FIC: Let Them Seek Peace, Part 1/2 (Complete)
Okay! Tada! Fic is finished. I didn't realize it was gonna take two posts (stupid me) so then I kinda had a little freakout over how to split it up (Part 1 and Part 2? Should I put links in? etc) and I'm bad with links and LJcuts. So... yeah. Anyway! Done with the fic. I'm so not versed on html or the ins and outs of lj... so I apologize if I sound/look like a noob.
Anyway, here's the fic. *shrugs*
Title: Let Them Seek Peace, 1/2
Rating: R
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Bobby
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Word Count: 14,219
Summary: A fic in which Dean demands a post-apocalyptic vacation, Sam gets his hunt on, Bobby imparts some wisdom, and Castiel equates mortgages to demons.
Author's Notes: A HUGE thank you goes out to awesomepants87 for acting as beta :oD
Let Them Seek Peace
Over the past month, Dean has killed five witches, three banshees, one rougarou, and more demons than he can count. Not to mention the forty-two sets of bones he’s salted and burned, putting to rest the spirits the Apocalypse had raised, since it couldn’t let sleeping ghosts lie. Instead of life getting easier, the hunt becoming less-intense, his life has become even more hectic. Some days he wakes up, untangles himself from Castiel (who knew fallen angels could be so clingy while they slept?), glances over at Sam sprawled facedown in the bed next to his, and wonders if he’s going to wake up from this weird-ass dream and start searching for his missing dad again. Because he can’t quite believe this post-apocalyptic clean-up the three of them have been on for over a month is seriously his life.
Because obviously? So not what he expected from life after the Apocalypse.
Not that he really expected there to be life after the Apocalypse. But nobody could ever accuse Dean Winchester of not using what resources he was given, and as far as he was concerned, life and a second (or third, or fourth, or whatever count he was on) chance were pretty good resources to go off on.
But being the janitor for the mess the angels and demons left in the cafeteria after their little food fight was not on Dean’s 10 Jobs To Have Before I Die List. Not even close. Dean still didn’t know how he had managed to rattle off that inscription Sam had taught him as he faced Lucifer - fallen-angel-of-the-lord Lucifer, not whoever-vessel-Satan-was-possessing Lucifer, bright light and screeching sounds and everything - but he had. And Lucifer had been sent back to Hell. Over the next few days, they’d come to realize that whatever demons had escaped the angels’ wrath or refused to go back into Hell had to be taken care of. Not to mention the other creatures that Dean and Sam had been neglecting while they tried to stop the end of the world from happening. They didn’t really have a choice at that point, other than to act as clean-up crew.
Hunting, killing some evil sons of bitches, was what they did best. And they’d all taken it in stride. Sam had slipped back into the hunting mode easily enough. And Castiel… Well, Castiel had stayed. Dean still really didn’t know what to think of that. Sure, he and Cas had progressed to the more-than-just-friends kind of relationship that involved groping and kissing and fucking and - to Dean’s embarrassment - very manly cuddling. And if there was some whispered words in the dark that made Dean hold Castiel all the closer on the nights when they were too exhausted to do anything more than just fall asleep, well then, so be it. But Dean had hardly expected Castiel to give up Heaven, his Grace, his mojo, because of some manly cuddling and a preference for hunters with a propensity to shoot their mouth, and guns, off at anything supernatural that moved. But he had done just that. And when Castiel had appeared before Dean when the angels started zapping up to Heaven, leaving some very bewildered vessels behind, Castiel had done nothing but invade Dean’s personal space and nod once. And Dean had socked him in the jaw. Because no way was Cas supposed to give up Heaven for him.
Castiel had forgiven him, of course. And Sam had made himself scarce that night, and the next few nights after that, as Dean got used to the idea that Cas was not leaving, would not suddenly not be there when he woke up.
Because, yeah. Dean liked it when Castiel was there when he woke up.
Which was why, he supposed, he’d pulled a u-turn on Interstate-80 and announced they were going to Bobby’s for a vacation. Indefinitely, he’d said in response to Sam’s sputtered confusion.
“Are you insane?” Sam had turned towards him in the passenger’s seat, glancing from Dean to the road like there was some invisible force he couldn’t quite figure out that was pulling Dean in the wrong direction. “We have a hunt we need to get to. People will die, Dean, if we don’t go.”
Dean smirked. “Called Rufus this morning. He’s taking a bunch of hunters there even as we speak. Problem solved.” He looked at Sam, nodded at his open-mouthed silence. “You can thank me later.” Because, yeah, Dean was awesome.
Dean was also scared. Not that he wanted to admit that. But the day before, they’d faced an annoyingly difficult windigo that was too stubborn to die. They’d all come out of the hunt a little worse for wear after the run-in, but Castiel had come out worse than all three of them combined. It had taken all of Dean’s remaining strength to pull Castiel off the floor from where he was slumped against the wall. Castiel had tried to help, tried to “walk it off” as Dean suggested, but the gash across his temple and the six-inch long claw marks on his side were disorienting and painful. It was the first time Dean had had to stitch Castiel up, the first time he’d forced the angel to drink whiskey in order to dull the pain and make the fallen angel stop twitching under the needle and thread. And it had worked, but Castiel had become a little bit more than tipsy, and as Dean tried to usher a disoriented, pained, and drunk Castiel to bed, trying to fight off memories of a different Castiel who loved whiskey too much, he’d decided then and there they needed a break. If only to recoup, spend some time healing themselves instead of healing the world for once.
So far, things seemed to be going great.
Bobby had a fridge full of food, a house that was familiar and untouched by the Apocalypse (except for the thirty different versions of the Bible scattered across the livingroom), and the Bobby attitude that was just what they all needed to feel like nothing had changed and they could go back to normal again.
Whatever normal for a hunter was.
And Dean liked to think they were well on their way to that “normal” that wasn’t quite normal at all.
*****
On the fourth day of lounging around Bobby’s, fixing up the Impala, and stashing the various texts on angels and demons and the plethora of Bibles in the darkest recesses of Bobby’s bookshelves, Dean realized something wasn’t quite right.
Sam had been happy the first two days. Content on the third. On the fourth, he seemed downright irritated.
Dean walked in from the junkyard to find Sam slamming his laptop shut and jumping up to grab a book from one of the shelves Bobby had recently semi-straightened up.
“What’s eating you?” he asked, eying Sam as he stomped across the room.
Sam looked up as he settled onto the sofa, flipped open the book. It was old and big, and Dean felt his head starting to ache at the thought of getting back to research so soon.
“There are signs popping up around Rocksprings, Texas. I think it might be a succubi.” He glanced up at Dean before fixing his eyes back on the book. He stopped flipping pages after a moment, and Dean stepped up to him, glancing over the top of the book. He raised an eyebrow at the Latin text, the picture of a creature in the page’s margin that looked more like a snake than it did a person.
“Fascinating.”
“If we left tomorrow, we could get there in two days. One if we floor it.”
Dean tossed the rag he was still holding over his shoulder, picked at the oil spot on his t-shirt as he turned around and went to stand near Castiel, who was bent over one of the Bibles he’d rescued from the recesses of Bobby’s “Bible Dump,” as the hunter had dubbed it.
“Bobby knows some hunters near Asherton, Texas. It’s probably just a few towns over. They can go check it out.”
Dean was pretty sure the silence following his statement wasn’t a good thing.
His assumption was proved correct when he heard the slam of a book break that silence, followed by the creaking of floorboards as Sam stood up from the couch, stomped over to stand right behind Dean.
“What’s your problem?”
Dean turned around. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a case. A hunt. Evil creatures killing humans, Dean. We should be on the road, chasing them down. Staking and burning. It’s what we do. Why are we still here chilling out and,” he looked down, pointedly staring at the oil spattered over Dean’s shirt and arms, “fixing cars.”
“Hey, cars need to be fixed, Sam, incase you didn’t notice.”
“The world needs to be fixed, Dean. And we should be out there doing it.”
Dean’s jaw clamped shut. He felt Castiel stand up silently behind him, and narrowed his eyes at Sam.
“What are you idjits arguing about now?”
Sam and Dean turned in unison to stare at Bobby as he wheeled into the room, glaring from one brother to the next.
“You barge in here with no warning, start eating me out of house and home, and then disturb a quiet afternoon? What’s wrong with you two?”
“There’s a case in Rocksprings,” Sam says before Dean can open his mouth. “Texas. I think it might be succubi.”
Bobby’s face lost some of its tension. This was familiar territory; the research, the hunt. “I know some hunters in Asherton. I’ll call them up and tell them to check it out.”
“Ha!” Dean turned to Sam, letting a smirk slide onto his lips. “See. Problem solved.”
Sam shot Dean a glare before turning back to Bobby.
“We can check it out.”
“Whoa whoa, hold on a second, cowboy.” Dean took a step back from Sam. “What ‘we’? We’re staying here and recouping. You know, after a little thing called the Apocalypse.”
Sam turned to Dean again. “Yeah, because the rest of the world is recouping too, Dean? Brilliant plan.”
“Hey!” Bobby’s voice cut off whatever Dean was going to say next. “What the hell are these two yammering about?” Dean turned to see who Bobby was addressing, and found himself staring at a blank-faced Castiel.
“Sam wishes to continue the hunt,” Castiel said solemnly, like he was importing some task that had to be taken care of to one of his superiors. “Dean would rather stay here and… recoup. Regain strength before continuing the hunt.”
Dean narrowed his eyes, turned back to Bobby. He took an unconscious step back, shifting his shoulders. He hadn’t actually thought about going back on the hunt yet, not so soon, even though he knew he’d have to.
