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The coffee pot gurgled, punctuating the air with gasps of steam and the bright smell of fresh brew. Dean leaned on the sink looking out into the backyard. Cas stood in the center of a tangle of wild flowers and trees, his camera forgotten around his neck. This was how it was in the morning. Cas appreciated nature and Dean appreciated Cas, all while the coffee percolated.
Dean had little interest in the body Cas wore aside from the sweet familiarity of it. What Dean watched was the stillness Cas carried with him and the faint smile that transformed his face. It seemed impossible that after they had torn so many chunks out of each other that they were finally able to settle somewhere and fit together as easily as worn puzzle pieces.
When Cas stirred from his vigil, Dean turned on the radio. Strains of the Rolling Stones poured out as he took out two mugs to fill with coffee and cream. Cas drifted inside, taking his mug with a soft sound of appreciation from Dean. They stood together, nearly touching as they drank.
“Come for a walk with me?” Cas asked when Dean took his last sip, the one that always had a few grinds in it.
“You just went for a walk.” But Dean was already putting his mug in the sink and taking Cas’ mostly full one to place besides it.
“I believe I have discovered where the eagles are nesting.” Cas didn’t bounce on his heels, break into a grin or chive Dean forward in anyway, but his excitement was still palpable. “They keep circling near an outcropping of rock halfway up the mountain.”
“Sounds good.” Dean stuffed his socked feet into hiking boots. They were sturdy and beaten into the shape of his feet.
The sweeping porch in front of their house had three generous stairs that led onto the dirt driveway. The Impala sat placidly in the sun, a lean predator taking it’s ease. Dean gave her an affectionate pat. Maybe later, he would take her out on a solitary drive down the long winding roads to town. It wasn’t much of a place really, a few dusty buildings. He liked the people there though he had long ago stopped bothering to get to know them. They were rich cut outs, capable of conversation and laughter, but not much more. They reminded Dean of the people he’d met on the road, brief depthless encounters that skimmed over him and left no impression behind.
“Ready?” Cas asked, prepared for the walk in dark wash jeans and a grey t-shirt that might have been Dean’s once. The suit and trench coat hung in their wardrobe, dusty with abandonment. Dean liked the smooth line of Cas’ throat exposed to the sun.
“Yeah.”
They took a left at the end of the driveway, picking up one of the paths that Cas’ feet had tramped down into existence. These narrow trails riddled the mountain behind them, a winding thread that followed Cas’ curiosity. When Dean walked them alone, he felt Cas at his elbow guiding him along.
The way Cas led him today was new. The plant life had been trampled down a little, a few broken branches the only indication that anyone had come this way before. Above them birds engaged in long arguments and the cicadas’ hum reached crescendo over and over again.
“Here.” Cas reached back, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s wrist and pointing with his other hand. Dean followed his finger to a tiny alcove in a sheer rockface. An eagle circled over it, keeping vigil.
“Think they’ve got eggs?” Dean asked.
“Yes. Look.” Cas fiddled with his camera, deploying the zoom and handing it over to Dean.
Obligingly, he looked through it. He spotted the nest quickly, a lopsided construction of twigs and down. Another eagle perched on top of it, eyes quick to dart around and for a moment, it seemed to look straight at Dean. It’s feathers ruffled and it rose to stretch before settling back down.
“Three.” Dean reported, passing the camera back to Cas. “That I can see anyway.”
Cas’ eyes widened a little and he pressed the camera up to his eyes, finger lingering over the trigger. He would be like that for a while, looking for the right shot. His artistic judgement had improved in leaps and bounds since he’d first taken up the camera, but he still doubted himself. Took his time as if film were a limited precious thing instead of in heavy stockpiled boxes in their basement.
Dean found a rock to sit on. Idleness still wore on him, scrapped him raw if it went on too long. Rule Number Three of their strange existence was: Keep Busy (Rule One: Don’t Talk About it. Rule Two: Don’t Break It). There were projects he could be working on back at the house, people he could visit. Not just the cut-outs, but real solid people. He owed Bobby a look-in. Maybe he’d talk Cas into it soon. A long weekend visiting someone elses’ patch would be good for both of them.
He occupied himself by picking up sticks and sharpening the tips with his penknife. They weren’t large enough to use as weapons, but they were useful for picking dirt out of shoes or from under fingernails.
“The eggs are freshly laid.” Cas declared, coming up from his fugue state. “They will not hatch for several weeks.”
“Yeah?” Dean drove one of the pointed sticks into the dirt, a marker if he had to find this spot again. “Guess we’ll have to come up and check then.”
“Yes.” Cas said gravely, but clearly pleased that Dean had understood what he wanted. “That would be wise.”
“Come on, I’ve got things to do today, birdbrain.” Dean slung an arm around Cas’ shoulders and pressed a kiss to his temple before releasing him.
They were halfway down the trail when Dean’s phone started to sing, “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”
“Sammy?” Dean answered immediately, heart pounding in his chest. Maybe this time, maybe finally this time. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Sam said in a rush. “I swear. Sorry to call so early.”
“Damn right you’re sorry. But I was up anyway.” It wasn’t early here, but Dean was used those vagaries of time. He winked at Cas, who looked blandly back at him, “ We’ve been going for runs in the morning because Cas thinks I’m ‘treating my body in disrespectful manner’. Heh. Left him in my dust third morning in a row. So. What’s up?”
Cas snorted and started walking faster as if in silent contention. The run thing wasn’t a lie, exactly. It was last week though, not today. But Dean wasn’t ready to share things like eagles with his brother, not when their reconciliation was fragile as soap bubble.
“Do you remember the chicken soup you used to make?”
“Uh. What?” It was the last thing Dean expected to be asked. He stared blankly down at the grass.
