Work Text:
Six months ago, Dean Winchester's world felt like it was ending. Sam was moving on, had met a girl, fallen in love, the worst thing that could possibly happen. Dean tried to be glad for him, he did, but truth was, he'd always needed his brother too much. He didn't have any friends; all the friends he'd ever had were dead. All he had was his brother, the man he'd died for, sold his soul for, gone to Hell for. But Sam was leaving him, and that was that, and Dean, who was already starting to fray at the edges, felt as though he was truly unravelling, trying to hold himself together when strands just kept flying out between his fingers and slipping away.
He threw himself into hunts, drink, bar fights, sex, and he dragged Sam along for most of it (not the sex), the way he'd always done when something was going wrong and out of control in his life (and let's face it, wasn't that always?) Without Sam, he just couldn't see the point, and the end of his life as he knew it was coming up fast. One last hunt, for old time's sake, and that would be that.
But Dean's world hadn't ended. It never did, now that he thought about it. Every apocalypse, they averted. Every crisis, they got through. His world was constantly in peril but it never really ended, because he and Sam, they wouldn't let it.
Sam and Amelia bought a house together in California, and then, when Dean had been, if not ready, exactly, at least steeled, to say goodbye, Sam had given him a key and an attic bedroom. Sam wasn't hunting any more, but that didn't mean Dean couldn't. Bobby had hunted from a base, why couldn't Dean? Dean was the first to point out the danger that put Sam and Amelia in, but Sam wouldn't listen. Sam himself was a danger magnet, why would having Dean around make any difference to that? They were smart, they'd keep ahead of the game. Just because Sam was giving up hunting didn't mean he wasn't done laying salt lines and demon traps and all the rest to protect himself.
So Dean had moved in, which consisted of dumping a rucksack and a duffel bag on the floor in the corner and putting a six-pack in the mini-fridge.
It felt weird, having a home. He felt weird, itchy feet, like he was just waiting for it all to burn to the ground around him. After a month, he just couldn't stick it, and he went hunting, came back a month later and stayed for three days before another hunt caught his eye. He lived like that for a while, and it suited him. It suited Sam and Amelia just fine too—they had the place to themselves for most of the time, but Sam didn't have to cut any ties with Dean. They always knew he'd wander back eventually.
The last time Dean had wandered back, he'd brought a friend along with him. He'd finally got a lead on how to break Cas out, and it had been a long month, but it had been worth it. Cas was asleep on the backseat of the Impala when he pulled into the driveway, and Dean slept in the car that night because he couldn't wake him and didn't want to leave him alone in an unfamiliar place.
It was Cas who woke first, just before dawn, and Dean woke to the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. "Morning, Cas," he mumbled, and led him inside.
Sam and Amelia were at the breakfast table. Amelia was doing the crossword and Sam was scrawling down ideas in his notebook. They both looked up when Dean walked in. Amelia gave a little shriek and almost knocked over her coffee when she saw Cas—he was in poor shape, dirty, bloody, and he was staring up at the ceiling like he'd never seen one before.
Sam was first on his feet, pulling Cas into a hug that he didn't reciprocate. "How did you …?" he turned to Dean, who shook his head. He'd tell Sam all about it later, but now wasn't the time.
"How's about we get you upstairs?" he asked Cas, who nodded quietly.
At the foot of the stairs, Cas stopped and turned. "Sam," he said, a belated greeting before following after Dean.
"Is anyone going to tell me what's going on?" Dean heard Amelia say as he took the second flight of stairs up to his bedroom.
"This is where we live," Dean said, not even questioning the fact that Cas would share his room. There was a spare downstairs, but it was full of boxes and honestly, it didn't even enter Dean's mind.
Castiel nodded, and abruptly sat down on the floor. He still wasn't quite right. He'd been better, just a little, in purgatory, enough to fight his way through, until the end. But Dean had been out for a year and a half, and in that time it seemed that Castiel had backslid. He crouched beside him on the floor, put a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?" he asked, knowing the answer wouldn't be yes, that it probably never would be.
Castiel smiled, and even that was unsettling. The old Cas never smiled, or hardly ever, anyway. He lifted a hand and pressed it over Dean's face.
