Chapter Text
See, someone's got to tell the tale
Whether or not it turns out well
Maybe it will turn out this time
On the road to Hell, on the railroad line
-HERMES in "Road to Hell," Hadestown
It's been almost two miserable weeks since the world didn't end, again, and Dean's not doing so great.
He's actually maybe the worst he's ever been. Or close enough, anyway.
He doesn't sleep or talk, much. He eats a little, pretty much just junk, and he drinks a lot, in between extended research sessions or sometimes even during. Sam helps with the research, of course he does, but he's also kind of busy reuniting with Eileen.
Repeatedly. Also loudly, sometimes.
Dean's happy for them, of course he is. Or he would be, if he were still capable of experiencing anything like happiness. He doesn't feel much of anything, these days, beyond grief and self-loathing.
'Course, he doesn't feel much of those, either. If he did—if he stopped, and let himself really feel it, feel Cas's death and what it's doing to him and how it's his fucking fault—he's pretty sure he wouldn't survive it.
Numbness is easier. Safer.
So he drinks and he reads and he drinks and he reads and occasionally he passes out with his face pressed against the pages of some priceless, one-of-a-kind book and drools on them a little, which Sam clearly doesn't like but also doesn't say anything about, and then he wakes up and drinks and reads some more, and that's just how things go for a while.
The thing is, there just has to be a way to get Cas back. There has to be a way to break the deal he made.
There has to, because Dean didn't say it back.
But the more he reads, the deeper the seemingly bottomless pit in his stomach grows, because there's nothing, fucking nothing, and he can tell that Sam is just humoring him, at this point, that he doesn't really think they're going to find anything, but he's going along with it because he feels like he owes it to Dean, or some other weird Sam logic Dean doesn't have the energy or desire to figure out.
He's dozing over yet another dead end of an ancient tome when the sound of a book snapping shut jolts him out of his stupor. He looks up to find Sam staring at him, one massive hand still resting on the cover of the volume he'd been working through.
Dean swallows. His mouth is dry and tastes like ass. He can't remember the last time he brushed his teeth. "What?" he rasps, and he doesn't recognize his own voice.
"It's been weeks, Dean," Sam says quietly.
Dean bristles instantly. "So?"
Sam throws up his hands. "So, this isn't healthy. Enough's enough. When was the last time you went outside? Hell, when was the last time you left this room?"
Dean looks away. He doesn't answer; he doesn't have to. They both know it's been too long.
"Look," Sam says, a little more gently. "Losing Cas was awful—" (Dean flinches; Sam has no idea how awful it was) "—but I'm not gonna sit here and watch you kill yourself trying to get him back."
"Sam—"
"No, Dean. It's time. Get up."
Dean glares at him, jaw set. Who the hell does Sam think he is? "No."
Sam rises from his own chair, scraping it against the floor. "Get up," he repeats.
Dean shakes his head, adamant. "No. No, I can't, I have to—"
"You have to live if you wanna get Cas back," Sam interjects. He sounds exhausted, and Dean is suddenly drowning in shame. Jesus, he's fucking pathetic. He's supposed to be the caretaker, and right now he can't even take care of himself.
It must show on his face, what he's feeling, because Sam's expression softens. "I'm not saying we give up," he says gently. "I promise you, I'm not. We will keep trying, because Cas deserves that, and so do you."
Dean can't handle that kindness right now. He looks away again, staring down at the same page he'd been staring at for hours before he fell asleep, even though it doesn't hold any fucking answers.
Chances are, nothing in this library does. Deep down, he knows that, but he can't face it. Not yet.
"But," Sam continues, voice firm, "we're taking a break. You're gonna go shower, and put on some clean clothes, and then you're gonna leave the bunker."
Dean's head jerks up. "And do what?" he asks flatly.
"Literally anything! I don't care. Take Miracle for a walk, go for a drive, wander around Lebanon. But you have to go outside. Do something else for a little bit. Then we'll do more research, if you want. Okay?"
Dean glares. He doesn't appreciate the implication that he might not want to keep trying to find a way to get Cas back, any more than he appreciates being bossed around by his little brother.