“You know. When we were kids? The stuff you made when I was sick.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Dean shifted the phone to his other shoulder, uncomfortable in the memory. Sam never got the usual childhood colds and flus. He’d only gotten sick a handful of times, each bout a horrible wrenching illness complete with frighteningly high fevers and quaking chills. Dean would have done anything then to please Sam, to fix him. “Couldn’t ever be happy with a can like a normal kid, could you?”
“It tasted better when you made it.”
“Well. I am awesome.” Dean curled his left hand into a fist, nails biting into his palm. This was real. He and Sam were actually going to have a civil, kind conversation. “And anyway, you bitched that the canned stuff tasted like salt. You sucked at being sick. Whined like a girl.”
“Yeah, because you making me go find ice cream in the middle of December was such a great example of manly fortitude.”
“I had pneumonia!” Or something like it anyway. It didn’t matter anymore. Sam had gone without question at the time, delivered Ben and Jerry up like it was a sacrifice to a beloved god. That had been long long ago, before everything had gone to shit.
“Whatever.” Sam snorted. “Anyway. I wanted to know what you put in the soup. My neighbor is hacking up a lung. Figure I could make it for him.”
“Oh, man. I don’t know. Long time ago. Which neighbor? He come to the funeral?” Dean hadn’t paid attention to the attendees to Ruby’s sad little ceremony. They were cut-outs, just stand ins for the people Sam imagined would be there.
“No. The guy on the other side of the duplex. I really only met him a week ago.”
“You didn’t know the guy who lived in the other side of your house?” Figured. Sam really did live in his own little world. Well. At least Dean shared his with Cas. “Wait. He own that ugly green Volkswagen?”
The car had been remarkably ugly. The left rearview mirror had been duct taped in place and it had taken Dean a lot of self-control not to get his toolkit and just fix the damn thing.
“Yeah, I think so.” Sam said, clearly bemused. “Look, can you just tell me what you remember? I can probably fake the rest.”
“There wasn’t really an exact recipe or anything. I’m not Betty Crocker, you know?”
Cas was far ahead of him now, a smear of black, grey and blue.
“Dean.”
“Fine.” The memory of the dinged pot rattling on the stove filled him as he rattled off all the things he’d begged and stolen to give his brother something decent to eat for once. Something that reminded them both of a home that never really existed. “That’s it.”
“That’s enough. Thanks.”
“Yeah. Well. Whatever. You’re welcome. What’s with this guy anyway? You playing happy homemaker after a week?”
“No. He’s just...someone I talk to and he looked miserable. Figured I’d get out of my own head a little. Do something for someone else.”
“Nice guy?” He asked nonchalantly.
“No. Not really. I’m not convinced he doesn’t hate me, actually.” Sam laughed without humor. “But it turns out that I’m a little low on friends these days.”
“So you’re going to make a guy who hates you soup? Dude. Why do you do these things to yourself?” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. He could practically see Sam’s puppydog eyes, asking him to lay off, to please somehow magically understand what was going on in his ridiculous brain.
“Faith. I have to believe that it’s worth it to keep trying. So. Faith.” Sam’s voice cracked and broke over the line.
Dean stopped walking. He turned the word over and over in his head. He could hear Sam’s breath speedup over the phone. Dean had to say something, assure him he was still there.
“Do you remember when we met Cas?” Was what came out. Of course, how could Sam forget that?
Cas had crash landed into their lives like a meteorite. He had blown apart everything they knew and started to rebuild them up from scratch. Sometimes, in his most private moments, Dean wondered if he’d ever had a chance. If he had been bound to love the person that saved and remade him. He liked to think that falling in love had been a choice he made, but maybe it had been out of his hands from the beginning.
“Hard to forget.”
“He told me once that right from that moment he had faith in me.”
“I knew from the beginning that you were righteous man.” Cas reached across the table, one hand covering Dean’s restless fingers. “And I will follow you wherever you need me to go.”
“Really? I mean you threatened to stab him with a steak knife.”
”I tried to kill you.” Dean reminded him and slowly turned his hand so their palms brushed. It was electric and intimate without being the least bit sensual. “I thought you were an enemy.”
“You were frightened. I forgave you before you set down the knife.”
“I know, right? But he’s a weird motherfucker like that.” Dean set his hand into his pocket, sorting through the pointed sticks. Cas was even further ahead now, barely visible among the green leaves. He started walking to catch up, old fears rising to the surface as treacherous as an oil slick. “The thing is..after you and Ruby left town. I did some stupid shit. Doesn’t matter what and I almost lost that with him. Didn’t know how much I needed it until..... I just mean, you know. Faith is ok, Sam. If that’s all you got. Could be enough. Do me a favor though?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“Don’t fuck this guy.” He joked, searching for the ease they’d once had. “Once you stick your dick in something, it goes evil. You should get that checked out by a medical professional.”
“You are such an immense asshole.” Sam’s laughter forced away the worst of Dean’s rising fears. He wanted to bathe in that sound.
“STDs aren’t a laughing matter. I thought I taught you to always wear a raincoat.” He pushed on, coaxing more of Sam’s belly laugh from him.
“I fucking hate you.”
“Go make your soup, Samantha. I gotta go make sure Cas didn’t get lost on his way home again.” He started to jog a little, careful of his footing on the rocky terrain.
“Again?”
“Don’t ask. He gets distracted by the light in the leaves or some shit. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye.”
He hung up, shoving the phone in a pocket free of forest detritus.
“Is everything well?” Cas called up the trail. He was returning to Dean, taking the upward incline as if it was nothing.
“Yeah.” Dean grinned, smoothing a hand over the curve of Cas’ shoulder. “Everything is fucking amazing, actually.”
