Chapter Text
The bar’s still empty. Dean takes a slow, depressive drink from his glass of what’s now whiskey. He swallows. It’s been years since he was in this town, since all that shit went down, since…
He doesn’t even know why he wanted to see Jed, here, in this place. In this damn place.
Except, yes, he does. He really does.
He looks at his hands again. How did she know? How did Jed’s mom even know? Dean didn’t even know. These hands never even got to touch Jed like they really wanted. Like Dean didn’t even know they really wanted.
He wants that life he asked his dad for, in the drive away from Huntersville. He’s getting tired. He wants the house and the bedrooms and he wants sunlight to come through his window in the morning, not filtered but clear and warm and bright. He wants hands in his hair. He wants rest. He wants a place to call home which doesn’t carry memories of being hurt by or hurting the people he loves, he wants to live there peacefully with the people he—
A sound of fluttering, and Dean jumps out of his skin.
“You called,” Cas says, in answer to Dean’s alarmed look.
“I sure as hell didn’t,” Dean shakes his head with a glare. “I was thinkin’ about—”
But he doesn’t want to say.
And how did that get confused for a prayer, anyway?
“You look troubled,” Cas observes. Dean takes another drink, and shrugs.
“I’m fine,” he shakes his head. But they both know that’s a lie. Cas doesn’t bitch at him for it, though, like most people would. He just looks at Dean patiently.
Life like Dean’s, you don’t get the chance to make many friends, let alone keep them. It’s almost absurd that his best and most lasting friendship is with a creature who describes himself as waves of celestial intent, or whatever the hell it is. Even weirder, the fact that of everyone he’s met in his life, even Jed, Dean’s favourite person has been Cas. It’s Cas.
“Anyways,” Dean says, gruff, “you’re not doing too hot, either. Last we spoke, you were havin’ yourself a little a midlife crisis.”
Cas shrugs.
“And last time I saw you, you gave me a lot to worry about.”
Dean knows what Cas is talking about—he’s talking about Dean being found in a room full of corpses, covered in blood, coming out of a haze of rage and lust for it, and Dean not knowing how much needed to be spilt, but knowing in his gut he’d gone too far. And he’s wondering, he’s wondering all the time now, if the mark is making him worse, or making him more like what he really is. Chipping away at all the good inside him until all that’s left is the bad.
He doesn’t know what to say.
“I’m doin’ fine,” he lies. “Just… one day at a time, or whatever. And how’s that crisis treatin’ you, anyway?”
Cas’s eyes are bright, but gentle as they settle on Dean. They always had it in them to take him apart completely.
“I’m following your lead,” Castiel tips his head softly in Dean’s direction.
“Lettin’ guilt eat at you?”
“Caring about things,” Castiel corrects, warm in his own weird way.
Dean coughs and looks away, cheeks warming all the way to his heart.
“And the mark?” Cas asks. Dean swallows and swills his whiskey about in its glass.
“Hey,” he shrugs. “One more thing to leave me broken. What difference does it make?”
“I don’t think you’re broken.”
“And I don’t think you’re the best judge of character.”
“Why did you call me here?” Cas asks. Dean looks back at him. Braces himself.
“I don’t know,” he admits, throat tight. “I didn’t even realise that I’d called you.”
He doesn’t know why saying this feels like confessing something.
“You said you were thinking.”
Dean looks down at his hands. Turns them over. Looks at the Mark of Cain on his forearm and balls his fist. He’s getting too used to balling his fists. Sometimes Dean feels like he’s just something to punch with. Just a weapon, and not even a graceful one.
“Came to this place when I was a kid,” he says. “Just a teenager.”
“This bar?”
“No, not this bar,” Dean rolls his eyes. “This town. Huntersville.”
“I see.”
“Made a friend here. A good friend. Probably my first ever—” He cuts himself off.
“Is that why you came back?”
“I came back for a case,” Dean corrects.
“But you were—are—hoping, on some level, to see him,” Cas states. Dean nods.
“I guess. I guess we just never really got the chance to say a proper goodbye to each other. Or like… it’s more, we didn’t even wanna say goodbye to each other, in the first place. But you know what life was like, back then. Always on the road.”
“Your childhood was difficult,” Cas says, and looks into the near distance as he says this.
“Yeah, no shit.”