He especially doesn't appreciate it when said little brother is right.
Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. God, his breath stinks. "Fine," he mutters.
Sam looks about ready to collapse from surprise. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'll go shower." Dean's knees creak as he stands and stretches. Everything hurts, like, a lot. Fuck, he's getting too old to sit in these old wooden chairs for so long, or fall asleep at the table.
Guilt crawls over his skin again at the thought. Cas is the reason you've lived this long, the little voice in the back of his head hisses. And this is how you repay him? By failing him again?
"Thank you," Sam says, the words soft with relief and exhaustion. Then he cracks a tired smile. "Seriously, dude, you stink."
Dean rolls his eyes, calling over his shoulder as he stalks stiffly out of the library: "Yeah, well. Don't say I never did anything for you."
The shower feels good. Like, stupid good. Bordering on sinful, even.
It also feels wrong, in some fundamental way. Nothing should ever feel good again. Not as long as Cas is gone.
Cas told him once that the Empty is just a massive expanse of nothing, where angels sleep for eternity. As he soaps himself up, Dean wonders if Cas is asleep or awake, this time. Either way, he can't be feeling very much of anything (except possibly torture—who knows what the Empty is really capable of?). And yet, here Dean is, luxuriating in the feel of hot water falling on his aching body, of his own hands moving slickly over his skin, of steam rising thick and warm in the little stall, and suddenly it's all too much, the devastating unfairness of it, the enormity of the loss and his own role in it hitting him all over again.
Dean doubles over and retches into the shower drain. Hardly anything comes up; he's eaten so little over the past couple weeks. But he's had plenty to drink, and the whiskey burns on the way up, making his eyes water as he gags repeatedly, hurling up liquor and bile until there's nothing left to lose.
He crouches on the shower floor for a while once it passes, watching soap suds and his lame excuse for puke swirl down the drain along with whatever had previously been left of his dignity.
Eventually, he does get out. He runs a comb halfheartedly through his hair and quickly brushes his teeth, trying not to look at himself in the mirror too much as he goes. The glimpses he doesn't manage to avoid are pretty damning: There are massive dark circles under his eyes, which are bloodshot and a little wild, and his ribs and collarbones are a lot more visible than they were a few weeks ago. He's got a patchy beard coming in, too, but he really doesn't feel like shaving right now.
Basically, he looks about as shitty as he feels.
Jesus. Sam's right: Dean needs to get a fucking grip. There's no way he's saving anyone in this condition. Hell, he practically has to take a break halfway through getting dressed, he feels so tired and weak.
He can't remember the last time he felt hungry, but he knows he needs real food. He can smell something coming from the kitchen, actually. As he's heading that way, though, it changes from something potentially edible to something definitely on fire, and he rounds the corner just in time for the smoke alarm to start going off.
Sam is standing in front of the stove, looking like a damn deer in headlights. Dean shoves him out of the way and snatches the skillet of what used to be bacon from him.
"Jesus, Sam! The hell have you been eating the past few weeks, anyway?" he snaps, setting the ruined pan on a back burner and grabbing a fresh one from the rack to heat.
Sam shrugs sheepishly, waving a big hand back and forth in front of the smoke detector, which he's easily able to reach. "A lot of takeout and frozen stuff. Eileen made eggs a couple of times, but she's not much of a cook, either."
"I'll say," Dean mutters. She'd tried to get him to eat some of those eggs, in their first few days back, before he made it clear he wasn't gonna bite. Dean wouldn't have touched them even if he had been hungry.
The pan's hot, now, so Dean loads it up with the rest of the rasher of bacon that's still sitting out on the counter. Eggs—real scrambled eggs, the fluffy kind—sound good, actually, if he has to eat, which he does. He turns to ask Sam to grab the carton and Sam's standing there, already holding it out.
Dean takes it. "Do we have butter?" he asks gruffly instead, ears burning with embarrassment that he has to ask. Usually, he's the one who stocks the fridge.
Sam nods eagerly. "Yeah. I'll grab it."
