Fic: Safest Place to Hide (3/3)
Sam and Cas lie in the middle of the living room floor, on a threadbare woven rug. A fire crackles in the fireplace and Sam’s favourite mug is on the coffee table next to the couch, though his tea has probably gone cold by now.
“Do you think Dean will bring you back the puppy you asked for?” Cas whispers. It’s Sam’s signal that it’s okay for him to talk now. They’ve been lying there for nearly an hour, just staring into each other’s eyes. It was a bit weird at first, having “angel-eye-sex,” as Dean calls it, but Sam’s pretty much used to it. At first he could only go five minutes before he started twitching, or laughing, or losing focus. So much of Sam’s life has been constant motion that sitting in one place and doing nothing felt wrong, made him feel guilty. But now Sam looks forward to these sessions, can last for hours without speaking if that’s what Cas wants. Now that he’s broken the silence, though, Sam’s free to do what he wants. Usually what he wants is to get Cas naked as quickly as possible.
“I doubt he’ll be able to find a puppy in late January,” Sam says. “Maybe a stuffed reindeer left over from Christmas.” Dean is in town replenishing the supplies they exhausted over Christmas - too much rum in the eggnog, too many midnight snacks. He’ll also bring back eggs and cheese and the canned food Sam can’t grow, and the seed catalogue for spring. Sam’s looking forward to planning next year’s crop.
“Maybe next time I’ll go with him. It will be spring. I’ll find you a puppy.” Cas leans forward, bridging the inches-wide gap between them and kissing him. This is Cas’ second signal he’s ready to move on to stage two.
“You’re very sweet,” Sam says, pulling back slightly. “But you know he’ll never let either of us go with him.”
Cas’ sigh is short and sad, Sam feels the puff of air against his face. “I know.”
“Do you ever feel like we’re missing stuff while we’re here?” Sam asks. “Like important things are happening out there and we might just never know?”
Cas looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yes,” he says. “I wonder about Heaven, and about my remaining brothers and sisters.”
Sam nods. “I just feel like there’s so much unfinished business out there. Monsters to kill.”
“I believe Dean thinks you’re out of that business. Forever.” Cas says. “He thinks you’ve done more than your share already.”
“It’s not just the job though,” Sam says. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind retiring either. It’s just that some of that mystery is pretty much inside me. We don’t know anything about the wall in my head. We don’t know how I came back from Hell. So it’s hard to just forget about that stuff, when it’s part of who I am.”
Cas goes quiet. It’s not unusual in and of itself, though normally at this point they’re quiet because they’re so busy stripping. “Cas?”
“It was me,” Cas says, voice whisper soft. “I brought you back from Hell.”
Sam’s entire body goes ice cold, despite the fire. He loses all feeling in his fingers and toes, and his tongue feels slow and heavy. “What?”
“It was right after I said goodbye to Dean. I saw how broken he was, and I thought of you broken in the cage and I thought nothing in the world had ever been this unfair, that you and Dean deserved better from a world you saved. I finally had free will, and I had all this power, and what I wanted to do with it was to bring you back to him.”
“And my soul?” Sam croaks.
“It was a mistake,” Cas says. “I miscalculated. The cage was different than Hell proper. Retrieving you was more difficult than retrieving Dean. I thought I had you, that what we were leaving behind was Lucifer. But he didn’t want to let you go.”
Sam shivers, red flashes dancing across his eyelids. He remembers pain, and heat and screams, but mostly he remembers loneliness. He swallows hard, forcing the memories down and back. Don’t scratch, don’t scratch. Live here, and now.
“And that’s why you came here with us,” Sam says. “Because you were guilty.”
Cas shakes his head. “No. I came because I loved you.”
Sam smiles. “You mean because you loved Dean.”
“It took me longer to see you, Sam. You’re better at hiding yourself away, at guarding yourself from pain. You’ve had more practice at it, maybe, because you feel like you’ve always had a darkness inside you. Dean’s something of an open book, and you weren’t. Not until you came back with your soul exposed for all the world, and I fell in love with you then, the moment I looked into your eyes.”
Sam nods. The feeling is coming back to his extremities, semi-painful tingling as the blood rushes back. He reaches out to touch Cas’ face. “It’s okay. I loved Dean before I loved you, too.”
Cas misses the joke, tilting his head in confusion. “Are you not angry with me?”
“No,” Sam says. “I’m pretty much done with anger, if you haven’t noticed. And I know a thing or two about trying to do the right thing and fucking up royally. But I know someone who’s going to be furious when we tell him.”
Dean doesn’t speak to Castiel until there are only a few sad, gray lumps of snow left on the ground. They spend nearly six weeks in silence, though little else changes. Castiel cooks them meals and Dean does his share of the dishes without complaint. Dean brings him thick wool socks from town, because Castiel’s feet are always cold. They still watch movies most evenings, Sam sitting between them on the couch. They share the same bed.
Once, while Sam is outside mapping the garden, Castiel sinks to his knees in front of Dean’s kitchen chair. Dean lets him unbutton his jeans and shove them down, lets Castiel suck him off in the bright afternoon sun. Dean’s orgasm is perfectly silent, his hand shaking where it rests - just barely - on the top of Castiel’s head, almost like a caress. Castiel swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaves. He stopped begging after the first week.
Castiel knows Sam tried to intervene on his behalf, to insist that if he has been able to forgive then Dean should too. It was his soul, after all. But this isn’t only about the soul, Castiel knows, it’s about those months of panic, of “something’s wrong with Sam, I swear” when Dean thought they were in the dark together.
In early spring, Cas sits on the front porch and goes through old photo albums, carefully labelling each yellowed picture with the symbol that represents its subjects on the family tree he’s drawn. The wind keeps threatening to blow his piles of paper away, but he likes to work outside because it means he can see Sam.
“Why do you care so much about these people?” Dean says from above him, and Castiel nearly jumps. “They’re all dead.”
Castiel has trouble finding his voice. He’s grown attuned to perfect silence while he works. “I like the idea of family,” he says, gesturing towards the diagram to his right. It is his fourth or fifth draft of the tree, re-drawn every time he discovered a new branch of the family or a missing link that had been hidden away somewhere: the illegitimate children, the soldiers presumed dead, the gay cousin who disappeared from the record after his eighteenth birthday, the spinster aunt who lived with forty-seven cats. “I’ve been alive for thousands of years, but until very recently I didn't realize history is really made up of people. Though yes, most of them are dead.”
