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Dean doesn’t smoke. Has given it up years ago. But it is this or break out the whiskey. So he haphazardly slings a scarf around his neck and shrugs into his leather jacket to step out onto the porch of his childhood home.
The cold air hits him like a brick wall, taking his breath away. But the music and the laughter disappear when he closes the door behind him, and that alone lets him breathe a bit freer. It’s not that he begrudges them their happiness. He doesn’t. Neither Bobby and Ellen their autumn-of-their-lives companionship, nor Sam and Jess their new engagement. It’s just that – his eyes stray towards the right, where the fence to the neighboring lot is barely visible through the snow.
There is no way through the fence here. You’d have to go all the way up the drive way and a quarter of a mile up the road before you even reach the Novak driveway to turn towards their house. If you go by the official route that is. The unofficial route is closer. If it still exists.
Dean hesitates for all of a minute. It makes no sense, of course. Hasn’t made sense in a decade. And yet, every time he comes back here, he has to check. So he steps out into the swirling white, the snow immediately engulfing him.
He’s always found it a little eerie, how silent snow is. How it dampens all other sounds, his footsteps, his breathing, maybe even the volume of his thoughts. He wraps the scarf tighter around himself, fending off the snowflakes that want to slide down his neck. At least there is no wind, just thick, clumpy flakes.
He follows the path down towards the back of their lot. Well-trodden when he was younger, now covered with a blanket of undisturbed snow. Bobby has no reason to come back here, not since Ellen made him get rid of most of the old clunkers that had been cluttering up the yard.
There is a ridiculous pull in his stomach, getting stronger the further he makes his way down to where a thicket of trees marks the end of their property. A pull that is half anxiety and half excitement. Like there’s actually someone waiting for him at the end of this trip. He tries to shake the feeling, knowing that the attempt is useless because he has tried the same before and the feeling never goes away. So instead, he digs for the cigarettes, an old packet, half-crumbled.
He has barely gotten it out, though, when he shoves it back into his pocket. He’ll save it for when he is there. For the eventual moment of disappointment. Easier to smoke in the shelter of the trees anyway.
Ten years. More than, by now. Cause it had been summer. Graduation. College. So many ideas, so many plans. So much hope. Maybe it is the hope, why he is still hung up on this. Why he still compares everything and everyone to dark hair and blue eyes and dorky sweaters. Why he wakes up disoriented when the sleeping body next to him wears silks (or nothing at all) and not comfy PJs with bee print on them. Why he finds his thoughts wandering when he is chatting up someone in a bar and they don’t answer his flirting with dry sarcasm or long scientific explanations of why he is mistaken in his assumptions.
Hope. Young and naïve as he’d been, he hadn’t known better than to hope. Or more than that, he hadn’t known better than to believe. To believe that what they had was real. To believe that no matter what adversities life was going to throw at them, they’d make it through. Because love, right? Love conquers all.
He snorts softly, the sound lost to the snow. Maybe some love does. Someone else’s love. Not Dean Winchester’s.
Doesn’t matter to his stomach, though, anxiously forming a knot, hoping against his better knowledge that today will be the day. The day when he isn’t the only one who searches out their old secret passageway. It is Christmas after all. If there is a time that he would be home, it is now. But then, it is late already, the Novaks will be going to Midnight Mass while Dean’s family breaks out the eggnog and their tradition of opening just one present each at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve. He needs to be back for that. He still has a bit of time, though.
The stand of trees is the same as it always has been. Snowed in thickly, but not quite as much as the rest of the place. He finds his way to the densest part near the fence, slipping and sliding and wishing he’d brought gloves when he needs to catch himself on the tree trunks more than once.
It is still there. High over the fence, higher than he remembers. A walkway of sturdy planks, the years having worn them, but not enough to make them fall. Built for eternity, apparently, where their love hadn’t been.
A quick survey shows that the old route to climb is also still there. Back when they used the bridge often, there had been a rope-ladder here, but the rope has rotted away years ago. Well, Dean is older, but he isn’t that old yet. He can still climb.
Gloves would have been a wonderful idea, though. By the time he pulls himself up on the planks, his hands feel frozen and it hurts to keep his muscles flexed so that he doesn’t fall. He’ll need to warm his fingers before attempting the slippery way downward.
But then, he came up here to smoke, so he has planned for a break. He’ll just need to warm his hands one at a time.
The planks are still even, surprisingly so. The trees must have grown at the same rate, preserving their way to sneak to each other even when there was no need for it anymore. Idly he wishes they could have done the same. Growing with each other, not physically like the trees, but growing together as people.
Dean tests the stability of the wood first, carefully setting one foot in front of the other, pressing down with his weight a few times before trusting the bridge enough to set out towards the middle. Never further than the middle. He isn’t welcome on the other side anymore, so he gets close but doesn’t cross the line.
