Archive of Our Own

Watching Jack walk away is bittersweet, but they've won. His trust over the world is fully in Jack's newly omniscient hands.

Miracle runs towards him from around the corner, and Sam's phone dings from behind him. To Dean- despite bending down to hug Miracle, despite the smile on his face and the words coming out of his mouth- the world around him is muted. Sam sounds frantic and excited as he types into his phone, but Dean's distracted, Jack's oath of keeping heaven and himself out of Earth's affairs developing in his mind like a polaroid until Sam taps him back into reality. He's shaking Dean's shoulder and smiling. Dean smiles back, because Sammy's smiling, without a single clue what they're even smiling about.

The car ride back to the bunker is about the same. Dean's tapping along to the radio, the only thing keeping him grounded. "This song sounds a little familiar, doesn't it?"

Sam's silent for a moment too long, glancing up from his phone, "Yeah, I would hope so". The brothers exchange glances, and Dean assumes Sam is squinting because of how bright the gold of the sunset is. "You're looking at me like you're under some memory spell again."

"The hell are you on about?"

His brother scoffs, "I get that it's 'all up from here' and we need to 'keep on living', or whatever, but it really isn't the time for you to be messing with me."

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but gets cut off by the radio.

And goodnight to all you lonely listeners out there. That was Whole Lotta Love requested by-

He nearly swerves into the mini-van one lane over. Fuck, that hit him like a damn truck. That tape is with Cas in the empty, there's no way it's not. That's rolling in his head over and over that he doesn't even notice how hard he's breathing.

When he brings himself to, he's glancing over at Sam who's looking at him wide-eyed and phone-guarded to his chest as if Dean would snatch it out of his hands and throw it through the window.

"And what're you clutching your pearls for, Ms. Hamparand von Fron DuPont," his ragged breathing is snitching him out. Just as every other time Sam asks if he's ok, Dean's auto-piloting through his response. The usual back 'n forth until Sam just drops it.

"Is this about Cas?" He's not dropping it. Dean hears him sigh, knows that this is where Sam tries his best to comfort him without knowing anything about the full extent of the situation. Dean himself isn't even sure of the full extent. He can't fathom how Cas went through the years breaking his own heart over unrequited feelings that simply confessing to Dean was the happiest he'd ever been in his eons of life, only for Dean to stand there stupid and silent.

He forgets Sam's there. He forgets how long he's been driving for or how little he's eaten since the morning. That pie festival could have been his last meal and he'd die happy, knowing he doesn't deserve shit for how sad he made Castiel's existence. All he can do now is keep driving, knuckles white from his grip on the wheel. Sam's talking and he's just nodding along, thoughts far from his current place in time, but never able to reach Cas where it matters.

Pulling over on the side of the road, he sees Sam talking. Somehow they've switched seats, and he guesses that at some point Sam got out of the car and nudged him to the passenger side. Its a quiet ass ride home. Dean could almost compare it to the times he'd fuck up hunts, sitting in tension while his dad would only stare forward with his mind on a strategy for the next.

Its stupid to think about now. His dad's gone, and Dean feels far from that perfect little soldier he grew up to be. He wonders if Castiel felt the same. If Castiel ever thought back on when heaven knew him as a powerful leader, a true servant of God who was tasked with saving The Righteous Man. It's no wonder the two of them got along so well. Both were once loyal sons who questioned nothing of what they were commanded.

Before Dean could trap himself in a loop of what-if's, the Impala slowed, his body recognizing Baby being parked in front of the Bunker's entrance. He's fully prepared himself to enter a bunker even more void of life than when they'd first discovered it. Second time in this life a home's been tainted for them.

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Jack brought Eileen back.
Of course he did, his last action on Earth did away with Chuck's bullshit. He should be happy. He can't understand why he's not. There's some tinge of jealousy he's trying to ignore, knowing what he wants isn't going to be granted in the same way.

A few cheers and celebratory shots later, they're all seated in the kitchen. Thick, cold walls in an un-furnaced room. The metal chairs scrape loudly along the cement floor, and feel even worse to sit on. It doesn't take long for the conversation to switch from relief over a lifetime's worth of events to one of nostalgia and reminiscing.

"Speaking of, dude, do you remember when Cas absolutely hated my guts?" Mild amusement shines on Sam's face as he takes a sip of his beer, mixed with bittersweet fondness in his eyes.

