Author: Sully
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas, Sam/Jess
Rating: Mature (for language mostly)
Length: 16,300 words
Spoilers/Warnings: None, aside from a general understanding of the characters. Total AU (non-supernatural-y universe).
Summary: Reconnecting, as Sam has insisted on calling it, with the brother you haven't seen or spoken to in almost four years is somewhat of a… It's awkward as fuck, is what it is.
Thank you,
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
blue_fjords, for being the best beta ever. And valancy_joy for being awesomely helpful.The story you are about to read is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the creator's imagination or are used fictitiously. This story does not reflect the views or opinions of any actual person portrayed herein.
...Anyway, IT'S JUST
About a month ago, out of the blue, Sam had called him. He'd tracked down Dean's new phone number through some sort of convoluted string of people they both used to know (Sam explained all this, but Dean had been too floored at the time to really pay attention) and called him up for the first time in almost four years. They've been talking regularly ever since.
They talk about now, never bring up then. Dean's pretty okay with that. He doesn't need to rehash the past (and he doesn't want to fight). He knows he'd said some awful, stupid things that he regrets now. He knows it was his fault that Sam walked out and never looked back. Part of him still thinks Sam could've done it differently… After Dad died, Sam was all he'd had left. Sam and the family business: Winchester & Sons - Hunting, Fishing, Camping Supplies. But then Dad was gone, and Sam went off to Stanford, and the store went under pretty fast after that. Dean didn't have much to stick around for by that point.
But Dean's not dwelling on that shit anymore; he's spent far too long holding onto grudges. He's just happy to have his little brother back in his life again. So, when Dean sits down at their computer in the living room to check his email, he should be thrilled when he opens this:
Subject: Surprise!Hey Dean! Remember I was telling you last week we've got spring break coming up soon? Well… we've booked a flight out! We'll get there Sunday and can stay through Friday. I'll send you all the details and flight info, don't worry. You said you were off rotation that week and you have a spare room, right?
Jess is really excited to meet you, and I know you'll love her. Also, I'll probably call you tonight, so we can talk about it then. Srsly, man, can't wait to see you :)
Sam
Stunned, Dean reads it over a few times. Then a couple more.
"My brother's coming to visit," he says aloud, half in disbelief. He's excited, of course he is; he hasn't seen Sammy in way too long and, even though he never lets himself think about it, he misses that stupid kid like an amputee misses his lost limb.
There's just one thing, in all their catching up on their lives now, that Dean's failed to mention to his little brother.
"What's that?" Cas comes up behind him, leans over Dean's shoulder to place his green mug on the desk, and brushes his lips over Dean's cheek.
"Um." He exhales, still staring at the computer screen.
"Oh," Cas says, and Dean turns just enough so he can see whatever facial expression accompanies that. "This is… good?" Cas asks, meeting his eye.
"Yeah. Course." Dean nods jerkily. He wraps both hands around his mug and inhales the strong scent — Cas makes damn good coffee. He takes a big gulp, burning his lips and tongue and throat in the process and not caring.
(Dean probably should have seen this coming, what with all the questions about his work schedule, and his house, and his town, and Sammy mentioning his spring break every chance he got. The 'Oh! You're off that week, too, huh?' should've been a big tipoff anyway. Dean was just rollin' with it, happy to be talking to Sam at all.)
"It's just that, uh…" Dean stretches up to kiss Cas properly on the mouth, before whispering, "He doesn't know."
Reconnecting, as Sam has insisted on calling it, with the brother you haven't seen or spoken to in almost four years is somewhat of a…
It's awkward as fuck, is what it is.
Not that fucking is ever awkward for Dean. He's got fucking mad skills. But his brother is definitely not involved in that part of his life. Which is basically the crux of his current problem. Over the past month or so of phone calls and emails, with the occasional IM or text, there was never really a time when Dean felt comfortable enough to bring it up. It's really just not something you do over the phone or in a fucking email.
- 'Hey, Sammy, it's great finally talking to you again after the big freeze-out. Oh, by the way, I'm kinda gay now.'
Yeah. Not so much.
Dean paces across their kitchen floor, worrying at the cracked linoleum with his bare toes. They already ate breakfast this morning, but he opens the fridge to peer inside anyway. If he stuffs some food in his mouth, maybe he won't have to talk about this right now.
"There are some of those little mini muffins in the cupboard," Cas says, sitting calmly at the table with the newspaper spread out before him.
