Chapter Text
Valentine’s Day 2021
“Dean!” Dean Winchester heard his brother call his name from the other side of the bunker. Dean catalogued Sammy’s tone, and quickly noted that it wasn’t urgent. Good.
“Sammy,” Dean didn’t look up from his computer, “Yeah!”
Sam strolled into the library with a purposeful gait, and Dean caught a flash of silver in his brother’s fist.
“Can I borrow the car?”
“No.” Dean had hardly let Sam finish his request before answering.
Sam huffed and persisted, “Dean, I won’t let anything happen to your car.”
Dean leaned back in his chair and looked up at Sam with a superior gaze. Sam’s bitch face was notorious, but few seemed to know who he learned it from.
“What?”
“Try again, Sam.”
“Dean, can I please borrow Baby tonight? I promise I won’t let anything happen to it-,”
“Ah ah-,”
“-to her.” Sam squinted at Dean, who lifted an eyebrow.
“What do you need her for?” Dean knew that Sam was aware that he had won. But any older brother worth his salt wouldn’t give in without some nitpicking.
Sam schooled his triumph long enough to answer, “I’d like to take Eileen on a date for Valentine’s Day.”
Dean swallowed the sudden onset of inexplicable grief in his throat.
“I don’t know, man. I just feel like I need to catch up with the rest of the world, you know? We’ve earned it.” Sam rushed to explain. He nervously fiddled with his shirt cuffs with downcast eyes.
Dean couldn’t deny him a taste of normal, no matter how much they had grappled with the truth that ‘normal’ would never apply to them. They might never lose the scars inflicted upon them by blades or trauma, but they could appreciate the time they had now.
“Alright then. Show Eileen a good time. You both deserve it. But if anything, and I mean anything happens to Baby…” Dean trailed off, knowing his silence would speak for itself.
Sam chuckled, “believe me, I know. You’ll kill me.”
“So long as we’re on the same page. And Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s a good one.” Dean meant it. Something had always bothered him about settling down with someone who didn’t understand the life.
He had loved Lisa and Ben Braeden, but there had always been a part of him that had never left the fight in that wonderful, terrible year. Little habits and idiosyncrasies left over from the hunting life he thought he could leave behind, locked windows and hand carved sigils, falling fast asleep in his clothes… all reminders of the life. Of Sam. So he was glad beyond belief that his brother had found Eileen. Glad that she could take care of herself. Glad that if the unthinkable happened, history would not repeat itself.
Now Sam smiled, slow and genuine. “I know she is.”
And Dean couldn’t begrudge them this happiness, especially knowing the hell they’d barely escaped to reach this point. Sam and Eileen deserved to fight together, to retire together, to get married, have a bunch of little snot-nosed sons and daughters for Dean to spoil, and live long lives. Dean loved his brother more than anyone alive, and no longer doubted his own place in Sam’s life. But the Winchesters were done being co-dependent. Sam and Dean had come to an unspoken agreement that there weren’t going to be more sacrifices, deals, or spells in the event that one of them died again. The end would be the end, the dead would stay dead, and the living would live on. So yeah, Dean was happy for Sam and Eileen. Yeah, he would handle the inevitable day Sam moved on when it found them. But, but, but….
One fact remained, a lingering presence in the bunker halls, swirling like clouds above their heads. One fact remained, the objective truth of that day in February: Dean Winchester was alone on Valentine’s Day. Dean Winchester had no one to celebrate with. Dean Winchester had had plenty of lonely Valentine’s Days, but a warm body next to him ensured that, at the very least, he wasn’t truly alone. This year, the thought of a meaningless fling at a meaningless bar when he himself felt meaningless was enough to fill him with disgust. Dean knew the root of his problem, as it was planted deep in every cell of his being: grief, ugly and serrated like a particularly wicked knife.
How could Dean celebrate a holiday all about love? How could he watch the exchange of candy hearts and paper mache and round teddy bears, the tipsy rush of affection mistaken for true devotion among every fledgling couple at every restaurant in every town? How could he witness the cheap interpretation of love when love had killed his best friend?