“You think on some level, coming back here, was perhaps an attempt at addressing it?”
“Like I said, I came here for a case,” Dean rolls his eyes.
“But you also wanted to see your friend.”
“I—I wondered if I would,” Dean corrects. “I wanted to check up on him. Just… for old times’ sake. Wanted to see if he was okay.”
“And if he wasn’t?” Cas asks. Dean tries to swallow, but can’t. He shrugs.
“Guess I’d see what I could do.”
“And if he was okay?” Cas asks.
“I—” but Dean doesn’t know what he’d do. ‘Cause right now, he’s so far from okay. And the thought of Jed being happy makes Dean feel jealous—is it poison to admit that?—and not jealous of Jed. Jealous of the thing that made him happy. Jealous that it wasn’t Dean.
He pushes this thought away from him.
Anyway, it was fucking years ago.
“And are you okay?” Cas asks. Dean looks up at him, so sad, so fucking sad, remembering how sad it was that he felt, when he was just fourteen.
“Is anyone?” he huffs.
“Ebbs and flows,” Cas shrugs. In spite of how gruff it is, his voice can be so damn gentle. Dean blinks, actually manages to twitch a smile.
“Yeah…”
“Is it the mark?”
Yes? No? It is and it isn’t.
“Maybe. Maybe it’s the past, too.”
“A past heavy as yours, it must be hard, not to feel burdened by it,” Cas says. His voice is soft with understanding.
Dean blinks once, agreeing at Cas’s understatement. The angel speaks like he knows he’s making understatements, and he knows if he says anything with more certainty, Dean will lash out at it.
It’s true. He probably would. He wishes he could be the kind of person who wouldn’t.
“And the present,” he admits. Cas hums, encouraging him to continue. “Feel like one day I might lose myself to this thing,” Dean gestures down to the mark on his arm. “I know I won’t deserve it, but… please forgive me, for what it makes me do.”
“I’ll do everything I can to bring you back,” Castiel says. Dean’s heart lodges up in his throat. Last time he saw Cas, he asked the angel to kill him, if this thing turned him dark side. And the look in Cas’s eyes was agony. And the knowledge of what Dean was asking him to do was agony. But the thought of anyone else killing him makes him want to be sick. He only wants Cas to do it, and wants to be looking at Cas when he goes. The mark must be fucking him up. Or maybe Dean’s just fucked up.
Asking Cas to forgive him, rather than kill him, that’s gentler. That’s something surely even Cas should be able to get behind. Cas should definitely be able to get behind it. It’s a kinder thing to ask of him, than asking Cas to finish him off.
Silence for a moment. Dean’s memories are still walking about, all around him.
“If I—if I said, hey Cas, let’s go—I don’t know, let’s run away from this life. Let’s go live in the woods. What would you say? Is it a crazy thing to ask?”
Cas twitches a frown.
“Um—what’s the context?”
Dean shrugs. He sighs. He pushes his empty glass away from him.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“If you asked me, I’d go,” Cas supplies, looking at the space between them. “You should know by now. If you asked, I’d go wherever you needed, with you.”
Dean looks back at him. No air escapes him. Cas looks back up at him. Typically sincere.
“Yeah?”
“If you asked.”
But Dean isn’t so good at asking.
“There’s this diner, here,” he says, instead. “Open ‘til late. I wanna go there.”
“…Okay,” Cas says, shifting back on his seat, awkward.
“And I want you to come, too,” Dean rolls his eyes.
“Oh—okay.”
“You want waffles, or pancakes?” he asks. “Your call.”
“I don’t…” Cas fumbles, “I don’t eat.”
“Well, I wanna at least pretend to share them with someone.”
“As always, you’re welcome to pretend to share them with me,” Castiel answers, eyes warm. He always says so fucking much with his eyes.
Dean smiles.
“Thanks, man.”
The Midnight Diner looks just like it used to. It’s maybe had one or two new licks of paint in its time, but yeah, minimal upkeep. Dean grins at the sight. Cas notices, and twitches one of his own little smiles, the ones that warm Dean up inside. The light’s fading.
North Carolina evening.
“Late spring,” Dean says to Cas, looking up at the sky. “No time like it, this part of the world.”