"I was working up to it," Dean blurts, shutting the fridge door and turning to face Cas. "I just—there wasn't—"
"I know, Dean. I know how hard it is." Cas looks up at him, peaceful, happy, understanding smile on his face. Of course Cas understands; he's already been through this shit. Dean wants to go over there and pull Cas into his arms, but he doesn't feel like he can just yet.
"So…" he starts, unsure how to follow that, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms over his chest.
"So." Cas folds the paper and lays it aside. "We could…" He licks his lips, eyes darting to the side briefly before resettling on Dean. "We could always wait. To tell him. It doesn't have to be now."
"Uh..." Dean raises his eyebrows. "And how are we gonna pull that off? He's coming this weekend. I can't just tell him to cancel his trip. And I…" He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "I wanna see him."
"No, no. Of course you should see him." Cas folds his hands in front of him on the table. "I don't mean that he shouldn't visit now."
"Then what? Baby, he's gonna notice the extra guy hanging around the house," Dean says, waving expansively, "and all the crazy shit you've got in here that does not possibly belong to me."
Cas laughs quietly through his nose, lips curving up into one of his tiny not-quite-there smiles. Dean always wants to kiss him when he does that.
"I could go visit my sister," Cas says after a moment. "While they're here. The hospital will give me time off. And you can explain my belongings by saying… you have a-a roommate. One who's rarely around, anyway. Or something."
"A roommate," Dean echoes. "I tell Sam that you're my weird drifter roommate who drops his shit here and then takes off?"
"It's… somewhat plausible."
"And you'd do that?" Dean asks softly.
Something flitters across Cas's features, only for a split-second, and he says, "Yes."
Breathing deeply, steadying, through his nose, Dean says quietly, "You would, wouldn't you? You'd just…" He pushes himself away from the sink and strides the few feet to the table, cups Cas's face in both hands and leans in close. "You'd just let me do that, and you'd be okay with it." He presses their lips together, kisses Cas firmly until he opens up, then pulls away. "No."
"W-what?"
Dean hooks his foot around the leg of the other kitchen chair, tugging it over to sit down, never taking his eyes, or his hands, off Cas. "I'm not gonna lie about who you are. And I'm definitely not lying to Sam."
The smile he gets this time is broader and more rare than all the bootleg albums Dean's collected over the years. Cas kisses him hard, running his fingers through Dean's hair. "We'll figure it out," he murmurs against Dean's mouth, kisses him again, then stands and stretches. "You'd better get ready for work."
"Yeah." Dean nods, watching Cas's backside as he exits the room. Cas is off today, but Dean's got a twelve hour shift — hopefully they won't get many calls and Dean can use his time to study. (Dean likes being an EMT, and he's only just at intermediate level, but Cas keeps telling him he can go further if he wants. He's damn well gonna try.) Means he won't be home until after ten, though. Good thing Sammy's three hours behind. "He's supposed to call tonight with the details. I'll handle it then." He shrugs. No big.
After he hangs up with Sam that evening, Dean flops back onto the couch, draping an arm over his face.
"All handled?" Cas asks, passing by the doorway.
"Shaddup."
Lying in bed that night Dean tries to sleep, he really does, but his eyes just won't stay closed. The light from the alarm clock on Cas's bedside table washes the room in an eerie green glow. Dean hates that damn clock, but Cas insists he needs it (Dean's body clock has always been sufficient in getting him up on time). And the fucking next door neighbors keep going in and out of their back door, letting it bang shut every five fucking minutes. They always leave their porch light on all night, too. (Dean loves this house — their house — and they got an awesome deal on it, what with the housing market in the shitter last year, but goddamn he hates having neighbors. Beats crappy apartment living, though, like the ones he and Sam grew up in.) Cas can sleep anywhere, anytime, through any ruckus, a skill Dean supposes he developed while he was still an army doc (runs himself ragged when he's on call, though, and just passes out as soon as he stops moving). Dean's always been a light sleeper.
"You're still awake." Cas's voice is rougher than normal, thick and sleepy.
"Damn right I'm still awake," Dean rasps back at him. "What the hell do those people do at two o'clock in the fucking morning?" He goes still and runs his words back through his mind. "Oh my god. When did I get old?"
Cas makes a snuffling laugh, and rolls over to face him. "If you're old, what does that make me?"
"Really old." Dean snakes his arm underneath Cas to draw him closer, the weight of him warm all down Dean's side. "Dude, we are old; we went to bed without even thinking about sex first."
"Maybe you weren't thinking about it…" Cas teases, little smirk twisting his lips.