"Uhm, Cas?" Dean said through Castiel's hand, which smelt of earth and the coppery scent of blood.
"Yes, Dean?"
"What are you doing?"
Castiel just smiled wider. "I'm listening to your heartbeat."
"I'm no doctor, but I don't think my heart is in my face."
"But I can read it there," Castiel said, and Dean sighed, pulling Castiel's hand away. The smile fell away, and Castiel just looked lost.
"I'm going to talk to Sam, okay? You hang out here for a bit."
Castiel nodded, and Dean went downstairs to fill Sam in. Amelia had gone to work, but Dean never shared his hunting tales with her. Sam would fill her in later, but he'd leave out all the gory details, boil it down to its most basic elements.
When Dean got back upstairs, Castiel was gone.
"Cas?" he called, trying to tamp down on the little bubble of panic rising inside him. "Cas!"
"I'm here, Dean," came Castiel's muffled voice from the direction of the bed.
"Cas?"
Castiel was under the bed, lying on his stomach, his face resting on the backs of his hands. "I like it here," he said.
"Sure you wouldn't be more comfortable, like, actually on the bed?"
Castiel gave a little shake of his head. "I like it here," he repeated. "It's dark."
"Yeah, and full of dust bunnies so big they'll probably rip your head off."
Castiel frowned. "There's dust, but I don't see any—"
"You know what? Never mind. You stay there." Dean wasn't going to bother arguing. If Cas wanted to stay under the bed, then fine. More room for him on top of the bed.
He sprawled out on the mattress, using the remote to turn on the television that sat on top of the little chest of drawers (only one of the four drawers actually had any clothes in, since Dean had always packed light in that respect; the other three housed weapons). It was early morning, and there was nothing on except breakfast shows and cartoons. He settled on the cartoons. "That sponge guy is definitely gay," he muttered to himself, wincing as the characters burst into song. "You okay down there, Cas?"
"I don't think sponges have particular sexualities, Dean."
"Yeah, but they don't usually talk or walk, either."
Time went on, and Castiel didn't come out from under the bed. Not even for meal times. Dean would bring him up a plate of something, and sometimes Cas would eat it and sometimes he wouldn't.
Dean talked to him, discussed the possibility of coming out, but Castiel never engaged in those conversations. Sam gave it a try too, but with the same result. Even Amelia had spoken to him, but for some reason, her introduction hadn't gone well. Castiel began shaking as soon as he heard her name, and she had to be ushered out of the room, utterly bewildered as to what she'd done wrong. "It's not you," Dean heard Sam say. "Cas is just a little … Well, he's been through a lot."
"Cas?" he said, lying down flat on the floor and edging under the bed a little. Castiel was still covered in dirt and blood; he didn't smell, but he could still do with a wash—he looked grim as Hell. "What was all that about, huh?"
Castiel didn't answer.
Dean tried to think back. What was it about Amelia that had set him off? She hadn't been rough with him, had done everything right, from her words to her tone of voice. Then he remembered. It was her name that had done it; the second Sam had said 'Amelia', that was it. "Is this about Jimmy?" he asked cautiously.
Castiel flinched, as if Dean had threatened to hit him.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face. He had no idea what to do with this information—he'd never been the one to talk feelings, but now it was up to him because Castiel sure as Hell wasn't going to make the first move here. "You did what you thought you had to," he said. It had taken Dean a long time to accept that, but he thought he understood now. Castiel had been acting from the right place, just in all the wrong ways. "Jimmy would understand that."
"He wouldn't," Castiel said.
Jimmy had died a long time ago, but Castiel still felt responsible. These days he felt responsible for everything—from nearly destroying the world to knocking over a glass of water Dean had left on the floor for him.
"Well, then screw Jimmy," Dean said. "But trust me, Cas. If I can forgive you, then he can."
"I didn't use your body to play God."
"True. But it wasn't really his body any more, was it? Look, Cas, you've got to come out from under this bed."
But Castiel wouldn't, and a week later Dean had found another hunt. He needed to get out, away from this house, away from the crazy fallen angel hiding under his bed. "Three days," he promised. "I'll be back in three days, Cas."
