(I'm fixing a hole)
Dying felt so familiar. So exhausting.
After killing, it was probably the thing he'd done most. In hell, his body broke and bled and screamed to a tortured stop every day—sometimes every hour—for thirty years. But the rack wasn't where it started or where it ended. He remembered the splash of water right before the taser hum; a flash of headlights and the crunch of Baby's doors. He remembered the stroke of midnight and the rake of claws at the center of his chest; red light and the deep bite of his own Blade turned against him.
It hadn't felt so different from whatever the hell was skewering him now. There was a shard of something in his heart again. One more agony in a long line.
He'd woken up after every death so far, gotten back on his feet. Brushed the memories off like bad dreams, or pretended to. Like bad dreams, they weren't so easy to outrun, but you know what they say: you gotta keep moving.
He was done moving for now. Maybe for good. Right at this moment, he was too tired to feel much of anything; might as well count that as ‘peace.’ Sam was here. Sam was crying, and he didn't want that, not ever. But there was nothing to be done about it anymore; everything was out of his hands. And he was selfish enough to find a small, traitorous relief in that.
His eyesight narrowed as darkness crept in from the edges, but he still flinched when the lights flashed overhead, raining sparks. The barn doors came open in a rush of wind and—God, that sound, it was like wings. It'd been so long since he'd heard it. Sam's hand tightened in his. He was yelling over his shoulder.
Dean's breath was wheezing, his shirt sticking wetly to his back, and then everything stopped because Cas was in front of him. Black shadows painted themselves across the wall behind him; familiar shapes drawn starkly in the flickering light. A jolt of happiness cut through Dean's chest. Cas looked angry, horrified.
Alive.
Neither of them said a word; Dean too weak, Cas too scared. But his hand lifted toward Dean's face. Looked like life was gonna be rolling weighted dice in his favor one more time.
Cas touched him. Nothing happened.
He was too tired to think, too woozy to work out what was—oh, right. They'd probably have to move him before real healing could start. He was still impaled on something. But they had a patchwork ritual for this, an order of operations. Ever since his brush with humanity, Cas understood how suffering worked inside a body far better than he used to. These days, no matter the injury, Cas reached for the pain first—snapped it like a twig and dropped it underfoot before sparing attention to anything else.
This pain didn't shift, didn't give. It rested heavy between Dean's ribs, blood-soaked and almost finished with him.
"I'm so sorry," Jack's voice whispered, unexpected and close. "I'm not sure what to do."
Dean's coordination was shot; he couldn't turn to look, not even his head. But he could sense time slowing down, freezing solid as it warped around the immense, unassuming presence stepping up beside him.
"Jack," Sam croaked, his voice hoarse and uncertain. The mixture of wariness and hope in his eyes was hard to face.
"Sam," Jack acknowledged sadly, sweetly. He stepped forward, crossing into Dean's sight, and turned to press a hand to his arm. "Dean." The kid seemed shaken, every move a mixture of gentleness and hesitance, his touch almost a flinch.
"Son," Cas said softly. They were all huddled around Dean. Cas's face was drawn and desperate, but trust was still evident and unbroken underneath. "Why are you doing this? I know you don't want to interfere. No one's asking you to heal him yourself. But why won't you let me?"
"It's part of the changes I've been making." Jack's tone stayed level, but his feet shuffled uneasily. "I didn't have a chance to show you yet. But I've stopped allowing angels to tap into the power of Heaven in the old way—for miracles, I mean. Healing, torture, time travel, invisibility, illusions, the erasure of memory...it's all just interference, one way or another. Rewriting human bodies and minds and histories for our own ends. I've put a stop to it."
"Jack." Sam was shaking, but words started to flow out of him as earnestly as ever. "Pulling back from intervention—I understand where you're coming from. I really do," he said. "I believe in the dignity of choice. I see the integrity in letting lives end naturally. This isn't the first time I've thought it through; it's been on my mind for years. And if it were me who'd gotten hurt tonight, I honestly think I'd be ready to accept everything you're saying for myself.
But Dean's my brother. He's your family. He's given so much, and the whole time he's been toyed with by petty gods. He just got his life back; he deserves another chance.
It was a mistake to keep hunting, I get that now. And leaving us to suffer for our own mistakes might be fair, but Jack, it's also cruel. Doesn't he deserve a little better than that from you? If you make one last exception for him, it's not like it'll harm anyone—we're not talking about a trade or a deal. No one else has to burn for him to live. If you can't extend a little mercy, even to save the people you love, then what point is there in power?"
"If power is just an excuse to play favorites, then what point is there in God?" Jack countered quietly. "Yes, I could heal Dean. I could also have stopped Caroline from accidentally killing herself running a red light in Minneapolis ten minutes ago. Globally, I could have stopped six hundred and forty-six people from drowning yesterday. But should I? For everyone, endlessly? Or only for a few? And if the answer’s yes for Dean and no for others, when they ask me why, what answer can I give?
I don't want to let this happen. Letting this happen is the last thing I would have chosen to do. But the fact is, the choice wasn't mine. You did keep hunting. And I'm not sure it was a mistake. He risked his life—you both risked your lives—to save two children tonight. And they were saved. They would have died, and now they'll live. The choice that brought you here wasn't meaningless, and the consequences weren't all tragic. How can I respect this choice, or any choice, every choice, without letting the consequences stand?
I'm not sure that I’m in the right, but...this feels important. I think it's time for me to love everyone, not just my family. It's time for choices to be real, to begin and end with the people who make them, and not with me." His gaze slipped back to Dean, searching and anxious. "I hate this. But can you, can you understand?"
Dean couldn't speak; he was barely breathing. He suspected whatever trick Jack was pulling with time was the only reason he was still conscious. But he didn't need his voice to pray. And seeing Cas and Sam both safe, both whole, with lives in front of them—that was it, that was all he'd ever needed. Jack had done enough. Yeah, he managed. Yeah, fair. Did what I did, an' it's done. Not a bad way to go. 'M okay with it.
"No," Cas said.
'S okay, Cas.
"I said no."
"Castiel..." Jack wavered as Cas turned to him and placed both hands on his shoulders. Other people, anguish twisted and narrowed them, but for Cas it'd always done the opposite—his face was brimming open. Jack seemed to shrink in on himself, eyes dropping to the scattered straw at their feet. The fight seeped out of him in one long breath. "Don't hate me, please. I can't bear that, I can't. If you won't be able to forgive me for this, then I will break my own rules. I'll do whatever you tell me to do." He grabbed the edge of Cas's coat sleeve, clinging with the tips of his fingers. "If that makes me unworthy of my power, then so be it."
Cas shook his head, reaching out to run a hand over his hair. Pride and regret flitted across his face, each in its turn overwhelmed by tenderness. "Oh Jack, no. You have such a good heart. I have to do right by Dean, but I owe the same to you, too. And you don’t owe it to me to sacrifice your own judgment. I'd never ask you for blind obedience. But my choices are my own, and I can still fight this. I'm an angel, with or without Heaven behind me." He stepped back, straightening to his full height. "I love you. I always will, for all time and with no conditions. But here and now, for him, I will defy you."
He spoke with calm conviction, formal as a prayer. "I defy you."
Jack's gentle gasp spoke more of revelation than betrayal. "Of course." Tears sprung to his eyes; but it was relief, not grief, shining through there. "Oh, I should have known. I am still God, and you are still Castiel. The rules are mine to set and yours to break. I could never change you; I never would. Defy me. Defy me. I love you."
He swung back toward Dean, his eyes wide and guileless. "I'm so glad, Dean. You're going to be all right."
Without even a rustle of displaced air, he vanished. The bubble of stasis around them burst and time came roaring back, biting down viciously on the last of Dean's strength.
Sam was calling out to Cas, confused and panicked. Their exchange was nothing but a jumble of noise; Dean was fading too fast to make sense of anything. Sam had one of Dean's hands clutched tight, and Cas took the other. Words floated by, detached from meaning ("...don't need to heal, just hold. Any vessel..."). And then there was nothing left but the world dissolving and his name sounding faintly in the dark.
"Dean? Dean! Will you let me in? Dean, say yes. Say yes to me."
Cas was here. Cas was calling, waiting, wanting him.
"Yes," Dean mouthed with what felt like his last breath.
Then light; just light.
(I'm filling the cracks that ran through the door, and kept my mind from wandering where it will go)
When he came to, he was in the Bunker sitting upright at the kitchen table. No pain, no weakness, no hole piercing through his back, and not even the pull of stitches where the entry wound should have been. There was a gentle sizzle sounding from the stovetop where something was simmering; probably taco meat. The scent of cumin, beef, and onion tickled his nose. An old-fashioned motel television, powered off but complete with clunky hand dials and rabbit ear antennae, was out of place on the countertop.
Cas sat catty-corner to him, nearly brushing elbows, washed out under the overhead lights with concern deepening the purple, bruised tinge beneath his eyes. His hair was loose, a little long. His shoulders slouched, and his hands stayed folded on the table as if it were important to keep them where Dean could see. He stared silently into Dean's face.
For the first time since the Empty came, they were back within each other's reach with breath to speak and time enough to say more than goodbye. God help them.
Dean held Cas's eyes. He saw stress there, gratitude, relief; love, undeniable and therefore undenied, but contained and held back like a promise. Like his hands on the table, unthreatening, in clear view but kept to himself.
I have to tell you more important, more immediate things, but Dean, first this. First this. If nothing else, let me make this easy for you, he didn't quite say. Dean discovered the words in his own thoughts, less like a conversation than like knowledge waiting to be called to mind. It was tempting to dismiss it as imagination or hallucination. But there was something about this room. Some foreign sense of feeling shuddered here, swirling in Dean's brain like dust in sunlight, and Cas was holding too still.
All you have to do is know, his stillness said. The only thing that’s changed is that I’ve said it and you’ve heard it. Just know me now, don't be afraid to see this in me. I promise you, we'll be all right. I'll never make you say a word. You're not going to have to tell me no, or that you can't, or that you don't. I only want to be honest; to be close and comfortable as we are. And if I am yours in a different way than you are mine, it doesn't matter. We can still be at home with each other. You're going to live, Dean. All I really need is a place in that life, and it'll be enough. More than enough.
The emotion underneath the words—a hope so determined and nervous and vast it weighted the air like a springtime storm—roiled off of Cas and into Dean. He could feel it sink straight through him, curling warm under his breastbone and welling in his throat. Dean's own feelings, unbalanced by the intrusion, refused to smooth themselves out in turn.
There was no merging here, no melding. Cas was brightness and wind and devotion, but Dean could only recognize the spike of his own joy by its barbs. Nothing of his had ever worked right, and half the time happiness felt as incoherent and desperate as anger ever had. With him, everything native ran ragged and overgrown; even love, even the wonder left behind as grief ripped up its tangled roots all at once. Add in whatever transference Cas was working, and it felt like someone had shoved two hearts in his chest. He keeled half over, overwhelmed. His forearms pressed hard to the tabletop, fists clenching involuntarily.
"Dean!" It was the first thing Cas had said aloud. "Dammit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." That visiting hope, that second heart, gave out. All the blanketing feelings that didn't belong to him faded to a sudden hush. Then came a hint of vertigo, a muffled sensation of withdrawal; Cas's chair creaked as he shifted and started to rise.
Dean lunged.
Cas gasped, lurching back down as Dean's weight hit and dragged. They both tilted too hard into the edge of the table, the corner digging into their ribs as Dean pulled close. He unconsciously brought up one knee to kneel across the seat of his chair, leaving him awkwardly crouched with his chin at the level of Cas's mouth. Without thought or pause, he mashed a kindergarten kiss to Cas's cheek, then another to his temple. His breath stirred the dark hair there, a few strands catching on his lips. He turned his head, cheek pressing where his mouth had been.
"C'mere," he said under his breath. "C'mere, don't move. Don't go." He laughed wetly, very quiet. "Stay a while." He grasped at the nape of Cas's neck, the back of his coat.
"Dean," Cas said. He'd been returning the embrace from the moment Dean touched him, his shoulders warm under the crook of Dean's elbows and his own arms looped around Dean's back. Dean seemed to have shocked the anxiety out of him. He was tilting his head up, wide-eyed and confused, but luminous. "I'm so happy. So happy to see you."
