Chapter Text
John was in the Marines, a proud as fuck soldier that spent what little of his retirement he had with a beer in his hand and mind on the good ol' days. Even before he aged out, John was bringing more and more of the war home with him. Most days Dean humoured John's stories, the squaddie antics, the horrifying truth of what serving your country actually entails. John made and lost many friends while serving, one in particular springing to mind, Aaron Lee Jameson. According to John, Aaron was the squadron clown, never far from a side-splitting anecdote or pack of Camels. About four months into their second deployment Aaron was hit by a roadside bomb (or hit it, to be precise), good thing too, 'cause when the surgeons were sticking his insides back – well inside – they found his lungs riddled with cancer. Until that day Aaron had attributed his consistent cough to his forty-a-day habit. Luckily, Aaron survived his run-in with an IED and the cancer, medically discharged but John would visit him whenever he could.
Every time John saw him after that Aaron had one (unsmoked) cigarette tucked behind his ear, never lit it, just kept it there, a reminder he'd say, not to take life for granted.
And that's the point, that's why Dean is sitting on a sticky stool propped against a sticky bar thinking about Aaron Lee Jameson. He's not here to drink, truly! He's here to stop himself from drinking, as backwards as that sounds.
Seeing Cas pressed against that bounce house by a man that likely spends more on his looks than his family churned Dean up, just twisted and yanked at his insides until he was sick with it. Seeing red. It was a fucking close thing between blowing chunks on Sammy's shoes or sending that preening prick to the emergency room. Dean went home, he did, needles under his skin and blood on fire, fingers white knuckled and trembling around the steering wheel but he made it damn it! He ignored Mrs Turner's friendly “Hello”, burst through his front door, slammed it closed, kicked out at the trash can, ripped a clock off the wall and screamed so primal and full of rage his throat gave out before he did.
Then came the crying, tears streaming down his face, linoleum digging into his knees, fists clenched on his thighs until he couldn't see, couldn't think past that image of Cas with someone else – happy, with someone else – and Dean was reduced to the foetal position.
When he'd finally pulled himself together Dean couldn't function for want of a drink, war raging inside of him that for a brief moment – seconds really – he seriously considered putting the beat down of all beat downs on Cas' new beau as a reasonable and viable alternative.
Instead he went to a bar, this bar.
So that's it, the whole sorry story of how Dean ended up in this hygiene forsaken place. Peanut shells litter the bar-top, sawdust a brief reprieve from the stick-click floor 'cause yeah, it's one of those bars. The ones normal people steer clear of, filled with alcoholics and permanently angry fuckheads just looking for a fight – which may be another reason he chose this place, he'll have to ask Missouri about that.
In a turn-a-round of tempting proportions it's not some meathead with an attitude problem who pulls up a stool next to him, it's a not entirely unattractive bottle redhead. “What you drinking sailor?” She smiles flirty and playful.
“Firefighter actually,” Dean sips from the club soda he's been nursing (an unusual yet effective form of self-flagellation). “And I'm not.”
“What?” Redhead teases, shoulders nudging. “You on duty or something?”
Mumbling into his glass, Dean responds aloofly, “Or something.”
Unperturbed the redhead holds out her hand. “I'm Cara.” And Dean knows this dance; done it enough times to see what she's angling for miles off.
“John,” he smirks, but there's no real heat or warmth to it. “Smith.”
Cara smirks right back, this one fiendish because now they understand each other, no need for further pretence. “Well, John,” she slides off her stool, fingers tracing the in-seam of his jeans. “What d'ya say we get outta here?”
Dean's eyes are fixed on the thigh she's currently molesting, not because of the obviously come-hither touch, but because it draws his focus to the dried dirt there, remnants of his jungle man routine and subsequent scuffle with the kids in the bounce house. The bounce house Cas and haircut were using for leverage while they groped like teenagers.
“Sure.” It's not the word he meant to come out of his mouth, but Dean's fighting a lot of demons right now and fuck if this new contender doesn't knock that fight straight out of him.
