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Dean’s first absurd thought after the bunker door slams shut is, Where is she going to go? She doesn’t even know how to use Google maps.
He can feel the start of a hysterical laugh, the familiar tightness somewhere in his chest, but it gets trapped somewhere along the way. It sits like smoke in his lungs and tastes like ash in his mouth, and it feels just like that night so long ago, that night when Mary died.
Or maybe it’s just how Dean thinks he felt. He’s learned a lot, recently, about exactly how much he can trust his memories.
“Dean--” Sam starts, and he can’t do it, he can’t stand there and listen to Sam tell him some gentle lie about how everything is going to be okay, so he turns around and he walks away.
Dean heads for the showers. He defaults to this whenever something unbearable happens -- whenever he is forced to live with something that he knows is going to leave a lasting mark.
He strips down and stands in the shower, turns the water up as hot as it’ll go. When he looks at his hands, he swears he can feel the ghost of his mother on his fingertips. He remembers exactly how it felt on the hunt, his hands raised in self defense as he did his best to be gentle, his arms wrapped around his mom to avoid hurting her while she was possessed. He remembers how it felt after, when he slung his arm around her shoulders, fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt. He remembers the comfort he had found in that simple gesture, the relief he had felt when he knew they had made it through the hunt safe and sound.
He gives himself another minute to remember, and then he scrubs at his skin until it turns an angry red and the heat and pain are all he can feel.
Dean stays in the shower long enough that the warmth and the steam make him feel slow and lethargic, make it hard for him to think. By the time he dries off and slips into his pajamas, his thoughts have comfortably narrowed to the point that he’s thinking only of his typical routine, the clean-eat-sleep that usually follows a hunt.
It doesn’t last. Reality comes rushing back in along with the cool, crisp air of the hallway. Dean walks towards the kitchen and every echoing footstep is a reminder of how empty this place is, of how it has room for dozens but is home to so few. He walks past closed doors and thinks of every goodbye he’s ever had to say to someone he loved.
He hates himself for not even managing to say goodbye this time. For actively stepping away when his mom took a step toward him, like he had already resigned himself to her absence again.
There is no one waiting for him in the kitchen, just as he knew there wouldn’t be. He pauses in the doorway for a long moment. On the drive back from Minnesota, he had been planning a nice home-cooked meal for everyone, had passed the hours imagining them all sitting around the table talking and laughing over food he made himself. He hadn’t had the chance, yet, and now he never will. Now, here he is. His mom is gone and he’s making food for one. There’s no point in going to the effort of making anything special. There’s no reason to eat other than because he has to.
Sam wanders into the kitchen as Dean is in the middle of making a sandwich, ingredients pulled from the cabinets and set on the counter. Sam stands at the edge of Dean’s vision, leaning against the fridge with his arms crossed, and says, “I called Cas.”
Dean pulls a couple slices of bread from the loaf and sets them on his plate. He wants to say, Oh yeah? What good will that do? Will he come back when he’s done with his super important mission that he once again doesn’t want our help on? Will he drag mom along with him even though this isn’t home for either of them? He tries, actually, but he simply winds up with his jaw clenched and his throat working. He can’t say what he wants, so instead he puts the bread back, slamming the cabinet shut harder than he needs to.
Sam shifts, curving towards Dean like he’s trying to catch his eye. “He said he’s on his way.”
Dean shrugs like he doesn’t care, or, more accurately, like he doesn’t believe it. He stands in tense silence, spreading mayo on the bread and bracing himself for whatever Sam is gearing up to say. He’s preparing himself to listen to Sam’s assertions that Dean won’t be able to refute, his It’s not your faults that Dean has never been able to get invested in.
Instead, Sam says, “I know you can’t talk about it right now, but I think you’re going to want to at some point. I want to talk about it, too. And when you’re ready, I’m here.”
Somehow, that’s worse than anything Dean could have imagined Sam saying. He feels his throat closing up and knows that now eating is going to be a lost cause, too. He leaves his half-constructed sandwich on the counter and walks away from Sam for the second time that day.