Back home, they parted ways, but this time nothing tugged anxiously at Dean urging him to follow Cas. They had their own routines, their own projects that kept their lives from slipping into tedium. These days Dean was building a car. From scratch. He had books from the town library, a few manuals borrowed from Bobby and enough tools to build a skyscraper if he wanted. He’d conceived of the idea months ago when he’d gone through latest retuning of the Impala to once more find nothing the least bit wrong with her. His hands had ached for work.
Building a car from the ground up was much different than repairing one. He labored over the intricacies of the transmission and the smooth rotation of pistons. The frame of the car was already done, a sleek, low bodied thing that suggested power in every line. He had a color in mind for it, a rich blue that might look nearly brown in the right light. That would come last, after he brought the engine roaring to life.
Today, he was tackling the fuel lines. The radio instructed girls to rock their boys and feel the noise. He sang along under his breath as the song rolled into another and another.
“Lunch.”
Dean nearly clocked his head on the underside of the car. Cas’ sneakers appeared in his field of vision, followed by a plate with a sandwich and a sweating neon green pickle.
“Thanks.” He scooted out from under the car, grabbing up a rag to wipe his hands with. Leaning against the frame, he picked up the offering and ate with gusto. “You going to have some?”
Cas settled next to him on the oil stained ground as an answer, picking up one half of the sandwich. They sat against the empty frame of the car, a breath of space between them.
“Can I ask you something?” Dean asked, licking mustard off his fingers.
“Anything.”
Dean grinned into his palm, “Do you still have faith in me?”
“Of course.” It’s an answer without hesitation. “Why would you ask?”
“Sam said something about faith. Got me thinking, I guess.” He shrugged, trying to brush it away. “I guess I never really understood it.”
“You don’t have to understand it,” Cas got to his feet, picking up his plate, “you’ve always been a man of great faith. It comes to you as naturally as breathing.”
“Think you got me confused with a more church going man.” Dean teased.
“No.” Cas said levelly, regarding him without expression. “I mean what I say. The loyalty and love you carry has always been great, but it was founded in faith. No matter who shook it from you, your father, your brother...even me. You cling to it with a tenacity where most people would falter.”
“Oh.” Dean blinked up at him. “Uh...thanks?”
“No.” Cas smiled faintly. “Thank you.”
Dean slid back under the car, fingers fumbling for the fuel line, “Yeah, well. Whatever. You’re welcome.”
“I’ll see you at dinner.” Cas’ shoes disappeared from sight, leaving Dean to gnaw on too much thought and feeling.
After the fourth fumble for a screwdriver, he gave any more work up as a bad idea and just lay under the empty frame in frustration. The problem was that Cas’ idea of Dean’s faith sounded a lot more like bold stupidity to him. How many times had people broken their promises to him? Left him behind to sort out a mess from which there was no recovery? And even that dumb love had abandoned him more than once. Looking into the eyes of men who would consume him, sometimes Dean really had wanted to just give it up. Lay down and die just to have it over with.
“Really, man?” He barked at himself, the sound startling in the confined space. “Get the hell over it.”
So he reached for the screwdriver and this time it stayed in his hand. With his other hand, he reached for the radio and dialed it way up. The bass vibrated through the floor and he screwed in a bolt in time with ‘Freebird’.
The stealthy crawl of shadows across the floor made a convincing argument for dinner approaching. He emerged from under the car sore, but satisfied by the day’s work. The smell of searing meat and onions lured him back towards the house. Stopping outside to toe off his boots, he grabbed a few logs off the neat stack on the porch. The nights were still cool, the cold creeping in through the wood beams.
“Need a few more minutes.” Cas said as soon as he came into the kitchen. He was frowning down at a pan as if it had betrayed him.
“Gonna start a fire.”
“Mmm.” Cas poked at something with a wooden spoon.
Deciding he didn’t want to know, Dean headed into the living room. The fireplace took up most of one wall, a stone and cement monstrosity that could have cooked a witch or two if needed. Grinning at the thought, he piled up the wood, then laid down a few twigs for starter fuel. The match released it’s scent into the room, flaring up orange and black. He sat with the fire until he was sure it had taken, warming the tips of his fingers.
“You need saving from the oven?” He called out.
“No.” Cas growled. “There is salisbury steak and potatoes. The broccoli did not survive.”
“Shame.” Grinning, Dean headed for the table. There were plates heaped with food already set out and two beers with their caps resting beside them. “This your microbrew?”
“The last of it. The next batch will be ready in a week.”
“That isn’t the raspberry one, is it?”
“Perhaps. I did not think to label them until later.”
“You gonna say grace?” Dean asked, taking the temperature of Cas’ mood.
“We thank you Father, for this our daily bread,” Cas rumbled and something tight in Dean’s chest unwound. Cas only prayed when it had been a good day. The conversation in the garage hadn’t troubled him any, no matter what it had stirred up for Dean, “for the world you have given us and the company we keep.”
“A-freakin’-men.” Dean said around the first bite of food as he always did. It had bothered him at first, thanking a God that he resented more than believed in. But it lit Cas from the inside out the first time Dean hadn’t just started eating as he prayed, so there was that. Dean could be taught, it seemed. Could learn the movements of another person and compromise.
“I’m sorry about the broccoli.”
“I’m not. Never liked it, never will.” He bit into the meat and made a soft, happy noise. “This though, this is great. Onions from the garden?”
“Yes.” Pleasure flooded Cas’ face and Dean could feel his own matching idiot grin. “The last from the winter stock. I’ll plant the tomatoes soon.”
“What’d you do today?” The question always felt a little odd in his mouth. It was something other people asked, a rout, uninterested thing to keep the conversation going. Except Cas took it at face value and Dean, more often than not, found he was genuinely curious as to what Cas had gotten up to on his own.
