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Even when the high of having Cas back, and going to Dodge City, and sort-of-in-a-way hunting Mysterious Dave wears off—there are other things that require more immediate attention than whatever’s been gnawing in the back of Dean’s head. He stays to finish the case and spends the whole time with a Jack-related knot in his stomach, worry he never expected to feel for Lucifer’s son, and when he gets back to the bunker he gets to enjoy about two more seconds of post-hunt elation and then he’s knocked to the ground and the weeks-old nephilim kid they were all responsible for is gone.
Sam is upset. Cas is upset, especially, so no matter what Dean had imagined their reunion could have been like—though he hadn’t imagined it, no way he could have—it’s all put on a back burner, to never be acknowledged again, probably. It’s whatever. Cas died—Dean took care of his body, burned it, picked a nice place to spread his ashes, tried to kill himself—and now Cas is back, and Dean is fine. Story arc wrapped up, onto the next one.
In a way it’s a good thing too, because if Sam had been less busy with worrying about Jack he would have had more time for worrying about Dean, and that’s a conversation Sam had absolutely been building up steam for, Dean knows. Sam probably would have taken his shoelaces and started checking on him in 15-minute intervals already by now, and he might have gotten Cas in on it too—as if he needs to know what Dean gets up to when Cas is gone—if other things hadn’t popped up and vied for everyone’s attention.
So it’s a long time coming, whatever after-school-special talk Sam is going to spring on him, is Dean’s point. That’s why he’s so surprised it never happens.
What happens is research. Putting out hunter APBs to every contact they’ve got and a constant scrolling through news feeds for the entire country. Not even Cas knows what to look for, though, to figure out where Jack could have gone. Dean half-seriously jokes one time that since it’s Satan’s kid, maybe what they should be on the lookout for is demonic omens, weird temperature drops, and then Cas had stormed out and Sam had looked at Dean all grim and disappointed.
What also happens is that Dean keeps up his drinking like nothing changed. So he’s a little bit drunk and hiding it when he’s trying to cook dinner for himself and his brother, enough for Cas too in case he’s feeling up for joining them and tasting molecules or whatever, and that’s when everything spills over. Like absentmindedly pulling off a scab, and then before you know it you’re dripping blood everywhere.
The scab in question is Cas coming back—which should be safe to pick on, because it’s a good thing, the thing Dean wished for more than anything else and thought he couldn’t have, but it leads him to thinking about the drive before Cas’ phone call. About Grand Junction and the child he should have saved. About Billie saying you want to die, which, well—yeah. That’s news to no one. He’s wanted to die plenty of times. Bobby’s called him out on it, Sam’s called him out on it, just-- never quite as bluntly as Billie had.
Billie had looked at him, freshly dead in her reading room, and said things like you really believe that and I say, keep living like some fucked up juxtaposition of when Cas had looked at him, freshly resurrected in a barn, and told him you don’t think you deserve to be saved and good things do happen, Dean.
It was infinitely more fucked up to remember when he still thought Cas was gone forever, but it doesn’t feel too good right now, either. Even with a week of distance between Dean and what happened. Maybe especially because of that week. Because he got to hear Cas’ voice again, got to see him again; he got a mostly fun case; a break from Sam looking at him like he was expecting Dean to fall apart any second; Cas quoting Tombstone in a ridiculous gift shop cowboy hat—and still nothing’s really fixed.
Things were looking up as much as they ever do in Dean’s burning tire yard of a life, and still nothing’s really fixed.
He thinks his chest might be imploding. Or maybe exploding, with the way his heart is trying to beat out of it. It reminds him of that Looney Tunes case they worked, with the guy whose heart leapt out of him. It was funnier back then.
He has no idea how much time has passed before a voice somewhere far away says, “Dean.” Dean flinches, looks up reflexively, a lifetime of hunting and of always having to be attentive taking over his actions. Cas is standing next to him, hands out like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. His brow is furrowed, and he says something else, but Dean doesn’t catch it.
“What?” Dean says hoarsely, and his own voice feels distant too.
“Can I touch you?” Cas asks, which would be really funny, in any other situation.
It’s not any other situation, but Dean still weakly manages to joke, “At least buy me dinner first,” which gets a small eye roll from Cas and a careful hand over the back of one of Dean’s.
He’s been unconsciously gripping the edge of the kitchen counter so hard his fingers ache when Cas pries them open. He flexes his hands the way he does when he’s testing wounded knuckles, and they shake, but he’s not hurt. He already knew that—the first while after Cas died he’d measured time in how long it took his hand to heal. It’s all older scars and slightly discolored skin now. Cas was gone too damn long.
Now, though, Cas is right here, taking deep exaggerated breaths for Dean to raggedly copy. A warm hand on Dean’s back and another on his shoulder guide him into a chair. Cas talks low, not actually saying anything, so Dean just focuses on the cadence without having to listen or having to reply. It helps, somehow. Dean’s heart rate starts slowly returning to normal, and once it has, they both go quiet.
