Chapter Text
The garage smelled like oil and old leather, the kind of scent Dean used to love. Now it sat heavy in his lungs, sharp enough to make him feel like an intruder.
He stood stiff just inside the wide bay doors, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched against the cold that clung to him even indoors.
Eight years.
Eight long years since he’d stepped foot in a place like this.
Eight goddamn years since the sound of wrenches clattering and engines coughing to life had been part of his world. He should’ve felt at home. Instead, it felt like walking into someone else’s life.
Sam was a constant at his side, tall and solid, as if just being there could somehow buffer Dean from the stares, from the weight pressing in on him. He was talking to Bobby now, voice calm and steady, trying to bridge the silence Dean hadn’t figured out how to cross.
Bobby Singer hadn’t changed much. A little grayer in the beard, but still red, a little more stooped in the shoulders, but his eyes were the same—sharp and kind beneath the brim of his worn trucker cap. He gave Dean a long look when they first came in, a look that saw too much, but when his gaze softened, Dean had to look away.
“Been a long time,” Bobby said, his voice roughened by years and cigarettes.
“Years,” Dean muttered, not looking at him, the words scraping out like gravel.
Bobby nodded slowly, like he understood everything Dean wasn’t saying. “World kept turning,” he said. “But not so much it can’t make room for you again.”
Dean shifted his weight, uncomfortable under the weight of that kind of generosity. He mumbled something that might’ve been thanks but kept his eyes on the concrete floor.
A burst of laughter drew his attention. Off to the side, near the workbench, a couple of Bobby’s guys were leaning against a car hood, talking. Dean’s stomach tightened when recognition hit. Benny Lafitte. Garth Fitzgerald IV. His old friends from high school.
Grade school memories stirred—muddy sneakers, scraped knees, sneaking smokes behind the bleachers. They had all been kids then, boys who thought the world was theirs. Now they were men with grease-stained hands and easy laughter, while Dean felt like a ghost standing in the doorway.
As if sensing the weight of his stare, Garth looked up first. His smile was hesitant, soft, but genuine. Benny followed, dark eyes flicking toward Dean before his mouth curved in something small, something almost careful.
Dean’s throat tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that—being seen without judgment, just remembered. He shifted his gaze quickly, shoulders hunching deeper as if to hide the sting behind his ribs.
Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder, grounding, steady. “Dean’s looking for work,” he said, glancing at Bobby. “Something to keep him busy. Something he’s good at.”
Bobby grunted, scratching at his beard, eyes narrowing on Dean like he was measuring both the man in front of him and the boy he used to know. “Good at, huh? Last I remember, you could tear an engine down blindfolded.”
Dean finally lifted his eyes, his mouth quirking faintly though it didn’t reach his eyes.
Bobby didn’t say more right away. He just studied Dean, long and hard, the way only Bobby Singer could—like he was stripping away the years, peeling back the armor, trying to find the kid who used to spend summers in his shop with grease up to his elbows.
Dean shifted under the weight of it, his hands still shoved deep in his coat pockets. He wasn’t that kid anymore. He wasn’t sure he was anybody anymore.
Sam cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “He’s serious about this, Bobby. He wants to work. Needs to.”
Bobby’s eyes flicked to Sam, then back to Dean. “I don’t doubt that. Question is whether you still got it in you. Eight years is a long damn time.”
Dean’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t forget.” He puffed his chest out.
Off to the side, Benny and Garth had quieted, their conversation fading into something more cautious. Dean felt their eyes on him, like spotlights he couldn’t step out from under. Garth offered another quick smile, a little braver this time, like he wanted Dean to know he wasn’t unwelcome. Benny’s gaze lingered longer, steadier, carrying something Dean couldn’t quite name—respect, maybe. Or pity. Dean wasn’t sure which was worse. But, Benny smiled at him, warmly.
He looked away, shoulders hitching. “You want me to prove it?” he asked, his voice lower now, rough.
Bobby’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Damn right, I do.” He jerked his head toward the Chevy up on the lift, its hood propped open. “That Impala’s been rattling like an old man’s cough. Figure you can start there. Then we can talk.”
The words landed heavy in Dean’s chest. The Impala. It wasn’t his—but it was close enough. Engines were engines. Familiar ground. A battlefield he knew how to fight on.
Sam’s hand brushed Dean’s shoulder again, a silent nudge. You can do this.
Dean drew a breath, pulled his hands from his pockets, and stepped forward. The smell of oil and rust grew stronger as he approached the car, tools gleaming faintly on the workbench beside it. For a moment, he just stood there, staring down into the nest of wires and metal like it might bite him.
Then his fingers reached out, tracing over the engine block, the cool steel grounding him in a way nothing else had since stepping out of prison.
