Archive of Our Own

I draw a line in my life
Singing 'this is the new way I behave now'
And actually live by the shape of that sound.
--Rings, by Pinegrove

Dean didn’t know when he stopped drawing the first time. He must’ve been pretty young, certainly no older than eleven.

He did, however, know why he stopped. It all came down to John Winchester.

His memory was foggy, but Dean remembered drawing. He’d keep crayons in his shorts pockets, and Sammy, once he got old enough, would beg him to share. Dean would, because even back then he didn’t know how to refuse Sammy, but he always wanted to keep them for himself. They were his crayons, and drawing was his, too.

Until John took it away from him.

Prior to The Incident, Dean mostly drew whatever he wanted. Animals, robots, action heroes, cars— anything that piqued his interest.

But one day, for no reason at all, Dean drew a boy. He didn’t know for sure, but he thought it might’ve been a cowboy, looking back.

Something about it set John off bad. Dean figured that wasn’t the only thing weighing on John’s mind, that was just what tipped the scale, and he shouted Dean’s ear off about what was normal and what was sinful, and wrong, and grotesque.

Dean didn’t even know what he was talking about. He just liked cowboys.

But John didn’t care. He took all Dean’s paper and pencils, and he threw them away in the motel trash.

It broke Dean’s tiny heart. He couldn’t bring himself to try again, after that.

Well, not until he crawled out of his own grave, at least.

He found himself sitting awake after Bobby had gone to sleep, staring at the moonlight streaming in through the kitchen. He finished another beer, frowning. He was struck, for the first time in years, by the impulse to draw.

He grabbed a pencil, and a paper with notes on the vulnerabilities of a shtriga. He flipped the paper, and over and over he drew the same pair of sharp blue eyes.

It was dawn when he stopped, and he’d since filled up three more papers full of eyes. He folded them when he heard Bobby banging around in his room, and stuffed them in the pocket of his jeans as Bobby emerged.

After that, well, there wasn’t much time to draw, but Dean kept the papers folded up in the glove box of the Impala, under their fake IDs and an extra gun.

In the midst of the Apocalypse and after, with Sam’s death and Cas’ disappearance, Dean didn’t draw at all. This continued while he played at normalcy with Lisa and Ben, and then after that, he was simply too busy.

Then the loss of Bobby, and the year in Purgatory, and… Cas. Again.

Things changed a bit when he met Charlie at the LARP festival, and they bonded. She sat for a drawing, resplendent in her armor, and was delighted when he showed her. It was a modest sketch, messy, inaccurate anatomy and shading, but she grinned like it was an oil painting by Rembrandt.

It got easier after that. Even though there was always some crisis to avert, a world to save, an unimaginable evil to defeat. At least Dean could pick up a pencil, a few beers deep, and forget about anything beyond his paper.

He drew from life, a couple sneaky doodles of Sam as he slept over top of an old textbook, or focusing intently at the computer. He drew from old photographs of his family, of Sam and Dean as kids, and Mary, smiling wide. Some of Bobby, of Ellen and Jo, others they had lost.

But overwhelmingly, he drew Cas. Always from memory, because anytime Dean was looking at Cas, Cas was assuredly looking back.

The bunker made things far easier. He had privacy, and his own space, and a kitchen to experiment. He also had a desk, and a cup full of no. 2 pencils and a uniball pen, and a hiding spot for all his drawings.

It’s not that he thought Sam would give him shit for it— his drawings. It’s just that he wanted something that was just his, like it used to be. And now, with their more permanent residence, he could have that.

He stopped drawing when the angels fell, when Sam was close to dying. He didn’t draw after kicking Cas out of the bunker, no matter how much he wanted to. He just drank.

And then he took the Mark of Cain. And then there was no time, each of them consumed with finding a solution to their problem, only to be faced with an even bigger problem in the form of Amara.

Dean didn’t draw again until Mary was alive.

They’d gotten Sam back mostly safe and sound, and Cas was alive, and Dean was alive, and he just— he needed to draw.

It was strange; before, drawing Mary was like drawing a dream, or a famous person whose life you can only mostly guess at. But this time, she was a living, breathing person. She was close enough to touch, no longer burning on the ceiling of his childhood home.

(And yes, she was not like he remembered. Or expected. Or wanted. But when did he ever get what he wanted?)

They still had Lucifer to deal with, and the British Men of Letters, and just a whole lot of shit on their plates, generally, all of the time, but Dean continued to make time to draw-- excepting the brief hiatus of six weeks spent in solitary. Cas went off to find the poor lady that Lucifer knocked up, and the whole business with the nephilim-- listen, a lot was going on.

Dean drew a lot of Cas after he found Kelly Kline, and decided that her baby was Lucifer’s gift to everyone. His drawings at this point were mostly angry scribbles, but there, underneath stray pencil marks, was the familiar curve of Cas’ brow, the slant of his mouth.

And then shit hit the fan, as it always did, and Dean was left with no Cas, no Mary, just an abomination and an ache in his chest. The time after was a blur of grief and anger. He drew and drank in almost equal measures, but only one he did completely in private.

When he saw Missouri Mosely again-- bless her-- she took one look at him, nothing but compassion in her gaze, and took one graphite-stained hand. She held it in both of hers, gave him a sad smile, and let him go.

He placed a drawing on her grave, after.

Then Cas called him from a payphone, and he felt like he could breathe again.

If he drew Cas frequently before, it was nothing compared to how often he drew Cas now. He studied him constantly, devoting every detail of his face to memory to replicate on paper. The shape of his ear, the way his hair fell-- it might be wavy, if it were longer. Dean was meticulous, and-- not to toot his own horn-- he was confident his art was improving.

It’s not that there weren’t issues-- there were, there always were-- but Dean wanted to revel, for just a moment, in the euphoria of having Cas back. So he allowed it, allowed himself to look, to admire.

(He didn’t know when his friendship with Cas turned… complex. He just knew they were indescribable. He never wanted to live in a world without Cas. Never again.)

Then Jack was gone, and Dean was getting real fucking tired of losing people.

They made their way to him, of course they did, but then there was Lucifer, and Michael, and...

Well. Dean said yes.

He didn’t like to dwell on his time as Michael’s vessel. It was similar to his time in Hell, in that way.

But again, he never got what he wanted. He made his own goodbye tour, of a sort, intending to trap both himself and Michael forever. And then...

Maybe he never learned how to say no to Sam, after all.

Jack killed Michael. Then he killed Mary, and everything fell apart.

Cas, gone again. Jack, dead. Rowena, dead. Chuck was their mortal enemy, which was either a shocking twist or entirely predictable, he couldn’t decide.

Dean was filled with anger until it consumed him, blinded him. Everything else was just… going through the motions. But Eileen came back, to Sam’s utter delight. Dean could just barely muster up the ability to be happy on his brother’s behalf.

Jack, against all odds, came back. Maybe he was a Winchester, deep down.

Amara was ultimately useless, and part of Dean regretted ever asking her for help. All the plans they made, everything they worked their entire lives for, gone in the blink of an eye.

And Cas--

Dean couldn’t think about Cas.

But he’d been right about one thing, he and Kelly both. Jack was their salvation.

Once he’d stripped Chuck of his powers, and brought everyone back, Jack disappeared. Dean would have time to wonder where a little later. Just then, he had to get back to Lebanon.

Sam diverged in favor of meeting up with Eileen again, so Dean took the dog to the bunker, braced himself as he flicked on the light to the storage room. He walked in, his heart thundering wildly in his chest.

Nothing. No trench-coat clad angel, smiling gratefully at Dean. Not even a tendril of evil black goo, rippling on the wall. Just an empty room where Dean’s heart had been ripped out.

The days passed in a straight, unwavering line, and Dean’s constant companion was a bottle of booze. Sam was worried, he could tell. But what could he possibly have said?

It’s fine, I just expected Cas to be back, because he always, ALWAYS comes back, but he didn’t this time. He just left, after telling me he fucking loved me, and I had to pick up the shattered pieces of my soul. Oh, and Jack is dodging my calls.

Yeah, no thanks.

So, in conclusion: Dean was an alcoholic.

He’d cried himself to sleep enough times, and woken up with Sam or Eileen murmuring quietly above him, coaxing water into him, or sitting beside him as he puked his guts out. That was confirmation enough.

“Dean,” Sam had whispered once. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Dean almost laughed. What was he? What was he, really? Absolutely nothing, nothing at all.

One night, overcome by grief, he pulled out old pictures of his family. Not just John, Mary, and Sam, but Bobby, the Harvelles, Charlie. Cas.

He didn’t know what else to do. So he grabbed a pencil, and he started to draw.

It’d been too long, he lost his touch. But there he was, there was Castiel, and it eased something inside of Dean, just slightly. He tried again the next day, drawing from the same picture-- sober, this time. It came out better, less shaky and tear stained.

He thought about what Cas would think of Dean, if he could see him like this. It was pathetic, he knew. The drinking would kill him before it killed his pain.

On an impulse, he dumped out all but one of his handles of whiskey, and stuck to beer unless he really, really needed it. He couldn’t quit; he wasn’t sure he was capable of that. But he could slow down. For Sam, and Eileen. For Cas.

He hated it. It felt awful, and he almost quit as soon as his hands started to shake. But he didn’t. He just stopped cleaning his gun and hid in his room with Miracle until the tremors stopped.

He was on a grocery run for the bunker, a week or so after his decision. Sam had been ridiculously pleased with him for being sober enough to drive. Dean wanted to tell him not to even bother. Just because he was trying not to drink himself into another early grave didn’t mean he wasn’t basically dead inside.

Yeah, Dean understood the irony.

He picked up oat milk and kale (for himself and Sam, respectively.) He grabbed the necessities, and whatever other sundry items they might need. Absently, Dean had made his way to the arts and crafts section of the story, and, on a whim, headed for the sketchbooks. There was one-- midsize, black cloth cover, decent page weight-- that was cheap enough, so Dean grabbed it. He grabbed a pack of beginner art pencils and a kneadable eraser while he was at it.

That evening, after putting away the groceries and a brief dinner, Dean settled in his room with the sketchbook and a drink. Just one, though. Just enough to stave off withdrawals. He put on some music, and he drew. It was past midnight by the time he stopped and stretched, lamenting his age and the unforgiving ache his drawing posture had saddled him with.

Sam told him the next morning after breakfast that he and Eileen were going on a hunt, leaving Dean alone with Miracle. It was a run-of-the-mill salt and burn, they said. He saw them off, Sam looking at Dean through the windshield, a troubled expression on his face. He wanted to tell Sammy that he’d be fun, and to quit worryin’, but it wouldn’t help. Sam had seen him too close to death recently to be assured so easily.