"Cream, too, if we have it," Dean calls as he sets a second skillet to heat. The bacon spits in its own hot pan, and Dean's mouth actually starts to water at the scent. It's practically a foreign feeling at this point, having anything resembling an appetite. It's almost as wrong as the shower. He tries not to visibly cringe at it.
"Nah, but we have milk," Sam says, brow furrowed as he inspects the contents of the fridge. "There's some cheese that's still good, too."
"That'll work. Put some coffee on?"
"I did, but I think you should drink some water, too."
Dean snorts, but when Sam brings him a glass along with his scrambled egg ingredients, he chugs it with one hand while flipping the bacon with the other. Wordlessly, Sam refills it before handing it back to him, and Dean downs that one, too.
"Think you can handle making toast without burning the place down?" Dean asks, cocking an eyebrow at his brother as he starts cracking eggs into a bowl.
Sam rolls his eyes and grabs the loaf of bread off the counter. "Yes, Dean, I can make toast."
"Good." Normally, Dean would probably be making omelettes, but he really doesn't have the energy right now. A good old-fashioned American breakfast will work just fine.
He's pretty sure it's actually somewhere in the vicinity of 3 PM, but whatever. Sue him. Breakfast food is appropriate for any time of day in his book.
It's only when they're sitting down at the table with their loaded plates that Dean realizes: he hasn't actually seen Eileen in a couple of days. "Hey, where is Eileen, anyway?"
"On a hunt," Sam replies. He moans around a forkful of eggs. "Dude, these are awesome, holy shit."
"They're just eggs," Dean grunts, but he takes a bite and yeah, actually, they are pretty awesome, so awesome he's surprised Sam isn't bitching about cholesterol. They're creamy and fluffy and drowning in butter and cheese, everything a scrambled egg should be and everything Sam usually tries to avoid. Dean grabs the hot sauce and loads his portion up before taking another generous bite. "You just let her go off by herself?"
"I don't 'let' her do anything," Sam replies drily, holding out his hand for the hot sauce. Dean passes it over and watches as Sam covers his own eggs in the stuff.
"No, I know that," he says impatiently, waving Sam off. "I just meant, after everything, I figured you wouldn't be super into, y'know. Letting her out of your sight any time soon."
Sam shifts uncomfortably. He rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand as he spears another bite of eggs on his fork. "Yeah, well. Claire called, said she needed help with something, and it wasn't like you or I could go, so. Eileen went."
Dean ducks his head, poking at his eggs. Suddenly he's not nearly as hungry as he was a second ago. "You could've gone," he mutters.
But Sam sounds calm and sure in his reply. "Nah. I needed to be here." He cracks a smile. "Plus, I kinda wanted the two of them to meet. I mean, what a combination. Can you imagine? They can totally handle whatever it is."
Dean nods and takes a swig of his coffee. It's good, and the toast is only the littlest bit burnt; at least Sam's not totally useless in the kitchen. "Definitely." He picks at his eggs some more, but his appetite is all but gone again. "Kinda weird that Claire's out hunting by herself, though, right? I mean, I figured she'd be at home with Kaia for a while."
(If Cas miraculously came back to him again, Dean sure as shit wouldn't leave his side for a hunt. He wouldn't leave his side for anything, ever again.)
Sam shrugs. "I thought so, too. But I guess it makes sense, if you think about it. She lost someone too, y'know? This is how she, ah, tends to cope with things."
Dean's grip tightens on his fork. Yeah, he does know. He doesn't remember a lot from those first few days after they beat Chuck, but he remembers Sam calling around right after, making sure everyone was alright. He remembers Claire taking Jody's phone when they'd called her, demanding to know where Cas was. He remembers his throat closing, how he couldn't get a word out to tell her what happened. That it was his fault.
That he was sorry.
His throat's closing again now. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shaky breath, trying to keep it together.
He opens his eyes when he feels something warm nudging at his thigh and looks down to see Miracle resting his chin there, looking up at him with enormous brown eyes. Dean makes a quiet sort of heh sound and lays a hand on the dog's soft head. "Hey, buddy," he murmurs. "Did you want something?"
Sam lifts an eyebrow at them from across the table. "Y'know, he doesn't beg when it's just me."
