Chapter Text
Dean Winchester doesn't sing.
He has said, more than once, that there is no singing in Supernatural (ha!); but truthfully, it's been long years since then. Years before (and since as well) in which he's sung along to REO Speedwagon and Air Supply, to Bob Seger and Bon Jovi; and even to that one damn song by Taylor Swift. (It's catchy, alright?)
But he never said HE was a singer.
And yet, recalling the early days of guitar lessons at Sonny's place with Robyn when he was fifteen, when his dream was to be a rockstar, Dean comes up with songs that he strums awkwardly now. He learned licks in the past, yes, but didn't really pick up again til Sam was in college. And then, after they find the Bunker and he gets his own space, Dean finds an old acoustic in a secondhand music shop and hides it in his Dean cave. Because hunters don't have the time for crap like that.
His dad would've called it frivolous, or pansy. Unnecessary. Something that only takes away from time needed to be the best. The best at saving people, hunting things. The best at keeping Sammy safe.
Yet at night when he couldn't sleep, when his dreams got too bad and life was so damn hard, he'd get ahold of the acoustic and do some soft strumming.
Dean doesn't think anything of it until he stops goofing around one day and just... starts singing.
Softly at first, but then with more power and ache in his voice, his chest and throat, and he's thrown off by the sound that comes out. All those nights singing "hey Jude" to Sam, the times in Baby with cassettes and the radio, and even that one karaoke-esque song session with Lee really paid off, he thinks with a wry twist to his mouth.
And so, now, after everything he has been through and with everything he is, Dean sings.
He sings what he feels, because what the hell? Uses other peoples' words - acoustic versions of classic tunes, turning his affection for rock n roll into affection sung about his family. That's easier. But he doesn't come out and sing in front of anybody; he's always alone strumming in his room or on the couch or in the Dean cave when everyone else is asleep.
Everyone but Cas, who, even when he isn't in the immediate vicinity so as to give Dean ample amounts of personal space (which certainly he requires after... everything) still listens.
And one night as the angel listens, Dean sings with his hands curled gently to touch strings, fingers desperately clutching neck; his voice rough and thickening on the words, cracking, breaking on the choruses, a song by Survivor that contains something of his heart.
"How can I tell you
To put it all in words
There is so much left to say
But the meaning slips away
And how can I show you
To see it through my eyes
Don't deny that part of you
That's been dying for it too
How do I know if I give you too much
Will I scare you away
How do I know when to leave you alone
When to beg you to stay?
I want to know
Just how much love does it take
To get to you
I stand here ready to break
Tell me, tell me
How much love does it take
Moment to moment
I don't know where it stands
Will I end up like the rest
Well it's anybody's guess
Can I persuade you
So softly in a touch
If it's all a waste of time
Well I'm only wasting mine
How do I know if I give you too much
Will I scare you away
How do I know when to leave you alone
When to beg you to stay
I want to know
Just how much love does it take
To get to you
I stand here ready to break
Tell me, tell me
Oh -oh tell me, tell me...,"
Dean gets all choked up, a raspy creakiness suffusing his voice— singing to the ceiling, he shakes his head and shuts his eyes, striving in vain to stop the traitorous tears that squeeze from under his eyelids to drip down his cheeks. And his breaths go wet and shaky as he inhales and swallows.
He ceases playing for a minute, hunched over the guitar before pressing finger and thumb tip to the skin just underneath each of his eyes, pressing and dragging to try desperately, uselessly, to stop the tears. He bows his head.
And Cas - Cas wants so badly to put a hand on his friend's shoulder but can't bring himself to cross whatever line there is, or could be.
Thus all the angel does is appear and say "Dean," so softly.
"Cas," face in the crook of his arm, leaning against the guitar as he furiously tries to wipe all trace of tears away "h-hey man," voice still rough, throat closing up as damnit now he's here and how much of that had he heard -?
Castiel, brow knitting subtly with concern for a fraction— knowing that it may be painful to his friend for him to address it, feeling that he may be invading Dean's privacy by asking— nevertheless presses on with a low "...Are you alright?"
Dean chokes out a laugh that sounds as wrenching as a sob, sniffing and wiping furiously at his nose and then over his closed eyes.
Blinking them open, knowing by the way they burn that there's more crying to come unless he can stop himself - but he's so tired of hiding.
His voice is as infinitesimal as the shake of his head when he utters "I don't - hell, Cas." And then because fuck it "No. I don't know," pressing the heels of both hands against his eyes as he closes them again, Dean groans. What a night this is.
