Chapter Text
“NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.” (Terry Pratchett (via DEATH), The Hogfather Pg 270)
Dean doesn’t go into his room anymore. Sam does, from time to time. He brings out Dean’s things in boxes and leaves them on the table for Dean to sort through. Neither of them talks about it, though Dean knows Cas had thanked Sam the first time. He’d expected to feel guilty; that Cas had to do that for him, but he hadn’t had it in him to feel anything but relief.
There’s a lot he doesn’t have it in him to feel these days.
Dean had died when Cas had, of course, despite the way his heart kept beating. Cas was dead and Dean was dead but there was work to be done. And so, he had moved his legs from place to place because he had to. And he had defeated one God, then beheld the (brief) birth and death of the new one from some hollowed-out portion of his self. It had been awe-inspiring, but the part of him that felt awe had died so he had merely watched, exhausted and thinking that maybe it would end.
And then it hadn’t ended. Nothing had ended; they’d finished the story god wrote but nothing had ended.
Dean was still there, and Cas was still dead. And the part of him that might’ve hoped for change was dead, the part of him that would’ve wept was dead, the parts that would’ve planned or begged or fought or drank or yelled were all dead. So, Dean just stood there until he heard the crying start. And when Dean heard the crying start, he felt something for the first time since Cas had died.
Because Jack was alive, and Jack needed him, and the part of Dean that Jack needed wasn’t dead. Couldn’t be dead, because Jack was alive, and Jack needed him.
And that was how it went. Dean could be alive for Jack, had to be alive for Jack, because Cas was dead, and Jack was so different in so many ways but still the same in so many others. And he needed Cas, but Cas was dead and that left Dean. It was like being a child all over again.
But eventually Jack would fall asleep, and Dean could be dead again.
Sam had wanted so badly to help.
“Dean,” he had pleaded. Jack had finally exhausted himself into unconsciousness. It was one of the worse bad days – when it seemed like any hands that weren’t Cas’ burned, and there was no way to explain anything. “Dean,” Sam said again. “Turn around. Look at me, please.”
“No. Leave me alone, Sam.”
“This can’t…you can’t go on like this.”
“Like what?”
“This,” a light rustle, he assumed Sam was gesturing towards him. “It’s like you’re not even here.”
“I’m not.” The dead don’t lie.
“Cas wouldn’t want –”
“Sam,” Dean had spoken without emotion, only a dreadful clarity. “I don’t give a shit about what Cas would want. He’s dead. He doesn’t get a say in this.”
A silence that stretches. Then a sigh that might also be a sob. “I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know what to do.”
“Just leave me alone until Jack wakes up.”
Eventually Sam had left. Dean had stayed still. He might’ve slept.
And that was how it went until it wasn’t.
The first night, after, Dean had wavered. He put Jack to sleep and lay on the bed, his back to the doorway. Not able to move, despite every nerve in his body screaming at him that he needed to go back (to make sure he hadn’t imagined everything), he sent futile prayers down the hall.
It didn’t take Cas long to follow him. Dean still couldn’t move when he heard the door open. He felt the bed dip, then Cas’ hand was on his arm and he felt his skin twitch. There was a shaky exhale.
“Sam…” he stopped, collected himself. He sounded so old and tired already. “Sam told me what it’s been like for you. I am sorry: truly, truly, sorry.”
Less than a year ago Dean had faced down god, and now he didn’t even have the strength to turn his head and meet Castiel’s eyes. “I couldn’t do it, Cas.” He’d said. “I just…I wish I had just died when you did.”
Cas’ breath had faltered. His hand had moved onto Dean’s face. It had been like fire, and Dean had drawn the strength to, finally, turn his head towards Cas, and bring his own hands up to wrap around Cas’ wrists. They’d stared at each other. Cas was alive. Cas was alive and Dean wasn’t sure what he was.
“I’m glad that you didn’t die,” Cas’ voice was hoarse. “I’m proud of everything you did to survive.”
“I’m not,” Dean squeezed his eyes closed against the anger. Of course that would be the first thing to come back. Anger at himself, of course, but at Cas as well. “How could you do that to me, Cas? I didn’t do anything to survive, I just died. My heart kept beating but I just died. You don’t understand. I haven’t done anything since…except for Jack. He was the only one, the only thing, I could make myself move for, feel for. No one else. Not even Sam.”
“Dean, I’m sorry. There was no other way. I’m sorry.”
Shame had come second. He’d wiped at Cas’ tears. “S’not your fault Cas. You said it yourself. I’m the one that taught you the only way to love someone is to die for them.” The wetness on his hands was like rain in the desert. He’d felt himself start to shake, to finally collapse. “I’m sorry, Cas. I’m sorry you died for me, and it didn’t make a difference.” He’d been sobbing by the end of it, in his quiet choked off way. Behind him Jack had slept on, oblivious and safe.
Cas was crying too, still. He collapsed onto the bed, winding his arms around the back of Dean’s head until their foreheads were pressed together – like skeletons sharing a coffin. “Maybe we both died,” he’d whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “But we’re alive now. I’m here, with you, with Jack and –” he’d grabbed one of Dean’s hands with his own, squeezed it into the tight space between them, until Dean could feel both their heartbeats on his palm. “– I love you, Dean.” The hand still on the back of Dean’s neck had squeezed too, Dean could feel Cas touching him everywhere. Solid, real, and warm. He’d gasped at the burn, pressed himself in even closer. “I love you and we’re both going to live.”
They’d fallen asleep like that, eventually.
And now…
“I love you,” Dean murmurs as he rests his head on Cas’ shoulder as he sorts through a box of old records.
“Hmm?” One of Cas’ hands is combing through Jack’s hair as he intently spins a discarded vinyl on the floor like a giant coin. It’s a Zeppelin, Dean thinks. One of his dad’s favourites. Cas’ other hand is on the crook of Dean’s elbow, his thumb moving across at a slow and tender pace. “What did you say?”
“I love you,” Dean says again, says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And for today, at least, it is.