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Dean doesn't switch on a single light bulb on his way downstairs, pads outside bare-footed and in sweats and a t-shirt. The door creaks a little; it's slightly ajar, has been for a while. In the silence of the house it's loud as a scream, and Dean stops dead before he shakes his head and calls himself out for being stupid.
It's 5:00 a. m., roundabout, the sun's just about to rise and bathe the porch in a faded, almost unnatural light. The sky is lit in pale yellow and pink, no clouds; in a few hours this place will get warmed by the sun, but right now it's still fucking freezing. Almost as far as he can see, long grass sways in the breeze from the sea, up to where it meets the dunes shielding the ocean from view. Seagulls squawk in the distance.
It's perfect.
A few years back, Dean'd lost all hope he'll ever end up in a place like this. Or, well, make it past his thirties alive. After Lisa and Ben, he'd made peace with the prospect of death-by-hunting, possibly in the midst of yet another almost-apocalypse. When he went out on a limb and envisioned his old age, he only came up with distorted visions of Bobby or Rufus; something with a place that might've served as a home in another life, but in his it'd be nothing more than home base for a restless life and old habits that are hard to shake.
He didn't imagine that often, though. Mostly he's been convinced that at any point past, say, 35, his home address would be a cemetery. Empty grave, of course, because surely his death would have been brutal and gruesome enough to ensure a haunting if there was anything left of him.
But, guess what: the world didn't end, it even stopped tumbling towards the brink, and he's still alive. All three of them are. They lost Bobby, but not the hunter's way. He died of a heart attack not long after they collectively quit the job. He'd never say it out loud, but Dean thinks his heart might've been unable to handle the quiet, the lack of stress and adrenaline. Dean knows a thing or two about that himself; the only thing harder than fighting is to suddenly stop.
He sits down on the swing by the door, shivering, and inhales the salty, cold wind. Even though he can't quite see the sea from here, he hears the waves crashing to the shore, knows it's there. The storm present when they went to bed to in the evening has lessened during the night, but it's still rough outside. When Sam or Castiel wake up they'll demand for him to come back inside. But Dean likes it out here. There's something about the raw forces of nature being the only threat for miles that's a comfort to him on mornings like this.
Yeah, the nightmares never stopped. He doesn't think they ever will, but they don't come every night anymore. As far as Dean's concerned, that's a step in the right direction. He and Sam, they both scream in their sleep five nights out of seven, but that's a small price to pay for being together and safe.
And this, out here – the cold and the quiet piece of nature they landed themselves in the middle of – turned out to be a great antidote to the lingering images of hell in his dreams.
For an hour or two, Dean just sits there on the porch swing, eyes closed and legs drawn up to his chest so he doesn't get too cold, before Castiel appears in the doorway. "Hey", he says, voice still rough with sleep and hair sticking out every which way. He yawns. "Bad dream?"
Dean doesn't bother with an answer, just scoots over a little so there's room for a second person on the swing. Castiel accepts the invitation. They sit there for a while, looking out at the grassland in silence, until Dean's stomach makes itself known by rumbling loud enough for both of them to hear.
Castiel grins. "I'll take care of that, yes?" he says, gets up to head into the kitchen, and Dean follows as soon as the smell of fried bacon and fresh coffee fill the air.
He steals a kiss before he sits down at the counter. Nothing wakes Sam as surely as putting on a pot of coffee and while he never showed any disdain about the thing that developed between Dean and Castiel midway through the actual apocalypse, Dean doesn't want to flaunt it either. Something about being raised by a marine with rather traditional views; Dean's sure John wouldn't have been outright homophobic if he’d known and Sam never has been either, but there's a difference between getting it on with a guy and having something that counts as a steady relationship with a former angel.
***
After breakfast, Dean suggests a walk to the seaside. They used to do that a lot when they first came here, and Castiel knows that Dean genuinely loves the sea, but it's too dangerous now and he tells Dean so. "The storm, the waves are still high. It's not safe."
"I've spent most of my life hunting ghosts and creatures, a coupla high waves won't kill me," Dean grumbles and eyes the grassland through the kitchen window.
Castiel tries to distract him with a broken shutter on the hallway window upstairs. "I saw it earlier, when we were outside," he says. "The storm tore it apart."
Dean sighs, a little disappointed, but he goes into the cellar to get his tools and gets to work anyway. He's always been good with his hands, even before he spent a year working in construction, takes pride in fixing up whatever goes haywire around the house. And it makes sense for Dean to do that himself; calling a handyman all the way out here would be expensive.
