#i’m going to cross post some of my fics to tumblr today fyi

[suncityblues]

No Do Overs

Dean/Cas + Sam   6k words  https://archiveofourown.org/works/28034862 

Sam and Dean end up renting a house just outside Saint Cloud, Minnesota. It’s a single storey brick building with a little fireplace and a big backyard. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen. A living room with enough space for a couch, a tv, and a bookshelf. Ugly yellow-tan walls and blue checkered tablecloths, Bob Ross knock offs and seashell art.

It reminds them a bit of the motel rooms they had grown up in. Uniformal and familiar in some ways, a clean slate in others.

“Cozy,” Dean says sarcastically on their first walk through. “Hah, yeah,” Sam agrees with a huffy laugh, trying to disentangle himself from a low hanging seashell themed windchime.

Six months later they’re still living there. One closet is filled with weapons and other hunter ephemera, and there are sigils and protective warding where they need to be, but from the outside everything looks exactly the same. They’re just two adult brothers and a shaggy dog living in a house that looks like it was decorated by their grandma. Sam’s talked about maybe getting a plant or putting up the free calendar they got with their purchase from the dog food store but doesn’t seem to ever get around to it, and Dean doesn’t even pretend to settle in. As cliche as it sounds, when push comes to shove neither of them really know how to make a house into a home.

But they’re trying.

They’re trying because everything they did, every hurt and every loss they suffered, they did to get to this place. And never in a million years did they think they’d get this far, or feel this free, and it’s not an easy adjustment. There’s a loss there too, the dream they’d held on to for so long is real, and has gutters that need to be cleaned, and a dog that needs to be walked, and now they have to make up new things to hope for.

And, they’re trying for Jack. Because Jack brought everything back, and everyone, to make them happy. To give them the life they wanted. Sam and Dean know they don’t owe Jack anything but they want to give him something. In some roundabout way they want to make him proud.

They hear through the grapevine that Jack brought Castiel back first. That it was Cas who scooped everyone who wanted to be scooped out of heaven and popped them back into existence outside the bunker, but the angel doesn’t stick around. He’s not at the big spontaneous party that ensues, and he doesn’t show up in the weeks afterward where everyone hangs around the bunker getting their bearings and planning out their new lives.

Most people courteously pretend to not pick up on how cranky this makes Dean, or how often he checks his phone. Except for Bobby who tells him he’s a dumbass in a way that somehow sounds apologetic, and Charlie who gives him a lopsided smile every time they’re in the same room. It makes Dean feel overly seen which he’s not sure he’s ready for, even though he knows they love him, so he’s grateful when people start to go their separate ways. Though there is, of course, an active group chat and almost daily phone calls.

In a dream Jack had pulled them each aside and told them this is it. No do-overs this time. This world is really real, and they’re going to grow old or die trying. Then, just like that, he’s off to his big home renovation in the sky, with a placid smile and a “catch ya later.” It gives everyone a lot to think about, and a very bizarre and specific feeling of knowing God’s phone number.

Sam and Dean decide to leave the bunker, and retire. Maybe temporarily, or maybe permanently, they’re not sure. They collectively decide they need a break, at the very least, and they’ll figure the rest of it out from there. They don’t say it out loud but they don’t need to after so many years: they want to know what the world can look like without the constant pressing fear of death, or their father, or great cosmic importance.

The first house they find with a sweet elderly landlord who accepts suspect money orders and doesn’t do background checks is in St. Cloud. Eileen stays with them for a few weeks and then realizes she can’t do it, domesticity is not the thing she hoped it would be, and returns to the bunker. It makes Sam sad, and a little sullen, but he understands and doesn’t fault her for leaving.

Dean doesn’t bring it up.

—

Sam decides to get a day job to distract himself, and reliably pay their bills without having to scam credit cards or hustle pool anymore. His fake ID says Sam Westen.

Sam Westen has a business degree from a Canadian college no one’s ever heard of and works in insurance billing for the local hospital. He wouldn’t call them friends but his coworkers are pleasant. Not too nosey about why he doesn’t have an accent, or why he lives with his brother at the age of thirty nine.

When they do ask conversationally about how he came to move there, he considers lying and saying his great aunt left them the house when she passed, but he knows from experience these communities are small enough that little lies can come back to bite him in the ass so instead he says, “We’re both trying to get back on our feet after breakups.” In some ways it’s true, and Sam is actually a little relieved to not be making it up.

Finding things in common with his coworkers, or anyone really, is a challenge but he doesn’t hate hearing about the friendly ER nurse’s kid or breakroom speculation about whether or not it’ll snow, as much as he expected he would. One day it sneaks up on him that he can see himself moving forward, and maybe making a life here. St. Cloud is as good as anywhere, really.

