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Jack was screaming. He was up again.
Dean checks the LED light of his alarm clock – Jack had nearly made it two hours.
He sits up from the headboard and walks to the bassinet by the side of his bed. He looks into the bassinet. Jack’s arms are outstretched and his eyes squeezed shut.
Dean throws a diaper cloth over his shoulder and reaches into the bassinet and lifts Jack out. “Hey, buddy,” he says, getting his arms properly under Jack. “That’s a big fuss for one little man.”
He doesn’t talk with Sam beyond communicating Jack’s needs and what they need from the store. But alone in the dark, he’ll talk with Jack. He can pretend things are fine. He can pretend he’s with him.
Jack squirms, still wailing.
Dean rocks Jack back and forth, shushing him lightly as they move from the bedroom to the kitchen. It manages to bring Jack’s volume down, but he still cries and cries all the way.
It’s supposed to get easier with time. That’s what – his parenting books say. They’ll fall into a rhythm, a routine, and soon enough parent and baby will bond.
Dean thinks it’s a load of bullshit.
Jack is up at irregular intervals, the 5 S method only works a quarter of the time, and Dean doesn’t know what kind of sleep he’s supposed to get when the baby is sleeping, because all that he sees in his dreams is the blood spreading through the white of the dress shirt, quickly followed by the flood of iridescent light expelling itself from the stab wound.
It’s so bright it’s blinding. Dean wakes up with spots in his vision, still.
Dean’s feet hit cool tile. He doesn’t bother turning on the kitchen light. He turns on the sink and sticks a hand in the water. The sound of the water hitting the basin startles Jack, causing him to scream again. Dean shushes him, swaying in place as he waits for the water to warm up. Once it does so, Dean removes his hand from the stream. He gives his hand a solid shake, and grabs the cup sitting next to the sink basin to place under the stream, and lets it fill half way. He shuts off the faucet and brings his hand back to Jack, shushing him still.
Dean walks over to the fridge, and bends down to look for the bottles at the back of the fridge. He has to stop swaying to stick his hand far enough back. Jack wails, his pitch making Dean’s ears ring. Dean walks back to the sink, and sets the bottle in the container. He hits his fist against the counter, closing his eyes. He doesn’t mean for it to be as loud as it is. Thankfully, Jack is screaming loud enough that the added noise doesn’t add to the baby’s distress. But it certainly doesn’t help.
Dean and takes a deep breath, and he waits. He brings his finger to Jack’s mouth, letting Jack latch on in an attempt to distract him from the wait. At the very least, it gives Dean a moment’s reprieve. Jack’s face almost begins to relax as he sucks on Dean’s pinkie, his cries quieting. Dean mouth tightens, pressing his lips together.
So much of his time taking care of Sam was filled with anger and vitriol – all meant for his father, some even at his mother. He was just a kid – he wasn’t meant to be a parent. Sammy was supposed to be his annoying little brother, not his child who depended on Dean to survive.
The whole experience – growing up in the back of Baby, John never being around, losing his mother so young, and then the whole hunting thing – Dean couldn’t do that to another kid. And look at him – he wasn’t any sort of dad, let alone a decent human being. He had nothing good to pass along to the up-and-coming generation. Leave that to Sammy – he was always the better of the two of them anyways.
Jack lets go of Dean’s pinkie, and his tongue feels for something that will actually feed him. No such luck. Jack opens his mouth to start crying again as Dean grabs the bottle in the cup, giving the contents a swirl, and tests the formula against his own skin.
It was supposed to get easier. Dean could at least time the bottle right.
“Alright, Jack, here you go,” Dean says, bringing the bottle up to Jack’s mouth. Jack latches on instantly, his cries replaced by soft suckling. Dean lets the bottle rest against his hand as Jack feeds. Jack’s face finally relaxes as he swallows the formula. Dean can finally sigh in relief. He watches the amount of formula in the bottle, and estimates when Jack has had half the bottle’s contents.
He takes the bottle away, and brings Jack up to his chest to burp him. Dean pats his back, and hums as he paces back and forth in the kitchen. He rubs circles on Jack’s back, listening closely for a burp.
Jack does indeed burp.
Dean brings Jack back into his arms, and reaches back for the rest of the bottle. “See?” Dean asks, watching Jack suckle on the bottle. “You’re okay. We’re okay” Jack coos, his eyes open now. He looks straight at Dean, and Dean tries to ignore the way his chest constricts.
He’s looking into Cas’ eyes.
The corners of Dean’s mouth turn down as he watches Jack.
Dean’s worked so hard the past week seeing everything that wasn’t Cas, pretending he could move on. He had his time with him. He gave his last, final pray in desperation, he wrapped Cas for the pyre. He struck the match. Cas was gone. He had to accept that. And yet, Dean can’t seem to escape him. He’s everywhere, except in the flesh.
He doesn’t know why his chest is heavy with a never-ending emptiness. It doesn’t make sense, the way he feels incomplete without him. Dean can’t comprehend how Sam doesn’t feel the same way; how Sam has seemingly moved on after only a week. Seven days for someone so integral to their lives for the past eight years? They couldn’t just let go of Cas . . . not with such ease.
