Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a dark and stormy night, and that makes turnout at the bar suck ass.

A light shower, now that wouldn’t hurt. That can chase people in from the streets until the clouds pass. With the correct timing, moderate rain can trap patrons inside, pushing them from drink to food to drink for hours. But thunderstorms?

Fuck thunderstorms.

Here on the clock rather than kicking back as the owner, Dean’s behind the bar tonight. Jo’s there too, plus Benny in the kitchen, and someone keeping a tighter fist around the overhead would’ve sent Jo packing already. She needs the hours, though, even the slow as fuck ones.

“You sure you don’t wanna head home?” Jo checks with him instead, an inverse of their usual bored shoptalk. “I’m good to close up, you know that.”

Dean takes another glance around his establishment, as if there was any chance of someone sneaking inside without bringing in a gust of wind and rain with them. “Ehhh,” he says, which is when the phone behind the counter rings.

Human or not, Jo lunges faster. “Bottle of the Djinn, we’re open,” she announces cheerfully. A slight pause, and her expression changes from Customer Service to squarely back to Jo. “Yeah, of course he’s here.” Locking eyes with Dean, Jo thrusts the phone out at him.

Eyebrows raised and expecting a complaint, Dean takes the phone. “Bottle of the Djinn, djinn of the bottle speaking, how can I help you?”

“Dean?” asks a very familiar, very welcome voice. No one else says Dean’s name like Cas does. “I know you’re working, but I… I need you. Right now. As soon as possible.”

Dean stares blankly at the shelf of tequilas. His heart slams all the way up through his throat and into his mouth, but Dean somehow manages to talk around it: “Can you say that again?”

“I know it’s extremely short notice,” Cas apologizes, his words fast but steady. “I was going to ask you sooner, but I lost my nerve and I wasn’t sure, but I am sure now and I need you to come over tonight. I know it’s selfish to put you on the spot like this, but there was never a right time, and it has to be now and it has to be you, please, Dean, I need you.”

It’s a damn good thing Dean’s sporting his server apron, because after a desperate, repressed speech like that, Dean’s about to be sporting something else too.

“Cas, I-” Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”

Jo snaps her attention back to him fast enough for her hair to whip over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide, her mouth open, and Dean immediately holds a finger up in front of her face before she can say anything.

Dean continues into the phone: “You hold that thought, just gimme twenty minutes.”

“Drive safe, Dean. But. Please hurry.”

If Jo and the regulars weren’t looking his way, Dean would bite his bottom lip, throw his head back, and do a furtive little dance with some muted victory screaming. But they are.

So Dean just does that inside his head.

“See you very soon,” Dean promises, and hangs up. He drops his hand from in front of Jo’s face, and with the ward lifted, the questions begin.

“Okay, what was that?” she asks.

“None of your business, that’s what,” Dean answers, patting down his pockets to make sure he has everything. He checks all his rings, as if he could have been careless enough to take them off while washing his hands. Off goes the apron, and out shall go the Dean. “You said you’d be good closing, right? Right, awesome, have fun.”

“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me for a booty call.” Jo leans back against the bar, arms folded. “Oh, wait, I can.”

“It’s Cas,” Dean says, pausing only to stare her dead in the eye for emphasis. “C’mon. Like you wouldn’t jump to tap that.”

“I’m not the one with a doctor kink,” Jo shoots back, and Dean did not need her announcing that to the admittedly sparse population of the room.

“Shut up,” he says, before opening the door to the kitchen and passing through. “Benny, I’m out for the night, you good?”

“Just fine, cher!”

“Awesome, bye!”

Dean grabs his jacket off its hook on the wall before making a rapid exit out the back. Immediately, rain slams into him, soaking through the front of his shirts before he can pull his jacket closed. He darts though the parking lot to his baby and unlocks the front door with already freezing fingers. Inside, he’s got a towel under the backseat for such water soaked emergencies on her leather, but even this due diligence is hastily done. Worst case scenario, he’ll pop off a little magic for it tomorrow if he doesn’t feel like taking care of it the mundane way.