Dean's smile is soft, clearly reflecting on their first encounters with the angel, "Man, he wanted nothing to do with you. Like a feral cat almost, took me a second to warm him over too." His head is propped on his fist, droopy eyes glancing down to the bottle he was mindlessly turning by its base. Its pattern of ridges against the table filled the moments of silence that dragged on a little too long. Mind roaming, those early days with him under Cas's charge, where they absolutely loathed each other and suddenly became the best of friends. He thinks about the first time he saw Castiel smile, how proud he felt of himself to break through some type of wall.

There has to be some sort of 'old man reflecting on his dead best-friend-maybe-secret-lover' look on his face, because Sam's side-eyeing him with confusion and stress. "I'll- um- I'll leave you two lovebirds alone," he stands up with a clearing of his throat, cleaning up the empty bottles of cheap beer and shot glasses, "Gotta hit the showers anyway". It's not until he's past the kitchen door that Sam mumbles a complaint to himself about Dean dropping the beer bottles in the sink and the whiskey glasses in the trash.
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Shower is as depressing as Dean expected it to be. The Bunker's water pressure is great, but showers haven't been enjoyable since he began loathing in guilt from his time with the mark, usually lasting until he becomes too self-aware and compares himself to a depressed teen. He's in and out before he knows it, that damn robe he loves providing a tinge of comfort in the dark halls.

At this time of night everything feels so echoey, but its quieter than usual. There's no Cas flipping pages in the library or shuffling around the makeshift room they gave him until he hears Dean stop in front of his door, neither of them crossing that boundary of the wooden frame. Both were too stubborn in their back and forth arguments over who sacrificed themselves for who.

Dean opens the room door, far too late.

One light switch click and a flicker of light later, he's laying in Castiel's bed, awkwardly turning into the pillow. It doesn't even smell like him. He so badly wants to mourn, but without evidence that anything existed in that room- a plastic shine catches his eye. Without a body to burn, maybe this will make do. He pockets the cassette on his way out of the room.

He never gets down to it. Instead, it's something he carries with him most days. Another object for him to hold and cradle when he's drunk, which happens to be most nights recently. Sam argues that it's been every night. He can see the worry in his eyes every afternoon when Dean stumbles into the kitchen, hungover. Sam tries to pull him out of that loop, only for Dean to brush it off and laugh. This'll usually just make Sam stomp off, obviously frustrated with his brother's habits. And Dean can't help but feel guilty. Feels like he's lying when he lets Sam grumble away with the idea that he's leaving the bunker to get with some fling. He can't bring himself to say that he just can't stand being there at night, not with how quiet it is. Activity's dropped almost fifty percent, limiting the nights the bunker's up busy at research; aside from a couple of quick salt and burns.

So every night, after Sam and Eileen fall asleep- if they aren't out on a case that he made some excuse to stay out of-, Dean creeps his way to the garage and drives the Impala up to the little path in the woods Castiel once invited him to- a jarring sense of peace listening to him talk about plant reproduction in his thriller-soap opera of a life- and he drinks the night away. The hungover mornings start turning into hungover afternoons, and at some point he stops leaving the bunker at all. Dean's wasting away in the impala, the stained jacket from months ago never leaving his side.

"Enough is enough, dude", Sam says as he yanks open the driver's side door one morning. Dean can barely open his eyes, unable to tell the time under the garage's forever-present fluorescent, yellow lighting. He stammers, instinctively shielding the jacket under his head with his arm. No point, Sam takes notice and snatches it from under him, "Use an actual pillow at least-" He pauses, realizing what he's holding.

Dean winces, "You're still shit at keeping a straight face, Sammy". Grief and realization paints his brother's face, that expression never leaving as he gently folds and places the jacket onto the hood of the Impala. Still laying across the Impala's front seats, fighting hard to keep the alcohol in his stomach, he watches with anxiety as Sam crouches down to sit in front of the open door. It's too damn quiet, and Sam won't stop looking at him with that awful, judgmental face. He lays his forehead down, trying to clear his head, keeping his eyes closed when he returns, "Spit it out".

One awkward pause and an exasperated sigh from Sam later, its clear neither of them came prepared for this pity party.

"I didn't know," Sam whispers. His voice sounds a little pained, and Dean feels like he should jump in to remind him he's doing that thing where he makes himself feel guilty for someone else's life. But, more confused about where this is going, he lets Sam ramble. "Dean, I'm sorry- If I knew what this was all about I would have tried to be there for you sooner- ", ok, pause.

