Chapter Text

Day 676

She’s gonna kill you and then she’s gonna kill me.

I cared about the whole world because of you.

Why does this sound like a goodbye?

Dean slaps the space bar on his laptop with two fingers and pours himself two fingers of whiskey into a cut glass. Was this the same glass? 

Because I knew the story wasn’t over. I knew Jack wasn’t done. And I was right.

Well, here’s to being right.

It was the same glass as that night during the celebratory drink right before Jody called and it was go-time once again. For a split second he had breathed a little, unclenched his muscles, clinked a glass and reflected on wins instead of losses. And Cas? The bastard was smug. The realization that his kid would have his destiny fulfilled put such a twinkle in his eye that Dean was mesmerized. He tips up his glass but the whiskey burns in a different way down his rapidly closing throat.

676 days. It’s been 676 days since Castiel summoned The Empty and left Dean forever. It’s been 676 days since everyone on Earth was disappeared by Chuck except Sam and Jack. And Dean. If you can consider the ghost that’s been haunting the halls of the bunker Dean. He just drifts around, listless. No one and nothing to distract him from what he’s lost. Alcohol numbs the pain for a time, but he’s getting tired of it. Almost two years of this and does Dean really want to spend eternity drinking all of the liquor left in the world with no one there to replenish it?

Chuck must be using some sort of magic to keep the lights on, keep the water running. Hell, maybe the liquor will replenish once it’s gone. Chuck doesn’t seem interested in actually decaying the planet so much as keeping the three of them spinning their wheels and losing their goddamn minds.

A couple of months ago they even tried to give it all up. They couldn’t take it anymore, the silence, the loneliness. They summoned Chuck and told him they would do whatever he wanted them to do. But Chuck said it was too little, too late.

I’ll kill Sam. Sam will kill me. We’ll kill each other. Okay? You pick. But first, you gotta put everything back the way it was. The people. The birds. Cas. You gotta bring him back.

Dean was honestly hoping that he’d have another chance to see Cas before the fratricide started. Maybe finally respond to all of the things Cas said to him while he stood there silent, like a dumbass.

Happiness isn’t in the having.

It’s in just saying it.

Dean was hoping for the chance to “just say it” too. Maybe even lay one on him before the showdown. He didn’t need wedding bells. That small moment of reciprocity would have been enough. He needed Cas to know. He should have known that Chuck wouldn’t let that happen.

Rotting on a lifeless planet, knowing it’s this way because you wouldn’t take the knee.

God, God is a douche.

Dean’s eyes are blurry enough that he can’t see the image on the laptop screen clearly, but he knows what’s there. He knows it’s the security footage from the dungeon. He knows it’s him, on the floor, bloody handprint on his shoulder, shaking with sobs while he buries his head in his hands. He knows because he’s watched it for 676 days.

I love you.

Don’t do this, Cas.

Goodbye, Dean.

He’s got to stop this. He’s got to move on. But move on to what? He guesses Chuck knew somehow that this would be the worst torture. An idle Winchester is a crazy Winchester. No random hunts to get lost in, nothing haunting you but your own personal demons.

He closes the file and right clicks on it. He hovers over the “move to trash” option. Does he dare? It’s seared into his brain. Does he really need to see it again? He clicks away. He can’t bear to lose that footage. The secret tapes he hustled off of the bunker’s server and onto his personal laptop so Sam and Jack wouldn’t see. But he seriously needs to shelve it. Not move on, per se, but put it aside until the world is repopulated-–if that ever happens.

He needs a distraction. 

Day 682

It takes a few days for inspiration to strike. He’s helping Sam and Jack clean out yet another storage room in the belly of the bunker. Knowledge is power and they have nothing but time to gain as much as they can against Chuck––or anything else that comes calling once they ice God. Dean hears a slightly off-tune strum and looks up to see Jack holding a pristine, if dusty, Martin acoustic guitar.

“Well, would you look at that,” Dean smiles. 

Sam even perks up from the corner he’s claimed at Dean’s warm tone. Probably because this is the first emotion he’s heard in Dean’s voice in months other than anger.

Dean’s fingers circle the neck and it makes a hollow sound as he catches the body with his other hand. The strings don’t look too rusty. And YouTube still inexplicably works in this holding-pattern-life.

Heh, “Holding Pattern Life.” That sounds like a country song. He could write it if he knew how. Hell, it would be number one, topping all the charts. At least in this fake world they’re in now.

Dean, you asked “What about all this is real?” We are.

Dean sets the guitar onto a stack of boxes and swallows. He may have never been really free, but Cas was real, wasn’t he? Hell, Chuck never even planned his course.

Spare me your contempt, Castiel, the self-hating Angel of Thursday. Do you know what every other version of you did after ‘gripping him tight and raising him from perdition?’ What they were told!

Of all the Sams and all the Deans and all the Castiels, his Castiel was the only one who broke the mold. It takes his breath away if he stops to think about it. 

The very touch of you corrupts! When Castiel first laid a hand on you in hell, he was lost!

Was there really no other Cas and Dean like them? No one else with a profound bond? That’s gotta mean something.

I always come when you call.

His own personal Superman. He always heard Dean’s call. Even if Dean was a nobody, a grunt. Not in Cas’s eyes.

You don’t think you deserve to be saved?

You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.

Okay. Yep. Maybe teaching himself to play guitar will focus his mind and distract him a little. He looks up and sees that Sam and Jack are immersed in some old ratty book, temple to temple scanning a yellowed page. He grabs the guitar by the neck and slips out of the room.

Day 713

Dean stretches and empties the last of his beer. He sets down his guitar and stands up from his bed, stretching again. The first song he taught himself was “Smoke on the Water,” and it doesn’t sound half bad. He wants to continue but his fingers ache enough that he has to take a break. They say that you build calluses over time and it won’t hurt your fingers as much holding down the strings. Sam says he read that “dragon seed” on your fingers helps with stuff like that. But Dean’s met a few dragons in his time and they just look like weird middle aged men. He doesn’t want their “seed” anywhere near him. No thank you.

He decides that maybe he wants to pop some popcorn and watch a movie in the Dean Cave, so he pads into the kitchen in his dead guy robe and comes upon a sad sight. And if he’s saying it’s a sad sight, that means something. Sam is face-planted into an old book, drooling on the pages. As obsessed as Dean has gotten with his music, Sam and Jack have gotten obsessed with becoming the best lil warlocks in town. Well, in the world, since they are ⅔ of it. Dean wouldn’t be surprised to find them one day with honest to god wands and pointy hats.  

