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"Follow your heart," Mildred says, patting his chest. "You do that... all the rest just figures itself out."
Dean makes himself smile.
+
The spook turns out to be a guy named James who spent the last decade of his life at Shady Palms. He'd died in his sleep at the age of ninety-four, outliving all of his family except a great-granddaughter who'd moved to South Korea on one of those teach-English-abroad deals and never came back. No messy murder, no unfinished business, no enemies. The best Dean can figure is, James just hadn't wanted to leave a place he considered home. He'd stayed with his friends instead of walking into the light.
But eventually, those friends had died. They'd been replaced by faces James didn't recognize, and without a tether to his old life his spirit had gone straight off the deep end. His victims were all newcomers who'd intruded on his usual stomping grounds-- his apartment, his favorite table in the cafeteria, his favorite chair in the day room.
James had liked to draw before his arthritis got too bad; a few of his sketches are pinned to a cork board in the front hallway. They're pastel beach scenes, all soft greens and blues and sailboats bobbing calmly on the chalky horizon. He'd also played the guitar; one of the nurses digs it up in a storage room in the basement. They burn those just in case, then head out to the cemetery on the other side of town.
It's one of the quickest and easiest gigs they've worked in years, but an uncomfortable ache builds in Dean's chest as he shovels up swampy, Florida mud. Sam always gets a little wet-eyed about the ones who start out not meaning any harm, hinting around that maybe they can be reasoned with, brought back to their old selves. Putting his foot down makes Dean feel like an ass, but once a spirit goes sideways, there's no going back. And they always go sideways. Bobby had been rock-solid proof of that.
After, Dean calls Mildred instead of driving back to her place. Shady Palms is thirty-five minutes in the wrong direction, and he isn't feeling up to any wandering hands or earnest smiles.
"It's all taken care of," Dean says, sticking his finger in his other ear as Sam clatters around in the trunk.
"That's good to hear," she says. After a pause she adds, "Do you remember what I told you?"
Dean clears his throat. "I -- yes."
"Good. Just keep that in mind, and things will turn out fine."
+
They get things buttoned up at the cemetery a little after nine. That's still pretty early for them, so Dean heads straight for the interstate; he figures he can hit the Georgia line before he has to call it quits. It's a clear night, somehow humid and cool at exactly the same time. The sky is starless, burned purple by the city lights. Dean drives with the windows cracked and an uneasy feeling churning in his gut.
Sam knocks out just north of Ocala. Dean turns up the stereo to drown out his soft, neck-at-a-bad-angle snores, but there isn't much on but talk radio, some sports guys discussing the Rams move like people on this side of the country give a shit about football in Los Angeles. His box of cassettes is in the back, tucked into the footwell behind the driver's seat. He tries reaching for it twice, but the second time he nearly swerves off the highway. Sighing, he jerks the wheel enough to get the Impala back on the asphalt and starts humming Iron Maiden under his breath.
Follow your heart. Mildred had made it sound so easy, but she'd traveled the world and made music -- things Dean had wanted to do himself when he was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. But he'd given up any chance of that when he left Sonny's and got back on the road. He'd given up any chance at anything. He'd followed his heart once, but his year with Lisa and Ben hadn't ended well for anyone. And now -- fuck.
A couple months ago, Sam had asked him about carving out a life for himself inside the life he already has, about maybe picking something up with someone who works the job, or at least knows about all the shit that goes bump in the night. Dean had shut that down pretty quickly, mainly because he'd known Sam had really been talking about Cas. And Cas -- that's not a conversation he wanted to have on a three-day haul to backwater Oregon. It's not a conversation he wants to have at all.
It's not like he hasn't thought about it. Jesus Christ, he's fucking thought about it -- falling asleep next to Cas at night, waking up next to Cas in the morning, heading out on hunts with Cas and his brother, hanging around the bunker and doing dumb, domestic shit when they're not on a case. Sometimes, he even thinks Cas would go for it. Hell, if he's being honest with himself, most of the time he thinks Cas would go for it. It's just that there's always been something bigger and badder on the horizon. Something literally apocalyptic. Something that has Dean scrambling to keep his head above water while heaven fucks with Cas' head.
