Archive of Our Own

Dean is having a terrible day. 

Staying up until two a.m. watching back to back reruns of Ghost Whisperer the night before the eve of his brother’s wedding day probably wasn't his brightest idea to date. Sam hadn't wanted a bachelor party, though, so Dean figured he could do a lot worse than spending the night with a case of cheap beer and Jennifer Love Hewitt. 

Since they pulled the wheel on the end of the world, Dean’s more surprised than anybody that he’s actually been getting his eight hours most nights. In turn, his six hours due to his impromptu late night date with booze and corny noughties television has propelled Dean into some sort of state of unrelenting crankiness. The last minute trip to the store and almost-fist-fight with someone over the last pack of white balloons has only served to make him feel even grouchier, and now Dean’s just about over it.

He's never been more relieved to set foot back in the bunker. However, the third step from the top of the stairway croaks an all too familiar complaint when Dean sets his foot down. “You're kidding me.” He stops.

Sam’s voice carries up to him. “Hey.” He sounds distracted.

“I literally tightened this up last week. Why’s it crying again?” Dean shifts his foot back and the step creaks again under his weight. 

Chuckling dryly, Sam doesn't even spare him a glance. “Building’s only like two million years old. You figure it out.”

Irked, Dean rolls his eyes and heads down the stairs, carrying what feels like two tonnes of party supplies in what he suspects are very unreliable plastic bags. “Where's Eileen?” he asks.

Sam perks up a little and he looks up. “There’s pretty much nothing traditional about this whole thing, but she wanted something— so we’re not seeing each other until tomorrow. Jody picked her up about a half hour ago. They’re at a hotel. Girls’ night or whatever.”

Dean laughs, coming to the bottom of the staircase. “Last night on earth, right?”

“Shut up. We got everything now?” Sam asks and gestures to the bags.

“Think Charlie’s bringing some stuff tomorrow morning, but pretty much. Gonna run this stuff into the kitchen.” Sam just sees him off with a curt nod and looks back towards the table. 

Having been dubbed the prep area, the kitchen’s messier than Dean’s ever seen it. His little brother’s wedding is something that Dean knows he should be looking forward to, and while he is, he’s never been the biggest fan of mess or overcrowding at the bunker. He holds on for dear life to the fact that in a couple of days, this’ll all be over and everything back to normal. Business as usual. Tidy.

For now, though, there are party decorations and food platters seemingly everywhere waiting to be used. Dean potters around a little, trying to sort things into their respective places before giving the room a once over and sighing, defeated.

Uninflated balloons and folded banners are strewn across the tables, and Dean still can’t really believe this is happening.

 He still remembers the way hearing about it had felt. Well, kind of, since it didn’t really feel like any one thing.

Seeing Eileen’s face-splitting smile as she announced their engagement, Sam reaching down to clasp her hand in his and beaming at her just as widely had had Dean’s stomach dipping and swooping with about eighteen different emotions. 

Disbelief had been the prominent one, although he wasn’t sure why. For the few hunters he’d known that had managed to quit the life, marriage wasn’t unheard of. Having it announced to him solo as though they were addressing the masses brought it a lot closer to home, though.

He’d stumbled to his feet on autopilot and hugged Sam first before moving onto Eileen and watching over her shoulder as his brother pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Okay, obviously we wanted to tell you first, but I’m gonna go call people now. Hope Cas isn’t working.”

His stunned glee had shifted into something else entirely, and Dean had spent the following hour feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach.

Two months have passed since then, though. He’s finally managed to stop feeling pathetically envious about the fact that his brother’s getting his happy ending whilst Dean’s is working for minimum wage in a crummy Gas-N-Sip two states over. Dean tries not to allow himself to dwell on all things Cas too often. He’s probably successful less than half of the time.

Sam’s poring over an ASL dictionary when Dean steps back into the war room. His hands switch between scribbling notes and practising signing, subtly nodding to himself as he checks back and forth between his own written words and the book beside them.

Dean just watches for a second, Sam so deep in a world of his own that he’s not even aware of his brother’s presence. Shaking his head fondly, Dean just smiles and clears his throat. Sam looks up at the noise. 

“You need something?” he asks, sounding a little agitated.

“Just curious—what am I doing tomorrow?” Dean tries not to sound too excited, because honestly, he isn't.

“What are you doing?” asks Sam thinly.

Knitting his eyebrows together, a little perplexed, Dean nods. “Yeah? I mean—I’m like, officiating , right? So lay it on me.” 

He watches as his brother’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open a little, as if he’s trying to find the words. “Uh, actually, I’ve kind of already asked Cas.”

It’s inwardly humiliating how taken aback he is. Dean isn’t sure whether it’s because he’d been completely expecting this to be his responsibility—the one thing he could really do for Sam on one of the most important days of his life—or if the mere mention of Cas is to blame.

Dean still sees him walking away from him in nauseating, anxiety inducing nightmares. He often wakes up with a pathetic lump in his throat, still feels the loss like a fresh, open wound across his chest. Except that it isn’t even really a loss ; Cas is still out there—alive, human— Dean’s just been too chickenshit to go and see him. He’s terrified of finding out that Cas is happy, flourishing, fine without him. All the while, Dean’s been drowning.

“You got everything you need?” Dean manages to keep the sickness in his throat at bay, stops it from intercepting his words and making his voice shake. 

Cas stands at the bottom of the bunker’s metal staircase, duffel bag tucked tightly under his arm. He grips the strap, hauling it further against himself even though it’s flush, and tries for a smile, but it’s wobbly. “I think so, yeah.”

They stand two feet apart, stances awkward at best, and Dean considers how this is probably one of the worst goodbyes in human history.

Sam’s holed up in his room, having already said his piece before sloping off to give them a little time. All Dean can think is damn the kid, because there’s so much he wants to say—so much right on the tip of his tongue that he can’t quite figure out how to phrase—and Sam being there had been his way out of saying anything. Dean still can’t spout any of it, though, and the only card he has left to play from the deck of excuses is that he’s a complete coward.

He swallows, and does what he can, “you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” Cas sounds so sad, so dejected that Dean feels a physical ache in his chest. 

Dean looks down, and thinks of what could say, the truths he could let slip after forcing them down for years. He wants to ask why Cas thinks he has to go, why he clearly thinks they’re better off apart, why he’s been not so discreetly planning his next steps ever since they wrapped up the latest apocalypse. 

Instead, Dean says nothing. It’s fitting because that’s all he’s ever done: freeze up every chance he gets to tell Cas that even though he’s lousy at showing it, the guy means the world to him.

Dean’s lips do their best to shape something, anything, to say. He’s at a loss, though. Cas’s wistful words hang in the air between them, and Dean wishes above all else that he had the nerves, the fearlessness to correct him. He doesn’t though, because he’s afraid he’ll go too far.

No. Please don’t go. I need you here. I don’t know how to do this without you anymore. 

“Dean?” Cas says.

Peering up, Dean meets his eye, and it’s like being sucker punched.

“Yeah?”

“I have to go soon or I’m going to miss my bus.”

The Lincoln irreparably given up on Cas a few weeks back. Dean offered to set him up with new wheels, but Cas wasn’t exactly going anywhere fast without him or Sam—until now—so it didn't seem to matter all that much.

Dean’s offered to drive him. The thought of Cas, lonely, sitting on a saturated, crummy bus seat made his heart drop. Cas declined, stating that he had no concrete destination in mind, so Dean dropping him off anywhere would be pointless, and the last thing he wanted was to put Dean out. Dean neglected to say what came to his mind then, too: I’d drive you to the ends of the earth and back if you’d let me.

“Oh, okay,” Dean nods weakly, “you really taking the bus? Sure you don’t want a ride?” 

Cas shakes his head; he smiles again. “It’s a nice night. I could do with the walk.” 

Dean wants to beg Cas to let him do this for him. After everything, he just wants Cas to let him drop him off at the damn bus station before he goes and leaves him gasping for air in the dust. 

“If you’re sure,” croaks Dean instead. 

Nodding and pulling the strap of his bag up again, Cas shifts awkwardly. He makes a point of trying to catch Dean’s eye, though, like he’s daring him to say more. Dean doesn’t.

Cas makes a quiet noise of realisation in the back of his throat, and Dean assumes he’s forgotten to pack something. He’s about to ask what it is when Cas steps forward, face unreadable and suddenly drops his bag to the floor next to his feet.

Heart lurching in his chest, Dean sends thanks to whatever forces are at work, because this looks a lot like Cas deciding to stay. He’s about to speak to that end, to grin and say something like finally realised you’re being crazy, huh? , when Cas’s arms go up and he’s pulling Dean into a tight, smothering hug.

It’s in that moment that Dean realises he isn’t staying. He’s punctuating his already agonising goodbye with this familiar closeness that makes Dean feel sick to his stomach.

Dean’s mind is half absent as he numbly reaches up to return the embrace. He grips Cas’s shoulders and hopes he isn’t digging his fingers in too hard, hopes it isn’t obvious that he’s clinging on and willing Cas to get the message. Dean’s eyes start to sting; he squeezes them shut and he’s glad for the hug, because at least Cas can’t see as his bottom lip starts to tremble.