“Just you and me, hey girl?” he asked Miracle, back in the bunker. She wagged her tail from her spot on the floor, and Dean considered that answer enough. After Sam and Eileen were about an hour away, Dean moved his sketchbook and pencils to the library. He grabbed a book of photographs from the shelf, intending to draw its contents, but after several unsatisfactory attempts, he gave up, and just drew Cas again.

From memory, this time. It was coming back to him, slowly but surely.

He tried to draw Cas smiling. He could picture it so clearly in his head-- bright and beautiful, all sunshine. But every time he tried to get it on the page, it wasn’t right. The slope of it was off, or the shape, or it wasn’t wide enough. He left countless attempts of Cas' face, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and each without a mouth.

He needed a reference. He didn’t have any pictures of Cas smiling. In every single photo of Dean’s, Cas was stoic, or mischievous, or surprised that there was a camera in his face. But he was never smiling.

Dean was struck with the realization that he would never see Cas smile again.

A sob tore its way out of his throat, and he muffled it with his hand. Miracle came over and sniffed at him, nudging him with her nose to give comfort. He patted her, clumsy, and curled in on himself.

Castiel’s mouthless visage stared at him from the page, and Dean slammed the book shut.

As he did, there was a bang from elsewhere in the bunker. He was out of his chair in an instant, gun in hand. He crept along silently, tears drying on his face. He rounded the corner to the kitchen, and his gun was out in front of him when he saw the figure standing there. “Freeze.”

The figure dropped the cereal box held in their arms, and turned slowly, arms up.

“Jack,” Dean breathed, and dropped the gun. He walked forward to embrace Jack without a second thought, and nearly sagged in relief when Jack hugged him back, just as easily.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, and he looked so much older. It was hard to remember that he was only three.

“Jack, what-- I thought you were gone! I-- I prayed to you, kid. We thought we’d never see you again,” he said, and hoped that his words didn’t sound too angry, or accusatory; that they wouldn't drive Jack away.

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to stay away, but I needed to. I had to fix Heaven. Um, more on that later, though,” Jack replied with a frown, looking down at Dean.

Dean fidgeted. “What? What is it, what’s wrong?”

Jack sighed. “It’s fine, I can heal it, just-- Oh my Me, Dean, you have a lot of liver damage. Not to worry,” he added, and suddenly Dean was washed in a sensation of a floaty sort of coolness, like being submerged in a pool that’s the perfect temperature.

Dean full-body cringed, then froze, pressing a hand to his abdomen. “Jack... did you just fix me?”

Jack nodded, unapologetic.

Dean didn’t know whether to be offended or to thank him profusely, so, as usual, he put his foot in it. “What if I was doing that on purpose?” he said, stupidly, like a fucking idiot.

Jack was unphased. “You were, and it was a bad idea, so I made the executive decision to stop you. Anyways, more pressing matters, Dean,” he reminded, and suddenly they were in the Dean Cave, each reclined in a chair.

“Wha--”

“I wanted us to be comfortable,” Jack said. “Now, back to the explanation. I was fixing Heaven. I’m a toddler, so obviously I needed some help with that. And who better than the man who invented free will itself?” Jack asked, like it was easy.

“Cas?” Dean breathed.

Jack nodded. “Getting him back was a bit of a pain, but thankfully it’s all smoothed over now. And Cas is fine, Dean, I promise. We worked a lot on Heaven, and it’s running perfectly now. Cas is just visiting some folks, he’ll be back down tomorrow. I figured I’d come down and warn you. Do you know when Sam will be back?”

“Don’t you?” Dean asked, dazed.

Jack shrugged. “Theoretically yes, but that’s not really a path I like to go down. I try to do things the old-fashioned way as much as possible.”

“Was healing me ‘the old fashioned way?’”

Jack smiled. “No. But I had to make an exception for you, Dean. You’re my father.”

Dean’s eyes slid shut, and he felt like he’d been stabbed. To hear it so plainly, after-- after everything.

“Jack,” Dean began. “About that.”

The kid looked over at him, his expression open, waiting patiently.

“I-- I just… I know what I’ve done can never be… forgiven. I know I messed up too much, and I said awful things to you, and about you-- and I’m just… I’m just sorry, Jack. I’m very, very sorry. And you don’t need my forgiveness, but I do forgive you. For… For Mom. For everything. And it may not be worth anything, kid, but I’m proud of you. Cas would be-- is,” he corrected. “He is proud of you, too. I just know it.”

Jack sat with that for a moment, breathing in the silence that fell after. “One of the incredible things about being… as I am,” he began, “is that I can see perfectly clearly what it’s like to be another person. Why they did what they did. What drove them to it, how they felt about it. And Dean… I see now. I understand. And no, it isn’t okay. But we will be. I forgive you, Dean. And you can forgive yourself, too.”

Dean forced his gaze down. He didn’t want to cry in front of Jack-- not because he was ashamed, but because Jack shouldn’t be forced to be responsible for Dean’s emotions. But Jack didn’t try to draw Dean’s eyes back, he just reached his hand out, and settled it against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean placed his hand over top of Jack’s.

They talked more that evening, but eventually Dean’s need for sleep overwhelmed him. Dean walked Jack to his room, and hugged him tightly.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked.

Jack fidgeted. “Um, actually, I’d like to stay. For the foreseeable future. If… If you and Sam are okay with it,” he answered.

“Of course,” Dean said in a rush. “We want you to stay. I want you to stay.”

Jack beamed and hugged Dean tightly. “Goodnight, Dean! Sleep tight, okay? Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said seriously, pulling away.

Jack closed his door, and Dean walked to the library to get his sketchbook. Miracle followed him to his room, and laid on his bed with him when he finished getting ready. He expected not to sleep at all, out of anticipation, but as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out.

Dean stumbled out of his room, feeling more rested than he’d been in months, but still tired. He rubbed his eyes and made his way to the kitchen, just crossing the threshold when he remembered.

Cas.

And there he was, sipping coffee, dressed in a hoodie. His hair was slightly mussed, and he looked up when Dean arrived.

All at once, Dean was reminded that Cas was fully, completely, genuinely in love with him. Him. Dean “dumbass” Winchester. That was who Castiel had chosen. He could barely breathe.

Cas smiled, and it was like a sunrise blooming across the surface of the Earth. It was all encompassing. Dean fought the impulse to run and hide. There he is, Dean thought. Just… him.

“Dean,” Cas said, shining, and Dean didn’t waste any time. He pulled Cas up by the sleeve of his hoodie and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing tightly. His face was buried in Cas’ shoulder, and he relished in the feeling of having Cas here, solid. Alive.

They turned when Jack entered. “Good! You’re both awake. I was just on the phone with Sam; he and Eileen are on their way. In the meantime, Dean, will you make breakfast?” Jack looked at him hopefully.

Dean had neither the right nor the desire to refuse this kid-- a fact he was surely exploiting. But still Dean agreed, and Jack sat right down beside Cas, and they were going to have breakfast like that. Like a family.

“How many eggs do you want, Jack?” Dean asked, heading for the fridge and pulling it open.

“Oh, however many Cas is having,” Jack replied easily, and Dean froze. He slowly shut the fridge.

“Cas, are you… human?” Dean asked, and Cas visibly tensed.

He looked down. “...Yes. My grace is gone entirely, after escaping from the Empty and helping Jack with Heaven. There just… wasn’t enough to go around.”

“Jack couldn’t help you with that?”

Cas fidgeted. “I didn’t want him to,” he admitted.

Dean frowned, but decided to file that away for later. “Well, how many eggs for you?”

Cas furrowed his brow. “...Two,” he said, like Dean did something confusing.

Breakfast was surprisingly easy, Jack carried the conversation. Apparently, he’d been talking with Miracle that morning, and she wanted Sam to pay more attention to her in the mornings. Jack promised he would relay the message to Sam himself.

Jack disappeared after breakfast, probably to spend more time with Miracle-- but then again, who knew, with that kid. Dean stood to clear up, and Cas rose to help him. They were nearly finished when Cas spoke.

“Dean, you don’t look...well.”

Dean snorted. “You’re a real charmer, Cas.”

He huffed. “No, I mean--”

Dean just shrugged. “I know what you meant. And I should look fine, considering Jack staved off my liver disease for another few decades. And I got more sleep last night than I have in months. So, really, Cas, I don’t know what you’re whining about.”

Cas rolled his eyes, and fuck, Dean missed him. “Dean, have you been taking care of yourself?”

He couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Fuck no, I haven’t been taking care of myself! Are you kidding? I’ve been all but trying to drink myself to death, Cas. What kinda question is that?”

Cas dropped his kitchen towel. “Dean, stop! This isn’t funny. I don’t… I don’t want that for you.”

“Well, that’s just what happens when you die, man, I don’t know what to tell you.” He turned, only to be stopped with a hand on his bicep.

“Will you take this seriously? You’re...precious to me.” Cas' grip was firm around Dean’s arm. His gaze was intense, and Dean was reminded of all those times he’d stared into this face, one or both of them bloody-- and Cas, with his bright blue eyes, never wavering.

Don’t look at his lips, don’t look at his lips.

Dean looked. It was quick, just down-and-up-again, but Cas saw. His brow furrowed, just slightly, like it did when he was confused.

Dean extricated himself from Cas’ hold. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, and retreated to the safety of his room. Cas could finish the kitchen by himself.

He locked the door and pulled out his sketch of Cas smiling. He stared at it for a few moments, remembering how Cas had looked. How he’d brightened up at the sight of Dean. Pencil in hand, Dean set upon the page.

He froze, though, the graphite tip millimeters above the paper. He sighed, and put it away.

Once, when Sam had gone off to Stanford and Dean was alone--fully alone, for maybe the first time in his life-- he’d driven Baby to a field and stood outside. He let the rain come down, only intending to watch the weather from afar, but it began to pour so hard he was already soaked, anyways. He stood under the torrential rain and just allowed himself to drown.

Thunder cracked loudly in his ear, rattling his skull like a gunshot, and to his right, barely ten feet away, lightning struck, bright and terrifying. It smelled so sharp, the air fizzing with the energy. Every hair on his body stood on end.

There, in a field in Illinois, he was the tallest thing around.

That feeling-- of electricity, of near death, of almost-- that’s what it was like to stand by Castiel. Even still, fully human. It still made his head spin. He was dizzy with it.

Dean shook himself out of his memory. Sam and Eileen were back, from the sound of it, and Dean wanted to see their faces when they saw Jack and Cas.

He made his way towards the entrance, and saw Eileen at the bottom of the stairs, Sam close behind. He greeted them easily, taking one of Sam’s bags.

“How was the hunt?” He asked Eileen.

She shrugged. “A bit boring, honestly,” she said, and made the sign for boring as she did. Dean grinned.