The semi riding the Impala's tail has all its chicken lights on; in the rear-view mirror, Dean's reflection is blurry and yellowish and tired. A few days ago he turned thirty-seven. Forty's got him squarely in its crosshairs, and Dean lives in an underground bunker with his brother when he isn't crashing in his car, and either way he's sleeping alone when he probably doesn't have to.
Dean digs his phone out of his pocket as I-75 starts curving northwest toward Gainesville. Cas' number goes straight to voicemail.
"Hey. Just wanted to see how you're doing, 'cause I haven't heard from you in a couple days. Sam and I picked up a gig in Florida, but we're headed back now. We'll be hitting the bunker the day after tomorrow."
+
Cas doesn't call back.
He doesn't answer any of the texts Dean sends, either.
+
They pull into the bunker by late afternoon; Cas turns up just as Dean is starting dinner.
"Oh. Hey," he says. He's making burrito filling -- shredded beef, beans, tomatoes, corn, cilantro chopped thin enough that it won't stick in his teeth. He turns the heat off so it won't burn and wipes his hands on his jeans. "You parked out front?"
Cas just looks at him for a second. "Parked?"
"It's s'posed to rain later. I can open the garage of you wanna move your car."
"My car," Cas says slowly. He's down to his shirtsleeves and his tie is loose. After another pause, he shrugs. "I didn't bring my car."
"What? Where is it?"
"Outside Crowley's little lair. I didn't want it."
"You -- are you kidding? You love that thing. You pitched a fit when Metatron stole it."
Cas shrugs again. "It's just a car. I can find another one if it becomes necessary."
That doesn't make any sense -- Massachusetts is a long, long way from Lebanon, and Cas searched the Continental's license plate in twelve state databases when it first went missing -- but Cas turns and heads out of the kitchen before Dean can ask. Something uneasy prickles at the back of Dean's neck. He throws a paper towel over the tortillas so they don't harden and follows Cas out.
He finds Cas in the library, staring curiously at whatever is open on Sam's laptop. The glare from the screen washes his face a cold white. Sam isn't there, but the plumbing is humming quietly behind the walls. It takes a good half-hour for their electronic junk to find the bunker's mickey-moused internet connection; Sam probably booted up the laptop and decided to hit the showers while he waited.
Dean just stares for a second -- at the tanned line of Cas' arms, at the perfect hollow of Cas' throat. Dean has wanted to put his mouth there a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. After a moment, Cas tips his head to the side. He reaches for the laptop's keyboard, then pulls back. He flexes his hands. A weird, middle-distance look crosses his face, the kind of face he makes when he's tuned into angel radio and doesn't like what he's hearing.
"Cas, you okay?"
"I'm fine," Cas says. After a split-second hesitation, he adds, "Dean."
"You dig up anything on the Darkness?"
"I haven't been looking."
Unease skitters across Dean's skin again. "When you didn't answer my calls, I figured --"
"Sorry," Cas says, without really looking up. "I was distracted."
"Aw, hell. You didn't watch all of Jessica Jones in one shot, did you. 'Cause --"
"What?" Cas asks. He pauses quickly, then smiles and says, "No. I wasn't watching... television."
Something isn't right. Something -- Dean doesn't know. Just, something. "You sure you're okay?"
"I said I'm fine. Why do you keep asking?"
"'Cause you -- Lucifer roughed you up pretty good, and Amara --" Dean winces; using her name always puts a blood-tang in his mouth, like pennies and raw meat.
Cas smiles again. "You're worried about me." He says it like he doesn't understand why, like Dean has never worried about him before.
"'Course I am."
