shoulder. He’s aiming for levity but his voice is thick.

Sam swats his hand away. “Fuck off Dean. If you ever pull a stunt like that again—” 

“Hey, mine worked—” 

“—It would have worked without you—” 

“—I told you—” Dean interjects.

“—using your soul if you had just—”

“Look, look. ” Dean placates with his arms out, looking to Eileen, then Jack, then back to Sam. Sam presses his lips into a thin line, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“We’re both alive. My soul is fine —” Dean leans toward Castiel, mumbling, “it’s fine, right?” 

He sniffles and laughs, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I didn’t find anything wrong with it.”

“See? I’m in tip-top soul shape, and no one is making any more life-threatening sacrifices. Me and him?” Dean waves his arms between himself and Castiel. “We’re golden. Our evens are Steven-ed.” 

Sam rolls his eyes.

“I thought that our Stevens had been evened.” He squints at Dean. 

“Who’s Steven?” Jack asks. 

Dean looks up to the sky, taking a deep breath in. “It’s too early for this. And too cold.” 

The brisk morning air has started to bite as they’ve spent time outside. Castiel feels his cheeks and nose sting. Everyone’s face is blushing from the cold. 

“Let’s go home,” Dean offers to Sam. “I’ll cook us some breakfast. Huh?” He glances around. Eileen purses her lips, interested. Jack gives him a thumbs up, then begins rooting through their backpack. 

Sam scoffs.

“I’ve got vegan bacon.” 

“I— did you plan this?” 

Dean twists his wrist back and forth, a so-so motion. “C’mon Sammy, couldn’t you go for a Welcome-Home-Cas-Slash-Sorry-I-Almost-Killed-Myself pancake bake?” 

Sam runs a hand through his hair, then lets out a laugh. When he meets Castiel’s eye, he smiles a little bigger. “You know what? Yeah. Yeah, I could go for some pancakes.” He and Eileen start walking toward her car. “See you at home, jerk.” 

Dean beams. “Bitch.”

Dean, Castiel, and Jack walk toward the Impala. Cas watches Jack as they pull a cassette out of their bag. They follow Dean over to the driver's side of the car.

“We gotta play this one for him.” Jack waggles the cassette at Dean.

He looks at it, suspicious. “What’s on it?” 

“Sour.” They smile.

“Absolutely not.” 

“C’mon.” They stretch the word into a whine, leaning against Baby. “Castiel missed Oliva’s debut as a solo artist.”

Dean rolls his eyes as he unlocks the car. “No.” 

“He’s just embarrassed because Driver’s License makes him cry.” Jack explains to Cas over the car’s roof. 

“I didn’t—!” Dean whips around to face them. The grin they wear is one Castiel can only describe as ‘shit-eating.’ “I’m— It’s—” he flounders. Working his jaw, he grabs the cassette. “Fine.” 

The old vinyl seats creak as the three clamber into the Impala. Castiel can still smell the lingering, ever-present ghost of gunpowder and gas station coffee inside the cab. Dean turns the engine, and it rumbles in a familiar purr. Jack begins to hum along to the song after Dean puts their cassette into the slot. 

Shifting the car into drive, Dean eyes glance to Cas before focusing on the road. “Man, I’m so ready for some breakfast. What about you, Cas? You hungry?”

The sun finally escapes the grip of the horizon, shining a golden glow into the car. It highlights the smudges on the car’s windows. Dust particles dance in the air around Dean. His hair has a sun kissed halo, and Castiel catches a glimpse of blond highlights. 

“Yes.” Castiel relaxes into the seat. “I’m starving.”

Chapter Text

Castiel is surrounded by a deep, vast cold. It saps the warmth from his body. He can’t feel his finger tips— he can’t feel anything at all. The numbing cold is his only companion. When he tries to cry for help, no sound escapes him. Looking around, he can’t orient himself. Darkness consumes every direction. Am I in space ? The ever expanding vacuum of the universe feels similar, but that can’t be right. Where are the stars? If he were in space, he could see Earth and all the twinkling specks of combusting gas and potential. 