He wishes it was that easy in the rest of life, knowing where the line is that he isn’t supposed to cross. He hadn’t wanted to cross it with Castiel. Or rather, he had. He’d just wanted them both to be there for it. Not only in the moment, but also after the fact.
He sits down heavily, lets his legs dangle over the edge, looks out into the snow beyond the shelter of the trees, away from the houses, away from everything.
It had been a risk, of course. Asking Cas to prom. Making public what they’d known for a while but had kept carefully hidden from everyone else. But Dean had loved Cas, and Cas had loved Dean, and high-school was almost over, and then they’d be free to do as they please anyway, right?
Yeah, right. Turns out, you’re not very free when you’re still underage and your family threatens to cut you off. When you want to go to college and have already been accepted into several good ones, all of which cost a lot of money.
He had cried, Cas, when he told Dean. Told him right here on their bridge, carefully keeping himself on his side, while Dean’s legs refused to carry him those last few inches over the dividing line to close the sudden space between them. Had cried and told him again and again that it was only temporary. That he loved him and that he’d wait for him, even if they couldn’t see each other anymore right now. That it was only until he could find a way to put himself through college. Or until his family relented. One or the other.
But all Dean had heard was goodbye.
It was in the I’ll find a way where Cas should have said we’ll find a way.
It was in the I’ll wait for you where he should have said we’ll be together.
So he had told him No. Had made the painful break right then and there instead of drawing out the agony. Wished him luck for his life and had clamored down the ladder to the ground, legs too unsteady for his exit to be graceful, mind too numb to care.
Dean hadn’t cried that night. What use was there in crying when your world was shattered?
Later, he’d been angry. At himself at first, for being stupid enough to take Cas to prom instead of pretending and taking Rhonda. For not being patient enough to wait until they couldn’t get hurt. Then at Michael, for doing what he did, for putting his beliefs before their happiness. Then at Cas, for letting it happen. Finally at himself again, for having had hope in the first place.
He’d held on to the anger, trusting it to keep him afloat where the pain would have drowned him. He had managed, too, up until the moment when there’d been an envelope on the kitchen table for him, his name scrawled on it in Castiel’s sloppy handwriting, even though it looked stiffer than normal, the relaxed lines crowding together too tightly.
Inside, the delicate golden chain and small cross that had once been his mother’s. That he’d given to Cas at his initiation in church. Because God was important to Cas and Cas was important to Dean. Because Dean was sure that his Mom would approve of giving her cross to Cas. Because he’d treasure it like she had. And because Dean treasured him.
The small cross in his palm, that’s what finally broke him. The moment when reality hit home. When finally, his heart understood that he’d lost Cas. It was the day that Cas moved out. Moved to college and didn’t come back.
Dean fumbles for the lighter in his pocket, and can’t help that his hand strays towards his collar, feels for the shape of the cross, tugged away under the layers of his clothes.
The cigarette, when he manages to light it, tastes like ashes. Tastes a decade old and crumbled to dust. He keeps smoking it, though, hopes that it will dull the pain. It should. Anything should be able to dull the pain by now. They’d been kids. ‘Puppy love’ is what Ellen calls it. But then, Ellen hadn’t been here. Bobby had. Sam had. They never call it that. Not to Dean’s face anyway.
Bobby doesn’t ask, of course, but Sam does. Pokes and prods and nudges at Dean. Wants him to be happy like Sam is happy with Jess. Has long since figured out that Dean is still hung up on the same person he’s loved all his life. Ever since they moved in with Uncle Bobby when they were still in grade school.
Sam’s the one who keeps Dean updated. Who told him that Anna has married and is now a Milton instead of a Novak. Who told him that Gabriel’s opened a café. But even he doesn’t dare talk of Castiel. Or maybe there is nothing to know. Maybe his internet searches come up empty.
But then, Dean consoles himself, if something really bad had happened, they’d know. This is a small town after all. Marriages and funerals, they are the heart of all gossip.
He scolds himself the next second for lumping in marriages with the bad things that might have happened to Cas. It’s a selfish thought born out of the pull in his stomach where his body doesn’t want to let go of the hope his mind has given up on years ago. How can he claim to have loved Cas – to still love him, if he begrudges him being happy?
That doesn’t work, so Dean looks up, finds the clouds through the thick canopy, imagines the stars and the Heaven that Cas believes in, and makes a wish. Wishes with all of his heart for Cas to have found happiness. Wishes it so much that it hurts.
“Dean?”
The voice is dampened by the snow like everything else but it startles him so much he almost falls off the bridge. The cigarette actually tumbles down. For a heartbeat, he believes it’s his mind playing tricks on him, making him hear what he wants to hear, but then the boards creak when someone steps onto them and then there’s Cas.