Dean sucks a breath in, tries to right himself, to force himself to get his shit together. It turns out that he can’t do a damn thing right, though, because he breathes in the smell of apple shampoo, and that par-for-the-course musty smell that comes with spending more than five minutes in the bunker, and the distinct scent of his own cologne hanging on Cas’ clothes. The smell is so strong, sharp, and inherently Cas that Dean lets out an involuntary gasp.

Cas pulls away at that but doesn’t get far, Dean’s fingers still twisted in his coat. They’re mere inches apart, eyes locked. Dean wouldn’t even have to take a step forward for the tips of their noses to brush. If Cas were to breathe a little too heavily, Dean would feel it fan over his face. It wouldn’t take more than a tilt of his chin for Dean to press their lips together.

It’d be so easy to kiss him, this much Dean knows. He’s not nearly as confident about what’d happen in the aftermath, though, so he doesn’t. 

Dean relinquishes his grip on Cas’ coat and drops his hands down to his sides. He breaks away from his steady gaze and steps back. 

“Gonna miss your bus,” Dean says dumbly. He tells himself that he’s imagining the disappointment on Cas’ face as he nods and picks up his bag.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean watches as Cas turns tail and starts to ascend the steps towards the doorway. He makes himself zone out, though, because he can’t bear to focus on Cas pulling the door open and slipping out of sight.

“Cas?”

It’s not that Dean had been wringing his hands with nervous excitement and barely controlled glee at the thought of marrying Sam and Eileen—truth be told, he hates speaking in front of others in any capacity—it’s more that he never expected that Sam would even consider asking someone else.  

“Well, yeah. I asked when I went up to Iowa to see him,” Sam explains. “I didn’t even think you’d want to do it. Besides, I think we both know that Cas has a little more...propriety and decorum than you.” 

Even mildly pissed off, Dean knows that Sam’s got a point. No reason to let him know that, though. “What?” he feigns shock, “I’ve got fuckloads of propriety, decorum coming out of my ass.” 

Sam just gives him a look.

“Just appreciate the lack of responsibility.” Then he’s nodding towards the table, face impatient. “Now, leave me alone. Kind of a race against the clock here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says simply. 

Such as with most things that weigh on him, Dean tries not to dwell on it. However, as usual, his mind’s working overtime. The knowledge that Sam had passed over him pretty much instantly in favour of somebody who would make the whole thing flow better, look better, be better is like something heavy pressing down on Dean’s chest.

Cas will do an awesome job, he knows that as well as he knows anything. He’ll recite anything that needs reciting without hiccuping over or laughing at the words or the way they sound coming out of his mouth. Everybody will coo and smile and subsequently gush over the beautiful ceremony that went so well because Dean wasn’t involved enough to fuck it up. 

Dean’s always been good at finding silver linings, though, and it doesn’t take long for him to start deliberating for the following day on what time it’s generally acceptable to start drinking when you have guests over. Not that it matters all that much; he doesn’t have any responsibilities or a speech to ramble through, so he figures any time in the a.m. should be good.

The rest of the night flies by in a repetitive blur. Dean practically nests in his room, desperate to leave Sam alone and not step on his toes. Every couple of hours he slopes through to the kitchen, eats and goes back to his room. There are a few bathroom breaks interspersed where he makes as little noise as possible. 

Mostly, he worries. About everything. He worries about things getting lost, extreme weather, people crying off and hardly anybody showing up. 

Selfishly, the thing he worries about the most is seeing Cas. They haven’t seen each other or really even spoken since Cas upped and left, and Dean can practically already feel the uneasiness between them, the strain born of being apart with both nothing and too much to say. 

Images of Cas’ name lighting up his phone screen flood his mind and it doesn't take long for the guilt to set in. Texts and calls have gone ignored for months, and Dean is suddenly hit with the realisation that he's going to have to see Cas and act like there isn't a damn thing wrong. It seems like the sort of thing that any sensible person would’ve spent some time preparing for--Dean, however, is anything but sensible.

Sam visited Cas a handful of times when he’d eventually landed in a quiet part of Iowa. A new excuse had tumbled its way out of Dean’s mouth every time. Each one had been bolder and more convincing than the last, but all covering up the same truth: I miss him so damn much that I’m afraid of what seeing him happy there will do to me.

He wants Cas to be happy within himself—whether Dean’s involved or not—of course he does. He’s just getting impatient waiting for when he’ll reach a point where he’s happy without Cas.

Eventually, Dean starts to doze off. He dreams, not too vividly or lucidly, but hears himself say gonna miss your bus , and tosses and turns for most of the night. 

Charlie arrives early enough for Dean to still be blinking sleep out of his eyes. She comes blustering into the bunker with an overly excited greeting and a toothy grin. Swaddling party supplies in both arms, she pads down the staircase and dumps everything on the map table gracelessly with a relieved breath. 

It’s safe to say that the wind’s almost knocked out of Dean when Charlie all but tackles him, arms wound tightly around his neck. “Hey, kid,” he mumbles into her shoulder with a smile he can’t curb. She pulls back with a smile to match his, giving his short hair a quick ruffle before turning to Sam.

“Dun dun duh-duh, dun dun duh-duh,” hums Charlie, grin growing impossibly wider as she steps towards Sam. Her arms spread invitingly and he wraps her up in a hug with an amused groan.

“The Wedding March? Really?” Sam’s trying to sound irritated, but neither of them have ever really managed to see that through when it comes to Charlie.

“It’s actually the Bridal Chorus, but I like where your head’s at,” she pulls away, still gripping Sam by the biceps as she looks up at him, beaming. “I can’t believe you’re getting—”

“Please, don’t say the word.” Sam practically winces. 

Charlie huffs, holding her hands up in defeat. “Okay, I won’t, but commitment ceremonied just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

If he were around just about anybody else, Dean would probably feel embarrassed by how easily entertained he is, and just how enthusiastically he laughs out, “ha. Ring.”

Sam peers past Charlie at him, meeting Dean’s amused smirk with an eye roll, and Dean can practically hear the ‘ really?’ . He sees Sam open his mouth, presumably to quip back, when Charlie steps up to the map table, fanning out some of the decorations waiting to be put up.

“Okay, so we’ve got about six hours before you ,” she turns to point at Sam, “get hitched. Let’s get this place suited and booted, boys.” 

They get started immediately, figuring that there’s no time to waste with just the three of them left to dress the whole damn bunker by themselves. Grabbing a bulk-sized pack of deflated balloons, Dean peers around the table hoping to find a pump, lest his lungs give out before he actually gets to see Sam get hitched. 

After a half-assed glance around yields no fruit, he turns to Charlie, about to ask and probably subsequently complain, when she pipes up, “hey, where’s Cas? He’s coming, right?” 

The way his heart practically jumps into his throat isn’t at all unprecedented when it comes to people mentioning Cas, but that’s not to say Dean’s fine with it. He says nothing, despite being pretty sure that Charlie’s aiming the question solely at him. Cringing when he sees Sam glance over at him in his peripheral vision, Dean busies himself pulling a handful of balloons out onto the table.

Sam clearly figures that Dean’s drawn a blank, and coughs stiffly, “uh, I think he’s coming up later on. Haven’t actually heard from him yet, though. I’ll go call him.” He backs away from them, pulling his phone out of his pocket before disappearing down the hallway.

Charlie and Dean are left alone, shrouded in silence. Not knowing what to say to her isn’t something that Dean’s ever actually struggled with before, because it’s Charlie , but the awkwardness doesn’t come as a huge surprise after outright ignoring her question. 

Dean clears his throat, mind boggling for something to say to ease the tension. “So, how’s life? Still scoring at every God-given opportunity, right?”

“You know me—girls, girls, girls.” Charlie lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The atmosphere’s a little less stifling now, and Dean’s getting ready to settle into how they usually act around each other when Charlie asks, “how are you?” There’s no Charlie-esque joke tacked onto the end, no bantering or attempt at busting his balls, just genuine curiosity. Dean really can’t stand the note of concern in her voice.

He slaps on a smile, fumbling with a balloon. “I’m awesome. Never better.” Dean hasn’t quite reached the point of fully believing his own bullshit yet, but he’s determined. He’ll get there.

Charlie’s quiet and it’s suspicious, so Dean dares to glance over at her. Her eyebrows are knitting together, and she’s levelling him with a gaze that’s calling him a liar. 

“You’ve heard you can’t kid a kidder, right?”

“Charlie,” Dean says, “I’m good. I’m great. Seriously.”

She sighs sympathetically, “I just—I know you were a little cut up after—you know.” 

In the next breath, Dean’s vividly reliving a particularly mortifying night from about a month back. A booze-soaked memory flashes across his mind of his own grating voice whining down the phone at three a.m., slumped against the wall of a run down, seedy bar. A beautiful woman had tried to take him home, which usually would’ve been what marked a successful night. It wasn’t the same when his mind was fixated on one person, and wanting them and them alone, though. 

Cas left and Dean vowed to himself that he wasn’t going to get caught up in missing him. Fuck, no. He’d carry on as he would if Cas had stayed (pining and all, apparently). What Dean hadn’t accounted for, though, was the fact that in not getting caught up, he’d pretty much end up closing himself off from talking about Cas whatsoever—unless he was shitfaced, slumped outside of a dive bar in the early hours. Obviously.