He worries he’s compartmentalizing too much though, but he’s not sure how else to adjust to a world that’s not ending imminently. He’s never had to think about global warming before, or a 401K, but he’s doing his best.

—

Dean, on the other hand, prefers to mope.

At night when everything is quiet he can hear the distant sound of cars on the highway from his bed and sometimes it gets too much for him and he’ll take off. Only for a day or two, and always with a note left for Sam on the table or stuck to the fridge. He could text or say something but he’s afraid Sam might try and stop him, or talk to him about his feelings.

Dean’s not stupid, he’s noticed how Sam’s brow furrows at him when he thinks Dean can’t see. They know each other better than anyone else, and Dean can sense there’s only so much time before Sam’s patience runs out and they have a fight or a drunken heart-to-heart or both. Dean’s trying to stretch the remaining time out for as long as he can.

When he leaves, he drives aimlessly. Music loud, just him and the road, like how it used to be in that narrow space before everything happened when Sam was in school and his father had cut him loose. It was lonely at times but the grip of the steering wheel made him feel safe and like he had a purpose, like he was doing things for a reason rather than just wasting time or avoiding his problems, and in a way it still does, so he always comes back to the car, and to the aimless driving.

He figures that if he had been given a different life he still would have wanted to spend it on the road. Maybe he would have been a trucker. Or a door to door salesman, charming lonely housewives into buying vacuum cleaners all over the nation. He knows it’s dangerous to dream about what the past could have been, that it just reminds him that he’s pushing forty-two years old and has no idea what to do with himself, but does it anyway. The other thing about aimless driving is that it has this way of bringing up buried thoughts and forcing Dean to process them, especially when he doesn’t want to.

He tends to think about the same couple of things on repeat. How at this age people are supposed to have families. A kid, a job, something, something. It’s an old wound for him, and he’s gotten tired of rubbing salt in it but there was a time when he wanted a normal life so badly it hurt to even think about. And now, with the possibility laid out for the taking he’s hesitant to pick it up, and that sucks too. He thinks he might be a little jealous of Eileen, figuring out what she truly wanted so quickly and then acting on it. Then he thinks about Lisa, but only for a moment.

He wishes he could become a new, different person. Someone who knows who they want to be, and how to not hurt everyone around him. Because, god, he is so fucking sick of being Dean Winchester.

And, he wishes Castiel would just pick up his goddamn cellphone.

Dean looks through the mirror at the back seat more often than he should, and especially when this line of thinking wiggles its way into his brain. He doesn’t find anything there, doesn’t expect to, but keeps looking anyway.

Dean’s seen glimpses of Castiel mentioned in the group chat, and it’s a relief. Apparently he talks to Charlie sometimes, but only in dreams and only on rare occasions. He’s not much for answering phones or prayers, but according to her seems okay, maybe a little busy helping Jack. She very deliberately mentions that heaven seems to have a minimal interference policy these days, but wants to know if Cas has appeared to anyone in person in a while. Anyone at all.

Dean doesn’t know how to read into the situation. He’s not sure if Cas is avoiding him because he has to, or because he wants to, or because he thinks Dean doesn’t want to see him. For a brief moment Dean had let himself believe that their communication problems were over, now that Cas had come back from the empty. Now that feelings had been spoken out loud, and finally put into concrete terms. Love. Romantic, explicit love. That maybe there was a happy ending for Dean Winchester, somewhere out there. But now he doesn’t know, and isn’t sure if he ever will, not if Cas keeps avoiding him. It doesn’t feel too good to think about.

When his mood starts to take this particular downturn Dean usually finds a bar, hustles pool to pay his tab and drinks for a while to clear his mind. If he gets too drunk he’ll find a motel, or crash in the Impala even though these days it makes his back ache like hell.

But, he’s still the same handsome, charming Dean Winchester and people come on to him often but he can’t bring himself to go home with any of them these days. Sometimes it’s because he’s too old for them. Sometimes it’s because they’re too drunk. When he can’t think of an excuse he slips out the door when they’re in the bathroom. Dick move, he knows.

He likes the steady hum of human interaction, and the freedom of never seeing these people after this night, but that’s it.

Except.

One night, at a biker bar in Lincoln, Nebraska Dean gets whiskey drunk. Feeling chaotic and sad and self destructive he says to the bartender, “I lost someone I loved recently, and I don’t think he’s ever coming back. And I’m pretty sure it’s my own damn fault for feeling like that. But, fuck, I wish he’d come back.”

