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When Dean gets back from the war, he spends most of his time in the spare bedroom over the typewriter. All day with the door only cracked open an inch, the yellow sunlight pouring over the hard wood floor and into the hall. At night when he couldn’t sleep and when he wasn’t pacing with his cane.
College kept Castiel out of the army and the draft. When they called Dean’s birthday on TV and they were sitting in the living room on that crappy third-hand couch that Dean found sitting on the sidewalk at the house down the street, Cas stood up and decided he was going to drop out so Dean wouldn’t be alone. They had a big fight about it.
“Don’t be stupid, Cas,” Dean said, grabbing his arm and pulling him back towards the couch.
“It’s not fair, you have…there’s Sam and the shop and…” People who went over there died, and quick. It was bad enough that he and Cas had to pretend just to be roommates, just good friends. Cas couldn’t stand the thought of being away from Dean.
“Cas, come on, I’ll be fine.”
“Let’s runaway,” Cas decided. “We’ll go to Canada and we’ll be okay.”
Dean said no. He went on with the whole patriotic duty crap that he didn’t really believe in. While he never went on a protest march with Cas, he laughed when Castiel would come home with flowers in his hair and paint on his face. Dean went on and on about how his father fought and almost died for this country, and Dean would be proud to do the same. Yelling and pushing and it ended with Cas leaning against Dean on the couch, sobbing into his t-shirt.
So Dean went off to war while Castiel tried to get an education. But he watched the footage every night, trying to find Dean, praying that he never saw Dean’s face being dragged or loaded onto a chopper that was on fire and being shot at.
In the middle of the night, Cas lies in an empty bed, running his hands smooth over the untouched sheets and just listens at Dean next door, clacking away at that typewriter that Castiel brought with him from his parents’ house.
He gets up and pulls on a t-shirt from the floor, Dean’s from high school but doesn’t fit him anymore because he’s lost so much weight. The apartment is cold and the feel of the wood floor on the pads of his feet make him shudder and he rubs his arms.
The room smells of cigarettes and pot, a lingering burning smell from the dinner that Castiel had ruined earlier. He pushes open the guest room door. The desk faces the window and Dean sits there hunched over, the bones of his spine frighteningly visible, each knob like a pearl on a string. He wasn’t always like this; Dean who used to be solid and muscular (not like those heavy lifters or wrestlers), but toned, smooth. Ever since the stay in the VA hospital when they shipped him home, Dean had been wasted away. Smaller than Castiel’s lithe and slight form. Dean’s eyes had sunk into his face a bit, the all ready prominent cheekbones sharper than ever, his full lips looking a little out of place and too large for him now.
Castiel walks further in the room and Dean keeps typing. His whole body shakes. “Dean,” Cas says.
“Yeah?”
“Come to bed.”
“Not tired.” He takes a long drag from a cigarette and snuffs it in a glass ashtray. “In a little bit.”
Cas stands behind Dean and presses his palm flat against Dean’s left shoulder. His skin is so cold that goose bumps rise all over his body from the little warmth of Cas’ hand. But Dean doesn’t stop typing. Cas leans forward and kisses the top of his head, the spot under his ear. He never asks what Dean is typing, about what horrors he’s trying to forget.
“Then just come sit with me until I fall asleep.” He snakes his hand up Dean’s neck and through his hair. He’s let it get long, and the copper colored beard on his face getting thicker every day. “Please,” he whispers, trembling.
Finally, Dean stops. He takes a deep breath and stretches his shoulders before bringing his hands into his lap. “Yeah. Yeah I can do that.” He turns and gives Cas a smile, worn and weak on his lips. But when he stands he gives Cas a kiss, right on the mouth. He tastes like tobacco and coffee.
On the way back to the room, Cas tries not to hear the extra thump of Dean’s metal cane. A bullet is lodged into his hip still, stuck right in the bone, twisted the tendons and muscles. Cas crawls into bed and takes of the shirt. Dean follows.
They lay facing each other, Dean’s eyes not lifting to match Cas. In the silver light from the outside moon, Dean looks like a ghost. The dark eyes, the pale skin. Sometimes Cas feels like he’s living with a ghost, because Dean isn’t really there. He only eats at dinner time when Cas puts effort into a nice meal. Most of his meals are liquid though. Sometimes with a round of pain pills that he’ll be taking for a while. And of course, there’s the time that Dean spends in that damn room, only acknowledging Castiel for said dinner, or coming out to visit with Sam out on the couch.
Dean reaches over and touches Cas’ face. His nose, down to his lips, his chin. “Why are you up?” he asks.
“Don’t like sleeping alone.” He picks at a few frays on his pillow case.
A deep and long breath exits Dean’s nose. “I’m sorry, Cas.”
“No.” Cas reaches over and takes Dean’s hand. “No, don’t…do what you need to do.”
Dean cracks a tired smile. “I don’t know what to do anymore.” He laces their fingers. “You’re not gonna leave, right?”
Castiel tilts his head. “Why would I leave?”
“Because I’m a fucking mess.”
“Takes too long to train a new best friend. Even longer if I want him to blow me.”
They both smile wide. “Aren’t you tired?” Cas asks, moving a little closer. He slips on of his legs between Dean’s.
Dean looks past him to the window. This side of the building faces the park. “You’ve got school tomorrow,” Dean says, giving Cas another kiss. “Get some sleep.”
They don’t say anything else. Cas tries to stay awake as long as he can, just staring at Dean, as if he closed his eyes, Dean would be gone again.
In the morning he wakes to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon on the skillet. The bed is empty and the cane is gone. Cas walks to the kitchen, not bothering with a shirt this time, and scratches at his belly. “What are you doing?”
“You love bacon.”
“Yeah.”
“Just shut up and eat.”
They sit across from each other, Dean with his coffee, Cas with his bacon and juice. A car backfiring across the street causes Dean to flinch and grip his mug so tight that his knuckles stretch white. When he first got home from the hospital, any loud noise frightened Dean, like a skittish cat.
Cas reaches over and wraps his hand around Dean’s thin wrist. Dean looks up, Cas squeezes harder.