Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Yes,” said Jack. “Yes. I can do that for you.”

“Please, Jack. Just think about it. I…wait - yes?”

“Yes.” Jack smiled. He crossed his arms, the sleeves of his gleaming white God-suit wrinkling. “I can do that for you, Dean. You deserve it. And so does he, of course.”

Dean pulled out a chair and sat down, his legs shaky. The polished surface of the heavy wooden table reflected the vague splotch of colour that was his face. Another patch of colour merged with it, as Dean scrubbed a hand from his hairline down to his jaw and rubbed at the stubble.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. I just didn’t think you could. The Empty…” He swallowed and his jaw ached as his teeth clamped tight together. Deep breath, Winchester. “The Empty took him. Cas- Cas wasn’t coming back from that. Ever.”

“I can bring him back.” Jack was so sure, his voice still so open and innocent, even though he wasn’t the innocent pseudo-child he’d been. Then he frowned and his eyes drifted up the metal stairway that led to the bunker entrance. “I think he might need help, though. He’s been through a lot.” Jack gave a little nod. “Yes. That’s a good idea.” He beamed at Dean and then he disappeared.

“What? Jack? What’s a good idea?” Dean let his head fall forward into his hands. “Fuck.”

Could Jack really get Cas back from the Empty? Was it really that easy?

Dean’s breath hitched and his hands trembled. He closed his eyes and made his chest move slower, squeezing his fists into tight balls, then releasing. The tremors eased a bit, though his breath still felt forced. But if you had enough panic attacks, it got so you recognised the signs, and you could hold off some of them - sometimes.

A grinding creak told Dean that Sam was back. He should oil that door.

Sam tap-tapped down the metal staircase.

“Dean? Are you okay?”

Dean ground his teeth, snapping sarcasm rising up inside him, ready to lash out, whip-sharp. He forced out a slow breath between tight lips. “Yeah. I’m fine. So…” He rubbed his gritty eyes, fingers pulling at the puffy skin. How long had it been since he’d slept?

“What?” His brother dumped a shopping bag on the table, pulled out a chair and sprawled into it. “What’s up, Dean?”

“Jack was here.”

“Oh. Sorry I missed him.”

“He wasn’t here long. He said…” Dean cleared his suddenly aching throat. “He said he can get Cas back.”

Sam’s sprawl transformed into tense alertness. “Did he? Wow. That’s… that’s… wow. Really?”

“‘ts what he said.”

“Wow,” repeated Sam. He’d had a college-level vocabulary once. Which just showed what hunting did for you. “Did he say when?”

“Uh-uh.” Dean scrubbed a hand over his face again, which did nothing to make him feel more alert. Coffee. He needed coffee. Even though his mouth was stale with the taste of it already and he’d gone past the jittery stage who knew how long ago. “I dunno.”

“Well. Okay, then. We’ll just wait and see.” The shopping bag rustled as Sam gathered up the handles. “Uh, I’m gonna make some lunch. You want some?”

Dean’s stomach shifted uneasily. He couldn’t tell whether he was starving or ready to puke or both.

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” said Sam. His footsteps disappeared kitchenwards.

Dean stared at his own blurred reflection, then his fingers drifted over the shiny surface until they encountered rough grooves. He traced the path of the carved letters without looking at them until he found the angular shapes he was searching for, and let his fingers follow their lines over and over, again and again.

He’d traced the letters of the angel’s name so many times over the past few weeks - was it months? - as he prayed to Jack, to Cas himself, to anyone who’d listen. Would he have made a deal if a demon had appeared, offering to get Cas back? Yes. He would. In a heartbeat - less than a heartbeat and with no thought to the consequences.

But at last, Jack had answered. He’d answered Dean’s prayer and he’d said yes.

He’d said yes.

Cas. His name had been constantly in Dean’s mind, on his lips, stuck like a sharp rock in his throat since the Empty had come for him; since the thick, black, tentacled ooze had crawled its way into this dimension and had swallowed Cas up and taken him away.

Cas. Dean had sobbed the angel’s name, his head buried under his pillow, or rasped it into his bent up knees, or a couple of times he’d locked himself into the dungeon and yelled it until his throat was angry and raw.

And an equal number of times he’d said what he should have said, what he would have said if he’d had just a couple more minutes, just a couple more seconds.

I love you too. I love you, Cas. I love you.

And now Cas was coming back. Jack said he could do it.

A surge of burning, aching desperation rose in Dean’s chest and nearly burst out of his throat. What would it sound like if he let it go? Probably like an animal in pain. It would bring Sam running anyway, and he didn’t want that. He’d had enough of Sam’s soft enquiries and even softer looks since Cas was taken.

But maybe, just maybe, deep inside Dean, hope was flickering to life. Maybe he could let himself begin to believe - just a tiny spark - that it really would happen, that soon his angel would be back and Dean could tell him. He could tell Cas what he hadn’t got the chance to say.

He swallowed down the throbbing ache in his chest, pushing the emotion away. But he couldn’t stop the tears which blurred his eyes.

Dean let his head fall onto the table, not caring when it made a dull thud on the sturdy wood. His breath fogged the polished surface - fogged and cleared, fogged and cleared. He should follow Sam to the kitchen. He should go and eat whatever Sam had made. He should start taking care of himself again, if Cas was coming back. If Cas was really coming back.

Jack had sounded confident. But Jack had been confident before and things had gone wrong.

Dean’s breath huffed in a long stream, fogging up a big expanse, like a lake stretching away from his eyes at shore level.

He’d just wait here then. Until something happened. Until Jack brought Cas back. Or he didn’t.

“Dean.”

“Huh, yeah, what? Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I’ll come eat now.” Jeez, his face was stuck to the table.

“Dean, I did it.” It was Jack’s voice. Jack.

“What?” Dean sat up, rubbing his face, blinking. “Jack?”

“I did it. I’m back.”

Sleep cleared away. Dean focussed on the figure in front of him - Jack, carrying a large bundle of something.

“You did it?”

What the hell? He was definitely awake, but his brain didn’t want to catch up. He should really have eaten.

“I did it. But I thought - he needs some time. Some time to heal. So I’ve given him that time. See?”

Dean pushed back his chair, its whining scrape hurting his ears. He stood up, swayed, got his balance, rubbed his eyes again, blinked and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Jack spoke to the bundle in his arms. “Look, Dean’s here. You remember Dean, don’t you?”

The bundle had feet. Small, bare feet with pink toes that wiggled. Then the whole package changed shape and a tangle of dark hair emerged from the crumpled tan cloth.

“Come out and say hello.” Jack’s arms shifted, adjusting his grip and suddenly, with a snap, two black, shiny, somethings shot out from either side of the cloth wrapping. Jack looked up at Dean, his mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “He’ll learn to control that. It’s because he’s so little.”

Wings. They were wings. Little black, shiny wings.

“Is that?” He cleared his throat. “Is that Cas?”

“Yes,” smiled Jack. “I thought this was the best way for him to heal. To have a kind of vacation.” He smiled at the little boy - little angel - curled up in his arms. “He can play and have fun!”

“Uh…” Dean rubbed his forehead, his thoughts losing their race toward understanding. One thought made it to the finish line. “Isn’t that going to be a problem? Like… if he doesn’t get candy, won’t he, like, smite everything?”

“Oh. Oh no. He’s just a cherub. That is, he has very limited power. It’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

Dean took a step closer.

Jack smiled. “Take him.”

The little wings had sagged. One of them flapped and twitched and then fell limp again. And then they both disappeared.

“Bye bye wings,” said Jack to the tiny Cas. “He’ll learn to control that soon. Take him, Dean.”

Dean found himself with two arms full of little boy. Little angel. He was wrapped in Cas’s trenchcoat. And he looked up at Dean with clear blue eyes. And he smiled.

“Dean! Heyo, Dean!”

All of the circuits in Dean’s brain shorted out completely.

“Cas?” The small, happy face dissolved into a watery blur. Dean’s throat closed up and he felt his face crumple, as a loud, messy sob burst out, ripping through the silence of the Bunker. “Cas.”

His chest heaved. His eyes streamed. His nose streamed. He couldn’t stop. And the kid was heavy. Cas was heavy, so that Dean’s arms ached, but he held on tight, hitching up the small figure and holding him as close as he could, wrapping his arms around and rocking him and kissing him and sobbing. And he wasn’t even embarrassed at the noises he was making. He just didn’t care.

“Dean?” Sammy’s voice, worried and urgent. “Jack? What? Jack, is that…?”

“Yes, it’s Cas. I brought him back. He’s a kid at the moment. Just for a while.”

“He’s a… Right. Okay, then.”

“It’s just temporary. So that he can play. And have fun. And get better.”

Dean’s whole body shook. He still couldn’t stop. There was a hand on his shoulder and something pushing behind his knees.

“Dean, sit.”

He sat. And he held Cas on his lap and Cas’s little arms were around his neck, squeezing hard enough to strangle him, a little bony shoulder pressing into his throat.

Cas was back.

“He looks about… what, four?”

Cas was sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by pots and cooking utensils. One of Sam’s old t-shirts hung off his narrow shoulders and pooled over his legs, leaving his chubby little feet sticking out. He was stirring a pot with a large wooden spoon, occasionally muttering, “Needs a lickle somefing,” which was what Dean said all the time when he was cooking.

Dean watched, slowly chewing his sandwich - peanut butter and jelly and ham and lettuce, a combination he’d discovered by accident, when his and Sam’s sandwiches got swapped around one day, mid-production. He liked it. Even the lettuce. And he wasn’t going to let the fact that it sounded like a sandwich created in hell put him off. Anyway, there weren’t sandwiches in hell. That was part of what made it hell.

“Dean? What do you think?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders and made an ‘I dunno’ sound through his sandwich. Although, he thought Cas looked a bit younger than that - around three maybe. Dean remembered Sam at three. He remembered Sam at any given age. He could have written a book on Sam development.

“Jack didn’t say how long he’d be like this.”

Dean shrugged again.

Sam tapped one finger on the edge of the table, like he was missing his laptop. “He looks like he’s having fun, anyway.”

Cas lifted a wooden spoon to his lips and frowned. “Lickle somefing,” he said again, and upended an empty jug over his pot.

“So… what do we do?”

Dean swallowed his last mouthful of sandwich. It squirmed uneasily in his stomach, which wasn’t used to anything much in the way of solid food. He’d existed on a diet of coffee and whisky and the occasional slice of pizza - only when Sam had forced him - for the last… well, since Cas had been taken.

“Do?”

“With Cas.” Sam ran a hand through his floppy hair, forcing it back off his face. “Things have been pretty busy here.”

“Have they?”

“Well, yes. I’ve hardly been off the phone, Dean. ‘Sam, I’ve cut off its head, but it just keeps coming.’ Or ‘What’s the best brand of salt to pack in shell casings?’ Or ‘A cop wants to speak to my FBI supervisor.’ Now I know why Bobby was always pissed. Because you barely get a minute to breathe.”

Sam’s pocket vibrated and he pulled out his cell. He pressed the answer button and it squawked at him straight away. “I said brass,” said Sam. “Not bronze, brass. No. It’s not the sharpness that counts. It just has to be brass. Okay.” The squawking stopped and he rolled his eyes at the cell before slipping it back into his pocket. “See what I mean?”

“I should’ve been helping. I’m sorry.”

“You were grieving, Dean.”

Dean dabbed his finger on the crumbs on his plate, picking them up, one by one. Grieving. Such a short word for the weight he’d been crushed by. Did he feel light now? He wasn’t sure what he felt. He glanced at the happy little Cas. Relieved, yes. But was Dean happy? Not yet. He would be. It’d take a while to adjust, especially while Cas was a three-year-old. For now, though, confused was at least better than grief-stricken.

Cas picked up a pot lid and tapped it experimentally with his wooden spoon.

“We could ask Eileen if she’d take him. Or maybe one of the girls. Patience might be good with kids. What do you think Dean?”

Cas smiled and hit the lid harder, like a drummer with a cymbal. Clang. The little boy/angel/cherub laughed.

“Dean?”

“What?” Dean’s mixed-up brain rewound and played Sam’s words again. Take him? “No! No, Sammy. No.”

“Why not? Someone has to look after him and running this place is a full time job - two full time jobs and I was really hoping you could pick up the slack now, Dean.”

“No!” If Dean had a gun in his hand right now, he’d be shooting. Not Sam - never his brother. But the ceiling would be suffering. “I’m looking after him. I’m doing it. No one’s taking him away, Sammy. No one. You hear me?” Dean pushed away from the table, stumbling over the slew of kitchen equipment. He sat down clumsily next to Cas and drew the little boy into his lap. “You hear me, Sammy? No one’s taking him away. Ever.”

“Oh. Well. I guess I could get someone to help out here.”

Dean held Cas tight and Cas squirmed around and stretched his little arms around Dean’s neck.

“Heyo, Dean!”

“Hey, there, little buddy.” He glared at Sam. “Yeah. You do that.”

He expected a glare back from Sam. Or an extra bitchy bitch-face. But his brother’s features had melted into some kind of soft, hazy melty thing. What the hell?

“So, what are you two going to do?” Sam asked, and his voice was kinda soft and melty too.

Dean shifted awkwardly, because his ass wasn’t designed for sitting on hard kitchen floors and there was something digging into his thigh - maybe a pot handle or a wooden spoon. He looked down at the mess of dark hair tucked beneath his chin. It moved, and there was that little face - Cas’s blue eyes above a weird little button nose, above lips which were like Cas’s but really tiny and much smilier than Dean had ever seen them. Jack was right. This was just what the angel needed - beaten down by millenia of fighting and hurting and smiting, worn down by grief and anger and by caring and loving when he didn’t think he’d ever get either of those things given back to him.

Now he would get them back. Now he’d be cared-for and loved and looked after as much as he needed and more. Dean would make sure of that. He smiled down at the boy in his lap, the kid who was Cas-but-not-Cas. Weird little bubbles popped up in Dean’s chest - feelings he didn’t even recognise because he hadn’t felt them in such a long, long time. But he was reminded of early-teens Sammy and laughter and fireworks.

“What are you and Cas going to do?” Sam asked again.

Dean looked up, decision made. “We, Sammy, are going to the beach.”

It has been a long time since Dean had bought kid's clothes. And back then, he'd either stolen them from Target or another large store, preferably badly managed so the security guys were slack, or he'd gone to thrift stores. Sometimes he'd stolen from the thrift stores, if money was really tight.

He wouldn’t have been able to get away with lifting stuff today, that was for sure. He was drawing way too much attention, with Cas trailing along, clinging to his hand. Cas clearly didn't like big stores. But it was his outfit that was really drawing stares and mutters of disapproval - Sam's old tee, belted at the waist with a bit of string, Dean's socks - the ones decorated with slices of pizza - coming all the way up his little legs. And that was pretty much it - no shoes, no pants.

A woman tutted at him as she pushed her cart past, flanked by two perfectly-dressed little girls. “Shameful!” she muttered.

No witty put-down springing to his lips, Dean simply snarled and let a protective growl escape. Cas looked up and copied. His little puppyish growl was real cute.

The woman tutted again and moved on.

Dean hurled multi packs of underwear and socks into the cart, followed by t-shirts and sweatshirts, jeans and shorts, sneakers, sandals and - in case of wet beach days - welly boots. Then there was sunscreen, swim trunks, little pairs of shades - should he get bug repellent? Yes. And a whole load of other shit that seemed like it might be useful.

Then he took Cas into the changing rooms and wrestled with stupid plastic tags, until he had a complete outfit, which he wrestled Cas into.

“Don’t want cloves, Dean!”

“You gotta have clothes. You don't want me getting arrested do you? For not looking after you properly?”

Cas's little-boy frown was every bit as threatening as his adult glower. “Don’t want you ‘rested, Dean. I smite them if they try!” He accompanied this statement with a swinging punch, his two little wings flung out, shiny and sharp-edged, and he spun around completely with his own momentum and fell against Dean’s legs.

Dean set him upright and crouched down, meeting the angry boy's eyes. “Cas, buddy - nobody needs to be smited… smote… whatever. I'm gonna look after you and we're gonna have lots of fun together.”

“Course you'll look after me, Dean. You allus look after me.”

Dean’s eyes fell, to the tips of Cas's gleaming white sneakers, beneath the bunched up legs of his just-a-little-bit-long jeans. “I don’t always,” he said. His throat closed up.

Back in the bunker, in the dungeon, Cas's stubbly, exhausted face had crumpled, his eyes had filled with tears. I love you, Dean. Then the Empty had taken him and there was nothing Dean could do.

Two small arms slid around his neck and squeezed while moisture seeped between his cheek and Cas's - the little boy's tears or his own?

“I wuv you, Dean.”

Dean's breath hitched. “I love you too, Cas, little buddy.”

He'd said it. He’d said it back. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the way he would have said it back in the dungeon. Now, it was both a soft, all-encompassing love, and a kick-ass-and-take-names, fierce love. But it was love for a child, not for the man Cas had been, and would be again, according to Jack.

Dean pressed a kiss in between the messy locks of Cas's bangs. “C'mon, little guy. Let's go pay, then we can get out of here. Oh.” He turned Cas around, but the wings had gone and his stripey tee was intact. “I guess your wings are what - in another dimension or something?”

Cas nodded wildly. “Nuvver dension,” he agreed. “They gone back now.”

“Bye bye, wings,” said Dean.

“Bye bye, wings ” Cas repeated.

Dean dumped the tangled clothes back in the cart and picked up the ripped-off tags. The checkout worker wouldn't be happy with him. He didn’t give a fuck.

“Wed,” said little Cas. “Nuvver wed car, Dean.”

Dean glanced in the rear view mirror. “Yeah? How many's that?”

In the mirror, Cas solemnly studied his fingers and his lips moved, counting slowly. “Fwee. Fwee wed.” He looked at his other hand, chubby fingers waggling. “Two black. Fwee wed, two black.” His face fell. “No lellow,” he added, sadly.

“No yellow cars?”

Cas shook his head. “Lellow's my best colour.”

“Not black?” Dean slowed into a bend, eyes steady on the road.

“Lellow black stwipes!” yelled Cas. “Bzzzzz!”

Little hands flew around his head, arms straining up against the straps of his car seat. He hadn’t wanted to be fastened in it and Dean had had to talk very fast about what they’d do at the seaside to distract him. Jack had said it wouldn’t be a problem, if tiny-Cas had a tantrum. Dean wasn’t sure he believed that.

He flexed his fingers and curled them more tightly around Baby’s steering wheel.

Last night he'd drunk a bottle of Jack down to its dregs. Then his clumsy hands had knocked it over and it had rolled off the table and shattered, diamonds covering the kitchen floor. And the diamonds had twinkled and jumped when the tears brimmed in his eyes, because Dean was shattered like the bottle.

But now he was driving, with Cas in the back where he’d sat so many times before. The sun hadn't even set on another day and Cas was here, with Dean. Dean had been sunk in grief for Cas who was lost, but now he was found. So there was no need for grief now. That was over.

Dean was happy. He lifted the corners of his mouth to prove it.

The sun flickered weakly through a line of trees. Dean squinted and blinked at the long strip of grey stretching ahead of him, barred by long shadows. He’d been driving a while. They’d stopped for gas once, for a bathroom break twice - no, three times. They hadn’t stopped to eat because Dean wanted to get a good long stretch of their journey done. So Cas had eaten the sandwiches that Dean had made for him back at the Bunker - tiny cheese-spread triangles with the crusts cut off - and Dean had picked at pork rinds, liquorice snakes and marshmallows by the large handful so that his cheeks bulged, which make Cas laugh.

“Dean.”

The light was definitely going. Should he drive on through the night?

“Deeeeeen!”

He flicked the headlights on. They could keep going for a bit.

“Deeeeen! Wanna get out! Deeeeeen!”

“What’s up, buddy?” In the mirror, small limbs flailed against the harness. One arm wriggled beneath a strap and suddenly little-Cas was hanging half out of his seat.

“Out, Dean. Let me out!”

“We’ll stop at the next motel, Cas. Put your arm back in.”

“No. I want to get out now, Dean! Angels don’t want to be in cars for a long, long time!”

Dean took his foot off the gas and let the rise in the road slow Baby’s speed. “Cas, there’s nowhere to stop here. Look, it’s all just trees and fields. Sit back in your seat. Why don’t you eat your candy now?” He’d got Cas a giant pack of Pop Rocks from the last Gas ’n’ Sip they’d stopped at, thinking that they might make him laugh even if they got spilled all over Baby’s back seat. It wasn’t as if Baby hadn’t had to put up with that kind of thing before, back when he and Sam used to spend long hours cooped up back there.

“No! No more long, long, long time in car!”

He had both arms free now and was flapping back and forward in his seat.

“Outside! Outside and play wiv the faiwies, Dean!”

“There aren’t any fairies here, Cas. Put your arms back in the straps or I’ll have to stop.”

“I want you to stop! And there are! There are faiwies! Faiwies in de twees! Gonna play wiv faiwies!”

Tiny fingers tugged and pulled at the remaining straps and somehow he’d got a knee up and was leaning sideways right out of the seat.

“Cas! Stop that!”

“You stop! You stop, silly Dean! You stop right now!”

The struggling figure lurched and disappeared with a thump.

“Shit.”

Baby’s tires rumbled over the dirt at the side of the road. Dean brought the car to a halt, pulled on the handbrake and twisted around to hang over the back of the bench seat - just in time to see a small hand release the rear door and a small figure slip out into the darkness.

“Cas, no!”

The creak of Baby’s door was loud in the silence of the woodland. Dean lurched out, skidding on the loose gravel. He stood, one hand on the door frame, the other poised, urgently reaching into the darkness.

“Cas!”

The sun had dipped behind a range of low hills and there was no moon. Baby’s lights stretched along the empty highway and glanced off the outermost ranks of tree trunks. But Cas had gone. He’d gone into the woods and Dean couldn’t see him and couldn’t hear him.

He’d lost him. He’d lost Cas.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, no, no, no.”

He dived back into the car, grabbed the flashlight from the glove box and played the beam back and forward over the trees and little scrubby bushes.

“Cas! Cas, come back!”

There was no answer.

Chapter Text

Fairies? Seriously?

Dean hovered over the open trunk, worried eyes twitching around the contents.

Salt. You spilled salt or sugar or something and they had to count the grains - fuck knows why.

He filled his pockets with salt bags, grabbed a sawed-off, half closed the trunk, opened it again and pulled out a silver knife, quickly clipping the sheath to his belt. Sammy had given him the sheath with its clip attachment last birthday, because Sammy knew exactly what to get the hunter who had everything.

The trunk creaked as he slammed it shut. Dean balanced the shotgun between his right hand and the crook of his elbow, his left hand taking charge of the flashlight.

“Cas!”

The trees were still and silent. But Cas, even in his reduced state, was an ancient celestial being and maybe he knew what he was talking about when it came to the little people.

“Okay,” Dean yelled, to anyone who might be listening. “I’m coming in. To get my kid.” And any fairy who wanted to dispute that Cas was his kid could argue the point with the business end of his shotgun.

The trees were packed close, the ground lumpy and rutted with roots and creepers and all kinds of shit that aimed to send you ass over teakettle into the dirt. When Dean's foot caught and sent him flying for the third time, it was third time very unlucky, because a branch got itself between his head and the ground. He heard and felt the thud, bit the inside of his cheek, and as sparks lit his vision, blood filled his mouth. He landed with a splat in sticky mud, smelly wetness seeping through the knees of his jeans and into his boots.

“Fuck!” said Dean.

Someone giggled.

He spat out salty blood and wiped his chin with one muddy hand. Sparks flared as his forehead pounded. Dean blinked and some of the sparks disappeared, but some didn't, dancing and looping around his head in zips and flips and tiny burbles of laughter.

“Quit that!” He tried to bat them away. “Little fuckers.”

The rough bark of a tree trunk steadied him as he pushed himself up to standing. He blinked into the darkness. He’d dropped the flashlight. And the shotgun.

“Shit.”

He felt around on the ground - dirt, rocks, wiry grass, trees. No flashlight. No shotgun.

A zipping light smacked into his cheek. Dean slapped at it, but his own face was the only thing he hit. The lights danced and chortled in whistling chirps that sounded like Baby’s radio when Dean drove through a dead patch.

He leant against the tree, using it as an anchor in the darkness that his eyes couldn’t get used to because of the fucking fairies.

But then they were gone and he was left with pale moonlight, damped down to almost nothing by the cloud cover. He blinked and touched the bump on his forehead, wincing.

He was fucked. No Cas, no flashlight, no shotgun, a bash on the head and, actually, come to think of it, he had no clue which way would take him back to Baby. Not that he’d be going back without Cas.

“C'mon, Dean,” he muttered. “Get your shit together.”

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, opened them again and turned a slow, careful three-sixty, keeping one hand on the tree. A bright streak cut a swift horizontal in the distance - that was the road. It must be. And some other traveller, driving along it, staying on the move and not letting themselves get lost in a freaking forest.

He turned again and looked and listened. A far-off laugh brought Dean’s attention snapping toward the deeps of the woodland. That was no fairy.

“Cas! Cas, stay where you are! I'm coming!”

He plunged forward into the gloom, dark shapes and shadows surrounding him, lurching between pale patches of maybe rock or maybe water, his arms bent up before him to catch the snapping branches.

“Cas!”

Was that an answer? Was Cas calling out?

“Cas! I’m coming!”

“Dean!”

Yes. That was definitely little-Cas’s high-pitched voice. He sounded okay. Not scared. Damn it, even an angel should be scared out here. Fairies didn’t play by the rules - or not by any rules which meant they’d let you go once they’d caught you.

Dean fell, again. He picked himself up and ahead of him there were lights dancing - bright lights, brighter than a few fairies could make. He sped up, leaping and tripping and probably picking up loads of scrapes and bruises, but he didn’t feel anything. The light was getting bigger - glowing golden and warm, and as he got closer there were more colours, like a rainbow planted in the middle of the trees.

Then he burst out into a clearing, and stumbled in shock. Slender figures filled the open space - not tiny little dots of light, but full-size, some as tall as Dean, shimmering with an eerie yellow-green light that came from their skin and their clothes and their wings. They danced in a complex pattern, weaving in and out of each other, perfectly in time, though Dean could hear no music. And there was Cas, dancing and laughing, the eerie light colouring his face. The little fairies or fireflies swirled around him, settling into his hair like a crown and around his wrists like bracelets.

“Cas!”

The little angel paused and waved but was then swept into the dance once more. And Dean found himself slammed against a tree trunk with brutal force, a pale face right up in his, glaring with dark, accusing eyes.

“Dean Winchester! You are not wanted here!”

The arm pinning him was as thin as a boy’s, but as rigid as an iron bar.

“I want my kid.”

“The child is not yours, human. He is not of your kin.”

Dean twisted and struggled but the fairy held him in place without breaking a sweat. Did fairies sweat?

“Get the hell off me!”

The fairy-guy sneered and glanced over his shoulder. “The child Castiel is happy with us. He is forgetting his sorrows.” Then he was in Dean’s face again. “You cannot give him what he needs, human.”

What the hell? This guy was questioning Dean’s parenting skills? Dean kicked out as hard as he could but his feet met no resistance. He snarled and grabbed at the fairy’s long hair, but his hands slid through mist.

The fairy laughed. “We are not of this world, human. You cannot touch us.”

“No?” Dean tried out his most irritating smirk. “But I can give you a nice little project to be getting on with.” He reached into a pocket. He’d scatter the salt and they’d have to count it all up and that would give him time to get Cas and get the hell out of here. But his pocket was empty.

The fairy raised both eyebrows. “Oh, poor little human. Has someone relieved you of your weapons?”

Dean growled his frustration.

“Do you see?” The voice was gentle, all aggression gone. “Do you see how you are no fitting guardian for the little one?”

“Give him back! He needs me. I need him.”

“He doesn’t need you, though, does he? Look.” The fairy shifted to one side. “He will be happy with us. His mind will heal from the dark things that you brought upon him. He doesn’t need you.”

Cas was smiling and laughing, hand-in-hand with the swirling figures. His face was light and bright and happy. He was happy without Dean. He was dancing with the fairies, around and around and around. And maybe Dean could hear music after all, just faintly - some kind of flute and a beat on a tambourine.

“I- I guess not,” said Dean. He shook his head and blinked, and then staggered forward as he was released. And the arm was now supporting him instead of holding him in place. “Uh, thanks.” He shook his head again.

“See how weak you are,” said the wise fairy. “See how I have to support you, even so that you can stand.”

“Uh, yeah. I don’t know…”

“You don’t know many things at all, do you?” The voice was soft and kind. Dean had never met anyone so kind. Kind and beautiful and wise. He wouldn’t lie to Dean, so his words must be true. “Did anyone ever tell you you were clever? No.”

“No,” Dean agreed. “Never the sharpest knife in the block.” His words were slurred and jumbled. He must’ve been drinking. Got himself drunk when he was supposed to be looking after Cas. Stupid old Dean. Never could be trusted.

“Dull and stupid, and eaten up with pain and spikes and anger. Castiel doesn't want you. We don't want you.”

Why had Jack brought Cas to him? He could never be good enough to look after a tiny angel, to help him get over his trauma of being trapped in all that black nothingness. And he’d got Cas killed in the first place, hadn’t he? It must’ve been all his fault that the Empty took Cas, because most things were Dean’s fault, when you thought about it.

“We will take the little angel back to our realm where he will play for eternity.”

Soft, damp moss was beneath his knees, but his jeans were already soaked, so it didn’t matter. He let his hands trail on the ground, fingers pushing into the softness. It was nice. What had he been doing? Nothing important.

A high-pitched giggle rang out. Cas! He’d been looking for Cas. But he was so tired and so stupid and the good fairy said Dean didn’t know shit, except he’d put it nicer than that. He was a good fairy. Like in a pantomime. Little Cas would like to go to a pantomime. But Dean couldn’t take him now. Maybe the fairies would take him.

Cas had been a big, strong angel with great, big wings. He’d blown out all the lights in that barn, where they’d first met. But no, they’d first met in Hell, hadn’t they? And Cas had been made of bright blue and white lightning, and noisy, like standing close to the speakers at a rock concert. Dean’s soul had hurt where the Angel of the Lord had gripped him tight.

Long years later, Cas had gripped him again, just before he disappeared into the black sludge. And he’d said… he’d said something important, hadn’t he? He’d said the most important thing Dean had ever heard in his life.

“Cas loves me,” muttered Dean.

“What?”

Dean looked up at the sharpness of the tone. “Cas loves me,” he said, his head clearing, fog disappearing suddenly as if a gust of warm wind had blown through his mind. He scrambled to his feet, his head throbbing but clearing even more. “Cas loves me and I love him and we’re meant to be together.”

The fairy’s face was no longer kind. “You will not take him from us, human. He is ours now!”

“You wanna bet?” Dean pulled out his silver knife. “How about you let Cas go or I stick you with this? Might not be kryptonite, but I bet it'd sting.”

His words didn't come out as steady as he wanted and the knife trembled before him, but he let his body slide into the familiar stance, legs apart, knees relaxed, knife held as firm as he could - ready to react, ready to kill.

The fairy drew himself up, sneering. “You think your little weapon frightens me? That tiny shard of silver?”

“Well, yeah, I think it might.”

Behind the fairy, the dancing quickened, the unseen pipes shrieked and the beat of the tambourine became a frantic rattle.

Dean feinted one way, double bluffed, swerved again and lunged.

And gasped at the cold bite of the silver as it scored a line across his own chest.

“Motherfucker!” Warm blood ran down, quickly soaking the front of his shirt.

The fairy laughed, cruelly. But in the mix of music and stamping, Cas's little voice broke through, wavering and urgent. “Dean!”

“Cas! Cas, hang on! I'm coming!”

He took a firmer grip on the knife, focussed all his anger on his target, and lunged again.

And again he cried out in pain and shock as another line of fire flared, this time biting into his arm, below his left shoulder.

“See how your tiny human mind is so easily controlled?” The fairy flicked his long, blond hair, unconcerned with Dean’s struggles. “You cannot hurt me.”

Dean’s hand moved of its own accord this time, though he gritted his teeth and strained against it. He groaned as it drew another line of pain just above the waist of his jeans.

“Dean!”

“Cas, I'm trying…” Sweat trickled down his face. “I'm trying, but I can't…”

The little angel's face whirled across the dance, like Cas was stuck on a carousel that was spinning out of control. And further away, a patch of luminous colour had appeared among the trees, arched like a gateway.

“No!” Dean yelled. “No, you're not taking him!”

The fairy began to back away, leaving Dean swaying dizzily, the tip of the knife catching the yellow-green light as it shook. It moved toward him and he couldn’t stop it - slowly, but steadily, toward his throat.

“We will take our little, playful prize and you… you will die.”

“No!” A powerful force pushed his arm toward his throat. The tip of the knife grazed the thin skin. “Cas!” Dean cried, desperately.

Then suddenly a ball of black-winged fury erupted from the swirling dancers. It hurtled toward Dean and the tall fairy was blown out of the way in a flurry of blond hair and gauzy robes. And black feathers were in Dean’s face, flicking the knife out of his slack grip and wrapping around him, along with a pair of small, fierce arms.

“Dean!”

“Cas!”

Dean slumped to the ground, his arms wrapping around his little angel, trembling as if he'd been lifting weights.

But over Dean's shoulder, the dance had stopped. The fallen fairy was glaring from his ignominious heap on the ground, but so were all the others. And there were no more beautiful, smiling faces. Dean faced a wall of hard, narrow eyes, mouths full of sharp teeth and hands raised, with curled, clawed fingers ready to rip him to pieces.

The bundle in his arms flung around, stiff feathers flaring out, and Dean caught a glimpse of blue fire in the little angel's eyes.

“You go ’way now!” he said. “You go ’way right now! I don’t wanna play wiv you! You hurt my Dean!”

The words were no less commanding for the sob as Cas said his name, and Dean held onto his angel with renewed force.

“Get up now, Dean,” whispered Cas. “Cawwy me ’way from nasty faiwies.” One tiny hand patted Dean’s shoulder. “Get up, Dean.”

Dean lurched up with a groan, the cold air striking a chill through the patches of his clothes that were damp with blood. He linked his hands beneath Cas’s little body, making a seat to support him. The fairies snarled.

Dean’s ‘good fairy’ didn’t look quite so friendly now. “You will not leave this forest alive,” he hissed.

Dean backed away. But the fairies followed his move, creeping closer. One little knife against all these guys? He didn’t have a hope. Did Cas have the juice to do something? Something more than flashing his feathers and his little glowy eyes?

“Cas? You got anything here, little buddy?” He took another step back, and the fairies took another step forward, smirking - like cats playing with a couple of mice.

Cas squirmed in his arms, his little hands unlinking from behind Dean’s neck. “You’re not my fwends Any MORE!”

For a second, Dean thought that the ultimate playground insult was all the little angel had, but then there was a tearing sound and Cas was shaking something out onto the ground. The fairies' mouths dropped open and their collective gasp of dismay was like the sweetest music.

“Now you have to count ‘em all up!” Cas declared, his little head nodding in judgement.

“The Pop Rocks!” Dean grinned. “Way to go, Cas!”

The fairies swarmed, climbing over each other to get to the split candy.

“Go, Dean, go!” Cas yelled, his arms back around Dean’s neck.

Dean gripped his angel tight and ran.

His lungs heaved, his arms ached, his head throbbed and the cuts from his own silver knife burned, but Dean kept putting one boot in front of the other. He slipped in mud, splashed in water, lurched over roots and rocks, but his boots kept stomp, stomp, stomping, getting them the hell out of this fucking fairying forest as fast as he could go.

At first Cas had held on tight, and as they went he’d sniffed and pressed his damp face into Dean’s cheek and his tiny little voice had whispered, “I’m sowwy, Dean. I’m sowwy for wunning ’way,” over and over. But then, with the rhythmic lurch of Dean’s body his arms had slackened and he’d become a loose, soft weight, his little head rolling from side to side on Dean’s shoulder.

And when they finally reached the road and the safety of Baby, he’d stayed asleep as Dean had carefully lowered him into the carseat and buckled him securely in. Dean wasn’t sure when Cas’s wings had disappeared, but he was back to looking like a normal three-year-old, tired out from playing. Dean looked down at him. He pushed a lock of dark hair aside, tucking it behind Cas’s ear. His cheeks, streaked with dirt and dried tears, were rounded and soft, his lips pooched out in a tiny little bow.

He was Cas and not Cas. He was a little boy who would run off into the woods with no sense of danger. He was an angel whose wings flared out in anger and whose eyes glowed and sparked with threat.

Dean loved him both ways.

He closed Baby’s door carefully, although Cas probably wouldn’t wake even if he slammed it, and then slid wearily into the driver’s seat, his skin itching with the need to burn up the road, to get away.

In the rearview mirror, Cas twitched, stirred and relaxed back into deep sleep.

Dean loved the little boy, but he ached so hard to be held by the man. His heart hurt with the need for one of adult Cas’s hugs, his strong arms wrapping right around Dean, taking away the fear and the pain, healing his wounds with overflowing grace.

Dean rubbed his eyes, sighing, wincing as he brushed the bump on his forehead. He turned the key, bringing Baby to rumbling life. And if he couldn’t have a hug, at least he could have the crunch of gravel beneath the Impala’s tires and then the skid as he put his foot down just a little too hard and then the steady roar of her engine and the familiarity of the road.

He drove on, into the night, just him and little Cas and Baby, and that would have to be enough.

“I don’t want any trouble, mister.”

For a second, Dean was puzzled. What trouble were they going to cause? Just one man with a flaked-out toddler draped over his shoulder? Then he caught the motel guy’s eyes flicking around, taking in the dirt and the dried blood and Jack knows what else he had stuck to him after crashing through the forest.

“Look, just gimme a room. Please.” Dean squinted tiredly at the name badge. “George.”

George narrowed his eyes. “Don’t got no doubles available.”

“A single’s fine.”

The suspicious look lingered, but then he made a couple of taps on his keyboard, glanced at the computer screen and handed Dean a keycard. “Room eleven.”

Dean carried Cas into the room and laid him down on the queen size bed. He could just lay himself down beside the little angel and go to sleep straight away. But instead he went back out to Baby and got Cas’s stuff and his own stuff. He spent a couple of minutes in the bathroom, carefully avoiding looking at himself in the mirror and washing just his hands for now. He looked longingly at the shower. But he had to sort Cas out first.

He crouched over the big plastic shopping bag of Cas’s stuff, sorting through until he found a set of footie pjs - blue with tiny rocket ships and planets. Then he cast Cas a sidelong glance, just to confirm he hadn’t suddenly turned back into a grown man. No, Cas was still tiny, curled up into a ball fast asleep. And Dean remembered Sammy at that age, how he’d still worn a pull-up at night for ages and that if he didn’t Dean would almost always have to make a trip to the laundry.

So he tore open the package of pull-ups and then, just like he’d done so many times for his little brother, he got the little boy ready for bed without waking him, and then snuggled him up beneath the blankets. And often enough, all those years ago, Dean had shared a bed with little Sammy, which had sometimes been a pain in the ass (literally, because Sammy had kicked quite a bit in his sleep) but had sometimes been the only right thing in Dean’s world - the two of them wrapped up warm and safe together.

He couldn’t get into bed and be warm and safe yet, though. His skin itched with a built-up layer of mud, sweat and blood and his muscles ached with strain and exhaustion.

Dean set the shower running and stripped off his clothes, dropping them in a filthy heap on the bathroom floor. His undershirt stuck to the cuts on his torso and arm and they started to bleed sluggishly when he peeled it painfully away. Then he caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye and his head jerked toward the threat, adrenaline instantly kicking his heart rate up to fight or flight levels.

“Shit.” He sagged against the washbasin. Jumping out of his skin at his own reflection? He really needed a drink.

Tired eyes looked back at him in a gaunt, unshaven face. His hair was caked in dirt, one side of his forehead was swollen and bruised, and there was a dried trickle of blood where the knife had scraped against his throat. Had he picked up the knife? No. Fuck. He’d lost the shotgun too. And the flashlight.

The room was filling with steam. At least the water was hot. Dean got into the shower and hissed at the sting of water in his cuts. Then he relaxed into the stream, resting his head against the tiles. At his feet the water swirled a dirty brown, bits of leaf and twig circling around and around the drain before disappearing. He should soap himself up and rub the dirt away. But his arms sagged down and his head thrummed with the remnants of fear and flight and he stood in the stream until it ran clear.

Then he was out of the shower, towel in hand, his body half wet and half dry and he didn’t even remember getting out. He wanted sleep. Sleep - whether the bed was soft and welcoming or lumpy with springs poking through.

But Dean had grown up pushing himself through exhaustion, doing what needed to be done. He finished drying off. He took a couple of minutes to check each of his wounds. The one on his arm probably should have a couple of stitches but there was no way he was poking a needle through his own skin, not with hands as shaky as his were right now. He dumped the first aid box in the washbasin and, even though he’d showered, he cleaned the cuts again with the extra strong disinfectant/holy water/witchy potion crap that Sammy had brewed up especially for supernatural injuries, because fuck knows what kind of fairy dust and shit had been floating in the air when that bastard had made him cut himself.

It stung like a total, motherfucking bitch.

He stuck a couple of butterfly things over the cut on his arm and covered all three with sticky dressings, letting the peel-off bits fall to the floor.

The cold of the mirror on his forehead woke him up, blinking the fog away.

“Uhh…”

Oh yeah, still naked. He stumbled into the bedroom, sorted out a pair of boxers and pulled them on, getting both legs stuck in one hole and having to start again. Couldn’t be bothered to find a shirt. He’d do as he was.

He peeled back the bedding and at long, long last, crawled into the bed next to Cas. Was it soft? Were there lumpy bits digging into his ribs? Dean didn’t give a shit. His body shut down and his mind followed.

Nothing else would have woken him. Not Sammy yelling in his ear. Not monsters rampaging through the room. Maybe not even a full-on apocalypse.

But Cas was crying. And the sad, watery little noises and whimpers cut into Dean’s exhausted, dreamless sleep like a knife piercing his heart.

“Dark,” whimpered Cas. “Too dark!” He sniffed and hiccuped with a tiny sob.

“Hey.” Dean reached out, his half awake brain clumsy and slow.

Cas twitched and whimpered again. “Want fwends,” he sobbed. “Want Deeeeeean.” His cry rose into a long, desolate wail. “Don’t like it! Don’t like it, Dean!”

Dean’s senses rapidly gathered themselves together. “Hey, Cas. It’s okay. I’m here.” He pulled the little boy into his arms. “I’m here, buddy, it’s all okay now.”

“Dean?” The slivers of neon light coming from between the curtains lit up tear-filled eyes. “Dean!” Cas burrowed into Dean’s chest, burying his face into the hollow of his throat.

Dean’s voice was rough from exhaustion and his eyes were full of grit. “It’s okay, Cas. I’m here.” He felt the dribble of hot tears against his neck as Cas sobbed.

“It was all dark, Dean! I was s’posed to go s’eep, but I didn’t wanna. I didn’t wanna go s’eep all alone in the dark, Dean! I don’t like - I don’t like the daaaaark!” His sobs grew louder. “Don’t like the daaaaark!”

“Okay. Okay, buddy.” Dean rubbed Cas’s back as the little body heaved and shook. “Hey, I’m gonna sit up.”

“Don’t let me go!”

“I won’t. I won’t let you go.” Dean curled one arm firmly around Cas and pulled them both up, gritting his teeth against a groan as his tired muscles ached and his cuts burned. He wouldn’t let on to Cas that he was in pain. He wouldn’t load that on the little boy as well.

“Don’t like the dark, Dean!”

“It’s okay, I’m turning the light on now.” He flicked the switch and the lamp on the nightstand came on, the yellow shade making a friendly glow even in the sparse motel room. “There you go. No more dark.”

Cas sniffed and shuddered, his sobs dying away. Dean leant back against the headboard and carried on stroking Cas’s back and running his fingers through his hair. The little boy began to relax, his grip around Dean’s neck loosening. Then he sat up, patting Dean’s shoulders and his neck and his face as if making sure he was real.

He sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. “Had a nasty dweem.” His lower lip trembled. “Vewy nasty dweem, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know. I know, little buddy. But it’s all gone now.”

Cas shook his head. “It’s not gone. It’s still there.” His face crumpled. “It might come back and take me ’way again.” New tears grew in his eyes and spilled over, running down his cheeks and dripping onto Dean’s chest.

“No! No, it won’t take you again, Cas. Jack won’t let it take you again. You’re safe now.”

Cas’s blue eyes blinked and more tears spilled over and fell.

“You’re safe, Cas. You won’t ever have to go there again. You’re with me now. I won’t let anyone hurt you or take you away ever again.”

“You pwomise?”

“Yeah. Of course I pw- uh, I mean promise.” Dean waggled his pinkie. “I’ll pinkie promise. Because you can’t ever break a pinkie promise. It’s impossible.”

“Weally?”

“Yeah. Here, pinkie promise.” He caught one of Cas’s tiny fingers in his own and linked them together. “I, Dean Winchester, pinkie promise to always look after my angel.”

“I pinkie pwomise too, Dean. I look after you too!”

“There, that’s settled then, isn’t it? Nothing to worry about.”

Cas sniffed and wiped his eyes again, “’kay.” He sagged forward and burrowed into Dean’s chest.

Dean held the little boy. His eyes were heavy. Maybe they could sleep again now.

“Dean!” Cas sat up again suddenly. “You got owie!” He pointed at the dressing on Dean’s chest. “And anuvver!” He found the one on Dean’s arm. “And anuvver!” His wriggling had revealed the edge of the dressing on Dean’s stomach. “Faiwies hurt Dean!”

“Yeah, they did. But it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“No,” said Cas. His lower lip stuck out. “Not okay. Not okay for Dean to be hurt.” Then his stormy expression lightened. “I fix you. I fix you all up.”

He hovered one hand over the cut on Dean’s chest.

“Uh, yeah, I’m not sure if-”

“I do it,” said Cas, his lip jutting out even further. “I fix you!” His feather-soft brows crunched together and his mouth tightened up into a little, tense bud.

“Cas,” said Dean gently.

The chubby hand trembled. “I fix you!”

The cut was a bit sore and itchy, as shallow cuts were. Cas grunted with effort, but it didn’t get any less sore or any less itchy.

“It’s okay, Cas. It doesn’t hurt that much.”

“I fix you!” Cas insisted. He growled and bared his teeth, like an angry kitten, and it would have been cute if he hadn’t been getting upset again.

“Hey, Cas, I think that’s better now. Do you want to watch some TV? Let’s find some cartoons, yeah?”