He’s wrapped into so many layers that it’s hard to see him underneath. Scarf, hat, gloves, thick coat. He’s broader than Dean remembers. Grown into his frame, lankiness gone.
“You should be in church,” Dean says and it’s not what he wants to say but he has no idea what he wants to say, mind not having caught up with the new development.
Cas huffs, a cloud of breath accentuating the tiny noise before it can get swallowed by the snow. “You should be opening your first present.”
“They’ll wait for me,” Dean replies, and then, “What are you doing here?”
“Praying,” Cas says like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What?”
“For you actually,” he adds but then fidgets and Dean thinks if the light was better he would see a blush tint his cheeks. “Not for you to, you know, actually be here. Just – for you.”
“Why?” Dean asks dumbfounded, caught in a world that is suddenly surreal.
“Because I know you won’t pray for yourself,” Cas answers, and there might be a smile in his voice. “May I sit?”
“It’s a free bridge,” Dean says and knows it’s not that simple. “Yes of course,” he adds and swallows the lump in his throat.
“On your side?” Cas asks, having stopped right at the divider, mindful of their boundaries the same way Dean is, it seems.
It takes a moment. A long cold moment to make up his mind and make his mouth work. “Yes, please,” Dean mumbles and knows that he shouldn’t. That the boundary has been drawn for a reason. He still scoots over to the left, giving Cas more space on Dean’s side of the walkway.
Cas sits, close, but not enough that they’d touch.
“How often do you come here?” Dean asks, wondering about it in an abstract kind of way, how likely or unlikely this meeting is.
“Not often,” Cas says. “I’m not here all that often anymore. You?”
“Whenever I’m visiting. So, not that often, either.” It admits more than he wants, probably, but Cas doesn’t comment. Instead, he stares out into the snow like Dean had done before.
They sit in silence for a while, their body warmth radiating out to each other even through the cold space between them. It’s too familiar to feel weird, shared silences stretching back through the years into eternity. It feels like a dream, though, one of the many Dean has where Cas is still at his side. Sometimes they leave him happy, these dreams, the feeling of warm and safe and loved spilling over into the day. Other times, they leave him broken when he wakes up to a warmth that is not Cas’. He should stop having one-night-stands. The small patch that human warmth provides at night makes the lack underneath all the more noticeable in the morning.
“I wish I’d known you were here. I’d have kept the tradition and brought you a present,” Cas breaks the silence.
“It’s never been your tradition,” Dean reminds him.
Cas admits that with a nod but says, “I could use a tradition, though. I’ve given up on mine.”
“No church anymore?” Dean wonders because even though Cas is here he somehow didn’t expect that.
“Not here. Not this church,” Castiel says. “I didn’t lose my faith, Dean.”
“I’m glad,” Dean says and means it. For all that the church’s pretty much the culprit of Dean’s worst heartache, his faith is a part of Castiel and he’d hate for him to lose it.
“Really?” Castiel sounds surprised.
“Yes, Cas,” Dean answers, letting a bit of fond annoyance bleed through. “You know that I never wanted to take anything away from you. God least of all.”
When Castiel answers, his voice is a whisper. “And I wanted to give Him back to you. When I couldn’t be there for you, I was hoping He would be.”
Automatically, Dean’s hand finds its way to his chest, feeling for the cross. He’s sure this is what Cas means. So Dean digs through the layers of his clothes until he’s unearthed the pendant. “Here,” he holds it for Cas to see. “Can’t tell you whether it means that God was with me, but this was.”
Cas looks at the cross and then up at Dean. For the first time in a decade, they lock eyes. The snow reflects just enough light that there’s a glimmer of blue, even if the color is dimmed. But Dean knows Cas’ eyes in every lighting. The rest of his face has changed, has become more angular, more mature. His eyes are still the same.
“Hey, Cas,” he whispers, afraid to break the spell.
“Hello, Dean.” The snow swallows the words before they can reach him but their shape in Cas’ mouth is enough for him to know them.
So Dean reaches out, reaches out like he’s always reached out, cups Cas’ jaw, clean-shaven, skin soft and warm where Dean’s hand is calloused and cold. Cas doesn’t flinch away.
“I’ve missed you,” Dean says and it’s too much and not enough. Doesn’t describe anything, yet gives away what he keeps hidden. But then, he’s never been that good at hiding things from Cas.
He lets his hand fall away.
“Thank you for being here,” Cas says and it sounds honest.
Dean huffs a little self-deprecating laugh because it’s pathetic, being here at midnight on Christmas Eve. But at least they’re both pathetic, it seems.
“I’ve waited for you,” Cas says to his hands and the trees. “It’s hard. Waiting. When you don’t know whether – I didn’t know whether you’d ever be here again.”
“You’ve waited for me?” Dean shakes his head, tries to dispel what he can’t have heard.