Then two pairs of footsteps sounded in the hall, and Sam looked to Dean with a frown. Eileen noticed, and looked between Sam and Dean, a question in her eyes. Dean just shook his head easily, and Sam didn’t even have time to relax before there was Jack, followed by Cas.

Sam’s eyes grew comically wide, and he stepped towards them both, arms outstretched. He kept moving his gaze between them, obviously unsure of who to hug first. It was Jack who pulled him in, and Eileen made her way to Cas for a hug of their own.

“How?” Sam asked breathlessly, releasing Jack and so he could grab Cas.

“Jack,” Cas answered easily, patting Sam a few times on the back.

Jack just beamed, then signed something to Eileen, who chuckled.

Dean felt something in him click into place, seeing this group of people all safe and happy, together. A feeling of wholeness. It didn’t magically fix everything (though Jack could probably come pretty close.) But it was his. Dean ached to draw them, to keep the memory of this moment forever in graphite or charcoal.

But that would require them knowing about his art, which was a problem for multiple reasons. The only person who really knew about his art was Charlie, who was dead. It wasn’t that he didn’t think he was good enough. He knew he had spent a while cultivating his skills over the years, and yeah, he’d slipped a bit lately, but it was still there somewhere. He could get it back.

The issue was that drawing was his. No one else’s. He didn’t want to have to explain why he drew what he drew, or why he liked it, or why it helped. He just wanted to draw.

“Let me get our shit put away, and then let’s-- fuck, I don’t know celebrate? I mean… Guys, we won,” Sam was saying. Dean tuned back in to hear him laugh incredulously.

“Technically, we won months ago,” Jack offered.

Sam scoffed. “Well, yes, I know, but now you guys are here, and-- wait, you’re staying, right?”

Cas glanced at Dean briefly, in the world’s most confusing look lasting less than two seconds, and nodded, turning back to Sam. “That’s the plan,” he added.

Sam straightened up in excitement, like he used to as a kid. Dean was, again, gripped with a rush of fondness for each of them. Sam continued to make plans, and Dean caught Eileen’s eye across the room.

She sidled up to him, knocking him with her elbow. He grinned and glanced down. She knocked him again, then nodded up to Cas, who was still deep in discussion with Sam and Jack. Back, she fingerspelled.

Dean fought the rush of heat that flooded his face. He shrugged, looking down, but she jabbed his ribs with her knuckle. He yelped and frowned at her, rubbing the sore spot. What are you waiting for? She mouthed, and pointed to Cas.

Dean followed the line of her finger. Cas was frowning, deep in concentration. His eyes were slightly squinted, as they usually were, and Dean was struck with the possibility of Cas needing glasses. That brought up a mess of emotions he didn’t have names for, so he stuffed them down and looked to Eileen with a deadpan expression.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and spared a moment to regret not learning more ASL. It had to be exhausting for her, lip reading all the time. He resolved to practice often.

Eileen rolled her eyes and took her phone out of her pocket. A couple moments later, his phone buzzed.

Eileen:
You aren’t fooling anybody.

Dean:
I genuinely have no clue what you’re talking about.

Eileen:
I just think you should go for it.

Dean:
Again, I’m lost.

Eileen:
Your ‘clueless’ act might work better on someone who hadn’t seen you over these past few months, Dean. I know what you went through. You and Cas are a lot of things, but “just friends” isn’t one of them.

Dean read the text, then pocketed his phone, steadfastly ignoring the woman beside him. As usual, Eileen knew too much, and it was inconveniencing Dean greatly. Then Sam turned towards them and all but waved them into the conversation, and Dean met Cas' eye as he and Eileen stepped forward.

Dean looked away first.

They had decided to head for the diner in town for lunch, all five of them packed into the Impala. If Dean angled his head just right, he could see Cas in the rearview mirror. He tried not to look, because everytime he did, Eileen noticed, somehow, and she would look at him with a confusing mix of pity and glee.

They filed into the booth at the diner, Jack and Eileen and Sam on one side, Dean and Cas on the other. In spite of the closeness to the singular person he wanted to avoid, lunch was passably good, and Dean laughed more in that hour and a half than he had in several months. It was… a blessing, he thought, to have his family back, safe and sound and eating soggy french fries across the booth from him.

Their drive home was slow and meandering, Dean taking the few back roads Lebanon had, just to prolong the trip. To keep that feeling alive, of all of them together, safe in Baby’s embrace.

Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to soft rock, meanwhile Jack and Eileen slumped in their seats, each only minutes from a food coma. Sam was looking out his window, seemingly more into the music than even Dean. Dean glanced up, tilting his head until he could see Cas.

Cas was looking back.

When they arrived back at the bunker, Dean murmured some bullshit about taking a nap, then went straight to his room and hunched over his desk. His next two hours were spent perfecting the angles of Cas' profile, and the way the light hit his eyes, reflected in Dean’s rearview.

Eileen found out by accident.

Dean had, mistakenly, thought the bunker was empty. Jack and Cas were on a daytrip-- they mentioned something about the world’s largest ball of twine-- he didn’t know, or care. But they said they’d be back after dinner, which was all Dean needed to know. Plus, anything that got him and Cas not in the same room together was fine by his standards.

As for Sam-- he wanted to hike, freak that he was. The plan had been for Eileen to accompany him.

That was not what ended up happening. Just as Dean got into the groove of his drawing-- another one of Cas, though on that same page in his sketchbook there were also several sketches of Baby, and one study of the light passing through a bottle of beer. He was about to begin shading when he heard footsteps entering the library. Dean slammed the sketchbook shut, but not before Eileen saw him hunched over it, various pencils scattered around him.

“You draw?” she asked.

Dean glanced at the evidence before her, and did not think he could get away with a denial at this point. He tried anyway. “No?”

She leveled him with a look.

Yeah, that was a long shot.

“I didn’t know you knew how,” she said, taking the seat across from him. She picked up a pencil, poking at its sharpened tip absently. It left a little smudge of charcoal on her finger.

“No one does. I’d like to keep it that way,” he told her pointedly.

A smile curled its way up her face. “Ooh, a secret?” She asked, her voice tinged with excitement.

He nodded, and she grinned even wider. She mimed zipping her lips closed and locking them.

He chuckled. Good ol’ Eileen.

Then she sat up straighter, peering over her nose at his closed sketchbook. “Can I see what you’re working on?”

He took it all back, Eileen was terrible. He looked at her hopeful expression and sighed. Hesitantly, and with great reluctance, he flipped open the sketchbook to the page he was working on. Her grin got even wider when she took in the image of Cas, reproduced in black lines and smudges.

“You’re good,” she said, and he tried to ignore the pride that awoke in his chest.

“Thank you,” he signed.

“Can I see more?”

Dean pulled the book close to him, then discreetly flipped to a page that wasn’t filled completely up with drawings of Cas. He presented it to her. This page had two drawings of Baby, one wonky looking sketch of Miracle because he couldn’t draw dogs, and a drawing of Mary, when she was young.

Eileen appraised the drawings carefully, tracing a hand down the paper, yet still careful not to smudge anything. Dean felt a strange itch in his body, the instinct to pull the sketchbook away and never show anyone ever again. He had to force his brain to relax. Eileen was safe. She wasn’t going to break his things, or belittle him. She wasn’t like his dad.

She shut the book gently and slid it over to him. Then she smiled. “Will you draw me?”

Dean laughed, all the tension releasing at once. Whatever he’d expected her to say, it hadn’t been that. “Come with me, I have an idea,” he said. They made their way to his room, and he grabbed a pair of headphones.

“You went to that hard rock concert with Sam, right?” he asked, and Eileen nodded. “Did you like it?”

She nodded again.

He fiddled with the EQ on his headphones, thankful that he’d splurged and got the fancy kind. When he’d successfully changed the bass settings, he presented her with the headphones, and queued up his loudest, angriest, bassiest playlist. “You jam out, I draw.”

Eileen accepted with a raised eyebrow, and settled on his bed with the headphones. She leaned against the headboard and picked a song. Dean opened his sketchbook, and began to draw. After a few minutes, Dean, paused, raising a hand to get Eileen’s attention. When she looked at him, he asked “Weren’t you supposed to go hiking with Sam?”

She shrugged. “I told him I was too tired. Honestly, I just don’t really like hiking.”

Dean laughed. “Me, too,” he signed.

“Your ASL is improving,” she told him.

“Well, the least I can do is make an effort,” he replied.

“Some people don’t even do that,” she told him, then grinned, and signed something even Dean could tell was not appropriate for polite company.

“Is that the sign for asshole?”

She nodded, and he laughed. They settled back into their tasks. He drew for a bit more, and presented her with the finished product. Eileen beamed, and just then Dean heard the heavy bunker door close. His eyes widened.

“Sam’s back,” he said, paling.

“Uh oh,” she said, and did not budge from her spot on the bed, still looking at his drawing, only to have him pull it away.

She watched, impassive as Dean scrambled to hide the sketchbook under his bed and shove his pencils into a desk drawer. He leaned back in his desk chair just as Sam knocked on his half-open door.

“Hey, have you seen-- oh, there you are,” Sam said when he saw Eileen. She waved, headphones still on her head. “What are you guys up to?”

“Chillin’,” Eileen replied, and Dean snorted, trying desperately to contain his laughter.

Sam looked between them. “Okay…” he said, then shook his head. “Whatever, I don’t wanna know. Eileen, I stopped by the store and got you some bread and butter pickles.”

“Ew,” Dean replied instantly, and Eileen flipped him off. She stood and handed him the headphones.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” she said with a smirk, and Dean laughed. Eileen exited, and Sam was about to follow when Dean called out his name.

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Eileen’s way too cool for you, man,” Dean responded, and Sam just chuckled.

“Yeah, she is,” he said, and looked fondly in the direction she’d gone in.

“Even if she does like bread and butter.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever, they’re not that gross.”

“It’s a pickle. That is sweet. That’s unholy, Sam, and I’ve been to Hell.”

“So have I. For longer, even.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Okay, you know what? It’s not a competition.”

“If it was, you’d lose,” Sam said evenly.

Dean floundered. “Would you leave already? Damn, can’t a man have some time alone?” he complained, and Sam laughed as he left and shut the door behind him.

Those two really were perfect for each other, he mused, and retrieved his sketchbook from under the bed.

Dean continued to draw Eileen periodically, mostly when they ended up in the bunker alone, and were otherwise bored and unoccupied. It wasn’t frequent, but it was nice to have a model in person, rather than just working off of photographs. He even tried his hand at gesture drawing, which was especially fun because Eileen tended to pick the most impossible poses to hold. He kept improving, both in his grasp of anatomy and of shading.

