Chapter Text
Sunday afternoon dragged on as Dean tried to maintain some sense of normalcy in the aftermath of Castiel’s mental health crisis. With Mary working a double shift at the hospital and Sam camped out at Jessica's place building some kind of science project, Dean found himself home alone for the second day in a row. Trying to distract himself from the heavy silence hanging in the air, he started tidying the living room. After straightening the cushions on the couch, he turned his attention to the coffee table, returning stray books, magazines, and DVDs to their shelves. Hauling out the vacuum cleaner next, he methodically ran it over the carpet and under the furniture, its rhythmic hum providing some much-needed background noise.
Moving on to the kitchen, Dean tackled the dishes piled up in the sink since breakfast. Midway through scrubbing away the dried remnants of Sam’s fancy new oatmeal, he tried to distract himself with thoughts of his little brother—wondering why anyone in their right mind would want to consume so many different types of nuts and seeds in one meal. While he appreciated Sam’s tenacity, his current health kick still felt more like a punishment than a lifestyle. But as he finished the last dish, Dean’s thoughts drifted back to Castiel and the upcoming week of school.
Sighing softly, Dean grabbed an empty laundry basket and moved through the house, collecting dirty clothes from Sam and Mary’s rooms on the first floor, the upstairs bathroom, and finally his own room, which he shared with Castiel. Pausing in the hallway before entering, he listened for any sign of movement on the other side of the door. Satisfied that Castiel was still asleep, he stepped inside quietly, careful not to disturb his boyfriend.
As he gathered the clothes, Dean snuck glances at Castiel. Even in sleep, the toll of his worsening mental health was painfully clear now that Dean finally let himself see it. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his normally serene expression was replaced with one of subtle distress. Replaying the events of the previous night in his mind, Dean pieced together what little he knew. He couldn’t ignore Castiel’s unusual behavior any longer, but his heart ached at the thought of him carrying such a heavy burden alone. Ultimately, Dean blamed himself for allowing everyday life stress to get in the way and missing the part where Castiel was slipping again.
Making his way out of the room, Dean closed the door gently and headed downstairs. In the basement, he sorted through the dirty laundry, separating whites from colors and checking everyone’s pockets before loading the washing machine. Since they had been kids, Sam had had a habit of leaving pens, pencils, sticks of gum, and even small rocks tucked away in his clothes. Dean had learned the hard way long ago that meticulous inspection was the only way to avoid ruining an entire load of laundry.
As he sifted through Castiel’s clothing, his fingers brushed against something deep in the cargo pocket of his pants. Digging out the tattered object, Dean exhaled sharply at the sight of an empty package of American Spirits. Clenching his jaw, Dean was equal parts frustrated and disappointed to learn Castiel was smoking again. While the discovery was not terribly surprising since Castiel had been coming home smelling like cigarettes more in recent days, Dean still wished his boyfriend could find healthier ways to cope.
Crushing the flimsy cardboard in his palm, Dean wasn’t exactly thrilled, but he would never consider policing Castiel’s behavior over something that might be trivial. He reflected on his mom and John’s relationship long before their divorce. Even as a kid, their marriage had been a cautionary tale: proof of how control and coercion could erode trust and affection. Dean understood the importance of Castiel’s privacy and autonomy, no matter how depressed or destabilized his boyfriend might be. He had promised himself he wouldn’t be the kind of partner who demanded change without offering openness first. Because if he had learned anything from his parent’s train wreck romance, it was that relationships require give and take, the freedom to make your own choices and mistakes, and the patience to take a step back and just stand by from time to time.
Although he hadn’t yet said “I love you” out loud, Dean’s feelings for Castiel ran deep, and he was committed to supporting his boyfriend in whatever way necessary. Still, he couldn’t deny the toll Castiel’s mental illness was taking on his own anxiety and stress levels. As the washing machine rumbled to life, Dean leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Despite his efforts to stay distracted all day, a sense of unease settled over him, leaving him more uncertain than ever about what the future held for them. He knew there was no “right way” to handle things, but remained unsure about how to navigate Castiel’s ongoing struggles without upsetting the delicate balance of their relationship.
***
Castiel drifted in and out of sleep, the lines between reality and his muddled thoughts blurring as the hours ticked by. A heavy haze clouded his mind until a sharp pang of anxiety pulled him from sleep. Blinking rapidly, he scanned the shadowy space, unnerved by the alien-like silhouettes of once-familiar objects that now cast strange, distorted shapes across the walls. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of Dean’s alarm clock on the dresser, it’s blaring red numbers morphing into a cryptic warning: 9:30 PM.
