Archive of Our Own

“I love you.” 

Dean is drowning.

“Goodbye.”

Cold, black ooze touches Cas’ shoulder and Dean is pummeled by the waves, pulled underwater and thrown around and around until he can’t see the sun anymore. The tears in Cas’ eyes shine like light against the water. Dean can’t remember the last time he saw Cas cry. The white noise of crashing waves roars in his ears and there must be an anchor in his chest, there must be, because how else could he explain the weight dragging him farther and farther down? 

Dean is drowning. So he grabs his lifeline.

Cas’ eyes are wide and terrified when Dean’s hand falls on his shoulder, a cruel mimicry of every (falsely) platonic touch they’ve shared over the years. Dean has no time for subtlety now. He pulls Cas harshly against his chest and wraps both arms around him, only holding tighter as Cas pushes against him in an effort to separate them. Dean shuts his eyes tight against the sudden heat of tears and ducks down to bury his face against Cas’ throat. They both tremble as the cosmic darkness spreads its thick mass around the both of them, not caring a bit that there’s more than one being in its embrace. 

Dean’s last thought before the void invades his mind is whether he’s saving them both from the waves, or dragging Cas down to the depths with him.

---

(Castiel didn’t do it consciously, but as soon as Dean grabbed him and tucked himself against his chest, Castiel’s wings had spread wide and wrapped around both of them in the pocket dimension they frequently lived in. Tattered, burnt feathers and all.)

---

The first sensation Dean recognizes is cold .

The ground he’s laying on is hard and unforgiving, making some of his joints ache slightly in a reminder that he’s not as young as he once was. He blinks his eyes open, then tries to open them again uselessly because the darkness of his surroundings matches the darkness of his closed eyes, giving him the oddest sense of not really being awake. A shiver runs through his body and he pulls his jacket tighter around himself. It doesn’t help.

Moving to his feet, Dean looks in all directions, trying to find something other than endless darkness. It doesn’t work. Dean’s eyes start to ache with the strain, so he shuts them hard and rubs the heels of his palms into them with enough force to make him see stars on the backs of his eyelids. Well, at least he’s seeing something .

Bringing his hands back down, he pauses when he feels them trembling slightly. He glares at them stubbornly through the absence of light, trying to make them stop out of sheer force of will. Dean’s hands continue shaking. He inhales deeply, stumbling with the rush of dizziness that comes swiftly after. Holy shit. Holy shit . He’s solidly panicking now. Of course, the only flavor of afterlife he hasn’t been to and it has to be freezing, dark, and isolating. Like that isn’t already a winning combination in his nightmares. A few seconds pass where all Dean does is breathe. 

The silence makes the thought sharp and agonizing. 

Cas .

Dean kneels down again, sticking his hands out blindly in front of him and running them along the ground, feeling for anywhere Cas might’ve been dumped around here. A cold shock of fear bubbles up in Dean’s chest when he finds nothing. 

They’d been right next to each other ( real close , Dean’s brain unhelpfully supplies) when they’d been taken by the Empty, so why the Hell isn’t Cas with him now?

Dean stands again. Stepping one foot forward, he gently places it on the ground and transfers his weight to it slowly, making sure he wasn’t going to fall through or anything. When it holds, he takes another step, then another, then another. Everything around him remains that fuzzy purple-black darkness, nothing indicating anything else lives here at all.

Having shoved the panic and fear down into a place in his mind where they can’t distract him, Dean’s mind clears and focuses in a way that only comes after years of hunting. Okay. He can do this. All he has to do is find Cas. Everything after that can wait.

He’s done this before.

“Cas!” Dean shouts-- or tries to, the name coming out rough and broken. It works better the second time. “Cas!”

Nothing.

The Empty remains endless. Dean walks on.

And so the story goes.

------

A few years prior, Sam sits at the kitchen table. A cup of green tea gently steams next to him, forgotten in favor of the book currently resting in his hands. For a while, the only sound to be heard is the turning of a page and the occasional sharp intake of breath.

“Mornin’, Sammy,” Dean says, walking into the kitchen. His clothes and hair are messed up, a result of sleeping more than five hours between nightmares for the first time in months. sure, maybe he used to be able to go on four hours a night, but Dean’s getting older (old er, not old. He’s very clear on that) and also they aren’t crashing in motels every night anymore. They have their own bedrooms, for crying out loud. Why shouldn’t they get a solid eight hours?

Sam mumbles something that may or may not be a greeting, too engrossed in his book. 

“Well geez, don’t act too excited,” Dean rolls his eyes and makes toward the coffee.

The air holds steady with the kind of peace that only exists on Saturday mornings. Everything is easy. Dean stands at the stove, flipping pancakes and stacking them on a plate. Sam remains in the same spot at the table, having moved only to pull a chair closer so he could rest his feet on it. A hummed melody floats through the quiet. Dean never was comfortable with silence.

The sound of footsteps from down the hall lead to Castiel, pausing in the doorway of the kitchen like he’s unsure whether he’d be allowed in or not. 

“You want some pancakes, Cas?” Dean asks, setting a plate with a tall stack of them in the middle of the table. “Just made ‘em.”

“I’ll take some coffee,” Cas says back, not really an answer. He sits across from Sam.

“You know where it is. I ain’t your maid.”

Half paying attention, Sam mumbles, “That would be a butler, Dean.”

Dean scoffs from where he leans against the edge of the counter, mug in hands. “I ain’t that, either.”

There’s a beat of silence as Cas moves to get said coffee and sits down again. From the corner of his eye, Sam can see Dean scrunch up his face when Cas adds sugar to his, rolling his eyes before an odd sort of fond look appears. Sam always thought it was weird that a so-called Angel of the Lord had such a sweet tooth.

“What are you reading, Sam?” Cas asks, making Sam start as he’s pulled out of his book completely for the first time in hours.

Out of instinct, Sam closes the book slightly to check the title, even though he knows what it is. “Just an old collection of Greek myths I found in the library. They’re actually written really well. The one I’m on now is Orpheus and Eurydice.”

Cas smiles slightly, though it looks sort of sad. He sips his coffee. “I always felt for Eurydice. She was kind. She didn’t want to die, but she accepted it. She worried for Orpheus, though, especially after he couldn’t bring her back.”

“I get it, though,” Dean says. He fixes his gaze on a point near the edge of the table. “I mean, I’ve died a fair amount of times. We all have. But even after all that, I still say it’s worse when someone else dies and there’s nothing you can do about it,” He clears his throat before continuing, “Desperation might make me cut a deal with Hades, too. Again.”

The silence hangs heavy. 

“In all probability, you’d end up turning around just like Orpheus did. The challenge was designed to be impossible,” Cas’ voice is soft, like he really knew and mourned Orpheus and Eurydice. Maybe he did.

Dean looks right at Cas. Somehow, it feels like he’s talking about something more than a myth. “When has that ever stopped me?”

------

Dean feels like he’s been walking forever, but the same stretch of darkness expands before him. His muscles ache, his eyes hurt from straining to see, and fear keeps creeping in and curling like a vine around his heart.

What if he never finds Cas? What if he wanders, forever, doomed to stay lost in this endless void?

He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough that he can taste the metallic tang of blood. The pain centers him. If he thinks hard enough, the darkness almost takes the shape of a forest, the colors sickly and grey. Purgatory. He knows this one.

Dean calls Cas’ name again, not even getting an echo in response.

The continuous walking is starting to get to him. He can push through exhaustion, he’s done it before, but the bone-deep weariness of a lack of hope is brutal. Step after step, hour after hour, it’s looking more and more like a brilliant idea just to stop and lay on the ground, maybe sleep for a while. Sleep. Can he even sleep here? Maybe he should try. Just for a bit.

Dean’s voice sounds tired even to him, threatening to break with every repetition of Cas’ name. Still, he continues, yelling desperately for an answer that never comes. 

Until it does.

It startles Dean so badly he stops dead in his tracks. The sound was faint, so faint he could almost convince himself he’d imagined it, but then it comes again. And again. A single word, said in a voice Dean has known for years and he can almost taste the knife-edge of fear in the tone, bright and urgent.

“ Dean!” Cas says, from somewhere to Dean’s left.