“Yes, Dean. I’ve waited for you,” Cas repeats.
“Cas, you – you can’t say shit like that,” Dean stammers. Because the tight pull in his stomach is now a fluttering and an urge, and if Cas keeps saying stuff like that, it’s going to overwhelm Dean.
“It’s okay, Dean,” Cas replies, voice smaller than it had been a minute ago, the certainty draining out of it. “It’s okay if you haven’t waited for me. You said you wouldn’t after all. I’m still glad that you’re here tonight.”
“But Cas, I – I have,” Dean answers and knows that it’s true only when the words come out of his mouth.
“You have?” Cas asks, eyes wide, fear not yet gone.
“Yes, Cas, yes I have,” Dean repeats and can’t stop the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest. “God, how I’ve waited for you.”
There is a surge forward then, Cas moving before Dean can react, almost knocking him over backwards in his haste to find Dean’s embrace, to press his mouth against Dean’s lips, to try and fit ten lost years into one kiss – failing, of course, and just trying harder for it.
Dean needs a moment to recover, to find his balance and wrap his arms around the tightly bundled-up human that’s suddenly all but sitting in his lap. He draws him close, kisses him back, every forgotten nuance of Cas’ taste and smell lighting up his senses and his memories, making the kiss familiar where it should be new.
It fits, the kiss, like Cas fits the shape of Dean’s arms. It’s this shape that Dean’s sought with every new person, with every new lover, none of them ever even coming close. He’s broader now, yes, but so is Dean, the two of them having grown together after all, it seems, still fitting perfectly like they always have.
And now that he has him again, finally, finally the right person in his arms, Dean doesn’t want to let go of him. Doesn’t want to miss for another second what he’s missed for so long. He delves deeper, the kiss taking on a life of its own, heating up where the snow should be freezing them.
It can’t last, though, not forever like Dean wants, not when oxygen is becoming an issue. With a sigh of loss, they break apart. They don’t make it far, pushing back together almost immediately, into a tight hug, Cas’ face resting against Dean’s neck while they’re panting their excitement into little clouds of steam that mix in the night.
“I love you,” Cas whispers, and it feels like a dream, feels unreal that Dean should ever hear these words again from the one person he wants to hear them from.
And because it’s still unreal, because he’s still unsure, he can’t say them back. Instead he asks, “Will you be here tomorrow? Will you spend Christmas with me?”
“Yes, Dean,” Cas smiles into Dean’s skin.
“You promise?” Dean asks to make sure.
“I promise,” Cas nods.
“Okay,” Dean exhales. “Okay.”
The clock strikes midnight somewhere, and Cas sits up, face crunched up and movements slow, as if he’s unwilling to move out of Dean’s space but thinks that he should, “They’ll be missing you. You need to get back to open your present.”
Dean shakes his head, doesn’t want to let go, not yet. Isn’t sure this won’t have been a dream as soon as he gets back into the warmth.
He must have said that out loud because Cas laughs softly, leans in for another kiss, shorter than the first, and says, “I promise it’s not a dream. I promise I’ll be there tomorrow. But one of us needs to hold up their traditions. What are we going to do ten years from now if we have no traditions to lean on? We can’t always have Christmas on a bridge in the snow!”
Dean laughs quietly, joy blooming in his heart because there’s a ten years from now and it includes a we not just an I and it’s been ten years and six months since there’d last been a we. “You’re right,”, he agrees, and draws his arms back from Cas to fumble with the clutch of the chain around his neck. “We should uphold tradition.”
“Dean, what are you doing?” Cas asks but doesn’t try to stop Dean’s hands when he takes the chain off of his own neck and searches his way under Cas’ scarf to close it around his.
“One present at midnight. Well, technically it doesn’t count, I guess, because I’ve already given it to you once before, but still.”
“But Dean! I gave it back.”
“It was always yours,” Dean says. Like my heart, his mind supplies but he doesn’t say it out loud, just tugs the cross under Cas’ shirt before the metal can get too cold. “There. Merry Christmas, Cas.”
Cas touches his hand to where the cross lies against his skin. “Are you sure, Dean?” he asks, in full knowledge how few the possessions are that Dean still has of his Mom.
Dean cups his own hand over Cas’. “I’m sure. I don’t have your faith, Cas. I don’t believe the same way you do. Neither in God nor in good outcomes. So you keep it for me. You help me believe.”
“Do you believe in us?” Cas asks, voice quiet and apprehensive.
Ten years is a long time. People change in ten years. But Dean’s skin is warm where he’s wrapped his hand around Cas’.
“You’ve always been the One, Cas,” Dean whispers, lets the snow soak up his words because saying them still hurts, after having had to swallow them down for a decade. “I love you, too. I always will.”
It doesn’t mean that this will work. That they will work. But he can’t wish for a better start.