Dean's mouth ticked up. "Ditto." He shook his head, rueful, but he could see from Cas's face that he didn't need to find more words or better ones. Somehow, they were all right already.
One of these days he was gonna have to take account of himself—open his heart's untidy ledger and reckon with the scribbles, blots, and blanks, the miscalculations and the places where his father's hand still overwrote his own. But he wasn't gonna have to balance the books and produce a tally before close of business. Cas wasn’t asking him for that. It was enough that some kind of love was running both ways between them: honest and serious, old and affectionate, welcome and safe. Dean didn't have to know for sure what his side of it was all about. He didn't have to line it up, precise, alongside Cas's.
Maybe someday they'd find out they fit just right, like to like, but maybe not. Two loves were still two loves, though. And both would always be worth something; worth everything, even if they never matched. They had time to find out, at least. Much more time than he'd expected.
"I'm so f*cking glad you're alive," he said, cementing his reputation for eloquence.
Amusem*nt made Cas's nose crinkle and his eyes crease; it changed the whole shape of his face. "In the words of an old friend"—he paused for emphasis—"...ditto."
Dean snorted. "Shut up."
"No. Be nice."
"Yeah, OK." They hadn't let go of each other yet. Feeling this good was probably an invitation to disaster, but hey, the future wasn't real as long as he refused to think about it. Besides, there was already plenty to think through today, starting with the obvious. "So, you and me are matryoshka dolling?" At Cas's blank stare, he rephrased: "Me vessel, you Jane?"
Withdrawing gently from Cas's arms, he dropped back into his (fake) chair in their (fake) kitchen, and frowned at the (fake) stove. "What kind of clambake are you running here, anyway, leaving food unattended like that in my brain?"
Cas blinked slowly and somehow reproachfully. "I'm possessing you, yes, of course, and the tacos won't burn. Not in here. They're just for ambiance."
"Really? Smoke alarm ambiance?"
Cas rolled his eyes with his whole head; Dean had missed that so bad. "You find the smell of food comforting," Cas explained in a put-upon tone. "I thought it might help in the event that returning to awareness triggered a panic."
Before Dean could take offense, Cas sighed. "I've never doubted your strength, Dean. But Michael left scars, we both know that. And besides, you were barely conscious when you invited me in; you hardly knew what you were doing. We had no other choice, and this isn't an apology. I only did this to you because it was necessary. But neither am I blind to the fact that I've overstepped a lot of boundaries, and at a time when the prospect of intimacy with me in particular might seem more fraught than it would have before."
Dean drew in a sharp breath, a little blindsided. But he shook his head immediately, instinctively. "You don't gotta worry about that, Cas. Come on, I'm not gonna treat you like I'm scared to catch your cooties."
"I...am not sure precisely what that means, but I believe I am getting the gist." Cas touched Dean’s forearm in a brief, grateful press. "There's still so much I have to tell you." He let out a breath, marshaling his thoughts. “Where to begin? I am not healing you. I can't."
"Yeah, I remember. New rules. Kid's trying to even the board, treat everyone the same. Recuse himself from the cases that touch him too personally, like a good judge, and make sure Heaven can't dip into its old bag of tricks. I got no bone to pick with that, except that his timing's kinda hilarious," Dean said.
"I tend to agree." Cas gave a weary half-shrug. "In any case, while changing his angels' access to power, he did not rewrite our fundamental nature. He didn’t remove our capacity to inhabit vessels and maintain them. And when I say 'maintain,' I mean it literally. I can hold the state of your body steady and unchanging from the moment I inhabit it; I can prevent further deterioration, but I cannot repair. As long as I am here with you, your body won't need to breathe, or eat, or drink, or sleep in order to preserve itself. But I can't make it better, either; I can't make it able to perform those functions on its own without me. We'll have to rely on human medicine for that."
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"Meaning that at this moment, you're in surgery."
Dean flinched and couldn't quite stop himself from craning his head around like a prize idiot, as if doctors and scalpels were about to emerge in jump-scares from the walls. Rationally, he understood that Cas must be keeping him too far under to experience anything of the outside world. But that in itself was unnerving.
Cas seemed to intuit as much and gestured around them at the kitchen walls. "I haven't built this place as a prison for you, obviously. It's not even meant as a distraction, the way Michael's bar was. For now, it can serve as a place of refuge while your doctors do the work I can't: suturing your wound, replacing your blood loss, and keeping you intubated until you're strong enough to breathe on your own. But Dean, this will be a long recovery. Though I hope you won't be in critical condition for long, you must understand that without supernatural assistance, it will take your body months to heal from a wound this severe.
I will need to stay here with you while that happens, so that if something goes wrong or you take a downturn, I can keep you alive and moving long enough to get you back to a hospital. I can ensure that no sudden setback will be able to kill you, and that's what I’m going to do. That is," he hesitated, "that's what I intend to do, unless you come to find my presence intolerable."
"Never gonna happen. What do you take me for, Cas? What more do you need to hear? Having you close ain't a problem. Period."
"Closeness is one thing, but possession is extreme by any measure. No one would blame you for finding it inherently distressing. You will need privacy, and I built this place to give you that. When we are here together, you may sometimes experience the kind of overlap between my consciousness and yours that unsettled you a few moments ago, and for that I’m sorry. But most of the time, its purpose will be to contain me, submerge me, and keep the lines of separation sharp.
As long as you are conscious and stable, I will stay here. I will be blind to your daily life and deaf to your thoughts and feelings, just as you will be to mine. There will be no intrusion unless calamity strikes. If you want to contact me, you can use this." He pointed to the creaky old television set. "It can work for two-way communication and will allow me brief glimpses outside, which can serve as check-ins. You can visit me whenever you like, but I will not come out unless you call. We'll have to see what your doctors say, but if they give you a clean bill of health a few months down the road, then I will leave you in peace and take back my own vessel." He lifted his hands, palm out, in a helpless gesture. "It's the best I can do. I never wanted to intrude, but I am done with leaving your life to chance. I know it's far from ideal, but is this...could this be acceptable to you?"
“No, not remotely,” Dean said, but caught hold of Cas’s shoulders before his words could land like a blow. “Hey, hey,” he insisted, “listen to me: I don’t want you to build yourself a jail. I don’t want you to cram yourself in a box because you’re scared I’ll panic if you breathe on my feelings wrong. I know you’re tying yourself in knots to protect me here, but that’s not what I need from you.
If you’re gonna be here, then go on and be here with me. It’s breaking my heart that you think I don’t want to talk to you, or feel you, or know you better. I just got you back, don’t you get it? I don’t want you out of sight or out of mind. Look, if our positions were reversed, wouldn’t you make me welcome? Couldn’t you trust me? I know you would, without a second thought. I love you, man, but you’re always in such a damn rush to give your all that you never leave me a chance to offer anything back. And if you know me half as well as you think, you’ve gotta know when I can’t give back, it kills me. Let’s, let’s share something for once. Will you do that?”
Cas held still under his hands, absolutely speechless. But Dean felt the kick of a second heart crowding his again, louder than before. It was over-intense and painfully close and out of control, but not unwanted. And there at the back of his brain, in the undercurrent of his thoughts where a beat of not good enough had kept steady tempo for years, a new bassline, melodic and warm, began to run.
So good, so good, how can he be so good? So good to me.
Dean had to speak a little too loud to cover it. Some thoughts you gotta drown out, or else you'll hang too hard on 'em. "So, the surgeons are gonna be finishing up soon, right?"
Cas stared, four seconds, five, then seemed to recenter. "Yes."
"OK. So, from now on, we're in this together. We wake up together. Capisce?"
"Yes, Dean," he said. And for a moment, he forgot to keep the light in his eyes to himself. "Capisce."
(I'm taking the time for a number of things that weren't important yesterday)
When they came to, they were flat on their stomach with one hand attached to a morphine drip, no ambience save the scent of antiseptic. Definite pain, definite weakness, and a very definite hole piercing through their back, the entry wound pulling at their stitches whenever they moved.
So yeah, the hospital sucked. But Cas stayed with him as promised. And Sam was there when they woke up, practically glued to the bedside. Eileen, too, for moral support (more Sam's than theirs, but Dean liked her all the better for that.)
He got the ball rolling by complimenting Sam on looking fresh as a desiccated corn husk the day after Halloween. Sam said, "Make that a month after Halloween, and you'll get an idea of the look you're serving."
Cas took up Dean's hands to have a separate conversation with Eileen. That was a bit weird at first, but totally worth it when Cas laughed. He didn't use Dean's throat or mouth. Instead, laughter thrummed deep in their chest while he lifted their hands, thumbs sticking out to make two Ls, and circled the corners of Dean's mouth.
Dean's lips may have parted slightly, nearly catching the pad of Cas's—no, of his own fingers. Hard to say, he wasn't paying close attention.
Anyhow, the physical therapy was hell on earth, and the hospital food made him want to fling himself from a tall tower. On the other hand, having a minimum of two nurses attending for every bodily function did kind of take the sting out of Cas coming along for the same ride. Once Dean was able to stay upright long enough to hit the head, though, he started muttering, "Avert your eyes," and trusted Cas to make that happen in whatever metaphysical sense it needed to.
He was glad he managed to shoo him off for the humdrum daily embarrassments, but he couldn't get the guy to opt out of the pain. Dean tried. His doctors took him off the good drugs sooner than they should have (opioid epidemic and all). When he was nauseous over the razor line cutting through his back, he tried to wave Cas off. It didn't help anything for both of them to feel it. It's not like they could each take half. Cas just felt all that Dean felt; they overlapped, double the fun. Dean gritted his teeth and dealt, but he kept insisting Cas tap out until Cas's limited patience cracked and he snapped, Stop being a dumbass.
"Yeah? Am I annoying you? Stop being a martyr yourself, then," Dean grunted, watching a thin line of sweat roll slowly down their shaking arm. "You sticking around for this part solves literally nothing. You get that, right? It's pointless."
No. I can't stop the pain. But I can stop you being alone with it. And I will.
"Dammit," Dean muttered. "Dammit, damn."
To sum up, they got through it. There were even some unexpected perks of such an equalized possession that were halfway interesting. Cas could taste food, or at least share in Dean's tasting it, same difference. "Once we blow this popsicle stand," Dean said, jiggling his sad square of lime jello, "I'm gonna cook you the best dinner of your life."
That’s a comfort. Do you think this gelatin 'dessert' could be the work of Satan?
"Nah, pure '50s Americana, buddy. We did this to ourselves."
And it wasn't just senses, emotions, and words that flowed back and forth: memories joined the tango, too. Dean could always tell which were Cas's by the hyper-focused detail. Angelic memories weren't tied to the data limits of human brains, so they held onto everything like fancy honking celestial IMAX cameras. When Dean remembered some conversation they'd had years ago, it was the normal kind of approximation where he could paraphrase some key things said, tell you if there'd been rain or sun, maybe grasp a general image of how Cas had looked in the moment. Meanwhile, Cas could still count the raindrops on the driver's side window, still see the tiny shadows on Dean's face as his eyelashes caught the light.
It was kind of funny seeing himself through Cas’s eyes, but honestly, not as freaky as he might have expected. Sure, the fact that Cas had perfect recall and instant replay on every stupid thing that'd ever come out of his mouth was not ideal. But Dean had been prepared for something a little more…acid rock? Psychedelic? Far out? He’d kind of figured he wouldn't be getting out of this without staring down the gullet of his own soul. And it's not that he'd wanted to look at that mess on the regular, but just once might have been cool. Just to know.
Turned out, though, that 'seeing' souls was a matter of multi-dimensional fusion, and Cas couldn't plug Dean's eyes into that. It'd be like trying to teach his ears to taste or his nose to hear.
"OK. But what's it look like, anyhow?" he asked Cas. "My soul?" It was late, very late, on their last night at the hospital. The headache radiating back-to-front across his skull was screaming at him to bust out, get drunk, just move. But going home felt like starting the timer back up on figuring out his life, and he wasn't ready for that either. So he brought it up because he could, and he was curious. Maybe you could call it fishing for compliments, too; so sue him.