For a second he thought it wasn’t going to work. Cas froze, one hand still hovering. Then he sagged. “Okay. I try ’gain later.”

“Yeah. Try again in the morning.” When Dean would be sure to be fully covered up so hopefully Cas wouldn't remember.

He grabbed the remote off the nightstand and switched on the TV, which was a big flat screen, mounted on the wall opposite the bed. It came onto a news channel, so Dean flicked through until he found the bright colours and frantic music of a cartoon.

“Hey, Animaniacs. I haven’t seen this one in years.” He sang along to the theme tune. “...sit back and relax, You'll laugh 'til you collapse, We're Animaniacs!”

“We’re Aminaminacs!” sang Cas.

“That’s right.”

Cas squirmed around so that he was lying on Dean like his own personal recliner. His cheeks were still red from crying but his tears were forgotten, his eyes reflecting the bright colours of the cartoon. Maybe Dean could get some more sleep while Cas watched. His eyes began to close.

Cas giggled.

The little angel was happy. Dean drifted.

A loud chortle of laughter jerked him fully awake again and little feet drummed on his thighs. “They’re funny!” said Cas. “Dean, I like Aminacs. Aminaminacs.”

“Yeah, they’re awesome.” Dean cleared his throat. “Are you ready to settle down again? Watch some more TV in the morning?”

“It’s morning now, Dean!”

“Not really, buddy. This still counts as night.”

“I ’wake. So it counts as morning.” Cas sat up, legs astride Dean’s waist, and clapped his hands. “I watch Aminacs, then have bweffust.” He twisted around to smile at Dean. “We have pancakes and bacon and eggs and waffles and soj- sojus- sossus-.” Cas humphed.

“Sausage?”

He nodded. “Yes. And honey and gravy and juice and ketch-SUP!”

Dean’s stomach gurgled uneasily. “Maybe a nap first?”

“No, Dean! No more s’eeps.” He reached down and gripped both of Dean’s cheeks. “Now it’s time to watch. Watch Aminacs!”

“Okay, buddy.” Never mind juice and ketchup. Dean was going to need coffee. A lot of coffee.

They watched Animaniacs. Then Roadrunner. Then good old Bugs Bunny. Then Cas snagged the remote and found some Scooby Doo. Then Captain Caveman came on. (“Captain Caaaavemaaaan!”) and then the Hair Bear Bunch, which Dean hadn’t thought much of thirty-odd years ago and it hadn’t improved with age.

“Okay, that’s enough, Cas. Let’s go get something to eat.” It was six am. Which wasn’t an hour anyone should be up and around, in Dean’s opinion, but six-something was still way better than five-something and a whole hell of a lot more civilised than four-something.

Cas leapt up straight away, bouncing around the bed in his cute footie pjs. “Bweffust!” he yelled. He bounced higher and then, with a shimmer and a pop, his wings flared out, fluttering excitedly.

Dean slid his legs off the bed and sagged forward, resting his head in his hands. He ached. Everywhere. And he must have had - what? Maybe an hour’s sleep at most?

The little angel plopped down next to him and a small hand patted Dean’s back. “You need bweffust, Dean. Bacon an neggs. And sojujus.”

“Coffee,” rasped Dean.

Cas nodded vigorously. “I like coffee. I have coffee too.”

“Uh, yeah, maybe you should stick with juice for now, Cas.”

Dean got Cas dressed, got himself dressed, packed everything up and got everything into Baby. Cas fell instantly asleep as soon as they hit the road and came instantly awake as soon as they stopped at a diner. Sammy had used to do that.

The little angel wanted everything on the menu, but was, in the end, happy with the pancakes with a side of sausage that Dean ordered for him. Dean had the same with bacon instead of sausage. And a lot of coffee, which made him feel marginally better.

“We go to de seaside now?” asked Cas. He had syrup all over his chin. And his cheeks.

“We’ve got a little way to drive yet.” Good thing he’d remembered to buy wipes. Dean got to work on Cas’s face. There was some in his hair too.

The sticky face crunched up. “Don’t want nuvver long time in Baby, Dean.”

“We have to drive some more to get to the seaside, Cas. Only another coupla hours. Then you can play.”

“Baby’s tired. Baby wants to make sandcastles. Wiv a bucket and a spade.”

“Baby’s okay, Cas. And when we get there we’ll find a nice parking space for her. I don’t think she’d like the beach.”

Cas hummed doubtfully. “A nice, cosy parking space for Baby, Dean.”

“Yeah. A nice, cosy space.”

“Cosy is good. Not nasty and dark and fwickening wiv no fwends and no Dean.”

Dean gave Cas’s face one last swipe and then dropped the sticky wipe onto his empty plate. Solemn blue eyes gazed up at him. Dean curled his hands over the small shoulders.

“You’re here now, Cas. And I’m here. And we won’t go to any frightening places.”

“Ever, never, ’gain!” said Cas.

“Never again,” Dean agreed. He leant forward and pressed a kiss into the bird’s nest hair. “I pinkie promised, didn’t I?”

Cas waggled a tiny pinkie between them. “Me too, Dean. My pinkie pwomised too.”

Chapter Text

As soon as Dean pulled out of the diner parking lot, Cas was asleep again. Dean wished he could flake out too, even strapped in a car seat so he couldn’t move. That’d be just fine.

But instead, he fixed his tired eyes on the road ahead and drove. He was okay for a while, the caffeine buzzing through his system, but after an hour or so his eyes began to feel heavy. He turned the music up a bit. He turned the air conditioning up too. Neither worked, so he rolled down the driver’s side window and let the breeze buffet the side of his face and mess up his hair. And quite soon his tired mind and body got a little zing of energy, from the fact that the air coming in was fresh and cold and smelt of salt and seaweed - he could smell the ocean.

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror. Cas was still asleep.

He drove on, and soon there were more houses either side of the road, and then taller buildings and a couple of malls and then signposts to the beach and the pier, the mini-golf and the amusement park. Dean could find a hotel right here. It looked like a busy, bustling town. He and Cas would blend in okay - except for the small matter of Cas’s wings.

Maybe a less popular place might be better - one of those beaches that’s a bit too windy or a bit too far from all the other seaside activities for most people, so there’s plenty of space to find your own area or even your own little cove. He’d drive along the coast and see what he could find. So, right or left? North or south?

Dean took a road south which rose up along a headland and then fell, a gradual couple of miles, to a smaller resort, which still wasn’t unpopular enough for Dean. He pulled over, used his phone to search the area and then carried on, weaving Baby around the curves of the road, sometimes right next to the coast, sometimes back amongst the low rumpled hills.

There was a rustling from the back seat, then a sleepy yawn, then a much more alert shout.

“Dean! There’s the ocean! I can see it! Right there!”

“Yeah? You saw the ocean?” The view had disappeared in the folds of the land.

“Yes! It was there! Stop now, Dean! And we can get out and take all our clothes off and go splash, splash, splash in the ocean!”

Dean laughed. “I don’t think I’ll be taking off all my clothes. Maybe some of them.”

“But it’s time to stop now, Dean. There it is again! Look! There!”

“Yeah, I see it, little guy. I just need to find a place that’s right for us. Where it doesn’t matter too much if you get your wings out.”

There was a brief silence.

“I can keep my wings put away,” said Cas. “Angels are good at keeping wings put away.”

“I know you are, buddy. But you might want to get them out sometimes, and people are funny about things like that.”

“They should know there are angels, Dean. They should know angels are watching over them. Angels like me are good at watching. Aren’t I, Dean? Aren’t I good at watching?”

“Of course you are, Cas. You’re great at watching.”

“I good at watching,” Cas repeated to himself, softly. “I good at watching Dean.”

Dean caught the whispered words and swallowed, his mouth wobbling. He cleared his throat and gave Baby plenty of gas to get up the next hill. He eased her off down the other side, letting her coast.

“There it is again, Dean!” yelled Cas. “Go straight there!”

“I can’t do that. The road doesn’t go straight there, Cas. But there’s a little place up ahead that might be good for us. I found it on the net.”

“Is there a beach with sand?”

“Yeah, there’s a beach with sand.”

“Is there somewhere to buy a bucket and a spade? We don’t have a bucket and a spade, do we Dean? And we need a bucket and a spade for making sand castles.”

“I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to buy them. Hey, this looks like something.”

At the side of the road was a wooden sign. Its paint was peeling away but you could still see the words ‘Thrift Cove’ and a picture of a little pink-flowered plant next to it.

Dean slowed down as he read the words out loud, then followed the road ahead, down into a valley, between high banks of green that hid the ocean view.

“Do you know what frift is Dean?”

“Yeah. A store where you don’t have to spend too much. So this place won’t burn too many holes in the credit card.”

Cas laughed. “No, silly-billy Dean! It’s the little pink flower on the sign! It’s called frift!”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

Cas made a self-satisfied grunt. “Angels know lots of fings, Dean. Angels know all about lickle fwowers and lickle bugs and ’specially they know about bees.”

Dean recalled some of the angels he’d met and their various brands of douche-baggery. “Not sure about that, buddy.”

“I know about fwowers and bugs and ’specially-bees, Dean.”

“Yeah. You do. But you’re like, the best angel there is.”

In the rear view mirror, Cas’s little face beamed. “Am I?”

“Of course you are, Cas. The best angel there’s ever been.”

“I’m your angel, Dean,”

“Yup. My little angel.”

“And sometimes your big angel.”

“Sometimes. Not right now, though.”

“Not right now. Right now I’m lickle like a buzzy bee.”

“Not quite that little.”

“Bzzzzzzz,” said Cas.

“Okay,” Dean agreed. “Little like a bee.”

“Bzzzzzzz.”

“A buzzy bee.”

He rolled Baby gently to a halt in a small parking lot. Beyond Baby’s hood, the wooded ground fell away toward a little stream. Better watch Cas, or he’d be straight in there, ‘looking for fish,’ no doubt. Dean smiled.

Cas was slapping and tugging at his seat harness. “Undo me, Dean!” One arm wriggled beneath a strap and popped out.

“Hold your horses, cowboy. I’m coming.”

“Cowboy! I need a hat to be a cowboy. We had hats, didn’t we, Dean? When I was big.”

“Yeah, we did.” Dean slid out of the driver's seat and straightened up stiffly, holding onto Baby’s frame. He gritted his teeth and tried not to groan. How was he going to run around after little Cas like this?

“Dean! Let me out!”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

He made his way around Baby, his aching muscles slowly stretching out so that moving seemed like something that was a bit more realistic. As soon as the straps clicked open, Cas burst out of his seat and jumped down, flapping his arms and bouncing about like a rubber ball.

“Free, free, freeeee!”

“Sorry about keeping you cooped up so long.”

Dean tucked the straps back in and closed Baby’s door. The website said they had ‘seaside chalets’ to rent here, and there was a little low, white-painted building up the top of the sloping parking lot that had a fading ‘reception’ sign tacked above on the door. Weeds grew in a crack between the building and the rough surface of the parking area, and a tangle of bushes and trees blocked the view of the ocean. Miami Beach it was not. But Dean liked the feel of the place. Anyway, it was quiet. There were just two other cars in the lot - an ancient campervan and a chunky Honda SUV. The Honda had a carseat in, like Cas’s and what looked like a whole pack of cookies crunched up and strewn around, as well as a pack of wipes in the passenger seat, with a train of stuck-together wipes trailing down into the foot space.

Cas, as predicted, was bouncing toward the stream, wiggling his whole body and chanting, “Fishy, fishy, fishy.”

Dean scooped him up and tucked him under one arm. “Come on small fry. Let’s see where they’ve got for a tiddler like you to stay.”

Cas waggled his legs and breaststroked his arms. “I’m not a tiggler. I’m a great big shark!”

Dean hummed the theme to Jaws.

“I’m gonna eat you up!” Cas opened his mouth wide and snapped at the air.

“You’re a scary shark alright. But can you be Cas for a minute while I see if they’ve got a place for us?”

“Of course. I’m a good shark.” Cas slid down and walked into the reception building meekly.

Inside there were bare concrete walls with a couple of old posters tacked onto them. There was a built-in counter which held a big, boxy computer - the kind that went out of date years ago. And there was a door behind the counter through which Dean could hear a radio and smell… He inhaled deeply. Yes, definitely ramen.

There was also a doorbell fastened to the side of the counter. Cas stuck out one little finger and slowly and deliberately pressed it and let it go.

A garbled shout came from the direction of the ramen.

It was followed by a middle-aged guy carrying a steaming bowl, which he set down on the counter.

“Sorry about that. I was just making un pequeño bocadillo.” The man’s eyebrows rose when he took in the scrape and colourful bruise on Dean’s forehead, but he smiled when he saw Cas looking up at him. “I’m Carlos. Welcome to Thrift Cove.”

“Dean,” said Dean, sticking out his hand, which Carlos shook, firmly and with a friendly, direct gaze. “And this is Cas.”

Dean picked Cas up and held him so he could reach over the counter. The little angel stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Castiel and I’m vewwy pleased to meechoo.”

Carlos shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you too, little guy.” He looked at Dean. “I don’t think you’re booked in, are you?”

Cas slithered to the ground and held onto Dean’s leg.

“No,” said Dean. “I was hoping you’d have something free.”

“Well, we’re a small place. We’ve only got the two chalets and they’re both taken.”

“Oh.” They’d have to drive somewhere else. Dean felt his shoulders sag. He hadn’t realised how much fake energy he was feeling just from thinking he’d be able to rest soon. It was like watching water draining away down a plug hole. “Okay, then.”

“But there’s the hut. You could have that if you’re not particular.”

“I’m not putickler!” said Cas.

Carlos leant over the counter. “Well, in that case, you won’t mind that it’s small.”

Cas shook his head.

“And you won’t mind that there’s only bunkbeds.”

Cas shook his head again. “I like bunkybeds.”

Carlos straightened up. “Seriously, it’s not great. We were thinking of tearing it down and building another chalet. But my grandkids stay in it sometimes, when they’re visiting.”

“Anything’s good for us,” said Dean. “As long as it’s close to the beach. And has a bathroom.”

Some of the hunter’s cabins he’d stayed in as a kid hadn’t been updated since pioneer days. Drawing all your water from a well wasn’t one of Dean’s favourite activities. And doing your business in a draughty outhouse definitely wasn’t.

“It has a bathroom,” said Carlos. He reached beneath the counter and drew out an old-fashioned hotel signing-in book and a key with a rabbits’ foot hanging off the ring. “You just pop your details in there, Dean. And I'll enter it on the system later.” He jerked a thumb at the pc. “That thing takes a full half hour to crank up.”

Dean wrote his name, made up an address and held Cas’s hand while he traced a few wobbly letters, his tongue stuck out, his eyebrows drawn down.

“That’s my name,” he said, with satisfaction, pointing at the string of inky blobs. One of them looked like an enochian symbol.

“That’s real good writing,” Carlos lied cheerfully.

“Fank you,” said Cas. He grabbed the rabbit’s foot on the keyring. “This b’longs to Bob the Bunny. He’s angwy cos now he has to hop on fwee legs.”

Dean choked.

Carlos reached down and ruffled Cas’s hair. “You’re a funny one, arncha? Come on, I’ll show you the hut.”

Carlos led them down a path which wound between tangled trees and bushes. It was lined with large pebbles that bore faint traces of white paint, and Dean got the impression that the jungly tangle had at one time been organised into flower beds and lawns. Now it was so overgrown that the path was nearly a tunnel. The ground sloped up sharply to the right and down to the left, toward the little stream which he could hear faintly, and Dean guessed that if you looked from above (not that he’d ever get in a plane to try it), you’d see that the valley was a narrow V, cutting back into the land at right angles to the ocean.

They emerged into a brighter area, where the valley broadened out and the beach began, first a great bank of pebbles and then sloping sand and then nothing but blue-green waves as far as you could see.

“The ocean!” said Cas. “I want to swim and talk to the fishies and the cwabs and then dive down and play wiv those funny fishies with the big mouvs that Gabwiel made as a joke but then Joshie said they fit just right into the bits where it gets weally darky-dark, only I don’t like the dark so maybe we’ll just play with the dolphins.”

Cas’s face was alight with excitement, his eyes darting between Dean’s and Carlos’s.

Dean laughed, nervously.

But Carlos just grinned. “Your son’s a cute kid,” he said.

Cas giggled. Dean felt a mixture of pride and love and longing and a strange kind of loneliness. “Thanks,” he husked. And he turned away, pretending to admire the two modern chalets on the opposite side of the valley.

A sturdy wooden bridge crossed the stream and led to the first large, wooden chalet, which was mostly pointy roof, like a card house, and had huge windows overlooking the shore. Behind it, higher up, was another chalet, the same size and shape. They must have an even better view.

It’d be awesome to build something like that, Dean thought, with your own hands, and then stand back and just look at it, solid and beautiful, standing up against sun and rain and wind because you’d built it right. One day he’d build things up, instead of knocking them down. He’d create instead of destroy.

“There you are,” said Carlos. “That’s the hut.”

Dean turned around, and for a moment, he couldn’t even see it. Then his eyes adjusted, like when you looked at one of those magic eye pictures, and the moss-coloured, weather-worn wood of a small hut appeared, tucked back among the bushes. A weed-choked path led up to it.

Carlos scratched his jaw. “I’ll understand if you decide against, after all,” he said.

“That’s my house!” said Cas. He scampered along the path and hopped up the two steps to the front door.

“Seems like we’re staying,” said Dean.

“Wait till you see the inside before you decide.”

Carlos unlocked the door. The floor creaked as they entered, but it looked sound and Dean couldn’t smell any rot. The room contained a small two-seater settee, a tiny table with two chairs, a little kitchen alcove and two other doors. Dean opened one and if he’d stepped inside, the bathroom would have been filled - it was a one-man bathroom, with just enough space for a toilet, a basin and a narrow shower stall. When he came out, Cas had disappeared into the other room, which was little more than a windowless cupboard containing two bunk beds. A little face looked down at Dean from the top one.

“This is our house, Dean, where we live. You and me. Dean and Castiel’s house.”

“It is?”

Cas nodded.

“Well, if it’s our house, the no shoes on the bed rule applies, doesn’t it?”

The little angel looked offended and pointed at the floor.

“I tookened my shoes off, Dean!”

“Did you?” Dean slid sideways down the wall to look under the bed. Two dusty white shapes lurked in the shadows. “Oh, yeah. So you did. Sorry.”

Carlos blocked out the light from the main room. “Is it okay for you? It’s not much.”

“It’s the best house everl!” said Cas, untucking the blankets and pulling them over his head.

“I guess we’re staying,” said Dean, smiling. “I’ll come and settle up now. Can we have it for a week?”

On the top bunk, the mound of bedding twitched and squeaked.

“Or maybe a bit longer.”

“Pay for a week now,” said Carlos. “Then you can extend your stay if you decide to. Stay the whole summer if you like - the hut’s free.”

By the time Dean had paid their shot and got his and Cas’s stuff out of Baby and brought it all down to the hut, he was well and truly exhausted. The bump on his head had started throbbing again and the cuts on his arm, chest and belly were burning from all the stretching and lifting he’d done. He couldn’t remember how long it was since he’d had a decent night’s sleep. He sat on the little floral-patterned two-seater and wished it was a great, big recliner that you could sink into and let everything go.

“Can we swim now, Dean? I’m ready!”

Dean opened his eyes. Cas had nothing on but the tiny pair of swim shorts that Dean had bought at the store back in Lebanon. Shit. He’d forgotten they needed to buy a bucket and spade. And what were they going to do for dinner? There was no food in the tiny fridge and in the cupboards - though he’d come across half a jar of instant coffee and a couple of sachets of something, left by previous residents - there was nothing which had meal potential.

“Can we? Or I could go on my own ’cos when I was big I could swim, couldn’t I?” Cas frowned, chewing on a fingertip. “I fink I could swim.”

An image of Cas’s tiny head bobbing amongst the buffeting Pacific waves popped into Dean’s head and he shuddered. “I don’t care if you could swim a freestyle relay and do backflips when you were big. You don’t go in the water unless I’m there. You got that? Cas? I mean it.”

The little boy’s face fell and his eyes flicked up to Dean’s and then back down at his bare toes. “Are you angwy wiv me, Dean?” Beneath the fall of dark hair the soft lips trembled and he sniffed.

Dean’s heart tore. He slid down to the floor and pulled the little angel into his chest. “No. No, of course I’m not.” Love turned to fear turned to anger - a Dean Winchester specialty. “I’m not angry with you. I’m sorry, Cas.”

Cas’s little hands gripped the sides of Dean’s shirt. He was so small. He couldn’t reach anywhere near all the way around Dean’s back, and Dean’s arms wrapped around the little boy so that he could overlap his forearms completely. This tiny angel was so precious, so easy and uncomplicated to love in the way that small children were. But warm and soft though the hug was, Dean longed for the solid, trench-coat clad form of the adult Cas, for the stretch in Dean’s shoulders as he spread his arms wide to wrap only part way around his friend’s body. His head would fall to one side on Cas’s shoulder and he’d close his eyes and breathe in Cas, a scent so deep and complex that Dean had no words to describe it.

He held little Cas and wanted to be held himself.

Then he pulled back and looked at the tiny angel. “I need you to be safe, Cas. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Cas’s eyes were huge and as blue as the ocean. “Nuffin’s gunna happen, Dean,” he said. He grabbed Dean’s hand, his little fingers curling around one finger. “Come and see the ocean.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Dean curled his toes in the sand. Water rippled over them and up as far as his heels, then drained away, pulling grains of sand out from beneath. He watched his feet as another wave came in. And another. There was a great, wide view in front of him, but Dean watched his own feet.

He’d seen the ocean before, of course. But Dad would never take them go right down to the shore, and since then, other than a boat-trip that time he’d helped Benny out, Dean had had no reason to go. But now, here he was, and never mind the great, blue-green waves tipped with rippling white. The most amazing thing of all were Dean Winchester’s own feet, actually planted on the sand, on a beach, with waves washing over them.

The water was fucking cold.

Two little feet ran past his great big ones.

“Look at me, Dean! Look at me!”

Dean looked, as Cas stopped running and jumped up and down.

“Splash, splash, splash!”

Droplets landed on Dean’s rolled-up jeans and his bare calves. He hadn’t got to the shorts stage yet, but maybe he would soon.

“Splash!” shrieked Cas, putting his whole heart into his jump. Dean’s thighs. “Come and splash, Dean! Come and splash wiv me!”

Dean slapped his feet up and down. “I am splashing.”

“Make big splashes!”

“Nah. I’ll get my clothes wet.”

“Take. Off. Clothes,” said Cas, in time with three big jumps.

The beach was empty, as far as Dean could see to the north and the south. But there were the two big, triangular chalets, windows facing directly at him. And even if there weren’t… “I’m not gonna run around buck naked, Cas. Prob’ly scare all the fish away.”

Cas giggled. Then he ran out of the waves and up to Dean and wrapped his arms around Dean’s sopping wet jeans. “Fank you, Dean, for bringing me to the seaside.”

“You’re very welcome, little buddy. There’s no one I’d rather be here with.” He thought about all those times the Impala had driven away from the ocean, the two boys in the back seat, kneeling up to look wistfully out the rear window at what they couldn't have - or outright bitching up a storm, in Sammy’s case. “It’d be awesome if Sammy was here, though.” Dean grinned. “I’d give him a good ducking.”

“I duck Sammy too!” declared Cas. Then he was gone. “I’m running now!” He hurtled through the ragged edge of the shallow surf, his little feet kicking up the spray all around him. Then he spun around and ran back, past Dean and on in the other direction. “Run, Dean, run!”

I don’t run unless something’s chasing me. That had been true for many years. Not for Sammy, though. Sam ran to get fit - did he actually enjoy it?

Cas zoomed past him again, running for joy, because he was in a wide open, windy space and the sun was out and they were on a beach. “Run, Dean, run!” Sunlight turned to shimmering rainbows on his back and suddenly his wings flared out and the feathers fluttered and danced behind him like trailing streamers.

Dean glanced up the beach at the big chalet windows and hoped no one was admiring the view.

“Run, Dean!”

“Okay, I’m running.” He took off after Cas, who looked over his shoulder and laughed. Cas changed his course, heading up the beach, and Dean followed. Then the little boy looped back into the surf again. Dean chased after him, his bare feet skimming the shallow waves, striking up jets of cold, cold water. Cas zigged, Dean zigged, Cas zagged, Dean zagged, until he couldn’t zig or zag any more and he stopped, bent over, his hands on his knees.

“I give up,” Dean panted. “You win.”

Cas’s face appeared, close to his own. “It wasn’t a race,” he said. “I was just running.”

Dean straightened up. “Well, you win anyway.” A boat was sitting on the horizon - a container ship or something. Dean scrunched up his eyes. Were his shades in Baby’s glove box? His wet jeans were cold and clammy and kind of itchy like there’d been some chafing going on as he ran. Then his legs were being gripped tightly by small arms and Cas was looking up at him, head tipped right back, his little wingless body pressed close. His face was suddenly pale, his lips not as pink as they should be. “Hey, little buddy, are you okay?”

“Cold,” said Cas.

Dean scooped him up and held him. Shit. He hadn’t even brought a towel. “Hang on, kiddo.” He set the little boy down on the sand, pulled off his flannel and wrapped it around him. Then he picked him up again and Cas burrowed his face into Dean’s neck. “Is that any better?”

The bundle squirmed and Cas nodded and squeaked into Dean’s neck.

Little kids could get cold so quickly. Like that time Sammy had found an old bit of hose and Dean had connected it up to the outside tap, wrapping it around with one of his bootlaces to make it stay. Then they’d taken turns spraying each other. Only Dean had got Sammy really soaked, because it was a big brother’s special skill, right and privilege to do that kind of thing. Dean couldn’t even remember where they’d been - not even what state. Just another squat Dad had dumped them in. But all of a sudden, skinny little Sammy had been shivering and his lips were blue and Dean had been really freaked out for a while.

But Sammy had been okay and Cas was okay too. No need to freak out.

Dean grabbed his abandoned boots and set off up the beach, his feet barely sinking into the hard sand, then sinking and sliding right into the soft sand further up, and then there was just the great, heaped-up bank of pebbles between him and the hut. He’d have to be careful not to overbalance on them and drop Cas.

He began to climb. “Fucking, shitting hell!” What evil kind of torture was this? Beaches were supposed to be nice, friendly happy-family places - how come no one ever said what it was like to walk over beach pebbles with bare feet?

He took another stride. The stones shifted beneath one foot and rained down on the other. Dean groaned.

“Put boots on, Dean.”

But the hut was right there. Only a couple hundred yards. It’d been easy on the way down, boots steadily crunch-cronching over the pebbles, Cas riding high on his shoulders.

He wobbled and took another step, gasping as the little hard bastards found all the most sensitive areas on his soles.

“Boots, Dean.”

He gave in, put Cas down on the stones and sat down himself. “Seems stupid, just to get over there.” He jerked his head over his shoulder and the hut, just a hop and skip away.

“The stones were hurting you.”

“Yeah, but I should’ve been able to just get you that far - grit my teeth and get on with it.” Just like Dad had taught him. He roughly pulled on his sock and shoved his foot in his boot. “Need to get you back and warmed up.”

“I warm now,” said Cas.

Dean glanced up. Cas was still wrapped in his flannel, but his cheeks were back to their usual rosiness. Dean grunted. He still should get Cas back and make a hot drink or something. He pulled on his other boot. Then little fingers were curling around his arm.

He looked up. Cas had shuffled close. “Dean shouldn’t be hurt.” His face was so little and round and babyish, but those eyes - right now they were angel eyes that looked at you and saw right inside.

“I’m not hurt, Cas,” he whispered.

That steady gaze was like a laser. “Dean shouldn’t be hurt,” he said again.

You don’t think you deserve to be saved.

He needed to tie his lace, or his boot would fall off and they’d both get hurt. His fingers were clumsy, his eyes unfocussed. The knot slipped out of his fingers. “Shit.”

Cas had said those words a long time ago. A long, long time and Dean had come a long way.

But he still couldn’t tie his own damn bootlace, not with blurred eyes and shaking hands.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

Tiny fingers took the lace out of his hands. “Crissy-crossy,” said Cas, tying the knot. “Bunny ear.” He made a loop. “Wrap around. Nuvver bunny ear, then pull ‘em tighty-tight.”

There were a whole bunch of pebbles lodged in Dean’s throat, and half a tonne of them in his chest, loaded around his heart. He put both his hands over Cas’s, his large, battered, callused hands covering the little boy’s completely, folding them up inside.

All that long time, all those years of blood and terror and anger and death. And in the end, here they were, just a man and a boy on a beach. And Cas had tied his shoe for him and he couldn’t speak.

“It’s alright, Dean,” said Cas, in his little-boy voice. “It’s alright ‘cos I’m here and so are you.”

Dean pulled Cas onto his lap and held him. And he held him tight as he got up and strode easily up the pebble bank and across the scrubby, prickly area of grit and wizened little seaside plants that also would have been hell on his feet.

“Home,” said Cas.

And just for now, thought Dean, as his boots clumped on the bare boards of the hut and he set Cas down on the little two-seater, it was home.

Chapter Text

A seagull drifted, wings spread, following the tideline. Looking for something to eat, Dean thought. Which he should do. Good job, gull. Bad job, Dean.

He yawned.

Looking out their window, with its wide view of the beach, was like watching TV, except slower. A lot slower. The seagull bobbed lazily in the air currents and then slid downward, hidden by the ridge of pebbles. Fucking pebbles. Flip flops were what he needed. Or some of those fugly crocs. Something to slip on to get across the stony bit.

Dean yawned again. The clumps of spiky plants and tall cabbagey plants that grew between the pebbles and the hut waved in the breeze. Nothing else happened. Except Cas twitched a bit and murmured softly.

Cas was curled up next to him on the two-seater. He’d fallen asleep after a warm shower and a hot chocolate (one of the left-behind sachets) and Dean should definitely wake him up if he wanted the little boy to sleep later on.

He should definitely wake Cas up and he should definitely get them both into Baby and go look for some dinner.

Another gull, or maybe the same one, drifted along the beach. And a little black and white twitchy bird ran along the sandy, gravelly ground in front of the hut. It stopped, its tail waggling up and down, then it ran on out of sight.

Come on, Winchester. Move your ass.

His ass stayed glued to the seat, his arm around his little angel.

A figure blocked out the light and Dean barely had time to tense and twitch for a weapon when there was a knock at the door. Not a I’m-gonna-break-it-down kind of hammering, but a polite knock. Dean uncurled his arm from around Cas and gritted his teeth and rose from the couch, his knees and his back aching, his cuts pulling and stinging, his head stuffed with something that made thinking impossible - maybe sand.

He opened the door.

“Hey,” said Carlos. “I brought you this.”

He held out a plastic container. Dean’s arms should rise up and take it. Eventually, they did. Carlos was talking, but his words had gone in one of Dean’s ears and out the other, or possibly just never went in at all.

“Are you okay?”

The plastic container was heavy. Dean looked down at it. “Uh… Yeah.” Was he?

Carlos noticed Cas, who’d slumped down without Dean to support him. “Ah, the little guy’s tuckered out. Oh, were you asleep?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, to explain his stupidity.

“Sorry about waking you, man.”

“S’okay.”

“So, anyway, my better half makes those for guests who don’t feel like cooking. Just nuke it in the micro. First one’s on the house, but I’ve got plenty more in the freezer up in the store. I hope you like lasagne.”

Dean looked down at the plastic container again. Food, his mind registered. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

“And I should have told you, if there’s anything you’re short of just look in the lean-to around back of the store. It’s where we put stuff folks leave behind. Beach stuff, a few books and so on. You’re welcome to any of it.”

Bucket and spade, thought Dean. Fugly crocs?

“Thanks.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath of the cool evening air. “Thanks a lot,” he said, his mind clearing a bit. “That’s real kind of you,” he said, looking down at the plastic container in his hands, which was promisingly heavy, for a lasagne. His stomach gurgled loudly.

Carlos laughed. “Right on time, by the sound of it. Have a good night.” He flipped a casual salute and padded away. In bright pink crocs.

“Dean?” Cas was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He yawned a tiny yawn. “Is it tomowwow, Dean?”

“No. It’s still today. And it’s dinner time.”

Cas bounced up from the couch. “How does Batman’s Mommy call him in for dinner, Dean? Do you know? Do you?”

Dean had told Cas that joke once. After they’d had a Batman marathon in the Dean-cave. And Cas had frowned, his head had tipped on one side and then slowly the most beautiful smile had spread across his face. And Dean had had to turn away because it felt like giant cogs in his head were grinding instead of meshing and he didn’t know how to make them fit together.

“I don’t know, Cas. How does Batman’s Mommy call him in for dinner?”

Cas grinned. “Dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, Batman!” he sang.

Dean laughed.

“What’s for dinner, Dean?”

“Carlos brought us a lasagne.”

“Carlos is nice. Isn’t he, Dean?”

“Yeah. Seems like.” He put the plastic tub down on the drainer. There was a microwave on a shelf above. They’d go out for breakfast in the morning and then find somewhere to stock up the tiny kitchen.

“I lay de table,” said Cas.

“Thanks, little buddy. Uh… the stuff’s in there.” He pulled out a drawer beneath the little two-ring hob.

Cas, on tiptoes, rummaged in the drawer, and began carrying cutlery, one item at a time, to the table. “Lady table,” he sang to himself. “Lady tably.”

Dean took the lid off the lasagne, which looked delicious, and put it in the microwave. He spun the dial at random, and pressed the start button. Then he took out some plates and glasses and filled the glasses with water.

Cas was holding up a teaspoon in one hand and a big serving spoon in the other, regarding them thoughtfully. Dean watched him.

He was just a little boy in jeans that were a bit too long and a rainbow-striped shirt. But he was still Cas, with Cas’s memories, even if they were filtered through the mind of a little kid.

Cas had remembered the Batman joke. He remembered how to tie shoelaces, and his little fingers had managed to get the job done, which Sammy certainly couldn’t have done at that age. And when Carlos had brought them down to the beach, Cas had talked about Gabriel and Joshua and what sounded like a prehistoric world of newly-created creatures - so long ago that it gave Dean a headache even trying to think about it.

And judging by his nightmares, he also remembered the Empty. But most of the time it seemed like his bad memories didn’t seem to affect him. He was full of zip and pep and three-year-old randomness. Not to mention an enviable amount of energy, which Dean wished he had half of.

Last night’s shit-show with the fairies had taken a lot out of Dean. Maybe the fairy mojo had made him extra tired. Fucking fairies, making him use his own knife on himself.

The microwave pinged. He opened it up, prodded the middle of the lasagne with his finger and shut the door again, spinning the dial and pressing the button.

“How are you getting on there, Cas?”

“Ready.”

“Yeah?”

Cas had set one place with the big serving spoon and the other with the teaspoon and a fork. He’d put a glass of water in each place. One of them was only half full, the contents forming a pool on the table.

Dean absently picked up a cloth and blotted up the spillage. “Why does only one of us get a fork?”

“’Cos that spoon’s big but that one’s lickle, so the fork makes it fair. Yours is the big spoon, ’cos you’re big.”

Dean scratched the back of his neck. And shrugged. “That makes sense.” Cas grinned. And whenever Cas smiled or laughed or did the great big grin that was almost too big for his little face, Dean felt like he’d been given a gold star on a chart. Which made eating his dinner with the serving spoon worthwhile. And anyway, he didn’t mind the idea of shovelling huge quantities of lasagne into his mouth. In fact, why hadn't he thought of using a massive spoon before?

Maybe he had. A long time ago. When he wasn’t much bigger than Cas but it seemed like most of those jobs already rested on his small shoulders. It crossed Dean’s mind that maybe Dad had felt the same kind of star-on-a-chart reward when he got instant, unquestioning obedience from his sons as Dean did when he got a smile from Cas.

If four-year-old, doing-his-best Dean had set a serving spoon in Dad’s place he would have been told to put it away and lay the table properly. And spilled water would have earned a sharp word. At the least. But that was just Dad. And Dean was Dean.

The microwave pinged. He took the lasagne out and shared it into two equal portions. He carried them to the table, set them on the two woven-grass place mats and sat down.

“I got lots,” said Cas. “Same as you.”

“Yeah.” Dean cut off a big chunk with the edge of his spoon and scooped it up.

Cas picked up his teaspoon and fork. “But I’m lickle and you’re big.”

“Just means you’ve got more growing to do,” said Dean. Although Jack would ping Cas back to adult size at some point, wouldn’t he? Anyway - “I don’t want you to go hungry. So, just stop when you’re done and I’ll eat the rest.”

“Okay, Dean.”

The lasagne was delicious. And if some of the meaty, cheesy goodness smeared itself around his mouth and maybe some on his cheeks and his chin, well, he was in good company, because little-Cas was getting it everywhere. Dean bulldozered in another spoonful of deliciousness. Had little Sammy been that messy? Yes. He had. There’d been a long phase where you didn’t sit Sammy down to eat without tying something around him first - a cloth, a towel, an old shirt, anything would do. And even if, at the time, he’d told Sammy he was the messiest kid in the universe, that wasn’t true. They were all like that, and little angels were no exception.

“You're so messy, Dean!” Cas pointed an orange, glistening finger at him. A cluster of meat fell off Cas’s chin, rolled down his shirt and disappeared from Dean’s view.

“Am I?”

“Yes! It’s all over your face!”

“Oh. Well. That’s because it’s so damn delicious.”

“I fink so too.”

“And we can eat as messy as we like if Sam’s not here.”

Cas pursed up his lips and rolled his eyes. “Dean.”

“Ha! You got him!” Dean laughed around his mouthful of food. “That’s my Sammy, right there!” Dean dug into his lasagne again, and watched Cas as he stabbed at another forkful and got some of it into his mouth and some of it on his shirt. But Cas was watching him too and maybe they wouldn’t be in such a mess if they stopped looking at each other and paid more attention to their food.

Dean swallowed and licked some sauce off the corner of his mouth. “This is nice. I mean, yeah, the food, but mostly this.” He waved the serving spoon at Cas and at himself. “Us. Here.”

Cas’s little, orange-stained mouth curved just a little, into the gentle smile which was big Cas’s smile but wasn’t. “I like it too, Dean. I like our house. For us. Togevver.”

Dean put down his big spoon. It was getting dark. He should switch on the light, a bare bulb in an ugly metal wall-mounted fixing. Cas’s teaspoon scraped against his plate. In the distance, the ocean surged and dragged, in and out, in and out like the beach was breathing, calm and slow.

What would Dean do if he were here with adult Cas now? Would they talk about what was between them? Would Dean lay it all out - what he hoped, what he wanted - like Cas had, just before the Empty took him away? Yes. Yes, he would. Because they’d lost too much time already, they’d been through so much. They both deserved some happiness. They deserved to have each other - because they’d been real for each other when nothing else had been.

But right now, Dean could say nothing. Cas was a kid - little more than a baby. And though there were occasional flashes of the ‘big angel,’ and his adult memories were all in there somewhere, Jack hadn’t brought him back like this to fix Dean’s problems - he’d made him a little kid so that he could heal. So that he could have some fun for a change.

Cas balanced a juicy-looking morsel between his fork and his teaspoon. It fell back onto the plate with a splat and the little boy gave a frustrated-kittenish snort. He glanced up at Dean, then smirked, and put down his cutlery.

“Are you done?”

Cas shook his head. Keeping his eyes on Dean, he dug one little hand into his dinner and scooped up a handful of pasta and meaty sauce. It oozed out between his fingers, but most of it went in his mouth.

Dean sucked the tip of his spoon. “I’ve never seen anyone eat lasagne with their hands.”

Cas chewed and swallowed. “That’s why it’s called las-hand-ya,” he said. “’Cos you havta eat it wiv your hands!”

“Oh, yeah?”

Cas nodded, cheeks bulging.

“I think I might stick with my spoon. But you go ahead.”

Cas took another big, messy handful, chewed and swallowed again. “I’m done now,” he said. “Full up. Flup. Flup to the toppety-top.” He leant back in his chair and patted his small stomach, leaving more orange stains on his shirt.

“Okay. I’ll deal with this, then.” Dean added Cas’s leftovers to his own plate. “You stay there for a minute while I finish. We don’t want orange handprints all over the hut.”

“I wait here, Dean,” said Cas, nodding solemnly. “I wait for you.”

Dean’s spoon hovered between his plate and his mouth. Cas had waited for him for a long time, and in the end he’d given up everything. Everything for Dean. “Thank you, Cas.” Dean picked at the edge of the woven rush placemat. “For, uh… for waiting for me.”

Angel’s eyes looked back at him, deep and knowing. “You’re welcome, Dean.” Then he yawned and he was little Cas again, tiredly rubbing his eyes so that the orangey mess was spread even further over his face.

There’d be a lot of cleaning up to do.

Dean rested his chin on the bunk bed rail.

“Are you sure you wanna sleep up there, Cas? You could take the bottom bunk.”

The little angel tugged at one of the feet in his pyjamas. “Angels are good at being up high,” he said. “I s’eep here. Like s’eeping in clouds. In fwuffy clouds.”

“Okay. Well, let me know if you wanna come down.”

“I climb down all on my own self.”

“Alright, then. Well, I’m just gonna, uh…” He gestured in the direction of the lounge - not that it was really big enough to earn the word. And what was he going to do? There was no TV. Not even a radio. He could watch something on his phone, but there was no wifi either.

“Whachoo gunna do, Dean?” Cas yawned and pulled a blanket around himself like a cape.

“I’m gonna call Sammy,” said Dean, hoping there was a phone signal.

“What about a storwy?”

“A story?”

“Yes. Childruns have bedtime storwies. Wiv pictures.” Cas crossed his arms and his little round chin tipped up in challenge.

“I don’t have a storybook.”

“Oh.” The little boy’s lip stuck out. He sighed. “I weally wanted a storwy.”

And Dean would give Cas anything he wanted. “I’ll tell you a story, Cas. Just give me a minute to think. You snuggle down while I’m thinking.”

Cas lay down and Dean snuggled him up, tucking the blankets beneath his chin. Bedtime stories… He’d read plenty to Sammy. He stared at his feet, fiddled with the hem of his shirt and sifted through his memories of how bedtime stories were supposed to go. “Right, yeah, so, uh… there was this kid - a girl.”

“Oncey ponny time.”

“What?”

“Oncey ponny time, Dean. You have to say oncey ponny time. That’s how storwies start. Everyone knows that.” Little eyes rolled in the dim light.

“Okay, okay - Once upon a time.”

Cas nodded his approval.

“Once upon a time there was this girl called…”

“Betty,” said Cas.

“A girl called Betty,” Dean agreed.

“Where did she live?”

“She lived at the edge of the dark forest,” said Dean. “And her Mommy and Daddy told her never, ever to go into the dark forest.”

“I don’t like the dark,” said Cas, pulling the blanket up further so that only his eyes showed. “She didn't go in. Did she?”

“No,” said Dean hurriedly, discarding his entire plotline. “No, because she was a good girl and always did what her Mom and Dad told her.”

“Not all the time,” said Cas.

“Hey, who’s telling this story?”

“You are, Dean. Sowwy for intupting.”

“That’s okay. Anyway, no, sometimes she didn’t do as she was told.” He scratched the back of his neck, which was hot and itchy. Must’ve caught the sun. Should have put sunscreen on when he put it on Cas.

“Dean? What did she do?”

“Uh, well, when she was supposed to go to school, she didn’t go.”

“That’s naughty,” said Cas.

“Yeah, well, she really wanted some pie. So she went to the pie store.”

“What kind did she have? Did she have any money to pay?”

“She had her dinner money. She bought cherry pie.”

“Wiv ice cweam.”

“Yup. Two big scoops of ice cream.”

“Three.”

“Maybe even four.”

“That’s too much ice cweam, Dean. Was she sick?”

“Yeah. She was. All over her dress.”

“And so she never did it again! Did she, Dean?”

“No. After that she was always a good girl and went to school and did her chores and never talked back or put her dirty shoes on the bed or pulled her little brother’s stupid long hair.”

“Or anything bad ever again.” Cas frowned. “Her fwends called her Boring Betty.”

“Yeah, they did,” said Dean.

“And they all lived happily ever after,” said Cas. “’cos in storwies they always do.”

“That'd be nice in real life.”

Cas’s smile froze and faded away. Then suddenly the blankets erupted as he launched himself at Dean with a sob, flinging his arms around Dean’s neck. “In weal life too, Dean.” There were tears in his voice. “Happily ever after for my Dean.” He held on so hard it hurt, but Dean didn’t want him to let go.

“And for you. You get happily ever after too, Cas.”

“And Sam,” said Cas. “And everyone.”

Dean held him, rocking the small body from side to side. “I hope so,” he whispered. “I hope it’s happily ever after for everyone.”

“You found a good place to stay? Not just the first shitty motel with magic fingers?”

Dean rolled his eyes at the setting sun. “I found us an awesome place, Sammy. Right on the beach.” The wooden bridge creaked as Dean shifted his weight. He’d walked up and down the shore, but the best phone reception was slap in the middle of the bridge.

“Sounds great. And Cas? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he's good.” The light from the hut window cast an elongated rectangle over the lumpy ground. “He’s asleep.”

“So… you got plans for tomorrow?”

“We need to go shopping. Stock up on food. But then it’ll be sun, sea and sandcastles.”

“Sounds great,” said Sam again.

“Are you okay? I should be there. Have you had a break today?”

“Yeah, Dean, I have. Don’t go getting all big brother on me. I’ve got help here, anyway. I called around and Charlie’s here already. Patience is coming tomorrow.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” The Charlie-shaped hole in Dean’s heart ached. He loved apocalypse-world Charlie, he really did. But the hole in his heart would always be there for his Charlie. Still, Jack was in charge now, so Charlie would be happy in heaven and Dean was just being selfish, wanting her back. And his brother had some help. “Eileen’s not back? She still on that thing in Houston? What was it - a rawhead?””

“Yeah. But she's headed to Lafayette now - following a trail of bodies turning up minus their… well, everything inside.”

“Hollow bodies? Ew.”

“Yeah. Hey, the FBI line’s ringing. I’ve gotta go.”

“Bye, Sammy. I’ll call you again soon.” The line was dead. Dean stared at the phone for a moment, the sunset glow reflecting off the glass. Then he stuffed it back in his pocket.

His forearms rested on the broad handrail and he watched the last of the light drain out of the sky and the orange glints disappear from the waves.

A beer would be good right about now. He’d get some in the morning, and then tomorrow evening he could come out here and watch the sun go down, his fingers curled around a bottle. And maybe then he wouldn’t feel the empty space next to him so much. With the cold glass in his hand and the comforting, familiar bitterness in his mouth, maybe he wouldn’t start imagining the weight and the warmth of an arm around his shoulders, the growly softness of whispered names of stars as they slowly appeared - Alpha Centauri, Beta Centauri, The Southern Cross. See how beautiful they are, Dean.