He left. He actually left, Dean’s brain relays his wasted words back to him and he tries not to visibly cringe. He can practically feel the rough brick wall where it’d been pressed against his back through his jacket. Trying not to shudder, he turns to Charlie, eyes steely and affronted.

“Am I not saying it right? I’m fine. Jesus.” 

The immediate guilt hits like a freight train, but Charlie seems to blow right past his sharp words.

“Dean, if there’s anybody you can talk to about this stuff, it’s me.” One of Charlie’s small hands reaches up and bridges the gap between them, wrapping around his forearm. Dean lurches out of her grip almost instantly. Not knowing when to drop something has always been one of Charlie’s few qualities that he’s less than fond of. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t do this today, kid.” Placing both hands on the map table, Dean closes his eyes and tries to will away the urge to snap at Charlie again. She’s only ever had his best interests at heart, but Dean’s never been one for spilling his guts over anything , and he isn’t about to start now. “Today’s about Sam and Eileen, okay? Not about—just, drop it. Please.” 

Charlie just looks over at him, face blank, and she’s quieter than she’s been since stepping foot in the bunker. With a muted nod, she steps away, “I’ll go get started on the food.” 

Dean hears the unspoken ‘ you know where I am if you need me ’ pass between them as she grasps his arm again, lighter this time, a fleeting touch that’s gone as quickly as it came. 

The balloons are all blown up by the time Sam’s wandering back into the room, and Dean’s more out of breath than he cares to admit. “Cas is heading over soon. Should be here around two.”

“Awesome,” Dean says dryly.

Sam just looks at him blankly. They never talked about how he left things with Cas. Dean’s unsure of what he actually knows. Not that there’s anything too hefty to know about their goodbye; it had been made up purely of pregnant pauses, words obviously left unsaid and missed looks of longing—nothing Sam hadn’t lived with for the past decade anyway. 

It can only be presumed that Cas hasn’t said much either. Dean thinks he’d know if Sam had anything to say—it’s likely he would’ve been cornered and coerced into spilling his guts by now. Sam’s attempts at using healthy coping mechanisms such as talking it out really chapped his ass sometimes. Luckily, he’s got off scot-free in the Cas department, though.

“Have you talked to him recently?” Sam asks. He’s busying himself messing with a decoration on the table, trying too hard at nonchalance. 

Dean watches his brother bend over backwards to keep it casual and feels a little conscience-stricken. He mulls the question over in his head and quickly figures that saying not once because I think hearing his voice would turn me into a sad sack of shit would probably put a damper on the mood.

He shrugs, “not really.”

“You know, he asked me if he’d done something to upset you. He thought you were mad at him.” Sam’s tone is wary as though he knows he’s stepping into eggshell territory. He’d mentioned this briefly after returning from visiting Cas, and Dean had felt just as gut-punched by it then as he does now. 

There’s too many things for Dean to feel guilty about to pick just one—whether it’s misplacing his anger, his brother’s overly cautious tone or the fact that his emotional constipation has given Cas a complex—so he opts for not dealing with any of it.

“Yeah, and you told him I wasn’t, right? No harm done,” he says, concise.

With a heavy sigh, Sam lets the conversation die. 

Between Charlie laying all the food out in the kitchen, Sam hanging banners and Dean blowing up so many balloons that he’d been on the cusp of passing out, they miraculously manage to get everything set up an hour before the ceremony is due to start. They’ve cleared space in the library and set up a couple dozen dingy chairs, and the bunker doesn’t look half bad.

Dean’s nursing his third beer and watching idly as Sam rants to Charlie. Cas is late—only by fifteen minutes, but still—and it’s shaping up to be the straw that breaks Sam’s back. Dean only indulges himself momentarily by selfishly thinking that maybe Cas won’t even come; maybe he’s decided that it’s just too far for a wedding that isn’t even a wedding, before starting to feel bad for his brother.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t want Cas there. Hell, pretty much all he’s done for the past few months is wish Cas was there, that he’d never left in the first place. There was just so much unresolved baggage that Dean honestly felt was one-sided. The thought of seeing Cas was just a lot.

Sam’s fidgeting like nothing Dean’s ever seen.

“Sammy, would you stop? You’re gonna give yourself a stroke,” he comments, taking a swig of his beer. 

Sam doesn’t take heed and keeps wringing his hands together. “Where the hell is Cas? We’ve got stuff to go over.”

Dean smiles in a feeble attempt to soften the atmosphere. “I was the safe bet after all. Who would’ve thought, huh?” Charlie fixes him with a glare bordering on murderous, and his face falls.

She ushers Sam to sit down, an effort to quell his nerves. “Think we need blood sugar over here. Dean, could you go get a soda or something?” she asks, voice low and collected.

Dean rolls his eyes but puts up no real fight. He walks through to the kitchen and heads for the fridge, pulling out a coke each for Sam and Charlie as well as a bottle for himself. Peering around the room as he moves to go back to the war room, Dean admires how good Charlie has managed to make it look—considering the bunker’s kitchen did leave a lot to be desired in the way of interior design.

He’s stepping back into the war room, standing beneath the metal railing when he hears the door open. Heart all but plummeting into his stomach, Dean cringes.

Giving into the incessant impulse to look up towards the sound, Dean watches as Cas steps through and closes the door behind him. He can’t help but notice he looks as handsome as ever, having shedded his coat in lieu of a formal black blazer. He’s even wearing a black tie. Dean only feels slightly devastated by the sight of him. 

Dean’s still looking up when Cas peers over the railing and meets his eye. Cas’ movements stall for a second, flustered. He opens his mouth to speak, but any intended words are lost beneath Sam’s exclaim. “Jesus, Cas! Thought you’d bailed. Way to keep a guy on his toes.”

Sam blunders through from behind Dean as Cas descends the steps. They meet at the bottom and Dean can only watch, face still warm from Cas’ gaze, as Sam grips him into a hug. 

Cas looks up at him from over Sam’s shoulder, eyes soft, and Dean can hardly breathe—gone all over again, just like that. Back to square one. The feeling of it is so all-encompassing, and Dean quickly realises he never got past square one in the first place.

Pulling away, Sam claps a large hand down onto Cas’ shoulder and turns to head up into the library. He gestured for Cas to follow him. “Come on. We should run through stuff before people start showing up.” Cas nods and starts to follow. 

He stops in front of Dean for a moment and smiles small. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s heart stutters, and he can’t stand it. “Hey,” he says, and marvels at the fact that his voice doesn’t shake. 

Eileen’s a little late, but it’s nothing too earth-shattering and Sam manages to just about stay on the rails. 

The chairs set up as neatly as possible in the library shift and squeak as people turn to watch her walk through the arch and over towards Sam. For a second, Dean can just about picture this happening in an actual church. They’d probably be shunned for their clothing choices alone, though, even without the more than questionable lifestyle. Sam’s in a white shirt and jeans alongside Eileen in a simple white cotton dress, a better fit for a warm summer’s day rather than a wedding. 

Even dressed as the picture of simplicity, Dean watches the side of Sam’s face as he looks at her like she’s the only person in the world. He puts in extra effort not to look at Cas where he stands between them as their hands join. 

Cas delivers the ceremony with all the confidence and assurance that Dean had expected. He knows it’s exactly what Sam needs, so he lets go of any resentment. Eileen’s smile practically reaches her eyes as Sam signs and translates the words to her, and it’s enough.

Dean just listens as Cas speaks, his strong, low voice expressing the words in a way that Dean suspects only he can. His chest aches, and he doesn’t want to fixate on why.

Vows are exchanged and the tooth-rotting sweetness of it all takes no prisoners. The guests coo and hum at certain parts and laugh at others. Dean feels himself exhale a little shakily as he watches Jody wipe her eyes.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Cas says with a wide smile, an accomplished finality to his words. 

Sam and Eileen share their first kiss as an unofficially wedded couple, and Dean pretends not to notice Cas’ eyes on him in the aftermath. 

It’s not an hour after the happy couple have said their I dos and Dean’s half cut— well , three-quarters cut would probably be a little more accurate. He was at least half cut well before anything was in full swing.

There’s bits of pink silly string in his hair and down the back of his shirt courtesy of Claire, and it keeps tickling the back of his neck and making him squirm whenever he moves. She’s lucky he’s a little too far gone to chase her down in hopes of getting her back. Dean promises to himself that he’ll start planning his revenge when there’s no longer two of everything in front of him.

Sam’s not far away, just floating around the room keeping up appearances and thanking everybody for coming out. It’s the kind of effort Dean hasn’t bothered to make in lieu of focusing on the few people here that he actually wants to see, so every time somebody he doesn’t recognise looks as though they’re about to try and talk to him, he turns tail and grabs another beer. Everybody has their routine.

Dean’s in the middle of quietly listening to Charlie quiz Kaia on all things her and Claire when he realises he hasn’t really spoken to Cas since he arrived at the bunker. It’s an intrusive thought that Sober Dean had been able to brush over in his mind, but his inhibitions are lowered now, self control a little withered. Sam had gripped Cas the second he set foot inside and hadn’t really given them a chance to say much—not that Dean would’ve, he suspects. 

