Chapter Text
The rest of the evening was quiet, slow and gentle. They hugged in bed, silent at first, then tentatively broaching the neutral topic of books and movies. Cas was mildly horrified by Dean's historic aversion to reading, while Dean, in turn, professed disbelief at Cas's cinematic illiteracy. A teasing compromise was reached: for every three chapters of Pride and Prejudice that Dean agreed to read, Cas would watch at least the first half hour of an action movie of Dean's choosing, beginning with something called Die Hard . This lead Dean to denounce Cas's lounge as a literal bed of nails, insisting any films be watched at his place, or, at the very least, in bed. Cas mounted a brief defence of his couch, though more from duty than any real sense that the thing was actually comfortable, then caved, but only on the condition that Dean be the one to get up and bring them food.
Feigning drudgery, Dean complied, and soon they were sitting upright in bed with their backs to the wall, eating homemade chicken soup and accusing each other of hogging the blankets. The only interruption came at five, when Anna knocked on the front door and announced, loudly enough to be heard in the bedroom, that Dean had to come lock up the shop, and did he want her to show up to tomorrow, and to not even think about answering until he'd put some clothes on.
'You know,' said Cas, smiling, 'I think I'm starting to like her.'
Dean kissed his cheek. 'Apparently, I have good taste in people.'
He stepped back into his jeans – and just his jeans, which Cas found almost unbearably sexy – and went to speak to Anna, while Cas tidied up their bowls and spoons and, shrugging into his dressing gown, took them out to the kitchen. There was still a sizeable quantity of soup on the stove, and it seemed a shame to waste it. Still shy, but much more himself than he'd been that morning, he padded over to the hall and hovered until Anna noticed him.
'Oh!' she said, clearly surprised to see him, despite the fact that it was his flat. 'Hi, Cas. Sorry I freaked you out this morning. Think we can start again?'
He smiled and, to Dean's obvious approval, held out his hand, which Anna shook. 'Sure. I'm sorry I was so, ah, freaked. I'm normally very sensible.' He hesitated, then forced himself to be brave. 'Do you want to come in for some soup? Dean made it, and it's actually pretty good – there's more than we can eat, and it seems a waste not to share it.' He looked at Dean, belatedly aware that his lover might object. 'If that's OK with you?'
'Why wouldn't it be?' He turned to Anna. 'You want in?'
'You can cook?' she said dubiously, but with a half-grin that suggested she was teasing.
'Yeah, yeah. Wonders will never cease. Come have some damn soup.'
And so she did; and even though he'd already eaten, Cas found himself having seconds, delighted by the novelty of eating with company. After a moment of indecision, Dean did likewise, and poured them each a glass of bourbon, too, which was just as warming as the soup, but in a different way. They sat at the table and talked, and someone – Cas thought it must have been Dean – turned his radio on, filling the background with soft, lively jazz. And really, it should have been awkward, with him in a robe, Dean shirtless and thoroughly lovebitten, and Anna a virtual stranger, but somehow it was the exact opposite: everything felt simple and friendly and right, and as he tidied the plates away, he realised this was the only time he'd had two guests in the flat at once.
'So, Cas,' said Anna, when he sat down again. 'Not to pry or anything, but are you opening the bookshop tomorrow, or taking another day off?'
The question surprised him, but not unpleasantly so. 'Honestly, I hadn't given it much thought. Why do you ask?'
'Anna,' said Dean, his tone slightly warning, but Anna just waved a hand and ignored him, shooting Cas a conspiratorial grin.
'It's just, you know, it seems a shame to have it closed, and I have this friend, Charlie – she's looking for part-time work, a total geek – and, well, I was wondering if you'd ever thought of hiring someone on, like Dean did with me.'
'Huh.' Cas propped his chin in his hand, considering. 'That's an interesting proposition.' He didn't make much money from the store, but then, he'd never needed to. And particularly now – he shied away from the details, refusing to pop the evening's peaceful bubble – it might be useful to have someone who could mind it for him, if only temporarily. 'Sure. Why not?'
Anna's face lit up. 'You're serious?'
He blinked at her, puzzled. 'Why wouldn't I be?'
