Chapter Text
The engine of the Impala idles, a low rumble echoing off the lovely, immaculate homes surrounding it. Dean stares about him, taking in each craftsman-style house, each front porch and lawn; he is out of place here. He glances down at his phone, resting on his bouncing knee; Castiel should have been here at eight. It is now five minutes past. Dean knows, if he never gets to see Castiel again, it will be his just desserts.
It’s growing cold. Dean tugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders. Fall is taking hold of the nights, stealing them back from the warmth of summer. It had been warm the night Dean sent Castiel away. The weather was the only good thing about that night, the only thing he does not look back on with repulsion and regret. The next morning, Dean had shivered in the bunker, wondering how he had ever found it a warm and welcoming place.
Two halves of a whole were severed; Dean looked at Sam that day, and he could clearly see Ezekiel’s approval hiding behind his brother’s sad eyes, behind Sam’s confusion. Sam asked where Castiel had gone, as he looked over to the noticeably empty space at the breakfast table. He had only been a resident there for two weeks, but Castiel had already established which was “his” seat. He had even added a few personal trinkets to his room.
Ezekiel had been right—he had to have been—Dean could not fathom his deed with any question or doubt in his mind. He could not sit well with himself, stomach food or taste any morsel, thinking that what he did was wrong. Castiel was a risk, Castiel was a danger, and Castiel was going to find out.
The secret ate away at everything, gorging itself on Dean’s flesh until he could no longer stand under its weight. It was almost easy to kick Castiel out, to let all of Dean’s anger and frustration and fear target itself onto one person. The best person. The person who would take the heat because he always felt he deserved it—God, Castiel thought he deserved it—and so Castiel had left.
“It will be better now,” Ezekiel had said. “Sam is safe, and Castiel will be fine. He knows how to be human better than any of our brothers. You did the right thing.”
But Dean no longer believes that.
Days after, weeks after, and suddenly a month has gone by since he has seen Castiel. One month since he betrayed his friend and threw him to the wolves. Castiel had not called or texted, and Dean is not surprised. He cannot be surprised; he knows what he said that night. You’re useless to us…, you need to get a life, Cas…, it’s time for you to move on… Move on. Like Dean cannot.
He would open his phone over and over, scan through the screens; his eyes would hover over Castiel’s number. Dean types out texts but he does not send them. Even when Sam asks casually over dinner, or over research, or on a hunt, if Dean has heard anything from Cas. Even when Dean shrugs that he doesn’t care, or when he bites back an angry retort.
But he does care. He does want to know where Castiel is. He does want to apologize. His stomach is almost constantly aching, and Dean’s trust in Ezekiel is wavering. He wants to talk to someone. He wants to be yelled at. He wants to be hit, like he should be. He wants to have his best friend back.
One month and three days after he kicked him out, Dean opens his phone and texts Castiel.
—I need to see you.
Send.
He hesitates.
—If that’s ok.
Send again.
Wait.
Three hours later, after Dean has gnawed his thumbnails into nonexistence, cursed Castiel’s name and convinced himself that Castiel is dead and it’s all his fault, Dean’s phone beeps at him. Its message: an address, and a time.
It is alien, and it is cold, but it’s as good as a yes to Dean. So when the time comes, he sits outside in his car, in this perfect little neighborhood, and he waits. He texts Castiel to alert him to his presence; he cannot bring himself to walk up and ring the doorbell, to intrude his person on whatever life Castiel may have built. In this very nice house. Under these very lovely trees. And maybe he doesn’t answer to the name “Castiel” here. Maybe he took his former Vessel’s name. Maybe the house belongs to Cas’s brothers and sisters, maybe Cas has found members of his family who side with him. There are too many maybes, and it kills Dean that he doesn’t know.
The minutes continue to pass. It’s now 8:10. Dean’s palms are sweating. He wonders if this is a trap. He can hear his heart in his ears, and at 8:15 he wraps his fingers around the steering wheel, about to put the car into drive and move on—but he can’t. He can’t not try to see Cas, he can’t not try to fix everything—and then suddenly, there’s a knock on the passenger side window.