The short answer is, he isn't. But the why...he doesn't feel like he's able to explain, or doesn't fully know hOW, even if he can. It's all tied up knotted in his stomach and chest and if he says anything else he's pretty sure he'll start really crying, full-on, which is nothing that anybody should have to see.
The angel drops his eyes and draws a line across the floor with his gaze. With a steady blink, he decides against bringing up the song.
Castiel's volume shifts to match Dean's with a delicacy in its tone when he offers, "Would... if you don't mind, would having some company... suffice...?" Some part of him hisses at his particular choice of words. The arrogance, to imply— to request... He did in fact invade the man's space... even though his core festers with a furious desire to assist and support and listen.
Then, a bit reserved, he adds, "If you pardon my intrusion, I– I think you and I can both agree that shedding tears at three forty-seven in the morning isn't exactly......" He trails off as he takes notice of the very minute way Dean seems to slump into himself, as he is unfortunately wont to do, and the celestial cannot help the uncomfortable shift of weight in his own being. He breathes heavy fire through his nose as his eyes flicker across Dean's face, a hint of sorrowful disappointment in his dry utterance of "...healthy."
"Hah," Dean croaks out a bitter burble of laughter. Healthy. Right. "...when 've I ever been the healthy type, Cas?" He asks. Feels sharpness like a blade drawn across his skin. He's not saying anything about what Dean was singing, which would be -good, except that Dean is aching and wants the angel to sit down with him, but more than that he wants to nestle into Cas, to hold him, to press skin to skin, clutch his back with hands and whisper that he means all the things he just sang about. But, the slight laugh growing to a bigger sound, he can't do that. He isn't healthy.
"... Sammy's the health nut, y'know," mouth dry as he blinks, Dean looks up at Cas and his voice breaks again, that's perfect - as he whispers "an' I know you don't sleep, but bein' up wanderin' around...," He doesn't say anything immediately, lips quirking into a slight smile "this late ain't exactly healthy either." We're quite a pair, he hastens to think, and then stamps on the thought. But he can't do without Cas, he never could. And now he's here, and so shifting himself and lifting the guitar away from his bent knees to place atop its case, Dean slaps at the floor beside him. "But y' can pop a squat if you wanna," he says nonchalantly as if the casual nature of the words aren't eating him up inside. Great. Absolutely friggin fantastic.
And in an instant Castiel's own words, the ones with which he had planned to respond in preparation for rejection, are stolen; a tiny piece of him faintly shines hopeful as if resembling the first signs of glimmering gemstone found in an exhausting 400-hour excavation.
"What I'm telling you is that you shouldn't be alone, Dean..." he returns as he sits carefully, doing his best not to convey any notion that Dean's words were just a tad too biting for his liking, even if he understood their rationality. He places his hands on his knees, but his hands fidget despite himself. "...although it was my mistake in not asking you if you wished for company beforehand."
He doesn't yet bring up his eyes, finding again his word choice leaving a bitter aftertaste. Healthy. Dean has a point... but humanity truly has no paradigm in such things, not in the way the hunter's reflecting on it. Dean Winchester is as much a picture of health as Castiel is a model angel. He wonders if that might make the other laugh or irritate him even more. He decides against speaking on that too.
With his bright eyes finally finally finding Dean, instead he murmurs "I wasn't wandering..." in such a pitiful manner that he swears he could sense the feeble protesting tone ooze off of his words like a child feigning maturity to an adult.
Dean nearly laughs at the petulance in Cas's voice. He wants to lean over, suddenly, and ruffle the angel's hair, or press lips to his cheek, but holy crap, no. He can't do that. He simply feels warm in the way Cas so earnestly informs him about not being alone. The knot in his chest ever-so-slightly loosening, Dean does reach out. "Fair enough, buddy," he says with a bracing pat to Cas's leg and the arm resting on top of it. His fingers only slightly shake, and he's proud that his voice doesn't shake at all. "- but I'm not alone," he adds, tongue darting to wet his lips as he ponders saying the next words... But, again, screw it. May as well. And with the roughness smoothed slightly away, Dean nudges Cas's shoulder companionably. Aching to prolong the touch, but unable to. "I got you, don't I?"
He oughta say thanks, but is failed by his voice, only able to curl his fingers and grasp onto Cas's sleeve and clutch his arm beneath it, wincing inwardly at that seeming - desperate. But not caring enough to... no, not able, willing to withdraw.