Wipers going at top speed, he idles to the lot’s exit before getting a move on. “Fucking thunderstorms,” he mutters more than once. A full twenty minutes pass, and there’s still a fourth of the trip to go.

Fucking puddles.

Fucking potholes you could drown a horse in.

Fucking inability to tell the one from the other.

Dean goes slowly through them all, lightning flashing almost directly overhead. Simultaneous thunder rattles at the windows. A saner person might turn back entirely, but not Dean. Ever since they’d met, Dean’s privately decided that he owes Cas a wish. It’s not everyday a human finds a djinn’s vessel and hands it over with a simple “I’m sorry, is this yours?” After everything Dean had done to gain his freedom, it could have all been undone in that single moment of carelessness, and to this day, Dean’s certain Cas doesn’t even know. Dean’s only based his entire livelihood on a cover story.

As Dean finally makes it through to Cas’ neighborhood, he has to navigate solely by his headlights and the crackling sky above: he’s smack in the middle of a massive power out.

Apparently in addition to being a world class surgeon who looks sexy as hell in scrubs and a lab coat, Cas is afraid of the dark. And wants some hands-on reassurance, courtesy of his local sexy magical bartender.

Just as soon as Dean can actually pick out the correct house in this deluge.

Not that one, no tree in front.

Not that one, has giant shrubbery.

Not that- wait, he’s gone too far, how did he go too far?

Checking for any lights in his rear view, Dean backs up rather than attempting to turn around. He backs up way farther than he really should need to, and it takes him a long minute to realize what’s prompted his mistake.

The tree in the front of Cas’ house? Split in goddamn half and fallen to either side, it now looks a whole bunch like massive shrubbery in the dark.

Dean whistles and readjusts his expectations from Cuddly Sex to Just Nearly Died Sex. Not that he has much personal experience with either, being relatively new to the perks of a freelance life, but a djinn can assume. A djinn can hope. Whatever Cas needs Dean for—it has to be now, it has to be you—Dean is obviously going to do it.

And it’s gonna be awesome.

Easing into the driveway and making sure to park far opposite the only remaining tree, Dean scrounges around for an umbrella before deciding, screw it. Wet clothes don’t matter when he’ll be out of them soon. Stopping only to lock the car after he gets out, Dean dashes through falling waves of water, sloshes through one low dip in the driveway, and scrambles up the steps to the front walk. Yet more lightning cracks the sky above his head, and thunder drowns out his pounding, splashing steps.

He hits the doorbell, then hits it again.

And again.

As the cold suffuses his body, Dean opens the screen door and presses his ear to the wood one.

He rings the bell again.

Silence.

Because of the power out.

“Fucking dumbass,” he calls himself before pounding on the door with his fist.

He steps back then, not sure if Cas could’ve heard that beneath the torrential rain and constantly rumbling thunder, but definitely sure he doesn’t want to fall on the guy.

Half a minute later, the door gets yanked inward, revealing a dark hallway, a dark shape, and a hefty flashlight.

“Dean,” Cas gasps in a tone of absolute desperation, and he reaches out to drag Dean inside.

“I’m here, I’m here, it’s all good,” Dean starts to say, hands rising to frame Cas as his boots squelch onto the entryway tiles. “Come here, I-”

Except, Cas does not come here. Once Dean’s inside, Cas slams the door shut and immediately turns around to stride off deeper into the house.

Drenched, dripping, and somehow not being kissed, Dean stands there blankly. “I’ll take off my shoes, I guess?” he calls after Cas’ retreating back.

“Don’t bother, just follow me!” Cas shouts without so much as pausing. The brusque treatment does more to to thwart Dean’s optimistic boner than even the impromptu cold shower outside had.

Still, Dean follows with his accompanying frown, and Cas is at least good enough to turn around and shine the light on the stairs for Dean as Dean tromps on down to the basement.