Dean picks up a photograph from the top of one of the piles, a little girl blowing out the candles of an enormous birthday cake. On the table beside the cake sits a half-unwrapped gift. They both recognize the Candyland box.
“There are never any new angels, you know. No birthdays to celebrate, and no point celebrating in any case, when you’re immortal.”
“Will you do our family tree?” Dean asks, setting the photo carefully back on the correct pile. “Winchesters and Campbells, I guess. Dad’s journal has some stuff, and Bobby might know more.”
“Yes, I would like that.” Castiel answers. He slides over on the step to make room, and Dean sits down next to him.
“And you put yourself on it,” Dean says firmly, resting one hand on Castiel’s knee.
“Thank you,” Castiel says by way of agreement. They watch Sam and the ducks work in the garden until dusk.
It’s been nearly three years since Sam has spoken to someone other than Dean or Cas when the pickup truck pulls over to the shoulder of the road next to him. He’s a few miles from home, and alone, and to be honest, the idea of outside human contact sort of scares the shit out of him. He only wandered this far because he was looking for patches of sunflowers. He thought maybe he’d come back and harvest the seeds come September, as a surprise for Dean. Dean has always liked the idea of a food that makes it acceptable to spit on the ground.
“You alright?” The woman leans out of the driver’s side window of her faded green pickup. She’s in her late forties or maybe early fifties, with thick cords of gray visible in her blonde hair.
“Yeah,” Sam says, finding his voice at last. His tongue feels thick and heavy, like he hasn’t used it in awhile. Which is ridiculous because he and Dean and Cas had had a lively debate on the merits of stand-up comedy at breakfast this morning, but maybe talking with them doesn’t count or something.
“You’re one of the boys at the old Parker place, right?” the woman continues. She squints at Sam with something like concern in her eyes, and that expression reminds Sam of Ellen. His chest hurts. “I’ve met your friend...Dan, is it? The one with the car.”
“Dean,” Sam corrects instinctively. “He’s my brother.”
“Right,” the woman says. “Reminded me a bit of James Dean, with that car. Say, why don’t you hop in? You look like you could use a cold drink, and I’ve got a fresh batch of lemonade in my fridge. I’m a ways down the road, but I’m your closest neighbour and it’s never too late for a little hospitality.”
Sam knows he should say no and turn back to his sunflowers. But the woman reminds him of Ellen like a punch in the stomach, so he climbs into the truck.
Sam remembers his manners during the ride, and finds out the woman’s name is Beth and she’s run the hog farm down the road for the past twenty years. She used to have hired help, but with the way the economy’s been it’s just her and her son, now. She doesn’t mention the kid’s father and Sam doesn’t ask.
“There are three of you out there, right?” Beth asks without looking at Sam, keeping her eyes fixed on the gravel road, kicking up clouds of dust as they drive.
“Yes,” Sam says, but hesitant, nervous of saying too much after a lifetime of being suspicious of strangers. He hears John’s voice in his head, reminding him not to tell teachers, guidance counsellors or the nice nurse at the doctor’s office how much time he spends under the supervision of just his brother. Kind, motherly strangers might’ve seemed like people he could trust, but there was always a risk they would report Sam to child services.
“I know ‘cause your brother buys things in sets of three at the supply shop. Three pairs of rubber boots during that rainstorm, three packs of flannel shirts.” At Sam’s quizzical look she adds, “we don’t have a lot to gossip about, and you boys are a bit of mystery in town. We were beginning to think Dean was holding y’all prisoner or something.”
Sam laughs, but it comes out a little forced. “Naw,” he says, “Dean’s just the one who loves to drive.” He realizes as he hears himself talk, though, that it’s more than that. Sam’s soul is pretty much back to normal now, and Dean still hasn’t taken him along on a supply run. And he’s never brought Cas, either.
Beth nods. “Well it’s good to see you. If only because now I have the scoop for the next town meeting.” Sam turns to her in alarm, objections already on his tongue, but she winks and he relaxes back into his seat.
Sam helps carry Beth’s groceries into the house. It looks a lot like theirs, only better kept. She has lace curtains in the windows and a bright yellow welcome mat by the front door. Sam wipes his boots carefully before he steps inside.
Sam puts his armful of paper bags on the counter, then perches awkwardly on a kitchen chair while Beth pours two tall glasses of lemonade. Sam used to visit strangers’ houses all the time, but he’s out of practice now and there’s way too much to look at. Beth has photos on fridge and a newspaper on the counter, and there’s a tinny radio voice coming from the clock radio mounted above the sink. Sam feels over-stimulated, like a little kid who wants to go exploring, except more afraid than excited.
Beth puts a glass of lemonade in front of him, and goes to sit down across from him. But then the phone rings - and makes Sam jump - and she excuses herself to answer it in the other room. Sam can’t make out any words, but he guesses by her exasperated tone that she’s talking to her teenage son.
Sam takes a sip of his lemonade and tries to shrug some of the tension out of his shoulders.
“...death toll rises to over fourteen hundred after last week’s quake in San Francisco. The local police force is still waiting for assistance from the overburdened National Guard.”
Sam sets down his glass, and steps across the kitchen. He turns up the volume on the clock radio with twitching fingers.
“In an early-morning webcast from a secure location in Washington, President Palin assured them help was on the way, but many wonder where she plans to find additional troops after last month’s deployments in response to Hawaiian flooding and the New York City riots. Meanwhile, police in Chicago have set up a hotline for any information pertaining to the disturbing serial murders plaguing the city. So far, fifty-six people have been found dead and thirty-seven more are missing. If you have any information -“
“Horrible, isn’t it?” Beth says, stepping back into the room. Sam pulls his hand guiltily away from the radio. “This world is going straight to Hell.”
“I-” Sam starts, and then doesn’t know where to go from there. “There’s been an earthquake in San Francisco?”
“Well, yeah,” Beth answers, looking at him like he’s crazy. “That’s the fourth one on the West coast in as many months. Don’t you watch the news?”
“Don’t have cable,” Sam says. “Or get the newspaper.”
Beth sits down at the table with her own glass of lemonade, and Sam follows suit. “Honey,” she says after a long silence, “are you okay out there on the farm? Is this some kind of religious thing?”
Sam laughs then, because it’s actually kind of the opposite of that, isn’t it? They’d moved out there to get away from angels, not closer to them. “No, I’m not in a cult. I just - we’ve been kind of cut off.”
“No kidding. How long you been out of the loop?”
“About three years.”
“Well shit,” Beth says. “My kid’s out with his buddies for a few hours. You’d better use his computer, it’s faster.”