As Dean replaces the shutter and fixes it to the window again, Castiel keeps him company. He hands him hammer and nails and whatever else he needs, and listens to Dean's running commentary of what he's doing and why. They both know Castiel isn't ever going to be good at these things, his former angelic patience replaced by a sort of nervous unrest that leaves him frustrated whenever something doesn't work his way on the first try. Dean's called him moody on numerous occasions, but really Castiel's just exhausted; he doesn't have the energy for mundane tasks like these.
The repairs take a while, and by the time they're done it's late afternoon. Before Dean can resume his long glances towards the sea, Castiel suggests a fish stew for dinner; the preparations will take them long enough that by the time they're done, a walk down to the beach will be off the table.
Dean squints at him, expression between surprised and annoyed at the barely hidden guardian act that's supposed to keep him away from the troubled sea, and Castiel smiles; one of the things he learned for Dean and that have come to be a part of him. "Please?"
***
Dean's always been a decent cook, what with having to put food on the table for Sam from an early age, but since they settled down he's got time to extend his repertoire beyond Sloppy Joes and Mac'n Cheese. It's fun, he discovered with time, to make meals that are a little more complicated, require fresh ingredients, some time and a little skill. He's good at it, too, unless Sam and Castiel have been lying to him for years.
Getting said ingredients is a bit of a task out here, the car broke down years ago and to spare them having to walk to town all the time, they set up a small garden at the back of the house. He was squirmy about that at first, Dean Winchester does not garden, but eventually he had to admit that it beats carrying heavy bags for miles. And anyway, homegrown vegetables taste better than the shit you get at a supermarket. They heat with wood, got a generator out back, their freezer is filled with game they shot in the forest nearby and a whole lot of fish and other seafood; by now, they're self-supporting for the most part, don't need to go out much. Dean hasn't seen any people other than Sam and Castiel in months, maybe longer, but usually he doesn't mind much; it's safer this way, too, Castiel is right when he says that.
Every once in a while he gets lonely, but that passes. It always passes.
Sam keeps out of the kitchen, he's the kind of cook who manages to burn a pot of water, so when it comes to cooking Castiel acts as Dean's wingman. They're well attuned after all this time, don't require many words, but Dean still likes to chatter as he filets fish, chops vegetables or blends dressings.
"The phone line's been down again earlier. Probably the storm," Dean says conversationally while he fiddles with salt and pepper and herbs to give the broth that's simmering on the stove the final touches.
"Could be." There's a flicker of both worry and exasperation on Castiel's face that Dean can't quite place. "Who'd you call, anyway?"
That makes Dean angry despite himself, his temper fast to flare due to the mood he's in. "What do you care? I don't have to report every little detail of my day back to you." Never mind the fact that they spend almost every minute of it together anyway, but it's the principle of the thing.
"That's not what I meant."
"Oh, what then? That I don't have anyone else left to call, no one who gives two shits about whether I'm dead or alive aside from you and Sam?" He picks up a towel from the peg by the side of the counter and starts wiping it, with so much force the salt shaker he just used for seasoning falls to the ground with a soft clink. Dean swears under his breath. He leans down, picks it up, and turns to face Castiel. "Fuck you, it's not that I don't know that myself."
Castiel looks stunned, as if he's still trying to catch up with how this conversation could go pear-shaped so fast, and Dean's not quite sure about that himself. The last few days, he’s felt trapped, cabin fever again, maybe, that indefinable itch to get away from here. It's not like he wants to leave, get rid of this place permanently, but he's so hungry to see something else than the walls of the house. It's what caused him to go through the old contact list in the back of his hunting journal, what left him so frustrated when the phone didn't work.
If they'd only gotten around to see the sea today... The beach, the waves, the view over the seemingly endless blue always calms him down, makes him feel less edgy.
It's probably not fair, Castiel isn't responsible for the legacy of the nomadic lifestyle from his former life rearing its head, or for the broken phone lines, but Dean has to at least get out of the kitchen. He glares at Castiel, orders him to watch the broth and pay attention that it doesn't boil over, and storms out of the kitchen.
"Sam?" Last Dean checked, Sam was upstairs; he wanted to read up on something. But there's no answer, and Dean calls his name again as he heads up the stairs. Dean knocks at his door, twice, before he twists the doorknob to get inside.
The room is empty, bed made and untouched. Sam's laptop is on his desk, closed, but if the phone-lines don't work then internet's out of question anyway. A few books sit in a pile next to it, and Dean walks up to let his fingers slide over the one on top, as if he could sense Sam's whereabouts if he just concentrates hard enough on the last thing he's known him to touch.