Cas blinks at him softly. They push open the door, and take a booth seat. Cas sits opposite him but Dean wishes he’d be by his side. Just ‘cause—he’s been feeling so damn lonely, and he wants Cas—somebody—near. Just like he did when he was fourteen.
Dean doesn’t know which he wants—waffles or pancakes—and Cas reminds him that they can bag up whatever he can’t finish. He’s welcome to have both.
When the waitress brings them over, Dean slides them into the middle of the table, even though they know only one of them is gonna be eating.
“Tell me how it tastes,” Cas smiles softly, leaning forward.
For whatever reason, and yeah, it feels pretty fucking inexplicable, this one makes Dean’s insides warm and delicate.
“Uh,”—is he really about to do this? Yeah. Yeah, he is. ‘Cause this way, he’s getting to share food with Cas. Which is… Which is all he wants. “The pancakes are fluffy,” Dean smiles down at the food, then up at Cas. “Perfect. Like little clouds. And the blueberries are a little sharp. And real maple syrup, too. Burnt wood, you know? That kinda flavour.” Cas twitches a smile as he speaks. “The waffles,” he looks down to them, and takes a bite, “—the chocolate sauce is kinda nutty. It’s good. And they’re a little crispy round the edges, insides all fluffy, though. Different kind of fluffy to the pancakes. So good. Wish you could taste it.”
“Watching you enjoy it is good enough. Hearing you describe how you’re enjoying it is great.”
Dean smiles.
“Uh-huh?” And Cas hums in confirmation. “Y’know, there’s this pill you can take, that makes bitter foods taste sweet. And it makes sweet foods taste, like, sickly, ‘cause they’re too sweet. Maybe we could find one for you that makes food not taste like—what was it?”
“Molecules,” Cas answers. Dean huffs.
“Yeah, that.”
“You think such a pill exists?”
“Hell, it’s worth tryin’,” Dean shrugs. “Don’t mind me for wantin’ you to have your pancake, and eat it.”
Cas’s eyelashes are all bunched together and affectionate with the look he’s giving Dean.
“I do appreciate it.”
Dean’s insides are dancing soft and nervous.
“You will when you realise what this shit can taste like,” he gestures to the plates in front of him. But then, he thinks, he kind of likes Cas’s expression when he does try to eat something, just out of politeness. His nose crinkles up. He looks hilarious. Adorable. Nothing sweeter in the world.
Nothing.
“Dean,” a voice says, and his head shoots up.
Brown curly hair. Dark eyebrows. Faint freckles, brought out in the late spring.
He stutters.
“Jed,” he manages, at last, the name manages to escape him. And the face smiles at him.
“Wasn’t sure if it was really you—and then I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. But it is you.”
Dean gapes. Isn’t this what he wanted? Then why can’t he speak?
“But you’re not as talkative as you used to be,” Jed smiles, and Dean swallows, and finally manages to recover himself.
“Jed—hey. Hi.”
Jed laughs.
“Hi,” he says, back. “Long time.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, and there’s an expectant pause, where Jed glances at Castiel.
“Jed, this is Cas,” Dean fumbles as he realises what the look means, and gestures over to the angel, who gives Jed an awkward nod. When Jed holds out his hand and offers him a greeting, Cas takes it uncomfortably, returning something stilted back. “Why don’t you—come sit with us?” Dean asks, and the guy—grown man, now—smiles.
“Sure thing. Be nice to catch up. I’ll go get my husband. Be back with you in a moment.”
“Hu—husband?” Dean repeats, but Jed’s walked away.
“Jed?” Cas repeats.
“That—that’s the old friend I was—” Dean cuts off. “But I never realised he was—”
Except, yeah, he and Dean did kiss. But it was… it was a goodbye, it was—
And Jed’s mom did know that—
“Dean, this is my husband,” Jed’s back, and he smiles, holding some guy’s hand, some fucking guy. Dean looks up at him. “Scott, this is Dean. We were in middle school together, for a couple of months.”
That’s—that’s so fucking cold. Dean’s mouth nearly falls open. He—Jed was Dean’s first friend. First kiss, too, now he mentions it. What was Dean to Jed?
Jed takes a seat next to Cas. Scott sits next to Dean. Dean’s tempted not to make space for him.
He does, in the end, but damn.
