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Heaven has everything that Dean could want, he’s told. Bobby sits next to him on the rickety porch, tells him that everything he could want is within reach. That for the first time in his life - well, his death - he can be happy here. No more suffering, no more mistakes - this is it, Dean thinks, as he and Bobby drink beer and gaze off into a perfect sunset. This is what heaven should be, and he’s somehow managed to get there. No more Dean Winchester-flavored screwups that could threaten this, because he’s supposed to have it all here - and who could mess that up?
The next morning, Dean opens the front door of Harvelle’s to find Cas standing there. Objectively, he could’ve come up with something better to say than, “Are you the one who brings us more beer, then?”
Cas takes him in, stony-faced and silent, for a full thirty-two seconds. Then he’s turning around and walking away, without a word to Dean.
Apparently, there are some things that Dean can still mess up after all.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean says after Cas walks away and disappears somewhere at the end of the road. One moment he’s glowering, the next gone. He wonders if that’s like a vocal equivalent of graffiti up here, or if Jack’s a whole lot cooler than the previous administration in swearing. For good measure, Dean says into the thin air, “Fuck it.”
He snags the doorknob, pulls the door shut once again. He can hear Bobby - still with a slight limp like he’s gotten used to it, but without the huff of arthritic pain under his breath - come up behind him.
Bobby neglects to wish him good morning because not even heaven can teach an old dog new, good manners. Instead, he asks, “That Cas?”
Dean turns what must be bewildered eyes on him, for Bobby snorts at whatever he sees. “The angel comes by every so often. Must like my company better than yours, if he left so fast - “
He stops, maybe because the expression on Dean’s face reflects how the words cut just a little too close. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Dean says, on reflex.
Bobby arches one brow.
“Don’t look at me like that! Listen, he probably just didn’t expect to see me, that’s all.”
A longer, more incredulous stare.
“I died quick,” Dean says, a touch peevish, “Okay? If angels can keep track of time - it probably caught him off guard. That’s it.”
Muttering something that sounds awful like damn Winchesters under his breath, Bobby jerks his head back. On a long-standing instinct, Dean follows him back into the bar, where they take a seat on either side of a booth.
“You still haven’t told me about it,” Bobby says.
Dean pops open the top of a beer bottle that’s helpfully appeared at the end of their table - glass perfectly chilled. “Told you what?”
“What got you?” Bobby asks; casual like he’s asking about the weather, except for the way he suddenly looks to the left of Dean. He can imagine it: today in Heaven Central, it’s a perfectly crisp seventy degrees, no hotter even though Sam Winchester may complain because he’s a freakishly tall cold baby -
Dean swallows, says, “Not too long since Jack got all powered up. We were on this hunt, saved some kids from a vampire nest. Sam made it out okay, but I didn’t.”
“A vamp took you out?”
He decides to omit the technical detail of the rebar to the back doing the deed. Some things you should take to the grave and then some. “Eh,” Dean says, taking another sip. “Didn’t get all Dracula before I went if that’s what you’re asking.”
Bobby says, “Sometimes, I worry about you.”
“The worst literally happened to me,” Dean says, gesturing to himself, “And look at me now.”
Bobby grunts in acknowledgment.
They drink their beers, then another, in companionable silence. The old jukebox in the corner is playing all the songs that Dean would normally crank up in the Impala if he heard them, back-to-back personal favorites. He wonders if they’re also Bobby’s favorites, or if he’s hearing something else, or if it’s Dean’s turn for musical shotgun today. Felt the lightning, yeah, and I waited on the thunder. How far off I sat and wondered -
Since getting drunk seems to be not an issue - besides the fact that he’s comfortable like he was, the lights overhead a little twinkly despite his clear head - Dean finally asks him, “How long has Cas been back then? I - we thought he got sent to the Empty.”
“He was, and then he wasn’t,” Bobby says, like Dean’s supposed to be able to do something with that. “Jack got him out somehow, had him help build this place. He comes around, we reminisce about you boys, he goes back to work with the new God.”
