By Fortune or Design: Part Two
Masterpost
9. The coiling wires, the shots collected
The nightmare came, as so many did, right in the middle of another dream. It had been peaceful, standing on a beach that felt like the edge of the world, looking out across the wide, blue ocean. The wind was gentle, the sun mild. He could have been the last man on Earth, but he didn’t feel alone.
Then, it changed, and the shots began to ring out. In a second, the waves were gone, and it was everywhere stinging sand and blistering sun, peppered with blast holes. And somehow he was still drowning in it, sinking into the sand as he tried to get away, bullets whipping past him left and right. But the worst was the booming, omniscient voice of God, calling down from an unforgiving sky, telling him of his failures. It sounded remarkably like his father.
Then, the beeping of a bomb began, and he cringed, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion-
And abruptly snapped awake. It wasn’t a bomb, but the shrill piping of his cell phone. He fumbled for it on the nightstand, and managed to flip it open just before it went to voicemail.
“H’lo?” he said, blinking the sleep from his eyes as his heart rate returned to normal.
“Cas?” A voice asked, rougher than usual, but still one he’d know anywhere.
“Dean,” he replied, more clearly. He sat up and turned the bedside lamp on.
“Shit, I woke you up. Fuck-I’m calling at one in the morning like a complete…”
“Dean, what’s wrong?”
“I…today’s the day dad died.” There was a moment of harsh breathing into the receiver. “I…tried doing what you said, taking my mind off it if I can’t work through it and all, but it didn’t work, and I don’t want to be alone and I didn’t know who else to call…”
“Where are you?” Castiel was asking, on his feet before he knew what he was doing.
“Home,” he answered.
“The address?” Castiel went on, pulling a pair of jeans and a tee shirt out of his dresser, holding the phone in the crook of his neck.
“Uhh…” Dean began questioningly, but then gave him the location. It wasn’t far.
“Good. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Okay…uhh…bye,” Dean said, puzzled, before hanging up. Castiel quickly donned the clothes and went to find his keys. He wasn’t an impulsive man, but he remembered all too well the night he had tried to end it all. He couldn’t get his mind out of the past, either, and he’d decided it would be easier to simply never have to remember again.
He didn’t want Dean to make the same mistake. Wouldn’t let him.
He was halfway to his car when he turned back to put on shoes. The delay made him question his actions. No, he really shouldn’t be going to pick up his client in the middle of the night, but Castiel was already damned, as far as he was concerned. It was worth it to cement his place in hell, as long as Dean Winchester was saved.
On the way to the apartment, he couldn’t help but wonder why it had been Dean’s first instinct to call him, instead of Sam.
He didn’t have much time to contemplate that, though, because he found Dean’s complex and pulled into the parking lot. He was waiting outside in track pants and a hoodie, leaning against the Impala. Castiel pulled up alongside it and Dean wordlessly got into the passenger seat of his Nissan.
They rode along for a few minutes in silence, the night holding a brittle quality. Finally, Dean broke it.
“I…Thanks for doing this, man. When I called you, I didn’t mean for you to come get me, I just…wanted to hear another voice, you know? But, this is even better, and…” He stopped, looking uncomfortably out the window.
There, in the dark, occasional streetlights providing intermittent flashes of illumination, it felt safe, and like it was finally time for the truth. “I understand what you’re going though, Dean. I…sympathize with your case more than anyone else I’ve talked to.”
“What do you mean? Is this some therapist ‘I understand your pain’ shit?” he asked lowly, sounding just a touch betrayed.
“That’s not what I mean. I actually know what it’s like to be in your situation.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was a junkie, Dean. For a while, after the war-anything to help me forget.”
There was a long, tense quiet. Then, a pained chuckle. “That…uh, that sounds familiar.”
Castiel didn’t laugh. “Yes,” he agreed.
Another pause. “So, where are we going?”
He blinked. He’d been aimlessly driving, hadn’t planned anything out past ‘Get Dean. Make sure Dean is okay.’
“Can you direct me to a 24-hour diner? As your doctor, I’m prescribing pie.”
The humor wasn’t lost on Dean, and he smiled, relaxing. “Cas, you are the best doctor ever, then.”
He followed Dean’s directions to a building that looked like a Denny’s converted into a baseball-themed diner. Deciding to trust Dean’s judgment on the place, he parked the car and got out, the other man following close behind. The tired-looking hostess directed them to take a seat wherever they liked, and by mutual agreement they selected a booth in the corner farthest from the door.
After a few moments spent looking over the dessert menu, Castiel asked softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Dean smiled weakly. “Not really. Now that we’re here, it all seems really lame.” He paused and looked at the eye-searing orange tabletop. “But I guess it’s really you. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I deserve to be saved.”
“I…It’s my job,” Castiel replied automatically, still hopelessly trying to salvage some professionalism in their relationship.
“You’ve done way more for me than you’ve had to, Cas…I barely pay you anything, but you’re here in the middle of the night.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t have a clue how to respond.
Luckily, the waitress-Marge, according to her nametag-saved him, swooping in with her notepad in hand. “What can I get you boys?” She asked perfunctorily.
“Black coffee and blueberry pie,” Dean said, flashing her a brilliant grin, even though she was old enough to be his mother.
“I’ll have water and wheat toast,” Castiel requested with more reserve.
Marge nodded and took their orders back to the kitchen, and Dean turned to give Cas a disgusted look. “Water and toast? What’s next, salad?” He said the word the way that most people would say ‘genocide.’ “You’re as bad as Sammy…health nut.”
Castiel shrugged, not taking his eyes off of Dean. He was grateful for the change of subject. “I work a sedentary job…not much opportunity to exercise.”
A pause. “Also, Anna sent me a batch of cookies, and I might have…eaten them all.”
Dean smiled. “That’s more like it. I knew I liked you for a reason.”
There was an awkward moment then in which neither of them spoke, and Castiel was the one to study the orange linoleum. He was afraid to meet Dean’s eyes, because he knew that if he did, he might not be able to look away again. Damn him, but he was lost.
Finally, Dean said something casual, completely unrelated, and it was enough to ease the tension and spark a conversation that lasted well past coffee and pie. Dean was energetic and lovely to Castiel’s solemnly composed, but the dynamic worked, and he desperately tried to ignore the fact that they were talking more like old friends than a doctor and a client.
But then again, he’d rather thrown any attempts at professionalism by the wayside at that point, already.
It couldn’t have been more than two hours to sunrise when Castiel sneakily paid the bill while Dean was in the bathroom. He left a generous tip for Marge, then met Dean at the door.
“The bill?” he asked.
“I already took care of it,” Castiel assured him, making Dean frown.
“Man, what did you do that for? I’m the one dragging you out of bed at ungodly hours.”
“I’m…happy to help,” he answered awkwardly, looking down. Dean let the subject drop and they went back to the car.
Castiel drove Dean back in silence, only speaking when he turned into the parking lot.
“And you’ll be alright for the rest of the night?”
“I. Uh. I think I’ll live.” He glanced at the dash clock. “Fuck. Besides, I have to be at work in all of three and a half hours.”
“Then I won’t keep you any longer,” Castiel said, pulling to a stop near where the Impala was parked. Dean nodded and opened the door, but Castiel stopped him.
“Wait, Dean. There is one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
He hesitated, suddenly unsure of what to say without saying too much, or not enough. “I’m glad you called, rather than suffering alone.”
Dean smiled then, beautifully backlit by the streetlight, quicksilver around the edges. He wanted to move, to touch him. But he moved, and the illusion shattered.
“Thank you.” A hesitation, and Dean looked down quickly. “This is really weird and most likely a total breach of ethics or whatever, but you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Their eyes met in the darkness for what felt like an eternity, and Castiel’s throat forgot how to work, his voice lost in the held silence. And then Dean was opening the door, all but fleeing the car, leaving Castiel both disappointed and relieved that he hadn’t had to reply to that. It was probably a good thing, though. He didn’t have the slightest idea how to respond, that hadn’t involved dragging the man forward into a kiss. He flushed, embarrassed.
He was dreadfully certain of one thing, though. Friendship wasn’t all he wanted from Dean. He had teetered off the edge of that cliff, and the wind was ripping at him, tearing him apart, exposing him. It was terrifying, it was exhilarating.
It was the first time he’d really wanted to be with another person in eight years.
And of course, he would be the one person he could never have.
10. No rush of light, no sign of belonging
“Congratulations, Dean.” Castiel said as Dean opened the door to his office.
“What? Why?”
“You’ve been sober for three months, today.”
“Oh,” he said, taking his customary chair. “Um, that’s cool, I guess.”
Castiel nodded seriously. “It’s excellent progress. Especially since you’ve been coping largely on your own.”
Dean still wasn’t sure what Castiel was getting at. “Yeah, that twelve-step shit isn’t for me. I don’t do that sharing and caring crap with strangers.”
The smile that touched Castiel’s face then was so miniscule that Dean would have missed it had he blinked. Right. Cas had been a complete stranger when Dean had started seeing him. He thought of how standoffish he’d been four months ago and cringed inwardly.
“Be that as it may,” Castiel said, snapping him out of his thoughts, “It is a milestone, and I think it would be acceptable for you to cut down to one session a week, at this point.”