Bobby was silent for a good ten seconds before he burst out with, “That’s what you two are acting like an old married couple over? Get over it, you pansies.”
With that, he turned his wheelchair around and left the room. Leaving Dean and Sam to stare after him.
“I am not a pansy,” were the first words out of Dean’s mouth.
“Not all the time,” came Castiel’s voice. “But sometimes-”
Dean whirled around, a finger raised at the angel. “Shut it, chuckles.” But the corners of Castiel’s mouth were curved up, and Dean put his hand down, taking a deep breath before looking at Sam.
“We do need to head out eventually, Dean.” Sam sounded tired, weary, and Dean shifted his weight back, away from him. “We hunt. We fight. That’s what we do.” And he sounded like he was trying to convince himself of the fact as much as Dean. It struck Dean as strange that Sam might be feeling the weight of this clean-up project as much as he was. Only he wanted to push himself harder, instead of sit back for a moment and actually breathe without the smell of blood and sweat clinging to the air.
Dean clenched his jaw, nodded once. “I know. But we-" he stopped. What was he supposed to say? We need to recover? He’d already said that. ‘Til he was blue in the face. Wait until every other hunter took over clean-up duty from the Apocalypse? Not possible. Too many messes to clean-up. Stay put until Cas healed from his run-in with the windigo? True. But too sappy and worried for Dean to actually admit to. Dean sighed. “A week,” he said. Sam’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “A week and then we’ll head out again.”
“Seriously?” Sam’s face relaxed. “A week?” He paused. Then, “You’ve never sat still for a week before.” And Dean could hear the change, the slight teasing tone in his voice.
“Yeah, well, I make exceptions for after the Apocalypse. Post-Apocalyptic vacations should be a bit longer than most.”
Sam shook his head, but he turned without another word and went to sit back at his computer again, opening it up and waiting for it to reboot.
“But seriously, dude? Why the long break?”
Sam was staring at his computer screen, the light illuminating his face a strange tint of white-blue even with the afternoon sun filtering through the window. His tone was nonchalant, but Dean knew everything about Sam. Well, mostly everything. He knew how to read him, and he knew when he was annoyed, concerned, bitchy, or just plain pissed. And this was Sam being concerned.
Dean shifted on his feet, looked at Castiel for something, anything, but all he got back was a stare that said, “You knew you were going to have to explain yourself at some point.”
But how was Dean supposed to explain to Sam, to anyone, that he was tired. That saying that incantation to Lucifer’s face while the devil went all angel and white and awesome in front of him took a lot more out of him than he’d like to admit, that he’d felt shaken and cold for a week afterward. How was he supposed to admit that stitching Cas up had been one of the worst things he’d had to do for five freakin’ years (Hell aside), because it had proved that Cas was almost completely human now and just as vulnerable as the two of them. And he was the cause of it. That burning and killing and hunting were making him wish he could just lie down and sleep and not dream for years the more and more he did them.
Bobby’s house was safe. Was as much of a home as the Impala was. And it was nice to wake up in the morning in clean sheets with Castiel curled around his back. It was nice to walk downstairs after a shower to the smell of burning toast and pancakes and coffee. It was nice to laze about the house, watch a movie or sit and stare at the wall while Bobby and Sam and Cas read their selected reading material for the night. And it was nice to actually have a book forced into his hand by Castiel and realize that he actually liked reading Dickens.
“Because the Impala needed some tuning up, and it’s easier to mooch off Bobby than it is to buy everything from some sketch garage on some back road,” he said.
Sam did look up then, a look of surprise on his face. Dean turned away from him, to Castiel, and opened his mouth to suggest something, anything. Like maybe making sandwiches or finding some beer or maybe even teaching Cas how to change a tire. But the look on Castiel’s face forced Dean into silence again. Castiel’s brow was furrowed just slightly, his head tilted to the left, like he was trying to figure Dean out. Like he was a puzzle that was just a little bit too complicated for anyone to solve, even an ex-angel of the Lord. But there was also concern in Castiel’s eyes, worry, and Dean hated that. Hated that he needed someone, Castiel especially, to be worried over him.
Dean cleared his throat, broke Castiel’s stare and let his gaze wander. It settled on Castiel’s side, where he knew the stitches were still working their magic on the claw marks on Castiel’s flesh. Castiel had abandoned the work pants and dress shirts when Dean had explained jeans and t-shirts were easier to wash and dry than a suit, especially when the job usually entailed sweat, blood, and dirt. Castiel was wearing a blue t-shirt Dean had picked up for him at the closest Wal-Mart a week after Castiel had decided to stay on Earth. Dean had never admitted it, but he liked this shirt best. Because it was soft under his hands, and made Castiel’s eyes even bluer, and because Castiel seemed to like this shirt best too, for some reason, even though it came out of a crappy store, and wasn’t remotely stylish. Not that his clothes before had been stylin’, either.
“How are the stitches holding up?” Dean didn’t wait for Castiel to reply, simply pulled the shirt out of Castiel’s waistband and pushed it up so he could take a look at his handy work. Castiel flinched when Dean, ignoring Sam pointedly clearing his throat, ran his fingers over the puckered skin.
“It is a bit… sore, but the wound is healing.”
Dean nodded, let the shirt drop. “It’ll be good in no time. We can take the stitches out in a few days.” He flashed Castiel a smile, tried to push away the uneasiness working its way into his chest. It was still strange to see Castiel healing the human way, instead of mojoing his body whole again. And Dean was still coping with what it meant. And he only had a week now to make sure Castiel healed as best he could before they headed out and started hunting again. “Looks like you’ll start collecting your own set of scars now, Cas. The chicks dig it.”
Castiel cocked his head at Dean, but remained silent.
Dean took a step away. “I’m showering,” he announced to the room in general before glancing at Castiel. A moment later he grabbed the angel’s hand, turned, and started dragging him towards the stairs.
“Dean?”
“You need to shower. It’s been what? Five days? You’re starting to reek, dude.”
Castiel’s brow furrowed, but he let himself be pulled along by Dean. “You said I shouldn’t get the stitches wet.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been enough time. And we’ll be careful. We’ll work around it.”
Dean ignored Sam’s, “So did not need to hear that, Dean,” as he continued pulling Castiel up the stairs. When they got to the bathroom, he ushered Castiel inside, stopped Castiel’s questions with his mouth. Because he did not want to answer the questions he knew were coming. The ones that involved phrases like “are you okay” and “what’s wrong.” Castiel was solid under his hands, alive and gasping as he pulled him against his body, and more than words and reassurances, that’s what Dean needed to feel to make whatever uneasiness he’d felt earlier go away.
*****
The week went by quickly. Too quickly, in Dean’s opinion. But when there were only two days left on their “Post-Apocalyptic vacation,” as Sam had mockingly started to call it whenever he brought up hitting the road again, Sam plopped his laptop onto the kitchen table in front of Dean. Dean jumped, shot Sam a look that clearly said, “What the fuck?”
Sam glanced up at Dean, grimaced at the ham that had failed to fit into Dean’s mouth, before sinking into the chair opposite Dean. Castiel looked up at Sam, putting the Pepsi can he’d been sipping through a straw down on the table when Sam turned the laptop around to show them what he’d found.
“Werewolves,” Sam said. He stretched a hand around the computer, pointed at the news article he’d pulled up on the screen. “In Rock Valley, Iowa. Run of the mill case. Victims torn to pieces, the hearts missing. The full moon is four days from now. We can be in and out in a few days.” Sam leaned forward so he could peer over the laptop, scroll through the article. Dean swallowed, put his sandwich down as a picture appeared of the crime scene.
“Dude. I’m eating.”
Sam glanced at him, shrugged at Dean’s look. “Sorry.” He turned back to the screen and continued to scroll through the article.
Bobby appeared in the kitchen, a six pack on his lap. One glance at Sam half out of his chair, leaning across the table, and he stopped moving.
“Something you boys want to share?”
“Sam has found a case,” Castiel said, leaning to get a closer look at the computer screen. “A werewolf in Rock Valley.”
Bobby grunted, looked at Dean. Dean was glaring at Sam, his sandwich forgotten on the plate in front of him. “Sounds like you boys have some work to get ready for.”
Castiel nodded, eyes intent on the computer still, as Sam smiled and sat back in his chair. Dean broke his gaze away from Sam, looked down to his sandwich. It was a moment before he picked it back up again. When Castiel reached forward, copied Sam’s movements and scrolled through the news article on the screen, Dean pointedly did not look at him.
Bobby pulled open the refrigerator and deposited the beer inside. He pulled a bottle out before closing the door again. As he rounded the table, passed Dean on his way out of the kitchen, he plopped the beer beside Dean’s plate.
“There’s a car out back I need help with when you’re done,” he said. Dean looked up, chewing a bite that was small for Dean’s standards. “The damn muffler needs to be replaced.”
Dean nodded, swallowed. The next bite he took was bigger. “Sure thing, Bobby.”
Bobby shook his head, wheeled past him. “Chew with your mouth closed, boy.”
*****
The werewolf case took two days to complete. The first day they had spent locating the werewolf, the second preparing for the kill. It had gone over without incident, and Sam had been all smiles when they piled into the car afterwards. He sighed, stretched out in the front seat, and gave a short laugh.
“What are you giggling over?”
Sam shot Dean a look, but his smile didn’t fade.
“That just felt good, is all.” He shifted, sat up straighter in his seat as Dean turned onto the highway. “It feels good to be back in the swing of things.” He turned around to look at Castiel in the back. “Right, Cas?”