Dean didn’t know. He didn’t want to find out. All he wanted to do was curl up with a bottle of whiskey and watch some stupid baking show on Netflix until he passed out. Dean supposed Cas would have wanted him to live his life; put down the bottle and be himself again. Dean supposed Cas thought he had been worth less to Dean than he was; expendable, an obstacle, worth his powers and nothing more. Dean supposed, despite what Castiel had tried so hard to impress upon him for twelve years, that he had failed where it had truly counted. And now-
Dean breathed in sharply, followed by a shake of his head. Ever since Cas’ sacrifice, Dean had been conscious of a rattling in his skull; trapped words in a socially-constructed bottleneck, their only exodus a whiskey-soaked prayer to an angel’s forever-deaf ears. This, Dean reminded himself, is a slippery damned slope. I’m on the ledge as is, and thinking about what could have been will drive me over. Despite Dean’s sorrow over Cas, and despite the perpetual tug of self-blame at his heart, he knew that he had to at least try. He had to go through the motions of happiness until he started to believe it, no matter the breadth of the void inside of him. He owed Cas that much.
Dean, too far down the rabbit hole, did not notice that Sam was still in the library.
“Dean, are you good man?”
Dean swallowed down his thoughts with the last of his whiskey. “Yeah, just thinkin’”
Dean watched Sam gauge his face, his posture, and the empty glass in his hand. He was too good at reading Dean.
“Cas?”
“Mm.” Dean made a sound of agreement, but his lack of elaboration registered with his brother as the dismissal it was. He didn’t want to talk about Cas yet.
“Well…” Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair, “I’m here for when...y’know, just when.”
“Yeah. When.”
A pregnant silence fell between them.
“Is there anything I can-”
Dean rolled his eyes, “Sammy, don’t you have a date to get ready for? Look, I’m not going to bullshit you, man. I’m obviously not alright. But there are things I need time to process on my own, ok? When, -and I promise you it’s a when-, I’m ready to talk, you’ll be the first person I come to. But until then, let me be.”
Sam, bless him, simply nodded his acceptance without another word. Dean blew out a breath of air before turning back to his laptop. Sam meant well, but sometimes he could be a little overbearing on the emotional front. Dean wasn’t an idiot; Sam had been watching him like a hawk since they’d lost Cas, a needle in an arm and a breath away from oblivion probably at the forefront of his mind. It was clockwork; dependable, awful, predictable motion. Dean Winchester was on suicide watch.
Sammy turned on his heel after another moment and retreated the way he had come in, seemingly assured of Dean’s emotional stability for the night. And then Dean was alone with his thoughts.
Sam’s smarter than that. If this were any other time, any other loss, he’d know there’d be nothing he could do to stop me. I wouldn’t do it outright, oh no. I’ve never been that sloppy. But what if we went on a hunt, and I just...stopped fighting. What if Sam was busy helping people, too busy to notice how my movements were too uncoordinated? Would it be unforgivable? Does it make sense that I’m too tired to go there, though? That I don’t see the point in ending it because I know what the other side looks like?
A distant part of Dean registered the bunker door opening and closing. A distant part of Dean wished his brother a good night as he left to meet the best person in his life.
I’ve seen Heaven, I’ve seen Hell, and I’ve seen Purgatory. Hell, I’ve been on milk runs to some of those places a few times. I’m not stupid enough to think any of those are better than what I’m going through now. Maybe Heaven ain’t a bad alternative. But no offense, Cas, I’d rather have the real thing. I’d rather not have a happy memory of you when the real you died for me to live. So here I am. I don’t want to live if you aren’t here, but I can’t die because you aren’t here. Checkmate I guess; you win. So long as I have that goddamned goodbye between my ears, -and I suspect I always will-, I’ll try my hardest to live. You got what you wanted, you- you gave me something I don’t know how to deserve. You loved me, and you left me, and I forgive you. Of course I do. Please, man, please-
Dean squeezed his eyes tight and rubbed his chin, only to feel warm wetness on his palm. Fuck, he’d been crying hard.
Sam’s voice chimed inside his head, a reassurance of Dean, crying is good. Crying is a part of healing.
But Sammy, if I heal from losing him, I may never get him back. If this heals into a scar, it will only remind me that he’s gone for good. That we can never go back to how it was.