Dean turned away from the stars and went in.

He woke too early, when the light coming from their only window was still grey and thin. He could’ve shut the bedroom door last night, but the room was so small - smaller than a prison cell, and Dean knew too much about those.

Cas hadn’t lasted on the top bunk. He’d been shifting and squeaking when Dean came to bed and had calmed when Dean shushed him and rubbed his back, but then, just as Dean was dropping off, he’d started up again, whimpering unhappily. So that was why Dean was teetering on the brink of falling out of his narrow bunk.

Cas’s hair was tickling his nose. His little face was soft and his breath was slow. Dean let one foot fall to the floor. And then the other. Then he eased his body over the edge of the mattress until he was crouching, looking into the little boy’s face, which was still slack with deep sleep.

Dean crab shuffled out of the room, and softly shut the door. Then he opened it again a crack. Don’t like the dark, Dean. He’d just have to be quiet.

Coffee. He needed coffee. There was that half jar of instant in the cupboard, but boiling the kettle might wake Cas. Having a shower certainly would.

Dean sat down on the little couch, lowering himself slowly to minimise the creaking, some of which was the wooden frame, some of which was his own frame. It would be hot out later. It was already warm in the hut, even sitting here in just his boxers.

The cut on his belly was itching. He pulled the dressing off and it looked fine, so he pulled the dressings off the others too. The healing slash across his chest got the ‘fine’ verdict. Dean studied the deeper cut across his bicep - the puffy, reddened skin surrounding it and the very slight ooziness - and classified it as ‘fine if anyone asked’ (which they wouldn’t). He’d redress it when he had a shower and put one of those iodine patches on it. That’d sort it out soon enough. Better than a slosh of whiskey, that was for damn sure.

His duffel was at his feet. He’d pick out some fresh clothes. They’d need to find a laundry. Unless Carlos had facilities they could use.

Jeans, a flannel and an undershirt, and then he could take the flannel off later when the sun was properly up. That would be fine. He didn’t need to wear anything different just because he was on a beach. And he certainly wouldn’t be wearing shorts.

He pulled out a pair of jeans. And a flannel. But it was a pattern he didn’t recognise - red and black but with a thread of white running through. Hang on - he held up the shirt. Huh. It was one of Eileen’s. And wait just a damn minute… He turned the waistband on the jeans and checked the label. Shit. They were Eileen’s too.

A minute later, the contents of the duffel were strewn all over the floor and Dean had come to the inescapable conclusion that all of the clothes were Eileen’s. What the actual fuck?

He closed his eyes, dragging his fingers slowly down his face.

He’d given Cas to Sammy so that he could pack. But Cas had been crying and Dean had only found one clean set of clothes in his room. He’d gone to the laundry room, tipped a basketful into his duffel and left it at that, racing back to scoop up the newly-returned baby Cas from his brother’s arms and comfort him back to smiles.

So, that’d been Eileen’s clean laundry, then.

Dean huffed out a long, slow breath. He slumped back on the couch and stared out the window. A gull, standing at the edge of the pebbles, regarded him with a haughty eye and launched itself into the air with a shrieking, mocking cry. Bastard.

Which was it to be, then? The muddy, torn-up, bloodstained clothes from the fairy encounter? Or yesterday’s - stiff with salt-water, itchy with sand, splattered with lasagne-juice. He looked down at the clothes on the floor. Eileen was, what? Five foot two? So, eleven inches difference. And she had a few outs and ins, where Dean was… man-shaped. Still, clothes were clothes. He wasn’t going naked.

“Dean?” Cas came out of the bedroom, one leg sticking out of his footie pyjamas, one eye glued shut with sleep, his hair all sticking up. He rubbed his stuck-shut eye and yawned. Then his bleary eyes focussed on Dean, and his lips were curling downward and his eyes were filling with tears. “Dean!”

“Hey, what’s up, buddy? Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean slid off the couch to kneel in front of Cas. He curled his fingers gently around the little boy’s arms.

“Your face! It’s all lellowy and greeny and hurt!”

Dean touched his forehead, where the bruise was still tender. “Oh. Do I have a rainbow on my head? Those colours just mean it’s getting better, little buddy.”

Cas sniffed. “Does it?”

“Yes. It’ll all be gone in a couple of days.” Cas’s eyes fell to his chest, his lips wobbling again. Dean wished he’d pulled on one of Eileen’s shirts. “This is okay too, Cas. It’s healing.”

“No, it’s not,” said Cas, looking with big, scared eyes at Dean’s arm. “You’re really hurt and I can’t help and you’ll die and go away and never come back!”

“No.” Dean tried to smile. “No, really Cas. Come here.” He pulled Cas into a hug and stroked up and down his back. “Shh. It’s okay.”

Cas sniffled. “I need to be a big angel ‘gen, Dean, so I can make it all better. Little angel’s can’t make fings better. Little angels can’t help.” His breath hitched and his body shook.

“Yes, you can help, Cas. You laid the table last night. That was helping. And, hey - you won against the fairies, didn’t you?”

Cas made a watery agreeing squeak. “I did win.” He nodded. “Wiv the candy.”

“And you can help me too,” said Dean. “I’ve got all the stuff I need to make my arm better. But I can’t put it on myself, can I? So I need your help.”

Cas nodded again. “I help Dean,” he said.

“Let’s both get clean first, yeah?”

Dean got them both undressed and into the tiny shower stall. There was a lot of stamping and splashing (not all from Cas) so that more water got on the floor than went down the drain, but when he’d mopped up most of it, Dean got out the first aid stuff and Cas helped him put one of the antiseptic iodine patches over the wound on his arm and bandage it up. The little angel insisted on a pwoper bandige and wound it around and around Dean’s arm. He wanted Dean to wear a sling too.

“I couldn’t drive then, could I? And we need to go out and get breakfast and some more stuff to eat.”

“Okay, Dean. Let’s go soon. I’m hungwy. I want sojujus.”

“Sausage?” Dean pulled a shirt over Cas’s head. It had a sunflower on the front. “And pancakes?”

“No. Just sojujus. Lots of sojusus. Put cloves on now, Dean.”

“Yeah, okay.” Eileen’s clothes were still scattered on the floor

“This one,” said Cas, holding up a lilac v-neck t-shirt.

There were little pictures on the front and back - faces with hands underneath, making the shapes of ASL. He pulled it on. The fabric stretched around his shoulders and across his chest and left his belly button exposed.

“Nice,” said Cas. “I like the lickle faces.”

“Yeah. Me too,” said Dean, doubtfully. He frowned down at himself, thankful that Eileen seemed to favour baggy boxers as suitable underwear for hunting in. They fit him, kind of.

“Now these.” Cas held up a pair of jeans.

Dean set his jaw. Okay. He was doing this. He was just going to pull on a pair of ladies’ jeans and not think too much about it. And after all, he was all big and grown up now and had finally admitted to the label bisexual, if only in the comfort of his own head.

“Oh.” The fabric was softer than his usual thrift-store denim. And stretchy. He stepped in and pulled them up over his legs and, yep, they came most of the way up and maybe they stretched in different places for him than they did for Eileen, but all in all they fit way better than he’d expected.

Cas laughed. “They’re vewwy short!”

Dean looked down. Well, they covered his knees, but didn’t go much further than that. “They’re meant to be like that,” he said, defensively. “They’re beach jeans. So you can go paddling.”

“Oh. Good idea, Dean,” said Cas.

People wore jeans like this, didn’t they? Maybe not people like Dean, but other people. And he was on vacation, so he could do other people stuff for a change. He stepped over the mess of towels and clothes he and Cas had left on the floor to check himself out in the little bathroom mirror, which didn’t really work, even when he tried to angle it so that he could see his legs.

“How do I look?”

“Nice,” said Cas.

“Okay.” The jeans rode low on his hips. And what did the sign language mean? Oh. He turned around and looked over his shoulder in the mirror. “Huh. Nice one, Eileen.” He wasn’t as good at ASL as Sammy, but was pretty sure the signs on the front could be interpreted as ‘Fuck around,’ and the back meant ‘Find out.’

“Ready for bweffust!” said Cas, jumping up and down.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Chapter Text

Breakfast - check.

They’d found a really cool cliff-top place where you could sit outside and look at the ocean. But Dean had mostly watched Cas. He’d never seen anyone put away so much sausage, let alone such a small child. If it had been bacon now, Dean might have given Cas a run for his money. Although not today. Years ago, he would have thrived on a few snatched hours of sleep here and there. It messed him up now, and it was a long time since he’d had even one night of the minimum six hours he needed. His insides felt like they were all joined up wrong, even before the quart of strong, black coffee he’d swilled.

Anyway… shopping - also check.

There wasn’t space to store much in the hut’s tiny kitchen, but Dean had bought the essentials - breakfast cereal, pasta, bacon and so on. He’d even compromised his principles on some ready made burgers, which wouldn’t be anywhere near as good as his own recipe, but he wasn’t buying a whole raft of herbs and spices and trying to do what he thought of as ‘proper cooking’ in such a tiny kitchen. He’d grown up cooking on motel microwaves and camping stoves in derelict buildings anyway, so he didn't mind limited facilities for a while.

Baby was parked right outside the small town grocery store. The heavy shopping bags stretching one arm, Dean opened Baby’s back door for Cas and made sure the little angel climbed up into his carseat..

“Stay there. I’ll put these in the trunk and then do your straps.”

“Okay, Dean.”

He dumped the bags and returned - to an empty car seat.

“Cas!” Dean spun around, eyes darting frantically up and down the sidewalk,

“I’m here, Dean!”

He bent down, his jumping heart evening out. “Oh, sh- I mean, thank fu- I mean…” Dean rubbed the cold sweat off his forehead. Cas was kneeling up on the bench seat, looking out the opposite window.

“What are they doing, Dean? I wanna do it too!”

Dean wanted to go back to the hut and sleep for a week, but he straightened up to check out what had caught Cas’s attention. Over the road there was a playground. To one side, tables had been set up and little kids stood around them doing some kind of organised activity. Parents - mainly Moms - crouched by their kids, helping them out, or stood in little clusters, shooting the shit like they’d saved up all their adult-speak for days, and had a limited time to get everything said.

“Looks like they’re making things. Doing crafts.”

Cas slithered out of the car. “Can I, Dean? I wanna do cwafts!” He tipped back his head, pushing his bangs out of his eyes, his blue eyes wide open and appealing.

“Uh, yeah.” Dean bent down and lowered his voice. “No wings, though, okay? Even if the crafts are the most exciting thing since, uh…”

“Since Animaninacs?”

“Yeah, since Animaniacs.”

Cas crossed his arms and nodded, brows lowered. “Yes, Dean, I can do that. No. Wings. No. Way. Never.” He shook his head hard with each word.

Dean laughed. “I’m not saying never. Just not now. Come on, Little Wing. Let’s get you covered in glue and paint.” He held out his hand.

Cas took it and they crossed the road together.

An middle-aged, aproned lady saw them approach. “Welcome! Are you coming to join us?” Her smile flickered as she caught sight of Dean’s battered forehead, but she recovered quickly and bent down, hands on knees to address Cas. “We have some fun things to do today, young man.”

Cas put one finger in his mouth and chewed it.

“You want to, little buddy?”

Cas nodded, finger still in mouth, dragging on Dean’s hand.

“Oh, you’ve got a shy one there,” said the lady. She tucked a curl of grey hair behind one ear. “I’m Auntie Mabel. What’s your name?”

Cas’s lips moved, but his whisper was tiny.

“His name is Cas,” said Dean. He wasn’t sure what to think about people who called themselves Auntie, when they weren’t. But she seemed friendly. Unless it was all an act and she was a child-eating monster. Which could easily be the case.

“Oh, that’s an unusual name,” said Auntie Mabel. “Well, let’s see if we can find you a space, shall we, Cas? Over here. We’re here all week, with different activities every day,” she said to Dean. “It’s nice to see a few Dads coming along.”

Dads. Dean got all kinds of warm, gooey feelings when anyone thought he was a Dad. Claire, Jack, Emma - his parenting experience was so far from normal it wasn’t even in the solar system. But he wouldn’t give up a second of it, even when the pain of it was like having his guts ripped out.

“Here we are,” said Auntie Mabel.

Cas wiggled his way into the space she'd made, between two older children - a girl on his left and a boy on his right. The girl wore pink fluffy fairy wings. The boy's Dad hovered behind his son. Dean caught the guy giving him a sneering up and down look.

I'll tell Eileen you don’t like her shirt. But he turned away, focussing on Cas. He was here for the little angel to have fun, not to punch a douchebag in the face. Pity.

“So, today we've got some clay. Look, Tyler's making… Oh. That’s an army tank, isn't it, Tyler? I thought you were going to make a little house.”

Tyler's Dad put a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. “That there's an M1 Abrams. The best armoured fighting vehicle on God's green earth.”

Dean took a slow breath, relaxed his face muscles and concentrated hard on the back of Cas’s striped shirt. He would not laugh. Or even smile. Not here to punch a douchebag in the face, not here to punch a douchebag in the face.

“Oh. Well that's very nice.” Auntie Mabel's smile wobbled, but she hitched it back up with determination. “Anyway, there's the clay, or we have some beads and shells for you to make a necklace. What would you like to do today, Cas?”

Cas didn’t speak. But one little chubby finger pointed at the beads.

Tyler's Dad mumbled, “Figures,” not quite under his breath.

Dean gave the guy a little more attention, just in case punching was required, which it definitely wouldn't be.

He was tall - as tall as Dean. And maybe broader. Not gym-muscles either, but real-world, hard-work muscles, judging by the calluses on his hands. A tough guy, then. It made no difference to Dean. Not if he upset Cas. If he upset Dean’s little angel, he was going down - so far down he'd be saying hey to Rowena.

Auntie Mabel gave Cas a length of cord and helped him choose some beads and shells. Then she left to help another kid. Dean knelt down behind his angel and looked over his shoulder. The little boy held the cord in one hand and a shell with a small hole in in the other. It was a tricky task for a three-year-old. But maybe Cas would manage. Dean was here to help if he was needed, anyway.

“Are you okay there, Cas?”

He nodded.

“Hey.” Dean rubbed his shoulder. “What’s up? What's with the silent treatment?”

The shell slid onto the cord. Cas sorted through the coloured beads until he found another shell. He picked it up and then glanced across the table where Auntie Mabel was helping a little girl to roll out her clay.

Cas twisted around and whispered, “She ’minds me of a demon. A mean demon. A mean, scawey demon who hurt big Cas a long time ago.”

“Really? She reminds me a bit of a pagan god I met once. A bit too fudging nice.” Guilt made his face itch. Auntie Mabel had been kind to Cas. “There are no demons here, Cas. Rowena’s got them all in line.”

“Wowena’s the Queen of Hell,” said Cas. The end of his cord wiggled as if avoiding the hole. Cas frowned and stuck his tongue out. “She makes all the demons dance about in fwilly pink dwesses if she wants.”

The fairy-winged girl next to Cas paused in her clay-modelling and gave him a sidelong look.

“Yeah, she’s in charge,” Dean agreed. “But I think she’d go for shiny outfits in red or purple.”

Cas giggled. He sorted through the beads and shells again, taking out all of one type - little cylindrical wooden beads - and lining them up in a row. He picked one up and his breath stilled as he focussed on his task. The bead slipped onto the cord and he breathed again. “People fink angels wear long dwesses,” he said.

“To be fair, they do sometimes.”

Cas hummed and picked up another bead. It slipped out of his fingers. He picked it up again. The bead was tiny, the cord was wiggly and Cas huffed and tried again and again.

“You want some help, Cas?”

“No, fank you, Dean. I want to concentwate and not fink about silly demons.”

“Okay, then. Well, just shout if you change your mind.” Dean accepted his dismissal and braced himself for the inevitable consequences of kneeling on the ground.

Shit. Hadn’t he been young five minutes ago? How had this stage crept up on him so suddenly? He wasn’t that old, for fuck’s sake. Not old at all. Or was he? There’d been the forty years in Hell, of course, which meant his mind was pretty old. And his body had had a hard, hunting life with plenty of knocks. But actually Cas had remade him from the ground up not that many years ago. So what did all that add up to? Dean hadn’t a fucking clue. He just knew that, as he stood up, his knees creaked and ached and one hip was stiffer than the other and the back of his neck and all the way down the top half of his spine felt all crunched up like he needed a damn good stretch.

Anyway, he was up now. And there were more adults crowding around the table, so - joy of joys - he was standing practically shoulder-to-shoulder with Tyler’s Dad - who huffed and edged away from Dean. And then told his son to hurry up, “Because the place is getting full up with all types.”

The turret fell off Tyler’s tank and he poked at it listlessly.

Cas leant nearer him and Dean couldn’t hear what he said, but Tyler whispered back and they had a little under-the-radar conversation until the older boy picked up the clay again and began squishing it into a different shape.

Tyler’s Dad was muttering about wasting good drinking time. But then he leant over and poked at his son’t model. “What’re you doing there, boy? What’s happened to your Abrams?”

The boy didn’t look up. His voice was small, but firm. “I didn’t like it. I wanted to make our house. To give to Mom.”

“Our house? What do you mean our house?” He seemed to swell up with resentment and aggression. “You and your mom don’t live in the house I provided for you any more. It wasn’t good enough for her, was it? Was it?” He poked Tyler’s shoulder.

Maybe Dean should keep his mouth shut. But sometimes his mouth did its own thing. “Hey, ease off there, mister.” The guy didn’t deserve the mister. But there were kids present.

He rounded on Dean, chest puffed out, muscled arms curved out from his body - like he had a sheep tucked under each arm, Dean thought. And felt his lips curve into an unfortunate smirk, because sheep?

It looked like the douchebag-punching was going to be a thing after all. But then Auntie Mabel was between them, smiling and cooing like she either had a head full of fluff or she was actually as sharp as Dean’s machete and had recently retired from a career as a hostage negotiator, or a maybe a bomb disposal expert.

“It’s so good to see your boys making friends,” she gushed. “I’m so glad the Police Chief was able to fund our little activities from her community liaison budget. Don’t you think that’s a wonderful thing to do?”

Nice. A friendly, grandma-knows-best attitude, coupled with a reminder that the Law is watching you.

Dean grinned. “Yes, I do,” he agreed. “I think that just shows the kind and generous nature of our nation’s law enforcement.”

Auntie Mabel looked at Tyler’s Dad. He grunted agreement and backed away a step.

“Well, I’ll just be over there, if your boys need anything else.” Or if the local friendly law-enforcement were needed. She bustled away.

Tyler’s Dad glared, giving off clouds of this isn’t over. Then he sneered and nodded at Dean’s rainbow-bruised forehead. “Did your boyfriend do that?” Then he turned away and muttered, “Fag.”

This was getting old real fast. For himself, Dean couldn’t really give a fuck. But if Cas was getting upset, Dean was smashing the dickwad’s lights out, police-funded parent-and-child activities or no police-funded parent-and-child activities. But when he looked at the little angel’s face, there were no brimming tears and there was no wobbly lower lip.

Cas was looking at Tyler’s Dad like the guy was an insect. No, Cas liked insects - like the guy was nothing more than a microbe. A tiny little boy looking up at a great big guy, one raised eyebrow doing the talking, along with his firm, compressed little mouth and the flare of his tiny nostrils. Cas glared. But then he shook his head and shrugged and continued with his bead-threading,

Tyler himself, however, had stopped making his tank back into a house. His lumps of clay lay on the table and his arms were crossed. A tear patted onto the clay, making a white slippy spot. And then another.

“Are you done yet, boy? You gotta be back at your Mom’s by two.”

Tyler sniffed and shook his head and picked up his clay. His Dad mumbled something about, “That shit-faced bastard she married.” Tyler’s Mom really needed to change access arrangements.

“I finished, Dean! Tie it for me, pweese.”

Thank fuck. Cas was done and they could get out of here. The little boy held up the two ends of his cord and Dean quickly tied them in a firm knot before the beads could slip off. “Are you gonna wear it?”

“No.” Cas turned around, his face glowing and he reached up, his necklace of shells and wooden beads held out. “It’s for you to wear, Dean.”

“For me?” Cas nodded, so Dean bent down and Cas dropped the necklace over his head. “Ah, thanks, Cas. It’s great.” He set it straight, sliding all the beads together neatly. Kids made stuff for their Moms and Dads all the time - did it always make them feel all warm and melty and like you couldn’t keep the smile off your face or the pink out of your cheeks if you tried? Or did you just get used to it?

“Now you look weally pwetty!”

Dean opened his mouth to agree, but knuckle-head got in first.

“Shouldn’t be allowed.”

Dean looked down at Cas, at his little angel who’d just made him something to treasure, to keep forever to remind them of this time. The little angel looked up at him, and his face was clear and happy, just with a small, tired eye roll to acknowledge the comment - a shadow of an expression far too weary for a three-year-old.

“Teaching a kid to be like that. Shouldn’t be allowed.”

Around Dean, parents who hadn’t already given them a wide berth began to sidle away, ushering their kids before them. Dean took a deep breath and was seriously thinking about turning a bit too quickly, with his fist just hanging out all accidental-like, but then he caught sight of Tyler. He was eight or nine years old. His face was white, his eyes huge and full of fear and desperation.

This guy that Dean was itching to accidentally-on-purpose punch in his homophobic face, was Tyler’s Dad. And Tyler was just a young boy, forced to listen to his Dad mouthing off, pouring hate on people because they were different from him, because they didn’t fit his pattern of what people, of what a man should be. Here was a young boy who was maybe beginning to feel like he didn’t fit his Dad’s pattern, that maybe one day he would be the target of all that hate. And wondering what he could do, how he could behave, who he could make himself be, to make his Dad proud of him. Even when he was so confused, because Dad was wrong, wasn’t he?

Dean swallowed, painfully. Dad had been wrong. And Dean knew it now, but then, all those years ago, when he’d been the boy listening to sour judgements and cruel slurs come from the mouth of the man he admired, he’d been confused and ashamed.

“Dirty fag,” spat Tyler’s Dad. He glared at Dean, his knuckles clenching by his sides.

And Dean let it go. He had to let it go. He wouldn’t change the guy’s mind by punching him. Probably not even Charlie’s Lgbtqia+ Awareness 101, informally subtitled, ‘The asshole’s guide to not being an asshole.’ would make a difference. Hunters who dropped homophobic slurs in front of Sam or Dean were given two options - get cut off from the support network or get themselves re-educated. But this wasn’t the hunting network, where they all had to work together.

So he turned away.

Because Dean Winchester had been to Hell for forty years, tortured and torturer. He’d stopped the end of the world. He’d known, and fought, angels and demons. He’d brought down gods and set others in their place. He’d survived a year in Purgatory. He’d died, he’d lived, he’d died and lived again.

And he was capable of ignoring one bigoted asshole, for the sake of the asshole’s son.

He let his anger slide away.

But Tyler was crying.

His Dad ignored him, still glaring at Dean.

So Cas, little Cas, took the older boy’s hand. And he said, softly, in his tiny, ancient, innocent, wise voice, “It’s all going to be alright. You’ll see.”

The sweet moment was broken by the growl of a wild bear, and Dean braced himself to defend his little boy.

He wasn’t needed. Cas turned toward the threat, his little hand still holding Tyler’s, with a pinpoint glow of blue fire in his eyes and absolute authority in his cold command. “Take your son home to his mother.”.

And the wild bear was just a man, stumbling back a step, his pumped-up testosterone-fuelled aggression draining away. He shook his head, swaying like he’d had one too many shots of hard liquor.

“Come on, son. Time to go.” He held out his hand and Tyler took it. Because his Dad was a total douchebag, but they were father and son and sometimes sons would take anything they could get.

They left, Tyler’s little lump of clay abandoned on the table.

Dean crouched down and faced Cas. His eyes were a normal blue. He was chewing his finger again.

“Are you okay, little buddy?”

“Yes, Dean.” He spoke around his finger so that drool ran out of the corner of his mouth.

How did it work? That he could be an avenging angel one minute - cold and hard and ready to smite? And then the next, he was back to being a tiny little boy. Dean’s little boy, one finger in his mouth, eyes wide and bleary, like he needed one of those sippy cups full of warm milk and then a really long nap.

“We go home now, Dean? Pweese?”

“Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Cas fell asleep as soon as Baby pulled away from the kerb.

Dean drove steadily, tackling bends gently and obeying the speed limit like a granny out for a Sunday drive, although Cas probably wouldn’t haven't woken if he'd driven onto a stock car circuit, race in progress. Not that Dean would ever do such a thing to Baby.

He checked the rearview mirror. Cas was slumped to one side, his dark hair a rumpled mess, his mouth hanging open. When it was big, adult Cas in the back seat, he’d almost always been watching when Dean checked the mirror. The reverse image of the angel within the confines of the small rectangle was imprinted on Dean’s mind, blue eyes staring back at him.

He'd seen those eyes burn with celestial flame so many times. Just now, the blue had been a spark from a cigarette lighter compared to adult Cas's lightning blast, but it had been there.

And that had been the second time this little baby Cas had saved Dean from harm - first from the fairies, and now from the inevitability of Dean’s fist impacting Tyler’s Dad’s jaw - or vice versa, depending on who got in first - and the ensuing chaos and police involvement. Dean bet they wouldn’t have seen that coming, though - a fist fight at the children’s crafts. So much for their community liaison effort. It would almost have been worth a night in the cells.

Well, no, it wouldn’t, because one night might have led to many more if the authorities had gone digging. And what about Cas? A de-aged ancient celestial being in emergency foster care? Because that would have gone real well.

Anyway, it was over and they’d got out of the situation scot free.

But it was supposed to be Dean looking after Cas, not tiny Cas constantly having to come to his rescue.

Dean yawned and rubbed his eyes. His arm ached. If Sammy were here, the sasquatch could take over driving and Dean could sleep in the back, with Cas. He yawned again. Was he even on the right road? Yes. There was the sign for Thrift Cove. They were back, safe and sound, mission accomplished. Except he’d forgotten to buy any man-shaped clothes. And Cas still didn’t have a bucket and spade for the beach.

Fuck.

He slowed right down to pull Baby into the rough parking lot. Neither the campervan nor the chunky Honda were there. Dean parked Baby in the corner. It occurred to him that ‘nobody puts Baby in the corner,’ except Dean did, because yeah, stuff from the trees might fall on her, but she’d be in the shade. He’d rather have to clean her than repaint her, and yes, Sammy, eventually Baby’s paintwork would fade in the sun and no, Dean wasn’t just being super fussy.

“Dean?”

Cas was grumpy and crumpled. He began pulling at his straps, whiny grunts matching his actions, like a bear with a hangover.

Or an angel with a hangover. It must take a lot out of Cas to go smitey in his current form, even in a small way.

“Dean! Lemme out, Dean!

“I’m coming.”

Dean released himself, released Cas, released the trunk to get at their shopping. Cas leant against his legs, plucking at the hairs on Dean’s exposed calves, which wasn’t that much fun. Dean shut the trunk again.

So, Cas was grumpy then. Fuck. Wasn’t it Dean’s turn to be grumpy? No, because he was a responsible adult; an exhausted responsible adult, who hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep when he was grieving and hadn’t slept much since he’d stopped grieving.

There were thoughts somewhere in Dean’s brain but they all swam around like dying fish. There was a bit about that in a Zepp song - all the fish that lay in dirty water dying. Had they got you hypnotized?

A sharp pain in his leg got his thoughts in order pretty fast. Cas was twiddling one of Dean’s leg hairs between his little fingers.

“Hey,” Dean rasped. “D’you wanna check out the left-behind stuff?”

Cas squeaked a questioning grunt.

“Carlos said there’s a little lean-to around back, where they store everything the people leave here. Sounds like treasure, yeah?”

“Chezhure?”

“Well, to be fair, it could be a load of junk, but junk can be treasure.”

Cas rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Then he took a deep breath, reinflating himself into perkiness. “Time for chezhure-hunting, Dean!”

Wow. Had Dean ever had that much bounce-back energy? It’d take at least a quadruple shot of caffeine to get him that lively. But Cas was happy, so that was what mattered. “Yeah, d’you think X marks the spot?”

“No. I don’t fink so, Dean.”

“Okay, well, let’s see.”

He led Cas around the reception to find a little space between the back of the building and the slope of the valley. Spreading ferns overhung a tiny cliff of earth and rock, and wedged between cliff and brick wall was another brick add-on, green moss climbing its walls, its wooden door frame rotted away at ground level.

“I glad we’re not s’eeping here, Dean.”

“Yeah, me too.” Dean pushed at the damp wood and the door gave a little and then stuck. He pushed harder and it opened, scraping against the concrete floor. He opened it as wide as it would go, because it looked like it was natural light or nothing in there.

Cas pushed past him and dived into the dark little space. “What’s this, Dean?”

He grabbed and pulled and there was clattering and tumbling as stuff fell down everywhere.

“Cas?”

“Look what I found, Dean! What is it?”

The little angel was completely obscured by a bright orange something, just his fingers visible, clamped to the sides of the object.

“Uh. I guess it’s kinda like a surfboard. Only shorter. Maybe it’s a kids surfboard.” An authority on beach gear he was most certainly not.

“Can we take it?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Carlos said we could use any of this stuff. Only I don’t want you-”

“I pwomised I won’t go in the water wivout you Dean.”

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s see what else there is in here. Help me pick some of this stuff up.”

Dean took the surfboard from Cas and propped it against the wall outside.

He piled some of the junk up so they could see what there was and move without standing on anything.

“Dean, here are some shoes for you!”

“Yeah? Let’s see.”

Cas held up two flip-flops. One of them, luminous orange, looked about his size. The other was a kids’ shoe.

“Keep the orange one. See if you can find another to match.”

He couldn’t see what the hell he was doing. Dean tried to get the door to open wider to get more light in. It wouldn’t move.

“Must be something behind here.” He closed it a bit and twisted around the edge of the door to get a better look. “Hey, Cas. Come over here!”

“Coming! Ooh, Dean! Bucketses and spades!”

“Yup. Here. I’ll get a few out and you can choose.”

“I want that one!”

“Which?”

“That big, black one!”

“Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s been put there because the roof leaks. It’s a bit big for sandcastles.”

“But I want it, Dean.”

There were loads of small, child-size buckets, some with broken handles, some with cracks, but quite a few intact. He should persuade Cas to get something more suitable. Fuck that.

“Yeah, okay. But look, I’m gonna get this one too.” Dean put a little yellow bucket inside the big one.

“I can make big sancastles and you make teeny-tiny ones.”

“Not without a spade.” Dean peered into the shadows behind the door. Buckets, but no spades. What kind of organisation was that?

“I find spades,” said Cas.

“And another flip-flop,” said Dean.

They turned the place upside down and Dean set aside the things they wanted in a pile outside the door. He found another flip-flop in his size for his left foot. Which meant the right would be orange and the left blue. As if Dean cared.

“I think that’s enough now, little buddy.” The pile filled the space between the dripping cliff and the wall. It had a surfboard foundation and was built up with the buckets, a couple of spades, a shrimp net on a pole (which was broken but Dean thought he could fix), a little black backpack, a deflated beach ball (he’d need Baby’s puncture repair kit to fix that one), a kite which might be beyond fixing, and a couple of bats, for which they needed a smaller tennis-sized ball.

Cas’s muffled voice came from inside. “I can’t findy bally, Dean!”

“Doesn’t matter. This’ll do for now.” He didn’t know where they were going to put the half of it. They wouldn’t be able to move if it all went in the hut. Scrapes and crashes came from inside the store. He’d have to go in. Cas could get hurt in all that junk.

Dean blinked in the dark entrance. “Cas?”

“Coming, Dean. I just need to get…”

There was a sound of small, desperate angel, and then a triumphant cry followed by a slide and a crash.

“Cas!”

“I’m okay, Dean.” He emerged into the light, holding up a ragged, filthy soft creature. It looked toxic.

“I found a horsey, Dean! He’s my fwend!”

Fantastic. A disease-carrying friend. “Uh, don’t you think that’s a bit dirty, Cas?”

The little boy’s arms went around the toy. He pressed it to his cheek. Eesh.

“I could buy you a new one?”

“I couldn’t leave Cloppy!” said Cas.

Fuck. The beast was named. They were stuck with it.

“Alright. But I think Cloppy better have a bath real soon, Cas. Please don’t put him close to your face.”

“Cloppy’s gonna be my fwend forever and ever,” said Cas. “Amen,” he added, with a challenging glint in his eye.

“Forever and ever,” agreed Dean. He knew when he was onto a loser. He just hoped, if Cas was going into prayer mode, he wouldn’t invoke all kinds of douchey angel-buddies. Not that he had many friends among the angels. Or maybe he did now. It was always difficult to say whether Cas was celestial enemy number one or a hero of the heavens. Either way, no angel-buddies here, thank you very much. Although presumably a quick bolt of grace would sterilise Cloppy like nobody’s business.

Dean would ask Carlos if he had any bleach. In the meantime, they had to get all this stuff as well as their shopping, down to the hut. Uff. So much work. Pity they hadn’t found one of those beach loungers. That would’ve been awesome. Anyway, work to do.

“I’ll take your surfboard,” said Dean. “And I’ll get the spades and the flip flops, the beach ball and the kite in the big bucket. What can you take, Cas?”

Cas cuddled Cloppy and wriggled his shoulders, which might have been a shrug. Or maybe he was still tired.

“What’s up, Cas? D’you need another nap?”

Cas shook his head and did that weird little wriggle again.

“Did you get a spider down your shirt?”

The little boy frowned. He shook his head again. Dean put down the stuff he was carrying and crouched down. “Tell me what’s wrong. And then I can fix it.”

Cas mumbled through pinched-up lips.

“Sorry. I didn’t get any of that.”

“My wings are itchy. And fuzzy. And I don’t like it!” His eyes went all shiny and his little chest hitched.

“Oh. Hey, I’m sorry, Cas. You’ve kept your wings put away a long time, haven’t you?”

Cas nodded, sadly.

“Well, I’m gonna fix that right now.”

“How?”

“Okay, so you remember that girl next to you today? The girl wearing the fairy wings?”

“They weren’t real.”

“No.” Thank fuck they weren’t real. “But did you see how they were fastened on?”

Cas shook his head.

Dean picked up the little black backpack he’d found. “They had straps around her arms. So, if you put this on, you’ll have straps around your arms so it’ll look like your wings aren’t real. As long as you don’t move them too much.”

Cas looked at the backpack. He frowned. He pulled Cloppy’s matted tail, thoughtfully. Then he barrelled into Dean and flung both arms around his neck, which meant Dean got a bit more up close and personal with Cloppy than he wanted. But that was okay.

“Fank you, Dean. Fank you.”

“That’s okay, Cas. Let’s see how it looks, yeah?”

Cas’s arms slid away and he turned around so that Dean could put the back pack on him and adjust the straps. They were a bit stiff. It needed a wash. But it’d do for now.

“Okay. That’s pretty steady.” He tugged the little pack. “It’s not gonna go anywhere. You can let ‘em go, Cas.”

Cas bounced in place once, twice, and on the third time his little wings flared into existence with a shimmer and a pop. They fluttered hard so that Cas actually rose a couple of feet off the ground.

“Hey, there.” Dean caught his waist and set him back down on the ground. “No backpack’s gonna cover up that kind of move. We’d have to get a jetpack for that.”

“Yes! Get a jetpack, Dean,” Cas grinned.

“Maybe not right now.” He checked the straps again, ducking out of the way of the fluttering wings. “Are you gonna be able to keep them still?”

“Yes, Dean. I keep them still like they’re not real, but we know they are real!”

“Yeah. We do.” Dean began to gather up their treasure.

Cas picked up the shrimp net and the bats, tucking Cloppy under one arm. He grinned up at Dean, white teeth in a dirty face, a rip in his shirt, bangs hanging down in his eyes and little black wings sticking out either side of his shoulders.

Dean was fucking exhausted. But all this was more worth it than he had any idea how to say.

“Come on then, Little Wing. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Carlos was outside the hut, bending down to hammer a peg into the sandy ground. A rope ran from the peg to a pole which supported one corner of a big piece of canvas.

“Hey, Carlos,” said Dean. “You made us a porch!” The canvas was fastened all the way along the front of the hut below the roof and was supported by two poles at the front.

Carlos straightened up. He smiled and stuck the hammer through his belt, like he might need to draw it fast, for urgent repairs. “I thought you could use the shade,” he said. And I found you some chairs. I don’t have a table.”

There were a couple of those moulded plastic chairs you see everywhere, white faded to mottled grey, but okay if you weren’t fussy. One was big and one child-sized. Between them was an upturned wooden crate which would be a better size for Cas to reach than a full height table anyway.

“My chair!” said Cas, dropping the shrimp net and the bats and running. He hurtled into the chair, which would have tipped over if Carlos hadn’t steadied it. “Big chair for big Dean, lickle chair for lickle Cas.” He held up Cloppy. “Cloppy doesn’t need a chair ’cos she’s a horsey!”

“Oh, my word, where did you find that?” Carlos knelt down in the sand. “That used to belong to Gabriela, my eldest daughter. What was its name, now?”

“Cloppy,” said Cas, firmly. “Her name is Cloppy. She’s my horsey.”

Carlos ruffled Cas’s hair. “Of course she is. And if you want, she can go in a special horsey bath so she’s all clean.”

Cas patted his hair back into place, frowning. “She might not like that.”

“Bring her up to the house later, and you can watch her go around and around in the washer.” He stood up. “I mean it - we’re up the path just past the parking lot. Come up later and you can do whatever laundry you have.”

“Thanks,” said Dean. “We’ll do that.” Shit. Laundry. When he just wanted to lie down and chill the fuck out. And maybe even sleep. For a change.

Carlos left, and Dean dumped his load of treasure outside the hut, arms aching, especially the injured one which was stiff and sore. Cas’s gaze was fixed on Carlos’ departing back. “Cloppy isn’t laundwy,” he said crossly. “And I don’t fink she wants to go awound and awound.”

Uff. Laundry and a battle to be fought. His arm twinged sharply as he picked up the surfboard. “Well Cloppy ain’t going anywhere near your bed if she don’t get washed up,” said Dean. “So think on that before you kick up a fuss.”

Cas humphed and kicked his legs in the sand, carving out a hollow beneath his chair, Cloppy clutched to his chest.

Now Dean was being a bitch. Cas was just a little kid. Jack would be pissed with Dean if he knew he was being a mean bastard. But Jack was God, so of course he knew. He’d probably be here any minute to pick Cas up and take him somewhere else, where he’d be looked after better.

Dean leant the surfboard against the side of the hut. He set the big bucket just outside the door and left the small bucket and the spades inside it.

Cas clutched his stuffed horse-thing and whispered to it.

Huh. It was just like when Sammy had that tattered old stuffed rabbit. What had that thing’s name been? Carrots. Typical Sammy, naming his toy after a vegetable. He’d screeched like a banshee whenever Dean had shoved it in the washer along with the clothes.

Bunnies can’t swim, you jerk! Little Sam had kicked him hard, and he’d had a bruise on his shin for more than a week.

Sure they can swim, bitch. Just you’re too stupid to read Watership Down or you’d know that. He’d had to hide that one from Dad. Reading a book about talking rabbits? Dad would have freaked. Dean smirked at the memory. Carrots could’ve won an Olympic gold in swimming, the amount of times he’d had to be washed.

Wincing, he picked up the broken kite and the punctured beachball and dropped them onto his chair. He still had the bandage on his arm that Cas had wrapped around and around. It was probably too tight. He’d stop and loosen it off. In a minute. When he sat down to rest.

He picked up the shrimp net and the bats from where Cas had abandoned them and put them in with the spades, so the big bucket looked like an overcrowded umbrella stand. Was that everything? Dean looked around. A flash of orange and a line of blue caught his eye. Oh yeah, the flip flops. His feet were hot and itchy in boots and socks. He pulled the laces undone and kicked off his boots. They thudded against the wall of the hut and he left them where they fell and pulled off his socks, hurling them after the boots. One of the flip flops turned out to be slightly bigger than the other and the plastic bits felt weird between his toes. He stared at them. Had he ever worn flip flops before? They’d be a liability out hunting. The orange and the blue clashed, and the headache he’d been ignoring spiked viciously.

Cas was still sitting in his little chair, his legs waggling backward and forward, feet dragging through the sand, his lower lip sticking out as he muttered to Cloppy. It had been a long morning. Dean’s stomach let out a strangled moan. Ah, shit. “Hey, you hungry, Cas?”

The little angel looked up, his eyes suddenly big, his lip suddenly trembling. “Oh. Yes, Dean. I’m vewwy hungwy! I didn’t know I was hungwy and now I do and I’m vewwy vewwy hungwy!”

“Oh, Cas, I'm sorry, little guy. I shouldn’ta let us get caught up in hunting for treasure. I shoulda thought.” He crouched down in front of the little boy, who had that droopy, low blood sugar look that Sammy used to get when he’d run off all his energy, except with added droopy wings. “You sit there. I’ll go get our shopping,” said Dean. “Then I'll whip you up a snack in no time.”

“More than a snack, Dean,” said Cas. “I need lots and lots!”

“I'll make sure you get enough, Cas.” He stood up. “And here's one good thing - Carlos didn't say anything about your wings.”

Dean couldn’t even start on his own lunch until Cas had eaten at least half of his.

He felt like slapping himself upside the head for letting the kid get so hungry, And worse, images of his brother at that age kept flashing into his mind, the imploring look he got when there wasn’t quite enough to go around, the desperate little whines he used to make when his plate was empty. So Dean had always made sure it was filled, enough so that there were a few scraps leftover when Sam was done. Sometimes those few scraps were all Dean got.

Cas ate with his little chair tipped forward, his body curled over the upturned crate. His cheeks bulged and bits of bread and ham and cheese and salad fell back onto his plate. Dean’s plate rested on his lap, untouched, his long ago learnt skill at ignoring his own empty stomach easily returning when all his attention was for the little boy.

Cas pushed a scrap of tomato back into his mouth with one finger. He made appreciative little hums as he ate. Then he looked up and frowned and tried unsuccessfully to park half a sandwich in his cheek while he spoke. “Eachor samich, Dean.” A piece of ham tumbled down his chin and fell back to his plate. He chewed and swallowed. “Dean? Aren’t you hungwy?”

Dean looked down at his own plate. He’d been grumpy as fuck. And he’d let Cas get hungry. He’d let the little boy get so hungry that he’d lost his happy spark and his brightness had dimmed. And even though he’d made Cas the biggest, best sandwich he could, somehow his poor excuse for parenting had put up a barrier between Dean and his own lunch. Like he wasn’t allowed to eat it.

Cas pushed his own plate away and sat up straight, licking his fingers. “Dean.”

A fly landed on the edge of Dean’s plate and began following the rim, a blue path around the white enamel. He flicked it away.

“Dean!”

He looked up. Cas’s arms were crossed, his head tipped to one side, one feathery little eyebrow climbing upward.

“Eat your samich, Dean! Now!”

There was no blue fire in his eyes, no angel-juice coming through in his voice, but even so, the barrier fell and Dean’s hunger washed over him in a wave that was almost painful. He grabbed his sandwich and took a massive bite.

Cas nodded approval. And instead of returning to his hunched-over feeding frenzy, he kept his eyes on Dean, picking up chunks of bread and meat and cheese and slowly posting them into his mouth until his plate was empty.

Dean felt like shit, and now for a different reason. It was all the wrong way around. Dean was supposed to be doing the Dad thing. He was supposed to be making sure Cas ate, giving the orders, accepting no crap. He was supposed to be doing the protecting. But Cas kept having to do it for him, even down to getting him to eat his lunch, like he was the kid. Jesus fucking Christ. He was so messed up.

But he ate his sandwich, because Cas was back to his bright bounciness, digging in the gritty sand with one of the old spades, and because Cas had given him permission to eat, or an order, which amounted to the same thing in Dean’s mind.

He finished his sandwich, and cleared up the plates and then stuffed all their dirty clothes in his duffel.

“Cas?”

The little boy looked up from where he was digging.

“Are you gonna keep your wings out for now? We’re gonna go find Carlos’ house.”

Cas stared at the sand, then wriggled and his wings disappeared. He sprang up. “I keep the packpack on. To bring important fings.” He stuffed Cloppy inside, leaving the toy’s head sticking out the top.

“Yeah, good plan,” said Dean. “C’mon, then.” He held out his hand, and Cas took it.

The trees were noisy as they walked up the path from the beach, the stiff wind coming in from the ocean waving the branches about and making the rustling leaves join together into a roar to drown out the distant surf. Dappled light danced around on the dirt path and Cas jigged up and down trying to jump on the moving patches, pulling at Dean’s arm.

Dean’s mind was fuzzy, his body ached and he desperately needed to sleep. But even so, as he trudged wearily up the path and breathed in the clean air, he wouldn’t have minded if this little journey had gone on forever, just him and Cas and the mixture of scents, fresh and green from the forest and salty blue from the ocean. The pain in his arm didn’t matter. The grit in his eyes wasn’t a problem. He was alive and Cas was here and it was warm, so that a slow stroll felt right. It was good. Dean took a picture in his mind, a freeze frame of the moment, to remember it forever.

Then it was over. He blinked as they came out into the parking lot. Scouring white sunlight bounced off the baked-hard dirt. Rainbow-lights danced on Baby’s windscreen and Dean blinked them away, a wave of dizziness washing over him and receding.

“Heyo, Baby.” Cas waved to the Impala.

She’d wave back if she could, Dean’s Baby, that he’d known all his life. She was solid and black, as she’d always been and if he wanted he could lie down on her hood and cling to the summer-warm metal.

The overhanging trees were dropping bits of dried up blossom and whatever else trees dropped, so that a layer of sticky, sappy residue was building up, dulling her paint. It’d come off, though. And at least she was sheltered from the salty ocean spray.

Cas tugged at Dean’s arm. “Dean! Wakey-up, Dean!”

“Huh, yeah?”

“Look - there’s a path. Is that the way?”

There was a little cut through the trees just after the reception building. It was narrow, but well-trodden.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be it.”

Dean let go of Cas’s hand as they entered the new stretch of woodland. The path curved away from the road, so Cas would be safe scrambling on ahead and Dean could go at his own pace, which right now was slow, like he had lead weights on his feet. Maybe they were enchanted flip-flops. Cursed flip-flops, dragging him down into the earth.