Like he said just now to himself. He's tired of hiding.
"Dean," Cas inclines his head, eyes crinkling with a flash of something indistinct and voice pushing high for emphasis on "You always have me." Then his eyes wander away as he punctuates awkwardly, "Even when you don't ask." He's had - well, made - a habit of just appearing, hasn't he? He feels a small, fond tug at the corner of his mouth in recalling rich green eyes snapping open and the subsequent frantic scrambling to appear presentable— it never fooled the angel though. And, after a moment, with a tilt of his head in Dean's direction while not quite turning to look back, he tries, "I like to think I... provide, that I've provided some solace. It's the least I can do for all you've done for me..." Though not quite enough. Never enough.
Dean inhales sharply through his nose. His brows wrinkle, draw together as he jerks his chin downwards in a nod. His "yeah, it does" and "yeah, you are" jumble together and dissipate only for him to actively grab the angel's hand and grip it tightly, ducking his head to catch Cas's gaze with his. "What I've done for YOU? Cas, you - " saved me. "Pulled me out of Hell. Protected me by goin' to the Empty. But you've done so much else, so much more than that. You're dedicated and ... you're so damn loyal even when I don't deserve it." Especially when I don't deserve it. "You keep showing up, and you... you're here." You - love me. "You... told me that because 'a me, you care." And, well, so do I. I care. About you. I care about you, Castiel. Damn it, he can't get those words out, but Dean finds that he keeps hanging onto and can't seem to let go of the other's hand.
Castiel appears to stutter for a bit, his mind racing as it fights to decide between steadying his hand or focusing on his words. Ultimately, he chooses the latter, though the task itself is cumbersome in the way his brow and eyes drop. "Dean," he begins rough, "I– while your sentiments are appreciated, your praise is misplaced, that... You've afforded me so much freedom, to choose, to discover... what— who, I am... something I never knew I needed—" his voice slides sharp as it cracks with disbelieving bemusement. "—let alone wanted.... I don't believe you'll grasp the depth of my gratitude." He wrinkles his nose, puffing out air. Deeper, more tense, "You... find it admirable to stand beside you... and say that you don't deserve that, I– I find that... to... to be......" And when he finds Dean's eyes again, his own reveal nothing but heartache. Then all he can utter is a strained "Dean..."
Dean blinks, and softens. He feels his eyes prickle with more tears that he doesn't shed this time, though it's close. Cas... It's an almost hiccuping sensation that Dean feels in his chest, as if his heart has flip-flopped. He clutches onto the angel's hand tighter, and then registering how much, to the point his knuckles have started to bulge, he loosens, striving to run a thumb gently over the soft skin between Cas's forefinger and thumb instead. "... okay, Cas," he isn't quite sure what the guy is saying, but it seems like he's distressed, or - and here Dean was thinking angels don't feel.
Cas clearly does, with every aspect of his being.
"Hey, man," Dean tries, his voice coming as a croak. It's okay, buddy, he wants to say, but can't, only swaying slightly into the other's space and feeling his chest tighten on another stabbing feeling. But this time it's not awful, though still a little painful. What the fuck? Dean doesn't know. But "it's okay," he does manage, eventually, his thumb still swiping and stroking gentle circles onto Cas's skin.
Is it? There was so much pain scratching at Dean's voice when he was singing... he may as well have been ululating his sorrows. As Castiel studies the circular motion of Dean's thumb, he wonders why, with such ardor, did he feel the need to appear in that moment when he very well knows he could have knocked instead... allowed Dean time to gather himself, play things off like he isn't hurting every day......
Then, finally, he gingerly squeezes Dean's hand back, and is instantly reminded of the reason.
"Dean, you are the one who needs assurance..." Cas mutters with an air of slight amusement, settling his gaze upon him once more. That's why I came in, he doesn't say.
Forget a flip, Dean's heart does a somersault and his stomach lurches at the same damn time when Cas says he, Dean, needs assurance. Because no, he's gotta... Shaking his head even as breath hisses in, shaking too, Dean drops his chin nearly to his chest, fighting tears and the desert dryness in his throat. His chest aches and he wants to cry out and curl in to bury himself in Cas's shoulder, but all he can do is almost whimper in the softness of his response "Ah, Cas..." Could tell him to be quiet, could say he can do this, that he'll be fine, but he's opened up to Cas before about not being, and ...well hell, he doesn't want to lie to him. Not after everything. Not after what Cas said to him before ...the Empty, and had heard from Dean just now, whether or not it was the entire song.