“I developed photographs from the last snowfall.” There as a broad gesture with his fingers as if he was trying to encapsulate the way the flakes had fallen thick and half-melted on the ground. “There was a curious blur in some of them. Like paint was smeared across the bottom.”
“That ever happen before?”
“Not that I can recall.” Cas scooped a potato on his fork. “I believe it is related to Sam’s call today.”
“Yeah? This a Rule One situation?”
“Possibly.”
“You sure about it?”
“No.” Cas admitted.
“Wait until you are then. No point rocking the boat for no reason.”
“As you wish. How is my car?”
“It’s not your car.” Dean lied. “I think I have the fuel injection just about ready.”
“It will be my car.” For the first time all day, Cas smiled wide enough to show teeth. “Even as practiced driver as yourself cannot drive two cars at once.”
“Watch me.”
He brewed another pot of coffee as he did the dishes. Suds and hot water licked up his arms, the sponge pruning his fingers as he worked. In the other room, the fire filled the house with drowsy promise. When the last dish slotted into the rack to drip dry, he filled two mugs and added a dash of whiskey into his own.
In the living room, Cas sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table. There was a book open on his lap and the television sat quiescent in the corner. Most of the time, Dean liked to spend the evening watching whole seasons of shows that he’d missed or movies he’d long ago committed to memory.
Tonight though, he set their mugs on the table next to Cas’ feet then stretched out to put his head in Cas’ lap in silent demand. A fine boned hand went obligingly into his hair, scratching along the scalp.
“Gollum disappeared.” Cas read as though the words were a sacred text, “He was away some time, and Frodo after a few mouthfuls of lembas settled deep into the brown fern and went to sleep. Sam looked at him, The early daylight was only just creeping down into the shadows under the trees, but he saw his master's face very clearly, and his hands too, lying at rest on the ground beside him. He was reminded suddenly of Frodo as he had lain, asleep in the house of Elrond, after his deadly wound. Then as he had kept watch Sam had noticed that at times a light seemed to be shining faintly within; but now the light was even clearer and stronger. Frodo's face was peaceful, the marks of fear and care had left it; but it looked old, old and beautiful, as if the chiselling of the shaping years was now revealed in many fine lines that had before been hidden, though the identity of the face was not changed. Not that Sam Gamgee put it that way to himself. He shook his head, as if finding words useless, and murmured: 'I love him. He's like that, and sometimes it shines through somehow. But I love him, whether or no.'”
“You trying to make some kind of point?” Dean asked, shifting a little until Cas’ hand fell from his hair to his chest as if trying to settle him.
“I’m reading the book.” Cas raised an eyebrow. “I can continue silently if you object.”
“Nah. Go on. Put me to sleep.” He teased.
“Gollum returned quietly and peered over Sam’s shoulder.” Cas went on, but Dean wasn’t paying attention any more.
He was thinking about the grave lines of Cas’ face and how sometimes he was just like that. Old and beautiful. The story washed over him. Fantasy had never really done it for him, but he got that Cas was getting more out of this than the surface story, even if he wasn’t quite sure what.
“You ever decide to go off to the Vanishing Lands without me and I’ll kick your ass.” He threatened idly when Cas paused to turn a page.
“I’ve already built a ship and traveled with you.” Cas pointed out, skirting the edges of Rule One for the second time that day. It felt dangerous, but also a little thrilling like a storm gathering on the horizon. “I would not make such a journey alone.”
“Skip to the battles.” He turned on his side, the back of his head butting into Cas’ stomach. The fire burned on, dancing behind his closed eyes. “I like those parts better.”
“We need the parts in between.” Cas protested even as he flipped through the pages to find the Battle of Hornburg. “Where would we be if we could only fight? Every warrior eventually turns his sword into a ploughshare.”
“You’re the farmer of the two of us.” He watched a log sag under the flame’s assault.
“There is no convenient saying about turning a gun to a wrench, but it would fit equally well.”
“Where is the horse and the rider?” Dean urged.
“Where is the horn that was blowing?” The pages fluttered again, before landing on the right passage, “They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?”
They had the movies, but Dean had never watched them. He preferred this story drawn with Cas’ firm voice and one hand in his hair. Sometimes, it bled through into his dreams and he would sit astride a horse wearing a heavy helm.
“Have you fallen asleep?” Cas asked, amused and yawning.
“No.” Dean pushed himself upwards, rubbing a hand over his face. “But probably time to sack out, yeah?”
“It’s late.” Cas agreed though there were no clocks here. Only the sun measured their days and sometimes it seemed as if it moved according to its own whims. It was dark out though and the cold fought through walls.
With care, Dean banked the fire and listened to the water run in the bathroom. Outside, crickets chorused on. Under their cries, Dean could just make out Cas’ humming. The man couldn’t sing for shit, but occasionally, he would hum a sweet tune that send shivers up Dean’s spine. It haunted and shifted through the air as if reaching beyond the veil to tug at something larger than them both.
”What is that?” Dean stared at the FBI Agent in his messy suit and bedhead. He’d rushed here from work, the smell of latex gloves and fuel still lingering on his skin. The car accident had smeared out across two lanes and Dean had held a woman’s arm together. The last thing he had wanted to do was respond to one of the Agent’s curious calls, luring him back into the mystery that had plagued him his whole life.
“What is what?” The Agent blinked.
“You’re humming. Not really appropriate, man.”
“Am I?” One white hand flew up tremulously to the knot of his black tie as if feeling for the vibration.
“It was like...” Dean hummed back a few notes.
“Oh.” The Agent closed his eyes as if remembering something painful. “That’s just the sound of the universe.”
“What?” Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“Song I listened to on the radio. Stuck in my head.” The Agent said hastily. “We should go.”
