Chapter Text
“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”
-Elizabeth Bishop
The world didn’t end when Castiel was taken by the Empty. Dean just wished it had.
Say something back, goddamnit!
His inner thoughts screamed at him. Dean felt weight. Black, thick, crawling over his skin, sticky and heavy like tar, seeping into his muscles. His wrists tensed, trapped. His chest compressed. Breath hitched in his throat. He was trying to speak, but nothing came out.
And then—blue. Cas’s eyes. And he’s crying, oh no. Why is he crying?
“Goodbye, Dean.”
The weight sucked him under, cold and consuming.
--
Dean bolted upright, only to feel it again—warm, heavy, real. Sam. Pinned on top of him. His brother’s fists dug into the mattress, arms holding him down. Blood streaked Sam’s nose.
“What the—fuck!” Dean thrashed, trying to throw him off. “Get off me, Sam!”
“Are you going to stop throwing punches?” Sam’s voice snapped.
“Punches? The hell are you talking about?”
From across the room, Eileen’s voice rang, calm but firm. “Dean, you were sleepwalking. Or sleep-fighting. Yelling about them not taking Cas… and breaking things.”
Sam exhaled, hopping off him. Wiping his nose, he muttered, “You were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you, but you landed one on my face, so I pinned you down. Good morning.”
Dean groaned, pressing his face into the pillow for a moment.
“I’m gonna go make coffee,” Eileen called, leaving with a playful quip.
“Sammy… sorry I clocked your pretty face,” Dean said, dragging himself up, forcing a crooked grin. “But I’m good now. Go make your girlfriend happy before she realizes we’re both insane and ditches you.”
“Seriously, Dean? You’re good?” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Ever since Cas—”
Dean’s face twisted. Sam stopped mid-sentence.
“Look, you need to talk about it. Me, Eileen, whatever. But you’re a mess. And drinking yourself stupid? Won’t help. I had to force you to shower yesterday—you still smell like death.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. End of discussion. I’m fine. Now leave me alone.” Dean’s jaw clenched. The black goo that stole Cas, him telling Dean he lov… he couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t. Not yet. He needed a drink. Somethin’ strong.
“Whatever, Dean.” Sam’s sigh echoed in the bunker as he slammed the door.
Dean stood there a moment, chest tight, hands trembling. He could still feel the tar on his skin, the ghost of blue in his eyes. He wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide—or maybe pour it all down his throat. Either way, he needed something to take the edge off.
He shuffled to the kitchen, pouring coffee with hands that still shook, staring into the dark liquid. Every sip burned, every breath was heavy. The weight of Cas’s absence pressed down on him like the tar in his nightmare.
He was awake, but only just. The world felt wrong, empty, too loud and too quiet all at once.
--
The next time Dean opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was the headache, wringing through his skull like a vise.
The last thing he remembered was hauling ass to his room, clutching a bottle of whiskey to his chest. He hadn’t wanted to spend the morning listening to Sam and Eileen debate what to do with him. He’d heard them from the kitchen, whispering about how to “handle Dean.”
He wasn’t a child. They could leave him alone for a few days while they hunted. Hell, he could go on a hunt himself. Yeah, maybe he was drinking too much. So what?
Dragging himself off the bed, Dean sniffed the air. Sam was right. He reeked. His room, neglected for days, a mix of sweat, stale liquor, and whatever rotting food had found its way to the trash.
“I love you.”
The words echoed again, cutting through the fog in his brain. Dean shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory. Yeah… look where that got you, he thought. Dead, and him rotting in his own filth.
The least he could do was shower. Each step toward the bathroom dragged a groan from his throat. Everything hurt. His body screamed with every movement. He could drink as much as he wanted, but the hangover was relentless.
He wished he’d drank more—just enough to keep the buzz there, to push the pain out of reach, to pretend he wasn’t breaking.
Dean took the shortest shower he could muster. He scrubbed his body, rinsed his hair quickly, and tried not to dwell on the ache pressing in his chest.
Of course, Dean was good at fucking things up.
Alone with his thoughts, he remembered Cas—bloodied and beaten. Dean wore the Mark of Cain on his arm. He had almost killed him, only breaking away at the last second.
Cas would have let him.
How could anyone love Dean when it hurt this much? How often had Cas been willing to die for him? And this—this was how Cas was rewarded for rebelling.