Stupid thought, and Dean shakes his head. He looks out the window, to see if he can spot Sam's figure somewhere in front of the house or in the grassland; Sam likes to take long hikes through the nearby area.
And suddenly, as if someone's turned off a switch, the full-on panic Dean's been inching towards eases. That must be it. Sam went out while Dean and Castiel were busy in the kitchen and forgot to scribble down a note.
Castiel has appeared in the doorway in the meantime, and Dean can't even remember why he's gotten angry at him in the first place. He smiles up at him, and Castiel smiles back. "Come downstairs, dinner's about ready, and I set the table. We'll leave something for when Sam comes back."
***
During the meal, Castiel watches Dean, on the lookout for unease or worry; he's pleased when he finds none.
Dean talks about the door to the porch, how he plans on finally fixing it tomorrow. "I know, it's been broken for a year or so, and it's no big deal anyway, but why not? Maybe I'll even repaint it, there's an open can that needs to be used soon or it'll go to waste. I can mix some of the colored stuff into it."
One of the biggest surprises while they renovated the house was Dean's fondness for bold colors; something to do with being raised in a string of themed motel rooms, Dean had said: you get used to being surrounded by color. He painted every room in the house in a different shade.
"Do we still have any of that left?"
"Are you kidding me? There's a whole shelf of them in the basement. Shows how often you bother to go down there." Dean gives a long-suffering sigh. "Guess having been able to rely on angel-mojo for most of your life didn't exactly horn your sense for good old craftsmanship, am I right?"
"No, Dean, I suppose not." Castiel sees that he wasn't quite able to keep the sorrow out of his expression at the mention of his past, the way things used to be, when it gets reflected in the apologetic look on Dean's face.
"Sorry. I know you don't like to talk about that," Dean says and looks down onto his plate.
Castiel reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, directs Dean's gaze back up by brushing his thumb across Dean's jaw and lifting his chin, and he waits until he's got his full attention before he speaks. "Not because I miss it, or regret what happened between us. I'm happier now, you know that."
For a moment, Dean allows the gesture, but then he seems to decide that it’s lasted long enough and gets up to clean the table.
***
That evening, they curl up in front of the TV. Sam came back late, but after showering and eating his dinner he joined them in the sparsely furnished living room. Fireplace, TV set, love seat, sofa and a wooden table in the middle, and that's it; books are upstairs and they don't have much else to stash away in a wall of cupboards, so they never bothered getting any. For the first two or three years, Sam dragged along plants and flowers to make it more homelike, but neither of them ever remembered to water them, and finally Sam caved. No flowers. He now satisfies his plant-growing needs by helping Dean with the garden in the back yard.
Sam's sitting on the smaller sofa, cross-legged and with his laptop on his knees. It doesn't bother Dean that he's not all there for this, otherwise occupied, the important thing is that he's here at all. Dean's allowed himself to curl up with Castiel on the bigger sofa even though they're not alone, and the program on the TV doesn't matter much as long it's the three of them, together. There's no need for small talk, they're all comfortable with the silence.
After a while, Dean starts drifting off, nuzzles up shamelessly into Castiel's chest in between naps. He's vaguely aware that Sam and Castiel are talking in low voices as not to disturb him, doesn't care that the joke's probably been made on his expense when he hears Sam chuckle at something Castiel said, too content to give a damn.
He wakes fully as he hears Sam's footsteps on the stairs, rubs his eyes and tries to sit up, but Castiel pulls him back down. He begins to mouth Dean's neck and nibble at his earlobe.
"Go back to sleep, if you want to," he says, voice teasing and amused; he knows that Dean won't.
"Oh, I don’t know, " Dean replies, leans back to push his body more firmly to Castiel's in all the right places. Two can play this game. "I'm pretty beat."
Castiel laughs, lays a finger on Dean's jaw to turn his face up and back. They kiss, angle a little awkward at first, so Dean wrestles himself free of Castiel's embrace to get up. He straddles him and leans down, touches his forehead to Castiel's for a moment before he presses their mouths together again. He licks into him slowly, pulls back when Castiel tries do to the same, bites into his lower lip and makes him arch up by doing so. He presses their bodies together closer still and grins when he feels hardness swelling up against his thigh where he sits on Castiel's lap. Another kiss and he leans back enough that he can lift Castiel's shirt, get to skin, and lets a hand slide past Castiel's flank on each side of his body. He uses the leverage he's gained to level Castiel up, make him sit up straighter so they can kiss again, hard and desperate, while he lets his nails rake over Castiel's back.