***
He didn't drink! Unequivocally, he'll piss in a pot if Cas fucking needs him to, whatever it takes to limit the damage Dean's confession is going to do to this tenuous truce they have. Yes. He fucked Cara, took her out back and raw-dogged her against the wall so now he's gotta visit the fucking sexual health clinic too! He knows, he knows... It's his own damn fault, all of it! Stupid decision on top of stupid decision and he should have just called his AA sponsor but unless it isn't clear by now, Dean's a fucking self-destructive asshole!
Unfortunately – or fortunately if you're the Dean with his tail currently between his legs – Cas doesn't answer his phone. Doesn't respond to the message Dean sent him saying they need to talk either. For the record, Dean isn't trying to get one over on Cas, use his barroom fling as a way to gain ground after the birthday make-out session he witnessed. Cas has suffered enough and Dean would give anything not to put him through more but here's the thing, if Dean doesn't tell Cas someone else will – 'cause Meg definitely knows someone in that bar, it's her kind of place – and if it comes from them Cas will just put pieces together that aren't there (read: Dean drinking when he actually wasn't). Best Cas hear this from him, although if the radio silence is anything to go by, Cas already knows, and he's pissed!
Fuck that bitch works fast.
***
“Dean,” A lady he recognises as one of Cas' patients greets kindly. “How are you?” The I heard about the divorce is implied.
“Erm, good. I mean, getting there, you know?”
The wrinkles on her cheeks deepen as she smiles kind and understanding at him. It's not often Dean met Cas' patients, but every now and then he'd pick his then husband up from work, pointed Cas' direction by the shift nurse. Usually Dean would find him reassuring a nervous patient about to go in for surgery, or updating one post-surgery. The lady currently making small talk in the grocery aisle was a frequent flier, not a hypochondriac per se, just old and ailing, and harbouring a not at all secret crush on her general surgeon, the sexiest blue-eyed fucker to ever don a pair of scrubs (screw you McDreamy).
The lady takes Dean's hand in one of hers, patting the other atop it in a consoling gesture. “Have you seen him since the divorce?”
Dean's treacherous heart flips in his chest because why? What has Cas said? Is there trouble in paradise? Is he mopey and pining enough that she just picked up on it? Is Dean still in with a chance? “Yeah,” he answers as casually as he can muster, elaborating, “Jack...”
“Ah, how is that sweet boy?” Because of course it was Cas' place of employment Jack went to on take-your-kid-to-work days.
“Good,” Dean answers courteously, and suddenly this isn't feeling like small talk at all. There's something in this lady's eyes, a guarded flicker he can't quite place but it's clear she's stalling for time to ask what she really wants to. “Is there something I can help you with?” He's no fucking surgeon, but he'll do what he can.
“Oh no, just being silly,” she swats between them flippantly, only the edge to her voice is anything but. “It's just...” She considers for a moment. “I had an appointment scheduled for a couple of weeks ago, but Dr Novak–” Dean's internal (incredibly external in hindsight) homophobia couldn't handle giving Cas his name, honestly, it's a wonder that wasn't Cas' first red flag “–rescheduled.”
O-kay... not exactly newsworthy, Cas has to reschedule appointments sometimes, hazards of being the attending surgeon.
“I'm sure he'll make the next one,” Dean assures softly.
“Well that's just the thing,” her eyes dart wildly. “It was supposed to be yesterday, but he rescheduled again, and the nurse said on the phone he's not even in at the moment.”
Okay, that, Dean will admit, is odd. Cas never takes time off, not unless it's for family and as far as Dean knows all's good on that front. He'd have heard about it through Gabriel if it wasn't. Sixth sense kicking in Dean senses danger, saying his goodbyes as quickly as he can without further ratcheting up the old gal's concerns.
***
Jack is at school – Dean won't see him until the weekend – and Cas isn't answering his cell or the house phone.
It's fine. Everything's fine. Someone would have contacted you if it wasn't.
Not because Dean is Cas' emergency contact anymore – he doesn't know for sure, but he suspects that has fallen to Gabriel – but because if something has happened to Cas they'd need Dean to take care of Jack so yeah, someone would have told him. They'd have to!
Pulling up haphazardly outside his old house, Dean leaves the keys in the ignition – the gate guard knows Dean would never let anyone else drive his car, so good luck getting it outta the neighbourhood – jogs the short path leading to the front door, knocks. The usually pristine hanging baskets are wilting from neglect, gravel from the border spilling onto the lawn and Dean's sense of foreboding is growing by the second.
