miracles

by foolondahill17

Summary:

Before Jack fades into a glowing light in the middle of the crowded street, Dean has one last demand. The kid owes them, dammit.

“You’re bringing him back, right? Cas?”

Notes:

Additional warnings for Dean-typical bad headspace, including a smidge of suicidal ideation and plenty of negative self talk; Hell flashbacks, including torture and body horror; brief mention of past prostitution; implied alcohol dependency; and Significant character death, which is not Dean, Cas, or Sam, and it's treated with more weight than the show treated it with.

This fic operates under the mechanics of the inferior English version of 15x18. Fuck CW. y yo a ti.

The sudden hubbub of blissfully ignorant, chattering people on the street is like a slap to the face. Dean stands in the glaring sunlight, and he feels ill with relief. They did it. Sam and Jack and Dean – they did it. Chuck isn’t a threat anymore. The world is saved. Again. Sam and him made it. For a while there, it didn’t seem like they were going to – Dean’s leg, arm, and head still pulse with the phantom pain of Chuck’s assault – but they did. And it’s over.

Somehow Sam is still coherent, asking Jack about Amara – Sam with his unerring curiosity and level-headedness, and Dean’s struck by a memory from years ago, when Sam wanted to ask Chuck about ears despite the fact that God’s soul-eating sister was loose and God, himself, seemed totally unconcerned with the fact that his creations had been living, suffering, and dying for eons without so much of a sliver of comfort regarding the certainty of his existence. Turns out that indifference was the tip of something more malicious than even Dean could have imagined.

“She’s with me,” Jack answers with that dopy, closed-lip smile of theirs that always reminded Dean of –

“We’re in…harmony.”

“You’re gonna…come back with us to the bunker?” Sam asks.

And Jack says something about not coming home. About, in a way, already being there. About the fucking rain or some shit. About balance and peace and other words that don’t make a lot of sense.

“Jack, wait,” Dean says. For a second, he’s not even aware he’d spoken until both Sam and Jack’s eyes pin him in place. The street is loud and crowded. The sun is hot. And Dean’s chest hurts. It hurts.

“You’re –” Dean swallows. “You’re bringing him back, right? C-Cas?”

Dean didn’t even falter when he made his demands to Chuck. Laid down his and Sammy’s life for the lives of everyone else on this fucking planet as long as – Cas. You’re gonna bring him back – but now Dean can barely say it.

It’s been weeks. Fuck. Months maybe. Dean’s lost count among the aimless hours of driving and scheming and fighting for each Goddamn breath of air. Drowning out his nightmares with as much whiskey as he could sneak behind Jack and Sam’s backs. And Dean’s almost forgotten how to hope. All there was was the plan. And now the plan’s over. Against all odds, it worked. And Dean should be able to hope again – this is Cas’s child for fuck’s sake – but he – he doesn’t know how.

And he’s not gonna beg. God help him, he ain’t gonna beg.

“Dean,” Jack starts, eyebrows furrowing in that shit fucking puppy-soft look of confusion, like Dean’s just some useless piece of human machinery that he can’t quite figure out. It’s another expression he got from Cas. “Cas wasn’t like the others.”

“But it’s Cas,” Dean blurts out. He feels more than sees Sam’s hand reach for his shoulder. Dean takes a step away from his brother. He’s pulled elastic band taught and brittle. If Sam touches him right now, Dean will snap. “You can’t just leave him in the Empty. He deserves more than that. He – he raised you. He’s your dad.”

For a moment, pain sears across the whole serene, unaffected veneer Jack’s got going on. “I don’t know if I can –”

“Fuck that!” Dean says.

“Dean –” Sam hisses, and stalks forward to intercept him, and Dean doesn’t even realize he’s stepping toward Jack until Sam is in the way.

“You got him out before. You can fucking do it again,” Dean says, ducking under Sam’s arm. Dean’s not even yelling. He’s not fucking yelling. He doesn’t know why some of the newly resurrected, stupidly innocent bystanders stop on the sidewalk and look at him with concern. “We’ve given enough. You fucking hear me? We’ve given you enough. We got beat to a bloody pulp for you. We took your soulless ass back after you killed our mom – our mom – and you can do this for us. You will do this for us.”

A tear slips out of Jack’s blue eyes. Why the hell did the kid have to choose blue eyes? Why the hell did he choose to look so much like Cas, if it wasn’t because they loved him? The drop of water runs down the side of Jack’s nose and catches on the curve of his lips.

Dean hates them. All the cosmic entities who have screwed him over. Gabriel and his fucking gameshows and vanishing acts. Michael and Lucifer with their Goddamn apocalyptic prophesies. Amara and her revolting, uncontrollable, erotic hold on Dean’s heart. Chuck and his fucking stories. And now Jack. Jack, who’s just like the others. Uncaring. Pointlessly controlling –

“Goodbye,” says Jack, and he takes a step back, lifts a hand, smiles sadly, and then disappears.

Just disappears.

Dean chokes on the uncontrollable, unmitigated rage rising in his throat. His ears buzz. His fingers are numb. His forehead comes down on Sam’s shoulder.

“Whoa, whoa,” Sam says, scrabbling for purchase on the pavement. Clutching Dean hard under his arms. There is bile in Dean’s throat now, not fury. There something hot and wet on his face, seeping through Sam’s jacket.

“I got you, I got you, Dean,” Sam says, lowering them both steadily to the ground.

“Whoa, man, he okay?” some idiot says from the street.

“He’s fine,” Sam calls. And he lowers his voice, frantically says into Dean’s ear. “We gotta go, Dean. Come on, let’s get in the car.”

It feels like it did in the dungeon. Cold and pressed against the stone wall. Blood on his shoulder. And Cas is gone. Cas is gone. Cas is – Cas is smiling. Cas is – Cas is telling Dean that – Cas is – and Dean is too slow – too slow, again – watching Cas die, again – Cas is – Cas is –

“Shit, Dean,” Sam hisses. “You’re really freaking me out, right now. I need you to move. You hear me? Move.”

There’s a loud, sharp noise, and Sam startles back a little, and then something hair, large, and a little smelly shoves itself into Dean’s face. Something slimy and warm swipes up Dean’s cheeks.

The sensation brings Dean back to himself: he is on his knees on the sidewalk, Sam’s hulking body is engulfing him, almost hugging him with his orangutang arms, and there’s – there’s a dog. It’s sitting in front of him, lapping up the tears on his face.

A block lodges itself in Dean’s throat, making it impossible to speak. Hey, Miracle, he thinks stupidly, and lifts a clumsy hand to pat the dog’s shaggy head.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam insists. He snatches Dean’s upper arm in a vice and hauls him upward. Dean’s boots shuffle beneath him, trying to find steady ground, but everything’s lilting and rollicking, like the shifting tectonic fucking plates. Sam practically drags him to the car.

All of it is sense memory: the thunk of the lock popping in the backdoor, the screech of the hinges. Dean knows Miracle is trotting along behind them because he can hear the pad of his paws, the scrape of his nails on the pavement, the happy panting breaths as his tongue lolls out.

Sam eases Dean into the backseat. Dean honest to God goes fetal on the leather bench, knees drawn to his aching chest. He’s shivering. Miracle hops in after; Sam makes an aborted noise of protest, but Dean doesn’t pay attention, because Miracle lays down quiet in the footwell and turns his head to rest his chin on the seat in front of Dean’s face, so all Dean can see is big brown, shiny eyes and wet, black nose.

Dean expects the age-old jolt of fear in his stomach: the one that reminds him of claws shredding his pectorals and fangs dripping with old meat, but it doesn’t come. Maybe it’s because Miracle looks like a dirty mop; his warm breath of Dean’s face smells a little like fish.

“Get you a breathmint when we get home,” Dean mutters. His hand falls off the bench, lands on Miracles firm, warm body, tangles in his matted fur. “And a bath. You need a bath.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” Sam says from behind the wheel. The engine turns over. The car shudders and bumps; Dean can feel her move under his body. And then Sam rambles about psychological shock or something.

Dean just looks at Miracle. Damn, he kind of gets why Sam always dug dogs. There’s this calming, knowing glint in Miracle’s eyes that feels depthless. Like you could find stars and universes if you looked hard enough. Wasn’t that a Men in Black thing? A universe in the eye of a dog? Or was it a cat? Or maybe a marble.

“Cas always – he always had that Tommy Lee Jones kinda schtick, you know?” Dean tells Miracle. Because Miracle never met Cas. Cas woulda liked him. Dean knows it.

“What?” Sam snaps, craning his neck over the back of the seat.

“Always grumpy as fuck about something,” Dean elaborates. And then the knob is back in his throat. “Fuck.” He digs the heel of his hand into his eyes, presses until lights pop in the corners of his vision. His lashes are wet and sticky.

The car jumps over a pothole. Sam’s riding her too hard. Baby needs a gentle touch. And Sam shouldn’t even be driving her. Shouldn’t have to while Dean’s having some kind of fucking nervous breakdown in the backseat.

“I’m not,” Dean protests weakly. “I’m not having a breakdown.”

From the front seat, Sam snorts, but it sounds dangerously near a sob. “Couldn’t you have – just hold it together for eleven hours, dude. We’re on our way.”

Ten hours and forty-five minutes according to the chirpy voice on Sam’s phone. Dean made it in nine on the way to the shore of Lake Superior. Nearly a straight shot on I-80 West from Duluth back to Lebanon.

Miracle lets out this tiny, high-pitched wine of concern and noses at Dean’s squashed cheek, lapping up more saltwater. Dogs are kinda gross, but Dean doesn’t want to think too hard about all the bacteria living in Miracle’s mouth. Dad never liked dogs: more trouble than they were worth. Messy and stinky and probably had flees and it was hard to find a motel that would let them in. Plus, they could get sick and die, or get lost, or –

Does Miracle belong to someone else? Dean thinks, and it’s a punch in the gut. Are they steeling someone’s dog, right now? His hand scratches down Miracle’s neck, and his stomach drops again in relief.

“No collar, Sammy,” Dean reports. “Probably a stray.”

“You, ah, hit your head after Jack healed you?” Sam asks casually.

“What?” Dean replies. “No. Head’s fine.” Except it aches with a persistent pressure behind his eyes, but that’s probably just from crying. But he doesn’t need to draw anymore attention to the fact he’s crying.

“Okay.” Sam says on an exhale. “Listen, you’ve been running pretty hard for the past two weeks. Neither of us have been getting much sleep. And you’ve been drinking, like, a lot. So maybe you just need to take it easy, okay?

Two weeks. Two weeks. Is that how long it’s been? Only two weeks since Cas has been gone. Only two weeks since Cas –

There’s a musical pinging from the front seat, cut off by a sharp and relieved breath as Sam answers the call. “Donna, thank God – wait, I’m driving. I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Land’s sake, Sam!” Donna’s voice cuts clear through the car. “What happened? One second we were disappearing left and right, and next we’re all just back where we were in the silo –”

“Jack,” Sam interrupts her. His voice is strangled. “Jesus, Donna, is everyone back? Everyone’s okay?”

“Sure looks it, Sam,” Donna answers. “I’m calling Jody right after I hang up with you – but everyone here’s okay. You said Jack –”

“It’s a – a long story,” Sam replies weakly. “I’ll catch you up later. Listen,” Sam gulps. “I – I can’t, right now, so – so can you contact Eileen? I just…I need to know, Donna.”

“You betcha, Sam,” Donna says gently. “Although I’m betting I’ll be a pretty poor substitute right about now.”

“I – I know,” a breath, the kind that’s half tears, half laughter. “Tell her I’ll call as soon as I can. Tonight. Late tonight, I’ll call.”

“Before I let you go –” Donna hedges, “How’s everyone on your end? Jack, Cas, Dean?”

“Jack is – Jack is gone.” Sam’s voice closes. “A-and Cas didn’t – he didn’t make it. But Dean’s okay. And Chuck’s gone, Donna. He’s – he’s not a problem, anymore.”

“Geez,” Donna whispers. “Oh, Sam. Geez.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, you – you boys don’t keep us hanging, hear? You call us when you can. Better yet, you see us in person.”

“Yeah, Donna. Thanks.”

Another beep, and there’s silence save for the rumble of Baby’s engine. Dean sucks in a slow, shuddering breath, trying to calm down the painful patter of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. The silence feels stretched out and tacky. Like they’re waiting for something.

“Dean it’s fine. You’re fine,” Sam replies quickly, looking over his shoulder again.

“Shoulda – should have let you say goodbye,” Dean gulps. “The kid –”

Something goes tight in Sam’s face at the mention of Jack. Dean watches him swallow. “It’s okay, Dean. You didn’t – it was right for you to ask. I don’t know why he – they said they couldn’t do it. I don’t – maybe Chuck’s power really can’t reach into the Empty? Maybe…I don’t know, man. We’ll look into it, I swear. We’ll go back to the bunker and look.”

The very touch of me corrupts. I’m poison. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. God, Cas. I’m sorry. I thought we could fix it. I thought we’d get you back. I – I thought – and I tried. Cas – Cas, I tried.