'I don't know. I guess I just figured it was a long shot. I mean, you don't really know me.'
'No,' said Cas, still not getting it, 'but Dean trusts you, and I trust him, which means I trust you by extension. Besides, it's not like I'm running an electronics store or selling chemicals or anything else she could really screw up, and honestly, who'd try to rip off a second hand bookstore? I'm not exactly taking a massive risk, here. So, yeah. If you think she's good for it, then get her to come by some time, and we'll take it from there.'
Anna sat back in her chair, smiling thoughtfully. She sipped her bourbon, raising the glass to him. 'Well, thanks, Castiel. I'll do just that.' She glanced from Cas to Dean and back again, and if her gaze lingered a moment longer on Dean's torso than was strictly necessary, well, Cas was hardly going to begrudge her the view. He was certainly enjoying it. 'You two,' she said, and shook her head, chuckling.
'Us two what?' said Dean, when no further clarification was forthcoming.
Anna grinned. 'Oh, nothing. You're just a bit adorable, is all.'
Dean almost looked offended, which by itself was enough to make Cas smile. 'I've been called a lot of things in my time, but that was never one of them.'
' I think you're adorable,' said Cas, emboldened by bourbon.
Dean blushed bright red. 'Yeah, well, shut up about it,' he mumbled, burying his face in his glass. 'M' a very serious person.'
Anna hooted with laughter. 'You see?' she said. 'The defence rests. And so –' she added, glancing at the clock, '– should I, especially if I'm getting here tomorrow for 9am.'
'Oh, no,' said Dean, as she rose to her feet, 'no, no, you don't get to go out on that note. You stay here until I've embarrassed you back!'
'All in good time,' said Anna, sweetly. 'Thanks for the soup, though! It was lovely.' She turned to Cas. 'And thank you for inviting me in. This was... really nice.'
'Yeah,' said Cas, his smile a response to hers. 'It was.'
Still muttering imprecations, Dean saw her to the door; she waved at Cas over his shoulder, and then was gone. Dean stared out into the evening, a puzzled look on his face as he turned back to Cas. 'Why do I feel like I'm forgetting something?'
'Did you lock the store?'
'Shit!' And he bounded away to do just that.
While he was gone, Cas cleared the table, ladled the leftover soup into Tupperware, and was just about to start the washing up when he heard the door close. A rhythm of approaching footsteps, and before Cas could turn, Dean slipped his arms slowly around his waist.
'Adorable, am I?' Dean murmured, kissing the back of his neck.
Cas leaned against him, wrapping Dean's arms in his own. 'Just a little.'
'Well. I guess I can live with that.'
The sound of Ella Fitzgerald drifted out from the radio; the volume was too low for Cas to catch the lyrics, but her warm voice was unmistakeable. A feeling of utter peace suffused him, followed a moment later by the predictable stab of guilt, though for once, the combination of medication, alcohol and pleasure all combined to banish it almost instantly. He laughed.
Dean kissed his neck. 'What's funny?'
'This. Today.' He closed his eyes. 'I feel like I'm floating, and I don't know why. I mean, I know why , it just doesn't seem like it should be possible. Everything's been so up and down, like heaven and hell, you know? I mean, this morning was incredible, and then at the station, I felt like I was dying, or that I deserved to die –' they both held each other tighter at that, though Dean didn't interrupt, '– and then it was amazing again. You made it amazing. And then I felt so guilty about feeling good that, while you were gone, I screamed into a pillow and dosed myself just to feel sane. And then you came back, and you made me soup, and I think I made a friend, and now I'm floating –' he turned in the circle of Dean's arms, until they were face to face, foreheads touching, Cas's arms around his neck, '– and I don't understand how this can be one of the worst days of my life and still be the best, but it is, it is . And it's all because of you.'
Dean leaned in and kissed him, and as the music played, they started to sway, half-dancing in the kitchen of a house that had never once felt like home, but which now, suddenly, did.