This is like being in the center of a black hole. It’s crushing, disorienting. 

But more than anything, it’s lonely.  

There’s no angels, or algae, or mushrooms, or birds, or humans. There are no enemies, or friends, or family. No body, no world to witness; even the memories he cherishes feel like they’re slipping away. It leaves him only with the suffocating silence and vampiric cold, draining his drifting consciousness for eternity. 

Suddenly, a shrill ringing sears through the darkness. Castiel wakes just as violently.

He’s laying on his side, with thick blankets covering him. There’s a bright, artificial light shining from somewhere behind him. 

“Yeah?” Dean, voice thick with sleep, murmurs. 

Cas shifts to face Dean. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and his blood rushing through his ears.

“Okay, thanks Otto. See you tomorrow,” Dean says, then turns off his phone. He rolls toward the center of the bed, facing Cas. “Storm’s stronger than the weather channel predicted, so Otto’s not openin’ the shop today.”

Castiel reaches out and grabs onto Dean’s shirt. As he’s welcomed into Dean’s chest, he breathes in the scent of body wash and sleep-sweat.

“Sounds like you and me are gonna have a snow day,” Dean mumbles into his hair. 

Cas holds him tighter. When he tries to speak, all that escapes him is a trembling breath. All of him is trembling. 

“Cas?” 

He tries again. A fragile, small whine slips from his throat. He’s grateful he can make any noise at all. 

“Fuck— hold on.” Dean rolls away from him, and Cas curls into himself, shivering. Dean flicks on the bedside lamp. A soft yellow glow bathes them as Dean crowds back into him. 

“You’re okay. It was just a dream. You’re here, Cas. I’m here.” 

The warmth of Dean’s body and words seep into him, and slowly, his breath steadies and his trembling lessens. 

*

“What was that one about?” Dean asks as he pours coffee into their mugs.

“Same as last time.” 

The phantom sensations of The Empty plagued Castiel not long after he returned. When the dreams come, he manages. 

“That’s, what… the third time this month?” Dean pours creamer into Cas’ mug before sliding it over the island counter to him.

He sits on the barstool and wraps his hands around the warm mug— a gift from Jack. It’s white with an image of Elaine from Seinfeld on it. Underneath her is a quote; ‘I don’t have grace, I don’t want grace, I don’t even say grace, okay?’ It’s become one of his favorites. 

Cas shrugs after taking a sip of his coffee. “They’re getting less frequent. I probably would have slept through the night if your phone hadn’t woken me.” 

Dean only hums in response, a contemplative look crossing his face as he stares into his coffee. The cream swirls around in his mug. He taps the side of it, opening his mouth, closing it, and then glancing to the wall.

“What’s the matter?” Cas asks. 

“I just—” Dean’s eyebrows furrow. He glances at Cas, then back to his mug. “You think it could be because I…? Ah, nevermind.” He shakes his head. “It’s stupid.” 

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Are you sure?” 

Dean seems to wrestle with something. But, when he meets Cas’ eye, his smile is genuine. “Don’t worry about it.” His expression blooms into one with a little more mischief. “So, we’ve got the whole day to ourselves. What’d you wanna do?” 

“I was thinking…”

“A dangerous thing,” Dean quips. 

He huffs out a laugh and Dean gives him a playful smile. 

“We should have a date tonight,” Castiel finishes. 

Dean purses his lips. He makes a show of turning around to look out the kitchen window, where snow is blowing past nearly horizontal. “Y’know, I was just thinking a romantic walk in the park would really hit the spot.”

“I didn’t say go out. I said have a date.” 

Dean turns back to face him and leans a little further over the counter. “Like… Netflix n’ chill?” 

Castiel’s eyes drift up to the ceiling as he scratches his jaw, considering. For the umpteenth time, he admires the crown molding Dean restored. It’s simplistic, but it’s one of his favorite details of the house. 