Dean had to fight hard to keep his dismay from showing on his face. He’d never, never carried a torch for anyone like he was for Cas, but he didn’t delude himself into thinking that the man would want anything to do with him once he was all cured and sober. He didn’t want to lose him, but he couldn’t think of anything to do other than start drinking again, and he wasn’t going to do that. Not again.
But he must have shown something, or Cas really could read his mind (a terrifying idea) the way that soul-searching stare suggested he could.
“This is a good thing, Dean. You will have more time for your job, and, of course, I am always on call if you need me between Tuesdays.”
He relaxed. Without saying it, Castiel had managed to tell him that he wasn’t being cut out of his life, that this really was meant as a…reward, or something. Something positive, at least. Dean wasn’t sure Cas had a malicious bone in his body. Severe, yes. Blunt, almost painfully so. Honest, very painfully so. But he didn’t say things for the purpose of hurting anyone.
“Alright. I guess that is a good thing. Bobby has been complaining about me having to take off early twice a week.” He was exaggerating. Bobby had made some gruff comment about it, but when Dean tried to apologize, he had cut him off, called him an idjit, and told him to take all the time he needed so he didn’t become a mean old drunk like his father.
Ouch. Right in the festering wound. Right where he had needed it, too. Working through his life with Cas, Dean was starting to realize how many of his problems were rooted in his relationship with his dad. And then he had gotten angry. Angry at the childhood he had been denied. It had been quickly followed by guilt, thinking of his dad that way, when his dad had died to make sure that he would survive that wreck. But after that, he had realized that just about everything had been because of his crazy revenge plot, and the anger had returned. And the anger felt good. And that brought on the guilt.
It was a complex, fucked-up mess. But he was sorting through it with Cas. It was like…his issues were a big tangled up ball of yarn, but Cas knew exactly which string to pull and make the whole damn thing unravel. Dean didn’t know what he’d do without him, at this point. Shit made sense when Cas was around.
He was in deep, and he knew it. It wasn’t enough for the guy to be sinfully gorgeous, but he also had to be smart and understanding and he really got Dean and didn’t belittle him or make him feel stupid, or…
“…Dean. Dean? Are you there?” Castiel was saying, and he realized that he’d gotten lost in his own thoughts.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Distracted.”
“This is rather sudden. I apologize,” Castiel said, and damn it but he actually looked sincere. Dean had always thought shrinks were money-mongering dicks, but he guessed Cas was just the exception to that rule.
“Nah, I mean, like you said, it’s good. Progress and all,” he dissembled with a shrug.
Castiel, as usual, saw straight through him. “You know that this doesn’t mean that everything is perfect now, right?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, I know. It’s still…an everyday thing.”
“I understand,” he said with a slow nod, and it didn’t ring hollow to Dean. Cas really did understand.
“Will it ever go away, Cas?” he asked quietly, hesitantly meeting that constant blue stare.
He considered for a long moment before answering. “No, Dean. I’m afraid it won’t…addiction can be a lifelong thing, and I believe that you’re genetically predisposed to alcoholism to begin with. But there are ways of managing it.”
“Like what?”
He sighed, eyes shifting. “I’m supposed to tell you that you should live a happy, sober life for your own sake, but in reality, I don’t know if that works the way the pamphlet writers say it does.”
Dean blinked, surprised by that answer. But he had a feeling that he knew why. “How do you do it?” he asked.
“I found something to live for.” And that did ring hollow.
“And it’s talking people out of the same situation you were in? Isn’t that a little morbid and self-punishing, Cas?” Dean asked before he could really think about the words, and he cringed a bit as soon as they left his mouth.
But by the way Castiel flinched and looked away guiltily, he had hit the nail right on the head.
“What is it you really want to do?” was the next unthinking thing out of his mouth.
It was a while before Castiel answered. “I…ever since I was young, I wanted to be a research professor.”
“And yet you’re a shrink.”
“Counselor.”
“Nuance. Anyway, why? You’d be a great prof, why not go for it?”
Castiel shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “This is a good job…I am able to help people who truly need it.”
And yeah, Dean couldn’t really argue there. Cas had been paramount in getting him out of his own shitty situation. But still… “But you’re not happy.”
“And who really is?” Castiel said quickly, harshly. He paused to breathe, and continued more softly. “It’s enough. Dean…please, can we talk about something else?”
Dean actually kind of really wanted to press the issue, but he had a feeling that Cas would just shut down if he did, so he let it go, letting the conversation be guided into therapy-friendly waters for the rest of the hour. When it was over he experienced the now-familiar sensation of mixed relief and disappointment. Relief because he was done talking about his feelings, which, even after months of therapy, he didn’t have a taste for. And disappointment to be saying goodbye to Cas again. He hadn’t called him outside of work since that night, something which neither of them discussed after the fact. Dean had thought about it, but…the dude was busy. He had other clients, and better things to do other than wait on Dean and cater to his issues.
Distracted by such thoughts, he was halfway home before he remembered that he was supposed to meet Sam for dinner at some fancy place that served that organic shit he was into.
With a sigh of exasperation, he turned into a parking lot to go the other direction, and glumly prepared himself to endure his yearly salad. Or hummus. Or something equally healthy and offensive. He deserved it for letting Sam pick where they’d be eating. Then again, he was getting pretty sick of the bitchface number forty-seven, the look that Sam gave him whenever he suggested a burger joint or diner. Tonight he would instead receive bitchface number fifty-three, the look that said “don’t complain, you jerk, you’re making a scene.” Or something to that effect.
He pulled into the parking lot and, fuck it if he couldn’t even pronounce the name of the damn place. Still, he tried to look on the bright side: he hadn’t seen Sammy in a while, with the lawyer shit and all. He parked the Impala next to Sam’s Mustang, and grudgingly walked in to meet his brother.
He found Sam and the meal started off awkwardly when the waiter offered them both samples of the house wine, which made Sam clam up, but Dean laughed, and told the guy that he hadn’t been a wino even when he had been a drinker.
That made Sam laugh too, and got them talking about easier things for a while. Sam told him about the weird new intern at his law firm, Becky, and how she was a sweet girl but her really obvious crush on him was making him uncomfortable. Dean, in turn, told Sam about some of the shenanigans that had gone on at the garage.
When the food arrived though, they moved on to more serious topics.
“Have you heard from Ellen or Jo recently?” Dean asked over his disgustingly green plate. The Harvelle women were old, old friends and Ellen’s bar had once been Dean’s favorite haunt.
“Yeah, and Ellen actually gave me a message for you. I may be paraphrasing but, it went something like, ‘just because you’re unofficially barred from The Roadhouse doesn’t mean you can’t pick up a phone and let me know how you’re doing every now and then.’” Dean smiled at Sam’s half-decent imitation of Ellen’s voice even as he shifted awkwardly. He really should have called instead of getting wrapped up in his own problems.
“So…how are things going?” Sam asked tentatively. Back when Dean had been living with Sam to ensure that he stayed sober, any mention of the drinking problem had been met with intense hostility.
But Dean had looked a lot of things over since then. “They’re going pretty well. Cas said that I don’t have to see him as often anymore…”
“That’s good, Dean. Really good.” The relief in his voice was apparent, and Dean felt a little guilty for having made his brother worry about him like that. He was supposed to be the one looking after Sammy, not the other way around.
“Yeah…three months sober today,” he announced with a smile, raising his water glass in a mock toast.
They turned to their food for a few minutes, and Dean mostly ate the chicken and croutons out of his Caesar salad. Sam’s voice was actually a welcome distraction when it came.
“So, the counseling is working. I mean, you’re actually talking to Doctor Novak?”
He swallowed the lettuce in his mouth, managing not to make a face, and washed it down with a swig of water before answering. “I. Well, yeah. Cas is a good guy. He actually really cares and all. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Cas?” Sam asked with a smirk.
Dean flushed, and hoped the restaurant’s atmospheric (see: pretentious) half-light kept his brother from noticing. He dissembled. “Yeah, well, he asked me not to call him Doctor Novak, and, well, Castiel is kind of a mouthful.”
“Sure,” he agreed conspiratorially, “But seriously. I’m glad you’re not keeping everything to yourself anymore.”
“Yeah,” Dean said somberly into his salad. “I’m not sure what I’d do without him, now.”
And suddenly he could hear the gears turning in Sam’s head as he mulled those words over, extracted deeper meaning from them in that lawyer-esque way of his. His voice was serious. “Wait, you actually like him? Like, like him like him?”
“Wait, what?” Dean said, trying to look cool and dismissive, and not like he was on the verge of panic. “Dude, I’m not gay.”
“Bi, whatever, Dean. You may remember that we spent each other’s pubescent years stuck in a car together. I’ve seen you check guys out. I’m not stupid,” Sam said, giving Dean bitchface number twenty-two.
“Yeah, yeah, shut up college boy. You’re still talking out of your ass.”
“No, I’m pretty sure. You’re totally defensive, and the nickname, and dude, you haven’t been out trolling for a one-night-stand in months.”
“Have you considered that the only reason for that is that I haven’t been to any bars? You know, where lonely, hot, drunk chicks congregate?”
“You picked up a girl in a library once. If you were looking for some tail, you’d find some.”
