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Donna calls Dean early on a Thursday morning. Cas is at work. Eileen recommended him when an adjunct position in the religion department opened up, and Sam and Charlie scraped together a fake resume. Cas teaches two courses, Introduction to Religious Studies for the freshmen, and Angelic Mythology; his students love him, and so does the college – despite his initial confusion about the importance of grading coursework and his total inability to operate electronics.
“I don’t wanna get your hopes up, none,” Donna cautions over the phone, “But I figured it wouldn’t hurt for you two to drive up and meet ‘em. You know, see if it might be a good fit.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. His throat is dry. His palms are wet. “Yeah, ‘course. I’ll, ah, talk to Cas when he gets home. We’ll plan on, ah, leaving early Saturday morning. Get there around dinner?”
“Don’t tire yourselves out on the road, yeah?” Donna says. “We can wait.”
“Okay,” Dean breathes. He feels off-balance, untethered. He wishes Cas was here, so they could have listened to the news together on speaker. “Okay, yeah. See you then, D-Train.”
Donna laughs, “Take care of yourself, Deano.”
Dean hangs up. He doesn’t realize his breathing’s accelerated until Miracle trots over, collar jangling, and bumps his nose into Dean’s palm. It startles Dean out of his head, and he forces himself to take a few slow, deep breaths. He moves his hand up to scratch Mir’s head.
“Good job, buddy,” he mutters absently. “Good boy.”
It’s a new trick, detecting signs of an impending panic attack, which means Mir deserves a treat for responding unprompted. After Dean feels in control again, he snatches ahold of his crutches, fits his forearms in the cuffs, and grasps the handholds. Pushing up with his good leg, he straightens up from the couch, and hobbles into the kitchen.
He gets Mir’s bag of treats, the ones that look like tiny dry pieces of bacon, from the cabinet. He and Cas quickly realized they couldn’t leave Miracle’s treats on ground level because, if the dog was smart enough to open and close doors and fetch Dean’s meds, then he was also smart enough to sneak treats.
Dean stoops to offer them to Miracle from his palm. Miracle snuffles against Dean’s hand, making that low-growl sound in his throat that means he’s happy, and Dean spends a little more time scratching behind his ears. Miracle sits patiently beside him, grinning with his large, dark eyes, tail flopping against the floor.
It’s quiet in the house. Dean usually has an old movie, music, or one of Sammy’s brainy podcasts on in the background, but he turned off the low hum of a Rifleman rerun when Donna called.
She told him not to get his hopes up. Nothing’s settled, yet. Probably won’t be for another few weeks. Maybe a couple months. It’s not worth it to get ahead of himself – not when it all might fall through.
But Dean can’t help but think about it, just a little. Just think about what it might mean. Socked feet on the hardwood floor in the hall. Bikes in the garage. Chocolate chip pancakes on Sunday –
Dean stops. He makes himself stop. There’s a strange lump of half terror, half hope in his throat. He thinks about Jack. He can’t help but think about Jack. And his eyes burn with tears; his first instinct is to blink them impatiently away, but he takes another deep breath and remembers what Mia says about letting himself feel.
So, Dean lets the sadness, the grief, the loss, settle in his chest. He shuts his eyes and feels the steady ache of it. It’s not the overwhelming surge of emotion it once was. It’s about two and a half years since Jack left, and his absence is felt every day, but it’s a manageable hurt, now.
“I hope you’re doing okay, buddy,” Dean whispers.
Miracle whimpers a little in confusion, clearly uncertain about how he’s supposed to respond to Dean’s mood, so Dean opens his eyes and gives the dog a final pat on the head. “I’m good, Mir. I’m good.”
Dean uses his crutches to leave the kitchen. His spinal cord injury resulted in paresis in his left leg and damaged proprioception. It’s fucking weird relearning how to walk when he can’t sense where his legs are beneath him, and he has to watch his feet as he walks.
He usually uses his wheelchair just to avoid the possibility of landing on his ass when he’s home alone – like he did back in January, just three days into Cas’s new job. Miracle was able to fetch Dean’s cellphone for him, and Dean called Sammy, and, sure, maybe Dean spent the rest of the day in the fetal position, trying to combat back spasms with a heating pack, but it ultimately wasn’t that bad. But Dean knows it freaked Cas out, so Dean’s careful, now, as he makes his way back to the couch.