The water cut off abruptly, the pipes rattling in the walls. Cas went on humming, the thrum of it settling into Dean’s bones as he took his turn in the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, meeting his own eyes in the mirror with bland interest. There was a thread of grey running through his hair. He reached up, fingering the few fine hairs and then turned his attention to washing his face. Ageing didn’t bother him anymore. He liked the look of the silver cutting through the dark.
He checked over the downstairs rooms, closing windows. There was one closed door that he cracked open, looking over the space of what was nominally the guest room, but was really Sam’s room in waiting. A thick flannel bedspread and fat pillows met his gaze, poised to receive a long body. He closed the door quietly behind him as if there were already someone asleep inside.
The stairs up to the loft creaked under his socked feet, announcing his arrival with wooden groans. Cas was tucked up into bed, still in Dean’s grey t-shirt and his book closed on the nightstand. The hum went on, steady under their skin as Dean stripped down to his boxers and turned off the light. He crawled into bed to curve around Cas in a horizontal embrace. His lips found the nape of Cas’ neck and he kissed the thin skin there. He bent one arm under his pillow and the other rested across Cas’ side, hand on his stomach with the fingers spread wide. The vibration of Cas’ throaty hum eased him closer to sleep.
“Do you need...” Cas’ song broke around his words.
“No.” Dean assured him and kissed his neck again. “Go to sleep.”
The rumble intensified like a cat’s purr. Dean resisted the urge to clench Cas tighter, assuring himself that he was there.
“Everyone needs it.” Dean barked, shoving lotion at Cas and gesturing towards the bathroom. “Go on.”
And Cas had gone. Dean had waited on the couch though he couldn’t say for what. He didn’t imagine what might be going on just a few feet away behind a locked door. He’d tried. Love like this was supposed to be carnal, something hot, sticky and needy. But he could not imagine Cas undone beneath him. Could not picture his hands drawing pleasure from the wrong kind of body. Sometimes, underneath all the other bullshit, he thought that even if Cas had been female it might still be like this between them. The flesh wasn’t involved in their affections which left Dean a confused mess. He didn’t know how to translate his emotion without that outlet. It built up inside of him, twisting in his chest. The few rough sessions of masturbation with Cas kissing his throat didn’t cut it. There was no reciprocity. Cas shied away from all touch, even his own.
“How do you know if you won’t try?” Dean demanded and all but strong armed him into agreeing.
Now, he waited on the couch and stared down at his hands. Minutes later, the door clicked back open. Cas came to stand near him, going utterly still. There was something devastated in his face and his hands trembled.
“Jesus.” Dean swore. “Are you ok?”
Cas didn’t move. He only shook his head once, sharply. Cursing himself, Dean reached for the shaking hand and tugged. All at once, Cas collapsed into him and Dean had to do some quick maneuvers to keep them both from falling to the floor. In the end, Cas was settled over his lap, face buried in his neck.
“It’s like breaking apart.” Cas finally said, not lifting his head. Dean rubbed circles into his back over and over. “Like I’m losing a piece of myself that I cannot get back.”
“You’re such a freak.” Dean rubbed the point of his nose into messy black hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. You don’t have to, ok? Never again if you don’t want.”
“Why did you want me to try?” Cas asked, a little broken and pleading.
“I want you to feel good.” Dean offered up lamely. “I want you to be happy.”
“I am.” With all the surety in the world behind the words. “You don’t have to fix me. I’m not broken. This was how I was made.”
It took time and sometimes, Dean wondered if they would always be negotiating, compromising and finding a way to each other. This worked though: Dean with his lips on Cas’ neck and his hand spread over the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Cas melted into him with boneless appreciation, humming them both to sleep.
Dean dreamed of Sam, years younger and searingly angry. They were running through a field, wind whipping by them and black clouds looming overhead. In a burst of speed, Sam got ahead of him. It started to rain and Dean couldn’t see, pushed hair and water out of his eyes. He stumbled in the mud, calling out, but there was only an echoing silence.
He woke bleary eyed and ill-tempered. The sheets next to him were cool, but the other pillow still smelled faintly of rosemary from Cas’ shampoo. He buried his face in it, the sun striping warm along his back from the window. It was too late. Wakefulness had found him and wasn’t about to let go.
Pulling on yesterday’s discarded jeans, he shuffled downstairs. He counted teaspoons of grinds into the coffee pot and had the brewing started before he noticed the flash of orange foil sitting on the kitchen table. He glanced out the window, where Cas was ambling into view. Cautiously, he reached out and picked up the globe of sparkling orange. He brought it to his nose, citrus and chocolate filling it immediately.
With a surge of childish joy, he cracked the sphere against the corner of the counter. It’s contents splintered and when he peeled back the wrapper the pseudo slices fell in a perfect round.
“Where did you get this?” He asked, picking up one section. He always knew when Cas entered the room, something he enjoyed too much to question.
“Does it matter?”
“Rule Two.” Dean said, but popped the candy into his mouth, groaning around the rich taste. Cas grinned behind his hand and poured them both coffee. The remains of the dream melted under the assault of citrus and cocoa.
Every morning that week there was some treat lingering on the table when he came downstairs. Little things like three plastic wrapped caramels or two chocolate chip cookies. After the first day, he was careful to share the bounty with Cas though it was clear he was the one willing them into existence. They lingered longer over their morning coffee. The radio no longer obliged Dean with the music he knew by heart. It shuttered and stuttered between songs and rolicked forward into a different breed. Soft guitar strings and songs about peace rattled through static until they finally sharpened and held.
“You gotta stop.” Dean said on the seventh morning around a mouthful of twinkie. “You’ll poke holes in it.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Cas nibbled at the edges of yellow cake. “It’s all going to change soon.”