At the start of the path, Dean could see quite a way into the trees on either side - tall, narrow trunks reached up toward the light with not much in the way of undergrowth. But as he went along,

Cas ran, Cloppy jolting up and down in the backpack, calling out in parrot-shrieks and monkey hoots which echoed around the trees like the forest was hollow. The path became more enclosed, the tree trunks bigger, the undergrowth beneath and between them a dense tangle of briars and ferns. Dean’s fingertips tingled with unease.

“Cas.” A curve of the path separated them. “Cas, don’t go too far!”

Little sneakers thudded distantly on the soft earth. “I’m running, Dean!”

Dean picked up his pace, flip-flops flapping against his bare soles. “Cas, wait up!” He couldn’t seem to get enough air. It was like one of those dreams where you want to run, but you can’t.

He rounded the curve, a pulse beating hard in his neck, his wounded arm throbbing in time. But the little angel was there, not far ahead, puffing hard as the ground began to rise. He stopped at the foot of a flight of rough wooden steps, rising steeply up a ferny bank between the trees. Dean, relieved, caught up.

“There must be another way to Carlos’ house,” he said. “You’d go crazy getting your shopping up here.” He rubbed at the spot of tension between his brows. The duffel dragged on his shoulder like it was full of rocks. Could he flake out while the laundry was getting washed or would he have to be polite and sociable?

“I climbing now.”

Cas had regained his breath and set off up the steps, stretching to get up each one, arms waving, grunting with effort.

“You want me to carry you?” Dean was having enough trouble carrying himself. Must be because of the stupid shoes. If he had his boots on he’d be up the steps two at a time.

“No, fank you.” Cas stopped and pointed to the damp, ferny shadow of a rocky overhang. “Look, Dean, mushwooms!”

Dean stumbled up a step, panting and dizzy. “Oh. Ew.” The curving red tops with little white specks reminded him of fairies and other creatures that lurked in forests. “Not gonna be tasting those guys any time soon.”

“No. They’re nasty mushwooms, Dean.” He sighed, hands on hips. “More climbing now!” The little boy scrambled up the last of the steps. And then he cried out, just before he disappeared from Dean’s sight.

“Cas! Wait up!”

There was no response. Had that been another bird-call or a scared yell? Dean scraped together his flagging energy to chase after his angel, hauling himself up the steps and staggering through the crowded shrubs at the top, slapping overhanging branches aside, his heart turned to cold concrete at the reminder of his desperate search for Cas through the fairy-infested forest.

Suddenly he was blinded. There was open space ahead and to either side, and his eyes were watering from the shocking brightness. He stumbled forward, gasping.

“Dean! Welcome!”

Dean blinked and wiped his eyes. “What? Cas? Where’s Cas?”

“Here I am, Dean!” Cas was looking up at him, Cloppy dangling from one hand, the other scratching his stomach underneath his t-shirt. He had a scrap of leaf stuck in his hair and his knees were muddy.

“Cas.” Dean let the duffel bag fall, scooped up his angel and held him tight. He shut his eyes tight and sparks went off behind his eyelids, as his head throbbed with pain.

“Dean. Putmedown, Dean!”

Cas squirmed and wriggled, so Dean let him slide down.

Everything was okay again. So why was he shaking? He was literally out of the woods, standing on a neat lawn of close-trimmed grass. The woodland at his back curved around to the inland side and petered out on the ocean side, where the garden fell away in a series of steps and flower beds. There was an awesome view of sparkling water and headlands, stretching away in ranks to north and south.

And in front of him was Carlos and a house that must once have been a small cottage but had grown, with mismatching bits added on haphazardly, to become a large, rambling house.

“Welcome, Dean,” said Carlos again.

“Oh. Thanks. Uh. Sorry.” What the hell was wrong with him? Maybe he’d had too much sun or too little sandwich. He’d definitely had too little sleep. He was going to go crazy if he didn't get a halfway decent night soon.

“Come inside. I’ll take care of your laundry while you sit and drink tea.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But, yes, I do. You’re on vacation. And you look tired, Dean. You should rest.”

He shouldn’t rest. He should be alert and ready for any and all kinds of shit to go down. If people told him to rest and they weren’t Sammy, bitch-face firmly in place, then they were probably a djinn or something equally fucked up. Rest, Dean. You’re safe now. And then it’d be like that bit in the Lord of the Rings (book, not movie), where the massive tree makes the hobbits go to sleep and then sucks them in.

And as for tea. Read evil witch’s brew.

Or, hell, maybe he was just paranoid. There’s no maybe about it, Dean. Sam’s voice. What the fuck?

“Dean?”

“Yeah, uh, I don’t know…” He rubbed his forehead. His head hurt. His arm hurt. The colours of the bright garden were swirling and making him nauseous.

“Come on, Dean. Let me help you.”

There was an arm around his back and a smell of something weird like that patchouli shit that Sam liked even when he said he didn’t. Or maybe Carlos smoked weird cigarettes. But Carlos was okay. Dean let himself be guided.

Then the summer glare was gone and Dean was sitting in a soft armchair by a big old fireplace, dark and empty of fuel. It was cool and the chair was so, so soft.

“I think you should sleep now, Dean. Don’t you?”

No, he shouldn’t. But he did.

Dean breathed in, deep and slow. He let the breath out again. His body was heavy, his mind full of nothing. Another breath brought unfamiliar scents - old wood and herbs, something bitter and something sweet. There was no hurry. No need to move.

His back was fully supported, his arms lying slack, and his feet were propped up. He wiggled his toes and felt empty air - no flip flops.

A clock ticked, hollow and loud, like some big old wooden thing. And there was another sound, soft and wet, rhythmic, but with pauses that broke the pattern every so often. And then a muffled creak right in front of him woke Dean’s eyelids up a bit. They slid slowly apart to reveal Carlos, sitting in another soft armchair across the fireplace from him.

Carlos was reading a leather-bound book, but when Dean's fingers twitched he looked up and smiled. “Dean. Are you feeling better?”

Dean took another breath and cleared his throat. Then his heart kicked right up to ramming speed. “Cas? Where’s Cas?”

The smile remained on Carlos’ face and Dean followed his gaze to where Cas sat, close by, cross-legged on the floor with a bowl in his lap. The sloppy rhythmic sound stopped as he took one corner of a large, dripping piece of honeycomb out of his mouth.

“Heyo, Dean.” He rotated the honeycomb and began sucking on another corner. Cas was fine. He was safe and happy and, judging by his glistening cheeks and dripping fingers, very, very sticky. And next to him, a safe distance from the drips, stood a pink, fluffy creature with creamy-white main and tail and a dark blue bridle and reins. “Cloppy's clean and nice now,” said Cas, wiping his chin on the back of one hand. “She had to go in wiv the laundry, but there was a window so she could see out. And the dryer too,” he added.

Dean croaked and shuffled himself more upright, trying to clear his throat.

“I'll get you that tea,” said Carlos, standing up. He disappeared through a beaded curtain and the slow rising hiss of a kettle began, as well as the clatter of cups.

“You were as’eep ages, Dean. Ages and ages.”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Jeez.” He lifted both arms, ready to scrub wakefulness back into his face, but couldn’t stop a yelp as his injured arm twinged with sudden, hot pain. He breathed slowly between pursed lips until it eased off a bit. Well, that had woken him up about ten times as well as rubbing his face.

“Dean?” The honeycomb dripped forgotten in Cas’s hand and his lower lip wobbled.

“t’s okay, Cas. I’m alright.”

Carlos pushed through the beaded curtain, carrying a tray. “Well, we’ll just see about that, won’t we?” He set the tray down on a table next to Dean’s chair. “With your permission, Dean, I’ll take that bandage off and have a look at what’s lurking underneath.” There was first aid stuff on the tray, as well as a teapot and cups. And a bowl of green sludge, which Dean hoped to hell wasn’t a snack because if it was he didn’t know if he could do the polite thing.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do have to. You turn up at my house looking like death warmed over, you’re gonna get yourself looked after, Dean Winchester. Like it or not.”

He was reminded of Jody. Or, with an old pain, of Ellen. “I thought you said, with my permission.”

Carlos grunted. “You saying no?”

Dean tried to flex his arm but it was hot and tight. It hadn’t been that bad this morning, had it? He shook his head. “I’m not saying no.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get us some tea first, though.” Carlos took the lid off the floral teapot, stirred the contents around and poured it out into three cups - two delicate china and one plastic with a handle on each side. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Both, please.” Might distract from the fact that it wasn’t coffee. “And the same for Cas.”

Adult Cas drank tea black, if at all. But little Cas seemed like a milk and sugar kinda guy. And it’d be interesting to see how he reacted to the kiddy cup.

Dean sipped his own tea, while Carlos poured Cas a half cup, topped it up with milk and added plenty of sugar. Then he picked up a lid with a spout and pressed it down firmly on the cup. Oh, this was getting really interesting. This was getting capture-for-posterity interesting. A framed picture of Angel of the Lord Castiel drinking from a sippy cup would look great displayed in the bunker. Somewhere prominent.

But Dean’s eyes were still heavy with sleep. He let them droop.

Sammy’s training cup had been green, hadn’t it? Weird how these things got buried in your memory and then floated up to the top sometimes. There’d been a picture of an overly cute koala on the side. Sammy had hated that cup. Dean hated the damn thing too, but he’d made little Sammy use it, because Dean was the one who had to do the cleaning up when his brother managed to spill his drink all down himself. He got away with it until one day Sammy had refused to take Dean’s shit anymore (he had been going on five) He’d thrown it across the motel room and it had exploded spectacularly against the wall above Dad’s bed, budget store-brand cola spraying everywhere. They’d nearly got thrown out of that place. The manager had come banging on the door ten minutes into the yelling from Dad and the screaming from Sam and Dad’d had to pay an extra cleaning bill and promise to keep his children under control, which hadn’t gone down well one little bit.

Hazily, Dean watched as Carlos passed the cup to Cas. Cas took it with one sticky hand, regarded the spout curiously for a moment and then put it to his mouth and began to drink with loud, slurping enjoyment. And actually, Dean wasn’t sure whether adult Cas wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing. Not back when he was sparks-and-lightning Cas, demanding respect and threatening to drop Dean’s sorry ass back in the pit. No. That Cas would have smited - smote? (He was never sure about that one.) Anyway, he would have left a crater where the sippy cup had been.

A few years down the line, however, when Cas could be as soft one minute as he was badass the next, maybe he would have seen the spouted cup as another chance at a common human experience. I have never had the opportunity to use one of these before, Dean. Cue slurping.

“Okay, let’s take a look, shall we?” Carlos pulled a footstool next to Dean’s chair, sat down on it and began unwinding the bandage. “Is the little guy gonna be okay with this? Or should I give him some colouring or something to distract him?”

Cas was alternately drinking, noisily, and licking honey off his hands. “He’ll be okay,” said Dean. He could get a colouring book and a pack of crayons next time they were at the store, though.

“Alright, then. How d’you get yourself hurt anyway?” Carlos asked. “Got a nasty bruise there too.” He looked at Dean’s forehead.

“It was nothin’,” said Dean. Act casual. Don’t mention fairies. “Just a bit of trouble on the road, you know?”

“Car accident?”

Dean shrugged.

Carlos paused. “None of my business, I guess.”

Dean chewed his lip, guilt stirring in his gut. Carlos was being nice and he was acting like he didn’t trust the guy. He looked down at Eileen’s shirt. Fuck around, find out. The fairies had certainly fucked around.

“Hmm.” Carlos supported Dean’s elbow and scrutinised his injury.

Dean had a look too, and didn’t like what he saw - the swollen skin, the oozy bit in the middle. He could get himself some antibiotics now that Charlie had cleaned up his record and sorted out some kind of bottomless insurance with no actual payments. But he didn’t want to. Too many bad memories of hospitals.

“I’m gonna just clean this up a bit,” said Carlos.

He dipped a cotton ball in a bowl of some yellow liquid and squeezed it out. Dean braced himself for the stinging hellishness, but when the dripping cotton ball swiped over his injury, if anything the pain eased.

“What is that stuff you’re using?”

“Family remedy,” said Carlos, concentrating on his work.

“What - like herbs or something?”

Carlos shrugged. “Herbs. And something.” He glanced up briefly. “You have your secrets, I have mine.”

“Oh. Okay, then.” Dean’s eyes trailed around the room - dried flower arrangements, a few pictures (nothing creepy), a little piano tucked in one corner. No witchy crap. Although, Dean had known witches at both ends of the spectrum - from the full-on black-cats-and-spider-webs, cauldron-toting, card-carrying spell-casters to nothing-to-see-here, average Joes. And Joannes. So décor was no guide.

He gritted his teeth and shuddered as Carlos’ cleaning got a bit more vigorous.

“Sorry,” muttered Carlos. “Gotta get this properly clean.”

Dean doubled down on the teeth-gritting, Ancient celestial beings were fine with cussing, but Carlos didn’t know that Cas wasn’t your average three-year-old.

“That’s looking better,” he said, eventually.

Dean’s quick glance disagreed. It looked like something had tried to tear his arm off and nearly succeeded. Then Carlos began slapping on the green goop. And it would be really rude to comment that it looked like it’d been dug out of a foetid swamp, so Dean wouldn’t say that.

“Cloppy says I’m too sticky to pick her up,” said Cas, distracting him from the swamp slime.

“Cloppy’s right,” said Dean. “Wait a coupla minutes and I’ll get you cleaned up.” Carlos applied another wet splat. “Is that stuff a family secret too?”

“Yup,” said Carlos. “Deadly secret.”

“It’s very… green,” said Dean.

Cas stood up, leaving his toy sitting on the floor next to the bowl of honeycomb. He chewed on the spout of his cup and watched Carlos work. “The gween stuff will make it heal right up,” he said. “’Cos Carlos knows plants to use to make fings better. And honey. Honey is nice and good for you.” Cas licked his fingers. “Carlos has bee houses, Dean. Where bees live and make honey. Bzzzzz!” He waved a hand in the air, fingers pinched as if he were holding a tiny bee.

“Sounds like you've been having fun,” said Dean.

“That we have,” said Carlos. “Your little boy's a lively one, isn't he? And fascinated by my bees.”

“Yeah. He's always liked bees.”

Carlos carefully placed a soft, white pad over the wound and began wrapping it with a fresh bandage. “He’s not your son, though, is he? Doesn’t call you Dad, anyway.”

“He’s not my son,” said Dean. He looked at Cas and the little boy looked back, blue eyes clear and soft. “He’s not my son,” he repeated, “but he is mine.”

Cas scrambled into his lap the same way he’d scrambled up those stairs in the woods, spilling Dean’s tea, grabbing his shirt with sticky fingers and whacking him on the side of the head with his cup. But Dean didn’t care. Because little arms wrapped around his neck and a little voice whispered in his ear.

“My Dean.”

Chapter Text

“That one's clean,” said Carlos, letting go of Cas’s hand. “Now the other.”

Cas held out a honey-covered paw. “Cleany-clean,” he sang. “Cleany-clean, then I take Cloppy to see the bees again.”

Dean slid his feet off the footstool, easing himself upright in the squishy armchair. His body was relaxed, but he felt kind of hollowed out like his exhaustion had been filling him up and now there was nothing to replace it.

He tugged the hem of Eileen’s tee down, but it sprang up again, exposing his midriff. “We should get going. We’ve taken up enough of your time. Well, I have. Sorry about that. I’m sure you had plans for your afternoon which didn’t include having to patch me up.”

Carlos looked at Dean and then back at Cas. “Your Dad - your Dean - he’s a bit of an idiot, isn’t he?”

Cas giggled. “Idjit,” he said. He’d learned from the best.

Dean shuffled his butt to the edge of the chair, ready to get up and get out. He'd only just met Carlos the day before. The guy didn’t want some stranger and his kid hanging around. “Seriously, though. Thanks for everything. But we’ll get out of your hair now.”

“Idjit,” Cas said again.

“A stubborn idjit, at that,” said Carlos.

What the hell? Dean’s cheeks tingled with heat. His long nap had given him back a bit of energy and with it came embarrassment. Fuck. He’d practically collapsed in Carlos’ arms, swooning like a girl. (In his mind, the Queen of Moondor jabbed her handmaiden with the tip of her wooden sword. Sorry, Charlie.) “I just don’t wanna impose,” he mumbled, in the direction of his denim-clad knees.

“You’re not imposing,” said Carlos. “In fact, I was all ready and waiting to come to the rescue at some point. You turned up yesterday and I said to myself, there’s a guy who needs a break. There’s a guy who’s seen some serious shit. Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“Well, then. You sit yourself back in that chair, put your feet up and rest.” He glanced at the grandfather clock. “It’s getting close to dinner time and you’re staying to eat, like it or not. Roast chicken. Followed by rhubarb cobbler. You’re not going to refuse me now, are you?”

Dean might’ve tried to refuse the chicken. “I haven’t come across rhubarb cobbler in a long time,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile even though he tried to hold it down.

“That’s settled then.” Carlos gave Cas’s face one last swipe. “There. You’re all done.”

Cas picked up the barely recognisable Cloppy from the floor and hugged her tight. Dean had had no idea the thing was pink. “Can I go see the bees now?”

“Why don’t you come and help me in the kitchen?” said Carlos. “Then we can all go see the bees later.”

Cas’s brows lowered. He wasn’t going to kick off, was he?

“You can mix some honey in with the rhubarb.”

The little boy’s face lightened. “I’m good at mixing,” he said. “’specially honey.” He turned around and dropped Cloppy on Dean’s lap. “You look after Dean, Cloppy.”

“Hey, shouldn’t it be me looking after Cloppy?”

Cas looked at him, tiny face doing adult Cas’s big bad angel glower. “No,” he said simply. He scuttled away, hands raised to push through the beaded curtain and into the kitchen.

Carlos shrugged in Dean’s direction and followed him.

Dean sank back into the chair and closed his eyes.

His arm still hurt. But it was that okay-I’m-gonna-heal-now pain, not the I’m-gonna-go-green-and-drop-off type. So that was fine.

Everything was fine. Fine, fine, fucking fine. Dean huffed. He wriggled his hips to ease the ache in his lower back. He crossed one ankle over the other, then uncrossed them.

There was a waft of roasting chicken from the kitchen. Had he put the burgers in the fridge back at the hut? Yes. Probably.

He huffed again. Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker. This was all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Lying here like a great big sad sack of shit, totally useless, letting others do the work, letting others take the responsibility. Even three-year-old Cas was making himself useful. Dean was contributing nothing.

When had he last been any damn use? Okay, so he’d made the lunch. He’d got the groceries. He’d got Cas here in the first place. A sharp shard of something twisted inside of him. Guilt?

Yeah, abso-fucking-lutely it was guilt. Guilt, alongside the not-yet-healed scars of twisting, burning helplessness along with hopeless, crushing grief. And it was right that he should feel guilty. He should, because he’d failed to do the one thing that was most important, that meant more than anything else in heaven, hell and earth. He’s failed to rescue Cas.

He’d tried. He’d searched every book, every ancient parchment, every stone tablet. He’d summoned Rowena over and over until finally she’d let him and Sammy trawl through the dark, filthy archives of hell. He’d prayed to Jack and to all the dickbag angels he could think of. He’d asked shamans and witches, wise women and priests. He’d even prayed to the Empty itself. And he’d come up with precisely zilch.

So he’d retreated into whiskey and nightmares and grief, and he’d stayed there because he couldn’t get himself out, and he wouldn’t let anyone else get him out.

And then, suddenly, as if it had been a simple matter all along, Cas was back - a little, vulnerable baby Cas, for Dean to look after and to love. And he did love him, with all of the badly patched-together pieces of his broken heart.

Something tickled Dean’s fingers. He flinched, his eyes flying open, but it was just Cloppy’s fluffy tail. She lay, forgotten, in Dean’s lap. He picked her up and ran the tip of his finger around the lines of her blue bridle, rubbed at the bright roundness of her plastic eyes and stroked down her mane.

A happy giggle came from the kitchen and a flood of childish words, followed by Carlos’ deep rumble.

Dean wasn’t needed. And actually, who the hell was he when he wasn’t needed? When he didn’t have a task, when he wasn’t the one doing the looking-after, who was he? What was he for? And how the actual fuck was he supposed to deal with the dumpster full of evil-smelling trash that stood in for his mind, if he had nothing whatsoever to distract him?

The grandfather clock ticked and tocked out the seconds with heavy inevitability. Dean’s eyes skated over the floral arm of his chair, the swirling pattern of the carpet, muted with years of wear. He looked up to the old-fashioned beams and the spaces in between, white-washed, with grey-blue shadows hiding cobwebbed corners. There were framed photos above the fireplace, coasters on the side tables and the little piano had a book open on the stand, like someone had left it, ready to go back and play some more.

This was a home. A very lived-in home, softened with use and full of character and the imperfections that made a home feel right. What did Dean know about how to live in a real home? Nothing. The bunker had been his home for way longer than their old house in Lawrence. But it wasn’t like this.

A rumble distracted him, coming from the open window behind him, then the crunch of tires on gravel. A car door slammed. Good. A new arrival would save Dean from his own stupid thoughts.

There were voices and - was that a bark? And then Carlos came in, Cas trailing behind him a stranger bringing up the rear.

“Dean, this is my better half, Brenda.”

A tall figure ducked under the low cottage-height door and then straightened up, smiling. He (the facial features and outline were definitely male) had long, curly hair - brown, shot through with grey, and partly restrained by a pink and blue headband. He wore a plain white shirt under a long, blue pinafore dress, silver stud earrings in the shape of skulls, subtle dark eyeliner and unsubtle bright pink lips.

He waved down Dean’s scrambling attempts to stand, instead grabbing Dean’s hand and shaking it firmly.

“Nice to meet you, Dean.” His voice was as firm and warm as his handshake.

Should Dean even be thinking he and his though? Didn’t the dress imply she? Shit. This was one of those situations where Charlie would know exactly what to say and Dean would behave like a total asshole even when he was trying not to. He’d probably call Brenda dude or something. And he didn’t even know if that was bad. You could call anyone dude couldn’t you?

“Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you too,” he mumbled.

Cas was staring up at Brenda, head tipped to one side. And Dean ached with the memories of the angel looking at him in just that way, like he was a puzzle to solve. “You’re wearing a dwess,” he said bluntly.

“Yes,” said Brenda.

“Is Brenda a girl’s name?”

“Yes it is.”

Carlos slid his hand into Brenda’s. They glanced at each other and smiled.

“But you’re a man,” said Cas. “Are you?”

Brenda wobbled his head from side to side in a kind of maybe-yes-maybe-no. “Well, I’m feeling like a ‘he’ at the moment. A ‘he’ who likes to dress in things that people say are for ‘shes’. But mostly I’m just Brenda,” he said. “And I’m happy with that. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

Cas chewed his lower lip, his fingers plucking at Cloppy’s bridle. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Angels wear dwesses sometimes and sometimes they’re boys and sometimes girls but really they’re not boys or girls. I’m a boy. At the moment. I’ll be a man soon, though.”

Very few people - who didn’t know that most angels were dicks - wouldn’t want to be compared to an angel. And although Dean knew that Cas was actually expressing solidarity rather than a flattering comparison, Brenda turned pink and smiled mistily.

“Oh, well you’re adorable, aren’t you?”

“My Dean says he’s adorable,” Cas responded promptly.

“He’s not wrong,” said Brenda, shooting Dean a swift up and down look.

Dean was tempted to grab one of the cushions to cover his red face. He was grateful when a distant bark broke the awkwardness.

“Someone’s woofing,” said Cas.

“That’s Pongo,” said Carlos. He looked at Dean. “Is Cas okay with dogs? Pongo’s very laid back. He’s good with kids.”

“I like doggies!” said Cas. “Is Pongo a dammatian? Like a Hundwed Dammatians?”

A pit of longing opened in Dean’s stomach. He and adult Cas had had a Disney movie marathon one night. And Cas had sat through The Hundred and One Dalmatians wearing a stony glare, but when Dean had paused the movie to get more snacks, suddenly Cas's long fingers had clamped around his wrist with a crushing grip. I do not want that lady to make the puppies into a coat, Dean. Tell me it will not happen!

He'd had to assure Cas that he'd get a happy ending, no puppies harmed and then Cas had had to soothe his bruised wrist with a soft touch of grace.

“Yeah, he’s cool with animals.” Dean wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Cas with a dog, but he sometimes had long conversations with cats.

“I shut Pongo in the mud room,” said Brenda. “But I think he wants to join us. I’ll let him in.”

He disappeared through the kitchen.

“Is he weally a spotty doggy?” Cas asked, his eyes shining.

“Yes, he is,” said Carlos. “Look.”

A large, rangy dog trotted through the door. Wow. A real Dalmatian seemed a lot bigger than the cartoon ones. Pongo ignored Carlos, glanced briefly at Dean with a total lack of interest, and then gave his full attention to the real authority in the room. He stopped directly in front of Cas and sat down on his haunches, proudly upright, his tail thumping against the carpet.

“Heyo, Pongo,” said Cas. He waved his little hand, reminding Dean of Jack.

Pongo raised his paw and gave a very soft, breathy woof.

“Well, I've never seen him do that before,” said Carlos.

“He said heyo,” said Cas. “Do you want to come wiv me and see the bees, Pongo?”

Pongo's hindquarters rose up, his tail still wagging, and he rounded Cas like he’d been trained to do it, until he was alongside the little angel, pointing toward the kitchen door.

“Phew,” said Carlos. “You've certainly got a way with animals, kiddo.”

“That's just Cas for you,” said Dean. He shuffled himself upright. “Am I allowed out of this chair yet? I'd like to check out the bees too.”

“I think I can allow that,” smiled Carlos.

Brenda’s voice came from the kitchen. “This bird looks nearly done, honey. You want me to take it out?”

“I'd better help,” said Carlos.

“Oh, can I…?” Dean began.

“No, no. You let these two escort you to the beehives and by the time you've said hey to the bees, dinner'll be ready to eat.”

“Come on, Dean!”

Cas took his hand and Dean let himself be escorted.

Dean ate his meal with a mixture of delight and despair. The food was great - the chicken juicy and accompanied by plenty of potatoes and not too much in the way of offensive vegetables. And as for the rhubarb cobbler… well, that was something he’d be making himself at the earliest opportunity. There was enough honey in it to take the edge off the rhubarb (thanks, Cas), but not so much that it was sickly sweet. And the cakey bit was comfortingly spongy as well as mushy with rhubarb juice. Delicious.

The setting was perfect too, and it was that, really, that sparked up Dean’s longing for things he’d never had and maybe never would have.

Out the back of the rambling cottage, on the ocean side, was a paved terrace covered over by a wooden frame. Climbing plants grew up the frame - flowers he didn’t recognise as well as obvious things like grapes and fine green beans. They shaded the terrace and the long table, which was big enough for ten people at least - big enough for a large family.

And that was what Dean wanted - a homely, lived-in place for family to eat together; his family, gathered together just to eat and enjoy each other’s company, and not because the world was ending or something.

“Would you like some more, Dean?” Brenda held a serving spoon over the dish of cobbler.

“Uh, no, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

He smiled and patted his very full stomach. “I’d like to, but no. I really can’t.” His waistband was digging in uncomfortably.

But they were Eileen’s jeans. All those months of black coffee and whiskey had taken their toll on his body. Dean probably wouldn’t have eaten at all if Sam hadn’t nagged him. No wonder Carlos had thought he looked like a guy who’s seen some serious shit. No wonder Dean was being treated like a stiff ocean wind might blow him away.

“I like clobbler,” said Cas. His cheeks glistened with rhubarb juice.

“Everything was delicious,” said Dean. He could hide his dark thoughts by being the perfect happy guest. “Thank you both.”

“Fank you,” said Cas.

“You’re very welcome.” Carlos’ chair scraped away from the table and he leant back, his glass of wine in one hand. “We’re glad you stayed. We like getting to know our guests. Have you made any plans for the next few days?”

“Not really,” said Dean. “Just thought we’d mess about on the beach.”

“Sancastles!” said Cas.

“Oh, it’s a great beach for sandcastles,” said Brenda. “We have the best sand.” He began stacking up the plates. Dean passed his along. “I guess you haven’t had time to explore much yet,” said Brenda. “So you won’t have found the cave.”

“No. I didn’t know there was a cave.” Bears, Dean thought. No, you wouldn’t get bears on a beach. A wendigo wouldn’t live in a beach cave either. Some fugly would be happy to move in, though. He wasn’t taking Cas anywhere near any cave.

“Yes, it’s below the cliff if you walked straight toward the ocean from here,” said Carlos.

Cas jiggled in his chair. “Can we go see the cave now?”

“No, not now. There’s no way down from here - not to walk anyway. You have to go around by the beach.”

“And you have to watch for the tide,” warned Brenda, “or you end up having to swim.”

“Maybe we’ll stick with sandcastles.” A cave that got cut off by the tide? That didn’t sound like Dean’s idea of a fun vacation activity. Cas wouldn’t want to go in anyway, once he realised how dark it’d be.

“Or you could do a bit of gold prospecting.”

“Gold?”

“It was a big thing at one time around here,” said Carlos. “Gold washes down in the rivers and mixes with the sand. Trace amounts, but it’s there.”

The great big knobbly chunks of gold that had popped into Dean’s head disappeared. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try.

“And then there’s the ghosts,” said Brenda.

“Ghosties?” Cas snatched up Cloppy, who had been propped up in the chair next to him. “I don’t like ghosties. They hurt people.”

“Oh, it’s just a silly story,” Carlos said. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

Cas looked at Dean, his mouth covered by Cloppy’s fluffy mane. His eyes were big and round. Dean smiled reassuringly. There’d be no hunting on this vacation. Nevertheless, it couldn’t hurt to know what to avoid. “What’s the story?”

The little angel glared. The tiniest hint of a blue spark flared in his eyes.

“Well,” said Brenda, resting his forearms against the table and leaning forward, “there used to be a thriving trade in fur up and down the coast.”

“Shouldn’t take nanimals’ fur,” muttered Cas crossly. Beneath the table, Pongo growled softly.

“No, well, it was a long time ago,” said Brenda. “But anyway, we get quite a few storms in these parts, sometimes even in the summer. The wind blows so hard from the ocean it rattles the walls of our little house. I swear sometimes even the salt spray gets this high.”

Carlos rolled his eyes, but he smiled.

“And all that long time ago, when the ships had tall masts and great big sails, if they didn’t get far enough out to sea ahead of the storm, they’d be driven in by the wind and smash to pieces on the rocks!”

“Sweetie, you’re scaring the little ‘un,” said Carlos. He stood up. “I’ll go make some coffee.”

Cas shook his head. “Not scared,” he said. But his words were muffled because he was chewing Cloppy’s tail.

Dean pushed back his chair and hauled Cas onto his lap. “It’s okay to be scared, Cas. Storms can be scary if you’re out in them.”

Cas nodded and whispered, “Only silly angels play in storms.”

Dean squeezed the little body in his arms. Had adult Cas flown through a storm, dodging the lightning strikes? Although, if he didn’t have a human vessel at the time, would lightning even touch him? There was so much Dean didn’t know about his angel. And he certainly couldn’t get his puny human brain to accept that the kid in his lap and a Chrysler building-sized ‘wave of celestial intent’ were one and the same.

His brain wouldn’t accept it, and it felt like his heart didn’t understand either. Dean loved the little boy whose mop of dark hair was tucked under his chin. But the scars of grief on his heart wouldn’t heal until he had his Cas back, big and solid with his gravelly voice and his familiar face - his dear, stubbly, beautiful face.

Little Cas yawned and burrowed into Dean’s chest.

“Are you okay to stay for coffee?” Brenda asked. “I can run you down to the parking lot when you’re ready - save you taking the path through the woods.”

“That’d be great,” said Dean. “But coffee first, please.” He only had instant in the hut and the rich bitterness of good coffee drifted out on the evening air.

Cas had fallen asleep while Dean was drinking his coffee, his arms draped slackly around Dean’s neck, a warm patch of drool soaking into Eileen’s tee.

He didn’t wake up as Dean carried him out of the cottage, but he stirred as soon as Brenda’s jeep rumbled to life.

“Dark,” said Cas, sleepily, followed by, “Where’s Cloppy?”

“Don’t worry, she’s in the bag, looking after the laundry. With her head sticking out,” Dean added, not needing to see the frown to know it was there.

Cas squirmed on his lap. There was no kid seat for the jeep, but Dean figured they’d be okay without on the short hop down to the parking lot. He sat up, his arms still around Dean’s neck.

“I’m not tired any more. No bed tonight.”

“Yes bed tonight,” said Dean firmly. “I’m tired.” Please, no. Not a bedtime battle. What had he done when Sammy got like this? Yelled, probably. Threatened. The kind of parenting a kid does when he’s way too young to parent.

“We could go see what the waves look like at night,” said Cas brightly.

“Same as they do in the day,” said Dean. “Except darker.”

Brenda pulled into the parking lot. “Sounds like you’re gonna have your hands full.”

“Yeah. Great.”

“Don’t worry. If you don’t mind a little walk, I’ve got an idea.” The door slammed and Dean and Cas were alone.

“I don’t mind a lickle walk,” said Cas.

Dean minded. Right now he minded anything which wasn’t a bed. His memory foam would be ideal, but he’d take the little bunk.

Brenda flung open the door and Dean shivered in the cool night air. “It’s all ready for you. Hop out and I’ll show you.”

What? Hop? No hopping, please. Cas slid down and began hopping about, as ordered, refreshed, revitalised and ready to go. Dean followed, heavily.

“Over here.”

Brenda waved them away from the path that led down to their cosy little hut with its cosy little bunk beds all waiting for Dean. A pinky red glow came from around the bushes and trees which lined the parking lot.

“Ooh!” Cas had run ahead. He was looking up, his face glowing with warm colours. It was going to take more than a few lights to wear the little boy out.

“This is the entrance,” said Brenda. “Just follow the path. It branches here and there, but in the end all the ways come out near the top chalet, and then you just go down and across the bridge and you’re back at the hut. I’ll leave it on for now and come down and switch it off when I take Pongo out before bed. Oh, hey - why don't I just pop your laundry bag down to the hut for you?”

Dean was relieved of the heavy bag and Brenda marched briskly away into the darkness with a casual, “Have fun!”

Dean shivered, his arms curled around himself.

“Come on, Dean! Come and see!”

Uff. “Okay, I’m coming.” He grumbled as he shuffled along. “Don’t know why the fuck I can’t just go to bed, get a decent night’s sleep for a change. Oh.”

Coloured lights arched overhead, forming the entrance to a sloping pathway. To either side, draped strings of lights twinkled between the trees and some of them flicked on and off, so that-

“It looks like it’s moving! It’s a squirrel, Dean! Come and see!”

Dean caught up. And he couldn’t help smiling. Five light-up squirrels shone in turn, so that the squirrel was scuttling away, up into the treetops and out along a branch.

Cas’s little feet pattered further along the path. “There’s some mushwooms, Dean! And a little man!”

Little man? Dean’s hand automatically found the empty space where his gun should be tucked down the back of Eileen’s jeans. But when he caught Cas up, he found it was another cluster of lights, in the shape of fairy toadstools (not real fairies, thank fuck) and a couple of little guys - gnomes? One of them had a spade and the other held a curly pipe.

“Nuvver squirrel, Dean!” Cas pointed up into the trees. “And there’s a ladybug!”

“Hey, wait up, Cas.”

The little boy was bathed in an eerie green floodlight as he ran further and then he was shrieking with delight and pointing up into the trees again. “It’s an owl, Dean!” He turned around, grinning and jumping up and down.

Dean caught him up and grabbed one of the little hands before Cas could scuttle away again. The owl was pretty cool, though, perching in the hollow between branches, glowing softly.

“I love it here, Dean! It’s like magic, only not bad magic but good magic!”

“Yeah. I like it too.” Cas was right. It was a magical place, with the long strings of lights showing the way and the atmospheric coloured lights hidden in the undergrowth, lighting up the trees and casting mysterious shadows. It was magical in a childlike way, like Christmas lights and the good type of Halloween where none of the ghosts and monsters were real.

“Come on, Dean.”

Cas tugged at his hand.

The path wound up to the right, passing a group of little light-up animals having a tea party, and then led downward toward the stream again. Cas’s face was coloured pink on one side and soft purple on the other. Dean held his hand tight and made him slow down on a set of steep little steps, edged in uneven logs, which took them down to a rough little bridge spanning the narrow stream.

“Fwoggies, Dean! Look, they’re hopping over the river!”

A line of frogs was set up like the squirrels, a couple on one side of the stream, then one on a stone in the middle and then a couple on the other side. They lit up green, one by one.

“Oh, yeah. That must be Jeremiah,” said Dean. “Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine.”

“Didn’t know anyfing he said,” sang Cas with only a very vague nod to the original tune or lyrics. “And dwank up all his wine!” He giggled, one hand over his mouth. “I dwank all the fwoggy’s wine, Dean, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did!”

“I’m a naughty angel, aren’t I, Dean?”

“No.” Dean scooped him up and supported him between his uninjured arm and his hip. Cas’s legs went around his waist. “You’re a very good angel. Who only drinks wine when he’s big.”

“I like juice better when I’m little.”

“That’s right. Now, let’s see what else we can find. You want to walk?”

“No. Cawwy, please.”

“You got it.”

Cas was heavy. But Dean didn’t mind. Holding him close like this he got to see all the wonder, all of Cas’s delight in the magical setting.

They crossed the stream again, on another little wooden bridge and there was a line of leaping light-up fish in the water. Then there was a stretch of path where the light was dim and even more mysterious and some of the figures were a bit scary - a glowing face on a tree, a spider-light hanging down, a creepy witch bending over a bubbling cauldron.

“Scarwy witch,” said Cas.

“Good scary or bad scary?”

“Good scarwy.” Cas’s breath was warm against Dean’s cheek. His arms clung tightly around Dean’s neck.

“Hey, it’s getting brighter here.”

Dean hurried on into a golden glow. They crossed another little bridge (more frogs) and then there was a big space among the trees, filled by a village of little houses and toadstools and lots of light-up figures of animals and gnomes and things which were probably meant to be fairies but were nothing like the real thing.

Cas breathed a soft, wondering gasp. His gaze darted around the clearing and up into the trees where strings of lights cast some branches into sharp relief and others into shadow.

Who was the driving force behind all this? Carlos or Brenda? Or had they come up with the idea together? Either way, it was a great place for kids and a pretty awesome place for adults too.

Cas yawned and his head drooped onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Time to say goodnight to the village, Cas.”

“Can we come again, Dean? Tomorrow night?”

“If we’re not too tired. And if Brenda or Carlos will switch all the lights on again for us.”

“Okay. Goodnight little village and little animals. And even goodnight to the faiwies ’cos they’re not real faiwies.”

“Yeah, goodnight fake faiw- fairies,” said Dean. He hitched Cas up in his arms, getting a good, secure grip on his increasingly floppy form. Then he followed the path, sloping upward now, past another set of squirrels, through pink light, green light and soft blue light and then beneath another archway of red and yellow. And then they were out, and there were no more trees and no more lights apart from a triangle of yellow light in the window of the top chalet and a line of little solar lights showing the edge of the path which led down to the big bridge where Dean had stood and drunk his beer the night before.

“Time to go home, Cas,” said Dean.

Cas whimpered a sleepy reply. And Dean carried him home.

Chapter Text

Mmm, bacon.

Dean’s sluggish mind wrapped itself around that one thought and stayed there.

Bacon. And toast with too much butter on. Mmm.

He chewed, and enjoyed, and stared at nothing in particular.

“There are childruns outside, Dean! Can I go play with the childruns?”

Dean blinked, and his eyes slowly adjusted their focus away from the rippled woodgrain of the tabletop, caught briefly on his plate (only one triangle of toast left) and landed on a little dark shape at the window, outlined by the bright, fresh light of another sunny morning.

“Huh, sorry, what?”

The little shape jigged up and down. “Childruns, Dean! Outside! Come and look!”

Dean bit the corner off his remaining piece of toast. Then he picked up his plate and slowly, shamblingly, joined Cas at the window, to which Cas’s nose was pressed.

“There they are, look!”

“Okay.” Dean yawned, which would have earned a supreme bitchface if Sam were here because you shouldn't yawn and eat at the same time, according to Sam.

There was a boy on the bridge. He looked about ten, had white-blond hair and his hands were stuffed in his jeans’ pockets. Next to him stood a girl of maybe five, holding onto the handrail and jumping up and down. As Dean watched, they turned away and then scrambled down the opposite bank of the stream so that they were hidden by the bridge and the nearer bank.

He chewed and swallowed. “Uh, I don’t know, Cas. They’re quite a bit older than you.”

Mmm, buttery toast.

“No, they aren’t, silly!” Cas smacked Dean on his butt.

“Hey! What was that for?”

Cas looked up at him, rolling his eyes in a very familiar way. “Dean! I’m not weally fwee!”

“Oh. Ha. Yeah.” Dean shoved the rest of his toast in his mouth. “I am kinda silly, aren’t I?” A spray of toast crumbs hit the window.

“Yes. Vewwy silly.” Cas smiled a not very angelic smile, curled one leg around the other and twisted his hands behind his back. “So I don’t have to ask you, do I? Cos I’m a old angel and I can do all the fings I want.”

Dean laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

The little boy’s eyes dropped and then shifted to one side, toward the door.

Dean felt an edge of panic creep in. A normal, wilful three-year-old Dean could handle - he’d handled Sammy one way or another - but a determined angel in the body of a three-year-old? If Cas really decided to push him? Maybe not. “Cas? You don’t mean that, do you? Because yeah, I know you’re…” - he waved his plate vaguely - “however old. But you want me to look after you, don’t you?”

Cas’s cheeky smile faded. He looked up at Dean and tears welled in his eyes. “Yes! Pwease look after me, Dean! I’m sowwy. I didn’t mean it!” He flung his arms around Dean’s legs.

Dean put his plate down on the couch and detached the clinging arms, so that he could kneel down and pull Cas into his lap. “It’s okay, Cas. I’ve got you. I’ll look after you.” He huffed a slightly wobbly laugh. “You had me going for a minute there.”

“I’m sowwy.”

“It’s okay.”

Cas sniffed and wiped his eyes with his hand. “I’m sowwy for smacking you too. You can smack me back if you want to.”

“No!” Dean’s guts instantly pulled themselves into a knot so tight it’d tether a hurricane. “No. God, no, Cas. I’ll never hit you.”

“I smacked you.”

“You didn’t mean it.” He hauled Cas in closer and pressed the little tousled head into the crook of his neck, burying his fingers in Cas’s soft hair, rubbing his cheek against it. He was so precious; a lost thing that had been found again and was ten times, a hundred times as precious as before.

People had thought he was Dean’s son - in the grocery store, at the craft table, and Carlos had thought that too, to begin with.

In his adult form Cas was Dean’s best friend. He was family. And he was more than that, or should have been more than that, only they’d never got that far, not until right at the end, when it was too late.

But in this form, yes, he was like a son. He was a small person to be loved and protected and to explore the world with, hand-in-hand, doing stuff together. Dean could never imagine hurting him, not for any reason, whatever this little-kid version of Cas did - impulsive, dangerous, careless, outright rebellious or rude. Dean would never hurt him, never hit him. And he knew he wasn’t the most patient of guys, especially when he was tired or hurting, but he’d do his best not to order Cas about or to expect him to obey without question. He wouldn’t load responsibilities on his small shoulders, even though maybe there was an adult angel hiding in there who could take it. He wouldn’t do that.

Cas wriggled and Dean let him go, but the little angel didn’t move away. He looked at Dean and took one of his big hands in both of his own. “I’d play with you, Dean.” The little voice was firm and sure and his words lacked the usual cute babyish pronunciation.

“Well, yeah, we can go play now.”

“No.” Cas shook his head. “I don’t mean that. I mean that I’d play with you when you were little. If I could.”

The words dried up on Dean’s lips. He swallowed and kind of wanted to look away and kind of didn’t. The blue eyes were steady and magnetic.

“I’d play with you and keep you safe and not let anyone hurt you or make you do things you didn’t want to do. Not anyone.”

Dean tore his eyes away and let them fall to his thighs and to the bare wooden boards beneath.

When Cas had rescued him from Hell, the angel had rebuilt him from the ground up, putting his physical form back together and stitching the ragged holes in his torn and tortured soul with his own grace. Cas knew him through and through. He’d never asked about Dean’s childhood because he knew about it all already.

“I, uh… I would’ve liked that. A lot.”

Cas knelt up and put his hands on Dean’s shoulders. Then Dean felt those tiny lips brush his forehead, so, so gently - as if he were the one who was precious. It wasn’t a kiss from a little boy. It felt like a blessing from an angel.

Then suddenly Cas bounced away and he was a little boy again, hopping up and down with excitement. “We go play now, Dean? We play with childruns? ’Cos I always wanted to, but Mommies and Daddies don’t like it if big angels play in the sandpit wiv the childruns.”

Dean cringed inwardly. “Yeah, I should think that’s a hard no from all the Mommies and Daddies, Cas.”

“And sometimes they don’t like it even if big angels just watch over them, in case you need to look after the childruns and help them and ’cos childruns are nice to watch when they play.”

“The Mommies and Daddies are just trying to keep their kids safe. From people they don’t know.”

“I know.” Cas sighed even as he was jigging up and down, his hands flapping at his sides. Then he brightened. “Ne’ mind, Dean! We play now!” His wings burst out from his back and he jumped up onto the couch, bouncing Dean’s abandoned plate off onto the floor and scattering crumbs everywhere.

“We can play when we’ve tidied up,” said Dean. “And some going-out clothes would be good too, instead of pyjamas.”

“But the childruns might have gone by then.” Cas’s wings stuck out, straight and rigid and urgent. “And I won’t get to play with them.”

Dean braced himself for another battle. A steady, uneventful morning would have been nice, where nothing much happened and there was no drama. You didn’t really get mornings like that with three-year-olds, though, especially not when they were little angels.

So, threats, bribery or reasoned argument? (Like that was going to work). Which to go for?

But the little black wings slowly drooped and Cas’s impatient twitching died away. He gave a deep sigh. “Sowwy, Dean. I’ll help first. Or you’d have to do everyfing. And that’s not fair.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

The hut was tidy… -ish. Clothes were next on the agenda.

“I do it, Dean! I don’t need help!” Cas, wingless once more, stepped into a pair of bright red shorts, then stepped out of them and turned around. He pulled them up. “Label at the back!” he said. He picked up his tee (yellow, with a big lion face on the front) and turned it around in his little hands.

“Are you sure…?”

“I don’t need help, Dean, fank you.” He looked at Dean, head tipped to one side. “Do you?”

Dean was still in his boxers and yesterday’s tee. He smiled at Cas’s tiny little raised eyebrow. “I’ll let you know.”