Dean looked into the rearview mirror, caught Castiel’s gaze a moment before focusing back on the road.
“It felt good to be active again, yes,” Castiel said.
Dean could see Sam nod out of the corner of his eye, turn back around and settle comfortably into the passenger seat.
“But I did not mind… relaxing at Bobby’s, either,” came Castiel’s voice from the back seat a moment later. After the silence that followed that remark, he started again, “One is not exclusive of the other.”
Sam shrugged. “I guess. It’s just nice to be moving again. To be helping, making a difference.”
There was a small sound like agreement from the backseat. Dean remained quiet for a moment before loosening his grip from the steering wheel, pushing play on the tape deck, and turning up the volume as AC/DC filled the Impala’s interior.
*****
After the werewolf, there was a ghoul in southern Colorado that had killed four people before anyone started to suspect something strange was going on. And after that, a vampire nest in Wyoming. When they encountered demons outside of La Crosse, Wisconsin, Dean had begun to get back into the swing of things. Really get back into the swing of things. He’d started to enjoy the diners again, especially when Castiel ordered something he hadn’t tried before and discovered he really liked it (food was still kind of new to him, and so far he’d been impressed only by milkshakes, Pepsi, chicken and, to Dean’s utter relief, pie). And the motels weren’t so bad, as long as they got a room with clean sheets and the minimum amount of sketchy stains on the carpet.
After the demons, though, he was tired again.
There were eight of them. Normally, he wouldn’t have worried about the odds. He and Sam could hold their own in a fight, and Castiel was becoming better at fighting the longer he became human. It seemed as if some of his mojo had transformed into human fighting skills, which was a stupid thought, Dean knew, because as far as he remembered Castiel hadn’t been the best at hand-to-hand combat when he’d been an angel. But as a human? Every day he was improving.
But as soon as this fight started, one demon had managed to slash Dean across the stomach. It wasn’t deep, but it was painful, and Dean could feel blood dripping down his skin as he splashed one of the demons with holy water, called to Castiel for Ruby’s knife. Movement was painful and he got slower as the fight progressed. Luckily, the demons were weak, so it didn’t take long to defeat them, but by the time nothing was left but the empty vessels on the ground, Dean was out of breath.
“Dean?”
Dean waved away Castiel’s hands, pushed off the wall he was leaning against. Dean looked up, froze when he saw the blood on Castiel’s forehead, the cut on his lip. Castiel reached forward, his hand resting on Dean’s shoulder, but Dean shook him off. “I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
Castiel nodded, exchanged a look with Sam as they followed Dean out to the car.
That night, Dean had patched himself up, made sure Castiel had cleaned his wound properly, and checked to make sure Sam was unharmed.
“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam had huffed when Dean asked again if he was okay. “They were half-assed demons. Weak.”
Dean frowned, didn’t say a word as he closed the bathroom door behind him to take a shower and make sure his cut had stopped bleeding.
That night, as they lay in bed, Castiel shifted closer to him, and the hand that landed softly on his hip forced Dean’s eyes open.
“Dean.” Castiel shuffled closer again, and Dean could just make out his features in the dark. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Dean sighed. “For the last time, yes.”
Castiel’s fingers tightened over Dean’s hip for a moment. “Dean.” And the tone he used brooked no argument. Dean sighed again, closed his eyes.
“I’m tired. That’s all.” And it was the truth.
He felt Castiel nod before his hand left his hip, traced over the bandages wrapped around Dean’s stomach. “Does it still hurt?”
Dean breathed out a laugh. “Nothing to worry about.” He opened his eyes, looked down between their bodies to where Castiel’s fingers were tracing the bandage through Dean’s shirt. “Besides,” he said after a moment of watching Castiel’s motions. “We match.” He slid his hand down, under Castiel’s shirt, and traced the scar that stood pale out on his skin. “It’s not such a bad thing.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized how corny they sounded, how dorky. But Castiel leaned forward at that precise moment, pressed his lips to Dean’s, and Dean could feel the smile.
“There have been worse things, in life. Or so I’ve been told.”
Dean breathed out another laugh, wrapped his arm around Castiel to pull him closer.
“Smart ass.”
Sam’s bed creaked. “If you two don’t shut up, I’m throwing something at you. And it won’t be a soft pillow.”
Dean growled. Without saying a word, he sat up, grimaced as pain shot through his side. But he pushed past it, stood, and pulled on his pants and jacket. Castiel was up, staring at Dean with wide eyes. Dean threw his pants at him, took his jacket in hand, and grabbed the keys to the Impala. All Sam caught amongst Dean’s grumbling was something about privacy as Dean slammed the door shut behind him and Castiel.
When Dean woke in the morning, he was cold. Both his jacket and Castiel’s were piled over him, and Castiel was warm underneath him. But the Impala was not very well insulated against spring nights in Wisconsin.
The moment Castiel sensed Dean was awake, he shifted his hand from Dean’s shoulder to his temple, combing his fingers through Dean’s hair.
“Dean.”
Dean groaned.
“Dean.” Castiel was more insistent this time, and he nudged Dean’s leg with his knee. Dean groaned again, but shifted on top of Castiel, stretching his legs and wincing as pain shot through his muscles. The backseat of the Impala was not meant for two grown mean to sleep in. He kept forgetting that.
“What?” he grumbled.
Castiel’s hand stilled, his palm resting on the back of Dean’s neck. “Something’s been bothering you.”
Dean opened his eyes, stared at the back of the passenger seat. Castiel was blunt as always.
“What is it?”
Dean closed his eyes, turned his head so his lips brushed over Castiel’s collarbone through his shirt.
“Nothing.”
Castiel sighed in frustration. “I know you, Dean. This is not nothing.”
Dean leaned up, pressed his lips to Castiel’s jaw.
“And no amount of distraction will deter me in finding out what’s been bothering you.”
“You sure?” Dean mumbled into the hollow of Castiel’s ear.
A shiver went through Castiel’s body, but he nodded and when he spoke his voice was steady. “I’m sure.”
Dean grumbled and pushed himself up. He paused a moment, his eyes settling on Castiel’s face. The wound on Castiel’s forehead from the day before had scabbed over during the night, but the uncut skin around the edges was slightly red. Dean leaned back down, pressed lips softly against the wound. “Does this hurt?” he asked.
“No.” Castiel sounded puzzled.
“Good.” Dean settled his body against Castiel’s again, pressing his face into Castiel’s neck.
“Dean?” Castiel’s hand shifted against his neck, questioning, but Dean remained quiet.
After a moment, he felt Castiel shift underneath him as he bent his leg, cradling Dean’s body. It was warmer like that, and Dean sighed, settling against Castiel and trying to get a few more minutes of sleep.
*****
It was late morning by the time they’d packed up and checked out, afternoon by the time Sam had found another case to follow.
“Nothing too serious,” he said, scrolling through the website he’d found. “A haunting. A woman went missing a month ago, but it sounds suspicious enough. We could check it out, be done in a few days.” He looked up from the screen, watched as Dean put down his empty fork and stretched back in his seat.
“Where is it?” Dean asked.
Sam looked back to the computer. “Emery, South Dakota.”
Dean shrugged before he nodded. “Sound like a ghost? That’s it?”
“Probably. It’s all the signs of a regular haunting.”
“Emery?” Castiel’s voice pulled Sam and Dean’s attention to him.
“Yeah,” Sam said hesitantly. “Why? Is that significant or something?”
Castiel shook his head. “Bobby’s house is, I believe, on the way there?”
Sam raised an eyebrow at the ex-angel. “Um. Yeah, I think so.” He glanced back at the computer and frowned. “Why? Is that important?”
Castiel paused as their waitress came over, placed a vanilla milkshake down in front of him. He thanked her, leaned forward and took a sip before looking back up at Sam.
“Well?” Sam raised an eyebrow at him.
Castiel released the straw, sat back. “I believe I heard a weird noise coming from the Impala’s engine this morning. If something is wrong with her, we can stop at Bobby’s and fix the problem before heading off to the next hunt.”
Dean sat up straighter in his seat. “You serious? You heard something?”
Castiel turned to Dean. “Yes.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You sure it wasn’t just the bass from the radio or something.”
Castiel frowned. “I think you’ve taught me enough about cars to know when a sound is the bass of your music or an actual problem, Dean.”
Dean cleared his throat, sat back in his seat. “Yeah. Okay.”
Sam tried to hide a smile. “Um. So yeah, we can stop at Bobby’s if we need to.”
As it turned out, the Impala needed a new fuel line.
“I don’t know what noise you were hearing, Cas,” Dean said as he stepped back from bending over the engine. “But she needs a new fuel line. She’ll make it until we get to Bobby’s at least.”
Castiel nodded, still bent over and examining the engine.
Dean smirked. “When did you get so good at cars, Cas?”
Castiel paused before taking a step back as well, straightening up to stand in front of Dean.
“I learned from the best.”
Sam laughed from where he was leaning against the passenger door. “You two are adorable together. I think my teeth are starting to rot from all the sweetness.”
Dean chucked the rag he was using to wipe his hands at Sam. He smiled at Sam’s indignant “hey!” as the rag hit his shoulder.
“Bitch.”
Sam smiled. “Jerk.”
*****
Bobby didn’t act one bit surprised to see them all again so soon. Dean took the first day off from fixing the Impala as they all caught up on much needed sleep. The second day, he got to work, watching Sam prowl through Bobby’s livingroom looking through the various texts before he went out after breakfast to get to work.