"Oh yeah?" Dean raises one eyebrow at him.
"I'm game now if you are." Cas shifts close enough that Dean can feel his breath on his face — still fairly minty fresh. Dean slides his fingers along Cas's jaw and through his hair to the back of his neck, pulls him down until their mouths meet. He runs his hands all over Cas's back and sides, reveling in the heat emanating from their joined bodies, but finds himself slowing down and eventually breaking the kiss.
Cas kisses his cheek, jaw, neck, then settles his head on Dean's shoulder. "You're distracted."
"Yeah." No. He's fucking frustrated. And—
"You're always so cute when you're freaking out about something."
"Oh, shut the fuck up."
"I think you're over-thinking this." Cas splays his hand on Dean's chest, palm down right over his heart. "From what I know of your brother… He sounds like a good man, Dean."
"He is." Covering Cas's hand with his own, Dean sighs. "He was always a good kid. But like… that's how I think of him still. A kid. It's been four years, Cas. We don't even know each other anymore." He traces over the back of Cas's hand, down the fine bones and tendons of each finger. Elegant, beautiful surgeon's hands. These capable hands that had picked Dean up and put him back together when he'd needed it (figuratively speaking). "He's told me all about her."
Cas flexes his fingers, aligning them with Dean's and weaving their hands together. "Hm?"
"Jess. His girlfriend. Sam mentioned her, like, right off. Well, you know, after that initial really fucking weird phone call. But after that, yeah, he's talked about her a lot. I think it's serious." Dean rubs the smooth skin between Cas's fingers. "Like, ring-shopping kind of serious."
He feels Cas nod, stubble scritching against his skin. "And," Cas prompts.
"And I haven’t mentioned you once." The words tumble out. "And he's asked, been asking, and it's not—I didn't lie to him or anything, just, y'know, avoided the topic and let him draw his own conclusions." He huffs a short, mirthless laugh. "I know exactly what he's been thinkin', too."
"Oh?"
"You didn't know me back then, Cas. You don't know the kind of jackass I was."
Cas hums, thoughtful. "I imagine not very different from the kind of jackass you were two and a half years ago."
Dean smiles. "Yeah. I guess." He squeeze's Cas's fingers, drags his hand up to kiss his knuckles. "I just don't want him to stop talking to me again."
After a very long pause (And shit, why did Dean have to go there?) Cas says, "I don't think that's going to happen."
"I shouldn't have said it like that. I'm sorry." He presses his lips to Cas's knuckles again.
"I don't need you to apologize." Cas props himself up, using Dean's chest as leverage, to look him in the eyes. "From what you've told me, Sam is nothing like my brothers. He went through a lot of trouble to get in contact with you. That must mean something."
Nodding, Dean sighs. "Yeah. It's not—I don't think Sam'll actually care. I mean, not that he doesn't care; Sam's all about the sharing and caring 'til you puke, but—" He clutches Cas's hand a little tighter. "I know he's not gonna disown me or anything. Not for this. I just feel like I should've told him already. Or he should just know, you know? Without having to, like, make a thing out of it. If he'd bothered to call sooner, or hell, returned any of my phone calls two years ago, he would know al—"
Cas muffles Dean's words with his mouth. And tongue. When Cas pulls back to stare down at him, Dean says, "I'm not still mad about that."
"Uh-huh. Sleep now." Cas presses his mouth to Dean's once more, quickly, then rolls over to his side of the bed again.
"Right, sleep," Dean mutters. Outside, the neighbors' door bangs again. Who can sleep with that racket going on?
He's not mad at Sam. Really. He has no right to be angry, not when it was his own fault.
Finally, the light outside goes dark. Dean turns on his side, slides his arm around Cas and pulls him against his chest. "Oh, hey, baby." He shakes Cas lightly, until he gets a grunt in response. "We gotta clean out the junk room."
Cas groans and shoves his face into his pillow.
"Fucking shit!" Dean ducks another avalanche, letting that particular pile of boxes clatter to the floor. He continues digging through the top shelf of the closet. "I know that air mattress is in here somewhere."
"And your brother is expecting a… guest bedroom?" Cas asks from somewhere behind him, pushing more boxes around.
"Spare! I said spare." Dean pops his head around the closet door to glare at Cas. "And I only mentioned it, like, once. It's not my fault the kid's got a mind like a steel trap."
