Better Odds
TITLE: Better Odds
RATING: PG? PG-13?
WORD COUNT: ~3300
FANDOM: Supernatural
CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Dean/Castiel (mostly pre-slash), Sam, Garth, Meg, and one other who I am keeping secret because it is a ~spoiler~ for this fic
SUMMARY: The obligatory post-7.17 fic.
WARNINGS: I feel like "Dean Winchester's inner monologue" needs to be a warning. (Mostly because it includes misogynistic language that does not reflect my own thoughts on these characters.) And my attempts at humor, sometimes.
NOTES: I tried to write really messed up dubcon with Lucifer as Dean, but that didn't work. I tried to write schmoopy Dean-saying-goodbye-to-Cas fic, but that didn't work. So instead I wrote this mish-mosh between angst and hope. Just as a note, this contains plot and reoccurring character spoilers for 7.18, but if you've seen the promo, you're good. Any mistakes are my own.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
They drive in silence the rest of the way, because there isn’t much to say right now. They crash in a crappy little motel, and Sam sleeps. For twenty-seven hours straight.
Dean only sleeps for the last two of those, and he doesn’t have pleasant dreams. It’s all cold, high laughter, and blots of red that spear out like a fucked-up sunbeam, a sunbeam that dunks him into ice water. It’s the knowledge that whatever was inside Sam for six months flattened Cas to the wall - and Dean remembers just raising an eyebrow at Sam and saying something stupid like good song when his brother pressed two fingers to his forehead and whined that Lucifer wouldn’t stop singing “Stairway to Heaven.”
Just once, Dean wants to realize he’s being an asshole when he actually is, not three days later.
Still, when he wakes up, Sam’s digging around his duffel. His hair’s wet from a shower, and he’s only wearing a plain black t-shirt and boxers, but it’s Sam. He’s not some soulless warrior who’d leave him to neck with a vampire, or a version of his brother with ugly, bloody palms because he has to keep opening up that awful cut.
Sam meets his eyes now. He shaved, and he can actually meet Dean’s eyes; there’s no Lucifer popping firecrackers in his brain, no hint of paranoia that Dean isn’t actually Dean at all but some illusion that’ll wrap his hands around Sam’s neck in a vice-grip -
Dean’s still about two-thirds asleep and honestly kind of smells like ass, but of course there’s a giant fucking hug. Of course.
*
They can’t find any info on Frank. Turns out, he used a different name with everyone he spoke to, and they find exactly eighty-seven different IDs around his trailer when they go back. They don’t even know what got him, because now there are fun black-eyed assholes to deal with again along with the black-blooded assholes.
If anyone would make it through getting captured by either Leviathan or demons or God only knows what, really, it’s probably Frank. Or Alan or Anthony or Craig or Marshall or Russ or whatever his real name was, if it was on any of those IDs at all. Dean knows that. Plus Frank was kind of a weirdo and a dick, like, even for a hunter he was bad, and Dean’d be lying if he said he ever liked talking to the guy. Still, he’s a tendril connecting them back to Bobby, and it got snapped now. Severed, easy and messy, like the blood splatter all over his trailer.
Dean’s just gone bitter and shitty about losing everyone.
*
Garth, of all people, calls them freaking out about this problem in a nearby town. It’s a shojo, which - not good, or anything, but compared to the other shit they’re dealing with is pretty small fries. The ugly-ass thing looks like the chick from The Grudge, and not even the Japanese version but the shitty American one.
They just gotta get drunk to see it, is the only catch.
Garth goes all wobbly and giggly - God, how did Dean even do a case with this guy - after like three beers. Sam takes maybe three more, and Dean’s embarrassed for him too because he’s his brother and John Winchester’s son and a gigantor man to boot. A six-pack shouldn’t half-flatten the guy.
So Garth and Sam just watch Dean suck down shots and - at some point shot-gunning seemed like a fantastic idea. They’ve got the slack, unhidden expressions of the drunk, and they’re horrified. At him.
“What,” he slurs out, tossing a can of PBR - really? - into a pile with the others.
Of course, the bitch picks that moment to show up, screeching and hair flaring out and everything. Dean absolutely does not make a noise that’s only second in extreme pussiness to the time he saw that cat when he was under a fear spell. Garth clutches at his stomach.