Miracle clearly still senses Dean’s volatile emotions, so he hops onto the couch after Dean and puts his head in Dean’s lap.
Dean plays with his phone. Unlocks the screen. Checks his email. Starts a game of solitaire but then clicks out of the app without finishing. He looks at the time in the corner of the screen for the fourth time and wills the minutes to go by faster. His need to talk to Cas is a palpable thing, a tug right below his ribs. But Cas is in class, right now. If it was office hours, Dean would call him and tell him to cut out early; Dean’ll pick him up.
Dean toys with the idea of calling Sammy, of asking if he, Junior, and his one-year-old chocolate lab, Moose, wanted to come over before Cas and Eileen carpool back home. But Dean hesitates. This feels like something he wants to keep between just he and Cas, right now. In case it doesn’t work out.
Dean drags his laptop onto his legs and tries to get back to work. He splits his days between helping Sam digitize lore on his hunter website and keeping up with the house. Every two- or three-days either Sam or Dean make the fifteen-minute drive so they can work together at either Cas and Dean’s house or Sam and Eileen’s new two-story Cape Cod. It usually ends up with Sam working and Dean playing with Little Dean and the dogs.
Despite his efforts, Dean’s thoughts stray again. Junior is a year old in two weeks. He’s a little towhead, already trouble, and one of the cutest fucking things Dean’s ever seen. His favorite things are Thomas the Tank Engine, a stuffed bee Cas bought him for Christmas, and taking rides with Dean in the wheelchair. Eileen and Sam surprised them all at New Years when they confessed slightly sheepishly – Dean bullied it out of Eileen when he noticed she wasn’t drinking – that Eileen was pregnant again. Her 21-week ultrasound revealed she was having a girl.
So, Junior’s gonna be a big brother, and it makes Dean’s heart ache at the thought of another baby in the family. Shit, he’s never been one to have baby fever. He can’t say he’s ever really thought he’d get the chance to be a father. But, Goddamn, he’s past denying he doesn’t love kids. And he’s fucking good at taking care of them, too.
Dean’s so lost in thought, it takes Mir twisting his head toward the window to notice that Cas is pulling into the driveway.
Dean had meant to call him after he got out of class, but Dean checks the time to see he’s been stewing for enough time for Cas to finish up class, host an office hour, and drive back from campus, dropping Eileen off on the way.
Cas opens the front door; Mir is off like a shot, immediately circling Cas’s ankles and begging for attention, as if he has been snuggling with Dean on the couch all afternoon. Dean can see the foyer from his spot on the couch, and he can’t bite back a smile as Cas strips off his old trench coat and accommodates Miracle with a good rub behind the ears.
“Hey, Sunshine,” Dean greats him.
“Hello, Dean,” Cas looks up and meets Dean’s gaze with a warm smile. His grin falters slightly – maybe at the sight of Dean sprawled on the couch, or maybe some of Dean’s residual tension has bled into his expression. “Are you in pain?”
“What – nah,” Dean says hastily. He lifts his legs onto the floor and sits up in an effort to appear more alert. “Just lazy.”
“That,” Cas says, toeing off his shoes before crossing the hall to the living room, “is a word that does not describe you.”
Cas leans down to kiss Dean, and Dean smiles into his lips. It’s getting harder to ignore the renewed patter of his heart now that Cas is home, and Dean knows he can’t put off the topic much longer. But it’s not like he wants to just spring it on Cas right after he got home from work.
“How were the kids?” Dean asks, working hard to keep his voice casual.
“Drained,” Cas says with a faint frown. He joins Dean on the couch, sitting close enough that it would be weird for Dean to not lean into him, so Dean complies: slings an arm around Cas’s shoulder and draws him close, smells old coffee and the last wafts of the cologne Claire got him for Christmas with a crack about smelling professorly, now.
“I still do not understand the necessity of final exams,” Castiel pouts. “It is superfluous to put the students through so much stress when they have worked so hard the entire year, and I believe it merely hurts their understanding of the subject because so many of them cram before the test only to forget it all the moment they put aside their pens. That is not a way to engender long-term retention.”
