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It must have been a good day for the meadow when he scattered Cas’ ashes. Bees buzzing and the water humming and the windmill standing tall in the distance all while Dean crumbled to his knees and begged Chuck to bring him back. Just bring him back. The earth had crept under his fingernails in a mockery of the time he had broken out of his own grave. Dean wanted that again; he’d take the long walk and the ruptured eardrums just for the good part, for the flash of wings and the chance to start all over again.
Of course, then fall crept in and life crept out of the field. There was still an abundance of green, but it was warring with the dying grass. The spot where he was sitting now was surrounded by withered stems when he knew there had once been flowers. A spider crawled its way up Dean’s boot and he tracked its path, only shaking it off when it tried to touch his skin.
They had just gotten back from that horrible case when Dean took the keys and headed out. Dean had given everything he had, taken a syringe to the heart and looked at Death herself, and still hadn’t been able to save that kid. Everyone died, and Dean trudged on.
“Cas,” Dean began. His voice was rough from disuse; he swallowed hard and tried again. “Cas, I…
Was this praying? Did it count if he knew no one was listening? He hadn’t been able to pray to Cas since that night; it felt too empty knowing there would be nothing coming back. Just Dean as the Enterprise transmitting signals into the final, final frontier.
“Did you know that ash stains clothes?” Good job, Dean! You pray to your best friend for the first time in months and you immediately bring up the fact that he ruined your flannel. He drew his knees up, rested his elbows on them.
“Sorry. Bad start.” He took a deep breath. “I figured this would be as good a resting place for you as any, you always liked nature. After we burned you and took Jack to the bunker, I went for a drive. Just me. The kid was confused but I let Sam figure out what to tell him. I just—I couldn’t.”
The brook was a steady thrum, the noise settling over the meadow like a blanket. A wasp buzzed by his ear and he waved it away.
Dean looked at his hands. It was times like these that he missed the rings he used to wear, just something to play with to distract him from reality. “Sometimes… Sometimes while working cases, ones that involve little kids, I’ll catch a glimpse of their pajamas and it’s like I’m a four again, staring up at my burning house. My dad threw away those clothes a month after the fire, claiming he could still smell the smoke. That’s when I started sleeping in jeans. I didn’t understand what he meant then; they just smelled like clothes to me. I get it now. I haven’t even washed that flannel yet, but I know if I did it would still smell like you.”
He was putting it nicely for Cas. After doing the deed, he climbed in Baby and looked down, and there Cas was all over him, a dark blot on his flannel. It had taken many deep breaths with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel to be able to hold in his lunch, to not collapse on the spot.
“I don’t even know why I’m telling you any of this, man. It’s not what you’d need to hear about. Nothing about Lucifer, nothing about your kid, it’s just—"
God, Sam was probably with Jack at the Bunker right now, explaining to him why Dean couldn’t even handle a simple case. Sam was grieving too, but he was working on it, he was managing it. Meanwhile, Dean drank himself to sleep every night and yelled at anyone who looked his way.
“I’m always the last one out,” Dean forced out. “I always hang on for too long. I’ve just never learned how to say goodbye.”
Dean buried his face in his arms, gritting his teeth and willing the hot press of tears to go away.
“Then don’t,” a voice said.
Dean jerked his head up. Haloed by the sun, looking every bit like stained glass saints and saviors from above, was Cas staring down at him. Dean couldn’t quite make out his face, but he had long memorized every rhythm of that voice.
“Hello, Dean.” Cas stepped to the side and away from the sun, features now lit and visible. His eyes were blue, blue, blue against the sly.
“I’m dreaming.” It wouldn’t be the first time he had had too much to drink and started seeing things. Hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time he had hallucinated Cas.
Cas smiled. “Not quite.” He extended his hand, offering to help Dean up.
It hung just in front of Dean's face. The hand was smooth, unscarred. Angel grace magicking all wounds and the harder parts of life away before they could set in. Dean studied it, how those long fingers reached out towards him. Hesitantly, Dean shifted and slid his palm into Cas’. It was strong and steady against his own.
He yanked down.
The angel tumbled into him and knocked him over, sending them both sprawling against the grass. They ended up with Cas half on top of Dean, half on the dirt
“What was that for?” Cas asked, laughing.
Dean didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t even start to explain the heartache and the sleepless nights and the certainty that life couldn’t go on if he kept feeling like this. Now, it was euphoria and dizziness and the sight of his best friend back from the dead once more, and the soft smile that only Dean had ever been given.
Instead of trying to explain anything at all, Dean kissed him.
It was an awkward angle, more a bump of noses and a clash of teeth than anything that could be called a kiss. Dean tried again, slotting his lips against Cas'. There. It was warm and chaste and made all the better by Cas’ heavy weight pressing him down into the soft earth. It also tasted a bit like dirt, but Dean could forgive that. He was kissing Cas!
Oh shit, he was kissing Cas.
Dean pulled back and shoved Cas off of him, climbing to his feet as quickly as his hunter's knees allowed him to.
Long-ingrained survival instinct told him to shake it off and pretend as nothing had happened, it was just him getting lost in the moment—but no, that wasn’t it. That kiss was every held-back touch, every too-long stare, every distinction between what everyone else had and what they had.
It was Dean on his knees in a crypt, covered in his own blood, choking out words that weren’t quite right.
Standing there, panting, he looked down at Cas, and saw how the imprint of his own body was marked in the grass next to him, a silhouette curled towards the angel. Dean wrenched his gaze away.
“We should go back,” Dean rushed out, an attempt to smooth everything over. “The Impala’s just over there. You should meet Jack, see Sam again. Your room in the Bunker is just the way it was, I didn’t let anyone touch it.”
Before his words were finished he knew it wouldn't work. He could still feel the phantom weight of Cas on top of him, how the weeds underneath his head had bit into him. Knowledge sunk into him, heady and warm: no matter what he’d eat, no matter what he’d drink, Dean would always be able to taste Cas’ lips against his own.
He gave up on trying to ignore it.
The wasp from earlier buzzed in and around them. Cas just stared at him with that piercing gaze, the one that made Dean feel more flayed open than he ever was in hell.
“You know, I wanted to see if there was something for me back here,” Cas said. He pushed up off the ground, his trenchcoat now grass-stained and covered in a light layer of dirt. Less than a foot marked the ground between him and Cas.
More wasps joined the one flying around them, weaving up and down. Dean looked closer and saw that they weren’t wasps at all—they were honeybees. In the corner of his eye, Dean caught sight of a butterfly on one of the tall grasses. The whole meadow was teeming with life.
“And?” he prompted.
Cas said nothing, and kissed him.