“I’m glad you have such faith in my sexual prowess. It’s flattering, in a really creepy way. So, what’s that about you finding that Becky kid writing a gay porn novel at work?” Dean asked, desperately trying to change the subject.
“Fanfiction, apparently, and no way, Dean. I’m not dropping the subject until you admit that you have a thing for your therapist,” Sam said, giving him bitchface number sixty-three, determined bitchface. There was no escaping that one.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine. I have a thing for my therapist. Happy?”
Sam did a happy dance in his chair, drawing strange looks from other patrons. “I knew it!”
“You basically forced me into saying that!” Dean protested.
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam automatically retorted, but sobered abruptly. “You know that you seriously, seriously can’t do anything about your mondo-crush on Cas, right? That’s unethical on about eight different levels.”
“Yeah, and illegal, too,” Dean grumbled.
“Wow, you like him enough to do actual research? Learning to use the internet for things other than porn? This must be a big deal. I almost wish he wasn’t your counselor.” Everything but the last statement was a joke.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean shrugged flippantly. “Even if he wasn’t, I’m still shit at relationships.”
“Only because you’ve never liked anyone enough to stick with them.”
“Or maybe it’s my commitment issues.”
“You have those?”
“Probably. Seems like everything else is wrong with me,” Dean said casually, but it took away whatever humor was left in the conversation. When he looked up, Sam was giving him the puppy dog eyes. He’d never been able to resist that damn face on his baby brother.
“It’s fine, Sam. I’m fine. Getting better every day. Look, I’m even eating a damn salad.”
Sam finally allowed the subject to change, then. “Yeah, I guess. So…speaking of relationships, I’m kind of seeing someone.”
Dean perked up. After Jess, Sam had stayed single for a long time. There had been the brief thing with Sarah, the girl from the art museum, and then Madison, who Sam had met at the library, both of them looking for some book about werewolves or something. But neither had stuck. Jess’ shadow had always been looming over them. Maybe Sammy was finally ready to move on. Dean was glad…he deserved to be happy.
“Oh yeah? Tell me about her.”
“Her name’s Ruby, and she’s a dancer.”
“Not a librarian or something? Doesn’t seem your type,” Dean said, not sure he approved. Sure, dancers were fine for him, but Sammy deserved a respectable woman. Not that a woman couldn’t be a dancer and respectable, but… Still, the idea was off-putting to Dean.
“No, she’s really cool, and funny. And you know what her hobby is? Knife-throwing. It’s seriously awesome. You should meet her sometime.”
And, shit, he had the excited puppy face on. Dean relented. “Yeah, I guess knife-throwing is pretty badass. I’d like to meet her.”
Sam smiled, openly and widely in a way that Dean had rarely seen since…Jess. He found that he was smiling back, if maybe not quite to the same degree.
11. No joy in building, love in the finishing
Dean did not like Ruby. He did not like her one bit. She was sneaky, conniving, and definitely, definitely dishonest.
Sam, on the other hand, was convinced that she could do no wrong. It was actually, really, literally sickening to him. Seeing the way Ruby went out and partied too hard, and, Dean was pretty sure, got hopped up on more than just booze, made him grind his teeth. If she got Sam into any of that shit there would be hell to answer for. One Winchester brother was already an addict, and they did not need to make it two-for-two.
The sad bit was, yeah, Ruby was hot, and that caustic sense of humor would have delighted Dean a year ago. Instead, he just found himself sickened by her. He wasn’t sure what made the difference-the sobering up, or the fact that maybe he was starting to really grow up.
Either way, he wasn’t particularly looking forward to having dinner with the two of them that evening. At least it was a Monday night-he could go complain to Cas about how horrible Ruby was the next afternoon. Castiel seemed to be on his side, said that Ruby displayed “enabling behavior” or something like that.
That was another thing he liked about Cas. Most people took one look at Dean and decided that he was an idiot that they needed to dumb down their speech for. Just because he hadn’t made it through high school didn’t actually make him stupid…and Cas was one of the few people that got that, and used million-dollar words casually, without even thinking about it. Dean had actually cracked his dictionary once or twice since meeting him.
He returned to the real world and frowned. He was thinking about the man way too much. Dean wasn’t having a crisis of sexuality in the normal way, exactly. Yeah, Cas was a man, and he got that. Yeah, he still wanted to do unmentionable things to his body; didn’t bother him overmuch. It was the fact that he was actually holding out for him. That he hadn’t even considered calling the hot waitress from the diner when she had slipped him her number a few nights previously.
He wasn’t pining. Dean Winchester did not pine. But he had always been shit at relationships, content to toot it and boot it, rather than the two-point-five kids and a dog family man type. Oh, sure, there had been the thing with Cassie, which had ended horribly, and the thing with Lisa, with whom he was still on speaking terms, though she had obviously moved on from him. But nothing serious. Nothing real. And he hadn’t ever wanted it.
Before.
He just gripped the steering wheel tighter and drove on, trying to let the sounds of Zeppelin block out all his thoughts, Ruby, Cas, everything. It failed. He had worked himself into a fairly foul mood by the time he pulled into the driveway of Sam’s small house.
He put on a smile for his brother, though he couldn’t keep it when he saw Ruby appear from around a corner. That made Sam put on bitchface number sixty-two, but Dean wasn’t overly concerned. Dean did not like Ruby. Sam knew it. Sam was convinced that he just needed to give her a chance. Dean was convinced that she was bad news. It left the brothers in a bit of a stalemate.
Ruby had a beer with her dinner, as she had the other times Dean had been around her. At first, Sam had asked her if she didn’t mind having something else, Dean was in recovery. But she had just laughed, and said something like, “You’re a big boy, right, Dean? You don’t mind, do you?”
Yes, he actually did mind a little bit, thank you very much. But mostly, he wanted to roundhouse-kick the condescension out of her, but he figured that was a one-way ticket to never having Sammy speak to him again. And that was one thing that he didn’t want to happen. Not again.
So he sat through a truly painful dinner, with Ruby practically in Sam’s lap, kissing him way too often and it was way more than he wanted to see, especially when his little brother was involved. But he grit his teeth and ate his overcooked lasagna.
Until it grew to be too much.
Using the bathroom as an escape, he said, “I’m gonna go throw up, you guys are making me sick.” And practically fled down the hall.
He alternated between pacing the short length of the room and bracing himself against the sink. Ruby was really pissing him off, and he was certain it wasn’t all overprotective big brother instinct. He really wanted a couple of drinks to calm him down…it hadn’t been this bad in weeks. It would be so easy to just leave, stop by a liquor store, and drink until he could pretend that Ruby didn’t exist and that his brother wasn’t a complete idiot.
No. No. Not again. He could call Cas. He should call Cas. His phone was in his hands before he could think, and he was scrolling through his contacts list, but he chickened out just before hitting call, locking the screen and replacing it in his pocket. He could handle this…Cas wouldn’t always be there as his crutch.
Instead, he took a deep breath, and steeled himself to endure the rest of the dinner, planning to leave the moment it was socially acceptable for him to do so. Leave and go home, without any stops on the way. Home. Straight home.
He was momentarily distracted by the sound of a voice coming from Sam’s bedroom, though, making him pause to listen.
“I know, baby, I know.” It was Ruby. God, was he listening in on something he really didn’t want to hear? Dean thought that Sam had more decency than that, but, Ruby was a terrible influence.
But then she spoke again. “I know. I wish I could dump the lawyer right now.”
Another moment of silence. “He doesn’t even have money…he’s practically broke paying off student loans!” Dean’s fists were clenched, and he wanted more than anything to burst in and demand to know what was going on, but he kept still. “I know…he must have something. I’ll get it for us…I just miss you, Lilith, baby.”
She kept talking, but Dean had heard enough. He stalked back down the hall to Sam, and said lowly, “We need to talk.”
“What’s this about?” Sam asked warily.
“Just…come outside.”
Haltingly, Sam followed Dean to the Impala, and they leaned against the hood while Dean tried to calm himself down.
“Dude, what’s up? You look like you’re about to explode.”
And then he did. “Ruby’s a cheating bitch and she’s using you.”
Sam glared. “Look, I know you don’t like her, but you have no right to be making things up like that-”
“I’m not making up shit. When I got out of the bathroom she was on the phone with someone named Lilith, saying how she missed her.”
“I know about Lilith. Ruby told me. She’s her ex.”
“Well, they’re pretty cozy, for being broken up,” Dean said with a snarl.
“If you have a problem with her being bi, that’s pretty fucking hypocritical of you-” Sam started, but Dean cut him off.
“I don’t care if she likes men, women, or five-legged wombats. She’s using you for your money.”
“That’s stupid and you know it. I don’t have any money!”
“You’re a hotshot lawyer, how was she supposed to know that? Doesn’t change the fact that she’s in it for the money. And I wouldn’t put it past her to steal from you.”
“Okay, Dean, you know what? I have put up with your hostility toward Ruby for the past month and I am sick of your attitude. You can get over it, or you can leave, because she makes me happy-or do you have a problem with that? Want little Sammy to be as miserable as you are?” Sam said, his voice quiet through the whole thing, but Dean was as floored as if he had shouted it all and punctuated it with a punch to the face.
To make things worse, Ruby chose that moment to come outside and smile widely at them, completely missing the tension between Dean and his brother.