So, maybe he'd been bragging, just a little, to impress his brother. It's completely understandable. When he'd told Sam that, yes, he was an honest-to-god homeowner, the kid had totally flipped his shit. Yeah, it's just a modest, single-storey, two bedroom house, with an unfinished basement and what passes for an attic. But they're in a good neighborhood (next door excluded) and it's close enough to the hospital that Cas can ride his bike from spring until late fall (Dean honestly despairs of a grown-ass man who won't drive. But what's he gonna do?).
If he'd talked it up a little, could you blame him? He's competing with the fucking Ivy League here (or not… Dean was never really sure what that meant). College boy's got his fancy school, and scholarships, and off-campus apartment, and beautiful girlfriend, and rich friends (probably), and bright shiny future. And what's Dean got?
Besides an awesome partner that he hasn't been able to tell Sammy about yet.
"Why haven't we unpacked this stuff?" Cas asks. Dean turns to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by open boxes, with a pile of crap in his hands.
"Dude."
"Remember this?" Cas holds up a photograph for Dean to see. It's of the two of them in jeans and t-shirts, standing in front of the walk-thru safari park.
"Oh gross. Don't remind me. That giraffe licked my face." Dean steps over a stack of books to take the photo for a closer look. That had been a pretty good day (face-licking aside) for the most part. "I remember you cried."
Cas shrugs. "I told you I didn't like zoos."
"It wasn't a zoo! The animals get to roam free."
"It's still a zoo, animals plucked from their natural homes for our amusement. We don't have giraffes in North America for a reason."
"You and Sam are gonna get along great," Dean mutters. He so does not want to get into this conversation again. "Baby, we're supposed to be clearing space here, not reminiscing."
"Still," Cas says, pretty much ignoring him, "I like these pictures. We should get some frames and put them up. Why haven't we sorted through these boxes in the last year?"
"Because we shoved all this junk in here and forgot about it." Frankly, after the essentials were done, they'd gotten bored with the whole 'unpacking' part of moving in and went right to having sex everywhere. Dean goes back to digging through the closet. "We didn't throw that air mattress out, did we? Sammy's gotta sleep on something. Jess might fit on the couch, but Sam sure as hell won't."
"It's in there, Dean, buried under all your stuff."
"My stuff? This is not all mine, man. I owned, like, three things when I met you." (Possibly a bit more, but they both know that's not too big an exaggeration. Dean was practically living in his car when they first met, and the shoebox apartment he'd finally secured hadn't held much and still looked empty.)
There's a mini-landslide at Dean's feet as several tectonic stacks shift. "Hey, I think I found it!" He tugs at the maroon plastic of the folded air mattress; something else follows and thuds onto his foot. "Ow! And the pump, too."
"It probably needs new batteries," Cas says. He's busy restacking the boxes and shoving them into the far corner of the room. The 'junk room' as it is now known was originally supposed to be an office or workroom. But the computer desk never quite made it past the living room, so they'd just set it all up between the front window and the entryway (Dean absolutely refuses to use the word 'foyer'). They pretty much spend all their time in there anyway, and Dean likes watching TV when he's checking his email (it's less conducive to studying, but that's what taskmaster Cas is for).
Dean rolls the mattress out over the cleared space on the carpet, kneeling down beside it. He tests the pump and hallelujah it works, but when he tries to fix it to the nozzle on the mattress he can't get it to stay. Cas takes it out of his hands before he can get too frustrated and throw it across the room (that's happened, like, once) and manages to get it set up in about two seconds.
Watching the mattress slowly fill with air is strangely mesmerizing. It takes kind of a while, and Dean's glad for the break; he's sweating through his gray t-shirt, cotton darkening and clinging to his skin. Cas goes back to leafing through an open box, occasionally plucking out a photo that he wants to do god knows what with. The only sounds in the room are the soft hissing of the air pump, quiet fft fft of paper shuffling, Cas's breathing, and Dean's blood thrumming in his ears.
The pump clicks off when the mattress is full; Dean removes it and plugs the hole up, pressing down with his hand a few times to test the firmness. "I hope this thing doesn't pop when Bigfoot's sleeping on it."
Cas is suddenly very close, hot breath on his neck. "I seem to recall it's very sturdy."
Dean smirks at that. They'd had to sleep on this stupid thing for two weeks before they bought a bed; it worked well enough for them. Kinda bouncy, too. He hooks an arm around Cas's waist and pulls him down so they're both lying crosswise on the mattress, feet hanging off onto the floor.