“So the case I was talking about,” Sam said over lunch that same day. “It’s only a few miles from here.” He glanced at Dean hesitantly before continuing. “I was thinking I could borrow a car, Bobby, go take care of it while the Impala got fixed.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “It’ll take one day to fix, Sam. You seriously can’t sit still long enough?”
Sam shifted in his seat. “It’s an easy case. I can handle it, and you can relax as you fix up the Impala.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. Sam rolled his.
“We can work on the more important cases after I take care of this one.”
“Right.”
“This case is in Emery?” Bobby’s voice interrupted their exchange.
Sam nodded, turning his attention on Bobby.
“I know a few hunters out there. If it makes you feel any better, Dean,” he said shooting Dean a look, “I can ask one of them to back Sam up.”
Dean paused, glanced between Bobby and Sam. Sam looked surprised, but Bobby’s face was neutral. When Dean looked at Castiel, he was staring at Bobby, his expression unreadable.
“Sam?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, sure. Fine. It might make the job easier.”
Dean frowned, but took a bite of his sandwich. “If that’s what you want, then fine.”
The rest of lunch went by quietly. Sam finished eating first and left the table to continue some research. Bobby followed soon afterward, and Dean could hear him from the living room as he made a few calls about the hunt. Dean sighed, stuffed the remaining sandwich into his mouth.
Castiel had finished before Sam had. He had a small appetite, but Dean guessed it came as no surprise, really, when he remembered the fact that before a few months ago, Castiel hadn’t needed to eat at all for a few millennia. But as Dean finished his lunch, Castiel still sat quietly beside him, finishing his Pepsi.
“Your teeth are going to rot if you continue drinking that,” Dean said, pushing back from the table.
“I brush my teeth.”
Dean smiled. “Sure.”
Castiel frowned. “You would know. Otherwise you’d be complaining about bad breath.”
“Yeah.” Dean reached down, pulled Castiel up with a hand fisted in his shirt front. “Come on. I’ll teach you how to replace a fuel line.”
*****
Two days after Sam left to take care of the haunting, he called and told Dean they’d caught wind of another case. A ghoul a few hours away in Kansas. Dean grunted in all the right places in the conversation, told Sam at the end of it to be careful, reassured him he’d be ready to go the moment Sam got back from the hunt. Which would take another few days at the least.
When Dean hung up, he sighed. He looked out Bobby’s kitchen window, opened a bottle of beer, and discovered he wasn’t as upset as he thought he’d be over Sam hunting with other hunters. The hunters Bobby knew were smart, good fighters. And after the initial clean-up after the Apocalypse, things had started to slow down. It was almost as if all the evil crap they hunted was going into hiding, like it knew Lucifer and Hell lost and it had something to be scared of now.
And besides, Dean couldn’t complain about the past couple of days. The Impala’s fuel line had been replaced, and he and Castiel had taken the next afternoon to wash and wax her. Dean smirked, remembering how Castiel had been mad at first that Dean had thrown a bucket of water on him, only to crowd Dean against the side of the Impala a moment later, making sure Dean got his fair share of water on him. Things had progressed from there, and Dean was just happy the Impala had been parked far enough away from Bobby’s house that if the other hunter had looked out a window he wouldn’t have been able to see what they’d gotten up to.
It was nice to relax, to show Castiel that there was more to life than just the hunt. And Castiel seemed to enjoy it as well. Mornings were slow, easy, and they could lounge in bed for as long as they wanted before staggering downstairs. Cas, they soon discovered, loved to cook. Meals were a bit slow in coming, since the angel insisted he read every direction twice through, follow every direction precisely, but there was a lot to be said about his method. Because most of what he cooked came out flawless. Dean had spaghetti down pretty good, though, and he insisted that he make them breakfast one morning. He had also insisted, after he placed the platter of pancakes in front of Bobby and Castiel, that he liked his pancakes burnt. Which was almost the truth.
It surprised Dean, at first, how easily he settled into a stationary life. He’d always hated it, had always been on the run, on the move. But, he thought, maybe Hell and the Apocalypse could change a man. Maybe.
*****
Bobby cornered Dean a few days later. It wasn’t hard for Bobby to find him. Dean had settled into a routine, of sorts. After breakfast he’d usually go outside, work on a few cars before heading back into the house and having a beer. Most days, he’d find Castiel and Bobby and they’d make lunch. The afternoons were unpredictable. One time Castiel had shown interest in heading into town and checking out the second hand bookshop. Another, Bobby had suckered Dean and Castiel into cleaning out the panic room. It hadn’t been a favorite of Dean’s, but it had been enjoyable at least, with Bobby barking orders and Castiel pausing every five minutes to read through scrolls Bobby had left scattered around. It was nice, to be in a place and be so comfortable in it that a slight routine didn’t feel like a cage.
So when Bobby found Dean, the eldest Winchester was leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in his hand, gaze distant as he looked out the small kitchen window.
“I’ve been thinking about something,”
Dean jumped at Bobby’s voice, spinning around to face the hunter. Bobby huffed a laugh.
“I want to run it by you.”
Dean shifted his shoulders, forcing his body to relax, and nodded. “Yeah? Well, shoot.”
“When are you boys gonna stop treating my house like it’s a 7-Eleven.”
Dean paused, searched Bobby’s face for some hint as to whether he was joking or not. “Bobby?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Dean. I love having you boys here. But seriously? While that angel of yours doesn’t eat much, you and your brother are a whole other story. And, by the way, you and that angel aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”
Dean cleared his throat, stood a little straighter. So much for being discrete, he thought.
Bobby paused before continuing. He shifted in his wheelchair, and that made Dean look closer at him. He looked unsure suddenly, uncomfortable. As if he wasn’t sure how his next few words would be taken.
“Every hunter has some place to go back to, Dean. You and Sam, and now Cas, are the only ones I know that don’t have some place to return to after a hunt. You can’t keep pushing yourselves like you do.” He paused. “But I think you already realize that.”
Dean scoffed, took a swig of his beer.
“You need some place to call your own, as cheesy as that may sound. This place won’t cut it for too much longer, as much as you boys are like family.”
“I got the Impala,” Dean said. “She’s enough of a home for me.”
“What about that angel of yours? He’s not going to retain whatever small amount of Grace he has left forever. He’s gonna need someplace to settle down, to learn how to be human. It’s probably some tiring shit, and from what I understand he doesn’t even know how to sleep.”
Dean looked down at the beer in his hand.
“He knows how to sleep.”
Bobby fixed Dean with a stare. “That’s no answer, boy.”
“Yeah, well, maybe if Sam…”
“Sam what?” Bobby paused for only a moment. “If Sam wanted to settle down? If Sam wanted to look around? Sam’s got more of your father in him than’s good for him,” Bobby said. “He’s restless, and he won’t settle down. That boy’s on a mission. Sam’s got his own life, now. Dean, you have your own life now. Why can’t you just accept it and move on? The Apocalypse is over, boy. Don’t go creating your own, personal Apocalypse just because you don’t think you deserve to be happy.”
Dean shook his head. He took a drink. It wasn’t that he didn’t think he deserved to be happy. It was more like he didn’t think he could be. Things always got messed up, especially with him. He’d seen a broken, wrecked Castiel in the future Zachariah had shown him. Luckily, Castiel had almost completely fallen and so far there were no signs of him popping pills or sneaking out to the whore houses. In fact, Castiel seemed to be handling his fall into humanity rather well. But Dean was still on edge. Just because the world didn’t end didn’t mean his private world couldn’t end. Hell, this could end tomorrow with a life that involved the hunt, and how could he hope to set up a home-base, a house, and expect everything to be fine and dandy when it really might never be.
“You’re wrong, Bobby,” Dean said finally.
“About what?”
Dean shook his head. “Okay, so maybe it would be nice to have a place to go home to. But this hunting business? It’s not like it lets hunters settle down someplace and be happy.”
Bobby wheeled closer. “And what’s this place? A shit hole?” Dean opened his mouth, but Bobby continued before he could talk. “I know, that’s not what you meant. But everyone has a place to go back to, Dean. Hotel rooms aren’t the same,” he continued when Dean tried to interrupt him again. “It worked for John, but it won’t work for you, and you know it.”
Dean sighed, finished off the last of his beer and tossed the bottle into the sink.
“Well, it’ll have to be good enough for a little bit longer. And Cas knew what to expect when he chose to stay here.” Dean pushed away from the sink, meaning to turn around and walk away. But he didn’t.
“Dean.”
Dean looked down, saw Bobby watching him carefully.
“It’s not easy. I know. After something as big as the Apocalypse happens, it’s hard to just move on. But you have to. You can’t be expecting everything to end tomorrow, just because you think it always has in the past. Have you ever thought that things might go a little smoother now that the end of the world has come and gone?”
Dean looked back out the window. “It’s nice to think so Bobby. But…” he trailed off. “Really? Winchesters don’t do normal. They don’t do white picket fences and neighborhood watches.”
Bobby chuckled. “They haven’t in the past, Dean, but not every house has a white picket fence or nosy neighbors.”
Dean smiled. Movement caught his eye outside and he tensed, followed the moving figure until it came out from behind some of the cars. He relaxed when he saw it was Castiel. His face was tilted towards the sky, and Dean looked up, saw what he’d been watching were sparrows fluttering overhead. When Dean’s gaze fell back to Castiel, the ex-angel had stopped moving, was simply standing there and staring at the empty sky.
“Yeah, well,” Dean took a step away from the window. “You find me a house without neighbors and a fence, and I’ll let you know if my opinion’s change.” He paused. “Thanks, Bobby. I’m gonna go find Cas before he gets lost in the junkyard again.”
