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Castiel is rinsing the dishes in the kitchen when he hears the doorbell ring. “Dean! My hands are covered in soap, mind getting that for me?” he calls.
Dean grumbles something and jogs into the kitchen.
“Dean, the door,” Castiel says.
“I know,” Dean says, voice closer than Castiel anticipated. Hot breath washes over the side of his neck, and then Dean licks a stripe up the back of his ear.
“Dean!” Castiel yelps, startled. He cringes away but turns his face in Dean’s direction at the same time, instinct telling him to keep the enemy in his sights, and Dean takes advantage, darting forward and stealing a kiss.
The doorbell rings again, followed by three sharp knocks.
Dean only deepens the kiss, and Castiel starts to back away, but Dean’s hand is curled around the back of his neck, keeping him from getting very far.
“Mm—De—door,” Castiel manages around the tongue in his mouth.
Dean finally withdraws, grinning. “Hold that thought,” he murmurs. One more press of lips, and then he’s gone to answer the front door.
Castiel doesn’t know who’d be looking for him right now, but the most probable scenario is that a coworker from the university is making rounds, dropping off Christmas gifts. Castiel distributed his gifts before school let out, but he knows that some of his friends were putting it off in order to get all their grading done.
“Who are you?”
Castiel freezes, last dish poised over the dish rack. It’s been years since he last heard that voice.
“I’m Dean Winchester. Who are you?” Castiel hears, and he quickly puts the dish down and wipes his hands dry on his jeans before heading out of the kitchen.
“Castiel,” Uriel says, and Castiel suddenly has a hard time taking another step. It’s been so long.
“Uriel.”
Dean glances over his shoulder at Castiel, and Castiel can see that he has questions, but he’s keeping them to himself for the time being.
“What are you doing here?” Castiel says, forcing his legs to move so that he can go to the door.
“May I come in?”
“No,” Castiel says, and Dean stops in the process of stepping out of the way. “Why are you here?”
“I would like to speak with you in private,” Uriel says, dark eyes shifting to Dean pointedly.
“No.”
“These are matters not to be discussed openly before—”
“I recognize Dean as family more than I do you. If you want to tell me something, he can hear it as well.”
Uriel continues to look at Dean with open distaste, and Castiel wants to gouge his eyes out. Uriel had looked down on Castiel, had agreed when their uncle called him broken, wrong, something that needed fixing. And now, Uriel is turning that condescending look on Dean, and Castiel won’t have it.
“Zachariah is dead,” Uriel finally says.
Castiel blinks once. Twice. “And?”
“Our father has returned. He wants you to come to the funeral.”
“No,” Castiel says.
“Hey, wait,” Dean says, a hand landing on Castiel’s shoulder, “I thought you said—”
“I’m not going,” Castiel says firmly, shrugging Dean’s hand off. He’ll apologize and explain later, but right now, all he wants is to get Uriel off his doorstep. “If that was all, you can leave now.”
“Castiel—” Uriel starts.
“I’m not part of this family anymore, Uriel—haven’t been for years. I’m not going.”
Before Uriel can respond, Castiel steps back and shuts the door. It’s silent for a long moment, but Castiel can feel Dean’s presence just to his side.
“You sure ‘bout that, Cas?” he finally says, and Castiel nods.
“Zachariah was terrible to all of us, but he had a special dislike for me, even before I came out. I never found out the reason—didn’t care to.”
“He was still your uncle, though.”
“I’m aware of that, Dean, and I’m not going.”
Dean nods. “Well, good. I didn’t want you to go anywhere, anyway.”
Castiel chuckles but doesn’t really feel amused, scrubs a hand over his forehead.
“So that was a total mood killer, hmm?” Dean comments.
“Sorry.”
“Hey, not your fault,” Dean says before Castiel can continue. “It’s not like you called up your Uncle Zach and asked him to croak.”
This draws a genuine laugh from Castiel, and he’s grateful that Dean’s here right now, or he’d probably have to spend the rest of the night stewing. It isn’t fun to think back on his childhood.
“But hey,” Dean says, softer, “I thought you wanted to meet your dad. Uriel said—”
Castiel shakes his head, going for flippant as he interjects, “Nah. I stopped waiting for him a while back.”
Dean nods again, and Castiel knows that he gets the absent father thing. Obviously he hasn’t experienced it to the extent that Castiel has, but Castiel would never wish his own upbringing on anyone.
The doorbell rings again.
“God. Can’t believe I forgot how fucking persistent they are,” Castiel grumbles, shaking his head, and then he raises his voice to say, “Fuck off, Uriel! I’m not going!”
“Castiel, open up.”
Dean glances at the door. “That didn’t sound like Uriel.”
Castiel shakes his head again, eyes widening a bit in disbelief. “Because it’s not.”
“Who is it, then?” Dean asks as the voice outside the door says, “Castiel, please.”
Castiel pulls the door open. “Michael.”
