Chapter Text
Dean comes back to life in inches. He has good days: he eats breakfast, he goes to Adra's to help pack up Castiel's things, he falls asleep at a normal time. He has bad days: he collapses on the couch in the morning and doesn't get up until dinner, he catches a whiff of cinnamon in the spice cabinet and has to run into the other room, he sees a package of cheese dogs at the grocery store and breaks down right there in the meat aisle. He doesn't even care enough to be embarrassed about it. Good grief.
It's hard. But by inches, it gets easier.
Eventually Bobby gets tired of him feeling sorry for himself and smacks his knee with the newspaper.
“Go take a shower,” He says, “You stink.”
Dean huffs and rolls over. Annoyed, his dad goes for a jab of a single, stiff pointer finger right between Dean's ribs. He yelps and jumps up.
“Jesus Christ, Bobby!”
“Oh good, you're up. Now go shower.”
With a huff, he does. He hates to admit it, but he feels more human afterwards. All the grime of the last week or two finally washed off him. As he's getting dressed, he stares at Castiel's trenchcoat folded up on the toilet seat. It was a size or two too big for Castiel, hanging off him like it was trying to escape. Despite being shorter than him, the coat Dean fits perfect, if a little long.
He studies himself in the mirror. He looks exhausted, dark circles creasing under his eyes. His hair is a blazing red, courtesy of Jo and the Harvelle's kitchen sink a few days back. She says the color doesn't suit him, but Dean likes it. He likes that he can draw a line between him before Castiel and him after. To him it says, hello world, the love of my life is dead.
He takes a deep breath in, hold, out, and goes downstairs.
“He lives!” Bobby jokes when he comes into the kitchen.
He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”
“Any time, kid. What are you up to today?” He sips his coffee and hands Dean a mug, which he takes gratefully.
“Um.” He doesn't know how to tell Bobby he had no plans, that he was going to hang out on the couch until he became one with it. But as he's thinking of what to say, an idea strikes, “Um. I'm gonna go see Adra and uh, check on the garden.” It's been a few days, anyway.
His dad nods, satisfied.
Dean takes a big gulp of coffee and it burns the roof of his mouth. “Hey, uh, Bobby?”
“Yeah?”
“Does it... Will it always hurt like this?”
Bobby puts his mug down and runs his hands over his jeans. He looks Dean up and down and says, “No, not forever. But, boy? I'm here for you while it does.”
“Oh. Thanks, Dad.” He says.
“Any time.”
Dean nods awkwardly at his father and takes his coffee out to the back porch.
Later, he does see Adra as promised. She's in a sweatshirt and ratty jeans, which is her usual attire these days. Her hair is washed though, so maybe she's coming back to life in inches, too. He gives her a hug with one arm, the other tucked behind his back.
“What do you have there?” She asks, pointing with two fingers.
He grins and hauls the carriage over to the kitchen table, moving a few books aside. The thing inside shifts and lets out a low growl. He sneezes.
“So, uh, a few months ago, Sam took in a stray cat,” He starts, unlatching the clasp of the carrier, “He's as nice as anything, but Bobby's house is hardly wheelchair-safe, much less cat-safe, so uh...” He puts his fingers out and Gabriel comes out, sniffing cautiously. He meows when he sees Adra. “He's yours if you'll take him.”
Adra furrows her brow and puts out two fingers, cautiously. Gabriel sniffs them and backs back into the carrier.
“Um,” She says, tilting her head to peer into the cage, “Yes. Yes, I'll take him. Thank you, Dean.”
She smiles at him and he can't help but hug her. She is lanky, and she smells of warm cinnamon. He begins to shake a little, his eyes watering. She holds him tight, not letting go.
He stays for tea, and he helps her sort through the basket of medicine in the cabinet and they wind up throwing out most of it.
“I'm thinking of going back to school,” She says, returning the now-empty basket to the shelf.
“Oh?”
“Yes. For history. I'm sure you can tell it's a passion of mine.”
“Oh yeah, sure,” Dean says. He licks his lips. It's a cool summer day out, and the window is open, letting a breeze and the gentle floral scents of the garden waft in. “I've been thinking about that, too, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Um, going to school I mean. Fire safety. So I could be um, a fireman?”
Adra's smile is as bright as the sun, “Oh, Dean, that would be wonderful. You would be really great at that.”
“You think so?”
She reaches over and touches his cheek, “I know so.”
He brings in the rest of Gabriel's supplies, including all the stupid little toys Sam bought with his allowance money. Of course, Gabriel would rather play with the strings on the end of Adra's sweatshirt, but then, that's just how cats are.
“I have a tattoo appointment next month,” He says, following Adra around the garden. The tiger lilies are past bloom, collecting in shriveled husks at their own feet. He and Adra are talking of replacing them with foxglove when the time comes.
“Oh?” Adra touches her own wrist, where "quia tu es mecum" is tattooed.
“Yeah uh, on my back. It would be a pair of wings, but like, made out of flowers? For, um, for Castiel.”
“Oh. That would be beautiful, Dean.” She says, blinking back tears.
He smiles, “I know, right?”
In the coming weeks, they will make room for the summer vegetables, sweep up the petals from the weeping cherry, and sort through all the tools in the shed. Adra will have a memorial stone made for the entranceway, with Castiel's name, birth and death days, and a quote about the Garden of Eden. It will sit next to the one inscribed Anna Julianne Milton. A journalist will come by and take photos of the garden for a magazine. Dean and Adra will stand together by the fountain and try not to cry.
***
One Saturday, Dean is sitting at the kitchen table reading over a life insurance letter when Adra pushes a familiar cardboard box across to him.
“H-- his Catacombs?” He asks, voice catching in his throat.
“Yes,” She says, “I'm sorry it took me so long. There was something he wanted you to have and it completely slipped my mind.”
He shrugs, forgiving. He would've forgotten, too. That doesn't stop his hands from shaking as he lifts the lid, though. On top of all the familiar photographs and memorabilia is a leather journal, the same one Dean gave Castiel for Christmas all those months ago. On top is a note. To Dean.
My love, it reads, in Castiel's all-caps handwriting.
It didn't take me long after receiving this gift to know exactly what I wanted to do with it.
I used to feel like the future could be stolen from me at any moment, and the present was so tenuous itself that it was not worth thinking about. But becoming friends with you changed that. I wanted to keep a record of everything we did together. Even if at the time, I did not know where it would lead, I still felt like it was worth preserving.
I learned that you do not avoid planting a garden because one day the flowers will wilt. You plant it anyway and enjoy the flowers while they are here. Dean Winchester, my dear, dear idiot, you helped me live in full bloom.
Thank you.
Yours, with love,
Castiel Michael Novak
Dean flips open the cover. Paper-clipped to the front is a picture of the two of them laughing together. Beneath it:
Castiel was here.
Dean isn't sure if what comes out is a laugh or a sob. He touches the writing tenderly. Castiel was here. Castiel was here.
Castiel was here.