Sam just exaggeratedly offers up Bitchface #17, Well Fine I Guess I Gotta Do Everything Around Here Not Like I Did All The Research Too Or Anything, and yanks the sword into her gut.
“Uh, thanks,” Dean grumbles to the shojo’s corpse. Garth can’t say anything at all, and his face has gone paler than even hers.
It only occurs to Dean that maybe he had too much when he realizes Sam’s got one hand around his shoulder, holding him up and guiding him back to the car, and the other one’s batting away Bobby’s flask from his hand. “Dean, you gotta stop,” Sam breathes.
“I don’t,” he grunts, and he’s absolutely not pouting. “I don’t cuz it sucks.” He fumbles at his belt for the flask again, but it’s gone. His stupid little sister probably took it away because he cares, or whatever girly shit. “Sucks that I don’t even know that Lisa and Ben’re alive and I do know Bobby’s dead and my baby’s probably all rusty ‘cuz of the snow and - fucking Cas -”
“Dean,” Sam slurs, and okay Sam’s not quite as bad as he is, but he’s still pretty gone. “Dean, you gotta stop, you’re - you’re talking about your friggin’ feelings, how much did you have -”
Dean shuts up. This’d be easier if he had like, four more cans of beer to occupy his mouth whenever that and his brain wouldn’t stop spilling out every thought he’d been battering down for months.
Garth strides next to them, sober now, face contorted in more exaggerated horror than when he faced down the shojo. This level of hunting is, like, probably not for him. Distantly, Dean wonders if the stupid-ass Ghostfacers survived - everything. Maybe he should hook him up with them. Yeah.
This crappy fucking rental car isn’t nearly as comfortable as his baby was, and Dean finds himself waking up two and a half hours later. He peels the jacket and plaid overshirt from his shoulders and punches them into some semblance of a pillow. He’s still kinda drunk, but it’s fuzzy drunk, numb, comfortable.
And of course Sam is frowning over him. It’s not even that exaggerated frown that makes him look like a moron. He just looks so sad.
“Garth went home,” Sam tells him. Dean makes a noise of acknowledgement and leans back, eyes closed. “Did you - mean all of that - I mean - Cas, you haven’t said anything about him since - I don’t even know what happened -”
“I will kill you, and I won’t even get life in jail because I will plead not guilty by reason of intoxication,” Dean hisses, eyes still shut. The last word comes out slurred, but he doesn’t give a fuck, and if Sam wants to offer some lawyer-speak in protest of that he thankfully doesn't. He passes out again right after that.
*
Fucking Cas.
It was verbal shorthand. Dean couldn’t stop being angry at the guy, but at the same time he’d forgiven him the second he’d shown up at Singer Salvage, matted with blood everywhere, and croaked that he needed some help. Everyone brushed Dean off, about everything, told him suck it up and deal with it and don’t you dare crack while we swing this hammer at your head, but not Cas, not even when Cas didn’t know he was Cas.
A tiny part of Dean always blindly believed Cas would come back somehow, even when Dean didn’t believe in anything, and then he was there, wearing dorky clothes that didn’t fit and not understanding sarcasm. Not Cas and more Cas than ever at once. And then he was really, really there, and okay, maybe Dean had thought about draping the trenchcoat around his shoulders a couple of dozen times but it was suddenly real. Though there was usually more kissing in his imagination, but okay, they could work on that.
And then he was gone again, and all Dean could do was shift his jaw and avoid the subject as much as possible. Fucking Cas. Guy came back twice in six months and disappeared about five minutes after that anew.
Actually, no - he didn’t disappear. That would’ve been better, the rush of wings and then nothing ever again, because Dean would’ve ached and hated it but Cas would’ve been alright. Cas could take care of himself, after all. No, Cas didn’t disappear. He got fangs and black veins sneaking up his neck instead, or screamed - Cas fucking screamed back at the hospital - when Dean tried to approach him. It’s like everything Dean ever feared about Cas got turned into a handy little demonstration; he really was another monster deep down, or Dean was going to hurt him too bad or let him down too much one day and he’d bolt.
Fucking Cas.