“We were best friends, for a while actually,” Jed corrects. “Is that fair, Dean?” he asks, and Dean shrugs, feeling so inexplicably downcast. Jed got—Jed’s probably got a house, and an oven, and bedsheets that don’t smell of damp, and—
“Oh,” Scott says, emphatically. “The Dean?”
Dean perks up a little bit. So he’s the Dean, now?
“Yeah,” Jed laughs. “That Dean. Dean, you’ve been the subject of so much therapy-talk.”
Oh. That’s not so good.
“Not your fault, of course,” Jed says quickly. “My mom’s.”
“Your…”
“Well,” Jed shrugs, but something behind his eyes flickers, “maybe you remember what she was like.”
Slowly, Dean’s starting to put the pieces back together.
“We’re actually visiting the old in-laws, now,” Scott offers. “Took her a while to get used to me.”
“I’ll bet,” Dean manages to crack a smile.
“Yeah, it took three years of us dating for her to stop calling him Jed’s friend,” Jed informs, and rolls his eyes. There’s both humour and hurt in the gesture.
“Don’t do her a disservice,” Scott laughs, “she’s started asking me about my rock climbing.”
Of course the guy fucking rock climbs.
“Unmatched support,” Jed supplies. “Yeah, she had a hard time accepting the whole gay thing. But you knew that, I guess.” He glances back at Dean.
“So that’s—” Dean stammers, “—gay. That’s what you are.”
Jed ignores him like he knows what Dean’s saying is word vomit born out of shock.
“But I always wondered what became of you, Dean,” he says. “I’m glad to see you. Funny that it’s here.”
“Yeah…” Dean murmurs. Back in the diner where so much happened. Where not enough happened. Where maybe just enough happened.
“And what about your dad?” he asks, looking back at Dean. As usual, at any mention of John, Dean’s insides clamp up. “How are things with him?”
“He’s uh—he’s—he died.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry—”
Dean brushes it aside. He doesn’t know what else to do.
“He knew what kind of game he was in,” is all he’s able to say, and Scott blinks at this. Well, screw you, too, Dean thinks.
“Dean had a complicated childhood,” Jed explains to Scott. Dean swallows. He glances over to Cas.
“It had its ups and downs,” he shrugs stiffly.
“And now?” Jed asks. “How are you, now?”
About an hour ago, Dean was literally having a conversation with Cas about how he was not doing alright at all. He has a prehistoric mark burnt onto his skin that’s slowly turning him into the one thing he swore he’d never be, the one thing he’s always feared himself of becoming. Every moment it’s on him, he thinks he’s losing the best parts of himself, the only good parts of himself, and hell, there weren’t all too many to begin with.
Fuck, he doesn’t know what to say.
But also, ten minutes ago, he was sat across from his best friend, explaining the taste of pancakes to him, just because Cas wanted to hear it. Wanted to hear it from Dean. Was willing to run away from all of this to a forest by a lake just because Dean asked. Was willing to come here, instead.
“Uh, ebbs and flows,” he laughs, and glances at Cas, who gives him a soft look.
“Well, I’m glad to see that you’re not going it alone,” Jed says, gesturing to Castiel, sat next to him. Dean smiles and nods, agreeing, and takes a mouthful of pancake. “How long have you guys been together?”
Dean chokes.
“Uh—” he sputters, and it takes him a while to get the pancake down. “Uh—together?”
“Since about two hours ago,” Cas supplies, earnest as anything, and Dean would laugh, but his insides are twisting up. “I found Dean in a bar.”
“He—Cas, he doesn’t mean that—”
Cas tilts his head, confused,
“Oh?”
“He’s not asking when you arrived here in town, he means—” But Dean can’t finish off. “We’ve known each other a while,” he tells Jed, then realises what this implies. Realises he hasn’t pointed out that him and Cas aren’t the together kind of together. And he—he doesn’t want to clarify.
“It’s good to see you happy with someone, at least,” Jed laughs, and doesn’t realise that Dean and Cas aren’t… like that, with each other. And Dean doesn’t want to correct him. For whatever reason. And now, it’s not that he’s embarrassed for Jed to know that actually, he’s not happy. It’s not even that he’s embarrassed for Jed to know that he’s still single. It’s that—that—that if he can pretend to be with Cas—if he can imagine that he’s—
Fine. Imagining—pretending, that specifically, he and Cas are the together kind of together—even for an evening, even for a minute—it makes him happy.