“CAS!” He knocks again, louder, more desperate. He's just about to lift the spare key from the fake rock when finally the door opens.
“Dean?” Cas’ eyes are red and puffy, nose sore and chaffing. He's wearing a turtleneck with arms cradling his chest. “What are you doing here?” His usually whiskey-smooth voice is scratched hoarse and Dean's an idiot.
“Urm,” he chuffs at his own ridiculousness. “I was checking in. I saw that patient of yours that always reeks of Chanel No. 5...”
Cas nods in recognition, waits Dean out.
“She said you've been rescheduling appointments, an' y'know...” He tries, trails off, shuffles from foot to foot, hand palming the back of his neck. “You've been ducking my messages. I was worried.”
For a second it looks like Cas is gonna cry, then he's blowing his nose into a well-worn tissue and Dean realises what a fool he's been. “I have the flu,” Cas states, though at this point it's pretty obvious. You don't need an MD to spot flu, and Dean's partial to a particularly masculine strain of the virus whenever he wants sympathy. “People don't want a surgeon who sneezes into their open cavities Dean.”
“Yeah, no. Of course.” Idiot idiot idiot.
Cas' logic is solid, and he's clearly suffering right now. Usually the guy just brushes off this shit, that's when he gets sick because working at a hospital and having a kid, his immune system is akin to a hyperbaric fucking chamber! That being said, Dean's never seen him like this, barely able to speak, voice scratched raw and an octave higher when he does manage it.
“Do you want me to take Jack until you're feeling better?” 'Cause you love your kids, but when you're sick the last thing you want is to be chasing around after them.
“No,” Cas answers a little too quickly, guilt and defiance in his wide bloodshot eyes.
Of course. Guess Meg did tattle on him, the fucking hag!
“He's staying with Jimmy and Amelia,” Cas adds quickly, like he can sense Dean's internal freak-out and needs to soothe the ache.
At first Dean's grateful, 'cause either Cas has forgiven him for slutting it about the other night (un-fucking-likely) or he hasn't found out yet, which means Dean still has a chance to curb that disaster. One look at his husband tells him not now though. Cas is going through it; he's got enough on his plate without Dean adding to the shit pile. As soon as Cas is feeling better Dean will talk to him.
***
Dean said at first he was grateful, because there was something nagging at him he couldn't place, lost as he was to his own embarrassment and the want to bundle Cas in his arms, carry him upstairs, place him carefully in bed then run him a menthol bath. Now though, now he knows why he's not grateful.
“He's with Jimmy?” Jess so succinctly sums up Dean's annoyance, folding towels in the wash basket she's placed on the table. “Why didn't Cas call you?”
Why indeed.
Dean's been pondering the answer to that question for the last forty-eight hours, eventually deciding he needed a springboard. Missouri's great but her job is to analyse Dean, not his ex. His AA sponsor doesn't know enough about any of it to have useful insight, Charlie always gets shifty when he talks about Cas with her – their friends, so he gets her not wanting to be put in the middle – and Sam... Sam's just too high school counsellor for Dean not to feel like he's being talked down to like the kid caught putting itching powder in girls’ panties. Hence Dean seeking out Jess, she's honest, level-headed, not prone to side-taking – ironic given her profession – and she knows enough about everything that her opinion is actually worth something. Which is probably why her first thought isn't exactly one Dean comes out of well.
“You haven't fell off the wagon,” she sighs, trying to be supportive but memories of the old Dean are too fresh in all their minds.
“No,” Dean scoffs, offended. “But I...” He trails off, looking his sister-in-law dead in the eye because something about Jess – might be the lawyer thing – always has him caving like he's on trial. “I slept with some random after Jack's party.”
“Dean...” There's that sigh again, Jess stuffing some of her recently pristinely folded towels into the basket with enough force she undoes her hard work. “I thought you were passed this.”
“I was!” He fumbles defensively. “I am! It's just... Jess...” His eyes meet hers again, full of sorrow and the burn of tears. “He's gone. I fucking lost him for good and I... I...”
