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There are times Dean can’t forget the pride he took in precisely flaying skin in hell, or the bone-deep satisfaction when the first blade dug into someone’s guts. When those memories surface, he doesn’t like to be around Cas and he heads for the woodland at the bottom of their lot.
Usually, Cas lets him be but sometimes he comes and finds him. This fall evening Dean hears Cas coming down the narrow trail, leaves crackling under his feet.
“Dinner’s almost ready; it smells good,” Cas says.
“I don’t know if I’m that hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten much today.”
Dean shrugs.
“Tell me what’s wrong?”
“Bad memories. Feel like I’m polluting the air when they come, worse than Sam’s burrito gas.” It’s a poor excuse for a joke.
“What sort of bad memories?”
Well, Cas did ask. Serve him right if he doesn’t like the answer. “Bad like you bloody on the bunker floor and me nearly putting an angel blade through you.”
“Yes,” Cas says. His eyes are big and sad. “That would be distressing to remember.”
“I try not to. But sometimes, that shit bubbles up, that and more. All the worst sides of me but somehow I’m here. With you. How does that work?”
“I’ve beaten you bloody too.” Cas takes his hand. “We’ve both been …ungentle in our time. With the wider world and with each other. Maybe that’s why we take pleasure in gentleness now. Our food’s nearly ready. Come inside, please.” He tugs Dean’s hand. Inexorable. Gentle. “Please, Dean.”
Dean surrenders and they walk hand-in-hand to their house and its comforts that Dean’s never sure he deserves. Cas muses that cooking might be compared to spell-work. Dean grunts something like agreement, and tamps his bad memories down.
They’ll come back; but that’s another day.