His trip overran. The witch he thought he was hunting turned out to be a Celtic god, and it took him two weeks to wrap up the job.
Sam was there when he got back, and he looked worried. Dean went straight to the fridge for a beer.
"Upstairs," Sam ordered. "Cas has been worried."
Dean grumbled, but he went, closing the door behind him to keep out Sam's prying ears—although he was probably holding a glass to the door, the freak.
He lay down on the floor and reached out, letting his hand rest next to Castiel's, their fingertips almost touching.
Castiel looked awful, which was nothing unusual, but there were dark shadows under his eyes, his lips were chapped and split, and he was pale as a sheet. "Dean?" he rasped.
"Yeah, Cas, I'm here."
"I thought you weren't coming back."
"I said I would, didn't I? Besides, you'd know if I died, wouldn't you? You'd feel it, with that freaky angel mojo, right?"
"Saying and doing are two different things, especially with you. And I can't feel much of anything any more. It all … gets confused."
Dean laughed, but it sounded strained. "Okay, man, I'm sorry. I got caught up. I'll phone or something next time, how's that sound? Now that I'm back, you coming out?"
"I think I'll stay here a bit longer."
"Okay." Dean nodded, knowing that pushing never got him anywhere with Cas these days, and headed back downstairs to talk to Sam.
"He spoke to Amelia," Sam told him. It was good news. It meant Cas was trying, at least.
"You'll have to thank her for putting up with us," Dean said as he grabbed another beer from the fridge.
"Oh, trust me, I have, frequently."
When Dean went back to his bedroom, looking to get a little shuteye, there was a sharp scraping sound, and he looked down to the bottom of the bed to see Cas' hand sliding something dark and circular across the floorboards.
"What you got there?" he asked, wandering over.
"A gift," Castiel muttered, holding it out to him.
"Thanks," Dean said, picking it up. It was a button, one from Castiel's coat. It was scratched, and there was a small bloodstain on part of it. Dean slipped it into his pocket. "Sure you don't want it?" he asked.
There was no reply, and Dean switched on the TV.
When he awoke the next morning, he wasn't alone. Sometime during the night, Castiel had crawled into the bed with him, and Dean woke to a warm body pressed up against his back and a hand curled over his hip.
It freaked him out. He was reaching for the knife under his pillow when he heard Cas' voice growl his name. He relaxed, just a little, although the feeling of being this close to a guy was alien and uncomfortable. He'd slept with Sam enough when they were kids, but that was Sam, and this wasn't. Still, he didn't get out of bed. He didn't want to disturb Cas. This was the first time he'd been out from under the bed since he'd got here.
"Cas?" he murmured.
"Yes, Dean?"
"You want breakfast?"
He felt Castiel shake his head. "Okay, well, I'm going to get some. Join us, if you want."
It was another two days before Castiel came down to breakfast. He'd slept in Dean's bed for the past two nights running, but had, briefly, returned to the floor when Dean had decided to sleep there and give Castiel the bed. It seemed that now, Dean just couldn't get rid of Castiel.
Sam was writing, his laptop perched at the edge of the table, so focused on his work that he wouldn't have noticed Castiel's sudden appearance if it hadn't been for Dean's yelp of surprise.
"Cas!" Sam beamed, quickly shutting his laptop and pouring a third cup of coffee. "It's good to see you."
Castiel inclined his head, and stared at the table. Eventually, he took the coffee in his hands, and drank.
The next few months were better. Castiel was on the mend; he finally let Dean wash his clothes for him, and took a shower. He still slept in Dean's bed, and Dean suspected Sam knew about that but was just sparing him the embarrassment by not mentioning it. He ate breakfast with them most mornings, and one day Dean found him in the kitchen, preparing dinner from a recipe book he'd flipped through. It wasn't a dinner any of them particularly wanted—none of them liked fish, and the pie was burnt black, but they ate it, not wanting to hurt Castiel when he'd tried so hard.
Dean took a hunt around mid-August. He was gone for a week, and when he got back, he found Castiel under the bed again.