Coming around the table Jess wraps him in her arms, soothing and shushing as she strokes his hair. “I know. I know honey. It's okay.”
No. It's not. None of this is fucking okay. Dean's heartbroken all over again. Pissed at himself for who he used to be. Pissed at himself for losing Cas. Pissed at himself for reverting to type. Terrified Cas will slam the door on him once and for all when he finds out, and angry – so fucking angry – with Cas for calling Jimmy – of all people! – when he needed help with Jack.
“I'm his dad for Christ's sake!” Dean storms, forgetting Jess hasn't been privy to his internal spiralling. “I get that he hates me Jess. I fucking do, alright! I know he's in the right for that but, he promised he'd never take Jack and now... Now I'm not so sure.”
“Okay, that's enough.” Rising to her full height, hands on her hips, Jess stares him down like he dare challenge her. “You're right, after what you did...!” She leads pointedly. “You're lucky Cas didn't turn his scalpel on you! – I would have,” she adds under her breath. “And yeah, Cas is wrong for calling Jimmy instead of you. But to even entertain the idea Cas would take that boy away from you is unconscionable Dean Winchester!”
Full name, Dean's not about to argue.
“Not only is Cas above that kind of spitefulness, he wouldn't just be hurting you, he'd be hurting Jack too, and he'd never put that boy in the middle!”
She's right, Dean knows she's right but he's so confused, aching, heart sick and hollowed out. “What if that she-bitch told him I'm drinking again. You know she wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire Jess. What if she's whispering poison in his ear?”
Sensing (rightly) that's Dean's heading for a nosedive none of them want him to take, Jess offers conspiratorially, “Oh, now I can take care of that.” Dean doesn't doubt it for a second! “I'll take Cas some soup tomorrow, get the lay of the land. If Meg has been dripping shit in his ear, I'll put him straight,” she winks, and Dean can breathe again, noose around his heart loosening just enough he starts to believe he can make it through this.
Like his older brother, Sammy has made some serious errors in judgment in his time, but marrying Jess... Best fucking thing that kid ever did!
***
Turns out Meg never said anything, Cas just thought Dean and Gabriel were at work and didn't want to bother them, so he called his mom. It was the ever-clippy Mrs Novak (senior) who used the opportunity to give Jack some quality time with the uncle he hadn't seen properly in over a year. When Cas called to see how Jack was doing and arrange his homecoming, Jimmy made the same offer Dean did. Hearing how much Jack and Claire (Jimmy and Amelia's daughter) were enjoying themselves Cas just couldn't bring himself to say no. Dean respects that, especially the Claire thing. Jack only has two cousins, and the eldest – Gabriel's daughter Heather – is an 18-year-old hellion bound to bareback her way into the same fate as her mother – a groupie and junkie. Gabriel does what he can but you can't help someone who doesn't wanna be helped – Dean knows – and that kid ain't anywhere near realising how much trouble she's in yet.
All that to say Jack and Claire are only children with only each other on their branch of the family tree – Dean's pretty sure Cas' mom never even wasted the time it would take to write Heather's name on it in the first place; evil old bitch – it's natural they would be drawn to each other, forming the most unlikely sibling-esque bond. They couldn't be more different, Jack artsy and sensitive, Claire a rough and tumble tomboy who wears her heart in a lost chest somewhere à la Davy Jones. This thing between Dean, Cas and Jimmy has kept them apart, and that isn't fair. It's not their fault.
So yeah, Dean gets it, feels like a dick for only thinking of himself in the first place.
Hindsight's twenty/twenty.
As for having the talk with Cas, well let's just say it isn't pleasant. Despite everything Dean can tell Cas is hurt, and yeah, worried too that Dean might be backsliding. It's a fear Dean quickly disabuses him of, not being entirely forthcoming, simply explaining that Jack's party was hard for so many reasons and Dean just wasn't as ready for all that as he thought he was. All in all it goes better than Dean could have hoped, so he's filing it under never-to-be-brought-up-again.
***
The end of summer is drawing near and Jack's archery group are participating in one last competition, it's a friendly match between a rival team from the next town over. Jack's fired up and itching to close out his summer with a perfect season. Kid might be a gentle soul, but he's a fucking deadeye with a competition bow! Dean hasn't spoken to Cas about who is and isn't attending, but given they've continued to support Jack equally since the split, he's guessing it'll be both of them. #Happilyseperatedfamily, and all that crap.