“Sounds like a vacation for him,” Dean half mutters, lifting the bottle to his mouth. He supposes he likes the idea that Cas and Bobby found each other here, that neither has been alone - even if he's probably never going to show up now that Dean's put his foot in his mouth, somehow. What is it about him that drives him away? The traitorous thought tugs in the back of his mind, and Dean worries the edge of the beer label with his thumb in response.
Being dead is many things, but it’s certainly loosened what he thought was a permanent knot in his chest somewhat because he finds it within himself to ask, “So why’s he pissed at me now?”
Bobby shrugs, not looking surprised at Dean’s line of questioning. “He was your pet angel,” and Dean rolls his eyes like the other thousand times he’s heard it, for him to continue, “He likes going out to this lake, round back of here. Never joined him myself - but you should go find him there.”
Dean sets his bottle down. “A lake?”
“You can’t miss it.” Bobby raps his knuckles on the table between them, and that look is back on his face once again. “It’ll do both of you some good.”
“Right,” Dean says, “Because he really looked like he wanted to chat with me just now.”
Bobby barks out a laugh. “Just go talk to him,” he says. "Go."
“Well,” Dean says, “Since he’s probably going to want to push me in, save one of those bar towels for me, will you?”
He’s still getting a hang of this whole thing, new heaven, being dead, Cas not even greeting him after likely thinking he’d never see him again. Dean makes his way out the back door of the roadhouse, pausing once he’s outside to take in his surroundings.
What had been, in life, an expanse of concrete, patchy grass, broken glass, and cigarette butts, is now a sloping hill that dips gently down below the back of the building. The golden-hued grass meets a grove of sycamores, where a worn footpath leads into the distance.
Dean sets off. The woods surround him without being overwhelming like they’re gently guiding him even if there hadn’t been a path. The first time Dean had been in capital-H Heaven - when he and Sam’d been fleeing Zachariah, walking down memory lane while Cas had spoken to them through the radio like the world’s gloomiest Delilah - it hadn’t been like this. There’s no urgency now, no need to hurry, yet Dean finds his pace picking up as he cuts through the woods, searching for the water.
Then he’s right there. He steps past another sycamore, and then there’s sand shifting under his boots. The sky is clear and broad above him, without a cloud in sight, and Dean sees that there’s a dock on the far end of the lake.
It takes him minutes - seconds - what could be years - to make his way along the shore to the dock. The figure at the end doesn’t turn around, even when Dean’s footsteps make the wood creak, even when he says, “We’ve done this before.” It is the same lake, after all, recreated perfectly from his memory - or maybe not just his.
“You’re not dreaming now,” Cas says, and his dark hair moves slightly in the wind, as he stares out across the water - or maybe his eyes are closed like he’s meditating. Dean can’t tell, either way. “No one does. You don’t need to.”
“They should put you on the welcoming committee,” Dean tells him, watching the back of his head. “That kind of attitude, you’d be a hit with the churchgoers, for sure.”
“There’s no need to welcome anyone,” Cas says, a little waspishly, “You die, you come into being here, and all your wishes are granted. There’s no need for guidance.”
“I gotta say,” Dean says, “If all my wishes were supposed to come true here, I would’ve thought my morning would’ve involved a blowjob or two - “ and Cas rises, suddenly, like he’s the one about to take a swan dive off the end of the dock. “Wait, Cas, bad joke, okay, just wait - “
“Forgive me,” Cas says, still not turning around, “But I need some time.”
He says time like he means I need space from you. Maybe when Dean was alive, he would’ve stepped back. Thrown his hands in the air, said something cutting to see Cas’s brow furrow, only he can’t see Cas’s face, and Dean is dead, so he takes the risk.
“No,” Dean says, and he reaches out, grabs Cas’s shoulder. He doesn’t move despite Dean’s best effort to tug him around, so he insists, "Would you look at me?”
Cas does turn around at that, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Dean go still inside. It’s grief, he realizes, directed at him. Cas asks, “How long was it?”
“How - “ and Dean flounders, watching as his expression grows more and more closed off like he knows he’s transparent at this very moment. He steps closer, letting go of him in favor of trying to catch his eye. “What are you talking about?”
“Time moves differently here,” Cas says, too evenly, “But you look exactly the same as the last time that I saw you. No new wrinkles, or scars, tattoos. So how long as it, until you died?”