***
“Where’s Dean?” Sam asks when he gets home just before dusk, dust in his hair and panic in his eyes.
“He’s taking a shower,” Castiel answers, reaching out to put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He’s been very worried about you. I told him if you weren’t back by the time he was finished we’d go looking for you.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet he’s worried,” Sam says, and the resentment in his voice startles Castiel. He hasn’t heard Sam talk about Dean like that since before the he’d gone to Hell. “Worried about what I’d find out if I went to town.”
“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks, following Sam into the bedroom. Sam doesn’t answer, just lifts up one mattress of the bed then the other, peering underneath. He goes to the closet and rifles through Dean’s clothing, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather coat. He opens the drawers of the bedside table, but all he finds is Vaseline, aspirin, and a gun.
Sam sits on the side of the bed with a huff, and gazes around the room.
“What are you looking for?” Castiel asks. “Maybe I can help you.”
“No,” Sam says. “He wouldn’t tell you.”
“I wouldn’t tell him what?” Dean asks, stepping into the room with a thin towel wrapped around his head like a turban. He’s only wearing his boxer shorts, but Sam’s eyes stay on Dean’s face and that’s how Castiel knows something is seriously wrong.
“Oh,” Sam answers, voice suddenly free of strain. “Cas is just worried he might be horrible in bed and we’re just humouring him.”
“Nonsense,” Dean says casually, looking through his closet for a pair of clean jeans. “You’re the best angel sex I’ve ever had in my life. Not that there isn’t room for a little improvement, with lots and lots and lots of practice.”
***
It comes to Sam at four o’clock in the morning, as he’s lying next to Dean in their bed and trying not to give into the urge to kick him in the nuts. Because there’s no way Dean can’t have known what’s been going on for years - the natural disasters, the “serial killers,” the mutated viruses running rampant - and what it means.
He sits up in bed with a gasp. Of course, why didn’t he think of it before? He manoeuvres himself carefully out from under the covers, grateful that it was Dean’s turn to sleep in the middle tonight.
“Sam?” Cas whispers just as he reaches the door. “Where are you going?” He doesn’t sound the slightest bit sleepy.
“Shit.” Sam says. “Go back to bed.” Cas’ footsteps follow him out of the room and through the front door, and Sam isn’t really surprised by that. Goosebumps rise on Sam’s skin the moment he steps outside, though the mid-summer air isn’t exactly cold. The moon is nearly full, and it shines off the Impala’s surface like a beacon calling to him.
The car is unlocked, because who could steal it out here, but Sam has to use the paperclip he still keeps in his pocket to pick the lock on the glovebox. It’s stuffed full of envelopes. Every single one of them is unopened, and each return address is Singer Salvage.
Sam doesn’t say a word, just climbs into the passenger’s seat and lets the pile fall into his lap. Cas clears his throat, then sits in the driver’s seat, closing the door behind him. He looks out of place there, and rests his hands awkwardly on the wheel, at ten and two just like Dean taught him.
Sam chooses a letter at random at tears it open. There’s a single sheet of lined paper inside, and a short newspaper clipping. Rufus’ familiar grim expression stares up at Sam from the thin sheet, though in the photo he’s younger than Sam remembers him.
“Funeral’s on the 24th,” Bobby has written on the sheet of paper. “Hope to see you there.” The date on the obituary says Sam would be over two years too late, even if he left now.
Sam opens more envelopes. He pays more attention to the dates now, and notices that the letters get less frequent and shorter, but more desperate as time goes on. Newspaper clippings or shitty printouts from Bobby’s ancient fax machine often accompany his letters - reports of electrical storms, bodies found missing their hearts, and dead hunter after dead hunter. Sam’s read at least fifteen obituaries by the time he stops counting.
Sam passes every slip of paper to Cas when he’s finished with it, and Cas reads them all but doesn’t say a word. He seems to have some kind of organizational system going, sorting it all into five or six separate piles. Sam wonders if he’s actually planning to do anything with the stuff, or if he’s just compelled to organize after all the time he’s spent on the attic.
Bobby’s last letter was sent three months ago, and is addressed to Dean. “I sent someone to check on you and they saw smoke coming out of the chimney. Folks had seen a black Impala at the general store a couple of weeks back. I know you’re not dead, Dean. You can’t hide forever.”
“Are we hiding, Cas?” Sam says. They’ve been out there a long time by now, and the sun is starting to peek out above the horizon. Light catches in Cas’ hair, and for a moment it looks like he’s wearing a halo.
“Yes,” Cas answers. “And I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”
***
“I didn’t know,” Dean tells them, but it comes out sounding dishonest even to his own ears. “I didn’t open any of them. I didn’t know he was in trouble.”
Sam is fucking pissed, and Dean doesn’t blame him. The pile of neatly sorted paper on the kitchen table makes Dean want to throw up. Sam holds his hands against his sides in fists, and Dean wants to ask his brother to punch him because that might make them both feel better.
“And the phone?” Cas asks. Sam and Cas are inverse images of one another; finding Bobby’s letters has made Sam more emotional and reactive, but Cas has gone deathly calm.
“I let the voicemail get full in the first two weeks,” Dean admits. “And then I never emptied it.”
“But you knew the weather was going crazy. You knew about all the strange deaths. You knew Sarah Palin was President. You went to town every few months so you knew all that and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning!”
“I was afraid I was going to lose you!” Dean yells, getting to his feet. “Fuck, I know it was wrong. But it looks like another goddamn Apocalypse out there and that didn’t exactly work out well for us last time.” He looks between Sam and Cas, unable to really make eye contact with either of them for longer than a few seconds. “I knew it was bad but I didn’t know how bad,” he explains, gesturing at the stack of obituaries on the table. “And if I had known I would’ve done something differently. But I was trying to protect us, and I’m not sorry for that part.”
***
Dean sleeps on the couch that night. Castiel doesn’t see Sam actually tell him he needs to, but Dean doesn’t seem to need to be told. The bed feels too big with just him and Sam in it.
“I want to use my powers,” Castiel says after Sam rolls over for the third time in two minutes.
“To smite Dean?” he answers.
“No,” Castiel replies. “Not for any particular purpose. I just want to use them. I’ve started to forget the way it feels to be fully myself.”
“So use them,” Sam says, voice wild. “Do something.” The very idea sends shivers up Castiel’s spine.
“I promised Dean I wouldn’t use them as long as I lived under this roof.”
“Yeah, well Dean’s broken a lot of promises lately too.”