Dean’s heart pounds in his ears and he runs, full speed toward the sound of Cas’ voice. His hands tremble with desperation to see him, to make sure he’s alright. Dean’s throat is tight with emotion and tears spring to life, hot and heavy against his eyelashes. Cas is here, Cas is here and maybe they stand a chance at getting back home.

Finally, Dean can see the tan of Cas’ trenchcoat against the void. Just the act of seeing something is nearly enough to make Dean weep, but then he can see Cas ( Cas!), and his arms are outstretched toward Dean and he can really feel tears fall, now. 

Dean holds his arms out too, desperate, ravenous for the feeling of Cas’ solid form against his hands. He needs reassurance that Cas is really here and then he’s five yards away, three yards away, within arms reach and Dean can just barely reach Cas’ fingertips--

Cas melts into black goo and falls to the ground.

Emotion like a blow hits Dean full in the chest and he stops breathing. He can’t stop staring at the spot where Cas ( it wasn’t even Cas ) had stood just a second ago. The darkness of the Empty around him laughs cruelly at his devastation, as barren as ever.

“Before you ask, no, I didn’t have to do that. But wasn’t it fun?” 

Maybe not so uninhabited, then.

The voice is lilting and amused, words twisted and formed slightly off like whatever it is isn’t used to talking out loud. 

Dean turns around quickly and is faced with blonde hair, a round face, and shining dark eyes. It smiles, raising one hand up where it lounges on a throne-like chair and waves at him.

His voice is rough with emotion. “Meg?”

It grimaces, unhappy. “Not so, pretty boy.” Seeming to reconsider, it tilts his head. “Well, this is her face, but this… I … am not her.”

Anger turns the waterfall of despair in Dean’s chest into ice. “You’re it, aren’t you?” Dean asks. 

Not-Meg raises one eyebrow. “‘It’?”

“This,” Dean gestures to the dark space around them. “The Empty.”

It smiles. Dean’s instincts tell him to run. “Ding ding ding. Six hundred to Winchester.”

The ice in Dean’s chest begins to crack, sharp edges exposed to delicate heartstrings. Dean aims them outwards. “You’re a goddamn bastard, you know that?”

Gasping theatrically, it clutches its chest in faux pain. Then it regains the easy expression it wore before, marred only with the slightest sneer of frustration. “What I am , Dean, is exhausted . Thanks to your little boyfriend’s deal and the way you had to mess it up, I can’t sleep,” It looks Dean directly in the eyes. “I need to sleep. Understand?”

Dean lets the corner of his mouth tilt up in amusement. “You’re tellin’ me that you’re a cosmic entity big enough to hold angels and demons both, but you’re grumpy because you didn’t get your nap in?”

Tension ripples through the Empty’s not-Meg form. It’s decidedly angry now. “Don’t push me, Winchester,” it says through slightly clenched teeth. “I could give you Castiel…” 

The fingers on Dean’s left hand twitch, breaking his unaffected facade.

“Or, I could make sure you never find him.”

The shock of fear that runs down Dean’s spine must show on his face because the Empty chuckles lowly. 

Dean’s voice is cold and dangerous to his own ears. “What do you want?”

It groans. “Am I talking to myself over here? I want to sleep .”

“Why is that my problem?”

The air around Dean feels like it’s getting colder as the Empty’s mood plummets. “You’re not supposed to be here, ergo, I’m awake for every step you take and every call of dear old Castiel’s name.”

“Then let us go.”

“Castiel knew what he was doing when he made that deal,” The Empty says. “Seems like he’s quite… vulnerable, when it comes to both you and God Jr. Anyway, I can’t let him go. Fair’s fair and all that. I just need to get you out.”

Dean opens his mouth to speak but the Empty cuts him off.

“I know, I know, you won’t leave without him.” It rolls its eyes.

“That’s non-negotiable.”

The Empty repositions itself on its chair, moving slow enough for Dean to know that the purpose is to annoy him. Dean waits. A lifetime of having a little brother made sure he has patience to withstand deliberately aggravating behavior.

The Empty looks at him, pensive. “I could just throw you out, you know.”

“I’d be back.”

“You would,” The Empty sighed. Meg’s face settled into distressed resignation so deep that Dean almost felt bad. “That’s why, against my better judgment, I am giving you a test.”

Familiarity prickles up Dean’s spine but he can’t quite place it. “A test?”

“Yes,” It says. “First…”

The Empty raises its hand and makes a movement like it’s beckoning something. The ground next to it and Dean ripples like rain on a lake before a dark shape rises from it. Dean’s throat is impossibly tight as the darkness melts away to reveal tan fabric and dark hair. 

A soft sort of pained sound crawls out of Dean’s mouth before he can stifle it. The Empty looks up at him and pouts dramatically, holding up one finger and mimicking a tear down its cheek. “That’s him, in case you were wondering. Flesh and bone,” It snickers. “More than you’re used to, I imagine.”

The final bits of solid darkness melt off of Cas’ form, revealing something attached to his shoulders and longer than Cas is tall. They’re huge; thick and strong. Cas breathes in and out and they move and they’re covered in--

Are those…

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes.

“Precisely,” The Empty says, amused. “They’re a part of him, just as he’s grown attached to that vessel. More so, I’d say.”

Castiel’s wings are magnificent, no other word for them. The feathers don’t overtly contrast with the void around them, but sometimes they rustle just so Dean can almost see the many colors hidden in the blackness of them. He wonders what they would look like in the sunlight. Would Cas spread them out beneath him, warm them in a humid summer afternoon?

Dean kneels down next to Cas and steadies himself with one hand on the ground. He reaches the other out towards Cas’ shoulder, fingertips just brushing the thick fabric of the trenchcoat when the Empty clears its throat.

“Not so fast,” It says. “I haven’t explained the test.”

After a moment, Dean stands again. “Hurry up, then.”

It smiles. “You can leave with him if you wake him up.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Kind of Disney, don’t you think?” Dean says, crossing his arms. “Why is this a test?”

“What fun would it be if I told you?” The Empty counters. “Do you accept?”

Dean looks back down at Cas’ sleeping form. It’s eerie, really, he thinks. The only time Cas would’ve slept is when he was human a few years back, and Dean wouldn’t have seen it then. The thought is accompanied by a familiar burn of guilt that he pushes down. 

Cas’ face twitches just slightly, eyebrows pulling together. Dean’s heart aches.

“I accept.”

The Empty grins dangerously and drums its fingers on the armrests of its chair. “Well, in that case,” it says, and waves a hand at Cas. “Be my guest.”

Immediately, Dean drops to his knees and reaches for Cas again. Just as his hand meets warm skin where the stiff collar of Cas’ shirt meets his neck, Dean feels his body collapse and he’s out before he even hits the ground.

------

“Those are some shitty terms, Cas,” Dean says, pulling another piece of glass out of the not-quite angel’s face.

“I believe they’re quite fair,” Cas maintains, not even blinking in pain when blood begins to drip, thick and wet, from his jaw. He raises his hands. “If you want me to quit-”.

“Don’t do the--”

“-’playing’ the ‘hero’-” Cas says, air quotes and all.

“You did them.”

“-then it’s only fair if you quit playing one yourself,” Finishes Cas.

Dean gives him his best fake winning smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” He says, pulling another piece of glass and dropping it in the trash next to the bed.

“You don’t have to bear every hardship yourself,” Cas looks Dean in the eyes. “Just for one night.”

“Comin’ on to me, Cas?” Dean jokes to cover up the thrum of want in his chest. Please say yes , he thinks, then hates himself for it.

Cas hums. “No,” he says. “I’m asking if you’ll let me watch over you.”

“Like you used to?” Dean says without thinking.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can stop your nightmares before they start,” Cas replies. “Also, it extends significantly less grace to do that than to heal myself at the moment.”

“Wouldn’t want you to run out of angel juice,” Dean says half-sarcastically.

Cas nods in solemn agreement. “So?”

One last piece of glass in the trash and Dean reaches around Cas to grab the first-aid kit sitting open on the bed. He tears open a packet and the sharp, sterile smell of alcohol invades the air around them. Hovering the wipe just above the wounds on Cas’ face, Dean moves his head slightly to catch Cas’ gaze. “This’ll sting a bit,” he murmurs.