Dean bites back a grin; it’s a soapbox Cas has climbed on many-a-times this semester. Cas will never fully understand or accept academia, and Dean can’t exactly say he blames the guy.
“All part of the all-American college experience, buddy,” Dean says, squeezing Cas’s shoulders.
Cas huffs out a half-laugh, half-sigh. There’s calm silence for a moment. Miracle settles at their feet. Dean can tell Cas is tired, and Dean considers for a minute to leave the conversation for later. He quickly dismisses the thought with a brief pang of guilt. This isn’t something he can keep to himself; Cas needs to know, and it’s a topic that deserves careful consideration from both of them.
Dean’s anxiety is back. Once again, he’s almost warned of its presence ahead of time by Miracle’s curious tilt of his head below him.
So much of his and Cas’s relationship is tactile. Whether they’re having sex, exchanging massages after a hard day, conveying comfort through a touch on the shoulder or cheek – they communicate through physical contact. Dean guesses they always have; it just took upwards of a decade to get it down pat. So, Dean reaches for Cas’s leg, landing halfway up his thigh, drawing warmth and strength through his palm, grounding himself in Cas’s steady presence.
Cas stills, not tense, but patient. Finally, Dean draws a long breath, and he begins.
“So, Donna called earlier….”
OOO
They get started early Saturday morning, just like Dean told Donna they would. As soon as Dean wakes up, he can tell it’s going to be a bad pain day. He doesn’t even bother with his KAFO or the crutches, and just tells Cas to pack them in the back of the car.
His SCI resulted in two kinds of chronic pain: musculoskeletal, caused by muscle spasticity in his bad leg and lower back, and neuropathic, caused by the fact his brain can’t understand the fucked up nerves signals below his T8 vertebrae and just decides well, guess this is supposed to hurt, then. When he’s really lucky, he gets hit with both at once, which usually results in a miserable day stuck in bed, struggling through a haze of pain killers.
Today, it’s just the nerve pain, which sucks, because he can usually soothe the muscle pain with a combination of over the counter, anti-inflammatories and heating packs, but trial and error have taught him over the months that the only thing that works against the unbearable, burning, gnawing nerve pain coursing up his left leg and into the base of his spine is narcotics.
“Love, we don’t have to go today if you’re too uncomfortable,” Cas tells Dean seriously, kneeling at the side of the bed after Dean, moments before, finished getting dressed and collapsed back onto the mattress. “We can wait another day.”
“M’kay, Cas,” Dean insists, one arm over his eyes. It’s true. He’s okay. He can muscle through a little pain. He already told Donna they’d be there in time for dinner. And Cas already packed their stuff in the car.
“Can I get your medication?” Cas prompts. He drops a kiss on Dean’s open palm. He always wants to be close when Dean’s like this, hovering anxiously, holding and touching him. Dean knows it reminds him of when he used to be an angel and could make all Dean’s hurts disappear in the blink of an eye. Now, Cas’s need to do something to make it better is tangible.
“Wanna,” Dean breathes through the words, trying to center himself the way Mia’s taught him. “Wanna wait a little while. Maybe it’ll go away.” Dean doubts it, but he fucking hates taking Vicodin. One, no matter how hard he tries to silence it, he can still hear Dad telling him taking drugs is the pussy way out. Two, it makes him clumsy and nauseas. Three, if he takes the pain reliever, he won’t be able to take his valium, because mixing benzos with opioids is a potentially fatal idea, and he’d rather have access to the sedative in case he starts to freak out.
Turns out pain is a trigger. It never used to be, but now that he’s slowed down enough that he isn’t in a constant state of survival, pain has a way of dragging him back into the muck. Every time he’s ever been hurt on a hunt, every time he’s ever stared death in the face, every memory of Hell or purgatory he’s tried his damndest to burry, gets stirred back up by pain, by the unceasing helplessness of it.
Cas helps Dean into his chair and wheels him out to the driveway. The pain in his leg makes the rest of his body feel week and shaky, so he’s glad for the support as Cas helps him into the passenger seat. Cas traded his truck in for an SUV so they could more easily transport Dean’s chair. Dean is hazily aware of Cas folding the wheelchair into the backseat. Miracle hops in last and he rests his head on the divider between the passenger and driver seats.
