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He was trying to count the stars. They washed across the sky in dappled clusters of blues and whites. Most were bright and constant, while some flickered, traveling across his field of vision. The airplanes always made him lose count.
When the weight of the world grows heavy on his shoulders, when his muscles ache and his body becomes weary, Dean would come and count the stars. He would lay across the hood of his baby for hours, eyes fixed upon the heavens, counting until his eyelids gave in to the relentless pull of exhaustion. On colder nights he brings a blanket with him. In the heat of summer he removes his button-ups and balls them up as makeshift pillows. Here, with his car, is where Dean has always felt at home. The cold, black metal and the purr of the engine are the only constant in his whirlwind life.
That and Sammy.
His little brother never questioned it when Dean would disappear for a night, a day, or a few. Not when things began getting really rough. Sure, they had made a home for themselves in the bunker. But can anything classified as “bunker” truly be called “home?” Sam understood. He understood that his brother needed changes in scenery. Consistency made him uncomfortable. After a lifetime of inconsistency, a reliable place to lay down your head was too good to be true. No, he likes to be on the road. He likes to be part of the world. So Sammy lets him take his time off, no questions asked. Because he understands. Dean will always come back.
The stars are difficult to count tonight. They keep blurring and running together and falling down his cheeks. Some nights are like this. The sobs will shake his body and tighten his throat until he has counted enough stars to grow calm. Tonight it was five hundred and twenty seven. This does not included the few times he had started over after getting fooled by aircraft.
Other nights, rather than looking to the sky, Dean takes his fury out on the Earth. He will pull a hatchet from the trunk of the Impala and assault the nearest unsuspecting tree. Often, he will only calm down after the tree has succumbed to gravity and fallen to the ground. Sometimes, though, it is Dean who ends up on the ground. And there he will stay, rolled onto his back in the dirt, looking up once more, one… two… three… four…
On this night, Dean can not give in to the dark relief of exhaustion. On this night, Castiel decides to join him.
He makes his presence known quietly. His voice low, he says simply, “Dean.”
“Hey, Cas,” Dean manages hoarsely. He turns his head to look at the man standing at the edge of the clearing. “How’d you find me?”
“I made an assumption,” Castiel replies. He walks into the center of the clearing, toward the car and the man resting on top of it. “Your brother was worried about you this evening.”
“Had to go.”
“I understand.”
“Couldn’t save ‘em.”
“I know.”
They are quiet. Deans sidles himself over to one half of the hood, an invitation. Castiel takes it, climbing on carefully and resting his head next to Dean’s. He folds his hands neatly across his stomach, crosses his ankles, and looks toward the sky.
“How many did you count tonight?” Castiel asks.
“527. I think. I lost track.”
Castiel allows himself a half smile. “I think there are many more than that.”
“Thanks, smartass,” Dean scoffs. “Even you don’t know how many are up there.”
“You make a valid point,” Cas replies. “Though, I know it’s more than five hundred twenty seven.”
Dean groans and covers his eyes with his palm, pulling at his brow. That doesn’t hide the small smile that flashes across Dean’s features for a fraction of a second. Castiel takes it as a small victory and lets the matter rest.
Here in the clearing, the two men are satisfied with remaining silent. The only voice is the wind talking to the long grass below them. The trees surrounding the clearing that once stood tall and proud have been blown over for years now, radiating in every direction for hundreds of yards. The Impala sits where a crossed-shaped grave marker once stood - the resting place of a damned man. Tonight, Dean has chosen to count the stars that watched over his lifeless body for four long months. Castiel knows why he came here. He understands.
“You can’t save everybody, Dean.”
“Are some people even worth saving?”