Cas just closes his eyes and tilts his cheek more toward Dean, who is suddenly struck by the vulnerability and trust in the gesture. He cleans the cuts, wincing in sympathy when Cas tenses in pain. When he’s done, he tosses the slightly bloodied wipe in the bin with the glass and begins peeling and sticking bandages to the bigger injuries.

If his fingers linger slightly longer than they strictly have to, nobody has to know.

Dean’s voice comes out soft, though he’s not sure why he feels like he has to be quiet. He doesn’t want to break the fragile thing in the air between them. “You’re sayin’ all I have to do to get you to quit jumping in the line of fire is let you stay one night?”

“Yes,” Cas says, eyes open again and firmly on Dean. He seems to think for a second. “I can’t promise I’ll hold up my end forever, but I will make an effort.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Can’t really expect more in our line of work,” he says, then his tone grows serious. “Just tonight?”

Cas holds his gaze in silence for the space of a few heartbeats, neither of them moving. Finally he speaks. “Just tonight.”

His words are tinged with sadness. Dean doesn’t allow himself to linger on that.

“Well then,” Dean says, infusing his voice with fake levity that he knows Cas can see right through. “I accept your terms.”

------

Dean wakes somewhere bright enough to hurt his eyes as he blinks them open. He’s standing in the corner of a room he doesn’t recognize, cluttered and dark with a desk and a leather office chair and honest-to-God sconces on the walls. 

And Cas.

Cas’ back is to him as he sits in the chair, shoulders ridgid with tension. Metatron stands in front of him and Dean shoves down a burst of white-hot fury at the sight of his face, smug and self-assured. He can still feel the ache in his chest on bad days.

He must be in Cas’ memories, because Dean knows he hasn’t been here before. Is this what he’s dreaming about? Being forced to relive… what, exactly? Why this memory? 

Cas’ wrists are chained to the chair he sits in with handcuffs and Dean almost wants to laugh. Cas, restrained? After this many years, Dean knows that if Cas really, truly wants to escape, he will. Shackling Castiel is like building a wall against the tide. Eventually, even iron will crack. 

Figuring that since neither Cas nor Metatron have actively reacted to Dean's presence, they can’t see or hear him, Dean takes a few steps towards where Cas sits. The anger evident in the line of Cas’ shoulders makes Dean want to soothe, to run his hands over Cas’ neck and arms until the tension melts away and Cas can be content again. 

But he doesn’t. 

Metatron is still talking from behind where Dean stands. His voice is ugly and harsh, overconfident in the way that only violence can bring out. With mild horror, Dean realizes that the verbal jabs Metatron is throwing at Cas are working. He can see Cas shrinking into himself, the vague outline of wings shimmering from his shoulder blades like he wants to hide behind them. 

“You draped yourself in the flag of Heaven,” Metatron is saying, pity lining his tone. “But ultimately it was about saving one human, right?”

Cas says nothing. Dean’s head spins. ‘ One human’? Is… 

Is Cas in love?

A surge of hot, sour jealousy rushes through Dean. He inhales forcefully, thinking about whoever had captured Cas’ heart. He hopes they’re worth it. 

(Yes, he knows it’s not polite to be thinking about the person who your best friend is probably in love with like that, but Dean’s allowed some impoliteness. In private. Just for himself.)

“Well, guess what?” Metatron asks. “He’s dead too.”

Wait. What?

The first thing Dean picks up on is ‘he’. Evidently, Cas’ love is a man, which Dean definitely did not expect. Dean’s stupid, foolish little heart speeds up just a bit at the realization.

Except, Cas’ love is also dead .

Dean looks at Cas again for the first time since Metatron dropped that bomb and can’t breathealmost chokes on love.

Castiel’s fingers, always so big and strong and graceful, dig into the armrests of the chair he’s chained to. His entire body speaks to barely restrained devastation; a grief so big it cannot be contained inside his body. Dean supposes that’s kind of like Cas- his real form, anyway. He walks closer to Cas until he’s within arms reach, then moves so he can see his face. 

And oh, his face.

The pain on Castiel’s face is enough to make Dean feel a physical ache. His blue eyes are made even brighter with unshed tears. Dean can see the play of emotion moving through Cas’ mind as his chest moves with stuttered breaths that he doesn’t even really need. He drops his head and squeezes his eyes shut. The fabric of the armrests starts to give. Dean can see tears drip down from the tip of Cas’ nose. 

Castiel lifts his head, rage written clear over his features. Dean knows that anguish is sitting right under the surface, waiting to be let out.

“Let me go .” Castiel’s voice is storm clouds on the horizon. It’s the taste of ozone on your tongue before lightning strikes. It’s the drop in your stomach as you lean over a railing.

Metatron laughs but it’s hollow. “You think I’m just going to-”

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. He braces himself.

The handcuffs make a valiant clang as they shatter into shards, spilling over Cas and onto the floor. Dean watches Castiel stand, strong and commanding and so damn hurt . His eyes glow like the stars Dean once tried to learn the names of. Books and papers scatter through the air and float back down haphazardly. 

If Dean squints, he can make out the silhouette of two huge shapes behind Cas, longer than he is tall.

“You can’t save him,” Metatron says, taking slow steps backward like he’s trying to hide them. “You’re not meant to save him.”

Castiel snaps his eyes toward Metatron and throws him against the farthest wall, using only his grace. Dean is abruptly reminded of the ruthless, calculating Castiel that he first met. He was constantly aware of the ways Cas wasn’t human.

He is aware of those ways once more.

The room they’re in is a complete mess now but Dean only gets one second to take it all in before the pit of his stomach lurches with the feeling that he’s come to recognize as flight. He takes a deep breath.

In between one blink and the next they’ve moved. A dark forest surrounds them on all sides, foreboding and mythical. Dean’s mind flits through images of breadcrumbs and false kindness. My, what big teeth you have .

Cas walks forward until he’s in a small clearing. Moonlight pours down on him and drips off his shoulders, the ends of his hair. Dean thinks he’s beautiful. Dean thinks he’s devastated.

The forest around them is silent. Completely silent. Dean can hear his heart beating in his ears.

Castiel screams.

It is a sound of grief. It is a sound of anguish. It is enough to make even the bravest lover hesitate in fear and dream of death coming sweetly to their doorstep, kissing the foreheads of everyone who has loved and everyone who has been loved.

Blue light bursts forth from Cas with such force that Dean is knocked to his knees, screwing his face up and trying not to vaporize from the pure angelic despair. The ground shakes and trees fall. Distruction reigns in reflection of an angel’s heartache. 

(Dean has never and will never feel fearful of Castiel’s grace. Even now, there is no concern. Cas’ grace has always reached out to him like a caress, running over the roughest parts of him and trying to heal what it can. Dean thinks he would be surrounded by Cas’ grace forever, if he could. Consumed and held. Safe)

Dean can feel his ears pop and his heart race in response to this beautiful cosmic being releasing so much power. Cas… isn’t just Cas, right now. He’s not the odd, strangely-funny, formally dressed entity that Dean forgets isn’t human sometimes. No, right now Castiel is a constellation, a storm in the darkest night, a wave traveling miles along a shoreline. Castiel is the thing that listens when you tell a tree your secrets, the petals that fall when you ask loves me or loves me not? Castiel expands out of his body- no, his vessel , this is Castiel, the swirling mass larger than the tallest tree, churning and moving and writhing with emotion too expansive to be contained in this meager form. 

Dean is entranced. 

He stands up from where he had crouched and begins to walk toward Castiel, stepping carefully but with intention and love for Cas as he is now and as he has been before. Dean looks at him and loves him and loves him and loves him. He opens his eyes fully and Castiel’s grace is a kiss pressed to his forehead. No pain. Never pain.

The forest around them is still draped in shadow but the glow emanating from Castiel casts light enough for Dean to see clearly as he approaches. He’s less than thirty feet away now. Twenty. Ten. He pauses, resting one hand on a tree next to him for no reason except to reassure himself that he can. He watches Castiel, mesmerized by the shifting of his form as a creature not made to feel anything feels everything . 

