Chapter Text
Dean walks through the house, his arms full of washing baskets as he gently kicks at the closed door.
“Ben, I’m doin’ laundry, if you’re clothes ain’t in the wash room, they ain’t being washed,” he yells over the sound of what some would call eardrum bursting heavy metal coming from Ben's room. Dean shakes his head, smirking slightly as he listens to the muffled drums and screeching guitars blasting through the door. "Kid’s got taste," he mutters with a chuckle, but the smirk quickly fades when he notices a few abandoned socks lying on the floor in the hallway. He sighs, bending down to scoop them up with one hand, balancing the laundry baskets on his hip with practiced ease.
A moment later, Ben’s door flies open, and he steps out, looking mildly irritated but holding a bundle of clothes. “Didn’t hear you over Trenched Grave ,” he says, shrugging.
Dean raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Yeah, well, maybe turn it down, huh? I’m not trying to go deaf.”
Ben shrugs, handing over the clothes and glancing at the pile of laundry Dean’s already juggling. “Need a hand or?”
“Hey, now we’re talking. Get the rest of this and follow me,” Dean replies, shifting the load onto Ben, who barely manages to get his arms around the stack without dropping anything. They make their way to the laundry room, Dean chuckling as Ben tries to keep up, looking every bit like he’s about to tip over at any moment.
“Don’t just dump it, man,” Dean says, steadying the pile as Ben reaches the laundry room. “Separate colors. Whites go here, darks go there.”
Ben gives him a look, smirking. “Seriously? I’m not a kid. I know how to do laundry.”
“Yeah, well, last time you ‘knew how,’ my favorite shirt came out pink. Not making that mistake again,” Dean says with a grin, nudging him in the side. Ben rolls his eyes, but as they work together, there’s an easy rhythm between them, the kind that only comes from countless afternoons just like this one.
Ben is one of Dean’s five adopted children and the house is usually buzzing with activity. Between the mountain of laundry, endless snack runs, and the sounds of bickering over the remote, Dean often feels like he’s living in a whirlwind. But he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Each of his kids, Ben included, has carved out their own little niche in the family. They all bring something unique to the table and keep him on his toes in their own way.
There’s Claire, the oldest, who at sixteen has a knack for both organizing chaos and causing it. She’s fiercely protective over her siblings and quick to jump in as a peacekeeper when things get heated. She’s also taken over the kitchen more times than Dean can count, experimenting with new recipes and forcing them all to try her latest creations. Not that he minds because Claire has become quite the chef. Her latest creations range from savory pasta dishes to elaborate desserts that leave everyone eagerly awaiting her next experiment. Dean never knows what he’ll come home to—sometimes it’s a perfectly cooked lasagna, and other times, it’s a tower of cupcakes with experimental flavors like lavender and lemon. She’s even started watching cooking shows and trying out her own versions of the dishes she sees, constantly surprising the family with her culinary creativity.
Claire’s natural leadership makes her a bit of a mother hen, especially when it comes to the younger kids. Whether she’s helping Alicia with homework or teaching Max how to make scrambled eggs (and cleaning up his mess afterward), Claire has a way of making everyone feel looked after. But she’s also known for her stubborn streak, and when she sets her mind on something, it’s nearly impossible to dissuade her.
Dean has had more than a few tense talks with her about her late-night excursions to meet up with friends or her habit of “borrowing” his car keys without asking. She’s got a fire in her that’s impossible to ignore, and even though it sometimes lands her in trouble, Dean knows it’s the same fire that makes her an amazing big sister and a natural leader.
Max on the other hand, is a bundle of energy and is the biggest prankster. At five, he’s always bouncing between one interest and another, and Dean never knows what new hobby Max will pick up next. Just last month, he was obsessed with magic tricks, popping up behind doors with a deck of cards or trying to make Dean’s coffee cup “disappear.” Despite the chaos Max brings, his boundless enthusiasm and mischievous spirit light up the entire house.
His twin sister Alicia is the quieter half of the duo, but her presence is just as strong in her own way. While Max is off concocting his latest prank or hobby, Alicia is usually found with her nose buried in one of the many picture books that adorn her bookshelf or meticulously organizing her rock and mineral collection that somehow keeps growing, which she proudly displays on her bedroom shelves. Alicia has a calm, steady demeanor that often balances out Max's wild energy, though she’s no stranger to joining in on the fun when the mood strikes her.
Then there’s Jack, a quiet but intense kid with an incredible gift for drawing. Dean often finds him tucked away in the room he shares with the twins, sketching with laser focus. His side of the room is a mini-gallery at this point, walls covered in everything from lifelike portraits to wild, imaginative creatures. Jack doesn’t usually say much, but when he does, he always sounds older than his eleven years.