“There you are! Sorry, that was my boss on the phone-he can be so demanding,” she said, and Dean practically saw red.
“Bullshit,” he spat at her, then turned to Sam. “See? She’s a lying, cheating bitch who’s completely using you.”
Sam opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and said quietly, “Dean, I think you should leave.”
“Yeah, I think I will,” he said, snatching his keys out of his pocket. “And maybe I’ll come back when you’ve come to your damn senses.”
“Have a nice life, then,” Sam shouted after him as Dean dropped into the driver’s seat of the Impala and slammed the door shut. He started her and pulled out into the street too quickly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.
Sam had always been Dean’s top priority in life-his brother was his reason for being sober.
He didn’t really think until he was back in the car after stopping, the brown bag in the front seat, the bottle of whiskey within calling to him like a lover.
And then the guilt hit him like a tidal wave, and he hunched over in his seat, miserable. It would be so easy to go drink away his problems, but he knew better, now…the comfortable haze didn’t fix anything. Still, anything to forget, just for tonight, just for a little while.
The only thing that stopped him from opening the bottle there and then was the absurdly vivid image of Castiel’s face that popped into his head, full of despair, disappointment. More than anything, he wanted to talk to him, needed it. Instead of reaching for the paper bag in the passenger seat, he retrieved his phone from his pocket with shaking hands.
It was dialing. He put it up to his ear, breathing harshly.
“Dean?” Cas finally said upon answering, and his voice, tinny over the phone, was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever heard.
“Cas,” he replied, voice thick. Now that he had him on the phone, Dean didn’t know what to say.
“Is something wrong?” Castiel asked after a short silence, and Dean’s eyes slid to the bag next to him.
“You could say that,” he said with a small, slightly hysterical laugh.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The voice was soft, calm, exactly what he needed to hear. Suddenly he ached just to be near Cas, as wrong as it was. But he needed him… His presence, like a soothing rain on fevered skin.
“I…not like this.” He paused, and almost backed out, but went on with it. “Are you busy…can I meet you somewhere?”
There was a silence that stretched almost too long, becoming brittle. “I’m at home. Is that okay, or would you prefer somewhere public?”
He drew in a breath, nerves fluttering amidst everything else. “What’s the address?”
Cas hesitated again before answering. “1455 Palo Santo Avenue. Do you need directions?”
“No, I know the area…I’ll be there soon,” he said, hands beginning to shake.
“Be careful,” Castiel said, and the line went dead.
12. I want to come close, I want to come closer
Castiel wasn’t pacing frantically when the knock on the door finally came. He had been sitting quietly at his kitchen table, going to pieces without moving a muscle.
For over half a year, now, he had been wringing his hands over the same problem, and he was beginning to worry that it was taking its toll on his sanity. So easily, he had let Dean break through the barriers he had spent so much of himself building. So when the rapping sounded on his front door, soft, tentative somehow, he closed his eyes for a long moment before going to answer. Because he knew now, that there was no point denying it anymore: he would always let Dean in.
He opened the door, and caught his breath. Backlit by the street lamps, Dean was beautiful, beautifully shattered, more broken than he had ever seen the man before.
“Dean,” he said, opening the door wider to allow him in.
“Cas,” he said, unmoving. Dean reached out a hand, like he was going to touch him, make sure that he was real, but he dropped the arm before he could, and shuffled into the house.
The lights were all off, leaving the house swathed in shadow, so he couldn’t read anything on Dean’s face, but he could infer from his posture and his harsh, too-fast breathing that everything was not okay.
“Please sit down,” Castiel requested softly, trying to put himself in counselor mode…that was why Dean had called him. He had needed someone to talk to, not someone stupidly in love with him.
Dean nodded and followed Castiel to his sparse living room, sinking down shakily onto the couch while Castiel turned on a lamp to chase the darkness away. And when he looked at Dean afterwards, broken didn’t begin to cover what he saw on his face.
“Would you like anything?” Castiel asked softly, gesturing toward the kitchen. Dean didn’t look up.
“No…No, I’m alright.” He shook his head a little too long.
“Are you, though?” Castiel asked, wanting more than anything to be able to do something about the way his eyes filled then, the deep, shuddering breath he took.
“No, Cas. I don’t think I am.” He closed his eyes, tightly, unnaturally still.
He deliberated for all of half a second before sitting on the couch next to Dean and setting a hand on his shoulder, imagining that he could feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing.
“You don’t have to hold it in, Dean. You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said softly, and didn’t miss the way Dean leaned in toward his touch, seeming desperate for any sort of closeness.
There was quiet, and Castiel despaired for a moment when it seemed like Dean was drawing into himself again, but then, like the tide surging forward, the dam broke, his face crumpled, and he leaned forward to cover his eyes with his hand, his shoulders shaking hard under Castiel’s touch.
When he spoke, his voice was thick, gruff. “Sam more or less told me to get out of his life.”
Castiel’s grip tightened instinctively and his mouth opened in a small frown. Dean had said, more than once, that everything he was doing, becoming a better man, was for Sam, because Sam deserved better than that. Castiel didn’t necessarily agree-he thought far too much of Dean for that, thought that he owed it to himself, but he had never said it. Still, he could fathom how deeply this must be hurting him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, angling himself toward Dean, and causing their knees to bump together.
He looked up, wrecked, eyes still shining brightly, and worked his throat, like he was trying to make the words form, and failing. But finally, they did, and Dean told him all about Ruby, and what he’d overheard on the phone. His tone fluctuated between broken and angry, fists clenching in his lap. Castiel felt his own anger rising, some for Sam, and how he was being used, but also at Sam, and entirely for Dean.
“…And so I ended up at a liquor store, with no idea what I was doing. I just wanted to forget…it hasn’t been this bad in so long, Cas, but, I guess it’s like what you said…Finding something to live for… and now I don’t have anyone.”
“That’s not true,” Castiel replied before he had a chance to really think about what was coming out of his mouth. He tried to fix it, “You have your coworkers…your boss obviously cares about you…”
“There’s you,” Dean said, cutting right to the heart of it.
Castiel hesitated. “There is me.”
“Sometimes I feel like you’re the only one here for me, Cas, even though I was just some guy that got assigned to you,” he said quietly, looking to the floor.
Castiel swallowed. He was definitely in dangerous territory, now. “You were never just an assignment to me, Dean.”
“A client then,” he said dismissively.
His breath caught. “More than that, too.”
Dean tensed, but didn’t look up. “Because you’ve been more than just a shrink to me, too. For a while, now.”
Castiel didn’t know what to say without giving up all the proprietary distance he’d tried so hard to keep all these months. But Dean was set on breaking through those walls, too.
“When I got into this, I expected to hate you, and all this feelings crap. And I did, for a long time. But you…you listened to me, to everything, all my sins, and you still decided I was worth something, and I don’t get that, Cas, but I can’t tell you what it means to me.” He did look up, then. “What you mean to me.”
And Castiel wasn’t so dense that he didn’t know exactly what Dean meant. If his life was a novel, he’d be thrilled that the man he loved returned his sentiments, but it was real life, and all it did was make rejecting him more painful for them both.
“Don’t…I can’t,” he said softly, finally dropping his hand from Dean’s shoulder. His eyes were squeezed shut so he couldn’t see the look on Dean’s face, the hurt, the inevitable betrayal he’d find there. He clenched his jaw against the pointless excuses that he wanted to come up with, but it wouldn’t do anything to lessen the damage. He only wished he could shut his ears, too.
“You…” for a moment, he sounded hopeful, almost awestruck. Then, so much more softly, “Why not, Cas?”
His jaw ached with the strain of keeping it shut, so when he spoke, it came out more harshly than he had intended it. “I really can’t…my job…”
“What if I stopped seeing you as a client?” he asked, desperately persistent.
“It’s wrong, Dean. I’m supposed to be your doctor, someone you can trust to do help you…you shouldn’t be worrying about me having…inappropriate feelings for you.”
“Why? I need you Cas,” he said, voice breaking.
“I just… It’s not right,” he said, weakly, wanting more than anything to give in.
He felt, more than heard Dean move, and he opened his eyes, finding the man shifting closer to him, leaning so close that all he would have to do would be to tilt his face up and their lips would be touching. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, met Dean’s eyes with a silent plea. He didn’t see it, though, eyes sliding shut before he tilted his face and moved in that last inch, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s mouth.
For a brief second, he responded, eyes closing as he gripped Dean’s forearm. Then, every doubt, every fear came rushing back into his mind, and he snapped his head back, breaking the contact.
“I-” he began, but Dean cut him off.
“If you don’t want this too, tell me to stop, Cas,” he said, barely above a whisper, unmoving. It would be so easy to give in, to finally taste those perfect lips, to know what he would look like with kiss-roughened lips and eyes half-lidded in pleasure. Castiel shivered, and almost, almost leaned into Dean, but the echo of his father’s voice sounded in his ear, guilt pouring over him like glacial ice.
“…stop,” he said, releasing his grip on Dean’s arm and leaning as far back as he could.
Dean took a deep breath, and simply said, “Okay, then.”
And before Castiel could really process what he was doing, Dean had stood up and all but fled the room. He heard the front door slam a moment later.
Castiel rested his head in his hands, wishing he could just go numb.