Cas crawls on top of him, mouth covering Dean's, hands peeling his shirt up slowly. The cool air chills his damp skin. Cas swipes his tongue down Dean's neck and chest to one perky nipple, and now Dean's not shivering because of the cold. He hauls Cas's shirt over his head, flinging it across the room. From there it's just a matter of kicking their jeans off, and falling into each other. It's never been like this — easy, comfortable — with anyone else before; Dean can't imagine it with anyone else ever again. Not like this. No one else ever actually sees him.
Dean tangles his fingers into Cas's hair, keeping him close, mouth hot on his through it all until they're both sweaty and panting. He licks his palm and takes them both in hand, smearing pre-come everywhere. The rubbery plastic squeaks against Dean's bare ass. Cas snorts laughter into Dean's shoulder, hot breath rushing over his skin, but he keeps rocking his hips against Dean's body, scooting the mattress inch by inch across the carpet (it's still pretty bouncy). Dean comes first, all over his own stomach. Cas keeps at it, wrapping his own hand around himself, and follows closely after (all over Dean's stomach). Settling next to him, their sweaty skin sliding and sticking together, Cas lays his arm heavy across Dean's chest.
When he's got his breath back, Dean says, "I think it'll definitely hold him."
Breathing out through his nose, eyes closed, Cas mumbles, "We should probably hose it off first."
Laughing, Dean buries his nose in Cas's hair and doesn't want to move again for the rest of the day.
The airport is almost an hour away, so Dean figures he'll have ample time and opportunity to explain things to Sam on the drive back to the house. Piece of cake.
Dean waits in the cell lot until he gets a text from Sam: @ baggage. C u in a few ☺
And seriously, the dork punctuates his sentences with smiley faces. Dean pulls his car up to arrivals, hops out and goes around to the trunk to wait. The wind's blowing and he wishes he'd worn his gloves, the soft leather ones Cas had bought him last Christmas. Good thing Sam is really easy to spot in a crowd. Dean sees him almost immediately, more than a head taller than everyone else, and jesus the kid hasn't had a haircut since the last time they saw each other.
He whistles loudly to get Sam's attention, waving one arm over his head. He's not sure exactly what he's expecting when Sam finally turns and sees him, but the dopey grin on Sammy's face reminds him of everything he's been missing. Sam drops his bags as soon as he reaches the car, grasps Dean's shoulder and pulls him into a tight, overwhelming hug. Sam is warm, his arms wound completely around Dean, his hair tickling Dean's nose until he huffs it out of his face, closing his own arms around Sam's back. Sam had shot past him in height before the little squirt had even finished high school, but damn when did he get so broad in the shoulders? Dean remembers the last time he'd hugged Sam — the kid was a toothpick back then.
It lasts way longer than Dean would normally allow, but he's almost reluctant when he pushes Sam away. "Alright. You tryin' to suffocate me?"
Sam laughs, then reaches out and runs his hand down the roof of the Impala. "You kept it."
"Of course I kept her!" Dean says, indignant. Dad had given her to him when he'd turned twenty-one. He wouldn't have left his baby behind. He almost says this, but stops himself when he spots a woman with long, curly, blonde hair just behind Sam.
"This is Jess," Sam says, grasping her hand to draw her forward until they're standing shoulder to shoulder. She's tall, too, almost as tall as Dean (he thinks she might be about even with Cas, actually). "Jess, this is my big brother Dean." The way Sam says it, all earnest smiles and big eyes, like an excited puppy, makes something twinge in Dean's chest.
"Sam's told me all about you," Jess says, shaking Dean's hand with a firm grip.
"Oh I bet he has."
Dean tries his best not to flirt with Jess, but it's like a reflex, a nervous tic, and it just comes out. She laughs good-naturedly, and teases him right back. Dean likes her instantly; she's definitely a keeper. Sam just rolls his eyes, saying, "God, Dean, you haven't changed at all."
He stills, smile freezing on his face. It's the perfect opening, right there, he couldn't have set that up if he'd tried… and yet Dean's completely lost for words. He clears his throat. "Yeah. Here, let me get those." He loads their bags in the trunk, closes and locks it, then gestures for them to get in. "Doors are open."
There's some sort of clumsy 'you go, no you go' on the other side of the car, then Sam slides into the passenger seat next to him and Jess gets in the back. Nobody talks until they're out on the freeway heading back to the house, and Dean decides to break the silence.
"So, Jess, I hope you're not a light sleeper. Our neighbors are kind of dicks, up all night long making noise and shit." He said 'our'. Perfect time to bring it up? But neither Jess nor Sam seem to notice that.