The first year or so of living on this lifeless planet, Dean had went crazy with the research alongside the other two. Trying to find anything and everything to bring people back. Between that and watching the dungeon footage, it made him…well, crazy. Apparently, Sam and Jack had the countenance for it. It just made Dean destructive. He tucked himself into a bottle every night just to get his four hours. It’s better this way, even Sam and Jack agree. The last time he woke up using an empty bottle of Jack as a pillow on the library floor, Sam banished him from hardcore research. He would be sullen about it if he weren’t so damned grateful.

Dean taps Sam on the shoulder lightly, trying to rouse him. Through Sam’s locks of hair artfully tousled over the open page of the book, Dean spies some old, old magic. Talking about “vanquishing the beast.” Dean nudges Sam again until he snarfs awake, the disgustingly old open page dried to his cheek with drool.

“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean chuckles. “Why don’t you get some shut eye in a real bed? You’ve really been killing yourself over this.”

“I’m fine.” Sam stretches and yawns, and then heads over to the coffee pot to fill up his mug. “I’m really onto something here.”

“Oh yeah? I knew you could do it, man.” 

“I’m not there yet, but hopefully closer than I was,” Sam huffed. 

“Anything I can do?” 

“I have to figure out what the mark of the beast is and if anyone has it––or ever had it. We have so much lore on this––”

“Mark of the Beast? We talking Lucifer again? Cuz I’m pretty sure he’s gone and was never god-level.”

“But the ‘beast’ talked about in the bible isn’t Lucifer.”

“Wait––it isn’t??:

“No––it’s the antichrist.”

Dean looks vaguely to the left with his mouth open. “Wu––wait really? So, wait, there’s an antichrist?”

“Well, yeah, according to the bible––if you set your stock in that.” Sam starts reordering a stack of books on the bench next to him.

“Wait wait wait, haven’t we already had an antichrist? Yeah! It was that kid––” Dean snaps his fingers, racking his brain. “Jessie! Yeah, Cas said Jessie was the antichrist.”

“Well Cas could have been wrong,” Sam says, a little absently. Dean immediately gets his hackles up––Sam saying Cas was wrong. Which is ridiculous, of course. They’ve all been wrong at one point or another. He’s just a little protective of the guy now, all things considered. But Sam continues, not noticing Dean’s tensed muscles. “Think about it, Jessie was just the offspring of a demon and a human. Jack is the offspring of Lucifer and a human. But poor Jessie is the antichrist? And Jack isn’t?”

“I don’t know, man. Cas seemed pretty sure.”

“So get this,” Sam starts, finally coming out to the stack with a bible and rifling through it. “Let no one deceive you in any way. For that day will not come, unless the rebellion comes first, and the man of lawlessness is revealed, the son of destruction, who opposes and exalts himself against every so-called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, proclaiming himself to be God.”

By the end of the verse, Dean’s face is stony. “Jessie never did that. Jack never did either.”

Sam huffs. “I mean, it sounds more like Chuck than Jessie or Jack to me. Pretending to be God? Dean, what if we haven’t been dealing with capital G-O-D God this entire time?” 

Dean feels like a ton of bricks just fell on his head. “Jesus Christ, Sam! What if Chuck’s not God??”

“That’s what I just sai––”

“I always thought it was stupid that God was a writer––like how fucking lame.”

“You’re on record, ye––”

“Wait! Jesus Christ! If there’s an antichrist, how come we’ve never heard of a Christ?”

Sam waits to see if he will be interrupted again. After a beat, he chances it. “Well maybe that explains it. If Chuck isn’t actually God––he’s been an imposter all this time. Maybe he never mentioned Jesus because he’s a phony. It says here ‘This is the antichrist, he who denies the Father and the Son.’ None of the angels or Chuck have ever mentioned the son.”

Dean’s mind is reeling. “But wait, how would it trick the angels? Wouldn’t they remember?”

“Maybe they are just his construct as well,” Sam says, a little reluctantly, knowing Dean well enough to guess how that concept would go over..

Dean pulls up short. “Wait. You’re saying that the angels––that Cas –– isn’t real?”

Sam backpeddles quickly. “No no no, Dean, this is all real. Cas being a construct of Chuck doesn’t make him not real. Because we are a construct of Chuck. And we are real.”

You asked what about all of this was real? We are.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Dean said, backing down. “Look man, I don’t want to pull too hard at this thread because it makes me wanna take a toaster into that deluxe Men of Letters tub and make it a final bath bomb. But I get what you’re saying.”

“Dean––” Sam starts.

“Let me just…let me just wrap my head around this. It changes everything.”

“It really does. And it changes what we are looking for in how to defeat him.”

Day 839

The first day he breaks his streak of watching the dungeon footage is Day 839. He spent all day working on a melody on the guitar and just…forgot. Sam had popped his head in and let him know that they were taking a trip for some supplies. Sammy was vague on the details but it sounded like the makings of a spell to locate this “mark of the beast.” It was galling to think that they were being Truman-showed by some dime-store hack writer, but also the light at the end of the tunnel is maybe they can emerge from this life-mare relatively intact. The alternative was, what? Depleting Chuck of his power and giving it to, who? Jack? The kid was great but he literally just learned how to make a grilled cheese.

On day 840 he realizes he didn’t watch and the guilt is like a slap to the face––like he’s forgetting Cas. The bastard never leaves his mind, though. But maybe he’s just learned that he can’t torture himself with the end of it all. The fact that he spends all day fantasizing about what he would do if Cas were here should be enough to prove he’s not moving on. 

You, me, Cas, toes in the sand, couple of them little umbrella drinks.

At one time that seemed like a possibility. Retirement. Not whatever this is but true retirement. People to talk to, things to do. No more blood and guts. A lot more smiles and laughs. But with Cas beside him. He never pictured it without him. 

Dean closes his eyes and picks at the guitar some more.

“Oh, I let it slip away…” he whispers.

Day 992

Dean stretches his fingers and wiggles his arms. He’s been watching old episodes of Mighty Mouse and playing scales on his guitar for too many hours. Jack and Sam have been doing their normal nerd witch shit in the store rooms and they are in deep this time. They haven’t surfaced for hours and could probably use a fresh set of eyes on the project. But he’s no help. 

So he just stays put in his messy room, too consumed with melodies and memories to worry about cleaning.

He picks up his guitar again and settles onto his bed. Leaning and resting his head back onto the little ledge above his headboard, he knocks a couple of empties over and they tumble into a few picture frames. “Shit, shit shit!” he hisses, setting his guitar aside, picking up the bottles that are quickly forming a small puddle under the upended frames. He grabs a dirty t-shirt from beside his bed ( oops, that’s a little crusty heh heh ) and sops up the worst of it.