He tells himself that he isn’t solely looking for Cas as he takes a quick scan of the room, elevated above most of the guests on the top step leading into the library. 

Chest throbbing a little, Dean tries not to stare as he watches Cas and Jody talk. He’s nursing a beer and laughing at her words and Dean’s subconscious unhelpfully reminds him of when he could make Cas laugh like that—when he could hold his attention by telling a dumb joke or exaggerated story—and then he just feels a little sick. It’s the drink doing a number on him, obviously.

Dean turns his attention back to Charlie and Kaia pointedly, an effort to distract himself, and tries to tune into their conversation. Unsurprisingly, they’re still talking about Claire. 

“She sucks at video games, but she thinks she’s awesome because I let her win all the time,” Kaia admits with an indulgent smile before abruptly looking over at Dean and lifting her pointer finger at him, “tell her that and you’re as good as dead.” 

“I wouldn’t dare.” Dean holds his hands up in mock surrender and goes to step back. He hasn’t really moved all that much since things started to get a little hazy, and the shift makes him trip over his own feet a little, bumping into someone.

Sam’s broad hand clasps around his shoulder and straightens him up, “one too many?” he asks with no real weight behind it, grin barely concealed. 

“M’dissapointed that you haven’t. It’s your wedding day, man. Drink up.” His beer fizzes and gushes up the neck of Dean’s bottle as he holds it up, swaying a little.

With a small shake of his head and a smile, Sam drops his hand from Dean’s shoulder. “Unlike some of us, I actually prefer to be coherent from time to time. Apologies.” 

Dean’s not really bugged by Sam’s words until he hears a snicker from somewhere nearby. He looks over towards the sound and sees a few people watching them, lips quirked, and suddenly feels a little self conscious and mocked.

Charlie shifts uncomfortably beside him, and Dean can see her levelling him with a look in his peripheral vision like she’s waiting for some kind of reaction.

Deciding that playing it off like it’s nothing is probably for the best, Dean just takes a considerable swig of his beer and chuckles. “Tell me what you really think, Sammy. Jeez.”

There’s another murmur from the same direction as before, and Dean doesn’t get a chance to wonder who exactly it’s coming from when a guy he doesn’t recognise all but blares, “honestly, Sam, when you told us your brother was a drunk, I expected him to be the life of the party. Can’t say you live up to the hype, man—just stumblin’ in the corner there.” 

He’s sure the guy is a hunter that Eileen invited, but Dean doesn’t trust himself to accurately place anyone while he’s drunk and quickly feeling his temper starting to rise. Sam’s like a deer in the headlights when Dean glances over at him, bewildered at the words. 

“Dude,” he sputters with a nervous laugh, alarmed, “don’t...paraphrase. Saying somebody likes a drink isn’t calling them a drunk.”

There are still eyes on them, people watching like they’re anticipating some sort of blow out, and Dean tries his best not to feel a little cornered. He’s never liked too much attention. Eileen’s friend mumbles an unbothered ‘whatever’ and appears uninterested as he looks away. 

Sam turns back, “Dean—”

“No—I’m glad I can give you something to talk about with your pals. S’not like you can talk about your own problems, right? None to talk about, being so damn perfect ‘n’ all.” Dean laughs, sound void of any actual amusement. Charlie mumbles his name at his side, an attempt to rein him in, but he takes no notice. “Honestly, though. I’m surprised you’re not getting your fill right now. Last day of freedom, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyebrows furrow and he looks a little puzzled, either at Dean’s words or the fact that he’s switched so fast. “I don’t see it that way. Keep your damn voice down.”

“Why?” Dean challenges, “that asshole didn’t.”

“Dean.”

“Seriously, drink up. You think the old ball and chain is gonna let you knock back a few cold ones whenever you want? Game’s changed now, kid.”

His own words barely make sense to him. Dean knows Eileen, knows she’s way more easy going than he’s making out (probably even a little too easy going for Sam), and knows above all that he shouldn’t be bringing her into this. Luckily, she’s across the room talking to somebody, unaware for now. He still feels like shit over it, though; but, the words are already out and he doesn’t much feel like pulling any punches.

It’s while he’s checking for Eileen’s position that he regrettably catches Cas’ eye. He’s watching everything unfold, expression indecipherable, and Dean feels as though he’s been gut punched. Sam’s harsh voice cuts through the room, and they both look away.

“It’s a little too obvious how jealous you are. Catch up later when you aren’t seeing double, alright?” Sam claps him on the shoulder again, this time condescendingly, and the dam breaks.

Dean snaps, “jealous? Of what? Once a fortnight sex and never getting a damn minute to yourself? Yeah, man, I’m cut up.”

Staring him down, Dean watches as Sam’s face hardens. He feels a touch at his wrist and Charlie’s there, pulling him away from his brother’s glare, shaking her head with crystal clear disappointment in her eyes. 

Sam’s shoving his way through the crowd and heading away from Dean when he looks back. A quiet has fallen over the room, the tinny, muffled playback of party music and uncomfortable mumbling the only things audible.

Dean suddenly feels it all at once, the booze, the adrenaline of confrontation, the scrutiny of what feels like a thousand stares, and he’s got to go. He can’t be here. His face heats up and he knows he must be scarlet red with anger and delayed embarrassment. 

It’s like his skin is set alight as Cas grips his arm as he’s passing through the party guests, now awkward bystanders, on the way through to his room. Glancing back, he sees blue eyes framed by furrowed eyebrows and a devastatingly forlorn expression aimed his way, and just like that, it’s all too damn much. Dean yanks his arm back to his side and carries on.

The hangover kicks in hours before it usually does. Dean’s clock blinks the time at him from his bedside table in the pitch black of his room—it’s just after three—and his head throbs dully with the promise that he’s going to feel like shit warmed up for the rest of the day. 

The real prize is that Dean even still feels a little drunk, dry mouth and all. Getting a drinksuddenly seems like the best idea he’s ever had, the bunker’s kitchen an oasis in the world’s driest desert. 

Against all of his better judgement, Dean pushes himself upright and out of bed. It’s difficult to keep the urge to vomit at bay as the room starts to spin the second he sets his feet on the floor, even in darkness. The alcohol still pumping through his veins heightens everything, and Dean winces as the ice cold floor presses up against the soles of his feet as he stands. 

Padding his way through to the kitchen takes a little longer than it probably should, having to stop to stabilise himself against the wall a good few times, and he almost jumps out of his skin when he steps up into the room and there’s already somebody skulking in there.

Cas stands over the discarded buffet table, picking at leftover food. It’s so delightfully human, Dean would probably feel endeared if he wasn’t wholly concentrating on not hurling. Cas looks up when he hears Dean’s footsteps with a startled jump of his own.

“Oh, Dean. Hi.” He smiles, relieved. “How are you feeling?”

Dean gives him a once-over; he registers the plain t-shirt he’s wearing, along with a pair of plaid pyjama pants that Cas has probably forgotten once belonged to Dean. Dean feels supremely overdressed in the same half-unbuttoned shirt and jeans he’d fallen asleep in hours before. 

It’s been months since Cas’ grace burned out, since wearing the same clothes all the time became impractical, but seeing him in anything other than the tan coat and suit that Dean’s used to still kind of throws him for a loop. 

“Like hammered crap. What are you doing up?” Dean asks, darkening the doorway.

“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make some tea.” Cas nods over towards a cup brewing on the side, “would you like a cup?”

So, they aren’t going to talk about the strange moment they had earlier. Dean can work with that.

He lets a small, earnest smile slip and drops his head. He rubs an anxious hand over the back of his neck. “Uh, no. I’m good. Not much of a tea guy.” To this end, Dean straightens himself up and heads across the room to the fridge. He pulls out a frosty bottle of beer before walking over towards the metal kitchen island and leaning back against it.

Already anticipating and steeling himself for Cas’ look of disapproval, Dean looks over at him, and sure enough, there it is. They’re standing a lot closer now, so the disappointment in Cas’ face is practically in high definition.  

“Come on, man. Hair of the dog that bit you and all that,” Dean tries to reason with a smirk that Cas probably would’ve found charming once.

Cas says nothing, stoic as ever. Dean watches more intently through the haze, hanging off his every move, as he goes over to the fridge and takes out a bottle of water. Turning back towards Dean, Cas steps closer, presses it against Dean’s palm and takes the beer into his own hand. The water bottle’s cold against his skin as Cas holds it there, waiting for Dean to grip it. He does, and then the moment’s over. 

He looks up and catches Cas’ eye. They’re so close now, and Dean revels in it.

“Thanks,” he croaks weakly, in disbelief that his words actually come out at all.

“I think it’s safe to say you’ve had enough.” Cas sounds much less affected by their proximity. His words are harsh but his tone of voice doesn’t give much away. Dean doesn’t think he sounds disappointed, though—just tired. He’s glad—it’d sting something awful to have Cas gone for so long, just to come back and think less of him, no matter how deserving he is of going down in Cas’ estimation.

Cas moves back, out of Dean’s personal space, but leans next to him.