By the time Dean has to come up for air they're both breathless and panting. Castiel puts a hand on either side of Dean's face, holds it like that, inches away from his own, and looks him straight in the eye.
Dean holds his gaze, makes a face. "Don't say anything sappy, I don't want words like 'beautiful' or any shit like that to come out of your mouth, you know that."
"No, you already know how I feel about you," is all Castiel says, expression solemn and loving, but with a hint of something else. Regret, sorrow, Dean's not sure. All he knows is that he wants to make it go away. He shakes his head a little, forcing Castiel to let go of him, and rolls his hips to signal that he'd like to stop talking and get to the good stuff already.
They disentangle themselves then, to relocate to their room, because it's one thing to downright cuddle in front of Sam, but another matter entirely to have him find them sprawled naked on the sofa come morning.
***
At first, Castiel was reluctant to resume that particular aspect of the relationship they had had before. Dean was thrown by his refusal at first, but they were familiar enough with each other's behavior that he was able to read Castiel's body right, the way it belayed what Castiel said. After a while he stopped taking no for an answer, and eventually Castiel gave in.
That night, he watches Dean sleep afterwards. He notices it when Dean's breathing speeds up, when he starts to squirm in the sheets, and he's prepared when Dean comes awake suddenly, shoots up straight in the bed.
The nightmares about hell are something Castiel doesn't fix, doesn't ease, because as unpleasant as they are, Dean's dealing with them. Hell's a part of him, and it can't be erased. Some nights, they spend half of the time in bed with Castiel stroking a hand down Dean's arm – the only place he'll let himself be touched after such a dream – while he talks at him. Nonsense, old stories about heaven or from a time when humans were little more than an idea in the back of his Father's head. A constant stream of words until Dean falls back asleep in the early hours of morning.
Tonight isn't one of those nights. Tonight is something worse.
"It's been your fault." Dean eyes Castiel when he blinks awake. "Everything that happened. Sam. You did that."
There isn't much Castiel can say to that, because it's the truth. He reaches out to touch the side of Dean's face. "Dean – "
"No. Don't." Even before Castiel's hand touches skin, Dean flinches. He turns away in a sharp motion, as if he suddenly can't bear the sight of him.
Castiel's heart sinks.
On nights like this, when he remembers everything clearly, Dean hates him. It makes Castiel think that maybe, if he knew the whole truth, Dean would've chosen to leave a long time ago. The thought that he's trapped him here against his will bores its way to the forefront of Castiel's mind, but it's not like that.
Keeping Dean here is the only way to make sure he's safe. No one would want to be out there on their own, right? Castiel is protecting him. He's doing what's best.
Still, when he brings his fingers to Dean's forehead to send him into peaceful, dreamless sleep he feels like a jailor rather than a lover or a friend.
***
When Dean wakes up the next morning, the sun's already high in the sky and warms his skin where it shines through the windows. For a few minutes, he stays where he is, lays still and lets the faint shrieks of the seagulls far off in the distance drag him back into the here and now. As he gets up, he shakes his head, to get rid of some last echoes of his dream.
He pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and climbs down the stairs, follows Castiel's and Sam's voices to the kitchen. The door clicks shut behind his brother just as Dean steps into the room.
Castiel hands him a cup of coffee. "Sam's going out for another hike. Didn't have a very pleasant night, he said."
"Oh." Dean sits down on a stool next to Castiel and takes a sip. "But it's the first this week, I think. That's good, right? They're becoming less and less frequent."
No answer from Castiel, merely a nod, and Dean knows he's fooling himself. It's taken Sam years to get this far, to not wake up screaming every single night, and Dean knows from experience that hell never really leaves you. But it's Sam, and he can't help but grasp at straws.
They sit in silence for a minute or two, then Castiel speaks again. "How did you sleep?"
"Okay, I guess. No wonder after last night." He smirks at Castiel, and has to suppress a laugh when Castiel blushes at the reminder. Practically human by now, but sometimes he's still embarrassed at what they're doing in the dark. "But I did have a nightmare at some point."
Concern appears on Castiel's face immediately. "Hell?"
"No, not really. It was weird, but only a dream."
"Tell me about it."
And Dean does. "Remember the end of the war? In heaven? Before you turned your back on the divine dick squad?" Castiel nods, a barely-there motion, and Dean continues. "I dreamt that you made a deal to win. A demon deal, with Crowley. Which is totally ridiculous, right?"
Another nod, much sharper this time. "Ridiculous, yes. What was the deal about?"
"That's where it gets cracky: human souls. They were, like, used as a currency. Or, not. Like crack for angels. To juice you up so you could put Raphael in his place and take over heaven."