Bile surged up his throat. He threw the towel aside, grabbing his robe off the hook next to the shower. He made it to the toilet just in time, throwing up… nothing. His diet for the day had been whiskey and self-pity. A mess.
Afterward, Dean couldn’t catch his breath. The weight of his own sorry pressed down, pinning him to the floor. His chest heaved, lungs burning, breaths coming faster and faster.
Twenty minutes later, still trembling on the bathroom floor. Sam appeared.
It was a sight—Dean, clawing at his chest, vulnerable in a way he hated. At least his robe was wound tight.
“Dean! Dean, what’s going on?”
Dean grabbed at Sam instinctively as his brother patted the sides of his face.
“Okay, Dean, breathe with me. In… out… in…” Sam’s voice was steady, grounding him, trailing off as Dean finally focused on matching the rhythm.
Slowly, his vision cleared. There was Sam—nose black and blue from the punch. Eyes wet. He looked scared.
“God, Sammy… I’m so sorry. I’m such a fucking wreck. I’m so sorry.”
Dean pulled his brother in close, wrapping him in a hug. He tried to soothe him—because that was his job. Always had been. To make Sam feel safe.
Once the shaking subsided, Sam pulled Dean up, arms wrapped around his brother. Essentially dragging him, he led the way to the kitchen, and dropped Dean down on the bench.
“So here’s the deal,” Sam started. “We don’t need to talk about it, and you can bitch and moan all you want. But you’re clean now, so you’re eating, and then you’re finding something to do.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “But—”
Sam cut him off with a look. “I’m making food. Just sit there and wait, Dean.”
Dean caved and let his brother get his way. “No rabbit food, Sammy.”
Sam didn’t bother to answer, just moved around the kitchen. Dean sighed, pressing his palms into his eyes. His headache was pounding now — dull, steady, and mean — and he wished Sam wasn’t in the same room as all the liquor. Maybe he could take a break for a little while.
On cue, Sam set a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water in front of him before going back to the counter.
God, he was thirsty. Dean took the pills, chased them with the whole glass, and set it down with a clunk. Sam dropped a sandwich in front of him and sat down across the table.
“Thanks,” Dean muttered.
He took a bite, but the sandwich sat like a rock in his gut. The image of Cas sitting across from them flashed in his head — trench coat, quiet eyes, half-smile when Dean made a bad joke.
“I’ll go with you.”
That memory hit like a punch. Cas, crazy as hell, ready to die beside him. Dean remembered purgatory — the blood, the fog, the endless hunt — and how he’d clawed through it just to find his best friend.
He knew what he felt for Cas wasn’t brotherly. It never had been. He’d wanted him differently, even if he never said it. But Cas was an angel, and Dean Winchester didn’t get that kind of love. Not from anyone.
He was angry. Violent. Broken. He’d screwed up every good thing he ever touched.
His mouth twitched, guilt bubbling up. He’d treated Cas like crap more times than he could count. He wished he could take it all back — just to have him here again.
If Cas walked through that door, Dean would ask him to stay. He’d give him anything he wanted.
He just wanted him alive.
Sam’s hand slapped the table, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Dean, you with me?”
Eileen had slipped into the room somewhere along the way, and Dean hadn’t even noticed.
“Eileen and I are gonna clean up for a bit. You good by yourself?” Sam was signing along with his words.
They made a good pair, Dean had to admit. Eileen could keep up with his jokes — hell, half the time she beat him to the punchline. And she was a badass. She could probably kick his ass without breaking a sweat.
“Yep,” Dean said, pushing himself up and giving the table a firm slap. “I’ll probably go give Baby some attention.” He turned to Eileen with a smirk. “You sure you wanna date him? Man bleached the floor three times this week. He’s got a complex.”
Eileen smirked right back. “Oh, he makes up for it in other ways.”
Dean’s face twisted. Eileen wiggled her eyebrows. Sam blushed.
“Okay, nope,” Dean said, pointing at them. “I’m gonna go spend time with my lady while you spend time with yours. And all those clothes better be on when I get back.”
He didn’t wait for a comeback — Eileen always had one. He’d learned that the hard way. The last thing he wanted was another mental image of his brother in bed. He’d already had to throw on his headphones for hours the other night.
Not that Dean would complain. He was happy for his brother. He on the other hand, hadn’t gotten laid in years, and the idea of some random bar hookup these days just made him sick.