Hate and anger. You said it wasn’t true. That it wasn’t – that’s not who I am. You said – the most selfless, loving human. I don’t – I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you saw that, Cas. I – I don’t –

“Sh-shouldn’t have gotten angry.”

“Dean, it’s okay.”

“I – didn’t mean it, Sammy.”

“I know,” Sam says earnestly. “I know, Dean. I know.”

OOO

Cas comes to him that night. It’s not how Dean thought he’d come: in a nightmare. Cas’s voice transforming into Lucifer’s. Hell, maybe, with images of Alastair and blood. Or, if he was lucky, at the end of that dock on the lake, casting bobbers into the water.

Sam and him pulled into the bunker garage after two. Sam handed Dean a glass with two fingers of whiskey, told him he might be going into withdrawal – “maybe that’s why you’re so, you know…” Afterward, Sam helped Dean to his bed, tipped him backward onto the mattress, and told him to sleep. They’d figure out what to do in the morning.

Dean didn’t think he’d sleep, but he does. Because at some point he opens his eyes and Cas is there. The mattress dips under Cas’s weight, and Cas’s hand hovers for a minute over Dean’s head, like he’d meant to heal him.

“Sam said you’re not well.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean tells him. His throat burns.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Cas says. He frowns. His hand finally lands on Dean’s forehead, gently combing back his hair.

“Shouldn’t have…shouldn’t have let you go, Cas,” Dean says, and there’s a sting in his eyes, now, to go along with the ache in his throat.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean,” Cas says levelly. “It was my choice.”

“I just…” Dean stumbles. It’s easier to say it in a dream, but that doesn’t make it effortless. “I just want you back. I don’t want to have to do this again.”

“Are you hurt?” Cas asks. There’s a pucker between his brows, and it recalls Jack so forcefully, that Dean can’t help but tell him,

“You woulda been proud of him, Cas. Your kid. Took down God himself and didn’t even flinch. Fixed – fixed the whole damn world.”

“I know,” Cas says with a faint smile.

“And I shouldn’t have – I should never have been so hard on him. Wasn’t fair.”

“It’s alright, Dean. Jack forgives you.”

“I’m trying,” Dean whispers, leaning a little into the warmth of Cas’s fingers on his scalp. He doesn’t want this moment to end, but he can already feel himself fading. Cas’s face is farther away. “I’m trying to be the man you think I am. I promise. I’m trying.”

“You should sleep,” Cas tells him. “I shouldn’t have woken you, but Sam insisted you’d want to see me.”

“We’re gonna get you back,” Dean promises. “I swear it, Sammy and me are gonna get you back.”

“I’m here, Dean,” Cas tells him. “I’m right here.”

OOO

Dean wakes to the sound of fingernail scratching on his floor. He blinks the sleep-blur out of his eyes and finds himself nose to nose with Miracle, who’s shifting paw to paw by the side of his bed.

“Hey, boy,” Dean murmurs. He sits up. Miracle wines. “Come on, come ‘ere,” Dean allows, rolling his eyes and patting his lap.

Whoever last owned him trained him well because Miracle bounds onto the bed at Dean’s direction. The firm weight of the dog lands on Dean’s legs, and Dean reaches around on instinct; he’s not hugging a dog, for Christ’s sake, he’s just…he’s just holding on. The fuzzy warmth of Miracle is comforting and solid. Even though Sammy clearly hasn’t given him a bath yet. Mutt still stinks.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Sammy’s voice comes from the door. “I checked on you earlier and must have left the door open.”

Dean lifts his head from Miracle’s shoulder and sees Sam standing in the threshold, hair haloed by the hallway light.

“Checked on me?” Dean scoffs.

“Dude, it’s after three o’clock.” Sam rolls his eyes. “You must have needed the sleep.”

“Huh?” Dean lifts his head from Miracle’s fir again. He glances at his alarm clock on the night table. “Shit. Wow.” But then Miracle yips and knocks Dean’s chin with the top of his head, demanding more pets. Who the hell is Dean to deny him that? It’s no telling what kind of rough life the thing’s had; no wonder it’s so clingy.

“You sure you want him in your bed?” Sam says, wrinkling his nose. “He might have bugs.”

“Hush,” Dean says, mock covering Miracles ears with his palms. “He can hear you!”

Sam rolls his eyes again, but he’s smiling. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, at least.”

“Me?” Dean says. “I’m fucking peachy, man.”

Sam’s mouth dips into a frown. “Yeah? Cause you really didn’t seem like it yesterday.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says firmly.

Sam shrugs, and Dean can’t tell if he’s more desperate than annoyed. “All I’m saying is you’ve had a rough run recently. Maybe it’s not so bad an idea to take it easy for a little while.”

“Yeah, yeah. Taking it easy means bacon for breakfast, right?” Dean swings himself out of bed, dislodging Miracle, but the dog doesn’t seem to mind, just hops off and trots over to Sam, bumping into his long legs face-first. Sam can’t quite hide his smile, and he pats the top of Miracle’s head. “Hey,” Dean calls. “You fed him, right?”

“I dug out some chicken from the freezer,” Sam replies. “But we’re gonna have to get food if we’re keeping him.”

Dean stops in the middle of slinging his robe over his shoulders. “You don’t want to keep him?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sam says. “If you wanna keep him, we can keep him.”

“You’re the dog lover here, Shaggy.”

“Sure,” Sam says slowly.

“Shut up.” Dean shoulders past Sam in the doorway and heads toward the kitchen. “Come on, Mir. Don’t bother the grumpy man.”

“Mir?” Sam follows them as, sure enough, Miracle takes off at the sound of Dean’s voice, heeling immediately at his side.

“He’s…you know,” Dean says, suddenly uncomfortable as he takes the turn into the kitchen. “Miracle.”

Sam snorts, but Dean doesn’t hear him. He skids to a stop on the cement floor. Cas gets up from where he’d been seated at the table, nursing a cup of steaming coffee. He faces Dean and smiles soft, just how Dean remembers, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hello, Dean.”

What happens in Dean’s chest reminds him of that rawhead fifteen years ago. He only has hazy memories of the heart attack he had in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, but it hurt like this. His breath comes in like he’s breathing through a clogged straw. His heart clenches. He totters backward. Sam catches his elbow.

“Sammy,” Dean says, voice high and afraid and not his voice at all. Because it’s like Purgatory. It’s Purgatory again. And Dean’s hallucinating. He’s losing his Goddamn mind.

“Dean, what the hell –” Sam says.

Miracle senses Dean’s distress, derives that Cas – the – thing that looks like Cas – is to blame, and starts growling, hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

Cas looks alarmed, takes a step back from the dog, and raises his hands to shoulder height. He’s not wearing his trench coat. He’s not even wearing his rumpled suit. He’s dressed in a pair of Sam’s sweatpants and ratty t-shirt that is way too big for him.

“Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam,” Dean says nonsensically and paws at Sam’s arm. Throat tight. High-pitched shrieking in his ears. “Sammy.”

“Dean, fuck, calm down!” Sam says, almost angrily.

“Sammy, Sammy, he’s dead – he’s dead,” Dean babbles.

“Dean!” Sam shouts. “Dean, stop! He’s back. He’s – fuck’s sake, I sent him to your room last night! He said he talked to you!”

So Sam can see him, too. Dean’s not hallucinating. The thought is not as reassuring as it should be.

“What the fuck are you?” Dean’s panic transforms swiftly into anger. “Get the fuck out of him!” Sam tangles his legs between Dean’s so Dean topples forward. Dean vaults toward the floor. Sam holds him up.

“Calm down!” Sam roars. “It’s him! Okay? I checked – I checked last night. Silver. Borax. Holy water. It’s him, Dean.”

Sam’s voice gradually loses volume, and Dean latches onto it like a lifeline. He’s panting. There’s a sharp point of pain on his cheek, and he realizes his must have gotten hit somehow – with a fist or a flailing elbow as Sam tried to hold him back from Cas.

Cas –

“Cas?” Dean’s voice does not tremble. His throat does not close in on itself like his esophagus has experienced a miniature cave-in.

Cas is still standing against the wall, eyeing Miracle warily. And it looks like Cas. He’s rumpled and tired as he always looks. Hair mussed and – God – breathing steadily. Dean can see the rise and fall of his chest.

“It’s me, Dean,” Cas says. “You’re welcome to test me. But I don’t have my Grace any longer, so I’ll heal as a human.”

Sam’s arms drop from around Dean, and Dean steps forward. Once, twice tentatively, unable to look away from Cas’s face – his piercing blue eyes that, the last time Dean saw, were being swallowed by sentient, malevolent black sludge. Then Dean gains moment, stalks forward – Sam shifts uneasily; Cas looks momentarily afraid, as if expecting a blow; Miracle bark-growls, but gets out of Dean’s way – and Dean collides with Cas’s chest. Pulls him hard against him. Wraps his arms around his miraculously solid form and hangs on tight.

Dean shuts his eyes. It’s hard to breathe. He fists his hands in the back of Cas’s worn soft t-shirt. He breathes him in: the scent of toothpaste, Old Spice deodorant he must have picked up from Sam’s stash, the oily smell of slightly unwashed hair, coffee breath, and the hint of ozone that’s bled into his skin.

Cas relaxes under Dean’s arms. There’s a strange, whimper-like noise deep in his throat, and his own arms come up to wrap around Dean’s back.

Cas was dead. Cas was gone. Cas cried and smiled through his last words to Dean, and Dean just watched dumbly as Cas was consumed and tugged away.

Dean’s eyes burn.

Be angry, he tells himself. But – but no. He swallows back the rage, and finds aching tears, instead. Apparently it’s a trade: yell or cry. Dean can’t say he really prefers the latter over the former.

But at least it’s only Dean who gets hurt this way. It gave him nightmares for days, that look on Sammy’s face when Dean exploded after coming through the portal to discover Gabriel had left. I should never have come back. And Sam flinched so hard at the sound of Dean’s voice; it was just like when they were kids and Dad was drunk and angry again, looking for something to hit.

He pulls away. “Cas, you stupid son of a bitch. You – you fucking stupid son of a bitch,” Dean says hoarsely. Cas smiles weakly, eyebrows dipped, eyes bright. “I told you not to do that again.”

OOO

The story goes like this, and Cas tells it calmly, almost stoically, over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because, in their hunt for God, Sam and Dean didn’t have much time for grocery shopping:

The bomb Billie set off in Jack’s body sent shock waves through the Empty, waking up everything that slumbered there: demons and angels, both. Millenia of bad blood spilled over into outright war. The Shadow, after absorbing Jack’s blast, was powerless to put its charges back to sleep, so when Jack appeared with a solution, it was willing – neigh, desperate – to make a deal, even if it meant releasing one of its most prized possessions.

Jack was unwilling to abuse his powers, and he recognized how unfair it was to bring back one angel when there were so many others that also deserved to be revived, but he rationalized bringing back Cas because Cas was, ultimately, only in the Shadow’s thralls because he’d sacrificed himself for Jack, in the first place.

The Shadow’s terms were this: Jack could have Castiel, but only if Jack sent the others back to sleep. Quiet, peaceful sleep, once more, not the abhorrent, twisted rest that had been perverted throughout the centuries of unrest caused by apocalypse after apocalypse. And Jack could have Castiel, but only if Castiel surrendered his Grace, for, without it, the Shadow would have no hold on him.

So, Jack gave Cas the choice, because he wasn’t going to force anyone’s hand. He’d learned too much about free will to do that. Cas could stay in the Empty and find his eternal rest with the others. Cas could return to Heaven, but this time as just a soul, and perhaps he could help Jack with some design changes there. Or Cas could go to Earth. He would be human. He would live and grow old and eventually die. And he could go anywhere he pleased. He needn’t return to Sam and Dean if he didn’t want to. Jack would drop him off anywhere on the planet he so desired.

“And I decided that he could drop me off here,” Cas finishes simply.

Dean clutches a mug of coffee, trying to ignore the shake in his fingers. He wants to think the decision was a no-brainer. He wants to think that of course Cas decided to come back to the bunker. Of course Cas wanted to come back to Sam and – and Dean. Of course.

But what if it wasn’t that easy? What if Cas really thought about it? Really weighed the pros and cons for eternal rest against helping his son rebuild heaven against returning as a puny mortal to this cesspool of a planet. And Dean.

And Dean, who has left Cas behind so many times. Who has messed up so many times. Who, despite what Cas said, is not worth dying for.

“Well,” Dean says, clearing his throat after another thick swallow of sandwich. The peanut butter is sticky in his throat. The whole thing lands like a rock in his stomach. “Glad you’re back, man. We missed you.”

He ignores Sam’s raised eyebrows. His stomach clenches when Cas’s face goes a little slack with some unnamed emotion – maybe hurt – but Dean can’t look at him anymore.