“There could be Netflix. There could be…” he meets Dean’s eyes, “...’chilling.’” Dean responds with a lopsided grin. “But I was thinking something a little more intentional.” 

“Intentional how?” 

“Well, I can’t say I’ve been on many dates. Very few of my Holy Missions in the Garrison required courting. After falling, most ‘dates’ of mine had… ulterior motives.” 

Dean grimaces. Cas has been both a babysitter and been murdered on a date. He wonders which Dean is recalling. Probably the murder.

Castiel continues, “we’ve certainly spent plenty of quality time together over the years.” He recalls a litany of dingy diners, movie nights, and quiet moments scattered between apocalypses and wars. “I’d struggle, though, to pinpoint an event to call our ‘first date.’” 

“What about the times we’ve gone out since you’ve been back?”

“Oh, Dean, I’ve adored them. I just mean…” He thinks, trying to enunciate his thoughts. “We’ve known each other so intimately for so long. I think it would be enjoyable to— to pretend , in a way, to experience a first date together.” 

Dean’s face lights up. “Oh.” The excitement is clear in his voice. “You want to roleplay.” 

Castiel laughs. “I suppose I do.” 

“Alright, so what’s our story?” Dean drums a happy rhythm on the counter. 

“Well, if we happened upon each other outside of extraordinary circumstances, as average people do, what would that look like?”

Dean looks him over. “Five years ago, I probably woulda caught your eye at the bar and ordered you a shot of whiskey. But…” He taps his fist on the counter, thinking. 

Castiel hums. “Perhaps we met at Otto’s. What if we started talking after I brought my car in?”

“What car?” 

“I’ve had cars in the past.” 

“You mean your Continental?” Dean gags. 

He leans back in the bar stool, crossing his arms and smirking. “What happened to beauty in the eye of the beholder, Dean?” 

Dean rolls his eyes, but his smile is playful and fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s say you roll up at Otto’s in your Pimpmobile, complaining about it makin’ a weird noise. My first thought is ‘how could a hunk like this drive something this ugly?’”

Cas scoffs. 

He holds out his hand, placating. “But, as I’m telling you about how I’ll need to replace your belt, I start thinkin’ that you really make the Continental work. We get to chatting as I’m ringing you up. I decide you’re just too handsome and charming to let you slip away. So I give you my number.” 

Cas nods, smiling. “Yes. I take my beautiful and beloved Continental to Otto’s. The mechanic working there is kind, funny.” 

Dean takes a sip of his coffee, hiding his smile. Cas’ grin is voracious. “And looks absolutely stunning bent over the hood of my car.” 

Dean chokes on his coffee. He pounds on his chest. “I’m still not used to that,” he coughs out. 

“I’m positively elated when you give me your number. I text you, asking if you’d like to accompany me to dinner.” 

“I say abso-fucking-lutely.” 

“It’s a date.” 

“Okay— okay, yeah.” Dean starts moving around the kitchen, rooting through drawers and digging through the refrigerator. “I’ll make you something good— oh, fuck, I was gonna buy groceries this weekend. Ah, we could— no— ooh!” He pulls a hunk of meat out of the freezer, and displays it to Castiel like he just caught an impressive fish. “How about a roast?” 

“Sounds lovely,” Cas says. 

“Yeah— fuck yeah.” Dean pulls out the slow cooker from its burrow in the bottom kitchen cabinet. He then grabs an assortment of vegetables and spices. “We start this bad boy now, n’ she’ll be dissolving on your tongue by 7.” 

He slides off the bar stool. “I’ll help prepare the ingredients.” 

*

The morning drifts into the afternoon. They keep busy with chores and odd jobs. They’re both sitting on the couch, waiting for the laundry to finish its cycle in the dryer. Castiel is slowly working through Momo. He’s just gotten to the chapter where Momo meets Cassiopeia when Dean buzzes a grating chord on his guitar. 

