Work Text:
Dean walks into the bunker with groceries loading down both arms. The beat coming from the stereo system is loud enough to hear from the front door, though it's all treble and there's a female voice singing some strange, haunting melody. It reminds him vaguely of something he'd heard flipping radio stations in the Impala recently.
Definitely not any of his tapes, then.
He makes it to the kitchen and sets the grocery bags on the table, starting to put things away before his brain tunes into the words of the song playing throughout the common areas of the bunker.
….......
You're gone and I gotta stay high... all the time,
to keep you off my mind, OoooOOooo...
I spend my days locked in a haze tryin-to forget you babe-
Dean freezes stupidly with a can of tomatoes suspended halfway between the counter and its intended home on the shelf. He's trapped in his own head for a moment while the bottom drops from beneath his feet . It's not a specific thought – just a gut-twisting mental image of Future-Cas;
the dark smile,
human and hating himself. Hating the world.
“I'm useless”
“I used to be part of a much better club”
“What? I like old you.”
that hollow, empty laugh...
Okay, s o it hadn't happened, b ut that d oes n't mean it couldn't. (The sudden anxiety increases and Dean feels like he can't control his own brain ). The last thing he nee ds i s the angel – fragile, possibly dying (another spike of panic), losing his grace, confused – getting any stupid ideas from stupid pop music stupid stereo he never should of-
“TURN THAT OFF!!!”
Fear makes his voice sound angrier than he feels, heart beating an agonizing tattoo against his ribs as he storms into the living room and aggressively turns the volume to nothing.
“Hey!” Charlie sits up indignantly from her positionl ying on the couch. “I'm just trying to catch up on my pop music! Just because you don't like something doesn't mean-”
“Where's Cas?” Dean ignores the slightly desperate tone he can hear in his own voice. He must look a mess. His breathing's rapid and shallow, eyes dark, and his fists keep clenching and releasing at his sides.
The question takes Charlie by surprise and she really looks at the oldest Winchester for a moment. Dean isn't sure what she sees, but her face softens minutely. “He went for a walk about twenty minutes ago,” she says quietly, like she's talking to an agitated animal. “Something about wanting to find some bees. He's still here. He's okay.” She stands up and heads towards Dean, reaching tentatively to pat his upper arm. The touch is light and comforting – it goes a long way towards grounding him. “Are you okay?”
The question is genuine, open, concerned and a plethora of responses pop into Dean's head:
“Of course I'm fine.”
“Yeah, whatever”
Brush off her hand.
Walk away.
Laugh it off.
Make fun of the music.
Go back to the kitchen.
But he just... can't.
Charlie is just standing there, knowing how not-okay he is, and she asked anyway. It's like all the fight and effort Dean's been putting into being fine-and-dandy since waking up from his stint as a Knight of Hell just runs out all at once. He finds himself slumping against the cabinet for the stereo's receiver, sliding to sit on the floor, and Charlie is there with him. It takes a couple of false starts, but he finally grinds out the words. “I don't know.”
Charlie purses her lips a bit ruefully and squeezes his bicep where she's kept her hand. “Well? Wanna tell Miss Charlie all about it? Cuz you can, and I promise not to run to ole' Sasquatch about it. 'Kay?”
Dean takes a deep breath, hugs himself a little, and launches into the story of a 2014 that never came to pass.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Once he starts talking, it's like a dam has broken. He talks about the alternate 2014. About how, after being a demon, he sees more of Future-him in the mirror than he's comfortable with. How he thought he'd saved Castiel all those years ago, but now the angel is not just becoming more and more human, but he may be dying to boot. How maybe, just maybe, even without the Croatan virus, they'll all turn into those people anyway. How it wasn't just circumstance – it was the circumstances that brought out parts of themselves that were always there. That he doesn't want Cas to hate him because he already hates himself, but can't see how the angel could possibly forgive him for allowing himself to become a demon. That he doesn't want Sam to hate him, but can't stand the pity and the worry either. How he worries, oh how he worries, that Cas will turn into that addicted shell of a human as his mojo runs dry because of him. How he's dragged his brother back into the life so many times now, he doesn't know how the kid forgives him.
And there, under everything, the knowledge that The Mark is still there – waiting. One stray bullet, one blade in the wrong place, (Hell, a car accident! Or pneumonia in a rural motel!) and it's back to being Demon-Dean: the happy-go-lucky womanizer who though it would be fun to kill his brother with a hammer!
Charlie's gotten them both hot chocolate twice and put away the groceries by the time Dean finally sighs and realizes he's been circling the same point for a few sentences. He studies the marshmallows in his cup and, with some surprise, finds that he's all talked out.
“So.... yeah,” he concludes lamely.
He looks at the redhead sitting across the table from him, still looking at him the same way she did this morning and the day before and the day before that. No pity, no loathing, just... Charlie looking at Dean. She smiles a little sceptically and sips her cocoa.
“So... moral of the story, no music glorifying drug use around the depressed angel. Got it.”
She gives him a big, genuine smile, puts down her mug, and leans forward a bit conspiratorially.
“I think you're going to be okay, Dudebro. Seriously,” she sits back and shakes her head. “I know you might not believe it now, but Dean – you have people who love you! Hey, no, Yes. It's true, don't do that,” she cuts him off with an accusing finger when he ducks his head and starts to protest. Dean shuts his mouth with an audible clack and shoots her an incredulous look but otherwise stays silent. She looks Dean straight in his eyes and continues seriously.
“Listen. Call me optimistic, but we're gonna figure this out. You and your slightly ill-conceived tattoo, Castiel and his whole grace-leakage thing... I could tell you it's all going to be sunflowers and happy endings, but that's probably not right. What I can tell you is that it is literally impossible for Feathers to hate you, so you can put that worry to bed. Plus, you've got people who love you, a library full of lore, and,” Charlie preens just a bit, “an unemployed hacker at your disposal. We'll figure something out.” She starts to stand, but then; “AND I can tell you that you probably need to have one of these spill-sessions more than once every thirty years because that's how people get cancer, son.”
With a final, shit-eating grin, Charlie stands from the table and heads back to the living area. It sounds like Sam has put on a movie, if the muffled explosions and unmistakable sound of Castiel asking strange questions over important dialogue have been any indication. Dean smiles after her and checks his watch, deciding it's as good a time as any to start dinner. He sighs, feeling like it's the first really deep breath he's taken in hours, and stands.
“Hey Charlie?” he calls after her, and she turns with expectant eyebrows. “Just.... thanks,” is all he can get out, rubbing the back of his neck and scrunching his mouth to one side after the clipped words. She rolls her eyes not-unkindly and bites her lip to keep from smiling.
“Any time, man. Seriously,” and sidles in to catch the last bit of the movie.
Dean begins getting out the ingredients he needs to make burgers to the sounds of the three living people he finds most important loudly bickering about the validity of the Matrix sequels and allows himself to believe that Charlie was right. They would figure out a way to fix things. They could stay a family. He huffed a laugh to himself. “After all,” he muttered, slicing open the package of ground beef, “we've got each other, a library full of lore, and an unemployed hacker.” He smiled at his own Charlie impression and nodded to himself. “Team Free Will, two-point-oh.”