“Alright,” Dean muttered, rolling his shoulders back. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Bobby’s arms crossed over his chest as he watched. “Show me you still remember, boy.”
Dean picked up a wrench. The weight was right. Solid. Familiar. He tightened his grip, swallowed the lump in his throat, and leaned into the engine.
Dean’s hands moved slow at first, deliberate, reacquainting himself with the rhythm of tools against steel. The wrench fit snug in his grip, the bolts loosening with a satisfying crack as he leaned into the engine. Muscle memory stirred, shaky at first, then steadier, the way riding a bike feels awkward until the balance clicks back into place.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered under his breath as he adjusted a line, wiping grease across his knuckles. “You’ve been rattling ‘cause someone didn’t tighten you down right, huh?” His voice took on a faint trace of warmth—talking to the car like it could hear him, like he used to do with Baby back when the world made sense.
Behind him, Bobby had drifted closer to Sam, his eyes narrowing not at Dean, but in a way that looked more like approval than suspicion. Benny and Garth wandered over too, curiosity tugging them away from their half-finished jokes.
“How’s he handling it? Being out.” Benny asked Sam in a low voice, Cajun drawl even softer than usual. His eyes stayed on Dean, though his words aimed squarely at Sam.
Sam hesitated. His jaw worked as though he wanted to keep the truth to himself, but the weight of Benny’s stare pressed it out of him anyway. “It’s… rough,” Sam admitted. “He doesn’t sleep much, wakes up screaming from nightmares. Gets jumpy. Some days it feels like he’s right back in that cell.”
Garth winced, his lanky frame shifting uncomfortably. “Man. Eight years’ll do that to a person.” His voice dropped, almost guilty. “Feels wrong, doesn’t it? Seeing him out here but still carrying it all in his eyes.”
The group fell quiet, their gazes drifting back to Dean.
He hadn’t noticed the attention. He was too deep under the hood, half his torso swallowed by the engine, one foot barely on the ground as he twisted into a better angle. From behind, he looked less like a man fixing a car and more like someone determined to crawl inside it, as if the machine could swallow him whole and keep him safe.
The sight cracked the tension. Garth let out a low chuckle that slipped into a laugh, shaking his head. “Still the same Dean,” he said, grinning. “Goes all in or not at all.”
Dean’s muffled voice drifted back, sharp with annoyance but softened by the hum of concentration. “I heard that, Garth.”
Benny’s lips tugged into the smallest smile, his arms crossed as he leaned against the workbench. “Good to know prison didn’t knock the grease monkey out of him.”
Bobby snorted into his beard, though his eyes stayed fixed on Dean, a flicker of pride cutting through the gruffness.
Sam exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.
Dean tugged one last bolt, gave it a twist, and the rattle eased into silence, the engine settling with a low, steady purr. He pulled himself back with a grunt, wiping the sweat and grease from his brow with the sleeve of his flannel.
“Fixed,” he said simply, though his chest swelled with something sharp and unsteady that he refused to call relief.
Bobby’s mouth curved into something between a smirk and a smile. “Guess you didn’t forget after all.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but there was a faint flicker of warmth behind it, the kind that had been missing from his face for far too long.
***
Across town, after his morning ritual, Castiel sat at his desk, the pale blue glow of the computer screen washing his face in tired light. His fingers moved lazily across the keyboard, filling in lines of a document that didn’t matter, words blurring into numbers and numbers into static. The office was quiet except for the hum of the radiator and the occasional shuffle of footsteps in the hall.
Bleak walls. A desk too clean. A window that looked out over nothing but gray. His office had the sterile order of a man who needed control, but not the heart of someone who wanted to live. Everyone who passed by glanced in through the glass door—quick, darting looks—but no one lingered. No one ever came in. He was a ghost even here, moving through the motions of a job that expected silence from him and received it without fail.
Except when Meg decided otherwise.
The door swung open without a knock. He didn’t need to look up to know it was her—the click of her combat boots, the sharp scent of her perfume, the way she carried herself like rules were things meant for other people, than herself.
“Your office is depressing as hell,” she announced, plopping down into the chair across from his desk, her coat slipping off her shoulders in a careless heap.
Castiel didn’t stop typing, though the corner of his mouth twitched in something dangerously close to amusement. “Good morning, Meg.”
“Morning?” She snorted. “It’s nearly noon. You’ve probably been in here since sunrise, brooding like Batman.” She leaned forward, peering at the document on his screen. “And what’s this? Riveting stuff. Truly thrilling. No wonder you look like you want to throw yourself out that window.”
He exhaled slowly, lowering his hands from the keyboard. “It’s work.”
“It’s boring,” Meg shot back, stretching her legs out so her boots tapped against the front of his desk. “You need a hobby. Or, I don’t know, a pulse.”