He curses. “This fuckin’ lick, I swear.” 

“Which one are you working on?” 

“Hey Hey My My,” Dean says. 

“Oh. Neil Young, right?” 

“Yup. Though there’s about 800 versions of it now.” Dean laughs softly. “Guess everyone’s out of the blue and into the black.”

Castiel hums in response. 

Dean goes back to playing, but after a moment, his guitar quiets and his voice is contemplative. “Hey Cas, you remember Famine?” 

He looks up from his book. “The Horseman?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I do.” Castiel suddenly craves the taste of raw meat. He glances briefly into the kitchen, smelling the roast. 

“You think— er, you remember what he said?” Dean’s brow is furrowed as he focuses on flipping his guitar pick in between each of his fingers. 

“I remember his gasping rant about the forthcoming apocalypse while I was eating ground beef off the floor. Is there something specific you’re referring to?” 

Dean snickers, but it sounds forced to Cas. “Oh yeah, you were like those old Arby’s commercials— ‘where’s the beef?’” 

“What about it?” He tilts his head. 

“I was actually thinking about what he said to me.” Dean licks his lips. “I was the only one who wasn’t affected by him— by his influence.” 

It was hard, affected by Famine as he was, to be observant as his vessel’s want overcame him. Even then he remembers Dean as a point of stark contrast, listless against everyone’s ravenous hunger. 

“You remember why?” Dean asks. When he meets his eye, his expression is more vulnerable than Cas expected.

“No, I don’t.” 

“He said—” 

Suddenly, they both startle at a loud phone jingle. Dean fishes his phone out of his back pocket. “Oh, shit!” He fumbles to move his guitar out of his lap.

He frantically taps on his phone, smiling widely. “Heya, Sammy!” 

“Hey!” Sam’s voice crackles through the speaker. 

Dean twists on the couch, so Castiel is in frame of the video call. “Cas is here, too!” 

Castiel and Sam wave to each other. 

“How’s Ireland?” 

Sam beams. “It’s amazing! We're heading to Clifden tomorrow.”

“Woah, are you guys already done with the case in Cork?” Dean asks. 

“Yeah,” Eileen pipes up from behind Sam. “It turned out to just be a haunting.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “You guys flew all that way for a ghost?” 

“Hey, I had an old friend in need. You know how it is, Dean.” Eileen shrugs. 

“Touché.” 

“What’s in Clifden, then?” Castiel asks. 

“Rowena mentioned in her journal that she has a safehouse in Clifden with some cursed artifacts. I want to archive what’s in there and add it to the Men of Letters resources.” Sam smiles. “Plus, Clifden has a lot of cool historical sights.” 

“So that’s the reason. ‘Sam-diana Jones’ wants to play historian.” Dean teases with a laugh.

The four catch up for a while before Castiel excuses himself at the beep of the completed dryer cycle. When he returns with the laundry, Dean is saying his goodbyes. He hangs up and they settle onto the couch, a pile of warm laundry between them. 

“What were you saying earlier?” Cas asks. 

Dean glances at him, then focuses his gaze on the flannel he’s currently folding in his lap. “Not sure.” 

“You were talking about Famine.” 

“Oh.” He purses his lips. “I don’t remember why I brought him up. Forget it.” 

Cas narrows his eyes. “If you’ve changed your mind about discussing whatever’s bothering you, I’d rather you just say that.” 

Dean looks like he’s about to argue, but all that escapes him is a sigh. He glances toward the wall. “You got me there. Thought I wanted to talk about it, but I guess I don’t.” 

“Okay.” Castiel reaches over the clothes between them, runs his hand down Dean’s arm and laces their fingers together. 

Dean meets his eyes. His eyebrows are still drawn together with worry, but his expression is one of relief. Cas gives him a soft, reassuring smile. Dean brings their clasped hands up to his lips and presses a kiss into Cas’ knuckles. 

