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The daffodils had arrived, and in Dean’s head Doris Day was Calamity Jane, singing to them.
Now, I'll shout it from the highest hill,
Even told the golden daffodil…
He had come across the movie one rainy motel afternoon, when Dad, for a change, wasn't on a hunt but had instead taken himself off to the nearest bar in the face of Sammy's whining.
“Dean! I wanna go to the playground!” For the eightieth time.
“Please, Sammy, just shut up and watch the damn cartoons.”
“You shouldn’t say bad words! And I don't wanna watch stupid cartoons!”
“Fine.” Dean lurched up from the bed and stabbed the stiff button on the old TV. Remote? Yeah, right. This thing probably had a dinosaur inside, like a Flintstone TV.
News, more news, a soap with subtitles, more shitty cartoons, cowboys. Cowboys? And cowgirls. Cool.
He flopped back on the bed and shot his brother a sidelong glare, daring him to protest. But Sammy was already hooked and he didn’t kick off even when the singing started up.
Dean was hooked too. Doris Day was cute, especially in her old buckskins, cracking a bullwhip and shooting a rifle or a six-gun with equal skill. The guys were cool as well, of course. At the time, Dean couldn’t decide whether he preferred Bill Hickock or the Lieutenant, but thought the Lieutenant's uniform gave him an edge, for some reason.
It was an awesome movie, even if it did end with a double wedding (yuk) and Dean didn’t see why Calam’ shouldn't have a pistol tucked into her wedding gown, or even why she had to wear a stupid gown at all when she looked much more like herself in her buckskins.
Anyway, now swathes of daffodils surrounded Sunrise like a golden moat, but Dean wasn't singing to them about his secret love, sadly. Instead, he crouched on the ground, holding one of the flowers so he could look down its bright yellow trumpet, and told it all his troubles - his troubles, which he couldn’t tell to his not-so-secret love, because they were about his love and Cas's stupid idea that he needed to fly a different plane which they had at an airfield somewhere up in Nebraska.
“He even tried to tell me all about the stupid airplane. Why would I want to know that? Why does he need a different plane anyway? More powerful, he says, as if that's gonna fill me with confidence. And do I want to go too? Like hell! And hang around, waiting to see him loop-the-loop over my head? Son of a bitch!”
He let the flower go and pressed one hand over his stomach, where his breakfast cereal was threatening to make a comeback. He didn’t even have the distraction of volunteering - the elementary school was on Spring Break.
Did they even let beginners do loop-the-loops? Dean hoped to hell not. Cas still couldn't go up alone, at least. That was a long way off. But, according to Cas, his instructor thought he was something special. No shit, Sherlock. The instructor had an ex-Angel of the Lord on his hands - special didn’t remotely cover it.
Dean eased himself up off the ground, the damp not helping his joints to warm up at all. Cas would have been pissed at him for coming out without a coat and kneeling down in the chill morning dew. But Cas wasn’t here, was he? And Cas was putting himself in far more danger than getting damp knees. For fuck’s sake.
Dean’s phone rang.
“Hey, Dean.”
“Hey, Sammy. What's up?”
“Uh… so…”
Aha. A furtive throat-grumble. Baby bro was up to something.
“Uh, Cas is away? Isn't he?”
“Yeah…” Dean responded slowly, letting his suspicion slide easily into his voice. “And I repeat, what the hell's up, Sammy-boy?”
“Eileen’s away too.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. She's meeting up with some hunter friends. For a spa weekend.”
“No shit. I didn’t think Eileen was into that braiding-each-other’s-hair crap. You are, though. Why didn't you go with?”
“Ha ha, Dean. Your hair's getting to braiding length, you know. Anyway, it's ladies only.”
“Okay. So - do we have a ‘When the cat's away’ situation, here?”
There was a rustle of clothing and a rattle, which Dean recognised as a shifty movement and nervous tapping of laptop keys. “Maybe. If you're in.”
Was Dean ‘in’? He kicked at a tussock of old grass, threaded through with the new, bright green springtime growth. He should say no. Unless it was just a meet-up at a bar Sam had in mind; maybe an old-style Winchester pool hustle. But it wasn’t. His brother’s tells were all there for Dean to read, even over the phone.