“Yeah.” Dean twists the cap off of the bottle and takes a long swig of water, already feeling a little better—physically, at least. “God, I’m such an asshole.” 

His own venomous words from earlier try their hardest to play back in his head, but Dean somehow manages to push them from the forefront of his mind. It’s probably the greatest act of strength he’s exhibited in a while. 

“Not you,” Cas briefly lifts up the bottle of beer where it’s still dangling in his hand, “this.” 

Beads of condensation cascade down his bare forearm, and Dean watches as they slope down over the skin. He pushes away an intrusive thought of tracing the path of the water with his tongue and clears his throat.

Dean laughs dryly, “don’t be so sure. Kinda think we’re one in the same at this point.”

Cas doesn’t reply, but treads over to the fridge to put the beer back. He turns and levels Dean with a gaze, and Dean almost feels as though he’s being examined.

“Sam will forgive you,” Cas finally says, voice soft. It’s almost enough.

Dean laughs, the sound empty and brittle, “he shouldn’t. I ruined his wedding day.” His throat thickens and Dean takes another swig of water before dragging a hand down over his face. God, he’s exhausted. 

A soft huff sounds from Cas’ direction. Dean registers it as a laugh and is about to ask what’s so damn funny about him hurling insults at his brother on the most important day of his life when Cas says, “I always give credit where it’s due, but I don’t think anything could’ve really ruined today for him. I’m not sure anybody but Eileen had his attention. Not really.” 

A small smile tugs at Dean’s lips, despite still feeling as though something heavy is sitting in his stomach—whether the feeling’s because of the way he’d acted, the alcohol still swimming through him, or because of Cas’s stare, he isn’t sure. “They’re lucky,” he murmurs.

“Yes. It’s not often you find somebody who completes you like that.”

Dean feels a wicked pang in his chest. He thinks of all the times he’d felt as though something was missing whenever Cas wasn’t around, how he’d watched Cas die right in front of him and felt like a part of him had died alongside him, felt a gaping, open wound across his chest when he’d watched him walk out and not look back. 

“Yeah. Like I said, lucky.”

A deafening silence falls over them for a few moments.

“You settling back in here alright?” 

Dean hears how much the phrasing makes it sound as though Cas is back for good. He reminds himself that before he knows it, Cas will probably up and leave again. Theyll have a couple more days together and then Cas will flee back to whatever kind of life he’s cultivating in a place that’s so strange and unfamiliar, yet still manages to be preferable to a life here. 

Cas nods. “Very easily. I feel at home.” It’s the last thing Dean’s expecting to hear. Warmth blooms inside his chest. Eyes fixate on him as he casts his gaze down at the floor and tries to process some kind of response. He’s not sure where the surge of courage comes from, but Dean just runs with it. 

“Look, Cas—I know I haven’t exactly been there for you since you left,” Dean says.

“Dean—” interjects Cas, shaking his head dismissively.

“Just let me—I know you thought I was pissed at you when Sam visited and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t, I just—I’ve felt like shit over a load of stuff. Not you, I’m not blaming you,” Dean sputters anxiously. “It’s just...so much changed—faster than I knew how to get a handle on.”

“You don’t have to explain, Dean.”

“I’m just—I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.” I’m drowning here without you. I don’t even feel like me when you aren’t around. I—

Dean pushes the thoughts away and dares to look back up at Cas. His expression is pretty much unreadable—nothing groundbreaking there. 

“You really don’t have to apologise. This...transitioning period, the adjusting—it’s been hard on everybody.” Cas’ ability to rationalise everything is enviable.

Dean nods and tries to accept Cas’ words, “it made sense to distance myself at the time, I guess. I’m still sorry, though.”

Cas smiles, and Dean swears there’s a tinge of sadness to it. “You’re not at fault for everything, Dean. I wish above all other things that I could make you see that.”

Dean smiles, looking down at his sockless, cold feet bashfully. His cheeks warm a little. “Yeah, well. Don’t forget your tea, by the way.” He points towards the cup and sees Cas’ mirrored smile when he looks back up. 

Glancing over to where his teacup sits on the countertop, Cas sighs quietly. “It’s probably going cold by now. Talking helped, though. Goodnight, Dean.”

Goodbye, Dean sounds in Dean’s head, and he can’t help but internally acknowledge how much he prefers Cas’ more recent words.

“Night,” Dean bids, and he feels yet another burst of confidence well up inside, “Cas?”

“Hm?”

“Wanna do something tomorrow? Breakfast, maybe?”

Watching as Cas’ face changes from one of content complacency to something a little more nervous, Dean shifts on his feet anxiously. He worries he’s gone too far; they haven’t spoken in months, after all. It’s unreasonable to expect Cas to just go back to how they were, but he’s realised this all a little too late. Dean goes to retract his words but he’s cut off.

“I’d love to,” Cas starts, and Dean can already hear the but before it’s left Cas’ mouth. He prepares himself for hearing something about how it isn’t a good idea, and he’s more than a little surprised when Cas says, “but I’m working tomorrow. I have to head off early.”

Dean thinks momentarily that he should’ve been expecting that, at least to some degree. Obviously, Cas has to go back at some point—he can’t stay playing house at the bunker forever—Dean just figured it’d be a little later, for Sam’s sake, at the very least. 

He tries so hard to convince himself that he’s offended on his brother’s behalf--it’s a dick move for Cas to leave so soon after his wedding, after all. They haven’t even really celebrated. Dean also tries to not blame himself completely.

“You’re leaving in the morning.” It’s a statement more than it’s a question.

“Well, yes,” Cas nods, “I couldn’t find cover for tomorrow, so—”

“So, one of your best friends—no, family— gets married, and you’re not even planning to stick around for an extra day? Wow. You really wanna get out of here, don’t you?” Dean laughs, and feels the start of a dark mist pool around him. 

Barely a minute ago, he felt lighter and more laid back than he had in months , just from standing and talking it out with Cas even though they barely scratched the surface of all the shit between them. It wasn’t bad blood—it could never be—more a small mountain of repressed feelings that no one ever dared to bring up.

Cas squints at him, “Dean, that isn’t fair.”

“No, Cas—what isn’t fair is how you were around for so long, and just decided one day to pick up and go. No looking back.” Dean leans back against the island, gesturing loosely towards Cas, “I gotta say, though, you’re getting pretty damn great at that.”

“I mulled over that decision for longer than I can express to you. For longer than you could comprehend. It didn’t come easily.” How Cas manages to keep his voice so irritatingly level all the time, Dean will never understand.

“But you came to it.”

Cas shakes his head in disappointed surrender and steps back. “There’s no getting through to you when you’re like this. There never has been.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Anger that’s all too familiar flares up inside Dean, and he hates the way his words even taste bitter in his mouth.

“It means you can be insufferably stubborn—too stubborn to see things how they are. I didn’t leave you, Dean. I left for you.”

Just like that, Dean is stunned into silence. There’s no figuring out how that works. He’s spent the last three months feeling like a dead thing, Cas’ absence a physical, constant weight on his shoulders—but Cas left for him?

Dean’s mind is still whirling when he practically chokes out a quiet, “what?” 

Looking exasperated and laid a little bare, Cas sighs. “I wasn’t going to stay here, taking up your space, eating your food, in your way, when I’m nothing but dead weight to you now. You didn’t need it—or me.” He visibly swallows, clearly trying not to choke up, and steps even further away from Dean.

“Cas—” Dean starts.

“I’ve finally managed to settle in somewhere else. I’ve put down roots somewhere I’m actually useful. So, yes, I’ll be leaving in the morning. I’d prefer not to leave with you angry with me, but that’s up to you.” 

Dean’s mind races a mile a minute as he lets the words wash over him. Cas actually feels this way about himself—actually thinks they only kept him around because he was useful . It’s in that moment that the worst thing happens: it dawns on Dean that he’s never told Cas any different, even though half the time, he’s the only damn person he wants anywhere near him.

But, his brain is far too comfortable turning just about any overwhelming feeling into anger. At some point along the way, he figures he’s given up trying to break the habit. 

“Heh. Well, no such luck. God, I can’t believe you. Good talk, Cas. Fuckin’ awesome.” 

Ducking his head, Dean smiles bitterly and walks, a little numbly, towards the hallway. He just has to get back to his room and he can unpack this, can deal with it the best way he knows how. His mind immediately flies to the unopened bottle of whiskey under his bed. Score. 

His heartbeat thrums so loudly in his ears that he can almost tune out Cas’ voice sounding from behind him. The incessant pounding almost smothers the, “Dean, wait.” Almost. 

“You’ve said it all, Cas. Go get some sleep. You’re up early, right?” He keeps walking as he mocks. He’s on the home straight now, bedroom door in sight. 

Dean swears he can actually feel Cas’ footsteps picking up their pace behind him, swears he can feel the thud of his soles vibrating as they hit the floor behind him, but he doesn’t stop. 

He’s scrambling to get away as he feels something starting to crack inside of him—maybe it’s the prospect of actually having to talk about their shit, maybe it’s having to deal with Cas leaving again. Dean doesn’t really care to dwell on specifics, though. He’s just seeing red.

“Don’t, Dean—would you just listen to me?” begs Cas, still in pursuit. 