They make it a half an hour before Cas pulls over, gets out of his seat, and comes around to Dean’s side.
Cas bundles Dean into his arms and holds him firmly.
“Shh,” he mutters into Dean’s hair, and Dean realizes he’s crying: whimpering small and pitiful noises of hurt, heart jumping in unbased fear. “You’re safe. You’re here with me, Dean. You’re alright.”
“S-sorry,” Dean chokes into Cas’s chest. “F-fuck.”
“Don’t apologize, love,” Cas tells him gently. He holds him until the panic subsides, even if his leg still feels like it’s on fire.
“Do you want to lie down in the back?” Cas offers, massaging his fingers through Dean’s hair, grown slightly longer than he used to keep it.
“I’m okay,” Dean tells him, swallowing roughly.
Cas pulls away enough so he can meet Dean’s eyes. He wipes Dean’s tear tracks away with his thumbs. “Take the medication, please, Dean,” he wheedles, eyes dark with worry. There are crow’s feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, a v of concern between his brows. “Controlling the pain is going to help.”
Dean closes his eyes and leans into Cas’s space, unwilling to lose his presence, yet, but not able to say it out loud.
“Okay,” he whispers. Cas draws him into his arms again, rubbing his back in wide, slow swipes.
“Miracle, bag, please,” Cas says, using his usual polite commands, like Miracle understands manners, to get Miracle to fetch Dean’s emergency kit. Castiel pops the cap of the bottle for him and hands him a tablet and a water bottle. Dean chases the pill with a slug of water.
Cas holds him for a few moments before easing him back onto the seat and soothing him with a kiss.
“I’m okay now,” Dean says. The pain won’t ease for another thirty minutes or so, but he feels calmer, so Cas leaves him to climb back behind the wheel and restart the car.
It’s extended-release, which means Dean will be out of it for the next 10 to 12 hours. Which sucks, because that means he’ll still be drowsy when he gets to Donna’s. It also means he can’t help Cas any with the nine-hour drive. Sure, Dean’s driven concussed, with tremendous blood loss, and once or twice while he was intoxicated and recklessly self-destructive, but he’s been better at driving responsibly now, partly by way of Sam’s nagging and partly because Dean actually cares about staying alive, these days.
Dean reaches his hand across the divider so he can grip Cas’s thigh, half apology and half desperate urge to maintain physical contact. Cas leaves one hand on the wheel so he can hold Dean’s hand, providing constant and reassuring pressure.
Dean doesn’t say anything, unable to speak around the renewed anxiety in his chest: the knowledge that Cas is responsible for so much, now, that Dean is no longer able to help in ways he’s accustomed to helping, the crushing fear that maybe this won’t work out, that maybe they’re not ready, maybe they won’t every be ready, not with Dean still floundering for solid ground in the midst of his injury and all his mental shit, not with Cas still fitting the pieces into the puzzle of his human life. The waves of anxiety are slowly battered backward until it’s just a buzz of uneasiness in the back of Dean’s head, combatted by rolling, heavy medicated disconnect, and, finally, he dozes.
OOO
They left at seven with the goal of getting to Donna’s by five, but unexpected stops – twice because Dean’s nausea demanded fresh air and ginger ale from a convenience store, and three more times because Miracle and Cas both needed to stretch their legs – means they pull up a little after six.
Dean’s ultimately glad Cas talked him into taking the meds. The pain has faded to a manageable ache, and, although he’s still a little dizzy, he doesn’t feel as loopy as he was afraid he’d be. He’s still not up for his crutches, so Cas unloads his wheelchair and helps him into it, Miracle trotting beside them, a little hyper to be in a new place, but Dean lets him take a few laps around the car to burn off his excess energy because he’s been such a patient boy during the ride.
“Well,” Donna’s cheerful voice rings out as she pushes open the front door and bustles out to meet them. “If it isn’t some of my favorite boys.”
“Hello, Donna,” Cas tells her warmly.
“Hey, D,” Dean beams. Donna never fails to cheer him up. She looks good. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is mussed, and she’s wearing a Kiss the Cook apron over her shirtsleeves and jeans. She grips Cas in a bone-crushing hug first before bending to embrace Dean. She smells like greasy home cooking. Miracle rushes over, anxious to be included, and Donna gives him his own warm greeting.