“A hunt?”
“Yeah.”
Dean took a deep breath - in through his nose and out through pursed lips. Cas would be angry. He'd be livid, furious, incandescent - any synonym for extreme rage, that'd be Cas. If he found out…
“What you got?”
“Vengeful spirit. Down near Wilson. A lake house, near the State Park.”
Did Dean want to go on a hunt? Really? A couple of months ago, Sam would have got a resounding no. Possibly even a no - fuck off, Sammy. Now, though? Dean was scared for Cas, restless, antsy and his fists itched to punch something. And Cas was away all week.
“Has it killed?”
“Not yet. Scared some vacationers staying in the house.”
“Wilson. That's not far.”
“Hour and a half. Two hours max.”
Dean wandered along the side of the house, trailing his fingers along the weathered boards. He'd paint them again when it had dried up a bit. “Any other info?”
“Nothing that I can find before the recent incident. Local press says the family were scared shitless, spinning a tale in the town about screams in the night and a ghostly figure wielding a hatchet. There's no history of any haunting, though.”
“So, something recent set it off. Any deaths in the area?”
“A few possibles.” Sam huffed down the phone. “So - are you in?”
Livid, furious, incandescent.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m in.”
The ghost, it turned out, had been the gardener. A Miss Marjory Fittleworth, who had tended the grounds of the lake house for over forty years, until the family member who'd inherited had sold it off and the new owners had turned the old place into a vacation home, decking over most of the garden and astro-turfing the rest.
As soon as the ageing Miss Fittleworth had popped her muddy clogs, she'd whipped her ghostly self back to the grounds she'd loved and taken up the most threatening of her tools - the hatchet - in order to frighten off all comers.
“She's bluffing, though,” Sam had said. “It sounds like she was a sweet lady. The hatchet's just for show.”
Yeah, right then. Miss Sweetness Fittleworth had turned out not to be so sweet when Dean and his brother had taken shovels to her grave. And Dean, being the total idiot that Cas would no doubt call him (amongst other things) had taken on the role of distraction while Sam salted, lighter-fuelled and burned the bitch's bones.
And hey, maybe in life she'd been a sweet old duck, but in death she was a murderous horror, so no one was going to make Dean take back calling her a bitch.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” He winced at the pain that shot up his hand as he attempted to pull himself up on the gravestone he'd been thrown against. And then fell back, clutching his arm to his chest.
“Fine. Yeah, I can see that.” Sam helped his brother up from the ground. “Is it broken?”
“Nah. Just bruises. It'll be fine once I've iced it.”
“If you say so.”
They packed up their gear - Dean one-handed only - and Sam silently dumped it all in Baby's trunk. Then Dean hesitated, the car keys in his hand, his wrist throbbing and aching.
“Sammy?” He tossed the keys to his brother who, wisely, didn't comment.
The pain in his wrist would ease soon anyway.
It didn't. And as they drove north, Sam shuffled against the old leather seat and sucked his lower lip into his mouth and shot shifty glances at Dean.
“Spit it out, bitch.”
“Jerk.” He cleared his throat. “So, where to?”
“What do you mean where to? Home. And you can stay the night or you can drive back to the Bunker in your silver douche-mobile.”
“Douche…?” Sam huffed loudly, then shook his head. “Stop trying to distract me, Dean. I meant, are you really okay to go home or are we going to the hospital?”
Dean bit back a snappy, shitty reply. He looked down at his wrist, easing it away from the shelter of his jacket and noting the swelling and the purple, spreading bruises. He sighed as Cas's face and Cas's voice and Cas's anger-born-out-of-love filled his tired mind.
“Fuck.”
“Sorry, Dean.”
“What for? Wasn’t your fault.”
“I shouldn’t’ve asked you to come.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Sam. If it's a choice between you hunting alone and me getting my wrist fucked up… I'm not leaving you to hunt alone, and that's final.”
“I didn’t have to go. I'm meant to be retired too - just coordinating. Nat and Gina were close enough. They could have done it.”
“Nat and Gina. Do I know them?”
“I don't think so. But the point is, Dean, I just got itchy feet.”
“An itchy trigger finger, more like. And so did I. You're not to blame.”