Even with the power off, it’s immediately clear this is no usual basement. No musty storage smells here, no unfinished concrete floor, none of that. Dean’s boots squeak across white linoleum, water falling from him in hard, rapid droplets. There’s a doorway to a- Wait, there is power. Light streams from under that door, along with a strong chill that’s its own special kind of hell on Dean’s drenched body.

When Cas opens that door to a small, white walled room with another door and surgeons gowns and gloves and…

“Cas, what the hell is this.”

“I don’t know how long the generator will last, Dean, please,” Cas urges, even as he goes in himself. In the light of this small, clearly transitional room, Cas’ outfit becomes very clear. Not pajamas.

Not pajamas at all.

“Why are you all hazmat’ed up?” Dean asks. Hazmat is an exaggeration, but he’s seen enough daytime hospital soaps to know an operating gown when he sees one.

Cas pulls a second getup down from the wall and pointedly holds it open for Dean. “I have- I have a patient. And the power blew. He’s only going to remain stable for so long, and I know you can’t bring back the dead, please Dean.”

This is not how Dean ever imagined stripping in front of Cas, but he drops all his soggy clothes, except for his tasteful Scooby boxers, and he gets into that surgical gown. Cas puts a face mask on him while Dean’s still pulling on the gloves.

“Thank you,” Cas keeps saying. “Thank you, I owe you, thank you so much.”

Dean’s heart rejoices.

Dean’s dick despairs.

Dean’s brain screams at whatever the fuck is behind Door #2.

Cas opens Door #2, and Dean’s brain has had the right of it.

Cas rushes in, but Dean? Dean’s frozen. His legs move only when Cas beckons, but his heart has frozen and his mind can’t seem to push through the barrier of the obvious.

“You said you knew I can’t bring back the dead,” Dean says, staring at the body on the table. There’s all manner of machines hooked up to it, but Dean knows that face. There are pictures of that face all over Cas’ living room, even if Dean has never, could never have seen that face in person before.

Cas’ son had died well before Dean had ever met him.

“He’s not dead,” Cas snaps, pointing to displays on his machines. “He’s extremely unstable, not dead. He has a heartbeat, he has brain activity. What he won’t have is life support.”

“Oh, Cas,” Dean says, and he says it despairing. “Tell me you didn’t sell your soul for this.”

“I know I have no right to ask you this, but you are a good and decent person,” Cas continues right on over him.

“Do you know how much power it takes to get a soul back?” Dean continues right back. “That’ll take me-”

“I have my soul, and Jack has his,” Cas snaps, tense to the point of shaking as he points at the body. At the network of precise stitching laced across the intubated former corpse, at the horrific pallor of the skin, at the limpness of every limb. “I’ll explain everything, just, please, don’t make me watch my son die a second time.”

As much as Cas’ hand wavers, his voice does not. His gaze holds just as firm.

“Please,” Cas repeats.

“If you need me to rescue your soul after this, I’m-”

The lights flicker.

“Dean!” Cas shouts at him.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Dean agrees, and he pulls off one glove. “Give me your hand.”

“Where’s your bottle?” Cas asks, nevertheless copying Dean and complying. “I’m supposed to rub your bottle, did you not bring-”

“The bottle’s a fucking decoy,” Dean huffs. Holding Cas’ hand in his gloved one, Dean rubs Cas’ thumb over the ring Dean is never fucking taking off ever again. “And you’re a lucky son of a bitch it is, ‘cause you never told me to bring it.”

Cas’ frown deepens. “Why else would I have-”

“Dude, make the wish.”

Clamping his bare hand tight around Dean’s, rubbing Dean’s ring on his own accord, Cas screws his eyes shut. “I wish Jack’s body accepts the transplants, accepts his returned soul, and fully recovers, so he can lead a healthy life!”

In that moment, Dean has Power.

Power more complete than any bound djinn ever can.

The Power to grant the wish.

The power to reject it.

Dean holds both and wields only one.

He knows next to nothing of biology, but wishes don’t need knowledge. Wishes don’t need limitations or reason, not while in the making. Wishes only need to stand upon themselves when a djinn lets go.