And finally, there’s Ben, the metalhead with a not-so-hidden soft side. Ben can be stubborn, but he's got a big heart, especially when it comes to his younger siblings. Even though he’d rather listen to heavy guitar riffs than chat about feelings, Dean has seen him quietly comforting Jack after a tough day at school or letting Max trail behind him, even if it means putting up with the boy’s endless questions, and gossiping with Alicia on the back porch when they finish their homework.
He reminds Dean of a younger version of himself actually, with that same guarded exterior and the need to act tough even when he’s feeling anything but. Dean recognizes the way Ben holds people at arm’s length sometimes, as if to test if they’re really going to stay.
Dean understands that fully. He knows what it’s like to be shipped from foster home to foster home, hoping to find your forever place and bracing for the inevitable moment when it all falls apart. Dean remembers those days vividly; the way hope feels like a fragile thing, too easily shattered, and how it’s easier to build walls than risk getting hurt again.
Until he was placed with Bobby and Ellen Singer, who became the family he never thought he’d have. They weren’t perfect, but they were constant, and that was what mattered most. Bobby’s gruff exterior hid a heart as big as any father’s, and Ellen’s fierce kindness could hold together even the most fractured soul. They taught him that home wasn’t a place but a feeling, one that is stitched together with loyalty, laughter, and the acceptance of every imperfect part of who you were.
As long as you feel love, you feel like you are home.
Dean carried that lesson with him. He has been fostering for the last ten years, but the five kids in his house now are his. Once he had these children in his care, there was no way that he would have been able to let them go back into the system. After an uphill battle (turns out that Texas doesn’t like single gay men adopting children, who knew?) Dean managed to get a judge to sign off on the adoption.
There was no moment more overwhelming than when the gavel struck, sealing the promise he had made in his heart long before the paperwork even began. The journey was fraught with setbacks, scrutiny, and doubt, but that single sound of the gavel dropping marked the start of something indelible: a family that was wholly and completely his.
All Dean wants now, is someone to share that with. But living where he does, it's hard to find someone that understands the complexity of who he is; a father, a protector, and a man who has fought battles in his life that no one should ever have to face.
But there’s another side, a softer, more vulnerable part of him that craves trust and love.
It’s a side he rarely reveals, kept safely behind the walls built by years of survival and responsibility. He wants a love that feels as steady and affirming as the home he’s built for his kids, one where he can lay down the burdens he carries, if only for a while, and be wholly seen.
Until then, he pours everything into the life he’s created; the kids who rely on him, and the promise he made when he got those pieces of papers in his hands. For now, that has to be enough, but Dean still hopes, deep down inside, that somewhere out there, someone might see all the different parts of him and accept him, as imperfect as he is.
❇️
Since Castiel Milton got honorably discharged from the army, he’s moved back to Kansas and taken a job at his brother’s bar, hoping to find some sense of normalcy after the years of chaos of combat.
He has woken up many times since his return, reaching for a gun that is no longer stashed under his pillow, only to find the cold, empty space beside him. It was a jarring reminder that the war was over, that he was no longer a soldier living in the shadows of conflict, but living in his brother’s spare room and working at the bar that he owns.
Castiel knows he is still adjusting to civilian life, but even out of the army, it is still ingrained into him to get up at 0500, put in an hour of exercise, then hit the showers before making his bed with the tight corners that had become second nature to him.
After his morning routine, he would head downstairs, the faint scent of coffee brewing in the air guiding him to his brother’s kitchen. His brother, Gabriel, is usually there, brewing a fresh pot and prepping for the day ahead. They then share a quick breakfast, their conversations easy but often tinged with an underlying tension that Castiel knows is there, one that Gabriel dutifully ignores, before they each head their separate ways.
Each day is the same monotonous routine, but Castiel clings to it, unsure whether it is holding him steady or trapping him in place.
He wipes his hands on the dish towel hanging from his hip, before pushing the tray of glasses into the dishwasher. He then grabs a rag and starts wiping down the bar, grimacing at how sticky it had become during the night. He misses the moment that Gabriel steps behind the bar, a bottle of whiskey in hand, and pours himself a shot. “You look lost in thought. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just thinking,” Castiel replies and Gabriel looks at him over the rim of his glass.
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately. You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I’m sure,” he insists, the lie tasting sour on his tongue. Gabriel takes a drink before looking at Castiel.
“When was the last time you… you know? Got off?” Gabriel asks and Castiel shoots him a look. Gabriel smirks and shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t act dumb, little brother. You know, had sex?”
“I refuse to talk about my sex life with you, Gabriel.” Castiel crosses his arms as Gabriel rolls his eyes and sets the glass down with a deliberate clink.
“Look, bro, you need to shake that stick loose from your regimented ass.”
Castiel’s eyes narrow, but the hint of a smile betrays him. “I’m perfectly fine with my regimented ass, thank you very much,” he shoots back,
Gabriel leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Cas. You’re so deep in your routines that I’m surprised you don’t march in formation down the street.”