“We should just have gone out and got wasted or pulled off a few classic Winchester hustles.”
“Yeah, well, we didn’t.”
“No.”
“So, where to?”
There would have been no question, a few years ago - skeevy motel, makeshift splint and hope the ice machine was working. Now, though? Dean knew he didn’t heal as quickly as he used to. Maybe he could get Sam to splint his wrist and it’d be fine, eventually. It didn’t look like it was twisted out of shape or anything, and there was never much you could do with all those little wrist bones except let them sort themselves out. But the pain was kinda radiating up Dean’s arm - he really had to admit that. So maybe it wasn’t just his wrist.
“Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.”
“ER?”
“Fuck,” repeated Dean, in case Sam hadn’t got the gist. “Yeah. Or whatever they’re calling it now. Probably be rammed full and we’ll be there all night.”
“It might not be.”
It was. There was nowhere to sit, so they had to sit on the floor of the crowded waiting area, slumped against the wall, watching as nothing happened and no one moved for hours and hours on end.
“Shoulda gone home,” said Dean.
Sam grunted.
“Still could.”
“We can’t go now. It’ll be your turn soon.”
“Dude, nothing’s happening. It’s like when Crowley revamped Hell into one big line that went around and around forever. We should just go.”
“Uh-uh. They’ve been calling people. You were asleep.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Check out the drool patch on my shoulder.”
“Oh.” Dean swiped at the side of his mouth and looked down at the matching damp patch on his brother’s shirt. “Huh.” Well, if the stiffness of his back and the pain in his ass was anything to go by, yeah, maybe Sammy was right and he had slept on and off.
“Dean Winchester?”
A scrub-clad medical type called his name. There was a big poster on the wall explaining who wore what and their titles, but Dean didn’t care, as long as they fixed him up so he could get out of this place.
“Yeah. Here.”
He winced and floundered and nearly lost his balance trying to push himself up the wall. Sam helped and the nurse/doctor/whatever took him through to a little room full of the usual scary stuff - a hard bed, a load of tubes coming out of the canisters attached to the wall, a trolley full of disposable things that were probably to stick in you, and a computer, which got far more attention than Dean did.
Tap, tap, tap, as he gave a basic lie to explain his state. Tap, tap, tap, with all his details - true for once, because how apocalypse world Charlie had squared all his past history away with the world of virtual information, Dean had no idea, but for the first time in his life Dean was right there on the system, in apparently not-wanted-by-the-cops-for-crimes-various black and white with a full colour picture - not the Blue Steel one either. Maybe Charlie had contacted Jack - got him to zap all the sludge and slime of Dean’s past into some kind of order. He didn’t care right now, anyway. Drugs, please. His wrist and arm were throbbing and the bright lights were doing a real number on his growing headache.
No drugs yet, though. An x-ray, where he had to bend his arm to get it at the right angle so that it hurt like a motherfucking son-of-a-bitch, but Dean pretended it didn’t. And then another long, long, long, wait. And then he got called through to a different little room where they said his wrist was broken in a couple of places and there was also a something-or-other radius fracture and that he’d need a cast.
“Can you just splint it?”
They could and did, in an ugly beige arrangement with an unrealistic amount of velcro. Then they wrapped a sling around him, which he wouldn’t be wearing long because it made him look like a total douche.
“No, it doesn’t,” said Sam, “ and yes, you will wear it.”
Dean slumped in Baby’s passenger seat and couldn’t be bothered to argue.
His brother drove him back to Sunrise, plied him with painkillers, helped him get to bed and then went to bed himself in the spare room, leaving the bedroom doors open in case Dean had some kind of crazy episode in the night and needed him. His snoring kept Dean awake.
“Son-of-a-bitch!”
A harsh, grinding pain woke Dean as he turned onto his injured wrist. He lurched upright and cradled it to his chest, his old grey tee rumpled and damp with rapidly chilling sweat.
He groaned. Where was Sam with the fucking painkillers? He groaned again. It wasn’t his brother’s fault that he'd gone on the hunt and got himself hurt and it wasn't Sam's fault that he was in pain now. But Dean recognised the growling, snarling impulse inside him which was building up and would spill out on anything and anyone all day and probably carry on spilling until his wrist stopped hurting so fucking much.