*
Sam pokes at some dubious-looking grapefruit, when he’s not pouting rather pathetically at Dean and then looking away half a second after Dean catches him. Dean should tell him to stop, but he can’t, not when the look on Sam’s face is sympathy and not the terror of knowing the world in front of him could shatter into the cage like it has been for the past couple of months. Instead, Dean preoccupies himself by making a mess of his mouth by slobbering all over a burrito - what, it’s 10:30, that’s totally lunch time, and this is greasy and good - hung over like he’s back in high school again. Honestly, this is a cute little diner, but neither one of them can appreciate it.
“Gotta take a leak,” Dean grunts. That earns him Bitchface #5, You Are So Gross I’m Totally Denying I’m Related To You If Anyone Asks Right Now.
The only place he’s going is in front of the diner, though, fishing out his cell phone and a business card. “Hi, can I speak to Nurse Masters?” he asks, as pleasantly as possible.
He hates this. He hates it so much. He hates that he can’t take part in this phone call without thinking of another one poisoned with the noise of Caleb choking on his own blood and Meg’s high, thin giggle. But he’s glad for her stupid voice this time, though, because it distracts him before he could start thinking about Jo too. “Heya, Dean-o,” she greets. “Got done tucking the little featherbrain in about an hour ago, actually.”
Another image, Meg with her gross demon tongue in Cas’ mouth and her hands inside his coat, pops into his mind. It’s unpleasant for another reason. “What -”
“He’s doing fine, you know, considering the fact that he’s got mold all over his shiny haloed grapefruit.” She laughs, and Dean shakes. “Actually asked me what ‘moves like Jagger’ means before he called me hellspawn. He’s talking? Means he’s pretty good. Your BF’s a feisty one.”
Dean takes a couple of seconds to parse what she said, and then - “Uh, excuse me, what are you saying -”
“I said BFF,” Meg trills back, smugly. Only, no, there was totally only one F in there the first time. Bitch.
*
They’re both doing research - Dick Roman made the cover of Time this week, again - when there’s a knock on the hotel room door. Dean takes his gun and a bright neon container of laundry detergent, and yes his life has gotten to this point, and goes to check the peephole.
It’s Daphne, wearing leggings and a long blouse and looking much younger than when he met her. Still. Great. He totally forgot about her through - everything - but fuck, she got screwed in this whole situation. “Dean?” she asks.
“Uh,” he calls through the door, because if he could avoid actually looking at her, that’d be fucking fantastic. “I - I’m sorry, Emmanuel healed my brother and then he just disappeared and I didn’t call because I didn’t know what to do, and -”
The door smacks open, and of course he’s gotta stare her in the face because why would anything ever go one hundred percent right. Only she looks different, tighter mouth, softer eyes. “Sorry about last time,” she’s saying, but not to him. To Sam. “Things were going a little - well, things were bad. You would know.” She nods to Dean. “Dean.”
There’s something formal in the way Daphne carries herself. Not formal, really - inhuman. Reacting by instinct, he all but tears the top off the laundry detergent and splashes it over her front.
Her only reaction is brushing off some of the suds and glaring at the giant blue splotch. “Thanks for that,” she hisses. “Kinda hurt you don’t recognize me, guys.”
It’s the tone of her voice, and the way she stands, and that apology to Sam - but no. It can’t be. “Anna?” She makes a little ta-da motion. “But I saw Michael -”
“Do the very painful angelic equivalent of sending me to my room to think about what I’d done,” she finishes. “Sam, I really am sorry. If either of you want to kick me out, I get it -”
“You married your brother?” Dean sputters out, because apparently that and noticing how he can totally see her bra now is how he manages shock. And he thought Becky and her legion of fangirls were bad.
Anna - Daphne, whoever - gives him this look that suggests he’s not even worth an eye-roll. “It was a front. We weren’t really married. I finally got away from Heaven once Michael got trapped in the cage and got myself straight, and I’ve been spending a very long time on the lam. Again. We just faked it because it went over way better, and honestly? He’s lucky I found him. Plus, people seemed to think it was a sweet story and not super creepy.”
Dean’s brow furrows. “You didn’t -”
“No.” She grins at that. “You should’ve seen your face, though. Totally thought about giving him one giant kiss of gratitude just to see your reaction.”
Dean doesn’t have any sort of comeback for that, so he just lets his mouth pop open and shut a few times and crosses his arms over his chest. He can friggin’ feel Sam’s smirk from here. “Were you watching Cas? He okay?” Sam is pretty understandably not launching forward to hug Anna or anything, but he seems fine for now.