Part One | Part Three
9. The coiling wires, the shots collected
The nightmare came, as so many did, right in the middle of another dream. It had been peaceful, standing on a beach that felt like the edge of the world, looking out across the wide, blue ocean. The wind was gentle, the sun mild. He could have been the last man on Earth, but he didn’t feel alone.
Then, it changed, and the shots began to ring out. In a second, the waves were gone, and it was everywhere stinging sand and blistering sun, peppered with blast holes. And somehow he was still drowning in it, sinking into the sand as he tried to get away, bullets whipping past him left and right. But the worst was the booming, omniscient voice of God, calling down from an unforgiving sky, telling him of his failures. It sounded remarkably like his father.
Then, the beeping of a bomb began, and he cringed, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion-
And abruptly snapped awake. It wasn’t a bomb, but the shrill piping of his cell phone. He fumbled for it on the nightstand, and managed to flip it open just before it went to voicemail.
“H’lo?” he said, blinking the sleep from his eyes as his heart rate returned to normal.
“Cas?” A voice asked, rougher than usual, but still one he’d know anywhere.
“Dean,” he replied, more clearly. He sat up and turned the bedside lamp on.
“Shit, I woke you up. Fuck-I’m calling at one in the morning like a complete…”
“Dean, what’s wrong?”
“I…today’s the day dad died.” There was a moment of harsh breathing into the receiver. “I…tried doing what you said, taking my mind off it if I can’t work through it and all, but it didn’t work, and I don’t want to be alone and I didn’t know who else to call…”
“Where are you?” Castiel was asking, on his feet before he knew what he was doing.
“Home,” he answered.
“The address?” Castiel went on, pulling a pair of jeans and a tee shirt out of his dresser, holding the phone in the crook of his neck.
“Uhh…” Dean began questioningly, but then gave him the location. It wasn’t far.
“Good. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Okay…uhh…bye,” Dean said, puzzled, before hanging up. Castiel quickly donned the clothes and went to find his keys. He wasn’t an impulsive man, but he remembered all too well the night he had tried to end it all. He couldn’t get his mind out of the past, either, and he’d decided it would be easier to simply never have to remember again.
He didn’t want Dean to make the same mistake. Wouldn’t let him.
He was halfway to his car when he turned back to put on shoes. The delay made him question his actions. No, he really shouldn’t be going to pick up his client in the middle of the night, but Castiel was already damned, as far as he was concerned. It was worth it to cement his place in hell, as long as Dean Winchester was saved.
On the way to the apartment, he couldn’t help but wonder why it had been Dean’s first instinct to call him, instead of Sam.
He didn’t have much time to contemplate that, though, because he found Dean’s complex and pulled into the parking lot. He was waiting outside in track pants and a hoodie, leaning against the Impala. Castiel pulled up alongside it and Dean wordlessly got into the passenger seat of his Nissan.
They rode along for a few minutes in silence, the night holding a brittle quality. Finally, Dean broke it.
“I…Thanks for doing this, man. When I called you, I didn’t mean for you to come get me, I just…wanted to hear another voice, you know? But, this is even better, and…” He stopped, looking uncomfortably out the window.
There, in the dark, occasional streetlights providing intermittent flashes of illumination, it felt safe, and like it was finally time for the truth. “I understand what you’re going though, Dean. I…sympathize with your case more than anyone else I’ve talked to.”
“What do you mean? Is this some therapist ‘I understand your pain’ shit?” he asked lowly, sounding just a touch betrayed.
“That’s not what I mean. I actually know what it’s like to be in your situation.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was a junkie, Dean. For a while, after the war-anything to help me forget.”
There was a long, tense quiet. Then, a pained chuckle. “That…uh, that sounds familiar.”
Castiel didn’t laugh. “Yes,” he agreed.
Another pause. “So, where are we going?”
He blinked. He’d been aimlessly driving, hadn’t planned anything out past ‘Get Dean. Make sure Dean is okay.’
“Can you direct me to a 24-hour diner? As your doctor, I’m prescribing pie.”
The humor wasn’t lost on Dean, and he smiled, relaxing. “Cas, you are the best doctor ever, then.”
He followed Dean’s directions to a building that looked like a Denny’s converted into a baseball-themed diner. Deciding to trust Dean’s judgment on the place, he parked the car and got out, the other man following close behind. The tired-looking hostess directed them to take a seat wherever they liked, and by mutual agreement they selected a booth in the corner farthest from the door.
After a few moments spent looking over the dessert menu, Castiel asked softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Dean smiled weakly. “Not really. Now that we’re here, it all seems really lame.” He paused and looked at the eye-searing orange tabletop. “But I guess it’s really you. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I deserve to be saved.”
“I…It’s my job,” Castiel replied automatically, still hopelessly trying to salvage some professionalism in their relationship.
“You’ve done way more for me than you’ve had to, Cas…I barely pay you anything, but you’re here in the middle of the night.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t have a clue how to respond.
Luckily, the waitress-Marge, according to her nametag-saved him, swooping in with her notepad in hand. “What can I get you boys?” She asked perfunctorily.
“Black coffee and blueberry pie,” Dean said, flashing her a brilliant grin, even though she was old enough to be his mother.
“I’ll have water and wheat toast,” Castiel requested with more reserve.
Marge nodded and took their orders back to the kitchen, and Dean turned to give Cas a disgusted look. “Water and toast? What’s next, salad?” He said the word the way that most people would say ‘genocide.’ “You’re as bad as Sammy…health nut.”
Castiel shrugged, not taking his eyes off of Dean. He was grateful for the change of subject. “I work a sedentary job…not much opportunity to exercise.”
A pause. “Also, Anna sent me a batch of cookies, and I might have…eaten them all.”
Dean smiled. “That’s more like it. I knew I liked you for a reason.”
There was an awkward moment then in which neither of them spoke, and Castiel was the one to study the orange linoleum. He was afraid to meet Dean’s eyes, because he knew that if he did, he might not be able to look away again. Damn him, but he was lost.
Finally, Dean said something casual, completely unrelated, and it was enough to ease the tension and spark a conversation that lasted well past coffee and pie. Dean was energetic and lovely to Castiel’s solemnly composed, but the dynamic worked, and he desperately tried to ignore the fact that they were talking more like old friends than a doctor and a client.
But then again, he’d rather thrown any attempts at professionalism by the wayside at that point, already.
It couldn’t have been more than two hours to sunrise when Castiel sneakily paid the bill while Dean was in the bathroom. He left a generous tip for Marge, then met Dean at the door.
“The bill?” he asked.
“I already took care of it,” Castiel assured him, making Dean frown.
“Man, what did you do that for? I’m the one dragging you out of bed at ungodly hours.”
“I’m…happy to help,” he answered awkwardly, looking down. Dean let the subject drop and they went back to the car.
Castiel drove Dean back in silence, only speaking when he turned into the parking lot.
“And you’ll be alright for the rest of the night?”
“I. Uh. I think I’ll live.” He glanced at the dash clock. “Fuck. Besides, I have to be at work in all of three and a half hours.”
“Then I won’t keep you any longer,” Castiel said, pulling to a stop near where the Impala was parked. Dean nodded and opened the door, but Castiel stopped him.
“Wait, Dean. There is one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
He hesitated, suddenly unsure of what to say without saying too much, or not enough. “I’m glad you called, rather than suffering alone.”
Dean smiled then, beautifully backlit by the streetlight, quicksilver around the edges. He wanted to move, to touch him. But he moved, and the illusion shattered.
“Thank you.” A hesitation, and Dean looked down quickly. “This is really weird and most likely a total breach of ethics or whatever, but you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Their eyes met in the darkness for what felt like an eternity, and Castiel’s throat forgot how to work, his voice lost in the held silence. And then Dean was opening the door, all but fleeing the car, leaving Castiel both disappointed and relieved that he hadn’t had to reply to that. It was probably a good thing, though. He didn’t have the slightest idea how to respond, that hadn’t involved dragging the man forward into a kiss. He flushed, embarrassed.
He was dreadfully certain of one thing, though. Friendship wasn’t all he wanted from Dean. He had teetered off the edge of that cliff, and the wind was ripping at him, tearing him apart, exposing him. It was terrifying, it was exhilarating.
It was the first time he’d really wanted to be with another person in eight years.
And of course, he would be the one person he could never have.
10. No rush of light, no sign of belonging
“Congratulations, Dean.” Castiel said as Dean opened the door to his office.
“What? Why?”
“You’ve been sober for three months, today.”
“Oh,” he said, taking his customary chair. “Um, that’s cool, I guess.”
Castiel nodded seriously. “It’s excellent progress. Especially since you’ve been coping largely on your own.”
Dean still wasn’t sure what Castiel was getting at. “Yeah, that twelve-step shit isn’t for me. I don’t do that sharing and caring crap with strangers.”
The smile that touched Castiel’s face then was so miniscule that Dean would have missed it had he blinked. Right. Cas had been a complete stranger when Dean had started seeing him. He thought of how standoffish he’d been four months ago and cringed inwardly.
“Be that as it may,” Castiel said, snapping him out of his thoughts, “It is a milestone, and I think it would be acceptable for you to cut down to one session a week, at this point.”