Dean shifts away from the tree, lifting one foot to step forward and opening his mouth to speak.

Boom . 

With a sensation like a sonic blast, Castiel releases a wall of energy fueled entirely by grief. It whips through branches and makes Dean stumble and fall, throwing up his arms on instinct to protect his head. The very forest floor seems to shake as dozens of trees shift and fall, cracking and splintering and so very loud. 

Dean can only hear his heartbeat pound in his head. The rest of the chaos dissolves into white noise, muffled like he’s underwater. Something falls across his back, catching most of the impact on the side of his ribs and even the pain is muted. He grits his teeth, willing himself not to cry out, wanting to remain unseen for a little longer. The pain escalates, shooting up his side into his spine and down his torso to his legs. Everything seems to get louder and louder until he thinks he won’t be able to handle any more and then just as suddenly as it started--

It stops.

Slowly, Dean gets to his feet once more. He looks around. The night is silent once more. Even the churning mass that was Castiel seems to have returned into his body, leaving Cas sitting in the moonlight in the center of a…

Holy shit .

Cas is directly in the center of a huge circle of fallen trees. The area is decimated, every tree and bush flattened to the ground. It looks like a bomb went off. Dean shivers. 

Looking up at the stars, Cas seems smaller than Dean could ever imagine. A pulse of yearning thrums through Dean’s body, radiating from a spot in his chest all the way out to the tips of his fingers. He thinks that if he touches anything, that want in his hands will leave marks behind, blooming like paint in water and smudging like charcoal on paper. Dean’s drawn Cas many times before, of course. He’s more familiar with the lines of Cas’ body in the sketchbook he keeps tucked in the drawer by his bed than under his hands, firm and hidden underneath the layers he wears all the time.

Dean has no idea how long he’s been standing here staring at Cas. The stars are fading, the sky around them begins to lighten with a shade like a blush. Fallen leaves and stray branches crunch softly under Dean’s feet as he begins to walk toward Cas. The angel’s shoulders shake with soft sobs, broken and defeated.

Dean speaks before he can think better of it. “Cas?”

He can see the moment Cas’ breathing pauses. He doesn’t turn around to face Dean. 

“Cas.”

Cas forces a shaky, measured exhale.

“Cas, it’s me ,” Dean says, a note of pleading creeping its way into his voice.

“No,” Cas shakes his head, exhaustion evident like simply existing is too much for him. “No, no, no.”

Dean’s standing right next to him now. He puts one hand on Cas’ shoulder and he can feel the way Cas tenses. “Please, Cas.”

Faster than Dean’s brain can currently catch up with, Cas stands and moves to look Dean in the eyes. Dean’s heart hurts. Even with everything else, the way Cas looks at him has never changed in the decade he’s known him. It’s comforting.

“Don’t,” Cas says, and his tone is defeated and hurt and that’s certainly not comforting. Dean furrows his brows slightly, confused. “I went with you willingly. I’m here. Why must you insist on tormenting me further?”

One moment passes, then two. Dean looks down, opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Meeting Cas’ eyes again, Dean says, “You know you’re dreaming?”

It’s not what he meant to say, but it works.

Cas just chuckles ruefully. “I’ve known the whole time. Isn’t that the point?” He steps closer until he’s only a couple breaths away from Dean. “You send me here, make me relive the worst moments of my life, and keep me aware of it because that’s the real torture.” Cas’ eyes flit away from Dean’s momentarily like he’s nervous before he speaks again. “Making sure I know there’s no way out this time.”

Dean’s other hand lands on Cas’ other shoulder, but closer to the junction where it meets his neck. This close, he can feel the heat of his skin in the cool early morning air. Cas has always run hot, something Dean discovered during his stint in Purgatory. He had thought it was the angelic power running through his veins, but then Cas was human and still as warm as ever. It must just be a Cas thing, he figured.

“I’m not it, Cas,” Dean struggles to find the word. “The Empty.” Cas scoffs, the pain in his expression turning to the same kind of indignant anger Dean’s seen on him for years. His blue eyes are narrowed in distrust and the muscles under Dean’s hands are tensed and ready to spring into action at any moment and God, Dean loves him so much it hurts. “It’s me. It’s…” he sighs, letting his hands drop back to his side. “Me,” he finishes.

Cas is still staring at him. “You’ve… it’s… tricked me before.” 

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, me too, buddy,” he says, too lightly. He shifts a bit, thinking about it. “Get so close and then…” 

“You disappear,” Cas finishes. “Over and over.”

“Yeah.”

The silence hangs heavy in the still air of the forest. Distantly, Dean thinks he can begin to hear a single bird singing. The sound is soft and hopeful.

Dean gets an idea.

“C’mere,” he mumbles. Cas looks more cautiously hopeful than scared for the first time since they’ve started talking. Dean counts that as a win. 

Reaching down, he grabs Cas’ wrist so, so gently. The pads of his fingers brush across the soft skin on the inside. Dean’s breath catches in his throat. His face burns slightly under the weight of Cas’ gaze. Somehow, everything hangs on what Dean does right now, in this moment. 

The Empty’s words ring in Dean’s ears. Wake him up .

“We both know you’re dreamin’, Cas,” Dean says, soft enough not to break whatever’s in the air between them. He keeps a hold of Cas’ wrist in one hand and drags his other down, down, down the warm skin of Cas’ forearm until he reaches his palm. “But you’ve gotta wake up now.” Dean spreads his fingers across Cas’ hand in order to coax the lightly clenched fist open. He takes a moment to marvel to himself because god damn , Cas has big hands. Thoughts flit across Dean’s mind about how those hands would feel on his skin before he shakes them away and returns to the task in front of him. 

“Dean,” Cas sounds raw. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

Dean takes Cas’ wrist and his now-lax hand and moves it, slowly, towards his own face. Cas’ eyes never leave his. The songs of more birds come alive in the trees around them, music swirling around and around and wrapping the two of them in its embrace. Inch by inch, Dean brings Cas’ palm up to rest tenderly against Dean’s cheek. He can hear Cas gasp softly as they make contact, and his breathing stutters as his fingers fan out to touch the skin just under Dean’s jaw and below his ear.

The words form on Cas’ lips before he says them. “It’s you.”

Dean smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners. “It’s me.”

(They don’t realize it, but their words echo lovers' past; lovers who watch them from below and say do you think it’ll be different? Will they be different? I don’t know i don’t know i don’t know. )

The birds continue to sing in the rich, sentimental morning. The sky is the color of satisfied hunger.

------

Dean used to dream of a house.

He hasn’t in a while, but it was always the same. The dream came when he was alone, when he was hurt, when he was abandoned. It came in Purgatory, in shady motel rooms, in the backseat of Baby.

This is the first time it’s come in the bunker.

Dean stands in the living room of a house he knows but doesn’t. He could trace the grain of the dining table’s wood from memory, but the street outside is blank with an absence of recollection. It’s not the world out there that’s important, anyway. 

The room is strewn with signs of life: a sweater thrown over the back of the couch, a book laying dog-eared on the coffee table, the case of a DVD set haphazardly next to the player, not even closed all the way. It feels homey and safe. Dean wishes he could bottle that feeling and take it like a shot on bad nights; feel it slide, thick and hot, down his throat.

(Every night has been a bad night recently.)

There are no bad nights here. Dean walks slowly through the house, his socked feet near-silent on the wood floor. Portraits of people Dean can’t quite recognize hang in simple frames on the cream-colored walls. Sunlight streams in through sheer curtains, leaving patches of light on floors and tables. He nearly trips over a tiny black and white cat laying in one. Luna , he thinks. He has no idea how he knows her name.

The dining room shares space with the kitchen in the way that Dean’s always admired. He thinks about big family meals, dishes clinking together and laughter as abundant as food. A kid could sit at that table and do homework while he cooks supper. A radio in its place on the counter, playing soft melodies late at night. He thinks about dancing to it, slowly swaying side to side with…

With…

Dean keeps walking.

A window over the kitchen sink looks out to the backyard, revealing grass and garden boxes filled with the kinds of plants Dean has always wanted to be able to grow. Tall trees grow in one corner, a rope ladder hanging playfully from one of them. Dean smiles. A pair of lawn chairs sit together on the far end of the yard, at an angle Dean knows would be perfect for watching the sunset.