“Does it matter?” Dean says, more than a little thrown that this is why Cas is pissed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we made it to heaven. Does the before even really matter?”
A muscle in Cas’s jaw jumps; Dean realizes his choice of words could’ve been better. “It was a few weeks,” he admits shortly, as Cas looks up, “There was this vamp nest in this shack. I was with Sam - “
“I don’t want to know,” Cas cuts him off, which, rude, because he’d asked in the first place. Dean grits his teeth, as Cas turns to gaze out across the water, that eerie serene expression on his face like when he’s masking how he really feels sliding on as smoothly as ever.
He says, “You should go.”
Dean can take a hint. “Fine,” he says, and he makes himself walk away before he can say anything else that he knows he’ll regret.
On his way back, he kicks one of the sycamore trees in a moment of sheer frustration, and it’s more than a little infuriating that it doesn’t even hurt his foot one bit.
The bell above the door rings as he comes in, the door slamming shut behind him - or maybe he pushes it a bit, okay. “Hey, Bobby,” Dean calls, wondering if the whiskey here is true to how it was in life, or if it’s actually drinkable here. “Where’d you go?”
“In the back office,” he hears him call. Dean snags a bottle of what’s been dubiously labeled as Makers and two glasses on his way to the room.
Bobby’s sitting with his feet up on the desk, a book in his hand. There are stacks of paper around him, but he seems unbothered by the mess - and it’s not like there are bills to be paid here, after all. Dean uses his foot to snag one of the chairs, pushing it with more than a little force - and a screech - than strictly necessary so he can take a seat across from him.
“Boy,” Bobby says, setting down his book at the sight of him, “You look like you were just sent to the doghouse.”
“Ha-ha,” Dean pushes out, placing the glasses on the desk. On second thought, he uncaps the bottle and takes a swig directly from it. It burns exactly how he needs it to, right now, chasing away the bitter taste in his mouth.
Bobby’s still watching him when he sets it down. “I take it your conversation with Cas went well," he says.
“Peachy,” Dean says, “He’s just got a lot on his plate right now, promised he’d made it to dinner tonight so we can all catch up over tacos.”
Bobby pauses from where he’s pouring himself a glass, like a civilized human being. “Really?”
“No, Bobby,” Dean says flatly, “I barely got in two words before he shunned me. He’s, I dunno, all twisted that I kicked it so soon I guess. Don’t know why he would care - “
For the second time today, he’s cut off by Bobby’s incredulous laugh. At Dean’s stare, he says, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Were you both betting on when I’d show up or something?” Dean demands, only half kidding, “Because I didn’t think you’d be so invested in that kind of details! Christ, who else did you get in on the pot, if that’s the case?”
“Dean Winchester,” Bobby tells him, “You know I love you like a son, but you are the stupidest son of a bitch if you think that Cas doesn’t care that you died.”
“I’m here now!” Dean exclaims, and maybe he can get drunk here, because he slaps his own chest, feeling slightly unhinged like whenever he thinks about Cas. “What else matters?”
“What else - “ and Bobby shakes his head, sighs like Dean’s told him that he’s been thinking of trying to become a vegan. “Look, if you’d been here like he’s been, and then Cas showed up, and he told you that he’d died a few days after you, how would you feel about that?”
“Just fine,” Dean says, “I’d offer him a drink on the house, like any sane person.”
Bobby glares at him, and maybe Dean’s going to be successful in managing to be the first person to give another an ulcer in heaven at this rate. “Boy,” he says again, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Can we not talk about Cas for one minute?” Dean mutters, “Cuz I don’t think there’s enough left in this bottle to finish this conversation, and I don’t feel like getting up again.” It’s more like if Dean gets up, he might just walk out the door and keep on walking to avoid this conversation and any number of future renditions, and he likes Harvelle’s too much to leave it already. But Bobby doesn’t need to know that.
Bobby studies him, long enough that Dean’s able to get another mouthful of whiskey in his stomach. Then, “If this is some kind of… repression thing they talk about,” Bobby begins, ever so careful, to Dean’s horror, “Don’t you think that if you made it here, you don’t have to be worried about burning in hell for how you are and all?”
“Jesus Christ, Bobby, you join some kind of heavenly PFLAG?”