Dean had to fight hard to keep his dismay from showing on his face. He’d never, never carried a torch for anyone like he was for Cas, but he didn’t delude himself into thinking that the man would want anything to do with him once he was all cured and sober. He didn’t want to lose him, but he couldn’t think of anything to do other than start drinking again, and he wasn’t going to do that. Not again.
But he must have shown something, or Cas really could read his mind (a terrifying idea) the way that soul-searching stare suggested he could.
“This is a good thing, Dean. You will have more time for your job, and, of course, I am always on call if you need me between Tuesdays.”
He relaxed. Without saying it, Castiel had managed to tell him that he wasn’t being cut out of his life, that this really was meant as a…reward, or something. Something positive, at least. Dean wasn’t sure Cas had a malicious bone in his body. Severe, yes. Blunt, almost painfully so. Honest, very painfully so. But he didn’t say things for the purpose of hurting anyone.
“Alright. I guess that is a good thing. Bobby has been complaining about me having to take off early twice a week.” He was exaggerating. Bobby had made some gruff comment about it, but when Dean tried to apologize, he had cut him off, called him an idjit, and told him to take all the time he needed so he didn’t become a mean old drunk like his father.
Ouch. Right in the festering wound. Right where he had needed it, too. Working through his life with Cas, Dean was starting to realize how many of his problems were rooted in his relationship with his dad. And then he had gotten angry. Angry at the childhood he had been denied. It had been quickly followed by guilt, thinking of his dad that way, when his dad had died to make sure that he would survive that wreck. But after that, he had realized that just about everything had been because of his crazy revenge plot, and the anger had returned. And the anger felt good. And that brought on the guilt.
It was a complex, fucked-up mess. But he was sorting through it with Cas. It was like…his issues were a big tangled up ball of yarn, but Cas knew exactly which string to pull and make the whole damn thing unravel. Dean didn’t know what he’d do without him, at this point. Shit made sense when Cas was around.
He was in deep, and he knew it. It wasn’t enough for the guy to be sinfully gorgeous, but he also had to be smart and understanding and he really got Dean and didn’t belittle him or make him feel stupid, or…
“…Dean. Dean? Are you there?” Castiel was saying, and he realized that he’d gotten lost in his own thoughts.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Distracted.”
“This is rather sudden. I apologize,” Castiel said, and damn it but he actually looked sincere. Dean had always thought shrinks were money-mongering dicks, but he guessed Cas was just the exception to that rule.
“Nah, I mean, like you said, it’s good. Progress and all,” he dissembled with a shrug.
Castiel, as usual, saw straight through him. “You know that this doesn’t mean that everything is perfect now, right?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, I know. It’s still…an everyday thing.”
“I understand,” he said with a slow nod, and it didn’t ring hollow to Dean. Cas really did understand.
“Will it ever go away, Cas?” he asked quietly, hesitantly meeting that constant blue stare.
He considered for a long moment before answering. “No, Dean. I’m afraid it won’t…addiction can be a lifelong thing, and I believe that you’re genetically predisposed to alcoholism to begin with. But there are ways of managing it.”
“Like what?”
He sighed, eyes shifting. “I’m supposed to tell you that you should live a happy, sober life for your own sake, but in reality, I don’t know if that works the way the pamphlet writers say it does.”
Dean blinked, surprised by that answer. But he had a feeling that he knew why. “How do you do it?” he asked.
“I found something to live for.” And that did ring hollow.
“And it’s talking people out of the same situation you were in? Isn’t that a little morbid and self-punishing, Cas?” Dean asked before he could really think about the words, and he cringed a bit as soon as they left his mouth.
But by the way Castiel flinched and looked away guiltily, he had hit the nail right on the head.
“What is it you really want to do?” was the next unthinking thing out of his mouth.
It was a while before Castiel answered. “I…ever since I was young, I wanted to be a research professor.”
“And yet you’re a shrink.”
“Counselor.”
“Nuance. Anyway, why? You’d be a great prof, why not go for it?”
Castiel shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “This is a good job…I am able to help people who truly need it.”
And yeah, Dean couldn’t really argue there. Cas had been paramount in getting him out of his own shitty situation. But still… “But you’re not happy.”
“And who really is?” Castiel said quickly, harshly. He paused to breathe, and continued more softly. “It’s enough. Dean…please, can we talk about something else?”
Dean actually kind of really wanted to press the issue, but he had a feeling that Cas would just shut down if he did, so he let it go, letting the conversation be guided into therapy-friendly waters for the rest of the hour. When it was over he experienced the now-familiar sensation of mixed relief and disappointment. Relief because he was done talking about his feelings, which, even after months of therapy, he didn’t have a taste for. And disappointment to be saying goodbye to Cas again. He hadn’t called him outside of work since that night, something which neither of them discussed after the fact. Dean had thought about it, but…the dude was busy. He had other clients, and better things to do other than wait on Dean and cater to his issues.
Distracted by such thoughts, he was halfway home before he remembered that he was supposed to meet Sam for dinner at some fancy place that served that organic shit he was into.
With a sigh of exasperation, he turned into a parking lot to go the other direction, and glumly prepared himself to endure his yearly salad. Or hummus. Or something equally healthy and offensive. He deserved it for letting Sam pick where they’d be eating. Then again, he was getting pretty sick of the bitchface number forty-seven, the look that Sam gave him whenever he suggested a burger joint or diner. Tonight he would instead receive bitchface number fifty-three, the look that said “don’t complain, you jerk, you’re making a scene.” Or something to that effect.
He pulled into the parking lot and, fuck it if he couldn’t even pronounce the name of the damn place. Still, he tried to look on the bright side: he hadn’t seen Sammy in a while, with the lawyer shit and all. He parked the Impala next to Sam’s Mustang, and grudgingly walked in to meet his brother.
He found Sam and the meal started off awkwardly when the waiter offered them both samples of the house wine, which made Sam clam up, but Dean laughed, and told the guy that he hadn’t been a wino even when he had been a drinker.
That made Sam laugh too, and got them talking about easier things for a while. Sam told him about the weird new intern at his law firm, Becky, and how she was a sweet girl but her really obvious crush on him was making him uncomfortable. Dean, in turn, told Sam about some of the shenanigans that had gone on at the garage.
When the food arrived though, they moved on to more serious topics.
“Have you heard from Ellen or Jo recently?” Dean asked over his disgustingly green plate. The Harvelle women were old, old friends and Ellen’s bar had once been Dean’s favorite haunt.
“Yeah, and Ellen actually gave me a message for you. I may be paraphrasing but, it went something like, ‘just because you’re unofficially barred from The Roadhouse doesn’t mean you can’t pick up a phone and let me know how you’re doing every now and then.’” Dean smiled at Sam’s half-decent imitation of Ellen’s voice even as he shifted awkwardly. He really should have called instead of getting wrapped up in his own problems.
“So…how are things going?” Sam asked tentatively. Back when Dean had been living with Sam to ensure that he stayed sober, any mention of the drinking problem had been met with intense hostility.
But Dean had looked a lot of things over since then. “They’re going pretty well. Cas said that I don’t have to see him as often anymore…”
“That’s good, Dean. Really good.” The relief in his voice was apparent, and Dean felt a little guilty for having made his brother worry about him like that. He was supposed to be the one looking after Sammy, not the other way around.
“Yeah…three months sober today,” he announced with a smile, raising his water glass in a mock toast.
They turned to their food for a few minutes, and Dean mostly ate the chicken and croutons out of his Caesar salad. Sam’s voice was actually a welcome distraction when it came.
“So, the counseling is working. I mean, you’re actually talking to Doctor Novak?”
He swallowed the lettuce in his mouth, managing not to make a face, and washed it down with a swig of water before answering. “I. Well, yeah. Cas is a good guy. He actually really cares and all. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Cas?” Sam asked with a smirk.
Dean flushed, and hoped the restaurant’s atmospheric (see: pretentious) half-light kept his brother from noticing. He dissembled. “Yeah, well, he asked me not to call him Doctor Novak, and, well, Castiel is kind of a mouthful.”
“Sure,” he agreed conspiratorially, “But seriously. I’m glad you’re not keeping everything to yourself anymore.”
“Yeah,” Dean said somberly into his salad. “I’m not sure what I’d do without him, now.”
And suddenly he could hear the gears turning in Sam’s head as he mulled those words over, extracted deeper meaning from them in that lawyer-esque way of his. His voice was serious. “Wait, you actually like him? Like, like him like him?”
“Wait, what?” Dean said, trying to look cool and dismissive, and not like he was on the verge of panic. “Dude, I’m not gay.”
“Bi, whatever, Dean. You may remember that we spent each other’s pubescent years stuck in a car together. I’ve seen you check guys out. I’m not stupid,” Sam said, giving Dean bitchface number twenty-two.
“Yeah, yeah, shut up college boy. You’re still talking out of your ass.”
“No, I’m pretty sure. You’re totally defensive, and the nickname, and dude, you haven’t been out trolling for a one-night-stand in months.”
“Have you considered that the only reason for that is that I haven’t been to any bars? You know, where lonely, hot, drunk chicks congregate?”
“You picked up a girl in a library once. If you were looking for some tail, you’d find some.”