Dean starts and looks up; it’s Cas.
He leans over to lift the door-lock, moving so quickly he pulls a crick in his neck. Castiel hesitates, opens the door, then slides in. He closes the door behind him; he sits quietly with his hands folded on his knees.
They don’t speak.
The logical part of Dean’s brain knows they should check each other’s identities. He knows they should prove they’re not possessed, that they are not shapeshifters, but instinct keeps him still; he knows this is Cas. The real, living and breathing Cas. Dean knows it from the tension in the air between them, from the too familiar smell of Castiel filling the cab. This is the man Dean threw out; and this is the angel that pulled him from hell.
Dean is finally stirred to speak. He opens his mouth, and the air escapes his throat with a vague “I—” before Castiel interrupts him.
“Is Sam alright?”
Dean swallows. Castiel is not sarcastic. He is genuine—and he is hurt. His voice is quiet and soft, and Dean had had no idea it was possible for such a simple question to make him feel so much worse. But he cannot answer it—not yet, anyway. Though he wants to. He wants the secret to fly out, burst from his lips without any control, because it would and could explain so much. But one thing at a time. “It’s good to see you, Cas.”
Castiel blinks. He turns and finally meets Dean’s gaze. Dean speaks again, a small confidence growing within him, spurred by the connection of Castiel’s eyes.
“This is a nice place.”
Castiel nods carefully. “It is.”
“You live here, or..?”
“April…” Castiel clears his throat and hesitates. “My friend lives here. She’s letting me stay with her.”
“April, huh?” Dean grins, and it feels forced and wrong on his face. “You got a girlfriend already?”
Castiel doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. In fact, he frowns deeper. His eyebrows furrow and he looks away, staring at the glove compartment. “What do you want, Dean?”
“I—” Dean stops. He shifts in his seat, then he turns the car off, feeling the silence shutter through his bones and settle in the space between them. “I wanted to apologize.”
Castiel blinks slowly, raising an eyebrow. He glances over, his eyes settling on Dean’s knee; Dean realizes he is bouncing his leg and he stops. “Cas, I never should have—I never should have done what I did or said what I said—I’m so sorry.”
“Did Sam put you up to this?”
“What?” Dean shakes his head ardently. “No. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”
Castiel doesn’t say anything; Dean is toying with words, words he’d been practicing for weeks but picturing with a much more positive response. He’s not sure where he’s going wrong; Castiel’s demeanor has not softened since he entered the car. Dean takes a breath, attempting to plunge ahead with his apology, but Castiel stops him.
“Dean: what do you want.” He says it again, and he is staring directly at Dean. He looks exhausted, in every sense of the word.
Dean is slack-jawed, waiting for his mind to work. His tongue plays with responses. It plays with I told you already, plays with I’m sorry again, and then it finally plays with the truth. “I want you to come back,” it says.
Castiel huffs out a breath and smiles shakily. “No, Dean.”
“Cas, please.” And Dean burns because he’s begging, but goddamn it, he’s come this far. He will not leave until Castiel understands.
“Dean, I can’t. I have a life here now. I’m building something here with April—”
“What, the girl you’ve known for a month?”
Castiel’s eyes snap at him. “What does it matter how long I’ve known her? She has accepted me, and I like her. Besides,” he shakes his head. “Don’t you see? You have nothing to apologize for, Dean. You were right.”
“No Cas, that is not true.”
“Yes it is. I am useless to you. And I am a risk to you.”
“And you’re not a risk to her?” Dean points back at the house, where the front porch light has been left on in anticipation of Castiel’s return.
“‘John Smith’ is not a risk to her, no.”
Dean sighs angrily, wrapping his hands around the steering wheel and staring ahead. He can feel the minutes ticking by, and he can tell that Castiel is about to open the car door and slip away, slip out of his life forever. Castiel will go out and live and do things that Dean is not a part of anymore, and that simply cannot happen. “Cas: I need you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Will you shut up and stop telling me what I do and don’t need?” Dean glares at his friend. “I need you. I’m not shitting around when I say that.”
Castiel shakes his head. “You say it, but—”
“But what?”