Castiel's eyebrows draw together. "Why would I do that? We won anyway."
"Beats me. Anyway, the souls from hell that Crowley gave you weren't enough, you needed more, and the two of you came up with the idea of finding purgatory and draining it as well. That's where the monsters’ souls went, I think?"
"There are legends that it might be."
"Really? Huh. Must've read about that somewhere and forgotten it." Dean shrugs; with the amount of crap he read while doing research, more so during the damn apocalypse, it's no wonder that something has stuck in his subconscious and crawls to the surface to give him nightmares. He glances at Castiel, who looks momentarily stricken, as if he just shared a secret he hasn't been supposed to tell. "Dude, don't worry. You turned your back on heaven to live with Michael's escapee of a vessel and the boy with the demon blood; if they've left us alone for so long I doubt they'll go after you for spilling a state secret now."
That makes Castiel smile, the fond little smile that Dean secretly loves , even though he wouldn't admit to it even at gun point. "I suppose you're right."
"So, in the dream, you found the door to purgatory, and performed a ritual to open it. But something went wrong." Caught up in the memory of the images that followed, Dean has to pause. He takes a good sip from his cup, long enough to cause Castiel to prompt him.
"What happened?” he asks, voice soft and understanding.
"Turns out, monster souls weren't all the crap locked away in purgatory. It was the cage for Leviathans, long-forgotten beasts God cast away so long ago that even angels weren't around yet. They escaped, and cracked open the earth. Literally cracked it, and drowned it in lava. Everything, Cas. The whole fucking planet turned into a volcanic wasteland so bad Spielberg couldn't have imagined it any worse."
***
Dean's dreamt about that before, but it's never been quite so visceral and extensive; he never remembered so much come morning. A silent horror spreads inside Castiel's chest as he listens to Dean, but when he's finished, Castiel does his best to smile at him reassuringly. "You sure do have a vivid imagination."
Dean shrugs, gets up to refill his cup and raises an eyebrow to ask Castiel if he wants more as well, fills his cup too as he nods. It's a diversion, meant to give Dean time to calm himself before he has to reply. Finally, he sits back down and frowns. "Better than dreaming about the real thing, I guess. At least all that never happened."
Before Dean can bring up the sea, which he's sure to crave after such a night, Castiel reminds him of the door he said he wanted to fix and paint anew, and Dean nods. More for Dean's benefit than out of real interest, he asks, "What color do you want for it?"
Dean shrugs and answers, "Dunno. Red?"
***
The door really is overdue for his attention. It hangs sideways enough that it's started to leave scratch marks on the floor. A little longer and Dean would have had to work on that, too; maybe he'll smooth it down later anyway. But first, the door, and that's going to take time: it splintered where the upper hinge is attached to the wood, so he'll have to replace the broken material, redo the drill holes for the hinge and by the time that's done, the door's really going to need the new paintwork so it doesn't look patched up.
He takes the door out of the frame and lays it onto a couple of bricks he piled up on the porch so he can work on it without bending down too much – he's not as young as he used to be. Castiel is inside, mumbled something about cleaning that won't get done unless he does it himself, and with Sam still on his hike, Dean's alone out here. He's fine with that, got his work to distract himself, an old tapedeck playing Metallica to deliver the soundtrack, and through the open doorway he sometimes sees Castiel as he putters around inside.
Now and then, he throws a glance towards the grassland, waiting for Sam's shape to appear, but he doesn't expect it yet; if the dreams have been bad, his brother spends all day outside. He can't deal with the confined spaces in the house, he's told Dean once, needs the open sky above him to remind him where he is. Or where he isn't, which is probably more accurate.
After the storm of the last few days, the summer is now back full force. Not even a breeze from the sea, it's boiling hot even in the shadows of the porch, the kind of heat that has you see mirages, and soon Dean's t-shirt is soaked with sweat. He brought out a fan, but unless he stops what he's doing and stands directly in front of it, it doesn't do jack shit.
When he's almost done with replacing the damaged wood, Castiel comes out to join him. Dean's so absorbed in his work that he doesn't notice his presence until Castiel presses an ice-cold bottle between his shoulder blades, and he startles so much he nearly knocks over the door.
"Woah, jackass!" So much for his hunter-sharp senses; domestic life really did make him dull.
Castiel chuckles. "And here I thought you'd appreciate the refreshment."
"I do. Didn't hear you coming, is all." He uncaps the bottle, takes a pull. "It's an oven out here. I feel like a turkey."
"You look the part, too." Uncapping his own bottle, Castiel sits down beside him. "But seriously, Dean. It's July. What did you expect?"