“I’m glad you have such faith in my sexual prowess. It’s flattering, in a really creepy way. So, what’s that about you finding that Becky kid writing a gay porn novel at work?” Dean asked, desperately trying to change the subject.
“Fanfiction, apparently, and no way, Dean. I’m not dropping the subject until you admit that you have a thing for your therapist,” Sam said, giving him bitchface number sixty-three, determined bitchface. There was no escaping that one.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine. I have a thing for my therapist. Happy?”
Sam did a happy dance in his chair, drawing strange looks from other patrons. “I knew it!”
“You basically forced me into saying that!” Dean protested.
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam automatically retorted, but sobered abruptly. “You know that you seriously, seriously can’t do anything about your mondo-crush on Cas, right? That’s unethical on about eight different levels.”
“Yeah, and illegal, too,” Dean grumbled.
“Wow, you like him enough to do actual research? Learning to use the internet for things other than porn? This must be a big deal. I almost wish he wasn’t your counselor.” Everything but the last statement was a joke.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean shrugged flippantly. “Even if he wasn’t, I’m still shit at relationships.”
“Only because you’ve never liked anyone enough to stick with them.”
“Or maybe it’s my commitment issues.”
“You have those?”
“Probably. Seems like everything else is wrong with me,” Dean said casually, but it took away whatever humor was left in the conversation. When he looked up, Sam was giving him the puppy dog eyes. He’d never been able to resist that damn face on his baby brother.
“It’s fine, Sam. I’m fine. Getting better every day. Look, I’m even eating a damn salad.”
Sam finally allowed the subject to change, then. “Yeah, I guess. So…speaking of relationships, I’m kind of seeing someone.”
Dean perked up. After Jess, Sam had stayed single for a long time. There had been the brief thing with Sarah, the girl from the art museum, and then Madison, who Sam had met at the library, both of them looking for some book about werewolves or something. But neither had stuck. Jess’ shadow had always been looming over them. Maybe Sammy was finally ready to move on. Dean was glad…he deserved to be happy.
“Oh yeah? Tell me about her.”
“Her name’s Ruby, and she’s a dancer.”
“Not a librarian or something? Doesn’t seem your type,” Dean said, not sure he approved. Sure, dancers were fine for him, but Sammy deserved a respectable woman. Not that a woman couldn’t be a dancer and respectable, but… Still, the idea was off-putting to Dean.
“No, she’s really cool, and funny. And you know what her hobby is? Knife-throwing. It’s seriously awesome. You should meet her sometime.”
And, shit, he had the excited puppy face on. Dean relented. “Yeah, I guess knife-throwing is pretty badass. I’d like to meet her.”
Sam smiled, openly and widely in a way that Dean had rarely seen since…Jess. He found that he was smiling back, if maybe not quite to the same degree.
11. No joy in building, love in the finishing
Dean did not like Ruby. He did not like her one bit. She was sneaky, conniving, and definitely, definitely dishonest.
Sam, on the other hand, was convinced that she could do no wrong. It was actually, really, literally sickening to him. Seeing the way Ruby went out and partied too hard, and, Dean was pretty sure, got hopped up on more than just booze, made him grind his teeth. If she got Sam into any of that shit there would be hell to answer for. One Winchester brother was already an addict, and they did not need to make it two-for-two.
The sad bit was, yeah, Ruby was hot, and that caustic sense of humor would have delighted Dean a year ago. Instead, he just found himself sickened by her. He wasn’t sure what made the difference-the sobering up, or the fact that maybe he was starting to really grow up.
Either way, he wasn’t particularly looking forward to having dinner with the two of them that evening. At least it was a Monday night-he could go complain to Cas about how horrible Ruby was the next afternoon. Castiel seemed to be on his side, said that Ruby displayed “enabling behavior” or something like that.
That was another thing he liked about Cas. Most people took one look at Dean and decided that he was an idiot that they needed to dumb down their speech for. Just because he hadn’t made it through high school didn’t actually make him stupid…and Cas was one of the few people that got that, and used million-dollar words casually, without even thinking about it. Dean had actually cracked his dictionary once or twice since meeting him.
He returned to the real world and frowned. He was thinking about the man way too much. Dean wasn’t having a crisis of sexuality in the normal way, exactly. Yeah, Cas was a man, and he got that. Yeah, he still wanted to do unmentionable things to his body; didn’t bother him overmuch. It was the fact that he was actually holding out for him. That he hadn’t even considered calling the hot waitress from the diner when she had slipped him her number a few nights previously.
He wasn’t pining. Dean Winchester did not pine. But he had always been shit at relationships, content to toot it and boot it, rather than the two-point-five kids and a dog family man type. Oh, sure, there had been the thing with Cassie, which had ended horribly, and the thing with Lisa, with whom he was still on speaking terms, though she had obviously moved on from him. But nothing serious. Nothing real. And he hadn’t ever wanted it.
Before.
He just gripped the steering wheel tighter and drove on, trying to let the sounds of Zeppelin block out all his thoughts, Ruby, Cas, everything. It failed. He had worked himself into a fairly foul mood by the time he pulled into the driveway of Sam’s small house.
He put on a smile for his brother, though he couldn’t keep it when he saw Ruby appear from around a corner. That made Sam put on bitchface number sixty-two, but Dean wasn’t overly concerned. Dean did not like Ruby. Sam knew it. Sam was convinced that he just needed to give her a chance. Dean was convinced that she was bad news. It left the brothers in a bit of a stalemate.
Ruby had a beer with her dinner, as she had the other times Dean had been around her. At first, Sam had asked her if she didn’t mind having something else, Dean was in recovery. But she had just laughed, and said something like, “You’re a big boy, right, Dean? You don’t mind, do you?”
Yes, he actually did mind a little bit, thank you very much. But mostly, he wanted to roundhouse-kick the condescension out of her, but he figured that was a one-way ticket to never having Sammy speak to him again. And that was one thing that he didn’t want to happen. Not again.
So he sat through a truly painful dinner, with Ruby practically in Sam’s lap, kissing him way too often and it was way more than he wanted to see, especially when his little brother was involved. But he grit his teeth and ate his overcooked lasagna.
Until it grew to be too much.
Using the bathroom as an escape, he said, “I’m gonna go throw up, you guys are making me sick.” And practically fled down the hall.
He alternated between pacing the short length of the room and bracing himself against the sink. Ruby was really pissing him off, and he was certain it wasn’t all overprotective big brother instinct. He really wanted a couple of drinks to calm him down…it hadn’t been this bad in weeks. It would be so easy to just leave, stop by a liquor store, and drink until he could pretend that Ruby didn’t exist and that his brother wasn’t a complete idiot.
No. No. Not again. He could call Cas. He should call Cas. His phone was in his hands before he could think, and he was scrolling through his contacts list, but he chickened out just before hitting call, locking the screen and replacing it in his pocket. He could handle this…Cas wouldn’t always be there as his crutch.
Instead, he took a deep breath, and steeled himself to endure the rest of the dinner, planning to leave the moment it was socially acceptable for him to do so. Leave and go home, without any stops on the way. Home. Straight home.
He was momentarily distracted by the sound of a voice coming from Sam’s bedroom, though, making him pause to listen.
“I know, baby, I know.” It was Ruby. God, was he listening in on something he really didn’t want to hear? Dean thought that Sam had more decency than that, but, Ruby was a terrible influence.
But then she spoke again. “I know. I wish I could dump the lawyer right now.”
Another moment of silence. “He doesn’t even have money…he’s practically broke paying off student loans!” Dean’s fists were clenched, and he wanted more than anything to burst in and demand to know what was going on, but he kept still. “I know…he must have something. I’ll get it for us…I just miss you, Lilith, baby.”
She kept talking, but Dean had heard enough. He stalked back down the hall to Sam, and said lowly, “We need to talk.”
“What’s this about?” Sam asked warily.
“Just…come outside.”
Haltingly, Sam followed Dean to the Impala, and they leaned against the hood while Dean tried to calm himself down.
“Dude, what’s up? You look like you’re about to explode.”
And then he did. “Ruby’s a cheating bitch and she’s using you.”
Sam glared. “Look, I know you don’t like her, but you have no right to be making things up like that-”
“I’m not making up shit. When I got out of the bathroom she was on the phone with someone named Lilith, saying how she missed her.”
“I know about Lilith. Ruby told me. She’s her ex.”
“Well, they’re pretty cozy, for being broken up,” Dean said with a snarl.
“If you have a problem with her being bi, that’s pretty fucking hypocritical of you-” Sam started, but Dean cut him off.
“I don’t care if she likes men, women, or five-legged wombats. She’s using you for your money.”
“That’s stupid and you know it. I don’t have any money!”
“You’re a hotshot lawyer, how was she supposed to know that? Doesn’t change the fact that she’s in it for the money. And I wouldn’t put it past her to steal from you.”
“Okay, Dean, you know what? I have put up with your hostility toward Ruby for the past month and I am sick of your attitude. You can get over it, or you can leave, because she makes me happy-or do you have a problem with that? Want little Sammy to be as miserable as you are?” Sam said, his voice quiet through the whole thing, but Dean was as floored as if he had shouted it all and punctuated it with a punch to the face.
To make things worse, Ruby chose that moment to come outside and smile widely at them, completely missing the tension between Dean and his brother.