He’s never said the words out loud like that before. It sobers him up immediately, because he’s in mixed company and who knows what kind of assholes are hanging around looking for a fight. Dean would have left right then and there if the bartender didn’t give him a beer and a shot on the house.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the bartender had said, and Dean knew he meant it. He was tall but not as tall as Dean, and tan, and thick lipped. Dark blue eyes, a bit of stubble. Terribly similar but not quite right. Still, Dean ended up staying until he was the only one left and halfway blacked out. At the end of the night the bartender had given him a pity handjob in the men’s room and then told him to head out so he could close up.

“But, hey, don’t drive tonight, okay?” he’d said, and that was that.

Before Dean passes out in the Impala he wonders if maybe he reminded the bartender of someone he’d lost, too.

—

Time keeps passing.

They’ve been in the house for nine months. It’s the dead of winter in Minnesota and everyday is somehow colder than the last one.

Sam has a girlfriend now. Her name is Mia, she’s blonde and wirey, has a seven year old kid named Leo and a deadbeat ex named Jonah. She’s a little damaged and rough around the edges but hard working, and smart. An ER nurse with a dark sense of humor, but under it all it’s easy to tell she’s an optimist, even when she has no reason to be. Dean likes her very much, and is happy for Sam.

But, Sam starts spending more time away from the house, and from Dean. It makes Dean feel like one of his organs is missing sometimes, but he resolves to get used to it, for Sammy’s sake.

Sam still gives him sad, searching looks when Dean comes back from a stint on the road, but says nothing. Dean pretends not to notice. They still haven’t had their fight, but the tension is palpable between them.

Dean thinks about getting a job but never follows through. He picks up smoking because, why not, he doesn’t have to keep himself in top hunting shape anymore, then quits. It’s too cold to hang around outside and it makes his lungs feel like shit, besides.

He gains healthy weight, and his cheeks look less hollowed out. He jogs with the dog and lifts weights to pass the time and somehow feels stronger than he used to be, but not as quick. He starts to feel like he’s inhabiting a stranger’s body, instead of his own, and doesn’t like that either.

Occasionally, Sam will gently suggest that Dean go out and meet someone. Download an app, maybe. Try and reach out again to… he never quite finishes the sentence. Sam intentionally doesn’t mention gender and the unspoken encouragement sits heavy and weird between them. Sam’s known for a long time and doesn’t care. He guesses everyone in his life knows, at this point. Dean’s tried to be subtle, with other men, with how he looked at Cas sometimes but it’s hard to keep things like that from the people who love you.

Still, it’s an uncomfortable subject to broach for the brothers, not because of the bisexuality thing but because it requires a level of emotional honesty and vulnerability neither of them have much experience with.

Sam just wants his big brother to be happy, to find someone, and to have something, anything to look forward to. Dean’s had that black mark on his heart his whole life, and Sam doesn’t think he can grieve Dean even one more time, or go through the rest of his life without his big brother to talk to. Not now.

It makes Dean feel guilty, like he’s hurting Sam by not being happy, because Sam is struggling too and worrying about Dean is just another issue on top of a mountain of issues. Besides, Dean is so, so tired of making Sam worry.

But he keeps up his disappearing act. He thinks it would probably be worse for them both if he didn’t.

—

Then, somewhere on the road between La Crosse and Dubuque, Dean sees a man in a trenchcoat standing under a streetlight. Dean stops the car but when he does a double take the man is gone.

It’s dark and Dean is tired so he tells himself he’s seeing things, and continues driving. He does not let himself hope.

—

It keeps happening though.

Small glimpses here and there. In a gas station in Boise, a dive bar in Pecatonica. Never in his car, which Dean is oddly grateful for, if only because he thinks he might be so irritated that he swerves off the road. But it pisses him off, all the same.

Because if Cas is going to come back like nothing happened and start acting like some kind of guardian angel, Dean is not going to play ball.

About a month in, Dean gets fed up and decides to pray. Just a simple: “Where are you?”

He gets nothing back. Life continues as normal. Dean can’t stop himself from feeling a little annoyed about it.

—

Then one day there he is. Poof. Just like that.

The microwave clock says 5:45 AM, and Dean is stumbling in after a long night. The grey-blue of early morning light comes in through the windows and there’s snow falling outside for the fourth day in a row. Castiel is sitting at the kitchen table, waiting patiently in the half-dark.

“Hello Dean,” he says.

Dean pauses, blinks slowly, and then silently walks past the angel and goes into his room to sleep. He thinks he can hear an irritated huff on his way out. Good.

About two hours later Sam shakes him awake.

“Cas is home” He says excitedly. Dean rolls out of bed. Reminds himself to make fun of Sam at a later date.

—

Something strange is happening in Altoona, Pennsylvania.

People are disappearing for days at a time, then reappearing as though nothing happened. The last thing any of them can remember is a flash of bright light over the Mill Run River. Claire is there checking it out and Castiel had been keeping an eye on her, and recently started providing an assist when needed. They’ve hit a dead end with their research.