"It's cause he knows you can't cook," Dean says, reaching for a piece of bacon.
Sam rolls his eyes. "It's cause he knows you're a pushover, and I'm not."
Dean glares and takes a bite of his bacon. It's good, salty and perfectly crisp. Sam's a freak who likes floppy bacon, on the occasions when he does indulge, but Dean likes his the right way, just like this.
When Sam gets up to get more coffee, Dean feeds the rest of the strip to Miracle, who snaps it down gratefully and looks for more. "He's just jealous you like me best," he stage-whispers, scratching Miracle behind his ears.
He really is a sweet dog.
"He likes you best because you give him bacon, which you really shouldn't do," Sam says wryly. "It's not good for him."
"Next you'll be saying it's not good for people, either."
"It's not," Sam replies, "but it's definitely better than starving yourself."
Dean rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his coffee.
Sam says, "Do you wanna talk about it?"
"No."
If he tries, he'll lose it again, and nobody wants that.
Sam nods, and Dean can't tell if he looks disappointed or relieved. Probably a little of both. "Fine. I got the dishes. Get out of here."
"And go where, Sam?" Dean demands, bristling.
"Wherever you want." When Dean just stares at him, Sam sighs and offers, "You could go buy more bacon."
Dean nods and gets to his feet, relieved to have an actual task, to be able to do something useful, manageable, after weeks of spinning his wheels. "Anything else we need?"
"Whatever you wanna get."
"Sounds good." He's already making a mental list. "I'll run into town. You got the keys?" Sam nods and tosses them over. Dean catches them—at least his reflexes are still semi-decent—then grabs his plate and sets it on the floor for Miracle to finish off, daring Sam with his gaze to step in. Sam holds up his hands in surrender and rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, just a little. Miracle wags his tail as he scarfs down the rest of Dean's eggs, and Dean almost smiles, too.
At least he can still make someone happy.
Baby welcomes him back with open arms like she always does. Dean strokes the leather of the wheel and murmurs an apology for letting her sit idle for so long as he steers her out of the garage.
It feels good to be in the driver's seat again. Still, Dean doesn't want to take the extra twenty minutes to go all the way to Smith Center to shop at the big box store there; the guilt is starting to eat at him again. He needs to get back to work.
So he drives into Lebanon, instead, to hit up the little family-owned grocery on literal Main Street. It's more expensive, but Dean prefers it to any of the soulless chains, anyway. It's quieter, less overwhelming, and so different from what he had growing up, too. Shopping somewhere local, where people know your name—it feels like putting down roots. Feels like something he never thought he'd have.
Also, the bacon they sell comes from a nearby farm, and it's damn good.
Dean picks up a few more necessities, plus a couple other things that catch his eye: the frou-frou granola he knows Sam likes, fresh burger buns from the bakery in the next town over. The proprietor, Laura, greets him politely—"Afternoon, Mr. Campbell,"—from behind the register when he goes to check out, but says nothing about his appearance and doesn't ask how he's doing, for which he's ridiculously grateful. He pays, thanks her, and hustles back to the car.
His skin's starting to prickle with how long he's been away from the bunker. He should be working on finding a way to rescue Cas, not shopping for fuckin' artisan bread.
Almost as soon as he's finished putting the groceries in the trunk, his phone buzzes. It turns out to be a text from Sam.
Don't even think about coming back for another hour.
Dean rolls his eyes and reaches for the driver's side door handle. His phone buzzes again.
Seriously, dude. I won't let you in.
Also, Miracle puked, and you're cleaning it up. I told you not to give him people food.
This last is followed by a picture of Miracle cheerfully licking his chops next to a pile of vomit, in which there are, in fact, visible bits of undigested scrambled egg. Dean groans. He's already had more than enough of puke for the day.
He pockets his phone. Fine. An hour. He can do an hour. Fifty minutes, really, if you count the drive back to the bunker.
He turns in place, looking around the quiet main street.
The hell is he gonna do in Lebanon for an hour?
He could grab a drink—the bar's open—but he really shouldn't. He has a better chance of finding something to help Cas if he's at least somewhat sober. He could stop by Max's mom's pizza place, but he just ate, and he's really not hungry. The little movie theater is closed and has been for years.