Guess I’m gettin’ old, he thought.
Entering the bunker garage, Dean headed straight for Baby. Sure, she’d been out on a few hunts lately, but it’d been weeks since her last proper tune-up.
“Sorry, girl,” he muttered, running a hand along her hood. “I’ve been meanin’ to give you some extra love. I’ll get you all pretty, I promise.”
He flipped on the radio — The Eagles. Good enough. The music filled the garage, soft and familiar, grounding him.
Sliding under the car, Dean set to work. Oil change first. Maybe he’d shine her up after, get her lookin’ like she used to. The dull throb in his head was fading, and the food — yeah, he’d admit it — helped more than he wanted to admit to Sam.
Maybe all he needed was grease on his hands and a busy mind.
Every time Cas popped into his head, Dean shoved the thought right back out. He refused to dwell on it—on him. He didn’t want to feel that pain. Didn’t want to even start thinking about Cas’s confession.
So, he didn’t.
Dean’s mind worked overtime batting away the images: Cas in the passenger seat. Cas leaning against the Impala after a hunt. Cas standing right here in the garage, listening intently while Dean explained what he was doing. Cas’s eyes. His mouth, the curve of his lips. His soft tone when Dean was fighting Michael in his head. Cas, always patient. Always good.
And Dean? He was angry. All the time.
How the hell could Cas have ever loved him?
Dean blinked hard, shoving the thought away as he finished up with Baby. He used his clean hand to swipe at the tears threatening to fall. He couldn’t do this. Not tonight.
God, he wanted a drink.
Giving Baby one final wipe-down, Dean grabbed his jacket and headed toward his room to change. But when he got there, his door was open—and his stomach dropped.
His room was clean.
“Aw, shit,” Dean muttered under his breath. Eileen and Sam had cleaned his room. All of his mess, all the clutter he’d built around his grief—gone. His bed made. His laundry probably in the wash. His self-pity, all scrubbed away.
“Sammy!” Dean barked, stalking toward the library. “Why’d you guys clean my room?”
“Because it was disgusting,” Sam said without looking up from his laptop. “If you’re serious about getting better, that room sure wasn’t helping.”
Dean felt the sting of shame before the anger rose up and burned it out. “Yeah? Well what if I don’t want to feel better! You ever think about that?”
Eileen and Sam both looked up at him now. Dean couldn’t stop, the words spilling out as something snapped. “What if I don’t deserve to feel better, huh? Why should I get to be here—happy—when Cas is dead, and it’s all because of me?”
The words hung heavy in the air. It was the first time he’d said Cas’s name out loud since he died.
Sam’s voice softened. “Dean—”
But Dean couldn’t take it. He didn’t want a chick-flick moment, didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to feel. Not now.
He turned on his heel and stormed down the hall, skipping the kitchen—skipping the booze—for once.
Then he stopped.
The door in front of him was closed, but it called to him. Cas’s room.
Dean hadn’t opened it since that day. But hell, maybe today was a day for firsts.
He took a deep breath and turned the handle.
The room was empty.
Dean wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the sight still hit like a punch to the gut.
The room was bare. Too clean. Too quiet. He padded over to the bed and sat down, the springs creaking under his weight. It didn’t feel like Cas’s room—it barely felt like anyone’s.
Then he saw it. A single photo on the desk. Him and Cas in their cowboy hats from that case in Dodge City. Cas had kept it.
Dean remembers the rumble of Cas’s voice and the sweet feeling it left in his chest.
“I’m your Huckleberry.”
Dean swallowed hard. Knowing what he knew now, it felt like so much more.
He wished Cas had made a home here. Wished he’d left something messy, something that felt like him. He wished Cas were here so he could tell him to stay—that he never had to leave again.
Dean let himself think about him. Really think. About the times he’d driven him away. Kicking Cas out of the bunker after Gadreel. Finding him at that damn Gas-n-Sip, trying to play human while Dean acted like a jerk. Cas leaving after the mess with Mary, and Dean not stopping him. Dean remembers his second time in Purgatory, thinking Cas was dead. He prayed to him, on his knees. He wished he always told Cas how much he needed him.
“I never found an answer, because the one thing I want... it’s something I know I can’t have.”
Dean shut his eyes. How could I be his happiness? Why did he think he couldn’t have me?