"Honestly, my experience in the cage was... edifying. I learned a few things about myself. And I learned a few things about you." Cas takes a step closer and plucks lightly at Dean's sleeve. "For instance... the Darkness frightens you, but Lucifer frightens you more."
"Yeah," Dean admits, ducking his head a little. Cas' thumb bumps the inside of his wrist. "Yeah, he does. The Darkness -- man, I don't even have half a clue about what she is. But Lucifer --" Dean chokes out a noise that's almost a laugh. "I've been to hell. He rode around in Sam's skull. I want nothing to do with that sonofabitch."
"The devil you know," Cas murmurs. "It's odd... I understand humans usually take comfort in familiarity."
Dean doesn't know what to say to that. Before he can think of something, Cas reaches up and cups his jaw. His hand is huge and warm, and Dean catches himself leaning into it a little. A slow, shivery feeling unfurls in his gut. He spent the better part of a twenty-two hour drive working up the nerve, and now Cas is going to do all the work. Now Cas is going to make it easy for him.
Cas leans in slightly, rubbing his thumb at the corner of Dean's mouth. He smells like ozone and winter wind. His shirt collar is yawning open around the long line of his throat. His eyes --
His eyes are cold.
"You ain't Cas," Dean says, jerking away.
"Curses," not-Cas deadpans. "Foiled again. I didn't think I'd fool you long, but you caught on quicker than I expected. I guess you aren't as dumb as you look."
"Who --?" Dean starts, but suddenly he knows. He fucking knows. He thinks he might puke. "You -- you give him back right now."
"Are you sure?" Lucifer asks, working Cas voice into a teasing sing-song. He leans in again. "You were closer to what you want in the last five seconds than you've been in the last five years."
"I don't want you," Dean snaps. His face heats once the words are out, but he doesn't try to take them back. He needs Cas to know. "I want him."
Lucifer smiles like a knife. "If it's any consolation, he wants you too. It's pathetic, really -- an angel of the lord, so desperately in love with one of you... creatures."
Dean's gut lurches. Nausea spikes through him so sharply the room swims a little; he really is going to puke. He grabs the back of a chair to steady himself. Lucifer opens his mouth, then pauses. That middle-distance look crosses his face again. Then he barks out a laugh that cracks around the library like a gunshot.
"He is furious right now. He started bitching up a blue streak the minute I got here -- he didn't like me... invading your home -- but once I touched you --" Lucifer whistles through his teeth. "He really is a firecracker."
"You sonofabitch."
"Dean," Lucifer says, touching Dean's shoulder. Dean jerks like he's been punched in the gut. "This could be a good thing. Now that I'm free, I can fix the mess humanity has made of the world."
"Fix --? How are you gonna fix it? Hell on earth? A new apocalypse? A croatoan epidemic?"
Lucifer shrugs. "All of the above. You can't make an omelet without breaking all the eggs."
The plumbing cuts off with a rattle -- Sam getting out of the shower. The clock behind Lucifer ticks. Dean's knees feel like they're going to buckle. He makes himself breathe through the knot burning in his throat.
"What about the Darkness?" he asks.
"I'll get to her eventually," Lucifer says, shrugging again. "I just need to run a few errands first. I need a Grigori sword, just like the one Little Orphan Claire ran off with."
"You leave her alone."
"And I'll need to have another chat with your brother. Castiel is a decent enough ride --" Lucifer glances down at himself and smirks "-- but this bicycle was not built for two."
"Stay away from Sam."
Lucifer crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. "Dean, Dean, Dean. You can't stop me. That angel blade in your pocket won't kill me. But it will kill Castiel."
Dean's chest feels like an open wound, raw and pulsing with blood. "Cas," he tries, his voice barely a whisper. "Cas, I --"
Lucifer flings Dean across the room with a lazy wave. As Dean is sliding down the wall, Lucifer turns and walks away.
Hold on, Cas, Dean prays. Just hold on. I'm -- I'm gonna get you back, okay? I'm gonna get you back.