“Claire suggested I come and ask you, I know you’re not in the game per se anymore but—“

“Aliens?” Sam cuts him off, incredulous. Dean can almost see the gears clicking together inside his brother’s head. “This isn’t the frickin X-files,” Dean kvetches. He’s still mad at Cas but he’s interested in the case, in solving the mystery, and he can’t seem to muster up the energy to make a big deal right now. He hates to admit it but seeing Cas alive and well in front of him replaces most of his anger with relief. Dean wishes dearly that he could reach out and touch him.

Cas nods slowly. “Claire’s been looking into it, but can’t seem to find any relevant patterns. I thought you two might know something.”

Dean puts on a pot of coffee while Sam gets his laptop.

No one says anything about Castiel disappearing on them for almost an entire year, or asks why he decided to show up in person for something that could have easily been a phone call, or even why Claire never thought to tell anyone Cas was spending time with her. But Sam is watching them both with a kind of intensity that makes Dean think he might get a sunburn on the back of his head from the heat of it. Cas doesn’t seem to notice.

The best explanation they can come up with is a Spooklight. A soul trapped searching for a lost lover. Relatively harmless, a standard salt and burn once they locate the bones.

“Huh,” Sam says after he reads the definition out loud. If Dean didn’t know better he’d think his brother sounded a little smug.

Castiel thanks them and then he’s gone. In the distance Dean hears the clink of the seashell wind chimes on the front porch.

“Huh,” Sam says again, this time in Dean’s direction, “I thought there’d be more yelling.”

Dean ignores him and gets himself a breakfast beer, while Sam texts the group chat.

—

Castiel returns occasionally after that, usually with questions about a hunt he could probably answer himself. He’s been keeping an eye on Claire it seems, keeping her safe, though he knows he should just let things take their course like he’s supposed to. But he has some Claire-related guilt to work through, and it’s not like he has to follow any rules in heaven anymore, anyway. He is God’s dad, after all.

At some point Sam asks why Castiel stayed away for so long, and Cas replies simply, “I had thought you might like some time to adjust.” Sam gets a little huffy, but makes Cas promise not to do it again. They are both studiously avoiding Dean’s direction when they talk.

Later, Sam speculates to Dean that Castiel is in the same boat as they are: not fully able to accept everything is over. And, maybe a little bored.

Sam has said “I wish he’d just come home, and stay here,” so many times and in such a pointed way that it makes Dean want to hit him or break something.

More recently, Cas has come by just to say hello, but only ever when Sam is home. Because Sam had specifically asked him to, and Castiel doesn’t like saying no to his friends. They’ll watch TV or talk about Sam’s coworkers and sometimes Castiel will talk about a particularly interesting hunt he’d helped Claire with, and then stop himself, and ask if it’s okay to continue. Both Winchesters listen with rapt attention, and always ask for more details. Cas has met Mia and they get along, he’s even babysat Leo so Sam and her can go to an R rated movie. Mia’s never asked Dean to babysit. When Dean finds out he’s not jealous but he is something.

Dean finds himself staying around the house more in case Cas stops by while he’s out. He goes a whole month without leaving, a record for him. He can tell Sam’s noticed, and is pleased. They still haven’t had their fight.

Castiel continues to pop up in the corner of Dean’s eye from time to time when he’s out, until one day Dean gets fed up and yells “Knock it off!” To a very confused Buffalo Wild Wings employee.

Dean has to tip extra to make up for it and mentally adds it to Cas’ tab. He thinks it’s around a million billion dollars now.

—

It’s early spring, and still unbearably cold outside.

Dean now owns a pair of sturdy waterproof boots that are fuzzy on the inside. They’re so warm that he doesn’t even care that they’re ridiculous and girly. If he’s got to shovel and salt the walkway for the third time that week, he’ll be damned if he’s going to do it with cold feet.

Dean could pretend to be surprised when Castiel pops into existence on their front porch but there’s no point. Almost nothing surprises him, and hasn’t for a long time.

“Dean” Castiel says grimly, “I apologize if I offended you.”

It takes Dean a moment to even remember what Cas is talking about.

“Is this about Buffalo Wild Wings, man?” He asks. He keeps his tone light, like an exasperated joke.

Castiel nods. “Yes.”

Dean exhales loudly through his nose.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, to make sure you were adjusting well, but I didn’t realize I was being so… conspicuous,” Cas continues with a head tilt.

Dean doesn’t think this is completely true, Cas can become an invisible wave of celestial intent on a whim but Dean doesn’t want to argue about it.