Honestly Dean hasn't had time for much besides his days with Jack and work lately. Summer brings out the barbecues and the brush fires so it's not exactly a firefighter's calmest time of year. It's cool though, keeps him busy. Keeps his mind occupied.
Missouri tells him he's made great progress but he has an addictive personality – something to do with genes – which unfortunately has resulted in him substituting drinking with his other passion, self-destruction. The girl in the bar is an obvious example, but Missouri seems laser-focused on Dean's “unhealthy need to cling onto Cas. You have to let him go sugar. Move on and find yourself someone to make out with behind the bounce house”. Obviously by that she means form a meaningful relationship with. It's a belaboured metaphor, and although Dean had smiled tacitly and nodded his head, truth is he can't. Cas was-is it for him. It may not have looked it from the outside – or inside if Dean's being honest here – but his love for Cas burned like fire in his veins, Dean could have scorched earth with it, put Hell to shame and made Heaven cringe. It's what made reconciling his feelings and that they were for a man so difficult. What Dean felt he's only read about in books, seen in movies. Missouri tells him it's rose-tinted glasses but on this she's wrong, no doubt about it. Dean doesn't love Cas more now because he's unobtainable, because they're separated and he's romanticising what they had. No matter what stupid thing Dean did his feelings for Cas never changed: not when they met, not when they were dating, not when he got down on one knee, and not even when they divorced.
Maybe Dean is addicted – maybe pining over Cas is his way of continuing that self-destructive cycle – but one thing everyone agreed on is how good Cas was for him, so honestly, he's struggling to see how that's a bad thing.
***
“Ah, damn knee,” Cas smarts, rubbing the back of his aforementioned painful appendage.
Jack's killing it as always on the range, MVP award with his name on it waiting at the winners' table. He's beaming ear-to-ear as he looks over and finds his dads in the crowd, and yeah, Dean's beaming too, pride a warm bloom in his chest. Sometimes these things can get tedious but not today, today (for once) Cas is minus that smarmy fuck Bartholomew and Dean's revelling in it just being the three of them again, 'cause screw Missouri, he can enjoy this if he wants! Even the weather is good, not so hot you're covered in a thin film of sweat from dawn 'til dusk, but not chilly enough to have your nipples ripping holes in your shirt from standing idle for so long either.
All in all, Dean's thoroughly enjoying himself.
Chancing a quick glance at Cas, uncomfortable but soldiering through, Dean scouts the crowd, notes a couple nearby with a camping chair they aren't currently using. “Hey,” he asks uncertainly. “Could we borrow your chair?” The couple agree happily, more interested in watching their kid mostly miss the hay-backed target.
“Here,” Dean deposits the chair close enough behind Cas all he has to do is sit.
“Dean, that really wasn't necessary.”
Like fuck, Cas has been favouring that damn leg all day. This, Dean communicates through a pointed look Cas rolls his eyes at.
Eventually his grumpy co-parent manages a not entirely sincere, “Thank you,” taking a seat with a sigh that says he's more grateful than he's willing to admit.
Bet Barty wouldn't have made the effort.
It's completely unfair, Dean doesn't know the guy, hasn't talked to him, but from what he's heard Bart might be a smug, preening fuck, but he worships Cas. Not that it makes Dean like him any more, quite the opposite actually.
“You gotta stop mixing gymnastics and sex Cas,” Dean teases playfully as he watches the most handsome man at the park flexing his elevated leg. Fuck but he's gorgeous, faded stonewash jeans clinging to those thick thighs, band shirt pulled taut across his chest and biceps, aviators doing nothing to hide the devastating cut of his magnificent side profile. “You're thirty-six dude, that's a young man's game,” he tacks on, more for an excuse to keep looking at his husband than anything.
Dean's expecting an eyeroll, to be ignored even, maybe a cheeky smirk or chuckle. What he gets instead has him slack-jawed and scrambling. “Well I wasted my twenties on vanilla so... Smoke 'em if you got 'em.”
It's harsh, cruel even. Sure Cas could be all venom when they were fighting, not cruel though, never that.