As he’s folding a pair of pajama pants, Dean says, “I bet you a benjamin that the next call I get from Sam’s gonna be from some duplex they’re renting in Dublin, complete with a picket fence, a Red Setter, and matching rings.” 

“You think so? They’ve never seemed all that interested in marriage to me.”

Dean laughs. “I know that kid. Sammy’s gonna get swept up in the riveting story of some ancient Irish school and apply to the law program there. Eileen’s gonna bat her big ol’ doe eyes at him from across the table of some hole-in-the-wall pub— or maybe after guillotining a vamp, that’s more her style. Either way, Sam’s gonna be so star struck he’s gonna drop to his knees an’ pop the question.” 

Castiel hums, digging through the pile to find the partner of the sock in his hand. “Has he talked to you about proposing to her?” 

“Not yet, but it’s written all over his—” Dean waves his hand in a noncommittal gesture before grabbing another garment out of the pile. “—everything. Sammy’s always been the lovey-dovey domestic one.” 

Dean’s holding one of his shirts, a thread-bare Guns n’ Roses tee that Cas has all but claimed. It’s one of his favorites to sleep in. 

Castiel gives him a skeptical look. “He’s the domestic one?”

He gives the shirt a firm shake, holding Cas’ gaze, before beginning to fold it. “Always has been.”

He laughs softly. “Well, I do think you’re onto something about the duration of their trip. I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t see them in the U.S for quite some time.” 

“Jack’s graduation— that’s probably the only thing that’ll drag their wanderlust-filled asses back here.” 

“What do you think about them staying?” 

Dean nods. “I’m— it’s good for ‘em. I think those two crazy kids just might make it. An’ well, I’ve gone longer without seeing Sam.” 

“We could always pay them a visit. For selfish reasons, I’m glad they’re giving us a reason to travel. It’s been a few millennia since I've found myself in Ireland.”

“Yeah…” Dean suddenly looks a little queasy. “Hey, any chance you’d be able to, uh, angel-mojo us over there?” 

Castiel tilts his head. “No. I doubt I'll ever have enough Grace to teleport again.” 

Dean curses under his breath. 

“Dean, you’ve been possessed by an archangel, been to both Hell and Purgatory, have died numerous times, and despite all that, you’re still afraid of airplanes ?” Castiel tries to keep the humor out of his voice. He’s only moderately successful. 

“It’s— I—” A blush creeps onto Dean’s cheeks.

Castiel starts laughing. 

“You shut it!” 

*

They work out that Castiel will ‘arrive’ to their date first. He showers, shaves, and dons his black slacks and a dark plum sweater over a gray button down. As he fixes his hair in the mirror, he savors the streaks of gray intermingled with his black hair. What a marvel to age. What a marvel we can grow old together.  

He makes his way downstairs and stands at the kitchen island, waiting for his date. The table is already set. Cas notices the extra embellishments Dean added; none of their dishes or silverware are particularly high quality, but he did make sure they all matched. A few tea lights cast flickering shadows on the dishes. Most of the house lights are off, leaving only a selection of soft lamps for “mood lighting.” Dean informed him earlier that appropriate lighting was very important for the success of a first date. 

He hears the excited thump of socked footsteps approaching. He turns just in time to watch Dean slide up to the counter next to him. And how he slides. Cas glances down, noticing that Dean is wearing his favorite socks. They’re red, with little cowboy hats and lassos on them. 

“Howdy.” Dean tips his cowboy hat at him. He’s wearing a black button-up with red embroidered flowers and trim, and light wash jeans, complete with a large belt buckle. It’s silver to match his rings. “Hope I’m not late.”

“You’re right on time.” Cas tries to keep the delight from his voice. “You look lovely.”

“Much obliged. You clean up nice yourself.” He reaches over and feels the sweater Cas wears, a fond smile growing on his face. Seeming to remember himself, he jerks his hand away. “Right, first date.” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “Uh, I think our table’s ready.” 