Castiel considers pointing out that Dean had never promised not to keep things from them, or that two wrongs don’t make a right. He thinks better of it, and rolls onto his side to face Sam.
“What should I do?” he asks.
“I don’t know. It’s your life, Cas. You decide what to do with it.”
Castiel smiles. “You sound like Dean,” he says gently, and Sam scowls.
“I do not. Dean is an asshole. Now do some fucking magic.”
“Oh alright, bossy,” Castiel says. He runs one finger along the side of Sam’s cheek.
“What - oh.” Sam says. Castiel watches him shiver under the touch, watches him curl his long fingers into the bed sheets and arch his back. “Fuck,” Sam mutters, and his eyes flutter closed.
Castiel traces slow circles over Sam’s throat, chest and arms, and in minutes Sam is panting and squirming under his touch. Castiel thinks that he has never seen Sam looks so vulnerable, or so beautiful, or so happy and it makes him feel strangely sad.
“Dean,” Sam groans, and it’s amazing that he can still find new ways to utter a word he’s said perhaps a million times already.
Castiel lifts his finger from Sam’s skin, and Sam’s eyes open slowly. His pupils are blown with lust, and he licks his lips compulsively. He blinks several times before his eyes focus on Castiel’s face.
“Is that good?” Castiel says, hesitant. “I didn’t want to read your mind without your permission, but I’ve read that’s a very common fantasy. It can be something else, if you’d like.”
Sam’s mouth curves into a slow, disbelieving smile. “You get to use your powers for the first time in years and you decide to make me hallucinate having sex with my brother?”
Castiel frowns. “You appeared quite satisfied a moment ago,” he says peevishly. “And the thing I really wanted was for you not to be angry with Dean anymore.”
Sam huffs, and his breath against Castiel’s face smells like the mint toothpaste they all use.
“Are you still upset at Dean?” Castiel asks. He hopes not. Castiel thinks freedom might not be able to exist without forgiveness.
“No. Now I want to fuck him.” Sam buries his face in Castiel’s shoulder, like he’s embarrassed that his feelings can be so easily swayed.
“That could be arranged,” Castiel offers. He waves two fingers through the air.
Sam sits up on one elbow and leans forward to kiss Castiel. His mouth is hot, and Castiel thinks he can feel Sam’s pulse through his lips. “Naw,” Sam murmurs when he comes up for air. “Right now I think I’d rather fuck you.”
***
Dean wakes up on the couch. The sun is shining into his eyes, and he tries to roll over. That’s when he realizes his wrists and ankles are tied to the armrest.
“Hello, Dean. Don’t be alarmed.” Cas stands over him, and Dean’s a little ashamed that his first reaction is arousal, not alarm.
“Hey, Cas. You forgive me overnight and decide to give me a present this morning?”
Cas rolls his eyes, but it’s Sam who speaks from somewhere behind Dean’s head. “Fat chance, jerk” he says, and then walks around to the front of the couch and sits on Dean’s stomach. It knocks the wind out of him. He’s pretty sure he can hear his ribs creaking.
“If you decide to kill me now our lives are gonna be really anticlimactic,” Dean wheezes, bucking uselessly against Sam’s weight.
“If I killed you I'd just have to summon up a crossroads demon and get you back,” Sam admits. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t seriously maim you to my heart’s content.” He bounces, and Dean hadn’t realized Sam’s ass was quite so bony.
“Focus, Sam,” Cas says. “Dean, where’s the cell phone?” They’d gotten rid of all their phones except their dad’s old line.
“I don’t know. I lost it,” Dean lies. Sam pinches his stomach, hard. “Ow, what the fuck?”
“You didn’t just lose Dad’s phone, Dean. It wasn’t in the glove box and I swear to god I will pinch you black and blue until you tell me where you’re keeping it.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Sam, it took them thirty years to break me in Hell. You really think you can torture information out of me?”
“Well,” Sam says, as he reaches under Dean’s t-shirt and twists his left nipple, hard, “I’m counting on your guilty conscience, and on you having gone soft on all Cas’ home cooking.”
“Fuck,” Dean complains. “Jesus Sam, you could really get off on this, couldn’t you?” It’s a low blow, and Dean sort of regrets it the moment he says it, but that really hurt.
Guilt does flash across Sam’s face momentarily, but it’s quickly replaced by steely resolve, and Dean knows he’s done for. “Oh baby, you have no idea,” Sam sneers. “I’ve got all kinds of creative ideas to make you talk.” Dean hears echoes of Hell, and of Alastair, and of himself in the sadistic sweetness of Sam’s tone. It reminds Dean of Lucifer, too, and hearing his voice from Sam again is worse than any physical torture.
“I buried it,” Dean says. “in the back. Three paces left of the apple tree.”
Sam frowns, brows furrowing in surprised confusion. He stands abruptly, and Dean gasps at the sudden rush of oxygen into his lungs. Then Sam is gone, and he and Cas are alone.
“Well that was easy,” Cas says. He pulls a chair up next to the couch, but makes no move toward the ropes binding Dean’s wrists and ankles.
“Yeah, well I guess I’m a pussy now. Untie me?”
Cas shakes his head. “I don’t think you gave in because you were scared of him; I think you gave in because you were scared for him.”
Dean’s instinct is to look away, so instead he stares up at Cas defiantly. When a man’s tied to a couch he has to do whatever he can to hang on to his dignity. “Yeah, well, if there’s any of that shit left in him - demon blood, Hell, Lucifer, whatever - I’m not gonna bring it out.”
Cas leans forward and fixes Dean with a focused stare. “And is it only Sam you’re worried about, Dean?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And stop eye-sexing my soul, dude.”
“You’re still worried that there’s some darkness in you, and in Sam. You’re worried that it will grow stronger if we leave here. You aren’t just hiding from monsters and demons and angels; you’re hiding from yourself.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re incredibly melodramatic for someone who’s not even supposed to feel emotion?” Dean quips.
“Stop changing the subject,” Cas replies sternly. “And I think we’ve conclusively proven that bit of angel lore incorrect by now. I have seen into your soul, Dean, and into your brother’s, and I have seen no evil there. You feel pain, fear, anger and a brutal kind of love, Dean, but those are all human qualities.”
Dean lets out a sigh of relief before he can help himself. “And you’re sure? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better.”
“I’m still not very good at lying. I assure you that - to the best of my knowledge, at least - you’re no more likely to suddenly transform into a vicious killing machine out there than you are on this farm.”
“But you can’t know for sure.”