But he is gone. I know how much he meant to you, to us, but-
No, no you don’t Sam. We loved him like a brother, and we treated him like one too. At least, that’s how he saw it until the day he died. That’s what I told him, after all. But that’s closer to your truth. My truth is that after all the pain and betrayal and hellos and goodbyes, I loved him like he was mine to love. I didn’t love Castiel like I love you. Everyone says that when you love someone, you let them go. But tell me Sam, how did I let him go without telling him what he deserved to hear? It wouldn’t have helped. That skeevy bitch probably would have taken him even sooner. But I treated him like crap, I blamed him for things that were beyond his control, I took out my stupid anger on the son of a bitch, I undermined him and belittled him and called him my brother to save the fragile image of who I was before I dragged you both into the mud with me. That Dean Winchester is dead and buried: in Palo Alto, in that barn in Illinois, at Stull Cemetery, at the doorstep of this bunker. Maybe he never actually existed. Maybe I was only playing pretend because the life I led was easier that way, or maybe it was my father’s voice inside my head. The truth is, I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew that the right thing, other than personally walking away, would be to tell him everything. The good, the bad, and the whole heaping load of ugly, down to the bones of my messed up mind. And the worst part? Cas knew all of it. He knew me in a way that I don’t even know me. The dude freaking rebuilt me, Sammy, atom by atom. But you know what? You know what Cas told me before he died, before the three words that killed both of us? He told me that I changed him. Of course, he thought it was all for the better. He thought I was the greatest person ever. He said I taught him how to care, how to love, how to feel. But he also learned self-loathing from me, and fuck if I don’t think that’s the only reason he stayed with me. Because why else would he stay with someone who was categorically awful to him? If Cas truly knew his own worth, he would never have chosen to be by my side. And that right there is the worst part, Sam. I knew this, and I let it continue because I was too selfish to let him go. So tell me again how we’re equal in how we loved Cas, because brother or not, you’d never have let this happen.
Dean was huffing a laugh as brittle as fall leaves at the thought that even the Sam in his head had nothing to offer but silence when he heard a strangled noise and a thump from the other side of the room. Dean’s hand was on his gun before his eyes even blinked open, the only reason his finger remained still on the trigger was that the bunker was heavily warded.
Still, Dean Winchester felt his finger twitch dangerously when he saw Castiel standing in the doorway.
You’re dead. I saw you die.
“Dean-,” and that voice was almost too much for him. Castiel, no, whatever that thing was started to move towards him.
Dean supposed he should be ashamed of the tears on his face. Surely his red eyes were a sign of weakness. But he didn’t give a damn. “Shut the hell up.”
The thing was doing a pretty good job of impersonating Cas, Dean would give it that. The startled look in his-, its eyes was spot on. Suddenly Dean knew how Cas must have felt when he was a demon, except Sam and Castiel had known he could be cured, that he could come back to them.
The thing who looked like Castiel halted in its tracks and eyed the gun, and then its eyes moved to Dean’s right hip. Dean wondered if it somehow knew exactly which weapon he was carrying there. Interesting, Dean thought, it’s scared of angel blades.
Whatever it was didn’t take another step forward, which Dean thought was a smart decision on its part. It would be killed either way, but if it made for Dean one more time, he’d make sure the thing that looked like his best friend felt every ounce of bottled rage and pain from the past few months.
Dean’s gun still firmly squared at the thing’s head, it spoke.
“Dean,” that voice again, a familiar gravel road, “I know you don’t think it’s me,”
Damn straight I don’t.
“-but it is. I’m ah, I’m trying to think of how to prove it. I know you and Sam have-,”
“Say Sam’s name again, and I’ll put a bullet in your head. You may look and sound like Castiel, but if you think I won’t make good on my promise, think again.” Dean’s voice was cold steel in his own ears.
The thing smiled wryly, “I don’t doubt you. But forgive me if I’m breaking any rules here, seeing as you’re pointing a gun loaded with angel-killing bullets at my head.”
“So you’re an angel, then. Good to know. Which dick are you who’s been living under a rock, huh? Why haven’t you sons of bitches learned not to come knocking?”
Those familiar eyes rolled heavenward in equally familiar exasperation and Dean wanted to shoot the fucker dead for it.
“You’re being stupid.”
“Excuse me?” Dean cocked the gun.
It glared at him, “Oh I think you heard me, Dean Winchester. I’m trying to tell you that it’s me, but as usual, you aren’t getting it through your head that sometimes good things do happen.”
Good things do happen.
Fuck.
There was a pause in which Dean had a decision to make. For twelve years, only two people had known the words Cas had said to Dean on the night they’d met. Whatever this was knew that those words would tear through Dean like the ringing of a bell. Suddenly, there was only one thing to do.
“Put,” Dean stammered, “put out your hands. If it’s you, if it’s Castiel, give me the angel blade first.”
