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Dean has never cared much about his birthday. For most of his life, it was just another day. And he's fine with that. He is. It's a luxury he can't afford. Well, couldn't afford. He can now, because they won. All the big baddies are gone, balance is restored, and they have time to do shit other than hunting, since Sam became the Professor X of hunters.
The bunker is busy now. New people coming and going, all those empty dusty rooms finally being lived in. If he wanted to, Dean could have an actual birthday party.
If only he could find it in him to care.
Dean can care now, but still, he doesn't. To be fair though, he doesn't really care about anything lately. He's numb and distant, all his energy spent on making sure everybody thinks he's okay.
The night before his birthday, Dean wanders the halls, aimlessly, long after the rest of the bunker went to sleep. He opens the fridge and just stares into it for a few minutes before closing it again. The kitchen still smells faintly of some tomato-y dish someone cooked, and it's a warm, comforting scent, and there are leftovers in the fridge but Dean can't make himself want to eat. He's listless, tired and faded like a ghost drifting through the walls of his home.
Dean lowers himself into a chair at the kitchen table, and slowly blinks at the empty surface beneath his hands. Unbidden, his mind draws an image. A memory of a different late night, a different Dean sitting in the same chair. Strong whiskey and stronger laughter, hands rested on the table, so close, just a twitch away from touching. A dazzling smile and a striped blue tie.
"No," Dean whispers, hanging his head and squeezing his eyes shut. "Please, no…" His fingers curl and uncurl, itching to take some kind of action, because taking action is what fixes things, but there's nothing for him to do. He banishes the memory from his mind, chases it back into the dark where he can't see it, where it can't see him. Can't hurt him.
Ever since Castiel…ever since the failed attempts at going after The Empty, ever since all the desperate prayers that tasted of salt had gone unheard night after night, Dean has been living in a fog. The puzzle piece that's just too bent and frayed and broken to fit back into life.
So it's his birthday. It doesn't matter.
Eileen makes a cake in the afternoon, and it turns out she has a hidden talent for cake decorating. Dean feels a little lighter, watching her and Sam bump into each other in the small kitchen, because Sam insisted on helping. They're spoiling him, and Dean is grateful for it. Yet still, he has to remind himself so many times to look happy, look okay. Don't look like you can't stop thinking about the one person who's missing, the one person who should be here, but isn't. Don't look like there's only one thing you're gonna wish for when you blow out those stupid candles.
Don't give away how you're falling apart.
Mercifully, Dean makes it through the day without slipping. But at night, he throws his dead guy robe on over his pajamas and walks out into the snowy woods. He stands out there, because it's too cold and wet to sit anywhere, and he stares up at the sky, clear and speckled with stars. This time Dean doesn't ignore that stone of grief in his throat. Safe and alone where nobody can see or hear him, he cries, the pain of loss hitting him in waves.
Dean doesn't hear the footsteps, doesn't notice the shadow that melts into his own. So he startles violently when he feels arms wrap around him.
Dean whirls around, instantly ready for a fight, but what he finds instead puts his heart into his mouth. He stops dead, staring with eyes so wide they ache in the cold air.
Dean always thought he would shout if this ever happened. But he can't. He breathes the name softly, with all the reverence of a prayer.
"Castiel."
"Dean," Cas replies, beautiful blue eyes brimming with tears, and he sounds like he's just found water after days in the desert.
"How?" Is all Dean can manage to say. The utter relief that's taken over his senses is beyond overwhelming. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming. Part of him knows he's not. All of him wants to hold Cas, just hold him and never let go, never let anything hurt him ever again, never let anything take him, never let anything kill him again.
"My Grace had been fading," Cas explains, "and—and it kept fading, even in that place. When it all dissipated, I was thrown back to Earth."
Dean's head is swimming trying to piece together what he's hearing, but he's just too overrun with emotion to slow his thoughts to a reasonable pace. It leaves him staring, open-mouthed and unable to respond.
"I'm…I'm human," Cas says, slowly like he's still getting used to the feel of the words.
He's human. Castiel is human. Alive, human. And here.
And this time, Dean is going to do right by him.
Almost falling forward, Dean flings his arms around Cas and hugs him hard, tears blurring his vision when he feels how warm and solid Cas is.
This is no dream. But it might count as a miracle.
"I was so fucking lost without you," Dean murmurs into Cas' shoulder.
"Me too, Dean," Cas whispers and his hand is gently carding through Dean's hair.
This might be the happiest moment of Dean's life.
"And I know it was your birthday today," Cas adds, pulling back a bit with a lopsided smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't get you anything."
For the first time in weeks, Dean laughs. "Are you kidding?" He says. "You're the only gift I really needed."
Cas' smile grows wider, and Dean could swear the guy's actually blushing. "Well," he says, "happy birthday then."
After Dean gets spotted coming back in with Cas by his side, it ends up being a way later night than anyone was expecting. Between the introductions, the congrats-on-coming-back-from-the-deads, people fawning over Cas, and Cas fawning over Miracle, there's pretty much a whole extra celebration. Dean enjoys watching Cas be the flustered center of attention, watching him marvel at the taste of cake, listening to him sing along to Foreigner after just one beer. Dean has never had a happier birthday.
It's around 3 AM when the last few stragglers drift off to bed, their yawned 'good night's echoing softly down the halls. And when Dean and Cas finally decide to turn in, they both follow Miracle to Dean's room. It wasn't planned. It just feels right.
When they both curl up in the same bed, that feels right too.
"I feel," Cas whispers against the back of Dean's neck, "I feel so—so much now. I forgot how much humans feel."
"Welcome to the club," Dean says with a soft laugh.
"I mean it though," Cas goes on. "I am so happy to be with you again, I'm-I'm almost… afraid to feel it all at once. You're so good, and so beautiful, and I love you so very much, Dean."
His voice is shaking, and Dean is shaking a little too. The intensity of Cas' emotion is sinking into him, and suddenly he feels profoundly safe, safe enough to let his own emotions step out of the dark.
"I love you too, Cas," Dean whispers, and it's easy. "And I'm sorry I didn't say it before. But I do. I love you more than I thought I could love anything."
It's so easy to say it now. It's easy to turn around and softly kiss Cas good night.
The morning is priceless. Castiel has never been woken up by sloppy, relentless face licking, and Miracle volunteers to provide him with the experience. Dean laughs so hard he nearly falls off the bed. Then Cas pushes him the rest of the way, and he actually falls off the bed.
If Dean didn't know better, he might think he's died and gone to heaven. But if only life can hurt as much as it has, Dean is finally starting to believe that only life could take away that hurt like it did last night.
Dean had lost his heart when he lost Castiel. Now, he's alive again. And for once, it feels good to be alive.