“Yeah?” He licked out the cream in one flicker of his tongue. “Well. Still. We’ve got this far without, you know?”
Where have all the flowers gone? The radio asked.
“Don’t worry.” Cas leaned over and brushed a barely there kiss over the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Come. We should check on the eggs.”
The eagles took more notice of them this time, one of them circling overhead screaming out a warning. The other hunkered down further over the nest, eyes sharp.
“I hear you.” Dean muttered. He knew too well the desire to protect with tooth and claw. “We should leave them alone.”
“One moment.” Bringing the camera to his eye, Cas took three shots with Dean’s breath a nervous warning in his ear. “We can go.”
As if he knew where they were, Sam called again. Dean fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it into a bed of moss and mushrooms in his haste.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“You got a minute?”
“For you? Thirty seconds.” He reached, grappling with Cas’ fingers until they slid into his.
“Ha. Ha. Look, you know my neighbor?”
Dean released his expectations.
“The one you’re pining after like a thirteen year old girl?”
“I am not! How do you even know that?”
He glanced over at Cas, smiled reassuringly. Cas return look stated, “I’m fine. Reassure yourself.”
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.” He curled his tongue around the pet name. “When will you learn? I know you better than you know yourself. Always have. Always will.”
“You’re an asshole. Anyway, turns out? He’s one of Castiel’s long lost big brothers.”
Stories spilled out of Dean’s memory, mosaics of lives in shattered glass and splintering wood. Cas. Castiel. His lover, his friend, his would-be god, his angel on and off. Cas who had brothers, warring and ugly. Cas who was one of garrison and a sprawling family. He didn’t realize he was squeezing Cas’ hand too hard until the pressure was returned onto his own hand, Cas’ face twisted in concern.
“Which one?” He asked gruffly, visions of Michael and Lucifer roiling in his stomach.
“Gabriel. He’s the third eldest, I think? The one that got Cas and the others out of the house.”
“Oh. The one who’s only kind of a colossal dick.”
Cas stilled at his side, head tilted in curiosity.
“That’s...fair. He recognized Cas from one of the pictures at my house. He lost track of the kids after CPS took them. Do you think Cas would want to talk to him?”
“I know that he would.” Dean said heavily, he met Cas’ piercingly blue eyes, dark and as unfathomable as they day they’d met. “He’ll probably even forgive him for abandoning him. You know how Cas is. But I swear to God if he breaks Cas’ heart even a little, I will kill him.”
“Dean.” Cas murmured, a warning, but also something grateful in the hard edge of it.
“I’ll convey that threat.” Sam sighed. “Tell you what, you tell him the news and he can call my cell if he wants to, ok? We’ll be here.”
“Ok.” Dean allowed. “It’s a weird coincidence though.”
“Fate.” Sam said with a hitching laugh.
“Such a bitch.” Whether he meant fate or Sam was left open to debate as he ended the call.
“I told you that it was coming.” Cas enmeshed their hands further, palms sliding against each other. “Gabriel.”
“You heard?”
“Sam speaks loudly.”
“Guess we have to talk about it.”
They didn’t say anything down the mountainside though Dean didn’t release Cas’ hand nor did Cas attempt to get free. They spoke more clearly like that. The simple language of the body had always been easier for Dean. The grammar of facial expressions and the vocabulary in the curve of shoulders were his native tongue.
The kitchen table was the scene for all of their Talks. Dean wasn’t sure who had decided that, but it was where they gravitated when the re-entered the house. They sat perpendicular to each other, their hands separating at last. The radio was still on, crooning To every season turn, turn, turn
“Really?” Dean asked Cas incredulously. “I get it, ok?”
The radio sighed, choked and started up again,
Oh, and I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true
Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down
And they all lead me straight back home to you
“Quit it.” But the song played on and Dean gave in with a disgusted grunt.
“I would like to see him.”
“Really, Cas? I mean...” He wasn’t sure what he meant. Of course Cas would want to see him.
“I know what he was, but we have lived this life a long time, haven’t we? We are not what we once were.”
“Which life?” He asked hoarsely. “Which set of memories?”
The walls went a little soft, watercolor painting and the smear of creation still on the creases.
“We can’t pretend forever that none of it ever happened.” Cas floated the idea as if it were explosive. Maybe it was.
“I like this place.” Dean closed his eyes against the blur. “You can’t expect me to just-”
“Dean.” Cas breathed over his ear, one hand on his thigh. “It will still be here if we want it to be.”
“I know.” He rubbed his hand over his lips which had gone dry. “It’s just when we talk about it, I feel like...it’s fake. Like it’s a dream.”
“It is, in a way. But we can stay in it forever. Reality is whatever we decide it to be.”
“That’s probably really unhealthy, huh?”
“For us? I think that it’s one of the healthiest things we have ever done.”
And Dean had to laugh and open his eyes at that because damn if it wasn’t true. He felt good here, at ease and not responsible for anything more than getting up in the morning. There was nothing lurking in the woods, no people to save or heal.
“And Gabriel? I mean, you guys weren’t exactly buddies.”
“I have learned to value older brothers.” Cas said simply. “I would like to find out what he has become.”
“Why did we figure this all out before Sam?” He asked because if they were talking about it, he might as well pry out the question that gnawed at him on sleepless nights. “Is it a punishment?”
“I don’t know.” Cas’ thumb caressed the grain of denim covering Dean’s thigh. “I wish I had answers for you. Maybe because we were together. Maybe because you are less tolerant of dishonesty. Maybe because we’re older.”
“Sammy’s not that much younger than me.” It hurt to admit, but too many years had gone by to believe that four or five made much difference.
“Not where it mattered.” Beloved fingers tapped against Dean’s forehead.