She just shrugs. "I'm sure I'll be fine. And you probably know that Sam sleeps like the dead."
"Yeah," Dean laughs. "Does he still snore?"
"I never snore!"
"Yes, he does." Jess catches Dean's eye in the rearview mirror, and winks at him.
Next to him Sam pouts, folding his arms across his chest, then tries to change the subject. "We looked up all kinds of things to do around here—"
"Sammy, we're in the middle of nowhere. I told you there was nothing to do around here."
"Though we weren't expecting it to be so cold," Sam continues.
"It's still pretty much winter up here, man." Dean glances to the back. "Jess, you're letting him waste your whole spring break in rural Pennsylvania. You guys should've gone to Cancun."
"Oh, we did that sophomore year, actually," Jess says, leaning forward over the seat. "Sam got so sick and spent almost the whole time in the hotel room, throwing up."
The grin starts to slip from Dean's face. He grips the steering wheel tight, eyes straight ahead, forcing a laugh. "That sounds like Sammy. He got sick on practically every vacation we ever took."
"Like we really took all that many," Sam says, blithely. He's turned in his seat, smiling at Jess.
"So," Dean says, watching Sam out of the corners of his eyes, "that would've been… about two years ago, huh?"
He sees Sam freeze. Jess doesn't seem to notice; she answers, "Yep. It was our first trip. You know, together."
"I, um…" Sam falters.
"Jess, I hope your taste in music is better than Sam's." Dean doesn't wait for a response, just punches the tape into the deck and turns up the volume. Communication Breakdown blasts out of the speakers. It seems fitting.
As soon as Dean pulls into the driveway, he hops out of the car, tosses the keys at Sam, and runs up the walk to the house. He finds Cas in the kitchen where he left him, poring over his medical journals. Cas looks up when he comes barging in.
"Yeah, I didn't do it yet."
Cas doesn't say anything for a moment, and Dean can't read the look on his face (he hates when he can't read Cas — after their first six months or so together he got pretty good at it). Finally, Cas stacks his journals up, and says, "Shall I sneak out the back then?"
And Dean knows he's joking, and not actually angry or disappointed. He closes his eyes, exhales — relief and regret combined. "Quit bein' a smartass." He hears the kitchen chair scrape back and feels Cas come to stand at his side, warmth of his body making Dean feel the cold he brought in with him more sharply. "How did you do this?"
"Unwillingly." Cas leans into him, hand rubbing circles in the small of Dean's back. "That choice was taken out of my hands."
"Oh yeah." Dean'd like some time alone with the dickbag that had outed Cas to his uncle. And his commanding officer. Don't ask, don't tell, his ass. That happened more than five years ago, though, before they'd met. "If I ever come face to face with that guy—"
"You'll do absolutely nothing." Cas glances around. "Did you just run in here and leave them to carry their own bags?"
"Sam's capable of bringing in his own shit. Swear the kid hasn't stopped growing yet. He's like a… one o' those, whaddo ya call'ems? That big blue thing with the lumberjack."
Cas stares at him, head tipped to one side. "Paul Bunyan's ox?"
"Yes." Dean snaps his fingers. "He's a freakin' ox."
"Babe."
Confused, Dean asks, "Yeeah?" because Cas never calls him that. Never calls him anything other than Dean (and sometimes oh god yes).
"No, that was the name of the ox." Cas smiles. "I think I hear them at the door."
"Dean!" Sam bellows from outside, and Dean hurries back through to let them in. Jess enters first, laughing at whatever she and Sam might've been talking about, carrying a medium-sized suitcase.
Sam stumbles in with two bags slung over his right shoulder and another dangling from his left hand. "Jesus, Dean. What, did you have to run in and do some last minute cleaning or something? I locked up your car for you, by the way. You're welcome." He drops the bags to the floor, panting, and finally looks up. "Oh. Um, hi?" he says, eyes flicking from Dean to Cas standing just behind him.
"Uh. Right. Sam, Jess," Dean gestures to each of them in turn, "this is Cas. Uh, Dr. Castiel Miles." Dean's not even sure why he goes with the full blown title. "He's… um, he lives here, too. All the weird paintings and statues and, like, that crazy tapestry thing from Africa or whatever, those are all his."
"It's from Afghanistan, actually," Cas says, coming forward and extending his hand. "It's nice to meet you both." Jess smiles brightly and gives him the same firm handshake she gave Dean.
