Work Text:
The writing on the table
Dean is getting around to fixing the library next. They had an incident with a very pissed off poltergeist who followed them home a few days ago. Sam was still laid up with a pretty nasty concussion. Dean was distracting himself with busy work. He just put all the books back on the shelves- not it order- he’d leave that to the two resident nerds- but it was starting to look less like a blast zone.
He needed to tighten the screws on the legs of the table- its pretty wobbly after he landed on it. He hauls his tool box to the floor and eases down himself. He hates days like this- when he feels his age, its only with significantly more grunting than he’d like that he shimmies under the corner and starts tightening the nut.
He yanks the leg bag and forth- satisfied that it's secure before doing an awkward wrong side up military crawl to the other leg- but it works. He passes the halfway mark when something catches his eye.
There is an engraving under the table. He shimmies closer and gets his phone out to see better.
CW
Neatly carved into the cedar. Blocky and careful.
He runs his fingers over the mark-delicately tracing the ridges with his pads. He feels a sob catch in his throat. It comes out as a horribly wounded groan. His heart breaks and he can’t keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks, into his hair and finally splashing to the floor. He’s not sure how long he stays there silently weeping as he decides enough is enough.
It’s been more than a decade. Longer than he ever expected to live if he’s completely honest. His initial reasons, the apocalypse, the angel thing, and to a lesser extent the man thing all seem so insignificant now. He just got used to pushing it down, denied it so often that its second nature now. Some quirk he deals with almost daily- just like his unhealthy drinking habits, his penchant for self-loathing and Sam’s ridiculous hair. Something that he knows he should address but is perfectly fine ignoring till he can’t.
He can’t any more.
He gets out from under the table, wiping at his swollen eyes, he forgets about the wobbly leg. Instead he digs in the tool box till he finds what he’s looking for and leans over the polished but worn table top. He picks out a spot after careful consideration- he wants to do this right. He works at it for a few minutes, exacting with every carve. He feels a weight lifting from him with every stroke.
It feels right.
He’s finishing up the final W when he feels Cas approach from the kitchen. He knows the angel doesn’t mean to sneak up on any of them- he just moves like he’s part jungle cat. Dean’s learned to trust that little tingle in his spine that starts buzzing when he’s near. Its alarmingly accurate. He stopped questioning it a while ago.
“Dean?” the angel stops a foot away from the table- not sure what Dean is doing from his vantage point. He’s aware that the hunter was doing various repairs this morning, but he didn’t notice the table being in need of any.
“Heya Cas” Dean shoots back without turning away from his work. He sweeps his hand over the surface one final time pushing the last few splinters off. He looks at his work discerningly and decides that its good.
It’s right.
He gets up and turns around facing Cas. He sees the familiar head tilt and frown when Cas, no doubt infers that Dean has been crying. He smiles softly and shakes his head very subtly, just once, knowing Cas will know what he means. I’m okay.
Cas takes a step closer like he needs to verify for himself and Dean lets him. They orbit each other so naturally its effortless and reflexive after so many years. Cas is asking him to share his burden, to let him help without saying a word. Dean almost laughs thinking about how blind he’s been.
He takes a half step to the side, just enough to let Cas look past him. To show him what he’s done.
To finally show him.
Cas is stoic. The definition of it, letting insults, compliments- hell even bullets and stab wounds roll of him like water off a duck.
Cas gasps.
It’s a small sound. It’s the most gut-wrenching sound Dean’s ever heard. Its momentous in the still quiet of the Men of Letter’s library. Dean thinks what’s left of his heart breaks all over in that moment.
Cas reaches out- tentatively, his hands are steady, but his eyes are wide. His long slender fingers touch the fresh scars in the wood. He’s reverent when he runs his fingers over the lines etched deep. Permanent. A tear runs down his sharp cheek bone when he lifts his fingers off the J and turns to face Dean.
“You and Jack.” Dean swallows down his heart. “You’re family. You’re Winchesters Cas. You belong there, with the rest of us.”
He steps closer, takes Cas’ face in his rough hands and he goes for it.
Hours later curled around his very own Angel, their skin cooling and wet he thinks…
It’s right.