“There you are! Sorry, that was my boss on the phone-he can be so demanding,” she said, and Dean practically saw red.
“Bullshit,” he spat at her, then turned to Sam. “See? She’s a lying, cheating bitch who’s completely using you.”
Sam opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and said quietly, “Dean, I think you should leave.”
“Yeah, I think I will,” he said, snatching his keys out of his pocket. “And maybe I’ll come back when you’ve come to your damn senses.”
“Have a nice life, then,” Sam shouted after him as Dean dropped into the driver’s seat of the Impala and slammed the door shut. He started her and pulled out into the street too quickly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.
Sam had always been Dean’s top priority in life-his brother was his reason for being sober.
He didn’t really think until he was back in the car after stopping, the brown bag in the front seat, the bottle of whiskey within calling to him like a lover.
And then the guilt hit him like a tidal wave, and he hunched over in his seat, miserable. It would be so easy to go drink away his problems, but he knew better, now…the comfortable haze didn’t fix anything. Still, anything to forget, just for tonight, just for a little while.
The only thing that stopped him from opening the bottle there and then was the absurdly vivid image of Castiel’s face that popped into his head, full of despair, disappointment. More than anything, he wanted to talk to him, needed it. Instead of reaching for the paper bag in the passenger seat, he retrieved his phone from his pocket with shaking hands.
It was dialing. He put it up to his ear, breathing harshly.
“Dean?” Cas finally said upon answering, and his voice, tinny over the phone, was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever heard.
“Cas,” he replied, voice thick. Now that he had him on the phone, Dean didn’t know what to say.
“Is something wrong?” Castiel asked after a short silence, and Dean’s eyes slid to the bag next to him.
“You could say that,” he said with a small, slightly hysterical laugh.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The voice was soft, calm, exactly what he needed to hear. Suddenly he ached just to be near Cas, as wrong as it was. But he needed him… His presence, like a soothing rain on fevered skin.
“I…not like this.” He paused, and almost backed out, but went on with it. “Are you busy…can I meet you somewhere?”
There was a silence that stretched almost too long, becoming brittle. “I’m at home. Is that okay, or would you prefer somewhere public?”
He drew in a breath, nerves fluttering amidst everything else. “What’s the address?”
Cas hesitated again before answering. “1455 Palo Santo Avenue. Do you need directions?”
“No, I know the area…I’ll be there soon,” he said, hands beginning to shake.
“Be careful,” Castiel said, and the line went dead.
12. I want to come close, I want to come closer
Castiel wasn’t pacing frantically when the knock on the door finally came. He had been sitting quietly at his kitchen table, going to pieces without moving a muscle.
For over half a year, now, he had been wringing his hands over the same problem, and he was beginning to worry that it was taking its toll on his sanity. So easily, he had let Dean break through the barriers he had spent so much of himself building. So when the rapping sounded on his front door, soft, tentative somehow, he closed his eyes for a long moment before going to answer. Because he knew now, that there was no point denying it anymore: he would always let Dean in.
He opened the door, and caught his breath. Backlit by the street lamps, Dean was beautiful, beautifully shattered, more broken than he had ever seen the man before.
“Dean,” he said, opening the door wider to allow him in.
“Cas,” he said, unmoving. Dean reached out a hand, like he was going to touch him, make sure that he was real, but he dropped the arm before he could, and shuffled into the house.
The lights were all off, leaving the house swathed in shadow, so he couldn’t read anything on Dean’s face, but he could infer from his posture and his harsh, too-fast breathing that everything was not okay.
“Please sit down,” Castiel requested softly, trying to put himself in counselor mode…that was why Dean had called him. He had needed someone to talk to, not someone stupidly in love with him.
Dean nodded and followed Castiel to his sparse living room, sinking down shakily onto the couch while Castiel turned on a lamp to chase the darkness away. And when he looked at Dean afterwards, broken didn’t begin to cover what he saw on his face.
“Would you like anything?” Castiel asked softly, gesturing toward the kitchen. Dean didn’t look up.
“No…No, I’m alright.” He shook his head a little too long.
“Are you, though?” Castiel asked, wanting more than anything to be able to do something about the way his eyes filled then, the deep, shuddering breath he took.
“No, Cas. I don’t think I am.” He closed his eyes, tightly, unnaturally still.
He deliberated for all of half a second before sitting on the couch next to Dean and setting a hand on his shoulder, imagining that he could feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing.
“You don’t have to hold it in, Dean. You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said softly, and didn’t miss the way Dean leaned in toward his touch, seeming desperate for any sort of closeness.
There was quiet, and Castiel despaired for a moment when it seemed like Dean was drawing into himself again, but then, like the tide surging forward, the dam broke, his face crumpled, and he leaned forward to cover his eyes with his hand, his shoulders shaking hard under Castiel’s touch.
When he spoke, his voice was thick, gruff. “Sam more or less told me to get out of his life.”
Castiel’s grip tightened instinctively and his mouth opened in a small frown. Dean had said, more than once, that everything he was doing, becoming a better man, was for Sam, because Sam deserved better than that. Castiel didn’t necessarily agree-he thought far too much of Dean for that, thought that he owed it to himself, but he had never said it. Still, he could fathom how deeply this must be hurting him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, angling himself toward Dean, and causing their knees to bump together.
He looked up, wrecked, eyes still shining brightly, and worked his throat, like he was trying to make the words form, and failing. But finally, they did, and Dean told him all about Ruby, and what he’d overheard on the phone. His tone fluctuated between broken and angry, fists clenching in his lap. Castiel felt his own anger rising, some for Sam, and how he was being used, but also at Sam, and entirely for Dean.
“…And so I ended up at a liquor store, with no idea what I was doing. I just wanted to forget…it hasn’t been this bad in so long, Cas, but, I guess it’s like what you said…Finding something to live for… and now I don’t have anyone.”
“That’s not true,” Castiel replied before he had a chance to really think about what was coming out of his mouth. He tried to fix it, “You have your coworkers…your boss obviously cares about you…”
“There’s you,” Dean said, cutting right to the heart of it.
Castiel hesitated. “There is me.”
“Sometimes I feel like you’re the only one here for me, Cas, even though I was just some guy that got assigned to you,” he said quietly, looking to the floor.
Castiel swallowed. He was definitely in dangerous territory, now. “You were never just an assignment to me, Dean.”
“A client then,” he said dismissively.
His breath caught. “More than that, too.”
Dean tensed, but didn’t look up. “Because you’ve been more than just a shrink to me, too. For a while, now.”
Castiel didn’t know what to say without giving up all the proprietary distance he’d tried so hard to keep all these months. But Dean was set on breaking through those walls, too.
“When I got into this, I expected to hate you, and all this feelings crap. And I did, for a long time. But you…you listened to me, to everything, all my sins, and you still decided I was worth something, and I don’t get that, Cas, but I can’t tell you what it means to me.” He did look up, then. “What you mean to me.”
And Castiel wasn’t so dense that he didn’t know exactly what Dean meant. If his life was a novel, he’d be thrilled that the man he loved returned his sentiments, but it was real life, and all it did was make rejecting him more painful for them both.
“Don’t…I can’t,” he said softly, finally dropping his hand from Dean’s shoulder. His eyes were squeezed shut so he couldn’t see the look on Dean’s face, the hurt, the inevitable betrayal he’d find there. He clenched his jaw against the pointless excuses that he wanted to come up with, but it wouldn’t do anything to lessen the damage. He only wished he could shut his ears, too.
“You…” for a moment, he sounded hopeful, almost awestruck. Then, so much more softly, “Why not, Cas?”
His jaw ached with the strain of keeping it shut, so when he spoke, it came out more harshly than he had intended it. “I really can’t…my job…”
“What if I stopped seeing you as a client?” he asked, desperately persistent.
“It’s wrong, Dean. I’m supposed to be your doctor, someone you can trust to do help you…you shouldn’t be worrying about me having…inappropriate feelings for you.”
“Why? I need you Cas,” he said, voice breaking.
“I just… It’s not right,” he said, weakly, wanting more than anything to give in.
He felt, more than heard Dean move, and he opened his eyes, finding the man shifting closer to him, leaning so close that all he would have to do would be to tilt his face up and their lips would be touching. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, met Dean’s eyes with a silent plea. He didn’t see it, though, eyes sliding shut before he tilted his face and moved in that last inch, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s mouth.
For a brief second, he responded, eyes closing as he gripped Dean’s forearm. Then, every doubt, every fear came rushing back into his mind, and he snapped his head back, breaking the contact.
“I-” he began, but Dean cut him off.
“If you don’t want this too, tell me to stop, Cas,” he said, barely above a whisper, unmoving. It would be so easy to give in, to finally taste those perfect lips, to know what he would look like with kiss-roughened lips and eyes half-lidded in pleasure. Castiel shivered, and almost, almost leaned into Dean, but the echo of his father’s voice sounded in his ear, guilt pouring over him like glacial ice.
“…stop,” he said, releasing his grip on Dean’s arm and leaning as far back as he could.
Dean took a deep breath, and simply said, “Okay, then.”
And before Castiel could really process what he was doing, Dean had stood up and all but fled the room. He heard the front door slam a moment later.
Castiel rested his head in his hands, wishing he could just go numb.
Part One | Part Three