“You okay?”
Cas ignores him.
“Babe, talk to me.” Dean doesn't mean to say it, regrets it the second it comes out but this, the way they're butting against each other, is unfortunately familiar and he doesn't know, guesses he kind of slips back into that rhythm and it just comes out.
Without a word Cas is vacating the chair, handing it off to the couple with a forced smile as he passes, then he's finding a spot on the opposite side of the crowd.
Smooth Winchester. You fucking asshole.
***
Settling down for the awards ceremony on the uncomfortable as fuck wooden chairs that have been laid out on the grass, Dean notes how tense Cas is next to him, careful not to brush sides or knock knees. He's not sure what he's done to incite this latest batch of ire – 'cause it can't be the babe thing, that's just too petty – but whatever it is Dean aches with the need to make it right, say he's sorry, get on his damn knees if he has too because the tensely cordial small talk he and Cas have exchanged over the last couple of months is the only thing keeping Dean going. It seems Cas is determined to give him the cold shoulder though, and Dean isn't in the market to make this worse by pushing.
The ceremony takes almost as long as the competition itself, and this time it does drag tediously, that is, until Jack takes centre stage and Dean feels tears of pride pricking his eyes. He may have a lot of regrets regarding his relationship with Cas, but Jack... Jack sure as shit ain't one of 'em!
“Dads look!” Jack rushes over excited once the ceremony has ended, shoving his two trophies in Cas and Dean's hands, grinning like a fucking Hyena. “Can I have ice cream?” 'Cause, y'know, apparently ten years old is when kids learn the art of bribery: I did a good thing so now you have to reward me, them's the rules.
Chuckling to himself Dean ruffles Jack's hair to indignant grumbles from his son. “Sure thing kiddo. You wanna go to Mama's or Roscoe's?” Jack's two favourite ice cream bars, although right now he looks like Dean just offered to take him to the grubbiest ice cream truck he could find. One that definitely has a portal to a secret universe in the back which eats kids. “What is it buddy?”
Looking from Dean to Cas and back again guiltily, Jack murmurs to the ground. “I want ice cream at home.”
Oh, okay. That's fine. Dean's not gonna say the rejection doesn't hurt like a son of a bitch but that's not Jack's fault, kid wants what he wants.
“I've got chocolate in the freezer,” Cas smiles. “And strawberry sauce, and wafers,” he adds on, holding up a hand to stop Jack before he asks about those too.
“Look at your dad all prepared,” Dean goads playfully.
“Well it's not like we didn't see this coming,” Cas states conspiratorially, a conversation between the two of them now, teasing Jack in a way that's achingly familiar. Dean's heart is breaking and reshaping all at once.
Not wanting to sour the moment Dean concurs, “True, true.”
Normally Jack would be calling them silly or reminding them – with exasperation Shakespeare would be proud of – that he's still here, he can hear them. Instead he's just grinning at them like they've promised him a pony and Dean's sensing some kind of error has been made.
“I want Dean to come too.”
Ah. Oh yeah. Mistakes were made.
Jack's doing what any kid wishing their parents would get back together would do, forcing Dean and Cas into a situation where they can only come out of this the bad guys if they refuse. He's too young and naïve to realise what an awkward position he's putting them in, how uncomfortable and painful sitting around the dinner table eating celebratory ice cream like a normal family is going to be.
Still, who can say no to that face?
***
As predicted things start off shaky. Dean isn't sure where to put himself, if he should help prepare the bowls or just take a seat to get out of Cas' way. It's clear Cas is still pissed at him – not that Jack has noticed, riding high on his parent trapping antics – but after the initial awkwardness they settle into a somewhat pleasant rhythm.
By the time they're finishing up – and Dean's gonna have to put on the pants with the stretchy waistband when he gets home – Jack is nearly passing out face-first into the dregs of his chocolate/strawberry/kiwi slice abomination. Every attempt to wake him up is met with a comical head jolt followed by him immediately beginning to drift off again.
“Okay Robin Hood...” Dean gets to his feet, stretching out the ache in his muscles, not missing the way Cas quickly vacates the table when Dean's tee slides up, flashing skin. “Time to hit the hay.” Hoisting Jack carefully into his arms – and the last time Dean carried him like this, Jack was a squirmy two-year-old – Dean gives Cas a nod, one that says he's gonna put the kid to bed because clearly Jack isn't making it there by himself anytime soon.