Dean holds on for a very long time.

When Dean lets go, the room is dark.

Pitch black.

The machines, dead.

The distant generator, silent.

The pounding rain, so constant, so high above as to nearly escape an ear’s notice.

And in that silence, Dean hears three things:

His own heart pounding.

Cas quietly sobbing.

And a third person, faintly, breathing.

“Cas,” Dean whispers in the dark. He unclenches his hand from Cas’, but Cas’ grip continues.

“Cas,” Dean says again.

“Was it in time?” Cas answers on a breath too terrified to be a prayer. “I, I was- It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I wasn’t going to ask you at all, I have the medications ready, I have the life support here, but the power demand, it…”

“He’s okay,” Dean says. Against every instinct he has, he doesn’t pull Cas into a hug, but instead attempts to peel Cas off and make him check Jack’s heartbeat. “Even took care of some brain damage you didn’t specify. He’s okay.”

Cas trembles beside him.

“I’m getting the flashlight,” Dean says. He gets both of Cas’ hands on the operating table. He guesses his way back to the door and finds his soggy clothes. With his phone’s light, he finds Cas’ big flashlight and brings both back into the surgery.

Cas takes the flashlight. He directs Dean where to shine the phone as well, and this is how Cas takes stock of Jack’s condition. Seeing as the machine is no longer pumping air into the kid, Cas delicately removes the tube. It’s still horrible to watch, but not as horrible as a lot of things.

When Cas is finally satisfied—or, more likely, too exhausted to do anything else—they both sit on the floor. The operating table lowers down as well, enough for Cas to stare at Jack without being on his feet.

“If you didn’t sell your soul, how?” Dean asks. “Feel like that’s a fair question. Not to mention the secret basement operating room.”

“I’ve been known to take unusual patients,” Cas answers, leaning his head back against a cabinet. “Did you know that even angels require surgeons at times?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? They’re supposed to have their own healing magic and crap.”

Cas nods. “To an extent. There’s a type of angel that’s their version of a field medic, and apparently, they resort to ‘mercy killing’ very quickly.”

“Okay. Fucked up. With you so far. Angel wants a second opinion on the getting murdered thing. But what can a human—no offense—do that an angel can’t?”

“Surgery,” Cas answers simply, blunt and tired. “If an angel’s wings break, that’s usually it for them. No ability to heal themselves from that, no attempts at rehabilitation.”

“You’re saying you’ve fixed angel wings. And they paid you in your kid’s soul.”

Cas shakes his head, or maybe just lolls it back and forth. “The corrective surgeries weren’t worth a soul. The wing transplant, however…”

“Transplant.”

“A cupid has one set of wings. A seraph has three sets. The cupid lost both wings, and the seraph donated a pair.”

“That’s… fucking insane.”

This, out of everything, is what earns Dean the stink eye. “I’m very good at what I do, Dean.”

“If you’re a miracle worker for angels, that’s fucking insane. I don’t make the rules, I just know ‘em.”

“Maybe,” Cas allows.

They sit there in the shadows of a single flashlight, the beam illuminating the tiny rise and fall of Jack’s chest.

“Were you keeping him in a freezer or something?” Dean has to ask.

“Yes,” Cas says. “When I adopted him, I promised his mother I would take care of him. I couldn’t…” Cas sniffs. Clears his throat. “I didn’t rob graves, Dean.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t gonna bring that part up.”

“I didn’t. When I teach at the university, there are the donated bodies for dissection and practice.”

“Look, man, I wasn’t gonna judge you for taking one,” Dean promises. “Shit goes down in the magical community that humans aren’t so cool with, it’s not-”

“Those bodies were donated for my students,” Cas interrupts. “I would never.”

“Okay, but then how…?”

“After each part is used, they’re removed from the cadaver and disposed of until the entire body has been used and cremated. I determined which cadavers were the best matches for Jack and which pieces I could restore. The majority of each body will still be returned as ashes to the families of the donors.”