Cas disappears from his side for a moment, turns off the stove when he passes it—right, Dean had been cooking, probably might have to figure out a way to tell Sam they’re getting takeout today instead—and comes back with a glass of water. That’s kind of funny too, for some reason, but Dean won’t argue. He drinks it all.
Cas waits for Dean to put the glass down, and then he gets back up to refill it again. Dean takes another sip when Cas hands it back, but after that, he leaves it on the table in front of him. Cas seems to take that as his cue to finally start a conversation. He says, “Are you okay, Dean?”
Obviously not, Dean considers saying, do you even have to ask. It’s maybe unnecessarily mean, and also too honest, but again—it’s already obvious. He’s not proficiently hiding anything from Cas, ever, but especially not right now. No way he’d take oh yeah, just peachy, as anything but sarcastic—so then Dean is back to do you even have to ask. In the end, all he does is drink some more water. Keeping his gaze down, away from Cas next to him.
He can feel Cas watching him, but at first he almost thinks he’s going to drop it. The weird contradictory mixture of relief and disappointment that that stirs up lasts until Cas asks, “What happened?” And that’s the second attempt at getting Dean to open up, so, alright. Fine. They’re doing this.
And hey, if he’s not going to lie, he might as well just fucking go for it. On a good day—and most bad days—he can trick himself into thinking he has a filter, but now he’s too exhausted to even try to ease into it. He says, ”I tried to kill myself.” It’s surprisingly easy to tell the pure truth for once, to not drape it in jokes and deflections and I’m fines. Why doesn’t he do that more often? Maybe because of what comes next.
He’s still not looking at Cas, but he can still tell that he’s completely frozen. ”What?” Cas asks, and it sounds urgent. ”Dean, what have you done?”
Dean’s laugh slips out unbidden. “Shit, not now,” he says. “Few hours before I found out you were back.”
Movement in Dean’s periphery makes him finally look up. Cas is leaning forward, trying to catch Dean’s line of sight, and he looks more concerned than Dean has maybe ever seen him. “Why?” he asks, voice so soft and careful. It’s not condescending, per se, but it’s not the kind of treatment Dean wants. He’s just about well-adjusted enough to know that no one would be angry at him for this, but between Sam’s quiet attempt at comfort in the car after Colorado and Cas’ gentleness now, Dean kinda wishes someone would yell at him, instead. It would be better if he could yell back. But it wouldn’t be fair to get angry now.
It also wouldn’t be fair to say what he’s thinking—because you were dead, because I watched it happen and I had to carry your body and give you a funeral and it was one of the worst things I’ve ever done. It’s way too much to admit, and too much like putting the blame on Cas, and he can’t do that. Could put it on Jack, for a while, before he got to know him. Can always, always put it on himself.
What he ends up settling for is, “Dude, I actually don’t wanna talk about it.” Back to what comes naturally, the previous part of this conversation just a momentary lapse. Cas being dead, and whose fault it was or wasn’t, doesn’t even explain why he’s having a breakdown right now, anyway.
Cas frowns. “Dean--” he starts, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s finally made up his mind.
“Stop, Cas, I’m fine,” he says. He’s halfway out of his seat already, because if he doesn’t leave—doesn’t put an end to all this back and forth in his mind—he’s gonna get fucking emotional whiplash or something. He’ll escape to go find Sam, volunteer to drive into town to pick up food, never ever talk about his feelings again. It’s a solid plan.
Until Cas puts a hand on Dean’s forearm and finally pulls out the face that somehow always works wonders to make Dean want to tell him things, all tilt-y and soft and caring, and, well—that’s just cheating.
Dean sinks back down on the chair just as Cas says, “Please talk to me.” He looks-- sincere, is the only word Dean can think of for it. Not frustrated, only a little bit sad.
And Dean is suddenly glad it was Cas that found him and not Sam. He can talk to Cas. Cas already knows the ugliest sides of him. He’s seen Dean in Hell, seen him with the Mark, seen him do terrible things that were all Dean, uninfluenced, just him and his crap. Cas knows him, all the bad parts, all the ways he tries to redeem them and always falls short. He can tell Cas about this, too.
And then he realizes it’s not true right now. Usually, he can talk to Cas—sure. Today, with Jack gone and Cas only very recently back from the dead, there’s no way Dean can put this burden on him any more than he already has. Cas doesn’t need that, Cas needs Dean on his A-game. Needs him painstakingly looking through fucking CCTV footage or combing the internet for a glimpse of anything that could possibly be Jack.
Forth, and now back again.
Dean never should have said anything in the first place. Shouldn’t have had a panic attack in the bunker kitchen. Should have died in that haunted asylum or shouldn’t have tried to at all. Should have included his own life in the bargain with Billie, so she never would have read him like an open book and told him he needs to live because he’s important. He’s not. He’s not he’s not he’s not.
Somehow, cosmic beings seem to have a tendency of seeing straight through Dean these days, because even though he voices exactly none of that, Cas still says, “I won’t force you to talk about it, Dean, but I want you to know I care about you.”