His breathing quickened, each shallow inhale pounding in his ears like waves in a void. It felt artificial, like his body was going through the motions of life while his soul had been left somewhere else entirely. Panic surged through his consciousness, threatening to pull him under. His body moved sluggishly, disconnected from itself, as if some invisible force had reached through the cracks in reality, wrapped him in deepening emptiness, and was dragging away from everything he knew backwards into the dark.
"Cas? You with me, buddy?" Dean’s voice cut through the haze, distant but familiar.
Castiel turned his head, finding Dean beside him, forehead creased with concern, his green eyes searching Castiel’s for any sign of recognition. Trying to focus on Dean’s features, Castiel reached out, tentatively grasping the soft fabric of Dean’s sleep pants.
"Dean?" Castiel murmured, his own voice sounding foreign, wrong, as if it didn’t belong to him.
Dean felt solid beneath his fingertips, his warmth seemed grounding and real. But was he truly?
"Yeah, it's me. I think you might’ve been having a bad dream," Dean said, taking Castiel’s hand and interlacing their fingers.
Castiel nodded faintly, but he remembered no dream. He squinted at Dean, desperately trying to convince himself that the boy in front of him wasn’t a terrifyingly realistic hallucination.
"I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Nothing feels real right now," Castiel confessed, his voice beginning to waver. He pulled away, dropped his head in his hands, as he cradled himself and rocked back and forth slightly.
"Could you try taking some deep breaths for me, Cas?" Dean asked, his voice gentle despite the tension in his body.
Shutting his eyes tight, Castiel felt powerless to respond, already too far gone into the terrifying distortion his mind had created. His breathing sped up, panic constricting his chest until a choked sob escaped his lips.
"Hey, I’ve got you. You're safe. Just hold onto me," Dean said, pulling Castiel into his arms.
Castiel clung to him, holding on for dear life as violent sobs racked his body, soaking Dean’s shirt with tears. The world around them blurred, fading into indistinct shapes and muffled sounds as Castiel lost himself in the raw, all-consuming embrace of Dean’s presence.
"Feel that, Cas?" Dean murmured, guiding Castiel’s hand to rest palm-down against his bare chest, fingers outstretched.
Castiel focused on the rhythm beneath his hand, syncing each breath with the steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest. Slowly, the fog in his mind thinned, the oppressive weight of depersonalization receding.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel whispered, his voice rough but distinctly his again.
"Hey there, Cas. Are you doing alright now?" Dean asked, meeting his gaze with a relieved smile.
"I think so… yes," Castiel answered, still a little shaky but much more present.
"Think you could try getting a little more sleep? We both have school in the morning," Dean suggested, running a hand through Castiel’s messy hair.
Castiel nodded, resting his chin against Dean’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of ivory soap and warm skin, grounding him.
"I can try," he murmured, feeling Dean’s arm tighten around him as they continued breathing in sync.
With Dean’s steady presence anchoring him to reality, Castiel settled back against the pillows, focusing on the reassuring pressure of Dean’s fingers interlaced with his as his eyes drifted shut once more.
***
Dean listened carefully as Castiel’s breathing gradually steadied, deepening into the rhythmic pattern of sleep. He shifted his body carefully into a more comfortable position, then let his gaze fall to Castiel as he studied his face in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He exhaled slowly, trying to release the lingering anxiety coiled tightly in his own chest. But sleep evaded him, his mind racing with memories and fears that refused to quiet. Dean lay back down, pulling Castiel closer, anchoring himself in his warmth. He listened to the soft, steady breaths, hoping they’d lull him back to sleep.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, drawing him into a restless sleep.
In his dreams, Dean was small again, no older than seven or eight. His bare feet padded quickly across the worn carpet of their old living room, the sound of angry voices echoing harshly off the walls. He saw his mother’s silhouette first: her slender frame rigid with tension, her blonde hair tangled and messy from sleep. Mary’s voice trembled as she tried to calm John, her words gently pleading with him to lower his voice.
Dean’s heart pounded like a hummingbird, his small hands trembling as he stepped forward, placing himself protectively between his parents. He looked up, craning his neck to meet his father’s gaze, but then he froze. John’s face was distorted, features shifting and blurring until they settled into something familiar yet impossibly wrong. Dark, tousled hair replaced John’s short-cropped style; blue eyes, wide and haunted, stared down at him with a mixture of anger and confusion.