He'd had a rotten day, but Cas thought he was beautiful. They were living in each other’s thoughts, there was no hiding that. Whatever Cas saw in his soul, Dean was betting it'd be just a bit poetic. Stars, fireworks, snow on a mountainside; vague grandeur, the type of stuff somebody might print for a calendar.
But Cas was lost for words. He did his best to find Dean an answer; focused for sincere, silent minutes on crafting some apt description or honest comparison. Dean felt him shiver—a tiny, charged, silvery thing. But in the end, a little helpless, he only said:
It looks like you.
**
It was a relief to get home to the Bunker, even if his only immediate goal was to climb back into his own bed. Miracle jumped all over them like Christmas had come early, chasing her tail with puppyish glee and accidentally launching half their blankets off the bed. Cas was very charmed to meet her. Late at night, though, once she fell asleep, it was so much darker and quieter than the hospital had been. There was no silence to compare to the silence of living underground. Cas had a rough time with that—Dean should have expected it, after the Empty.
Given half a chance, Cas would've isolated himself to spare Dean the bleed-through. But Dean was having none of it. "Turnabout's fair play," he said. "I'm not leaving you alone with this, either." So, they turned on a light and stayed up late banging mental pot lids. Dean got "Walk Like an Egyptian" stuck in their head. Cas retaliated with "Satisfied" from Hamilton, which led to Rent. Dean tried to course correct back to Zepp, and then, in a desperate plea for compromise, Taylor. But Cas steamrolled them mercilessly down the Sondheim rabbit hole because he was, at heart, a musical theater snob, not to mention a bit of a bastard. After that there was no escape.
Man, “Move On” was still a great song, though.
Sam looked like he was gearing up to have the 'never again' conversation when it came to hunting, but their first few days home, that got deferred in favor of a Nightmare on Elm Street marathon. (The first one would always be the best, but there was something to be said for letting Freddy get funnier.) They could have settled for popcorn, the way they usually did on movie nights. But Cas could taste the food now, so Dean went all out and made tacos and fajitas with all the fixings while Eileen worked her black magic on tall Texas margaritas. They knocked Cas into next week, and it was the best thing ever.
I never knew orange juice held such power, Cas signed solemnly. Dean borrowed his hands back to sneak Miracle half a taco.
Sam's laugh hadn't changed since he was twelve. Between having Dean back home safe—Cas, too—and Eileen teasing him with her little sideways smirk, he was rapidly becoming a giant golden retriever of a man. Adrenaline lit him up in weird, tiny, happy half-bursts as he simultaneously signed (badly) and yelled (loudly) at the screen. He knew all the cheesiest lines by heart and timed them perfectly, just like Dean had taught him in a hundred late-night motels. He was an unabashed disaster, and that was the best thing ever, too.
As a joke, Eileen had bought a party pack of 100 plaid-patterned napkins, and when Dean started ripping them up into little confetti squares, she got in on the action. They stuck in Sam's hair like a perfect, staticky dream. In the tragic counteroffensive, they all got absolutely coated in the stuff. At that point, no dignity left to lose, they decided to take selfies.
Lifting up his phone with Eileen lolling goofily next to him and Sam sitting cross-legged on the floor with the dog in his lap— Retreiver4Retriever —Dean wished for a second there were a way to catch Cas on camera, too. This was their family, and Cas was here—right here at the heart of it. His love, his contentment, his sense of belonging had threaded through Dean's, as simple and sweet as a pair of clasped hands, turning a good night golden. "Stay with me now," Dean said softly before he moved his thumb to click. "Why don'tcha come on and say cheese, sunshine?"
And with a gentle slip of warmth, Cas did—Dean's head tilted, his eyes squinted and crinkled with curious joy, and he felt his mouth pull into the shape of Cas's smile.
Dean hit the camera icon again and again. This was too good to miss.
It wasn't every day he got to look at himself and see, so easily, someone he loved.
**
Dean hadn't been wrong about the invisible timer starting up again once they got settled—he could feel a reproving tick-tock every time he left his half-hearted, half-finished job application untouched on the bedside table. His eyes tried to skip over it when he walked in and out of the bedroom. In the end, that's what caught Cas's notice.
What's this, Dean?
Cas had walked the two of them over and picked up the papers before Dean could think of a dodge. Dean felt the brush of pleased surprise as Cas realized what he was holding, then a harmless tinge of puzzlement as Cas noticed the date Dean had filled in up top, now nearly two months outdated. Still, a life-threatening injury and subsequent hospital stay were pretty good excuses for dragging his feet. Cas didn't seem to find it all that strange. He only said, You were thinking about getting a regular job, even before the accident? That's wonderful, Dean. Caliber Collision would be lucky to have you. You've always been a gifted mechanic.
Dean sighed. "Yeah, not really."
On a normal day that would have been enough to start an argument. But in their current state, Cas could feel the melancholy and anxiety that had somehow gotten wrapped up in those pages. So he didn't press. They both knew Dean would double-down if he felt cornered.
Dean felt the moment Cas decided to share something of himself, instead. A peace offering, an invitation to common ground. Proof that it was safe to open up. Well, when I was human, when I had to find a job…, Cas began.
An acid splash of Dean's old guilt ate abruptly through them both, so blistering and unlooked-for that Cas broke off with the kind of small, pained sound a man makes when he's sucker-punched. And, God, Dean didn't want Cas to know this about him, especially not from the inside: how endlessly he agonized over mistakes long forgiven. You'd think he could get over himself. You'd think when he got let off the hook, he could just be grateful and take the win, but no. He'd been a screw-up since literal childhood, it shouldn't still be like getting dragged over hot coals every time he got reminded of an item on the highlight reel.
He tried to cover, push past with something stupid and loud. "Come on, Cas," he said. "I think I can do a little better than a friggin' gas station." It was supposed to sound jokey but came out sounding mean, and f*ck, he was a jackass.
Shut up, shut up, he aimed the words at his own brain like an open-handed slap. Shut up, shut—
Something moved in his head. He had the impression of Cas catching hold, shutting down that trajectory just as handily he could have stopped a real slap; an easy block, like a turn of his wrist. There was the light tremor of some mild, internal ricochet, and then Dean felt a wash of familiarity from Cas: simple recognition.
I'm the same way, Cas said. Dean blinked, badly off-balance. Far easier to interrupt those kinds of thoughts in someone other than yourself, it seems, he added. I suppose that's no surprise. Maybe you can return the favor next time.
When I had to find a job... he picked back up, and whoa, they weren't gonna stop and poke at it? They were just rolling on to the next thing, okay. ...I didn't have documents or a 'job history.' So, I only had a chance at the sorts of places that wouldn't check. I had to learn by trial and error what sorts of places those were. Dean caught a few flashes of pristine memory: Cas getting tossed out of a car wash, a bank, a jewelry store, a Domino's Pizza. But the lady behind the desk at the library had been kind. She'd never gotten back to him about his application, but she let him stay all day, comfortable in the cozy study space and happy to use a nicer restroom than the bushes off the road. After he fell asleep with his head on a table, he'd woken up to find a Diet co*ke and three granola bars sitting next to him without explanation. They'd had little chocolate chips in them.
By the time I applied at the Gas-N-Sip, I didn't think I could get anything so good. But then I did. And I was so pleased, because gas stations were one of the human things I knew best. And I liked getting to be part of something important again.
Dean stifled every thought coming out of the gate without even checking it first, because he point-blank refused to be a jerk about this again. But a trace of skepticism must have slipped past anyhow, because Cas sent back a peevish blast of impatience strong enough to take over Dean's eyebrows. He could feel them rising on his own forehead.
You're telling me, Cas said, incredulous, that you don't think being able to drive is important?
And, well, when he put it like that.
I helped people get where they needed to go, he said. I gave them gas. I gave them coffee and food when they were starving late at night but couldn't afford to stop long. I sold cheap cold medicine, and condoms, and hand sanitizer, and every bit of it protected them from disease. I ran the horrible blue slushy machine that made kids happy. They looked forward to it after school. We never ran out of Mrs. Baird's 99¢ apple pie. I thought of you; I couldn't help it. I must have imagined a hundred times how glad you'd be when you stopped someday, by chance, and found me there with everything you wanted.
Cas's tone was affectionate, amused; this glance backward at himself was fond, for once. Clearly I still had 'a lot to unpack,' as they say. But it made for a lovely daydream. And I still think it was a good job.
"Yeah, Cas," Dean managed, his throat a little tight. "Sounds like."
For just a moment, Dean looked back, too. He didn't have the same clarity of memory or feeling as Cas did. But he could still see himself, a little younger, staring through that gas station window. He'd been fiddling with his phone, too nervous to walk in yet. Cas had been standing behind the register, handing someone a bag. Earnest eyes, little blue vest, awkward helpfulness, wounded heart: all there, by chance, for him.
Dean never had figured out everything he wanted, never really came close. But he was at least a little closer today than he'd been back then. A little readier to ask; a little less afraid to know. That ought to count for something.
"Let's go for a walk," he said with sudden resolve. A bit of sun, a bit of air. The chance to hone in on some smaller, safer questions about what he was looking for. Job talk didn't seem so daunting now. And they could take Miracle along; she'd love it.
It was almost spring, but still cold out. Dean used to power through like he didn't mind; he'd just wear the same jacket no matter the weather. But Cas could feel the way his hands twinged and the throb started in his trick knee when the wind chill picked up, so there was no point pretending. He grabbed his scarf and gloves on their way up the stairs. Mrs. Butters had knit them for Christmas. They had trains, little powder-puff clouds rising out of the smokestacks.
Once they got outside, grass crunched underfoot, brown and dead. Ah, the glories of the tail end of winter in the Midwest. Miracle took off like a shot across the empty lot towards the edge of the woods. They didn't jog after her, just trailed along. She'd circle back; she loved their attention too much to wander far. And they had to stay in recovery mode, taking it easy on Dean's heart, lungs, circulation, the whole shebang.
"So, that's problem number one right there." Dean figured by now Cas could handle jumping in alongside him mid-thought. "A mechanic's gotta be ready for manual labor. We're talking heavy lifting, long hours on my feet or on my back, bending and twisting, hammering out dents, changing out blown tires on the roadside in the rain—you know, high glamor." Dean shrugged. "I don't know if that's me anymore. I definitely can't handle it right now. And I'm not under Chuck's spotlight anymore, so I can't count on shaking age and injury off the way I used to. We'll have to wait and see. And then you gotta be certified, which I'm not, and have references, which I don't. Bobby's been gone a long time; my dad, too. Those were the guys I learned from, but they can't speak for me."
You've thought a lot about this, Cas said. But surely the most important criteria for any job is simply whether you can do the work, and do it well? As long as you can, I feel there must be someone out there who'd give you a chance, if you wanted one.
"That's the thing, Cas," Dean admitted, "I'm not sure I do."
All right, he said. Dean was a little surprised not to be facing more of a fight. You're listening to yourself, which is usually wise. May I ask, why doesn't it feel right?
"It's just..." Dean fought to give his doubts some coherence. "I love Baby 'cause she's Baby; she's beautiful, and she's home. When cars like her are busted up, it feels great to put them right. And once I've fixed her, I get the reward—I get to drive her. But a job like this, a real job in the real world," he shook his head, "it'd be mostly maintenance on a parade of soulless, half-plastic SUVs. And that's after I went back to school for a couple years to learn all the electronics. Modern cars are half computers. I'd be fixing motion sensors all day.
I picked up the application because in the back of my head, when I thought about normal life, the only jobs I could ever imagine were 'bartender' or 'mechanic.' But is that really what I want, or is it just...?" He grit his teeth and forced out the worst of it. "Sometimes I don't know if those dreams are coming from me, and they're so bare-bones because I never believed in them enough. Or...what if they were Chuck's ideas? What if he sketched them into me because he wanted clear markers to make me different from Sam, but just didn't bother adding much detail? Like, I'm the macho one who's not too bright, so I like booze and cars, and in the slot where my daydreams go, he stamps 'barkeep' and 'mechanic.' Simple, right? Easy to keep straight, nothing that'll get in the way of his stories. I just. I hate thinking that way. But I can't help it. I'm having this, like, gut-level suspicion of any type of job where I look at it and go, 'Oh, yeah, that sounds like me.'" He scrubbed their hand through his hair, then rubbed the heel of it against his eye. "I dunno, man. You should probably just tell me to stop overthinking it."