Dean Winchester has never discriminated. Sure, he never made a huge deal of it, but he could appreciate a man as well as he could appreciate a woman. Thinking back to Benny, his time as a Demon and God - even Crowley, he wondered why Cas never told him.
Was he worried about the Empty for that long? Or was he scared of Dean’s reaction? Were Dean’s feelings for the angel not obvious?
Dean remembers the barn, Castiel appearing in all his Holy glory. Dean was scared shitless but he remembers basking in the beauty of the angel before him. As the years passed, it looked more like Cas and less like Jimmy. Dean’s attraction was relentless. For twelve years he pushed it down, because who gets the hots for an Angel?
He thinks back to Cas’s eyes, their shared eye contact that always hummed something sweet. He would give anything to see that color blue again.
Now, he’s alone. He’s not sure if he would ever tell Cas how he felt. Loving Dean is a death sentence, Dean returning that is even worse. He’s not built for it.
A tear slipped free before he could stop it. He laid back on Cas’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. It didn’t smell like Cas. Didn’t smell like anything at all. Sterile. Empty.
For the first time since Cas died, Dean let himself feel it. All of it.
And somewhere in that ache, exhaustion won.
When he woke, the alarm clock flashed next to the bed. Morning. His neck ached, his mouth was dry, and his head felt clearer than it had in weeks. Maybe ten hours of sleep. Maybe more.
He pushed himself up, rubbed his eyes, and left to go find water. The ache stayed with him—quiet, dull—but it was still there. Dean decided not to drink just yet. Dean decided to feel.
Free will was hard to come by, and now that he had it, Dean wasn’t sure what to do with it. Three months had passed since they took down Chuck—longer since Castiel died. Not that it mattered. The days bled together anyway.
Today was the first morning in a week he hadn’t gone straight for the liquor cabinet. Progress, he guessed.
Dean gave a half-cocked smile as he walked through the library, grabbing his jacket from the chair. “Goin’ for a drive, Sammy. Don’t drink all the beer before I’m back.”
“Dean, you’re the only one who’d drink all the beer,” Sam said, looking up from his book. “Wait—you’re leaving? We don’t have a case.”
Dean paused in the doorway. “What, a guy can’t go for a drive? Figured Baby could use some exercise.”
The brothers have taken a few cases since they defeated Chuck. Simple things like a salt’n’burn or a few monsters strung about. It was quiet for once.
Dean never gave up his search for a way to bring Cas back. But today, he needed to breathe. Last night left him with feelings that neither liquor or blood would soothe.
“No, it’s—It’s good, Dean. You haven’t really gone out lately unless it was for a case,” Sam said, rubbing it a hand through his hair. “You’re not taking one by yourself, right?”
“No!” Dean snapped, anger flaring. “You know, Sam, I don’t need a babysitter. I’m a grown-ass man.”
“Dean, come on. You’ve been drunk for days—you have needed a babysitter. I’m just making sure you’re not doing something stupid.”
Dean groaned. “Not havin’ this fight.” He slung his jacket over his shoulder. “I’ll be gone a few hours. You and Eileen enjoy your alone time.”
He headed for the garage without another word. Sam was right—he had been a mess. But what the hell did he expect? Dean just needed some time alone to deal with the pit in his stomach without Sam hovering every five damn minutes.
The garage was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights. Dean felt the ache in his ribs grow as he paused at the door handle. He took a deep breath and opened it. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Baby felt empty.
He turned the keys; the engine roared to life. The sinking feeling in his gut didn’t disappear, but at least it eased a little as he drove out of the bunker.
--
The relief didn’t last long. Dean pulled up to an empty field off the road. He didn’t remember the drive here. Did he play music? Hell, he didn’t even know how long he’d been in the car.
The silence of the afternoon sun pressed in around him, a quiet backdrop to the echoes rattling in his head.
“Happiness isn’t in the having, it’s in just being.”
Dean closed the door and sauntered over to sit on the hood of the Impala. His hands trembled as he pictured his best friend’s blue eyes, foggy and watering as he spoke. Why the hell was this Cas’s happiness? What did Dean do to ever deserve that from Cas?
“I love you.”
“Don’t do this, Cas.”
Breaths came in shaky gasps. Empty. Haunted. Why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t Cas tell him about the deal? Why was Dean more deserving of life than Cas?