Castiel’s jaw clenches, his knuckles whitening as he tightens his hold on the rag. “Don’t presume to know what’s inside me, Gabriel,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual steel.
“Oh, I’m not presuming, Cas,” Gabriel states as he refills his glass with whiskey before lifting it to his mouth, swallowing the liquid in one easy mouthful then looking at Castiel. “I know that you army douches are sticklers for that sort of shit, but you’re a civvie now. You can’t keep living like you’re still serving.”
Castiel flattens his palms on the bar and pauses for a moment, eyes flickering to the amber liquid in Gabriel's glass before tracing the smooth wood grain beneath his hands. The air hums with the quiet whirring from the dishwasher, a steady, grounding noise in the otherwise silent bar.
Gabriel walks around the bar, rinsing it before adding it to the next rack of dishes Castiel has prepared. He just knows his brother is about to say something that will possibly not sit well with him. “Look, Cassie, I know that the transition hasn’t been easy for you, but you have to do something. You can’t just spend all your time here with me, you have to do something else with your time.”
Castiel remains silent as Gabriel stares him down while he is waiting for him to answer. He exhales slowly through his nose, his fingers flexing against the polished wood. He doesn't look at Gabriel, not yet. Instead, his gaze lingers on the glass, focusing on the way the amber liquid clings to the sides before settling at the bottom.
“I am doing something,” Castiel says finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m here.”
Gabriel lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as he dries his hands on a rag. “Yeah, no kidding. You’re here all the time, Cassie. You’re haunting this place like a particularly mopey ghost.” He nudges Castiel’s arm with his elbow, trying to lighten the mood, but Castiel doesn’t smile.
Silence stretches between them, filled only by the hum of the dishwasher and the clinking of glasses in the drying rack. Castiel shifts his weight, staring down at his hands as if the answers might be written in the fine lines of his palms. He knows Gabriel isn’t wrong. He also knows that he doesn’t have an answer that will satisfy his brother.
“I don’t know what else to do,” he admits, finally meeting Gabriel’s gaze.
Gabriel sighs, setting the rag down with a decisive thump. “Well, admitting it is a start.” He leans on the counter, tilting his head. “How about something simple? A hobby, maybe? You used to like—” He pauses, frowning. “Actually, I have no idea what you used to like. Do you even have hobbies?”
Castiel considers this. He used to have purpose. He used to have a duty. But not now.
Gabriel must see the answer in his expression because he groans dramatically, rubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. We’re gonna fix this. You, my dear tragic brother, are getting a life.”
“And how do you propose we do that?”
Gabriel looks dumbly at him until his face lights up with what would surely be a bad idea. “Look, I know a guy. Foster parent. Single. Gay.”
Castiel blinks, his expression unreadable, though something flickers behind his eyes. “That is… a lot of adjectives.”
Gabriel grins. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d stack the deck in your favor. Dude’s solid. Good guy. Not a serial killer. And let’s be real, you need to talk to someone who isn’t me or an inebriated bar patron.”
“I talk to people,” Castiel argues, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.
Gabriel levels him with a look. “Cas, the last conversation you had outside of this bar was with a damn pigeon on the fire escape.”
Castiel crosses his arms. “He was injured.”
“My point exactly.” Gabriel claps his hands together. “So, anyway, I know of this guy. Dude’s got his hands full with like a bajillion kids, pretty sure he could use some help around the house….”
Castiel frowns, tilting his head. “You’re suggesting I become a babysitter?”
His brother shrugs. “More like a handyman, or whatever… I know better than to let you babysit.”
Castiel’s frown deepens. “And why is that?”
Gabriel snorts. “Dude, you stare at people like you’re trying to read their souls. You think a five-year-old is gonna handle that well?” He throws up his hands. “I can already hear the crying.”
Castiel huffs, crossing his arms. “I would not make a child cry.”
Gabriel gives him a look. “Cas. You once told a man his ‘existence was an anomaly in the grand scheme of the universe’ because he cut in front of you at the grocery store.”
“He was rude,” Castiel says stiffly.
“My point exactly.” Gabriel grins. “But this is perfect! Dean’s got a house that’s falling apart, a bunch of kids running around, and not enough hands to fix it all. You like fixing things, right?”
Castiel considers this. Fixing things. That, at least, is something he understands.
Gabriel sees the shift and pounces. “Look, just go over there, see what needs doing. Worst case scenario, you hate it and flee back here to haunt my bar forever.”
Castiel sighs, knowing there’s no real way out of this. “Fine.”
Gabriel grins. “Knew you’d see reason.” He claps Castiel on the shoulder and hands him a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it. “Winchester Manor awaits.”
Castiel stares down at the messy writing, something heavy and unfamiliar settling in his chest.
Dean Winchester.
Somehow, it feels like a name that he’s going to know extremely well.