Not at all, Cas said softly. Not at all. And then, Here comes Miracle. Play with her for a minute, Dean, and let me think on what you've said.
"Sure thing." That fluffball was rapidly becoming a mudball, but a very zippy one, full of joie de vivre. Dean started a game of fetch, but the little twigs he found lying around weren't really big enough for more than one round each. She kept snapping them in her excitement.
For what it's worth, Cas said eventually, I think you're asking the right questions. It's not always easy to differentiate what you've been expected to do or like from what you've actually done and liked. Especially if you're a person who's very attuned to expectations. And you are, Dean; you've had to be. You were always keeping an eye on Sam, on your father. It was important for you to anticipate what they'd think, what they'd need. You calibrated yourself by their lights and learned to steer between. And of course, all your life Chuck was there, too, constructing mazes and traps, lining up events to make you run deeper into trouble; getting addicted to the ways you surprised him as you fought your way out.
You were given a set of limits, stringent limits. You didn't expect to grow old, barely expected to grow up. But even so, you found ways to make yourself happy with what you had. You're much better at that, I think, than Sam and me. This is just to say: there are many things you can be sure of regarding your skills and gifts, your tastes and pleasures, and I would hate for you to doubt your own real feelings and experiences. Though you were at the center of manipulation, your history was still your own, and nothing can take it from you.
But now, you don't have to rule anything out by default the way you used to. There are so many options for work, for life, that you could never consider before. So, consider them now. I think your instincts are right, as usual—don't apply for one of the only two jobs that could have fit in your old life. Not before going out there and finding out what else there is.
He was probably right—Dean didn't know how to handle this much freedom. He was freezing up. He knew who he was as a hunter, the highs and terrible lows, and he'd made his peace with it. But outside that life—terra incognita. He needed to fill in more of the map before he could feel confident picking a road forward.
Still, he wouldn't be a Winchester if he didn't try and poke holes in pretty dreams. "Don't think too many people out there are gonna hire me to 'find myself,' Cas."
You don't need anyone to hire you. At least, not anytime soon. The Bunker is full of valuables, some of them perfectly harmless. You could sell some of the antique weapons, the ones without magic or curses; or the antique furniture, if you prefer. And then again, you have a garage full of vintage vehicles that you've kept in excellent condition. Depending on how many you're willing to part with, you could fund yourself for years, if you wished. Why not travel, learn, volunteer? Get some experience—you're such a giving person, Dean. Give something of yourself in a different way than before, and see what comes back to you.
"God, Cas," Dean said, a little bit swept up. "You make it sound so good. So easy."
It won't always be easy, I'm sure. That's not how life tends to work. But good—yes, that I believe. Good for you.
"Let’s do something together," Dean jumped in, rolling with it. "Let's start while you're here with me. We could find something to do, someplace to volunteer. Not too far away to start with—I still gotta do all my follow-ups at the hospital—but we could get out of our own backyard, at least, and try something new."
That sounds wonderful, Dean. But are you sure?
"You bet. If you’re in, I'm in."
All right, then. I am in. For once, Cas's happiness flowed across Dean's without any friction. No barbs today; they just matched.
"So, any ideas on where to go, what to try?"
Oh, no. Not at all. My plan was to put Sam on the computer and make him tell us who is looking for help and why.
"Oh, definitely, we’re throwing this one in Sam's lap. But I was asking more, like, should we try and think of things we're good at, outside of hunting, to sort of guide the search?"
Cas pondered this briefly. I am good at throwing knives.
"M'kay," Dean nodded, unfazed. "If Sam comes up with a volunteer traveling circus, that'll be top of our list. All right, my turn. Uh...I like cooking? But more for, you know, small groups. I'm not sure how I'd do in a big kitchen. But a soup kitchen or something, that might be a possibility."
That seems an excellent idea. I’m afraid most of my skills, such as they are, are soldierly. But looking beyond that for a moment, perhaps my languages might be of use?
"Meaning what, exactly?"
I am fluent in all human tongues, contemporary and historical. Perhaps such a skill might lend itself to work with immigrants?
"Cas, yes, that's perfect! Holy crap, hang your hat on that, we're definitely doing it. Okay, we’ve got your side figured out. Help me think for a minute of other stuff I'm good at."
You're good with people, Cas said, and animals. You know how to make them feel safe and welcome.
Dean ducked his head. "Yeah, thanks."
You like music.
"Yep."
You’re a fast learner. An excellent driver...
"Sure."
...and proficient at first aid. You’re good at working with your hands in general.
"Mm, that’s what they all say." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, just because it'd be fun to experience Cas's full-body eye roll for himself. But no such luck. Of course, Dean, Cas said easily. I'm sure you're very skilled. It was the telepathic equivalent of a golf clap. Dean busted out laughing.
"Fine, be that way," he groused, delighted, and stopped for a minute to rustle aside a pile of leaves to grab another throwing stick for Miracle.
They spent the rest of the afternoon playing outside, just the three of them. And within a week, Sam had pointed Dean and Cas toward Kansas City, where the Janssen Place Cultural Center was looking for volunteers to help prepare for their grand opening.
Dean started to sing under his breath before they hit the highway, and they both watched the sun rising, pink and soft, out on the wide horizon.
(And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong, I'm right where I belong. I'm right where I belong)
It was only a three-hour drive from Lebanon to Kansas City, but Dean pulled off the highway in Riley to stop by a Shell station. He locked the lever on the nozzle and left the gas to pump while he ducked inside to browse the snack aisle. "You ever had an Oatmeal Cream Pie?" he asked Cas, who shook their head curiously. "Oh buddy," Dean grinned, and grabbed three.
The golden oldies station had started out a bit staticky, but the signal cleared up quickly as they drove. "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?" Dean crowed, crumpling their last plastic wrapper. This song was so cornball he was embarrassed to like it, but he always had. There was something relatable in the joke of old age, how quaint and fairy-tale it seemed. He'd never really been close to anyone who lived to sixty-four. Bobby had gotten within spitting distance; he'd been sixty-one. Dad had checked out at forty. If nothing went wrong with this whole possession recovery plan, Dean would outlive him by the end of the year. Wild.
So he bopped his head while Paul made a candy castle of it all, mundane and impossible. "Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear," Dean warbled, and Cas swooped in for the back-up, purely mental but surprisingly on key: "We shall scrimp and sa-a-a-ave, sa-a-a-ave!" Dean started laughing so hard he almost missed the next verse about grandkids, but managed to get out, "Vera, NOT Chuck, and Dave," lightly hitting the horn for the boop boop, boo-doo-doo-doos.
He loved road trips.
When they came up on the exits for Kansas City, he passed them one by one, heading for the Missouri state line. Dean? Cas finally spoke up once they passed the border. Where are we going?
"Not far," Dean said. "Independence is just a hop, skip, and a jump from KC. I got a room booked for us there."
Cas blinked their eyes, surprised. When did you manage that?
"Never you mind," Dean said breezily. So what if it hadn't exactly been a glamorous strategy? Dean had wanted to surprise him, and when you're sharing a body, that's not easy to arrange. But Cas averted his incorporeal eyes when Dean was on the john, so Dean had brought his cell phone along and taken care of business. He'd gotten them a B&B instead of a crummy motel. Something expensive and indulgent, the type of place he wasn't used to considering. But with Cas riding shotgun, there wasn't any difference between treating himself and treating him—and Dean wanted to.
At five to eleven, they pulled up to the Woodstock Inn Bed & Breakfast. 'Woodstock' or not, the style here was a lot closer to The Hamptons than to Hendrix—the place consisted of a sprawling old mansion lovingly converted into a tourist trap, complete with kitschy 'themed' rooms. Dean may or may not have booked the French Chateau Spa Suite while resolutely ignoring all its honeymoon marketing. The point was, it came with a jacuzzi tub. And you could order an honest-to-god chocolate fondue platter with strawberries and pound cake to dip.
When Cas had been human, he'd had to scrounge most of his food at work: that meant overcooked hot dogs and nachos that, after eight hours on display, went down half-soggy, half-stale. His idea of luxury was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Dean was on a holy mission to educate his palate, and it started here.
They picked up their key from a woman around Dean's age who delivered her well-rehearsed welcoming speech with genuine warmth. Dean could tell she was an actual people person; she'd have to be to stay sane working in hospitality. Her name was Jess, but he refused to regard that as an omen. Jessica was a common name. There was a nervous, hair-trigger piece of Dean's hindbrain still on constant lookout for patterns and coincidences; that's what happens when you live your life inside someone else's horror story. It was gonna take a lot of getting used to, this new world of chance and choices where foreshadowing just didn't have a place anymore.
It turned out he'd booked the biggest suite in the place. Their white four-poster bed was set under a skylight with paintings of tulips on either side. An embroidered bathrobe hung on the bathroom door, and there was a separate TV nook with a roomy couch perfect for energetic sex (mazel tov, honeymooners). It was all pretty nice, as long as he fought the ingrained instinct to burn the sachets of lavender perched tastefully on the end tables. Sachets of anything gave him hex bag flashbacks.
They dumped their duffel and drove over to A Little BBQ Joint for lunch. It was an old-fashioned hole in the wall with an awning out front made out of the sheared-off top of a school bus. Cas was reluctantly fascinated. Inside, the walls were covered in quasi-vintage schlock with the smell of brisket wafting out from the open kitchen. Dean knew he was in love as soon as he took his first bite of bacon dipped in Sweet Sister barbeque sauce. It deserved its own Lyle Lovett song. They lingered over their meal, feeling like they were getting away with something. Dean ordered a couple extra sides just for the fun of teaching Cas the difference between Kraft and real mac & cheese, and they took turns demolishing a corn on the cob row by row.
After lunch, they stopped by the Cultural Center so Dean could introduce himself to Phuong Le, the volunteer coordinator. This close to the grand opening, her office was in organized chaos as construction workers, stained glass artists, cooks, photographers, and community members of all ages and backgrounds circled through with their questions, schedules, and donations. A fair number were wearing colorfully splotched aprons—most of the different rooms had painting still in progress.
"Ms. Le, I'm Dean Winchester, we emailed last week," he said, offering his hand.
"Dean, great to meet you. I'm Phuong," she said, returning a quick, friendly shake. "You're the language savant, right?"
"I guess you could say that," he agreed, a bit awkward. "But really, I can pitch in wherever you need me—I can paint, or shelve books, or help out in the cooking classroom. I'm up for anything, just gotta be a little careful about heavy lifting. Bad back, you know." He shrugged one shoulder, hoping his vibes were matching 'normal forty-year-old' and not 'hospital escapee.'
"Oh, I'm sure we'll call on you for all those things, and probably ten more you haven't thought of yet, while you're here. We appreciate it when folks can pitch in on the fly as things come up." She led them out of her office at a brisk walk. "But I'd like to start you on outreach. We want to visit more neighborhoods and get the word out, make sure everyone knows they're welcome. We've got flyers printed out in Spanish, Mandarin, Hindi, Vietnamese, and Filipino. You can grab a few piles up here, hang on."
They passed through the lobby, elegant with its curling Moorish arches, the main entryway framed by spectacular trees carved in stone with leaves of stained glass—Cas could hardly take their eyes off it. They trooped up the blue-carpeted riverine staircase and took a sharp left into a combination mailroom and printing center. "I'm betting you won't have a problem with Spanish," she said, starting to sort papers into their hands, "but what would you say your proficiency is with these others?"
I can translate anything you hear or read, Dean. And if you allow me to control our voice, I can frame your replies fluently, Cas said.
"High," Dean answered. "Across the board, my proficiency's high."
Phuong raised an eyebrow, switching to Vietnamese. "I assume you won't mind, then, if we finish our conversation this way?"
"Of course not. No problem," he thought, and Cas used their voice to answer, easy and natural. It was like having his own personal TARDIS. God, he missed Charlie. She’d have loved this.