There’s a bird feeder in front of the window. That’s what gets him.

He’s lived here long enough to know which window he should put a damn bird feeder in. 

Contentment and longing are twin seeds in his chest, taking root and trying to decide who will grow and who will have to die.

The lock clicks and Dean jumps, startled. A heady sort of anticipation makes his fingers buzz and heartbeat increase. Yes, he’s waiting for someone, he knows it. Here they are now. They’re home.

The front door opens and Dean only ever gets a glimpse of tan fabric and dark hair before he’s pulled back to consciousness. He never sleeps well after that, feeling oddly like he’s been robbed of something.

------

Cas’ hand has moved so that his thumb rests lightly on Dean’s mouth. The casual, almost-possessive behavior makes Dean’s pulse race just slightly. 

Cas frowns, pulling back from Dean enough to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t tell me you were hurt.”

Dean just shrugs. It’s not that bad anymore, the shooting pain in his side has decreased to more of a dull ache by now. He’ll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow but he’s had worse.

Cas’ eyes narrow at him as he slowly begins to move his hand from Dean’s face down. “I can fix that—“

A series of things happen in the span of two heartbeats. First, at the same time Cas’ hand presses against Dean’s side, he grabs the lapels of Cas’ coat and pulls him closer than they had already been, nearly knocking their foreheads together in his haste. Cas tries to say something but the sound is overwhelmed by the sudden rush of air around them, louder than thought, louder than hope. Dean feels the telltale dizzying rush that accompanies supernatural movement and the weirdest feeling of not having a floor under his feet; briefly lost in the space between here and there.

Castiel’s hand tightens on the bruise of Dean’s ribs and he holds on to the pain like a warm cup of coffee, praying it’s enough to keep him from falling away completely.

------

“I didn’t think you’d do it.”

Dean wakes with a start, pushing down the panic that bubbles up when he realizes once more just how dark this place is. There’s a reason people are afraid of the dark, he thinks. He’d almost prefer Hell to here. Almost.

The Empty still wears Meg’s face as it looks down at Dean from its chair, annoyance evident. “I didn’t think you loved him ,” it says. “At least, not like that.”

Movement behind Dean draws his attention away from Not-Meg. Cas wakes slowly, opening his eyes like he’s confused about why they were closed in the first place. When he sits up, his wings drag on the ground behind him and Dean immediately wants to right them again, to brush them with his fingers until every feather sits perfectly and without discomfort. But he does not.

“I did,” Dean’s voice is rough with emotion. His eyes never leave Cas. “I do.”

The Empty groans, long and loud. “Well, what am I supposed to do now ?” It sighs with equal drama. “I don’t let anyone go, you know,” Dean meets its gaze and finds it’s completely serious. “Personal rule. Been there for…” it thinks. “The entirety of time, I think.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches Cas slowly make his way to his feet. Each movement brings tension, like even his bones are stiff.

Continuing, the Empty seems thoughtful. “Breaking promises isn’t nice either, though. It’s not sportsmanlike.”

“What are you talking about, breaking promises?” Dean demands. “We had a deal.” 

(Those words echo in Dean’s ears. Generation after generation. We had a deal . All broken.)

“I know, I know!” The Empty says in that weird approximation of Meg’s voice. “This isn’t exactly an experience I have often.”

Cas turns to look at Dean, eyebrows furrowed and head tilted. “You made a deal with it?” He murmurs, low enough so only Dean can hear. “After everything?”

“I had to, Cas,” Dean replies, fear and desperation bleeding into his tone. “I had to get you back.”

“I didn’t think you were quite so foolish.” Cas is genuinely angry now. 

Dean scoffs. “I thought you’d be, I don’t know, happy at the thought of getting out of here.” Being with me .

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“It will never let me go, Dean,” Cas says, dropping the words like a once-held hand. “Never.”

There is a beat of silence. Dean swears he can feel his ribs beginning to splinter like kindling for a fire. The tips of his fingers are so cold.

“The angel’s right,” The Empty says. “He stays here.”

Dean looks between its face and Cas’. “Not happening.”

“It’s the way it has to be. Castiel stays,” It continues. “But I’ll let you go.”

“Yes,” Cas says, at the same time Dean exclaims, “No way!”

The darkness suddenly feels colder, like the one gust of wind that sneaks around the edges of a coat. Just slightly to Dean’s left, a fissure in the darkness appears. Light spills faintly into the void.

“I’m not leaving you, Cas,” Dean says. “Not again.”

Softly and full of sadness, Cas smiles. “I know.” He reaches out and places one of his hands on Dean’s shoulder, perfectly overlapping with a scar from a lifetime ago. The other moves to just under his hairline on the side of his face, Cas’ fingers brushing through Dean’s hair until it reaches the back of his head. Stepping closer until their chests are nearly brushing, Cas pushes gently until Dean leans down just enough for Cas to brush his lips across his forehead, then the tip of his nose, then his cheek. They linger on his skin for a moment, enough time for Dean to feel Cas’ breath as he exhales, trembling. Cas pulls back.

Dean opens his eyes and blinks dampness away. There are no words. They aren’t needed.

Not until Cas says, “I love you, Dean Winchester,” and shoves Dean backwards through the portal.

The light is excruciating.

—---

“Do you think there’s any way to change fate, Cas?” Dean asks. The evening is humid and warm, late July meaning it hasn’t dipped down further than 70 degrees at night in a week. They are laying on a blanket that Dean pulled from the backseat, in the middle of a field close to the Bunker.

Crickets are a harmony underneath Cas’ voice as he responds. “I think we already have.”

They both listen to the not-silence around them for a bit.

“Sometimes, I think we’re stuck,” Dean says. “You, me, Sam. It seems like we’ve made it out of what… y’know, God wrote for us. Forged our own path and all that. But,” he pauses and turns onto his side to look at Cas. The angel mirrors him. “What if all the things we think we’ve found a way around, we just… pushed ‘em back a little?”

“You think we are chained to our destiny.”

“I think our destiny is chained to us, man,” Unconsciously, Dean begins to move closer to Cas as he talks. “If I’m destined to die on a hunt, it doesn’t matter if it happens when I’m 20, or 45, or 80. It doesn’t matter if I decide to retire someday. If it’s supposed to happen, it’s going to.”

Cas hums, thoughtful. “I don’t know about that. I think if anyone could find a way around what’s written, it would be us.”

Tomorrow, Dean’ll blame it on being overtired and stupid. Tonight, he lets his eyes linger on Cas’ face, memorizing every angle and line. “I hope so.”

—---

The Empty drops him in the middle of the storage room. The concrete ground is cold against his fabric-covered skin and the sensation of feeling anything is overwhelming after his stint in total sensory deprivation. Air burns like water in his lungs and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe .

Dean opens his eyes.

He inhales so hard it hurts, then exhales with equal force. Looking around, it’s as if nothing at all has happened since he left. Did it even matter? An animalistic groan of sorrow crawls out from behind his teeth and he curls his hand into a fist. The pain sparks up his arm like a shooting star when he hits the floor. He does it again. And again. His blood is wet on his knuckles like the tears on his face.

They were always going to end up here.

His phone vibrates where it lays abandoned on the ground. Dean ignores it and takes big, gasping breaths through an open mouth, broken sounds escaping him without intention. For a moment he thinks Billie came back because his heart, his heart aches. No. This is love. This is all Dean knows. He left a part of himself buried in the pockets of Cas’ coat and now he sits, lost and incomplete.

The buzzing continues, insistent and nauseating. Swallowing his cries, Dean picks it up and answers.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough. 

“They’re all gone,” Sam says, tinny through the shitty phone speaker. “Everyone. The…” He takes a breath and huffs it out again. “The whole goddamn world, I think.”

“Jesus.”

“I wish,” Sam pauses for a moment. “Did you and Cas get Billie?”

Dean is silent.

“Dean?” asks Sam, cautious. He doesn’t want to hear the answer. He already knows.

Dean clears his throat. It doesn’t help. The words are peanut butter in his mouth. “Billie’s gone.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a win that we desperately needed.”