Bobby laughed, and his voice followed Dean out the kitchen door. “That boys not lost, Dean, he just likes to wander, even though he’s grounded. Scatter-brained, angels.”
Continue to Part 2
Anyway, here's the fic. *shrugs*
Title: Let Them Seek Peace, 1/2
Rating: R
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Bobby
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Word Count: 14,219
Summary: A fic in which Dean demands a post-apocalyptic vacation, Sam gets his hunt on, Bobby imparts some wisdom, and Castiel equates mortgages to demons.
Author's Notes: A HUGE thank you goes out to awesomepants87 for acting as beta :oD
Let Them Seek Peace
Over the past month, Dean has killed five witches, three banshees, one rougarou, and more demons than he can count. Not to mention the forty-two sets of bones he’s salted and burned, putting to rest the spirits the Apocalypse had raised, since it couldn’t let sleeping ghosts lie. Instead of life getting easier, the hunt becoming less-intense, his life has become even more hectic. Some days he wakes up, untangles himself from Castiel (who knew fallen angels could be so clingy while they slept?), glances over at Sam sprawled facedown in the bed next to his, and wonders if he’s going to wake up from this weird-ass dream and start searching for his missing dad again. Because he can’t quite believe this post-apocalyptic clean-up the three of them have been on for over a month is seriously his life.
Because obviously? So not what he expected from life after the Apocalypse.
Not that he really expected there to be life after the Apocalypse. But nobody could ever accuse Dean Winchester of not using what resources he was given, and as far as he was concerned, life and a second (or third, or fourth, or whatever count he was on) chance were pretty good resources to go off on.
But being the janitor for the mess the angels and demons left in the cafeteria after their little food fight was not on Dean’s 10 Jobs To Have Before I Die List. Not even close. Dean still didn’t know how he had managed to rattle off that inscription Sam had taught him as he faced Lucifer - fallen-angel-of-the-lord Lucifer, not whoever-vessel-Satan-was-possessing Lucifer, bright light and screeching sounds and everything - but he had. And Lucifer had been sent back to Hell. Over the next few days, they’d come to realize that whatever demons had escaped the angels’ wrath or refused to go back into Hell had to be taken care of. Not to mention the other creatures that Dean and Sam had been neglecting while they tried to stop the end of the world from happening. They didn’t really have a choice at that point, other than to act as clean-up crew.
Hunting, killing some evil sons of bitches, was what they did best. And they’d all taken it in stride. Sam had slipped back into the hunting mode easily enough. And Castiel… Well, Castiel had stayed. Dean still really didn’t know what to think of that. Sure, he and Cas had progressed to the more-than-just-friends kind of relationship that involved groping and kissing and fucking and - to Dean’s embarrassment - very manly cuddling. And if there was some whispered words in the dark that made Dean hold Castiel all the closer on the nights when they were too exhausted to do anything more than just fall asleep, well then, so be it. But Dean had hardly expected Castiel to give up Heaven, his Grace, his mojo, because of some manly cuddling and a preference for hunters with a propensity to shoot their mouth, and guns, off at anything supernatural that moved. But he had done just that. And when Castiel had appeared before Dean when the angels started zapping up to Heaven, leaving some very bewildered vessels behind, Castiel had done nothing but invade Dean’s personal space and nod once. And Dean had socked him in the jaw. Because no way was Cas supposed to give up Heaven for him.
Castiel had forgiven him, of course. And Sam had made himself scarce that night, and the next few nights after that, as Dean got used to the idea that Cas was not leaving, would not suddenly not be there when he woke up.
Because, yeah. Dean liked it when Castiel was there when he woke up.
Which was why, he supposed, he’d pulled a u-turn on Interstate-80 and announced they were going to Bobby’s for a vacation. Indefinitely, he’d said in response to Sam’s sputtered confusion.
“Are you insane?” Sam had turned towards him in the passenger’s seat, glancing from Dean to the road like there was some invisible force he couldn’t quite figure out that was pulling Dean in the wrong direction. “We have a hunt we need to get to. People will die, Dean, if we don’t go.”
Dean smirked. “Called Rufus this morning. He’s taking a bunch of hunters there even as we speak. Problem solved.” He looked at Sam, nodded at his open-mouthed silence. “You can thank me later.” Because, yeah, Dean was awesome.
Dean was also scared. Not that he wanted to admit that. But the day before, they’d faced an annoyingly difficult windigo that was too stubborn to die. They’d all come out of the hunt a little worse for wear after the run-in, but Castiel had come out worse than all three of them combined. It had taken all of Dean’s remaining strength to pull Castiel off the floor from where he was slumped against the wall. Castiel had tried to help, tried to “walk it off” as Dean suggested, but the gash across his temple and the six-inch long claw marks on his side were disorienting and painful. It was the first time Dean had had to stitch Castiel up, the first time he’d forced the angel to drink whiskey in order to dull the pain and make the fallen angel stop twitching under the needle and thread. And it had worked, but Castiel had become a little bit more than tipsy, and as Dean tried to usher a disoriented, pained, and drunk Castiel to bed, trying to fight off memories of a different Castiel who loved whiskey too much, he’d decided then and there they needed a break. If only to recoup, spend some time healing themselves instead of healing the world for once.
So far, things seemed to be going great.
Bobby had a fridge full of food, a house that was familiar and untouched by the Apocalypse (except for the thirty different versions of the Bible scattered across the livingroom), and the Bobby attitude that was just what they all needed to feel like nothing had changed and they could go back to normal again.
Whatever normal for a hunter was.
And Dean liked to think they were well on their way to that “normal” that wasn’t quite normal at all.
*****
On the fourth day of lounging around Bobby’s, fixing up the Impala, and stashing the various texts on angels and demons and the plethora of Bibles in the darkest recesses of Bobby’s bookshelves, Dean realized something wasn’t quite right.
Sam had been happy the first two days. Content on the third. On the fourth, he seemed downright irritated.
Dean walked in from the junkyard to find Sam slamming his laptop shut and jumping up to grab a book from one of the shelves Bobby had recently semi-straightened up.
“What’s eating you?” he asked, eying Sam as he stomped across the room.
Sam looked up as he settled onto the sofa, flipped open the book. It was old and big, and Dean felt his head starting to ache at the thought of getting back to research so soon.
“There are signs popping up around Rocksprings, Texas. I think it might be a succubi.” He glanced up at Dean before fixing his eyes back on the book. He stopped flipping pages after a moment, and Dean stepped up to him, glancing over the top of the book. He raised an eyebrow at the Latin text, the picture of a creature in the page’s margin that looked more like a snake than it did a person.
“Fascinating.”
“If we left tomorrow, we could get there in two days. One if we floor it.”
Dean tossed the rag he was still holding over his shoulder, picked at the oil spot on his t-shirt as he turned around and went to stand near Castiel, who was bent over one of the Bibles he’d rescued from the recesses of Bobby’s “Bible Dump,” as the hunter had dubbed it.
“Bobby knows some hunters near Asherton, Texas. It’s probably just a few towns over. They can go check it out.”
Dean was pretty sure the silence following his statement wasn’t a good thing.
His assumption was proved correct when he heard the slam of a book break that silence, followed by the creaking of floorboards as Sam stood up from the couch, stomped over to stand right behind Dean.
“What’s your problem?”
Dean turned around. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a case. A hunt. Evil creatures killing humans, Dean. We should be on the road, chasing them down. Staking and burning. It’s what we do. Why are we still here chilling out and,” he looked down, pointedly staring at the oil spattered over Dean’s shirt and arms, “fixing cars.”
“Hey, cars need to be fixed, Sam, incase you didn’t notice.”
“The world needs to be fixed, Dean. And we should be out there doing it.”
Dean’s jaw clamped shut. He felt Castiel stand up silently behind him, and narrowed his eyes at Sam.
“What are you idjits arguing about now?”
Sam and Dean turned in unison to stare at Bobby as he wheeled into the room, glaring from one brother to the next.
“You barge in here with no warning, start eating me out of house and home, and then disturb a quiet afternoon? What’s wrong with you two?”
“There’s a case in Rocksprings,” Sam says before Dean can open his mouth. “Texas. I think it might be succubi.”
Bobby’s face lost some of its tension. This was familiar territory; the research, the hunt. “I know some hunters in Asherton. I’ll call them up and tell them to check it out.”
“Ha!” Dean turned to Sam, letting a smirk slide onto his lips. “See. Problem solved.”
Sam shot Dean a glare before turning back to Bobby.
“We can check it out.”
“Whoa whoa, hold on a second, cowboy.” Dean took a step back from Sam. “What ‘we’? We’re staying here and recouping. You know, after a little thing called the Apocalypse.”
Sam turned to Dean again. “Yeah, because the rest of the world is recouping too, Dean? Brilliant plan.”
“Hey!” Bobby’s voice cut off whatever Dean was going to say next. “What the hell are these two yammering about?” Dean turned to see who Bobby was addressing, and found himself staring at a blank-faced Castiel.
“Sam wishes to continue the hunt,” Castiel said solemnly, like he was importing some task that had to be taken care of to one of his superiors. “Dean would rather stay here and… recoup. Regain strength before continuing the hunt.”
Dean narrowed his eyes, turned back to Bobby. He took an unconscious step back, shifting his shoulders. He hadn’t actually thought about going back on the hunt yet, not so soon, even though he knew he’d have to.
Bobby was silent for a good ten seconds before he burst out with, “That’s what you two are acting like an old married couple over? Get over it, you pansies.”