“Well,” he stands. His chair scrapes against the floor. Miracle, who’d finally calmed down and rested by Dean’s feet while Cas explained, lifts his head. Dean raises his hand on instinct, wanting to clap Cas on the shoulder, but Cas is sitting across the table, and he’s a little farther than anticipated, and it means Dean’s hand would come down on the back of Cas’s hand if he –

So Dean drops his arm to his side. Clenches his fist.

“Better, ah –” He swallows. “This mangy pile of rags needs a good bath.” He gestures to Miracle, who knows he’s being talked about and opens his mouth, tongue falling out in glee, and Dean’s stomach twists again. There’s a strange hurt at the bottom of his ribs. It’s a little hard to breathe through.

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says.

“Come on, boy,” Dean says, and he leaves the kitchen, Miracle trailing obediently after him.

OOO

I love you, Cas said.

And what does that mean? What the hell does that mean? And what the fuck is Dean supposed to do with that, now that Castiel is back?

Dean’s hands are steadier now while he works shampoo through Miracle’s thick coat. He doesn’t know if there’s some kind of dog-specific shampoo he’s supposed to use, but he found this one in Sam’s stash, and if it’s good enough for his brother’s luscious locks, it’ll probably work fine for Miracle.

Miracle squirms a little in the bottom of the tub and shakes his head as Dean scrubs behind his ears, but he seems comfortable enough with the suds and water.

I love you, Cas said, and Dean shuts him out:

“We’ll have to get you some other stuff, too,” Dean tells Miracle. It’s quiet in the bathroom, nothing but Miracle’s splashing and his own breathing to keep him company. “Like a collar and some toys, yeah? I don’t think Sasquatch is gonna like it if you chew up his shoes. And some treats, too, huh?”

Miracle perks up at the word, cocks his head. Dean smiles, but his eyes sting.

“You deserve some pampering after that shit storm Chuck put you through.”

He thinks about what Sam would say if he saw Dean, now, getting teary over a dog. He’d probably pull out some big psychosomatic words. But Dean’s not projecting his complicated grief and painful relief about losing Cas and getting him back onto a dog. He’s not.

I love you.

Dean gulps past the pain in his throat. He finishes up rinsing Miracle clear of shampoo. And then he takes a moment to compose himself, leans over the edge of the tub, puts his forehead against the bridge of Miracle’s nose, and breathes. It’s wet. His pants and sleeves are wet from leaning by the side of the tub during Miracle’s bath, but he hardly notices. Miracle nuzzles into his throat.

“Okay,” Dean says finally. “Okay.” He sits back on his heels, releases the drain blocker so the soapy water swills away. Miracle take a step back and shakes wildly, swinging his freshly cleaned fur every-which-way and showering the bathroom and Dean in droplets of water.

Dean sputters. “Shit, yeah. Okay. I probably deserved that. Come here, you mop.”

Dean towels off Miracle to get whatever water he missed, and then he leaves the bathroom and nearly walks headlong into Cas, who is standing right in the middle of the hall, looking uncomfortable, and Dean wonders if maybe he’d been trying to convince himself to come into the bathroom to talk to Dean. Which means he probably has something he needs to talk to Dean about.

I love you.

Dean cuts him off before he can begin, “Yeah, if you’re gonna try for the whole human thing again, you’re gonna need better clothes than Sam’s hand-me-downs.”

Cas looks down and frowns at his outfit. The sweatpants are synched tight, so the ends of the drawstring are dangling mid-thigh, and he’s cuffed the bottoms a couple times. And he’s swimming in his shirt. The collar is so low, he’s showing clavicle.

“Your clothes would likely fit better,” Cas says.

Holy shit. Dean swallows and looks away.

“Yeah, you ain’t gonna raid my closet, either,” Dean says. Miracle doubles back from where he’d jogged down the hallway. He circles Dean’s legs and noses curiously at Cas bare feet. He seems to have forgiven Cas the scare in the kitchen.

“You…adopted a dog?” Cas inquires.

“Well, not really,” Dean says, glad to latch onto a conversation topic that doesn’t make him want to spontaneously combust. “Just, ah, found him. He seemed like he needed a home. And we had the space. And Sam’s been begging for one since he was a little kid, so…”

Dean trails away, because Cas is crouching to one knee, letting Miracle sniff the back of his hand. When Miracle is satisfied, Cas begins scratching him under the chin. Miracle flops his butt down on the ground and starts smacking his tail against the floor in glee. Cas smiles. Dean wants to cry.

“What is his name?”

“Mir – Miracle,” Dean says, stopping in the middle to clear his throat.

Cas glances up, eyes darkened in confusion. “I didn’t think you’d still believe in miracles. Or want the reminder.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says. He pauses to scratch Miracle behind the ears, so he’s got both Dean and Cas working on him, and it looks like he transports to a blissful doggy nirvana. “We needed one when we first found him.”

“I’m glad you got it, then,” Cas says.

The warmth in his tone makes Dean want to turn tail and run. He can’t do this. He can’t do this, right now.

I love you, Castiel said, and then he died, and Dean never got the chance to say it back. Never thought he’d get the chance. And now that he has the chance he –

Dean has never said I love you to anyone. Not like that. Not even Lisa. Dean’s not sure he even knows what it means.

It’s not even the fact that Cas is a guy. Or – well – in a male-presenting body, or whatever. Dean knows the difference now after Jack and Sam had that conversation about gender-nonconforming, nonbinary, Judith Butler, gender-is-a-social-construct stuff. Which was actually, like, sorta, kinda interesting and maybe made Dean feel a little better about the whole panty thing.

Dean’s fucked guys. He’s been fucked by guys. He blew guys behind gas stations for twenty-five bucks a pop when he was too young to talk himself into a pool or poker game. It’s definitely nothing he’s ever publicized, because he grew up in the 80s during the Aids panic with a dad who was the definition of “no homo,” and he has enough hang-ups he could write a book about how to have sex without catching feelings, but the gay thing isn’t the issue here.

Sam maybe knows; he’s definitely poked fun enough at Dean’s butch posturing, cowboy fetish, and obsession with young Harrison Ford to at least be suspicious. Definitely had to be curious after Dean’s siren turned out to be a man. And, hell, Dean knows Cas knows. Afterall, Cas fucking rebuilt Dean’s body and soul once from scratch; he must have poked around in his noggin long enough to notice the green-haired kid with the safety pin through his nose in that New York club or Dean and Lee messing around drunk in that hotel room before Dad barged in. But that’s not the issue. Sex is not the issue. Sex has never been the issue.

And he can’t. Not if it means he’ll lose Cas again, Dean can’t. If Dean loves someone, they leave. Or Dean leaves. Dean doesn’t know how to stop that cycle. He doesn’t even know where to start.

And he just got Cas back. He’s not going to risk losing him again for something like this. Not when – not when he and Cas can just go back to the way it was. Be normal. Be safe. Dean just wants to be safe.

“Come on,” Dean says gruffly and climbs back to his feet. “We gotta get you to the store.”

OOO

Dean wakes up the next morning, and the wave of dizzying joy when he remembers Chuck is gone is so overwhelming and alien that he briefly considers the possibility that he’s having a stroke.

He sits up in bed, and his heart beats so quickly, he has to pant to catch up. Miracle stirs at the foot of Dean’s bed, where Dean had placed the plush dog bed he’d picked up from Wholesale Kennel Supply in Belleville. Sammy didn’t even question it when Dean put the bed in his room, which makes Dean wonder if Miracle somehow is more Dean’s dog than Sam’s, which is a reversal Dean never imagined happening, but one he’s not going to look too closely at.

“Come here, boy,” Dean says, and wonders if this is gonna become an everyday thing as Miracle bounds over the end of Dean’s bed and into his arms. “At least you smell better than yesterday,” Dean tells Miracle and unabashedly buries his face in the dog’s fur; it ain’t like Sam’s around to make fun of him.

Dean gets out of bed, throws on a change of clothes, brushes his teeth, and heads to the kitchen to make breakfast. He finds Sam already manning the stove, working two pans with one spatula like a regular Gordon Ramsey.

“You’re cooking?” Dean says skeptically. “Is it my birthday?”

“Har har,” Sam replies. “I didn’t know if you were gonna sleep late again today, and I was already up.”

Dean peaks over Sam’s shoulder to see what’s on the menu. “Bacon?” he says hopefully.

“Turkey bacon,” Sam replies. And then continues, irritated, when Dean makes a noise of disgust, “Dude, it tastes almost the same. And it’s better for you. You don’t want to die of a heart attack now, do you?”

“Fuck you,” Dean says happily. Then he takes out the bag of kibble from the cabinet next to the sink and fills Miracle’s food bowl. Miracle gloms down with happy abandon.

“Aw, look, he eats like you,” Sam remarks. He’s piling eggs and gross turkey bacon onto two plates.

“Is ah – Cas around?” Dean asks, trying to keep his voice casual. Trying to shove back the horrible thought that somehow yesterday was a hallucination.

“He’s still in his room,” Sam answers. “I don’t think human Cas is much of a morning person.”

Dean laughs weakly and accepts the plate Sam hands him, heading to the table to eat. Sam’s eggs are good – one of the only things the kid knows how to not mess up in the kitchen, and Dean even nibbles on the edge of the turkey stuff.

“What, ah,” Sam starts, and Dean can tell by the look on his brother’s face that this is going to be an uncomfortable conversation. “What’s up with you two, anyway?”

“What?” Dean says around a mouthful of eggs, suddenly forgetting how to swallow.

“You know…it’s tense. Like you aren’t really – talking? Or even looking at each other?” Sam shrugs. “I just thought you’d be thrilled to have him back, is all.”

“Of course I’m thrilled to have him back,” Dean snaps. “What kind of a fucked up –”

“Okay, okay,” Sam hurries to say, lifting his hands. “I just – did something happen? When he, you know, got taken?”

“Nothing fucking happened,” Dean says. He shoves his plate of food away, no longer hungry or interested in having this conversation. “I told you what happened. Cas gave his fucking life for me – again. And – and I just watched it happen, okay? Nothing else fucking happened.”

“Jesus, Dean, fine,” Sam says. “Just sit back down, okay?”

Dean hadn’t actually realized he’d stood. He’s beginning to become a little concerned about the whole head in the clouds thing. His brain feels foggy and slow, incapable of processing information as it comes in at him.

He hesitates for a second before huffily dumping himself back into his chair and immediately shoveling another forkful of eggs into his mouth; maybe it’ll make Sam stop asking so many stupid questions.

“I was talking to Eileen last night,” Sam says after fifteen minutes of silence and chewing.

“Yeah?” Dean grins, happy for the change in subject. And ridiculously happy for his little brother, the big lug. “Honestly thought you’d already be jumping her bones. You’re tardy, little bro.”

“First of all, ew Dean,” Sam frowns. “Second of all, I wanted to check before I went off to meet her – see if you were gonna be okay if I headed out for a few days.”

“What?” Dean says. He puts a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “You don’t want me tailing along on your summer of love?”

“Yeah, third of all,” Sam says. “Fuck you.” He tosses a balled-up napkin at Dean’s head. Dean dodges it easily.

Miracle thinks that’s the signal to start playing, so he’s fetching the napkin in a second and dropping it in Dean’s lap. Dean beams. Miracle barks happily and wags his tale, clearly expecting more.

“You go make it up to your girlfriend, Sammy,” Dean says. He stands for the second time, headed for the library where he’d dumped Miracle’s new bag of packaged tennis balls and jangly toys on a table. “Me and Mir and – and Cas? We’ll be just fine.”

OOO

Sam’s few days with Eileen turn into a week and a half with a werewolf hunt thrown in for fun – “Is that what kids are calling it these days?” Dean asks when Sam calls to tell him, and Sam hangs up on him. A part of Dean wonders if Sam won’t come back with an itemized list of ring options.

Dean takes Sam’s remarks to heart and tries his best not to be so awkward around Cas. He makes better eye contact and smothers the need to run away whenever they’re in the same room together. He even heads out on a five-hour road trip with him and Miracle on a Sunday morning to the tiny township of Akron, Colorado.

“I used to be able to speak to animals, you know,” Cas says conversationally, idly patting Miracle’s nose with the dog’s head in his lap. Dean’s decree to not let Miracle ride shotgun was quickly overturned in the face of both Cas’s and Miracle’s big, teary eyes.

“So you weren’t kidding, huh?” Dean says, “When you interrogated the cat back at the nursing home.”

“Why would I have been kidding?” Cas inquires, forehead wrinkled in honest bemusement.

Dean chuckles and turns the music up. It’s one of his old Zepp tapes, just starting up on “Houses of the Holy.”

“This was on the tape you gave me,” Cas remarks, grinning so a little dimple digs into his left cheek.

“Hell yeah it was,” Dean says, forcing himself to pay attention to the road. He starts drumming his fingers along to the beat, grounds himself in the familiar leather under his hands.

“I think I lost that tape,” Cas continues a little mournfully. “It must have been in my truck. The one I left at the cabin in North Cove.”

Dean goes cold. Ice drips into his stomach. He remembers the cabin in North Cove. He remembers Kelly’s corpse in the bed upstairs. Mom and Lucifer disappeared in a shower of yellow sparks. And Cas dead. Hole through his chest and echo of his wings burnt into the ground at his shoulders.