On the floor, he remembers his mouth trapped shut. His head was screaming. Don’t go. Please. Don’t go.
He wonders if Cas heard it, or if he thought he confessed his love to his best friend and got nothing in return.
He couldn’t stop the trainwreck crashing through his head. Dean fell to his knees. For the first time since the black goo took his friend, he cried. He cried for Cas. He cried because he couldn’t say it back. He cried for free will, for the angel who pulled him from hell.
“I know how you see yourself, Dean. You see yourself the same way our enemies see you. You're destructive, angry, broken—"daddy's blunt instrument." And you think that hate and anger, that's who you are. It’s not. Everything you’ve ever done, the good and the bad, you’ve done for love. You raised your little brother for love. You fought for this world for love. That is who you are. You’re the most caring man on Earth. The most selfless, loving human being I will ever know. Knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I cared. I cared about Sam, about Jack… I cared about the whole world because of you.”
The memory flashed in vivid detail. Nightmares, daydreams, hallucinations—none of it soothed by liquor anymore. When he closed his eyes, he saw blue. He drowned in it. Even in the rearview mirror during drives, he imagined Cas sitting there, quiet, watching.
He worried Sam. He wouldn’t even let Sam say Cas’s name. Every time his brother tried, Dean snapped, told him where to stick it. Whenever Sam asked about the storage room, Dean barked him off.
Last week, Dean had walked into a werewolf den alone—not waiting for Sam. If his brother hadn’t arrived in time, the four wolves pushing Dean toward the wall would have turned him into puppy chow. Thing is? He didn’t care. Dean just wanted it over with, didn’t want to worry about risks. Sam had Eileen; he could move on without him. Why was Dean stuck here alone?
In Heaven, Dean would sit in memories. At least he’d see Cas there, in his memories, even if it wasn’t real. God, he wanted it to be real.
His sobs echoed through the forest, bouncing off the trees and into the sky. Everyone who got close to him dies. Mary. Charlie. Kevin. Cas…
His throat tore out long, wet wails. He wept for Cas. For the angel who confessed his love—and died because of it. His hands didn’t know love; they knew pain. Dean screwed up everything good that came to him.
Grief and agony rattled him from the soles of his feet to the green of his eyes. He sobbed for hours, slumped on the ground in front of Baby, face red, fists clenched, unable to get back up. The weight of his loss pressed him into the dirt, dug a hole, and buried him with it.
“I need you.”
His own words wrung in his head. He’d always needed Cas. But Cas was gone. Dead. Because he was stupid—and decided to love Dean. Dean was never worth saving.
Dean sat collapsed onto the earth for what felt like forever. He didn’t feel saved.
A ring cut through the air. Dean’s phone, left on the front seat, buzzed insistently. He must have run out of tears. He wanted to ignore it, but finally pried himself off the cool grass. Better not make Sam track his phone and find him like this.
Clearing his throat and wiping the mess off his face, he answered.
“Hello?”
“Dean, where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to call for an hour. You need to get back to the bunker. Now.”
“What’s going on, Sammy?” Dean muttered, sliding back into the driver’s seat as the engine filled the empty field.
“Uh…Dean. Just come back. You better see for yourself.” Sam hung up.
Dean tried calling back, but Sam didn’t pick up. What the hell could it be now?
--
Stepping toward the kitchen, Dean heard voices. He’d spent the car ride back bracing himself for the worst, tightening his shoulders and shaking the last few tears from his skin. What could be so urgent that Sam wouldn’t just say it on the phone?
Jack was in the kitchen, chatting with Sam and Eileen. Jack?
He wore a small smile, a jean jacket, and his hair exactly the same as when he left—you’d never guess the kid was now God. Dean’s eyes flicked to a book sitting on the kitchen table behind Sam and Eileen.
Jack hadn’t visited since he left them on that street, disappearing in a shimmer. God, he missed him. Initially, Dean prayed for Jack to bring Cas back. He always flickered the light in return, letting Dean know he was listening. Dean assumed he was trying. I mean, that was his dad, right? Whatever. Jack was here, with them, and Dean sure as hell missed him. He needed to do better for the guy. Do better, for Cas.
“Jack!” Dean called, launching forward and pulling the kid into a hug. Jack stiffened at first, but after a moment softened under Dean’s arms, hugging back. He deserved that hesitation, after everything.
“I can’t believe you’re here, man,” Dean whispered, his voice catching slightly.