He’s got to get a grip on his room––on his life. He’s traded most of his whiskey-soaked-dungeon-footage-watching time for whiskey-soaked-guitar-noodling time. It’s an improvement, he thinks, and in the first nine months or so after finding the guitar he had to concentrate so hard on the mechanics of it he couldn’t really think about anything else. But he’s gotten so fluent that his mind just wanders to Castiel and what could have been––what should have been.

Since when do we get what we deserve?

Dean rights the small collection of photos back onto his ledge. Of course the pictures of Sammy and mom, an old snap of his dad on a hunt that he got yelled at for taking, and the group shot taken at Bobby’s house before they were going to Carthage to kill Lucifer with the Colt. They were all so innocent––thinking it was going to be that simple. Dean pops open the frame and finds the other picture that is hidden there––the one that is only for him. He gives a small smile at the little square. It shows Cas, wearing that dumbass cowboy hat in Dodge City. 

I’m your Huckleberry.

He couldn’t resist taking the picture. And he definitely couldn’t resist printing the picture, double copies, at the pharmacy in Lebanon and giving Cas a copy. He played it off as a gag, clapping Cas on the shoulder and telling him he didn’t know how it got into his order. Called him Doc Holiday and to keep a copy to give to a sweetheart at the next outpost. Then he hightailed it to his room in embarrassment, rolling the conversation over in his head for weeks. Tripping over the blush in Castiel’s cheeks and the confused squint at the “outpost” comment. Dean sighed. I’m such a dumbass.

I prefer “trusting.” Less dumb, less ass.

Cas always thought the best of him. Always and unflinchingly. Even when it hurt people. Even when it hurt Cas himself.

I’m the one who is going to have to watch you murder the world.

And when he beat him bloody anyway? He still never stopped believing that he could be redeemed.

No, Dean. Please.  

Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love.

Castiel had the will to look away. He had the ability to leave––hell he did leave for a time there, when Dean’s anger got to be too much to be around. Dean couldn’t blame him. Castiel could have left at any time while Dean was flailing like a––what did Uriel call him all those years ago? “Mud monkey.” Well, he couldn’t be too insulted. He crawled in the dirt, hell he pulled himself out of his own grave. He fell more times than he could count, but he just never quit. Inelegant, maybe, but you couldn’t deny he had heart. And it found the crack in Castiel’s chassis and wriggled its way in.

I have questions, I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore.

My superiors have begun to question my sympathies. I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You.

Knowing you has changed me.

Yeah yeah, Dean forced his way in, but what did that get Cas? It got him dead. Over and over again. Him and almost everyone else Dean loved.

I’m poison, Sam. People get close to me, they get killed…or worse.

Something went wrong––something always goes wrong.

I tell myself that I help more people than I hurt.

You’re destructive and you’re angry and you’re broken. You’re “daddy’s blunt instrument.”

He lies, he cheats, he steals. He learned it all at John Winchester’s knee. Did he do it for the good of the world? Or for the good of his family? Hell, it was all pretty personal. Selfish even.

I tell myself that I’m doing it for all the right reasons.

You think that hate and anger, that’s what drives you, that’s who you are.

But I can’t––I won’t––drag anybody through the muck with me.

You are the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.

All of Dean’s motivation to do anything is just completely sapped out of him. He slumps onto his bed and just stares, thoughts swirling, 

You fought for this whole world for love.

He can’t live here in this hurt anymore. It’s too much. He can’t take this crazy pain day after day. And he definitely doesn’t deserve to be here–alive–when Cas deserves it more than him. He has lied, cheated, stolen. He’s no role model.

That’s not true.

Maybe Dean wasn’t the problem. Maybe Castiel just liked him too much. Love made him blind to all of Dean’s obvious flaws.

Too much heart was always Castiel’s problem.

Dean grabs his pillow, holds it up to his face, and screams. Screams until he can’t breathe anymore. Screams until tears are leaking onto the pillowcase. He feels like he’s finally cracking up.

Chapter Text

Day 995

Dean opens his laptop and types in searchtheweb.com into a browser window, still marveling that the internet is running after all this time. He can be thankful to Chuck a tiny bit for that.

Feeling like a complete dumbass who will most certainly be deleting this history, he types in “How to write a song.” He’s spent two days crying, going over his long history with Cas. He was finally all cried out and needed a new outlet of expression. It’s not enough anymore to learn songs that already exist that kinda say what he wants to say––no, he needs to say it himself. 

Happiness isn’t in the having.

It’s in just saying it.

So Dean grabs a yellow legal pad and pen and starts clicking around, determined that he’s got enough basics to write a song but needing a little extra help on how to do such a thing.

After a little maneuvering around the various search results, here’s what Dean comes up with in terms of how to go about writing.

Step One: Decide what genre you want to work within for your song. 

Step Two: Choose a rhythm and beat that matches your song’s mood and genre.

Step Three: Work out the basic melody on a piano or guitar.

Step Four: Develop the melody using major and minor scales.

Step Five: Choose a title for your song.

Step Six: Come up with a hook for your song. 

Step Seven:Build a chorus around your hook.

Step Eight:Write a verse that builds on the themes introduced by your chorus.

Step Nine: Write more verses that follow the same pattern as your first. 

Step Ten: Decide whether or not you want to add a bridge to your song.

Step Eleven: Nail down the final structure of your song.

Step Twelve: Add other instruments to create a fuller sound. 

Dean stares down at the paper. It seems simple enough, but it’s also completely backwards from what he thought about how to write a song. He thought you wrote a poem and set it to music. He didn’t realize that it was the opposite. It’s like the words were just secondary and just what seemed to fit––well he guesses that explains some of the clunkiest lines in show biz.

I get stupid, I shoot an arrow like Cupid

I'll use a word that don't mean nothin', like looptid

I sang on Doowhutchalike, and if ya missed it

I'm the one who said, "Just grab 'em in the biscuits"

Also told ya that I like to bite

Well, yeah, I guess it's obvious, I also like to write

Alright, Shock G, calm down. But Dean admits that shitty writing didn’t stop it from being a hit. But for Cas? For Cas it can’t be shitty. It needs to be everything he’s ever wanted to say.

Day 1,003

“ARRRGGHHHHHHHHH!” Dean wads up yet another sheet of paper and tosses it towards the wastebasket. He puts his face in his hands and hums the tune yet again. Maybe just fuck this tune? It’s obviously not working.

Dean lays back on his bed with his guitar, eyes closed, and just picks around. There’s a song in there somewhere, he knows it. He hums along, knowing that the words should come later. He has to find some sort of melody that he likes. But how does he pick a melody that will convey what he wants to say? This is too hard. If Cas could see me now. Bested by a song. The sonuvabitch wouldn’t even think poorly of him. He’d be all supportive, like he always is––was.

Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.

I’ll watch over you.

“Wish you were watching over me, buddy,” Dean whispers. 

Day 1,021

“Suck it, Songwriting for Dummies!” Dean exclaims, scribbling madly on his yellow paper. He was laying in his bed when he finally heard in his head the song he wanted to write. And it wasn’t the title first, or the hook. It was the first line. “Lay it on me,” he mumbled as he wrote. “Since you made me see, couldn’t bear to talk, hell I couldn’t even breathe.” Now what?

“Couldn’t hear the love within your words, And what you see, You were watching over me.”

He decided to make a song that was him talking to Cas and telling him his perspective, all of it. Like Cas was back and he got to talk to him. 

Dean looks over his paper. Okay, he could work with this. Maybe there isn’t a chorus. Maybe every verse just ends with “watching over me.” Okay so maybe that’s his “hook.” Aaaand “Watching Over Me” would obviously be the title of the song so OKAY DAMMIT. Maybe the steps are being followed anyway. Whatever. Dean’s just glad he’s cooking with gas now.

Day 1,034

Two weeks later, Dean has a song. And it’s not half bad. He even wrote a bridge! It’s a little country-ish but not, and he feels like it’s a real response to Castiel’s confession. Fat lot of good that does him now, but oh well. There are things he’s said in there that he would never speak outside of a song. There’s a weight off his chest that he didn’t realize was there. For some bizarre reason, he feels closer to having Cas back and with him once he’s done. 

Lay it on me

Since you made me see

Couldn't bear to talk

Hell I couldn’t even breathe

Couldn’t hear the love within your words

And what you see

You were watching over me

You can hear my call

When trouble's on the way

Got me prayin’ all the time

Even though that’s not my way

Trying to fight the world even though

We were never really free

You were watching over me

With the strength to find a way

When I was falling down

Crawling in the dirt

Is it fair enough to say

That I needed you through the crazy days

Of living here with all this shit

And what I feel

All I touch and how I steal

The fantasy was far too real

Oh, so I let it slip away

Didn't hear the love within your words

And what you see

You were watching over me

Dean smiles to himself and goes to help Sam with some translations, feeling better than he had a long, long time.

Day 1,087

“Hmmmm,” Dean grumbles, scratching out some words and going back to his guitar to go over the line once more. He liked the song––he did. But he had been doing some reading about symbolism in songs and he felt like his song was a little too––surface level. It needed some deeper layers. He wanted this to be perfect. He had nothing but time, so there was no sense in trying to rush it.  He scratches out “strength to find a way” and scribbles “will to look away” in its place. Dean had just finished working out a great line about "the beast" aka the anti-christ aka Chuck when Sam knocks on the door frame. Dean raises his eyebrows but keeps his eyes on the paper while he scribbles "he was only just away." If they would have figured out it was Chuck disappearing people and not Billie, maybe Cas would still be here. Maybe he wouldn't have had to summon The Empty to save them from Billie's wrath.

I don't care about your friends. I don't care about your family. But seeing you here has reminded me of something. There is one thing I'd like, one wish before I go... I'd like to see you dead!

You are human disorder incarnate.

I've got you.

“More songwriting?” Sam asks, a slight smile on his face.

“Mmm,” Dean grunts, setting down his guitar, going back to the page and the line “didn’t hear the love within your words” and replacing “love” with “strength.” What Castiel said to him was clearly a declaration of love but also was so, so strong. Dean didn’t know if he himself would have had the strength to do what needed to be done and sacrifice himself to an eternity of unknown for the people he loved. He hoped he would, but he just wasn’t sure.

“It looks like a really good song,” Sam comments from just over his shoulder. Dean jumps a little, not realizing Sam was so close. “Sorry, I know it’s private, but I hear parts of stuff you sing. You’re good. You’ve taught yourself a lot.”

“Yeah, we just need to get you a bucket to carry your tunes around in and we can hit the road, Partridge-style!” Dean grins, tucking the pages away. His ears are burning from being too seen but he just jokes his way through it, as usual.

Sam huffs in laughter as he looks casually around the tidy room. Dean finally got into a routine of keeping everything neat again, now that he’s finally processing his feelings instead of repressing them. 

Dean, still feeling raw, decides to distract Sam. “So, how goes the witchcraft and wizardry?”

Sam pulls a face but answers “Fine, we have several working theories about how to possibly bring the imposter down.”

Dean brightens. “Oh yeah? Wanna fill me in?”

Sam goes to the open door and leans against the doorframe. “Not much to fill in, just a lot of ideas. What’s hard is that this level of hunting is all pretty theoretical. And there’s no real way of testing our different theories, really.”

“For sure, like, if you had a spell that took down a demon, who’s to say it would take down the antichrist?” 

“Exactly. I just wish there was a way to test anything out…” Sam says, chewing on his lip pensively.

“Well, you know if wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets.” 

Sam looks at him, brow furrowed. “What?”

Dean scoffs. “What? I read.”

Sam chuckles. “I don’t know what you’re reading dude, but I think the saying is ‘If wishes were fishes, we’d all swim in riches.’”

Dean screws up his face. “That’s not the saying––who raised you??”

“Dude–– you did!”

Dean chuckles, “Yeah, that’s right. But I’m pretty sure it was that old Scottish lady that dad dropped us off with that one summer was the one who taught us nursery rhymes. I think dad’s ‘you can wish in one hand and shit in the other, see what fills up faster’ was much more eloquent.”

“Yueck,” Sam grouses. “Yeah that one was particularly vivid.”

“Well, regardless, they all mean that you can’t just sit and wish. If that worked, I’d have all the burgers and beer in my reach and,” Dean took a deep breath, wanting to be real with Sam but not knowing if he could get there. “And my best friend beside me to share it with.” 

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “Yeah, I miss him too.”

I love you. I love all of you.

Because you cared, I cared. I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack.

After a pause, Dean couldn’t take it any more. “Well, let me know if I can help. Two thirds of the world’s mental powers are focused on taking Chuck down. Let me know if you need me to make it 100%.”

Sam furrowed his brow at that, getting one of those gleams in his eye that meant he had a new thread to pull.

“Not just yet,” he said, but his eyes were off in the middle distance, dancing with possibility.

Chapter Text

Day 1,095

It’s Day 1,095. November 5, 2023, to be exact. Exactly three years ago to the day, Castiel had confessed his love and gotten taken by The Empty. A few weeks ago, Dean decided that today is when he makes this the final version of the song and records it for good measure. He can put this one aside, finally. Maybe write a few others. Maybe a tale about a righteous man? He’s got this line in his head about a “city grown willow” that he really likes as a hook to a melody he’s been stuck on. But the only word he can think to rhyme “willow” with is “pillow” which just seems ridiculous, so he left it to percolate on his notepad.

