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The dust settles slowly on the dirt path as the Impala comes to a stop. It's a beautiful summer day ; the hot air is still and the sky is so blue Dean thinks he might drown in it if he ever gathers the courage to step out of his car.
He's alone. There's a cassette in the tape deck, but the only sound filling the car is Dean's own heartbeat. Each contraction of the muscle feels painful, but at least he feels. At least he's not empty. Not here.
Here. Yeah. In the middle of nowhere, down a half-forgotten path, at the entrance of an abandoned field. It's peaceful, Dean tells himself. It's beautiful and calm and it's the perfect spot, really.
The perfect spot was next to me in bed in some old fucked up house we'd fix together the perfect spot was in my arms the perfect spot was home -
The steering wheel creaks loudly under Dean's grip, his knuckles white. He can't let The Thoughts out right out now, or he thinks he's going to die. The Thoughts are reserved for the darkest hour of the night in some motel room as far away as possible from here. The Thoughts, he can barely handle them this way, so, right now, right here? No. He can't. He can't, he can't, his heart picks up and his breaths turn erratic and the car feels like it's shrinking and and and -
The door slams. His boots crush something as they land. A tiny skull. A bird, maybe - birds hide to die. It's funny it chose this place.
Dean walks.
His fists open slowly as he makes his way through the waist high grass of the field. It rustles softly around his legs, almost like a deep voice whispering some secret message to him. It's okay, it's alright, beloved.
Dean pretends not to hear anything. His eyes sting so he closes them tight. It's just some pollen or a speck of dust bothering him. It has to be. Of course.
He keeps going.
His boot bumps into something hard.
A root. A trunk, branches extending all around, not reaching high for the sky, but covering the earth under them, keeping the harsh sunlight from burning the delicate plants growing under their caring and nurturing shade.
A tree.
Dean's knees give out and he lets himself fall in between two roots, where the tree bark bends in a way that feels like it's been molded to the exact shape of his back. There's no wind, but a faint rustling shakes the green leaves above him.
"Hey Cas."
It's all he manages to choke out before his throat closes up. Fuck. Something is twisting and turning in his chest, and it's painful, it's too much for him. He wants to pretend he's okay, that the pain is slowly fading away, that he's not crying. He lifts a hand to his cheek and he feels the tears rolling down his fingers and he still tries to tell himself he's not crying.
It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, the leaves sing. I love you, I love you, I love you.
The tree is surprisingly warm against Dean's back, and for a second he almost feels arms wrapping around him, holding him tight in a loving embrace.
It's enough to make his last defenses break.
"Sam and Eileen got married yesterday. It was all outdoors. They were great, man, they were amazing. I don't think I've ever seen Sammy that happy. I was the best man - I had to do a speech and all, can you imagine?"
And Dean goes on, the words tumbling out of his mouth with no interruption. He lets his gaze get lost in the foliage above him and he talks and talks and talks, about Sam, Eileen, Jack, Claire, Charlie, about the bunker, Miracle, about the hunts he's been on and about the long roadtrips he goes on alone. He complains about the terrible motel rooms and the mediocre breakfasts, he praises a local diner. He gets lost in complicated stories and goes on incomprehensible tangents.
He talks, and Castiel listens.
The sun is nearing the horizon when Dean's voice finally dies down. His throat is terribly dry and the silence buzzes in his ears. He blinks, slowly coming back to reality. The impala is waiting for him outside the field, exactly where he left her.
He doesn't want to get up.
"I miss you."
It's barely audible. He stops, gathers himself, takes a shaky breath.
And then, he tells the truth.
The field remains silent, but something stirs inside the tree. Dean can feel it, coming in waves, washing over his heart, and it's like he can finally breathe for the first time in months. It's peace, it's rest, it's quiet, and most of all, it's love. Overwhelming love. It's the most gentle and most powerful thing he's ever felt. He closes his eyes.
It's probably just his imagination, but for a second, Dean feels chapped lips pressing against his own.