He also kept drawing Cas, not that he let Eileen know that. For all she knew, he had drawn Cas a grand total of one (1) time, and the rest of his sketchbook was filled with drawings of his car. To be fair, he had drawn Baby a lot, but it didn’t come close to how many times he’d drawn Cas.

This was a fact he’d take to his grave, if he could.

“Do you ever draw Sam?” Eileen asked him, during one of their sessions. She was sitting comfortably on the couch, and there was a lamp shining on her from the side, providing stark light and harsh shadows. Beads of sweat gathered on her illuminated brow.

He quirked his head. “Not really. I drew him a couple times, but this was a few years ago. I wasn’t as good.”

“Will you show me?”

He nodded. “After we finish this, I’ll go grab it.” He returned his focus to the page.

A flutter of wings, and then Jack was in front of them, taking in the scene for a moment before gasping. “Dean! You draw?”

Dean had jumped when Jack flew in, and dropped his pencils. Eileen was grimacing.

“Uh… Yeah,” he sighed. “Did you need something?”

Jack tore his attention away from the open sketchbook. “Oh, yes, actually,” he said. “I wanted to ask if you’ll make pasta tonight.”

Dean sighed. “This couldn’t have been a text?”

“My phone’s dead.”

“You’re god, just charge it up.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Dean--”

“Yeah, yeah, it doesn’t work like that, I know. Why couldn’t you use Cas’ phone?”

“He got distracted in the garden section. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“But you can interrupt me?”

Jack beamed. “Yes, exactly.”

Dean sighed. Cas and Jack had gone to the hardware store to get paint and some other home-reno type items. They were planning on redoing Cas’ room to have a bit more… ‘personality’. Meaning ‘any personality at all’. “Fine, I’ll make pasta, but you have to get the good sausage from the butcher.”

“Deal!” Jack said, and moved like he was going to go back to Cas. He hesitated. “Dean?” he asked.

Dean looked up.

“Will you teach me to draw?”

Dean didn’t bother asking why he didn’t just download the knowledge directly into his head. He knew the answer he’d get. He looked at Jack, hopefully and eager and sincere, and Dean couldn’t say no. “...You got a spare second?”

Jack beamed, and nodded eagerly. Dean motioned for him to sit down beside Dean. He tore a paper out of his book and handed him a 2H pencil. “Go nuts,” he said.

Jack stared at his blank page, a puzzled frown forming on his lips.

Dean took pity. “Okay, um… Start with the head. Think about the angle it’s at. And don’t bother with the furniture yet, just draw Eileen. Oh, and draw what you see, not what you think you see.”

Jack nodded seriously at every piece of advice, and set to work. He put his pencil down after several minutes, appraising his work with a critical eye. “Hm. Well, that is not very good at all.”

Dean frowned, looking over. “Sure it is. You make your strokes too short, they come off uncertain, but you’ve got a strong sense of the shape of things. And look, the section with her hair had a lot of confidence. You’re doing good, Jack.”

Jack looked at him like he’d given him a precious gift. “Thank you,” he said, starstruck. Then, he frowned. “I have to get back. Cas is about to notice I’m gone.”

“Wait, Jack!” Dean stopped him.

He raised his eyebrows, a question on his face.

“Don’t tell anyone I draw, okay?” he asked.

Jack furrowed his brow, but nodded.

“Especially… Especially not Cas. Promise me, okay?”

“I promise, Dean.”

Dean exhaled. “Okay. Okay, thank you.”

Jack nodded again, his brow furrowed, and left.

That evening, after he’d made pasta with the good sausage, and everyone had gone to bed, Dean opened up his sketchbook to a fresh page. He worked painstakingly, trying to be as accurate as possible. In the end, he got pretty close. It was a good likeness, he thought. He carefully tore the page out.

To Jack, Love Dean, he’d written. He slid the paper under Jack’s door, knocking quietly as he did, then hiding around the corner. He heard the door open, then a quiet, pleased gasp. “Thank you, Dean!” Jack whispered in his direction, then the door closed.

Dean chuckled to himself. He should’ve known better than to try and hide from Jack, but at least he liked the drawing.

The next day, Jack showed up in front of Dean’s door before breakfast, holding a pencil in one hand and a piece of printer paper in the other, a giddy grin on his face.

“Good morning, Dean!” he’d exclaimed when Dean opened the door, only for Dean to nearly shut it in his face out of surprise. He didn’t, though, and instead gave a tired sigh, and let the kid in.

“Mornin’, Jack.”

“I was hoping we could draw more today,” he said, wiggling the paper.

Dean eyed the now slightly creased page. His gaze slid back to Jack. “Sure, Jack, but no more showing up outside of my door with a paper and a pencil, okay? Anyone could see you.”

“About that,” Jack started, his brow creasing. “Why exactly is that a secret? I’ve been trying to guess, but everything I think of seems incredibly unlikely.”

“What have you thought of?”

“Well… Maybe one time you were drawing, and someone saw it and made you feel bad about it, so you keep it a secret now.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Yeah, it’s, uh… It’s nothing like that. Not at all. I just… I wanted something that was just for me,” he said, and ignored how it was starting to feel like he was reciting the words.

“What about cars? And if it’s just for you, is it okay that Eileen and I know? Should I stop asking you to teach me?”

Dean put a hand up, stopping Jack in his catastrophizing tracks. “Okay, one, working on cars is different because it’s practical, it’s not just for fun. So while I do enjoy it, it still sometimes feels like work. And yes, it’s okay that you and Eileen know. You guys won’t tell, so it’s fine.”

Jack looked at him with wide eyes, and Dean continued. “No, you shouldn’t stop asking me to teach you. In fact, let’s start now.”

Jack brightened up, and Dean directed him to sit at the desk. “Oh! Can I learn how to draw Cas? I think he’d really enjoy a picture of himself. Just like the one you drew me,” he said with a smile.

“Uh… Let’s wait on that for now, start with some still life or something. How’s that sound?”

Jack just nodded like it was all the same to him, so Dean tried to arrange some objects in his room in an artful way-- wracking his brain for the tips from the eight minute youtube video on composition in art he’d watched. He turned his lamp at an angle, so it casted a dramatic light on the stack of items.

“Okay,” Dean said, satisfied. “Draw that.”

Jack set right to work, evidently taking to heart everything Dean had told him yesterday. Dean chimed in with a few tips, but overall, the kid was doing well, even if he did tend to ask a lot of personal questions.

Eileen stuck around for two of the drawing lessons Dean and Jack had over the next week, but she and Sam found a hunt, so she regrettably informed him he’d have to find a new model.

“Maybe Cas, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” she said innocently, then winked.

“I hope you get monster goo in your hair,” Dean replied, and she chuckled. He bid them both goodbye at the stairs, and tried not to think about Cas modelling for Dean.

You know, nude modelling is a thing, his brain helpfully provided. He groaned internally. Nope, not happening.

Suddenly, Dean needed to be more than five miles away from Cas, or he might actually spontaneously combust. He grabbed his keys and his jacket, and hid his sketchbook inside the interior pocket. Then he knocked on Jack’s door.

It swung open, only to reveal Cas. Dean startled.

“Hello Dean!” Jack’s voice called, and Dean looked past Cas to see Jack, sitting cross-legged on his bed.

“Heya, Jack, Cas. I was just coming to see if Jack wanted to join me on a field trip. You know, bonding time,” Dean grinned, and hoped Cas was in love with him enough to be charmed, and not notice how instantly sweaty and nervous he’d become.

Cas’ face didn’t change at all-- no softening of the features, or visible swooning-- and Dean tried not to feel disappointed.

“Oh! You don’t mind, do you, Cas?” Jack all but pleaded, and Cas looked between his son and Dean.

“I suppose not. Will you be back before dinner?” Cas asked, and Dean nodded easily.

He cleared his throat. “Coupl’a hours, tops.”

Cas acquiesced, and Jack fist-pumped. “Yes! Bye, Cas, see you later!” he called, then led the way to the garage, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement.

Dean trailed after, sending a fond look over his shoulder to Cas. His expression did change, then, but only to mirror Dean’s. Jack had that effect on people, he supposed.

“Can I drive?” Jack asked eagerly, standing in front of Baby’s hood.

Dean froze, then looked between the keys in his hand and Jack’s pleading face. He heaved a put-upon sigh, but tossed the keys to Jack, who caught them easily. “Thank you, Dean!”

Dean sat in the passenger side, and stopped Jack before he turned the keys in the ignition. “Just… go easy, okay?”

Jack nodded solemnly. He drove smoothly out of the garage. “Where are we going?”

“I figured we’d draw some landscapes today. What do you think about going back to that one river?” He asked, and Jack agreed enthusiastically. Dean put a tape in, and he and Jack enjoyed the music, only interrupting to exchange questions and answers about the direction they were headed.

They arrived safely, without a scratch on Baby, and Dean ripped a page from his sketchbook, passing it to Jack with a pencil, which he’d also kept in his jacket.

“Do you draw a lot of landscapes?” Jack asked once they’d settled in. Dean shook his head.

“Almost never. I mostly draw people. Or objects.”

“Like Baby?”

Dean nodded.

“Do you ever draw Cas?”

He swallowed, and tried to sound casual. “Sure, sometimes.” All the time, his mind amended helpfully.

“Is he fun to draw?”

Dean had never thought about it in those terms, but yeah, actually, he was. His features were just… nice. He had a nice face. Or Jimmy had a nice face, he supposed. But no, Dean thought, even before Jimmy had died and Cas pretty much inherited his body, Cas had just looked different from Jimmy. The way he moved, the pinch between his brows, the set of his jaw. That was all Castiel, and it always had been. “Yeah,” Dean finally answered. “He is.”

Jack smiled to himself. “I can’t wait to draw him. I think he’ll love it, Dean, he really will.”

Dean suppressed a smile of his own. “I’m sure he will, kid.” The silence that followed lasted a grand total of thirty seconds before Jack opened his mouth again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Dean nodded.

“Why do you keep avoiding Cas?”

Dean frowned. “I’m… not. He’s avoiding me,” he insisted.

Jack just shrugged. “Well, yeah. You’re both avoiding each other.”

That bothered Dean. Until then, he hadn’t genuinely considered that Cas was also avoiding him, but it made sense. Usually, he would hole up in his room to draw Cas instead of talking to him. He hadn’t realized it, but Cas never knocked on his door or sought him out. “Why is he avoiding me, then?”

“He thinks you’re uncomfortable.”

Dean ignored the fact that yes, he was uncomfortable, which was why he was avoiding Cas in the first place. “Why would I be uncomfortable?”

“Because of what he said before he died.” Jack’s tone was even. Like it didn’t even bother him to say it. Like it wasn’t earth shattering.

Dean’s pencil stilled on the page. “He told you about that?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty clear that you are uncomfortable around him, but I don't think it’s for the reason he thinks.”