It was Castiel’s face staring back at him, twisted by rage and distortion, unrecognizable from the gentle boy Dean knew. His breath caught in his throat, terror and confusion seizing him as he tried to reconcile the image before him with the Castiel he held dear.
“Dean,” the figure growled, voice low and slurred, yet undeniably Castiel’s. “Get out of the way.”
Dean shook his head, his small fists clenched at his sides, stubbornly refusing to move. “Don’t hurt her,” he whispered, his voice trembling with determination.
The figure advanced, looming impossibly tall, his shadow swallowing Dean whole. He braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut, waiting for the blow that never came.
Dean gasped for breath, sitting up in bed with his heart hammering. Sweat dampened his forehead, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin. Beside him, Castiel murmured something unintelligible, then settled back to sleep.
Pressing a shaky hand to his eyes, Dean tried to erase the lingering nightmare. His breathing was still uneven as he struggled to ground himself in reality. He glanced down at Castiel, whose face was peaceful now, free from the torment that had gripped him the day before.
Dean swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his chest. He knew Castiel wasn’t John. He could never be John. But the image from his dream refused to fade, haunting him with its cruel distortion. He reached out hesitantly, fingers hovering just above Castiel’s shoulder before pulling back sharply, afraid of waking him.
Instead, Dean slid carefully out of bed and dressed silently, pulling a worn flannel over a plain black tee, sliding into faded jeans, and lacing up his combat boots. He skipped his usual morning routine, leaving his hair messy and his face unwashed, and quietly exited the room, careful not to wake Castiel. The house was silent, the creaking stairs beneath his feet the only sound as he descended to the kitchen.
He flicked on the light, squinting against the sudden brightness. His movements were automatic: eggs, bacon, frozen blueberries, and pancake mix came out of the fridge and pantry in practiced succession. He was desperate for distraction from the images still clawing at the edges of his mind. Soon, the kitchen filled with the comforting sounds of sizzling bacon and whisked batter, the warm scent of breakfast permeating the air. But Dean’s thoughts remained elsewhere, his actions mechanical and detached, his mind replaying the nightmare on a loop.
Lost in thought, he barely noticed how much food he was making. Pancakes stacked up precariously, bacon crisped beyond necessity, eggs scrambled in an already overflowing pan. Dean’s brow furrowed, his green eyes unfocused as he stared blankly at the stove.
The sudden creak of footsteps jarred him. He spun to see Sam in the doorway, a backpack slung over one shoulder and sandy hair still damp from the shower. Sam’s hazel eyes widened as he took in the excessive spread, his mouth tightening into a thin line.
“Seriously, Dean?” Sam huffed, irritation written in the set of his shoulders. “We don’t have time for this. We’re already running late.”
Dean blinked, glanced at the clock. He had completely lost track of time.
“Sorry,” he muttered, turning back to the stove and shutting off the burner. “Didn’t realize how late it was getting.”
“Yeah, you never do lately,” Sam snapped, dropping his backpack onto a chair with unnecessary force. “It’s like you’re not even here anymore—always spacing out and worrying about your boyfriend.”
Dean stiffened, jaw clenching as he fought to keep his voice neutral.
“Sammy, just eat something, okay? I’ll drive fast. We’ll make up the time—Baby can handle it, just this once.”
But Sam shook his head, frustration boiling over.
“That’s the thing, Dean—it’s not just this once. It’s almost every day. You used to have your shit together. Now you’re skipping production meetings, and making me late every morning. All because you’re too busy babysitting Cas.”
Dean’s knuckles whitened around the spatula in his hand, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.
“Watch it, Sam.”
Sam ignored the warning, stepping closer, expression defiant.
“No, Dean. I’m tired of tiptoeing around this. Ever since you invited Cas to stay with us, you’ve been a mess. We were all better off before—”
“That’s enough,” Dean snapped, turning to face Sam fully, eyes blazing. “You need to cut Cas some slack.”
“Why should I?” Sam demanded, voice rising. “He’s the reason you’re falling apart. He’s dragging you down, and you’re letting him.”
Dean’s temper snapped. He slammed the spatula onto the counter with a sharp crack that echoed through the kitchen.
He stepped forward, voice low and trembling with intensity.
“Back off Cas, or get used to walking to school.”
Silence fell. Neither brother spoke until Sam muttered bitterly,
“Fine,” and grabbed a plate of food, sitting heavily at the table.
Dean exhaled shakily, leaning against the counter, the anger draining out of him and leaving only exhaustion and guilt. He glanced at the cooling breakfast spread just as he heard slow, deliberate footsteps on the stairs.