It was guilt, of course. Guilt and the knowledge of his own stupidity. And the thought of how disappointed Cas would be. And worse - scared. Cas would be scared that if he'd gone off on a hunt once, he'd do it again.
Dean shivered and tugged the duvet up around himself, yanking the heavy winter weight irritably with his one good hand. A stomping and intermittent rumbling came up the stairs - Sam, on the phone.
“Yeah. Yeah, will do.”
He slopped into the bedroom, hair in his face, loose sweats hanging around his bony, vegetables-and-running hips. He held a glass of water and a blister pack in one hand, which he set down on the nightstand, still talking, then held up two fingers, nodding to the pills.
“Yeah, I'm not there right now. An hour or so. Is that okay? Yeah. Right. Yup. I'll get back to you, then.”
How the hell were you supposed to get these things out with only one hand? Torture. Fucking torture. All he wanted was a coupla painkillers. Dean tried holding the pack with his injured hand to pop the pills out with the other. He yelped and the blister pack pinged away onto the floor.
“Here.” Sam pocketed his cell, picked up the pack and popped two out.
Dean swallowed them. “Thanks.”
“Hurting?”
Dean shrugged and grunted. “You gotta go?”
“Donna needs some info. So I really need to go back to the Bunker. Will you be okay?”
“Yeah. If you pop these fucking things out before you go.” He flicked at the blister pack.
“Are you sure? Because I could try to find someone else to do Donna's research.”
“Nah. She doesn't ask often. I don't want Donna in trouble because you're here holding my hand.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll, uh… I'll make some breakfast - leave a few sandwiches for later. You sure you're gonna be okay?”
Dean flung back the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sammy, who the fuck d'you think you’re talking to? I ain't a precious little buttercup that's never been hurt before.”
He pushed himself up and walked, completely sure-footed, toward the bathroom, which seemed to be further away than usual and changed direction a coupla times.
Sam's heavy sigh, a background to most of Dean’s life, dragged through the stale air and ended with a heartfelt curse.
Dean ignored him, shut himself in the bathroom and yes, of course he could piss one-handed and wash said hand, and even splash a bit of water over his face and a bit more around his body so he didn’t feel quite so disgusting. A shower could wait, though.
He got himself dressed too - a clean tee and sweats and one of Cas's big fluffy pairs of socks with the sticky, grippy bits underneath. And the old grey bathrobe, because it was that kind of day.
When he finally - heavily, wearily - arrived in the kitchen, Sam had made eggs and actual honest-to-God bacon.
“Thanks, Sammy.”
“You should be wearing your sling.”
Dean shrugged and grumbled around a mouthful of egg.
“Seriously, Dean. It'll heal quicker if you don't strain it or let it swell. And you need to ice-”
“I know.” He put down his fork and scrubbed at his eyes. “I know, Sam.”
His brother opened the fridge and shut it again, turned around and ran his fingertips along the back of Cas’s chair. “You could call him.”
“No.”
“Dean, he'd-”
“I know. He’d cut his trip short and he'd come straight home. And I'd feel like a total selfish asshole.”
“Dean-”
“Because, you know what, Sammy? I am. I am a total, selfish asshole who couldn't stay out of trouble for five fucking minutes.” He knocked into his plate with his splinted wrist and the fork rattled and clattered onto the wooden tabletop. “Look, thanks for staying last night… and for this.” He twitched his stiff fingers at the plate. “But I'll be fine. I'll be fine.”
There was no sigh this time, but Dean didn’t have to look up to know that his brother’s lips were tightly squinched together and his eyes had gone small and beady and probably judgy - which was fair.
“Call me,” said Sam. “Just call and as soon as I’ve sorted Donna out I can come back.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
They both knew he wouldn’t.
“It was amazing, Dean! Such power! Such balance! Just hanging there, suspended in midair, pivoting! I can’t imagine what it must have looked like from the ground - like an angel, maybe, before there were people, when if I wanted I could hang high in the silver light and spread out my wings and just spin and spin and glory in all the new creation!”
Cas had been up in a stunt plane. Not flying it himself, but still - way high up, getting spun and flung and looped, and apparently, hovered, spinning in midair. His voice over the phone was breathy and higher than normal - he actually sounded a bit stoned. Which maybe wasn’t a bad thing, because it meant he’d be paying less attention to how Dean sounded.