“Well,” Dean says with difficulty, hoping he sounds normal and not like he just took a shot to the solar plexus. “That just means I’ll have to make you another one, right?”

“I’d like that,” Cas answers, so sincerely and sweetly and warm that Dean can’t help but look away from the road. Cas is looking at him, eyes clear and kind and –

“Yeah, yeah, awesome,” Dean says hoarsely. His heart ping-pongs against his ribs.

I love you, Cas said, and Dean can’t get his voice out of his head. It’s scorched into his bones. Pumps through his blood with every pull of his heart. It’s a part of him now, and Dean keeps remembering it. Can’t get away from it.

“Dean,” Cas says carefully.

“What’s up, buddy?”

“What I told you in the dungeon….”

“You don’t – you don’t gotta worry about that –”

“I understand it might have made you uncomfortable,” Cas continues doggedly. “Please know that it was never my intention for you to know –”

And Dean can’t. He fucking can’t. I love you. And Cas never planned to say anything? Cas would have just kept that shit to himself, bottled up for the rest of his life when – it wasn’t in the having, just in the being, or the saying, whatever shit it was Cas said. And Cas hadn’t been happy before then? Cas hadn’t been happy and that was – that was on Dean, dammit.

“Dude, stop,” Dean says, a little more abruptly than he’d meant. “I’m – I’m not uncomfortable, okay?” He coughs. He tries to make himself sound sincere, because he is fucking sincere, but it’s hard to talk at all. Dean’s not used to being so painfully honest. At least not when he’s not in the middle of dying.

“It’s – I’m glad you told me.”

“I promise my feelings will not impact how I interact with you. You don’t have to worry –”

“I’m not worried,” Dean interrupts. There’s a lump in his throat. He swallows it down. It hurts a little, like it’s made of knives. “I’d never be worried about that, Cas. You’re my – my best friend.”

I love you, Cas said. I love you.

For a moment – just for a moment – Dean entertains the fantasy of saying it back. Just opening his mouth and letting the words drop out. You idiot. You son of a bitch. Of course I love you. I fucking love you so much I can hardly stand it.

“And you’re mine,” Cas says sincerely.

“Yeah, so,” Dean coughs. He scratches the back of his neck. “Stop being an idiot.”

Cas leans back against the seat. Dean sneaks a look in the rearview mirror to see if he’s – but Cas is still smiling. And there’s an emotion in his eyes that Dean can’t quite decipher: joy or hurt or contentment.

“Where is it we’re going, anyway?” Cas inquires.

Grateful for the change in subject, Dean stuffs his hand into his jacket pocket and brings out the folded brochure he’d printed off his laptop at the bunker.

“See that, Cas?” He says, handing the paper to Cas: Akron’s 43rd Annual Pie Fest. “You are about to experience the most important event in your short and deprived human life.”

OOO

Over the next weeks, in-between looking for hunts, Dean asks Jody if she’d be a job reference for him – in case he ever felt like looking for a job that would provide them with actual money. The credit cards Charlie set up work again, but it might be nice to start laying down legitimate roots.

Dean figures the only thing he’s good for is any kind of manual labor. He worked construction for that year he lived with Lisa; he’s not sure his back could take it now, but it’s still an option. Or he might be able to prove himself at a garage – if he could find one desperate enough to take someone with zero shop experience.

“We get to write the story we want now, right?” Dean tells Sam, which is his way of saying but not saying that maybe they don’t have to hunt all the time. Maybe they can take a little time to breathe. Maybe Sam and Eileen can look into setting up a home base somewhere. Maybe they can have Jody and Donna and the girls up for Christmas this year. Maybe Cas can – can start a garden or something. Guy’s always liked flowers. And he has that weird obsession with bees. Maybe Dean can bring it up to Cas sometime. Maybe Dean can –

They’ve got time, now.

They don’t need to rush.

He surreptitiously shoots off an email to Cesar down in New Mexico, asks how retirement is treating them, veiling questions about how that works in questions about his and Jesse’s ranch.

And, hell, Dean’s always wanted to spend a little time at the beach. He always promised Sam that’s what they’d do after they caught a break. Sip on those pineapple drinks with the stupid miniature umbrellas. Get a sunburn. Watch Sam fling himself around in the waves like an overgrown kid. It’d be nice. Maybe – maybe he could even get Cas to trade in his slacks and dress shirt for some swimming trunks.

The kid would have liked that, too, Dean thinks around the lump in his throat.

Dean’s never been one to make plans, so he can’t quite bring himself to set anything in stone. But he thinks about off-hand suggesting it to Sammy some time, maybe. Truth is, Dean’s tired. He’s tired of hunting. He’s too old to keep taking the kind of hits he takes. The wounds and aches take longer to heal. The nightmares keep piling up. He’s still a damn good, whip-smart hunter. But he’s not twenty-six anymore, and what he’s gained in know-how, he’s lost in mobility. He’s worried that someday he’ll just be too slow. Or not see the blow that takes him down.

And as much as he’s been telling himself it’s an inevitability for so long now, since he learned the job, really, Dean’s not so sure he wants to die on the hunt, anymore.

Sam finds what looks like a vampire hunt about a month after getting out from under Chuck’s thumb.

“So get this,” Sam says from across the library table. Cas is thumbing through a paperback novel and steadily working his way through his third cup of coffee; caffeine may be a poor substitute for Grace, but it doesn’t stop Cas from putting it away like a gas-guzzler. “A home invasion in New Philadelphia, Ohio. Family of four. Dad was stabbed through the chest before they ripped out his throat and drained his blood. Cops are thinking some kind of cannibal cult thing. Kids missing, two boys, one nine-years-old and the other five.”

“Sounds like vamps to me,” Dean agrees.

“Any word on the children?” Cas sits up a little straighter, pushing away his book and coffee. He’s reading Cat’s Cradle, Dean notes distractedly. Must have gotten it out of Dean’s room when Dean wasn’t looking.

“It’s the second hit like it inside a month,” Sam answers. “Families living outside of the city limits, somewhere isolated. No ransom notes, but that doesn’t mean the kids aren’t still alive.”

“We know what vamps are like – sometimes they keep a supply of fresh blood,” Dean says, hoping he’s not being overly optimistic. He doesn’t want to have to work a case with a pile of dead kids.

“The mom was left alive. Except they ripped out her tongue. But she drew a picture of her attackers, here –” Sam turns his laptop around. Dean and Cas lean in to look at the screen. Dean’s aware of Cas’s knee as it inadvertently bumps Dean’s leg.

Sam’s hacked into New Philadelphia’s police database. There’s a photo of a crudely drawn skull. Dean stares for a second, trying to remember why it feels so familiar –

“There’s a sketch like it in Dad’s journal,” Sam provides. He gets up from the table and returns a moment later with the tattered, leather-bound book in his hands. He spreads it almost immediately to the right page, and the image of the skull in the corner brings it all back. Dean’s been through Dad’s journal, front to back, back to front, so many times that every image, symbol, and note is tattooed in his brain.

“Right,” Dean says, tapping on the skull. “Dad hunted a nest of these suckers in 2002, while you were at school, Sammy. Didn’t even tell me what he was up to. I think it was a splinter group he was tracking when we ran into him back in ’06. Thought we’d taken them all out. But guess not.”

“Well, the attacks have been moving up Route 77,” Sam adds. “If the pattern holds, they’ll hit Canton next.”

“That a drive we wanna make?” Dean asks. “It’s fifteen hours to Ohio. Another hunter might be able to get there quicker.”

“I’ll get on the phone with Jody,” Sam says at once. “You get the gear ready in case.”

Turns out Jody’s busy tackling a non-supernatural drug bust. Donna, Claire, and Kaia are hunting a Wendigo near the border. Eileen is in Florida with her friend Sue, chasing down a pair of vetalas and killing time at the beach; she’s sent Sam several bikini pics, judging by the doofy look he gets on his face every time he swipes up to her messages. Jody offers to call the network to find someone else, but Sam tells her not to bother.

Dean heads toward his room to toss a few things into his duffle. He intercepts Cas outside his own room.

“You sticking around here again?” Dean asks.

“Did you not want me to come?” Cas asks with a slight frown.

Dean stops short. “No – ah – I just didn’t know if you wanted to be a hunter, you know, without your Grace. You didn’t tag along last week –”

“That was a salt and burn outside Kansas City,” Cas says, frown more pronounced now. “And you needed someone to watch Miracle.”

“Right,” Dean says, unsure quite how he’d found himself in this hole. He reminds himself he’s trying not to be so much of a dick all the time. “I mean – we’d be happy to have another pair of hands.”

“Good,” Cas nods. “I’ll meet you by the car in fifteen minutes, then.”

“Good,” Dean says, and he tries to ignore the little bloom of warmth in his stomach. He won’t admit it out loud, but he’ll always feel better if Cas is with them.

If they drive through the night, they’ll get to Canton by tomorrow morning, which isn’t ideal, because they’ll need the day to rest up and prepare, which means they’ll be hitting the nest at night, not during the day when the vamps will be more vulnerable. But, oh well, he and Sam are well-passed staking sleeping blood-suckers in their coffins; they’ll be fine.

Cas not sticking back at the bunker means Miracle is tagging along, too. Luckily, he doesn’t mind long drives, and he’s content to either nestle into Cas’s lap in the backseat or sit with his head out the window for hours on end as long as they stop at rest stops occasionally to play fetch and take care of other busines.

While Dean drives, Sam triangulates the vamps’ latest targets, trying to find likely locations for the nest. Cas provides feedback and suggestions from the backseat.

By the time they find a pet friendly motel, Dean’s aching and exhausted. He doesn’t even care that he loses rock-paper-scissors to Sam and Cas – and Cas is usually worse even than Dean – he just collapses face first onto the folding cot and snuggles up to Miracle, who may have gotten more used to sleeping in Dean’s bed than he initially planned on letting him become.

Dean sleeps the sleep of the dead before the smell of burgers wakes him up.

“You sleep?” Dean asks Cas, who’s unloading his bags of takeout on the motel’s dresser. Sam’s rubbing his eyes and squinting after his own nap.

“For a while,” Cas replies. Dean doesn’t have any reason to doubt him, but he’s still uneasy. With Cas in his own room in the bunker, it’s impossible to track how well the other man’s been sleeping. In fact, Dean’s kinda neglected the whole human-assimilation program this time around. He hopes Cas is holding up alright, but he takes the moment to scan him toes to head to see if he can see any cracks.

Cas looks just as tired as Sam and Dean always look, which is a normal level of bone-tiredness, not anything that bespeaks of something worse. And he’s wearing his own clothes now; he still favors dress shirts at the bunker, but when he’s hunting, Sam and Dean talk him into jeans and flannel. The look is…nice on him. With the perpetual five o’clock shadow he’s got going on, it makes him look rugged and –

Dean looks away. Sam looks at him weird, and Dean ignores it.

“I’m thinking we start at the abandoned glass factory,” Sam says while he picks over his own burger – probably one of those gross imitation meat patties that Sam’s been trying to get Dean to try. “We’ll work our way in from there.”

“Sounds good,” Dean says, taking a chunk out of his all-American, certified, genuine beef burger. With nice melty cheese and extra onions. Cas knows him well.

“It would be easier if we knew for sure they were here,” Cas says, licking ketchup off his finger. Dean watches the slight pucker of Cas’s lips around his finger. His food is suddenly weirdly dry and clunky going down his throat.

“Don’t worry,” Sam says with certainty. “We’ll find them.”

Dean feeds Miracle early before they head out because they’ll likely be gone most of the night. He comforts himself with the fact that Sam sent Jody their coordinates, so, if they don’t check in, Jody will know to come pick up Dean’s dog. Not that that’s going to happen – not on a milk run vamp hunt like this.

The abandoned glass factory is a no-go. So is the wobbly, gutted motel off Cleveland Ave.

Their third stop is a rickety barn about twenty miles outside of town. It’s dark, creepy, and something out of Wes Craven’s erotic fantasies. There’s a couple rusty pickups parked in the back. Dean immediately knows they’ve got the right place, so they do a drive-by and park a quarter mile down the road, so the vamps won’t hear them arrive.

Then it’s a matter of grabbing their machetes and walking in. Sam bats Dean’s hands away from the throwing stars, but, when his brother’s back is turned, Dean stuffs one in his back pocket and throws a wink at Cas. Cas grins at him, and the warm something in Dean’s belly ignites again.

The night is cool and calm. Crickets chirp in the field across the road. There’s a fingernail sliver of moon in the sky, casting a sickly light across the gravel driveway. The three of them creep through the night, listening hard for any threats.

Dean waves for Sam to round the corner of the barn; he’ll come in from the back and take the vamps by surprise. Dean and Cas head through the front for a forward assault. Dean tests one of the towering, patchwork front doors. The hinges shriek, so he eases it open enough to let Cas through, then he follows.