He sorted through the clothes - his own newly laundered as well as Eileen’s - which he’d piled on the top bunk, because sleeping separately just wasn’t happening.

Cas had nightmares of the Empty when he was on his own, and Dean’s mind and body had kind of forgotten how a full night’s sleep was done. He’d get fifteen, twenty minutes at a stretch and then he’d wake up thinking it was morning and he’d look at his watch and realise it had been hardly any time at all. But his mind would already be back in daytime mode and he didn’t know how to turn it back into sleep mode and the whole night could get lost in little bits and pieces of sleep and a lot of spiralling thoughts until the actual morning came, when he felt like a big piece of crap.

Crammed into the lower bunk, they both slept better. Not perfectly - it was a really small bed - but better. His arm felt better too. Whatever Carlos had done to it had stopped the infection in its tracks. It hardly hurt at all now.

Dean hauled out a pair of jeans and a flannel from the pile. No, the flannel would be way too hot. And actually, dammit, the jeans were torn, and he was way past his torn-knees phase. Anyway, the tears weren’t even in the knees. One of them was a rip all the way up the outer seam of one leg, to above the knee. And the other leg had lots of little holes, like burns. Huh. Fucking fairies. He dropped them back in the pile. And then picked them up again.

Ten minutes and some nifty knifework later, Dean had a pair of shorts. He put them on. The waist was a bit loose without tucking half a tonne of flannel into it. He hadn’t even realised he’d got into the habit of tucking in his layers to pad out his waist so his jeans didn’t fall down. Oh well. He’d soon put weight back on again at the rate he’d ploughed through the bacon this morning. And as for that rhubarb cobbler last night… mmm.

“Dean? Are you ready? Why are you still in your underwear?”

“This isn’t underwear! These are my new shorts,” he said proudly, glad Sammy wasn’t here to make fun of him.

Cas frowned. “They’re vewwy short.”

“You said that yesterday. And they weren’t that short.”

“These are vewwy short shorts, Dean.”

“Yeah, well. I’m on vacation, aren’t I?”

“You need a shirt. I’ll choose for you!”

“Okay. Here. Climb up.” Dean offered his linked fingers as a step and when Cas put his little bare foot into it he flung him onto the top bunk.

“Wheee! I flied, Dean!”

“Yeah, who needs wings, hey?”

“I like my wings, Dean. They’re all fluffy and shiny and new, wiv lots of fevvers!”

“I like ‘em too, Little Wing.”

Cas began sorting through the clothes. “Not lickle wing. I’ve got two wings. Two lickle wings.”

“It’s a song,” said Dean. “Jimi Hendrix. You don’t remember it?”

Cas shook his head, holding up a black shirt and discarding it.

“Well she's walking through the clouds,” Dean sang. “With a circus mind that's running wild. Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams and fairy tales. That's all she ever thinks about. Riding with the wind.”

“I like it,” said Cas. “I like it when you sing, Dean.”

“That song sounds like you. You at the moment. Just playing with stuff.”

Cas paused, a yellow tee in his hands. “Maybe I can still play when I’m big,” he said.

“Yeah. I’ll make sure you can.”

“And you, Dean. You play too when you’re big.” He thrust the tee at Dean, one little hand clutching the fabric. “Wear this, then I’m wearing lellow and you’re wearing lellow and we’ll match.”

“Okay.” Dean pulled it on. It was plain primrose yellow, with a button-up bit at the top, like his henleys but with short sleeves. It would be long and loose on Eileen and was a bit looser on Dean than it should be. He needed more bacon. He needed more cobbler. And hey, there were burgers in the fridge, weren’t there?. He’d cook them tonight and he and Cas would eat all of them. Maybe the hotdogs too.

“Now we’re ready,” Cas declared. “I’ll get the bally-ball.”

Dean lifted him down and Cas thudded into the living area, his footsteps shaking the little wooden hut. By the time Dean had shoved his feet into his flip-flops, Cas was by the door, jumping up and down with impatience, the newly-inflated beach ball in his hands. It had three black puncture-repair patches around one side.

“Quit that, baby elephant. You’ll shake the place to bits.”

Cas bounced even more, his sandals thudding on the threadbare doormat. “I’m a baby elephant! Baby elephants are fun to play with, Dean. Did you know that? Unless the Mommy elephants don’t like you. And then you can get in trouble real fast. Have you ever played with an elephant, Dean?”

“Keep still.” Dean’s bare knees twinged as he knelt to take Cas’s sandals off and put them back on the right feet. “Played with an elephant? No. You don’t get too many of them running loose. Not anywhere I’ve ever been.”

“I been to elephant places. Long, long time ago,” said Cas. “When no one had told me to do angel things, so I just played. Are we ready now, Dean? Ready to go?”

“Yeah, we’re ready. Or not.”

The air was shimmering behind Cas’s back. His wings appeared with a burst of blue sparks, their flight feathers flared out like long fingers.

“Let’s just put this on you.” Dean fastened the little rucksack around Cas’s shoulders. “Now we’re ready.”

The children weren’t by the stream, and Dean couldn’t see them anywhere on the beach. But Cas was happy enough to take the beach ball down onto the hard, flat sand. He threw it and the gusty wind caught it and sent it skittering away along the tideline. Cas shrieked and ran after it.

Dean had brought the old blanket from Baby’s trunk and the little bucket and spade too. He laid out the blanket and weighed the corners down with stones. Then he dug a spadeful of sand and dumped it into the bucket to stop it blowing away. The sun was hot when the wind dropped, but the wind had a sharp, cold edge. He’d have to remember to put more sun cream on both of them after an hour or so.

The beachball thwacked him in the side of his head.

“Sowwy, Dean!”

“Ooh, watch out! I’m coming for you now!” He picked up the ball and drop-kicked it at Cas. It spun, lop-sided and bounced away down the beach. Those three thick puncture-patches weren’t great for straight kicking.

“You missed me!”

Cas turned and ran after the ball, his feathers fluttering and flicking. Dean chased him, slowing right down when Cas wasn’t looking and gritting his teeth and charging like an angry bull when the little boy turned around.

“You can’t catch me!” Cas dived on the ball and rolled over it, coming up spitting sand. He didn’t seem bothered, though. He picked up the ball and threw it hard, but it bounced once and then the wind picked it up and blew it straight back at him. “Silly bally-ball!”

“It’s a bit windy for beach balls,” said Dean. He caught the ball, which was rolling away again, and picking up speed fast.

“We could get the kite.”

“Or you could make some sandcastles?”

Cas put one sandy finger in his mouth. “Sancastles now, kite later.”

“Okay. Good plan, Cas.”

“Angels are good at plans. And sancastles.”

One corner of the blanket had blown up. Dean weighed it down with the stone again, and then weighed it down with himself. Cas picked up the spade and began digging and Dean looked at the beach ball and then looked around. You couldn’t weigh down a beach ball. He flicked the little stopper to let the air out, squeezed it until it was flat, and put a stone on top of it.

Cas had quite a hole going. And there was a lot of sand on the blanket.

“You think you could get some of that in the bucket?”

“I’m digging a hole.”

“Okay.”

“It’s going to be a vewwy big hole.”

“All the way to Australia?”

Cas sat up. “No. You can’t do that, Dean,” he said seriously. “Even if you had a really big spade and dug a long, long time. It gets all hot and not nice if you dig too far.”

“Okay. I won’t ever do that, then.”

Cas resumed his digging, glancing up at Dean every so often, as if Dean would start tunnelling if he didn’t keep a sharp eye on him.

Dean lay back on the blanket and let his arms and legs go slack. He’d got in more hours of sleep last night than he had for months and months. Maybe years, if he thought about what the past few years had held. But right now, with the sun warm on his body and the sand beneath him moulding itself quite nicely to his various lumps and bumps, Dean felt like letting himself drift away again.

Cas's spade bit into the sand with a crunch and he flicked it away where it landed in a soft shower - crunch-flick, crunch-flick, crunch-flick. He’d probably never dug a hole in the sand before, not in all his unimaginably long years. Had he watched little cave children dig holes in the sand? They would have used their hands to dig, or stones. Or could they make wooden spades? He'd have to ask Cas.

The little boy had talked about playing with baby elephants. Where had he done that? Africa? India? Some prehistoric place before countries were even invented? And just now, even though he’d talked with the words of a little kid, it almost sounded like he had personal experience with the inside of the Earth. Did angels do that? Before God had taken a permanent vacation, had he given orders for them to go and stir things up every so often? Create a few earthquakes here and there, the odd super-volcano, just to keep mankind on its toes? It sounded like the kind of thing Chuck might find funny.

Dean sank slowly into dreams where angels were digging in the molten rock beneath the earth's crust while fiery elephants sprayed lava from their trunks.

Voices woke Dean - Cas's little pipes, and another little burble and a third, a bit deeper, a bit stronger. There was a thud and a laugh and Dean prodded his straying mind enough to get his eyes to flutter open.

The two kids had come out again, then. And Cas was playing soccer with them, chasing up and down the beach after a ball. Cas still had his wings out, but people saw what they expected to see - dressing-up wings were normal, real wings definitely came under the heading of ‘unexpected’. Dean watched, hazily for a moment, but his eyes were heavy and they drifted shut. He could listen out for trouble.

His thoughts wandered in the small red cave behind his eyelids. He could cook the burgers for lunch, couldn’t he? There were no rules that said they had to be for dinner. And if he took the wire shelf out of the hut’s little oven, he could balance it on a ring of beach stones and they’d have an improvised barbecue. Or a kind of campfire at least. Was there enough driftwood lying about, though? There’d be some sticks in the woodland, but that’d probably be green and wouldn’t burn well.

The thud of the soccer ball getting a pounding made him tense and his eyes flicked open. The older boy caught up to the ball and began dribbling it pretty skillfully, Cas and the girl chasing him. They were quite far down the beach. Dean rubbed his eyes and propped himself on one elbow. He glanced over his shoulder at the chalets, but there was no sign of the kids’ parents. Would Dean be out there, keeping an eye on them, if he had charge of a ten-year-old and a five-year-old? Maybe. But they weren’t his kids.

The older boy looped around, still controlling the ball. The little girl had stopped and it looked like she was yelling something, but her voice was carried away by the wind. Cas had stopped too, and, oh shit, Dean knew that pose - the rigid shoulders, the little clenched fists. His wings stuck right out too, feathers flared.

The wind gusted toward Dean, along with snatches of words.

“...little babies can’t play soccer…”

“... mean, Connor! … my turn!” That was the sister.

“...my ball! ...stupid fairy wings, like a girl…”

He couldn’t hear Cas. But when Cas was real pissed he didn’t yell. He went for quiet threats first. And then he went for- Oh, fuckety fuck, there it was. The smack of fist on flesh was clear above the blustery wind.

Dean leapt to his feet and strode swiftly down the beach.

The older boy was holding his nose. “You little shit!”

“I warned you.”

Christ on a bike. That was dead-eye, smitey Cas, right there.

“You broke my damn nose!”

Dean was close enough to see the blood now.

“I didn’t break it,” said Cas. “I just made it hurt. So you’d listen to Katie and me!”

Katie was looking back and forth between her brother and the angry little angel.

“You gonna side with that little bitch?” the boy yelled.

“Hey!” No one was calling Cas a little bitch. Certainly not some ten-year-old piece of-

“It was our turn, Connor!” The sister's hands were on her hips. “You’d had the ball for ages and it wasn’t fair!”

“It’s my ball, Pigface!”

“Hey!” said Dean again and this time his voice reached the little group. They all turned toward him. “What’s going on here?”

Cas pointed at Connor, his finger vibrating with accusation. “He wasn’t sharing!”

“It wasn’t fair!” added Katie.

“It’s my ball.” This kid could win a gold at sulking. “And he broke my nose!”

Shit. There’d be hell to pay if the kid’s nose was really broken. Why had Dean let himself fall asleep? He was supposed to be looking after Cas, and that included making sure he didn’t get all angelic on other kids. Shit. Connor was holding his nose, both hands pressed to his face like he thought it might fall off. Better see what the damage was and then deal with the consequences. “Okay,” said Dean, as if he was trying to talk nice to an angry werewolf. “I’m gonna have a look. Is that alright?”

Connor glared suspiciously, blood dripping through his fingers.

“I’ve seen a fair few broken noses in my time,” said Dean persuasively - mostly in the mirror. “I’ll be able to tell.”

The boy slowly dropped his hands and didn’t move away when Dean approached.

“I’m just going to look. I won’t touch.” He peered at the bloody mess. He’d seen worse - again, mostly in the mirror. “Can you breathe through it okay?”

Connor closed his mouth. A trail of bubbles appeared in the blood at the end of his nose. He nodded.

“It’s not swollen right up,” said Dean. “So that’s a good sign. And it doesn’t look crooked. Hey, Katie? What do you think? Is that how your brother’s nose looks normally?”

The little girl, hands still on hips, stomped right up to her brother, eyes narrowed. “Pigface!” she declared.

“You little-”

“Hey, no.” Calm hands, calm voice - Dean couldn’t stop them if they wanted to beat the shit out of each other, but he could try. “Katie, I know you’re pissed at Connor, but name-calling isn’t helpful right now.” Counsellor Dean to the rescue.

“He called me Pigface!”

“I know he did. And that was wrong. But could you tell me if his nose looks the right shape to you?”

She growled. Then huffed. Her arms crossed, her eyes rolled. “It looks fine.”

“It’s broken! He broke it!”

“Quit whining, Connor,” said Katie. “Cas is littler than me!”

“He broke my nose! I’m going to tell my Dad!” His hands back over his nose again, Connor stomped away in the direction of the chalets.

“Shit,” muttered Dean.

Katie grabbed the abandoned soccer ball. “My turn!” She drop-kicked the thing like a pro and then sprinted after it with a casual, “Bye, Cas!”

“Bye-bye, Katie,” said Cas, all the smitiness gone from his voice. He watched her run away, sighing. And he was just a little boy again, with sandy knees and a runny nose. His wings drooped.

Dean lowered himself carefully to the sand. He took out his handkerchief and held it to Cas’s tiny nose.

“Blow.”

Cas blew.

Dean stuffed his hankie back in his pocket. The little angel stared at his toes, which curled themselves into the sand. (What had happened to his sandals?) His wings blurred and then disappeared.

“Hey, Cas. Come on buddy, look at me.” He looked up. His eyes were a sad denim blue, but there was a stubborn pout to his little mouth. “I need to know. Did you use your angel strength on that kid?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because you know you can’t use your mojo on a normal kid, don’t you? You could really hurt them.”

Denim changed to shiny glass. “I didn’t, Dean. I pwomise I didn’t!” He sniffed and his breath hitched. “I just used my wings. Just a lickle tiny bit! Just so I could reach his stupid, assbutt face!”

Dean gathered him up and held him, because Cas needed to be held and also because Dean needed to hide his smirk. Stupid, assbutt face… Typical Cas.

“You bleeve me, don’t you, Dean?” Cas pulled back and looked at Dean, his feathery brows pushed into an imploring peak.

“Of course I believe you.” Dean gave him another squeeze. He pulled out his hankie and wiped Cas’s tears away.

“I wanted a turn,” said Cas. “And so did Katie.”

“I know. Kids are just like that, sometimes. Hitting out isn’t really the best thing to do, though. You know that, right?” That wasn't what Dean had taught Ben, but, hey - he'd matured since then. Mostly.

Cas wriggled and there was that little pout again. “You do it. You hit people.”

Dean huffed and waggled his head to one side in acknowledgement. “Well, yeah. But I don’t always make the best decisions, do I? And I try to only hit people that deserve it.”

“Connor deserved-”

“Yeah, no, hang on. That didn’t come out right.” Dean rubbed his eyes. “Sometimes,” he said, trying to get some conviction behind his words, “sometimes it’s better to not have your turn than to hit some other kid.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“No. It isn’t. But do you think it’s fair that Connor got punched in the face just because he was doing what kids do just because they’re kids?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Connor probly won’t share even when he’s all growed up.”

“Maybe not. Or maybe he’ll learn. You don’t know, do you?”

Cas huffed and dug his toes into the sand. Then he shrugged his little shoulders. “Fwee will,” he mumbled. “He gets to choose to be an assbutt if he wants.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. Fuck. Was that really what they’d fought for? For people to have the right to be assbutts? “Free will,” he said. “And right now, I’m gonna use my free will to build a campfire and cook burgers.”

“And hot dogs!”

“Yeah, and-”

“Excuse me!”

Sand scrunched beneath a pair of black shoes - shiny and not the type of thing most people would wear on the beach. Dean looked up. A red-faced man stared down at him. He had sandy blond hair and wore a blue sports coat over tan pants. He looked set for a day tête-à-têteing with the Downton crew, sipping tea with his pinkie raised.

“Where’s your other boy?” he demanded.

Dean stood up slowly. He took a deliberate breath, eyeing up the guy, whose eyes flickered down to Dean’s very short shorts. A sneer curled his moustached lip.

“I said, where’s-”

“Dean Winchester,” said Dean. He took a leaf out of Cas’s book, raising an expectant eyebrow.

“What? Oh. Henry Darnell. I want to know-”

“Nice to meet you Mr Darnell.”

“Now, you look here. I want to know where your older boy is, because he hit my boy and he needs to answer for it!”

“This is my boy,” said Dean. “I’ve only got the one.” He glanced down at Cas and was richly rewarded by an expression of absolute three-year-old innocence - huge eyes, tear-streaked face, sucking his thumb like he was still missing his baby bottle. Or a pacifier. Top marks, Cas. High five.

“But- but someone hit my son! And I refuse to believe it was this child!”

Dean shrugged. “Ain’t no other kid around.” Was he overdoing the simple-minded hick accent? It was a stereotype that had served him well on all kinds of occasions. “Seems to me like your boy should be ashamed of hisself. Running crying to his pa on account of this here little chick.”

Yeah, he was really overdoing it now. But it was so much fun. He remembered pulling the same act with little Sammy more than once. His brother’s wide-eyed innocence was a sight to behold. He used to get a nice blankness in his eyes too, as if here was the picture of a kid too dumb to know how to steal candy.

“Those little hands couldn’t knock over a daisy-flower,” said Dean. “But even so, I done gave him a talking to about using his words and not his fists. Ain’t that right, son?”

Cas nodded. “Yes, Pa.”

Darnell’s jaw chomped and his throat worked as if he was choking on his anger. “You should still punish your boy!”

There were a number of possible responses to this, the first that sprang immediately to Dean’s mind being to take Cas's approach and punch the shit-faced bastard.

Whoa, Dean. Take a breath! Sammy's voice, reliably chipping in to stop Dean doing something more than usually dumb. Or to attempt to stop him. Dean’s fingers clenched into a tight fist. The wind tugged at Eileen’s shirt and waves broke against the beach with a high kick-up of white spray.

Did he and Cas have an asshole-magnet attached to them or something? That kid Tyler’s Dad had been a total asshole. And Cas had given him a shot of angel juice to get him to back off. What would it take to get this slimeball to crawl back into his hole?

“Well? It’s disgraceful! People like you are breeding the next generation of criminals. That little brat deserves a spanking after what he did to my son!”

The wind dropped suddenly like the world was taking in a big breath. Even the rushing waves seemed muted.

“Walk away,” said Dean softly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Walk away. Now.”

“If you think I’m going to-”

Dean took a step forward. “Walk. Away.” He looked into the asshole’s eyes without blinking and, for once, Dean let it all show in his face - all the hardness and cruelty that he’d known; the violence that had been done to him and that he’d done to others; the pain and suffering and destruction that he’d stood against, the horror and the trauma that he was still dealing with and probably always would be, so that this ignorant bastard and others like him could carry on being ignorant bastards.

Henry Darnell’s lips slowly parted as his jaw dropped. He swallowed audibly and his gaze dropped to his feet. “I, uh… well…” His eyes flickered to Dean’s face for a split second and then darted away again. “Don’t let it happen again!” His voice shook and he twisted around as he spoke and marched away over the sand, in hasty, uneven strides as if it were all he could do not to break into an all-out sprint.

The pounding of Dean’s heart slowed. He breathed out, long and slow, through tense lips, and closed his eyes. The waves still rushed and dragged - in and out, in and out - and the breeze once more blustered against Dean’s ears and lifted Eileen’s primrose yellow shirt away from his overheated skin.

And a small hand slipped into his own and squeezed.

“You didn’t hit him, Dean.”

He looked down. And Cas looked up - little boy, friend, Angel of the Lord.

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t. You said sometimes it’s better not to hit the other kid. And you didn’t.”

Dean let out a huff of laughter. “You think I’m learning? After all these years?”

Cas nodded, squeezing Dean’s hand again. “Well done, Dean. I’m pwoud of you.”

“And I’m proud of you, Little Wing.” He let go Cas’s hand so that he could grip him under both arms, and he swung him around and then right up onto his shoulders. His arm twinged slightly, but it was worth it to hear Cas shriek with laughter. He grabbed onto Dean’s hair.

“I’m widing!”

“Hold on tight.” Dean ran, his hands curling around Cas’s little legs and Cas laughed and bounced on his shoulders.

“You’re my dwagon, Dean! I’m widing a big dwagon.”

Dean roared, obligingly.

“Take me to hot dogs, dwagon!”

“I’m gonna cook ’em with my fiery breath!”

“Don’t burn the hot dogs, dragony Dean!”

“I won’t. Or the burgers.” He floundered on the pebbles as they shifted under his feet, but powered up the slope until he was on firmer ground. And then he lifted Cas over his head and set him down and gave him another hug, just because he felt like it.

“Silly people,” said Cas, his breath tickling the back of Dean’s neck.

“Huh?” There was no better place to be than right here, right now, with his arms around his little angel.

“Silly people,” Cas again. “Choosing to be assbutts. When they could be dwagons.”

“Yeah. What are they like? I’d be a dragon any day.”

“You’ll always be my dwagon, Dean. Won’t you?”

“Yeah. I’ll always be your hot dog-cooking dragon, Cas.”

“Fank you, Dean.”

Chapter Text

The driftwood fire was going out. But it didn’t matter. It had done all the cooking it needed to, and the remaining burger and hotdog keeping warm on the improvised grill would soon be gone. Dean swallowed his mouthful of burger and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, greasiness spreading up his cheek. “You’ve got ketchup down your shirt,” he said.

Cas popped the last of his third (fourth?) hotdog into his mouth and pointed accusingly at Dean, who followed the pointing finger to find a series of red blobs down his own shirt. “Oh, yeah.” He rubbed at the stains, spreading them further over Eileen’s pale yellow tee. Sorry, Eileen.

The little hot dog machine munched rapidly, then smacked his lips and sat back with a happy smile, patting his belly. “I ’joyed those vewwy much, Dean.”

“Good.”

“Hotdogs are my favewit. And burgies. I ate this many.” He spread his arms as far as he could reach.

“That’s a lot.” Dean flipped the remaining burger onto a slice of bread, balanced the lone hotdog on the top and then slapped on a bread lid. He squashed his sandwich together firmly and took a big bite.

“We could fly the kite now. Or build a sancastle ’cos I dug a hole this morning but I didn’t build anyfing. Or we could go paggling in the sea or wun some waces.” Cas paused. “I’d win.”

“Yeah?” Dean could have a nap. Although that hadn’t worked out too well this morning.

“Or we could go wock climbing. Dean, we could go and see the cave and go inside the cave!”

Or we could not do that. “It’s still pretty windy,” said Dean. “How about we fly the kite?”

“Maybe people lived in the cave once, Dean. There might be pictures on the walls.”

“Yeah.” Dean was distracted by movement on the slope opposite. The little girl, Katie, was hopping down the path from the higher chalet. Connor followed, hands in pockets, head down, and he was closely followed by Henry Darnell - the assbutt. Behind him came a beige woman - beige hair, beige blouse, beige slacks. Maybe that’s how you got by if you were an assbutt’s wife - by being beige. Of course it was always possible she lived up to Henry’s level of assbuttness, but she was innocent until proven guilty.

The family made their various ways down the path, crossed the bridge and turned to head up to the parking lot. Katie waved and called as she passed and Cas turned around and nearly toppled his chair waving back. Connor scowled. Henry kept his eyes firmly ahead. Mrs Beige Darnell gave Dean a nervous look. He smiled and waved and her face wobbled as if it was fighting between expressions.

“Come along, Lana!”

Lana Darnell scurried after His Royal Assbuttness.

Cas waggled his legs and stretched his arms above his head, fingers wiggling. Dots of light danced over his face from pinprick holes in their canvas awning. His arms fell and he slid down from his chair, picking up Cloppy, who had been stabled beneath. He tucked the toy beneath his arm and then began poking at the remains of the fire with a twig of driftwood.

Dean licked the grease off his fingers. Then he wiped them on Eileen’s shirt, which was already stained so what the hell. His limbs were warm and heavy and if the chair had had a higher back he would’ve been out like a light. Years of lost sleep beckoned to him. Slithering off the chair and curling up on the ground sounded just fine.

The shadow of the awning rippled over the stony ground as the wind caught it, a sharp black edge cutting the sunlight… black against white… Baby’s hood on an empty road…

“Good afternoon, young man.”

“Heyo, Mrs Lady. Heyo, Mr Man.”

The voices brought Dean back from the edge of sleep - an elderly couple, grey-haired and straw-hatted, she with a plain straw, wide-brimmed, he with a white fedora, stylishly angled.

“What’s your name?” The lady bent over, hands on her knees, to talk to Cas, who was building a fence around Cloppy with bits of driftwood.

“I'm Cas. I'm an angel.”

“Oh, you are, aren’t you?” She looked up and caught Dean’s eye. “I'm sorry to disturb your afternoon nap. I'm Evelyn Minette. This is my Husband James.”

James tugged the brim of his hat and smiled.

Dean pulled himself together and stood up, holding out his hand. “Dean Winchester,” he said.

He shook Evelyn's small, cool hand and James’, larger and with the slight scrape of callused fingers.

“Your son is adorable,” said Evelyn.

“Dean says he-”

“We've only been here a couple of days,” Dean interrupted. “Have you been here long?”

“Oh, yes,” said Evelyn. “We stay here every year for the whole summer. Our son lives close by, so we get plenty of time with our grandchildren.”

James nodded and smiled his agreement.

“We came home early today because the forecast says there could be a storm.” They both scanned the cloudless sky. “But I must say, it doesn't look very likely.”

“We're going to go wock climbing,” said Cas. “And we're going to see the cave and go inside the cave!”

“It sounds like you've got an exciting afternoon planned, Cas. Is Cas short for Casper?”

“No, Mrs Net. Casper's a ghost. I'm Castiel.”

“That's a beautiful name! And very unusual.” she said. “I expect it's an old family name?” She looked at Dean.

“Something like that.”

“Well, we'll leave you to your afternoon.” She wagged a finger. “And you mind you don’t get caught out in the storm.”

James grimaced and nodded to underline this. Then he took Evelyn's hand and pulled it over his arm, patting it into place. They walked away, over the bridge, side by side.

Dean watched as they strolled slowly up the path to the lower chalet. James unlocked the door and held it open for his wife to go in first. The door closed behind them.

People were different now that Dean wasn’t hunting. Or at least he saw them differently. They used to be victims or informants, people he should’ve saved or people he could use to save others. He’d look at an old couple like Evelyn and James and he’d know how to act, how to dress, to get the information out of them.

Now he wondered who they were, what their lives had been like, even what it would be like to have had a life like theirs.

How many times had James taken Evelyn's hand to link their arms together? Had he done it on their first date? And did they both know, then, that they'd be together, side by side, until they were old and grey and spending long, slow summers with their grandchildren?

Dean was old enough to have grown up children. Old enough for them to have children of their own, if they started young.

He swallowed and rubbed his throat.

Cas had left a handprint on his shoulder. Was it the same? For an angel, was the handprint he'd burned into Dean’s skin the same as a man taking a woman's hand and saying, I am yours and you are mine?

James and Evelyn might have had dinner and a movie on their first date. Cas had dragged a twisted soul out of Hell and remade Dean's body around it. Not so much fun, but as a first date it sure was a game changer.

His lips twisted ruefully and he wiped his eyes, which the wind had blown sand into.

“Dean?” Little Cas tugged on the hem of his shirt. “Dean!”

“What’s up, Cas?”

“Did we leave the bucket and the spades and the blanket and the bally-ball on the beach? And my sandals?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess we did. We'd better go track ‘em down.”

“Track? Like hunting?”

“No. Not like hunting. Unless there are wild picnic blanket monsters out there.”

“I think there are.”

“Come on, then. Let's go hunting.”

Dean scooped Cas up again and set him on his shoulders. Cloppy’s fur tickled his neck.

“Off we go!” Cas waggled his bare feet and Dean set off down the beach.

Dean’s hands twitched. He took a breath.

“Neely there,” said Cas. “Neely-neely… there.” His little body stretched right out to reach a handhold, wobbling precariously.

Dean’s heart kicked-up, potential energy coiling in his muscles, ready to spring into action and pluck his tiny angel to safety.

Cas grasped a flat edge of the rock, his face tight with concentration, his fingers white with the strength of his grip.

“Be careful,” said Dean. And he’d really earned the pissy face Cas shot him, because it was probably the tenth time he’d said it.

“I am be carefulling!”

One foot left the rock and found a higher ledge. Then the other. Then he was up. Cas pulled himself to his feet and two fists pumped the air.

“I’m at the top! I climbed Mount Evewest! And you’re all the way down there!”

“Well done, Cas. Are you going to climb back down?”

Cas looked down at his feet and the sheer cliff face with its potential plunge into a misty abyss. He bent his knees and reached down toward Dean.

Dean spread his arms wide and braced himself as Cas jumped. He thudded into Dean’s chest, little arms wrapping around his neck. Dean spun him around and then deposited him on the sand, giving him a quick squeeze on the descent, just because he could.

Cas slapped the lump of rock. It stuck up out of the sand - a good five feet high. “Mount Evewest,” he said. “Are you going to climb it, Dean?”

“Nah, not today. I like it better down here in the valley.”

“Base camp,” said Cas. “You’re my base camp, Dean.”

“Being base camp’s fine by me.” Dean grabbed the rolled-up blanket from the ground and tucked it under his arm. “Are you gonna help me carry this stuff home now?”

He and Cas had tracked down their possessions, abandoned on the beach due to the ‘punch stops play’ incident before lunch. But then Cas had insisted on ‘wock climbing’ and it had taken a while before Dean had found something he was prepared to let Cas climb. The little boy had been all for scaling the jagged cliffs at the north end of the beach. He didn’t seem to have even the most basic fear of heights, which was all very well if you could fly or at least heal yourself if you fell off something, but Dean wasn’t convinced Cas’s wings would save him if he fell, and the little angel certainly didn’t have his healing powers at the moment.

“No, Dean, we can’t go home yet. We haven’t found the cave.”

“Look, Cas. I don’t think-”

“Hello, there!”

Dean turned around, and had to shield his eyes against the spray of sand being kicked up by the stiffening wind. It was colder too, the hairs on his legs standing up. He shouldn’t have cut the shorts quite so short.

“Heyo, Bwenda,” said Cas. “Heyo, Pongo!”

The dalmatian pushed his nose into Cas’s hand and then gave him a thorough all-over sniffing, while the little boy giggled.

“Uh, hey, Brenda.” Dean squinted at the dungaree-clad figure.

“Hello, Dean. How are you today? Are you having a good day?”

Great! I nearly punched one of your other guests, he didn’t say. Cas did punch one of your other guests. Maybe Brenda had come to pass on a complaint. “Yeah. Just chillin’. You know. You? Uh… guests all happy?”

“I think so.” Brenda glanced down the beach and then up at the sky, which was still mostly blue, but now there were thin lines of puffy white way high up, and some chunkier looking piles of grey near the horizon. “I just came to check if you’d heard the weather warning.”

“We heard something about a storm.” Dean scanned the white-capped waves. “It doesn’t seem that bad right now.”

“Don’t be fooled. Things can change pretty quick around here. Although it might come to nothing. These warnings often do.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Hmm. Well, anyway, they say the wind’s gonna get real strong toward the evening. Might turn into a storm. You should be okay, but if it gets too much in the hut, just come on up to the house.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Brenda jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’d better warn our other guests too.”

“We saw the Darnells heading out earlier. And Evelyn and James know already.”

“Hey, you’re getting to know everyone! Making friends! That's real good to hear.” Brenda’s curls bobbed. He slapped Dean’s shoulder.

Dean grinned with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “Making friends… yeah.”

“I like Katie,” said Cas, his hand stroking from Pongo's head all the way down his back. “But Connor wouldn't share so I-”

“Hey, Cas - we'd better go if we're gonna get a look at that cave, hadn’t we?”

“Can we, Dean? Can Pongo come too?”

Dean was about to say no, but Brenda cut in. “If Pongo wants to, he'll follow you. And don't worry about bringing him home. He'll come when he's hungry. He scrambles through the woods, getting himself filthy. It’s his favourite thing.”

Cas grabbed Cloppy, who was resting on the foothills of Mount Everest. “Come on, Pongo,” he said. “Come with me!” He ran, looking over his shoulder and Pongo woofed and followed.

“You’d better get after them,” said Brenda. He waved and departed and Dean headed in the opposite direction, jogging, when he realised that Cas and Pongo had already gone around the next outcropping of the rocky headland.

“Wait up, Cas!”

He sank into the soft sand, following the trail of small feet and paw prints. The wind blew even stronger as he rounded the jutting rocks, cutting through his thin shirt. He could make some hot chocolate when they got back to the hut. Maybe he should take the awning down so it didn’t blow away.

Dean caught up with the boy and the dog just as they’d reached a dark opening in the rocks. A tall, crooked triangle of darkness stretched up high above them. It cut back into the cliff, the walls narrowing the further in it went. He couldn’t see the back. The floor was sandy and pebbly with bits of washed up seaweed and driftwood and scattered bits of junk - scraps of rope, drinks cans and other trash.

Cas’s eyes were huge and he was silent, his mouth fallen open. The dog had no such sense of awe. He trotted up and down the clusters of washed up junk, sniffing and huffing, then he bounced into the cave and barked. An echoing bark answered him.

Cas laughed and ran forward, Cloppy tucked under his arm. “Heyo!”

The echo greeted him. Cas shot a mischievous smirk at Dean and took a deep breath. “Assbutts!” he yelled and was rewarded by a string of fading assbutts. He folded up with laughter and Dean couldn’t help joining in.

“You try it, Dean,” said Cas.

Dean scratched his stubbly chin. If Sammy were here, he’d probably start on a Shakespearean speech or something. But he wasn’t here. He was back at the bunker, working hard, while Dean was goofing off.

“Sammy!” Dean yelled.

Cas clapped his hands and jumped up and down when Dean’s voice came back, shouting his brother over and over. Pongo woofed, and for a while there was a battering assault of barking, which would have gone on and on, only Dean got the dog’s attention with a stick and threw it along the beach for him. Pongo chased off after it, kicking up the sand and snapping at the air. He got distracted before he reached the stick, though, and hurtled down the beach to chase the boiling white surf.

When Dean looked back, Cas was inside the cave, Cloppy trailing from one hand, his small steps taking him further and further into the darkness.

“Cas!”

Dean followed the small figure, his heart thudding, his mouth dry. If he were hunting he wouldn’t be scared. Okay, he would be scared, but it was a type of fear he was used to, so he didn’t notice it much. This was different. This was… well, he didn’t have to analyse it, did he? He just didn’t like fucking caves, okay?

“Cas.” His voice fell dead in the still, cold air.

Cas had stopped. He reached a hand up to Dean. Dean took it and held it tight.

“It’s dark,” said Cas.

“Well, yeah. What d’you wanna come in here for, anyway?”

“To see what it’s like.”

He led Dean forward and even though Dean’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he still couldn’t see any end to the cave. In fact, it looked like it branched out. One branch was flooded with seawater. The other narrowed down to a doorway-sized opening.

“How far does it go, Dean?”

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly the cave was filled with deafening barks. Dean put both hands over his ears and turned around to see Pongo silhouetted in the entrance.

“Quit it, Pongo!” His shout made it worse, and now Dean’s voice was all around as well. Time to go.

He reached out for Cas, but didn’t feel him, and looking back at the light had ruined his night vision. Pongo’s barks died away. There was a scuffling at Dean’s side and a wet nose pressed into his palm.

“Where are you Cas?”

A splash was followed by an unhappy sound. Dean stepped forward, blindly, his foot landing in freezing cold water. Then something fastened onto his leg, wrapping around like tentacles. He froze, ready to fight his way free.

“Dean!”

The tentacled creature climbed up him as Dean reached down and then Cas’s cold cheek was pressed against his, the little boy’s body trembling in his arms. “Cas.” Dean squeezed him tighter as he turned and strode toward the light with firm, steady treads, when actually he wanted to book it as if there really were a tentacled horror chasing him.

Then they were out into the light and Pongo was brushing against Dean’s bare legs and sticking his nose into any crevice he could find between.

Dean held his angel, safe in his arms.

“Dean! I fell in!”

“You’re soaking wet.”

“’Cos I fell in the water.” His little face was pale and he was shivering. “It was all dark.”

The sky had changed from patchy blue to a turbulent grey and the wind blustered in sharp, angry stabs and harder gusts that tried to knock Dean off his feet.

“Right, let’s get you home.” He set off, Cas riding on one hip. They’d have to stop by Mount Everest on their way. They’d left the blanket and all the other stuff parked in its shelter. Although with this wind and the waves coming right up, they’d be lucky if the stuff hadn’t blown or got washed away. Salt spray stung the side of Dean’s face and then hard splats of rain began landing on his back and shoulders. It seemed like the storm was definitely on its way.

Dean lengthened his stride. Pongo ran on ahead.

“What d’you want to go right in there for, Cas? Why d’you do that?”

Cas pushed his face into Dean’s neck. He squeaked a sad little whimper. Dean should’ve vetoed the rock climbing. He should’ve made Cas have a nap after lunch. Now he was over-tired.

“I wanted to see if I could.”

“What, see if you could go in the cave?”

A long sigh warmed a patch on Dean’s neck. “See if I could go into the dark.”

“Into the dark? You don’t need to do that, Cas. You don’t need to go in dark places and certainly not on your own.”

“I don’t want to be scared, Dean.”

“Then don’t go in.”

“The dark’s still there, even if I don’t.”

What should he say? There were always scary places out there in the world. There were scary things and scary people and scary monsters. And sometimes you couldn’t avoid them. Cas knew that, though. He knew that very well.

What was it Sammy had said, when Dean had made him go into Plucky Pennywhistle’s? I don't want exposure therapy, Dean. Was that what Cas was doing? Exposing himself to his fear? Testing himself? Well, fuck that. He was supposed to be healing, not helping himself to more trauma.

“Yeah, well, you’re with me now, Cas. You don’t have to be scared. All you gotta do is hold tight and I’ll take you home. And we’ll have hot chocolate. With extra chocolate.”

“And cookies to dip in?”

“You got it, Little Wing.” Dean hitched Cas up more securely on his hip. “We’ll soon have you home and all wrapped up and cosy.”

Sharp gusts of wind tugged at the canvas awning as Dean reached the hut. The chairs had both toppled over and the surfboard was tumbling away down the beach. Pongo barked at it.

“Leave it, Pongo.” Should he tell the dog to go home? Would he listen? With a final bark, Pongo abandoned the surfboard and stuck close to Dean, slithering into the hut as soon as the door was wide enough.

It slammed behind Dean as he took Cas inside, as if the storm was warning them to stay in. And they would. But Dean would have to get everything squared away first.

Pongo shook himself and settled down on the mat in front of the couch. Carlos and Brenda would be worried about him. But Cas was shivering.

Dean got the little boy into the shower and warmed him up under the hot spray. Then he got him out of the shower and dried him and put him in his pyjamas and wrapped him up all snug in a blanket. He set Cas on the little couch and made him hot chocolate, with extra hot chocolate, but with a little cold milk in so that it was just right to drink. He put a few cookies on a plate and knelt down next to the dog, scrutinising the little boy, whose cheeks were now pink and whose body was relaxed and warm.

He gave Cas the drink and put the plate of cookies on the couch next to him. Pongo's nose twitched.

“You gonna be okay here for a minute? I need to head out and tie some stuff down.”

Cas nodded, sleepily. He’d probably spill the drink. Maybe Dean really should get him a sippy cup.

“You’re still wet, Dean. You need to get warm and have hot chocolate.”

“Yeah. I will. After I’ve got things straight.”

“Okay, Dean.” Cas took a sip of his drink, giving himself a hot chocolate moustache. Then his hand jerked so that a bit slopped onto the couch cushion. “Cloppy! Where’s Cloppy?”

Dean looked around. “I dunno. She’ll be here somewhere, Cas.”

Cas’s face crumpled. “No, she isn’t. She isn’t here, Dean. I left her there!”

“What? Where?” Oh shit. Cas had picked up his toy when they’d left Mount Everest. It had been tucked under his arm in the cave.

“I left her in the cave, Dean. She’s all alone. In the dark.” Fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

“She’ll be okay, Cas.”

The water would come right up into the cave when the storm really got going. There was little to no chance that Cloppy would still be there in the morning, even if it was safe to go around to the cave then.

“She’s all alone, Dean. All alone in the dark!”

Pongo sat up and put his head in Cas’s lap.

Hot chocolate was slopping out of the mug as Cas’s hand shook. Dean took the drink away from him and put it on the window ledge. He gathered Cas into his arms and held him.

“I’m sorry, Cas. I’m real sorry. We’ll go look when the storm’s died down.”

It wasn’t dying down any time soon. The hut shook and there was a wild snapping of canvas.

“I need to go out and get things tied down. I’ll be back in a minute. And we can snuggle up tight together, yeah?”

Curled fists swiped across Cas’s eyes, but the tears kept coming. Pongo whined and pushed his nose into the little boy’s stomach.

The hut shook with the force of the gale.

“Sit tight,” said Dean. “I’ll be back soon.”

The tarp had come away from its fixings and was only held by one roped corner. It was flapping about like a giant kite and it kept flicking up and hitting Dean in the face or wrapping around his legs as he hauled it in, hand over hand. He weighed the bundle down with a few rocks while he collected up the chairs and laid them down together against the sheltered side of the hut. Then he ran around, hunched over against the pelting rain, until he’d retrieved the big bucket, the shrimp net and one of the bats. He dumped them with the chairs, covered them with the tarp and tied the whole lot up with rope. It might still all blow away, but at least he’d tried.

His teeth were chattering and his limbs were heavy and clumsy from the cold. Definitely time to get inside and get a hot shower.

The roar of the wind was muted inside the hut, but the whole place vibrated with the force of the gale and the rain. Water ran down Dean’s bare legs and puddled on the floor.

Time to get dry and stay safe inside, with Cas.

But Cas wasn’t on the couch. And Pongo wasn’t on the mat.

“Cas?” The little kid must be exhausted. Dean stepped into the tiny bedroom. He wasn’t on either of the bunks. Dean moved the bedding and scattered clothes about, to make sure he wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there.

The bathroom. He’d just gone to the bathroom.

“Cas!” Dean knocked and went in.

Steam lingered from the shower, damp towels lay scattered on the floor. But Cas wasn't there.

“Cas, please. Cas!”

The hut shook under a powerful gust of wind. Torrents of rain spattered against the window. Dean couldn’t even see the beach.

Cas’s little red wellington boots weren’t by the door where Dean had left them. His yellow waterproof wasn’t on the hook.

Maybe he was with Carlos. He’d gone to take Pongo home, that was it. Dean grabbed his phone. No signal. He ran outside, leaning into the wind, fighting against it to get to the bridge where he’d phoned Sam. Still no signal.

No. Please, no. Cas hadn’t gone to the cave. He hadn’t gone out in the storm to get his toy.

But he had, hadn’t he? Dean was wasting time pretending anything else. Because that’s what Cas did. He went out into whatever shit he had to. He fought against anything and anyone, to rescue people who were stuck in dark places.

Cas had fought his way through the horrors of Hell to get Dean. That was who he was - even as a little boy with hardly anything in the way of angelic power.

“Cas, no.”

Sheets of rain blotted out the cliffs. The ocean was a boiling, surging mass of white. And Cas was a little boy. Just a little boy, all alone in a storm.

Dean ran. He didn’t even think. He just ran. He didn’t feel the cold. The wind had no power to blow him aside. He ran down the bank of pebbles and onto the sand and he kept on running, the wind and the ocean roaring in his ears.

He was running through water, then on sand, then through water again and it was getting deeper so that he had to slow down. He couldn’t see. Rain and spray blew in his face and he couldn’t tell how far he’d come or how far he had to go.

Then for just a second, through the sheets of rain, he saw the rocky outcrop that he and Cas had walked around just a few short hours ago. And he saw the waves dashing themselves against it and bursting into explosions of white that shot into the air, surging nearly to the top of the cliff. Dean skidded to a halt.

“Cas!” He screamed into the wind, but there was no answer. There could be no answer, because if Cas had come up against those waves, there was no way, there was just no way he could have survived.

The breaking waves churned and boiled and spat. The ocean heaved, grey-brown and immense. It took what it wanted from the land and it never gave back what it had claimed.

Dean screamed again, a wordless, throat-rending cry. And then he screamed again, “Jack! Jack, please! Please, Jack, don’t do this! Don’t let him be gone!”

There was no response.

What could he do? What could he do?

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Dean’s screwed-up head was making all this shit up just to torture him. Cas wasn’t lost. He hadn’t gone to the cave. He was sitting on Carlos and Brenda’s couch right now, eating the rest of the rhubarb cobbler and slurping juice from his sippy cup. Yes. He was safe. And soon Dean would be with him.

He spun around and ran back up the beach, tripping over rocks, realising he didn’t have his flip-flops on anymore. He should stop at the hut. He should put his boots on and get a jacket. But he didn’t.

Staggering up the bank of pebbles, he lurched past the hut and made straight for the path to the parking lot. The trees above him roared - white noise, like they were echoing the ocean. He burst out into the parking lot, but could barely see Baby in the gloom. Whether the sun had set or the clouds had covered it, Dean had no idea, but he definitely wouldn’t be able to see where he was going on the path up to the house.

There was a flashlight in Baby’s trunk. The touch of her smooth metal calmed him and the solid thud of her trunk closing was like a reassurance. Everything would be okay. He’d see Cas in a minute. He would tell him off for scaring the shit out of Dean. And then they’d hold each other tight and everything would be alright again.

Dean flicked on the flashlight and jogged across the parking lot and into the trees. He’d have sprinted, full-tilt, if he could. But his legs were heavy with exhaustion. He wove through the woodland, careening off the trunks like he’d had a few too many whiskeys. The beam of the flashlight lurched and spun around wildly. He came to the steps where he and Cas had seen the toadstools. His chest heaved and his throat wasn’t wide enough to get in all the air he needed. Then he was at the top and, through the thinning trees, he could see light - yellow squares of homely light.