"Terrific," Phuong said. "I don't know how much you've read about our particular center, but the idea behind it is basically to build bridges. An overused phrase, perhaps, but we’re serious about it. For some families, especially those newly arrived, the primary concern is to get up to speed in English for themselves and their kids—they see it as the key to employment, education, opportunity, acceptance, everything. And let's face it, in America, that's pretty much how it works. But other families are at a point where they're realizing their kids are losing their native language and culture; we see multi-generational households where the oldest and youngest members can barely speak to each other.
The point of this place is to bridge that gap: people can come here to learn English whether they're in elementary school or in their nineties. But we've also got books, movies, music, and gatherings held in every language we can manage. We're setting up a recording studio for multilingual podcasts and music, a cooking classroom where we'll have as many cuisines taught as we can find teachers, craft groups, photography classes and cameras that can be checked out for local projects and documentaries. We're here because families shouldn't have to choose between one identity and another. These people are starting out with more than one world open to them, and we want to keep those doors open."
"That's amazing," Dean said. "Seriously, I'm grateful for a chance to see all this and be a small part of it."
"We're grateful you're here! Thanks for listening to my spiel, sorry if it sounds like a brochure. I've just spent so much time fundraising for this place, I feel like the 'project narrative' is ingrained in my bones at this point. To take a step back for a second, though, this is gonna sound random, but how's your driving?" Phuong asked.
Dean blinked at her, then bit his lip to keep from laughing.
And that's how they wound up in charge of the bookmobile. It was a beautiful little bus, dark green with striped gold awnings for the fold out display windows. Its drop-down steps led to the brightly carpeted interior where rows of painted bookshelves carried poetry, fiction, popular science, newspapers and magazines. Some of the books were in English, and some were formatted for side-by-side translation, but most were in scripts and tongues entirely foreign to Dean. Thanks to Cas, though, he could read them if he chose. Before he'd even gotten behind the wheel, Dean privately christened the van 'LeVar.' It deserved the compliment.
They drove out to Overland Park, Dean handling each wide turn with care, and parked near the international market. Phuong had told them it was a good community hang-out spot in one of the neighborhoods with the largest Indian presence in KC.
They searched through their shelves for Devanagari script and foregrounded their Hindi volumes in the window display. About a dozen shoppers—mostly women—stopped by to browse and take flyers. Some had kids with them, some were coming off a long hospital shift or on their way back to work in the nearby banks or shopping centers after a late lunch. Most were as fluent in English as Hindi—some more so—and one young couple chatted to Cas in Telugu. Grace, a doctor, was working on learning Spanish—so many of her patients were Spanish-speakers these days.
In quiet moments between visitors, Dean browsed the shelves for himself. Feeling a bit self-conscious, he picked up a poetry anthology in English titled Americans' Favorite Poems. It proved to be true to its name—above every poem, there was a short note from someone who’d written in to explain why it meant something to them. A few of them were teachers, but this stuff got sent from mechanics and cooks and kids and janitors and computer programmers, too. There were three volumes all done in the same style, and Dean dipped in and out, grinning to himself over some of the notes. "I like this poem because I have no idea what it means," one said, and Dean got a kick out of that.
It kind of took the pressure off, in a good way. With poems, he'd always felt like if he couldn't figure out what they meant, he was losing a game that smarter people could win. A lot of school had already left him feeling like that. But this kind of thing, writing that he got to discover on his own and take or leave with no consequences—that'd always been a lot more fun. Poems were just another kind of song—when you found one that spoke to you, there was nothing else like it.
He skimmed through dozens of nice but not earth-shattering pages before stumbling across one that landed a direct hit. He read:
The Apple
You visit me inside the apple.
Together we can hear the knife
paring around and around us, carefully,
so the peel won’t tear.
You speak to me. I trust your voice
because it has lumps of hard pain in it
the way real honey
has lumps of wax from the honeycomb.
I touch your lips with my fingers:
that too is a prophetic gesture.
And your lips are red, the way a burnt field
is black.
It’s all true.
You visit me inside the apple
and you’ll stay with me inside the apple
until the knife finishes its work.
He could feel Cas echoing the original Hebrew back to him in a soft undertone, its cadence thrumming at the back of their mind. And the thing put words to his own sick sense of being born into a messed-up world with sadism hovering at the edges, the slow peeling of skin from flesh by an unseen, unhurried hand. It made Dean think of the rack. It made him think of Chuck and the little smile he wore when he found something more to take away.
But more than anything, it made him think of Cas, and he felt almost sorry for that. He deserved a better love poem than this, much better. But this one was for him, whether he liked it or not. It was about the needy, guilty dependency Dean saw in himself: the relief of not being alone while the world unwound. The terrible gratitude of a trapped person who's found someone willing to visit, again and again, until it starts to seem possible they'll stay. The touch of fingers to lips (keep this quiet), red lips, bloody lips? Yearning for something outside the narrowing circle of his life, hemmed in for fear of pain, true as scorched earth.
It was bleak and adoring, and it was awful that the most romantic Dean could honestly get was to say, "This reminds me of you. I'm sorry."
Don't be sorry, Cas said, tender as a bruise. It's an honor. There are a hundred poems that remind me of you. You wouldn't like them all, but they're yours, regardless.
"Yeah?" Dean asked. "Tell me. Tell me one of yours, a poem I wouldn't like. But you can't help that it belongs to me."
There was a long hesitation, a tense silence in his head. Then...
That kiss I failed to give you, Cas whispered, and Dean couldn't stop the harsh, startled gasp that shook them both. How can you forgive me? / The kiss I would have spent on you is still / There, within me. It will probably die there. / But it will be the last of me to die.
"f*ck," Dean covered his mouth, "we can't do this here; too much, too much."
I know. I know, I'm sorry.
"I asked for it," Dean murmured, swiping at his eyes and praying no one would come over in their direction for a minute. "But sometimes I'm clearly an idiot. Ignore me at those times, 'K?"
Yes, Dean, Cas murmured, chastened. Dean hated it, but the conversation had to stop there.
**
The inn was quiet when they got back. Or maybe Dean was just noticing the quiet more because it stretched between them, too. It wasn't a strained silence. Awkward, yeah, but that was nothing new. Cas was alien and uncomfortably direct, ungovernable and sometimes devastating, the odd man out in almost any company. Stand him next to Dean—jokey and sensitive-sharp, his 'regular guy' schtick at the ready, one of the most hardwired self-camouflagers in the continental forty-eight—and of course the vibes were gonna get weird. They were a mismatched set. So what? It'd never mattered.
The important thing was, despite the quiet, neither of them were angry, or ashamed, or even sad. It was more like...being mutually aware that if something delicate was gonna have any chance to grow between them, they were gonna have to give it space to breathe. They'd only set themselves back if they prodded too hard or examined themselves too constantly. Dean didn't know much, but he did know that if he turned falling in love with Cas into his job, he'd ruin everything.
He wanted it to happen so bad, hated that he was still stuck in uncertainty when Cas was so sure, so committed. It made him feel like a grade-A dick not to be able to give him a full return on everything immediately. Every instinct was rushing him, insisting on making sure Cas got everything he wanted and more. Apart from Sam, there was no one on earth whose happiness Dean rated higher. But whatever reinvention the two of them were moving towards, it had to come naturally. This wasn't a poker game, and he couldn't just shove his heart all in without knowing the strength of his hand. That'd be no better than a bluff, and Cas was so true. Dean had to answer him in kind, or not at all.
The difference between loving someone and being in love with them was maddeningly hard to pin down. No matter how much he wanted to, he wasn't gonna figure it out tonight.
But still. Cas wanted to kiss him; wanted it like poetry, like unbanked fire. He actually hadn't been sure of that until now.
**
On Friday, Dean took Cas to Target to buy a painter's smock. They got distracted in the candle aisle—Cas wanted to experience the scents, and Dean had never realized how strong an opinion it was possible to have on this until Cas tried to reject sea mist in favor of honeyed vanilla. "What is wrong with you?" Dean groused, dumping the two side-by-side in the cart. "It's both or none, and don’t even think about trying to sneak that peppermint crap past me. It smells like the soulless Christmas stores in every no-name mall in creation."
I didn't like it either, Cas said peaceably.
They made it up to the check-out line with only a couple more impulse buys (a soft blue overstuffed couch pillow and a bag of clementines). The smock itself was another compromise. Dean had wanted something plain and workmanlike. Cas had wanted the one covered in flowers that wouldn't have looked out of place on Little Red Riding Hood's grandma. They split the difference and grabbed a classy one with green textured stripes.
After a quick breakfast via McDonald's drive-thru—Cas pronounced his hash browns admirable—they showed up at the Center bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. There was an absolutely stunning mural going up on the wall of the Vietnamese reading room, lush yellows and greens glowing in the morning light. Looked like it was based on some kind of impressionistic painting. Cas, being a Wikipedia junkie (I don't sleep, Dean, what do you expect?) recognized it.
'Teatime with the Family' by Lê Phổ, he supplied, and ah, now that Dean looked closer, that was a little teacup the mom was holding, a bit hard to spot amid the flowers. He was born and raised in Vietnam when it was still a French colony, and he moved to Paris in 1925 to study art. He had a good career there combining the styles of both his homes.
"A kindred spirit for this place, then." Dean didn't have the talent to mess with the mural itself, but there were buckets of yellow paint waiting for the surrounding walls. Dean took a moment to raid the open box of Krispy Kremes on the table, said 'hey' to the other volunteers, grabbed a roller, and dove in. Somebody had already laid drop cloths underfoot and taped over the baseboards and corners. There was nothing finicky to worry about—only wide walls, white with primer, waiting for fresh color.
It was nothing fancy, nothing fast, just up and down as far as their arm could reach. Higher than that, then, with the long roller; he was careful to offset its weight between the wall and their hip instead of trying an overhead lift and flexing their back. It was slow going, but better that than overclocking healing muscles and winding up back at the hospital. The room brightened in easy stages, a bit like a real sunrise.
Cara, the college adjunct recreating Teatime on the wall, had some mellow jazz playlist piping from her MacBook. Dean found himself gradually floating with the music and the soft crinkly sounds of fresh paint sticking a bit against his soft pulls. The smell wasn't nice, particularly, but the overpowering, chemical quality was familiar, like industrial cleaners. Somewhere deep down, it triggered relief, probably 'cause it smelled like survival. First came the blood and gunk, then came the clean-up; if you made it to the bleach phase of a hunt, the worst was usually over. He found smells sharp enough to scrub out his sinuses a bit hypnotic, like his brain was getting disinfected. He blanked out a little, got absorbed in a patch of sun. There was a tiny crack in the plaster. As he dipped in and out of his paint tray, his hands were speckling slightly like plover eggs.
He had nice hands. Still nice, weirdly enough, despite all the bloody work he'd put them through. He eyed them idly. For the first time in ages, his old jewelry crossed his mind. He'd always liked the look of it. He hadn't given it up because he got tired of it or outgrew the phase. It just wound up hurting him too often in fights; the ring would crack against wood or metal or flesh and leave swelling behind. Fiddling with his bracelet beads had been second nature for years, but they could catch on all kinds of crap when he was scrabbling over fences or running for his life on some backwoods trail.
When he'd first picked them out, at around 18 or 19, he'd had arguments lined up about their practicality—an inbuilt silver test, death's head charms and all that. But Dad had never asked. His bullsh*t meter was pretty solid (when directed at other people, anyway), so he probably knew their usefulness wasn't Dean's reason so much as his excuse for wearing them. But he didn't seem to care, hadn't given Dean grief. Hadn't said a word one way or the other.
And Dean had watched himself from the outside, looking as best he could through his dad's eyes. Rightly or wrongly, by that point in life he'd come to feel that most of John's attitudes were to be taken as rules. So, the rule about jewelry had been: okay to wear, but keep it casual. Being handsome was good, but accenting this or that feature—putting too much effort in—wasn’t on brand.
And hell, he still spent a lot of time looking at himself from the outside. But it was Cas's eyes he'd been looking through lately. And that was just...a very different experience. A much easier experience, and not just because Cas was head over heels for him.