They didn’t bother with flashlights. It’s too much to hope that the vampire’s don’t already know they’re there – they can smell human blood, after all, and hear a heartbeat one-hundred feet away, but it will still be worth it to have the advantage of the dark. There’s a dangling light in the roof of the barn. It casts a pale circle in the middle of the woodchip, straw-covered floor.

It’s just as quiet inside the barn as it was outside. Dean peers into the dark corners of the structure. It’s impossible to tell if there are monsters waiting there: there’s a staircase to left that leads to a loft, fenced stalls against the walls, and piles of hay that could easily hide a person. They are undoubtedly walking into an ambush, but rather than frightening Dean, it just makes his chest tighten and muscles tense in ready adrenaline.

Cas lifts a hand. Dean stops with him in the middle of the floor. He cocks his head, such a familiar sight that it makes fondness blossom in the base of Dean’s ribs, and listens.

“There,” he whispers, barely audible, and points to a shut stall door half-way along the right wall. Dean can hear it, too: the faint, whimpering, huffing sound of a child crying, and then a desperate, stifled hiss, “Timmy, shhh. Shhh they’ll hear you.”

Dean gives Cas a curt nod, then he’s crossing the room, Cas falling in behind him to cover his back. Dean finds the handle and undoes the latch of the sliding stall door and rolls it back on the track.

A child gasps, wet with shock and fear. The pale lamp shines a triangle light into the stall, revealing two little kids, huddled together in the corner of the stall. They’re both boys – the older one has shaggy hair that reminds Dean of Sammy, but the way he has his arms covering his little brother recalls Dean, himself.

“Hey, boys,” Dean lowers his voice to a gentle timbre. He sticks his machete in his belt so the kids won’t see the blade and get scared. “We’re here to get you out, okay?”

The older boy – Kyle and Timothy Mathers, Dean reminds himself – looks at Dean warily, but Timmy gulps loudly and nods. His eyes are wide, and there are tear tracks down his cheeks.

“Either of you hurt?”

Kyle shakes his head. Timmy pipes up, voice wobbling, “H-hurt my elbow.”

“It’s just a scrape,” Kyle says fiercely, keeping his arms around his little brother. “I looked at it.”

“I bet you did, kiddo,” Dean agrees, giving him a tight smile. “Let’s get you out of here, okay?”

Timmy burbles, “Th-the monsters gone?”

“Dean,” Cas says urgently behind Dean. Dean straightens up and turns, angling his body so the kids won’t be able to see.

There are four dark figures blocking the way Dean and Cas came in. As Dean watches, he notes three more shadows stirring in the other direction, toward the back of the barn. The vampires have Dean and Cas hemmed in against the right wall.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice cuts through the dark, and he emerges from behind the three shadows. His machete glints in the lamplight. Two of the figures switch their attention from Cas and Dean to Sam.

“Stay inside,” Dean tells Kyle and Timmy behind him. “Shut the door. We’ll tell you when it’s safe.”

There are seven vampires in total – it looks like six dudes and one lady. They’re all dressed in black and wearing tacky dollar store skull masks.

“Halloween’s not for a month yet, fellas,” Dean says, adjusting his hold on his machete. No one answers him. Dean figures they’re the strong silent types. Oh well, Dean never could stand monologuing villains.

One of the vamps grows dangerous and low in his throat, and that’s all the warning they get before all seven launch into motion. Two fling themselves toward Sam. The other five barrel toward Dean and Cas.

Seven against three, not bad odds, even accounting for Cas’s limited experience fighting as a human. Still, Dean keeps an eye on the former angel in case he gets himself into any tight spots.

Cas launches himself at the smaller of the figures, landing a kick square in his chest. The vamp flies backward. Another, who’s built like Hulk Hogan, barrels forward, flinging his own blade for Cas’s neck with zero grace – huh, vamps fighting with machetes. Got a whole fight fire with fire vibe going on. Dean can respect that.

Dean ducks as vamp number three takes a swing for his head. He comes up with a swing of his own blade, and the vamp has to jump out of the way or lose an arm. Dean sees a shadow out of the corner of his eye, and he lowers his shoulder, takes a step back, and plows into the stomach of vamp numero quatro who’d been trying to circle around while Dean’s back was turned.

Dean spares a glance to Cas, but he’s still got vamps number one and two plenty occupied, leaving three for Dean. Dean can’t see Sam fighting behind him, but he can hear steady grunts and gasps that means his brother’s keeping vamps six and seven on their toes.

Dean takes a swing at vamp number five, but the vamp raises her own machete to intercept his. The blades clang once, twice, and – cool – sword fighting with vampires – but then a vamp Dean lost sight of – either three or four, the sneaky bastard – wraps his arms around Dean’s waist from behind. The two of them head toward the ground.

Dean twists, so the impact hits his shoulder. Pain shudders up his arm, but it’s nothing Dean can’t handle. He’s still moving: breaks sneaky’s hold and kicks with both legs. Sneaky stumbles backward. Dean uses his momentum to carry himself back to his feet, just in time to duck and twirl out of the reach of lady vamp’s blade.

Behind him, Dean hears the characteristic woosh and snick of a blade traveling through a neck and severing the spine: Sam’s taken care of one of his vamps. Sneaky rolls off the floor, shouts in formless rage, and runs to take the place of his fallen comrade, which means they’re each two to one, now.

Lady vamp, who is agile, quick, and likely the most dangerous monster out of the seven, takes an expert jab for Dean’s chest. Dean spins out of the way, but only just, and he feels the cold line of metal slice through his jacket and bite into his upper arm. Dean hisses, but it’s only reactionary; he can’t even feel the sting, yet.

Dean looks in time to see Hogan scoop up Cas like a sack of flour and Hulk smash him so hard on the ground that the floorboards judder.

“Fuck – you – douche – wad,” Dean says as he dives out of the way of lady vamp’s swinging blade, slips his throwing star out of his pocket and flicks it neatly into the vamp’s back. Hulk roars in pain. Dean takes his distraction as opportunity to catch the monster around the waist, creating enough momentum to send them both toppling away from Cas. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Cas pull himself back to his feet; he’s pale and wincing, but still breathing, so that’s all that matters. He can handle some fractured ribs and some bruises.

But Hulk’s turned his soul-attention to Dean now. He flings Dean off his back like he’s nothing but a kitten with his claws caught in his jacket. Dean’s blinking at the ceiling before he knows what’s hit him. Then there’s a large, beefy hand for each arm, and Dean’s hauled back to his feet. Hulk pins Dean’s arms behind his back, putting strain on his bad shoulder; Dean hopes to God it won’t pop out of joint; he keeps expecting permanent nerve damage each time it happens.

Lady vamp approaches, and her stupid skull mask has been lost in the shuffle, so her pale face gleams in the low light. There’s a dark stripe of blood down her cheek. She grins, revealing fangs, and hisses,

“I’m going to make you hurt, hunter –”

But before she can make good on her promise, a blade slashes through her neck. Her lifeless body lands on its knees before hitting the floor.

Cas gives Dean a tight nod before going back to the smaller vampire, who’s limping from a wound in his thigh.

Dean throws back his head, catching the crown of his head on Hulk’s chin. Dean sees stars, but Hulk’s grip on his arms loosens enough for Dean to spin away.

There are two more headless vamps on the ground, one each from Sam and Cas, figures spilling dark blood from the stump of their necks and detached heads sitting around like bowling balls.

Four down, three to go.

Dean squares his feet, facing down Hulk, who straightens up with a howl, bows forward and charges Dean like a rhinoceros. Dean doesn’t have time to dodge, so Hulk collides full force into his chest. Dean skids across the floor. He shuts his eyes in preparation for the impact he knows is coming – probably with a couple broken ribs –

Dean slams into a post and – and there’s a strange, punching pain in his back, slightly off-center from his spine – not the dull, solid impact he was expecting. And he fully expects to be able to bounce off the post and propel himself toward the vamp, but instead, something grinds inside his body, and his breath stutters in his chest.

Fuck.

There’s something wrong. Something wrong, and the vamp growls and shoves against Dean’s shoulders. Dean scrabbles to get his hands up, pushes against the vamp’s rubber mask –

The vamps head spins off, lands on the floor with a bump, and then the body slumps to the side, lifeless.

Sam stands behind it, panting, but he grins and brushes sweaty strands of hair away from his face. Cas stands to his feet a couple yards away, looking at the last dead vampire with an expression of disgust.

Dean breathes but – there’s – he can’t get a full breath of air. The air catches in his throat with a wheeze.

There’s something wet and warm trickling down his back, seeping into his shirt and the top of his jeans. His body tingles with a thousand pricks of a needle. The electric buzz turns into heat, which solidifies into a fierce, fire-poker sharp burn in his back where he was –

“Let’s get the kids out of here,” Sammy’s saying.

“Dean?” Cas says, eyebrows dipping in concern. He steps forward. “Are you alright?”

“There –” Dean looks down at his chest. It aches to move his neck, and it hurts to move his arm, but – but he has to check to see if – he feels like he’s been impaled through his chest. He fully expects to see a bloom of blood across his t-shirt, but his fingers come away dry. “There’s something in my back.”

His voice is perfectly matter-of-fact.

The pain is getting worse now: a burning, burrowing, scraping pain, and his mind immediately jumps to meat hooks and spikes. Alastair nailing him to the rack with a mallet –

“S-something in my back,” he says again. He is not in Hell. He is not in Hell. He can’t be in Hell.

Cas gets there first. His face is pale and worried, eyes impossibly blue and wide. He inches a hand between Dean’s back and the post, jostling Dean, and Dean chokes on a cry as agony unfolds throughout his chest, running up and down his spine like an electrical current. Cas steadies him with his free hand, wrapped tight around Dean’s bicep.

“Sam,” Cas says soberly, showing him the blood that’s come off on his palm.

“It – it,” Dean tries to breathe. Again, he can’t suck in all the way. He reaches a point where the air just stops, like it’s hit a brick wall. Pain shudders down his back, over his shoulders, into his neck. “Fuck. F-feels like it – it goes right through me.” He can’t help but look down at his chest again, so sure that he’s going to see a blade protruding from his sternum, remembering Metatron and being pinned through the spine –

“You’re okay, Dean.” It’s Sam, and he puts his large, warm palm flat against Dean’s chest. “It’s okay. Let’s see what we’re dealing with, okay?”

“No!” the word jumps out of Dean’s throat before he can stop it, and Sam’s hands fall from Dean’s shoulders. His little brother looks scared and small, but Dean can’t comfort him, because all there is in his head is panic. “D-don’t move me. Please don’t move me.”

Dean doesn’t want to feel it slip free of his body. He doesn’t want to hear the scrape of it against his ribs and vertebrae. It’s holding his insides inside, and Dean doesn’t – Alastair unwound his intestines once, used them to tie a noose around his neck.

“Dean’s right,” Cas says, voice amazingly level. “We don’t want to remove it. The object could be preventing a hemorrhage.”

It’s getting harder to stay in the here and now. Pain always, always drags Dean back to Hell, no matter how long its been. Dean sucks in a trembling breath around a sob. Coughs. Pain punches through him again.

“Right, right,” Sam says breathlessly.

“It- it was always gonna end this way for me,” Dean tells Sam, desperate to erase the pure terror painting his little brother’s face.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam interrupts him. “Cas, stay with him. I’m getting the car.”

“No, no, no, no,” Dean whimpers, not caring that he sounds terrified and – and – but Sammy can’t leave. All that Dean knows is that Sam is his little brother, and his little brother is going, and Dean hurts. He fucking hurts. “Please don’t, Sam – Sam –” don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

“Dean,” Cas takes Sam’s place in front of Dean. And his voice is calm, his eyes arresting. “Dean, he’ll be back.”

“S-stay with me,” Dean says, struck by the awful, all-consuming fear that Cas will leave, too. That Dean will be alone. Free hanging from chains and meat hooks. Someone’s screaming. Someone’s fucking screaming. “Please stay with me.”

Cas pulls Dean’s hands to his chest. He cups his fingers gently, solidly giving Dean something to hold onto, trying to center himself around the pain.

“F-fucking hurts,” Dean tells him pathetically.

“I know,” Cas says mournfully. “But the pain is likely a good sign. It means your body’s still fighting.”

“S-so stupid, Cas,” Dean says, running through the past five minutes in his mind because he can’t let his mind wander. If he leaves this barn he will land back in Hell and never leave. “Just a – just a stupid, unlucky –”

“You’re going to be alright,” Cas says firmly. Like it’s the truth. Like Dean’s not pinned to a post like a Goddamn butterfly in a display frame. Like he’s not – not dying –

What Dean told Caitlin was true: he’s always scared. He has lived his life constantly afraid. But he’s never been afraid to die. Afraid of Hell, yes. Leaving Sam or Cas behind, yes. But never death, itself. Sometimes he’s even yearned for it – the peace, the distance, the final end to fear and suffering and endless, meaningless fighting and loss.