Cas’ smile only grows. “Certainly.”

*

“So,” Cas says once he’s settled, “since this is our first date, all I really know about you is that you’re a mechanic. Tell me, Dean: who are you?” 

He laughs. “Where to begin? Well, my name is Dean Singer. I’m an Aquarius. I love long walks on the beach and—” he works his jaw, thinking, “—I make a mean Americano.”

“I prefer your French pressed dark roast over your Americano—“

“—Ah, ah, ah. You’ve never had it before, Mr. ‘First Date.’” 

Cas hums. “Good point.”

“Anyway, it’s your turn.” Dean waves his hand to cue him. 

He taps his finger against his wine glass (currently filled with sparkling water). “My name is Castiel Kline. I work as an archivist at the Kansas City Public Library. I have two children. I’m an aspiring bee keeper and a…” he tries to recall which constellation Jack said he had the most similar arbitrarily assigned personality traits with. “…Libra.”

“Bee keeping?” 

“Aspiring,” he repeats. “It’s too cold to start a hive now, but come springtime I’d like to set up a queen and small brood in the backyard.”

Spring has always been his favorite time of year. Planting seeds, starting a hive; it’s the time of year for potential. 

Dean whistles. “Don’t know if I’ve ever had fresh honey before.”

“It’s one of Earth’s simplest and greatest pleasures. Honey’s not the only good part of tending a beehive, either. They’ll act as great pollinators for my garden.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Though, I don’t just like them for the honey they produce or how useful they are in agriculture. I find their company very pleasant.”

Dean tries to hide a laugh with a bite of roast beef. Cas sees right through him.

“What’s so funny?” 

Dean swallows, and clears his throat. “You may not believe me, but one time, I actually saw a guy— real handsome devil, as it were— buck-ass naked and just covered in bees.”

“Ah.” Cas feels a blush heating up his face.

Dean quits trying to hide his smile. His grin is wide, eyes full of mirth. “Just thought you might relate.” 

Castiel tries to be annoyed at the teasing, but gets distracted by how Dean’s grin highlights the rosy apples of his cheeks.

*

For around an hour, they enjoy each other’s company. They share stories like they’re new and find excitement in the mundane moments within their extraordinary lives.

“The food was amazing,” Castiel says. He grabs their glasses after handing Dean the plates. “But the service here leaves something to be desired.” 

Dean snorts a laugh as Cas follows him to the kitchen sink. “I gotta clean up my own table? Man, who’s running this joint?” 

“We should leave a low-star Yelp review with a strongly worded comment.” 

Dean starts washing the dishes, then hands them to Cas to dry and put away. As he’s returning a glass to its home, he stifles a yawn. When he turns back to Dean to grab the next dish, he catches Dean watching him. He dips his head back toward the sink, but Castiel doesn’t miss how his brow is furrowed in concern. 

He sighs. “I’m fine, Dean.” 

“I know, I know. I just—” his hand balls into a fist on the edge of the sink. “What if something is triggering the dreams?” 

“I think you should know by now that’s not how this works—”

“You don’t know that.”

“What could possibly be—”

“What if I’m causing it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “What are you talking about?” 

He licks his lips, eyes focused on the darkened kitchen window. “He said— Famine said that I wasn’t affected by him because I’m… empty. I don’t— I didn’t want— because I can’t. I can’t.” 

“Dean,” he says, reaching out.

“Sometimes I think that’s why the spell worked. I’m empty. I— what if—“ He thumps a fist against his chest. “What if it’s pulling you back in through me? ”

“Dean. ” Castiel places his hands on either side of Dean’s face. He runs his thumbs over his cheekbones. “Do you know what I do to ground myself every time I’m tormented by my time in The Empty?” 

Dean looks at him, expression an oozing wound. 

“I listen to your heartbeat,” Cas continues. 

Dean's eyes fall shut with a stuttered exhale. 