Anna folds her arms, too. “My brother’s pretty tough. We - I don’t know how to fix him. I don’t. But there are ways out there, and he’s got you, Dean.”
He can only huff out a too-short laugh at that. Bullshit. Dean’s the guy who didn’t tear the world apart to find Cas after he sunk into that lake, just had him fall into his lap - and okay, that’s an image he doesn’t exactly mind, but doesn’t need right now either. Dean’s the guy who drove as fucking far away as he could from that hospital because he didn’t know how to deal with it.
“I mean it,” she continues. Dean has never gotten a straight answer on whether angels can openly read minds, or whether his thoughts are just particularly loud, but shit like that always freaks him out. “Why do you think he keeps coming back? It’s his connection to you. Soul to grace. God’s still MIA, he’s not doing it. What do you think a profound bond is?” Her eyes are bright and her voice almost too steady, like it’s something reverential.
“I think it sounds - ” He wants to say super gay, but really, like he can talk. Anna just gives him that look again, and it’s not the wrath he’s seen from other angels but it’s somehow worse. “Why are you here?”
“Wasn’t just the demons who started to sniff around Emmanuel. Got a call from one of Dick Roman’s associates who were so amazed at his gift. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I bet it’s not out of the goodness of their hearts, I’ll tell you that much.” She sighs. “I didn’t want to get you guys tangled up in this. Figured whatever you were dealing with was big enough, and I wasn’t even sure you’d want to see me. And I want to think I can handle it alone. I just think this’d be better with help.”
Dean starts to say something, but it’s Sam who answers, “Sure. Of course.” Cas and the other angels saved Dean because he was their Righteous Man, the one whose soul could handle the biggest archangel of all. But Sam, Sam who could look at an angel who killed him and so earnestly agree to help her. Dean didn’t care if all the angels snarled at the stupid demon blood that Sam never asked for and didn’t even have any more; he was the good one, the brighter one all along.
Anna half-smiles. “This would be easier with the other angel on Earth, you know.”
He hates it when other people are right about things he doesn’t want to face up to.
*
Dean didn’t really miss angel airlines, but he doesn’t mind how it cuts down on travel time. And yeah, he really doesn’t mind Anna’s ability to distract every one of the nurses so they can sneak Cas out. Then again, they were able to get Sam out before, and Meg was working for this place - seriously, what kind of fucking hospital is this?
“This isn’t funny,” Cas hisses to the air, tightly, as Dean steers him through the hallways. He’s still letting himself get pushed, despite his voice. Something in Cas’ skin is taut. Maybe it’s always like that - Dean doesn’t know, he didn’t really make a habit of touching him out of self-preservation or some shit - but it doesn’t seem natural. Even for an angel.
“It’s me, Cas,” is all Dean can say. “It really is, and Sam, and uh, Anna too, and it’s been a while - but not really, actually - just -” He shuts up, for the most part. “C’mon.”
Cas looks at him. He’s not screaming, now. It’s the same look he always used to give Dean, like he was the most infuriating thing Castiel had ever encountered in millions and millions of years of existence, and the most fucking fascinating too. “Why’d you come back,” he croaks out. “I deserved what I got -”
“Cas, man,” Dean gets out. “You - look, things are still pretty shitty. We got a lot to talk about. But…” He looks back and forth. Sam’s out front with Anna hustling Meg out; no one else is around. “You’re family, okay? And you didn’t deserve to die. Look, you told me once I deserved to be saved, when your whole douchebag family just wanted me out of Hell so Michael could ride my ass.” He’s still not sure he believes it, but it was a hot shock when Cas called him out on that shit the second they met. It still hits him every time he thinks about it. “You need that too, Cas. You really do.” He doesn’t even recognize his voice. Sounds like he took a goddamn cheese grater to it.
So, here they are. A high school dropout, an ex-blood junkie, Mr. Sorta Comatose, the demon Hell kicked out (who Dean still doesn’t trust very much, thank you), and the angel who bolted from Heaven. Team Free Will, just like old times. Just them against hordes of demons and the dark Leviathan threat.
Dean doesn’t feel too good about anything, ever. But as Cas reaches over and grabs his hand - and he could crush it to dust, he’s got the strength and probably has Lucifer trilling at him to do it, do it, do it in his ear, but it’s just palm to palm and fingers interlaced - he considers that honestly, he’s felt way shittier about the odds in the past.