“Maybe we should’ve talked about it,” Bobby presses on, “Because clearly, you’ve still got that shit to work through, though I would’ve hoped by now - “
“There’s not shit to work through,” Dean says quickly, and under Bobby’s unrelenting stare, he relents. “I mean - I’m not straight. I know that.”
“No shit, son,” Bobby tells him dryly, then, “But thanks for telling me.”
They never had this talk when either of them was alive, although Dean’s pretty sure that Bobby knew that he and Travis Greenway in junior year weren’t just lifting weights out in the junkyard that one time. Sure, if he’d brought it up then, Dean would’ve denied it, buried that sort of thing even deeper inside, because repression had been his go-to for a long time. Sam had asked him vaguely, once, when he was twenty-something, if Dean ever thought that he’d hid parts of himself because of how they were raised. He didn’t even say the words, but it had been enough to send Dean into a spiral of panic, deeper into the closet, away from those feelings.
Something had changed after he’d gone to hell. Maybe it was because he’d gone through that for reasons that were totally unrelated to sucking dick, but he’d come up out of the earth and realized that life was pretty goddamn short. It’s not like anything really came of it, after all, because Dean had gone and gotten himself offed before he could ever answer Sam’s question one day with something like, when I have embarrassing fantasies of suburban life, sometimes I have a wife, sometimes I have a husband, and even more dangerously, sometimes I think that Cas and I will retire to the mountains where he’ll have his goddamn beehives and I’ll get a big stupid dog who’ll follow him everywhere, and I’ll get grey hairs over how he drives my car and he’ll nag me over my diet, and we’ll be happy -
Bobby’s eyes have softened, though, and he looks like he’s dangerously close to doing something like clapping Dean on the back or worse, ask him about Dean’s clusterfuck experience of bisexuality like those websites probably tell him to do next.
Dean stops that Hallmark movie moment right in its tracks though. “I don’t know what to say to him,” he says past the rim of the bottle. “And I’m not going to bend myself over backward over it. This is supposed to be my heaven too.”
“No one’s asking you to,” Bobby says, and thankfully manages to procure another icy cold beer for him at that very moment. Dean accepts it.
The part of his brain that isn’t focused on trying to raise his blood alcohol level thinks that the fact that bringing this up right after talking about him and Cas, should raise all sorts of alarm bells that he should avoid. Because it’s one thing to talk about this sort of thing, about him and his feelings, because he knows that Bobby isn’t like his father, that he probably knew this before Dean admitted anything to himself - but it’s another to apply that progression to the one significant relationship that Dean’s managed to resurrect and fuck up in turn, over and over again, in his life - and in death, apparently. He couldn’t even tell Sam - how the fuck can he say it out loud now?
But maybe he doesn’t have anything to lose anymore. Or maybe he never did. The out of this conversation - ha - is right there, but Dean sets the full beer bottle down, finds himself continuing, “Cas’s run hot and cold before, sure, but what am I supposed to do now? Apologize for dying?”
“I think this is one of those moments that you shutting up and listening to him would be best,” Bobby advises, and Dean scoffs. “I mean it. Did you actually try to talk to him?"
Dean reviews their earlier encounter in his head. “Okay,” he admits, “I could’ve done that better.”
“Idjit,” Bobby says, and it’s very nearly fond. Dean could cry. “Luckily, he should be here any minute.”
Dean’s head nearly spins, and he finds that he’s stuck in his seat. “What?”
“He comes by every night, I told you,” Bobby says. “Unlike you ungrateful Winchesters, he doesn’t complain about my cooking.”
“You said he comes by - “ and Dean makes wild quotation marks with his fingers, “Every so often! What the fuck, Bobby?”
“Well, now you know,” Bobby says way too calmly. On cue, they both hear the faint tinkle of the front door's bell. He pushes himself up. “Speak of the - well.”
“Sure hope not,” Dean says, and he gets a small chuckle in exchange. When he goes by him, Bobby rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder, briefly, before he continues on.
The chair underneath him is not getting any more comfortable anytime soon, but Dean debates just staying here for the rest of the night like a coward. Just as he resigns himself to being friends with the rest of that bottle, he hears Cas’s low voice from far away. At that, he finds that his feet guide him out like there’s another path underfoot already, drawn outside whether he wants to or not.