Dean retreats to his room and sits on the edge of the bed staring at his hands, idly brushing away a few lingering bread crumbs. His mom never saw him make food, he realizes. She never saw him working comfortably in the kitchen, sitting in bed reading, organizing and reorganizing his home to make it feel just right. His callouses mark him as the hunter he is, and she never saw him do anything with his hands other than his job.
Of course, he thinks. Of course Mary misses who Dean used to be, that soft kid with soft hands, that child who represented her victory over the life she’d been raised in. He and Sam had been the light at the end of the tunnel for her, but now? Coming back, seeing that her boys wound up in the life she had worked so hard to escape? Seeing that they were the opposite of everything she wanted? Of course she would have left sooner rather than later. Of course Dean couldn’t be what she needed.
He’ll never be what she needs, either, because if it came down to choosing -- if the only way to get her to stay was to give up hunting? He’s not sure he could do it. Because without hunting, who is he? What good would he be to anyone?
Dean knows he can’t be what Mary needs, but he thinks that maybe if he had done something differently, he could have convinced her that this was where she belonged, anyway. That she could have had a life here without having to go back to being a hunter. Maybe he could have proved that he can be more than just a hunter, too. That even if he couldn’t call it quits, he could still be good enough for her. Maybe, if he’d had just a little more time --
There’s a soft knock on Dean’s door, and when he looks up, he’s so shocked to see Cas standing in the doorway that he loses his train of thought entirely.
You can’t be here, Dean thinks. You’re not here. You’re four states away without me.
“Can I come in?” Cas asks.
Dean nods mechanically in response.
Cas walks into Dean’s room and carefully lowers himself to sit next to Dean on the bed. “Sam is worried,” he says, after a moment. “He said you weren’t speaking at all.”
Dean can feel Cas’ eyes on the side of his face. He can feel Cas waiting for him to respond, to reassure him, to provide some kind of explanation. He’s giving Dean the simplest test in the world, and before he even tries, Dean knows he’s going to fail.
Dean wants to tell him, Hey, sorry, this is me. This is a side of me I tried to hide from you like I hide it from everyone, because how pathetic is it that I can handle getting bruised and bloody any day of the week, but somebody hurts my feelings and I fucking lose it? He wants to say, Did you know that this has happened before, that the stupidest simplest stuff triggers it? That one time I was in this random shitty diner and the waitress looked just enough like my mom, and another time we worked this case where the story hit a little too close to home, and sometimes I have these nightmares that are more memory than anything, and I have to play my silence off as some kind of stoic bullshit, or I have to just run anyway. He wants to say, I’m tired and frustrated and this shouldn’t happen, I should be able to deal with this, it shouldn’t be this big a deal. But he doesn’t have the voice to say any of that, and even if he did, he still isn’t sure he’d be able to find the words.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it again. Shrugs his shoulders and spreads his hands wide, as if to say, Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. It’s a gesture of helplessness. Appropriate, he figures.
Dean is expecting Cas to be scared, to be exasperated, to grab him by the shoulders and demand he say something. He’s expecting him to respond with the same panic most people do when he gets like this. He isn’t expecting what Cas actually does, which is to calmly ask, “May I touch you?”
Dean turns to look at him. Cas is watching him with something that looks a lot like concern. Dean nods.
Cas places a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder, and that’s when Dean gets it. This is another test. This is Cas, checking him for injuries, trying to figure out what’s wrong with him.
Dean looks away. He already knows what the result is going to be. Cas is going to find out what Dean already knows: that whatever is wrong with him is unfixable. That he’s so messed up that not even a goddamn angel of the lord can make him into something whole.
Cas sits in silence for a few long moments before a look crosses his face like he’s trying to work out how to tell Dean exactly how fucked up he is. Dean doesn’t even have the energy to brace himself for Cas’ disappointment.
When Cas speaks, though, he says, “You’re not broken, Dean. You’re not a problem to be fixed.”
Dean tenses, turning to look up at Cas. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He isn’t sure what he even would have said in response to that, anyway. He snaps his jaw shut and looks down at his hands, looks up at the ceiling, looks anywhere but at Cas, who had looked at him with -- well, Dean isn’t sure exactly what that soft expression on Cas’ face had meant, but it hadn’t been the judgment he was expecting.