“This was supposed to be a pep talk for you. Guess I fucked that up.”
“I do not require any pep.”
Dean laughed and the walls were solid again. He trailed Cas out to the garden, acting as obedient workhorse for the rest of the day in penance anyway. His hands ached from weeding and the small of his back gave warning twinges when he stood, but there was dirt and green under his fingernails which was nearly as good as grease.
“Does this make me a gardener?” He asked with a grin.
“You’ve always been one.” Cas lifted an eyebrow.
“Everything is a metaphor with you.” Dean complained.
“Everything is literal with you. One must balance out the other.”
“Hey, I can be a deep thinker.”
“I’m aware. You just choose not to be.”
Dean also choose not to be offended, slinking off to check on the progress of the hard cider in the shed instead of continuing their bickering. He liked the shed with it’s moist cool air and the line of kegs and empty glass bottles. He wholeheartedly approved of this particular hobby, amused by the histories of monks that Cas like to rattle off when teased about it. The cider was Dean’s, far less complicated than the beer. He unplugged the cotton from one glass jug and took a tentative sip. It wasn’t truly fermented yet, but there was a slight carbonation to it. Good enough to go with dinner.
He’d drank hard cider from labeless brown bottles when he was 19. Maybe it was in Bobby’s basement, salt still lingering on the tips of his fingers or maybe it was on the hood of the Impala, Sam a stretch of coltish limbs next to him. It didn’t matter much anymore, he realized. The past, muddled and broken couldn’t touch him anymore.
Resting his head against one cured barrel, he huffed a laugh at himself. He had no patience for revelation or self-examination. Dean had gotten through life with a bullheaded determination not to think about it. If he did, he feared that his wet paper bag of a soul would fall to sodden pieces.
“Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.” He quoted into the darkness with a wild grin.
Because he did read. Cheap mysteries that left ink on his cloths, endless newspaper articles, the practical guides to firearms that his father had always kept, but most of all, slim volumes of Vonnegut that rested in his duffel bag, picked up at a garage sale on a whim. He read them until their spines were wrinkled and broken. He’d loved the easy cynicism of them, the weighty laughter and mad spirals.
The thing was that he didn’t have to think on it. Didn’t have to mull over what it meant to him or why he enjoyed it. To Dean life was at it’s best when it was all pure visceral pleasure, grabbed with both hands. He took another swig of cider, the effervescent sweetness tingling over his tongue.
“Fuck it.” He told the barrels of beer, then headed back up to the house.
Cas’ cellphone rested near the oven. It radiated heat when Dean held his hand over it and he could imagine it tucked between shoulder and ear, Enochian whispered over the line for the first time in too many years.
“It go ok?” He asked, watching as Cas flipped pages of his book.
“It is Gabriel.” Cas shrugged. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
And Dean pushed no further.
Cas had attempted lasagna and it was only a little burnt. Dean ate it in thick forkfuls then lured Cas to the couch with a promising grin. They tangled together on the cushions, the heel of Deans hand pressing into the tight knot of muscle between Cas’ shoulders until he went pliant and warm. Dean reached out, willed a book into his hand. If they were going to break the rules, he might as well have fun with it.
“Up for some role reversal?”
“Mpmh.” Cas said into Dean’s neck.
“Awesome.” He laughed, the vibration rattling between them as he looked for the right passage, “‘In the beginning, God created the earth, and he looked upon it in his cosmic loneliness.
And God said, ‘Let Us make living creatures out of mud, so the mud can see what We have done."’And God created every living creature that now moveth, and one was man. Mud as man alone could speak. God leaned close to mud as man sat, looked around, and spoke. ‘What is the purpose of all this?’ he asked politely.
‘Everything must have a purpose?’ asked God.
‘Certainly,’ said man.
‘Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,’ said God.
And He went away.’ “
He waited in silence until Cas raised his head a little to look him sleepily in the eye,
“‘Why me?’” He brushed his lips over the line of Dean’s jaw as he spoke, “‘-That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?
- Yes.
- Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.’”
“Even the devil can quote scripture.” Dean teased, running his hand over the knobs of Cas’ spine. “When did you read my books?”
“The moment I knew they existed.” Cas replied solemnly.
“I’m ok with amber.” He decided. “This moment is pretty damn good.”
“Yes.” Cas agreed, setting his head back down. “Read me something else. Poetry.”
“I hate poetry,” he grumbled.
“Wasn’t asking your opinion..” Lightly, Cas tapped at the book in Dean’s hand. “Read, please.”
“Demanding,” Dean complained. “Shakespeare, really?”
“Sometimes things are classics for a reason.” Cas insisted.
So Dean he licked his lips and read, changing the words to suit himself:
“My master’s eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than his lips' red;
If snow be white, why then his throat is dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on his head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in his cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my master reeks.
I love to hear him speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I have seen gods and monsters go;
My master when he walks usually treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any he belied with false compare.”
“You read well.”
“Shut up.” He wiggled his fingers under the hem of Cas’ shirt to touch the soft skin he found there.
They fell asleep, the changeable book lying open across Cas’ back and Dean’s hand resting just below it.
In the morning, there were wild raspberries overflowing their carton on the table. Dean ate them through the day, bright red juice stains vivid against grease smeared fingers. Cas stayed in the garage with him, stealing berries and taking pictures at odd angles of tools, of the car, of Dean’s smeared hands.
That night they stayed outside, stars burning points of light against the velvet dark sky. Cas told him impossible myths about each constellation and then laughed softly as Dean made up new, lewder tales. Their bed welcomed their chilled bodies just as dawn crept in.
“Why the presents?” Dean finally asked, his voice a bare whisper in the first yellow light of the morning.