He squelched across the lawn, then over the little, crunching pebbles of the driveway. And then he was hammering on the door.

Carlos answered almost straight away. “Dean! What’s-”

“Is he here? Is Cas here?”

Yes. Yes he was there. Of course he was there.

But Carlos shook his head, his mouth dropping open, his eyes full of concern. “No. No, Dean. What’s happened?”

“He must be! He must!” Dean grabbed the front of Carlos’ shirt with both hands. “He’s here! Tell me he’s here!”

Brenda appeared at his partner’s shoulder. “Dean, what’s happened?”

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t.

And it seemed impossible. The storm didn’t seem as bad up here, the wind not as strong. How could anything awful have happened? It was just a bit of rain, a bit of wind. People stayed in, and then it was gone and they went out again.

“Come in, Dean. You’re freezing cold.” Carlos put a hand on his shoulder.

But Dean couldn’t move. He wouldn’t move.

“Dean, please-”

And then above the wind and the rain, he heard barking. For a moment, Dean thought it was coming from inside the house. But there was another sharp volley of barks and it wasn’t. It wasn’t in there, it was outside, around the house, but further away - toward the cliff.

The brief rest was enough. He could run again, and Dean raced toward the barking as fast as he could. Over the lawn, around to where the wooden canopy was creaking in the wind, and straight toward the cliff, slithering down the terraced garden, falling on his knees, racing onward to where Pongo was barking, high-pitched and urgent.

Then the dog was coming toward him in a blur of black and white, barking and running in circles.

Cas wasn’t with him.

Dean knelt down and grabbed Pongo’s collar. “Where is he? Where’s Cas? Show me, Pongo. Show me, please!”

The dog tore out of Dean’s grip and ran, barking, into the rain, down the slope beyond the cultivated area of Carlos and Brenda’s garden, over the rough grass, weaving around thorn bushes, leaping over rocks. Then he stopped and barked and barked at Dean - and then disappeared.

“Pongo!”

Dean reached the spot - a jumbled heap of rocks and tangled thorn bushes. He could hear barking coming from inside, coming from below - eerie and hollow as if a phantom animal was trapped inside the cliff.

There were voices far behind him, calling his name. He ignored them. He had to get Cas. That was all that mattered.

Dean scrambled over the rock, his shirt catching and tearing on the thorns. He couldn’t see. The flashlight trembled in his numb fingers, but all it showed was black rock.

Pongo barked again. And then his head appeared, half hidden by a tangle of briars. Dean didn’t think. He plunged in headfirst.

Chapter Text

One moment, he’d been out in the wild, pelted by rain, buffeted by wind, and then the next there was silence, apart from his own shuddering breaths and the scratch of Pongo’s claws.

Darkness and silence and rock closed around him - had Dean gone from life into death? From fighting against the storm to lying still and quiet in his grave?

No. No, and you can fuck off with that kind of talk. You’re Dean fucking Winchester. Get a grip, man.

“Dean fucking Winchester,” he muttered, peering down into the narrow tunnel in the rock, which twisted before his flashlight could show much of his route. He shivered. His clothes were soaking wet. He was already worn to a thread from worry and from running through the storm. And actually, now that he’d stopped, he realised his feet were cut and bleeding and that he’d been a total fucking idiot not to stop to put his boots on. He’d freaked out, panicked, thrown all his experience away - because Cas, because little boy Cas could be, might be… Shit.

Panic rose again. Dean swallowed it down. “Get on with your fucking job, Winchester.”

Pongo’s bark floated up from below. Dean began to climb down - down and along and down, and down some more, toes curling around the cold, damp rock, fingers clinging, painstakingly searching out the best, safest grip when all he wanted to do was run to save his angel.

And then the passage walls squeezed together and he had to force his way through the ground like some kind of hell-worm. It gets all hot and not nice if you dig too far, Cas had said. Well Dean was fucking freezing, and anyway, this passageway only led down as far as the beach. If it led anywhere else he was fucked and so was Cas.

Rock jabbed Dean’s ribs and scraped his back. Blackness surrounded him as he fought to follow a single bright point, his flashlight gripped tightly in one hand, his arm stretched out ahead of him.

His shoulders stuck, and for a moment Dean panicked, kicking against the rock, bucking and twisting, until Eileen’s shirt tore and it felt like his skin tore along with it. But then he was free, lurching forward, losing all hand and footholds and tumbling down, the beam of light scattering and whirling around him.

He came to a thudding stop, with a blow across his back.

“Fuck.”

For a moment Dean just breathed, forcing his lungs to work slowly in and out, calming his frantic gasps. Then he carefully moved each arm and leg, half expecting the shattering pain that came with the grating of broken bones. But everything worked. Bruised and scraped to hell for sure, but two arms - check, two legs - check. He’d be no damn good to Cas without.

And he still had the flashlight. His bleeding knuckles were death-grip curled around it, and it sent out its pool of white light, as cool as if it were on a family camping trip.

Dean's heart thundered and his rasping breath was loud in the echoing space. He swung the flashlight around, his hand trembling. A shadow moved and he flinched. But then a warm body pushed its way beneath his arm and pressed close.

“Pongo. Hey, boy. Hey, there.” He laid his free arm along the dog’s back, damp fur comforting against his cold, bare skin. “What we got here then? Where've you got me to?”

Dean ran the flashlight up to a narrow crack high in one side of the little pocket of rock. He’d fallen out of that. No wonder he was sore. The rest of the chamber was jagged and crooked - nothing man-made about it, nothing friendly. Apart from Pongo.

There was a black space in one wall and a jagged split low down, tucked in the folded strata.

“Which way, boy? Which way now?”

Pongo’s claws skittered on the rock as he turned in place and then pushed his nose into the lower way - the one that looked least like it had space for a fully grown man. He wuffed softly and looked at Dean, his eyes reflecting an eerie red.

“Shit. Okay, then.”

Dean swallowed, his heart pressing up into his throat, his skin prickling with cold and fear. Rock all around him. Rock above, rock below, harsh, crushing rock. But Cas needed him. Cas was waiting for him, down there in the dark - that was the only possibility he could let himself believe. So Dean would have to find a way. If it meant he could get to Cas, he'd force his body through whatever gap there was.

Pongo wuffed again and wriggled his way into the crack, his wagging tail visible for a few beats, and then gone. Dean followed.

Dean pulled himself along commando-style, forearms flat against the floor, head ducked because he’d cracked it so many times already against sticking-out bits of rock. Arm over arm, he dragged his exhausted body. Surely he couldn't have much further to go? Shouldn’t he be able to hear the roar of the waves soon?

There was space around him. He pushed upward, and his tired arm collapsed, but he caught himself before getting a faceful of rock. He pushed up again, drawing his legs beneath him to kneel in the dark, head hanging.

Ahead of him, Pongo had stopped. Dean raised his heavy head to watch the dog’s tail wagging in and out of the light. Pongo looked back at Dean. And then he pivoted to one side and disappeared. Crawling to catch up, Dean found himself at the edge of a long drop. He followed Pongo with the flashlight beam, as he galloped down a narrow, steeply sloping ledge along one wall of the large chamber. He got to the bottom and then looked up at Dean with soft, encouraging woofs.

Dean rubbed his face. Shivers ran across his shoulders. He'd warmed up a bit while he was moving, but as soon as he stopped, the cold, dead air got to work on his damp clothes and skin.

Pongo barked, louder.

“I can't do that, buddy.” Dean could barely make out the way Pongo had gone. He shuffled forward and shone his light down the vertical drop in front of him. It was easily twelve feet or so to the bottom. And the face was undercut, so there’d be no easy climb.

But Cas was waiting. Cas was alone in the dark, waiting for Dean.

He stuck the flashlight down the back of his waistband. Then he turned around and shuffled in reverse. His legs stuck out over the drop. He drew them up, letting his knees take some of his weight, right on the edge. Then he had to just let them dangle down into the blackness, and, yes, he’d seen the drop - it wasn’t a bottomless pit. But that didn’t mean he could totally block out thoughts of hellhounds waiting for him down there, corrosive saliva dripping from their jaws.

Dean slid his body right over the edge, the tattered remains of Eileen’s shirt riding up. Then his weight was hanging entirely from his arms, which ached and trembled. He eased himself back and back until his forearms and then just his hands, then just his curled fingers held his full weight.

His muscles stretched and strained. There was nothing beneath his feet. But maybe he could get a foothold? Despite the overhang, maybe he could control his descent. Dean swung one leg forward, but met nothing. His fingers burned. He swung the other leg.

And then suddenly his grip gave way. Sharp edges of rock tore at his fingertips - he fell.

He fell and fell, for an endless split second, until first his left shoulder struck rock and exploded, and then the rest of him slammed into pain, psychedelic colour burst in his eyes and the shriek of a banshee assaulted his ears.

Dean was wrapped in agony and nausea, trapped in the deepest cavern in hell, demons torturing his body and mind. Red flame swirled with green and blue sparks.

But slowly, the colours faded back to black.

Dean groaned.

He was cold, but there was a tiny breath of warmth on his cheek. Then the warmth became rasping wetness. He flinched and another tortured groan was wrenched from his throat.

Pongo whined. His tongue worked over Dean’s face and into his hair.

“Pongo.”

The dog whined again, a soft whistling through his nose. Dogs were damn good at sympathy. PIty they couldn’t lift you up and set you back on your feet. Or better still, put dislocated shoulders back into place. Dean was so cold and in so much pain and the cold made him tense up and the tension made the pain worse.

“Shit. Fuck. Shit, shit, shit, fuck!”

You don’t faint from pain. Guys in stories did. Or movies, although passing out held up the plot, so mostly in movies they kept going, even from injuries Dean knew would take you out completely for a long time. You could do some stuff with a dislocated shoulder. Just not that much. And they hurt like hell. But you didn’t faint from pain. Shame.

Dean reached around his body with his right arm and pulled the floppy left one close to his body, which wasn’t fun at all. Then he sat up. Such a simple thing, sitting up - I’ll just sit up now, and so on. But for Dean, right now, it wasn’t simple at all, and it took a lot of swearing and a lot of breathing in and out, because you might not faint from pain, but shock would do the job, especially when you were cold and exhausted and alone in the dark - a situation which wouldn’t improve any time soon, judging by the crunching from the waistband of his shorts. The flashlight had bought it.

“Pongo?” The dog’s wet nose tucked itself beneath his chin. “Pongo, what the fuck am I gonna do now?”

The dog licked Dean’s throat. He made a rumbling growl deep in his chest and wuffed three times right in Dean’s face. And then he was gone. With a brush of wet fur against Dean’s legs, and a swish of moving air, he turned and ran, claws scratching on the rock, loud, then quiet, then so soft Dean strained to hear them. And then he couldn’t hear them at all.

Fucking shitting hell. Now he really was on his own.

Just breathe, Dean. In and out. Focus on your breathing. Sammy’s voice came to him through the dark, with some of that mindfulness shit that Dean had given up on after five minutes of boredom and feeling stupid. He obeyed the voice, though, because his brother would want him to. And Dean really, really wanted his brother.

So he breathed in. And he breathed out. And he did it again. And he did his very best to shut out the other voice (his own, let’s face it) that told him he was completely and utterly fucked.

The roaring panic in his ears lessened just a bit. The tension left his muscles, just a bit. And the pain eased, a very, very tiny bit.

And there was something important going on here, that his brain was beginning to get a clue about. He was fucking freezing, but somehow there were different aspects to the fucking freezingness. Some of what he felt was dead, cold, cave air. But some of it was fresher - a moving, swirling, salty coldness.

Dean pulled himself up a bit straighter, leaning toward the draught. Okay, so he was all bashed up to fuck. So what? He was gonna track down that salty bit, he was gonna sniff it down like a hound - but not like a dalmatian that ran off when things got tough.

He took another deep breath. The moving air swirled more against one cheek than the other. Dean shuffled toward the freshness - on his ass, wriggling his hips, one and then the other. His feet found a dip and as he shuffled further forward, his legs dropped down into it, so he tucked himself over them, and pushed himself, wobbling, wincing, cursing, onto his feet.

How high was the ceiling? Could he straighten up? Who the hell knew. Dean let his body stay bent over so he didn’t (hopefully) bash his head in and so that he could use his good arm to stop his bad arm falling off completely. No, it wouldn’t fall off completely, but that’s what it felt like.

He took tiny, shuffling step after tiny shuffling step, slowly, slowly, into the pitch black, following the stirring of air. And then suddenly there was nothing beneath Dean’s reaching foot and he lurched forward. His foot slapped into icy water, he stumbled and fell to his knees, stinging salt splashing into his mouth and eyes, his shoulder flaring with agony.

He staggered to his feet, his shivering, pain-wracked body curled over, failing to clamp his jaw hard enough to stop his teeth chattering.

Think, Dean, think. He was in water, or at least his legs were. Icy, salty water. He was at sea level.

Where was Cas? Dean had climbed down through hell. Cas should be here.

But no, it was Dean who was in Hell and Cas had come for him, hadn’t he?

No. No. That was years ago

Dean shook his head. “Get’t together, W-winchester.” His words stumbled and lurched as much as the rest of him.

One foot in front of the other, sand beneath his feet, then rock, then sand again.

Dean blinked. Shapes moved in front of his eyes. He blinked again. The shapes were still there. And a few more lurching steps brought more light and more shapes and then he was beneath a high, pointed arch and way high up above the arch there were clouds. Ragged and torn, they raced across the night sky, edged in grey. Dean’s eyes fell to the white line of surging breakers - rough and tumbling from black ocean to black shore, but nowhere near as violent as they’d been when Dean had stood on the beach in the gusting wind and driving rain.

The storm had passed. Dean had made it to the beach. But he hadn’t found Cas.

He held his sagging arm close to his body. He turned around, back toward the cave.

“Cas.” His voice was a ragged thread, as ragged as the flying clouds. “Cas.”

What else could he do but go back into the cave? What else could he do but try again? One foot in front of the other. Over the lumpy shadows of sand and grey pebbles, over the twisted dark ribbons of seaweed and slashing lines of splintered driftwood, back into the deeper shadows.

“Cas!”

The waves surged, white noise ebbing and flowing.

He took another step and another, staggering back through the rock pools, tripping and cursing. He’d come from the right, hadn’t he? Yes, the way back up to the cliff top was to the right, and Dean hoped he didn’t have to go back up that way any time soon. But there was another branch, wasn’t there? When they’d first come into the cave, he’d seen one way into the cliff to the right and another to the left.

He lurched over to the other side of the cave and leant against the ridged wall, staring into the darkness. He took the left turn.

Soon he was knee deep in water, the base of the cave dropping away so that a big pool had collected. He waded through the water, feet so numb it was hard to keep upright. Then he came to a shelf of rock, which normally he’d have been able to hop up easily. He sat down on it, swung his legs up one at a time, rolled and squirmed onto his knees and then onto his feet. Faint light glinted on the rock above his head, which was one piece of luck, because if he’d stood up straight he would have probably knocked himself out.

He stayed bent over, the traces of reflected light fewer and fewer until he was moving blind again. He was climbing, though, back up through the cliff. Would he come out at the top? Had Cas gone this way? Was he out already, safe and warm in Carlos and Brenda’s place, while Dean was struggling through the ground like some creepy worm?

Suddenly one foot jerked to a halt and Dean fell, a hand slapping down on the wet rock, his knees getting the fuck bruised out of them yet again. His shoulder screamed at the drag of his useless arm. He panted and moaned until he had enough control to reach back and untangle his foot. His fingers touched the cold slime of seaweed. A revolting, fresh piece of seaweed.

Shit. That meant the waves had come all this way up inside the cave.

Dean’s choked cry echoed off the walls, close around him. He couldn’t think about it. He couldn’t bear to imagine what had happened to Cas. But the images came anyway, of Cas’s little body swept into the sea, his terror, his cries, his last, desperate breath before- No.

No. Cas was here. And if he wasn’t, Dean was going into the dark anyway, and he was keeping on going until he’d lost himself completely, because he didn’t ever want to come out without his angel.

He got up. He kept going.

The way became steep and Dean crawled on his two knees and one good arm, up and up, until he reached forward and his hand plunged into cold water. Even here, so far up inside the headland, the storm had driven the waves so that a deep pool had formed. Well, fine. If Dean had to swim, he’d swim.

He pulled himself over the lip of the pool and rolled into the water, and he’d thought he was as cold as you could ever be, but he still cursed from the shock. His feet found the bottom, though, and he waded, chest-deep, through the pitch darkness, with no idea whether the cave went on and on for miles, or if the end was two inches from his nose and he was about to smack into it.

Then Dean stopped and let the surge of water die away around him. Surely, there’d been something, hadn’t there? Something that wasn’t his own ragged breathing or the ripple and burble of water as he waded? Just a tiny whisper of noise, tickling at the edge of his hearing. He closed his eyes and strained to hear it. Yes. Yes, there it was again.

Dean tightened his grip on his injured arm and pulled his drooping frame as upright as it would go. He waded forward, but couldn’t hear anything above his own splashing, so he stopped again.

There.

“Je’miah was a bullfrog.”

A tiny whimper was followed by a loud sniff and a sob.

“Was a good fwend of mine.”

Another sob.

“Didn’t know what fings he said.”

“Cas!” The cold was gone, and the pain. Dean’s heart raced and his exhaustion vanished. “Cas!” Roaring filled his ears as the water splashed and sprayed up around him. Cas was there. He’d found him. He’d found Cas alive.

“But I dwank up all his wine.”

“Cas!” It was Cas, it was little Cas’s voice, singing in the dark. Dean had found him. He’d found him.

“Dean?”

“I’m here. I’m here, Cas. I’m here.” He couldn’t see. “Cas, where are you?”

“Dean!”

Dean took a long stride toward the voice, his foot caught on a rock and he splashed down, getting another mouthful of salt. He didn’t care. He surged up again immediately and forced his tired limbs through the water, toward Cas’s voice.

“Cas!”

“Dean.”

Another step and then he slammed into a wall, sharp pain in his forehead, and grating, agonising pain in his shoulder. But there was a tiny, cold touch to his scalp and the brush of a dripping wet feather through his hair.

“Cas! I can’t see you.” Dean let go his injured arm and reached up. A small hand grasped his - so small, but the grip was tight around his fingers.

“Dean, I’m sowwy. I’m sowwy. I had to find her. I had to.” He broke off in a trail of sobbing and sniffing.

“It’s okay, Cas. It’s okay.” He held Cas’s hand. And he wanted to hold all of Cas, to fold his little body up close and tight. But he was on a ledge, above Dean’s head. How the hell was he going to get the kid down safely?

“I had to find my horsey, Dean. I had to find Cloppy.”

“I know, Cas. I know you did. You f-found her and I f-found you.”

“The big waves came and I had to climb up and I’m cold, Dean. I’m weally, weally cold.”

“Yeah. M-me too, buddy.”

“I want to go home. Pwease take me home, Dean.”

“I will, Cas. But I have- I have to get you down first.” He’d have to get Cas down soon, or they’d both need rescuing. The injection of energy and hope he’d got from finding his angel was wearing off fast.

“I can jump. You catch me. Like when I climbed Mount Evewest.”

The little fingers slid out of Dean’s hand and a booted foot brushed his arm.

“No, Cas. Don’t!”

“Why not?”

Dean ran his hand over the rocky wall, until he had a good idea of the height of the ledge Cas was sitting on.

“Dean?”

“I hurt my arm, Cas. Don’t. I d-don’t want you jumping just yet.”

Cas sniffed. “I want to go home, Dean.” His tiny voice wobbled with tears. “I wanna go home.”

“Yeah.” Shit. Dean pushed his fingers through his soaking wet hair.

“Dean?”

“I’m here. Look, can you use your wings at all?”

“They got wet. I curled up inside, but the big waves kept splashing me. The waves were scarwy, Dean.”

“I know. I was scared too, Cas. But do you think you could use your wings to fly, just a bit?”

“What happened to your uvver arm, Dean?”

“It’s okay. I fell, that’s all. It’ll be okay.” It sure as hell wasn’t okay right now. The pain had kicked in again, radiating from his shoulder all the way down his arm and all the way down his back too. “Can you shake some of the water off your wings, Cas?”

Above him there was a sound like when Pongo shook himself. Drops of water rained down on Dean’s head.

“I’ve shookened them, Dean.”

“Okay.” Dean looked up, squinting. He could see nothing whatsoever. They’d have to do this blind. He reached up as high as he could and found the toe of a wellington boot. Cas’s hand patted his. “Can you sit right on the edge? And then lean forward.”

The foot slid down his arm and both of Cas’s hands gripped his fingers.

“Good job, Cas. Now, I want you to slowly lean forward and flap your wings as hard as you can and then keep leaning forward as if you were dropping into a swimming pool and trying not to make a ripple. Can you do that?”

“I’ve never swum in a pool, Dean. I don’t fink I can swim, can I?”

“That’s okay. I just want you to drop real slow. I’m gonna try and hold you on my shoulder until I can get you to the other side of this pool. You understand? Like a fireman’s lift.”

“Yes, Dean. Like firemen wescue people out of windows.”

“Yeah. Good boy. On three. Ready?”

“Why fwee?”

“No reason. It's just always fw- three. You ready?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Right. One… two… three!”

Cas’s little fingers suddenly dug into his arm, then Dean’s elbow gave under his weight and there were cold, wet feathers flapping around his head. The little boy landed on Dean’s uninjured shoulder, feet dragging for purchase against his chest. A wing beat frantically against his face. Dean gasped and gritted his teeth as his dislocated shoulder was jolted and jostled. He curled his arm around Cas’s wriggling, raincoat-clad body.

“Hold still. Just hold still, Cas.” The movements stilled. Dean turned and waded away from the ledge where Cas had waited for him, all alone in the dark. His left arm dangled next to him, the joint grating, the muscles and tendons shrieking for relief. He kept going. How long was the pool? Was he about to stumble over the upturn in the rocks? The water level fell from his chest to his waist. Cas whimpered and shifted on his shoulder. “Nearly there.” They’d better be.

The level fell to his knees and then his toes met rock, but they were too numb to hurt.

“I’m gonna set you down,” he gasped. He tried to let Cas slide down his body gently, but his knees gave way and the little angel’s weight disappeared. Dean crawled forward on his knees until he was out of the water.

Then small octopus arms circled his neck and squeezed. And even though Dean wanted to hug Cas back and never let him go ever again, he couldn’t stop groaning as his unsupported arm dragged his tortured joint. The octopus grip slipped away.

“Dean! Are you weally hurt?”

For a moment, he couldn’t answer. His mind was screaming at him to say, no, I’m fine, to reassure the little boy whose voice was once again wobbling with tears. But instead he sagged forward over his bent knees and it was all he could do to hold himself together, one arm cradling the other, and grit his teeth and breathe against the agony in his body.

“Dean?”

A soft touch landed in his hair and stayed there.

“Cas.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. If he spoke, maybe that would be the last of his energy and he wouldn’t be able to move. He knelt up, trembling with the effort, and then got one foot under him and then the other. The octopus arms slid around one leg. He took one of Cas’s hands and guided it to the tattered hem of his shirt. “Hold on.”

“I’m holding onto you. And I’ve got Cloppy too. She was my fwend when I was all ‘lone. When I wanted my Dean.”

“I’m here now.”

Dean shuffled forward, bent over. He focussed on the slide of the rock beneath his feet and the tightness of the fabric around his side, the other hem pulled right out where Cas was gripping it. Cold, hard rock, pitch darkness, and the fabric taut, then easing, then taut again as they moved.

They were splashing through water, and maybe it was too deep for Cas. But the drag on his shirt was still there.

“Cas.”

“I’m here, Dean.”

He kept going. And going. And then he thought he was still moving, but there were two cold hands patting his cheeks and sharp bits of rock were digging into his knees and his shins.

“Dean, pwease, let’s go home.” The little, pleading voice came through a fog. “And we can have vewwy choclety hot chocolate and you’ll be all better. Pwease, Dean.”

Dean opened his eyes to see Cas’s little face in front of his, the little boy crouching on sand, weak grey light showing pale skin, pinched with cold.

He could see him. Cas. His angel. Dean tried to smile. Tears overflowed Cas’s eyes and rolled slowly down his face.

Dean’s throat was tight with the remains of his fear, and with love, and from the scouring salt of the seawater. He rasped and croaked.

Cas nodded, “Yes, Dean. Come on. Uppy up, now.” He did his best to help Dean to get up off the sandy cave floor.

For a second everything slid toward blackness again, but Dean let the wall support him as he took a few breaths. Then he imagined himself taking a step and then another and another, out of the cave, around the headland and back over to the beach to their little hut. It wasn’t that far. He could do it.

He pushed away from the wall. His legs trembled but supported him. He staggered, the dragging weight of his arm making his whole frame lop-sided. Fuck knew how he was going to get his arm back in place, with the muscles all strained and stiffened around the joint.

Cas pattered at his side, one little fist curled in the ragged remains of Eileen’s tee. And at last, the arch of the cave entrance was visible, a stark, white, upside down v against the black walls.

“Dean!”

“Huh? Cas!”

The little boy had turned around and the barely-there padding of his footsteps disappeared into the darkness again. He was gone - cut off from Dean’s sight. Dean’s blood sang in his ears and the edges of his vision dissolved into fuzz. If there was any moment he was going to faint, it would be right the hell now.

“Cas, come back!”

The waves breathed softly in and out against the shore. He was alone again. Had he only dreamt that he’d found his little angel? Had he deluded himself because he couldn’t take losing Cas again?

Sand and pebbles crunched and a little figure appeared, something tucked under his arm.

“I dwopped my horsey, Dean! But I’ve got her now,” said Cas. He patted Cloppy’s head. “We can go home now.”

Dean’s knees shook. He put all his effort into not letting them collapse beneath him. “Yeah. Let’s go home,” he croaked.

Chapter Text

When Dean had searched the beach for Cas the night before, he’d been barely able to stand up against the force of the storm. The howling wind had tugged at his clothes and his hair and whipped the waves into a boiling frenzy.

Now, it had dropped to eerie calmness. The waves lapped gently. The air was almost completely still. And the shapes of the cliff and the jagged rocks at their base were grey masses, shrouded in fog, hardly to be seen until Dean and Cas limped between them, around the headland and slowly back to their own bay, where, a long way away, the little hut waited for them.

“I’m cold, Dean.” Cas’s little teeth were chattering away and one arm and both wings were wrapped around his body, his yellow raincoat ripped at one shoulder seam. His other hand clutched a torn handful of Eileen’s shirt, the tear that ran parallel to one side seam gradually ripping further as Cas dragged on it wearily.

“Yeah.” The fog was almost worse than the wind had been, its cloying dampness seeping right through Dean’s skin and into his bones.

He stumbled and sagged against a big chunk of rock like a giant’s tooth. He could sleep here. Just for a bit. Wouldn’t even have to lie down. Leaning like this was okay.

“Dean!”

There was a ripping sound and a new cold patch on his skin.

“Huh?”

“Dean, come on!”

“What?”

“Dean! Move!”

Cas wanted him to move. So he’d do it. For Cas. And anyway, it was easier to go along with the kid, who was yanking on his shirt like Dean was a roped steer. The shirt tore a bit more, the hole joining up with another hole near his collar so that it flapped open. Sorry, Eileen.

He followed the little figure ahead of him, led along by the strip of yellow fabric. Cas’s wings had gone. Maybe he was too tired to keep them out. Cloppy’s tail wobbled from side to side as the little boy plodded on, and Dean followed.

Was the fog real? Or was it just Dean's exhaustion, clouding his mind as it dragged at his battered body. A grey lump appeared in front of him, which darkened as he approached.

“Mount Evewest,” said Cas. “Neely there, Dean.”

Nearly there. Nearly at the hut where he could lie down, and maybe he’d get a chance to remember what it was like to be warm. But nearly there was still too far.

Dean’s knees wobbled and then suddenly his legs had no strength left at all. The mini Mount Everest lurched and twisted. His shoulder screamed as he hit the sand. But he was used to the pain now and the sand was soft beneath his body and cool on his cheek. It was time to rest.

Cas’s face appeared, his little mouth moving, but Dean couldn’t hear him. Then Cas was gone and Dean groaned and tried to reach out to stop him. He couldn’t lose his angel again.

The little boy was disappearing into the fog. He’d be lost if Dean didn’t save him. But he was just a little grey shape, getting smaller and smaller and Dean’s eyes were full of swirling spots and things that weren’t there, because Cas was joined by three other grey shapes - two large and one small.

“Cas,” he whispered.

Then the four grey shapes merged with the white fog and the world slid away, white into grey into black.

Pain woke Dean. Pain and hands pulling at him, hurting him. He groaned and someone spoke through water, muffled and with no words, like when adults spoke in Charlie Brown - wah, wah, wah.

He struggled, but couldn’t move. Something was holding him down and he didn’t know whether it was hands or restraints or just his own weakness. He fought as best he could, against whoever or whatever was trying to tear off his left arm.

But then there was a soft brush against his forehead and a little voice in his ear and though Dean couldn’t understand the words, he knew they meant safety. He stopped fighting.

The grip on his arm tightened and the pain in his shoulder increased. Dean felt his chest heave in a pathetic sob that he hoped like fuck Sammy wasn’t around to hear. But the next moment he didn’t care who heard. His shoulder jolted with sharp, hot agony and he screamed. The pain cut straight through his exhaustion and suddenly his eyes were wide open and his surroundings were as sharp as glass.

Brenda was leaning over him, his hands around Dean’s arm, supporting it. Dean could see a white ceiling cut across by wooden beams, and to one side of him was the floral fabric of the back of a couch. He was in Carlos and Brenda’s lounge.

Brenda moved Dean's arm slowly up and down and from side to side, then bent it at the elbow and laid it across his chest. He gently lifted it again to immobilise it in a sling, fastening it securely in place. It still hurt a lot, but not as much as it had.

“It’s all over now, Dean,” he said. “You can rest.”

Resting sounded good. But even though his legs were covered in a blue plaid blanket, he was still so cold, and it wasn’t just his arm that hurt, but… everything. Every part of him seemed to have its own ache or throb and he couldn’t stop the bouts of shivering which ran through his limbs to die away only to start up again.

Brenda pulled the blanket up over his chest and Dean tried to get his mouth to work. “Mmmffucking hell,” he groaned.

“Dean.”

The little, watery voice came from over his head. And then Cas’s upside down face appeared, surrounded by a pink halo. The face slid away, the couch jolted and then Cas appeared, the right way up, next to him. He was wrapped in a pink blanket, which he’d drawn up over his head, like a hood.

Dean croaked and swallowed, tried to sit up and couldn't stop a yell at the protest of his tortured muscles. “Son of a bitch! Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking tortilla!”

A large hand curled over his good shoulder, which Dean guessed was Brenda’s but his eyes were screwed up again so he couldn’t tell. “Lie still, Dean. Just lie still for a minute.”

“We should take him to the hospital.”

That was Carlos’ voice.

“He’s better now,” said Cas. “When he says bad words that means he’s better.”

Dean’s mouth got in touch with his brain. “I’m okay,” he mumbled. “No hospitals.” He dragged his eyes open again and had a go at a smile. The little face next to him smiled back. “Cas.” The boy’s cheeks were pink. He held the blanket tightly around him, but he looked alright.

“I’m here, Dean.” One tiny hand snaked out of the blanket and patted Dean’s cheek, then disappeared back into its cave. And Dean didn’t want to think about caves ever, ever again, thanks very fucking much.

Brenda came back into view, crouching down next to Cas. Which was handy, because now Dean had turned his head in Cas’s direction, he didn’t think he had the energy to point it elsewhere.

“I’ve put your shoulder back in, Dean. I’m a physio at the local clinic and before that I was a field medic in… well, never mind that ancient history. Anyway, as far as I can tell it’s okay, but you should really get it checked out. And everything else. I can’t tell if you have any other fractures.”

Dean grunted a general disapproval of hospitals and to convey the fact that nothing else was broken and he’d be just fine without going to a strange place with strange people to wait hours and hours before they told him he was fine and could go home. No, fuck you very much.

Carlos had a go next. “Dean, I really think we should take you, just-”

“No.” His throat was sore from all the salt water. “Thanks.” He looked at Cas. “You okay?” And he was asking for a considered assessment from the badass angel that was hiding in there somewhere, not from the yawning little boy.

Cas nodded. “Everyfing’s working,” he said. “Insides and outside.”

“Good.” Dean shivered. Parts of him were warm but it felt like, deep down, he’d never thaw out. “How’d you get me here?”

“I carried you,” said Brenda. “And in a minute, I’m going to carry you upstairs to one of our guest rooms.

Carried? Like a bride over the threshold no doubt. Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d be having a word with Cas, though, because he didn’t want that coming out when Sam was around.

“Just need a half hour,” Dean grumbled. “I’ll be fine to go back to the hut.”

“No you won’t,” said Carlos. “If you won’t let me drive you to the hospital you can at least let us do this for you.”

“We have to stay, Dean,” said Cas. “’Cos Cloppy’s still in the dryer.”

“Oh. Well, in that case.”

Dean let his eyes fall shut again. Small fingers pushed their way into his hair and stayed there. Carlos and Brenda’s voices faded. A distant faucet ran and metal clattered against metal. Maybe there’d be more rhubarb cobbler. Dean wasn’t sure if he was hungry. There was too much pain and he’d swallowed too much salt water.

“You fell over,” said Cas, his voice tiny and whispery, like he wasn’t sure if Dean was awake. “And I was scared. Weally scared.” His little hand patted Dean’s hair over and over and he sniffed. He should be in bed, Dean thought, wrapped up warm. “But Pongo came and Brenda and Carlos. Pongo told them where we were and they came to rescue us and Brenda had to carry you and Carlos carried me and I fink I fell asleep and then I woke up here.”

Some rescuing would have been nice the night before. But Dean hadn’t waited, had he? He’d charged off into the night, without even any shoes on, his battered feet reminded him. He’d dived literally headfirst into danger.

Tiny little fingers scritched against his scalp. “They didn’t know where you’d gone, Dean. Or Pongo.”

There was a whistling whine and the sound of panting breath close by.

“Cwever doggy,” said Cas. “You know secret passigeways, don’t you?”

He wasn’t clever enough to keep Cas from going out in the storm in the first place, Dean thought, and immediately felt shitty. Pongo was only a dog, after all. And he’d done his best to help. And they were all safe now. Weren’t they?

Dean forced his heavy eyes to open. “You okay, Cas? Really okay?”

The little boy nodded. “Yes, Dean.” He paused. “A bit hungwy.”

“Still hungry, little guy?” Carlos appeared, carrying a tray which he set down on the table next to the couch. “After all the cake you ate?”

“A bit,” said Cas.

“Well, there’s plenty more.” He looked down at the tray and then at Dean. “Got some food here for you, Dean. I’ll give you a hand.”

A warm, savoury smell set Dean’s nose twitching and his insides suddenly twisted with hunger. It might even be worth the pain and the daunting effort needed to sit up.

“Here we go,” said Carlos. He slipped a strong arm beneath Dean’s back and pivoted him around so that his back rested against the back of the well-padded couch. Dean’s legs slid onto the floor like two dead weights, until Carlos lifted them up and pushed the footstool beneath them. “Okay?” He looked at Dean like he was about to pass out and slither off the couch onto the floor, which wasn’t so far off the truth.

Dean swallowed, his head spinning. The sling supported his shoulder, but it still throbbed more now that he was upright. He nodded, though. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

Carlos picked up a large, wide mug from the tray. “Are you gonna be alright holding this? ’Cos I can help if-”

“I’ll be fine,” said Dean. “I mean, sorry. Thanks.” Why did he always have to get like this when people were trying to help? Behaving like a total shit.

But Carlos just smiled. “I get it, man. Really. No one wants to be spoon fed.”

“Like a baby,” said Cas helpfully. “You have to spoon feed babies. You’re not a baby, Dean. But if your hand is all wobbly, you’ll spill the soup so I can p’tend you’re a baby and feed you, if you want me to.”

“Uh, yeah. No thanks, Cas.”

“But Dean, I could p’tend the spoon’s a airplane ’cos I saw a lady do that once when I was in a Biggieson’s and the lady had a baby and she fed it somefing from a jar.”

While Cas was talking, Carlos, smirking, gave Dean two pills followed by a glass of water. He swallowed the pills with a gulp of the water, then took a very firm grip of the soup mug. “Thanks for the offer, Cas. But I’ll manage.

“Okay, Dean,” said Cas, meekly.

The soup was green and thick. It probably had loads of vegetables in. Dean didn’t care. It was hot and tasty and if he held it in the right place, even with his injured arm in the sling he could curl both of his hands around the mug to warm them up. The blanket slipped down, though and the more it slipped, the more bruises and scrapes and band-aids were revealed. He was a fucking mess.

Oh well. He’d be fine in a couple of days. But he didn’t know what had happened to Eileen's tee shirt. He’d have to take her shopping.

Dean did his best to drink the soup without dripping and making too many slurping sounds, but a big, messy slurp from Cas’s direction made him look up. The little boy was drinking his own soup from the two-handled sippy cup, minus lid. He looked up at Dean and grinned, his upper lip covered with a dripping moustache of green soup.

He sat cross-legged on the flowery carpet at Dean’s feet, warm and safe and happy, just a little boy - Dean’s little boy. His little angel. His Cas.

Suddenly, Dean didn’t know what shape his own face was trying to make. He wanted to grin back, but then Cas disappeared into a fog and Dean’s chest squeezed so tight he thought he was having a heart attack.

He held on tight to the smooth curve of the mug handle while his hand began to shake. He wasn’t going to drop it, though. He wasn’t.

“Dean?”

He blinked. And held the mug so that he could push it into his immobilised hand because he was cold and he felt like he’d never get warm, like last night when he’d spent so long in the dark, with rock all around and no idea what had happened to his angel.

His breath hitched, but he made himself control it. “I thought I’d lost you, Cas.” The salt-water was in his voice again, rough and cracked. “I thought I’d lost you again.”

A small hand curved over his knee. “I’m here, Dean. I’m alright.”

Dean nodded, the fog in his eyes, his head bent to hide his face. “I can’t- I don’t ever-” He shook his head.

“You don’t have to, Dean.” It was a little boy’s voice, but Castiel’s growling rumble was behind it, buried somewhere underneath.

“But last night-”

“It’s not last night any more. It’s today.”

Dean looked up and stared into the ancient blue eyes in the little, soft face. “How could he - how could Jack let that happen? How could he do that to us, after - after everything?” His heart was pounding and the shivers had got a hold of him again.

There was a hand on each of his knees as Cas knelt up to look at him. “Fwee will, Dean,” he whispered. “I went out to get my horsey. You went after me. You hafta have fwee will.”

Dean turned his head away and closed his eyes, like he could hide in the softness of the couch cushions. “Sometimes…” He took a breath. “Sometimes I don’t want us to.” But that was a lie. He’d always want free will, after what Chuck had done to them. He never wanted to go back to that - to everything being decided for him. But even so. He was just so tired. And he couldn’t stop shaking. And he really was going to spill the remains of his soup.

Someone took the mug out of his hand.

“That’s enough for now,” said Brenda. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Dean was too tired and too cold to kick up any fuss. He kept his eyes shut and let it all happen. He let himself be scooped up, like a child, only wondering if Brenda ever went to the gym and how much he could bench press. He let himself be carried out of the room, and then, in slow, huffing steps, up the stairs, and then on the level a bit more and then he was being set down, with a grunt, on a soft bed.

And even though he’d done none of the work, Dean’s breaths came swift and shallow and he moaned at the pain of all the stretched, angry muscles in his shoulder and everywhere else that had been cut or bruised. He shivered and twisted and couldn’t think how he was going to find a comfortable way to lie or how he’d ever get some sleep.

Then Cas’s voice was nearby. “I seep wiv Dean.”

“But there’s a cosy bed along here for you, honey. You can have your own bed.”

“Don’t want my own bed.” Dean didn’t have to have his eyes open to see the jutting lower lip and crossed arms.

“Cloppy’s waiting for you, all warm and fresh from the dryer.”

“Cloppy seep wiv Dean too.” The sulky voice wobbled and was more than ever like the voice of a very young, very tired child.

“Alright then, honey. You climb in.”

“Cloppy,” said Cas.

“I’ll get her.”

Cas grunted. Then the bed wobbled and a small, warm body wriggled up to Dean’s right side and pressed against him. A moment later something fluffy was tucked under his chin.

“Night, night Dean.”

Dean’s words were asleep already. He mumbled a string of syllables. And then at last, warmth began to creep over him. And he let go.

Dean felt like shit.

The sky was blue, the ocean a darker blue, and the blueness was framed by bright white cotton ball clouds above, gently whispering trees to Dean’s left, a lush green lawn dotted with beds of smiling flowers spread out before him, and to his right the coast, which stretched away in rugged lines of white-fringed cliffs, rank upon rank until they faded into the summer haze.

Still, Dean felt like shit.

Cas played on the lawn, bent over to walk Cloppy across the grass, a continuous song burbling from his lips. His face was shaded by a floppy sun hat that Dean couldn’t remember buying for him.

“Clippy, cloppy, clippy, cloppy, see the lickle fwowers,” he murmured. To himself, or to Cloppy or maybe just because he couldn’t stop the words coming out. “Lellow and red and blue and pink and white and orange and lots of lickle bees and buggy-bugs.”

He looked up at Dean briefly and then the hat covered his face again and he got back to his playing. Every couple of minutes, he’d look up and sometimes he’d smile and sometimes he wouldn’t. He seemed okay.

But Dean felt like shit.

The view was perfect, the air warm, and he was lying on a comfortably cushioned sun chair in the shade of the plants climbing over the wooden frame above Carlos and Brenda’s deck, well supplied with cool drinks and snacks, set out on a table within easy reach.

But his shoulder ached continuously even when he was lying still and it got real pissed real quick if he moved it. And the rest of him wasn’t great either, which was fucking Dean off big time.

So he’d done some running around in the storm? So what? Yeah, okay, he’d climbed quite a lot, taken a few falls and a few hits and so on. And he’d got a bit wet and a bit cold. But again, so what? All that shit didn’t explain why he felt so stiff and so sore and so fucking old.

He wasn’t old. Old was sixty. Or no, not even that. Seventy maybe, or eighty. Definitely ninety. But your forties were the prime of your life. And Dean had had just one rough night, which was nothing compared to some of the shit he’d been through.

Except apparently it was something. So his stupid body said. And so Brenda said. Give it time, he’d said, before leaving for his job at the clinic. You’ll feel much better in a couple of days.

Couple of days? Dean used to go on a hunt, get banged up, then get straight back on the road again, on to the next one. That wasn’t so long ago, was it?

He huffed and glanced down at the little table to his right. Carlos had left him some yucky greeny-brown tea in a wholesome earthenware mug. It looked like it had cooled enough to drink. Dean tried a sip and immediately his whole face curled up. Son of a bitch. It was worse than one of Sammy’s blended-compost smoothies.

Dean glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. He lowered the mug between his recliner and the table and then furtively tipped the rest of the tea away, between the planks of the decking. Instead, he took a gulp of the red fruity glassful that Carlos had also left, which was much nicer. He rested the cool glass on his stomach and had another go at getting his dumbass brain to think relaxing, restful thoughts. For fuck’s sake.

What was Cas up to? Dean squinted into the sunlight. The little boy was at the far end of the garden, near where the land began to slope toward the clifftop. He had his nose in a rose bush, if those pink floppy flowers were roses, which Dean thought they were. The little boy was frozen, his mouth slightly open. Suddenly he laughed and spun away across the grass, dancing and waving his arms.

“Bzzzzzz! I’m a buzzy bee! I’m a buzzy bee!”

Dean’s tense, downturned mouth relaxed into a creaky smile. Cas was having fun. So it didn’t matter if Dean was a miserable heap of crap then, did it? The little boy laughed again. No. It didn’t matter at all.

“Someone’s happy.” The basketwork chair next to Dean creaked as Carlos sat.

“Yeah,” said Dean.

“And someone’s not.” Carlos held a brown earthenware mug that matched Dean’s. He took a sip, but Dean caught the scent of coffee rather than bitter herby crap.

“I’m fine.”

The chair creaked again. Dean glanced at Carlos and caught his sceptical expression.

“You finished all the tea,” said Carlos, putting his drink down on the table. “I didn’t think you’d manage more than half. Shall I get you some more?”

“Uh, no. That’s okay, thanks.”

“Gallop, gallop, gallop,” sang Cas as he crossed the lawn, alternating long strides with short, Cloppy held out in front of him.

Dean remembered Sammy running like that. They’d come across reruns on a crappy old TV in a crappy old motel and for a while Dean was the Lone Ranger and Sammy was Silver. Dean had told his brother he was Tonto, but Sam had insisted on being the horse.

“Thanks for getting our stuff,” said Dean. Carlos had been down to the hut early before Dean had creakily got himself out of bed. “We’ll be okay to move back down there, though. This afternoon, I could-”

Carlos cut him off. “You’re staying here.”

“But-”

“At least until tomorrow.”

“Look, it’s not that I’m not grateful or anything, but-”

Carlos’ chair scraped on the decking as he drew it around. “Dean.”

Dean tried to look at the dude like he wasn’t a sulky kid who didn’t want to be told what was best for him.

“We called 911 last night. Did Brenda tell you that?”

“No.”

Carlos was silent for a moment, his eyes following Cas who had found a big old metal watering can and was dragging it along behind him.

“There was no one to come out, though. Coast Guard were busy with a container ship getting driven onto the rocks. And a coupla civilian vessels, so I heard.”

“Oh.” Sunlight sparkled on the ocean. It looked like a fine day for a swim.

“Woulda been a good, long wait for an ambulance, when we found you, or you’d be in hospital right now.” He picked up his drink and took a long swallow. “Yep, that storm really did some damage.”

A gentle breeze stirred the flowers hanging down off the edge of the wooden frame above the deck. But maybe the storm was still going on for some people. Maybe it’d never end. Sometimes storms were bigger than monsters, and lives couldn’t always be saved. “We were lucky,” said Dean.

“You were.” Carlos tipped back his mug and then set it down. “I know you’re the kind of guy who can’t take much fussing, Dean. But we’re thankful that you and your boy are here to be fussed over. And if you won’t think of yourself, think of him.”

Dean tensed, like he was a porcupine sticking out its quills. It made everything hurt even more than it already was.

“It’s clear how much he loves you. And, yeah, you could probably limp your way back down to the beach today. But if you did, do you think he’d be able to run about like he is right now? Or d’you think he’d be too busy worrying over you?”