Michael stares at him for a long moment, as though taking in all the changes Castiel’s been through in his years away from home. Castiel takes the opportunity to do the same. His eldest brother is thinner now, face gaunt and creased with more lines than he should have at his age. But his sharp, green eyes are just as piercing, the set of his mouth just as firm and unyielding as Castiel remembers.
“You look well,” Michael decides.
“You don’t,” Castiel answers.
Michael huffs out a laugh. “Still don’t mince words, I see. And you must be Dean.”
Dean nods but says nothing, and Castiel is grateful that Dean knows to let him take the lead on this, that silent support is all he needs right now.
“Why have you come?” Castiel asks Michael. “Uriel I understand, because he’s the errand boy—”
“You know that’s not true,” Michael interrupts.
“Except that it is,” Castiel counters. “The adopted child, the easiest to manipulate. He had a spirit before you and Zachariah snapped it in half to turn him into a hammer.”
Unseen by Michael, Dean’s hand rests in the small of Castiel’s back, and it’s ridiculous how much comfort this single point of contact brings.
“That’s really what you think,” Michael says softly.
“Yes. And you would have done the same to me,” Castiel finishes, and the hand on his back tenses just a fraction, as though it’s resisting the impulse to curl into a fist. Castiel leans back minutely into the touch to let Dean know that he’s okay, he’s fine. His spirit is far out of reach of Michael and his family.
“Castiel, I would never have—”
“Don’t lie for Dean’s sake. He knows plenty about the family already.”
Castiel expects anger at his insubordinate words, the cold fury that Michael is known for in their family, but all he sees is a deepening in the frown lines around his brother’s mouth. Michael really does look weary, so much that Castiel almost pities him, and that’s something he never thought would happen. In his eyes there’s this resignation that Castiel is not accustomed to seeing.
And for the first time, it occurs to Castiel that Michael was as much a victim as the rest of them. Michael was a hammer, was broken long before the rest of them so that Zachariah would have a convenient tool to control them with.
“I’m only going to ask you this one time, Castiel,” Michael finally says. “Will you come home?”
Before Castiel’s departure, before all this time passed, Castiel is certain that this line would have been delivered with strength, with that fire-and-brimstone kind of intensity. But now, Michael just sounds drained. Tired. Done.
“All right,” Michael says, taking Castiel’s silence as rejection. He turns away and starts walking down the hall. “Goodbye, Castiel.”
And no, that can’t be it. “Michael, wait. What… what happened to you?”
Michael stops walking. “It’s broken. Everything’s broken.”
“What do you mean?”
Michael shakes his head as he turns back to face Castiel. “It’s… a long story.”
Dean pats Castiel’s back, and Castiel’s startled because he somehow got so caught up in his brother’s inexplicable transformation that he’d forgotten Dean was there. “Sounds like you two have a lot to catch up on,” Dean’s saying. “Cas, I’ll catch you later, ‘kay?”
Castiel nods. Dean shrinks back a bit when Castiel leans over to kiss him goodbye, eyes flitting to Michael, but Castiel just covers the extra inch and presses a quick kiss to Dean’s lips. This is his home—if Michael doesn’t want to see this, he can leave.
“Yeah, okay,” Castiel says, voice pitched soft, words only for Dean’s ears.
Dean might be blushing a little bit as he exits the apartment and passes Michael in the hall, and god, that’s adorable. Michael doesn’t seem to have any reaction to Castiel’s display, and that’s most likely a good thing.
When Dean’s footfalls have faded, Castiel looks back at Michael. Then he lets out a soft sigh, shaking his head. “So. Coffee?” he offers, stepping back and out of the doorway.
“Please.” Michael smiles as he enters the apartment, and Castiel reads surprise, satisfaction, and relief in his expression.
“Tell Uriel to come up,” Castiel says. “He doesn’t have to wait in the car.”
Michael nods, pulls out his cell phone to send a text. Castiel leaves the front door open and walks past Michael into the kitchen.
“Actually, if you have beer, that’d be great,” Michael says from the entrance, and Castiel turns.
“You don’t drink.”
“I didn’t,” Michael corrects him.
“Well,” Castiel says, opening the fridge and grabbing two beers, “you must be a completely changed man.” He tosses one of the bottles at his brother, grabs one more for Uriel, and elbows the fridge shut.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Michael answers.
Castiel eyes him for a second, watches Michael’s throat work as he downs the first few gulps of beer before twisting the cap off his own bottle.
“Tell me.”
Castiel ends up attending the funeral.
He meets his father—an old, tired man with a strange sense of humor. His name is Charles. It’s strange to have a face to go with that name. He doesn’t attempt to ingratiate himself with Castiel, and that oddly works better for him than any amount of apologies would have. Because Charles left of his own free will, and making excuses now would just be insincere. This though, this works.
Charles asks Castiel to stay. Whatever he did while he was gone obviously made him a lot of money—he’s bought a giant house, Victorian-style, in San Francisco, and he offers Castiel a job, saying that he could get an offer from any museum that Castiel wants in the Bay Area. It’s only slightly tempting—Castiel never cared much for his home here, and he doesn’t care for it now.