Dean let go, and Jack stepped back, smiling a little wider.
“Hello!” he said, giving a small wave. “Dean, I wanted to visit, but I wanted to get a feel for my power first.”
Dean shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Kid, whatever you were doing, I’m just glad you showed up. Really.” He stepped back and let himself take it in—Jack, standing there like a normal kid, not the weight of the universe on his shoulders for once. Dean silently counted his blessings. At least he didn’t have to mourn another loss right now.
“You hungry?” Dean asked, grinning a little wider, the first real smile in what felt like forever.
“Maybe after.” Disappointment flashed across Jack’s face. He addressed all three of them now, signing as he spoke. “Something’s happened.”
Sam, Eileen, and Dean all visibly tensed.
“Nothing bad!” Jack said quickly, realizing his mistake.
“I was doing some work around Heaven when I felt a really strong power. It felt… divine. I worried it might be something bad.” Dean already didn’t like the sound of this. He hoped with Chuck gone, the universe didn’t fuck with them for fun. He was too tired, and didn’t know if he could do it again.
“But then I followed it, and I found this book!” Jack gestured toward the table.
Sam frowned. Eileen signed, “A book?”
Dean’s eyes fell on it. It was old. Small. Dirt-colored. Or maybe… human skin? Memories of the Book of the Damned made him shudder.
“Jack, is that Enochian?” Sam asked, squinting at the sigils. “Do you know what it says?”
“Yes! It roughly translates to The Book of the Willing, though it’s not exact.”
“We openin’ it, or will it explode?” Dean asked, Sam and Eileen rolling their eyes.
“Do you know what’s in it, Jack?” Eileen asked kindly, signing as she spoke. She treated him gently, like a kid. He was, after all. God powers or not.
“Well… that’s the thing. It’s a long story, even for me. I can explain, but first I have to run a quick errand. Oh! Rowena will be stopping by about the book, too.”
“Rowena?” Dean asked, eyebrows shooting up.
“She’s been helping me and Amara fix Heaven and Hell. The book’s important. She should be at the bunker soon, and I’ll be back after a while. Hopefully.”
“Jack… where exactly are you going?” Sam asked, worry creasing his face. “Are you safe?”
“I’ll explain later. For now, catch up with Rowena. I know she missed you, Sam.” With a wave, Jack disappeared, leaving them with questions.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Aweh, Sammy! Rowena missed you! How cute. You guys gonna braid each other’s hair?” He laughed, slightly miffed that the witch didn’t mention him. Whatever. Queen of Hell and all. “So… we wanna try opening the book?”
“Dean, you thought it was gonna explode a minute ago. Now you wanna open it?”
“Free will, baby! I can open the damn book if I want.” Dean started toward it, grinning.
Eileen sighed and stepped in. “We are not opening the book. You aren’t blowing me and your brother up until Jack gets back.” She smiled, signing “Please.”
Dean groaned, pointing at Sam. “You’re lucky I don’t want your girlfriend to kick my ass. Otherwise? You’d be opening it already.”
Sam laughed. “Dean, you haven’t been able to make me do anything since we were kids.”
“What if I told Eileen about what I found under the motel bed when you were eleven?” Dean’s smirk widened.
Sam’s face burned. “Shut up, jerk.”
“Make me, bitch.”
Eileen rolled her eyes at the brothers, exasperated but amused.
The soft click of heels announced an arrival in the kitchen.
“Hello, boys,” Rowena purred, voice dripping with amusement. “And what might your name be?” She offered a hand to Eileen, clearly flirting.
“Hey Rowena, this is Eileen,” Sam said, a wide smile on his face. Dean couldn’t help but feel a pang of happiness—Jack visiting, Sam smiling, a moment of normalcy. But it was fleeting.
Dean stepped forward, nodding toward the book on the table. “Hi, Rowena. Jack said you were coming. Know anything about this book?”
“Straight to the point, are we, lad? You Winchesters… all business and no pleasure.” Rowena signed something to Eileen, who giggled and signed back. Sam chuckled quietly, leaving Dean regretting that he’d never finished those YouTube tutorials. The Queen of Hell shit talking with Eileen behind his back? Not happening. No. Nope. They would ruin his life.