But he – he’s afraid, now. He doesn’t want to die. Not with Chuck gone. Not with Sam and Eileen circling around a future together. Not with Jody and Donna and the girls and the promise of summer barbeques and holiday gatherings. Not with – with fucking Miracle waiting in the hotel room, who will never know why Dean doesn’t come back. Not with – Cas –

“I-I don’t want to die,” Dean whispers. He shuts his eyes. There is moisture on his eyelashes. Cas bows over him, leans his forehead against Dean’s.

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel says fiercely, breath warm on Dean’s lips. “I gave my life for you. I gave my Grace to return to you. I will not let you die now.”

Dean swallows. He can taste iron on his saliva. He tries to breathe from his stomach so it doesn’t move his shoulders. He can feel his strength waning. His legs tingle. His knees want to buckle, and he gulps back the terror at what would happen if he stops being able to support himself. Alastair used to play that game: strung Dean up through bolts in his wrists, waited to see how long he could stand before he crumpled and his weight tore the nails through his palms.

Dean gulps on another sob. Castiel hushes him. Dean wonders how long Sam will take to get back. Dean doesn’t want to die without getting a chance to say goodbye to his brother.

“The – the kids,” Dean whispers. “T-tell them they’re safe.”

“Boys,” Cas says immediately, not letting go of Dean, but moving his head back so he can call over his shoulder. “The monsters are gone. You can come out.”

“The – the blood –” Dean says, remembering what it felt like to see his first dead monster when he was eight years old. “Don’t let them see –”

“They – they’re dead?” a small voice asks from the wall. It’s Kyle.

“They’re dead,” Cas reassures him gently. Dean has never heard Cas speak to a little kid before. It makes him feel warm, but it also causes a sharp ache of longing in his chest. So much – he has missed out on so much. “Will you take your brother and come wait out here with us? Help is on its way.”

“Timmy doesn’t wanna move,” Kyle tells them. “He wet his pants.”

“Urinating during a frightening experience is not unexpected,” Cas tells Kyle sympathetically. “Please tell Timmy that he does not need to be embarrassed. And it’s alright if he is too scared to come out yet.”

“Is he hurt?” Kyle asks.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Kid shouldn’t be seeing this. Kid doesn’t deserve to – to have to watch –

“Yes,” Cas says, still in that measured, reasonable tone. “But he will also be alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

Cas turns his attention back to Dean. He lifts a hand, presses it to the side of Dean’s head, smooths his hair back. The look of tender concern on his face is unbearable. The tips of his two fingers find Dean’s temple, like he’s trying to heal Dean through his sheer force of will will. Cas blinks, swallows, whispers so low Dean can barely hear him, “Please, Jack. Please, not like this.”

“M so stupid, Cas,” Dean continues hopelessly. “So fucking stupid…should have…should have…”

“It may be a good idea not to speak,” Cas suggests carefully. “Save your breath, Dean.”

“You – you coulda had it, Cas –” Dean pushes forward, unable to let this one last thing go. Unable to let himself die without telling Cas this one, perfect, unending truth. They met in a barn, Dean remembers hazily. How fitting it should end like this. “I-I was just too stupid…too scared. B-but you coulda had it….”

It’s difficult to focus. Cas’s face is blurry in front of Dean, but Dean can see his weepy blue eyes, can see his lips trembling.

I love you.

I love you.

There’s a clatter and a smattering of footsteps. Sam is back. He’s got their med kit over one shoulder, and he’s gripping the pair of bolt cutters they keep in the trunk for getting through chains or padlocks.

“Dean,” Sam pants as he catches his breath. The relief in his voice is palpable; he clearly didn’t expect Dean to still be alive when he got back. “Gonna, gonna get you down, okay?”

Dean’s already shaking his head, but that hurts, so he tries not to groan. “P-please don’t. Oh God, please –”

“Dean, I have you,” Cas says steadily. He moves to grip Dean on both elbows, bracing Dean’s entire body against his own, so Dean can feel the solid length of him, top to bottom, and he almost whimpers with hysterical laughter, because of all the ways he’d manage to get this much of Cas pressed against his body –

But the laughter turns into a choked shout of pain as Sam works one hand between Dean’s back and the post, trying to slide the bolt cutters in to get around the – the screw or whatever that’s in his back. It jogs the object inside Dean’s body, and Dean can feel it move, feel the scrape of bone. He is so intimately aware of each and every part of his anatomy. Alastair showed him each piece, one by one, until Dean could name them just by the feel –

“S-stop stop stop stop, please,” Dean cries. And he feels the firm clamp of the bolt cutters against the base of the screw. Hears the crackle and squeak of severing metal and – and he’s not there – not there – not burning alive in Hellfire, not begging please please please make it stop as Alastair twists the blade against Dean’s spine, slipping clean between each individual vertebrae – Only you can make it stop, Deano.

But then the point of contact snaps, and Dean crumples. Cas catches him. Sam drops the bolt cutters and snatches ahold of Dean’s arm. It’s like Dean’s legs aren’t even there anymore.

“F-fucking rebar, Dean,” Sam says, slightly unsteadily. “Of all the stupid – pointless fucking things.”

Together, Cas and Sam bring Dean gently to the ground.

“On his side,” Castiel directs. “It will help his breathing.”

Sam and Cas arrange Dean’s limbs into what he recognizes as recovery position, right knee bent to stop him from rolling onto his stomach, left arm stretched out of the way, right arm across his chest, bent at the elbow so his hand can fit under his cheek to keep his head off the floor.

All this Dean notes distantly. He feels numb. Cold. Tired. There’s a black film creeping in across his vision. Zeroing in to a pinpoint. Light at the end of a tunnel.

“Keep your eyes open, Dean,” Castiel orders.

“Gonna get these clothes off so we can see what we’re looking at, right?” Sam says.

“Gotta – gotta buy me dinner first,” Dean mumbles.

Sam must have fetched the medical sheers they keep in the kit, because he’s slicing through Dean’s jacket, overshirt, and t-shirt until Dean can feel the cool night air on his back, wet with blood and sweat.

“L-liked that jacket….” Dean says weakly, trying for a smile, but his throat just bobs noiseless for a minute. His face feels numb.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sam says. “The blood’s bubbling. We gotta get this sealed. Cas, get me the – the big bandages with the plastic around the edges.”

For a moment there is chaotic rustling, and then a muffled thump as Cas tosses Sam something. The crackle of unwrapping a bandage, and then Sam’s hand comes firmly down on Dean’s back, and Dean screams. He flails, trying to roll away from the pain, but Cas’s hand lands tight on his shoulder, bracing him on his side.

Can’t breathe, the thought erupts through his brain, overtaking him with panic. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. He’s buried alive in his own coffin. Choking on grave dirt. Michael shoves his head under water and keeps him there for hours, days, weeks, months –

Cas is kneeling beside him on the ground. It’s easy to burry his face against Cas’s knee. He coughs, sucks in a shuddering breath that ripples agony through his chest, breathes in the scent of old denim, dirt, sweat, the rusty scent of blood.

“Breathe Dean. Slowly through your nose, exhale through your mouth.” Wildly, Dean wonders if Cas learned that from all the pregnancy books he read with Kelly. He wants to snap at Cas that he’s not having a baby, but he can’t gather all the words.

Sam is busy with the gauze behind Dean’s back, making a bandage to stabilize the piece of rebar. Cas’s hand moves slowly up and down Dean’s arm.

“Focus on staying awake, Dean,” Cas says gently.

“Don’t leave,” he tells Cas. He doesn’t want to die alone. He doesn’t want to die. “I just got you back…” Dean whispers. He’s crying. Tears that feel strangely warm running down his face, chilled with sweat. “I just got you back.”

“I think he’s going into shock, Sam.”

“Keep him warm. Take my jacket.” Something soft covers his bare shoulders. It’s only then that Dean realizes he’s shivering.

“Okay. Let’s get him into the car.”

One on each arm, Sam and Cas lift Dean back to his feet. The world tilts and spins. His legs are useless. He’s too weak to lift his chin from where it lolls against his chest, despite the uncomfortable pinch in his neck.

There’s jostling movement through his body; each step skyrockets the pain. He thinks he’s crying, but he’s not sure. There’s a faint, shrill keen in his ears that makes it hard to hear.

But he recognizes the feel and scent of Baby when Sam and Cas lower him across the backseat. He’s half-way propped against something sturdy, and he blinks up to see he’s leaning against Cas’s chest. Cas has his arms around his abdomen, keeping him from slipping off the seat.

“Hey, Angel,” Dean whispers. Cas is beautiful. Even covered in blood and dirt, he’s beautiful.

Sam stops at the passenger side before sliding behind the wheel. He transfers a sniffling Timmy into the front seat from his arms. Kyle climbs in behind his brother.

“Okay,” Sam breathes before starting the engine. “Okay.”

The car jolts forward. Dean sees a flash of orange flame in the rearview mirror, and he knows Sam must have caught fire to the barn, burning the vamps’ corpses and all the blood.

Dean remembers watching his house burn. Holding Sammy tight against his chest. Nearly deafened by the baby’s wails, but refusing to let go, even after his small arms started to ache, because Daddy said to take Sammy and run. And Dean wasn’t ever gonna let anything hurt his little brother.

Time moves weird. Slow like oozing black slime, then cycling rapidly like the eye of a hurricane. More jostling. Rapid, urgent voices. And then hands. Too many hands.

There are more people now, wearing blue uniforms. Fixing an oxygen mask over his face. Sticking an IV catheter in the back of his hand. Rolling him onto a stretcher. Babbling voices. Rushing faces. Questions. Questions. Questions.

“Heartrate 180.”

“90 over 40.”

“Respiratory rate 25.”

And then he’s on the move. He can hear the gurney rattle. Hear the footsteps around him. A swish of an automatic door.

“Penetrating trauma to the vertebral line.”

“Likely left sided hemopneumothorax.”

And pain. Blackout pain. Soul-sucking pain. Rings him inside out. Screaming into the oxygen mask. Heaving bile, the pain is so bad, choking on his own vomit, and then seeing it’s red. He’s dying. He’s dying. And the world spirals into a tight circle and goes dark.

OOO

Dean wakes up the way he’s always woken up in a hospital: slow, muzzy-headed, and feeling like he went ten rounds with Popeye's nemesis, Bluto, and lost. He drags his eyes open, finds out what it’s like to be assaulted by the true form of an angel, and sucks in a low groan.

“Hey,” says Sammy, which means Dean has to open his eyes again, because he can’t keep playing dead if his little brother’s in the room, anxious for him to wake-up.

Dean peers blearily into the room. He’s lying on his side. He’s attached to the usual array of tubes and wires: nasal canula, oxygen monitor, IV, chest tube, blood pressure cuff, catheter between his legs. And Sammy’s sitting in a chair against the curtain that blocks his view of his roommate, braced forward on his knees and worrying so hard, he’s giving himself wrinkles.

“Hey,” Dean croaks. Or tries to. It comes out more like a formless punch of air.

“How you feeling?” Sam asks.

“Like –” Dean breathes wrong and his entire body revolts: heart seizes, ribs curl in on themselves like those roly-poly bugs, nausea bubbles in his stomach, head pulses. “Crap,” he finishes weekly.

“You, ah, punctured your lung,” Sam tells him. He’s fidgeting. Sam’s not the fidgeter, that’s Dean: always picking at his fingernails or drumming on the steering wheel, jogging his knee to music that’s playing in his head. Sam is still and stoic; he releases pent up energy in healthy and productive ways, like gross running. Dean hates fucking running.

It’s possible they’ve got Dean high on the good stuff.

“And you – you’ve got some swelling in your spine,” Sam says, voice taught and eyes gleaming in the harsh hospital light. “They’re still running diagnostics.”

Alarm bells go off in Dean’s head – Sammy’s crying. Sammy’s crying.

“M okay, Sammy, really,” Dean murmurs. And, yep, definitely drugged up, because he sort of fumbles his hand around on the mattress, searching for Sam’s fingers – and Dean’s certain that’s a move he wouldn’t be caught dead pulling if he was sober.

Sam reaches out and clasps Dean’s hand. He blinks hard and fast. “Fuck. We almost lost you, Dean.” He keeps talking, like his voice is running water down a drain that he can’t plug. “They did emergency surgery to get the – the thing out of your back. You’re really lucky it didn’t sever your spine. And they’re worried about infection. Gave you a tetanus booster because I have no idea if you keep up with your shots.”

“Ain’t an anti-vaxxer, Sammy, don’ worry,” Dean mumbles.

Sam gives a watery laugh that’s more a hiccupped sob.

“Hey, hey,” Dean says. “It’s okay.”

“They – they lost you once on the table.”

“I’m here, Sammy. I’m okay.”

“I can’t do this without you, Dean,” Sam says tremulously, looking into the corner of the room. There are tear on his face. His skin is all splotchy and swollen, which means he’s probably been crying on and off at Dean’s bedside for a while, like some kind of hysterical wife. Sammy always was a crier. Every time he does it, it makes Dean remember him as a little kid, crying over spilling his bowl of cereal or ripping his stuffed rabbit or losing one half of his favorite pair of shoes.

“Sure you could,” Dean says softly.