Because before, he’d always had: things he liked, things he didn't like, things he pretended to like, and things he pretended not to like. That'd seemed to be a bog-standard, unavoidable part of living in the world. But one of the weird offshoots of possession was that it was kind of demolishing the stuff he pretended not to like? Turns out that when doing something you want gets you approval you can literally feel from the inside—even if it doesn't belong to you—that tends to take any attempts at indifference out at the knees. Cas was short-circuiting, without conscious effort, that old piece of Dean that still navigated other people's attitudes like rules.
What he actually liked and what he'd admit to liking were converging almost all the time now. Was this what all the mythical healthy people had been doing all along? 'Cause Dean was finding it kind of a trip.
**
As they settled in, they kept doing outreach with LeVar, passing out flyers, lending books, and chatting with passersby. They got to know Flip, who had just gotten citizenship after fourteen years and loved to cook for his boyfriend with his own home-grown vegetables. He worked in graphic design, but was so passionate about photography it was almost a second profession—he pulled up some of his portfolio on his phone for them. After chatting on and off for a week, they got him connected with Phuong, who started talking through the possibility of adding a class on real estate photography and urban landscapes.
Ricardo ran a garage and towing business, and aside from Donna Hanscum, Dean had never met anyone with a more infectious laugh. His ex-wife, Marcona, owned a bakery, and their older kids helped out there most afternoons—some school friends usually invited themselves along, netting a few free doughnuts and chatting with whoever was behind the register. Marcona detected Dean’s sweet tooth in two seconds flat, too. If he could have legally married his first slice of dulche de leche cheesecake, he would have done it without hesitation.
But the best part, the moment Dean tucked away for a keepsake, was even simpler. The teenagers at the shop were boisterous, not rowdy, but with enough of them packed into the small space, there was a bit of jostling going on. Up on the wide sales counter, Marcona's youngest, a baby of no more than nine months, was strapped into one of those weird little bouncers that always looked like somebody had tried to make a mousetrap out of an ironing board only to give up and leave it half-sprung. The kid started to fuss—some too-sharp movement or too-loud voice must have scared her—and without waiting to be asked, her older brother dug through her diaper bag and emerged with a bottle of bubble mix. She brightened the moment she saw the bright green plastic and waved her arms once he pulled out the flimsy little wand and held it to his mouth.
Dean felt Cas observing this with gentle puzzlement. He hadn't been around enough young children to understand what was about to happen. With an outblown breath, a sudden plume of soap bubbles floated over the baby, who let out a high-pitched squawk and flailed her pudgy hands out, fingers wide, to pop them. Cas was taken completely by surprise; the way it charmed him fluttered through Dean, his admiration bright as a kite in a summer sky. How wonderful, these humans, to take such simple building blocks in nature, air and oils and alkali, spherical geometry and iridescent light, and make of them sweet baubles for their children. Where an angel would have seen only the bare molecules and practical mathematics, these people saw beauty; even the littlest of children could grasp it. He loved humans. He loved them so, and the warmth of his wonderment and delight spread through Dean with the comfort of a hearth stone, a home.
It was such a small thing. But it'd always been hard for Dean to believe, down to his bones, that Cas could live here in the dirt with them and be happy. Heaven might be its own nightmare a lot of the time, but so was Earth. And at the end of the day, angels had been made for the one and not the other. Cas had followed Dean for so long, but Dean had never quite shaken the idea that he'd had to break something in his own nature to do it. What was the real cost of trying to graft free will and passion into places they were never meant to grow? By making room in himself for all the human complications Dean had asked for, maybe he'd cut his own heartstrings, uprooted something fundamental without quite knowing what he'd done.
Dean's brain was a doomsayer, no question. He was more self-aware about it than he'd been when he was younger, but recognizing patterns wasn't the same thing as breaking them. They were very, very easy to believe.
Not today, though; because Cas was happy here. There was simply no arguing it, not when Dean could feel for himself such free and easy contentment radiating from their chest. Cas was happy now, in this overcrowded bakery. He was happy when Dean got a good night's rest. Happy when they shared the taste of good food, or when they got lost together in the peaceful sweep of paint up and down, methodical and thorough.
It wasn't hard to make him happy these days, not at all.
(I'm painting the room in a colorful way, and when my mind is wandering...there I will go)
On the weekends, they took a break from volunteering. Some days that just meant loitering at the inn, but other times they got out and played tourist. In Independence, they visited the old town square that had once marked the beginning of the Oregon Trail. There wasn't much left, on a physical level, to mark that history, but little signposts with paintings of wagon trains and cattle drives invited you to fill in the gaps with a bit of imagination.
On the corner was a 1950s-style ice cream shop, Clinton’s Soda Fountain, with that classic long, curving counter, perfect for introducing an angel to the magic of root beer floats.
Dean discovered a tiny, kind of pathetic Jail Museum. Its sole claim to fame was that you could see the cell where Jesse James's older brother had been locked up after their gang surrendered. Dean was over the moon. Cas was bored out of his mind, but that didn't stop him from buying a cheap, tacky sheriff's badge from the gift shop after Dean had valiantly resisted the impulse. Dean gave over their hands so he could pin it to their front pocket, and for some reason it was only as he looked down, watching Cas work the tiny safety-pin latch in the dappled sunlight under an oak, that it suddenly hit him how much he was missing.
It should be Cas's hands there, pinning that star in place. When Dean spouted trivia or cracked corny jokes, he should be able to catch the tolerant flutter of Cas's eyelashes. He wanted his voice back, and the searchlight of his gaze, uncomfortably steady. It suddenly felt like years since he'd seen his face, and that was a loss, dammit. A palpable, damnable absence.
He knew Cas was here, generously present, closer than he'd ever been. But Cas should be more than a disembodied conversation or a doubled pulsebeat, however loud. By now, Dean had gotten as up close and personal with his angelic side as it was possible to be, and he didn't regret it. It was amazing to get to know him this way: the grace not tied to any one form, the storm-cloud hope, the sense of beauty. And if there was an opposite to homesickness, that's what Cas felt here, tucked inside Dean's chest, shining quietly behind his eyes. Knowing that, sharing in those feelings, had opened doors in Dean's head.
But Cas was his own person. A person Dean knew well and missed terribly. They both deserved to be whole, and here, together. Cas's body wasn't just an afterthought, or disposable, easy to do without. It was part of what made him actually him, but more than that, it was how Dean had known him all this time. There was a comfort to Cas's presence that couldn't be found anywhere else. And all at once, settling for only half that presence wasn't gonna work anymore.
Their hands froze, hovering in place as Cas absorbed an unexpected rush of loneliness from Dean. The feeling was strong enough that their body reacted physically, a low ache catching hold at the base of their throat. Dean could feel it as Cas's concern crested in a wave of grace; he was still unable to heal, but he traced himself through their shared nerve and muscle anyway. Dean, he murmured, are you all right? And it was dizzying how much more densely Cas's invisible weight could rest in their bones when he got distracted and stopped enforcing, even for a moment, a constant lightness of touch between them.
"Cas, I...I wanna see you." Voicing the desire only made it sharper. Their jaw clenched as Dean tried to shake off the intensity of it.
I'm here.
Dean started to nod, but his head shook instead. There was no fighting it. "Need to see you, man. Okay?" Dean used the word need very rarely. He knew Cas could hear it for what it was.
A pinprick numbness spread through their limbs; Cas was looking again, atom to atom, to be certain Dean's body wasn't going to collapse the minute his scaffolding pulled away. Wait here for me, he said, terse, and then blue light poured out into the air, shielded by the oak where they still stood. He was such a rare and shining thing, Dean half-hoped he'd linger. But he vanished like a lightning strike. The imprint of his light rose up in neon afterimages when Dean closed his eyes, blinking dazedly in Independence Square, strangely alone in his body. He wavered on his feet, reaching out a hand to steady himself on the tree trunk.
The stinging ache in the back of his throat was going to shift into something worse soon, once he had time to panic. Losing track of Cas was completely unacceptable, but somehow he seemed to have done it. Where...how long...?
The thought barely had time to form before it was cut off by a rustling beat behind him. Something large folded in on itself, just audible over the wind in the leaves. Dean's body was smarter than he was, it seemed, because the pressure cooker starting to boil in his chest fizzled out instantly. His shoulder, drawn tense, was already relaxing back into place when a broad, warm hand settled there. He turned.
"Hello, Dean," Cas said.
His voice struck a chord somewhere vital. Cas's touch melted easily from shoulder to back as they slipped into each other's arms. It was absurd that they'd been through death and resurrection often enough for this to have become a well-worn ritual. But it had. The hyper-awareness that came with reunion threw spotlights all over Cas’s body: the scent of his skin, the breadth of his back, the curl at the tips of his hair where it brushed Dean's cheek. Sense memories too fine-grained to survive long absence were rushing back, charged with the elation of rediscovery. Dean turned his head a little further towards the crook of Cas's neck, and the arms around him tightened in a brief, spontaneous crush.
"Thank you," Dean whispered. "Thank you." They were swaying a bit where they stood.
"Of course," Cas murmured back. "I'm glad you asked. I didn't think you...I hadn't realized we were missing each other this way."
"Miss you every way," Dean said nonsensically, and Cas let out a short, startled laugh.
He rubbed a hand in shortening strokes across Dean's upper back. They both read it as an unspoken signal, a gentle close to the embrace. They let each other go and stood staring while the sounds of traffic and snatches of fleeting conversation from shoppers around them began to filter back in. Cas reached out to Dean's lapel and straightened the flimsy star pinned there, his thumb running over the 'sheriff' imprint as if he were reading it by touch. Dean saw a smile rising in his eyes, and felt his own mouth tilting up in return. God, it was good to see his face.
"Wanna take a drive?" he asked. It was the first thought that came to his head; he had no destination in mind. But Cas just nodded, incurious and pleased. He knew Baby was an end in herself. Once they walked around the block to where she was parked, he greeted her with a pat to the roof and ducked inside to take shotgun.
Dean slipped into place beside him, running his hands lightly over the wheel. Bright squares shone through the windows across the bench seat, catching half of Cas's hand in sunlight. Dean reached for the gear shift, gaze lingering just a little; on the inside, old habit tried to turn his eyes to the road. He bit lightly at the inside of his cheek.
**
By the time they circled back to the inn, they'd been on the road for hours picking up trinkets and squirreling away different foods from roadside stalls. Dean had bought a whole watermelon, silly and celebratory.
They'd stopped at a farmer's market in some onion field way off of US-24. There were an embarrassment of riches scattered from tent to tent: old crates full of beat up LPs and yellowing paperbacks, apple cider donuts, cheesy pretzels. Cas's sense of taste was running on whatever celestial wavelength dissected all flavors into molecules again. But he and Dean both picked out foods they wanted to try anyway. Cas would be able to taste them once Dean invited him back in—they'd have to go back to possession to finish out their volunteering here, at least. They were only two weeks from the center's grand opening; it would be too confusing to their new friends if Dean lost his facility with languages overnight. But this weekend together, off the clock, this they could have for themselves.
Cas stuck close by his side from one stand to the next until Dean got wrapped up flipping through a rack of old film posters. When he glanced up from the sterile white triangle framing A Clockwork Orange, he saw Cas three or four booths down, combing through a collection of rings and bracelets. When Dean walked over, Cas looked up with knowing eyes. He must have caught traces of Dean's nostalgia.
Judging from the prices, this stuff was mostly costume jewelry; no silver here pure enough to be an asset on a hunt. Beside the usual tints of metal there was a row of wooden rings in shades ranging from reddish-brown to black. They were kinda impractical; it'd be hard to clean blood off, and if you got hit hard enough, raked with knives or claws, they'd probably splinter. But Dean liked the warm look of them. Wearing one might be like carrying a piece of your home in your hand, almost.
He decided not to second-guess himself and picked out one of the lighter browns with a bit of honey in its tone. The first he tried was a bit too small for his ring finger, but he was able to size up without issue. Before buying—it was all of 20 bucks—he held out his hand toward Cas and said, "Whatcha think?"