“Cas-” Dean almost interrupts Sam with the effort it takes to speak. “Cas is… he’s…”

The silence lingers like unwanted party guests. There’s nothing to say.

“I’m coming back,” Sam says. “Jack… Jack and I are coming. We’ll be there soon, Dean.”

“Okay.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam’s tone edges into distress. “Don’t do anything stupid, alright? Just wait for me and Jack. We’ll figure it out together.”

Dean smiles ruefully. “‘Course, Sammy.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Soon. We’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll be here.”

Sam disconnects the call. Dean lets the phone fall from his hand onto the floor. Cold. He’s so cold. Dean stands on shaking legs and pulls his jacket tighter around himself. He leaves the storage room. He doesn’t close the door behind him.

—----

The days pass in an endless cycle of mornings and evenings. Dean eats when Sam puts food in front of him. He drinks. Nothing has a taste. He cleans and he cleans and he cleans. His hands grow dry and cracked with the constant barrage of soap and water and cleaning chemicals. 

They plan. They talk. They drive. They fight. Do they win?

Dean dreams. He dreams every night.

His eyes close. He walks. Through an endless soulless night. He calls a name that tastes of honey and blackberries and the sun on his tongue. He sees him. He smiles. Where have you been? He says. I’ve never left you , he hears. You always have me . 

But not really, he thinks. Not in the way I want you .

Beloved , Cas says, and oh. Doesn’t that hurt. You just have to wait. I promise.

Dean wakes with a gasp. He doesn’t sleep again after that.

—---

They defeat Chuck.

Dean doesn’t kill him. That’s the part that makes the least sense. The sun shines on Dean’s face and there’s no blood on his hands. Where is it? He’s carried it since he was a child; he’s wiped it on every hand he held, every face he kissed, every heart he broke. Out, damn spot! Lady Macbeth didn’t do it for love but Dean would. He does. Every day.

God is dead and Dean holds his little brother and laughs.

It’s the first time he’s laughed since the Empty. Four months of long nights and short dreams, of hold on, just hold on for me, Dean . He can wait. He’s waited for years. He waits now.

—---

“Hey, Sammy.” 

“Dean!” Sam looks younger. A handful of years of restless nights in bad motels have been lifted from his face and his hair keeps falling in his eyes. Is this the wrong Sam? Where is he? “What took you so long?”

Dean closes and locks the front door before toeing off his shoes and stepping fully into the Bunker. He walks down the stairs and grins once he reaches the bottom. Holding up the plastic bags in his hands, he says, “Food!”

Sam grins back at him and stands from his seat by the bookshelves. He is seven now, all long limbs beginning to grow into adolescence and teeth loose in his mouth. 

Dean wakes, not quite knowing when he fell asleep in the first place.

------

Dean’s son comes back to him and he’s changed.

Jack had left after their victory, claiming that he needed to “right some wrongs” and attempt to restore some semblance of order. Heaven was a right mess, Dean could admit to that. The kid had enough optimism and imagination to make it better than before. 

They weren’t prepared for the silence that Jack left behind.

Dean barely spoke for days on end. Sam buried himself in research, trying to figure out whether everybody had been returned to Earth or just the people who hadn’t previously died. He doesn’t say her name, but Dean knows.

The once-mighty Winchesters, brought to their knees by love. It must be genetic.

Morning is a lazy cat on the day that Jack returns. It stretches and groans with effort as the sun heats the concrete exterior of the Bunker. Sam and Dean sit on opposite sides of the library. They never talked about it, but they like to be within eyesight of each other. Just in case.

The knock echoes through the room.

Neither brother says a word until it comes again.

“Did you–?” Sam begins. Dean shakes his head.

They rise in unison, practiced hands reaching for waistbands and back pockets. Dean knows the cool metal of a weapon as he knows the dreadful familiarity of death. Now, though, there are no blades, no bullets. Dean hasn’t carried anything since Chuck. The thought of being defenseless feels like a bucket of ice down his neck. John’s voice murmurs in his head.

(There is a strange weight in the pocket of his jacket.)

Sam walks in front of him and he’s brandishing a knife, good, that’s good, he probably won’t die. Dean is prepared to wrestle whatever this thing is to the ground when Sam opens the door and blinks at the light only to see Eileen smiling back at him.

Sam Winchester, once boy-king of Hell, bursts into tears.

“Sam!” Eileen cries, throwing her arms around him. They embrace, oblivious to the entire world around them. Sam’s knife is on the ground, forgotten, right next to…

Dean’s heart freezes.

It’s a carrier, a baby carrier, and there’s a baby in it. A solid six-month-old, by the looks of it. His (Dean just knows) eyes are wide and blue and there’s a shockingly thick crop of blond hair on top of his head and that’s him, that’s Jack. 

Jack reaches one tiny hand out toward Dean and that’s it.

Tears are slowly making their way down Dean’s face as he holds his son again. Jack is tiny and happy and smiling as Dean touches his face, his arms, his stomach. He’s solid and alive and Dean hasn’t felt this real in a month.

He thinks, offhand, I have to call Cas . 

The anguish hits him like a bullet and Jack babbles at him in confusion as Dean gasps for air. Tucking Jack into the crook of his arm, Dean holds onto the side of the staircase and walks down away from the door, leaving Sam and Eileen to themselves. 

Dean shuts his bedroom door behind him, latching it but making sure it doesn’t slam. Sitting on his disheveled sheets, he lays Jack down beside him on the bed. Jack doesn’t squirm, just watches with a rapt expression as Dean removes the blanket wrapped around him and checks him for injuries. Finding none, he swaddles Jack again and tucks him back in his arms. 

“You hungry, little man?” Dean asks. His voice is scratchy and rough from disuse. “I bet you are.”

Dean walks the both of them back out to the kitchen, passing Sam’s room on their way, door closed. He laughs to himself and continues. The two of them return to Dean’s room with a small cup of milk in hand. Dean sits at the head of his bed and leans against the headboard, propping Jack up on his lap as he slowly feeds him.

“I know this ain’t what I’m supposed to be giving you,” Dean says. He knows it’s a little stupid to be talking to a baby, but he can’t help feeling like Jack is listening. “But you’re basically a tiny God now, so I figure you can handle it. At least until we get to the store tomorrow.” 

Jack blinks at him in agreement.

Eventually, they both fall asleep half propped up with the light still on. Jack’s tiny breaths are soothing against Dean's chest. It's not the first time he's been a parent. Somewhere out in the universe there is a tiny kid too young to know that he's supposed to be a kid, too. Dean's hands have always been made for holding. Jack’s tiny fingers encircle Dean’s thumb as he sleeps.

Dean dreams of Cas.

------

“Dean?”

Dean is sitting on a bench in a park that looks too familiar to be a creation of his subconscious. The sun is bright and warm against his skin and he sighs, watching his son as he wanders around asking other kids to play with him.

“Dean, can you hear me?”

Looking up and to his right, Dean sees a tan trenchcoat and dark hair illuminated by the sunlight. He smiles. Of course, this is who he was waiting for. “Heya, Cas.”

Castiel visibly exhales in relief. “I didn’t know if I could get through.”

“Get through what?” Dean asks, sparing a glance at Jack to make sure he’s alright.

Cas frowns at him, just a little. “Dean, you’re dreaming.”

Is he?

“Oh,” Now it seems almost obvious. “Right.”

“I don’t think we have much time,” Cas says urgently. Dean looks at him and stands, shoving both his hands into his jacket pockets so he doesn’t do something stupid like grab Cas and hold him close and never, ever let go again. “Something’s… Dean, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, being not fine. “Why are you here?”

“You’ve been praying to me,” Cas replies. “Quite often, and with varying amounts of force. I’m blocked from hearing specific words, but I can feel your intent. Dean, I thought–” Cas meets Dean’s eyes. “I thought you were dying.”

“Not recently.”

Cas rolls his eyes, exasperated. “What’s going on, then?”

“Nothing!” Dean wants, he wants so badly, it feels like he’s being torn apart. “God, Cas, you left. Do you expect me to just let that go?”

“I wanted you to,” Cas says, not backing down. “You can’t save me from this, Dean. I wanted you to live, to grow old,” He takes a breath. “I want that for you, I want it for Sam, I want it for Jack. I did this so you would have a chance.”