“Yeah, well,” Sam sniffs loudly. He rubs his eyes against his shirt sleeve. “I don’t want to.”

OOO

It’s 24 hour visiting hours in the intensive care unit, so Sam and Cas take it in turns. At least, Sam tells Dean they do, but so far he’s only been awake when Sam is there. Sam tells him that Dean was out for fifteen hours after his surgery and, by the time he’s woken up again by a doctor who does an uncomfortable and invasive test that involves poking him everywhere – he means everywhere – to see what his sensory and muscle function is like, it’s been another ten hours, which means it’s been a full day since he’s seen Cas.

The piece of six-inch rebar entered his back at an upward, 65-degree angle, missed piercing his T8 vertebrae by about a centimeter, and punched through his chest wall and into his left lung. The doc tells Dean that it’ll be impossible to tell how severe or permanent the injury is until the swelling reduces, but overall she gives him a grade D, which is,

“Fucking typical,” Dean grunts. “Always was a shit student.”

But, in this case, that’s actually a good thing, and it means there’s a high potential he’ll be able to walk again in some capacity after a shit ton of physio. Currently, Dean’s experiencing a lot of pain and a lot of numb wooziness from the morphine, although his motor reflexes seem intact, even if there’s not a lot of fine motor skill – like his brain tells the lower half of his body to do something and his body’s just way too lazy to be bothered by that, right now. His brain follows suit, and he’s checking out in the middle of the doc’s explanation and Sammy’s intensive questioning.

He wakes up a few hours later, and Cas has taken Sam’s spot in the chair by the curtain. He’s flipping through a Better Homes and Gardens magazine.

“Anything good in there?” Dean murmurs. With enough pain meds, they were able to get Dean comfortable enough to lay on his back, propping up with a few pillows because he was having issues breathing on his side.

Cas’s eyes leave the magazine immediately. He smiles at Dean, squinting with soft worry.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

It hits him, all at once: the shock, the pain, the fear, waiting for Sammy to get back in time to say goodbye, having to leave Cas, again, just when he thought maybe there was a chance – it is such a waste. Such a Goddamn waste, and Dean keeps missing his chance.

“Dean,” Cas says urgently. The magazine slides off his lap and lands on the floor. Cas crouches in front of Dean, reaching forward for his forehead, but stopping short. Dean, through a blur of sudden tears, sees Cas’s throat work as he swallows hard.

“M okay,” Dean hurries to clarify, wondering if it’s the pain meds that are making him so weepy or if maybe he’s just transformed into a crybaby sometime between now and when Cas was swallowed up by the Shadow. “M okay, Cas.”

“I was….” Cas swallows again. He pulls his hand away; Dean wishes he’d touch him. Dean wants to feel his fingers in his hair. “Sam and I both were very worried.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Dean says. His right shoulder aches from where the vamp slammed in the ground, and there’s a thick pad of gauze around the cut in his bicep, so Dean lifts his left hand to wipe at his eyes, feeling the pinch in the crook of his elbow where he’s attached to the IV.

“When – when I couldn’t heal you….” Cas begins. His lips tremble.

“Hey, hey,” Dean says immediately. He clumsily drops his hand and pats the side of the bed. He doesn’t have enough strength to scoot over, but there’s enough space for Cas to perch there on one thigh.

The crackles as Cas sits. Dean feels the warm closeness of his body, and his stomach turns over in what he’s fairly certain isn’t nausea.

He casts around for a distraction, and lands on one of his clearer memories from the barn.

“I heard you praying.” He clarifies, “to Jack. Can the kid still hear prayers?”

“I don’t know,” Cas answers. “After Jack rescued me from the Empty, and after he repaired Heaven, he disseminated his power into the universe. He told me he didn’t think it was right that any one being should hold that much power. Rather, it should be returned to those it belonged to – God’s marvelous multitude of creations. But that kind of discharge of power will have burned through Jack’s corporeal form – possibly even his very sentience. But it’s also possible his human soul survived. If that’s the case, I imagine it resides in Heaven with his mother. At – at least I hope so.”

“So he – he wouldn’t hear me if I –” apologized, Dean wants to say, but it’s hard to speak.

“I don’t know,” Cas says again. “It’s possible he will. But, even if he doesn’t, he’s still there. He’s in the sky and the water, the flowers, the rain, the very air we breathe. I don’t think it hurts to still speak to him. At the very least, it might help us.”

Dean nods, throat still too tight to speak. They sit in silence for a moment. Cas is a comforting, steady weight at Dean’s side.

Dean’s not used to this. Flirting, he can do. Casual hookups, pumping someone for information, hell, just grabbing a drink – but this feels like so much more than that. Cas has been his best friend for twelve years, now. Other than Sammy, that’s the longest relationship of any kind Dean’s ever managed to keep.

And, with Cas, it is so much more than familial love. Dean can see that now. Truthfully, he’s been able to see that for years. Hell, Dean even almost told him a couple times. Once when they were getting more booze for their Amara-sponsored farewell tour and Dean chickened out and said brother, of all things. And then once in Purgatory, when Dean was sure he’d have to leave Cas behind. I have to tell you something.

I heard your prayer.

Except Cas didn’t. There was so much more Dean needed to tell him, but he didn’t have the vocabulary for it.

Dean has never been good at loving. He was so used to letting people treat him like shit, that that’s what he thought love was. That as soon as he treated someone like shit, too, and that person wasn’t willing to put up with it, it made Dean think they didn’t love him anymore.

It’s something he learned from his father – who never told Dean he loved him until he was dying for him, so Dean learned that sacrifice was the highest form of love. Except not really. Because sacrifice didn’t mean shit if you didn’t already know they loved you.

Dad making a deal with Azazel in the hospital boiler room, Cas calling down the Empty: it is so Goddamn unfair – pathetic and cowardly and selfish – to only tell people you love them before you die, because that meant you never had to deal with the fallout.

“What – what I said,” Dean tries, and Cas turns his head to look at him. “In the barn.”

“Dean –” Cas interrupts. “You don’t need to explain. I understand if you – if you didn’t really mean it. I understand the need to comfort people with…with platitudes –”

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean says fiercely, a little too fiercely because his chest constricts and he shuts his eyes, focuses on finding equilibrium again. Dean feels Cas’s hand close on his knee – weird and distantly, and kind of like his leg is wrapped a few times in saran wrap, but at least the feeling’s there.

“I – I wasn’t just trying to make you feel good,” Dean tries again, speaking carefully, eyes still shut as he drags in one slow breath after another. “It wasn’t a fucking platitude.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Cas says, voice low, a little tremulous, like maybe he does understand, he just can’t believe it. It makes Dean’s chest ache, the idea that he’s gone so long without saying it, convincing Cas that – the fact that Cas never knew. Died not knowing.

The one thing I want, it’s something I know I can’t have.

“Shouldn’t have – shouldn’t have taken me so long to say it,” Dean says. There’s painful pressure in his throat. He has to remind himself that he’s not choking on his own blood. “And I’m sorry. You deserve more – more than just some crummy deathbed confession.”

“Dean –”

“Let me finish,” Dean’s hand closes around Cas’s upper leg. It is a more intimate place than he’s touched Cas before, and both of them stare at Dean’s fingers like they’re a form of some previously undiscovered alien life. “I don’t want to live like this anymore, okay? We’ve lost too damn much to just – to just keep going the way we’re going.” Oh God, Dean’s a fucking romance novel, but he can’t stop now that he’s already started. “And I’m sorry – I’m sorry I’m such a fucking coward. But you – you said that your feelings or whatever won’t change how – how we are. But I – I want them to, Cas. Okay? I – I really want them to.”

Dean looks up from his fingers. He finds Cas’s eyes are wet. And he’s staring at Dean with such unfiltered, unabashed adoration, it kind of makes Dean want to curl into a ball and die in a dark corner. But he makes himself just sit there and take it, eye contact and everything, because Cas deserves it, dammit, even if Dean thinks Cas deserves more, Cas disagrees, and the least Dean can do is try to be the kind of man Cas is in love with.

“Dean,” Cas says weakly. “You’re – do you mean what I think you mean? I am better at interpreting human idiosyncrasies than I used to be, but I – I –”

Dean fumbles his hand upward, until he can touch Cas’s chest and tangle his fingers in his shirt. He tugs feebly, and he definitely wouldn’t be able to tug Cas forward unless Cas helped, but Cas leans toward him, and Dean smiles.

“I mean it, Cas,” Dean says to Cas’s face, now much closer than his face has ever been. And Dean can see every wrinkle, every hair in his eyebrows, every piece of dry skin on his chapped lips. Those lips are soft and warm, despite their dryness, when Dean presses his own against them. “I mean it.”

OOO

Two years later

Dean props himself up against the headboard. He uses the momentum from the rest of his body to drag his left leg up with him. He grabs a couple pillows and holds them against his lap – it’s more of a habit at this point, but he likes the comfort of having something there reminding him not to bend his back too much. True, the twinge of straining muscles will be warning enough, but he likes to avoid the extra pain when possible.

He bends over his thigh to undo the buckles and Velcro of his KAFO’s top two leather fastenings. He bends a little further to get the bottom one under the locked knee joint. Then he braces one hand under his knee and one hand under his thigh, and lifts his whole leg out of the brace, being careful not to catch the instep strap on the rubber heel of his tennis shoe.

He’s not flexible enough yet to actually reach his foot to untie said shoe – it’s something his no-nonsense, sadist of a PT, Erica, has been working on with him – but, currently, that just means he calls,

“Cas?”

Miracle comes bounding through the open bedroom door, collar jingling like a little bell.

“No, not you,” Dean says, but he’s smiling and Mir disregards his dismissal, hopping onto the bed and immediately ducking his head to nose at Dean’s hand. Dean obliges, lifting his hand and scratching behind Mir’s ears. “I need someone with thumbs.”

Miracle settles into a contented ball beside Dean, laying his head on the pillows across Dean’s lap.

Cas comes through the door of the en suite bathroom. He’s carrying a glass of water, and he looks fresh-faced and slightly damp after scrubbing his face in preparation for bed.

“I see I’ve been replaced,” Cas remarks, casting raised eyebrows to Miracle, who’s taking up half of Cas’s side of the bed.

“Never even had a chance, Sunshine,” Dean says, sending Cas a wink.

“I have never trusted that dog.” Cas lets out an exaggerated sigh before depositing the glass of water on Dean’s bedside table and stopping to untie and remove Dean’s shoe. Cas holds Dean’s left shoe, looking around the floor until he finds Dean’s discarded right one, and then he places them both neatly inside the closet, currently filled with warm flannels and knit sweaters to carry them through the beginnings of the early November winter weather.

“Don’t you listen to a word he says,” Dean tells Mir earnestly. “He loves you worse than I do.”

Dean shimmies out of his jeans, still marveling at the fact he can arc his back enough to get them off himself, before he dumps them over the side of the bed. Then he peels off the long, cotton sock he wears under the KAFO on his left leg. The sock joins the jeans on the floor.

Cas watches this happen with thinly veiled horror.

“Incorrigible, the both of you,” Cas says, but he resists the urge to straighten up after Dean and, instead, climbs into his side of the bed, sandwiching Mir between the both of them. “And give me back my pillow.”

Cas snatches one of the pillows out from under Mir’s head. Miracle yips and stands to attention, looking utterly affronted. Cas is unaffected and just fluffs his pillow, but Dean is offended on Mir’s behalf.

“You keep doing that and you’ll find dogshit in your shoes,” Dean warns.

“Night means it’s human time on the bed,” Cas says petulantly. He leans across Miracle to catch Dean on the cheek with his lips. He lowers his voice meaningfully, “Besides, he’s making it very difficult for me to make love to his father.”

“Uhg,” Dean groans, but he can’t help the warm flush of blood that rises in his face – and other parts of his body. “Kill me if I ever become the kind of pet owner who thinks their dog is their child.”

“It’s too late for that,” Cas remarks.

Dean grins, shakes his head, and tells Mir, “Down, boy. Your daddy wants to get laid.”

Miracle obeys immediately, leaping neatly over Dean’s outstretched legs and heading for the door and the bed he has in the living room. Mir sleeps with Dean in the bed on the rare occasion that Cas is gone for a night, assisting Claire or another of their friends on a hunt. But, otherwise, he’s in the living room; even though he’s a dog, it’s still nice to have a little privacy.

“Hey, close the door?” Dean asks, trying their newest command. Mir responds immediately, nosing the door shut from the opposite side. “Good boy!” Dean calls in reply.

It was Sam’s idea to train Miracle as a service dog, and, although he’ll probably never be good enough to be certified, he’s plenty good enough for Dean. He knows how to get Dean’s shoes or wallet or phone. If Dean has a panic attack or is in too much pain to move, Mir can grab his meds from the kitchen on a specially built, Mir-accessible shelf. And he knows to bark for help or get Cas if Dean ever falls, which is a much less likely occurrence than it used to be when Dean was still getting used to the whole monoplegic thing.