And most of all, he doesn’t understand why his heart flutters and fights against the weight of grief when he thinks about Cas holding Jack in his arms, at Cas singing Jack to sleep with all the wrong lyrics. He was part of the family. Cas was so inherently a part of him that Dean, Dean didn’t know what to do without him.
It’s all-consuming, it’s his every day, these feelings, the pain that somehow hurts like hell. Dean doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t know where he’s supposed to put it, where he can lock it away, because Cas is intertwined with his soul, the faded handprint on his shoulder. He doesn’t know what to do without him, and Dean needs him.
Jack finishes the bottle, and Dean sets it back down on the counter. He brings Jack up to his shoulder again, and starts patting his back. This time it’s a bit of a wet sound.
“Did you spit up?” Dean asks, bringing the cloth on his shoulder up to Jack’s mouth. “Just a little.” He presses a soft kiss to Jack’s head before walking back to his room.
Cas still exists in small ways around the bunker. His small plants, just starting to grow and bloom litter any and all flat surfaces. His set of spare keys hanging from the hooks by the closet, the book he was in the middle of reading, the pages face down on the table to pick up where he left off.
“I thought you could memorize the page number?”
“My memory is not what it used to be.”
“Have you ever heard of a bookmark?”
“I don’t see any problem with this method.”
Dean sets Jack on the changing table, and changes the kid’s diaper. All throughout, Jack’s eyes are trained on Dean.
Cas should be here, properly. He shouldn’t be here in pieces, in the leftovers of his existence. He should be here with Jack, giving him all the love Jack deserves. Cas always had so much to give, and he spent all that time with the parenting books and the doula course. Cas was meant to be Jack’s father. He would have been the best father Dean has ever seen (not that there’s much to compare against). Dean doesn’t know how he could ever be a reasonable substitute. But he’ll have to do.
As Dean secures the tape to the front of the diaper, Jack stretches his arms and yawns.
“Big yawn,” Dean says, rubbing Jack’s tummy. He grabs the swaddling blanket, and arranges it to wrap around Jack. He tucks Jack’s arms in, tucking the blanket around his sides, and brings him into his chest. Jack coos, and his eyes droop closed, and he tilts his head towards Dean. It’s the first time Dean lets himself smile all night, albeit a very tight smile.
Dean walks back out of his room, ignoring the plants and the keys and the books that linger and taunt him around the bunker. He goes to the Dean Cave, where Sam set up the rocking chair.
Dean sits slowly into the rocking chair, watching Jack. He doesn’t move an inch in Dean’s arms, content in the blanket.
Dean leans back in the chair, and starts rocking back and forth. Jack makes a small sound, and Dean gives him a small pat. “I know. Imagine how I feel?” Dean rocks back and forth, watching Jack. He starts humming, one of the songs from Cas’ mixtape. He can’t bring himself to look at it, still sitting on Cas’ bedside table, but he can hum some of the tunes. He can’t bring himself to whisper the lyrics; they are no match to the ones Cas dreams up. Cas isn’t here for Jack, but Dean can do his best to lend pieces of him out to their baby.
Everything Cas was working for, everything Cas has wanted is resting in Dean’s arms, sleeping peacefully. Cas is gone, and it’s Dean’s responsibility now. And it’s hard work, it’s exhausting, it fucking sucks, it’s everything Dean swore he would never subject himself to again, certainly not unwillingly. But when Jack looks up at him, or when they’re in the rocking chair, surrounded by nothing but the dark, at least Dean can, for a moment, feel a little less lonely. He can feel a little closer to Cas.
Dean never could have pictured himself here, rocking in the rocking chair, humming to the little bundle in his arms. It’s the semblance of a normal life, of something he could have had, once long ago. He thought he lost it, all those years ago with the hunting and the monsters and whatever he’s let himself turn into. But if he had a chance to turn it all back, give it another go, live another life, Dean couldn’t imagine being anywhere else but here.
He never could have admitted it to himself, all those years ago. Not with John breathing down his neck and Sammy depending on him and the world coming to an end, but for whatever Dean wanted to make his life out to be, he thinks caring for a little guy like Jack is a pretty good start.
Dean is wrong a lot in his life, he’s always making mistakes, blind to the obvious. But this is the first time he doesn’t mind being proved wrong. For the first time in a very long time, being wrong can be something good. He doesn’t have a lot of love to give, he thinks, and he doesn’t quite know how to deliver what love there is, but he’s trying. He’ll make it work. He’ll figure it out.
Because if this is as close as Dean can get to being with Cas again, then so be it. If the last bit of Cas’ heart that exists lies in this little baby, in Jack, then Dean will care for it and nurture it with everything he has.
It’s everything he never knew he wanted, everything that’s been staring him in the face for the past eight years, swaddled in his arms. He wants it, and in the dark, Dean realizes he’ll never have it. Not truly. Not without Cas. He’s gone. Only to be found in the recesses of Dean’s worst nightmare.
He ignores the stray tear rolling down his cheek, instead focusing on Jack. Jack is blinking at him, his eyes bleary. Cas’ eyes. Dean didn’t realize he’d stopped humming.
He keeps rocking, back and forth. He resumes his song, track number eight. He dares to whisper a few of the words under his breath. It’s enough to lull Jack to sleep. Maybe one day, it will be enough for him, too.
*