Sam hesitates, just for a moment, but then smiles politely and offers his hand, as well. "Yeah, same here." He cuts his eyes at Dean, though. "Uhh…"
"Jess. That's short for Jessica, isn't it?" Cas asks, and she nods. He bends down and hefts two of the larger bags up. "Why don't you follow me, and I'll show you where your room is." Jess exchanges a look with Sam before carrying her own bag down the hall after Cas.
Dean watches them go, not quite ready to turn and face Sam.
"Uh, Dean? What the hell? Why didn't you tell me you had a roommate?"
"I…"
"What? Did he, like, just move in or something? Wait, I thought your house only had two bedrooms."
"Yeah, it—"
"Dude! You told me you had a guest room!"
"I said spare," Dean mutters.
"Is that his room?" Sam flails, pointing down the hall as though Dean doesn't know who he's talking about. "Look, we don't have to stay here if you don't have the space. It's okay, really. I checked out the area before we left home… you know, just in case. I know there aren't any hotels or anything nearby, but there's a bed and breakfast and an inn just in town, right? We can go—"
"You looked up nearby hotels? 'Just in case'?" Dean asks, and he barely stops himself from doing that annoying finger quote thing that Cas does. "So, you weren't actually planning to stay here?"
"What?" Sam actually takes a step back. "No. I mean, yes, we were planning to stay here. I just… in case it got too, um, uncomfortable or…" His shoulders slump. "I don't know, Dean. I wasn't even sure if you'd want us here."
"The hell are you talking about? Of course I want you to stay here. I asked you, didn't I?"
"You didn't, technically," Sam mumbles, but Dean blusters over him.
"I cleaned up and bought new sheets and made up a bed in the room for you!"
Exasperated, Sam throws his hands up (just like he did when he was a kid) and yells, "Dean, we're not kicking that guy out of his room! We can just—"
"He's my boyfriend!" Dean honestly hadn't meant to shout it quite that loud. The stunned look on Sammy's face would be hilarious if Dean's own wasn't burning.
"I—" Sam gapes at him. "What?"
Dean rolls his eyes toward the ceiling and lets his breath out slowly. "Boyfriend. Cas is my boyfriend. We sleep in the same room, so you're not kicking anyone out of anywhere, okay?"
Sam is staring at him when he makes eye contact again. Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fights the urge to turn away or rub his eyes. Sam moves first, past Dean and into the living room. He walks a slow circle, looking around at all their stuff — the computer desk all cluttered with papers; Cas's old blue couch; Dean's brown leather armchair; end tables he'd picked up off the curb and refinished himself; stacked up milk crates holding Dean's record collection ("Because you can't just lay them flat, Cas!"); bookcases they'd bought filled with both their books, a few scattered framed pictures, and knick-knacks Cas has collected on his travels.
Sam turns back to him, eyebrows high on his forehead. "When did you go horseback riding?"
Dean blinks, opens his mouth, pauses. "What?"
"This picture." Sam points toward the taller bookshelf. "You're on a horse."
"Oh." He steps up next to Sam to take a closer look, even though he knows exactly which picture he's talking about. It's a shot of him from below, tall in the saddle and squinting into the sun. "That was last summer. One of the docs Cas works with owns a stable a little ways south of here. We went out and stayed for a week, got some free lessons. I like the horses, but it's not really..." he trails off, remembering how much his legs had ached that week.
"Huh. You always did have a thing for cowboys," Sam remarks, and Dean can hear him smirking, moves to punch him in the arm, but Sam sidesteps him. He pushes his stupidly long hair back behind his ear, biting his lip. "So... how long?"
And that's what he's been waiting for. Scratching at the back of his neck, Dean says, "Like, uh, two—two and a half years. Ish. I don't know exactly. I'd say ask Cas, but neither of us is good at keeping track of that stuff." He licks his lips. "We bought this place about a year ago. May third, we moved in. That one I remember." Dean half-smiles at that.
Sam smiles back; he knows why Dean might remember that. "Wow," is all he says. He starts to open his mouth again, but Jess and Cas appear in the doorway just then.
Cas glances between them. "We didn't prepare anything for dinner because we weren't sure what you'd like to eat." He comes into the room to stand next to Dean, close but not touching. "Between us, we can offer a plethora of pasta dishes, or some type of charred cow. Occasionally we even combine the two, with varying results. There might also be a vegetable lurking in the kitchen. Canned, most likely." It's always funny to Dean when Cas says shit like this — people usually think he's joking with them, but really he's just being Cas.