That pretty much just leaves the pawn shop two blocks up. Somewhat reluctantly, Dean starts walking, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.
It's a pretty nice day out, actually. Spring is undeniably here. The sun is trying hard to break through the clouds, and a warm breeze that smells of wet dirt and growing things toys with Dean's hair as he walks. Again, this feels fundamentally incorrect. It's deeply unfair that the world is still turning with Cas gone, that the earth is coming back to life when Cas doesn't seem any closer to doing the same.
Look, Dean's no stranger to grief. He's not even a stranger to this grief, particular and devastating as it is. He's been losing people his whole life, and Cas himself repeatedly over the last decade. He knows, rationally, that none of this shit is helpful, and that the "correct" thing to do in this situation would probably be to respect Cas's sacrifice. To let him go, try and move on with his life, stop tormenting himself over experiencing the smallest scraps of what pleasure there is to be had in this beautiful, fucked-up world Cas gave his life to save.
I cared about the whole world because of you. You changed me, Dean.
The thing is, even though he's done it so many times, Dean's pretty sure he's never quite learned how to grieve right, if there is such a thing. He gets angry and he drinks and he kills things and he hurts the people he loves even though he doesn't mean to (except when he does) and sometimes he doesn't talk for a while and eventually whatever pain is at the foreground fades to join the background chorus of loss that's followed him his whole goddamn life since he was four years old.
Grief, he thinks, like love, is just one of the many, many things he's pathologically incapable of doing correctly. He just never fucking learned how.
You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.
He doesn't know how, but he must've tricked Cas into believing otherwise, the poor bastard. Dean's not selfless. He's not loving. Hell, he's barely even human.
He has to get Cas back so he can tell him. Tell him, listen, you were wrong about me. I'm selfish. I'm so selfish that I'll do anything to keep you, even though I can't possibly deserve you. You're the one thing I can't lose.
He's so lost in thought that he walks right past the pawn shop and has to double back.
The bell over the door jingles when he walks in, making Dean wince. He's got a headache coming on with a vengeance, now.
A broad, bearded man comes out of the back room. "Mr. Campbell," he greets, looking Dean up and down. "Got anything interesting for me today?"
Dean shakes his head, fighting a blush at the owner's examination of him, like Dean's a particularly intriguing old necklace, or something. They've pawned a few things here over the years—extra, non-magical weapons from the armory, mostly—but he's not here for that right now. "Nah, just browsing, Daniel. Thanks."
Daniel nods like he understands. He's a big guy, older but still undeniably handsome. There are streaks of gray in his long but still neatly-trimmed beard, which he rubs thoughtfully now as he looks at Dean. "Sure, sure. Holler if you need anything."
"Will do." Dean turns away quickly, feeling just a little too seen. He wanders the little shop, examining the shelf of old books and pretending fascination with a few of the weirder pieces of art. There's a funky ceramic dog he's pretty sure Jack would like, but Jack is gone, too. Dean's tried praying to him several times, begging him to bring Cas back—You've already done so much, I know, but I just need this one more thing. Please, Jack, and then I'll never bother you again. I can't—but the kid's never responded, which, Dean guesses, is in line with what he'd said before he took off. They're really on their own, now.
He ends up in the corner with all the musical instruments. There's an old trombone, a violin, a flute, even a couple things Dean doesn't recognize hanging on the wall, along with a nice keyboard on a stand and a couple of amps stacked next to it. It's the guitars that catch his attention, though, like they do every time he comes here. Today, there's two electrics and a bass, plus three acoustics, one of which has definitely seen better days.
"You can try those out, y'know," Daniel says from behind him, making Dean jump. "Just tuned 'em all this morning. They all have new strings, too, a' course."
"You play?" Dean asks, reaching out to run his fingers cautiously down the neck of the cherry-red Fender hanging closest to him.
"I dabble." Daniel smiles, just a little, watching him. "You?"