*
Long after Cas had fallen asleep, Dean lay awake and stared at the ceiling, replaying the day's events. Heaven and hell, like Cas had said; like a carousel made in parody of human nature, spinning them through sex and solace, blood and breaking, rage and laughter, lunacy and lust. And what about the other thing? his traitorous hindbrain whispered. He shied away from it, unnerved. No wonder he couldn't sleep. He should get up, maybe, drink some milk or watch TV or something, or –
Beside him, Cas snored softly, rolling onto his side. By moonlight, he had no bruises, only skin that was silvered or shadowed, the line of his neck and shoulder rendered as a single, blue-white curve, and Dean, who'd wasted god knew how many years of his life behaving as though arousal was something you either eased with porn or sought in bars, was stricken by the beauty of it. He wanted to kiss him awake, and watch him sleep, and curl up in his arms. He wanted those bright blue eyes to snap open, wanted Cas to touch him and fuck him and hold him and tell him, impossibly, that it was going to be all right; that Crowley wouldn't win, that he wouldn't have to kill anyone, that they'd handle Nevada together. And then he felt sick to his stomach, because Cas was the one who needed his help, not the other way around, and just how selfish a bastard was he, to try and pretend otherwise?
Selfish, that's what he is. Always ungrateful.
The memory curled through him like smoke. Dean shut his eyes, but it didn't help: the problem was inside him, and always had been. He was greedy: he wanted what he couldn't have and didn't deserve, which most of all was for someone, anyone at all, to want him that way, too. But he'd learned at twelve years old exactly how stupid a wish that was, and nothing since then had ever disproved the lesson. You wanted, and the world just took, so all you could really do was give, because at least then the loss happened on your own terms.
The Christmas they stayed with Uncle Bobby was the best holiday of Dean's pre-adolescent life. Sammy had been all of eight years old and deep down, Dean knew his brother didn't believe in Santa, but somehow he'd understood that unless he pretended he did, Dean couldn't, either. So Sam had gone around asking dumb questions about carrots and reindeer and chimneys, and Bobby had silenced their father's derisive snort with a serious answer, and somehow, that did the trick of granting them permission to play things out. For two days, they'd pretended: Bobby had bought a tree, helped Dean make ornaments for it out of pine cones and old engine parts; they'd strung up candy canes and, at John's grudging insistence, made eggnog, 'because if we're going to all this trouble anyways, I should at least get a damn drink out of it.'
And then, on Christmas Eve, Dean made the mistake of sneaking out of bed. Even then, he'd known there wasn't a big chance they'd get any real presents, fake faith in Santa notwithstanding: John Winchester liked to travel light, and extraneous crap like toys took up precious space in the car. But Bobby had made him hopeful, and he'd been excited, and curious, and as he crept through the front room to the tree, he suddenly heard his father and uncle talking on the porch.
Talking about him .
He heard his dad call him selfish, and even knowing the accompanying hiss of a freshly opened beer was a bad sign, that he should just go back to bed, he couldn't make himself move. Instead, he crouched in the dark and listened, a skinny boyshadow tucked behind Bobby's lounge, and by the time he realised his error, it was already too late.
'What nonsense are you talking about now?' Bobby grumbled. 'Dean ain't selfish.'
'Shows what you know. Every place we go, he's gotta start mouthing off about something, how he doesn't like the motel, or the house, or the school, or the way some other kid looks at him, never mind I'm putting clothes on his back, food in his mouth. Selfish, that's what he is. Always ungrateful.'
'Aw hell, John, kids are meant to be selfish. It's how you know they're normal. 'Sides, the way you move around, it's not like you can blame him.'
'Can't I?' And even though he couldn't see it, Dean still knew the dangerous gleam was right there in his father's eyes, the one that meant the next bit of backchat was risking knuckles. 'You tell that to his mother.'
'His mother? ' Bobby was incredulous. 'You're drunk, John. Go lie down before you say something we'll both regret.'
'Like hell I will. Mary's death –'
'Mary's death was a goddamn tragedy, is what. It should never have happened.'
'And it wouldn't have happened,' John snapped, 'if Dean wasn't so damn careless.'
There was a poisonous silence. When he finally broke it, Bobby's voice was a growl. 'You care to elaborate on that?'