“It’s whatever, Cas, but you know you can just text me if you want to check in, right?” Dean says carefully, “We’re, ah, we’re friends.” Then, with emphasis, “We’re family.” He knows those aren’t the words he wants to say, and feels a sharp pang at the unhappy look on Cas’ face when he repeats Dean with a nod, “Friends.” But Dean doesn’t know what else to call them. It’s been almost a year of radio silence.

He still wants to get mad, he wants to yell and and throw things and ask Cas what the fuck happened back then, to please just spell out how he feels, but the truth is, Dean’s not sure he’s brave enough to hear the answer. You don’t avoid someone for a year for no reason and it’s all kind of a headache.

Dean realizes belatedly that this is the first time Cas has come to visit when Sam isn’t around to referee. He stands in the snow and wants to tell Cas to stay and watch an old movie with him but can’t seem to find the words so he just keeps shoveling. He thinks about putting his arm around Cas. He thinks about leaning over and kissing him during the closing credits. Then, he feels stupid and embarrassed. He doesn’t need to look up to know Castiel is gone.

About forty five minutes later Dean takes off for the first time in a long while. He forgets to leave Sam a note and wakes up in Minot to five missed calls.

Just another fuckup for Dean to add to his ever growing list of fuckups.

—

Castiel stays away for a few weeks after that, and Dean can’t help himself from taking it out on innocent bystanders. Usually it’s Sam, sometimes it’s dinner plates, other times it’s Jim Beam.

When he finally reappears in the kitchen it’s as smooth a landing as it always is, but Cas seems a little off kilter. When Sam asks about it, Cas brushes him off. Sam doesn’t press the issue, and instead asks about how Claire is doing.

Dean is cooking some eggplant recipe Sam printed out from the internet and pretends not to be listening as intently to their conversation as he is.

Mia and Leo are on their way over for dinner and Dean has the sinking realization he’s been lured into a trap. Cas would never say no to doing a favor for Sam, even if it’s just to pretend to eat during a family dinner. Dean has no excuse. He really should have known something was up when Sam told him to double the recipe and he can’t believe he’s stuck cooking dinner for his own trap. Typical.

Dean gets a beer from the fridge to drink while he cooks.

“Hey, Cas” he says on his way. He cautiously pats Cas on the shoulder.

“Hello, Dean” Castiel replies.

—

Dinner isn’t as awkward as Dean had expected.

Mia tells a grizzly story about an ER case involving a wood chipper and a truckload of watermelons which enthralls Dean. Castiel covers Leo’s ears while she tells it, but nods along, fascinated. Sam’s heard the story before but enjoys the company, and he keeps looking hopefully between Dean and Castiel. Dean pretends not to notice, but some part of him wants to chuck a fork at Sam’s head.

After dinner they eat a fudgy cake Mia had brought and watch a movie about a gruff-yet-socially-inept detective trying to solve his wife’s murder. It’s boring, and Dean’s seen this kind of movie a million times before so he gets a beer and takes it outside to drink. The weather is finally warm enough that the snow’s melted into sloppy mud but cold enough that Dean needs to wear a jacket.

Still, it’s nice to not be stuck inside all the time anymore. Dean thinks he’s officially over midwestern winters.

He’s not surprised when Cas joins him. He has a beer in his hand too, which Dean knows is actually for him. Just keeping up appearances for the unsuspecting humans, as Castiel likes to do, but he’s forgotten to pretend to need a coat. Dean doesn’t bother telling him to get one since Mia is so busy snuggling into Sam’s side that she probably didn’t notice anything.

They sit on the back porch in silence for a while, watching the stars.

After a moment Castiel says, “You know, Dean, I heard your prayer. I’m sorry I didn’t come. I wasn’t sure if you...” he trails off.

“What, in the car?” Dean asks. “That was nothing, no big” he shakes it off like it didn’t put him in a bad mood for a week afterwards.

”In the bar” Castiel corrects, “In Lincoln.”

”Oh,” is all Dean can muster. He’s a little embarrassed Cas saw that but doesn’t let it show.

They’re quiet again, then Cas turns towards him. He starts to say something but Dean shakes his head and Castiel stops.

Dean drinks a few more beers, and then sneaks two fingers of whiskey while Sam walks Mia to her car. Castiel stays by Dean’s side. It feels like old times. They shoot the shit, and Cas even laughs at Dean’s jokes. Dean didn’t realize how much he missed the sound.

Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the late hour, but Dean falls asleep with his head on Cas’ shoulder. He wakes up a few hours later hungover and sour mouthed but warm, unnaturally so. Castiel is still next to him. He smiles benevolently down at Dean. Dean smiles back.

He acts on autopilot and presses a chaste good-morning kiss to Cas’ lips, like he always wanted to do. Because this world is real now, and maybe he can do that. Just once, so he knows what it feels like.

Then Castiel disappears, and Dean falls out of the chair.

