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all the very best of us
string ourselves up for love
Dean sticks to Sam and Cas. It's nice having everyone home, but the praise and gratitude they are getting from all sides is making his smile as tense as his shoulders. Sam is basking in it and their win, and that's good, the kid deserves it. He's had a serious rough go, and all of this was his idea anyway. He's got his win.
And Sam's safe. Sam's safe, Cas is safe, Mom and Jack and not-Charlie are safe. That's good, great even. It's just that Dean had been preparing himself to suffer through another bout of empty nest syndrome after their return since people seemed to prefer Apocalypse Two: Electric Boogaloo to being at home with their family. And now they are home, except they don't plan on staying, and also there's a whole bunch of strangers making themselves comfortable, acting like they own the joint, and it's making Dean's hackles rise.
Sam keeps shooting him amused looks while Dean grumbles under his breath about people putting their feet up on the tables and dirtying up the floor with their combat boots. It doesn't keep Dean from frowning, but he does mostly keep his mouth shut then. Dean gets that Sam doesn't get it. Unlike Dean, he doesn't nest, and so doesn't understand why it makes your fingers twitch and your heart hurt when your nest is empty, or dirty, or not safe. And Sam's happy right now, and that's really all Dean ever wants. He can deal.
Dean looks around while sipping his drink, looks at all the smiling, exhausted but relaxed faces, and tries to feel what they're feeling. When that doesn't work, he settles for faking it.
Sam wanders off at some point to talk to Mom, and when Dean turns around next, Cas is making his way over to Jack. Dean wants to grumble about being left alone, but he gets it; he's worried about the kid too. He's worried about a lot of things, but if someone tells him one more time that he's overreacting, that it doesn't make any sense how he's so worried constantly, he's going to punch something. Since everyone's happy right now, punching things is probably only going to make them either frown at or laugh about him some more, so he keeps his mouth shut about this as well.
It leaves him with basically nothing to talk to about with anybody, so after a while of standing around and feeling stupid and kind of unnecessary, he sneaks off to go mope in the kitchen. On the way there, he needs to weave between more people than he can shake a stick at, trying to smile while holding his breath. Only once he's made it to the kitchen and finds it empty can he allow himself to let his guard down.
Snatching a bottle of the good stuff from one of the cabinets, Dean settles himself at the table facing the door. He can't remember the last time he ate something, so he should probably slow down, but then again, who cares? If they ask, he's just going to say he's celebrating.
Dean puts his elbows on the table, shifts in his seat. Stupid uncomfortable kitchen chairs. A hot shower would feel so good right now, and then wrapping himself up in his extra soft comforter and passing out for four days. He's got no idea how he's supposed to do that with all these people around. For maybe the first time, he wishes the kitchen door had a lock, but then again locking himself in here with all that silence and empty space might not be the brightest idea ever. Being alone with his thoughts for any extended period of time is not an option if he wants to keep any resemblance of sanity. He's learned that the hard way more than once.
Everyone's being loud enough that Dean can still hear them laughing and talking and probably making battle plans already. Dean really shouldn't be alone, but it's like he's an outsider in his own home again, like when they brought Jack here for the first time and suddenly Dean was supposed to be a Mom for the thing that got Cas killed. Dean gets now that Jack needed help, and that these people need help, but he still hopes they're going to stay away from the most important part of his home and order pizza instead.
Dean doesn't mean to pass out but then suddenly someone's touching him and he jerks awake and spills liquor over his hand from the glass he's still clutching like a lifeline. Heart racing, he looks up only to find Cas looking down at him with a frown. “Dean, are you alright?”
Dean swallows and wipes his hand on his jeans. His fingers are trembling a little and he clenches them into a fist to hide it. “Peachy,” he says, smiling wide and fake. When Cas' frown only deepens, Dean adds, hastily, “How's the kid?”
Cas sighs, and instead of walking around the table to sit opposite of Dean, he parks himself next to him, close enough that their elbows rub. “He's in his room, he... He won't talk to me.”
Everything from his voice to the way he steeples his fingers together on the table, shoulders slumped in defeat, is activating that instinct in Dean that wants to soothe, wants to nurture. Unlike Dean, Cas isn't a clingy, needy creature starved for physical contact though, so instead of pulling him into a hug Dean hears himself say, “Want me to talk to him?”
It's a super bad idea. Dean'd still do it if it meant making Cas feel better, but to his guilty relief, Cas shakes his head. “Thank you, but—I believe he doesn't want to talk to anyone right now.”
Dean nods because, hey, same. Or maybe not, he thinks, sloshing the bit he didn't spill all over himself around in his glass instead of inhaling it like it's going out of style.
Beside him, Cas is inspecting the label of the Jim Beam, frowning the frown he was directing at Dean earlier. “I thought words would be enough,” he's saying, “To, well, make him understand who and what Lucifer is.” He puts the bottle down and leans back in his seat, arm brushing against Dean's. “I was wrong.”