With that, he turned his wheelchair around and left the room. Leaving Dean and Sam to stare after him.
“I am not a pansy,” were the first words out of Dean’s mouth.
“Not all the time,” came Castiel’s voice. “But sometimes-”
Dean whirled around, a finger raised at the angel. “Shut it, chuckles.” But the corners of Castiel’s mouth were curved up, and Dean put his hand down, taking a deep breath before looking at Sam.
“We do need to head out eventually, Dean.” Sam sounded tired, weary, and Dean shifted his weight back, away from him. “We hunt. We fight. That’s what we do.” And he sounded like he was trying to convince himself of the fact as much as Dean. It struck Dean as strange that Sam might be feeling the weight of this clean-up project as much as he was. Only he wanted to push himself harder, instead of sit back for a moment and actually breathe without the smell of blood and sweat clinging to the air.
Dean clenched his jaw, nodded once. “I know. But we-" he stopped. What was he supposed to say? We need to recover? He’d already said that. ‘Til he was blue in the face. Wait until every other hunter took over clean-up duty from the Apocalypse? Not possible. Too many messes to clean-up. Stay put until Cas healed from his run-in with the windigo? True. But too sappy and worried for Dean to actually admit to. Dean sighed. “A week,” he said. Sam’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “A week and then we’ll head out again.”
“Seriously?” Sam’s face relaxed. “A week?” He paused. Then, “You’ve never sat still for a week before.” And Dean could hear the change, the slight teasing tone in his voice.
“Yeah, well, I make exceptions for after the Apocalypse. Post-Apocalyptic vacations should be a bit longer than most.”
Sam shook his head, but he turned without another word and went to sit back at his computer again, opening it up and waiting for it to reboot.
“But seriously, dude? Why the long break?”
Sam was staring at his computer screen, the light illuminating his face a strange tint of white-blue even with the afternoon sun filtering through the window. His tone was nonchalant, but Dean knew everything about Sam. Well, mostly everything. He knew how to read him, and he knew when he was annoyed, concerned, bitchy, or just plain pissed. And this was Sam being concerned.
Dean shifted on his feet, looked at Castiel for something, anything, but all he got back was a stare that said, “You knew you were going to have to explain yourself at some point.”
But how was Dean supposed to explain to Sam, to anyone, that he was tired. That saying that incantation to Lucifer’s face while the devil went all angel and white and awesome in front of him took a lot more out of him than he’d like to admit, that he’d felt shaken and cold for a week afterward. How was he supposed to admit that stitching Cas up had been one of the worst things he’d had to do for five freakin’ years (Hell aside), because it had proved that Cas was almost completely human now and just as vulnerable as the two of them. And he was the cause of it. That burning and killing and hunting were making him wish he could just lie down and sleep and not dream for years the more and more he did them.
Bobby’s house was safe. Was as much of a home as the Impala was. And it was nice to wake up in the morning in clean sheets with Castiel curled around his back. It was nice to walk downstairs after a shower to the smell of burning toast and pancakes and coffee. It was nice to laze about the house, watch a movie or sit and stare at the wall while Bobby and Sam and Cas read their selected reading material for the night. And it was nice to actually have a book forced into his hand by Castiel and realize that he actually liked reading Dickens.
“Because the Impala needed some tuning up, and it’s easier to mooch off Bobby than it is to buy everything from some sketch garage on some back road,” he said.
Sam did look up then, a look of surprise on his face. Dean turned away from him, to Castiel, and opened his mouth to suggest something, anything. Like maybe making sandwiches or finding some beer or maybe even teaching Cas how to change a tire. But the look on Castiel’s face forced Dean into silence again. Castiel’s brow was furrowed just slightly, his head tilted to the left, like he was trying to figure Dean out. Like he was a puzzle that was just a little bit too complicated for anyone to solve, even an ex-angel of the Lord. But there was also concern in Castiel’s eyes, worry, and Dean hated that. Hated that he needed someone, Castiel especially, to be worried over him.
Dean cleared his throat, broke Castiel’s stare and let his gaze wander. It settled on Castiel’s side, where he knew the stitches were still working their magic on the claw marks on Castiel’s flesh. Castiel had abandoned the work pants and dress shirts when Dean had explained jeans and t-shirts were easier to wash and dry than a suit, especially when the job usually entailed sweat, blood, and dirt. Castiel was wearing a blue t-shirt Dean had picked up for him at the closest Wal-Mart a week after Castiel had decided to stay on Earth. Dean had never admitted it, but he liked this shirt best. Because it was soft under his hands, and made Castiel’s eyes even bluer, and because Castiel seemed to like this shirt best too, for some reason, even though it came out of a crappy store, and wasn’t remotely stylish. Not that his clothes before had been stylin’, either.
“How are the stitches holding up?” Dean didn’t wait for Castiel to reply, simply pulled the shirt out of Castiel’s waistband and pushed it up so he could take a look at his handy work. Castiel flinched when Dean, ignoring Sam pointedly clearing his throat, ran his fingers over the puckered skin.
“It is a bit… sore, but the wound is healing.”
Dean nodded, let the shirt drop. “It’ll be good in no time. We can take the stitches out in a few days.” He flashed Castiel a smile, tried to push away the uneasiness working its way into his chest. It was still strange to see Castiel healing the human way, instead of mojoing his body whole again. And Dean was still coping with what it meant. And he only had a week now to make sure Castiel healed as best he could before they headed out and started hunting again. “Looks like you’ll start collecting your own set of scars now, Cas. The chicks dig it.”
Castiel cocked his head at Dean, but remained silent.
Dean took a step away. “I’m showering,” he announced to the room in general before glancing at Castiel. A moment later he grabbed the angel’s hand, turned, and started dragging him towards the stairs.
“Dean?”
“You need to shower. It’s been what? Five days? You’re starting to reek, dude.”
Castiel’s brow furrowed, but he let himself be pulled along by Dean. “You said I shouldn’t get the stitches wet.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been enough time. And we’ll be careful. We’ll work around it.”
Dean ignored Sam’s, “So did not need to hear that, Dean,” as he continued pulling Castiel up the stairs. When they got to the bathroom, he ushered Castiel inside, stopped Castiel’s questions with his mouth. Because he did not want to answer the questions he knew were coming. The ones that involved phrases like “are you okay” and “what’s wrong.” Castiel was solid under his hands, alive and gasping as he pulled him against his body, and more than words and reassurances, that’s what Dean needed to feel to make whatever uneasiness he’d felt earlier go away.
*****
The week went by quickly. Too quickly, in Dean’s opinion. But when there were only two days left on their “Post-Apocalyptic vacation,” as Sam had mockingly started to call it whenever he brought up hitting the road again, Sam plopped his laptop onto the kitchen table in front of Dean. Dean jumped, shot Sam a look that clearly said, “What the fuck?”
Sam glanced up at Dean, grimaced at the ham that had failed to fit into Dean’s mouth, before sinking into the chair opposite Dean. Castiel looked up at Sam, putting the Pepsi can he’d been sipping through a straw down on the table when Sam turned the laptop around to show them what he’d found.
“Werewolves,” Sam said. He stretched a hand around the computer, pointed at the news article he’d pulled up on the screen. “In Rock Valley, Iowa. Run of the mill case. Victims torn to pieces, the hearts missing. The full moon is four days from now. We can be in and out in a few days.” Sam leaned forward so he could peer over the laptop, scroll through the article. Dean swallowed, put his sandwich down as a picture appeared of the crime scene.
“Dude. I’m eating.”
Sam glanced at him, shrugged at Dean’s look. “Sorry.” He turned back to the screen and continued to scroll through the article.
Bobby appeared in the kitchen, a six pack on his lap. One glance at Sam half out of his chair, leaning across the table, and he stopped moving.
“Something you boys want to share?”
“Sam has found a case,” Castiel said, leaning to get a closer look at the computer screen. “A werewolf in Rock Valley.”
Bobby grunted, looked at Dean. Dean was glaring at Sam, his sandwich forgotten on the plate in front of him. “Sounds like you boys have some work to get ready for.”
Castiel nodded, eyes intent on the computer still, as Sam smiled and sat back in his chair. Dean broke his gaze away from Sam, looked down to his sandwich. It was a moment before he picked it back up again. When Castiel reached forward, copied Sam’s movements and scrolled through the news article on the screen, Dean pointedly did not look at him.
Bobby pulled open the refrigerator and deposited the beer inside. He pulled a bottle out before closing the door again. As he rounded the table, passed Dean on his way out of the kitchen, he plopped the beer beside Dean’s plate.
“There’s a car out back I need help with when you’re done,” he said. Dean looked up, chewing a bite that was small for Dean’s standards. “The damn muffler needs to be replaced.”
Dean nodded, swallowed. The next bite he took was bigger. “Sure thing, Bobby.”
Bobby shook his head, wheeled past him. “Chew with your mouth closed, boy.”
*****
The werewolf case took two days to complete. The first day they had spent locating the werewolf, the second preparing for the kill. It had gone over without incident, and Sam had been all smiles when they piled into the car afterwards. He sighed, stretched out in the front seat, and gave a short laugh.
“What are you giggling over?”
Sam shot Dean a look, but his smile didn’t fade.
“That just felt good, is all.” He shifted, sat up straighter in his seat as Dean turned onto the highway. “It feels good to be back in the swing of things.” He turned around to look at Castiel in the back. “Right, Cas?”
Dean looked into the rearview mirror, caught Castiel’s gaze a moment before focusing back on the road.
“It felt good to be active again, yes,” Castiel said.