"Dunno, but has it always been so hot out here? I don't think so."
Castiel eyes him, like he can't quite decide whether Dean's serious or exaggerating. Finally, he says, "Come back inside if it's getting too much."
"Nah, I'll finish this. Wanna help?"
He does, and they stay outside even after they're done. Sam comes back around sundown, but he excuses himself after he's chucked down a sandwich, says hiking made him tired.
***
They sit on the porch swing and Castiel's attention keeps getting caught by the bright orange-red of the door; he tries not to read too much into it. A color Dean picked at random, nothing more.
Night falls and it gets colder, but neither of them makes a move to go inside and they don't talk much either. It's not necessary, they've been through so much together and have spent so much time with each other that the silence between them is never awkward. Castiel doesn't notice that Dean's drifted off to sleep until he starts to snore softly. His head is bent against the pole that holds up the swing at an angle that's bound to give him a sore neck. Castiel gathers him in so Dean's head rests in his lap instead.
Dean opens his eyes briefly, not under deep enough to sleep past the manhandling, but a half-hearted, grumbled warning not to grope him where Sam could see is all the protest he utters before he settles and drifts back off.
To this day, it equally pains and stuns Castiel that Dean's allowing things like this; that he trusts Castiel enough to let himself be vulnerable. That kind of trust is all he ever wanted from Dean, but some days he doesn't know if he still deserves it.
***
The next morning, Dean goes out to the garden as soon as the sun's up and it's bright enough that he can see his own hand without squinting. He had another one of those dreams last night, the kind that's not about hell but leaves him shaken almost as bad.
His subconscious and him need to have words; it's not like he doesn't have enough bad dreams based on real memories, the real hell.
Dean shakes his head a little, makes a conscious effort to think of something else. He came outside to get all this out of his mind, not to dwell on it. And he's got a lot to do: the beets need to be cleared of the weed that's growing high and stealing away light and nutrients from the plants, and they kept some seeds to sow in mid-summer so that they'll still have fresh harvest in the fall. Today's as good a day for that as any.
Meticulously, he plucks the weeds by hand, one by one. It's boring work, mindless, but the repeated motion has an effect that's almost cathartic. By the time he's done with that and starts to rake and prepare the empty patches for the lettuce, turnip and carrots he's about to sow, he's a lot calmer. No more images of flaming, red lava, no more screams in his ears.
Just a dream; he really needs to get a grip on this.
It's almost noon when he's done with the weeds and the sowing; all that's left to do is collecting the fruits that became ripe the last couple of days. Dean goes to put away their gardening tools and get a basket for the crop, and runs into Sam on his way to the basement.
Sam looks from the tools to Dean's face and back, glares at him accusingly. His expression is a little similar to the face he'd worn that one morning he discovered that Dean used the time between Sam's bedtime and his to eat half of the sweets they collected on Halloween, but then he just shrugs and follows Dean into the basement, grabs himself a basket of his own.
If anyone had ever told Dean his brother would grow so fond of gardening that doing it without him could earn Dean a bitchface, he'd laughed in their face.
They work in silence, side by side, dig up potatoes, gather tomatoes and beans and green peppers. It's getting hot again, and Dean pauses to sit back on his haunches, wipe the hem of his shirt across his forehead and look up at the sky.
He almost loses his balance and falls over when he sees a red glow flash across the bright, cloudless horizon. Just briefly, the – illusion, hallucination, what? – is gone as fast as it appeared, but it shocks him so much he lets out a small, startled cry. That causes Sam to shot up to his feet in turn, squash the tomato he was plucking from the shrub, and his eyes become round and almost panicked as he stares at the pulp all over his hand.
As far as Dean's concerned, that looks nothing like blood, but he's no stranger to triggers that might seem a little far-fetched to the rational observer. He sheds his overshirt to clean Sam's hand and then draws him in, runs a hand over his back while he holds him close.
***
All morning, Castiel has to restrain himself to stay inside. He wants to go join Dean, make it better, but there must be a reason Dean's gone to take care of the garden rather than sit outside on the porch like he usually does. And Castiel gets that, knows sometimes Dean needs to be alone and that it's nothing personal or a sign of distrust. He watches him from the exact same hall window they repaired the other day, tireless and unmoving, standing guard as Dean works.
Dean comes back in a little after noon and Castiel hurries downstairs to not get caught watching him. He still looks tense, shaken, but covers it up with a smile and waves his full baskets around. "Look at that, I'm a regular Martha Stewart."