'Since you ask.' The sound of a beer can crumpling. 'Two days before the fire, the damn kid was fooling around with the broom, I don't know why, but he knocked the smoke alarm clean off the ceiling. Broke it all to hell, and there wasn't money for a new one, so yeah, Bobby, I'm gonna blame him a little, 'cos in all this time, he's never once put it together, never once acted like he understood, or apologised –'
'John, you ignorant fuck, he was four ! Probably didn't even know what a smoke alarm was , let alone why it mattered, and you're still mad he won't blame himself for what ain't his fault? What the hell is wrong with you?'
'What's wrong with me is, I got one good kid who's never gonna know his mother, and one who didn't deserve to.'
The sound of breaking glass echoed through the darkness. Dean's cheeks were hot with shame, his stomach twisting in knots, but he knew by now how to cry in silence, and still, he couldn't move, rooted to the spot as Bobby yelled, 'He's your son , dammit! If you love him at all –'
And John asked, 'What if I don't?'
Dean didn't remember how he got back to bed that night. One minute, he was behind the lounge, and the next he was under the blankets, huddled in a ball and trying not calculate the exact degree to which everything broken in his and Sam's life was his fault. All at once, he realised he had no memory of his mother saying she loved him; he felt like she must have done so a dozen times, maybe even a hundred – he could almost feel the echo of it, though he no longer remembered her voice – but now it was gone, and he finally understood why John wouldn't say it for her.
Ignoring Cas's sleepy protest, Dean stumbled out of bed, rummaging blindly for his phone. It was still in his jeans pocket, and he grabbed it with shaking hands. Before he could lose his nerve, he hurried out to the lounge and dialled Sam's new number, biting his lip as the seconds ticked by and his brother still didn't answer.
'C'mon, c'mon,' he muttered – and then, like a miracle, someone picked up.
'Dean?' Sam's voice was bleary with sleep. 'What time is it?'
'Uh.' He hadn't even looked, but he could guess. 'Late. Sorry.'
'Is something wrong?' Sam's voice sharpened. 'What's happened? Are you OK? Did Crowley –'
'It's not about Crowley.' Dean ran a hand down his face. 'I just needed to ask you something, is all.'
A pause. 'Are you drunk?'
'No.'
'Are you in hospital?'
'No.'
'Are you in jail?'
'What? No!'
'Then what the hell's so important it couldn't wait 'till morning?'
'It's about when we were kids.'
Sam sighed. 'What about when we were kids, Dean?'
'About dad.' Dean licked his lips. 'Did he ever, you know... when you were little, did he ever say, uh...'
'What, Dean? Spit it out.'
The words came out in a rush. 'Did he ever say he loved you?'
Dead silence. Then, confusedly, 'Yeah, Dean. Of course he did. Why would you even ask that?'
'No reason,' Dean said, softly. 'Night, Sam.'
'Night.'
His brother hung up, and Dean lowered the phone. It slipped from his fingers, thudding softly against the rug, and just like when he was twelve years old, he started crying, quiet tears cold against hot cheeks.
'Who was that on the phone?'
He tensed, but didn't turn, too ashamed of himself to want Cas to see him like this.
'Just Sam,' he said, trying to keep the grief from his voice. 'It's nothing. Go back to bed.'
'It's not nothing.' Cas padded closer, coming around until he stood in front of Dean. 'Hey,' he said. 'Hey. Look at me.'
Slowly, Dean raised his head. Cas rested a palm against his cheek, frowning, his eyes made lambent by the glow of the streetlamp filtering through the window.
'This isn't nothing,' Cas repeated. He stroked the tears away with his thumb. 'What is it?'
Dean shook his head, half-laughing with the effort of not crying, and when Cas pulled him close, he wrapped his arms around him, burying his head in his lover's shoulder. His lover. Cas was his lover, and Dean loved him, and it was the stupidest, most selfish thing in the world, because the only thing he knew about love was that he didn't deserve it.
Cas held him tighter, stroking his hair. 'Hey. It's all right.'
Dean pressed his head to his collarbone. 'Why does everything have to be so damn hard?'
'You're asking the wrong person.' Cas kissed his temple. 'Come back to bed.'
So he did, curled up against his lover's chest, his own too tight to get the words out, and after what felt like eternity, he finally fell asleep.