Dean goes to tell Sam and Jack that he’d be recording in the makeshift “studio” he had set up in the Dean Cave, so they would know to not come barging in. He tries not to let them know this stuff––it’s just so raw and real and they give him the worst “I understand your pain” looks but, fuck it. Dean guesses he could have gone all Hunter S. Thompson and holed up somewhere in the wilderness if he really didn’t want them to know. But, much like the constant research, he would have fallen into a bottle and never climbed out. Plus he had needed Sam to help him with the finer points of the recording equipment. Sam even helped hang sound-dampening blankets on the walls. No step stool required for Gigantor.

This time, instead of puppy dog eyes and gentle sighs, the guys look keyed up. “You’re recording the song about Castiel?” Jack asks, looking excited.

Too real, too real. The urge to abandon the project was too real now that it was clear he was completely transparent. If it hadn’t been November 5. If it was just some other day, he probably would have abandoned it. But he was determined to…honor Cas in this way.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says shortly. “I didn’t realize everyone knew what I had been doing.”

“It’s great, Dean,” Sam says softly. “Songwriting is a great way to work through your feelings. Especially today.”

Dean looks at Sam sharply. Of course he knew the date, too. The big moose has a mind like a steel trap. Dean decides to let it go and let it be seen rather than fighting it. Jack and Sam loved Cas, too.

“Alright, well maybe I’ll play it for you one day.” He pauses. “Or maybe I’ll throw the recording at you and run away and you can pretend you never listened to it.”

“Or maybe you’ll be playing it at bars all over the country once we get everyone back,” Sam says, smiling.

Dean snorts inelegantly. “Yeah okay, Sammy.” But then he sobers at the thought of “everyone.” He was pretty sure “everyone” did not include Cas. He took a deep breath and stood.

“Alright, well, off to…” he trails off and points to the door. As he walks lamely out of the room, he hears Sam say to Jack “Let’s get it all set up.” He doesn’t know what they were setting up but he doesn’t care, so long as it was quiet.

In the end, Dean gives it all he’s got. He goes over it a few times and then starts the final recording. And the recording sounds great. Except at the end. At the end, despite all of his fucking warnings to the two knuckleheads, there is a deep bass rumble that is impossible to keep off the microphone. He did everything he could to soundproof but he didn’t account for what felt and sounded like a goddamned earthquake. Annoyed, he set up for another pass at recording. He knew it was possible to clip and edit and do all kinds of stuff (if he taught himself) but he just wants a clean one run-through. He owes it to Cas to be perfect from start to finish, not to assemble some Frankensong with autotune and effects.

So he makes sure his levels look good, makes sure there are no huge peaks, readjusts his microphone, and starts strumming.

Watching Over Me

Lay it on

Now that I can see

Couldn't bear to talk

Without the will to breathe

Didn't hear the strength within your words

And what they mean

You were watching over me

You can hear the call

When trouble's on the way

Who said the beast was gone

He was only just away

Trying to find peace in always knowing

I was never really free

You were watching over me

With the will to look to away

When I was falling down

Crawling in the dirt

Is it fair enough to say

That I needed you through the crazy pain

Of living here with all this hurt

And what I feel

All I touch and how I steal

The fantasy was far too real

Oh, so I let it slip away

Didn't hear the strength within your words

And what they mean

You were watching over me

And right before he finishes the last chords, the door to the Dean Cave opens loudly, ruining the fucking recording AGAIN. Dean is near boiling when he whirls around to tell off whichever of the two dumbasses he’s stuck with decided to ruin the tribute to the love of his life––when suddenly all of the air leaves his lungs in one rush.

He takes a fresh gulp of air but it doesn’t give strength to his voice.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.”

*******

“So you just…tulpaed Cas back?!” Dean says, incredulous that it was something so…simple, so easy to bring Castiel back to him. They are standing in the library around the table, not really sure what to do with themselves, Cas and Dean on one side, a beaming Sam and Jack on the other. Cas looks extremely relieved to be back but can’t completely mask that haunted look that he wore when returning from The Empty the first time. He’d been there for three fucking years this time.

“Well, no offense, Cas, but you were the test,” Sam says, a little sheepish. “To see if we could harness the strength of a Tulpa to make something huge happen. We are hoping to use this magic to defeat Chuck.”

Castiel squints. “How can you defeat God with something as pedestrian as a tulpa?”

“It was Dean that gave me the idea, actually.” Sam says, getting a head of steam to launch his explanation. “He had said something about Jack and me being two thirds of the world’s mental powers. And I thought, if a tiny sliver of the population believing something made it real with the Tulpa symbol, what could we accomplish with that percentage of the world’s mental capacity?”

“That’s a damned good theory, Sam, but why didn’t you tell me?” Dean demands. “I could have helped you get to 100%!”

“Well, you did,” Sam reveals, chin jutting out. “I painted the symbols in your Dean Cave behind the soundproofing blankets I hung. I knew you basically never…” Sam gave a sideways glance towards Cas, “...never stop thinking about, um, Cas, and especially not if you’re singing that song. It was actually a pretty strong focus, man.”

“And we didn’t want to get your hopes up, Dean. We know how you’ve been,” Jack says sagely.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean marvels, half impressed, half mortified. 

“What is this song?” Castiel asks, tilting his head towards Dean.

“Uhhh,” Dean answers eloquently. He had written the song for Cas, but didn’t know he would actually get to let him listen to it. This was all getting too real and Dean felt the urge to run away bubble up in his gut. He steels himself.

You have defeated gods, Dean Winchester. Don’t let this stop you from doing the thing you spent three fucking years wishing you could do.

“I will tell you about it, just..not in front of everybody?” Dean tries not to let the pleading in his head layer into his voice but he’s pretty sure he failed.

Castiel looks like he recognized how spooked Dean must have been and thankfully drops it. “Of course, Dean. Sam, how does this translate to Chuck?”

Dean silently thanks Castiel for changing the subject. He knew he loved him for a reason.

Sam stumbles a little on the abrupt change in course but eventually gets it together. He explains to Castiel about the theory that Chuck isn’t actually God but is the Antichrist–which was a hard sell. 

“Don’t you think the angels would know if God was God? Don’t you think Michael and Lucifer would recognize him?”

“I don’t know, Cas,” Sam says. “But everything fits so well, it’s worth a shot.”

Cas still looked skeptical.

“Cas, we have to at least try.” Jack pleads. “I don’t think Sam or Dean can take another month without other people on the earth. But, with you back, Dean is probably a lot more okay with it.”