—

Dean can tell Sam’s disappointed in him when Dean says he fell asleep outside.

“That’s it?” Sam asks “You just fell asleep?” He cocks his head, “Nothing else happened?” “Nope,” Dean confirms, tensely. He hates this conversation deeply. “Oh. Cas didn’t say goodbye, so I thought maybe—��

Sam’s trying to tiptoe around Dean’s own hang ups. Dean can tell he’s really trying.

Dean’s head is pounding as he gets himself a cup of coffee, takes a sip, then says fuck it and pours a bit of whiskey in it too. Hair of the dog and all that.

Sam huffs.

“You’re forty-two years old, Dean Winchester” he snaps. Dean knew this fight was a long time coming, and is honestly relieved it’s finally bubbled to the surface, but the difference between them right now is especially stark. Dean is unemployed, hungover, wearing yesterday’s clothes and drinking in the morning. Sam is ready for work, having already gone for a jog and showered. Dean can smell Sam’s fancy shower scrub from a few feet away. Sandal wood.

Sam gets up and grabs his work bag, says “When are you ever going to grow up, Dean?” But doesn’t wait for an answer. Not like Dean would have one anyway.

Dean pours a little more whiskey into his coffee while he watches Sam pull out of the driveway in his used Ford. He thinks to text Castiel and apologize but then decides not to. He feels like a tool who is ruining everything all the time and totally incapable of changing, and he doesn’t know how to properly convey that in text form without sounding needy or unhinged.

Instead, Dean jerks off in the shower, gets dressed, and writes Sam a note. Then he gets in the Impala and takes off.

He makes it halfway to Bemidji before he breaks down and prays. He stops to piss on the side of the road in some no-name stretch of forest between Bakus and Akeley and when he gets back in the car Cas is there waiting for him in the passenger seat.

“Took you long enough,” Dean teases as he pulls back onto the road, but it’s an act and they both know it. “Dean.” Cas says his name like it’s a warning. Dean knows Cas might bail out at any moment, so he stops kidding around.

It helps Dean to have his eyes on the road while he’s talking. It settles him down, and it’s easier to say what he wants to say without having to make eye contact.

It still takes him a moment to compose himself.

“I’m sorry” he says, “for yesterday, I didn’t mean to upset you. And I don’t want you to disappear on me, on us, again.”

Cas is quiet. They don’t say anything for a long time. And then, sadly: “I was trying to be your friend Dean. I was trying to be family. Friends don’t kiss each other. But I wanted to kiss you, so I thought maybe...”

On a whim Dean turns and starts driving towards Grand Forks. Some lame joke about friends with benefits being totally valid bounces around in his brain but he doesn’t say it. When it becomes clear Castiel isn’t going to say anything else, Dean sighs.

“Listen, Cas, I’m bad at this. You know I’m bad at this. Talking. Feelings. All of it. But,” Dean doesn’t have to look over to make sure Cas is still there but does anyway, “I want to try. With you. For real. If you want.”

Dean can feel Castiel’s stare on him for a long time. He gets nervous so he goes on.

“And. And I wish I had told you how I felt years ago, I wish I had had the chance to-to make you happy,” Dean is glad he’s able to look at the road and not Castiel, “But, fuck, why didn’t you come back?”

“I’m sorry, Dean” Castiel relies, cautiously, “I should have. I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see me, and I was afraid, but I know now that was stupid.” A bitter pause, “I tried to give you space, to let you move on. And, Dean, you were supposed to move on, and forget me, and be happy.”

Dean’s not sure what to make of that, and doesn’t want Cas to disappear out of the car on him so he reaches over and grabs Cas’ hand in his. It’s warm.

The words don’t come easy so he hopes Cas hears the prayer: I could never, ever be happy if I didn’t have you here.

They keep driving in silence for a long time until Cas says: “Pull over there”, and points at a sign for a roadside diner just off the next exit, “I want French fries.”

This, Dean knows, is bullshit but he does what he’s told.

They eat French fries and drink stale coffee and talk.

On the way back to the car, Dean pushes Castiel up against the side of the Impala and kisses him and doesn’t care who sees. Castiel kisses back this time. Dean feels the happiest he has in a long, long time.

—

It’s the very end of summer and Mia is moving into the brick house with the little fireplace and the big backyard. She’s insisting on painting the walls, and getting rid of the seashell art. She keeps the Bob Ross knockoffs though, says she finds them calming after a stressful work day.

Leo is moving into Dean’s old room.

Sam bought a fold out couch for whenever Dean is back in town, and when they save up he promises they’ll move into a house with a guest room just for him. And Cas. And the dog.

Dean pats him on the shoulder. In exchange, Dean promises to check in with Sam every day, and call if they ever need help with anything. Dean plans to, and misses Sam already but knows it’s time.