Predictably, Dean says nothing, but his heart keeps thudding faster against the wall of his chest because Cas is still following him, not giving up, still trying to make him understand. “Dean!” 

Before he can stop himself, Dean turns around abruptly and stills. “What?!” he snaps. “What else is there for you to say?”

Cas’ mouth opens and closes, obviously trying to find the words and failing. His eyes are sad. Dean looks over his face, maps his features and as he watches Cas scramble to find the words, Dean damns the fact that regardless of how mad he is, being this close to Cas and watching as he tries to think of something—anything—to say still makes his mouth go dry and his palms sweat. 

Another beat goes by and no one says a word. 

“Yeah, s’what I thought.” 

Dean turns, ready to exit stage left and get the hell away from this conversation into the smothering quiet of his room. 

He’s barely a step away when a touch wraps around his shoulder and is grappling at his shirt tightly. Dean’s spun back around with a tug, and he’s kind of expecting Cas to punch him in the face or something--God knows he deserves it--so he just tries to ready himself for whatever’s to come. 

His feet trip over each other clumsily as he turns, and then Cas is kissing him.

All at once, Dean’s done for. Large hands splay across the sides of his neck, skin warm, and Cas’ lips slip over his in a way that’s nothing like he’s imagined it to be, but everything he could want all the same. 

It’s over far too quickly and Cas pulls away, eyes wide and transfixed on Dean’s mouth. His eyebrows dip and furrow, hands falling away from Dean’s face, and he knows Cas--he can already hear the regretful apology before it tumbles out of his mouth. 

He doesn’t let it happen, though—can’t screw this up—just catches his arms with deft hands and stops Cas before he can back away. Dean’s touch keeps them barely half a foot apart, and their noses bump unceremoniously when he leans back in. 

“Dean,” Cas speaks, tone desperate but barely audible even with their proximity. 

It’s the chance of a lifetime for him, and Dean so wants to be assertive—he wants to be confident and bold and assured. He wants to sweep Cas off his feet without hesitation or pause and make him think God, this is what I’ve been missing? , but there’s only so much a guy can do when the person they’ve loved for years kisses them when they were expecting a punch. 

Dean’s used to doing this with strangers--people who don’t know a thing about him, about his insecurities, can’t see through his bravado. Cas is anything but a stranger.

He wants to be assertive, yet he’s anything but. Dean’s hands tremble as he clasps one around Cas’ forearm, drops the other down to his waist and presses their foreheads together. 

They meet in the middle. 

Their lips press together again. Cas’ hands settle at Dean’s shoulders, clutching at his top, and for the first time in months, it’s like the world’s properly resting on its axis. Dean’s pulled in impossibly close by Cas’ grip, and it’s all he can do not to moan pathetically when he feels Cas nip at his bottom lip softly.

He sweeps his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and something else entirely takes him over. Dean uses the leverage of his solid grasp on Cas’ hips to careen him into the wall beside his bedroom door, laughing against plush lips when Cas grunts at the impact of his back hitting the brick.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, barely pulling away. He’s just shushed and kissed again. He hopes Cas knows he’s apologising for more than the clumsy positioning. Knowing Dean better than most, he probably does.

Cas’ hand wraps into Dean’s hair and he gasps sharply, ducking his head into the crook below Cas’ jaw and breathing hotly. Slender fingers card through the short strands at the back of his head, skating the skin of his neck, and Dean wonders for a fleeting second how he hasn’t died without this. 

Angle permitting, he could kick himself twenty times over for pushing Cas away as many times as he has, and tries not to think about whether they could’ve had this sooner if he’d just got his shit together.

Dean’s just getting started mouthing at Cas’ jaw when the telltale sound of a creaky door echoes through the hallways. They part, panting, and glance down towards the noise’s direction before looking back at each other.

There’s a question in Cas’ stare that Dean’s scared to answer—something akin to what now?

He notices how Cas is blushing. Dean doesn’t know whether the flush is from exertion or the scrutiny of his stare, but he knows that he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to feel the warmth of that burning skin under his hands and mouth because he’s intimidated by a creaking hinge. 

Dean doesn’t tear his gaze away from Cas’—he wouldn’t dare—as he reaches down past a slim hip he hadn’t long ago had a vice grip around, and twists his doorknob. The door swings open with a groan of its own and Cas looks away then. He glances back into the room as far as he can see around the wall. 

A little spaced out and too caught up drinking in the sight of Cas’ profile—perfectly pointed nose and sculpted chin—Dean barely feels it when a hand winds around his own and tugs softly. Cas looks back over at him, pushes away from the wall and moves backwards towards the open door. His first step over the threshold is mostly silent but still manages to sound thunderous. 

Dumbly, Dean just follows him inside and Cas reaches past him to slam the door shut, shrouding the room in darkness.

Dean wakes slowly, turned onto his side. For a brief moment, he forgets. It’s just another day waking up with a mild throbbing in his temples and a dry mouth, legs wrapped in sweaty sheets a few days past needing to be washed.

He remembers, then.

He remembers the glint in Sam’s kind eyes as he and Eileen tied the knot, remembers the muted buzz in his brain as he chatted with Charlie and Kaia and he remembers spitting harsh words in his brother’s face that left an acidic taste in his mouth.

He remembers Cas—his voice gritty describing Dean’s insufferable stubbornness, his lips slotting desperately between Dean’s, soft and shaking hands skating over bare skin in the black of the room, limbs tangled.

Dean can’t believe that the thought of rolling over isn’t daunting. He thinks about getting to look at Cas through the sleep in his eyes, being able to lean over and plant lazy kisses on his skin, and a giddy feeling bubbles up in his chest because he can , because Cas knows. 

Ghosts of whispers from a few hours before surround him in the morning haze. Dean’s reminded of hushed confessions mumbled in the dark, Cas’ mouth against the shell of his ear as Dean had skimmed a hand up the outside of his thigh.

Dean turns over. Cas’ side of the bed is empty and Dean instantly feels sick. 

The thought that Cas would leave without saying goodbye is one he doesn’t even want to entertain. Cas being capable of saying and doing the things he had and then departing without a word—departing at all, really—is implausible to Dean. 

Dumbly, he reaches over and the still-warm sheets shift beneath his hand. He rolls onto his back, sits up and tries not to look directly at the sliver of light flooding in through the doorway, open just a crack. 

Voices sound from somewhere not too far, and Dean thinks he recognises one as Sam’s. There’s a whole shattered mess of crap for him to start piecing back together, and no sense in holding off. 

Dean ignores the dizzying pounding in his head and forces himself upright, legs swinging off the edge of the bed. He stands and walks to his dresser, pulling out a t-shirt and sweatpants before slipping into them—fresh clothes feeling like a small godsend—and stepping out into the all too bright hallway. 

Following the noise, Dean finds himself inching closer and closer to the war room. It’s Sam speaking, clear as a bell now; Dean halts anxiously and can’t help but listen.

“Awful as it probably sounds, I’m just glad Eileen couldn’t hear him,” says Sam. “Bad enough everybody else could.”

Dean feels a sick pang of guilt, words from the night before playing back in his mind, and wonders how he’s ever going to reach a point where he can look Sam in the eye and not feel like shit for ruining his wedding.

It’s deathly quiet for a minute. Dean figures he’s probably talking to Jody or Bobby or something, offloading on whoever they have left that’s closest to family. 

He’s surprised to hear Cas reply, voice level. “I understand why you’re upset. Dean...he’s got a lot going on. It piles up in his mind like it would anybody’s. The dam breaking just doesn’t always have the most ideal timing, I suppose.”

Dean’s first thought is that Cas really shouldn’t have to do this. He should be in there himself apologising or grovelling, trying to make it up to Sam by whatever means necessary. Cas’ unwavering, confident explanation of the way his brain works makes an unidentifiable feeling settle over him. Dean’s follow up thought is that he’s so unfathomably glad that Cas is still here.

“Are you defending him?”

Dean flinches. He can’t see much of anything from his disadvantaged position down the hallway, hiding like a coward, but he can hear Sam’s voice crisp and clear as day. 

This is the part where Cas retracts his words and sputters over an excuse for what he’d said, where he (rightfully) drags Dean through the mud along with Sam to appease him, where he says what he really thinks because as far as he knows, Dean is sound asleep rooms away from them.

“I understand why you’re upset, and I’d defend your brother to the ends of the earth. These things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Chest tightening, Dean feels a lot all at once. Guilt, confusion, love. He’s sick to death of being bombarded with emotion—more so the past few days than ever before. Dean yearns for the ability to compartmentalise, to be able to box up every feeling that passes through his mind and study it at length. More than anything, he craves the ability to know how to deal with it all.

He’s not sure what he expects Sam to say next. His brother’s mirthy chuckle surprises him, to say the least. “You and my brother. Can of worms, huh?”

There’s a pause, infinitesimal, before Cas queries, “worms?” and Dean shakes his head in amusement, feeling a smile break out across his face, in spite of the topic of conversation.

Sam laughs, “nevermind.”

“Okay.” Cas lets it go. “In any case, I think he’d value your forgiveness.”