“Wait, go back. Which pieces you could ‘restore’? You’re telling me a bunch of med students dissected organs and you put them back together to stick into your kid.”

“Yes,” Cas says, in that simple, impatient way that means he doesn’t understand why Dean needs to ask. Because obviously this is a thing a human without a hint of magic is capable of doing.

As easy as transplanting an angel’s wings, Dean guesses.

“Man, you’re awesome,” is all Dean can say.

In the dark, Cas finally looks away from Jack to stare at Dean, brow furrowed. “Thank you…?”

“Seriously,” Dean says. And because he’s always going to be an absolute sucker where Cas is concerned, or maybe because Dean's energy reserves are wiped and his inhibitions lowered, Dean takes the guy’s hand, or at least tries to. “You’re awesome, Cas.”

Though initially stiff, Cas’ hand relaxes incrementally in Dean’s. And then it’s Dean’s turn to stiffen as Cas shifts his hand and again touches Dean’s ring with the pad of his thumb.

“You’re not a bottle djinn,” Cas states. “Your bar, I always thought the picture on the sign was a decoy bottle.”

“I mean, technically. Yeah. It is.” Dean takes the risk of nudging Cas with his shoulder. “Not important right now. You’ve got dad things to be thinking about.”

“I’m always thinking them.”

“How long until he wakes up? Do you know?” Dean had done a perfectly magical job, but this part is firmly out of his hands.

“Now we wait,” Cas says, and they do.

Eventually, Dean exits and returns with actual chairs.

Eventually, sitting together, Cas rests his head on Dean’s shoulder.

Eventually, after long, stretching hours, Jack tries to roll over.

Springing up to catch the kid, Dean nearly knocks Cas to the floor instead. Cas shows no signs of minding as he gets Jack once again on his back with the IV reinserted. Now secure on the table, Jack groans and weakly struggles. His wide eyes can’t seem to focus, but the boy stills as Cas speaks to him in an incongruously calm tone.

Many renditions of “Jack, it’s me” and “Jack, you’re safe.” Iteration upon iteration of “Jack, I love you” and “Jack, you’ll be all right now.”

Gradually, Jack manages to focus his eyes on Cas’ face. In a faltering but insistent expression, Jack smiles.

Cas starts crying again, but this time in a good way.

Jack tries to rasp out something, but somewhere between being dead for years and having a tube yanked out of what definitely isn’t his original throat, he’s wound up impossibly hoarse. Dean gives the two some space, and gets Jack some water.

When Dean returns, the table’s been partially tilted to prop Jack up. Cas has to hold the water for Jack to slowly sip.

Finally, chin as wet as his eyes, Jack whispers “Hi, Dad” to Cas.

Cas leans in, gently hugs him, and places his cheek atop Jack’s head.

“Hello, who are you?” Jack rasps to Dean. The kid really is Jack’s son. Anyone else would be full of questions like “Why aren’t I dead?” or “why is it so dark in here?” But not Cas’ kid.

“Dean. I’m the djinn who helped your dad bring you back to life,” Dean says. “Just a little, though.” He holds up his hand, pinches his fingers.

Expression fond, Cas pulls marginally back from Jack to glance toward Dean.

A faint but curious frown creases Jack’s forehead. With the speed of exhaustion, Jack looks from Dean and back to Cas. “Dad?”

“Yes, Jack?”

“Is Dean my dad now too?”

Cas’ mouth opens, but Dean beats him to the punch.

“Absolutely,” Dean says, way too pleased at how that sounds. “I helped bring you back into this world, I’m your dad now. That is one hundred percent how it works.”

“Dean,” Cas says, only to stop at Jack’s faint smile.

“I mean, only if you want,” Dean says, and winks at Cas.

Jack makes a tired sound very much like a laugh.

Stroking his son’s hair, Cas sighs and shakes his head at Dean, but he doesn’t say no.

It’s been a dark and stormy night, but the morning looks bright and clear.