So much for being smooth , Dean thinks. But he can’t be too upset when he sees the soft look on Castiel’s face.

“Well, the tulpa symbol has already achieved a feat hitherto unknown,” Cas acquiesces. “If it can pull me from the Empty, perhaps we stand a chance.”

******

Dean hurriedly stacks the cut glass tumblers on top of each other but they aren’t the stackable-type glasses so one kind of slides over. He grabs it right before it hits the table and arranges them around the bottle of whiskey. Then he steps back to check that the area is arranged to his liking. Just like before, two chairs with a little table in between, holding glasses and whiskey. That celebratory drink, all those years ago, recreated. The only difference is there’s a guitar leaning on the closest bookshelf this time.

When they finally laid everything out for Cas, he had agreed that it was worth a shot to try to tulpa Chuck out of power. They agreed to take a beat and come up with a plan of attack, now that they knew they were cooking with gas.

So Cas went to freshen up a bit, breathe some free (if empty, but not The Empty) air outside, and try to regain his bearings. Dean knew they needed to have a post-mortem, literally.

He sits to wait for Cas to return, grabbing his guitar for lack of something to do. Picking out “Blackbird” by the Beatles was always soothing.

“I never knew you played guitar,” Castiel says from over Dean's shoulder, startling him so badly that he makes a loud kachunk on the strings.

“Uh, I never did until now. Picked it up in the three years you’ve been gone. Needed something to fill the time,” Dean says, shrugging.

“Makes sense,” Castiel concedes, walking around Dean to the other seat. He perches on the edge of the chair and looks at Dean expectantly. “So, Sam said something about a song?”

“Oh, so we’re just jumping right in, huh?” Dean wheezes out. 

“Well, you do have your guitar on your lap,” Castiel gestures. “I thought now was a good time to ask.”

“Yeah. Yeah okay.” Dean mumbles. Now or never dumbass. “So, Cas, what you gotta realize is that it’s been three whole years since I saw you las–”

“I am fully aware of that, Dean,” Cas interjects. “For supposed nothingness, The Empty doesn’t like to let you forget the passage of time.”

“Yeah, that’s rough. Well, you left me after saying these, these things about me that were hard to hear.” Cas opens his mouth to speak but Dean holds up a hand to stop him. “Look, just let me say my piece, okay? Otherwise I may never get it out.”

Castiel closes his mouth again. Instead of interrupting, he pours whiskey into two of the cut glass tumblers that Dean set out and offers one to Dean.

“Thanks, man,” Dean says, taking a burning gulp as soon as it touches his hand. “So anyway,” he says sort of roughly, staring into his drink, “for three years I’ve had these thoughts in my head about how you left. What you said. And I didn’t realize until I was sitting on that cold dungeon floor what you were actually saying.” He finally looks up at Cas and sees him looking slightly embarrassed and almost like he was bracing himself for what was coming. Castiel is tense, but remains silent.

Dean takes a deep breath.

“When I was a kid, my mom told me angels were watching over me. And I just thought it was something you say to a kid to make him feel better about being in a dark bedroom alone. Then my mom was gone and my dad was training me up to fight monsters and, and I really thought that it was just something you tell a kid who’s never gonna actually be in harm’s way. But then you walked into that barn. Sure, I thought you were a complete dick and maybe just another type of monster to take down. But angels were watching over me. Not just any angels. You. You were watching over me. And we’ve had this––what did you call it? This profound bond ever since.”

Castiel lets out a breath. “Yes, Dean.”

“So when I was sitting on that cold floor, alone, I kept getting confused. About the one thing you wanted but couldn’t have? Because you had me. And Sam. And Jack. You had a family who loved you. And you’re an angel. You don’t love like humans do. It’s dirty and beneath you, right?” Castiel cleared his throat demurely as Dean went on. “You don’t lust. But then I thought about Gabriel, and Lucifer knocking up Kelly and Adam with Serafina. You wanted more, right? From me? That was the one thing?”

“Dean, I would never ask anything of you that you don’t want to give,” Castiel starts in a rush. “I am content––I am happy–– being your friend––being your fam––”

“Cas. I get it. I heard you. I know what you are saying. And I’ve had three years to go back over every little detail of my life and come to some realizations. About you. But mostly about myself.”

Castiel is as still as stone but Dean can see the storm behind his eyes, like he’s holding back an entire universe from spilling from his chest.

“Let me play you the song I wrote,” Dean says quickly. He’s hoping that it will make a little more sense than his meandering thoughts of wanting to have some sort of non-platonic relationship with his celestial best friend.

“It’s beautiful, Dean,” Castiel whispers after Dean strums the last chord and looks up.

“Cas. I’m not saying I want to be––whatever. But I am saying that I already know that we are something more . And I’d like the time to explore that a bit further.”

“I would like that as well.” 

Dean sets the guitar aside and stands as Castiel also rises. They embrace tightly, Dean straining out a muffled “I missed you––so much” into Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel doesn’t say anything but squeezes Dean impossibly tighter.

After a moment, Dean pulls back slightly and looks into Castiel’s eyes. Tentatively, he places his hand on Castiel’s cheek. Castiel’s eyes sort of melt under the scrutiny.

“Can I just––” Dean whispers and closes his eyes as he delicately touches his lips to Castiel’s. 

And there, in this joining of lips, Castiel proves to Dean what he suspected. He’s holding back, only taking from Dean what Dean is offering. He’s waiting for his righteous man to take that step. And Dean couldn’t be more grateful.

Dean slowly ends the kiss and opens his eyes. “I think I can make you happy, truly happy, if you let me. Happy in the having. Not just in saying it. If…if you give me a little time to figure that part out,” he says, sheepish.

“Dean, I’m already happy, here with you. That’s all I need.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if that’s true. You almost had me fooled, angel. But I do think you do like it dirty…and beneath you,” Dean leers, and kisses him again, this time with a little more force and movement. Dean puts his hands in Castiel’s hair and holds him there as he breaks the kiss and touches their foreheads together. Castiel, for his part, is gasping a little.

“I think I’m gonna like this exploring thing,” Dean chuckles. “Just call me fuckin’ Magellan.” He dives back in.

And if Sam and Jack walk in five minutes later and immediately turn tail to the kitchen to look for some eye bleach, well, that’s none of Dean’s business.

Chapter Text

Day 1,100

After three years and five days, Castiel and Dean are back in the dungeon. This time, they have Sam and Jack with them, painting symbols on every available surface. But it was still a heavy weight on Dean’s heart when they pushed back the bookcases and stepped inside to the spot where he lost Cas. Again.

Dean feels a warm hand slip into his and give a squeeze. He looked over at Castiel and gave a wan smile.