Cas had abandoned the watering can and was galloping again. He shot Dean another quick look, mid-gallop. The kid was already worrying about him.

Dean sighed, his bruised ribs aching. “I guess you’ve got a point. But just till tomorrow. And, uh, thanks. You know.” For putting up with my crap, he thought.

“You’re welcome, Dean.” Carlos stood up and stretched his arms above his head, sighing, then let them fall. “I’m sure you’ll be feeling heaps better by tomorrow,” he said. “That tea of mine’s real good stuff for aches and pains.” He smirked as he held Dean’s eyes, and Dean couldn’t help a quick flick of a glance in the direction of the useful crack between the decking planks. “I’ll make some more, shall I?”

Dean huffed a nervous laugh. “Another cup would be just perfect,” he said.

The bathroom was a hell of a long way from the deck. A long, torturous way there and another bitch of a long way back. But Dean had nearly, just about made it in one piece and if he took a couple of seconds to lean his sound shoulder against the doorframe, he’d be fine to make it the rest of the way to home base, aka the well-padded sun chair.

He leant and breathed and told himself he was actually fine and that he didn’t really need a rest stop at all, it was just that he got a different view of the garden from here and he was supposed to be appreciating things like that because he was, in fact, on vacation.

A little voice came from the direction of Dean’s home base.

“Yes. Yes, Sammy. Dean wescued me and Cloppy.” There was a pause. “I’m vewwy well, fank you.” Another pause. “Yes he is… Vewwy gwumpy. Yes, I fink you should.”

Oh, really? Cas was telling tales to Sam, was he? Dean wished he hadn’t left his phone out on the table.

The little voice lowered, and Dean couldn’t hear what he was saying. Time to put a stop to this. He eased himself away from the doorframe and shuffled stiffly out onto the deck. Cas’s voice immediately changed.

“Yes, we’re having a vewwy nice time, fank you Sammy! Bye bye!” He stuck out one tiny finger and pressed the end call button with great concentration. “That was Sammy,” he said to Dean.

“Really?” Dean would have crossed his arms to underline his sarcasm if one of them wasn’t in a sling.

“Yes,” said little Cas. He slid off Dean’s chair, stood up straight and crossed his arms as if he knew exactly what was going through Dean’s mind. Then he brought out the big guns - a head tilt and an eye-squint, like he always did when he was being the big bad, ‘I can look into your soul,’ Angel of the Lord. “You said you’d call Sammy and tell him everyfing.” The eyes narrowed further. “But you didn’t.”

How could such a tiny little scrap make Dean feel about two inches tall? Dean pretended he couldn’t. “I didn’t yet,” he said. “I was gonna.”

The glare grew more intense.

“So, what did you tell him?”

And suddenly the very little boy was back. “Nuffin.” Cas snatched up his toy from her perch on the basket chair. “Come on, Cloppy,” he said. “Let’s gallop as fasty-fast as we can go!” He jumped down from the deck and skipped off across the grass - just an innocent little kid, doing innocent little kid things.

“Hmm.”

Dean shuffled over to his chair and lowered himself carefully down. He picked up his phone and clicked on his contacts. He could call Sam himself… Nah.

He’d have a nap instead.

Chapter Text

Something tickled Dean’s nose.

He wasn’t sure if he’d still been asleep when the tickling started, or if it had woken him. He kept his eyes firmly shut in the hopes that the tickling would stop.

It didn’t.

Dean scrunched up his nose. He wiggled it up and down and stuck his lower lip out to blow a sharp puff of air upward.

The irritating tickle stopped. Then it started up again, with an extra annoying up and down scritchy-scratch.

Stupid bug, using his nose as a rest stop. Dean snarled and batted it away. But instead of the buzz of an angry insect, there was a squeak and Dean’s hand met a much smaller one. He grabbed it.

“Heyo, Dean.”

He opened his eyes and blinked them clear. Cas's big blue eyes filled his vision. The little fingers wriggled, but Dean held them captive.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Ugh.” Gritty eyes, a mouth full of fur - it was way too soon to tell whether ‘better’ applied. “Gimme a minute.”

He released the little hand, which fluttered away to occupy itself with trotting the usual pink fluffy companion across the patchwork bedspread.

Dean lay still and let himself adjust to being awake. The room was full of pinky-yellow light, which meant that beyond the flowery curtains another fine day was beginning; or maybe the day was half over already. Dean’s watch was on the nightstand, and reaching it would involve moving.

So, how was he feeling? He took a deep breath and let it out slowly while twitching his feet, wobbling his legs and doing an all-over body squirm. Huh. Actually, it seemed like his status had changed from ‘shit’ to ‘not actually that shit’ overnight. But he hadn’t put his injured shoulder through its paces yet.

“Dean!” Cas jiggled up and down, shaking the whole mattress. He plonked Cloppy in the middle of Dean’s chest, so that the little black eyes were staring right at him. “Dean, I’m hungwy. Hungwy, hungwy, hungwy!”

“Yeah, okay. Gimme a minute.”

“I already gave you a minute, Dean,” said Cas. He leant forward and whispered, “But Cloppy says you can have anuvver.”

“Thanks, Cloppy.”

Cas slid off the bed, dragging the toy horse with him. He dropped to the floor and began inching his way under the bed. “Watch out Cloppy. There might be monsters.” His feet disappeared completely. “But don't be scared, ’cos I'll p'tect you.”

An awkward caterpillar-squirm got Dean sitting up in bed without putting weight on his left arm. He leant against the stack of pillows and the well-padded headboard and tentatively raised his damaged arm a bit, lowered it a bit, and side-to-sided it a bit.

“Is it still hurty?”

“What? Oh.” Cas had appeared on the other side of the bed. Just his eyes were visible above the horizon of patchwork, and his bird’s nest hair. Dean bent and straightened his arm. “It’s not too bad, actually.”

Dean was treated to a penetrating big-Cas glare. “Tell the troof, Dean.”

“I am telling the truth! It’s okay. Not great, but better than it was.”

“Weally?”

“Weally,” said Dean.

Cas giggled. He climbed onto the bed again and, leaning over, planted a tiny wet kiss on Dean’s forehead, where there was a cluster of bruises. “Kiss better,” he said, and patted the side of Dean’s jaw, his fingertips gently tickling in amongst the wiry hairs. Then he bounced to his feet. “Time for bweffust!”

“Steady, Cas!”

Little feet stamped scarily near to Dean’s sore ribs and then other tender areas as Cas scrambled over the bed. He jumped down with a bang of old floorboards, then scuttled over the fringed rug to the door, where he leapt for the handle, missed, crashed into the door, tried again and slipped through the resulting gap. His little feet thudded rapidly away across the landing and then there were a series of slow, considered thuds as he made his way down the stairs.

Okay. Well, Dean was feeling better, but he wasn’t even going to try to compete with that.

He stretched and flexed his back, then he flung back the quilt and swung his legs around to dangle over the side of the bed. His muscles were still stiff. Scabbed-over cuts pulled and itched. His shoulder felt like it would need careful handling for a while. But he felt better than he’d expected to, quite a bit better than he had the night before, when Carlos had given him yet another mug of that freaking horrible tea so that the taste of it was still in his mouth when he’d gone to sleep.

Must be good stuff, though.

Anyway, there was a bacony smell drifting into the room. Dean grabbed his watch. Nine thirty. Huh. Quite a nice little lie-in. And he’d gone to bed at, what? Nine? He’d wanted to stay outside and watch the sunset over the ocean, but the pink and purple horizon had kept skidding to one side and he’d kept trying to snatch at Baby’s wheel so that he didn’t plough into a ditch.

So he’d got himself to bed (alongside Cas) and had slept going on twelve hours.

In fact, it felt like sleep had got stuck in his head and his body, making him heavy and fuzzy, but with a bit of effort Dean got himself vertical, his right hand cupping his left elbow, supporting his arm across to his body.

Standing upright made him feel very tall, because the upstairs of Carlos and Brenda’s cottage had low ceilings. Carlos wasn’t that tall, but how on earth did Brenda manage? He must whack his head on the less-than-standard doorframes all the time. It was amazing that Dean hadn’t bashed himself so far - he’d hit every other part of himself over the last couple of days. Maybe all that time in the dark had improved his instincts.

A shiver ran through him, though he was warm and as soon as he was dressed he could walk out into the bright light if he wanted. Or sooner - Carlos and Brenda were pretty broadminded. He squashed the shivery, alone-in-the-dark feeling down, like he always did with that kind of thing.

Shit. No.

Dean looked down at his toes, half submerged in the fluffy pink rug. What if he didn’t bury his feelings this time? What if he gave in to chick-flickiness and did what you were supposed to do? Processed them, or whatever.

His brain crunched and whined, like when you didn’t put the clutch down properly in a stick shift. Not that Dean would treat a car like that. But it was like he was sliding down an old familiar highway and suddenly he’d turned off onto a dirt track, rutted and pitted and with grass growing down the middle. It’d be so much easier just to reverse and get back on that well-known route to Bury-your-trauma-town or Men-don’t-have-feelingsville.

He padded over to the window and drew back the curtains. The room looked over the side of the cottage facing to the north, away from the path up from the parking lot, where Baby had been alone and neglected for days. His eyes ached, adjusting to the bright sunlight. The edge of the curtain was rough, with a lacey texture under his calloused fingertips.

Of course Dean had had his chick-flick moments over the years. So much shit had happened to him. So he did talk about his feelings sometimes. But then he buried them and moved on, because he had to be a functioning kick-ass hunter, out to save the whole of creation from the bad guys. What else was he supposed to do? Oh, just hold on there for a couple of months, Mr Apocalypse, while I heal from my trauma.

The scent of bacon was growing stronger, like it was singeing just a little bit around the edges, going nicely crispy, just the way Dean liked it. No flabby bacon for him, thank you very much.

So - feelings? They were going to have to wait. He pictured himself writing on a post-it - alone, buried, dark, hurt, terrified for Cas. And stuck the post-it on a mental notice board to deal with later. Was that how it was done? Processing? Fuck knows. Dean certainly didn’t. But at least he was trying.

Anyway, it looked like being another sunny day. Not as calm as yesterday, judging by the haziness of the waves close to the cliffs and the white ruffly bits further out, but dry and sunny nevertheless. There’d better not have been any branches fallen on his Baby in the storm. They’d better not have fucking dared mess up her paintwork. Was Dean feeling better enough to go and check today? Yes. Absolutely he was.

And he was definitely okay enough to check out the bit of the garden below his window, because that brick-built structure down there looked remarkably like a pizza oven. It might not be. It might be a plant-thing. Like a thing you put plants in to make them grow. Or something. Cas would look at him like he was a total moron, no doubt, but when had Dean ever got the chance to grow stuff? Even the little egg box full of damp cotton balls and cress seeds that he got from kindergarten had been abandoned on a motel window ledge. Leave it, Dean. We don’t need that crap cluttering up the car.

He sighed, tensing and relaxing his shoulder, which was telling him to put it in the sling asap. Although, he really could to with having a shower right now, before breakfast. But bacon. A shower could wait.

His duffel sat on a chair next to a mirrored dressing table. Dean ignored his battered reflection and pulled out a few things at random - socks, underwear, ah - a black tee. One of his, at last. Or no - he didn’t have a Guns ‘n’ Roses shirt. Did Eileen leave most of her clothes at the bunker? What was she wearing? Maybe she was drowning in Dean’s flannel. She was welcome to his clothes, even if they got torn up and covered in monster-goop. It wouldn’t be worse than what he was putting hers through.

It was a lot more difficult than it should have been to put the tee shirt on, and maybe he really should have had a shower first because he’d have to get it off again soon. Shit. Oh well. His shoulder twinged sharply.

Dean plucked the sling from the nightstand and got it roughly in the right place to support his arm. Of course he didn’t need it really. Not really. But he didn’t have to manage without, did he? He didn’t have to fake it till he could make it, pretend like he was strong so that nothing and no one would see him as an easy target. He didn’t have to act stronger and younger and faster than he actually was. Besides which, strength and youth and speed were all very well, but if you were a hunter who’d survived to Dean’s age, you knew a thing or two that’d get you out of trouble twice as effectively with half the effort.

Wiliness and trickery. Dean could be the Wile E. Coyote of the hunting world.

Or he could just not hunt at all.

He set that thought aside

Okay. So – did he look remotely dressed enough to go down and get some bacon? The dressing table mirror showed the lower half of the black tee, a strip of pale skin that it didn’t quite cover, and the Bat Man boxers that he’d slept in. So far so good enough.

He leant down and peered at his own face.

The cluster of bruises that Cas had kissed stood out against skin that was a shade paler than it should be. There was a scrape across one too-hollow cheek and a scab hiding in the uneven hairs on his chin. But he was alive and reasonably alert and Dean reckoned that, overall, his status could still be classified as ‘not actually that shit.’

He was good to go.

Dean came slowly down the steep, narrow stairs. Because he was gonna get shit from Sammy about getting himself banged up in the first place, but if he fell down the stairs too, he'd never hear the end of it. All the way down he could hear Cas's high-pitched chatter, running away like a leaky tap in a motel bathroom.

He reached the hallway and leant against the door to the kitchen. Cas sat on a high stool at the breakfast bar, facing away from Dean. His little legs were swinging back and forward as fast as he was chattering.

“Bacon is Dean’s favewit. And he loves pie too. So can you make pie today pwease, Carlos? 'Cos then Dean would have bacon and pie in one day and that would be a vewwy, vewwy good day for Dean essept it would be a better day if Sammy was here 'cos Dean loves bacon and pie and Sammy and I said to Sammy that he should- Oh! Heyo, Dean!”

“Hey, motormouth. You gonna eat that bacon or talk it to death?”

Cas tipped his head to one side, signaling, to Dean at least, that he was choosing to take the question at face value. “Bacon is already dead, Dean,” he said solemnly. Then his eyes suddenly filled with tears. “That’s sad.” His little mouth wobbled. “Poor piggies, Dean. Piggies are nice and fwendly and we eat them!”

“Well, you don't have to-”

For a moment it looked like Dean was going to be in for an extra portion, but Cas already had a sliver of bacon in his hand and his tiny little white teeth were nibbling the end. “It’s so sad because they’re fwendly and tasty!” He posted the rest of the bacon into his mouth and picked up another piece, two fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

Dean would have laughed if the little angel’s expression wasn’t so tragic. Never had a kid/angel/wave of celestial intent given off such a Homer Simpson vibe.

Carlos came to the rescue, leaning his elbows on the breakfast bar to bring his face to Cas’s height.

“They were happy pigs, though, little guy.”

“Were they?”

“Yeah. We only buy happy pigs’ bacon from a little farm nearby where all day long they snuffle about eating all kinds of things that pigs like. And sometimes they roll around in the dirt and sometimes they run about squealing like anything, just for fun.”

“We still eat them.”

Carlos shrugged. “That’s a choice everyone has to make for themselves.” He turned back to the stove, where more bacon was sizzling itself to perfect crispiness.

Dean pulled out a stool and sat.

And Cas sighed, still chewing. “Fwee will,” he said softly.

Dean slid his one available arm around the little boy and gave him a squeeze. And planted a kiss on the top of his head. Carlos set a plate in front of him and slid a pile of bacon on to it.

“Thanks, Carlos.”

“You’re welcome, Dean. You’re looking much better this morning.”

“I feel pretty good.” He filled his mouth with bacon and moaned in appreciation.

“Coffee? Or more of my tea?”

Dean swallowed. “Um… both?” The tea was good shit, but he wasn’t sacrificing his morning coffee.

“Both is an option.”

He poured Dean a mug of coffee and then set some water on to boil. And he switched on an ancient radio that sat against the wall at Dean’s end of the breakfast bar.

Here comes the sun…

Dean’s legs began twitching in time.

He ate and looked around the kitchen. Carlos was cooking on a massive old-fashioned range. Above it hung a wooden drying rack, with bunches of herbs hanging from it. One of them was definitely oregano, which Dean knew because he liked to use it in burgers and spaghetti sauce. There was a bunch of spikey sprigs of rosemary. He sometimes used that in marinades for steak or pork. There were others that he recognised and some he didn’t. And there were jars of herbs too, on a high shelf above one window. Dean squinted. Hey, wasn’t that…?

“What are you plans for the day, Dean? Brenda and I were hoping you’d stay. We were thinking of firing up the pizza oven.”

Dean rapidly swallowed his mouthful of bacon. “That’s a ‘hell yeah’ to pizza. Thanks, Carlos!”

Carlos laughed as he poured boiling water into a large, brown teapot. “Well, that was easy. If I’d realised pizza was the key to getting you to stay out of trouble, I would have stoked up the oven days ago.”

“Huh. Yeah.”

A teaspoon chinked against the inside of the teapot as Carlos stirred, mumbling along in time to the Beatles. It didn't sound like he knew the words that well.

Dean ate his bacon, drank his coffee, and, when Carlos set a cup of dark, bitter green liquid in front of him, he even drank up his tea, not bothering to hide the way it made his face screw up.

“What the hell's in this stuff anyway?” That was as polite as he could be. Well, he hadn’t called it horse piss, had he?

“Oh, it's a secret blend,” said Carlos. “Herbs. You know.”

Dean didn’t know. But his hunter’s suspicion prickled. “It's certainly working,” he said, neutrally.

“Time to play!” Cas announced, jumping down from his stool. He tugged at Dean’s arm. “Come on, Dean!”

“Hey, wait! I'm not dressed! And neither are you.”

Cas crossed his arms and glared – which was very cute in his Paw Patrol footie pjs. “You don’t have to be dwessed to play, Dean,” he said firmly.

Dean scratched his chin. His beard was greasy from the bacon. “How about we play in the shower?”

Cas bunched up a handful of his pj top in one little fist and scrubbed at his stomach. His glower transferred itself to the window, where the Beatles’ song was happening in real time, then back to Dean. “Fings don’t float in the shower.”

“What things?”

“Anyfing.” Cas held up a tiny hand, fingers splayed. “Duckies.” He counted off one finger. “Boats.” Another digit waggled. “Anyfing!” He gave up his count, waving both hands above his head.

Carlos laughed. “Is that a hint for me to run a bath?”

“You don’t have to-”

“Have you got duckies?” Cas interrupted, suspicion in his narrowed eyes.

Carlos came around the breakfast bar and crouched down in front of the bossy little angel. “Not only have I got a family of yellow ducks,” he said, “but I've got bubbles too.”

Cas's eyes went big and round. “Bubbles,” he whispered reverently. “I would like bubbles. And Dean would like bubbles. And Pongo would like-”

“Hey, no way am I having a bath with Pongo!” That right there was where Dean drew the line. Ducks? Whatever. Bubbles? Okay, yeah - he might not mind a bubble bath. But dogs? No.

“Ah, sorry, little guy. Pongo's gone to work.”

“Oh,’ said Cas, his little shoulders slumping. Then one finger went in his mouth and he chewed the tip. “Is he a fire fighter dog?”

“No, he-”

“Is he a train driver dog?”

“No.”

“Is he a… farmer dog who has a tractor and some cows and some sheep and uvver nanimals?”

Carlos shook his head.

“Oh. What dog is he then?”

“Pongo goes to the clinic with Brenda. And he lets people pat him if they're sad or scared or if they just like dogs.”

“He's a making people feel better dog,” said Cas, nodding wisely. “Pongo is good at being a feel better dog.”

“That he is,” said Carlos.

Dean swiped bubbly water out of his stinging eyes.

There was a bit in the Lord of the Rings that they'd missed out of the movie. Okay, there were loads of bits they'd missed out, or the trilogy would have been a whatever you called it if there were ten parts. Charlie always said they should have left it all in, especially the Old Forest and the Barrow Downs. Creepy barrow wights, Dean – what's not to love?

Anyway, amongst the missed-out bits, there was a scene where the hobbits had a bath. In multiple tubs as far as Dean recalled. Of course there was a song that went with it – wasn’t there always? – although the hobbits’ songs were way more entertaining than the elves’ interminable doomed romance.

Cas was like the youngest hobbit, Pippin - a hell of a lot of noise, even more of a hell of a lot of splashing and, in the end, way more water on the floor than in the tub.

“Now the Mommy duck is saying, quack, quack, quack! You're a naughty lickle duckyling!” said Cas, slamming the second biggest duck into the water so that yet more bathwater went over the side. “Cos this one won't eat up his dinner.”

The naughty duckling got scooped out of the tub along with another hefty splash.

“Take it easy there, Little Wing. You're flooding the room.”

“I'm just playing wiv the duckies Dean! You should have the Daddy duck!” The Daddy duck swum toward Dean, quacking loudly. “Here! Now all the duckies are going to swim and I'm going to swim too.”

“Hey! No! Cas!” Dean held up his arms in front of his face as the whole bath erupted like a boiling whirlpool. “Stop!”

Cas stopped. The white water subsided. “What, Dean? I'm only swimming.”

“Look, just sit there for a minute, yeah? Nice and still. No more swimming. Okay?”

“Okay, Dean.”

“Shit, look at the floor.” He leapt out of the bath to head off the duck family, who were swimming their way toward the bathroom door, grabbing three of the four and flicking Daddy duck's ass with his toes so that he shot into the air. Another flick of his toes mid-air scored Dean a goal as the plastic duck arced into the bath. Cas clapped and cheered. Dean let the rest of the ducks fall onto Cas’s legs, which were only covered with an inch or so of water and a lot of bubbles.

“You look funny, Dean! You're wearing a bubble suit!”

“Yeah, well.” Dean swiped a towel from the rail and flung it around his waist. “That’s ’cos you tipped in the whole bottle of bubble bath. He pointed a stern finger. “Wait there. No more splashing.”

Dean called down the stairs and Carlos appeared straight away with a mop and bucket.

“No worries,” said Carlos. “I had your little guy pegged as a splasher, so I'm all set.”

It always surprised Dean when people didn't mind shit like that. He didn’t want to push Carlos’ good nature too far, but it seemed like there was a way to go yet before he lost his rag.

Dean one-arm lifted Cas out of the bath and wrapped him in a towel. The little boy ran out onto the landing, the towel gripped at his throat like a cape.

“I'm Bat Man! Dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, Bat Man!”

Dean ran a hand through his damp hair and took a breath.

“I bet you wish you had half his energy,” said Carlos. He paused in his mopping. “Why don't you two head outside when you're dressed? I won't be long clearing this up. Then I’ll show you the pizza oven.”

“Thanks, man,” said Dean.

“Like I said – no worries, Dean.”

Dean put the Guns ‘n’ Roses tee back on. And the pair of Eileen’s jeans that were short on him but not the really short shorts Dean had cut off himself. Actually, he hadn’t seen them since the other night. They'd probably been ripped to shreds.

Cas chose a tiny yellow and green Hawaiian shirt, a pair of purple swim shorts and refused to wear his sandals. He ran outside, Cloppy in one hand, and charged away, disappearing around the corner of the house before Dean had stepped off the decking.

Dean followed more slowly, adjusting his arm in its sling. His shoulder ached and his whole body felt heavy, as if he’d swum a few laps around an Olympic size swimming pool instead of just having a bath with a mini angel. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm him through for a moment, filling his lungs gratefully with the hot, sweet-scented air.

Blinking at the bright colours surrounding him, Dean’s eyes were caught by darting movement around a big purple bush which stuck out over the stone path. He leant over to sniff the tall spikes. Lavender. The bees seemed to love it. Brenda’s spare pair of flip flops – he’d lost his own on the beach – slapped softly as Dean shuffled to the next plant. It had no flowers, but its many clusters of leaves were like pointy green hands. And beyond that were foxgloves, nearly as tall as Dean, which the bees were moving in and out of like they were checking out apartments in a high rise block.

A little airplane buzzed high overhead. The soft breeze ruffled Dean’s damp hair. He turned around in place, slowly, breathing in, breathing out – not doing for a change, but just being. It was like those times when he and Sammy had sat on Baby’s hood and watched the stars. Or sometimes when he was driving and his whole world was the wheel under his hands and the growl of Baby’s voice and the road.

Too much of his life had been about fighting and fear. It was time he had more of this.

And he wanted it with Cas.

Who was suspiciously quiet.

Dean rounded the corner to see another large bed of herbs, and at the far end of that, a brick-built pizza oven. A pair of waggling legs were sticking out of its arched entrance.

“Cas!”

Muffled chattering came from inside.

“Cas, come out of there.” Dean ignored the rest of the herb garden. “More like a little demon than a little angel,” he muttered.

The legs waggled frantically and Cas slithered out. He was covered in soot. So was Cloppy.

“What d’you go and do that for? You might as well have not bothered with a bath.”

Cas wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing more soot up his cheek. “I wanted to see what it would be like” – he sneezed – “to be a pizza.”

He looked up at Dean – big blue eyes in his soft, rounded, little-boy face, the fierce, vengeful angel hidden somewhere deep inside. Dean ran his fingers up and down the edge of his sling. Then he ruffled the little boy’s hair, leaning down so that he could brush his fingers over the smears of dirt on Cas's cheek and lightly pinch his little chin. His fingers came away smokey black. “Don’t ever change, Cas,” he said softly.

“I won't. I won’t change into a pizza, Dean!” Cas grinned up at him, all gums and tiny white teeth. Had Dean ever seen that smile on big Cas? That great big, no holds barred happy grin? What would make big Cas smile like that?

You.

The answer was there, as if the adult angel had whispered it in his ear, as if he were standing by Dean’s shoulder, as close as he ever had because he had no idea of personal space. Or maybe he only forgot when he was around Dean.

“I'm going under here now,” said Cas.

He crouched down and pushed Cloppy into the gap at the top of the firewood stacked beneath the oven.

“You go first, Cloppy.”

“I don't think you're gonna fit under there, little buddy.”

“Yes, I will. Help me pull out some so I can fit, Dean.”

“I don't think we should mess up the wood.”

You didn’t mess with a dude's woodpile. It'd be like if someone started pulling kit out of Baby’s trunk, or using the knives in Dean’s block back in the Bunker's kitchen, and then not putting them back in the right places, Sammy.

Cas tugged at the splintery end of a big log. His little fingers whitened and then lost their grip. “Owy,” said Cas, sucking on his filthy hand. “Help me, Dean!”

“Yeah, I don’t think-”

“Are you two starting without me?”

“Carlos!” Cas scuttled past Dean. “Help me with the wood, Carlos, pweese! I can't get it out!”

Cas dragged the poor guy toward the oven, jumping up and down so that no toes were safe.

“How about I pull it all out and you sort it for me? Little bits to start the fire and big bits for later.”

Cas stopped jumping. He crossed his arms and nodded seriously. “Lickle bits to start the fire and big bits for later.”

Dean tried to help but was waved away. “Don’t want you setting yourself back,” said Carlos, directing him to a wooden bench.

“I'm okay. I can help.”

“Dean. Rest,” said Carlos.

Dean sat on the bench. He watched as Carlos pulled out a big, gnarled log near the bottom, so that most of the pile tumbled down and spread out over the stone paving slabs.

Cas squealed and clapped. “Lotsa woods!” He knelt down and rolled one of the logs into an empty space. “Big ones here,” he ordered. “Lickle ones here. And mejum ones in the middle.”

Carlos and Cas worked – Carlos doing as he was told because he knew what was good for him.

And Dean sat. Like some goddamn grandma with a plaid blanket over her knees. Except a grandma would at least have a stick that she could wave threateningly at anyone who came within range. Dean had nothing but his stupid arm in a stupid sling and a collection of cuts and bruises that were mostly healed now anyway, so actually he was fine and could work, same as anyone else.

A minute ago he’d been happy to sit back and smell the flowers. Or stand and smell them anyway. Now, because there was work to do, right in front of him, his skin itched and his muscles twitched and he needed to be up and moving and getting shit done.

But instead he sat on the bench and watched. And fucking rested.

Chapter Text

“Nuvver lickle piece,” said Cas, adding a narrow stick of firewood to his pile. He crawled back into the space beneath the pizza oven. “Only a few sticks left, Cloppy.” The poor horse was dragged in by her reins, leaving a track through the dirt and twigs.

Once more unto the washer, thought Dean, twiddling his idle thumbs. Charge of the Light Brigade? No. Shakespeare, surely.

On the rare occasions Dean did stop and smell the metaphorical flowers, sometimes memories got swept out of his head like the bits of dirt and twig that were now stuck in Cloppy’s mane and tail – a tangled debris of quotes and facts and half-understood theories.

He’d seen so many towns, growing up – so many schools, where sometimes he’d been made to go over stuff he'd already learnt, but more often he’d arrived in the middle of an unfamiliar topic, so that he might as well shrug on the ‘don't know, don't care’ jacket of brooding rebellion. At least he got chicks that way. And sometimes, if he was very, very careful, he got guys too. There were some advantages in his family’s restless lifestyle. He could have a ‘thing’ with a guy and then move on before it became a problem. Before anyone, aka Dad, found out who his older son really was.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead.

A Midwestern hick town with an ambitious drama teacher floated out of Dean’s memories. She had made the class pick a speech and learn it. And Dean had chosen the one from Henry the Fifth, which was long and difficult, but for some reason it had drawn him in – stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage. And so on. Dean had had to stiffen his sinews every time he went on a hunt.

But they'd left town before Dean’s turn to perform had come. Would he have mumbled his way through the speech, saying the words but giving away nothing of himself? Or would he have let go, put himself out there for a change, showed a bit of who he really was behind all the masks he had to wear? Probably not.

“We put in the sticks, Cloppy. And then we light them on fire. And then we cook pizzas! I’m going to have everyfing on my pizza! Can I put everyfing on my pizza, Carlos? Can Cloppy have a pizza all of her own? Horsies like pizza!”

“Yes and yes,” said Carlos. “But we haven't even lit the fire yet.” He gathered a bunch of the smallest sticks and placed them in the oven, one at a time.

Dean liked building fires. Not hunters’ funeral fires. No. Not those. But campfires, cooking fires – yes. Instead of helping with this one, he sat on the bench and watched Carlos do it, and felt old and useless and, he admitted, more than a little sorry for himself. He probably wouldn’t even be allowed to make his own pizza. In case lifting grated cheese was too taxing on his frail old body.

“Look, Dean!” Cas danced up and down in front of him. “Big, big pile of wood! Ready for pizzas! I’m hungwy!”

Carlos laughed. “It'll be a while before we can cook,” he said.

“Oh.”

“But I think there might be some cake hiding somewhere.”

“I like cakies,” said Cas.

“I thought you might. Dean?”

“I could go for a slice or two.” Or ten. He wasn’t exactly busting out of Eileen’s jeans, which was just wrong. High time he made an effort to make up some extra calories.

“I’ll be right back,” said Carlos.

Dean watched Cas playing, crouched next to the woodpiles on the uneven stone paving. The little boy galloped Cloppy between the piles, hot on the heels of some outlaws.

“Faster, Cloppy! They’re getting away!”

Dean scratched at a healing cut on his elbow. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the wooden bench. He flicked away a persistent fly. The scent of fresh coffee mixed with the heavy sweetness of the flowers. Coffee and cake. Nice. And later on, pizza. Would there be any of that spicy ground beef? Would there be jalapenos? Dean’s mouth watered at the thought of oily, spicy meatiness.

“Stick ‘em up!” said Cas. “You’re under awwest for being mean!” He picked up a little branched twig and danced it about. “No! It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it!” Cloppy glared the twig into silence. “Yes you did. And now you have to-”

Cas broke off and straightened up from his crouch. “I fink someone’s coming,” he said.

“What? Oh.” Dean caught the thrum of an engine and the rolling crunch of tyres on the gravel driveway. “Probably Brenda. And Pongo.”

Cas had returned to his curled over position on the ground, Cloppy in one hand, the twig-outlaw tightly gripped in the other. He spoke to his filthy little bare feet. “I don’t fink so, Dean.”

The thrumming engine grew louder, slowly, as if the driver wasn’t sure they were in the right place. There was a thick hedge separating the driveway from the garden, but Dean caught a flash of silver through the side gate beyond the pizza oven. He looked at Cas, small and innocent, just a little kid making up imaginary stories. Innocent my ass.

“Cas?”

The little boy looked up, one side of his lower lip gripped between his teeth, the other side of his mouth pulling up into a mischievous smile.

The car engine stopped. There was a shuffling crunch of boots on gravel, the solid slam of a car door and more shuffling. Why didn’t they get the hell on with it and knock on the door?

And then there was a little soft sound that Dean would have recognised anytime, anyplace, anywhere, and his stiffened-up muscles moved of their own accord, straight into tottering action, taking him swiftly past the pizza oven, his wobbling steps getting freer as he hunted down his target.

He reached the gate and stopped, leaning over to peer around the corner of the house.

And Dean’s great, big, floppy-haired Sasquatch of a brother cleared his throat again and took a step away from his stupid, modern, plastic car, toward the front door.

Sammy. Sam. Here. That sneaky little angel…

Dean cleared his own throat, loud and long and obnoxious, and set his expression into glowering-like-thunder mode.

Sammy spun around, his hair swooshing out like a shampoo commercial. “Dean!”

Guilt was written all over his face, his hands twitched nervously at the end of his orangutan arms - so long he didn’t know what to do with them. A tiny, hopeful smile flickered across his mouth and died, as his lips pinched together into bitch face number nine, which came out when he wasn’t sure if Dean was going to laugh or punch him.

Dean kept up the glowering as best he could. It would have been better if he could have crossed his arms. As it was he gave the top rail of the gate a good squeeze, to make his knuckles whiten. Say what you liked about little Cas’s sneaking to Sammy, Dean had missed his brother, and he had definitely missed teasing the shit out of him.

The act earned him another round of throat-clearing and shuffling. “Dean, I uh…”

“Sammy!”

Dean stumbled as the gate slammed open and a missile shot through it. And Sam stumbled as the missile slammed into his legs and wrapped itself tightly around them.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” Cas jumped up and down, still clinging to Sam’s legs, and the smile that had replaced bitch face number nine became pained as Cas’s little pile-driver feet stomped up and down on his toes.

“Hello, Cas. Just- Let me- There you go.” Sam’s great big shovels made Cas look even smaller than usual, as he was swooped up into the air and tucked into Sam’s side, a strong arm holding him in place.

Dean couldn’t keep up the act any longer. Seeing his brother holding Cas like that was just too… he didn’t want to use the phrase adorably cute, but it was just in his own head, so it didn’t count, really.

He let the grin that had been fighting to break out spread across his face. And he followed Cas through the gate and wrapped his free arm around his brother’s back, sandwiching the wriggling little boy between them.

Sam matched his one armed hug, and for just a few seconds they were together – team free will – in a moment of stillness, like those moments you get when you've been talking and drinking for hours and everyone's talked out and nothing else needs to be said. And then Cas wriggled and Sam pulled away.

“Come and see the pizza oven, Sammy! We’re going to have pizzas!” He slithered out from Sam’s supporting arm and hit the gravel running. “Come and see!”

He waved his little arms and his bare feet skidded as he rounded the corner.

“Wow,” said Sam. “He’s… not like Cas at all.”

“Yeah, he is,” said Dean. “Big bad Cas is in there alright.”

“Well, you’d know best.” Sam clamped a large paw over his good shoulder and held Dean in place, at arm’s length, looking him up and down.

And Dean’s eyes skated away from bitch face number four, which was the one that went with concerned puppy dog eyes and usually, a whole spiel of chick-flick concern about how Dean looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a very angry, very hungry wendigo. But in the end, Sam just sighed and said, “Nice outfit, dude.”

“I think it suits me,” said Dean, rolling out shit-eating grin number six, which acknowledged all that his brother had left unsaid and informed him that Dean was actually fine, thank you very much. Fine enough to be an asshole about it if Sammy didn’t mind his ps and qs.

But, no. He let the grin change back into the genuine article, which he knew was wide and goofy and didn’t care. He was just so damn pleased to see his brother. “Come ‘ere, bitch.” He pulled Sam close and the muttered, “Jerk,” was a warm fluttering on the side of his neck.

They separated again – enough with the hugging – and Sam gave his outfit another once-over. “Rocking the Guns ‘n’ Roses, there, Dean. And the cropped jeans - very…”

“Chic is the word you're looking for, Sammy. All the best-dressed hunters are wearing these this season.”

“You might be. Eileen isn’t.”

Dean was just about to ask if she was going around swathed in his own oversize flannel, when Cas interrupted.

“Dean! Sammy! Come and see now!”

Arms crossed, face like a thundercloud, Cas gave both of them the full-on pissed-off angel treatment, bare toes curling into the gravel, his Hawaiian shirt covered in soot and his little purple swim shorts sliding down his legs.

“Okay, Little Caesar, we’re coming.” Dean crouched down and shrugged his arm out of its sling so he could tighten the ties around Cas’s waist. “Let’s just get you decent first.”

“I’m already decent.”

“Yeah, well now at least you’re not risking tripping up on your own- Oh, forget it.”

Cas had already grabbed Sam’s hand and pulled him through the gate. Dean pulled the sling back around his arm, and followed the sound of high-pitched chattering.

“This is great cake,” said Sam. “Thanks, Carlos. Carrot cake’s my favourite.”

Carrot cake? It was bad enough that Sam would choose cake over pie, but he couldn’t even have a decent favourite, like double chocolate fudge brownie with extra chocolate and extra fudge. Carrot cake. Like, Bugs Bunny's favourite.

Still, Carlos's carrot cake was pretty good – no actual evidence of vegetables and a shit tonne of frosting. So, yeah, okay, Dean would be up for another slice, if it was offered.

“You’re welcome.” Carlos pushed another log into the pizza oven and shut the door. The fire was well under way.

Cas – sitting crossways on Sam’s legs with his toes patting Dean’s thighs – scooped a handful of frosting into his mouth, swallowed and began licking his fingers, one by one. “Dean says Sammy is silly because he likes cake better than pie.”

“Hey! Thanks for dropping me in it, Cas. And anyway, Sam’s right. This is great cake, Carlos.” He took another huge bite of his slice, letting the icing leak out from the corners of his mouth and turning his head to give his brother a good view.

Sam grimaced. “Dean. Ew.”

Dean grinned, to give him an even better view. His brother rolled his eyes and looked away, but Cas laughed, spraying cake crumbs over both of them.

“Glad you came, Sammy?”

He got another eyeroll out of that. But when the rolling had stopped, Sam said, “Yes. I am glad I came, Dean. Because it seems like you can’t even go a week without getting yourself messed up.”

Dean’s hand paused, cake halfway to his mouth. “A week?” He counted up the days in his head - the fairies, getting to Thrift Cove, playing on the beach. What else had they done? Other than the storm, obviously.

“Not even a week,” said Sam. “And look at you.”

“I’m okay,” mumbled Dean. Mostly. His shoulder was throbbing again. And the bench could really have done with some padding. “You didn’t have to come and rescue me.”

“I didn’t come to rescue you, Dean. I came because Cas said you were hurt and I wanted to make sure you were okay. Both of you.”

“Well, I am. We are. So you don’t have to stay.” The words left a hollow place under his ribs. Dean pushed the remaining chunk of his cake across his plate with one fingertip.

“No, I don’t have to.”

The hollow place became an ache.

“But seeing as I’ve already booked one of Carlos’ chalets, I might as well.”

Dean looked up. Sammy was smirking at him, the kind of smirk that should really be wiped off a little brother’s face with a jab of sarcasm. Or a real jab. Dean swallowed. “You’re staying?”

“Yeah, I’m staying.”

“Hey, Carlos,” said Dean, popping the rest of his cake in his mouth. “I thought you were booked out.”

“I was. But after the storm the Darnells decided to leave, so when your brother called I got it all ready for him.”

“The Darnells have gone? Oh, what a great big shame,” said Dean.

Cas’s little feet drummed against Dean’s thighs. “I liked Katie. I wanted to play wiv her.”

“Well, you’ve got Sammy to play with now. And you know what?”

“What?”

“There’s nothing Sammy likes better than being buried in sand, right up to his neck.”

Cas twisted around to look up at Sam. “I’ll bury you, Sammy. I’ll bury you right up in nice warm sand so you’re all cosy.”

“Thanks,” said Sam. “A lot.” He glared at Dean.

“And Cloppy will bury you too.”

“That’s- that’s just great.” Sam forced a smile, looking down at the soot-covered soft toy, who was wedged between Cas and his nice, white shirt.

Cas picked up Cloppy and trotted her up Sam’s chest, leaving a trail of grey hoof prints and bits of twig. Sam retracted his neck as far as it would go to avoid the penetrating button-eyed stare.

“Say heyo to Cloppy!” Cas ordered.

“Uh… Hello. Cloppy.”

“Now shake hands.”

Sam looked down at the filthy little hooves. With the very tip of one forefinger and thumb he gingerly gripped a hoof and wiggled it, then hastily let it go, wiping his fingers down his already ruined shirt.

This was great. Maybe Dean could get Cas to check out the bees hives again so he would dribble honey all over Sammy's braidable locks.

Carlos put yet more wood in the oven. There was a good old blaze going on in there now. Then he collected all the plates and coffee cups, stacking them all on a sturdy tray.

The bench creaked as Sam got up. “Hey, I'll help with that.”

“No, you won't. You're a guest. And you look like you could stand a break. Is running yourself into the ground a family thing with you?”

Dean exchanged a glance with his brother. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Hmm.” Carlos frowned as he picked up the tray. “Well, all I can say is, not on my watch.” He gave each of them a quelling stare before carrying the tray away.

“Okay…” said Sam carefully. “He's pretty… caretakery, isn't he?”

Stanford-Sammy would have dressed it up: he has well-developed nurturing instincts.

“He's a giver,” said Dean. “And you better sit and take it.”

“Or what?” Sam laughed. “What’ll he do to me?”

Dean fiddled with the edge of his sling, which was already getting frayed, and Cas slid down and ran off into the garden, yelling to Cloppy about going ‘sploring as he disappeared into a tangle of fruit bushes.

“Dean?” The bench shook as his brother shuffled around to face him. “I know that look. What's going on?”

Dean shook his head and smiled. “Nothing. Nothing's going on, Sammy. Just an old hunter trying to let go.”

“You're not old.”

“Yeah, well, I feel old. And Carlos wasn’t wrong. You look like shit. How d'you find time to get away?”

“Oh, well.”

There was a bit of throat clearing and a flickering in the direction of a smile, which failed. Must be something juicy coming.

“Jody,” said Sam, looking down at his woven-together fingers. “And Eileen too. And Donna. But mainly Jody.”

“They took up the slack? That's cool.”

Sam scratched his jaw, smiled and huffed. “More like took over. Practically a coup.”

“What, some pigeons got into the bunker?” said Dean, because he had a big, dumb hero image to maintain, didn’t he?

“A coup d'état, Dean.” Classic. The whingey eye-roll, straight from the early teen Sammy book of pissiness. “It means-” He caught the self-satisfied smirk. “Oh, fuck off, Dean.”

The orangutan elbow was cocked, ready to fire. But Sam let it fall, his eyes dropping to Dean’s sling. Heh. Dean could have some fun with this. Wind his brother right up, tight as a coiled spring, and then clutch his injured shoulder anytime the Sasquatch looked like he was about to go postal.

“Spill, Sammy. What did the big girls do to you?”

Sam glared, at the implication (subtle, Dean congratulated himself) that he was one of the little girls.

Then he did that slumping, curling up thing with his shoulders that made his whole body shrink to normal size, for a change. His hair covered his face. He mumbled.

“What? Didn’t quite catch that, Sammy.”

The curtain of hair got huffed right out and then dropped back into place. “Jody went Mom on me, okay?”

Oh. Wow. “She used the Mom voice?”

“Yes. And the others backed her up. It was… confronting.”

“Oh.” Dean squinched his eyes, shutting out the bright light, picturing the muted, librariness of the bunker and the confronting scene. “So it was like - an intervention?”

Sam shrugged.

Hmm. There was something missing. Yeah, Dean could see the girls turning up and helping out with fielding calls and so on. But even Jody would defer to Sammy in his own territory, if all he needed were a few extra hands. Or ears to take calls. Which meant…

“What happened?”

“Huh?”

Oh, yeah. He was entirely too casual now. Time to dig a bit further – dig up the corpse that was festering below. Ew.

“What did you do? To be specific, what did you do to yourself?”

Giant shoulders shrugged. Dean punched the nearer one.

“Ow! What the hell, Dean?”

He delivered another punch and drew back his arm ready to go again. “Gonna keep hitting if you don’t spill.”

“I’ll hit you back then.”

“No you won’t, Sammy-boy.” Dean twitched his arm in its sling. “You wouldn’t hit an injured man, would you?” He drew his good arm further back and clenched his fist. Tough love. That was what it was called. “Spill! Now!”

“Okay, fine!” Teen Sammy was back. “Fine! Jody dropped by and found me passed out on the floor, okay?”

“She what?”

“I hadn’t slept in a couple of days and I stood up and then…” He shrugged again. “I just fell over. It’s no big deal.”

Dean let his fist fall. “Jesus, Sammy. Hey, hang on – didn’t you say Charlie was helping you? And Patience was on her way?”

“Charlie got called away by a girlfriend having a crisis. And Patience never arrived,” said Sam, his head sagging again. “She had a premonition about something and had to go deal.”

His brother’s vagueness was disturbing in itself. Snakes coiled and writhed in Dean’s gut.

“And you can just forget getting all guilt-trippy, Dean – you’d been a mess for a lot longer than I had – not eating, not sleeping. You needed to take Cas and get away.”

“So did you, by the sound of it. What happened when Jody found you?”

“Oh, well, she scraped me up off the floor. Called Eileen. Called Donna.”

“And you threw a bitch-fit about them taking over.”

“No, I didn’t, Dean. No way. Not with all three of them crossing their arms at me and taking turns to Mom-voice me and then going all… clucky!” He waved his hands in spirals, which somehow illustrated both the god-almighty fussing and Sam’s own exasperation. It sounded like the fussing had been earned, though.

“Well,” - Dean slapped his brother’s leg - “you’re here now.”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“And you look just as rode hard and hung up wet as I do.”

“No, I don't, Dean. You can’t fool me.”

“What? I’m not trying to fool you.”

Sam crossed his arms, his head tipped to one side. “I know you. And I can tell by your face and the way you’re sitting that you’re hurting pretty bad right now.”

“My face isn’t doing anything.” Dean tried to cover his cheeks with spread fingers and thumb. “And I’m just sitting like normal people sit.” His shoulder gave a throb of denial. And the wooden slats of the bench really could do with some padding. There were some nicely padded seats inside, though, which maybe Dean could casually stroll to, looking like he was just doing it to humour his brother.

“Yeah, right then,” said Sam. “Fifty bucks says I have to help you get up off this bench.”

Dean huffed and tried to get together a realistic denial.