“I don’t want it!” Dean’s voice is louder than he wants. Every emotion he’s tried to swallow is tearing their way out of him, grown stronger in his denial. “Goddamn, don’t you know that every time you leave, it nearly kills me? I don’t want some white picket fence, if I can’t… have you on the porch, too.”

Castiel is silent.

“I’d take you over a thousand so-called peaceful lives, you hear me?”

A moment passes, then two. Cas swallows. “Dean, I–”

Tiny footsteps rush up to them and dream-Jack throws his arms around Dean. He’s a little older now, around four. He looks up at Dean and smiles. “I’m ready to go home now.”

Dean ruffles his hair. “Alright, kid. Give me a moment,” Looking back at Cas, he speaks. “I don’t know how to get you out of this. I don’t even know where to start. But you can’t ask me to just forget, Cas. Because I can’t.”

Finally, Castiel smiles. He reaches out and pulls Dean’s hand from his pocket before holding it in his. “I might have an idea.”

Dean listens.

------

It takes a few days to drive back to the beginning. Not for lack of stamina or an abundance of distance, but because Dean can’t seem to keep the wheel straight enough to stay between the lines. His mind is loud, restless, tangled like so many snakes under a garden shed. 

In the end, after much discussion, it’s Eileen who sits in the passenger seat. Her face is set and determined. Dean thinks about how much it hurts to die, and wonders if she still aches sometimes. She reads him directions off her phone and tugs at the strings of his mind when he floats too far away in his head. A snap of her fingers, a tap on the shoulder. A quiet hey . It helps.

Sam sits in the back with Jack. After a few more weeks of life, the kid is solidly rosier. Dean never really lost his sea legs when it comes to babies, so the learning curve was short. It wasn’t like they could just leave him, after all. Jack is family. Especially after everything. 

The headlights of the Impala are like cat’s eyes in the dark. Green signs advertising rest stop, next left or food/lodging, exit 35a barely even register in Dean’s brain. The rattling of the air vent, the rumble of the wheel under his palms. Dean feels more at home in this car than he’s ever felt in his own skin. Next to him, he senses Eileen tense briefly as Sam taps her on the shoulder and points forward out the windshield. 

“Dean,” She says. He grunts in acknowledgement, feeling himself settle back in his body like metal shavings in too-old motor oil: abrasive and overwhelming. Eileen points to the same spot Sam did, closer now. “Deer.”

“Yes, honey?” Dean murmurs in answer, just because he can. He sees them now, clumped in a herd like clover in grass. Their eyes reflect the headlights. One of them stands taller than the rest, antlers curving gently toward the moon. Dean looks at him and something in his chest unravels. “They better stay on the side. I’m not about to slap an I brake for deer sticker on Baby’s bumper.”

Sam scoffs. Eileen smiles. They drive past, Dean reducing his speed slightly just in case. The deer watch them and then they fade back into the darkness, back into shadow. Nothing remains in the side mirrors except the ever rolling lines of yellow they pass.

Sometimes, though, Dean swears he can see that deer’s antlers reaching up in the shadow, like hands wanting fistfuls of stars. 

They keep driving. 

------

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Cas says. 

They lie in a garden, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in a hammock. Dean had blushed and stubbornly refused to answer any questions Cas had about their setting until he called it “endearing” and then Dean was too flustered to keep up the charade. 

It’s dark, but the garden is illuminated by strings of twinkling lights strung across branches and little solar powered lamps scattered about. Night blooms: phlox, evening primrose, moonflowers all around them leave a sweet fragrance in the air. Somewhere, a fountain trickles, and a warm summer breeze gently rocks them back and forth. 

“Cas,” Dean says. “Have you met me? My whole life has been ‘not easy’, I don’t think that’s what’s gonna convince me to run away and leave you to rot in the Empty.”

The angel sighs. Dean can feel every movement of it. “I just want to warn you.”

“Dude, you haven’t even told me what the plan is .”

The stars, abundant and luminous, twinkle above them. “Don’t call me ‘dude’,” Cas says, annoyance heavy like spring rain in his words. Dean smiles, content. 

Cas continues, tone back to normal. “You know that your prayers, these dreams, are the only thing keeping me awake.”

Dean nods, definitely paying attention but also definitely thinking about how much more comfortable this would be if he could move Cas’ arm around his shoulder and lean on his chest. That would be so warm, too. 

Cas huffs a breath and shifts, moving his arm into exactly the place Dean was just thinking about. Dean blinks owlishly, stunned. “You know you can just ask for things, Dean,” Cas says. 

“I say again, have you met me?” 

Cas pretends exasperation but Dean can see right through it. He grins. “Pay attention,” Cas pokes him in the shoulder as he says it. “I know where it has to be.”

“Where?”

“The barn.”

The words hang in the air as twelve years of history roll through Dean’s brain like a viewmaster. Click, click. “You mean the one where you burst in like a high schooler in theatre club and then knocked Bobby out quicker than a six-pack and Jeopardy reruns?”

“Yes.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” Dean says. “Why?”

“Why does anything have power?” Cas answers. “It is what we give it. After everything we’ve been through, where we met… has meaning.”

“Aw,” Dean grins again. “Couple million years old and you’ve turned into a sap, Cas.”

“Wonder who I learned that from.”

They laugh, and it echoes through the garden, ringing on and on in the bell-shaped blossoms. 

------

Dean shouldn’t be surprised that the barn is untouched. Still, he’s filled with a strange sense of nostalgia as he enters, like if he looks behind himself he’ll see a ghostly Castiel bursting light bulbs. Memory lingers like a death echo. Dean shivers.

“Wow,” Eileen says from behind him. “You really didn’t want him getting in, huh?” 

The symbols, sprawled like graffiti in a bar bathroom, are almost overwhelming. Dean had forgotten how they curl over every inch of wood, thick and dark. He had been so afraid. What else could he have done?

“Hah, not at first,” Dean’s voice is rough. “Grew on me after a while, though.”

Eileen just looks at him knowingly and walks toward the table near the center. The bag she had slung across her shoulder makes a clunk as she drops it down, spreading the miscellaneous ingredients and objects out for easy access. “I think Sam should do the actual spellwork,” She says, casually. Then Dean sees her look at Sam subtly as she continues, words mischievous. “Rowena really liked him, after all.”

“I–” Sam begins, face burning as he walks toward Eileen. Dean decides he definitely does not want to know and grabs Jack out of Sam’s arms so he can help set things up. 

After Cas detailed his plan to Dean during one of their dream meetings, Dean immediately went to Sam’s room (after making sure to knock, because ew ) and brought his brother and Eileen up to speed as well. The possibility of getting Cas back was invigorating and they ended up spending the rest of the night in the library, looking for any magical precedent that they could form the spell off of. 

A gust of wind blows past the barn, rustling the roof tiles. Dean looks up, traces the lines of a sigil with his eyes, and exhales, chest filled with something like hope. 

“Alright, we should be about ready,” Eileen says, startling Dean slightly. He turns to face her. She smiles, her hair pulled back with a hairband she no doubt stole from Sam. “Are you ready?” Her face is soft, serious. “We can wait a minute, if you need.”

Dean is shaking his head before Eileen even finishes. “Nah, I’m good,” He feels himself smile, just a little, in answer. “I’m ready.”

“I think you are.”

The spell is set up on the ground, forcing Sam to kneel as he measures ingredients into small metal bowls. Eileen takes Dean’s hand as they walk to it. Jack is tucked into the crook of Dean’s other arm, not sleeping but peacefully observing. They lower themselves down to the floor; Dean directly across from Sam, Eileen between the two of them. She reaches out and takes Jack into her own arms, leaving Dean’s hands free for the next step. 

“Ready?” Sam asks, looking at each of them in turn. The wind rustles the roof again. 

Eileen just nods. Dean holds out his hand. “Magic it up, Sam-brina.”

Sam rolls his eyes and strikes a match. The sound, though soft, echoes like a promise. 

The spell has begun. 

------

(You know what it means. If he comes for you.)

The maybesometimesnotalways angel sighs. He does.