"I never thought I'd see the day you'd compare yourself to elderly women," Castiel says, well aware of the reaction it's going to get him.
And sure enough, Dean scowls. "Whatever. You can either stand there mocking me or help me clean these up."
They're quick with washing the vegetables and stashing them away for later use, both of them used to the work after doing it for a few summers in a row. Every so often, Dean glances out of the window, then wrinkles his brow as if scolding himself for being foolish, and Castiel wonders what exactly he saw outside.
But Dean doesn't say, and Castiel doesn't pry.
***
Dean wakes late that night to Sam screaming, and he's on his feet and heading to his brother's room before he knows it. Without bothering to dress beyond underwear and t-shirt or switch on the light, he runs down the short corridor and pushes the door open.
It's empty. Sam's not here, and the room looks just as uninhabited as it did the other day when Dean went upstairs to seek his company after the fight with Castiel. What was that fight about, again? He doesn't remember, and it's not important right now anyway.
Sam.
The scream comes again, longer this time, one sustained tone of sheer terror. Dean panics, because he can't pinpoint its origin; it seems as if it's resounding from every direction at once. He dashes through the whole house in a frenzy, pushes open every door and checks every room, but Sam's nowhere to be seen.
Outside. The sound must come from outside. That doesn't make any sense, why would Sam take the time to run outside if he had a nightmare, but Dean's past caring about logic. All he cares about is his brother, screaming in agony, and he needs to fix this.
Dean slows down as he reaches the kitchen, and freezes with his hand on the doorknob for no reason he can discern. His heart is practically beating in his throat, and the scream has gotten so loud that Dean has to suppress the urge to put his hands over his ears to make it stop. There's a faint, red and orange glow outside, on the porch, and suddenly Dean's not so sure he wants to see whatever it is that's waiting for him on the other side of the door.
But this is Sam. This is his little brother, the kid he exists to protect, screaming for his help. He inhales, deliberately, and lets the following breath out in a swoosh before he pushes down the doorknob.
The sight knocks the breath out of his lungs and almost brings him down to his knees.
Sam is standing in the grass just outside the house, and he's on fire. No. That's not quite right. He's glowing, like ember in the blaze, and there are flames licking at him from within, but he's not burning, exactly. It's like the fire is a part of him, lights him up without destroying him. The scream stops as soon as he lays eyes on Dean, and he smiles. Says Dean's name and fucking smiles, wide and relieved. "You're here. You heard me."
Dean gapes at him. He can't say anything, can't move, just stands there frozen to the spot and watches Sam. His brain's desperately trying to figure all of this out, but he comes up empty. Nothing makes sense.
And then Sam extends a hand. It's aflame and glowing like the rest of him, and Dean expects to be hurt when he takes it, but it doesn't. It's not even hot to the touch.
They start walking, through the grass and towards the beach. All the while Dean's ache for the sea and for Sam battles with an indistinctive knowledge that this is wrong, this is dangerous, he shouldn't leave the house, but if Sam wants him to go to the beach, then Dean's going to follow. He's still barefoot, and he can feel the grass under his feet, moist from the rain; he didn't even notice that it's raining until now. But it is; it's windy too, the storm from a few days ago back full force, and he distantly wonders if it's going to put out the fire within Sam.
The wind pulls on Dean's t-shirt and loose boxers as they step out of the grassland and onto the beach, nothing left to lessen the gale out here by the sea that makes the waves batter the beach, a wild and foaming surge. He stops, has to steady his stance to withstand the force of the storm tearing at him, and blinks up at his brother.
Sam's still smiling, and still glowing. His hair is damp from the rain and blown every which way by the wind, but the fire's not going away. "Come on, Dean," he says, and points at the roiling sea. "Follow me."
Dean stands there, indecisive, staring at the waves. It's a bad idea, going into the water in this weather, he knows that, but he's not sure he cares. Not when it's Sam who's asking him to do this.
***
The noise of the storm and the clatter and howling outside awakens Castiel. He notices that he's alone in the bed right away.
There's no real reason to be alarmed, Dean might just be in the bathroom or downstairs shaking off the remnants of another bad dream about hell, but something tells Castiel that this is different. With all that's happened lately, with how edgy and aware Dean has been, there has to be something wrong.
He searches the whole house in a split-second, but Dean's not here, and he casts his net wider.
The beach.
The blink of an eye, and Castiel is there, finds Dean standing in front of the sea. Except that it's not really the sea anymore; it's the edge of their reality, laid bare. Just one step further, and Dean will be gone, fall into the lava like his brother did so many years ago. Sam fell through a crack, while they fled from yet another wave of liquid fire, and Dean saw him die. He witnessed every agonizing second of it, the skin burning off his body, heard him scream throughout it all.