It makes him so fucking happy.
“Did your dad get to meet Cas?” Jed asks. Dean shakes his head. Yeah, he’s got no idea how that would’ve gone down. Cas and his hatred of authority, John and his hatred for anyone defying his, Cas and that inexplicable impulse he seems to have in him to defend Dean, John and that inexplicable impulse he always seemed to have to use Dean as an emotional punching bag for all the shit going on in his own life.
Explosive wouldn’t cover it. Cas is all understatements and your childhood was not without its burdens and then something which apparently goes too far will leave him suddenly frying the eyes out of people’s sockets.
“Wouldn’t have gone well.”
“Oh?” Jed raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” Dean says, looking down, not sure he can elaborate.
“Anyway,” Jed smiles, standing, “Scott wanted some food, so we’d better get out of your hair. Nice seein’ ya, Dean.” He scribbles on a piece of paper, and slides it across the table. It’s his number. “You let us know, if you’re ever around Raleigh. That’s where we’re based, now. It’d be great to have you both over for dinner, some time. Hope to see you soon.”
Dean smiles and nods, and surprises himself by getting up and accepting the hug Jed offers him, and the one Scott follows up with.
“Good meetin’ you both,” Scott smiles, before they leave. Dean sits back down. Cas watches him. Scott and Jed make their way back to their own seats.
“Your friend from when you lived here was, uh, more than just a friend,” he observes, uncertain—not of the observation, just of how Dean is gonna respond to it.
He shrugs and looks away, because he knows that he can’t look at Cas when he makes his next confession.
“Guess so,” he admits. Then he wonders why he won’t even give Cas the dignity of the truth. It’s one thing to have denied himself it for all these years. But what about his best friend?
“You don’t need to talk about this, Dean,” Castiel says, gently. “I’m sorry if that situation made you uncomfortable. Perhaps I should’ve excused myself, to give you privacy—”
“I was glad you were there,” Dean confesses. Someone was there, who knew Dean, to ground him. And just about the most grounding person Dean’s ever known, at that.
And for a minute, he got to pretend that he and Cas were together. Even in his head, even just to himself. Cas quirks a small smile.
“Huntersville is a sad chapter of your life?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head.
“The end was,” he admits. “But not…” Not all of it. “Jed was a good part. Bittersweet.”
“Blueberries in pancakes.”
Dean huffs a laugh.
“Sure,” he says. “Blueberries in pancakes.”
“I’m glad you got to have a little sweetness, in the mess of your childhood.”
Dean looks at Castiel and thinks yeah, and I’m glad I get a little sweetness, now. He glances out the window of the Midnight Diner, and the sky is all black, the lights of the town little artificial stars around them. The sky which was pink and faded into purple has now faded into total darkness. Cas has folded his hands together, and is just sitting, waiting for Dean to finish his pancakes and his waffles, waiting for Dean to say he’s full, he’s ready, and that they can go, now.
But Cas isn’t gonna rush him. Wouldn’t. Dean doesn’t even know how thinking about settling down, winding up somewhere and laying roots down, having a bedroom with sunlight panelling through and clean smelling sheets, a sense of peace, ended up summoning Cas in the first place, ended up being a prayer to the angel.
No. That isn’t true. He knows exactly how thinking about settling down ended up being a prayer for the angel.
When you’re around fourteen, you start being able to think about life. Really think about it. You get to think about what you want, and what you’ve never been given. More than twenty years later, Dean realises he still hasn’t been allowed it. Not allowed by his dad, not by fate, not by chance, not allowed even by himself. He didn’t really want to run away into the woods when he was fourteen. He didn’t want more running. He was sick of running. He wanted to stand still. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to be loved.
He’s sick of running, now. He wants to sit and eat.
When he does think about it, when he does think about what he wants, and what he’s never been given or allowed—when he does think about the house, the sunlit bedroom, food cooking, the place to rest, when he thinks about what he wants, when he thinks about a happy ending… he thinks about Cas.
And apparently, when he does think about a happy ending, his thoughts come in the form of prayers, prayers he didn’t even know he was making. They must be some miraculous kind of pure, for that.
He never realised, and maybe he didn’t want to. When Dean imagines being happy, he ends up praying.
He ends up praying to Cas.