“I can’t be certain about anything. You taught me that. It’s a side effect of the whole free will concept you’re so fond of.” Cas smiles at Dean fondly, but somehow it doesn’t come off as patronizing, even when he’s tied to the couch.
“Aren’t you worried that everything’s going to change if we leave?” Dean asks. “I mean, with us?” By ‘us’ he means the three of them, it just goes without saying.
Before Cas can answer Sam storms back into the room, brandishing a dusty but intact cell phone in one hand, and two pieces of black wire in the other. “A squirrel chewed through the charger’s cord,” he says dejectedly. “Why the fuck would you bury it loose like that?”
“Well excuse me for not being an expert in the dietary choices of overgrown rodents,” Dean snaps back automatically.
Cas sighs, and takes the phone from Sam’s hand. A moment later he hands it back, and Dean can see the screen glowing cheerfully.
“You used magic,” he says. “You used magic to charge the phone.”
“I’m sorry to break my promise Dean,” Cas answers, and it looks like he means it, “but I don’t think any of us should be scared of who - or what - we are anymore.”
Dean means to respond, but they’re interrupted by Sam’s voice. “Bobby? It’s Sam. Thank God you’re alright.”
It takes six weeks for Bobby to get to the farm because he stops in to check on a few other hunters on the way, and because he stumbles on more than one hunt while he’s at it. In the meantime, Sam, Dean and Castiel settle into a surreal sort of rhythm while they wait. Sam weeds his garden and Cas experiments with new recipes, and Dean mostly paces back and forth in the kitchen. When Sam harvests a row of yellow beans he catches himself planning what to grow in their place next season. But of course, there probably won’t be another season. Their routines don’t change, but every moment takes on a new resonance.
One evening after a long day harvesting the potato crop, Sam skips dessert and goes to bed early. He asks Dean to save him one of the strawberry tarts Cas made with the last of last year’s fruit preserve, but he doesn’t bother getting his hopes up that it will actually be there come breakfast. He leaves Dean and Cas with the plate of tarts and the end of a bottle of the good scotch, and collapses into bed, still fully dressed.
When he wakes up again the moon is shining in through the window and his feet are cold. Someone has taken off his shoes and covered him with a blanket, but his feet are sticking out from under the end. Sam’s muscles feel almost as heavy as his eyelids, and he likes the way that feels. He turns his head to burrow further under the pillow, and that’s when he hears them, all whispers and muffled laughter.
Dean and Cas have come to bed too, then. Sam can hear them shuffling around under the covers, and he wonders, half-irritated, why it’s taking them so long to settle in. He’s about to tell them to shut the hell up when Dean makes a noise that freezes Sam in place. He moans again, low and desperate and cut off at the end. Then he laughs, the sound relaxed and a bit too loud. Dean’s at least half-drunk, Sam realizes.
“Shhh,” Cas warns, “you’ll wake Sam.” And fuck Sam should tell them he’s already awake, but they’re having sex right next to him and the only thing Sam wants in the world is to hear his brother make that noise again. And maybe... Sam turns his head a few inches more so that he can peek through barely open eyelids. He makes sure to keep his breathing deep and even.
He can’t see much. Mostly he sees Dean’s bare shoulders and the back of his arched neck. He also sees Cas’ hair, messy after Dean runs his hands through it. Cas kisses Dean’s throat and Dean groans, and the noise sends a jolt of pleasure so hot it’s almost painful running down Sam’s spine until it settles at his groin. Sam is suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he can’t see Cas’ hands under the covers, pictures them squeezing Dean’s ass or stroking his cock. Dean’s under the covers, and for all Sam knows he could be naked below the waist too, less than a foot from Sam.
The thought makes Sam’s throat dry out and his blood run hot. His entire body feels twitchy, and he has to concentrate to keep still. It would be stupidly easy to reach out and touch Dean right now. Sam bites his lip so hard he’s worried he might draw blood. His hardening cock presses uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans, but he can’t risk moving to adjust himself.
The rhythm of Dean’s breathing changes, gets faster and shallower and Sam’s mental images of what’s going on under the quilt get even more vivid.
“Fuck Cas, yeah,” Dean whispers, slurring a little. He arches his back, and Sam actually inhales a strand of Dean’s hair. He wants desperately to lick the back of Dean’s neck, the spot at the end of the hairline. Holding himself still seems to require every ounce of his concentration. Every fibre of Sam’s body longs to reach out and touch his brother.
Dean starts to thrust - into Cas’ hand or maybe against his stomach or his crotch, Sam can’t really see - and then he rolls back a few inches and his ass brushes against Sam’s knuckles where he’s pressed his fists into the sheet.
Sam makes a completely undignified and unsubtle keening noise, and rolls forward a few inches to press his cock into the mattress, the pleasure of the tiny moment of friction ruined by the way Dean’s hips fall still and his spine goes straight.
“Sam?” Dean says. His voice is shaky and all the sloppy, easy drunkenness in his tone is completely gone.
“Dean,” Sam says, and he tries but he can’t hold back all the desperate, wrecked longing in the word.
“Shit,” Dean says, and starts to sit up. A bolt of terror shoots through Sam’s body, chasing away even his lust. All that Sam can think is that he needs to stop Dean from leaving, needs to explain to him that he’s sorry, that he can be trusted, really. Sam reaches forward and grabs desperately at Dean’s wrist, wrenching it behind his back.
Sam expects Dean to make a sound of surprise, or pain, or maybe even to fight him off. What he doesn’t expect is for Dean to make that sound again, that desperate turned on sound, and collapse back onto the bed.
Sam’s heart stops. He stares down at his own hand, wrapped around Dean’s wrist, his arm bent in what looks like an uncomfortable position behind his back.
“Shit,” Dean says again, but his tone is so much different this time. “Sam.”
They lie like that for a long moment before Cas lifts his head and looks Sam in the eye. His gaze is piercing and a little too wise, and Sam wonders if Cas might have an idea just how long he’s been awake. “Well?” Cas says, tilting his head to the side.
The question acts as some kind of signal, and Sam’s body moves before he even has time to think. He scrambles to climb under the quilt with Dean. He uses one hand, never letting go of his brother’s wrist. Once he’s underneath, he reaches clumsily under Dean’s body until he finds Dean’s other wrist, pulling it back toward him. Dean lets Sam pin them together behind his back, hissing slightly when Sam has to tug to make them line up. He loosens his grip instinctively, but tightens it again when Dean huffs in frustration. Sam shifts forwards so his chest bumps against Dean’s upper back, tangling their legs together. Their hands, Sam’s around Dean’s wrists, form the only obstacle between Sam’s crotch and Dean’s ass.