“Hope you two are hungry, ‘cause we’re having tater tot hotdish,” she beams. “Come on in.”
There’s a low stoop to get onto Donna’s front porch, but Cas helps Dean deftly maneuver over it. Donna’s house is a cozy and warm reflection of herself – plush couches and pillows, wood floors with faded knit rugs. There’s a stuffed black bear head hung above the fireplace, and Donna points to it with a grin, “That there’s Jake. Grandad caught him back in ’55.”
Dean’s stomach is twisting with nervousness again. He can tell Cas is tense, too, by the way he’s hovering over Dean’s shoulder, one hand gripping the backrest of Dean’s chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
“Hello, Jake,” Cas says awkwardly, in that very earnest tone of voice he adopts when he isn’t sure if a human is being serious; it never fails to make Dean grin, but this moment his lips barely curve upward.
“Well,” Donna smiles brightly. “You want to meet ‘em?”
It happened like this. A week ago, a werewolf in Cottage Grove hit a small house on the outskirts of town, killed Rosaline Augustine and her partner, David Petersen, before the squad cars scared it away. Donna’s ex Doug – not the douchebag ex-husband, the douchebag ex-boyfriend – recognized the signs of a werewolf attack and called Donna. Donna was able to take out the wolf, and she thinks it was just a rouge traveling through the area.
Problem was, Rosaline and David’s two small children, a five-year-old girl and two-year-old boy, had witnessed the attack and were telling everyone they came into contact with that Momma and Daddy had been killed by monsters. The little girl was especially difficult to dissuade. Donna knew that the system wouldn’t do two traumatized little kids spouting off about monsters, with zero other known family, any favors. Not to mention it was more likely a foster family would take the quiet little brother but not want the more complicated and precocious big sister. So, Donna took them home with her, and then she called Dean.
“S-sure, yeah,” Dean says, voice a squeak coming up his dry throat.
“Of course,” Cas says calmly, but his hand transfers from the back of Dean’s chair to tight on Dean’s shoulder.
Donna retreats with a gentle smile, then she’s mounting the stairs to the floor above. Dean hears the stairs creak under her.
“Ella?” Donna calls. “Ella, honey, there’s someone here to meet you and Micah.”
Dean’s stomach flips over. He breathes carefully. Then he calls Miracle to come sit by his wheelchair; he doesn’t want to overwhelm the kids.
“He doesn’t wanna!” the shout is high-pitched and angry. Cas’s hand closes reflexively, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulder. Dean brings his hand up to lay over Cas’s. That’s Elsbeth – the little girl who kicked one of Doug’s deputies in the shins when he tried to patiently explain that monsters weren’t real. “He doesn’t have ‘ta come with you if he doesn’t wanna!”
There’s the mumbled sound of Donna’s voice through the ceiling as she attempts to talk Ella down from her tantrum. Castiel suddenly bends, presses his lips to Dean’s cheek, and mutters, “I think I will, ah, attempt to assist.”
Cas climbs the stairs after Donna. Dean rolls back and forth across the floor a few times, frustrated that he hadn’t thought to bring his KAFO and crutches in so he could also get up the stairs. Miracle paces beside him as they wait. At least there’s no more yelling, but it also means Dean has no way of knowing what the fuck is going on up there.
Finally, the stairs creak again: Donna climbing back down, looking a little sheepish. Behind her is Cas. In one arm he’s got a little boy, face buried in Cas’s neck, with close-cropped curly hair, wearing a sweater about two sizes two big. Cas’s other arm is at his side, holding the hand of a little girl, in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt and jeans. Her frizzy hair is up in two messy pigtails. Her eyes are a little red, like maybe she’s been crying.
Dean’s heart hurts. He sucks in a shaky breath.
Dean barely registers Donna stopping at his side to whisper, “Your man’s got the magic touch. Barely been able to get the little one to look at me these past three days, let alone let me carry ‘im.”
Cas, Ella, and Micah reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Elsbeth,” Cas tells the little girl, “This is Dean. He’s been very anxious to meet you. Dean, this is Elsbeth Rose.”