Finally, Castiel lifted his eyes to hers. Meg’s gaze was sharp, mischievous, but beneath it there was something else—concern she’d never admit to out loud. She was the only one who ever walked into his office without hesitation, the only one who dared break through the quiet, through his comfort zone. Though he never understood why. Or How.
“Why are you here?” he asked, though his tone was softer than the words.
“Because I like watching you squirm,” she said with a grin. “And because someone has to remind you that you’re alive, Novak. Lord knows you won’t remember on your own.”
Castiel’s lips pressed into a faint line. “I’m not squirming.”
Meg arched a brow. “You’re always squirming. Just in that quiet, repressed way that makes people wonder if you’ve ever actually had fun in your life.”
“I have had fun,” Castiel said evenly.
She grinned like a cat with cream. “Name one time.”
He hesitated. The corner of his mouth tugged downward, but there was the smallest flicker of something in his eyes—memory, warmth, grief, all twisted together. “College,” he said finally, thought it came out as a question, like he even didn’t believe the answer.
Meg cackled, the sound far too loud for the somber little office. “College? That’s the best you’ve got? Please tell me there was at least alcohol involved.”
“There was chess,” Castiel deadpanned.
Meg dropped her head back and groaned. “God, you’re hopeless.”
The playful rhythm hung between them for a moment, filling the air in a way that almost felt alive. But Meg was never one to leave things in the shallow end. She leaned forward again, her grin softening into something sharper, more direct as she looked at the gold band on his finger.
“It’s been eight years, Cas.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Castiel’s jaw tightened, his hands curling loosely against the desk.
“Eight years since Hannah passed,” Meg pressed, her voice steady but not unkind. “And you’re still sitting in here, hiding behind screens and files and God knows what else. You think that’s what she wanted for you?”
Castiel’s eyes flicked up, sharp at first, but they faltered when they met hers. Longing cracked through the surface. He reached forward and, with a deliberate motion, turned the monitor away—blocking out the half-finished document so he could see her clearly.
Meg. His unceremoniously right best friend. The only one who could kick down the walls he built around himself and still have the gall to sit there with her boots on his desk like she owned the damn place.
“She wanted me to live,” Castiel said finally, his voice low, roughened. “But I don’t know how to do that without her.”
For once, Meg didn’t tease. She didn’t grin or laugh or poke the wound harder. She just sat there, her gaze steady, her presence loud in the silence that followed.
Meg tilted her head, studying him like she was trying to see through all the cracks he’d carefully hidden. Her voice softened—not sharp, not mocking this time. “Maybe that’s the problem, Cas. You don’t even give yourself a chance. You keep circling this same grief like it’s all you’ve got left. But you’re still here. You’re still breathing. Don’t you think Hannah would’ve wanted more than this,” she gestured all of him vaguely, “for you?”
Castiel’s gaze fell to the faint steam curling off his untouched tea. “More?” he echoed.
Meg shrugged, her tone deceptively light, but her eyes steady. “Someone to talk to. To laugh with. Hell, maybe even to love again. You can’t keep punishing yourself forever. It’s not survival. It’s just existing. And that’s not enough.”
The silence stretched, heavy, until Castiel finally lifted his eyes to hers. His voice was even, but quiet—like admitting the words cost him something. “I don’t find anybody attractive. Not since her. And I don’t need anyone.”
Meg leaned back, arms folded, her expression unreadable for a long moment. Then she sighed and let it go, though not without a look that promised she wasn’t finished.
The office grew quiet again. Snow tapped softly at the window.
***
Across town, Dean sat out back on a bench behind Bobby’s garage, his shoulders hunched against the cold. The snow had thinned into a steady flurry, dusting the concrete, catching in his hair. He thumbed a lighter open and closed until the metal grew warm in his palm, then flicked it once more and sparked a flame.
The cigarette lit with a soft crackle. Dean drew in deep, lungs filling with smoke that burned sharp in his chest, and exhaled slowly. The white plume drifted into the winter air, mingling with his breath until it disappeared. He closed his eyes, savoring the silence, the way the nicotine steadied his frayed edges, even if only for a moment.
The door creaked open behind him. Footsteps—two sets—crunched lightly over the snow-dusted pavement. Dean didn’t need to look to know who it was. He could feel their hesitation in the air, like static.
Benny and Garth.
They came around the corner, hands shoved deep in their jackets, their laughter from earlier muted into something uncertain now. Dean’s eyes flicked up briefly as they slowed near him, not close enough to crowd, but close enough to make the distance obvious.
Dean took another drag, held it, then let it out in a long stream. “I’m not gonna bite you,” he muttered, voice low, rough with smoke.
That broke the tension. Garth cracked a grin, awkward but genuine, and Benny’s mouth curved faintly, the edge of his Cajun drawl slipping in when he finally answered.