It, he- the thing who looked like Cas produced the angel blade from its place in Cas’ sleeve, slid it across the floor, and dutifully held its wrists out to Dean, who had crossed the room in a few brisk strides. He swallowed his hope like sacramental wine and pulled a flask of holy water out of his jacket, unceremoniously yanking one hand toward him with shaking fingers and upending the contents on the palm. Now that Dean was up close, he registered that it had also very obviously been crying. Dean barely restrained himself from flinching as the memories of their last goodbye came rushing back unbidden. When there came no steam or black demon smoke, Dean pulled out a silver knife and began to urgently carry on with the rest of the tests.
All through the necessary trials, Dean was conscious of those bright blue eyes studying him. As Dean’s confidence that this wasn’t Cas waned with each new drop of blood, the look in the entity’s eyes seemed more and more like faith to Dean. It’s eyes seemed to say hurt me all you’d like. Slice me with silver or douse me in borax and holy water. I am who I say I am, and I’m exactly where I need to be.
And Dean Winchester knew now that this could be nothing but an angel, but how could he know if it was his angel?
As it turned out, Cas had a solution.
“Dean.”
Dean was full-on shivering now, gasping for air like a drowning man.
“Dean!”
“Ca- please,” Dean clenched his fists where they rested in the upturned palms of an angel, “please. If this isn’t you, pick up that angel blade and kill me. I can’t go through this again.”
Dean’s breathing quieted as the being walked over to where the angel blade lay discarded on the floor. Dean found himself on his knees, every muscle tense. It picked up the weapon by the blade and flipped it point down, and Dean only knew peace. So it wasn’t Cas after all. Maybe it was Naomi or-or maybe someone else. It didn’t matter. The being approached, and Dean pretended it was Castiel.
“Dean,” Cas stopped in front of him, placing a hand on his face. Suddenly they were back in the crypt, need laid bare in the presence of bloodied fists and black eyes. “Oh, Dean.”
“Cas…” and that was all Dean was capable of saying now, all that he was reduced to a single name.
Dean closed his eyes as the hand withdrew, and a part of him hadn’t minded the special cruelty of the touch so long as he had the contact.
“Open your eyes.”
“No, please. Just, please.”
“Dean-,”
And Dean opened his eyes. He couldn’t deny that voice a single thing, even if he would surely be made to see the glint of the angel blade as it struck him. It didn’t matter. He would just look at Cas and pretend the sorrow and love in his eyes was real.
Dean waited on his knees for a blow that never came. Instead, Cas dropped to a crouch in front of him and guided his curled hands to his lap, long fingers forcing Dean’s own to unfold. Instead of piercing Dean’s heart, Cas placed the handle of the angel blade in Dean’s right hand. Instead of slitting his throat, he closed his hand over Dean’s and brought the sharp tip of the blade to his other wrist.
Their eyes met.
Castiel drew the blade across his skin.
And. Nothing. Happened.
Blood welled up beneath the blade instead of grace. As soon as Castiel released his hand, Dean dropped the blade. His eyes were transfixed on the very much human blood trickling from the shallow cut on Cas’ arm.
Holy shit-
But if he’s...wait.
Wait a minute, he’s human. Fuck, but how? Fuck, fuck, Cas-
Holy. Shit. Cas??
Cas must have seen the realization all over Dean’s face, because he dropped from a crouch to his knees with a relieved smile.
He laughed quietly, and the sound snapped Dean Winchester to attention. As a sob wrenched out of his throat, he was launching himself at Castiel. His arms wrapped tight around his best friend, and he buried his face into Cas’ shoulder. He wasn’t conscious of his hands where they were bunched in the fabric of that goddamned trench coat. This embrace wasn’t gentle; it was fierce, clinging, and desperate. It was as if Dean was trying to adhere them together. As if he was telling him to stay, stay with me and never fucking leave again.
They both knew there would be more. Dean had seen the dried tears on Castiel’s face, and he had a sneaking suspicion that his own thoughts had been a little too loud. Dean wanted to know why Cas was back. They needed to figure out where they stood. There were so many doors that needed to be closed, and years and miles between them to be examined before they took this where Dean knew he wanted it to go. But they had time now. They had time because Castiel came back.
He’ll always try to come back.
And there, on aching knees on the bunker floor, with tears falling freely on jacket sleeves and coat lapels, folded into each other like wings, Dean Winchester finally said three words that resurrected them both.
“I love you.”