Dean could see Sam nod out of the corner of his eye, turn back around and settle comfortably into the passenger seat.
“But I did not mind… relaxing at Bobby’s, either,” came Castiel’s voice from the back seat a moment later. After the silence that followed that remark, he started again, “One is not exclusive of the other.”
Sam shrugged. “I guess. It’s just nice to be moving again. To be helping, making a difference.”
There was a small sound like agreement from the backseat. Dean remained quiet for a moment before loosening his grip from the steering wheel, pushing play on the tape deck, and turning up the volume as AC/DC filled the Impala’s interior.
*****
After the werewolf, there was a ghoul in southern Colorado that had killed four people before anyone started to suspect something strange was going on. And after that, a vampire nest in Wyoming. When they encountered demons outside of La Crosse, Wisconsin, Dean had begun to get back into the swing of things. Really get back into the swing of things. He’d started to enjoy the diners again, especially when Castiel ordered something he hadn’t tried before and discovered he really liked it (food was still kind of new to him, and so far he’d been impressed only by milkshakes, Pepsi, chicken and, to Dean’s utter relief, pie). And the motels weren’t so bad, as long as they got a room with clean sheets and the minimum amount of sketchy stains on the carpet.
After the demons, though, he was tired again.
There were eight of them. Normally, he wouldn’t have worried about the odds. He and Sam could hold their own in a fight, and Castiel was becoming better at fighting the longer he became human. It seemed as if some of his mojo had transformed into human fighting skills, which was a stupid thought, Dean knew, because as far as he remembered Castiel hadn’t been the best at hand-to-hand combat when he’d been an angel. But as a human? Every day he was improving.
But as soon as this fight started, one demon had managed to slash Dean across the stomach. It wasn’t deep, but it was painful, and Dean could feel blood dripping down his skin as he splashed one of the demons with holy water, called to Castiel for Ruby’s knife. Movement was painful and he got slower as the fight progressed. Luckily, the demons were weak, so it didn’t take long to defeat them, but by the time nothing was left but the empty vessels on the ground, Dean was out of breath.
“Dean?”
Dean waved away Castiel’s hands, pushed off the wall he was leaning against. Dean looked up, froze when he saw the blood on Castiel’s forehead, the cut on his lip. Castiel reached forward, his hand resting on Dean’s shoulder, but Dean shook him off. “I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
Castiel nodded, exchanged a look with Sam as they followed Dean out to the car.
That night, Dean had patched himself up, made sure Castiel had cleaned his wound properly, and checked to make sure Sam was unharmed.
“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam had huffed when Dean asked again if he was okay. “They were half-assed demons. Weak.”
Dean frowned, didn’t say a word as he closed the bathroom door behind him to take a shower and make sure his cut had stopped bleeding.
That night, as they lay in bed, Castiel shifted closer to him, and the hand that landed softly on his hip forced Dean’s eyes open.
“Dean.” Castiel shuffled closer again, and Dean could just make out his features in the dark. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Dean sighed. “For the last time, yes.”
Castiel’s fingers tightened over Dean’s hip for a moment. “Dean.” And the tone he used brooked no argument. Dean sighed again, closed his eyes.
“I’m tired. That’s all.” And it was the truth.
He felt Castiel nod before his hand left his hip, traced over the bandages wrapped around Dean’s stomach. “Does it still hurt?”
Dean breathed out a laugh. “Nothing to worry about.” He opened his eyes, looked down between their bodies to where Castiel’s fingers were tracing the bandage through Dean’s shirt. “Besides,” he said after a moment of watching Castiel’s motions. “We match.” He slid his hand down, under Castiel’s shirt, and traced the scar that stood pale out on his skin. “It’s not such a bad thing.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized how corny they sounded, how dorky. But Castiel leaned forward at that precise moment, pressed his lips to Dean’s, and Dean could feel the smile.
“There have been worse things, in life. Or so I’ve been told.”
Dean breathed out another laugh, wrapped his arm around Castiel to pull him closer.
“Smart ass.”
Sam’s bed creaked. “If you two don’t shut up, I’m throwing something at you. And it won’t be a soft pillow.”
Dean growled. Without saying a word, he sat up, grimaced as pain shot through his side. But he pushed past it, stood, and pulled on his pants and jacket. Castiel was up, staring at Dean with wide eyes. Dean threw his pants at him, took his jacket in hand, and grabbed the keys to the Impala. All Sam caught amongst Dean’s grumbling was something about privacy as Dean slammed the door shut behind him and Castiel.
When Dean woke in the morning, he was cold. Both his jacket and Castiel’s were piled over him, and Castiel was warm underneath him. But the Impala was not very well insulated against spring nights in Wisconsin.
The moment Castiel sensed Dean was awake, he shifted his hand from Dean’s shoulder to his temple, combing his fingers through Dean’s hair.
“Dean.”
Dean groaned.
“Dean.” Castiel was more insistent this time, and he nudged Dean’s leg with his knee. Dean groaned again, but shifted on top of Castiel, stretching his legs and wincing as pain shot through his muscles. The backseat of the Impala was not meant for two grown mean to sleep in. He kept forgetting that.
“What?” he grumbled.
Castiel’s hand stilled, his palm resting on the back of Dean’s neck. “Something’s been bothering you.”
Dean opened his eyes, stared at the back of the passenger seat. Castiel was blunt as always.
“What is it?”
Dean closed his eyes, turned his head so his lips brushed over Castiel’s collarbone through his shirt.
“Nothing.”
Castiel sighed in frustration. “I know you, Dean. This is not nothing.”
Dean leaned up, pressed his lips to Castiel’s jaw.
“And no amount of distraction will deter me in finding out what’s been bothering you.”
“You sure?” Dean mumbled into the hollow of Castiel’s ear.
A shiver went through Castiel’s body, but he nodded and when he spoke his voice was steady. “I’m sure.”
Dean grumbled and pushed himself up. He paused a moment, his eyes settling on Castiel’s face. The wound on Castiel’s forehead from the day before had scabbed over during the night, but the uncut skin around the edges was slightly red. Dean leaned back down, pressed lips softly against the wound. “Does this hurt?” he asked.
“No.” Castiel sounded puzzled.
“Good.” Dean settled his body against Castiel’s again, pressing his face into Castiel’s neck.
“Dean?” Castiel’s hand shifted against his neck, questioning, but Dean remained quiet.
After a moment, he felt Castiel shift underneath him as he bent his leg, cradling Dean’s body. It was warmer like that, and Dean sighed, settling against Castiel and trying to get a few more minutes of sleep.
*****
It was late morning by the time they’d packed up and checked out, afternoon by the time Sam had found another case to follow.
“Nothing too serious,” he said, scrolling through the website he’d found. “A haunting. A woman went missing a month ago, but it sounds suspicious enough. We could check it out, be done in a few days.” He looked up from the screen, watched as Dean put down his empty fork and stretched back in his seat.
“Where is it?” Dean asked.
Sam looked back to the computer. “Emery, South Dakota.”
Dean shrugged before he nodded. “Sound like a ghost? That’s it?”
“Probably. It’s all the signs of a regular haunting.”
“Emery?” Castiel’s voice pulled Sam and Dean’s attention to him.
“Yeah,” Sam said hesitantly. “Why? Is that significant or something?”
Castiel shook his head. “Bobby’s house is, I believe, on the way there?”
Sam raised an eyebrow at the ex-angel. “Um. Yeah, I think so.” He glanced back at the computer and frowned. “Why? Is that important?”
Castiel paused as their waitress came over, placed a vanilla milkshake down in front of him. He thanked her, leaned forward and took a sip before looking back up at Sam.
“Well?” Sam raised an eyebrow at him.
Castiel released the straw, sat back. “I believe I heard a weird noise coming from the Impala’s engine this morning. If something is wrong with her, we can stop at Bobby’s and fix the problem before heading off to the next hunt.”
Dean sat up straighter in his seat. “You serious? You heard something?”
Castiel turned to Dean. “Yes.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You sure it wasn’t just the bass from the radio or something.”
Castiel frowned. “I think you’ve taught me enough about cars to know when a sound is the bass of your music or an actual problem, Dean.”
Dean cleared his throat, sat back in his seat. “Yeah. Okay.”
Sam tried to hide a smile. “Um. So yeah, we can stop at Bobby’s if we need to.”
As it turned out, the Impala needed a new fuel line.
“I don’t know what noise you were hearing, Cas,” Dean said as he stepped back from bending over the engine. “But she needs a new fuel line. She’ll make it until we get to Bobby’s at least.”
Castiel nodded, still bent over and examining the engine.
Dean smirked. “When did you get so good at cars, Cas?”
Castiel paused before taking a step back as well, straightening up to stand in front of Dean.
“I learned from the best.”
Sam laughed from where he was leaning against the passenger door. “You two are adorable together. I think my teeth are starting to rot from all the sweetness.”
Dean chucked the rag he was using to wipe his hands at Sam. He smiled at Sam’s indignant “hey!” as the rag hit his shoulder.
“Bitch.”
Sam smiled. “Jerk.”
*****
Bobby didn’t act one bit surprised to see them all again so soon. Dean took the first day off from fixing the Impala as they all caught up on much needed sleep. The second day, he got to work, watching Sam prowl through Bobby’s livingroom looking through the various texts before he went out after breakfast to get to work.
“So the case I was talking about,” Sam said over lunch that same day. “It’s only a few miles from here.” He glanced at Dean hesitantly before continuing. “I was thinking I could borrow a car, Bobby, go take care of it while the Impala got fixed.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “It’ll take one day to fix, Sam. You seriously can’t sit still long enough?”