Dean shakes his head. "Not since I was a kid." He plucks at the high E string of the acoustic beside the Fender, a shiny dark brown Martin that's probably worth almost as much as the Impala, at this point. Even just that one note resonates gorgeously. Dean swallows hard around the lump that's suddenly appeared in his throat.
Daniel is watching him with a funny look on his face. Dean pulls his hand back, embarrassed. "You probably remember more 'n you think," he says kindly. "Anyway, it'll come back fast. C'mon." He nods towards the Martin, and Dean shakes his head.
"Can't afford that one, I know that much." It's a lie, or kind of, anyway. With Charlie's magic credit card back online, Dean could afford it, in a manner of speaking. He just doesn't want to dirty something so beautiful with his stupid hands.
Daniel shrugs, like this hadn't occurred to him, and grabs the Martin for himself. "Take that one, then." He jerks his head towards the beat-up, no-name acoustic on its stand, and after a moment's hesitation, Dean grabs it, because he's still got half an hour to kill and he's clearly not getting out of here without letting Daniel do whatever this is.
The neck is smooth in his hand. Heavy. It doesn't feel anything like a gun.
Daniel perches on one of the stools in the corner, one foot braced on the crossbar, and settles the Martin in his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world to him. He gestures for Dean to take the bench of the keyboard, then stares at him until he does it, copying the way Daniel holds his guitar. It's a weirdly familiar feeling, holding it, even after all this time.
"Good," the old pawnbroker says, once Dean's positioned to his liking. "Now. What do you remember?"
Dean shifts uncomfortably. "Daniel—" he starts, but Daniel isn't impressed.
"C'mon, Campbell," he says, like a challenge. That's not my name, Dean thinks reflexively, but he doesn't say it. "Show me what you've got."
Dean forces a chuckle. "I took lessons for a couple months when I was 16, man. I learned like two whole songs and haven't touched a guitar since."
"You're touchin' one now," Daniel counters. "Two whole songs, huh? You've gotta remember how one of 'em starts, at least."
Dean hesitates. He doesn't know why Daniel is suddenly fixated on giving him a guitar lesson, but that does seem to be what's happening, here. The guy's always been friendly, the times they've interacted, but they're not friends. Dean doesn't know a damn thing about him, he's quickly finding out.
"Humor an old man," Daniel says quietly, and he's not smiling anymore, not really. There's something in his eyes that makes Dean want to do what he's asking, despite himself. They're brown, but they're kind, and sad, and for a moment he's reminded of Cas and has to look away before he loses it again.
He looks down at the fretboard, instead, at the fingers of his left hand hovering over the strings. He thinks for a minute, then starts arranging them clumsily, carefully, wincing a little as he presses down and the thin steel wires cut into his flesh. He hasn't had the right callouses for this in over two decades. Just the ones from his pistol, his knife.
He'd sort of forgotten what it felt like, to bear marks of creation instead of destruction, life instead of death. His eyes burn, along with what's left of the handprint on his shoulder.
"D chord," Daniel says, voice soft and approving and cutting into Dean's train of thought. Dean blinks hard. "Nice. Now give 'er a strum."
Dean takes a deep breath and obeys, drawing his right thumb down hesitantly over the strings. He hits them all on accident, instead of just the four highest ones, so there's a discordant note, and he's not pressing the B string hard enough with his ring finger, so it sort of thunks dully instead of ringing like it's meant to, but when he looks up at Daniel he gets an encouraging nod that reminds him of Bobby, his Bobby, so much he has to shut his eyes for a second.
He takes a deep breath and tries again, pressing down harder on the B string and watching his right hand as he strums, this time, careful, and the chord sings out bright and true, as lovely and resonant as anything, and this guitar may be old and cheap and beat all to hell but it still sounds pretty much perfect. Dean's surprised to realize he wants to hear it again, and so he strums the chord a second time, and a third, building up a slow, clumsy little rhythm, and his fingers are on fire but it feels good, this pain that makes something beautiful instead of terrible, and maybe this beautiful thing is acceptable, permissible, because of the pain it comes with. Maybe he's allowed to have it, even though it feels like it might kill him, or maybe because it might.