“Alright?” Cas asks, gaze still freakishly calm in the moonlight, and Sam isn’t sure if the question is directed at him or Dean. Dean answers, though, canting his hips forward, and Cas kisses him, and rolls in closer. Sam can guess by the sounds Dean makes where Cas is touching him.
Sam loses time for a few minutes. He presses his forehead against the back of Dean’s neck, breathing hard against his brother’s skin. Dean rocks forward and back into Cas and Sam goes with the motion, grip tight on Dean’s wrists. It feels like he’s holding on more to hold himself together than to control Dean, and he suspects there will be bruises in the morning. Judging by the noises Dean makes, though, they’ll probably be worth it. Sam gets lost in the feel of the three of them moving together, loses track of whose rough breaths are whose.
Then the rhythm changes, gets more powerful and more frantic. Dean thrusts forward further, and practically drags Sam with him. When Dean stops, pressed against Cas’ body, Sam’s momentum carries him forward, crushing their hands between their bodies. Dean’s palms, hanging limply from Sam’s grasp, rub against the bulge in his jeans.
Sam makes a shocked, pleased sound. Dean pushes back against Sam to thrust again, and Sam holds them closer, angling Dean’s wrists so his palms and loose fingers brush against Sam’s denim-covered cock. Dean doesn’t seem to notice, he’s so wrapped up in Cas and Sam ruts forward again, twisting Dean’s wrists even more tightly.
“Sam,” Dean whimpers. And then he gasps, his body shuddering so violently that Sam, his palms slick with sweat, almost loses his gip. Dean’s head falls forward against Cas, and his body goes limp. Sam thrusts against Dean’s palms only two more times before he comes too, orgasm ripping through his body like nothing he’s ever felt before. Someone calls Dean’s name, and it’s nearly a full minute later before Sam realizes it was him, his voice raw.
Sam releases Dean’s wrists with some trepidation, rolling over onto his back to adjust himself and the mess in his jeans. His heartbeat stutters - torn between the post-orgasm slow down and the new fear rising in his blood. Sam is scared to look over at Dean, scared to find repulsion, shame, regret in his eyes. The room is perfectly silent for what feels like an eternity.
“Sam,” Dean finally says, his tone gruff, “Go clean up. I’m not gonna let you snuggle all sticky and shit.”
Sam grins and practically bounces off the bed and into the bathroom, giddy with relief. He wipes himself off and changes into fresh boxers. He tosses a damp washcloth at Dean as he climbs back into bed behind him.
“You know,” Cas says thoughtfully, “just once I’d like for Sam to scream my name when he comes.”
“Cas. Cas. Oh Castiel!” Sam moans so loudly Dean winces, and Sam doesn’t stop giggling until he falls asleep.
***
Dean’s only mildly hungover the next morning. They’ve sort of been rationing the booze so they can make as few supply runs as possible, and yeah, they might not be here much longer but Dean’s already nervous enough about Bobby coming to visit, he sure as Hell isn’t gonna drink all the booze before he gets here. In fact, Dean plans to hand Bobby the last bottle of the good whiskey the moment he walks through the door.
Anyway, he’s got a headache but it’s nothing a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal won’t solve. He shouldn’t look too out of it, so it’s a bit of a surprise when Sam tiptoes into the kitchen and will only look at Dean in periodic, sneaky glances like he expects to get his head bitten off at any moment.
“What, Sam?” Dean asks, wrapping his hands around his mug. There’s a bit of the chill in the air, now, and the warmth feels good sinking into his fingers.
“Oh. Uh. Right.” Sam clears his throat. “I just want to say that I’m sorry about last night and I understand if you’re upset with me. I crossed the line, and it will never happen again.”
Dean blinks. “Uh, Sam? I’m not mad,” he says, kicking out the chair across the table for Sam to take. “You didn’t - I mean, I pretty much asked you to stay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sam looks unconvinced. “I pressured you.”
“As if you could,” Dean snorts. “I wanted you there.” Dean watches the corner of Sam’s mouth twitch, a tiny little sign of happiness he had never been able to hide, even when they were kids.
“Oh. Okay.” Sam stares at Dean like he expects further explanation.
Dean sighs. “Now don’t get your hopes up or anything,” he warns. “I know I was okay with...whatever that was last night, and I know I don’t regret it now but I’m not making any promises that it’ll happen again, or that we can take it any farther than that. It might mean something, or it might not.”
“I’m not six years old, you know. You don’t have to worry that if you give me ice cream once I’ll expect it every day.”
Dean scoffs. “Did you just compare me to a dessert?”
“Yes,” Sam says. “But don’t worry. It might mean something, or it might not.”
Dean smiles down at his coffee. “It’s getting cold out,” he says absentmindedly.
“Yep,” Sam agrees, getting up to pour himself his own mug. “I’m going to have to start covering the garden at night.”
***
Sam’s in the middle of a catnap when Bobby arrives. He wakes up because Dean unceremoniously shoves Sam’s head off his lap, and Sam half-tumbles to the floor.
“What the fuck?” Sam says, and then he hears the sound of an engine in the driveway. “Oh.” They’ve never talked about it, but that’s mostly because they don’t have to. Bobby can’t know about him and Dean, that’s obvious.
Dean’s the one who opens the door, and for some reason he brings a bottle of whiskey with him. Sam doesn’t ask. Dean’s been jumpy about everything since Sam made that call.
“Hello boys,” Bobby says, and he sounds just the same but he looks really different. His hair is more gray than anything else now, and there are new, deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He also looks like he’s lost some weight. His eyes are a little more sunken than usual, his belly a little less prominent.
“Hi Bobby,” Sam says, and he tries not to stare too hard at how Bobby’s changed. He’s aged far too much for just three years, even in their line of work.
“Sam,” Bobby says with a nod, then turns to look Dean in the eye, “Dean.” Dean scrunches up his face, like he expects Bobby to punch him, but instead Bobby envelopes him in a brief hug. “You two are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hello Bobby,” Cas says as he comes around the corner from the kitchen. His bare feet make a slapping sound on the tile. “I hope you like lots of garlic in your pasta sauce.” He has a saucepan in one hand, and a wooden spoon in the other.
Bobby’s eyes widen. “Cas,” he says. “I thought you were gone.”
“Gone?” Dean asks, “Why would Cas be gone?”