“You don’t need to say anything,” Cas says. “It’s all right.”
Dean bristles at that. Cas doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. Dean does need to say something. If he had just been able to say something to his mom, maybe she would have stayed.
He’s been rethinking everything that happened over the past few days, replaying every moment where he thought things were going well, where they were finding common ground, where they were working out how they were going to fit into each other’s lives. He’s been wondering if he was totally wrong, if he just imagined all of that, if it was just wishful thinking. He’s been wondering if any of those things really happened at all or if he had been fucking it up from the beginning and was just unwilling to see it.
From there, it’s just a simple leap to do the same for his relationship with Cas. It’s not the first time he’s wondered if maybe he’s fucking that up, too. After all, he’s always needed other people more than they’ve needed him.
He can’t bear the thought of Cas leaving, too, because he can’t find the words to stop him.
None of it feels real -- not the past few days, not the past few hours, not this very moment where Cas is sitting here next to him. The world starts to blur in front of him, his hands and the floor and the rest of his room twisting and shifting out of focus.
“Dean,” Cas says, for the first time sounding hesitant, “can I…?”
Cas moves his hand slowly and carefully, and when Dean doesn’t move to stop him or to get out of the way, Cas gently brushes his fingers against the side of Dean’s face. It’s only then that Dean realizes he’s crying.
Cas reaches up with his other hand, cradling Dean’s face in his palms, brushing his tears away with his thumbs.
You can’t be here, Dean thinks again. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s America’s roads. Cas was in Cleveland, more than half a day’s worth of driving away even if he hadn’t made a single stop. It can’t have been more than a few hours since Sam called him. He can’t be here. It’s impossible.
He must be dreaming this, just like he dreamed his mom was back, that she was alive and happy and home.
He supposes, if he’s just imagining all of this, he has nothing to lose. If he isn’t, then the worst that could happen is what he’s been expecting all along, anyway.
Dean reaches up and places one of his hands over Cas’, ignoring the way he can’t stop it from trembling. He turns his face into Cas’ palm and kisses it, just the barest press of his lips against Cas’ skin. When Cas doesn’t pull away, Dean takes both of Cas’ hands in his own. He moves them away from his face and leans forward to kiss Cas properly.
At the last second, Cas makes a displeased little noise in the back of his throat, turning away so Dean’s lips catch the corner of his mouth.
Dean has been stabbed and shot and burned, but he’s pretty sure none of them hurt as bad as this. All at once, he drops Cas’ hands and pulls back, drawing in a shaky breath and wrapping his arms around himself. He turns away again, looking somewhere off to the side so he can’t see whatever look of disappointment Cas must be giving him.
“Dean, wait,” Cas says. Dean knows Cas is reaching toward him by the sound his coat makes as he shifts, but he stops short of actually touching him. “This isn’t a rejection,” Cas continues. “This is just...This is a ‘rain check.’”
Dean hesitates. Cas sounds serious. He sounds sincere. He’s about as bad at lying as he is at using colloquialisms, and the words had sounded just as strange in Cas’ mouth as they usually do.
When Dean turns back towards him, Cas is sitting with his hands held carefully in his lap, considering him steadily.
“If you still want that tomorrow,” Cas says, “I’ll be here.”
Dean wants to say -- something. Wants to thank Cas, maybe. Wants to apologize for having to see him like this. Wants to ask him --
Cas beats him to it. He asks, “Dean, do you want me to stay?”
Dean can’t do anything but nod.
“All right,” Cas says, the barest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want to lie down?”
Dean nods again. Cas pulls off his shoes and stands up to set them next to Dean’s desk, out of the way. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the back of the chair. He slips out of his pants and his button-down, folds them up carefully, and sets them on the seat. He turns back to Dean in nothing but his boxers and his undershirt, and he asks, “Do you want to take off your robe?”
Dean nods, so Cas comes over to him and gently touches his wrist. He says, “Can you loosen your arms?”