"He's been there all week," Sam told him. "I think you need to do something about this."
But what could Dean do? He was already doing everything he could. Maybe he shouldn't have taken the hunt, but he'd needed that hunt; he felt he was going crazy in here. And he'd saved lives. That was important.
It took all day for Dean to coax Cas out from under the bed. He may have shouted a few times, punched the bedside table and broken the lamp, but Castiel came out in the end. When he did, he was like a child, curling his arms around Dean's neck and burying his face in his shoulder.
Dean didn't know what to do, so he rubbed his back in slow, circular motions the way he'd done for Sam when he was sick.
He felt ill. He didn't want dinner that night, just beer, and he couldn't sleep for ages; when he did, he dreamt of Hell, and of Castiel.
When he awoke, Castiel was a firm presence beside him, and he pushed closer to that comfort. Castiel might be broken, but he was still the angel who pulled Dean from Hell, who saved him from the worst horror imaginable. Nothing else in Dean's life had ever come close to that pit of despair, except, maybe, for Sam dying, and maybe not even that, although he'd never admit it out loud. Still asleep, Castiel wrapped an arm around Dean's waist, and after a while, Dean drifted back to sleep.
That morning, Dean went for a run. He never went for runs. He kept fit through hunting, running from ghosts and demons and vampires; he didn't run for fun, ever. But this morning, he did. He had a weird, buzzing energy in his veins, and it was too soon to leave Cas for another hunt, so he ran. Twice around the block, but still the energy was there, a little dampened, but not enough.
He drank beer for most of the day, and when Cas came downstairs, they curled up on the couch together and watched The Exorcist. Sam and Amelia were out, some sort of anniversary dinner, so there was no one to see them and Dean felt comfortable, almost happy.
"Cas?" Dean said, without really knowing why.
Castiel looked at him expectantly, and maybe it was the expression on his face, or maybe it was the sheer volume of beer he'd consumed that day, but whatever it was, that was when he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Cas'.
That evening, he went for another run. It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't really a kiss, was it? An accident, yeah, that was it, an accident where they'd bumped mouths because Dean was drunk and stupid and wanted to know what Cas tasted like and God damn it. What had he been thinking? He wouldn't be surprised if he got home to find Castiel had crawled back under that stupid bed again.
But Castiel hadn't crawled back under the bed.
When Dean got in, Sam was sitting at the table, a beer in his hand, and Castiel was washing up, and he was singing. Humming, really, but close enough. And what was worse was he was humming Metallica.
Dean stood in the open doorway, watching him, Castiel's sleeves rolled up, coat and jacket slung over the back of a chair. He looked so domestic, so normal. Anyone just glancing in would have no idea that this was an angel who had fought through Hell, fallen from grace, stopped an apocalypse and caused another by opening purgatory and becoming an evil god. No one would guess that just a month ago he'd been living under the bed in the attic, nutty as a fruitcake.
Well, he still was nutty as a fruitcake, but at least he wasn't under the bed.
Standing there, Dean realised that he only wanted one thing—to cross the room and wrap his arms around Castiel's waist, to press a kiss to the back of his neck. But Sam was sitting there, big dumbass grin on his face, and he couldn't.
"Hey, Dean," Sam greeted him. "Have you seen this?" He motioned to Castiel, who turned at the mention of Dean's name. His whole face lit up, and Dean's heart gave a painful squeeze. The old Castiel wouldn't have smiled, but Dean thought maybe he liked this better—a Castiel that could be happy. True, he could bounce from one extreme to the other, but maybe that was worth this. Maybe it was just Castiel, feeling emotions and unable to crush them down the way Dean had learnt to do as a child. Maybe this was just Castiel, becoming human, or something like human, anyway.
"Dean," Castiel said, and his voice was still that same monotone, gravel sound, the same voice that had commanded him to obey, to show respect, the same voice he'd first heard in that warehouse in Illinois.
Dean smiled, raising a hand in half a wave, and the next thing he knew, his arms were full of angel, and he was kissing him. Sam was right there, watching him with a half-shocked, half-amused expression on his face, but Castiel was kissing him, and Dean couldn't give a damn.