Dean wondered when the hell he’d gotten so transparent. “Well… sure seems like you’ve got all the answers,” he remarked lightly.

Jack chuckled. “I do know everything,” he said with a grin.

Dean laughed despite himself. His family was so fucking weird. He loved it, though. He cleared his throat. “Cas is-- he’s a good dad, huh?”

Jack smiled. “The best,” he replied simply.

“You know, if you’d told me when I met him that the dorky little angel who dragged my ass out of hell would end up being both my best friend and the father of new god, I would’ve called a cab and slept off whatever fucked up moonshine I’d been drinking.”

“If you’d told me the same thing, I wouldn’t have said anything, because I hadn’t been born yet,” Jack responded, and Dean snorted.

He turned Baby on again shortly after, both of them deciding some music would help inspire them. The minutes snaked along to the vibrations of the music, and pretty soon Dean and Jack had a page or two of thumbnails, plus one full size drawing each. They compared, and Dean looked at Jack’s approvingly, meanwhile Jack gave Dean’s “two thumbs up.”

Cas was in the library when they got back, frowning at a book. He closed it when he heard them, and sat with an expectant expression. “How was it?” he asked.

“Awesome,” Jack grinned. “We listened to music, and sat by a river, and Dean let me drive!”

“He… let you drive?” Cas asked, his brow furrowing. He looked at Dean with an unreadable expression. Somewhere between confused and delighted, Dean guessed hesitantly.

“Mhmm!” Jack hummed, before making his way to his room. Cas' gaze turned to Dean.

He resisted the urge to fidget. “Why is that surprising? He’s driven Baby before.”

Cas quirked his head. “Well, yes, but that was… before.”

Dean didn’t bother dwelling on the meaning of that statement. “He’s careful,” was all Dean said.

Cas narrowed his eyes, and Dean had the distinct impression that he was being studied. He felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, except he doubted the bug enjoyed being observed as much as he currently was. Eventually Cas looked away, no longer pinning Dean to his spot with just the power of his stare. Dean fled the library shortly after, already pulling his sketchbook from his jacket before he’d even reached his room.

He drew Cas' eyes twelve times that evening.

Jack was right. He was avoiding Cas.

Well, duh, obviously, he thought. Of course he was avoiding Cas.

He’d spent quite a lot of effort grieving Cas in all the most unhealthy and destructive ways, only to find that Cas was back, and Dean could stand to spend a bit more effort doing normal things, like eating and drinking water instead of whiskey and not crying himself to sleep anymore.

The problem was that Cas was here. Human. Within reach. And Dean?

Dean just… wanted.

Historically, Dean did not get what he wanted. And, historically, when what Dean wanted was a person, they usually didn’t live very long, or else Dean drove them away by virtue of being himself.

Which is not to say that Dean pitied himself. That was just… the way things tended to go. No use crying over it. Might as well just avoid forming deep personal bonds with people, that way he couldn't be hurt. And they couldn’t be hurt, either.

As much sense as that made to Dean, it didn’t stop the deep-seated ache that Dean held for Cas. It didn’t so much as muffle it; the constant longing would not let up, especially not when he was close enough to touch.

So, Dean did what any idiot with a pencil would: he drew.

And sure, maybe it’s not the most logical jump, but it worked for Dean, and it would continue to work until he ran out of pages in his sketchbook. In which case, he would buy another one, and stop when he got carpal tunnel, or a monster bit his hand off. They were equally likely.

“You’re drinking a lot less,” Sam observed one night, when Dean was finishing up the dishes. They’d ordered in that evening, which Dean was pleased with, considering his wrist hurt from drawing, and he didn’t want to cook while in pain.

Dean forced himself to not take offense. “Are you your brother’s keeper, Samuel?” he asked, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“I’m just saying. You seem… It seems like you’re doing better.”

Dean shrugged. “Well, I’m no longer grieving my best friend, so…”

“I’m glad you got him back, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “I mean, I’m glad we all got him back, but it’s different for you. You and Cas… It’s always been different.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “You got somethin’ to say about me and Cas?”

Sam shook his head, not rising to the bait. “No. I just want you both to be happy, and it seems like… even if you aren’t, now, you will be.”

Dean didn’t know what to say in reply, and Sam just patted his shoulder and left. Dean stood with soapy water dripping off his hands, staring into the distance for a while after that.

He shook himself out of it, and dried his hands off. He opened the fridge, looking straight at the unopened six pack in front of him.

This was how Cas found him, engaged in a staring contest with a beer bottle. “Oh, hello, Dean,” he said, surprised. Dean sighed and reached for the carton of orange juice.

“Hey,” he replied, and drank straight from the carton. Sammy wouldn’t give him shit for it because he’d be too happy Dean didn’t drink the beer. Right? Right. He turned to face Cas.

Something about newly human Cas that Dean should’ve anticipated is the complete lack of trenchcoat. Obviously, he wouldn’t wear the same clothes. Duh. But Dean… Well, he sorta missed the ugly thing. Because it was late, and he had a lot on his mind, he decided to ask.

“Do you still have the trench coat?”

Cas blinked. “Yes,” he replied slowly, though puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

Dean shrugged, aiming for nonchalant and not quite succeeding. “Just… wondering, I guess. You put much thought into your current… style?” He motioned towards Cas’ current clothing, jeans and a t-shirt.

Cas looked down at himself, shifting slightly. “Not… especially. Mostly just whatever you have that’s comfortable and fits okay.”

Dean blue-screened. “Sorry, that’s… mine?” Dean asked, but he didn’t need to bother. He recognized that old band T-shirt, and he’d worn those jeans just last week.

Cas plucked at the hem of the shirt. “Yes, I… hope that’s okay,” he answered, unsure, and Dean almost tripped over himself to assure him that it really, really was. Especially considering that shirt is a tiny bit big on Dean, but on Cas it looks just slightly small.

“Yeah, of course, you know… What’s mine is yours,” Dean replied, his mouth dry in spite of the orange juice. “But don’t you want clothes of your own?”

Cas shrugged, and came closer to lean against the counter beside Dean. “Sure, whenever it’s convenient, but I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“I don’t mind,” Dean rushed out, and then took a big gulp of orange juice so he didn’t have to meet Cas’ gaze. He chanced a look, and Cas was just watching him, his eyes narrowed, just a bit.

Dean remembered his thought about Cas needing glasses. “Hey, can you see alright?”

Cas frowned.

“I mean, like is your vision blurry or--”

“Oh, um, yes, actually. Ever since Jack brought me back, it’s been harder to see.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, you need glasses, man. We can make an appointment in town, get you a prescription. I can take you tomorrow if you want,” he offered, then kicked himself. Driving Cas to an appointment was not exactly the best way to avoid him.

But Cas smiled. “That would be nice, Dean. Maybe we can shop for clothes, while we’re at it.”

Dean was instantly bombarded with mental images of Cas wearing glasses and a fucking sweater, for some reason, and it made him want to hide away in his room for the next three hours, only emerging to hydrate and stretch.

“...Good idea,” Dean said, and foolishly thought of Cas modelling a new wardrobe. He ducked, intending to hide his face in the orange juice, but the carton was empty. He tossed it in the trash with a sigh. “We'll hash out the details tomorrow, how’s that sound?”

Cas nodded, and before he could say anything, Dean made an excuse about being tired and swiftly walked to his room, his heart pounding entirely too hard for what amounted to a two minute conversation about clothes and glasses. It hit him, again, that he agreed to, essentially, spend the day with Cas, because apparently he was a slut for punishment.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dean asked. He was pointedly not thinking about how Cas looked like a sexy professor with glasses on.

Cas looked at him from the corner of his eye. “No, it was fine. I’m glad to know I’ll be able to actually see your freckles again soon.”

Dean nearly crashed the damn car. “Whoops,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Must’ve hydroplaned there,” he added, and cringed.

Cas looked at him. “Dean, the road is dry.”

Dean cleared his throat loudly. “So! Uh, any idea where you want to look for clothes? Money’s not an issue, so we could head for the city and get you something real fancy, if you wanted.”

“I don’t need anything fancy. Maybe if we were on a hunt, and I needed to be undercover, but right now any store will do. Oh, let’s go there,” Cas said, pointing out his window to a small boutique they just passed.

Dean raised a brow. “There? You sure?”

Cas just nodded, a small grin forming. “Yes. I’d like to support a small business,” he replied, obviously pleased with himself.

Fucking shit, he was so goddam endearing. Fuck. But Dean didn’t say anything, he just turned the Impala around and parked in the rinky-dink parking lot beside the boutique.

They walked in, and were greeted quietly by the only employee present. She let them browse, only interrupting to tell them to let her know if they needed anything. Cas dove in immediately; rifling through the racks like a mom whose daughter needed a dress for homecoming. Dean just leaned up against the far wall and started another game of eight-ball with Claire. She was getting better, she’d won their last game.

Eventually Cas had tried on some options and made his decisions (though he didn’t ask Dean’s opinion, which Dean was both grateful for and disappointed by) and they made their way to the register.

The clerk told them the total, and Dean handed over Charlie’s credit card. It was only after she’d handed him it back with the receipt that he realized it probably seemed like Dean and Cas were… together. He forced himself to cast the thought from his mind, and Cas led the way back to the car.

“Satisfied with your purchases? Well, my purchases,” Dean said as they sat, then scrunched his face up slightly.

“Yes. And thank you, Dean,” Cas replied, a genuine smile tingeing his features. “Would you like to see what I got?”

Dean nodded, and Cas pulled them one-by-one from his bag. He’d gotten a few button-up shirts, a nice pair of sweatpants, some jeans, and… a tweed jacket. With elbow patches.

Dean was going to die.

He did, however, give the appropriate reactions, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile. Dean peeled out of the parking lot in lieu of another reply, and attempted to prevent conversation with the radio. It didn’t work, however, because only a few minutes later, Cas was turning down the radio-- a tell-tale sign that he had something to say.

Dean braced himself.

“Sam mentioned you’ve been drinking less.”

Whatever Dean had expected, it hadn’t been that.

He clenched his jaw. Fucking Sam, always up in Dean’s business. He loved that little shit, but he drove Dean up the freaking wall. “Did he?”

Cas nodded, clearly waiting for Dean to say more.

He shrugged, a careful movement. “I suppose I have.”

Cas nodded, apparently absorbing this. “I’m very glad to hear that,” he replied quietly. “I’ve been… worried.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “‘Bout me?”

Cas nodded, his gaze adhered to the road.

“What for?” Dean asked-- and yeah, maybe it was a stupid question, but he still wanted to know.

“Dean,” Cas said, and something in it was heartbreakingly fond, even still. “You have the tendency to self-destruct.”