Even after two years, everything Dean owns can fit in three duffel bags, one for clothes, and two for weapons. He puts them in the trunk of the Impala and looks up at the house one more time, then gets in. Cas is waiting for him in the passenger seat.

“Where to?” Dean asks. “Anywhere,” Cas replies.

And, so, Dean drives off aimlessly.

[wyofabdoms]

Ten Days - Day Two

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: Javier is shot and refuses to take his antibiotic while recuperating. You get creative and make him a deal that ensures he will take his medicine everyday: one kiss for one pill. It's gonna be a long 10 days.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major character injury, slow burn, mutually unrequited, medical inaccuracies, swearing, a smidge of domestic Javi

Word Count: 1878

Note: My very first completed fic EVER and first original post on Tumblr...what a time to be aliiiiive!!!  The rating will go up in later chapters, FYI.  

Read the full series on Ao3

The next morning was a Saturday, and you’re up early.  You creep into your partner’s apartment, hoping to high heaven that he’s sleeping.  Of course he’s wide awake though, and has clearly managed to peel himself off the couch on his own.  You find him lolling in a kitchen chair, nursing what smells like a terrible cup of coffee.  He smirks at you when you enter and see that he’s up and about on his own.  You refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing you’re already irritated with him.  You simply ignore his presence and go about making him something for breakfast.  The two of you share the space amiably, though you avoid his gaze as you fiddle with breakfast.  You click on the radio at some point and the two of you listen to the chatter and news; occasionally you inquire about a word or phrase you don’t quite catch or understand.  Your Spanish is good, but still has a few holes here and there. 

You’re pleased that he seems to be in a better mood this morning and you inquire as to how he slept.  He shares that he had slept well, surprisingly, despite the fact that he spent the night on the couch.  You don’t mention that the antibiotics may have very well made him sleepy; you don’t want to go anywhere near the deal you had made regarding those pills.  But you appreciate the rest he has gotten nonetheless. A good night’s sleep could do wonders. Especially for the likes of Javier Peña when he was in his foulest moods.

By the time you slide eggs and toast onto a plate in front of him, your irritation with him has disappeared and he has you chuckling quietly about a colleague that neither of you cared for; the smarmy DEA agent in question had done nothing less than piss himself during the fateful shootout three days prior that had resulted in your partner’s injury.   You both enjoyed a level of satisfaction that the blowhard had been taken down a notch or two, though you were sure he would spin some elaborate story explaining away his actions (or lack thereof), and succeed in keeping his lips firmly attached to the ambassador’s ass cheeks.

“Fuck, he drives me crazy!” Javier sighs out as he pushes his empty plate away, carefully stretching his arms over his head, taking care not to pull too much and separate his stitches.  He winces a little and his shirt pulls up above his stomach, revealing the bottom part of his bandages.  

“Peña!  What the fuck?”  You say, reaching across the space separating your chair from his and lifting his shirt up higher.  Your eyebrows lower in consternation, glaring at him. “Did you change your bandages?”  Javier lowers his arms and gently slaps your hand away from the messy tape job on his torso, giving you a look reminiscent of a teenager whose parent insist they put on a coat.  

“I’m not helpless, you know.  You said so yourself, it isn’t that bad.  I don’t need a babysitter.”  You snort at that as you gather up the breakfast plates and rinse them at the sink.  

“Then you’re gonna have to stop acting like such a baby when it comes to….” you stop yourself and quickly covering your near mention of the antibiotics. “...taking care of yourself.”  You shake the water from your fingers and return back to the table, looking around pointedly at the whiskey bottles half empty on a shelf and the several empty beer cans smashed and cluttering the counter.  You reach across the table and slide the ashtray and nearly empty pack of cigarettes away from him, smirking as you watch him make a grab for them but stopping suddenly when his injury pains him, keeping him from moving as far or as quickly as he would have liked.  “You can start by cutting back on these.”  He gives you a pointed look, raising an eyebrow.

“Really?  If you thought I was a dick last night, do’ya really think dealing with me when I’m craving nicotine’ll be any better?”  He watches your face as you consider that for a moment and then, resigned, slide the pack and ashtray back towards him.  He doesn't reach for either, though, but instead keeps his gaze on you as his face softens and he says your name softly.  You hate how your stomach clenches hearing his velvety gruff voice form the syllables of your name.  Get a grip! You chastise yourself.  “Listen…” he starts, then stops, his eyes dropping to the tabletop for a moment, before raising them again and looking at you abashedly.  “I’m sorry about...the way I acted yesterday.  The things I said to you.  I appreciate your help...even though I don’t act like it.”  His apology means the world to you and you nod your head at him, accepting his apology.  He shoots you THAT smile: the one he uses when he’s luring in an informant at a bar or flirting with a typist at the office.  You look away quickly, breaking the moment.  You clear your throat.