Dean knows it’s a lot easier said than done. There are layers to what happened with Sam—the way he shifted, the things he said, the fact they had an audience. It would be a lot to unpack, but Sam’s willingness to listen would be a start. Dean’s grateful for Cas’ effort.

His worries are mirrored in Sam’s words. “I just wish he’d...boiled over in a less public setting.” 

“Nobody’s perfect. Not even you,” Cas quips, the comment uncharacteristically backhanded.

Sam’s briefly quiet before a sigh punctures the silence. “I know, I said stuff too. We’ll talk,” he says. “Does he know you’re leaving?”

The world stops spinning beneath his feet. Sam’s words sink into him like lead, and Dean feels hollow at best.

He hears Cas sigh, and his chest feels close to cracking open. “I told him last night that I’d be leaving in the morning. I haven’t said goodbye, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The cool stone of the bunker’s wall presses up against Dean’s back when he leans up against it, thankful for the unwavering support in keeping him standing as he listens in. 

“Are you going to?” asks Sam.

“Of course,” Cas replies, voice harsh as if him leaving without saying anything was preposterous even as an idea. “I just don’t know how.”

His survival instinct kicks in, tells him to cut the pain’s legs out from beneath it, and his feet are moving towards the war room without his explicit permission. It feels like the sensible part of his brain telling him to get this the hell over with.

“Guess I’ve saved you the trouble,” he says as he breaks over the threshold.

They both turn to look at him when he speaks. He steps up further into the room. Cas’ mouth gapes, struggles to shape around words that don’t make their way out. Dean locks onto his gaze, tries to keep his expression inscrutable. 

They’re caught in something, neither daring to look away first, when Sam clears his throat and draws their attention.

“I’m gonna give you two a minute,” he says, clearly uncomfortable. Sloping off towards the hallway, he turns to look at Dean before he’s out of sight. “We’ll talk later, yeah?”

Dean turns and watches him back up, giving him a tight nod, and then Sam’s gone, taking Dean’s escape with him once again. There’s no distraction, no impartial third party, no way of glossing over the fact that he’s going to have to talk to Cas about how he’s leaving. Again.

Afraid to focus on anything but his brother’s retreating form, Dean doesn’t turn back towards Cas right away. His voice coming from behind him sends tremors through Dean’s body. “Dean.”

He breathes in deep, trying to dull the slam of his heart against the wall of his chest. Not seeing any use in fighting it, he slaps on a forced smile and turns to face Cas. “So—you’re leaving.”

Cas nods, small. “This wasn’t an easy decision. Especially not after last night.”

Dean glances over at the map table and sees a packed bag, registering that Cas is ready to leave any second. He’s ready to head back up to his perfectly rounded, compact life and Dean will be alone. So, he sees an opportunity to save face and jumps on it.

“No—it’s, uh—it’s probably for the best that we forget about last night anyway. Too complicated.”

And it’s inexplicable that Cas looks hurt, but Dean feels regret all the same at his words. His shameless act of self preservation has somehow managed to upset Cas. Dean thinks for a moment about how he understands why Cas thinks he’s better off without him.

Expression pained and confused, Cas looks on at him. “The last thing I want to do is forget about last night.” He shakes his head a little and Dean feels an ache he can’t even begin to describe.

He looks down and squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t—you can’t do that.”

“Do what?” Cas asks with an air of innocence.

“Say shit like that if you’re leaving. I don’t know what you want from me, Cas,” Dean says, exasperated.

Cas looks helpless at best, and it really does not sit right with Dean that he’s had a hand in putting that look on Cas’ face.

“I have a life there. I have friends, a job, a lease ,” he sputters, “I’m needed there.”

Dean advances on him before he can stop himself, decreasing the distance between them. “What about here?” he asks delicately, “you don’t think you’re needed here?”

Cas smiles sadly, defeated. “Not anymore. Not since I lost my powers.”

Again, Dean resolves to kick himself the first chance he gets for never explicitly telling Cas all the ways life is better with him in it. There aren’t words he knows to explain the difference between having Cas there and having him gone—Dean just knows he feels lighter, happier, better when he knows Cas is a hair's-breadth away rather than in a different state. 

Determined to get started on remedying it, Dean steps closer still. “Powers or no powers,” he grasps Cas’ forearms tentatively and looks down, “I never stopped needing you here. Not for a damn second.”

He pointedly does not look at Cas, can’t bear to see whatever expression he wears as Dean bares what he feels are the deepest parts of himself. 

Cas hiccups between them. “Dean, I can’t.” He shakes his head quickly, but doesn’t pull away. “I can’t be here. I look around and all I can seem to see are the awful things that’ve happened.” He glances up towards the library, “just over there, Michael slaughtered all of those people. You and I fought. Barely a foot away from where we stand was the last place I ever saw Jack before he left to rebuild heaven.”

Dean pushes closer, chest throbbing at Cas’ words, but wanting to comfort him. “I get that shitty things have happened here, but it’s still home. You feel at home here. You said so yourself.”

Cas looks up and shifts his hands to grasp onto Dean’s, gripping tightly. He meets Dean’s eye as he finally glances up, and something in his intense gaze makes Dean feel as though he’s missing the point. He can’t seem to figure out exactly what.

“Not here. You. I feel at home with you.”

The words settle heavily between them. It’s a lot to digest at once. After a decade of nothing but unspoken sentiments and weighted looks, having everything thrown out in the open like this isn’t something Dean’s braced for. He settles for stating the obvious, dumbly.

“Yeah, and I’m here.”

Cas’ expression shifts from forlorn to hopefully desperate in an instant as he says, barely a whisper between them, “my apartment’s big.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, confused, Dean stutters, What? Cas—”

Cas goes on, Dean’s bewilderment clearly not deterring him. “It—the town’s nice. Quaint. You’d like it, I think.”

It’s all too much, then. Images flood his mind of this unattainable far off life, perfect domesticity and comfort. He and Cas dancing around each other in a cluttered Iowan apartment, no concerns but each other, once a week food shopping in a cutesy small town grocery store, bickering over which cereal to go for instead of the life or death decisions that they’re so used to, late night dinners at inexpensive diners with good food and the love of his life. 

The dam breaks. He drops Cas’ hands and squeezes his eyes shut, tries to rid his mind’s eye of things he’ll probably never be able to let himself have—things he doesn’t deserve.

Dean can feel the wall building itself back up, racking up his defenses. He puts space back between them.

“No, Cas. I can’t—if you really wanna go back there so bad then just get out of here. Why are you dragging this out? Fuck.” Dragging a hand down his face, he’s anticipating Cas’ reaction to the abrupt tone shift between them. 

“Dean,” Cas starts.

“Don’t Dean me, okay? Just go. I’m doing you a damn favour here. You—you can find somebody else up there. Someone who doesn’t remind you of all the shit that’s gone wrong in your life.”

There’s an eerie calm between them, then. Dean’s expecting a comeback, though unsure of what kind. There’s nothing for a moment, just silence stretching thin until Cas chokes out a laugh drenched in disbelief.

“God, you’re dim.”

It’s the last thing Dean’s expecting to hear, so far off from anything defensive or desperate, and his head wrenches up to look at Cas. “What?”

Cas shakes his head. “Someone else? Dean—there’s no one else. For twelve years, there has been nobody else. Just you.” 

Like nothing else, Dean wishes he wasn’t so easy to shut up. He wishes it took more than a profound confession to take him aback. He starts to flounder around what to say when Cas speaks up again.

“This—me leaving—isn’t about you. It’s about me. This is just something I have to do for myself.”

Cas reaches over and cups Dean’s cheek in his palm. The pressure of Cas’ warm touch against his skin urges him to look back over, meet his eyes and face whatever’s showing through them.

“Cas.” That’s just about all he can manage, mind racing a mile a minute. There’s so much to say and simultaneously nothing that could ever be enough. Cas smiles wider than Dean thinks he could even attempt to muster up.

“For what it’s worth,” his eyes shine, voice quiet, “I think this could be something really good.”

Dean nods emphatically, leaning into Cas’ touch. “Yeah. I just—God. I’m sorry.” And so much goes unsaid.

Sorry I can’t ignore my own hangups and do this for you. Sorry I’m so unbelievably selfish. Sorry I can’t be what you need.

Cas’ lips press abruptly against Dean’s. He kisses back but there’s no heat there, very little passion or promise. It just feels like a goodbye. As suspected, Cas drops his hand from Dean’s face not long after pulling away. The compulsion to chase his touch grapples at Dean, but he resists the urge somehow. He backs away from their embrace.

“I have to go.”

Nodding wordlessly, Dean doesn’t try to force himself to speak. He knows the attempt won’t yield any fruit; there’s not much of anything to be said, as it is.

Cas lets his gaze linger on Dean for a second and then looks away suddenly, almost as though he’s scolding himself for the act of self-indulgence. Stepping past Dean, he treads over to the map table and slings the bag over his shoulder, halting when he gets to the bottom of the staircase.

“Can I call you?” he asks, voice soft. His head’s turned just barely, and Dean looks up at the side of his face, glorious as any part of him, and aches. 

Dean’s powerless to resist, but he isn’t all that surprised. “Yeah, Cas. You can call me.”