“Sometimes I forget how well you know me,” Dean blurted out without thinking. He instantly regretted it, but Cas’ expression didn’t change.

“Well, I did make you once.”

Dean pursed his lips and tried to hold in a laugh. “Yeah, that’s-- that’s fair, buddy,” he admitted, and gave up on not laughing right along with Cas. “How’s-- um, how’s being human again going?”

Cas inhaled. “Well, it’s a lot better than the first time,” he responded, and Dean grimaced.

“Yeah… Uh, sorry about that, by the way.”

Cas just looked at him in amusement. “Ancient history,” he said, something not-quite a smile ghosting across his face. Dean wanted to trace every inch of that skin, bring back every grin or smile that had traversed it. “Especially because I have Miracle now.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Oh you have Miracle? I see how it is. She’s my dog, you know,” he teased good-naturedly.

“She’s the family dog, actually,” Cas corrected, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“You say that, but I know she’s sleeping in your room these days. That used to be me, Cas. What we had was special,” he insisted, and Cas was clearly trying not to smile.

“Maybe you can win her back,” Cas replied. Dean pulled into the garage.

Dean hummed. “Maybe. But if it’s a choice between you or me, man, I know who I’d pick,” he said, making eye contact.

Cas looked at him for a second, eyes wide. “Dean--”

Dean cleared his throat. “It’s about noon, I’m gonna get started on lunch,” he said, and got out of the car. “I’ll see you inside.”

And he walked away from Cas and his meaningful looks and deep questions, and he fucking hated himself.

It actually made for a pretty funny story, how Sam found out.

He was supposed to be on a grocery run, and with five people and one dog, they needed a lot of groceries. Plus Sam ate like a fucking’ vacuum, okay? People didn’t always believe him, but it was true. Why else would Dean have struggled with feeding the kid when they were growing up? It’s ‘cause the dude was always eating.

But that wasn’t important. What matters was that Sam got back ridiculously early, because apparently there was some talk of a tornado, and all the shelves were completely empty-- Dean didn’t know, or care. The majority of the bunker was underground and it could last a nuclear war, they’d be fine.

Anyways. Sam was back really, really early, and he went looking for everyone. Naturally, Dean, Jack, and Eileen were in the Dean Cave, which had become their make-shift art studio.

Sam had caught them in the act; Jack and Dean were studiously observing Eileen’s form. She was wearing a sheet draped like a toga across her body, with a foam toy gladius clutched in her hand. She stared into the distance with a dignified expression, a light shining on her from above and head-on.

Sam opened the door to the Dean Cave, and all four of them froze. Dean imagined it was a comical sight, their low-budget life drawing class.

“What’s… this?” Sam asked, and Dean took a second to be grateful that Cas wanted to go to the farmer’s market twenty miles away this morning.

“We’re drawing,” Jack replied easily, then froze. “Oh, I told the secret,” he said remorsefully. Sam mouthed the word “secret?” to himself.

Dean chuckled, putting his pencil down. “The cat was already out of the bag, Jack, it’s fine.”

Sam was looking between the three of them, an expression of bewilderment affixed to his face.

“Dean, Can I put my arm down now?” Eileen asked, and blew out a relieved sigh when Dean nodded.

Sam stepped closer, observing the scene more fully. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at his brother’s paper. “Dean, that’s really good,” he said, shocked. “How long have you been drawing for?”

“Off and on since Hell,” Dean replied with an uncomfortable shrug. He’d been working hard on his art, and he knew he’d improved, but hearing other people say it… that was a lot.

“Dude, you’re incredible,” Sam remarked, awed. Eileen adjusted her bedsheet and grinned at Sam’s impressed expression.

“He’s been teaching me, look,” Jack offered up his own drawing to be admired.

Sam raised his eyebrows appreciatively. “Wow, Jack, you’re good, too.”

Jack bloomed under his praise. Then his eyes widened. “Oh, Dean! Now that Sam knows, can he be a model, too?”

Sam immediately tensed.

Maybe there was an upside to Sammy finding out.

A smile spread on Dean’s face. “Jack? That’s a fantastic idea,” he replied, which led to Sam and Eileen being posed as the couple from American Gothic, only Eileen was the husband, and Sam the wife.

“This is so getting framed,” Dean muttered to himself as he drew, and didn’t realize that required displaying his art for others to see until after.

In hindsight, having Sam know about his art wasn’t… so bad. And it wasn’t even that Dean was afraid of a negative reaction from Sam, but-- well. He seemed to have many reasons to hide his art, and not very many reasons to share it.

Except, Sam and Eileen and Jack thought he should share it, and while their faith in his skills was heartening, he was still conflicted.

One thing he knew for certain, though. Cas could never know about his art.

Jack tapped Dean on the shoulder, and displayed his rendition of “Bunker Gothic.” Dean grinned, a laugh bubbling up before he could stop it.

“God, Jack that’s fuckin’ awesome.”

Jack giggled looking down at his own work with clear satisfaction. He was proud of himself, and he should be. He was a natural. “Does that mean you’ll teach me to draw Cas now?”

Dean should’ve expected this. “Um… you know what? Yeah. We’ll work on that next. For now let’s let our models relax, they’ve worked hard enough today,” Dean replied, and Sam let out a relieved sigh.

Jack packed up his drawing supplies (Dean had picked some up for him on a shopping trip once, and Jack hadn’t stopped smiling the whole day) and he and Eileen left the Dean Cave together, presumably to get some food. Sam meandered over to Dean, who was kinda dreading whatever conversation they were about to have.

“So,” Sam said, failing to be casual, “Off-and-on since Hell, huh?”

Dean shrugged, and tried to look busy as he gathered up his own supplies. With any luck, he could be evasive enough that Sam would give up.

“I think it’s great, Dean, I really do,” Sam said honestly. “I just… Why didn’t you tell me?” I remember you drawing a lot when we were kids, Dean-- I mean, you loved it for years. What… happened?”

Dean sighed. So much for Sam giving up, he thought. “Dad happened. What did you think? I drew something he didn’t like, and he broke my shit over it.”

Sam’s eyes slid closed, and he shook his head. “Really thought I’d run out of reasons to hate that guy,” he replied, and Dean snorted.

“Seems like there’s always something more. And still, I can’t even bring myself to really actually hate him. Just… glad I don’t have to see him anymore.”

“Pretty fucked up.”

“It’s us, Sammy, what about our lives isn’t fucked up?”

“No, I-I know. It wasn’t a criticism, just… an observation, I guess. I mean, I can think Dad probably did the best he could with what he had, but also recognize that it just… wasn’t enough. And we deserved better.”

Dean grunted. Sam was right, and he knew it, but they’d had this discussion a dozen times, and it never made Dean feel any better. “I didn’t tell you I started drawing again because I didn’t want anyone to know. It was something that I felt weird about, at first, but then it was something that-- you know, actually helped, sometimes. And I wanted to just have that for me.”

Sam processed this for a minute. “Yeah, I get that. I’m glad you have something like that, Dean. It’s important to--”

And fuck it, right? Sam finding out about his art hadn’t been so bad, so why not let all the cats out of the proverbial bag?

“I uh, I also have feelings for Cas.”

Sam froze, and his jaw clicked shut, his eyes wide. He cleared his throat. “You, uh, you… have feelings for Cas. And you’re voluntarily telling me about them.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I mean, in for a penny in for a pound, right? Is that how the saying goes?”

Sam nodded automatically. “Yeah… So… how long has that been going on?”

“A while, probably.”

“Damn, Eileen was right,” Sam mused.

Dean gaped. “What?”

“She told me she was pretty sure there was something going on between you and Cas, I thought you guys were just… weird.”

“I mean… We’re not not weird,” Dean admitted. Sam quirked his head in acknowledgement.

They were silent for a long, awkward moment.

“He told me he loves me.”

Sam choked on air. “He what?”

Dean just nodded.

“When was this?”

“Oh, about a minute before he fuckin’ died.”

Sam put his head in his hands. “Tell me he did not.”

“He did.”

“No fucking wonder you drank so much.”

Sam and Dean cringed in unison.

“Sorry,” Sam said, and Dean shook his head.

“‘S fine,” he replied.

Then Sam let out a weary sigh, leaning back. “So, you have feelings for Cas, and Cas is in love with you. Why haven't you told him?”

Dean shrugged. “Because I don’t want to lose him?”

“What are you talking about? Why would you lose him?”

“I don’t know, Sammy, take a wild guess. Pretty much everyone I’ve ever cared about has died horribly or otherwise left.”

“Yeah, because Chuck thought emotionally torturing us was a cool thing to do,” Sam responded.

“Or maybe it’s just me, man. Maybe I’m just…” Dean broke off. The silence hung, stuffy and unbalanced, between them

“Dean?”

“Bad, Sam. Maybe I’m just no good.”

Sam’s expression broke Dean’s heart. “Dean, that’s not true. You’re a good man. A good friend, a good brother.”

Dean clenched his jaw, but remained silent.

Sam sighed. “I don’t know how to get you to believe this, Dean, but it’s the truth. We are not our mistakes. We are not what Chuck-- or Dad-- forced us to be. And Cas won’t leave you.”

“He already has, Sammy. I drove him away, or- or he just fucking died.”

“But he always comes back, Dean. He’s always come back.”

Dean watched silently as his brother patted his shoulder and left. In his thinking, he lost his grip on the sketchbook, and it fell open. Cas’ mouthless face looked up at him, smiling only with his eyes.

Cas knew Dean had a secret. It was impossible not to, when literally every other person in the bunker knew except for Cas. Multiple times, Dean had been discussing art with Eileen, or Jack, or Sam, only for Cas to walk in and the conversation to halt awkwardly until he left. Dean felt bad and guilty every time, but it couldn’t be helped.

And Dean and Cas were avoiding each other, still, on top of everything else. How’d his life get this way? It used to be all monsters and apocalypses, now he has to navigate interpersonal relationships and deal with the non-life threatening consequences of his actions. Utter bullshit, that’s what that was.

The prominent upside to this whole clusterfuck is that Cas is still making good on the promise he made before he died. He still did not ask anything of Dean, and did not seem to have a problem with Dean blatantly avoiding him. This was nice, because it gave Dean some breathing room, but it was also heartbreaking, a little bit, because Cas deserved the world, always, and Dean wanted to be the one to give it to him.

And wasn’t that a fun realization?

So. In conclusion: things were awkward. Another upside was that slowly-- maddeningly slowly-- things were improving. They were slowly easing into spending more time with each other, especially around the others. Conversation was light, and not especially important, but it was less awkward and stilted than it was when Cas had just gotten back, and Dean had been disappearing to his room to draw every hour and a half.