RATING: PG? PG-13?
WORD COUNT: ~3300
FANDOM: Supernatural
CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Dean/Castiel (mostly pre-slash), Sam, Garth, Meg, and one other who I am keeping secret because it is a ~spoiler~ for this fic
SUMMARY: The obligatory post-7.17 fic.
WARNINGS: I feel like "Dean Winchester's inner monologue" needs to be a warning. (Mostly because it includes misogynistic language that does not reflect my own thoughts on these characters.) And my attempts at humor, sometimes.
NOTES: I tried to write really messed up dubcon with Lucifer as Dean, but that didn't work. I tried to write schmoopy Dean-saying-goodbye-to-Cas fic, but that didn't work. So instead I wrote this mish-mosh between angst and hope. Just as a note, this contains plot and reoccurring character spoilers for 7.18, but if you've seen the promo, you're good. Any mistakes are my own.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
They drive in silence the rest of the way, because there isn’t much to say right now. They crash in a crappy little motel, and Sam sleeps. For twenty-seven hours straight.
Dean only sleeps for the last two of those, and he doesn’t have pleasant dreams. It’s all cold, high laughter, and blots of red that spear out like a fucked-up sunbeam, a sunbeam that dunks him into ice water. It’s the knowledge that whatever was inside Sam for six months flattened Cas to the wall - and Dean remembers just raising an eyebrow at Sam and saying something stupid like good song when his brother pressed two fingers to his forehead and whined that Lucifer wouldn’t stop singing “Stairway to Heaven.”
Just once, Dean wants to realize he’s being an asshole when he actually is, not three days later.
Still, when he wakes up, Sam’s digging around his duffel. His hair’s wet from a shower, and he’s only wearing a plain black t-shirt and boxers, but it’s Sam. He’s not some soulless warrior who’d leave him to neck with a vampire, or a version of his brother with ugly, bloody palms because he has to keep opening up that awful cut.
Sam meets his eyes now. He shaved, and he can actually meet Dean’s eyes; there’s no Lucifer popping firecrackers in his brain, no hint of paranoia that Dean isn’t actually Dean at all but some illusion that’ll wrap his hands around Sam’s neck in a vice-grip -
Dean’s still about two-thirds asleep and honestly kind of smells like ass, but of course there’s a giant fucking hug. Of course.
*
They can’t find any info on Frank. Turns out, he used a different name with everyone he spoke to, and they find exactly eighty-seven different IDs around his trailer when they go back. They don’t even know what got him, because now there are fun black-eyed assholes to deal with again along with the black-blooded assholes.
If anyone would make it through getting captured by either Leviathan or demons or God only knows what, really, it’s probably Frank. Or Alan or Anthony or Craig or Marshall or Russ or whatever his real name was, if it was on any of those IDs at all. Dean knows that. Plus Frank was kind of a weirdo and a dick, like, even for a hunter he was bad, and Dean’d be lying if he said he ever liked talking to the guy. Still, he’s a tendril connecting them back to Bobby, and it got snapped now. Severed, easy and messy, like the blood splatter all over his trailer.
Dean’s just gone bitter and shitty about losing everyone.
*
Garth, of all people, calls them freaking out about this problem in a nearby town. It’s a shojo, which - not good, or anything, but compared to the other shit they’re dealing with is pretty small fries. The ugly-ass thing looks like the chick from The Grudge, and not even the Japanese version but the shitty American one.
They just gotta get drunk to see it, is the only catch.
Garth goes all wobbly and giggly - God, how did Dean even do a case with this guy - after like three beers. Sam takes maybe three more, and Dean’s embarrassed for him too because he’s his brother and John Winchester’s son and a gigantor man to boot. A six-pack shouldn’t half-flatten the guy.
So Garth and Sam just watch Dean suck down shots and - at some point shot-gunning seemed like a fantastic idea. They’ve got the slack, unhidden expressions of the drunk, and they’re horrified. At him.
“What,” he slurs out, tossing a can of PBR - really? - into a pile with the others.
Of course, the bitch picks that moment to show up, screeching and hair flaring out and everything. Dean absolutely does not make a noise that’s only second in extreme pussiness to the time he saw that cat when he was under a fear spell. Garth clutches at his stomach.