When Castiel appeared in the doorway, Dean’s whole demeanor shifted. His shoulders tensed, his smile turned forced, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes before he masked it with exaggerated cheer.
“Morning, Cas,” he said, voice pitched a little too high. “I made your favorite, blueberry pancakes.”
Castiel looked more disheveled than usual. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, his trench coat wrinkled where it hung open over a black Nirvana T-shirt. Darkness still shadowed his eyes, but there was a clarity in his gaze that hadn’t been there in days.
“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said, sliding into his seat.
Dean piled four pancakes and bacon onto Castiel’s plate, drowning everything in maple syrup. Sam watched with narrowed eyes, noting how Dean’s hands lingered near Castiel’s, but his gaze kept darting away, not wanting to get caught staring too long.
“Don’t forget these,” Dean said, placing Castiel’s medication beside his orange juice. Three pills, a necessary daily ritual they’d both come to accept. Dean waited, watching as Castiel dutifully swallowed each one.
Sam cleared his throat. “We should probably get going. First period starts in forty minutes.”
Dean ignored him, already turning back to what he was cooking.
“Want some more, Cas? I can make another batch.”
“These are plenty,” Castiel assured him, cutting into his pancakes with precise movements.
The kitchen fell into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the scrape of forks on plates. Dean hardly touched his own food, instead watching Castiel eat with an intensity that bordered on obsessive. As Castiel neared the end of his plate, Dean was already on his feet.
“How about some eggs? Or I could toast a bagel? Mom bought that cream cheese you like.”
Castiel looked up, confused. “I’m fine, Dean. This was delicious.”
“You sure? It’s no trouble. Or there’s leftover pie from—”
“Dean,” Castiel interrupted, “I’m far too full to eat another bite.” He stood, pushing his plate away. As he did, he tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to smooth the yellow smiley face logo over his stomach.
Dean’s eyes followed the movement. The shirt that once seemed oversized when Castiel first bought it at Newbury Comics a few months ago now clung to the soft curve of his belly more prominently. Dean wasn’t sure why these changes hadn’t registered before, or maybe he’d just let himself get too busy to see it. But now, staring at taut fabric stretched across his boyfriend’s middle, Dean started to wonder what else had he missed?
Looking down at the leftover pancakes, bacon and egg, Dean’s stomach twisted—not with judgment, but with guilt. He’d been so preoccupied with keeping Castiel stable, making sure he took his meds and stayed hydrated that he hadn’t even noticed how much weight his boyfriend had gained.
“Guys. Seriously. We’re going to be late,” Sam said, glancing between them before rolling his eyes with a dramatic huff.
“Shit, yeah. Let me just—” Dean hurried to wrap the leftover pancakes and stuffed them into the fridge beside all the other leftovers. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated, betraying his inner turmoil.
Castiel gathered his satchel, slinging it over one shoulder. The strap cut across his chest, accentuating the changes Dean couldn’t stop noticing. When Castiel bent to tie his shoe, his shirt rode up, revealing a strip of pale skin and the waistband of his jeans digging in.
“Ready?” Castiel asked, as he caught Dean staring.
“Yeah,” Dean said, grabbing his backpack. “Just... here.” He stepped forward and carefully fixed the collar of Castiel’s trench coat. His fingers brushed against Castiel’s neck, and Dean flinched, the nightmare image of his boyfriend’s face twisted in rage flashing, unbidden, across his mind.
If Castiel noticed, he said nothing. Instead, he captured Dean’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Thank you for breakfast. And for reminding me...” He gestured vaguely toward the pill bottle.
“Of course,” Dean replied, voice rough. “That’s what I’m here for.”
As they headed out to the car, Dean noticed how Castiel fidgeted anxiously, his fingers hesitantly brushing across the trench coat pocket where he once kept his stash of weed and illegal pills. The signs were subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking. But Dean couldn’t afford to risk that, especially not when he should have been paying closer attention all along.
Sam climbed into the backseat without complaint, which was a testament to how routine this had become. Dean started the engine, the familiar rumble doing little to calm his nerves. In the passenger seat, Castiel leaned his head against the window, eyes closed, breathing slow. The morning sun caught his profile, highlighting the roundness of his face and the soft beginning of a double chin Dean somehow hadn’t noticed before.
He forced himself to look away, focused on the road, gripped the wheel tighter, and pulled out of the garage into the quiet blur of morning traffic, unable to shake off the fight with Sam, much less the growing knot of concern tightening in his chest on Castiel’s behalf.