Eventually, though, the tension got to be too much. Especially because Cas had received his glasses, and started to wear lots of cable knit sweaters (apparently, he ran cold) and it made Dean want to chop a tree down with his teeth. Something had to be done.

“Alright, I’m going to pick up dinner,” Dean announced to the room. Sam and Eileen were both reading, and Jack was on his laptop, with Miracle lying down beneath the table. Cas walked in just as Dean made his announcement. “Cas, you coming?”

Cas blinked, a confused smile spreading on his face. “Sure,” he said, and followed Dean to the car.

They weren’t going very far, just to an Italian place in Lebanon, but Dean was still filled with restless energy. They didn’t say anything on the ride there, but Dean saw Cas looking at him from the corner of his eyes, only to glance away when Dean looked back. Dean parked, and asked Cas to wait there while he brought the food back.

It didn’t take very long, and Dean retired momentarily, both hands full of takeout bags. He handed them one by one to Cas, who situated them on the floor at his feet, and Dean got in. “Thanks,” he said, then realized it was the first he’d spoken to Cas since they’d left.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

Dean stifled a sigh as he drove out of the parking lot. Cas was still doing it, wasn’t he? He was still following Dean’s lead, going at the rate he was comfortable with. It was nice, it was-- it was wonderful, but Dean wanted…

He wanted what maybe, hopefully, Cas wanted, too. But he couldn’t ask for it. He didn’t know how. He wasn’t as brave as Cas was.

They made it to the garage at the bunker, and Cas opened his door to leave, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm. “After dinner, do you want to watch a movie with me? A-alone? You can pick what we watch,” he stammered.

Cas looked at him, eyes wide. “Yes,” he replied quickly. “Um, yes, I would like that.”

Dean swallowed, and relinquished his hold on Cas. He shot Dean a small smile, then exited Baby.

Dean watched him walk to the bunker door before he realized he’d left Dean to take the bags in. “Such a bastard,” he said fondly, laughing as he scooped up the takeout bags.

Dinner was delicious, and Sam offered to clear up afterwards.

“I might head to bed,” Eileen announced, bidding everyone a good night. She gave a meaningful look to Sam, who shrugged, both hands occupied with stacks of plates. She sighed and shook her head, then made her way to the room she and Sam shared.

Jack turned to Cas and Dean, then. “I think I’d like to go visit Claire and Kaia,” he said, and if Cas was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“Okay, Jack. Stay safe. See you soon.” Dean nodded along, hoping that was enough to show his support.

Jack beamed, and hugged them both. He disappeared with a flutter of wings.

Dean pivoted on his heel, forcing himself to meet Cas’ eye. “So… movie night?”

Cas smiled. “Yes, Dean.”

Dean led them to the Dean Cave-- which had since been cleared of all evidence of art-- and handed Cas the remote. “What movie we watching?”

Cas turned the TV on. “The Iron Giant,” he answered and pulled it up. They got comfy on the couch, a respectable, but not too respectable distance between them. The movie began, and Dean was surprised to see that it was animated. He vaguely remembered hearing about this movie, but he’d been hunting with his dad by that point, and Sammy was probably too old to have wanted to see it, anyways.

It turned out the movie was incredible. Dean tried to be covert about wiping away his tears, but he was pretty sure Cas saw. He didn’t say anything, mercifully. Words from the movie echoed through his mind, you are who you choose to be.

They sat quietly through the credits, and Dean turned to see Cas, looking at him. Dean wanted to draw him, just as he was, slumped comfortably in his human body, his eyes still seeking Dean. He was haloed by the light of the hallway, softening the edges of him until he, too, seemed to glow.

Fuck, he wanted to look at Cas forever. But he didn’t. He wasn’t allowed. He stood, and he bid Cas goodnight with a light touch to his shoulder.

Cas reached up, gripping Dean’s wrist as he attempted to pass. Dean looked down at him, drawn to him like a magnet. Cas’ hand was so firm around Dean’s arm, and he imagined, for a moment, that no power in the universe could move Cas’ hand.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas said. Dean couldn’t look away.

“Night, Cas,” he replied, his mouth dry.

“You said that already.”

He swallowed. “I meant it.” Dean scanned Cas' face, memorizing it all over again.

Cas released his wrist, and Dean missed the contact. He almost reached out, almost rubbed the back of his hand against Cas’ cheekbone, just to feel him again. He didn’t. He walked into the hall, and didn't look back.

Dean was outside the bunker, drawing while Miracle chewed on a stick beside him when he realized that he wouldn’t mind telling Cas about his art. Not...to show him anything. That would be too much, too soon. But he could just-- he could say the words, at least. He could do that.

Things between them had continued to improve, after their movie night. They decided to have more movie nights, and Dean waited, each night, for Cas to stop him as he left, for him to grab his wrist or face or anything, for him to put them both out of their misery. But he never did. He would leave that to Dean, it seemed.

Talking to him was easier, too, although only in a group setting. One-on-one with Cas was a bit… overwhelming.

Miracle barked, and Dean snapped his head up. It was Jack, walking up the hill. Miracle ran to him, wagging her tail as he lavished her with adoration.

“Hello,” Jack said when he approached, Miracle at his heels.

Dea closed his sketchbook. “Hey, kid. What brings you up here? You want another lesson?

Jack shrugged. “No, I’m okay, although that does remind me-- my picture of Cas is going very well! You had a lot of good ideas about how to draw him, Dean, they were very helpful.”

Dean smiled awkwardly. “Glad to hear it,” he replied.

“I just came to spend time with you,” Jack said.

Dean’s heart clenched. I am allowed to have this, he thought. He could have it, and maybe, if he was very, very lucky, he could keep it.

But he just patted the grass beside him, and Jack sat down, criss-cross-applesauce. Together they sat, and watched the geese fly north.

Jack let out an exhale. “Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination,” he said.

Dean looked at him, a silent question in his expression.

“It’s part of a poem I saw once. It stuck with me.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

Jack shrugged. “I can only remember the ending: Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place in the family of things.’”

Dean frowned, the words seeping into his skin. Overhead, the birds honked in formation. They sat quietly.

Later that evening, Jack sent him the full poem.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

Dean’s eyes slid shut at his desk, his phone in his hand. He put his pencil down, let the sketch be imperfect and unfinished.

You are who you choose to be. You do not have to be good.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely.

Yes, he thought. I’ll tell him.

Cas was in the kitchen when Dean found him.

He was leaning with his back against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand, lost in thought. It was late, he’d probably woken up in the night and decided not to try and go back to sleep. Nightmares, most likely. Dean knew the feeling.

“Hey,” he said into the silence, and Cas snapped out of his reverie. His eyes moved to Dean, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “Mind if I join you?”

Cas shook his head wordlessly, and Dean sat at the table. After a moment, Cas joined him. His mug clinked as he set it against the table, and he slid it to Dean, a clear offer.

Dean accepted the mug, taking a sip. It was strong and bitter, but warm. Miracle padded quietly into the room then, her collar clinking as she searched them out. Cas and Dean reached out in unison to pat her, scratching behind her ears and under her chin. She settled under the table, equidistant from them both.

Dean sniffed. “Have a nightmare?” He passed the mug back.

Cas nodded, raising the mug to his lips. He set it down in front of Dean. “I dreamt I was still in the Empty. I dreamt you weren’t real.”

“I’m real, Cas.”

He smiled slightly. “I know you are.” He accepted the mug from Dean, once he’d finished. “Tell me something good.”

“Jack showed me a poem today.”

“What was it called?”

“Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver. You know it?”

Cas nodded. “It’s one of my favorites. What did you think?”

“I liked it. It’s… good,” he said, lamely, but Cas nodded like this was a valid academic opinion. “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”

“I have for years.”

Dean hummed, and his leg was jittering under the table. They were silent for a moment. Then, “I draw.”

“You...draw?”

He nodded, taking a deep breath.

“I didn’t know you started again,” Cas said easily.

“Wait, you knew? About the first time?”

Cas nodded. “Of course. I knew everything about you when I rebuilt you.”

Dean worried at his cuticle with his thumb. “So you know why I stopped, then.”

Cas didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, because John was being a cruel, hateful idiot.”

Dean couldn’t help it, he smiled. He would’ve liked to see Cas and John in the same room together. Something tells him that would’ve been intensely entertaining. He cleared his throat. “The um-- the drawing kinda helped me, uh, cope, I guess. With losing people.”

Cas leaned forward, an open expression on his face.

“I don’t do it to cope with loss anymore, not since-- um, not for a while. Now, I kinda just do it because I want to. I’ve been teaching Jack.”

“You’ve… been teaching Jack to draw?”

He nodded. “That’s what we’ve been hiding. It was supposed to be a secret from everyone, but, well, Eileen found out, then Jack and Sam, and then it was just you who didn’t know. And I didn’t… want that.”

“Dean, you never have to tell me something you’d rather keep secret because you’re afraid of how I’ll feel--”

“No, no, that’s not it, Cas. I wanted to tell you, I just… Needed some time, first. But I’m glad to… share this. With you.”

“O-oh,” Cas breathed. The silence lingered between them, settling like ash after a fire.

“Tomorrow, I’ll show you. Tomorrow.”

“Okay, Dean.”

“Okay.”

All or nothing, Dean thought, and he slid his hand across the laminate table top and settled it over top of Cas', curling his fingers around it lightly. Cas looked at him, his breathing shallow. Then he slowly turned his hand over, until he could grasp Dean’s, too. And they sat there, holding hands and watching each other, exchanging sips from the now-cold mug of coffee.

Cas was sleeping in, because they’d both gone back to bed very early that morning, and Dean was feeling impatient. So he gathered his favorite old drawings, the ones of people he’d lost years ago. They were small sketches, not very big or polished, but Dean cherished them. He knew Cas would, too.

He knocked on Cas’ bedroom door.

There was a muffled, “Come in,” and Dean opened the door. Cas was curled up in bed, lying on his side. His glasses lay on the bedside table, and he blinked blearily at Dean, silhouetted against the light of the hallway.

He buried his face in the pillow. “Hello, Dean.”

“Morning, Cas,” Dean whispered. “You know, I can come back another time.”

Cas shook his head, and turned towards Dean. “No, it’s okay. You can sit, if you want,” Cas said, nodding towards the desk chair. He was clearly not going to be getting out of bed anytime soon, and Dean loved him.

“I brought some of my drawings,” Dean replied quietly. He wheeled the desk chair over by Cas and sat in it, the plastic creaking under his weight. Cas propped himself up on an elbow, looking interestedly at the stack of papers in Dean’s hand.

The first was of Bobby, drawn from a reference. You couldn’t really see his face, but he had a cap and vest, plus a beer in his hand, and his body language was true to life. The anatomy was off, but Dean thought Bobby would’ve liked it, even still.