He remembers so many things, suddenly: a tired living room in an old farmhouse, a girl with soft lips and calloused fingertips, Springsteen on the stereo, a boy who tasted like ashes and looked at Dean like he was the only real thing in the world.
And Cas, too. Always Cas.
Dean's mouth is moving even though he doesn't remember telling it to, and words are coming out, raspy and cracking and not really in time with his playing, but they're there. "'We said we'd walk together, baby, come what may…'"
He stops playing. He can't remember the next chord, and his throat is closing up again. Daniel is still watching him.
"What comes next?" Daniel asks softly.
Dean shakes his head, blinking rapidly. He tries to clear his throat. "I, uh. I don't remember."
Daniel gives him a look like, bullshit, but just says "It's a B minor chord," and shows him, and Dean is not going to cry in front of this guy, he isn't. Instead of the burn in his eyes, he focuses on the burn in the pads of his fingers, the slight stretch of his hand as he reaches to bar the second fret for the B minor. Daniel makes him switch back and forth between it and the D a few times, then shows him the G chord, which Dean remembers almost immediately. The old man was right: It comes back shockingly quickly, even after all this time.
Then Daniel starts picking slowly away at the D chord again, that familiar, insistent rhythm, and looks at Dean expectantly until he picks it up, too, a little more confidently this time. He almost stops again from sheer surprise when Daniel starts singing. He's got a lovely, warm rumble of a voice, deep and shockingly sweet. "'We said, we'd walk together, baby, come what may…'"
He gives Dean that expectant look again, vamping on the D chord until Dean picks up the lyrics, which he does. His throat feels like it's full of broken glass and he's extra embarrassed in the face of Daniel's apparent vocal prowess, but it really doesn't seem like he's gonna take no for an answer, so he sings, or tries to, watching Daniel's fingers for the chord changes and doing his best to follow along.
…That come the twilight, should we lose our way
If as we're walking, your hand should slip free
I'll wait for you
And, should I fall behind
Wait for me
He messes up a few times, especially going from the D chord to B minor, but Daniel doesn't stop, so Dean doesn't, either. By the end of the verse his hands are shaking and his fingertips feel like someone's been holding a match to them.
He can feel tears on his cheeks as they strum the last chord of the verse together.
Daniel, thankfully, doesn't say anything, just gets up to hang the Martin back on the wall, apparently having decided he's tortured Dean enough for one day. Dean wipes at his face with his jacket sleeve and goes to put his own guitar away, but Daniel stops him with a gentle hand on his arm. "Nah, you're takin' that with you."
Dean shakes his head quickly. "I, uh. I don't have any cash on me."
Daniel shrugs. "You can bring me some next time you're in town if you feel like it, but I won't hold it against you if you don't. That thing's been here forever and I won't be able to get what I paid for it, anyway. The guy needed cash and it was all he had," he adds at Dean's questioning look. "Some hitchhiker. I gave him more than it was worth, but I still feel bad about takin' it off him. He needed the money, but I think he really needed the guitar, too. I didn't know what music could really mean to a man, back then, but I do now." He looks genuinely troubled. "Just take it, would you?" It's a plea disguised as a gruff request. Dean recognizes it anyway.
Still, Dean hesitates. "Why?" he rasps. "I mean, why are you…" Why are you doing this for me? You don't even know me. You don't know what I've done. The hell are you doing, singing Springsteen with me, giving me this gift?
The look Daniel gives him is revealing, to say the least. "I know the look on your face," he replies simply, and doesn't stop when Dean visibly flinches. "I saw it in the mirror every day after my Jacob died. Music's one of the only things that got me through that."
Dean can't speak. He's crying again. He should never have come in here.
"I don't know who you've lost," Daniel continues, a little more gently, now, "but you gotta keep singing, son. That's how you keep living."
Dean bites his lip and looks away. I don't want to keep living if he's gone.
Daniel must see the thought on his face. "You sing it anyway," he says, quiet but firm, and Dean doesn't know who this guy Jacob was to him, but he sees his own loss reflected in the old man's eyes. He swallows hard as Daniel grips his shoulder and leans in like he's imparting some great secret of the universe. "You sing till you do."
Dean keeps the guitar.