“H-hey,” Dean says, voice hitched. She’s beautiful. More than anything else Dean’s every know, he knows she’s beautiful. If this was any other day; if he was seeing her on the street or in the store, he’d just think she was another kid. But clinging to Cas’s large, nimble fingers, lonely, and scared, and needy – Dean knows she’s beautiful, and his heart yearns in a way he’s never known before. Donna told them not to get their hopes up, but he – he can’t help it.
“He said you had a dog,” Ella says, eyes already slipping from Dean to Miracle, who waits beside him, eyes sparking with curiosity. She brings up her free hand to rub at her nose.
Dean smiles. His lips wobble a little, and his eyes burn, but he smiles.
“Sure do. Wanna meet him?”
“He likes kids?”
“Loves ‘em.”
Ella detaches from Cas’s hand and comes forward, lifting a hand in front of her so Miracle can sniff her, and her face breaks out into a tiny smile as Miracle bobs forward to lick her palm. Dean watches, transfixed by the warm undertone of her brown skin, the small curve of her pink lips, the gentle slope of her soft cheeks, her long lashes and liquid dark eyes. He aches to reach out and grip her narrow fingers, or maybe press a kiss to her temple, or comb back the wild curls on her head – but he knows from Cassie long ago that it’s annoying as fuck to have people always pawing at your hair, so Dean tames himself, and he reminds himself that Ella is clearly uneasy around strangers, right now. He doesn’t want to overstep.
“And Micah,” Cas says softly to the little boy in his arms, “Would you like to meet Dean?”
Micah pulls away from Cas’s shoulder enough for Dean to see he’s chewing on half his fist, but not enough to catch his eyes.
Dean’s breath catches in his chest again. There is something so desperately, painfully perfect about Cas standing there with a child in his arms. Dean catches Cas’s gaze above Micah’s curls, and the other man’s eyes are bright with emotion. Dean blinks furiously.
“Hey, Micah,” he tries, voice tight.
Micah turns a little more at the sound of his name, peering at Dean from the corner of his eyes. Cas maneuvers carefully closer. Kneeling so Micah and Dean are at eyelevel.
“Dean,” Cas says gravely. “This is Micah Matthew. I believe he’s feeling a little shy.”
“He doesn’t talk,” Ella informs them from where she’s sitting on the floor, Mir’s head in her lap. “No anymore. What’s your dog’s name?”
“Miracle,” Dean tells her. “Mir.”
“Hey, Mir,” Ella says, kissing Miracle on the top of his head. Dean feels like he’s about a second away from totally losing it, so he has to turn away from Ella and he avoids Cas’s eyes, too.
“Hey, buddy,” Dean tries again with Micah, speaking soft the way he used to with Sammy, when it was just the two of them and he’d only do what Dean asked, no matter how much Dad wheedled. “You wanna meet Mir, too? It’s okay, you don’t gotta talk.”
Micah somehow manages to dodge Dean’s gaze when he cranes his neck over his shoulder to get a better look at Miracle. Cas shifts so he’s sitting on the ground and Micah can crawl into his lap.
“Hey, Mir,” Dean gets Miracle’s attention and directs him toward Micah. Mir immediately lifts from Ella’s lap and craws close enough to nose at Micah’s cheeks. Micah has the same dark eyes and soft features as his sister, but he hasn’t quite lost the baby pudge on his cheeks and fingers.
For twenty-seven years of Dean’s life, family meant him, Dad, and Sam. Dean never thought he’d have the capacity to fit anyone else into that sacred circle. But, slowly, tortuously family has grown to include others: Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Charlie, Kevin, Benny, Jody, Donna, and the girls, Jack, Eileen and little Dean and baby number two. And Cas. Of course, Cas. With Sam out of the house, it’s Cas, more than anyone, who is family to Dean, whose presence signifies home and safety.
But maybe, Dean thinks as Ella asks him, with childlike brashness, why he’s in a wheelchair and whether she can see what it’s like, and Dean draws her into his lap so they can make a loop around Donna’s living room, Cas watching from the floor with Micah, wide-eyed and silent, one hand tangled in Cas’s shirt, and the other in Miracle’s fur – maybe there’s room, yet, for Dean’s family to grow.