“Don’t go getting any self-sacrificial ideas just cause we’re in this room, Cas,” Dean murmurs. 

“Of course not, Dean,” Cas says seriously. Even though Dean tried to play it off as a joke, he means it. And he’s glad that Cas knows that. Knows him. Castiel understands that Dean is trying his damnedest to figure out just where they “fit” in terms of their relationship––their profound bond. After they kissed a little in the library, Dean cooked a delicious meal of comfort food and all four of them stuffed themselves to the gills. Cas actually ate his fill, too. He thinks he’s more human than angel at this point, which Dean really likes the thought of. He still didn’t want to sleep, but Dean suspects that was more about just coming from The Empty than inability to sleep. It did make it a little easier to not have to think about if and when Dean wanted to sleep with Cas. Or even “sleep with” Cas, which is a whole other enchilada in terms of Dean coming to terms with himself and what he wants in life. Let’s just get through the day, Winchester. 

“Okay,” Sam huffs, stepping back and peering at the walls. “Tulpa symbols out the wazoo, plus some Celtic strengthening symbols AND it’s all sealed with some hoodoo to give it some extra oomf.”

“Damn fine job, Sammy,” Dean says, slapping Sam on the back. “You too, Jack” he adds quickly when he sees the boy beaming at him. “So what’s the plan?”

“The plan is to not only summon Chuck but summon him in a weakened form. And if you can add a layer of ‘you can’t leave this room’ to your beliefs, then all the better. We are using the power of the tulpa symbol to make him a less formidable foe.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Dean says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s all think all that crap and get this going.”

“Sam, do you have it written down somewhere so we can all concentrate on exactly the same thing?” Cas asks. “I want to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“Sure thing,” Sam says and pulls some cards from his back pocket and passes them around. “Cas, I know that you are skeptical about this plan, but it will only work if you actually believe it. We all have to believe it. Deep down. I promise you this is our shot to defeat Chuck. He is not God. But if you think he is, even a little bit, this might not work.”

Castiel gives Sam a beleaguered look. “I will try my best. Your logic is very well thought out. It’s just difficult for me to not have doubts.” Truthfully, Dean has doubts, too. He tries like hell to shove them down.

“I know,” Sam says. “Just try your best. Everyone, do your best to really believe this. It’s our only shot.”

They all concentrate on the words. Jack runs his fingers along the words on the card, his lips moving silently, brow furrowed. Dean smiles. I love that kid.

“Well well well, what do we have here?” A shorter man with graying hair and sparkling blue eyes is suddenly standing in the middle of the dungeon floor. He looks like crap, really, his clothes are much more disheveled than Dean last saw him. He’s still wearing that cranberry blazer, but it’s got what looks like a mustard stain on the lapel.

“Chuck.” Dean spits out as he tucks the card into his back pocket and puts a hand on the gun in his waistband out of habit.

“Dean. Sam. Jack.” The last name Chuck has gritted out through his teeth, still not excited to see a being so powerful. He squints at the form over Dean’s shoulder.

“And is that Castiel? I thought you bit the big Empty?”

“Maybe your stories have some plot holes in them after all, Chuck,” Cas growls.

“Nah, last I was here, Dean was begging for me to bring you back,” Chuck crows. “Yelled your name so loud I’m pretty sure people down the block could hear him––oh. Well, if there were people on Earth anymore.” Chuck looks at them smugly. Cas gives Dean a furtive glance and Dean can feel his ears reddening. “Speaking of, how goes the isolation, guys? Did you bring me here just to show off that you managed a way to yank Cas out of the great void?”

“He was a test,” Sam spits out, staring daggers. “We needed to make sure the tulpa symbols worked. And since you are looking at 100% of the entire world’s brain power, it’s a pretty powerful force.”

Chuck laughs derisively and looks at the walls and starts to slow clap. “Oh, good for you, you figured out the power of the Tulpa. I thought you figured that out back at Hell House.”

“Yes,” Jack says, taking a step forward. “And we’re going to use it to defeat you.”

“Defeat me? ” Chuck laughs. “Sure! You can grab Castiel out of The Empty or summon a cheeseburger, but you know deep down that you cannot use something so––so pedestrian to defeat God. No matter what you wrote on your little cards. The problem is, you have to really believe it. I am almighty and you can’t just forget that.”

“No, Chuck.” Sam says smugly. “You aren’t.”

“Yeah, I think I am. It’s in the name. The Almighty.” Chuck sneers.

“Except that you aren’t God at all.” Sam announces.

“What do you mean?” Chuck goes for cockiness but there’s a twitchy tell behind his eyes.

“We know what you are, Chuck,” Dean says, smoothly, pulling his nickel plated pistol from his waistband and training it on Chuck. “And you aren’t all that powerful. At least not in our minds.”

“Fellas, I don’t know what kind of musty book you found deep in the bowels of this bunker, but it lied to you. And you know it! You know it deep down!”

“No,” Sam says. “No. We know what you are. You are the man of lawlessness. The son of destruction. You oppose and exalt yourself against every so-called god or object of worship, so that you take his seat in the temple of God, proclaiming yourself to be God.”

“It’s a good theory, I’ll give you that.” Chuck laughs, definitely nervously this time. “I mean, come on! You’ve seen my power! I don’t think you all actually believe I’m not God.”

And with that, any doubt that Dean may have had about this plan vanishes. He’s played enough poker against a chump trying to bluff his pair of 7’s into a full house to realize when he’s about to take the pot. Beside him, Castiel’s stance goes more rigid and Dean knows his doubt has been punctured as well.

“Oh, we believe it,” Sam spits out. “And what’s more, we believe that you are going to sit down.” Once Sam says it and the rest of the team have time to think it, Chuck immediately walks quietly over to the chair in the middle of the dungeon and sits, looking scared.

“Guys, you don’t know who you’re messing with!” Chuck starts.

“We know exactly who we are dealing with,” Sam says, shutting him down. “You are the antichrist. And we control you.”

Chuck looks well and truly scared now. Sam looks triumphant but also at a loss of what to do next. He sideeyes Dean.

Dean moves closer to Sam while Castiel and Jack join them. 

“So…what now?” Dean asks. “Honestly I didn’t think we’d get this far.”

“Dean!” Sam huffs. “That’s the entire point! You have to think it will work or it won’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Dean gruffs. “I’m doing my best here, okay. Making him sit was pretty cool though. Think we can teach him any other tricks? Oooh, maybe he can be our butler.” Dean grins. “I just have to think about needing and beer and *poof* there he is with one.”

“Let’s just focus on getting him out of here,” Sam says, not in the mood.

They look over at Chuck who is fidgeting nervously and talking to himself.