Cas took his hand, tracing the line of the ring across his finger. "Quercus alba, white oak. The tree it grew from is still alive; this ring was cut from a fallen branch. A young Ioway horseman rested under your tree on a boiling hot afternoon in 1831 and blessed its shade. His blessing lasts; I can hear it through the wood, still. He wore the mark of a handprint across his cheek in ceremonial paint." His eyes, which had been closed as if to better see the past, opened slowly. He seemed to find it hard to lift them from the ring on Dean's finger, but with an audible breath, he met Dean's eyes. "It suits you very well," he said.
Dean had no idea what to say. He could feel his heart-rate picking up even while the rest of him was at a total standstill.
"I don't mean to impose," Cas added quietly. "But I'm afraid I have no money in the pockets of my coat. Would you lend me enough to buy these?" He gestured to two pairs of earrings he had set aside at one corner of the table. One was a pair of what looked like white pearls, certainly paste. And the others were small stainless steel studs, each shaped into a single wide-petaled flower of rather familiar shape. Dean took one look and saw why Cas wanted them—taken together, they were very reminiscent of the handle of Dean's gun: engraved silver blossoms framed by mother of pearl. Dean had picked that beauty out on his own when he was twenty-one. It’d been one of his most prized possessions, the nicest thing he'd ever owned until Dad gave him Baby four years later.
Cas wanted to wear something Dean would find lovely, and this was what he knew of Dean's taste. There was a transparency to it that made Dean ache with both sympathy and pride. He was gentle when he said, "Cas, your ears aren't pierced, you know?"
"They can be if I want them to be."
Dean blinked, then nodded. "Fair enough. And are these...are they the ones you like best for yourself?"
"Yes." He sounded quite sure.
"Okay, great," Dean said, and bought the ring and earrings together.
Back at the inn, Cas settled on their couch to try them on. Without being asked, Dean sat down next to him to help. He tapped the center of his right earlobe and said, "I think here, for the pearl?" Cas nodded, and by the time he'd lifted the first earring to that spot there was a fully healed piercing in place. He slipped the stud through and clasped it closed at the back.
"For the flower, you could fit it on your earlobe, too, or you could try it higher, more on the upper part, like, here.' Dean tapped lightly at a higher, outer edge of the same ear.
Cas nodded thoughtfully and a moment later was threading the flower through, a silver crown of blossom high on his ear with a curl of dark hair brushing at the tips of the petals.
Cas reached for the second pearl, but Dean held out a hand to slow him down. "Hey, so. You can put them in just the same way on your other ear. But I just wanted to mention, uh, that it's okay to wear earrings in just one ear, too. If that, if that appeals to you. I think...I mean, this may be out of date. It almost definitely is, actually, but you look like a guy from my generation, so, anyway, uh...I think if you wear them in just this ear, it'll come across pretty clearly as gay, or, I guess, queer. I don't know if that's something you want, or would like for yourself. But I just wanted to mention it, in case you did."
Cas stared at him, mouth slightly parted, wholly surprised. Leaning his head toward his own hand, he brushed a finger down the shell of his ear from flower to pearl. He gave Dean a searching look. "I don't need anyone to know except you," he said softly. "Would I mind other people knowing, though? I suppose that depends. If I wore this around Sam and Eileen, would it embarrass you? Or would it be nice to have that conversation without actually having that conversation?"
Dean winced a bit; he couldn't help it. "Oh, I think we'll wind up having that conversation with them one way or another anyhow. This would definitely speed it up, though."
"Would that be...good? Or bad?"
"Oh, you know me, Cas, heart-to-hearts are something I tend to put off forever. But that's not something I like about myself, so. And besides, this shouldn't be about me. It's about you."
"I think maybe it's about us," Cas said carefully. "If I wear this out with you, are people likely to think we're together? Or, since the decoration is only on my ear and not yours, will they understand that what I feel is one-sided?"
"What you feel is not one-sided," Dean sighed, embarrassed and a bit defensive. "You've been living in my head, sunshine, you gotta know that by now." He hadn't meant to start this reckoning, not when he still hadn't added anything up, not really. Dean rubbed a hand over his face, but yeah, here they were. "I love you, okay? More than almost anything. That's no surprise to anyone." Dean couldn't stand to stare directly at the dawn breaking across Cas's face; too bright, too perfect. "I just don't know what kind of love, exactly. And I'm scared of getting it wrong."
"Oh Dean, you can't get it wrong. There is no wrong."
"Of course there is! I don't want to start something with you and then have to break it off because I didn’t read myself right. And, buddy, in my entire life, I've hardly ever read myself right. It's a f*cking mess in here." He pointed to his head, then his heart, then back up to the head. "I worry about messing things up for you, like, all the time."
Cas shook his head mutely.
"Stop that," Dean said. "Stop acting like I can do no wrong. You know it's not true. I'm telling you, I don't know what I want. I can't get out of my own way well enough to be sure."
"I understand that," Cas said. "I was there for years myself. And I'm sorry. I know it hurts, not knowing what you want; it's a different and more complicated problem than just not having what you want. At least, it was for me. May I ask you a question?"
"Shoot."
"What are you more afraid of? That you might be attracted to me, or that you might never be?"
"Might never. That would be so much worse, no contest."
"Why?"
"What kind of a question is that? Do you think I want you pining over me forever, always having to settle for less than what you really need? I mean, I could tell you to do your best to move on, let time do its thing and all that. But I know you, man. I know you won't. And you shouldn't have to. I want you to be happy; and not just that, I want to make you happy. After all the endless, horrible crap you've been through for me, for Jack, for the whole damn world, you deserve to have every last thing your heart desires. I just get a little paralyzed sometimes, when I feel like it's all riding on me."
"But you're making me happy already, just as we are; immeasurably happy. I love you in my mind, and grace, and both my bodies. I do not feel deprived. As for what I need, it's almost exactly what you just described—I need you to be happy, safe, and well. And I want to be responsible for as much of that as I can be. Not all of it; no one can provide for the whole of someone else's heart, nor should they. But please understand: attraction, or the lack of it, can't make or break us. I love your body too much to argue with it, or to be disappointed in whatever shape your inclinations take. They will be beautiful as long as they're yours."
He must have seen the doubt in Dean's eyes. "I mean it." He shook his head. "It would have hurt me never to know whether you could want me. If you’d been determined not to allow yourself to find out, I would have respected that choice, while also grieving it. But that's not the choice you're making at all; you're being so open, Dean, so generous. What more could anyone ask? Whatever discoveries you make, I'll welcome them, I promise."
"But Cas, I...what if it's just not there on my end? What are we gonna do?"
One corner of Cas's mouth wavered, as if he were fighting back a laugh. "Dean, are you sincerely asking me whether it's possible for us to keep up a loving and close relationship without ever having sex? Because with a question like that, I suppose only time can tell. In fact, for a truly reliable answer, we'd probably have to give ourselves ten or more years before placing full confidence in the results. I'll have to get back to you then. Oh wait, never mind, I can get back to you now."
"You're such a smartass," Dean groaned, but he hadn't felt this light in ages.
Cas's smile was free, and wonderful, and just a little wicked. "I do try, on occasion," he agreed, and flicked on the TV.
**
So, discoveries.
You'd think it'd be embarrassing, after all that fuss, to uncover within half an hour a cast-iron, clear-cut attraction to your best friend of thirteen years. Especially while doing nothing more dramatic than watching a rerun of Tremors. Actually, though, it was such a relief that he couldn't even be mad at himself for all the fumbling beforehand. Having Cas back in his body made everything that had seemed so elusive before look easy, unmistakable.
Touch-hunger was one of the most familiar starvations of his life; there was no disguising its heavy coil. It made his fingers restless on his knees as he sat on the couch next to Cas. He slid one leg incrementally closer, then stopped. Cas didn't respond. The bluish light of the television traced the straight line of his nose, the long shadow at the curve of his jaw, the strong shape of the body that had borne up under years of hardship. He was sadder and softer than he'd been when they met; more lived-in, less untouchable.
Dean had always thought of Cas as a handsome guy. It wasn't necessarily anything personal; he'd thought the same even before he got to know him. It seemed pretty cut and dry. But the thing about having handsome friends—it was like the jewelry rule all over again. No one had ever had to sit him down and explain. He just understood, whether he'd picked it up from John or from the world at large: yeah, you're allowed to notice how they look, even comment. Just keep it casual. You'll be fine as long as you cut out the compliments or make them into jokes, same as you'd do for yourself. Being part of a good-looking group of guys speaks well of you somehow. Go team. Just make sure you don't...linger...in the wrong places.
This was lingering. His eyes fought to turn back toward the television, but they were overruled. The tips of his fingers scratched, over-sensitized, against the seam of his jeans. Onscreen, the characters were running a strategy session in the middle of a convenience store and had just agreed to name their monster a "Graboid." Cas glanced over at him to catch his reaction, a small smile already playing at the corner of his mouth.
And it was funny, really; this felt a lot more like possession than anything else they'd done so far. Dean's body moved, and he watched it happen. The tip of his nose nuzzled under Cas's ear. He was too close to catch the sudden arch of Cas's spine, but he heard him gasp and felt the jolt as his body pushed back into the cushions, head falling backwards, pressing the full line of his neck to Dean's mouth. Dean brushed his lips higher, suckling softly at his earlobe, tonguing at the pearl there, twisting it gently in place.
The sound he made. It was unbearable. Dean needed it again, immediately.
He bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave divots marking the line of his teeth. Cas started to thrash but caught himself, straining to keep still, fighting hard not to dislodge them from each other. Dean nibbled sweetly up the rim of his ear. He breathed out, a puff of warm air against the flower. "More?" he mouthed, almost too quiet to hear, even from so close. "Yes?"
Cas's eyes were clamped shut, and Dean expected his answer to come out garbled, frantic. But when he spoke, his voice was as clear as it was wild. "Yes. Dean, oh, please." His eyes cracked open. "Yes. I love you."
"Love you," Dean agreed, kissing his temple, his eyebrow. He tilted toward his mouth. "Wanna kiss me back?"
"You have no idea," Cas swore, and gave himself over.
**
Early Monday morning, the Vietnamese reading room was quiet.
Cara would be coming in soon to finish the central mural. As for the surrounding walls, there wasn't much left to do except for a bit of detail work in the corners. There were patches where the rollers couldn't quite navigate the angles; those spots needed to be touched up.
Cas took their hand and grabbed a blue-handled, sponge-headed brush from a pile lying on the drop cloth. Would you like to take off your ring? he asked, stretching out their fingers and stroking a thumb over the oak's clean curve.
Dean paused to think, but then shook their head lightly. There was something appealing in the idea of a ring flecked with paint instead of blood. All his life, the places he'd been and the things he'd done had accumulated like stains; the best you could do was scrub the darkest ones down to a fainter outline and move on. He'd never had a chance to mark time like this—in soft freckles of bright yellow.
Phuong dropped by to say good morning. She had a pair of bright pink sunglasses pushed up onto her forehead, and tucked in the crook of her arm was the most enormous coffee thermos known to man. They chatted with her for a minute while Dean tied on their smock and mixed their paint in the bucket, pouring a smattering into a fresh tray. She couldn't stop long—she was always swamped during volunteer hours—but she invited him to the potluck she was throwing at her house on Saturday as a thank you to everyone who'd pitched in these last few weeks.
"I heard through the grapevine that you're a pie guy," she said. "Bring your favorite, and some forks. Store-bought's fine, seriously, I'm not trying to make more work for anybody at this stage. We’ll have a dessert table set up, just plonk it down there and we'll be all set. Fair warning, the dinner's gonna be an open buffet of mismatched homemade specialties, with a lot of vegetables involved. Prepare yourself."
"Hey, for all you know I love vegetables."
"Uh-huh. You're an American guy born in the '80s," she said.
"'70s," he grinned.
"Oh my god," she laughed. "Worse. Yeah, don't even pretend you didn't grow up on McDonald's."
He shrugged. "Guilty as charged. But hey, Flip's got me hooked on kimchi now—can't actually taste the cabbage when your mouth's on fire, right?"
"Yup, you've put your finger on the underlying philosophy of half the world's cuisines right there."
I still don't understand the appeal, Cas grumped, because he was a wuss.