“It looks just like him, Dean,” Cas told him, looking up from the picture to meet Dean’s eyes.

Dean shrugged, uncomfortable. “It’s not perfect, I made lots of mistakes--”

“He’d love it, though,” Cas insisted, earnest.

Dean looked at Cas and his wide blue eyes, and he found himself nodding in agreement, without even meaning to. Cas sat back, satisfied, and motioned for Dean to show him the next one.

It was Ellen and Jo, and Cas didn’t say anything for a minute, scanning his eyes over every inch of the drawing. He smiled. “Dean, you’re very skilled. I know compliments make you uncomfortable, but it’s true. You’re quite the artist.”

Dean swallowed and mumbled a quiet “Thanks.” He eventually just deposited the stack into Cas’ hand, and watched anxiously as Cas appraised them, feeling like it was his heart in Cas’ hand, not his drawings.

But Cas was gentle when he leafed through them; gentle in his study of them. He treated them with care, and reverence-- as if they were precious just by virtue of having been created by Dean’s hands.

(Dean thought about Cas, rebuilding him. He thought about Cas’ hands. Precious, his mind whispered.)

“Incredible,” Cas said, once he’d reached the end of the stack. The very last picture-- one of Charlie, smiling wide, the sun shining on her-- was held loosely between his hands.

“That one’s my favorite,” Dean told him, nodding towards the sketch. He was hit with a pang of grief, a deep, aching sorrow that Charlie wasn’t alive today.

“Mine, too,” Cas confessed. “You did her justice.”

Dean’s throat was thick. “Thank you, Cas.”

Cas just nodded.

“I, um-- I’ll let you go back to sleep, now,” Dean said, coughing a little. He gingerly took the papers from Cas, even as he protested.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to go,” he assured.

“No, it’s alright. You get your rest, Cas.” Dean began to stand.

“You could stay,” Cas said in a rush, looking up at Dean with a silent plea. Dean gazed down at him, and found himself slowly sinking back down in his chair.

“Okay,” he was saying. Cas laid back down, still looking at Dean. He didn’t even close his eyes.

You have to blink first, Dean thought. Because I cannot look away.

In the end, Cas’ eyes slid shut, the lack of sleep finally getting to him. And Dean stayed, and he watched him.

A drawing of Baby. An empty bottle of whiskey, casting a graphite shadow on the table. Sam, his hair in a tiny ponytail. Eileen, the Roman emperor. Jack smiling a wide, toothy grin.

Cas was eventually allowed to look through them all. Every drawing that was not Cas, over the course of more than a decade, and Dean was sharing them with him, bit by bit. Cas pored over them, intensely interested in Dean’s artistic journey.

And then Dean got very comfortable, and let Cas sit in on a session with Jack and Eileen. This time, Eileen was laying on her side, her hair loose. Jack was very excited for this one. Cas was silent when they drew, although he did sign a bit to Eileen, causing her to grin. Dean was using loose paper this time, not caring to remove his sketchbook from its hiding place.

The session was finished in no time, and Jack was nearly jumping out of his skin to show his drawing to Cas. Of course, he was appropriately impressed by Jack's work, because Jack was shaping up to be a damn fine artist, if Dean said so himself.

“Oh, but Cas! I have something else to show you,” he exclaimed, then looked to Dean. “I’m finished with, you know. It.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “It?”

Jack just nodded. Then, to Cas, “Wait right here!” He flew away, then came back barely a second later, his invisible wings blowing wind in their faces. He was holding a paper, and he pushed it out to Cas, far too close to his face. Cas squinted behind his glasses, leaning his head back to see.

Then he smiled, huge and beautiful. “Jack,” he said, touched. “This is wonderful.”

“Thank you! Dean taught me how to draw you,” Jack replied, and Cas looked at Dean so fast he could’ve gotten whiplash. His mouth was slightly open, his brows creasing.

“You…?” Cas trailed off.

Dean swallowed. Instead of answering, he turned to Jack, congratulated him on his progress, and excused himself.

He headed straight for the kitchen. He opened the cabinet by the fridge, reached up, and grabbed the last bottle of whiskey that remained in the bunker. He stared at the label, at its amber color, reflecting light. He unscrewed the cap, breathing heavy.

“Dean,” Cas said.

Dean didn’t turn. “Relax. I wasn’t going to drink it. I’m pouring it out.”

Cas watched as Dean let the whiskey drain down the sink, until he was left holding an empty bottle. He put the cap back on, and set it on the counter. Cas was still watching him. Dean was looking right back.

“I’m not-- I don’t want to be that person anymore. I don’t… I don’t like being that person.”

Cas nodded, letting out a breath like he was relieved. Dean almost felt bad, thinking about being that caught up on whether or not a person did something, but he remembered how Sam was with the demon blood. He remembered how the addiction had torn up not only Sam, but Dean as well. It was never just one person.

“Good. I’m… glad.”

Cas was still just looking at him. Dean wanted to crawl away from the spotlight of his eyes, wanted to shrink away like a bug, hidden under a stone. And still some part of him ached to bloom under the attention, his thirsty heart crying more, more.

The silence stretched between them but Cas was the one to cut it.

“Have you--” he broke off harshly. When he started again, his voice was deliberately even. “Have you ever… drawn me?”

Dean could’ve laughed. “Come with me, Cas.” He walked out of the kitchen, Cas following at a short distance as Dean walked to his room. He knelt by his bed, pulling out an old shoebox, then his sketchbook.

Cas knelt beside him on the ground, sitting back on his heels. Dean took the lid off the shoebox to reveal many crumpled papers. He rifled through them for a moment until he found one folded up, with notes on the back.

He passed it to Cas. It was a pencil drawing of a pair of familiar eyes.

“This is the first time. The very first. It was right after you brought me back from Hell, after we’d met in the barn. Stayed up all night, just drawing your eyes.”

He looked through the box some more. “The first time I attempted your full body. Didn’t go so well, but at least your trench coat covered up some anatomy mistakes. And this one, too.”

One by one, Dean presented Cas with individual drawings of Cas, or parts of Cas-- his eyes, his hair, his hands, his shoulders. Eventually the shoe box was empty, but Dean wasn’t done. He picked up the sketchbook.

“You can flip through this. It’s mostly you, anyway.”

Cas went page by page in the book, gently, but mechanically, like he had to force his arm to perform the task. Dean watched with his stomach in knots. Eventually he got to a recent one, from just a day ago.

“You… studied me.”

Dean’s heart made a valiant effort of climbing up his throat and jumping ship.

“All this time, and I thought--” He stopped. “Dean, why did you keep this hidden?” He asked, finally tearing his gaze away and affixing it to Dean’s face.

He resisted the urge to squirm. If he raised his hands, he was certain they would tremble. “I-I was scared.”

“Of what?”

Of you, Dean thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “My art is… Me. It is me, Cas. To share it-- it was so much. It was so heavy.”

“Dean--”

“You were the reason I started drawing again, Castiel. It’s you, Cas. You’re what I draw.”

His words hung in the air, and Dean’s heart was pounding in his chest. If Cas was still an angel, he could’ve heard it.

“Dean,” Cas said. His mouth opened, then clicked shut. He swallowed and glanced down again. “Dean,” he said again. “Do you… love me?”

That was the worst possible question he could’ve asked. There was no out, no way to escape or evade without breaking them both, wrecking this fragile and yet invulnerable thing that stretched years between them, spanning death and rebirth and betrayal. There was nothing to be said but the truth.

So Dean opened his mouth. “Yeah, Cas. I suppose I do.” And there it was, wasn’t it? There it was.

Cas’ eyes shuttered closed. He let out a shaky breath and stood, then gently, with the utmost care, placed the stack of papers and the sketchbook on the desk. The he wheeled around to Dean and started marching towards him, and there was the seraph who had pulled him from Hell, here was the warrior of Heaven--

He didn’t smite, or blind Dean with light. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Castiel was just a man, now. He didn’t have it in him to destroy anymore.

Instead, he pulled Dean up. He held Dean’s face between his two rough hands, secure, and dipped forward to press their mouths together. Barely any time at all passed before Dean was deepening the kiss, clumsily grabbing a fistful of Cas’ shirt, reaching and holding and pulling closer.

“Cas,” Dean sighed when they broke, their foreheads pressed together. “Cas, I want--”

“Tell me, Dean,” Cas said, breathing just as heavy as Dean was.

“I-I just want,” Dean replied, and hoped Cas knew. Understood.

Cas did. Cas always did. “You can have it-- anything. Me. It’s yours,” he said, and dipped his head again, Dean blooming like a flower under his mouth.

Then he paused, and pulled away, a troubled look on his face. Oh shit, what did I do? Dean thought.

“I love you too, Dean,” Cas said, insistent.

Dean smiled, slow and unhurried. “I know.”

Then Cas grinned, and kissed him again, and Dean forgot everything else but the man in his arms.

Two Years Later…

Cas was snoring, his hand curled up by his head. Dean shifted, craning his neck to get a good angle. He made a few marks on his page. Cas sniffed, and Dean froze.

“Are you drawing me?”

“No. Hold still, I need to do the shading on your ring.”

“Just guess.”

“But then it’s not life drawing.”

“You’ll be death drawing if you don’t come cuddle me right now, Dean.”

Dean chuckled, but obligingly set his pad and pencil on the nightstand, and reached out to pull Cas to him.

“Jack texted me this morning. He finished his painting of Claire and Kaia.”

Cas hummed.

“He said Claire cried when he showed it to them.”

“‘S nice,” Cas replied, half asleep again.

“I love when my husband prefers to sleep when I’m telling him about our kids.”

“I love when my husband shuts up and lets me sleep, and then tells me about our kids.” Cas buried his face in Dean’s chest and let out a deep sigh. Dean took the hint, and allowed himself to fall back asleep.

Until they were awoken by a sharp knock on the door.

“Oh my-- what?!”

Dean stifled a laugh. Cas was not a morning person.

The door opened a crack, and Sam appeared behind it. “Um, sorry to wake you, but Jack and the girls are on their way. They requested pancakes and bacon for breakfast.”

Dean shifted. “That’s my cue.”

“No.”

“Cas, let me--”

“No.”

Dean looked at Sam helplessly.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine, Eileen and I will do it, but only because you’re technically still on your honeymoon.”

“Thank you. Please leave,” Cas mumbled, and Sam gave a dramatic little huff, then closed the door behind him.

“You just get anything you want, don’t you?” Dean laughed.

“I got you, so yes.”

Dean was glad Cas couldn't see his face, because it was red. He still made Dean blush, after all this time. Dean didn’t reply, he just held Cas closer, his breathing syncing up with Cas. Together, they drifted off to sleep. And framed, above the desk, was a graphite drawing of Cas, smiling.