Dean would like to say this is another slice of heartbreaking familiarity but truth is, the bedtime routine wasn't his thing. On the rare occasion Dean did step up he wasn't in the mood – or too drunk – for stories and careful soothing.
Fuck you're a dick – he inwardly scolds, whole new form of self-hatred overtaking him because he's only now realising how much of Jack's life he missed being a fucking mess.
Still, no time like the present right? So in an effort to be some semblance of the dad he should have been all these years, Dean helps a sleepy Jack into his pyjamas, agreeing happily to read the kid a story even though he knows Jack'll be asleep the moment his head hits the pillow. The book Jack drowsily points to is only ten or so pages of easy-read font and beautiful illustrations, and despite Dean's previous assessment of his son's ability to stay awake being accurate, Dean finds himself reading the whole thing, eyes getting blurrier and blurrier by the word.
It's a tale of two Knights, one dark, one light. The Knights live in neighbouring kingdoms. Playing and growing together as children, they are firm friends, until one day, the dark Knight's kingdom declares war on their neighbour, hungry for the land rich in grain and ore. Battles are waged – as these things go – and as these things go, eventually, the two Knights find themselves opposite each other on the battlefield. The dark Knight fights fiercely, bringing his sword down harsh and jarring against the light Knight's shield over, and over again. It's only when his once friend asks why the dark Knight hates him so, that the dark Knight lowers his sword.
“It's the evil king,” the dark Knight had said. “I am his warrior, and he is my liege; I must serve and honour him on the battlefield, but I do not hate you, my friend.”
The light Knight gets to his feet, but instead of raising his sword to his friend, he plucks a nearby spear from the ground and hurls it passed the dark Knight's shoulder, unseating the evil king from his horse with a mortal wound.
“The evil king is dead,” the light Knight proclaimed. “He was your tyrant, and I am your friend. Let us fight each other no more. Let us instead turn our swords in defence of one another.”
Dean's never been a literary connoisseur, but he gets the basic moral of the story: relationships are about trust and respect, taking care of each other, having each other's back and not giving up on one another. The way Dean sees it he's the dark Knight, the one who turned on Cas, just kept piling shit upon shit on their relationship whilst Cas weathered the storm, refusing to give up. Refusing to accept that cheating, homophobic ass is who Dean was. And yeah, Cas eventually snapped, but even after that he never left Dean alone to flounder in the cold; he gave as much as he was willing to ensure Dean came out the other side with at least some chance of bettering himself.
How could I screw this up so bad.
***
Slouching his way downstairs Dean finds Cas in the kitchen, elbows deep in dish soap and their dirty bowls. “You erm...” He scratches at the back of his neck, nervous energy sizzling beneath his skin. “You want me to do that?”
“No,” Cas grits.
“Okay. Yeah. Course.” The sizzle in Dean's veins is rising to a boil, making him fidget anxiously because he wants (read: needs) to know what he's done wrong so he can fix it. Every time he opens his mouth it just flaps in the breeze uselessly though, breaths coming in expectant inhales and defeated exhales. “I better go.”
“Dean.”
He's halfway to the front door, making plans to call his sponsor when Cas' ominous growl of his name stops him in his tracks.
“We need to talk.”
Well this isn't gonna be good. No conversation that started with Cas using that tone of voice was ever good.
Resigned to whatever it is Cas is about to say Dean braces himself, pulls on every ounce of strength he has because he cannot let this break him. He cannot prove every doubting fucker in his life right by backsliding.
“Dean this has to stop.” Disregarding the washing-up Cas turns his back on the sink, leaning against the countertop with hands braced against the lip. “I can't keep watching Jack get his hopes up only for them to shatter. It isn't fair.”
Wait, what the hell is Cas saying? That he wants Dean out of their life for good! The old Dean would be yelling these thoughts Cas' way, but new Dean rides it out because Cas has his reasons, of that Dean's sure, and if he keeps this civil he may be able to turn Cas around on this.