Dean takes a deep breath. It’s a little shaky again. “I know,” he says then, and he thinks he does. Despite it all, and no matter how misguided he thinks Cas is for it, he doesn’t really doubt that part. Cas has stuck around this long, through a whole lot of shit, with no ulterior motive. That’s something—that’s maybe even enough.
“So you understand why I’m gonna be concerned when you tell me things like that and then shut down,” Cas says.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You my therapist now?” he quips. It’s not so much a wall he’s putting up, not with Cas, but maybe something like a moat with a faulty drawbridge.
Cas pauses for a moment, and then he says, carefully, “Do you ever… think about therapy?”
Okay, maybe Dean walked right into that one. He scoffs, trying to seem like he’s amused, and not like he’s finally stumbled upon what might be his least favorite part of tonight’s talk. “Hah, yeah. Been there, done that, actually. Made Sam cry, and then it turned out the shrink was a shapeshifter.” At Cas’ look, Dean backtracks. “But, uh, story for another time. Cas, s’not like you gotta 5150 me, man. It was just a hunt, really. And Billie of all people told me I’ve still got work to do, so.”
Cas takes the bait. “Billie,” he says, finally onto something new. “You talked to Billie?”
“Oh, yeah, Sam didn’t tell you? She’s Death now,” Dean plasters on a grin, it feels about as fake as it is. “You know, that didn’t help. Figured she’d throw me in the Empty the second she saw me in the Veil,” and then his heart stutters a little again. So close to something like at least then I would have been with you. But he wouldn’t have been—Cas was already back, then. From what he told them, he was back before they even found the case in Grand Junction. Dean’s smile slips.
“I’m thankful she didn’t,” Cas says quietly, watching Dean. Probably seeing way too much in what Dean’s face is doing.
Dean shrugs. This might be where he’s supposed to say so am I, and he would, it’s maybe even true, but it just won’t come out. It sticks in the back of his throat.
Then suddenly Cas reaches out and hugs him, and it’s a reunion hug. Like they haven’t already been around each other for the better part of a week, like they didn’t already do this when Cas came back. They’re still sitting next to each other at the table so it’s a little awkward, but it’s warm, and Cas doesn’t pat him on the back; just holds him. Dean follows his lead.
The hug says, I’m glad you’re here, I missed you.
Or maybe, I’m glad you’re here, that I didn’t miss you.
“Fuck,” Dean breathes out, and it’s muffled, and that’s how he realizes he’s burrowing his face into Cas’ shoulder. Right now, that’s fine. Cas is allowing it, and Dean feels so drained he can allow it for himself, too.
When they pull away their eyes meet, and Dean pretends he doesn’t notice Cas’ dropping to Dean’s mouth by turning his head forward, away. It doesn’t mean anything—Dean knows it doesn’t mean anything. It’s Cas, and-- well. It’s just Cas, Cas who just had to comfort Dean when he should be worrying about his own shit, who’s Dean’s best friend, who deserves better. Cas, whose hand is lingering on Dean’s upper arm. Cas, who always leaves.
Always comes back, too, but Dean can’t take that for granted.
“Okay,” he says, and this time when he tries to get up from the chair he makes it all the way. He stretches a little, grunts a little, makes a show of distancing himself from everything that’s happened tonight. Brings his water glass to the sink, checks on what became of the dinner he was making. “Okay, yeah, I’m gonna go into Lebanon and get a pizza, Sam’ll just have to deal.”
Behind him, Cas says, “How are you, Dean?”
Dean turns back around again, mouth already open on a customary answer, but then he feels himself deflate. He looks down at his feet and smiles a little bit, then nods, admits, “Better now. Fucking exhausted, but better.”
Cas smiles softly in return. “That’s good.” He stands up too. “I can clean up in here if you want to go talk to Sam.”
Dean nods again, in thanks this time, and moves to leave. When he passes Cas he reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, but Cas just catches his hand. They stand there in silence for a few moments, Dean’s hand between both of Cas’, and then Cas lightly squeezes his fingers and lets him go.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” he says, like that was a concern he knew Dean had. Dean realizes it was.
For half a second he suddenly thinks he’s about to kiss Cas after all. It hits hard, and it’s far from the first time, but-- then the moment breaks. Cas is crossing the room to the sink, about to get to work on Dean’s cast iron skillet, and the sound of the water turning on gets Dean out of whatever trance he was apparently in.
Cas staying right now doesn’t mean staying indefinitely. They still have to find Jack, and who knows what they’ll have to deal with after that. Cas might leave at any time—might leave tomorrow—and anything can happen. Anything already has.
“No soap in that,” Dean says, even though he knows that Cas already knows that, and then he adds, “See you later,” and finally leaves the kitchen.
And, hell, it might be true that nothing is fixed, and that everything will inevitably change again and again, but, well. For now, Cas is here. Cas is alive, when Dean thought he’d never get to see him again. It’s enough. Dean is gonna get pizza, and then he might force both Cas and Sam to watch a movie with him, and tomorrow they’ll get back to work.
And it’s enough.