Now Dean's looking at something to his left, something Castiel can't see, and he looks torn, confused.
"Dean."
His reaction is almost imperceptible, a minuscule flinch, but Castiel knows he's been heard. Dean doesn't turn, though, eyes pinned to whatever it is he sees there.
"Hey, what are you doing out here? Come back inside."
Dean shakes his head. "He wants me to follow him into the water."
The water, he said, that means Dean doesn't see what's actually in front of him. Castiel doesn't have to ask who 'he' is. "Don't. Please, Dean, don't listen to him."
"He says I'll be at peace if I go with him. I'll be happy."
"But aren't you happy now? With me?" Castiel closes the distance between them, and Dean wavers a little where he stands, causing a couple of small stones to crumble from the edge under his feet and roll down into the abyss he cannot see. Dean takes half a step back, stares unseeingly at the sea of red beneath him.
He looks so lost, so torn and confused, and Castiel aches to make contact. A touch his shoulder or stroke his arm would be enough to reinforce the bond, and with it, the illusion, but Dean's too skittish like this. If he touches him, Castiel fears, he'll bail in the wrong direction. "Come inside with me. We'll go back to bed, or I'll make you eggs and bacon for an early breakfast if you can't sleep. Please, Dean," he begs.
Dean looks back over his shoulder, his gaze flickers over Castiel's face uncertainly, but he doesn't move.
So Castiel raises the ante. "Sam will be downstairs any minute now. You know he needs his coffee in the morning. He'll be pissed if we keep him waiting."
"Sam?" Finally, Dean turns.
"Yeah, Sam." Castiel reaches his hand out towards Dean. "He's inside. I promise he's going to be inside. Let's go, make him coffee and breakfast, shall we?"
Another step, walking backwards, eyes on what's hopefully still the sea for him, and then Dean turns to Castiel fully. "Don't promise. Swear it. Swear to me Sam's always going to be around. I don't care about anything else."
"Yes, he will be. I swear."
Castiel holds his hand out, but Dean hesitates to take it. "It was real, right? The dream."
"Dean – "
"Don't lie to me, Cas. Don't ever lie to me again." His eyes shimmer with unshed tears, dart back and forth between Castiel, the point where the imaginary Sam must stand, and the sea.
And he wants to. He wants so badly to drop the illusion, just for one moment; it was never his intention to trick Dean. When all hell broke loose, Castiel took Dean and Sam and ran with them, but Earth disintegrated fast and he decided to hide them. After they lost Sam, he secured a tiny bit of plain beach in what used to be New England and made it a stand-in for the entire world the Winchesters have been used to, and eventually, when his powers started to fade, he created this house. The lies piled up over the years: bigger ones to keep Dean safe, smaller ones to keep him from seeing the truth and protect what they have, maybe selfishly so. But Castiel has been telling himself that it had been worth it, that he did all this for Dean.
Who stands in front of him now, impatient crease to his eyebrows and jaw angled up in defiance. "Cas. Show me, I can take it."
"If that's what you want, give me your hand."
Dean does as he's told, and Castiel lifts the illusion as soon as they touch. He watches as Dean's eyes go wide in shock, and has to move with him when he jumps farther back to get away from the edge and swings around to look for the house.
But with the vision gone, there's no house; nothing but lava and their tiny piece of dry land. Castiel squeezes Dean's hand to get his attention. "I can change it back. You don't have to see this."
It's visible, easy to read on his face, when Dean chooses the lie over facing the truth. He doesn't say yes, or no, or chew Castiel out for the betrayal and the lies. All he says is one word, the only one that matters to him: "Sam."
***
Sam makes a beeline for the coffee maker as soon as he steps into the kitchen, lets out a noise that's positively blissful. His hair is ruffled and strands of it stick out in every direction. There's an imprint of the pillow on his cheek, he looks like he can barely keep his eyes open yet. The way he pounces onto the cupboard, blindly, and manages to grab the handle of a cup by luck rather than as a result of coordinated movements makes Dean so fond of him he's very nearly bursting with it.
"Woah, hey there, Sammy, leave the kitchen in one piece. The coffee will still be there in a minute," Dean says and takes the cup from his brother's hand, places it on the table and fills it for him.
Castiel grins, looks back and forth between the two of them like he can't quite decide which Winchester is the bigger dork. Dean winks at him and sets out to make pancakes.
There's a red glow on the horizon that's got nothing to do with the sunrise, and they both pretend it's not real.