“I had to thank you for the eagles’ nest.” His words were flavored with his smile. “I know how hard it is for you to break this reality, but you did it for me.”
“Nah, man.” He denied uselessly. Because of course he had. At the time he hadn’t thought much about it. Cas had said, a little wistfully, that he wanted to see something new. Watch life evolve again. And Dean had reached out and coaxed the birds together, relishing their wild joy in each other. “You found ‘em.”
“Because you put them there for me.”
And it sounded like ‘because you love me.’ So Dean said nothing at all.
The eggs hatched two days later though they should have had weeks left to go. Time had shifted in the tricky liquid way it had here. Dean could feel the crack of beak through fragile white shell that fractured into a spider’s web of fissures.
“Come on.” He urged Cas up and away from his dark room. “It’s happening now.”
They ran giddy, headlong up the slope. The eagles had no attention to spare them, circling and calling to each other over their waking young. They took turns looking through the camera’s zoom, watching a flash of hooked yellow sharpness strike out again and again. Minutes or hours later, a tiny wet body fell from it’s shell. It looked half-baked, barely ready to draw breath.
“When you were born,” Cas murmured, raising goosebumps over Dean’s arms, “you were red and white, but you didn’t cry. Everyone waited for you to wail, but you never did.”
“Because you were there.” Dean guessed.
“Yes. I should not have been, but you have turned me into a trespasser.”
“Creepy stalker.” Dean teased, bumping their hips together. “Did you stare into my eyes or something?”
“I stood watch over your cradle. You held my finger.” Cas smiled and swayed a little against him. “I was invisible, but you saw me.”
“Yeah, well. I always know when you’re there.”
Dean made dinner that night, pancakes with the last of the raspberries studding red into the gold. His phone rang and he answered it, spatula poised for flipping.
“Sam? Everything ok?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Sam sounded good, better than Dean could recall in this life. “We’re ready to come home.”
He dropped the spatula.
“CAS!’ Dean called out, already making plans and his heart knocking wildly in his chest, “Get the car warmed up! Sam? We’ll be there as soon as we can. Pack your bags. Halla-fucking-lujah!”
“Does that mean we won’t be eating pancakes?” Cas arrived in the doorway as the first tendril of black smoke rose up from the forgotten pan.
“Shit.” He doused the pan with water. “I don’t care. Can we just go?”
“Yes. We can go as quickly as you like.”
If Sam knew than all pretext could drop away. The Impala didn’t take long and winding roads across the country. She shivered and shimmied, jumping across unseen borders of private worlds and drew them nimbly to the driveway of the duplex.
Sam was waiting on the front steps, Gabriel a lingering shadow behind him. His brother looked as he ever did: too tall and too full of feeling that spilled out over his face. Dean barely put the car in park before he was out of the door and pulling him into his arms.
“Sam,” he said, the name sweet on his tongue, “thought it was going to take you forever, bitch.”
“You could have told me, jerk.”
“Nah. Cas said you had to do the heavy lifting yourself.” Dean pulled away just far enough to search Sam’s eyes for any remains of despair or anger that had smoldered there through every version of life they’d lived. It was gone. “Damn it’s good to see you.”
“Yeah. It’s good to be seen.”
Enochian, hard on his ear as the day Cas had first tried to teach it to him, spilled over next to them. Dean translated it, keen to take the measure of the reunion.
“How have you fared brother?” Cas greeted crisply.
“Roughly and through many trials.” Gabriel’s stuttered over the words, the harsh sounds unfamiliar on his tongue. “What has our Father done to us?”
“He does nothing.” Cas shrugged, one elegant rise and fall. “We run loose of our own accord, making our own tests and building our own heavens.”
“You ready?” Dean asked Sam, fighting back a grin that he would have to explain.
“More than.”
There were bags in the trunk that Dean didn’t remember putting there. Cas’ camera equipment and his own old cases of weapons. He touched the handle of Ruby’s blade, suspicious of it’s resurfacing. Cas and Gabriel talked on, their voices rising and falling together into the familiar hum. The song of the universe.
“Cas doesn’t want shotgun?” Sam asked, one hand already on the passenger door.
“Nah. He’s got stuff to catch up on, right?” Dean couldn’t imagine having Sam in the car, but not at his right hand where he belonged. Cas had his back, but he needed his brother at his side. “Anyway. Always been your place, hasn’t it?”
As if she knew that her family was intact again, the Impala roared to life before Dean properly touched the keys. The engine fell into the hum of the angels conversation with ease. With a half-grin, Dean coaxed the radio into singing,
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night
There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"
“Really?” Sam asked incredulously and Dean laughed, ragged and wild. Behind him Cas made an exasperated noise. The Eagles went silent, sputtered and then,
"Let us be lovers we'll marry our fortunes together"
"I've got some real estate here in my bag"
So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies
And we walked off to look for America
“Damnit, Cas.” Dean turned, trying to look stern. “No more folk. I told you.”
The music didn’t change, only eased from one Simon and Garfunkel song to the next. Cas leaned back in his seat, smug radiating off of him. Gabriel shifted forward, a flash of gold in the corner of Dean’s eyes. Sam laughed at something Gabriel said, replying in a loose jangle of quotation.
“Where should we go?” Dean asked the rearview mirror, watching the rich blue of Cas’ eyes.
I wish I was
Homeward bound, suggested the radio,
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me
Those eyes were blue as the sky, Dean thought. They were the blue that he’d stared into when his last breath gasped from his lungs and the blue he saw when he woke again in this strange new world. He had Sam beside him, Cas at his back and Gabriel just out of vision, a taunt of something new and unexpected.
He pushed his foot flat on the gas pedal, the wind a vibrating hum against metal. The radio gave instruction and he obeyed. He pointed his family home.