Sam just exaggeratedly offers up Bitchface #17, Well Fine I Guess I Gotta Do Everything Around Here Not Like I Did All The Research Too Or Anything, and yanks the sword into her gut.
“Uh, thanks,” Dean grumbles to the shojo’s corpse. Garth can’t say anything at all, and his face has gone paler than even hers.
It only occurs to Dean that maybe he had too much when he realizes Sam’s got one hand around his shoulder, holding him up and guiding him back to the car, and the other one’s batting away Bobby’s flask from his hand. “Dean, you gotta stop,” Sam breathes.
“I don’t,” he grunts, and he’s absolutely not pouting. “I don’t cuz it sucks.” He fumbles at his belt for the flask again, but it’s gone. His stupid little sister probably took it away because he cares, or whatever girly shit. “Sucks that I don’t even know that Lisa and Ben’re alive and I do know Bobby’s dead and my baby’s probably all rusty ‘cuz of the snow and - fucking Cas -”
“Dean,” Sam slurs, and okay Sam’s not quite as bad as he is, but he’s still pretty gone. “Dean, you gotta stop, you’re - you’re talking about your friggin’ feelings, how much did you have -”
Dean shuts up. This’d be easier if he had like, four more cans of beer to occupy his mouth whenever that and his brain wouldn’t stop spilling out every thought he’d been battering down for months.
Garth strides next to them, sober now, face contorted in more exaggerated horror than when he faced down the shojo. This level of hunting is, like, probably not for him. Distantly, Dean wonders if the stupid-ass Ghostfacers survived - everything. Maybe he should hook him up with them. Yeah.
This crappy fucking rental car isn’t nearly as comfortable as his baby was, and Dean finds himself waking up two and a half hours later. He peels the jacket and plaid overshirt from his shoulders and punches them into some semblance of a pillow. He’s still kinda drunk, but it’s fuzzy drunk, numb, comfortable.
And of course Sam is frowning over him. It’s not even that exaggerated frown that makes him look like a moron. He just looks so sad.
“Garth went home,” Sam tells him. Dean makes a noise of acknowledgement and leans back, eyes closed. “Did you - mean all of that - I mean - Cas, you haven’t said anything about him since - I don’t even know what happened -”
“I will kill you, and I won’t even get life in jail because I will plead not guilty by reason of intoxication,” Dean hisses, eyes still shut. The last word comes out slurred, but he doesn’t give a fuck, and if Sam wants to offer some lawyer-speak in protest of that he thankfully doesn't. He passes out again right after that.
*
Fucking Cas.
It was verbal shorthand. Dean couldn’t stop being angry at the guy, but at the same time he’d forgiven him the second he’d shown up at Singer Salvage, matted with blood everywhere, and croaked that he needed some help. Everyone brushed Dean off, about everything, told him suck it up and deal with it and don’t you dare crack while we swing this hammer at your head, but not Cas, not even when Cas didn’t know he was Cas.
A tiny part of Dean always blindly believed Cas would come back somehow, even when Dean didn’t believe in anything, and then he was there, wearing dorky clothes that didn’t fit and not understanding sarcasm. Not Cas and more Cas than ever at once. And then he was really, really there, and okay, maybe Dean had thought about draping the trenchcoat around his shoulders a couple of dozen times but it was suddenly real. Though there was usually more kissing in his imagination, but okay, they could work on that.
And then he was gone again, and all Dean could do was shift his jaw and avoid the subject as much as possible. Fucking Cas. Guy came back twice in six months and disappeared about five minutes after that anew.
Actually, no - he didn’t disappear. That would’ve been better, the rush of wings and then nothing ever again, because Dean would’ve ached and hated it but Cas would’ve been alright. Cas could take care of himself, after all. No, Cas didn’t disappear. He got fangs and black veins sneaking up his neck instead, or screamed - Cas fucking screamed back at the hospital - when Dean tried to approach him. It’s like everything Dean ever feared about Cas got turned into a handy little demonstration; he really was another monster deep down, or Dean was going to hurt him too bad or let him down too much one day and he’d bolt.
Fucking Cas.
*
Sam pokes at some dubious-looking grapefruit, when he’s not pouting rather pathetically at Dean and then looking away half a second after Dean catches him. Dean should tell him to stop, but he can’t, not when the look on Sam’s face is sympathy and not the terror of knowing the world in front of him could shatter into the cage like it has been for the past couple of months. Instead, Dean preoccupies himself by making a mess of his mouth by slobbering all over a burrito - what, it’s 10:30, that’s totally lunch time, and this is greasy and good - hung over like he’s back in high school again. Honestly, this is a cute little diner, but neither one of them can appreciate it.