Dean licks his lips and swivels his chair towards Cas, resisting the urge to sway further into his space. “C'mon, man. It's Lucifer. He can twist everything around, it's what he does.”
Cas won't look at him. “Maybe, but. I still think there's something else I could have done.”
Well, they could have shown Jack. But Dean knows intimately well that you can't just dredge up your own trauma for others to inspect, not without some serious repercussions. And then there's how, after Jack had shown them their Mom alive and being tortured, he couldn't hear anything but ringing in his ears and wasn't able to get enough air in his lungs for minutes after. So, no. There's a reason why, in Dean's book, one of the most important rules of hunting right after don't get dead and don't force children to hunt is that sometimes, it's better for the people you're saving not to know what you're saving them from.
On the other hand, Dean is worried about the consequences of this. Lucifer is a manipulative son of a bitch, and Jack is impressionable and, well, sometimes tries a little too hard to be good. He knows Sam wouldn't have liked it, and he gets why, but in retrospect Dean wishes he'd have put his foot down and given Jack a lecture on how sometimes wanting to save everyone does more harm than good, take it from someone who's done a lot of bad, kid.
None of that sounds like something that would help Cas feel better right now though. Dean gives in to his urge to touch; puts a hand on Cas' shoulder, squeezes a little. “You remember our talk about not beating yourself up over every single mistake you make?”
Cas huffs and finally looks at Dean. His eyes are fond, and he's doing that almost-smiling thing he does, and Dean automatically feels himself melt a little like the pathetic moron he is. “I remember you telling me not to do what you're doing.”
Dean grins, “Damn right,” claps Cas on the back and then wraps both of his hands around his glass to nip the urge to just leave his hand there right in the bud. They share a moment of comfortable silence, Dean going back to sloshing the liquor around in his glass. He could just man up and drink it, even though it's got to be too warm by now, but then he'd have nothing to do with his hands, and no reason to stay in the kitchen.
“You look tired. You should rest.” When Dean looks up, it's to find Cas staring at him in concern, and Dean's face heats from the warmth of someone caring about him. He snorts and shakes his head.
“Oh yeah I did real hard work today fixing that bus,” he hears himself say, the self-depreciation too much of a knee-jerk reaction by now that he could reign it in quickly. Cas is already frowning.
“Dean, you did a lot more than that. You saved—”
But he didn't. Dean got his hands dirty sweet-talking an engine back to life, yelled at a few people, and shot a couple others, but that's it. And looking at the big picture, he's been more of a hindrance than anything else. Last time he was over there alone, all he had to show for coming back was a hole in his shoulder and no Mom for Sam and no Jack for Cas. Maybe Cas has forgotten that, but Dean hasn't.
Dean makes a face, almost physically pained by Cas' misguided belief that he somehow did good. He holds up a hand, interrupts him, “Cas, just—just don't. Please.”
Cas shuts up, but he doesn't look happy about it. After a long moment of peering into Dean's eyes, his features soften, but the concern stays. “I'm worried about you, Dean.”
The words fill Dean with warmth. And with panic. If people worry about him, that means they're not spending that worry on themselves, and that means they get hurt. And as much as Dean tries, he can't be everywhere at once, so that means they'll be hurt without Dean there to help them and keep them safe, and that's just not acceptable.
Dean tries his best to smile. “You don't gotta worry 'bout me, buddy.” He pats Cas' back and stands, “Just gotta get some shut-eye. See you in the morning, 'kay?” He's fleeing, and he knows it, but he doesn't know what else to do.
In his room, Dean sits on his bed with his head in his hands. Forces himself to breathe. He's got to keep it together—when it all falls apart, which it inevitably will, he's got to be ready. Ready, and strong enough to fix it. Which he won't be if he lets himself fall apart. Too much depends on him being able to do his job right.
Once his hands have stopped trembling, Dean kicks off his shoes and crawls under the covers. It doesn't feel right to undress all the way. Not when he needs to be, well. Ready.
He turns off his lamp and tries to sleep, but tears start to prick at his eyes. He's got to do his job, but it feels like he just can't anymore. If he can't do his job, he's going to be useless, and that's not something he knows how to handle.
He should be happy for their win, and instead he's scared, all the time.
A sob breaks free before he can swallow it down. His head pounds and his throat is tight like he's being strangled. Dean rolls himself on his back and sits up, clumsily. He presses his palms over his eyes, bites his trembling lip.
It's going to be okay. He just has to breathe. He just has to breathe.
Dean ends up digging the comforter out of his dresser. He wraps himself in it, gun under his pillow tucked close enough that his shaky fingertips almost touch it, and tells himself that he feels warm, that he feels safe.