(You’re letting him do it anyway?)

He loves me, the angel says. He loves me. He does. 

(Enough not to turn back? Enough to trust you?)

He does. He will. The angel’s voice is tired. 

The void is quiet. Empty. (I believed once, too.)

The angel hears another voice on top of the Void’s, overlaid like a quilt on a duvet. A womandemoncreaturefriend. I know you did, he says.

(I guess we’ll see.)

We will.

------ 

The barn is loud. Bright. It’s a stadium, a palace. It shakes like an untrained assassin, shivering with barely-contained newly-recognized power. Blue, blue, blue and gold light streams from the place Dean bleeds.

Dean feels like his nerves are being pulled out of him one by one, twirled, and stretched long like a canvas. Fire, hot and angry, burns its way through him. He yells, but his voice comes out hoarse and weak. There are no thoughts here. He just wants it to stop . 

He feels Sam holding his hand above the bowl, but it’s distant, just the suggestion of contact. Eileen places one hand on his shoulder. He feels it, he feels it, but he wants them to drag him out of this torture he’s drowning in. Grip him by the shoulders and force him above water, thrashing. Please.

The air is filled with a sound like glass screaming, high-pitched and terrible. Blood rushes down his fingertips as Sam chants and chants and fuck, he’s going to pass out. Dean starts to go limp, falling backward slightly, then starts as Eileen yells directly in his ear. 

“Dean, look !”

A crack. A tear. Darkness, tangible and thick, spills slowly from it like an oozing wound. Dean’s eyes widen. The rip widens, becoming big enough for somethingsomeone to crawl through, when the whole barn explodes.

------

(An eye for an eye, angel.)

You’ve taken enough.

------

Dean thinks it explodes. It must have. His ears are ringing and he must’ve burst an eardrum because more blood is slowly making its way from his ear down his jaw. The building still stands, though, and it’s so quiet. Sam is wrapping a strip of cloth around Dean’s arm, right where they cut him in order to access enough blood to coax some of his soul out. The pain is a shout at the end of a tunnel, echoing and unclear. Dean sits up.

Eileen, still holding Jack, sits beside Sam. They both look disheveled and tired. Dean feels a brief stab of guilt. 

Then he looks at the tear. 

It glows, just slightly, and isn’t dripping anymore. It hangs in the air delicately, the way that snow seems to hover in the light of a streetlamp. Bloody, sore, very nearly passing out,

Dean manages to get to his feet. He stumbles toward it.

His hand reaches out. It is the same hand, the lovers’ hand, that has reached out in every story.

This time, one reaches back.

Dean grabs it and pulls, feeling something tear in his arm as he does. The floor of the barn aches against his knees where he kneels, but then it works and the tear loses the battle and Dean falls backward, knocking the breath out of his chest when a weight lands on top of him. 

For a second, neither of them move. They breathe together, heavy and pained.

Then Cas shifts to sit up and says, “Dean–” and Dean can’t– he can’t–

It is not romantic. It is not pretty. Dean surges forward, feeling more blood drip down to the floor (seriously, he probably can’t afford to lose much more) as he takes Cas’ face in both of his dirty, scarred hands and kisses him.

A vulnerability made of jagged metal and years of white-hot loneliness bursts through him like ignited gasoline and he whimpers. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes when Cas’ hands come up to land on him in return, one on the side of his face and one at his waist. Cas strokes his thumb across the soft skin of his cheek and Dean breaks the kiss to sob.

“Hey, hey,” Cas says, soft and tender. He wipes a tear away. “I’m okay. You’re okay, Dean.”

Dean can’t make his hands let go. One made its way down to Cas’ sleeve and grips so hard it bunches the fabric, passion and emotion and relief manifesting in stiff, shaking fingers. The rip in the air slowly closes, knitting together thread by thread. The barn is silent once more.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice comes from somewhere to the side of them, cautious and hopeful. Cas turns to look at him. 

He smiles. “Hello, Sam,” shifting his gaze, he nods. “Eileen.”

Dean can feel the moment his breath catches in his chest. He knows what Cas is looking at. 

“Dean… is that…?” Cas says, seemingly unable to say more. 

Dean finally makes his hands release from Cas’ coat. “Yeah,” he replies, voice rough. “It’s him.”

Cas stands, slightly unsteady as if at any moment he could fall, and takes a step toward Eileen and the bundle she holds in her arms still. She laughs at the expression on his face but it’s a soft, fond little thing. 

Now standing as well, Dean puts one hand on Cas’ arm. Cas looks at him for a moment before once again staring at Eileen. He seems… almost afraid, Dean thinks. He pitches his voice down to a whisper. “Go talk to him.”

Cas nods, shaking himself out of his stupor and walks toward Eileen. She arranges the blanket so it’s not covering Jack’s face, then holds him out toward Cas. He pauses, and she nods. “He misses you,” she says. 

Gently, like he’s scared of breaking him somehow, Cas takes Jack into his arms. They look at each other for a long moment. Dean meets Eileen and Sam’s eyes in turn, questioning. 

Then, Cas beams . He looks up at Dean, eyes shiny. “He’s perfect.”

“Don’t I know it, buddy,” Dean replies, smiling too now. He walks over to Cas’ side and puts one arm around his shoulders, holding him close. “Takes after you.”

Sam and Eileen are standing closer as well and Sam makes a face, wrinkling his nose and sticking out his tongue just a little. “Ugh,” He says emphatically. “This is how it’s going to be, now?”

Eileen just elbows him. “Let them be happy,” She says. Then she meets Dean’s eyes and grins. “Gross, but happy.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean puts on an air of exasperation. “You guys can both walk home. Me n’ Cas will be gross in Baby without you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Eileen says, under her breath. Sam actually covers his ears at that.

“Too much!” He cries. Dean and Eileen just laugh for a minute, while Cas fondly shakes his head. He leans a little more into Dean’s side and Dean can tell he’s exhausted, drooping like a cut flower. Sam interrupts his thoughts, saying, “Seriously though, what happened? How did that work?”

Cas sobers a little, looking every minute like he hasn’t slept a moment since that day in the basement. “The best way I can explain it? A bit of Dean’s soul fused to the last remnants of my Grace, blowing a hole through the Empty,” He pauses a moment. “A bit like a supernova.”

The barn is silent, save for the sound of the wind against the roof. It howls mournfully and Dean is suddenly reminded of just how long Cas has been gone. It aches, deep in his chest. 

“So are you still an angel?” Eileen asks. Cas shrugs as best he can. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe? I still have some Grace, I can feel it, but… it’s like it’s mixed with Dean’s soul, now. Inseparable.”

Dean nods solemnly. “Like swirled ice cream.” Cas looks at him and nods with equal gravity.

Jack babbles from his blanket and all the adults seem to come back to themselves. Sam and Eileen go back over to the table and pack all their spell supplies up, sticking them in a bag to be cleaned once they return to the Bunker. Dean can’t seem to make himself leave Cas’ side and he’s pretty sure Cas feels the same way. He drops his arm down to Cas’ waist and leans his forehead on Cas’ shoulder, feeling a soft kiss get pressed to the crown of his head. 

“You ready to go home?” Dean asks.

Cas just hums and grabs Dean’s hand with one of his own, shifting Jack to one side. “More than you could ever know.”

They walk out of the barn together, palm to palm, fingers entwined like a promise.

------ 

the universe whispers and whispers and whispers, voices overlapping until it sounds like the rustle of leaves or the whooshing of grass. 

“they did it” “they did it” “they did it” “they did it”

how hard it must be to shatter the glass cage of fate.

------

Two men sit together on a porch. It is connected to a house, as porches often are, and the house is small enough to feel comfortable but not too small as to make them feel on top of each other. The evening is warm, the light just beginning to fade from the horizon as the reflection of the sunset spills like laughter across the surface of the lake. They are watching their son run across the grass, blond hair ruffled, as he chases beetles and moths in an attempt to catch them in his toddler-clumsy hands. The bench on their porch swings, and one of the men is tucked right up against the side of the other. There is no room for fear, now. They’ve built a home for themselves.

And every day Dean wakes up before the man he loves, tracing the sunlight as it illuminates the lines of his body. And he exhales, happy.