Looking a little lost, Sam stumbles over his words. "Ah, any-anything's fine, really."
"Anything. Really," Dean says, skeptically. "So, burgers are good with you?"
"Yeah, Dean, I'll eat a burger. Just because I don't eat red meat for every meal—"
"Sam," Jess interrupts, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door. "Why don't we go freshen up first. Then we'll come help with dinner?" She directs that to Cas.
He nods, and says to Sam, "Your room is the first door on the left. The bathroom is the door next to it, and our room is at the very end of the hall. Best not to go in there; we spent zero time cleaning it up."
Jess laughs and Sam chuckles, letting her pull him away. As soon as they're gone, Dean says, "Guessing you guys heard all that?"
"Winchesters are not quiet." Cas touches the back of his hand. "Nice to learn that it runs in the family."
They have a small kitchen table with only two chairs, so everyone eats dinner in the living room, balancing plates on laps. Sam and Jess sit on the couch, Cas in the armchair, and Dean in the desk chair turned away from the computer. Conversation's stilted at first, so Dean tries to lighten it up by telling funny stories of the weirdest calls he's ever been on.
"No joke, it was the cat that dialed 9-1-1. Saved that woman's life."
Sam's shaking his head, laughing. "You're just making stuff up now."
"What?" Dean raises his hands, mock offended. "Okay, maybe EMS was on, like, one of those big speed dial buttons. It was still the cat that pushed it."
"I can't believe you're a paramedic, Dean. I mean, if I think about it, that's like the perfect gig for you." The way Sam's looking at him just then, Dean almost feels a little proud.
"I'm not a paramedic yet. Still got—" Dean rubs a hand over his face (he's not blushing). "Lotta shit left to do for that."
"He's been working very hard, and finishing in record time," Cas adds, smiling fondly at him. Dean can't stop himself from returning it (hopefully Sam doesn't notice how soft he's gone).
"So, is that how you two met?" Jess asks. "Working at the hospital?"
"Uhh…" Dean exchanges a look with Cas. "Sort of."
"It's rather a long story," Cas says.
"Cas is the one that got me started, actually. I mean, I'd kinda looked into it, but I didn't think I—um, but he kept bugging me about it, so…" Dean looks down at his hands. He can sense Sam sitting there, searching for something to say. Dean stands abruptly and starts gathering up everyone's empty plates. "Gonna go dump these in the sink."
He retreats into the kitchen (because that's exactly what this is) and stacks the plates next to the sink. From the other room he hears Sam ask, "Is that the Coliseum?" Cas's rumbling answer is lower, but Dean has long been able to decipher him by tone alone.
"You actually got Dean onto a plane?" Sam is saying as Dean walks back into the living room. He looks way too big for their small house, towering over Cas, both of them with their backs to Dean examining the photos on the shelves and the walls.
"I sedated him," Cas says. Sam and Jess laugh, but they don't realize that he's not really joking. That flight (both ways) was almost more than Dean could handle (he'd been so freaked out, he'd forgotten half the words to Unforgiven).
"Air Cas — only way to travel." They all turn at the sound of his voice. Dean leans in the doorway. "Baby, it's after nine o' clock."
Cas looks surprised, as he always does when he realizes he's lost track of time. "Ah." He smiles politely at Sam and Jess. "I apologize, but I have to work in the morning, so I'm off to sleep now."
As he comes near, Dean asks, "Gabriel picking you up? Remind him to be quiet when he gets here. Tell him we have guests."
"I'll text him now," Cas says. He stands close for a moment, maybe about to lean in for a quick kiss goodnight, but ends up running his hand gently down Dean's arm as he leaves the room. Dean watches him go, before turning back.
Jess has her eyes closed, head resting on Sam's shoulder. She looks happy, content. Dean raises his chin when he catches Sam's eye — a question, maybe, he doesn't know. The silence stretches out.
"Actually, I'm pretty beat, too," Sam says, sitting up and nudging Jess. "I think we'll just…" He gestures with a small nod of his head toward the bedrooms, pulling Jess up from the couch with him. "Night, Dean," Sam says softly as he passes. Jess wishes him good night, as well, and they disappear into the spare room.
Dean switches off the living room lamp and stands there in the dark. It hurts that he's forgotten how to talk to Sam, how to just exist with Sam. Dean's spent only eight years of his life without Sam — the first four and the last four. That's not even one third of his lifetime. He doesn't even remember any part of those first four very well, but these last four seem like all there is of them.
This entry was cross-posted from dreamwidth. - Total comments:
