Work Text:
It had been a year, and Dean was fine. Really, he was. He did not think of Cas every time he saw a honey bee, or a hamburger, or when he listened to Zeppelin. He did not think of Cas every time he passed their favorite coffee shop, or when he went to the Roadhouse, where they had their first date. He does not think of him when he sees Charlie, or Sam. He was fine.
Or so he kept telling himself.
After a year, it's a little difficult to keep blaming his downtrodden mood on the breakup. Most people move on, and get over it. But not Dean. Cas was -- is -- the love of his life. He just doesn’t see how one could simply let go of that, and move on.
But he did. At least, he tried to. He went to work every day at Bobby’s auto shop, and after a few months of wallowing, he didn’t show Bobby how hurt he was anymore. Bobby was an old grump, and even though he loves Dean like a son, the man is only so nurturing. So Dean plastered on a smile and went about his job.
He saw Sam less after the breakup, because it was hard to keep it together around him. But, gradually, Dean was spending more time with Sam, getting back to being his big brother. It was pretty much the same with Charlie.
Considering Dean felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest, he thought he was coping rather well.
Until he got the news.
Dean had never liked his father. John was an abusive, drunken asshole who never cared about either of his boys as much as he cared about his next drink. John never spared Dean from his alcoholic rage at the fact that Mary had died, and that Dean had her eyes. So Dean got himself and Sam out of that house as quickly as he possibly could.
And yet, the news of John’s death destroyed Dean.
It didn’t make any logical sense, Dean held no love for the man, but he still felt like his world was turned upside down, like he had no ground to stand on.
Dean missed work the day after the news, and ignored Bobby’s calls the day after that. On the third day, Dean decided that there were things he needed to do. Dean never managed to move out of the city where John lived, but Kansas City was big enough that he didn’t have to worry about seeing his father. So that meant that Dean had to write an obituary for the paper, get things together for the funeral, and then make arrangements for John’s cremation.
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The funeral was set to happen a full week after John had died. Dean had everything ready. He had the obituary written, he had his suit, he had his (painfully) short eulogy written, and he was prepared to be the rock for Sam. And Dean was fine.
The night before the funeral, he let himself be not fine. He let himself drink a little too much, and wallow in his sorrows. He didn’t grieve for his father. He grieved for his lost childhood, for the scars he would always carry, and for the people his father had hurt. He grieved because Dean knew he could have been great, if he didn’t have his father’s voice in his head always telling him how fucked up he was. How could Dean move on from this?
When Dean was really feeling sorry for himself, when the doorbell rang. He was not in the mood to put himself back together to simply talk to some stranger at the door, so he ignored it. But then it rang again, and again. So Dean stomped over to the door as best he could in his drunken state, and flung the door open, ready to rip whoever was on the other side a new one.
But there stood Cas. Cas, with Dean’s favorite candy and a copy of A New Hope in his hand. Cas, wearing a sweater that Dean had given to him on his birthday years ago. Cas.
“Hey, Dean,” Cas said sadly, but without pity. “I know you probably don't want company right now, but I just wanted t--”
Dean wrapped Cas in the tightest hug he could manage, and Cas returned it with the same intensity. Cas moved Dean into his little apartment, shut the door behind them, and waddled over to the couch with Dean still in his arms. They sat down together, and Dean curled into Cas’ side, and just cried. Cas held him, and listened to him ramble, and tried to give him whatever comfort he had.
By the end of the night, Dean had apologized for not being more emotionally vulnerable while they were together. Cas had apologized for not giving him the space and time that Dean needed to do so. They hashed out a lot of their issues, sitting on Dean’s couch that night.
“Dean,” Cas eventually began, “can I kiss you?”
“Cas, baby, I never thought you’d ask.”
Dean crashed his lips into Cas’. The kiss was passionate and intense, but not fierce. It was gentle and delicate and full of all the love and longing that they hadn’t expressed in a year.
The next day, Dean showed up to the funeral with Cas’ hand in his.