The nod Cas gives in return is ever so slight, barely noticeable if Dean’s eyes weren’t zeroed in on whatever part of him he can see. 

Cas starts to ascend towards the bunker’s door, and Dean watches his retreating back. He tells himself that he’s not memorising all he can—the way Cas moves, the dejected slump of his shoulders, the contours and dips of his face when he turns at the top of the stairs. He tells himself that this is what they needed— exactly what they needed to to draw this twelve year long dance to a close—a night together rivalled by no other, a shitty, stuffy goodbye and a promise of civility going forward. 

Maybe at some point in the future, Cas will call and he’ll ask how things are in Kansas and Dean will tell him everything’s great and normal and fine, and he’ll pretend that he’s okay and that he’s moved on. Dean will ask how him about Iowa and Cas will tell him it’s perfect and that he’s met somebody and he’s happy, and Dean will pretend a knife to the gut wouldn’t hurt less.

The door groaning open shakes him from his reverie, and Dean’s eyes refocus on Cas. He’s holding the handle in what looks like a death grip, face forlorn. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think Cas didn’t want to leave. He starts forward, though, one foot over the threshold before glancing back down the stairs.

“Goodbye.”

The slamming of the metal door as Cas steps out of sight reverberates through Dean’s body, setting every nerve alight. An unwelcome rush of bile crawls its way up his throat, but Dean just swallows it down and barely feels the burn.

Whatever song his headphones are blaring, Dean doesn’t really hear it. He’d managed to trudge his way back through to his room without any run-ins with anybody—although, Dean’s not entirely sure he would’ve registered it if he had. There’s a numbness in his limbs that makes him feel heavy, something akin to grief without the forced finality but a loss all the same. 

Dean knows there’s a bottle of something stashed somewhere in here, but can’t quite remember where. Just as well—he knows he’d feel ten times worse after guzzling it down; not that it makes the temptation any less rife. Staring at the same spot on the wall in front of him, Dean does his best to ignore the incessant pounding behind his eyes.

His door cracks open not long after. Sam doesn’t come straight in—Dean knows he’s trying not to pry—but his head pokes around the doorframe. Taking his headphones off, Dean meets his brother’s gaze with a forced smile.

“What’s up?”

“Just checking in.” Luckily, Sam knows Dean well enough to realise that pity isn’t what he needs. Thankfully, there’s no soft expression or sympathetic head tilt in sight. 

Dean hopes for a second that maybe he doesn’t know anything, didn’t overhear a word, that Sam’s just checking in because he presumes Dean to be hungover to a vile extent. 

“I just—I know Cas leaving again can’t have been easy. Probably not the outcome you wanted.” Nevermind. 

He really does try to keep the inevitable irritated look at bay, but Dean can’t quite help the reaction. Not being able to process sympathy without it transitioning to pity isn’t one of Dean’s best qualities, but he figures he’s set in his ways by now.  “I’m fine, man.”

Looking away, Dean only hears him sigh. It’s not a noise born of pity, but it doesn’t make him feel any less like shit. Taking to winding the wire of his headphones up for something to do with his hands and a place to look, Dean consciously doesn’t look at Sam. 

There’s a shift in the corner of his eye and weight bears down at the end of the bed as Sam sits. “You know, it’s alright if you’re not.”

Tension starts to build within Dean, and he recognises the telltale signs of getting close to the end of his tether, close to lashing out and misplacing his anger. He can’t push it with Sam—not after their tiff—so Dean checks himself and draws in a breath with a tight smile.

“I’m good, I swear,” he promises.

Sam hesitates for a moment as though he’s afraid of his own words before uttering, “I heard you this morning,” in what Dean presumes to be the smallest voice he could’ve mustered.

He frowns. “What?”

In his time knowing Cas, they’ve shared a plethora of moments. Granted, they’ve been of varying natures—solemn, relieved, irate—but the point stands, he’s been through shit with Cas. This morning had been a world away from anything experienced before though, a moment more vulnerable than Dean had imagined to be possible. The idea of it being encroached on makes him see red more than he cares to admit.

Sam sees his expression and tuts with an eye roll of his own. “It wasn’t like, an eavesdropping thing. I was waiting to talk to you and just...overstayed my welcome, I guess. I stopped listening when it started getting heavy.”

“Awesome,” Dean laughs humorlessly, “that’s—yeah. Awesome.” He runs a hand over his eyes and down his face, exhausted, and Sam’s peering at him when he looks back up. There’s a curious, barely concealed quirk to his expression that Dean can’t quite figure out. “What?”

“I—uh. I heard something about last night? ”

Dean scoffs, “not an eavesdropping thing my ass.”

“What happened?” asks Sam, as if he can’t put it together himself. Asshole.

Straight faced, Dean just looks on at him. “We talked about the weather and finger painted.” He deadpans. “What do you think happened?”

Sam’s quiet for a second, brows furrowed together curiously before they go up. “Wait—you—really?”

Currently, Dean’s physically and mentally incapable of imagining a conversation more painful and horrifying than this one.

With nothing but an irritated, wry smile and the wave of a tired hand, Dean gestures towards the door. “And you’re done.”

“Dean.” An unmovable annoyance poised at the end of his bed like some kind of giant taunt, Sam doesn’t budge. 

He’s getting nowhere fast trying to nip this discussion in the bud. Dean opts for biting the bullet. 

“I,” he starts, unsure of how to put it without sounding crass. Dean takes a moment to wonder when the hell he started worrying about sounding crass. “ Yes. Now can we talk about something else or do I actually need to kick you out of here?”

“One sec, there’s just something I don’t get. If you two slept together, why’d he leave?”

For the sake of getting this agonising conversation over with, Dean lets the overly clinical slept together slide and settles for an irked grunt and a shrug. “He’s—he says he’s got this whole life up there. Friends, a job, a damn lease . Couldn’t just drop it all for me. I get it.”

“So there’s no chance? That’s it?” God, Sam’s finally reached pitiful, and his dejected, secondhand-sad face makes Dean want to curl up and die, puke and punch him all at the same time.

He shakes his head, looking down at his own hands toying with his headphones in his lap. “The opposite. He pretty much said I could move in with him if I wanted to,” he chuckles emptily.

Dean looks up to see Sam frowning over at him. “Okay. Then what the hell are you still doing here?”

“Sam,” Dean warns.

He looks exasperated, “no, Dean. I mean—Cas actually wants to build a life with you and you’re sulking because he doesn’t wanna do it on your terms? Come on, man.”

It’s a feeble try at tough love; Sam’s always been better working from the sensitive soul angle rather than the firm hand one. Dean recognises the attempt for what it is, though, and appreciates what Sam’s trying to do, desired outcome or not.

“Build a life? What is this, a Hallmark movie?” groans Dean. “Anyway. I can’t just pack up and go. I’ve got a life here too.”

Sam’s face drops and for what feels like the first time in his life, Dean can’t quite tell what’s going on in his head. There isn’t much time to wonder though, because the second Dean’s words start to play back for him in his head, he hears how cloaked in selfishness they are and feels like shit. 

The sigh that emanates from Sam tells him that he’d heard Dean’s words the same way. He claps his hands to his knees and pushes himself up. Dean knows he’s being difficult, and that his brother thankfully knows him well enough to leave it alone.

 “Look, I can’t tell you what to do. God, if I could. What I can tell you is that he’s spent the last however many years sacrificing everything for you,” Sam gripes. “His beliefs, his family, his way of existing—all of it to fit around you. Don’t think I need to tell you why.”

His words hang heavy in the air between them. Sam glances back as he leaves the room, and they share a look. 

Dean showers quickly, barely feels the water beating against his skin but comes out feeling a lot less grubby all the same. 

The clothes he throws into his duffle bag might not even be clean but he tosses anything in nonetheless; he’s selectively particular about underwear and toiletries, but the bag’s full before he knows it and he’s heading down to the garage on autopilot.

Not allowing enough time to overthink himself into a sinkhole had been Dean’s plan of action; he’d rushed through the motions without letting his mind wander, fearful of changing it. The plan of action in question left room for a few errors, though. 

His hands are already settling on the wheel when Dean realises what’s missing.

To: Sam

Can you send Cas’s address

The reply comes back almost immediately with the name of an apartment building in a part of Iowa Dean’s never heard of, and he gulps. 

To: Sam

Thanks

I know you and me have stuff to talk about too and we will. Just need to do this. Sorry

From: Sam

We’re fine. Text me when you get there. 

Dean sucks in a breath, drives out of the garage and pulls out onto the road. He hits the gas and heads north, briefly thinks of the creaky step in their entryway and doesn’t care, too focused on fixing something else entirely.

“Hey, it’s me. Look, there’s so much I wanna say and I don’t know how to say any of it because I’m scared.  I know you’re at work right now but I-I’m heading to you. Hope that’s alright—fuck, I should’ve checked, right? I don’t even know. Sorry. What I—what I do know is that I wanna be with you. I know I’ve fucked up a lot but I’m gonna be better, Cas. I promise. Whether it’s at the bunker or in Iowa or in a damn cesspit hole in the wall. I don’t care, I’m gonna be better for you, because--that’s all I want. I just want you. Damn voicemail—please, call me when you get this, alright?”