In the bar’s dimmed light, Cas’s face looks far more shadowed than before. He turns to face Dean as he comes out of the room, just as Bobby slides a beer across the counter to their guest. Well - maybe Dean’s the guest if Bobby and Cas have been partying it up all this time. Maybe heaven doesn’t have any outlet malls, because Dean notices that Cas is still in that rumpled trenchcoat, his tie slack around his neck like someone needs to step in and adjust it for him.
Cas turns, and he takes a long sip of the beer. Dean carefully does not watch the way his throat works, nor the way that Bobby is eyeing the two of them like this is an episode of that soap opera he claims he never watches, but Dean's seen the VCRs.
Cas sets the bottle back down. “Hey,” Dean says.
“Hello,” Cas says, cool and polite and Dean is absolutely in love with him, but he also kind of wants to strangle him for that. The jukebox is silent in the corner.
“Bobby says you come by here,” Dean says, at last. “Community service for you, hanging with the seniors?”
“I enjoy his company,” Cas says placidly, and Dean gives him credit for the way that it’s nearly convincing except for the glint in his eye. “He speaks his mind, and he is a considerate friend.”
Dean’s retort is interrupted by Bobby slamming his hands down on the bar. “I’m thinking of making that sausage casserole for dinner,” he says, a little too loud, “Good with everyone?”
“Fine by me,” Cas says, slightly clipped. He takes another sip of his beer.
“Christ, Bobby,” Dean says, “You’re bringing back torture to heaven so soon?”
Bobby flips him off, but then Cas dips his head down, he can make out a small smile on his face that the shadows can’t obscure. Feeling ridiculously rewarded - and emboldened - Dean continues, “Cas, listen, about before - “
Cas looks up at him, and while the smile is gone, he doesn’t look like he’s about to try to smite him, either. “We don’t need to talk about it.“
It’s another out, but Dean is tired of letting things slide by this point. “Just let me say this,” Dean says, then, “Please.”
Cas just inclines his chin at him, which is fair. Dean braces himself, says, “Sorry for before. For - a lot, really. For not taking it seriously. It must’ve sucked to see me here so soon, knowing that you sacrificed yourself for me only for it to expire really fast.” He attempts a smile, but it feels too tight on his face. “I’d say next time - but you know, hoping this place’ll stick around.”
“I don’t want you to apologize to me,” Cas says, with a surprisingly dark scowl on his face, “Least of all for that. My sacrifice was not in vain even if it bought you thirty more seconds of life.“
“More beans,” Bobby says, suddenly, “I’m going to get those from the pantry, all right?”
Dean lets out an abrupt laugh. “What do you want, then?” It comes out far more ragged than he would’ve liked, hurt rather than angry. Behind him, he can hear Bobby’s retreating footsteps, which is probably good because Dean’s not sure how much longer he can control his tone at this rate. “What do you even want from me?”
This time, though, Cas is willing to give him an answer at least. “I want you to tell me why you didn’t try,” he bites out, coming closer to Dean. When he gets pissed like this, all stormy-eyed and intent on making Dean feel a thousand ways, it’s like getting caught in the middle of a hurricane. “Why you threw it all away. Let’s start there.”
Seriously? “I didn’t kill myself,” Dean snaps, “It was an accident, and on a hunt, no less, which honestly shouldn’t come as a surprise!”
“I’m not talking about how you died,” Cas throws back, “I mean all of it - why didn’t you try?”
“What are you even - “
“You went back to hunting,” Cas interrupts, and the storm grows in intensity, “You saved the world again, for good, and you went back to putting your life in danger. You didn’t try to find your own life - and I’m asking you why you threw that away.”
“That’s what I signed up for,” Dean tells him, hard. Cas’s breathing is audible, heavy over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. “You know I couldn’t walk away from that. Not when there are people out there - people that we saved. That I saved.”
“You could have walked away,” Cas says, “You just didn’t think you deserved to.” It cuts clean through him, and Dean wonders if he knows how much that hurts to hear. “We’re both dead, so I’d like if you would at least acknowledge that at last.”