“Well, since you took it upon yourself to take care of your stitches, I guess I’ll head out.” He lifts his chin up once in a gesture of agreement.  “I’ll be around today.  Call me if you need anything, OK?”  He repeats the gesture with his chin.  “And seriously, Peña, don’t push too hard.  You’ve done enough this morning as it is.”  He lets his chin drop several times in response this time.  You offer to help him relocate to the couch, but he motions to his half full coffee cup on the table before him.

“Nah, I can get there ok.  I’m alright here for now.”  He looks up at your doubtful face.  “I’ll be careful, I promise.”  You let it go, hoping that he’s telling the truth and head for the door.  You have your hand on the knob when you hear him call your name.  You swing back around and enter the kitchen…

...the pill bottle is sitting on the table in front of him next to his coffee cup. Where the fuck did THAT come from? You wonder.  He says nothing, just watches your face carefully as you spot it.  His face remains blank as you look him dead in the eye, putting a hand on your hip and clenching your jaw.  

“Seriously, Peña?”  He just shrugs, his face still expressionless.  You flop back into the chair you had been in, sighing dramatically.  “You just sat here and apologized.  You’re really gonna hold me to this stupid idea?” He blinks innocently, saying nothing and continues to look at you.  Several long seconds passed as the two of you look at one another, each trying to weigh and measure what the other is thinking.  Finally, you roll your eyes to the ceiling and sigh, reaching for the bottle and spilling a pill out into your hand.  You flick it across the table towards him and cross your arms over your chest as you watch and wait for him to swallow it, following it with a drink from his coffee cup.  Without being told this time, he opens his mouth and shows you that it is indeed gone, to which you roll your eyes even more.  

You let out a sharp gasp mid-eyeroll as the room seems to jolt and move around you.  Your body jerks as the chair you sit in moves sharply across kitchen tile, emitting a harsh scrap of wood against ceramic; you look down to find Javier’s foot wrapped around the leg and lower rung of your chair.  The sneaky bastard had somehow gotten his foot attached without you noticing and pulled it (and you) closer to his own chair; eliminating the safe chasm of space that had been between you.  You’re thrown off balance from the abrupt movement towards him and one hand quickly snaps out to brace yourself on his shoulder, preventing your forward motion from vaulting you into his lap.  He would have loved that! You think to yourself as you glare at him, pulling your hand back from the toned muscles of his hard chest, hating that you noticed them.  He smirks at you, but makes no other movement towards you, keeping his dark eyes locked with yours.  

“God damnit, Peña!” you growl.  His eyes flash innocently as he raises his eyebrows.

“What?  We had a deal….” You grit your teeth, steadying yourself.  After glaring at him a moment longer, you shake your head in exasperation, then lean the final few inches towards him and place your lips on his.  

Once again you’re struck by how soft his lips are.  How is it possible that this gruff and bristly grump of a man could have something so soft on his body?  The lips that you were feeling now seemed in such stark contradiction to the lips that so often let spill dark curses and angry Spanish and harsh insults to friend and foe alike.  It's as though he were a different person entirely sitting here in front of you.  For a long moment, your lips merely rest upon one another, pressing softly together again.  He has a different strategy this time, it seems, than from the one last night: a split second before your lips meet, he parts his own and carefully lowers his chin, causing your lips to land on his unevenly, giving him leverage to widen his mouth and part yours lips in the process, allowing him the access inside your mouth that his tongue had sought the previous night. Just barely grazing the wet warmth behind your lips, he runs his tongue along your bottom lip searching for the slightest movement or indication from you that would give him permission to extend it further into your mouth.  The only movement you make comes from the ministrations of his mouth against yours. You find yourself swirling along with the sensuousness of his wet tongue and the feel of his mustache.  You realize you were so taken aback by the chair pull that you had forgotten to plan how many seconds you would allow this to go on.  And right now, the taste of him is convincing you that maybe it doesn’t really matter all that much….

You sense more than see his hand raise up towards your face and the movement startles you and causes you to pull away from him, but only slightly.  You realize you’re both panting softly, breathing into each other’s parted mouths.  Your eyes meet his gaze….so close: Yeah...Ok, it’s not just me then, you think with a feeling of satisfaction.  You make a fairly solid attempt at swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat, but you find your mouth has turned to cotton and your brain doesn’t seem to be sending quite the correct signals to the rest of your body.  You inadvertently lick your lips and see Javi’s eyes flash dark with desire as they lower to watch your tongue’s journey.  You blink a few times and swallow heavily again before pushing back in your chair and rising, turning on your heel and leaving his apartment without another word.

Day One

Day Three