Dean knows Cas is strong enough to pry his arms away from his body if he wanted, but he doesn’t. He waits for Dean to nod before helping him, using gentle touches to encourage Dean to slowly release the tension in his arms from holding himself so tightly. He slips the robe off Dean’s shoulders and off one of his arms at a time. He helps Dean stand and balance with a steady hand on his elbow so he can pull the robe the rest of the way off him.
Cas lets go of Dean to hang his robe on the back of his door, so Dean gets into bed, lying on his side facing the center. As he settles in, Cas walks around and gets in the other side, lying facing Dean.
“What do you need?” Cas asks. When he notices Dean’s hesitation, he clarifies, “You can move however you need.”
Dean hesitates for only a moment longer before he puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, pressing gently to indicate he wants Cas to lie on his back.
“Okay,” Cas says as he shifts.
Dean scoots closer, hovering with his arm over Cas’ torso in a silent question.
“Okay,” Cas says.
Dean takes a deep breath before lowering himself down, settling his head on Cas’ shoulder and his arm across Cas’ chest. Cas could have made Dean move before, and he could move away, now, if he wanted. Dean knows that if Cas wanted to move, nothing Dean could do would stop him.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Cas wraps an arm around Dean’s back, bringing his other hand up towards Dean’s face, waiting until Dean nods against his chest before he cards his fingers through Dean’s hair. Dean sighs, relaxing against him.
“In the interest of full disclosure,” Cas says, “my motives aren’t entirely pure. For the record, this is what I want, too.”
Dean can’t tell if he wants to laugh or cry. He huffs out a breath that’s somewhere between the two and holds on tighter.
They both lapse into silence after that, Cas continuing his gentle ministrations. When Cas finally speaks again, he does so haltingly. “I have to confess,” he says, “I spoke with your mother earlier. She told me...she asked me when it started to feel like I belonged here, on Earth. I told her I’m still not sure that I do, and I...I apologize if that was the wrong thing to say. If I played any role in her departure.”
Dean swallows hard. It’s too much to take in -- his mom’s sudden presence in his life followed by her absence. Cas here, now, in his bed. Cas, apologizing for something that couldn’t possibly be his fault. Cas, apologizing for feeling like he doesn’t belong.
Dean wants to tell him he belongs here, he belongs. He’s terrified, suddenly, because he realizes he never told Cas that and obviously didn’t do a good enough job showing him, either, if he still has doubts. He just lost his mom again and he can’t imagine losing Cas, too.
He needs to tell Cas he wants him here, that he can stay as long as he likes. It feels vital that he say everything he’s always been too afraid to right in this moment, right when he’s least able to. He can’t say anything, so instead he holds onto Cas desperately, pulls him close with shaking hands twisted in the fabric of his shirt, buries his face in the space between Cas’ neck and shoulder.
“Dean,” Cas says. “I--” He has to pause and clear his throat before he can continue. “I told her she belongs here,” he says, quietly. “And I do still wonder if that’s true for me, as well. But I know...I know that if I belong anywhere, it’s here. With you.” He takes a deep breath that Dean feels more than hears, chest moving under Dean’s arm. Dean nods his agreement where his face is pressed against Cas’ neck. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep,” Cas says, “but I think maybe Mary just needs some time to figure out where she belongs. Maybe she’ll come to the same conclusion, too.”
Dean tightens his arm around Cas, nodding shakily. He feels detached, still, part of him insisting that this can’t really be happening, that Cas can’t really be holding him and telling him what he wants so desperately to hear. But Cas’ arms around him feel real enough, and his voice sounds real, too. Maybe it makes sense that he’s here, after all, Dean thinks. Maybe he was already on his way home when Sam called him. Dean would very much like to believe what Cas is saying is true. His last thought, as he drifts off to sleep, is that maybe he’ll ask Cas to repeat it if he’s still around in the morning.
It turns out he needn’t have worried. Cas is still there when Dean wakes, his limbs still tangled loosely with Dean’s.
Dean clears his throat. “Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep and disuse. “That stuff you said last night. Can you, uh. Can you run that by me again?”
Cas presses a kiss to Dean’s hair and takes Dean’s hand in his own. “Of course.”