“It was just amazing!” Cas said again. Then gave a gusty sigh. “But what have you been up to? Are you keeping busy? You’re okay, aren’t you, Dean?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m fine.” Did he sound fine? Or had the pain and the guilt crept into his voice?
“I’m sorry, Dean.” Cas’s voice dropped back to its usual deep, dry pitch. “You don’t really want to hear about me flying, do you? I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“No, Cas. No. It’s okay. I mean, yeah, it worries me. But you love it, so… I’m happy you’re happy.”
“Really? Are you sure? You sound a bit-”
“Really, Cas. I’m okay.”
“Have you been sleeping?”
Aha - a readymade excuse for sounding like a bucket full of gravelly shit. “On and off. Mostly off, I guess.”
“Have you tried having a mug of warm milk with nutmeg for before bed?”
That wouldn’t work. It only worked when Cas made it for him and then he got to snuggle up to Cas, who was just a bit better than any spicy milk.
“Yeah, I could try that, couldn’t I?”
“Only one more day, Dean, then I’ll be home.” He paused. “It’s been nice here. I’ve had fun. But I need you, Dean. I need to be with you.”
“Yeah. Me too, Cas.” A lump arose in Dean’s throat. “Me too.” Shit. That came out pretty weak.
“Dean?”
An extra edge of concern sharpened the name. Shitting shit. Maybe he should just confess everything right now. Cas would come home. Cas would tear him a new one. Cas would probably be grim and pissed with him for a while. And Dean would deserve it. But at least they’d be together.
“Dean, there’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
Don’t lie. Don’t lie, Dean. Lying never works out well. You know this.
“No, I’m fine. I just miss you is all.”
“Dean…”
“Seriously, Cas. It’s like I said - I’m happy that you’re happy. And I don’t want you cutting your trip short or anything. But if I’m honest, it’s been shit without you. I need you, man.”
Cas’s voice was soft and warmer, almost as if his lips were touching Dean’s. “I’ll be home soon, Dean. And we’ll be together.”
“Yeah.”
Dean slumped against the kitchen table, head in hand, his cell silent and dead next to the plates and mugs that he hadn’t cleared away because his wrist hurt too much. Was it time for more pills? Just about. Sam had left some loose in a dish on the table. Dean took a couple and swallowed them down with the dregs of his cold coffee.
He shivered as a chill draught wormed its way beneath his sweatshirt. He’d go and light the fire and snuggle in the slanket and pretend Cas was next to him and then maybe he’d be able to sleep for a while.
His head was full of fuzzy crap, which was maybe the painkillers or maybe the most-of-the-night ER trip. Or the guilt. Or just age. He blundered into the lounge, which was cold and grey, even with the warm-coloured throws and the sombreros on the walls. Dean lurched against the couch, swore at the shooting jar to his wrist, and when the cactus-guys on the mantelpiece didn’t so much as twitch, felt a sudden, hollow loneliness as the room seemed to drop down another level into a darker grey gloom.
“Batteries must have run out,” he muttered. He wouldn’t be able to replace them with only one working hand.
He crouched in front of the fire, which was cold and lifeless, then he slumped right down to his knees, picked up the little shovel and began scooping out the ash into the bucket.
“Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” A nice, bright fire - that’d cheer him up.
The kindling basket was empty.
“Shit.”
Could he light it with paper? Get the logs to catch from just the few remaining scraps at the bottom of the kindling basket? No. It turned out he couldn’t. His wrist ached and pain radiated up his arm, like someone was sticking a knitting needle up there, or even one of those evil wraith-spikes.
Dean shuffled over to the couch, cradling his arm, which, yeah, maybe should be in the sling, and it didn't help when he got tangled up trying to get in the slanket and ended up just draping it over himself instead.
It was getting darker, but he’d have to move to reach the lamp.
He was thirsty. And a bit hungry.
So he should get up, then, shouldn’t he? Switch on the lamp, get the room looking nicer even if it wasn’t bright from the fire. He should make a hot drink, heat up some soup - basically man up and look after himself. Even getting a beer or a shot of whiskey - or both - would be something.