“Gotta take a leak,” Dean grunts. That earns him Bitchface #5, You Are So Gross I’m Totally Denying I’m Related To You If Anyone Asks Right Now.
The only place he’s going is in front of the diner, though, fishing out his cell phone and a business card. “Hi, can I speak to Nurse Masters?” he asks, as pleasantly as possible.
He hates this. He hates it so much. He hates that he can’t take part in this phone call without thinking of another one poisoned with the noise of Caleb choking on his own blood and Meg’s high, thin giggle. But he’s glad for her stupid voice this time, though, because it distracts him before he could start thinking about Jo too. “Heya, Dean-o,” she greets. “Got done tucking the little featherbrain in about an hour ago, actually.”
Another image, Meg with her gross demon tongue in Cas’ mouth and her hands inside his coat, pops into his mind. It’s unpleasant for another reason. “What -”
“He’s doing fine, you know, considering the fact that he’s got mold all over his shiny haloed grapefruit.” She laughs, and Dean shakes. “Actually asked me what ‘moves like Jagger’ means before he called me hellspawn. He’s talking? Means he’s pretty good. Your BF’s a feisty one.”
Dean takes a couple of seconds to parse what she said, and then - “Uh, excuse me, what are you saying -”
“I said BFF,” Meg trills back, smugly. Only, no, there was totally only one F in there the first time. Bitch.
*
They’re both doing research - Dick Roman made the cover of Time this week, again - when there’s a knock on the hotel room door. Dean takes his gun and a bright neon container of laundry detergent, and yes his life has gotten to this point, and goes to check the peephole.
It’s Daphne, wearing leggings and a long blouse and looking much younger than when he met her. Still. Great. He totally forgot about her through - everything - but fuck, she got screwed in this whole situation. “Dean?” she asks.
“Uh,” he calls through the door, because if he could avoid actually looking at her, that’d be fucking fantastic. “I - I’m sorry, Emmanuel healed my brother and then he just disappeared and I didn’t call because I didn’t know what to do, and -”
The door smacks open, and of course he’s gotta stare her in the face because why would anything ever go one hundred percent right. Only she looks different, tighter mouth, softer eyes. “Sorry about last time,” she’s saying, but not to him. To Sam. “Things were going a little - well, things were bad. You would know.” She nods to Dean. “Dean.”
There’s something formal in the way Daphne carries herself. Not formal, really - inhuman. Reacting by instinct, he all but tears the top off the laundry detergent and splashes it over her front.
Her only reaction is brushing off some of the suds and glaring at the giant blue splotch. “Thanks for that,” she hisses. “Kinda hurt you don’t recognize me, guys.”
It’s the tone of her voice, and the way she stands, and that apology to Sam - but no. It can’t be. “Anna?” She makes a little ta-da motion. “But I saw Michael -”
“Do the very painful angelic equivalent of sending me to my room to think about what I’d done,” she finishes. “Sam, I really am sorry. If either of you want to kick me out, I get it -”
“You married your brother?” Dean sputters out, because apparently that and noticing how he can totally see her bra now is how he manages shock. And he thought Becky and her legion of fangirls were bad.
Anna - Daphne, whoever - gives him this look that suggests he’s not even worth an eye-roll. “It was a front. We weren’t really married. I finally got away from Heaven once Michael got trapped in the cage and got myself straight, and I’ve been spending a very long time on the lam. Again. We just faked it because it went over way better, and honestly? He’s lucky I found him. Plus, people seemed to think it was a sweet story and not super creepy.”
Dean’s brow furrows. “You didn’t -”
“No.” She grins at that. “You should’ve seen your face, though. Totally thought about giving him one giant kiss of gratitude just to see your reaction.”
Dean doesn’t have any sort of comeback for that, so he just lets his mouth pop open and shut a few times and crosses his arms over his chest. He can friggin’ feel Sam’s smirk from here. “Were you watching Cas? He okay?” Sam is pretty understandably not launching forward to hug Anna or anything, but he seems fine for now.