“Good to know,” Benny said, settling against the wall nearby. “Though I remember you had a mean right hook back in the day.”
Dean huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “Back in the day.” His gaze dropped to the cigarette, ember glowing in the dim light. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”
Garth lowered himself onto the bench at the far end, leaving space between them. “Maybe it was. But you’re here now, right? That counts for something.”
Dean didn’t answer right away. He just smoked, the weight of eight years pressing in with every breath.
Benny shifted his weight against the wall, crossing his arms. “You remember Coach Roman? Used to make us run laps even when the field was iced over.”
Dean smirked faintly around his cigarette. “Yeah. Bastard probably got a kick out of watching us slip.”
Garth laughed, his long legs sprawled out as he sat further down the bench. “Remember the time you dared me to lick the goal post? Tongue stuck fast. Thought I was gonna die right there on the fifty-yard line.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. “I remember. You cried like a baby.”
“Damn right I did,” Garth said cheerfully. “It hurt like hell!”
For a moment, the laughter eased something tight in Dean’s chest. He could almost see it—the field lights cutting through falling snow, the echo of kids’ voices carrying across the night. Back when life was simpler. Back when he hadn’t lost nearly a decade to four walls and locked doors.
But then Benny’s voice slid in, quieter, careful. “Hard to believe it’s been eight years.” His eyes flicked toward Dean. “Hell of a stretch. Must’ve been… rough.”
Dean froze, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. Garth shifted awkwardly, glancing at Benny like he wasn’t sure that was the right play, but he didn’t stop him.
He should have.
Dean’s chest tightened. The warmth drained out of the moment, replaced by something sharp, needling under his skin. Possessive. Almost instinctive. He didn’t like the way their voices softened, didn’t like the way their eyes lingered on him—not with pity, not with curiosity. Like they were—
“You fishing?” Dean’s voice came low, gravel-edged. “That what this is? Trying to find information so you got something to talk about.”
Benny lifted his palms slightly, placating. “No, brother. Just… wondering how you’re holding up. That’s all.”
Dean flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the snow, the ember hissing out. His jaw worked as he stood abruptly, shoving his hands back into his coat pockets.
“I’m holding up just fine,” he muttered, the words clipped.
Garth opened his mouth to answer, but Dean was already moving. He pushed past the corner of the garage and back inside, his boots heavy against the concrete. Bobby glanced up from his desk, eyebrows raised at the storm brewing in Dean’s face, but Dean didn’t stop. He strode right past him, past the hum of engines, past the warmth of voices, and shoved out the front door.
The cold air slapped him fresh, biting his skin as he pulled his coat tighter. His anger simmered beneath the surface—at Benny, at Garth, at himself. At the way they tried to bridge the gap with old memories, only to edge toward the years he wanted buried.
He walked fast, not caring about the snow soaking into his boots, not caring where he was headed—only that he needed distance, space to breathe. His breath fogged in the air, sharp and ragged.
***
Castiel tugged his coat tighter as he stepped out of the office building. The sky was fading into steel-blue dusk, the sharp edge of cold biting at his cheeks. The snow had stopped sometime in the late afternoon, but the air was still bitter enough that most of his colleagues had accepted rides home from family or friends.
He had declined, as he always did—softly, politely, but firmly. He preferred to walk. The distance wasn’t far, and there was a clarity in the rhythm of his boots striking pavement, in the way the cold air filled his lungs until it ached.
The city around him was winding down, neon signs buzzing to life against the gray, shop windows reflecting pale halos of streetlights. His scarf pulled tight against his neck, almost choking, Castiel walked with steady purpose, his thoughts quiet, his mind fixed on the ritual of the evening.
Every week, he stopped at the church first, before work or after work, sometimes both. Every week, he lit his candles before walking over to Jimmy’s for dinner. Amelia would be there, Claire too, chatter filling the house in a way that always made him feel like both an outsider and a participant at once. He told himself it was enough.
What felt like hours later, though only a fraction had passed, he climbed the stone steps of the church. The lamps flanking the doors flickered weakly, halos of light barely cutting through the early dark. Castiel pushed one of the heavy wooden doors open, the stained-glass panes glimmering faintly as the hinges groaned.
The hush inside greeted him like always—solemn, cold, familiar. He stepped across the threshold, the smell of old wood and candle wax wrapping around him.
But his steps faltered.
There was someone sitting in his pew.
A man hunched forward, elbows braced against his knees, hands buried in his hair. His shoulders trembled faintly as he muttered something under his breath—words Castiel couldn’t yet make out. The low, raw sound carried across the empty nave like a secret not meant to be heard.
Castiel froze just inside the doorway, his breath visible in the chill, his heart thudding once, hard.
For the first time in eight years, the silence of the church felt alive.