Instead he stared at the empty fireplace and at the still, silent cactus-guys, and at the grey-white rectangles of the windows and then down at the folds of the slanket. He stared at himself, alone - or even less than alone, because he was only whole when he was with Cas, or when Cas was nearby at least.
What was he now? What was he when Cas wasn’t here? Who was Dean Winchester? Was he anyone at all? He’d been a hero, a fighter, a man who wouldn’t be stopped, come hellfire or apocalypse.
But heroes who didn’t die in the fight got old. They faded away into pale ordinary, needy shadows that were the same as everyone else. They got hurt and got sad and got lonely and got what they deserved for thinking they were still heroes, but were instead basically just fucking up.
Dean pulled the slanket more tightly against himself. He let his head fall forward on his chest and curled up over his aching arm.
“Cas. Angel. Need you.”
He sniffed. He was so fucking pathetic.
Black and black and more black, shot through with red - blood red, savage red - tearing and twisting, limb-from-limb, heart from soul. The knife, the saw, the hook, the hatchet, the horror - the tormented and the tormentor; and the man who had been Dean Winchester, but was now just a thing with no name.
No.
Black and red, black and red and pain and cold.
No.
He was nothing and no one except for his pain, and their pain, and that was all.
No. No. Please. Let me go. Please.
Then… a light… or a voice. Or a colour or even a scent… something.
Dean.
Please. Let me go.
But the black and red and pain were his. They were all, they were everything, and he had to stay - in Hell. He could never escape.
Dean! Where are you?
Pain and darkness. No escape. The light wouldn’t come for him this time. He didn’t deserve to be saved.
“Dean!”
There was more pain and bright light and he fought. “Get off me! Get off!”
“Dean, it’s me!”
Manacles gripped his biceps. “Get the fuck off!”
The pressure released.
“Dean, it’s me. It’s Cas. You’re safe.”
The light had come for him. Blue eyes and the voice he loved - the voice he’d heard calling to him, when he’d been a damned soul, lost in the depths of Hell.
“C- Cas?”
“Dean.”
His arms reached desperately for his angel; and pain shot from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder. “Fuck.”
“Dean.”
Warmth and strength wrapped him - firmly, gently, holding him like he was something precious. Dean pushed his face into the skin and the scent, inhaling his angel - Castiel, Cas - and stretching his senses to feel as much as he could of the reality of this moment, right now, where Cas’s jaw was scratching against Dean’s cheek and his hair was tickling Dean’s nose and Cas smelt of sweat and engine oil and the inside of a car.
And Dean was crumpled into one corner of the couch, his legs and half of his body still tangled around and around by the folds of the slanket. The fireplace was cold and pale dawn light came from the tall windows. But he was home. And so was Cas.
Cas had come home.
Words crowded into Dean’s mind and all of them stuck in his throat. Cas held him. Cas was home.
I’m sorry. I missed you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you.
The couch creaked.
Dean’s heart slowed, his body relaxed. He floated, within a cocoon of safety, warm all over, but with one point warmer than the rest - one point on the curve of his shoulder, where warmth and life had flowed into him, restoring his soul, saving him from the pit.
The couch creaked again and Cas was pulling away, but still supporting him, one hand on his shoulder, another cupping his jaw. And blue eyes were looking into his.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Hey, Cas,” he croaked.
His angel smiled softly and his eyebrows squinched together just a bit and his head tipped to one side and it was all right there without a single word spoken:
I love you. You’re an idiot. What have you done? I love you. I’m disappointed. You’re hurt. I love you.
“Cas, I…” He swallowed and cleared his throat, roughly.
“I couldn’t find you,” said Cas. “You weren’t upstairs and the bed was cold. The whole house is cold. Dean, I thought-” His eyes fell away. “I don’t know what I thought.” The concerned eyes locked to Dean’s again. “But you’re here. You’re alright. Mostly.” Concern narrowed to accusation.
“You came home,” said Dean. “Early.”
“Sam called me.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
Dean cradled his injured arm and tried to draw up one knee but his legs were effectively bound by the slanket.
Cas sighed. “How did you manage this?” He lifted Dean’s legs, one and then the other and began to unwind him.
“Dunno.”
“You were dreaming.”