Of course, he's forgotten to factor in the way Cas reads him like a titty mag. “I'm not taking Jack away from you. That isn't what this is about.”
“Then what is it about Cas?” If Dean's voice is low with a heady concoction of anger, fear and confusion that's his own business.
Head turned sideways, gaze skimming the floor pensively, Cas thinks his words through carefully before responding. “Dean I've moved on. I know that's not easy for you, but it's a matter of fact.”
“You're happy,” Dean spits petulantly, can't not when his thoughts turn to Cas and Bartholomew tangled together in the sheets Dean picked out. “I know.”
“No,” Cas tilts his head sympathetically. “I don't think you do.” He pauses for a beat, gaze roving the kitchen before finally coming back to his cheating husband. “Bart's a good man Dean, sees me as someone worth parading in front of his friends.”
“You fucking serious Cas!?” And Dean doesn't mean to say it so blunt, so harsh, but he's juggling a lot of emotions right now. “That all you think you're worth!? Some fucking trophy-wife-arm-candy for the dick to brag about!?”
The look in Cas' eyes is vicious. “So when you introduced me as a friend to your co-workers after three years of sleeping in my bed that was you sparing me an indignity!?” His chest is heaving, face pulled incredulously taut and voice a menacing question Dean cowers in the face of. “Refusing to even touch me during our first dance was you being proud of marrying me!?”
“Cas...” Dean falters, fight gone, realising his error far too late 'cause no, Cas wasn't saying he thinks being a trophy-wife-arm-candy is all he's worth. He was simply pointing out that unlike Dean, Bartholomew is actually proud to have Cas by his side, wants everyone to know the fucking jackpot he just hit.
“You were the one who made me feel worthless Dean. Now I've found someone that makes me feel wanted, loves me, dick and all!” Ouch. “And yes Dean, I am happy, but more than that I'm in love-” The words die on Cas' tongue like he never meant to say them, trying to catch himself before he shatters Dean completely but it's too late.
The world is crumbling at Dean's feet, ground lurching and heaving in sickening rolls that send him dizzy, have his mind replaying Cas' words over and over until he repeats them like a death echo, “You love him?”
“Yuh-” Cas bites back a sob, swallows, gathers his composure because emotions are weird fucking things and clearly this is hurting Cas to say as much as it's hurting Dean to hear. “Yes,” he manages shakily, then again, “Yes,” weight returning to his voice. “I love him Dean. So I need you to stop. Stop turning up at my door like the world's ending because I'm out with the flu. Stop fussing over me like you didn't piss that right away on booze and bitches.” Head tilting again, eyes rimmed in unshed tears, his voice cracks down the middle when he adds, “Stop looking at me like you love me.”
A heaving sob overtakes Dean so sudden and violent he's reaching for the kitchen island; one hand braced against it as the other shields his eyes 'cause fuck! That's what's making this so hard for Cas? Him seeing love he doesn't doubt in Dean's eyes for the first time! How fucking shit of a person do you have to be to push someone to that point? Dean never knew, guesses he always thought deep down, somewhere, Cas knew he loved him. Apparently not, apparently Dean's love was the hopeful tune Cas' heart would play, skipping on repeat, worn thin until he just couldn't take it anymore.
“I never meant-” Dean chokes, tears streaming down his cheeks, salty, bitter taste of them on his lips. “Cas I- I never meant to hurt you. I know I don't deserve it but I'm begging you,” Dean lays himself bare, as vulnerable as he's ever let himself be with the man he'd rather die than live without. “Please... You have to believe me, I never meant for any of this.”
Cas' straight-lipped smile is watery and shaking, eyes holding disbelief. “I wish I could. But I wasted so much time believing in you Dean that I- I- …” Sniffing back the heartache and pain Cas flicks his tear-stained eyes to the ceiling, voice low and numb when he says, “I lost my self-respect.”
“Cas...”
“So please, Dean – if you really mean what you're saying – let me go.”
Cas please... Don't ask me to do this. Not this.
“This isn't healthy for either of us.”
Dean isn't sure how he gets in his car, doesn't crash and burn on the way home. All he knows is he left Cas with a defeated nod and now he's curled up on his bed, crying hysterically down the phone to an AA sponsor earning all their fucking stripes tonight!