“Mmm, much better,” Cas says. He immediately takes advantage of the space Mir left behind, rolling in close to Dean and breathing into Dean’s neck, dropping a kiss onto his shoulder.

Dean compensates for the dead weight of his left leg with his arm, levering himself toward Cas with one hand braced on the mattress. The other he uses to wrap around the back of Cas’s neck and draw his face close.

Cas hums in pleasure, a noise that never fails to send a thrill through Dean’s chest. He sucks Cas’s lower lip into his mouth, gently teasing the soft skin with the tip of his tongue.

The swelling caused by the rebar caused irreversible nerve damage in Dean’s spine, which resulted in partial paralysis in his left leg, occasional agonizing and debilitating muscle spasms in his lower back and abdomen, and decreased proprioception, which basically meant his balance and special awareness are screwed to hell.

The first few months were spent on pain management and relearning how to walk with only one functional leg. Thankfully, his KAFO and walker, affectionately dubbed Chuck Norris and spray-painted hot pink in a to-be-retaliated prank from Sam, helps him get around pretty-well. His current six-month goal is to strengthen his core muscles enough that he can graduate to a pair of crutches, but it’s hard to be bummed about a walker when Dean knows he could very well not be walking at all, or much worse, dead, burned, and buried.

When Dean wants to give his leg a break from the brace, on especially bad pain days, or if he wakes up in the middle of the night and doesn’t want to bother Cas – thankfully he can still piss and take a shit by himself – he uses his wheelchair, which he christened Babette or sometimes Piece of Shit, depending on his mood. The SSRI prescribed by his psychiatrist lately encourage more Babette days than Piece of Shit days, but it was an upward climb.

Thankfully, he can still drive. There would have been other options, had his right leg not recovered, but Dean’s glad he can still use Baby the way he always has, provided he’s not on his narcotics. They’re all planning a road trip to the Laguna Coast in May, and Dean’s looking forward to getting back on the road with his brother.

And then there’s sex. Dean gives thanks to every sex and fertility deity that survived Chuck’s wrath for the fact that his dick was left unscathed. He scared himself silly and cried about it to Cas in the early days when all he was doing was reading literature about the correlation between spinal cord injuries and erectile dysfunction, to which Castiel patiently told him they would figure things out; it would be alright; Castiel had not fallen in love with Dean because of his penis.

They still needed to figure things out. Turns out doggy style was a helluva lot more difficult with one bum leg and eviscerated core muscles. Even missionary was awkward at first. Pitching was even harder to finagle, but Cas was perfectly happy to ride him. Besides, there were multitudes of other positions, configurations, and non-penetrative options to play around with. Dean only ever got to experience that kind of thrilling longevity, the sense of playful unknown and infinite possibility with one other partner before. But Lisa hadn’t lasted, and Cas will. Dean knows he will. That makes all the difference.

Tonight, they take it slow, lazily licking into each other mouths before letting hands and fingers wander leisurely across warm skin. They’re both tired after the late dinner at Sam and Eileen’s. And, hell, Dean’s forty-four; he’s not up for wild experimentation every night.

Dean groans low in his throat and arcs in Cas’s grip when he comes, and distantly there’s a little spark of pleasure and pride; he didn’t have the muscle coordination to do that a month ago. Cas follows him over a moment later, and he collapses with one arm sprawled across Dean’s chest and his head pillowed on Dean’s shoulder.

Cas peels himself off Dean eventually to get a washcloth from the bathroom. He cleans up Dean’s belly and thighs and helps him pull his boxers back up, then he nestles beside him once more. Dean sleepily nuzzles into Cas’s hair, loving the way it tickles his nose. Call him a girl, but these are the moments he likes best: drowsily draped over each other, all naked, damp skin, and post-coital bliss.

“I love you,” Dean whispers into Cas’s hair. It’s still hard to say, sometimes, but it’s easiest in moments like this: in the silence and peace of just each other, and he’s made it a point to say it whenever he can.

“I love you,” Cas echoes him. He lifts his head to land another kiss on Dean’s mouth. “More than I will ever be able to say.”

They’re just getting into a solid post-sex make out sesh when “Smoke on the Water” blares into the silence of the room.

Dean startles away from Cas, breaking the kiss with a pop. That’s Sam’s ringtone, so Dean growls, “Stupid cockblocking son of a bitch,” before he rolls onto his left side and fumbles for his phone on the nightstand.

He thumbs open the screen and sees that it’s five to midnight; they left Sam and Eileen’s about an hour and a half earlier, immediately prepared for bed after their forty-minute drive from Sam and Eileen’s two-bedroom town apartment to Cas and Dean’s one-story ranch in the middle of nowhere, and then spent the last twenty minutes having leisurely sex. What could Sam possibly want that couldn’t have waited until morning?

“You leave the pie tin there?” Dean inquires.

“No, I put it in the dishwasher before following you into the bedroom,” Cas replies.

Dean shrugs and swipes to answer the call.

“You just interrupted sex so this better be good, man.”

“Dude, gross,” Sam replies. And his voice isn’t immediately screaming someone is dead so Dean releases the tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding, dropping his shoulders and unclenching his jaw like Mia taught him.

“What?” Dean says. “We’re two consenting adults.”

“Uhg,” Sam moans.

Dean puts his little brother out of his misery. “So, what’s up? You forgot to tell us something at dinner?”

“No, ah,” Sam hedges, and a little of the concern Dean just breathed away comes creeping back in: an instinctual response to protect Sammy and destroy whatever it was that was causing him distress, preferably with a grenade launcher. “Nothing’s up. Just figured I’d call. To, ah…Eileen’s already in bed and I wasn’t tired yet….”

“Are you cheating on her?” Dean guesses.

“Holy Christ! What the fuck? Of course not!”

“Good,” Dean says simply. “If she ain’t dead and you ain’t having an affair, then whatever else you’re worrying about can’t be that bad. So spit it out.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m being lectured about opening up by you,” Sam groans.

“I learned from the best, Sammy-boy,” Dean says. Beside him, Cas curls into a more comfortable position. He shoots Dean a questioning glance, but Dean reassures him with a quick smile, and Cas relaxes further into his pillow like he wishes it would consume him like a sinkhole. Dean will never get over how adorable Cas is and his proclivity for fluffy things.

“This about a hunt?” Dean prompts him when Sam still doesn’t reply.

“No, not a hunt,” Sam replies.

Dean doesn’t miss hunting. Hell, the nightmares and scars mean it’s never far away. But sometimes Sam, Eileen, and, even rarer, Cas, would still take a nearby salt and burn or act as consultants on something especially tricky. They still kept the Bunker – situated almost dead center between their two houses – well-stocked and maintained for any hunter traveling through the area, mostly younger folk like Claire and Kaia, or Krissy and her gang, but also the occasional familiar face, like Charlie and her wife Stevie or the Banes twins.

The resurrection of Alicia came as a surprise, but Dean’s not going to tell Max that his reheated burrito of a sister is an abomination. Hell, nuance is something Dean understands. For fuck’s sake, his dentist is a werewolf and his therapist is a shapeshifter. Dean gets it.

“I’m, ah, in little Dean’s room, and I was just thinking…” Sam begins hesitantly. Dean’s heart swells reflexively at the thought of little Dean – who Dean stubbornly refers to as Junior no matter how many times Sam tells him that that’s not how it works. Cas always calls him Dean Padraic, like a benediction. “He’s, ah, today he’s six months.”

“Oh, wow, happy birthday?” Dean says. Eileen and Sam had Dean and Cas over tonight, but it wasn’t for any kind of celebration. Is a six-month birthday considered special for babies? Was Dean supposed to bring a gift. “I can mail a card.”

Sam laughs feebly. “Ha, nah. I just remembered it.”

“Well, consider the pie tonight celebratory.”

Dean can remember only one other time he felt the way he did when he held Dean Padraic Leahy in his arms, and that was when he was fishing with Jack on that river, back when they knew the kid was dying.

The loss of Jack is like a wound, scabbed then scarred over. But Dean knows better than anyone that scar tissue can still ache. They were given the privilege to have him for a few years, and now the world gets to have him for the rest of eternity. Not a bad trade.

Eight months ago, Jesse and Cesar adopted three-year-old twins who lost their family in a demon possession. Dean and Cas have talked about the same thing a few times, and Dean told Jody, Donna, and Bobby to keep an eye out for any kid orphaned because of monster activity, any kid that can’t be handled by the system because the system doesn’t know what goes bump in the night. Or maybe some angry, restless, displaced teen, like Jody did with her girls. Dean’s always like teenagers.

“So, ah,” Sam continues, like he’s tearing each word out of him, and the for the first time, Dean thinks it’s possible Sammy’s crying. It makes Dean sit up a little straighter in bed. “It’s six months, and I was – I couldn’t help but notice that it – it’s almost midnight.”

It all clicks into place: Mom’s deal. Azazel’s plan. The midnight feedings. Choking on fire. Running into the hallway in time to hear Mom screaming. Sammy thrust into his waiting arms. Lucifer’s perfect vessel.

Dean’s chest tightens. He knows the warning signs of a panic attack by now, so he takes a couple gulps of air, forces himself to sit with it for a minute, reminds himself he’s safe. Cas is safe. Sam is safe. Little Dean is safe.

“That’s not gonna happen, Sammy,” Dean tells his brother firmly. “All that crap? We fixed that. We fucking kicked their asses. You hear me?”

Sam sucks in a long, shuddering breath. “Y-yeah. I hear you, Dean.”

“So, what’s he wearing?” Dean demands abruptly.

“What?”

“Junior,” Dean clarifies. “He better be in that ACDC onesie and the leather jacket. I paid good money for that junk.”

“He’s in his jammies, Dean,” Sam exclaims. “He can’t wear a leather jacket to bed! And, for the record, he’s wearing the bee set Cas got.”

“One, blasphemy. I wore a leather jacket to bed plenty of times,” Dean scoffs, and he ignores it when Sam mutters, Yeah, when you were too drunk to take it off. “Two, I can’t believe you just said jammies. When’d we get so disgustingly domestic?”

“Hey,” Sam protests, “You moved in with your boyfriend, first!”

“Yeah,” Dean retorts, pleased that the word boyfriend doesn’t stir even a modicum of panic anymore. “But you’re the one who put a ring on it and popped a kid out.” Sam took Eileen’s last name. He likes to pretend it’s because of some women-empowerment thing, but Dean knows it’s really because Sam’s legally dead and the paperwork was easier. “Little Sammy, a stay-at-home daddy,” Dean says with an exaggerated sigh.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Sam chuckles. “I’m more than happy letting Eileen be the breadwinner. She’s better at it, anyway.”

Sam spends his time updating the Bunker’s online archives, keeping the infant hunter network on track with Jody, and honest-to-God blogging about mythology, religious lore, and supernatural encounters, which doubles as a resource for hunters who are in on the secret. He wants to write a book someday. Eileen makes a legitimate paycheck at the local community college teaching sign-language and Irish and American folklore.

“I won’t argue with you there,” Dean says. He looks at the alarm clock on his nightstand, and he smiles. Cas is lost in the middle of sleep and trying to keep up with Dean’s one-sided conversation. He’s always said he could fall asleep to the sound of Dean’s voice; Dean asked if it was because he was boring; Cas told him it was because he was so comforting. And then they made out a little. It was pretty sappy.

“Hey, Sammy?” Dean says.

“Hmm?”

“It’s ten after twelve.”

Sam’s exhale is long and a little shaky, but nowhere near as unsteady as he sounded at the beginning of the call.

“Give Junior a kiss from his uncle, ‘kay?” Dean says.

“Sure, Dean,” Sam says. There’s a smile in his voice now, which means it’s a job well done. “And thanks.”

“Anytime, bitch,” Dean replies.

“Night, jerk.”

“Night, Sammy.”

Dean ends the call. He plugs his phone into the charger on the nightstand, then he uses the glass of water Cas left to down a sleeping pill; turns out there are alternatives to booze. He shuts off the lamp, and he eases himself down the bed, wriggling around to move his left leg. Then he rolls over with carefully practiced movements so he’s lying on his stomach, side-by-side with Cas.

Cas lazily lifts an arm and drapes it across Dean’s lower back. He brushes his lips across the tip of Dean’s nose.

“Is everything alright?” he whispers without fully opening his eyes.

Dean smiles. He drops another kiss onto Cas’s mouth.

“Yeah, Angel, everything’s good.”

Notes:

One, spite makes for a lucrative creative muse.

Two, I love that so many people are writing Heaven!fix-its, but stories about the afterlife kinda squick me out because of deep-seated existential dread and religious trauma (metaphysics scare me), so I figured I'd write something to scratch the "alive and happy" itch. Also, Dean and Cas deserve to find some love and contentment without first being brutally killed.

Three, get it? Chuck Norris because it’s Walker, Texas Ranger.

Four, oh my God Dean’s a little Midwestern lad, which means he’s gonna call sneakers tennis shoes :D

Five, you can reblog this on Tumblr, if you'd like. Also, if you enjoy average-looking SPN fanart, I have an Instagram

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of miracles 'verse