Once Phuong headed to her office, they commandeered a step ladder and worked their way down each corner from ceiling to floor. By the time they'd graduated to the fussy little shapes around the window sills, Cara was back in front of Teatime with the Family, zooming in on her screen to double-check the original's mixture of colors from flowers to leaves. They stopped and stood a few feet behind her, taking it all in.
You love this painting, Cas said fondly, and Dean couldn't deny it. He liked its exuberant, slap-dash surface that, underneath, required so much care. He liked the tiny, tiny teacup. He liked the red table, and the way the bouquet almost seemed to spring out of the wall, reaching right for you. He liked the free-floating leaves, the yellow-green of the grass. But most of all, he'd liked being here to see it happen. There was something great about facing a blank wall and filling it up.
Cara glanced back over her shoulder at them, and something in their face made her smile. She pulled out an earbud—jazz again—and held out a fine-pointed brush already dark with paint. "Hey," she said, "wanna add some blue to this flower?"
"Really?" Dean said.
"Sure."
She showed them the shape they wanted, magnified, a dark little sideways V just at the lip of the vase. Dean held his breath as they bent close, careful to keep their wrist and palm angled away so they wouldn't smudge anything. They traced the lines, slow and careful, then stepped back to check how well it matched.
"Perfect," Cara said, and nudged them with her elbow, casual and friendly. "Thanks."
The thing about being a hunter, oddly enough, was that even though that life was short on almost every other comfort, it wasn't so bad for making friends: Jody, Charlie, Donna, Garth, Benny, Eileen, hell, even Crowley and Rowena in their own twisted way. He'd had no shortage of people to care for or to call on for help—that's shared trauma for you. The bonds it made tended to be fast and strong and strangely deep, so much so that Dean couldn't even remember the last time he'd made a friend without it. But here, he could see a slower path: random conversation, joint effort, an afternoon of paint, or food, or books inside a van. It was funny to think of friendships built on nothing intense, nothing life-altering; just time and attention, and another person finding something to like in you.
"Hey Cara," he said, "I'm coming to the thing at Phuong's house on Saturday, and I wanna bring pie. Can I pick your brain? Do you have a favorite bakery around here?"
"Oh, buddy," Cara said, "Now you're speaking my language."
**
Back at the inn—in the honeymoon suite he'd rented out for them, God, what kind of river in Egypt had he been sailing these past few weeks?—they settled back on what was now permanently christened the mazel tov couch.
Would you like to see me again tonight? Cas asked. Or do you find it tiring to have me shifting back and forth too much?
"It's not tiring," Dean said. "But actually, I think it'd be nice if you could stay here for now," he touched a hand to their chest. "If you don't mind."
I don't mind, he said. His grace seemed to curl a little closer, like a cat claiming the perfect patch of sun—a little lazy, a little territorial, affectionate, untroubled, and domestic. May I offer a suggestion for tonight's viewing? I found something I think you'll like.
"Uh..." Dean's brain being Dean's brain, it went straight to the gutter. But he rolled his eyes at himself and said, "Okay, sure. Lead on."
You never knew what to expect when Cas was behind the remote. It was a genuine roll of the dice. You might get a documentary about ancient Mesopotamia enlivened by frequent, affronted commentary. You might get The Wicker Man with a constant focus on what could be happening to the off-screen bees. You might get an animated children's tale from the Don Bluth oeuvre, or a silent film exemplifying German expressionism, or a walking tour of Moscow on YouTube from 2017. After sitting through a straight-faced nature special on the reproductive habits of aardvarks, Dean didn't think he had much capacity left for surprise.
But he was not expecting the Pride and Prejudice miniseries. He stared blankly at the Roku menu screen, gathering himself for a moment.
"Do you know?" he asked quietly, tucking his chin down. "About...all that?"
I've known since the first time we met, Cas said. I held your soul close on the flight from hell. Memories seeped out like blood from old wounds. It took me time, though, to understand.
Dean closed his eyes and let out a long breath.
It just so happened that when that thing first aired in 1995, he'd been staying at a boy's reform school. There was this girl he'd liked, Robin. He hung out at her house a few times after school, and one time when he came over, she was gearing up to watch the first episode of this new Jane Austen series. If Dad and Sammy had been around, he wouldn't have been caught dead watching it. And even if he'd just been on his own, he'd have had no interest in switching it on. But right there, right then, he wanted Robin to like him. And he was getting good grades in English, for once. He told himself it wouldn't fly over his head.
And Robin had been so psyched when he said he was down to watch it with her. People got so much more fun when they were enthusing about something they loved. They'd stood around in her kitchen while she baked brownies and he snuck mini-marshmallows out of an open bag, and she told him her favorite things about the book.
"You like horror movies, right?" she said out of nowhere.
"Yeah, they're my favorites," he admitted, wondering if he'd just fallen for some kind of trick question.
"Same basic principle," she said, unbothered by his incredulous laugh. "See, that's what guys never seem to get about romances. The thing that makes them good is the same thing that makes a horror movie work—it's building up tension. You've got characters running around with really intense emotions and no way to let them out. Love, fear, whatever, they work just the same in a story."
"Hey," he held up his hands in surrender, "I'm sold. I'm ready to experience The Drama."
"Excellent. Grab a co*ke and come sit," she'd said.
And he'd still halfway expected to be bored to tears, but he wasn't. She was onto something. All the etiquette just made it impossible for anyone to be direct or impulsive in what they said or what they did. And that absolutely made it! They had to circle around each other, sound things out, hold things in. And he'd gotten that on a fundamental level. No one would ever mistake him for a high society kid, but he knew expectation; he knew duty. He understood the limits of what could be said. And that ending, man! Everything came pouring out, they were absolutely mad as hell. There was something explosive about watching that many layers of composure crack.
Robin could tell he really liked it, that he wasn't just faking it to be nice. They'd been crushing on each other for weeks at that point, but that night was the first time they really, truly felt like friends, too. They made plans to watch part two together the day after the school dance.
When 6:00 PM that Thursday rolled around, Dean was back on the road again with Dad and Sammy. There'd been no chance to say goodbye, but even if there had been, he wouldn't have taken it. When you felt this bad, there was no point in saying so. Lots of things just couldn't be fixed. Dad dumped them at a motel and took off for the night, and Dean spent half an hour at war with himself before sending Sam on a vending machine run and flicking on PBS. He had a whole story prepped for when Sam got back about how he was waiting for a college football game, but it'd been pushed back for the sake of this stupid thing, so they'd just have to sit through it to the end.
It wasn't on PBS. It must be a cable show. And this rat trap didn't have cable.
Dean had been holding it together all week, ever since he'd left Sonny's. It was incredibly stupid that a disappointment this small could set him off. He was angry about it even as he started crying. But he knew pretty well by then how small losses stood in for bigger ones in his head. He was really good at putting off grief, but really bad at outrunning it altogether. He locked himself in the bathroom, turned on the shower, and lost it for half an hour under the cover of running water and creaky pipes. Sam got mad at him for using up the hot water, and life went back to normal, more or less.
He'd never revisited any of that; not consciously, anyway. It was only a small misery, miniscule in comparison to hell. It was kind of astonishing that Cas had picked it up from him so long ago, though perhaps less surprising that he thought it worth healing, even now.
"Never too late, right?" Dean said.
It is never too late, Cas echoed. He propped a throw pillow behind their lower back. Also, I bought jalepeño popcorn.
"You're a man after my own heart," Dean said, a little less sarcastically than he'd meant to. He hit the lights, and Cas pressed play.
**
The Janssen Place Cultural Center triumphantly opened with a tandoori barbeque on the wide lawn and a four-in-one children's event called 'The Puppet Show in Your Backyard.' There were four puppet shows running simultaneously: Liju headed up the Kathputli troupe of string puppets; the Chinese shadow puppet theatre got a big light projector and performed on the side of the building itself; the Vietnamese water puppets turned into a shrieking bedlam of soaked and happy kindergarteners; and three puppeteers in full-body costume ran one-on-one performances in lambe-lambe style. More than a hundred families showed up over the four hours they were running the party. It was all chaos, all the time, buoyed by that specific overexcitement that only exists for those aged seven and under, but the joy in the air—sheer magic.
They stayed late to help with clean-up, and once the last of the litter was bagged, the grills cleaned, and the folding chairs stored away in the basem*nt, they settled on the front steps to watch the sunset. A light breeze cooled the sweat on their forehead; Dean was a little chagrined that such light activity could still wind him, but recovery was recovery—they were taking it slow. It felt funny, and a little sad, to come to the end of this project together. They were booked for one more night at the inn, and then tomorrow they'd drive back to Lawrence and spend the week in and out of the hospital getting all his scans and check-ups done. Hopefully he'd walk out of that circus with a clean bill of health.
And after that? The sky was the limit. All he knew was that he wanted more of this: more people, more places, more chances to be part of something generous and worth remembering. More time with Cas—more than anything, he wanted to hold him close. Right now they were flying high on the wonder of a fresh start. But on the horizon, out past the excitement of getting together, he could see the settled comfort of staying together hovering like a promise, not far out of reach.
He glanced around; they were alone out here for the moment. The sun had fully set, but the clouds were still flowing from orange to pink-purple. Inside the Center behind them, lights were on in the lobby, shining through the stained glass trees framing the front door. Individual leaves, orange and red and yellow, were embedded in the stone like stray pieces of Lothlorien come to life.
"Hey Cas," Dean asked quietly. "Can I see you?"
For a moment, the disorientation of separation dizzied him, as it always did. But his head hardly had time to clear before Cas was there in the flesh, sitting down next to him on the steps and reaching for his hand. Dean's eyes lingered on his face, well-rested, confident for once in his welcome, with the curve of one cheek catching the last light of a painterly sky. Beautiful.
Good things did happen. In his experience. Imagine that.
"So, hey," Dean said, a little self-conscious. "I've got a poem for you."
"Oh yes?" Cas said, eyebrows rising just a tad—Dean read curiosity there, not skepticism.
"Uh-huh. You know, since your other one about me doesn't really fit so much anymore."
Cas paused, considering. The warmth already waiting in his eyes flickered a little closer to heat. "I hadn't thought of it like that, but you're right, of course." He leaned closer, angling toward a kiss, and whispered, "I told you, Dean, I have a hundred poems about you."
Dean stopped him gently with an open palm to his chest, and said, "Let me give you one more, then. It's cherry-picked, a few lines here and there. But sometimes that's what it takes, to make a poem yours. I found it in one of the anthologies, and it helped me with some things I didn't know how to tell you."
"I'm glad, then," Cas said. "Tell me, please."
Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, closed his eyes, and began. "Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road," he said, head tilting half-consciously to the left toward where Baby waited by the curb. "Healthy, free, the world before me, the long brown path before me leading wherever I choose." He tried to settle into the real rhythm of the thing. "Henceforth I ask not good-fortune. I myself am good-fortune." ('Do I seem like good luck to you?' he'd asked Cas long ago, and Cas had kept quiet, watching him like he knew a secret.) "Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more," he emphasized, "need nothing." His eyes fluttered back open, and with the hand not touching Cas, he gestured out across the lawn. "The earth expanding right hand and left hand, the picture alive, every part in its best light. The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted. The cheerful voice of the public road," and here he paused, holding up a finger and delivering the kicker with a teasing lilt: "the gay fresh sentiment of the road."
Cas let out a huff, amused. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head fondly and starting to straighten where he sat. Dean let his goofy grin fade back to something more sincere and pressed his hand closer to Cas's chest, letting him know it wasn't a joke, and it wasn't quite over yet. They tilted back toward each other in unspoken accord, closer than before.
"From this hour," he said, surprised to trip over a crack in his own voice. "From this hour," he tried again, "I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines." He held Cas's gaze, determined, and watched empathy melt through his expression. "I inhale great draughts of space," he said. "The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine."
He tilted his face up, making himself present, setting this feeling to memory. "I am larger, better than I thought," he said to the person who'd made him believe it. "I did not know," he paused, breathed, and declared: "I did not know I held so much goodness."
Tears sprung to Cas's eyes, and his smile was gorgeous-glad. Dean leaned over, his own mouth gentle, to catch it, keep it.
The rush of his breath was a song. And at long last, Dean settled to learning it.