"Woah, woah," that's enough of that. "Th- Sam. Sammy," time to very carefully word this, "Do not put this on yourself. I'm putting myself through this, it's my choice".

"It's been months...Jesus, Dean, you've been grieving for months? Alone?"

"Yep, like a scorned widow, " his response is lined with an irritated sarcasm. His chest hurts just as much as his stomach, if this conversation goes any further he might projectile vomit all over Sam's depressing face. Maybe that'll shut him up. He gazes off for a second, considering if he should ask for the jacket to be passed back over. Maybe he's been staring at it through the windshield for a second too long, because Sam's looking at it now too with a clench of his jaw. Dean can't help but start tearing up, turning into aggressive sniffling that gets his brother's attention.

"Shit," he stands to move towards Dean, who simultaneously sits up to wipe his tears and block off his brother with a hand.

"No, no. Stop," his voice is monotone, followed by a sniffle. "I don't need this, I'm fine. Please just leave".

"You're not fine. In what way could this possibly be fine?" He wants to come off as calm, hoping Dean doesn't feel like he's being confronted. Instead, the glare he's getting in response tells him he looks like a scared jockey approaching a feral horse. That same day Castiel had been taken by the Empty, Sam had accepted his brother was gone when every call to Dean went unanswered, a sinking feeling in his gut he had to ignore in the wake of all the other world-ending bullshit going on. But then the Impala rumbled forward with a story missing details left and right, and at the center of it was Dean's jacket with a familiar handprint he wasn't allowed to ask about. He doesn't want to hold back for the sake of whatever Dean's repressing, and hell knows he's repressing something with that upbringing of theirs, so with a deep breath he asks the question of the hour: "You and Cas- was there something going on between you two?"

Obviously it would go down this route, it was inevitable that Sam would reach a conclusion like this. Despite that, Dean flinches so hard he swears some bile came up.

"Look, I don't care if it's not the right time to be asking this, which now seems as good a time as any when this has been your usual state for the past few months, by the way. I don't care about every excuse under the sun you'll make to avoid answering." 

"Sam, please go, " Dean pleads again, defeated.

"No! I'm sick of this. You can't just live your entire life crying over 'what never was' after you spent who-knows how long dancing around the subject," Sam shudders, careful not to raise his voice but knowing Dean needs a wake up call. "In the end, Dean, you have to remember that what you put yourself through affects the people who care! I just want the best for you, and I feel like part of that is going to require you to move on."

Sam's clenching his jaw, but it's time to speak his mind. He can't continue to walk around eggshells while his brother wastes away.

He continues, "Castiel is dead, and it may hurt you more than I could understand, but at the same time I know there's some part of you that knows he wouldn't want you doing-" he motions his hand over the scene in front of him, "this".

"Oh, screw you," But what can he even say to that? In what way could he defend himself that wouldn't just be throwing a petty remark? "You can't tell me you would be any different if Eileen traded her life for yours. Or you forgetting your little rampage of vengeance that took a page out of dad's book when Jess died?"

There's a dense pause where Dean swears his blood pressure dropped the lowest it could possibly go without him passing out, the air is cold and rigid. Sam's biting his tongue both literally and figuratively.

"Look, I'm not gonna let you do this bullshit to yourself again. Every time Cas would dive into some suicidal plan to save y-us, it's the same damn thing! Get wasted, get laid and cry," he trails away from that thought to get back to the point, but what he truly wants to comment on is Dean's consistent avoidance about how he feels about Castiel. "My point is, if you're not going to give enough of a shit about the rest of us to take care of yourself, at least make his choice worth the sacrifice."

Dean's never felt more pathetic, face landing in his folded arms to hide the tears peeking over his eyes. Though he's got his face covered, he knows Sam's standing up to leave, and that makes everything sting so much more.

"And for the record, at least me wanting to avenge Jess, or anyone else who got caught in the crossfire of Chuck's shitty plan for us, was productive."

Nothing of that, nothing about this confrontational non-confrontation, went as planned. Sam's getting too irritated for this intervention, and what he wants to say isn't coming out with his usual level of sugarcoating. God, he feels horrible for what he's said, but a part of him believes that maybe Dean needed to hear it. Maybe.

As he grabs the heavy wooden door, a finger trailing over the engravings, he closes his eyes and sends a hopeful prayer to Jack. Anything, any sign, would be as good as nothing. He just needs to know his brother will be okay.

A heavy sigh is the last Dean hears from him before the garage door shuts between them.