“But everything that you needed from me I can no longer give, Dean! You have made that very clear.”
“Goddamn it, Cas!” Dean slams his fists against the wheel and turns in his seat, undoing his seatbelt to face Castiel squarely. “I need you. You being the operative word here. Not your powers, not your angel-mojo—I need you, you idiot. You’re my best friend; I miss you!” Dean feels his face burning red, but he stands his ground, his jaw firm and his eyes wide with meaning, boring into Castiel’s to make him feel every word. “Cas, I was wrong. I made a mistake—I have made so many mistakes in the last month and I don’t want—” He hesitates. “You can’t be one of them.”
Castiel’s brow furrows, and after a long moment, he says quietly, “What mistakes?”
Dean hangs his head. Of course Castiel would catch onto that, would question it. Dean shakes his head; not yet. “Are you coming home or not?”
Castiel blinks several times. He opens his mouth and flubs for a moment. “Dean, I can’t just—I can’t just tell you to start the car and, and…” He gestures, his voice growing louder; Dean watches his mouth and feels something like hope grow inside of him. “I can’t run away with you just-like-that, Dean!”
Dean’s heart leaps. Fire is pouring through his veins. He throws an arm along the seat behind them and leans closer. “Yes you can.”
“What, and just leave without a goodbye? Without a ‘thank you’?”
“I would.”
“No, you wouldn’t!” Castiel stares at him darkly, but Dean can see something behind his eyes. It’s enough to make Dean smile, to lift the corners of his mouth and make him believe. He concentrates, as though he can will Castiel with thought alone:stay.
“Dean—” Cas hesitates. “I’m still a risk to you and Sam. I’m still a wanted man.”
“Welcome to the club. We’re all wanted men.”
“It’s not the same, Dean.”
“Screw it. It is the same. Because we’re family, goddamn it.”
Another silence between them, and then Dean is stunned when Castiel reaches to open the car door.
“But—” Dean says urgently, holding out a hand to stop him. “Where are you—?”
“Dean, I can’t leave. Not tonight anyway. April has a dinner planned for us—”
“Cas.” Dean looks at him hard. “Come home.” And when Castiel does not seem further convinced, Dean adds carefully, “I need you there—I want you there.
“Come home.”
And then Castiel opens the car door. “Give me…” He hesitates. “Give me a week, Dean.”
“Why a week? I’m here now.”
“Dean, you can’t just—you can’t just yell at me to go and get a life, and then yell at me to come back, just because it suits you!”
“I’m not yelling at you, Cas.”
“Dean Winchester—” Castiel stares at him, exasperated. “You are the most selfish man I have ever known.”
Dean starts, and very suddenly he starts laughing, somewhere between hysterical and broken. “Oh, you have no idea.”
Castiel watches him for a long moment, and as Dean begins to settle, Castiel steps out of the car. He ducks his head back in to say, “Do you want to come in for dinner?”
“What, and meet her? No thank you.”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “She’s very nice, Dean.”
“I’m sure she is.”
Castiel hesitates, then says quietly, “You’re not selfish, Dean. I shouldn’t have said that.”
They look at each other, and Dean leans forward, his hand crawling across the empty, still warm passenger seat, as though it had a goal. As though it could keep Castiel just a little bit longer. “I’ll see you soon?”
Castiel frowns and takes a step back. “Goodbye, Dean.” He closes the car door, and Dean is left without the last word. He watches Castiel walk up the lawn and disappear into the house.
For two weeks, Dean doesn’t hear a word. And then, Thursday morning dawns with thunder and rain, and Dean is awakened by a knock on the bunker’s door. He skids to a halt in his house slippers, and he opens the door to discover a soggy, sopping Cas standing on his stoop.
“Hello, Dean.”
A smile blooms from Dean’s chest, and he opens his mouth to say hello, but the wind is knocked from him: Castiel threw his heavy, well-packed bag straight into Dean’s chest. He steps inside and shoulders past Dean, saying as he goes, “I’m still mad at you.”
But Dean doesn’t give a damn. He is grinning like an idiot, and he doesn’t care one bit.
Cas is home.