“Well...” Bobby begins, then trails off. “I saw you drive off with him, but I didn’t expect you to keep him!”
“I’m not a housepet,” Cas says, crossing the room. “I chose to stay. Taste this,” he says, and then he’s shoving the spoon towards Sam’s face and he opens his mouth instinctively. Sam sees Dean freeze as the spoon touches his lips, and he becomes suddenly aware of just how out of the ordinary an angel feeding Sam pasta sauce in the middle of the living room is.
Bobby looks puzzled for a moment, and then something seems to click into place. “Oh,” he says, “so it’s like that?” He grapples one moment longer before elbowing Dean in the ribs. “You know, I always thought that if the angel had a thing for someone it would be you.”
“Ha ha,” Dean says drily, “Well Sam always has been the charmer,” but the look he shoots Sam is pure panic and the one he shoots Cas pure murder. “Say, how about we get you a drink?”
As Dean leads Bobby into the kitchen, Cas hisses under his breath. “Did I do something wrong?”
Sam shakes his head. “Naw,” he says, feeling strangely light, “but the sauce could use a bit more pepper.”
***
Bobby drinks a few shots too many before he’s loose enough to talk about the pile of dead bodies he’s found in the old Campbell headquarters, where the last of his hunters’ reserve had been.
“Honest to god boys, I’ve lost track of a few maybe, but it’s looking more and more like we may be the only three hunters left in the country.” Dean shivers, remembering the neat stack of obituaries laid out on their kitchen table.
“What’s going after them?” Sam asks. “I mean, I thought things were supposed to settle down after we stopped the Apocalypse.”
“Yeah, so did I. This isn’t angel and demon stuff as far as I can tell, but best as we can figure that whole mess shook something else loose. Something worse.”
“There’s nothing worse than demons,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “Except Lucifer.”
“Well this bitch may not be worse, but she’s harder to kill at least. She calls herself Eve, and lore says she’s the mother of all the monsters, come straight from purgatory. She’s been cooking up all kinds of new creatures ‘round the country. She’s who the vamps and the shifters were working for, before you boys left.”
“So we kill her,” Dean says, because there’s not much else he can say. Mentally he adds and then we come home.
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” Bobby snaps, cheeks already heated. “What do you think Rufus and all the others died trying to do? You think you’re so much better than all of them that you can just waltz in there and put an end to it, boy, but you’ve walked out on this fight once already.”
Dean swallows hard. “I- I’m sorry, Bobby.”
“You damn well better be,” Bobby snarls. “I swear, if you boys weren’t all I have left I’d slap you silly.”
“It’s not Sam’s fault,” Dean says, and he looks at Sam because he at least deserves a little credit for taking all the blame. But Sam is staring out the window, frowning.
“What is it Sam?” Dean asks, because he knows that look.
“There’s no getting out of this life,” Sam says quietly, “right? That’s what we’ve always been told and it’s always been true. Whenever we’ve tried to be normal trouble has just followed us. But we’ve been holed up here for over three years and we didn’t even notice the world falling apart around us. Doesn’t that seem a bit suspicious to you?”
“I thought maybe you were ignoring this shit on purpose,” Bobby adds. “I mean, haven’t you noticed any of the freak weather?”
“No,” Sam says. “The weather’s been average for Maine. Temperatures, precipitation, and first frost have all fallen right on schedule.”
“Nerd,” Dean mumbles.
Sam ignores him. “It’s almost been too good, too regular, you know? There haven’t even been any real anomalies. It’s almost like something was protecting us.”
Cas slams the saucepan he’s been holding back down onto the burner. “Just a moment,” he says, and then he runs out the front door.
***
Dean catches up with him while he’s rummaging through the trunk of the Impala. “I hope you don’t mind,” Castiel says, “if I borrow some of your supplies.”
“Of course not,” Dean answers. “What’s ours is yours, Cas.”
“Yes,” Castiel says, but he can’t help feeling that Dean’s saying that more out of habit than anything else. Soon they will leave with Bobby to go hunting again, and this car and everything in it will be solely Winchester property once more. The thought makes Castiel’s heart clench, and it hurts in a way he’s never experienced before. He grits his teeth and gathers the supplies he needs.
Sam joins them just after Cas has lit the match on the gunpowder. It goes up in a puff of foul-smelling smoke, and then Balthazar is sprawled on the ground before them. Dean drops a second match and a ring of holy fire burns up around him.
Balthazar coughs and climbs to his feet with some difficulty. He looks different than Castiel remembers, like some of his shine has worn off. His Grace is muffled, tamped down, dull. Even his vessel looks exhausted, and his clothes are stained and wrinkled.
“Cas,” Balthazar says, “I should have known it was you.”
“Balthazar,” Castiel says, “What has happened to you?”
“I could ask you the same question. I was never a fan of the accountant look, but I can’t say I like flannel much more than the trench coat,” Balthazar retorts. “We’ve both changed, sweetheart. The whole world has.”
“Not this farm,” Castiel says. “This farm has been completely untouched. Why?”
Balthazar shrugs. “Who knows? You’ve always been a lucky son of a bitch. Maybe you have a monopoly on angelic good fortune. If you even still consider yourself an angel.”
Castiel purses his lips. “What do you mean? What has happened to the others?”
“What others?” Balthazar laughs. “Darling, you and I might just be the last of our kind on Earth. I heard Sammael bit it last month.”
Castiel remembers brave, strong-willed, terrifying Sammael and a shiver runs down his spine at the idea that anything could kill such a warrior. “I don’t understand.”
“No, you never did, did you? You decided to make love not war and Raphael took over. But we were fighting the wrong battle, Cas. There are worse things than his tyranny. Raphael was so focused on defeating you he that he was completely unprepared for the Mother.”
“Some archangel,” Dean interrupts and Balthazar scowls at him, probably more out of irritation at the interruption than because he disagrees with Dean’s assessment of Raphael.
“She broke out of Purgatory, and she did things we had never seen. She made creatures beyond our wildest imagination - spiders with angel-killing blades for pincers, for example - and she set them loose all over the globe. Then she gave us a choice.”
Balthazar looks over his shoulder anxiously. “Honestly, boys, is this fire really necessary? She can sense magic, you know.”
“It is completely necessary,” Castiel says. “Go on.”
“She told Raphael her quarrel wasn’t with angels. If they surrendered Earth to her she would cease all aggression against them. They only had to leave it behind. It’s not like they cared much for it anyway.”
“And they did?” Sam asks breathlessly. “They just gave up?”