Anna folds her arms, too. “My brother’s pretty tough. We - I don’t know how to fix him. I don’t. But there are ways out there, and he’s got you, Dean.”
He can only huff out a too-short laugh at that. Bullshit. Dean’s the guy who didn’t tear the world apart to find Cas after he sunk into that lake, just had him fall into his lap - and okay, that’s an image he doesn’t exactly mind, but doesn’t need right now either. Dean’s the guy who drove as fucking far away as he could from that hospital because he didn’t know how to deal with it.
“I mean it,” she continues. Dean has never gotten a straight answer on whether angels can openly read minds, or whether his thoughts are just particularly loud, but shit like that always freaks him out. “Why do you think he keeps coming back? It’s his connection to you. Soul to grace. God’s still MIA, he’s not doing it. What do you think a profound bond is?” Her eyes are bright and her voice almost too steady, like it’s something reverential.
“I think it sounds - ” He wants to say super gay, but really, like he can talk. Anna just gives him that look again, and it’s not the wrath he’s seen from other angels but it’s somehow worse. “Why are you here?”
“Wasn’t just the demons who started to sniff around Emmanuel. Got a call from one of Dick Roman’s associates who were so amazed at his gift. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I bet it’s not out of the goodness of their hearts, I’ll tell you that much.” She sighs. “I didn’t want to get you guys tangled up in this. Figured whatever you were dealing with was big enough, and I wasn’t even sure you’d want to see me. And I want to think I can handle it alone. I just think this’d be better with help.”
Dean starts to say something, but it’s Sam who answers, “Sure. Of course.” Cas and the other angels saved Dean because he was their Righteous Man, the one whose soul could handle the biggest archangel of all. But Sam, Sam who could look at an angel who killed him and so earnestly agree to help her. Dean didn’t care if all the angels snarled at the stupid demon blood that Sam never asked for and didn’t even have any more; he was the good one, the brighter one all along.
Anna half-smiles. “This would be easier with the other angel on Earth, you know.”
He hates it when other people are right about things he doesn’t want to face up to.
*
Dean didn’t really miss angel airlines, but he doesn’t mind how it cuts down on travel time. And yeah, he really doesn’t mind Anna’s ability to distract every one of the nurses so they can sneak Cas out. Then again, they were able to get Sam out before, and Meg was working for this place - seriously, what kind of fucking hospital is this?
“This isn’t funny,” Cas hisses to the air, tightly, as Dean steers him through the hallways. He’s still letting himself get pushed, despite his voice. Something in Cas’ skin is taut. Maybe it’s always like that - Dean doesn’t know, he didn’t really make a habit of touching him out of self-preservation or some shit - but it doesn’t seem natural. Even for an angel.
“It’s me, Cas,” is all Dean can say. “It really is, and Sam, and uh, Anna too, and it’s been a while - but not really, actually - just -” He shuts up, for the most part. “C’mon.”
Cas looks at him. He’s not screaming, now. It’s the same look he always used to give Dean, like he was the most infuriating thing Castiel had ever encountered in millions and millions of years of existence, and the most fucking fascinating too. “Why’d you come back,” he croaks out. “I deserved what I got -”
“Cas, man,” Dean gets out. “You - look, things are still pretty shitty. We got a lot to talk about. But…” He looks back and forth. Sam’s out front with Anna hustling Meg out; no one else is around. “You’re family, okay? And you didn’t deserve to die. Look, you told me once I deserved to be saved, when your whole douchebag family just wanted me out of Hell so Michael could ride my ass.” He’s still not sure he believes it, but it was a hot shock when Cas called him out on that shit the second they met. It still hits him every time he thinks about it. “You need that too, Cas. You really do.” He doesn’t even recognize his voice. Sounds like he took a goddamn cheese grater to it.
So, here they are. A high school dropout, an ex-blood junkie, Mr. Sorta Comatose, the demon Hell kicked out (who Dean still doesn’t trust very much, thank you), and the angel who bolted from Heaven. Team Free Will, just like old times. Just them against hordes of demons and the dark Leviathan threat.
Dean doesn’t feel too good about anything, ever. But as Cas reaches over and grabs his hand - and he could crush it to dust, he’s got the strength and probably has Lucifer trilling at him to do it, do it, do it in his ear, but it’s just palm to palm and fingers interlaced - he considers that honestly, he’s felt way shittier about the odds in the past.