“I feel the press of your skin against mine and I listen to the way our hearts beat together. I think of how every pump of blood is the tempo of a victory march against our fate. I listen, and I feel you, and I know the terror will pass.” 

“Cas, I—“ Dean’s voice is a quiet, wavering thing. It fizzles out before he finishes his thought.

He presses into Castiel. His hands brush against his sweater, balling the material into his fists at Cas’ back. Castiel's hands move from his face to his shoulders. 

“You’re not empty, Dean. I’m not convinced you’ve ever been.” He runs his hands up and down his back. They rock together slightly. “You’re so full of love, it spills into everything you do. The good, the bad— it’s all overflowing with love.” 

Dean holds him tighter. "Don't drown.” 

“Don’t underestimate me.” 

Dean responds with a soft laugh before breaking the embrace. He cups Castiel’s face, smiling and teary-eyed, before tilting Cas’ head down to press his lips to his forehead. 

“Sometimes, this feels too good to be true,” Dean murmurs into his hairline. “I look at you— see the way your face lights up when you listen to Jack on the phone or talk about plants, and I just— it’s like I’m waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.” 

“I understand the sentiment,” Castiel sighs. “I’m almost thankful for the dreams. They’re awful, but if everything was perfect…”

“It’d be a trap,” Dean finishes. He laughs lightly, humorlessly. “We’re pretty messed up, huh Cas?” 

Castiel looks around them. “I think we’re doing alright, all things considered.”  

Dean nods. The tension in his body drops. “Yeah. We are.” He clears his throat and swipes a hand over his eyes. “Shit, I lost the plot. This is not first date conversation material.” 

Castiel runs a hand up and down his arm. “What’s your preferred alternative?” 

He glances to the living room, then smiles at Cas. “Wanna dance?” 

*

Cas pushes the coffee table toward the couch as Dean selects an album. They come back together, and Cas glances to the record player as a peppy synth starts playing. 

“Ooh, you make me live.”

“I was expecting something slower.” 

Dean shrugs and pulls Cas in closer. “I’m in the mood for Queen.”

“Whatever this world can give to me

It's you you're all I see

Ooh, you make me live now, honey

Ooh, you make me live.”

Castiel steals a kiss. They stumble, out of tempo, but laugh against each other's lips.

“Oh, you're the best friend that I ever had

I've been with you such a long time

You're my sunshine and I want you to know

That my feelings are true

I really love you

Oh, you're my best friend.” 

Dean breaks the kiss and nudges Cas into a spin. “Oh, think you’re so sneaky, huh angel?” 

“You’re the musically-inclined one, Mr. Singer. I’m just testing your ability to keep time,” he counters when he lands back at Dean’s chest. 

“Ooh, you make me live

Ooh, I've been wandering 'round

Still come back to you (still come back to you)

In rain or shine, you've stood by me girl

I'm happy at home (happy at home)

You're my best friend

Ooh, you make me live

Whenever this world is cruel to me

I got you to help me forgive

Ooh, you make me live now, honey

Ooh, you make me live.”

Castiel urges him into a dip. Dean rolls his eyes, but can’t help the smile on his face as he trusts Cas with his weight. His hat begins to slip, so Castiel reaches out and grabs it, placing it on his own head. Dean’s smile blooms into a flushed grin. 

He licks his lips as Cas pulls him back up. “Keep that on and I might have to save a horse tonight.”

“Wrong song,” Cas informs with only a hint of smugness. 

“We’ll play that one next.” 

“Oh, you're the first one when things turn out bad

You know I'll never be lonely

You're my only one

And I love the things

I really love the things that you do

Oh, you're my best friend, oh

Ooh, you make me live, live, live, live.” 

“Thank you for tonight.” Cas presses a kiss to Dean’s ear. 

“Anytime you want another first date, buddy, you just let me know.” 

“I'm happy, happy at home

You're my best friend.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

“ Oh , you're my best friend.”