“They went back to Heaven. Maybe they’re still there, or maybe they’ve moved somewhere else. Either way, they abandoned humanity without a second thought, and those of us who had fallen considerably out of Raphael’s favour weren’t offered seats on the last ship out. As far as Raphael was concerned, we could rot with the mortals we so admire.”
“And how has that been working out for you?” Sam’s voice is cold.
Balthazar ignores Sam and directs his answer at Cas. “It’s shit, is what it is. Between Eve’s spawn trying to get rid of any last threats, the demons still putting up a fight against her and all the fucking annoying humans, I’m a shadow of the man I once was, Cas. Though you look like you’ve been doing quite well.” He leers at Dean. “Finally got what you risked everything for, eh? Was it worth it?”
“Unquestionably,” Castiel says. “But I do wonder why this Eve hasn’t visited us, if she’s trying to eliminate both hunters and angels.”
“Well that’s obvious, isn’t it? You took yourselves out of the game, so she didn’t have to. It’s easier to let you eat and fuck and sleep until you die than to fight you. I’ll be damned if I know how, but the three of you managed to avert an Apocalypse once already. I imagine she finds that a bit intimidating.”
“Of course!” Sam exclaims, and Castiel and Dean both turn to him. “That’s why we haven’t been getting any of the bad weather, either. We’re the sleeping dragon she doesn’t want to tickle.”
“Excuse me?” Dean says.
“She doesn’t want us involved, Dean. She’s been trying not to pick a fight. While we’ve been hiding, she’s been hiding from us too.”
“Huh,” Dean says. “You know what this means, right?” He practically bounces on the soles of feet, and clutches excitedly at Sam’s jacket.
Sam sighs. “Yes, Dean. We take the fight to her.”
***
Dinner is more than a little awkward. Sam, Dean and Bobby go over what little they know about the Mother of All while Cas cooks, but Bobby keeps glancing at the kitchen incredulously.
“So...how did you get him to stay?” he says finally, directing the question at Sam. He’s not ashamed of Cas or anything, and he had his big gay crisis when he was twelve, but it still makes his blush for some reason. Also, he can see Dean out of the corner of his eye, and he doesn’t look thrilled with his line of questioning.
“Cas and I just had a really profound connection,” Sam says with a grin. “Plus I think he wanted to make sure I was gonna be alright, since he was the one who brought me back to life and all.”
Bobby stops with his glass halfway to his mouth, but he recovers quickly. “So I guess he’s brought all three of us back to life, then.” And it’s actually really nice, thinking of them all as a team again, even though there are so many things they’ll have to keep from Bobby from now on.
They eat in relative silence. The humans at the table have their mouths full most of the time and Cas, though he doesn’t eat, isn’t exactly chatty.
Sam offers Bobby the guest room without thinking, and then panics halfway up the staircase when he remembers that it’s basically empty, both beds pushed together in the master bedroom. His heart pounds as they round the corner, but the bed is in its proper place, neatly made. After Sam offers Bobby an extra quilt, he heads back downstairs.
“The beds,” he begins, but Cas just holds one hand in the air and wiggles his fingers.
“I guess you mojo does have its uses,” Dean acknowledges, throwing himself onto the couch next to Cas. “Like keeping Bobby from discovering our freaky threesome incest thing.” Cas doesn’t answer. He just cards his fingers through Dean’s hair. His expression is sombre.
Sam sits on the couch at Cas’ other side, right on top of his freezing bare feet. It just makes Cas look even sadder. “Cheer up, Cas. Bobby’s asleep and you don’t have to pretend not to be madly in love with Dean anymore.”
“Don’t I?” Cas says, so quietly Sam can barely hear him.
Dean sits up, expression indignant. “What? Everything about me is naturally loveable.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s just that you will be leaving soon, and I will have to go on without you.”
A cold shiver of fear runs up Sam’s spine. “But you’re coming with us,” he says. “You have to.”
Cas shrugs. “You’re hunters. I’m not. I wouldn’t even be able to use my powers without attracting Eve’s attention. I have nothing to offer you. I would only slow you down.” Cas’ jaw is set, like he’s rehearsed this speech, but he doesn’t stop stroking Dean’s hair. “It’s alright,” Cas says. “I understand. You are partners.”
There is a long silence before Dean speaks.
“The car seats at least five people, so I think we can make room for one little angel. Besides, I didn’t teach you to drive it for nothing.”
Sam watches the tension drain from Cas’ face. “You really mean that?” he says. “Sam?”
Sam smiles down at him. “Dude, we’ll need your home-cooked meals to keep Dean’s cholesterol under control.”
“And you need to do our family history, remember?” Dean adds.
“Yes. There is very little I forget,” Cas says, pulling Sam down so that both brothers’ heads rest in his lap. They fall asleep there, trusting Cas to warn them when Bobby wakes up.
***
It doesn’t take them long pack up the house, but they send Bobby on ahead anyway, with plans to meet at the Campbell headquarters. All those hunters were ambushed there for a reason, and Bobby figured they might have been after a lead in the book collection. It seems as likely a place to start as any, to Dean.
Sam gives the ducks to some woman named Beth who apparently lives down the road. Castiel labels all his carefully catalogued boxes and stacks them neatly in the attic, and Dean packs three duffel bags and tosses them in the back of the car. As an afterthought he adds the framed photograph of Old Man Parker's wife, though he can’t exactly explain why and it certainly serves no practical purpose.
“Are you ready?” Cas asks from Dean’s left.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Dean answers. He reaches out and grabs Cas’ hand, squeezing tightly. They both watch Sam walk through the garden one last time, then jog out to meet them. His expression is all grim determination.
“Okay, let’s go,” Sam says, and turns toward the car. Cas grabs his shoulder to stop him.
“On moment,” Cas says, and then waves the hand not entwined with Dean’s through the air once. There is a brilliant flash of white light that fades as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Dean and Sam blinking.
“What did you do?” Sam asks.
“I manipulated time and space only slightly. This place is frozen until our return.”
“Cas,” Dean groans.
“I am allowed to use magic now, Dean Winchester, and I won’t permit your whining about it.”
“It’s not that,” Dean says quickly. “It’s just - you know we’re probably not coming back, right?”
“I don’t know about that,” Cas says. He kisses Dean quickly, and then presses a matching kiss to Sam’s mouth. “Stranger things have happened.”
The farmhouse shimmers into invisibility as they drive off in the Impala, but somehow it doesn’t quite feel like leaving home.
Art Post! GO LOOK AT IT NOW.
Notes and Thanks
Master Post