Interrupting his spiraling thoughts, Rowena glided over to the book and let a long purple nail trail across its cover. “I know just as much about this book as you do, unfortunately. Jack found it and said we were meeting here. Though honestly, I’d much prefer a meeting in my throne room. This bunker is hardly appropriate for a Queen.”
Dean groaned as she twirled the book, eyebrows raised. “Did the wee bairn say where he ran off to?”
“Nope,” Dean muttered, pressing his lips together and popping the P. He needed a drink. And food. Food first, then a drink. If Jack’s coming back, he might as well cook for the kid—and Jack deserved him sober. Dean shuttered at the thought of his Dad, drunk and angry in his sorrow. Not tonight. He let the pain sit in his chest and accepted that there’d be no more than a beer for him tonight.
“Said he’ll be back in a bit. I’m making some grub. Why don’t you take the slumber party to the library so I can cook in peace?”
Dean hadn’t cooked in months. He was living off takeout and whatever monstrosity his brother force-fed him. Sam looked surprised, but pleased at his brother’s progress. “Uh, okay. Let’s go sit.” He led the women out of the kitchen, Eileen and Rowena signing and giggling behind his back.
Once the kitchen was empty, Dean felt the grief from earlier creep back, soaking through the faint light Jack had brought. Seeing the kid, and hell—even Rowena—had made him forget, if only for a little while. But now? Dean remembered how much Jack looked like Cas. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
He saw Cas, sitting at the table. Hands folded under his chin. He ached for his company.
Dean wished he could teach him to cook. Cas would probably burn the bunker down, but hey, he would have his best friend.
Focusing on the task at hand, Dean decided on burgers. Hell, everyone liked burgers. He even had the veggie ones Sam preferred.
“Rowena, do you even eat? Want a real burger, or Sam’s rabbit food?” He called to the library.
“I do eat, but I won’t eat that.”
“Suit yourself!” Dean answered, already pulling out six patties and the two vegetarian burgers. Better to have too much than not enough.
Burgers cooked, Dean turned to the fridge for a beer. Just one. His headache throbbed, and the angel-sized hole in his chest screamed at him. Everyone was together. He could hear the chatter from the library. Only Jack was missing. Jack—and Cas.
He wondered if Cas could sleep in the Empty. Or if he was going to wander, alone and in the dark, for eternity.
He swallowed, over and over, emptying the bottle. Tossing it in the trash—score—he turned to the counter, gripping it so hard his knuckles went white, and exhaled.
The grief from earlier came back, sharper this time, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Of course. The day Dean turned into a mess was the day Jack came by.
He couldn’t pretend anymore. Couldn’t hide the pain in his ribs, tucked beneath decades of anger. He couldn’t snap at Jack, or Sam, or Eileen. They deserved a happy Dean. He could do this. Just for one day.
He drew another breath, letting it out on a shaky exhale.
It was loud enough that, paired with the roaring in his head, he didn’t notice the movement behind him.
“Hello, Dean.”
The voice cracked through the silence, low, a rumble. Dean would have sworn it was a hallucination, but he felt it. Felt the noise trail under his skin, slip past his veins and rise in his head. It was a voice he begged to hear again, to feel again. It was an angel's voice.
He froze mid-exhale. Then spun around—too fast. A plate slipped from the counter and shattered on the floor, sharp in the silence.
Jack stood there, grinning proudly.
And next to him—those eyes. Piercing blue, crinkled at the corners in a smile that didn’t quite reach his face. A smile that made Dean’s chest seize.
“Cas?”
He stared, breath caught halfway in his throat. Frozen. He never thought he’d see him again. Yet there he was—same damn trench coat, same messy hair, like he’d just stepped out of the dungeon that day.
Dean’s voice came out rough. “Jack…”
He remembered the last time Lucifer had tricked him—remembered the phone call that wasn’t real.
But Jack nodded, eyes soft.
And that was all it took.
Dean crossed the kitchen in a heartbeat and pulled Cas into him—tight, desperate, like he could hold him there by force alone. The tears hit before he could stop them, hot against his face. Cas’s arms came around him, solid and real.
Cas muscles moved under his layers, hard and sure. He inhaled and smelled the familiar scene of grass in the morning, or the space in the empty night. He felt the breaths-- That an angel doesn’t need to take-- pressed up against his chest. The fast heartbeat under his ribs. This is Cas. Cas is here.
Dean’s legs went weak. The weight he’d been carrying in his knees for months finally gave out.