Castiel stays the night immediately following the funeral. Dinner’s quiet, awkward. No one really knows what to say—apparently, when Michael said that everything was broken, he mostly meant the family. Those who were able to get into college escaped and never came back, much like Castiel did, and they tended to avoid contact as well. Castiel hates it—Charles refers to it as a family dinner, but really, they’re all strangers to each other.
Gabriel is the only person who seems somehow immune to the awkwardness; in fact, he hardly ever stops talking. He flew in from New York about half an hour before the service and showed up there in a bright pink suit with two giant luggage bags. Castiel learned after the service that one of the bags was half-filled with clothes and essentials, and the rest of his baggage was filled with assorted candy, which… what?
He’s supposed to spend the next day with his family, but it’s hard for him to speak with any of the others because while they’re trying to accept him as a gay man, it’s difficult for them to overcome so many years of ingrained homophobia from Zachariah. Michael and Gabriel are the only two who speak to Castiel comfortably.
So instead of staying another night, Castiel moves his flight up and escapes, because he’d much rather spend his winter holidays with Lisa and Anna, and with the Winchesters.
It’s late when he walks back into his apartment, shuts the door behind him and fumbles around in the dark because he can’t be bothered to turn on the light. He leaves his suitcase by the door—all he really wants is to strip, crawl into bed, and sleep until the past two days are far, far behind him.
He leaves behind a trail of clothing as he moves through his dark apartment, and by the time he reaches his bedroom, he’s just wearing a pair of jeans. He drops those and flops onto the bed, only to find that it’s already occupied. He instinctively leaps backwards and gropes blindly for the baseball bat that he knows is leaned up against his dresser.
But the lump of blankets curses halfheartedly at being disturbed from its sleep, and Castiel recognizes that voice—of course he does.
“Dean?”
The groaning coming from the bed can only be Dean—Castiel doesn’t know anyone else who is such a big baby about being woken up in the middle of the night—but Castiel turns on the light anyway, just to be completely certain.
“Fuck,” Dean groans, voice hoarse with sleep and muffled through the blankets. “Cas?”
Castiel reaches out and yanks the covers off of him. “Dean, what are you doing here?”
Dean is making his best disgruntled face, squinting in the light. “Sleeping. What’s it look like?” He reaches half-blindly for the covers, and Castiel relents, letting Dean tug them back over him. Just before Dean covers himself up, Castiel catches sight of familiar fabric.
“You’re wearing my pajamas,” he observes. “Why are you wearing my pajamas?” Sure, his pajamas would fit Dean because they’re all at least two sizes too big, but why would Dean…? Dean just grunts in response, and Castiel sighs. “I was planning on getting some sleep tonight, you know. In my bed.”
“Why are you back already?” Dean asks, and he still sounds half-asleep. “Thought you weren’t gettin’ back ‘til tomorrow.”
Castiel’s still frowning. “So you decided to just commandeer my bed?”
“‘S comfortable,” Dean mumbles, and it sounds like he’s drifting closer to sleep.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Castiel grouses, moving to his closet and grabbing a spare blanket for the couch—of course Dean would be here, taking up his space. “What’s wrong with your thousand-dollar-bed at home?”
Dean doesn’t look inclined to reply, so Castiel goes back into his living room and tosses the blanket onto the couch. The things he puts up with.
“Cas,” Dean says from the other room. “Cas, come back.”
Castiel sighs and returns to his bedroom. “What, Dean? Have you suddenly realized that you’d like to go to sleep where you should be sleeping? At your own house?”
Dean grins sleepily up at Castiel, and god, that just melts his insides. “C’mere,” Dean says.
Castiel kneels down on the ground—safer than sitting on the bed, because that would give Dean a chance to manhandle him into a cuddling session—and looks at Dean expectantly.
Dean reaches out a hand and touches Castiel’s face, eyes flitting back and forth between Castiel’s. “Glad you’re back.”
“God, you’re stupid when you’re sleepy,” Castiel says, unable to resist smiling. He turns his face and presses a kiss into Dean’s palm—it’s safe for him to do these things when Dean’s hovering in that hazy zone between awareness and unconsciousness.
“Hmm,” Dean hums, eyes sliding shut. “G’night, Cas. Missed you.”
The words slur together toward the end, and Castiel gets back to his feet, replacing Dean’s hand at his side. He stands in his room for a moment, just watching Dean sleep, before turning off the lights and walking out. He gets dressed again, because his spare blanket isn’t exactly the best insulation against the cold. He’s about to lie down on the couch when he decides to grab a hoodie as well, just in case.
A few minutes later, after he’s settled in on the old sagging couch, Castiel laughs softly at himself. How screwed is he, that he lets Dean take over his bed instead of just kicking him out. And what the hell is wrong with Dean, anyway? Why would he leave his golden nest for Castiel’s crappy apartment?
Castiel shakes his head, pulls the frayed material tighter around his shoulders, and closes his eyes.