“I knew I shouldn’t have used that in Hell House!” he grumbles. “It’s just such a pretty symbol. And to think, I wasted it on the Ghostfacers storyline.”

Sam breaks up their little meeting and approaches Chuck.

“This is the mark of the beast, isn’t it?” Sam says, gesturing to the Tulpa symbol. Chuck looks around, nervously.

“No!” He shouts. “Why would you think that?”

“I was wondering what the mark of the beast was. The bible says it’s 666. But look at this symbol. I see at least two 6’s in it.”

“Look, I wasn’t getting a book deal with that symbol!” Chuck stammers. “My publisher insisted! Back in that time, anything with actual 666 would have sent the Christian right into a tailspin and I would have been boycotted! So, I had to change the look, just a little, not enough to interfere much. I really just took the curl off the bottom.”

“So how long have you been pretending to be my father?” Castiel demands.

“Castiel, what Daddy issues you have! Are you afraid you’ve never known your dad?” Chuck laughs. “Don’t worry! It hasn’t been that long. Y2K was fascinating to me and I thought I’d come and mix it up a bit. See if I could get in before the Silicon Valley bubble burst. The internet was too tempting of a playground. But then I got into writing and I just couldn’t stop.”

“Alright, I’m tired of this,” Dean growls. “Can we just skip to the good part where we get rid of him once and for all?”

“I’m game,” Sam sneers.

“Is this where you kill me?” Chuck asks, eyes dancing. “Are you actually going to believe in an ending where I lose? After everything I’ve done to you, every power I’ve proven? To die at the hands of Sam Winchester. Of Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer. It’s kind of glorious to think about but I don’t think you could actually believe it.”

“Sorry, Chuck.” Dean says with pity in his voice.

“What? What?”

“See, that’s not what we believe.” Dean says.

“We believe that you are just like us and all the other humans you took off this earth.” Sam continues.

“We believe that you are going to grow old, get sick, and just die.”

“And no one cares. You are going to walk out of this bunker with no powers and go live out the rest of your sad life far away from us or anyone who we love.”

“Guys, guys! Wait!” Chuck starts. “You can’t do that!”

“No one remembers you. You are just forgotten.” Sam says, delivering the final blow. “That’s what we believe.”

As if compelled, Chuck stands and walks towards the door, the entire time pleading. “Guys! No, wait! Guys, wait, please wait!”

They all stand still, not even hearing him. When the last cries of “wait!” die off with the slamming of the bunker door, they shake out of their trance.

“We did it.” Sam says. “We did it!”

“You did a damned fine job, Sammy!” Dean claps him on the back. “You too, Jack!” he says to his beaming kid. He turns to Cas just as Cas goes to embrace him.

“Are we really free?” Cas asks into his shoulder.

“Seems like it, sweetheart,” Dean says, pulling back to smile at him. He’s gorgeous. Like the serenity of when he was sacrificing himself for Dean without the grief.

Castiel gives Dean a delicate kiss, their lips touching ever so softly, with the promise of more.

Sam clears his throat. “Before you all go to, um, celebrate, we need to believe that everyone is back on the earth.”

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off of Castiel when he says to Sam, “Yeah, Sammy, we believe all that crap.” Tilting their foreheads together, Dean’s nose grazes against Castiel’s, and he kisses him, soft and slow. The weight of Chuck has been lifted and Dean feels freer than he has in a long time. Not enough to say what he wishes he could say, but… enough for something.

Sam’s phone starts chirping and he has a FaceTime call. It’s Eileen.

“Sam?” She says when he answers. “Sam, where’s my car?”

Day 1,518

Castiel pads towards the kitchen in Dean’s robe to make some coffee. It was a long night. Last night they hosted all of their friends and family in a New Year’s Eve party in the bunker, watching the ball drop on Dean’s big screen television in the “Dean Cave.” And then Dean and Castiel celebrated a full year of living free and together in their own way. In a way that Dean is getting more and more eager to do. It took a little while for him to come to terms with what form he wanted his relationship with Castiel to take, which Cas was more than willing to wait for. 

Happiness truly is in the having. And the giving. Aaaand the receiving.

Castiel chuckles to himself, filing the joke away to tell Dean later as he enters the kitchen. Dean is face-planted into a notebook, drooling on the pages. His guitar is knocked over, leaning precariously on the wall next to the bench. Castiel rights it, and it makes a hollow, echoey thump as he sets it up properly. That rouses Dean and he snarfs awake.

“Mornin’,” Dean says, stretching, revealing a strip of skin above the waistband of his pajama pants.

“Did you sleep in a bed at all last night?” Castiel asks, giving him a kiss on the forehead en route to the coffee maker.

“Eh, I couldn’t get this tune out of my head,” Dean says dismissively. “I had to finish it.”

“And did you?” Castiel asks. “Finish it?”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, looking over the page. “Yeah I think I did.”

“Well I’d love to hear it. I love all of your songs, especially that last one. Let Me Be? You’re really progressing as a songwriter.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dean looks down sheepishly. “Tell you what, grab us some coffee and meet me in the garden and I’ll play you my new song.”

“What a great start to the new year,” Castiel says serenely as he grabs some mugs and sets out a tray.

He prepares the coffees and takes the tray up to the conservatory on the upper floor of the bunker. The only exposed area, the conservatory is just a giant structure with windows everywhere, perfect for Castiel’s plants. He’s also got some comfortable chairs to sit in and just enjoy the ambiance of the space. Now that he’s mostly human and mostly out of mortal peril, taking the time to enjoy ambiance is something he prioritizes.

Dean reaches the top of the stairs with his guitar and smiles as Cas gestures for the chair nearest him. Dean goes for the coffee first, because of course he does, and hums at the first swallow.

“Okay, so this is called ‘All Our Own’ and I wrote it in the middle of the night, so it might be total crap,” Dean deflects, strumming his guitar.

Castiel frowns at his typical self deprication. “Of course it’s not crap, Dean. I’m sure I’ll love it as much as I love you.”

Dean smiles softly. “I love you too, sweetheart. And I’m so glad I get another year with you.”

Dean leans over the top of his guitar to give Castiel a sweet kiss.

“Here goes nothin’.”

Listened to yesterday

Long before the way it has become

And it all came down to you

I don't really know the way

It played out stranger than it seemed

But what went down came true

Like an all day dream

I don't want to be the one to say it's wrong

When the heavens open and a new day comes along

I know I would rather be together alone

In a big top circle and a world we can call our own

It's all our own

In a world we can call our own

You'll find shelter darlin'

Where I'll always promise to

Never let it be

I don't want to be the one to say it's wrong

When the heavens open and a new day comes along

I know I would rather be together alone

In a big top circle and a world we can call our own

Yeah it's all our own

THE END