“Nightmare,” agreed Dean.
Cas’s lips pinched together and the lines between his brows deepened. “I wish you didn’t remember any of that.”
“I remember you.”
The slanket fell free. Cas shook it and folded it and draped it over the back of the couch. He looked at Dean.
“I’m sorry, Cas. I let you down. I-”
“Dean, no.”
“But-”
“That’s enough.” He took Dean’s hand. “What do you expect me to do? Yell at you? At Sam?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No. I was glad he had the sense to call me.”
“More sense than me.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
Dean picked at the rough edge of velcro on his splint.
“It’s cold in here. Come on.”
The couch lurched and Cas was on his feet, one hand on Dean’s shoulder, ready to support him. Dean shuffled, stiffly and made it to his feet, groaning.
“There you go. Let’s get this show on the road. Let’s get those doggies rollin’.”
Dean’s lips twitched as Cas’s arm slid around him and steered him around the couch.
“Seriously, Cas? Rawhide?”
“It seems appropriate.”
“You gonna rope me like a steer?”
“If I have to.”
The kitchen smelt of bread. There was a mug of hot coffee in Dean’s hand, his arm was securely supported in its sling and his pain was drifting away in the wake of two pills.
Cas, his back to Dean, hummed softly, and beneath the table small feet scrambled onto Dean’s toes and then a furry weight settled in place.
There was a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. Dean blinked.
“How d’you do that?”
“A frying pan,” said Cas. “And heat strategically applied.”
“No, I mean… everything.”
Cas’s chair scraped. He sat down and picked up his fork. “That’s not me,” he said. “You’ll have to talk to Jack.”
Dean’s thoughts were as scrambled as the eggs. Maybe it was the night on the couch. Or the night before - bright lights and hard surfaces and guilt. But there was still bacon. And eggs. So Dean ate and let his thoughts catch up in their own time.
“I mean,” he said, chewing the salty oh-so-goodness - and actually, what did he mean? He waved his piece of bacon before shoving the rest into his mouth. “I mean everything’s… you know - all good again.” He chomped vigorously, biting down on the emotion. “But without all the crashing and banging and bitching you’d get if it was Sammy. How d’you do that?”
Cas set down his fork. He licked the tip of one finger. He took a sip of coffee.
“Your brother shows his love by, as you say, crashing and banging and bitching.” He slurped some more coffee. “And by letting me know that you needed me.”
Dean’s cheeks heated. “Huh. Yeah.” His fork drove a road through his eggs. “But don’t you want to bitch, just a bit? Aren’t you angry with me? At all?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
A strong hand landed on his, stopping his egg-destruction.
“Dean, you’re allowed to make mistakes. You’re allowed to make the wrong decisions, to fail, to fuck up.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to get pissed.”
“No, of course not. But any anger I might feel - which only comes from fear for your safety - well, it doesn’t last any time at all. You’re Dean. You’re my Dean.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not a fuck-up. Sometimes.”
“It means of course you’re a fuck-up.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“And so am I.” Cas actually laughed. “We’re a mess, Dean. We’re supposed to be. An ex ancient cosmic being and a man who’s been through more trauma than the average warzone? This,” - he lifted Dean’s hand between them - “what we have together - is not going to be an easy ride. Why would it be?”
He tugged Dean’s hand further toward himself, leant over and pressed his lips to the scarred knuckles, still curled around the fork. Then he let it go and picked up his own fork and carried on eating.
“Huh,” said Dean.
He shovelled up a forkful of eggs, posted them in through his mouth and ate. They were soft and buttery and still warm. Better than Sam’s. And the bacon was crispier. Which was ungrateful, but hey…
Anyway, Cas had set everything straight, calmly and steadily, with the minimum of fuss and hardly any bustling around, just like always. He’d set Dean straight, put him in order, just by coming home and by being himself.
And then, even though it was daffodil time - way past Christmas - and his angel really wasn’t an angel anymore, some words popped into Dean’s head.
How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given.
Was it even a Christmas song? He wasn’t sure. But it must be about angels. Because his angel had come home. And there was no drama and no yelling and no Dean-in-the-doghouse. Cas was here and everything was right.
And that was the best gift anyone in any universe had ever been given.