Something white-hot flashes behind his ribcage. “That’s rich, coming from you,” Dean retorts, “Because I’m not the one who made a deal to get fucking dragged into the Empty - “
“I did what I had to, to save Jack - “
“You left me behind!” Dean shouts. There’s an awful silence that follows his words, and he can’t help the way he chokes out the rest - “You do that, again and again. And I’m afraid you’ll do it here, too. Because you’ve got your own piece of heaven, I’m sure.” And why would you stay? He doesn't have to say it out loud, but feels like it yawns in the space between them, along with everything else that has gone unsaid for so long. And maybe that's been their fatal flaw, that they let that space linger for so long.
Cas’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “If that’s what you think,” he says, then stops. He takes a step back. Dean’s hands open and close at his sides, as Cas takes another step away, all fight seemingly drained out of him, just like that. “If you would be so kind as to tell Bobby that I will see him at a later time, I would appreciate it.”
They do this, again and again. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t - but he doesn’t want to wait to find out. Not now, not another lifetime.
“I’m sorry,” Dean tells him, “For not saying it back.” That serves to make Cas stop, at least. He gathers all his courage for the next part. “For not saying it the first time.“
Cas opens his mouth, but no words come out. Not sure where to look other than in his eyes, Dean continues, “The first time - I felt it. I - shit, I don’t even know if you remember, but there was this time that you pulled me back from this weird alternate dimension where you were a hippie and I met myself - well, it doesn’t really matter.”
That future - now past - exists somewhere out there, like the rest of the countless worlds they both know and don’t know about. But none of those feel as significant as this one, in which Dean stands in front of Cas and opens his heart like this, he thinks, on the chance that it’s not just him.
He continues, “I thought I was trapped there. But you grabbed me in the nick of time, and I just remember looking at you, thinking that something - that I’ve never felt like that for anyone else, I think.”
“We had an appointment,” Cas recites, and his mouth twists into another, small smile. “I remember.”
The words are so sure, that despite feeling like they’re both teetering on the edge of something here, Dean takes the first step toward him now. “I would’ve said it then,” he says, “If I thought it’d change things. Maybe it would’ve, I dunno."
“You didn’t, then,” Cas says, “But it still brought us here.” Dean dares to reach out, touch the very bottom of his crooked tie, the frayed edge, and he doesn't move away. Cas says, "What do you want, Dean Winchester?"
Dean says, instead, “You said time moves differently here.”
“It’s irrelevant,” Cas says, an unreadable expression on his face when Dean dares to look at him. “Our lives before, whatever lies ahead - it’s not measured.”
“My mom’s here somewhere,” Dean says, “My dad, and everyone else. One day, Sam’ll be here, too. They’ll come here - and I want you here for that, whenever that is.” He doesn’t realize Cas is reaching up until he feels his hand on the side of his jaw, feather-light and warm. Dean leans into the touch before he realizes what he’s doing, feels Cas’s exhale against his skin. "That's what I want," and this close, he can see Cas closes his eyes, as if in relief, as if in prayer.
It’s like they’ve done this a thousand times before, and the way that it feels right - it could never be the wrong decision, not this. It’s not important, which one of them leans in first. What’s far more important is the way that Cas sighs against his mouth, the way that Dean’s hands go up to his hair, pulling him in so that even as their noses pressed together just a little uncomfortably, the way that they stand pressed together, so close that Dean doesn’t even realize he’s shaking until Cas’s hand smoothes down the back of his neck, willing his muscles to relax there.
Cas tastes a little like the beer he’d abandoned as soon as Dean had approached him, a little like salt, and his thumbs press right on the tops of his cheekbones, as Dean drinks him in and kisses him like he never has to stop. Because he might not ever, and he’s willing to test that for as long as possible. There’s nothing to mess up, here, because it’s him and Cas and it’s them, and there aren’t any wrong paths ahead.
He can faintly hear Bobby come back, say something like, finally. Cas mutters something against Dean’s mouth that he can’t quite make out, because Dean is smiling, at last, pressing his forehead against his, and he feels like he can breathe. Or maybe offer a prayer of his own, because even if there's no god, he has this, and he'll have the rest, eventually.
Behind them, the bell rings, and the door opens once again.