Sam shifted in his seat. “It’s an easy case. I can handle it, and you can relax as you fix up the Impala.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. Sam rolled his.
“We can work on the more important cases after I take care of this one.”
“Right.”
“This case is in Emery?” Bobby’s voice interrupted their exchange.
Sam nodded, turning his attention on Bobby.
“I know a few hunters out there. If it makes you feel any better, Dean,” he said shooting Dean a look, “I can ask one of them to back Sam up.”
Dean paused, glanced between Bobby and Sam. Sam looked surprised, but Bobby’s face was neutral. When Dean looked at Castiel, he was staring at Bobby, his expression unreadable.
“Sam?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, sure. Fine. It might make the job easier.”
Dean frowned, but took a bite of his sandwich. “If that’s what you want, then fine.”
The rest of lunch went by quietly. Sam finished eating first and left the table to continue some research. Bobby followed soon afterward, and Dean could hear him from the living room as he made a few calls about the hunt. Dean sighed, stuffed the remaining sandwich into his mouth.
Castiel had finished before Sam had. He had a small appetite, but Dean guessed it came as no surprise, really, when he remembered the fact that before a few months ago, Castiel hadn’t needed to eat at all for a few millennia. But as Dean finished his lunch, Castiel still sat quietly beside him, finishing his Pepsi.
“Your teeth are going to rot if you continue drinking that,” Dean said, pushing back from the table.
“I brush my teeth.”
Dean smiled. “Sure.”
Castiel frowned. “You would know. Otherwise you’d be complaining about bad breath.”
“Yeah.” Dean reached down, pulled Castiel up with a hand fisted in his shirt front. “Come on. I’ll teach you how to replace a fuel line.”
*****
Two days after Sam left to take care of the haunting, he called and told Dean they’d caught wind of another case. A ghoul a few hours away in Kansas. Dean grunted in all the right places in the conversation, told Sam at the end of it to be careful, reassured him he’d be ready to go the moment Sam got back from the hunt. Which would take another few days at the least.
When Dean hung up, he sighed. He looked out Bobby’s kitchen window, opened a bottle of beer, and discovered he wasn’t as upset as he thought he’d be over Sam hunting with other hunters. The hunters Bobby knew were smart, good fighters. And after the initial clean-up after the Apocalypse, things had started to slow down. It was almost as if all the evil crap they hunted was going into hiding, like it knew Lucifer and Hell lost and it had something to be scared of now.
And besides, Dean couldn’t complain about the past couple of days. The Impala’s fuel line had been replaced, and he and Castiel had taken the next afternoon to wash and wax her. Dean smirked, remembering how Castiel had been mad at first that Dean had thrown a bucket of water on him, only to crowd Dean against the side of the Impala a moment later, making sure Dean got his fair share of water on him. Things had progressed from there, and Dean was just happy the Impala had been parked far enough away from Bobby’s house that if the other hunter had looked out a window he wouldn’t have been able to see what they’d gotten up to.
It was nice to relax, to show Castiel that there was more to life than just the hunt. And Castiel seemed to enjoy it as well. Mornings were slow, easy, and they could lounge in bed for as long as they wanted before staggering downstairs. Cas, they soon discovered, loved to cook. Meals were a bit slow in coming, since the angel insisted he read every direction twice through, follow every direction precisely, but there was a lot to be said about his method. Because most of what he cooked came out flawless. Dean had spaghetti down pretty good, though, and he insisted that he make them breakfast one morning. He had also insisted, after he placed the platter of pancakes in front of Bobby and Castiel, that he liked his pancakes burnt. Which was almost the truth.
It surprised Dean, at first, how easily he settled into a stationary life. He’d always hated it, had always been on the run, on the move. But, he thought, maybe Hell and the Apocalypse could change a man. Maybe.
*****
Bobby cornered Dean a few days later. It wasn’t hard for Bobby to find him. Dean had settled into a routine, of sorts. After breakfast he’d usually go outside, work on a few cars before heading back into the house and having a beer. Most days, he’d find Castiel and Bobby and they’d make lunch. The afternoons were unpredictable. One time Castiel had shown interest in heading into town and checking out the second hand bookshop. Another, Bobby had suckered Dean and Castiel into cleaning out the panic room. It hadn’t been a favorite of Dean’s, but it had been enjoyable at least, with Bobby barking orders and Castiel pausing every five minutes to read through scrolls Bobby had left scattered around. It was nice, to be in a place and be so comfortable in it that a slight routine didn’t feel like a cage.
So when Bobby found Dean, the eldest Winchester was leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in his hand, gaze distant as he looked out the small kitchen window.
“I’ve been thinking about something,”
Dean jumped at Bobby’s voice, spinning around to face the hunter. Bobby huffed a laugh.
“I want to run it by you.”
Dean shifted his shoulders, forcing his body to relax, and nodded. “Yeah? Well, shoot.”
“When are you boys gonna stop treating my house like it’s a 7-Eleven.”
Dean paused, searched Bobby’s face for some hint as to whether he was joking or not. “Bobby?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Dean. I love having you boys here. But seriously? While that angel of yours doesn’t eat much, you and your brother are a whole other story. And, by the way, you and that angel aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”
Dean cleared his throat, stood a little straighter. So much for being discrete, he thought.
Bobby paused before continuing. He shifted in his wheelchair, and that made Dean look closer at him. He looked unsure suddenly, uncomfortable. As if he wasn’t sure how his next few words would be taken.
“Every hunter has some place to go back to, Dean. You and Sam, and now Cas, are the only ones I know that don’t have some place to return to after a hunt. You can’t keep pushing yourselves like you do.” He paused. “But I think you already realize that.”
Dean scoffed, took a swig of his beer.
“You need some place to call your own, as cheesy as that may sound. This place won’t cut it for too much longer, as much as you boys are like family.”
“I got the Impala,” Dean said. “She’s enough of a home for me.”
“What about that angel of yours? He’s not going to retain whatever small amount of Grace he has left forever. He’s gonna need someplace to settle down, to learn how to be human. It’s probably some tiring shit, and from what I understand he doesn’t even know how to sleep.”
Dean looked down at the beer in his hand.
“He knows how to sleep.”
Bobby fixed Dean with a stare. “That’s no answer, boy.”
“Yeah, well, maybe if Sam…”
“Sam what?” Bobby paused for only a moment. “If Sam wanted to settle down? If Sam wanted to look around? Sam’s got more of your father in him than’s good for him,” Bobby said. “He’s restless, and he won’t settle down. That boy’s on a mission. Sam’s got his own life, now. Dean, you have your own life now. Why can’t you just accept it and move on? The Apocalypse is over, boy. Don’t go creating your own, personal Apocalypse just because you don’t think you deserve to be happy.”
Dean shook his head. He took a drink. It wasn’t that he didn’t think he deserved to be happy. It was more like he didn’t think he could be. Things always got messed up, especially with him. He’d seen a broken, wrecked Castiel in the future Zachariah had shown him. Luckily, Castiel had almost completely fallen and so far there were no signs of him popping pills or sneaking out to the whore houses. In fact, Castiel seemed to be handling his fall into humanity rather well. But Dean was still on edge. Just because the world didn’t end didn’t mean his private world couldn’t end. Hell, this could end tomorrow with a life that involved the hunt, and how could he hope to set up a home-base, a house, and expect everything to be fine and dandy when it really might never be.
“You’re wrong, Bobby,” Dean said finally.
“About what?”
Dean shook his head. “Okay, so maybe it would be nice to have a place to go home to. But this hunting business? It’s not like it lets hunters settle down someplace and be happy.”
Bobby wheeled closer. “And what’s this place? A shit hole?” Dean opened his mouth, but Bobby continued before he could talk. “I know, that’s not what you meant. But everyone has a place to go back to, Dean. Hotel rooms aren’t the same,” he continued when Dean tried to interrupt him again. “It worked for John, but it won’t work for you, and you know it.”
Dean sighed, finished off the last of his beer and tossed the bottle into the sink.
“Well, it’ll have to be good enough for a little bit longer. And Cas knew what to expect when he chose to stay here.” Dean pushed away from the sink, meaning to turn around and walk away. But he didn’t.
“Dean.”
Dean looked down, saw Bobby watching him carefully.
“It’s not easy. I know. After something as big as the Apocalypse happens, it’s hard to just move on. But you have to. You can’t be expecting everything to end tomorrow, just because you think it always has in the past. Have you ever thought that things might go a little smoother now that the end of the world has come and gone?”
Dean looked back out the window. “It’s nice to think so Bobby. But…” he trailed off. “Really? Winchesters don’t do normal. They don’t do white picket fences and neighborhood watches.”
Bobby chuckled. “They haven’t in the past, Dean, but not every house has a white picket fence or nosy neighbors.”
Dean smiled. Movement caught his eye outside and he tensed, followed the moving figure until it came out from behind some of the cars. He relaxed when he saw it was Castiel. His face was tilted towards the sky, and Dean looked up, saw what he’d been watching were sparrows fluttering overhead. When Dean’s gaze fell back to Castiel, the ex-angel had stopped moving, was simply standing there and staring at the empty sky.
“Yeah, well,” Dean took a step away from the window. “You find me a house without neighbors and a fence, and I’ll let you know if my opinion’s change.” He paused. “Thanks, Bobby. I’m gonna go find Cas before he gets lost in the junkyard again.”
Bobby laughed, and his voice followed Dean out the kitchen door. “That boys not lost, Dean, he just likes to wander, even though he’s grounded. Scatter-brained, angels.”
Continue to Part 2