But then suddenly he was being climbed and then he had a lapful of little boy, burrowing into his chest, making squeaky sounds which didn’t sound quite right.

“Hey, Cas! What’s up, little guy?”

A tearful face was raised to his. “My tummy’s hurty, Dean!”

“Is it? Did you have too much cake?”

Cas shook his head. “Cloppy said she was still hungwy. So we ate some bewwies. And they went cwunch, cwunch, cwunch! So we ate some more and some more!”

“Berries?” Dean’s skin prickled with chill. “What kind of berries, Cas?”

Wet blue eyes blinked up at him. “Not bad bewwies, Dean. I know bad bewwies.” His mouth wobbled. “But I ate lots and lots and now my tummy hurts!”

He buried his head in Dean’s shoulder and sobbed. Dean rubbed his back.

“Do you know what's growing back there?” Sam got up and examined the nearest bush. “These are blackcurrants.”

“He’d be purple if he’d been eating those.” Cas might be sooty and smeary and a bit sticky, but there was no purple berry juice on his skin or clothes. Or on Cloppy, who was pushing her way into Dean’s sling.

“Owie, owie, owie!” Cas squirmed and pressed his knuckles into his stomach. “Dean, it hurts!”

“Okay. I know.” He stroked Cas’s tangled hair. “Sammy, go get Carlos.”

Sam loped off and soon returned with their host. “There’s nothing back there that’s poisonous,” said Carlos. “So you don’t need to worry, Dean.”

Don’t need to worry? How could he not be worried? Dean’s stomach was tying itself in tighter knots with every little whimper and pained hitch of his little boy’s breath.

Carlos crouched down. “Can you tell me what you ate, little guy? What did they look like?”

Cas sniffed. “Gween and cwunchy.” His little voice was muffled against Dean’s shirt. “And a bit haiwy.”

“Oh, well, they were gooseberries then. Brenda eats too many of those all the time, just like that, when they’re not really ripe. And so does Pongo sometimes.”

Cas turned his head to look at Carlos. “Do they get a bellyache?”

“Sometimes they do. One or two are okay when they’re still green. But a lot isn’t good for you.”

Cas sniffed and more tears rolled down his cheeks. Dean held him close with both arms because he didn’t care if his shoulder hurt – Cas needed to be held.

“I’ve got something that’ll sort that out in no time,” said Carlos. “I’ll be right back.”

Dean nodded.

His throat was tight. His arms were already wrapped around Cas but he felt like he wanted to wrap him up even more, to cover him and shield him from the whole world of hurt. There was a damp patch on the front of his shirt where Cas’s tears were soaking through. He stroked the little boy’s hair and wanted to say something comforting but instead planted a kiss among the messy curls because – call him a great big wussy if you liked – if he spoke he might cry too.

Sammy was probably laughing. Dean risked a glance in Sam’s direction, but his brother was wearing his most purse-lipped, sad-eyed expression – the one he wore when he was really worried. Usually about Dean.

Had Sammy ever done this, when they were kids? Dean remembered a couple of bouts of stomach flu. That hadn’t been pleasant, especially when they’d both had it. And probably Sammy had gotten sick from stuffing his face sometime or other. Dean couldn’t remember right now.

Where the hell was Carlos? Maybe he was brewing up one of his bitter teas. Would Cas even drink that stuff? Dean would make damn sure he did.

“Hey, you must be Sam!”

Dean flinched at the sudden presence, and jumped again when his ankles were attacked by rasping swipes of a wet tongue. He hadn’t even heard the truck pull up.

“Yes.” Sam stood up and held out his hand. “Uh, and you must be Brenda. Hey. Nice to meet you.”

Pongo planted his feet on Dean’s knees and sniffed at Cas’s hair. Cas whimpered, and Pongo whined and licked his neck.

“Hey, what’s happened to your little one? Is he hurt?”

“He ate a load of green berries,” said Dean.

“Gooseberries,” Sam added.

“Nasty goosegoggies,” mumbled Cas.

“Oh! Gosh, well we’ve all been there, little Castiel. I don’t know how many times I’ve overdone it with those things. They’re just so darn crunchy.”

Cas squirmed around and looked up. “And a bit haiwy,” he said, patting Pongo’s nose. “Heyo, Pongo. My tummy’s hurty, Pongo.”

Pongo whined in sympathy.

“Here we are!”

Carlos – at last – arrived with the little sippy cup filled with some kind of dark liquid.

“I’ve put a dab of cold water in, so you don’t have to wait for it to cool down, young fella.” He handed it to Cas. “But take it slow anyhow.”

Cas took a cautious sip. He smacked his lips. “Tastes funny,” he said.

“It has to, to get you better quicker,” said Carlos.

Cas took another sip. “Is there honey in it?”

Carlos leant down and whispered. “Just a little. Just because it’s you.”

Cas giggled and took another gulp. He was heavy on Dean’s legs. Heavier than he’d been a minute ago and Dean remembered the same thing happening when it had been little Sammy who had snuggled up to him. Little wriggly, overtired Sammy had been all angles and tension, but as soon as he’d relaxed he’d seemed heavier, like somehow his weight had all sunk down onto Dean.

“Feeling better, Cas?”

He nodded, the spout in his mouth, one little fist gripping the handle tight, the other gripping a bunch of Dean’s shirt.

Dean began to relax too. Sam and Brenda were getting acquainted, Brenda perching on the edge of a raised flower bed.

“Where did you serve?” Sammy was asking.

Dean recalled something about being a field medic. Brenda had never said where or with what branch of the military.

“Oh, here and there. It was a long time ago.”

Cas’s weight grew heavier. He slumped against Dean’s chest, warm and relaxed, and Pongo leant against his legs, another warm, comforting presence. Dean’s eyes were heavy too. The soft rise and fall of Sam’s voice and Brenda’s deep rumble washed over him, blending together, mixing with distant birdsong, the heavy buzzing of bees and Cas’s gentle, huffing breaths.

“I think that’ll be ready to cook pizzas in half an hour or so.”

Dean jerked awake with a snort, his neck stiff. He blinked his brother’s smirking face into focus and responded with a half-hearted sneer. Cas sat up, yawned and smiled up at him. His face was a tear-stained, dirt-stained mess. But the smile was as bright as the sunny day.

“Heyo, Dean,” he said. “I’m better now!” He slid off Dean’s lap. “Come on, Pongo! Let’s play!”

“Hold it right there, young man!” Carlos’s voice stopped Cas in his tracks. “Are you feeling better enough for pizza?”

Cas jumped up and down in place. “Pizza, pizza, pizza!”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Carlos. “In which case, your first port of call is the bathroom, to get washed up, and then the kitchen – if you still want to make your own?”

“Yes, pweeese!” Cas looked around and then reached for Cloppy’s tail, poking out of the end of Dean’s sling. “And Cloppy can make hers too!”

“Come on, then. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Cas put another handful of cheese on his pizza, which was already way overloaded, even by Dean’s standards. But his little face was bright and happy and yeah, he was a bit flour and tomato sauce covered. But he was happy. So Dean was happy too.

Holding Cas as he whimpered with pain had been awful. Just goddamn fucking awful. And a good part of that was the sheer helplessness. Give Dean something to shoot or stab or punch, and he was right there shooting, stabbing and punching. But when you could do nothing, when the small person that had been given to you to protect was in pain – where do you go with that? How do you deal? Dean had no fucking clue.

But now Cas was happy again. So Dean was happy too.

Or he would be if he hadn’t spent most of the afternoon sitting on a rack of hellish torment disguised as a bench. And yeah, he could give himself a big pat on the back for being able to joke about the whole rack of hellish torment issue – because a few years ago, he wouldn’t have touched that one with a ten foot pole – but Dean was too busy feeling tormented to care.

He shifted on his stool at the breakfast bar, setting his weight more on one butt cheek than the other. It didn’t help. His shoulder throbbed and twinged, and aching stiffness radiated up into his neck and into his other arm. And every other bruise and strain that he might have been able to ignore seemed to ratchet up their pain level as he got more and more tense.

“Are you okay, Dean?” Next to him, Sammy was pummelling a ball of pizza dough into shape. “Do you want me to do yours?”

Dean’s ball of dough sat untouched before him.

“Oh, Dean, why don’t you go lie down on the couch?” Carlos had his hands in a mixing bowl, fingers twitching in familiar pastry-making motions. “There’ll be pizza and pie ready in no time.”

It seemed stupid to bother with the usual round of I’m fine and no, you’re not etc. If he couldn’t dredge up some kind of enthusiasm for creating an unholy meat-mountain of a pizza, Sam and Cas at least would know all wasn’t well in Dean’s world. Still. “Pie?” he asked, his interest in the meal stirring that far at least.

“Little Cas tells me it’s your favourite,” said Carlos. “And a pie will cook just fine once the oven’s cooled a bit.”

“Dean needs some tea!” said Cas, thumping his dough with both tiny fists, now cleaned of all garden and pizza-oven dirt.

“Good idea,” said Carlos. “I’ll get some going now. Oh.” He glanced around at the kitchen surfaces, all covered with pizza and pie-makings. “I’d better put some of this stuff away first.” He picked up a block of butter and crossed the kitchen to put it back in the refrigerator.

“I can help make the tea,” said Cas, dropping a whole ladle of tomato sauce onto his dough and smearing it around with his hand.

The back door opened. “I’ve put mine in,” said Brenda. “That can be the test pizza - sometimes the first one gets burned.”

Carlos picked up a bag of sugar, and Pongo slithered in through the door, weaving around Brenda, his nose sniffing the air. Dean put one protective hand over the spicy sausage.

“Heyo, Pongo!” Cas slapped a large slice of eggplant on his pizza. “Carlos? Can I help wiv the tea?”

Carlos opened a cupboard. Dean could see flour bags and other baking ingredients inside.

“Cos I know how to do it,” said Cas, jumping down from his stool.

Carlos turned around, the bag of sugar still in his hand. “Cas…”

And then a few things happened at once.

Pongo bounded toward the breakfast bar.

Cas said, “Cos I ’member the magic words, just like you told me.”

Carlos wobbled as Pongo barged past him. “Hey, Pongo! No!”

And the bag of sugar dropped and exploded all over the floor.

Immediately, Brenda froze, his eyes wide and shocked, fixed on the white crystals.

Carlos swore, loudly. “Fuck! Shit! Brenda! Sorry!”

And Cas continued, “To make the spell work.”

Dean watched, stunned as Brenda dropped to the floor and began sorting through the sugar, one finger extended, muttering under his breath, “One, two, three…”

He looked at Sam, who had frozen in the act of placing spinach leaves around the edge of his dough.

He looked at Carlos, who met Dean’s eyes uneasily, his shoes crunched in the split sugar. “Uh…”

“...eleven, twelve, thirteen…”

And he looked at Cas, who was chewing the tip of one little finger.

“Oh,” said Cas. “I wasn’t supposed to tell, was I?”

Chapter Text

Carlos was a witch.

Of course, Dean had known that already. But he’d chosen to ignore the clues, to turn a blind eye to the row of jars – one of which was definitely African dream root – and turn a deaf ear to the mumbled incantation, poorly camouflaged by the Beatles on the old radio on the breakfast bar. He’d stamped on his prickling hunter’s instincts as he’d got a lungful of the lavender, admired the hand-shaped leaves of the hemp and left it at that.

But Brenda was a fucking fairy. And that he hadn’t known.

“I’m sowwy, Carly!” said Cas. “I wasn’t s’posed to say anyfing!”

“That’s okay, Cas.” Carlos grabbed a long-handled dustpan. “Brenda. Honey, let me deal with that.”

“I can’t. I can’t. I have to- sixty-two, sixty-three.” Tumbled curls shook and the broad back was curved over, Brenda’s normally larger than life figure forced into the ritual task.

Carlos began sweeping the spilt sugar away from his partner. “Pongo, stop it!”

The dog was snuffling and licking the floor, tail wagging an enthusiastic beat.

Carlos looked up, his face a tense mask. “Dean, please, can you get him out for a minute?”

“I’ll do it.” Sam hooked his fingers under Pongo’s collar and hauled him away.

“Just shut him in the lounge for now.”

Sam did and Pongo scratched against the closed door and whined.

“Dean!” Cas patted Dean’s knee with a floury hand. “Dean, you’re not angwy wiv Carlos, are you? Or Bwenda? You won’t hurt them, will you?”

“No! Of course I won’t,” said Dean. He slid off his stool and – son-of-a-bitch – he already owed Sammy that fifty for when he’d got stuck on the bench outside. He ignored the screams of his stiffened-up muscles and knelt on the floor, tugging his sling to one side so he could put both arms around his teary-eyed angel. “It’s okay, Cas. I’m not angry.”

Sammy had found a cloth and was wiping up the remains of the sugar while Brenda stared at his own hands, spread palm-up, his lips still counting out the crystals stuck to his fingers.

“I’m not angry,” said Dean again, catching Carlos’ eye, because the poor guy didn’t deserve this. Carlos gave a quick nod of acknowledgement and a notch of tension dropped from his shoulders. How could Dean be angry at the couple, who were just living their lives and not hurting anyone? They’d looked after him and Cas so well and it looked like they were going to have a damn good go at looking after Sammy too.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s wash it all away.” Carlos encouraged Brenda to his feet and held his hands beneath the faucet, muttering reassurances.

Cas wriggled and Dean relaxed his grip so that he could slide off his lap. The little boy picked Cloppy up off the floor, tucked her under his arm and sighed. “Bwenda’s wings are pink,” he said. “And shiny. And pwetty. I forgot to put my wings away and Bwenda said they were nice and he got his out too.”

“Oh. Right.” It kinda hurt that Cas had known but hadn’t trusted Dean enough to tell him.

“It isn’t Cas’s fault,” said Brenda. He was pale and his hand shook when he pushed back his hair. “I asked him not to say anything, because, well…” He looked at Carlos, and they shuffled closer together, fingers interlocking, a united front.

“Look,” said Carlos. “I like you Dean. And Cas of course. And Sam now too.” He pulled Brenda’s hand up so that he could wrap it in both of his own. “But we’ve all heard of the Winchesters. And most folks have heard of your angel.”

“And you couldn’t take the risk,” said Sam softly.

Dean looked up at his brother, who was twisting the cloth between his hands.

“You couldn’t trust that if we knew, we wouldn’t hunt you,” continued Sam.

Dean’s gaze slid away from his own bent knees to the dark space beneath the breakfast bar. They were right not to have trusted him. They were right because Dean had killed their kind. He was a killer. Always to be held at arms’ length. Never to be trusted.

“But I think we’ve gotten past that now.”

Dean looked up.

Carlos smiled at Brenda. “Haven’t we, honey?”

And Brenda nodded and smiled back. “Yeah,” he said. “We like you. And, uh, we don't know how your big scary Angel-of-the-Lord got himself littled, but he's a great kid, and the way you take care of him is like, well, like he was really your own.”

He is my own.

But Brenda was still talking. “So, what I say is - knobbly nuts to your reputation! We like you guys!”

Cas giggled. “Knobbly nuts!” He jumped up and down. “Nibbly, knobbly nuts! Have you got any knobbly nuts, Carly? I’m hungwy!”

Brenda’s jaw dropped. “Oh, shit! My pizza!”

An outdoor pizza oven was definitely a good thing in terms of getting that perfect thin base, just slightly charred, and giving the meat and the cheese the crispy, juicy deliciousness that Dean loved so much. And once the ashen remains of Brenda’s test pizza had been swept to one side, the following batches had all been cooked to perfection, under Carlos’ watchful gaze.

However, the best place to eat up the finger-licking creations, as far as Dean was concerned, was definitely inside the house, from the comfort of one of the large, soft, flowery armchairs, with your feet elevated to the perfect height by a similarly padded footstool.

Dean sighed in contentment, his plate with its single remaining slice resting on his nearly full belly. Nearly full, but plenty of room for the pie which had taken up a hopefully short-lived residence inside the pizza oven.

A half hour or so ago, he’d been really pretty worried that he’d be too uncomfortable to give a shit whether the pizzas got cooked or not. He hadn’t been able to get up off the kitchen floor. He’d set solid, like a rusty old machine that’d tear apart if you tried to get it to move. Sammy had hauled him to his feet and Dean had tried to bite his lip through the whole process but had given up when his creaky knees had straightened and his poor, tortured shoulder had taken up the full weight of his arm. Then he’d winced and groaned and cursed until he’d noticed that Cas had started to cry. And Dean had felt like shit. Even shittier than he had already.

But it was all okay now. He’d downed enough of Carlos’ magic tea to float a fleet of mermaids, so that his aches had disappeared and the world had taken on a shimmering quality of warm well-being.

Cas had finished making his own pizza and had made one for Cloppy too, and then had made an excellent job of topping Dean’s with as much meat and cheese as any pizza could hold, and then some. And if that was what it took to make his little angel happy, then Dean was all for it.

And everyone else had made, cooked and eaten, or were still eating, their own pizzas. Even Pongo, at Cas’s insistence, had got in on the action, with a small piece of dough topped with a slice of tomato.

“I like pizza,” said Cas.

He looked up at Dean, cheeks shiny with cheese-grease, one arm hooked around Dean’s calf, as if he thought Dean might float away like a balloon. Maybe he would if Cas didn’t keep him anchored. It was magic tea, after all. Cas took a bite of his remaining slice of pizza and chewed it open-mouthed, little white teeth chomping away as he grinned and ate at the same time. That’s ma boy!

Sam had just a few narrow, serrated leaves left that had fallen off his pizza. He had scattered them on the top after it was cooked, so that it had looked like one of those gourmet, rustic deals that they charge you an arm and a leg for in a stuck-up restaurant. He picked delicately at the leaves, nibbling them like a great big bunny rabbit, the dork.

“So, Brenda,” said Sam, having neatly swallowed his greenery. “Where did you serve?”

That wasn’t what Dean wanted to ask, if he'd had his wits all gathered together in a bunch instead of scattered all over. How come Brenda was living like this? As a human? With a witchy boyfriend? And had he ever been one of those guys who danced around in woodland groves, luring in innocent little angels and their attendant hunters? Or maybe that kind of behaviour was why Brenda had gotten out of the game. Dean hoped so.

“Oh, so many places I’ve forgotten most of them,” he replied. “And that’s not me trying to avoid the question.” He put down his pizza plate on a side table and took a long sip of his beer. Dean had a gulp of beer too, in solidarity. “I started in Scotland, originally. After I’d left the other realm I wanted to be useful, to help people, instead of taking advantage of them. Not that my mother had minded being taken advantage of. I’m half human, you see. Mom was on her way home from the market, late in the evening, met a handsome stranger and the rest is history. The fairy realm suited her down to the ground. But not me.” He chuckled. “For one thing, I couldn’t stand all the cream they used to guzzle down. Lactose intolerant, it turns out.”

“No cheese on your pizza,” said Sam.

“No. But it wasn’t just the cream. I was shit at enchantment, couldn’t ever get the pattern of the dances and the whole thing of playing elaborate tricks on people?” He shook his head. “Not cool, man. Not funny, not clever and so not cool.”

“So you left.”

“Yeah. For life on the road, doing good where I could. Saving people, helping with things - nothing like the old family business, but it suited me.” He took another sip of beer and wiped his lips with the back of one hand. “I joined the British Army as a medic, and ended up helping out in the Crimea.”

“Florence Nightingale?”

“No, I was mostly up at the front. Got pretty friendly with Mother Seacole.”

“Mary Seacole?” said Dean. “I heard of her.” His words were all heavy and sluggish, like they were falling asleep. He’d stay awake for pie, though. “Huh?” Sammy was standing over him, taking the empty plate off his belly. When had he eaten that last slice?

“Dean? Shouldn’t you go to bed?”

“No,” said Dean. “Pie.” Anyway, he wasn’t a kid. Speaking of which. Cas’s grip had slackened on his leg. The little boy was slumped against the footstool, his little moppety head drooping. “Hey.” Dean jiggled his leg and Cas twitched. “Hey, buddy. You asleep? You wanna go to bed?”

“No,” said Cas. He knuckled his eyes and blinked. “Apple pie,” he mumbled. “Needta have pie, Dean.”

“That’s right. You gotta have pie.”

“Your wish is my command.”

The scent of warm apple pie filled the room. “Hey, Carlos, that looks great,” said Dean. “But that was a genie line. You’re not a genie. Weird guys. Djinns. Blue faces. Didn’t like ‘em.” He was rambling. Definitely rambling. “D’you make that tea extra strong?”

“No,” said Carlos. “Can you manage this?” He held out a plate of pie.

Dean slid his arm out of its sling and took the plate, and the fork in his other hand. Mmm, pie. The first bite was perfect – chunky apple surrounded by juicy, gooey apple-mush, and pastry that was a little bit crisp on the outside but thick enough to have that soft, fatty comforting sweetness. The second bite was perfect too.

Sam cleared his throat. “So, I'd just like to issue a formal apology for the sounds my brother is making.”

“Huh? What? I'm not!” He posted in another fork full.

“Yes, you are, Dean.”

The vibrations died in Dean’s throat. “It’s good pie,” He said, looking down at his plate, where very little remained, which was sad. “Oh.”

A loud snort came from Sam’s direction, and Dean looked up to catch the tail end of an eye-roll. It was a soft one, though. A puppy-dog eye-roll, which meant Sam was going to say something sappy. “There’s more pie, Dean,” he said – a simple statement of fact. Except the way Sam said it was like a line from a Hallmark movie, gently spoken to a teary-eyed heroine. It’s okay. You’ll get through this.

“Thanks, Sammy.” Son of a bitch. What was up with him? And with Sammy? Dean had matched it, Hallmark for Hallmark, his voice forced out all husky from an aching throat.

“Wow,” said Brenda. “You guys don’t relax often, hey?”

Sam’s fork tapped against his plate. “No,” he said, his silly hair covering his face.

“S’only because you spiked my tea,” Dean said. Because that must be it. He wouldn’t be feeling all jelly-soft otherwise, not when he’d only had – what? – half a beer?

“No,” said Carlos. “No spiking. Just the normal,” – he wiggled his fingers – “little bit of extra zing on top of the herbs. Just to take the edge off.” He scooped up a forkful of pie, looked down at it, sucked one corner of his lip into his mouth, then looked up again, his eyes meeting Dean’s with a curious, penetrating gaze. “You’ve been fighting a long time, haven’t you? Fighting everything. Monsters… life,” – he shrugged – “maybe sometimes each other?”

“You’re not wrong,” muttered Sam, still hiding behind his hair.

“And now that’s over,” said Carlos. “I think?”

Dean tried to arrange his face into something approaching his feelings about what his life was now, leading up to expressing his thoughts on the subject. He achieved an inarticulate creak.

Carlos smiled. “Well, anyway, it seems like Thrift Cove is the right place for you to let it all go for a while. Even if you pick it up again.”

There was a brief silence and then a loud clatter of Cas’s plate and fork falling onto the carpet. Pongo, curled up between two armchairs, twitched and made an enquiring whine, then relaxed into sleep again. Cas blinked at his plate and yawned.

“Time for bed, angel,” said Dean.

“Not tired,” Cas mumbled. He staggered to his feet and climbed up onto Dean, wriggling about until he fitted in against Dean’s side, one little arm flung across his chest. Then he was a floppy weight of warmth.

Sam took Dean’s empty pie plate and set it down on a side table. Which was okay, because actually Dean was full with pizza and pie and if he held off from more pie right now, he’d probably be good to have an extra big slice for breakfast when no one else would want any.

Carlos got up and gathered up the plates, hushing Brenda when he tried to help. It was nice, seeing them together, especially after the earlier stress. It couldn’t be much fun, having to get down on the ground and count out tiny grains whenever anything got spilt. But seeing Carlos go all gentle and extra protective of his partner was nice.

“You said you’re from Scotland originally?” Dean asked.

“A long time ago,” Brenda replied.

“We went to Scotland once.”

“I’m surprised you remember,” said Sammy. He’d come out from his hairy curtains at last. “The amount of liquor you got through just to get on the plane. And all those old painkillers you found in the bottom of your duffel.” He shook his head. “You were such a jerk.”

“And you were a whiny little bitch, as usual,” said Dean. “What the hell else was I supposed to do?” Cas whimpered in his sleep and Dean lowered his voice. “We had to go. For Bobby. So I had to get out of my head on something.”

Sammy’s expression ran through a whole string of bitch-faces, before settling into something approaching neutrality. “It was a long time ago,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “But!” – the hand that had been rhythmically patting Cas’s back was temporarily diverted into wagging a finger in Sam’s direction, because this was an important point – “I’ll never forget those Scottish breakfasts! Dude - they were awesome.”

“Oh, not the breakfasts again! Spare us, Dean!”

“The meat! The meat, Sammy!” He might be full, but his mouth watered. “Link sausages and that square sausage-thing.”

“Lorne sausage,” said Sam, as if he were correcting Dean on Latin species classification.

“Yeah, that. And, along with all the delicious bacon, there was that black pudding stuff,” – which warranted a chef’s kiss – “and then as well as that, you got haggis. Actual real, Scottish, haggis!”

“Don’t forget the tomatoes and eggs,” said Sam.

“And the fried bread and biscuits,” Dean recalled.

“Scones,” Sam corrected. “And mushrooms.”

“And baked beans,” said Dean. Which weren’t like American baked beans, but the British knew a thing or two (not the British Men of Letters, obviously, the assholes), because those little tomatoey dudes filled up the cracks between all the meat just right. “Sammy just had oatmeal,” said Dean. Poor, deluded sap.

“Porridge,” said Sam. “One time I watched it being made. The cook stirred it with a carved wooden spurtle.”

“Nasty,” said Dean.

Huff.

“Dean! A spurtle is a type of-” Another huff. “I’m not having this conversation again.”

Dean smirked at Brenda. And wondered if the fae pissed-off their brothers and sisters like he did with Sam. Did Brenda have siblings he missed?

“Poor haggisies,” said Cas softly. Sad blue eyes blinked up at Dean and one little hand pressed down on his chest to lever the little boy upright.

“What?”

Cas cast a solemn glance at Brenda. “They live on the mountains,” he said. “Running and jumping and snuffling and doing haggisy fings.”

“Aye, that’s right,” said Brenda, a Scottish lilt creeping into his voice, which had never been there before. “They thrive among the peat bogs. Or they did.”

“What?” said Dean again.

“They’re ’dangered,” said Cas. “’Cos people keep eating them.”

“Oh.”

“They catch the mommy and daddy haggisies and eat them, and then the lickle babies get lost ’cos there’s no one to show them the way home.”

“Lost in the grey, drifting mountain mist,” said Brenda, with a heavy sigh.

Well, shit. “That’s- that’s kinda…” There was a lump in Dean’s throat.

“Tragic,” said Brenda.

A gigantic snort turned into a fit of helpless laughter. Sam’s whole face was creased up and he pointed at Dean and spluttered but didn’t manage any actual words.

Fucking hell.

“Oh, thanks,” said Dean. “Thanks so much for wringing out my poor, soft heart like a wet dishrag. Thanks a lot.”

“We trickled you!” Cas grinned and jiggled up and down. How could he recharge his batteries completely on a five-minute catnap? He slid down from Dean’s lap and danced around. “We trickled you! Like trickle-treating but you get no treat ’cos you’re a silly-billy!

“That doesn’t even make sense, Cas,” said Dean. “Anyway, I wasn’t tricked. I was just playing along.”

Cas ignored him. “We made you think there are haggis-nanimals! Little haggisies that run around going, squeak, squeak, squeak!” He ran up to Brenda, hand raised and received a triumphant high-five. Pongo woke up and leapt to his feet, barking.

Then Carlos came in and, once he'd got Pongo to stop barking, Cas had to tell him all about silly Dean and of course he thought it was hilarious.

Dean’s cheeks were hot. And he still felt kinda sorry for the haggises. “So, what is haggis really?”

Sam immediately left off his snorting laughter and sat up straight, lecture mode switched on. “Well, it’s got onion in, and oatmeal and some spices,” he said. “But mostly it’s sheeps’ insides – heart and liver and-”

“Hold it right there!” Dean flung up a hand. “Don’t tell me any more! I don’t want to know.”

“But you said-”

“I changed my mind.”

“I could tell you how they make the black pudding?”

“No!”

“Because, seriously, you’ve seen a lot worse.”

“On a hunt, Sammy. I’ve seen worse when it comes to monsters. And I don’t want any of that associated with my breakfast, thank you.” He patted the air, in a calming motion. “Just let me keep my ignorance, yeah? So I can enjoy my delicious meat.”

Cas started dancing up and down again, snorting and shouting, “I'm a lickle haggis!” Which made Pongo start barking again.

“Alright, alright! Take it outside,” said Brenda.

Cas stopped dancing. “Can we?” He looked at Dean, eyes big and hopeful. “I fought it was beddytime now.”

“It is,” said Dean.

“Beddytime,” Sam mumbled, behind his hand. Dean gave him a narrow-eyed glare. Because there'd be no making fun of his angel, once he was all grown up again.

“But maybe we can just head out for a couple of minutes. Just to burn off the last of your energy.” Where was it all coming from? That's what Dean wanted to know. Low-level angel grace? Or just little boy mischief?

“It’s a clear night,” said Carlos. “I'll turn off the lights so we can stargaze.”

“I'll put all the sun chairs out on the grass,” said Brenda. “And get some blankets.”

“Luxury star-gazing?” said Dean. “Awesome.”

Sam met his eyes, for all those times they'd sat on Baby's hood and watched the stars. Dean had always ended up with a stiff neck. But it had been worth it.

“Come on old man,” said his brother. “I'll give you a hand up.”

Dean let the old man go with the bare minimum of a scowl. He was so heavy, he was surprised Sammy could lift him and it was all he could do to resist slumping forward into the moose's great big chest and resting there for a bit.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Just weird,” said Dean, raising and lowering his heavy shoulders. Even the injured one didn't feel too stiff.

“I think that's called being relaxed,” said Sam.

Dean looked up at him. He’d get a crick in his neck looking up at his brother, never mind the Milky Way. Sam smiled. And the smile took years off, so that Dean could see the innocent little kid again that he’d done his damnedest to shelter from all of life's crap and, in the end, hadn’t been able to.

“C'mon, Dean. Let's go out.”

Sammy's rumbling murmur merged with the rustling of the night breeze in the trees. He’d always liked to know the proper names for things and could reel off stars and constellations, planets and comets, barely pausing for breath. Carlos was encouraging him, pointing out the ones he knew and asking questions about others, not that Sammy needed any encouragement.

Dean didn’t care that much about names. Only to know the names of monsters so he could find the best way to gank them, and even then he preferred it if his brother did the research. Making up names was fun, though, like the werepires and the vampirates. Vampirates. Awesome. He’d never bothered making up names for the stars, though.

Stars didn’t care if they had names. They didn’t care about anything. And when Dean looked up at them on a clear night like this, he felt like he understood more about creation and beauty and his place in the universe than he ever had when he’d looked at the actual face of the God that had created them… the total dick.

“There’s a fishy,” said Cas, pointing straight up. He lay on Dean, his head on his chest, his little bare feet wriggling about somewhere near Dean’s knees. A warm blanket covered them both.

“Is it?”

“Yes. And there’s a doggy like Pongo.” He pointed lower, nearer to where the horizon would be if it wasn’t completely dark.

“Yeah, I can see the spots,” said Dean. “Loadsa spots.”

Cas giggled. “What can you see, Dean?” He reached above his head to awkwardly cover Dean’s mouth. “Don’t say stars! Say what nanimals or fings you can see.” His little hand flipped away.

“Uhh.” Dean let his eyes wander about. What could he see in all the million billion stars? In all that infinite beauty? “There’s a piece of pie,” he said, pointing at his new constellation.

“What kind of pie?”

“Cherry.”

The little angel didn’t ask for more explanation, which was great because Dean didn’t have one. Some things just were. No explanation needed. “There’s a rabbit,” he said instead, pointing to the north, where, as far as he was concerned, there was a clear bunny-shaped outline.

“What’s it doing?”

“Hopping.”

“Bunnies hop,” Cas agreed, his little head rubbing against Dean’s chest as he nodded. He squirmed so that he could look over Dean’s right shoulder and then pointed. “That’s his carrot.”

Dean strained his neck to see. “Yeah. Definitely a carrot.”

“...Andromeda,” Sam was saying. “Between Pegasus and Cassiopeia.”

“The bunny's always chasing his carrot,” said Cas. “But he never catches it.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“No, Dean. ’Cos Jack would have to rearrange all the stars and that would make a mess.”

“Yeah. People’d get upset.”

“Sammy would get upset because then he’d have to learn different names for consh- consta- conshalations.”

“No he wouldn’t. He loves learning new stuff.”

Cas hummed and yawned.

“You wanna go in?”

The mop of dark hair shook. “Not yet. ’N-a-minute.” He yawned again. “Jack shouldn’t play wiv the stars,” he said sleepily. “They’re pwetty as they are.”

“No, Jack’s got enough on his plate,” said Dean. His throat twitched and a yawn rose up inside him, making Cas roll to one side as his chest expanded. He huffed out a satisfied breath and Cas settled back into place.

“Am I pwetty as I am?” asked Cas.

“You’re pretty every which way.”

“But I’m not a witch.”

Dean was too tired to roll his eyes. “Not what I meant.”

“I know. You’re pwetty too, Dean. Pwetty like a big, shiny star.”

“...Erraï and Erakis, Herschel’s Garnet Star…” Sam's voice was like a droning lullaby - comforting, if Dean would admit it, which he might.

He wrapped his arms around the little angel, who giggled. “What? Am I tickling?”

“No.” Cas squirmed and wriggled and rotated so that he was facing Dean, propped up on his elbows. He squirmed and wriggled some more so that he could whisper in Dean’s ear. “That big star that Sammy said – the Gannit Star. It's a vewwy silly one,” he said.

“Is it? How come?”

“Vewwy, vewwy silly. ’Cos Gabey said he’d make a star go big, big, bigger than anyfing, like blowing up a balloon. E’sept there weren’t balloons then. But he did it.” Cas pursed his lips like he was blowing up a balloon, but then grew himself, his cheeks rounding out and his arms flinging wide so that Dean had to hold him so he didn’t roll off. “He made it so big that uvver stars and planicks look teeny-tiny.” Cas giggled. “And he did some more, even bigger ones and he used to dance around them and sing that song.”

“What song?”

“The one about big balls.”

Dean snorted. A song about big balls? Although that did sound about right for Gabriel. “What song’s that? Oh, you mean Great balls of fire?”

“Yes. That’s the one.”

Dean looked up at the billions of stars, spread out in all their majesty and splendour and magnificence. And he imagined Gabe, massive himself in his true archangel form, jigging about, and singing.

He'd been more than a pain in the ass sometimes, that was for sure. But he'd been one of a kind, a hero in the end, and he'd certainly had his own, inimitable style.

So Dean sang, rumbling softly into Cas’s tiny ear:

You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain
Too much love drives a man insane
You broke my will, but what a thrill
Goodness gracious, great balls of fire.

And Cas giggled and joined in.

Chapter Text

“Are they okay down there?” Sam raised himself on his elbows, frowning at the riverbank next to the wooden bridge. “I can't see.”

“They’re okay,” said Dean. He filled his lungs and bellowed, “Cas? Everyone okay down there?”

A jumble of voices responded. Dean wasn’t sure if he could hear Cas's Yes, Dean, in amongst the chorus. He caught a couple of Yes, sirs, which definitely weren't Cas, and reminded him uncomfortably of his own quick-fire acknowledgement (or else) of Dad's orders. Dean wasn’t a sir, that was for damn sure. “They sound fine,” he said to Sam.

He closed his eyes again and pulled the straw hat (Brenda's) further over his face.

They were back on the beach, at last, and all evidence of the storm had gone. It seemed almost impossible that it had happened at all, except Dean’s shoulder was still, well, not exactly fucked - he wouldn’t go that far - but it didn’t take much to set it aching again. Brenda had given him some exercises, which he would do not because he was good at taking care of himself, but because everyone around him constantly nagged him to do them.

Anyway, he'd done his exercises today and was free to slack off and lie on one of the fully-reclined sun chairs that Carlos had brought down from his and Brenda’s garden. And doubly free to slack off because Cas was occupied with a bunch of other kids.

The bunch of kids had turned up early – making a row that Dean had been able to hear from the top chalet, where he and Sammy and Cas had been trying to have a peaceful breakfast – four of them, the oldest early teens, the youngest maybe eight. No adult to supervise, but Dean certainly wasn't judging that. The youngest of them was older than he’d been when he’d had to look after Sam, and a beach trip would have been a breeze for Dean. If only Dad had dumped them at the beach for a day. That would have been great. Except he would have left them a lot longer than that and Dean had a feeling that playing Robinson Crusoe wouldn’t have been much fun when it had started to get dark.

Anyway, no sooner had the noisy brats disturbed Dean’s bacon-trance, than Cas had dropped his fork and shoveled in his eggs and bacon with his hands, beating the land speed record for breakfast-eating (set by Dean Winchester in 1996). He’d pestered and hustled Sam and Dean down the path to set up their camp outside the hut, which was where they spent their days. Cas had wanted to sleep there too, but the big, soft beds in the chalet were too much of an attraction for Dean to turn down.

He'd been worried at first, when Cas had approached the bunch of strays, remembering the encounter with Connor and Katie. Would they turn Cas away? They might not want to be bothered with such a little kid, pink-and-fluffy Cloppy tucked under his arm as usual.

But Cas, his words whipped away by the sea breeze, had pointed to the river and the wild kids had looked at each other and then followed little Cas like a bunch of obedient ducklings. Cas had emerged from the cut once, charging into the hut and reappearing with a stack of the blue and white enamel plates.

He'd hustled past Sam and Dean – still setting up their chairs and the awning – intent on whatever the hell he was going to do with the plates. The other kids had looked a bit old for a pretend picnic, teddy bear’s tea party, whatever.

Dean wriggled to settle his body more comfortably into the padding. He took a deep breath of sea air, summer-warm with a cool salty edge.

Teddy bear’s tea party… Dean had met a teddy bear once; a depressed teddy bear, looking for something else in his furry life, something more than tea parties. But if the tea were beer and the cake were pie, Dean would be happy with that life, wouldn’t he? Happy and lazy, beer and pie.

Or a picnic. You could have beer and pie at a picnic too. A picnic with some cold beer and a few Scooby Doo size sandwiches. That’d be nice. And the pie. Peach. A summery peach pie.

The hot air was like a blanket, covering him up, tucking him in, warm and safe. Warm and safe and Sam was just over there and Cas was messing about in the river and he was fine. And the kids were fine – no yelling or smacking sounds of little fists on flesh and no splashing and screaming, so no one was drowning. Good enough. And good enough was good enough.

Warm and good enough and beer later and Scooby Doo. Nice.

But Sammy was talking, which shook Dean out of his drowsiness, just as he was falling into a nice doze too. For fuck’s sake. Tell a guy he should rest, and then keep waking him up. And again with the for fuck’s sake. But Sam had said something about Jack.

“Wha’? Wha’s that you saying?”

“I was just wondering when Jack will change Cas back.”

“Oh.”

“Because if he did it to give Cas time to heal – well, he’s doing pretty well now, isn’t he? He seems happy. So, maybe Jack will turn him back soon. Dean? What do you think?”

“Maybe.”

“He’ll probably need help with heaven. And I guess he’ll just want Cas around, you know. As a father figure. It’s what Cas always wanted too – to keep his promise to Kelly. Dean?”

A chill shivered across Dean’s skin, even though he was hot. In fact, he was too hot – stiflingly hot. So hot he could barely breathe. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the chair to sit facing the riverbank, away from Sam.

He stared at the gritty sand between his bare feet. There was a beetle wandering toward his toes. Tiny grains shifted.

Dean’s knuckles were white, fingers curled around the chair’s frame. Fight-fight-fight. But there was nothing to fight. No monster, no physical threat at all, unless you counted the sun, which was burning a hole in the crown of his head.

The chair creaked and tilted, threatened to tip up and then settled. Straw scratched at his forehead as Brenda’s hat was placed gently back on his head.

“You should keep that on,” said Sam. “Dean?”

The beetle climbed over his big toe and down the other side and headed toward his brother’s massive rowboats.

“Jack might not come for ages. Weeks. Months, even.” The moose cleared his throat, playing for time or words. “And Cas might not go with him.”

Dean’s shoulders twitched in a half-assed shrug. Why wouldn’t Cas go with him? He’d admitted he loved Dean to make the Empty come. But he’d promised Kelly. He had a duty to Jack. Dean wouldn’t get in the way of that, not when all of creation depended on their new god running things right for once. Or at least running heaven right and not sticking his messy paws in, playing with people like dolls.

Shit. Why couldn’t Sammy have just let him sleep? He’d be wandering in summer-picnic dreams now, where he and Cas were both teddy bears, heads so full of fluff they could just be happy and not think at all.

“Sorry,” said Sam. “I just… I just wanted you to think about what was coming.”

Yeah, thanks, Sammy. Thanks a whole bunch.

There was lip-chewing going on, and that pinched-up face. Dean could hear it without looking.

“I wanted you to think about what you want, Dean.”

“Doesn’t matter what I want.” The words came out without Dean’s say-so, husky and raw and as true as they’d ever fucking been. His choices might be his own now, but the way his life went still wasn’t always up to Dean. Other people had choices too.

“It does matter. Of course it matters.”

Dean shrugged the words off. “Cas has a job to do. I’m not gonna stop him.”

Then he was on his feet, crunching away over the grit, pricking his feet on the thistly plants, hurting them on the steep slope of pebbles, and then he was on the sand, striding swiftly toward the rocks and then switching his course to head the other way, because he didn’t want to end up at that fucking cave.

“Son of a bitch,” he said to the line of seaweed. Then he turned to face the ocean, waves meeting the sand again and again and again in frothing white surf. “Fucking son of a fucking bitch.”

His fists ached, his toes dug into the wet sand and his chest rasped salty air in and out of his tight throat.

Cas.

Should he fall to his knees like Charlton Heston and beat at the sand and scream? But no one had blown the world to hell - not on Dean’s watch. He hadn’t let them.

The breeze blustered in his face, flapping at the brim of his hat, driving the tears from his eyes. They ran down his cheeks, mingling with sweat.

The waves came in and in and in. And Dean stood, alone on the sand, watching them.

He could see up the cut that the little river had made when he made his sorry-ass way back up the beach. The kids were squatting, some either side, Cas and the youngest of the wild bunch mid-river, either in the water or perched on stones – Dean couldn’t tell. Either way, they were all focussed on their work, tin plates dipping in the water, swirling around for a while and then dipping back in. As Dean reached the pebbles (which he was a stupid fucking idiot to be going over barefoot again), the oldest kid let out a yell, her fist pumping the air, and all the others looked over. There was a flurry of chatter and then they got back to their work again.

Cute. Cas had got them into a game of panning for gold. Maybe they’d find a few coloured stones or bits of glass to take home.

This is a very interesting rock, Dean. The growly voice came out of Dean’s memory, the angel bending down to pick up some ugly chunk of rock. But then he would find rocks interesting, wouldn’t he? He’d probably seen them being made, boiling lava cooling in sheets and then getting bent up into mountains over millions of years, chunks breaking off and rolling around for another couple of aeons until Cas picked them up at the side of the road. In the grand scheme of things, Dean was less than an ugly chunk of rock. An insignificant scrap of dirt.

He'd earn himself a head tilt for that kind of self-loathing. Not a confused head-tilt, but the type that was a tight-mouthed reprimand, accompanied by a soft, growly, Dean.

Which brought him back to the main point - what Dean thought, what he wanted, didn’t matter. Because even if Cas thought he was a rock interesting enough to keep, the angel still had things to do that would pull him away from Dean.

Wincing, he reached the top of the pebble bank. He couldn’t see the kids any more, but a car horn sounded through the trees and they appeared, scrambling up the side of the river bank. Mom or Dad had decided to come back for them, then.

“I don’t wanna go home,” said the youngest one. His shorts had river slime on them and one knee was scraped.

“Maybe Mom’ll let us come again,” the oldest said. “She has to work most of the summer.”

“You can come back and get more gold,” said Cas. “And then your Mommy won’t have to work.”

One of the middle kids, a girl with messy braids, reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of grit. “It’s not really gold, though, is it, Cas? But it is pretty.”

“Hold out your hands,” said Cas. “You’ve been good gold miners so now you get paid.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” said the other middle one, saluting.

“That’s sea-captains, silly.”

“You can have mining captains.”

“You don’t say aye aye to a mining captain.”

“How do you know?”

The horn sounded again, loud and long.

“Quick!” said Cas. “Line up!”

The kids obeyed their captain, held out their hands and Cas went down the line, digging pebbles out of his pockets and dropping them in. Then, with a babble of thank yous, they tore off along the path to the parking lot.

“Bye bye miners,” said Cas. He turned around. “Dean!”

Dean caught the missile headed his way and hauled Cas up into his arms, holding him close. His shoulder protested, so he got his other arm under Cas’s butt and Cas held on to him, face close-up to Dean’s.

The blue eyes reflected the sky which made them even bluer. Dean blinked.

“You’re sad,” said little Cas. “Why are you sad, Dean?”

“I’m okay, squirt,” said Dean. “Did you have fun, playing with the other kids?”

The head-tilt said he knew Dean was deflecting, and wasn’t impressed. “Yes, fank you. We found lots of gold.”

“D’you keep any? We could do with some gold.”

“Just one piece. I gave the rest to the childruns.” He reached into his pocket and held out his hand, palm curled around a knobbly bit of rock. Dean looked at it. He squatted so he could put Cas down and picked up the little chunk between his thumb and forefinger. Then he weighed it in his hand. Did it have more weight than a normal pebble would? No. No way.

“It’s not really gold, though. Is it, Cas?”

The little head nodded. “Yes, Dean, it is, ’cos angels know lots about rocks and fings and I knowed where to dig a little bit in the bottom of the river, ’cos all the rocks and pebbles have different…” – he wiggled his fingers next to one ear – “like voices, only not voices. But I can find them.”

“Ooookay.” Maybe the kids’ Mom wouldn’t have to work the whole summer after all. “Well. I’m glad you had a good time.”

A tall shadow moved across Cas’s hand, holding the actual probably-real gold nugget. “Dean, is that…?”

“Goldy-gold,” said Cas, casually. He put it back in his pocket and took a deep breath, blue eyes wide and trained directly on Dean’s. “Tomorrow is my birfday,” he said.

The extra roundness of his eyes and the jutting set of his soft jawline said several important things, or at least they did if you were Dean. Firstly, that Cas knew very well that he didn’t really have a birthday – he’d been around since before there were actual days at all – but that he didn’t care and had decided he was having one anyway. His expression also said that he reserved the right to have his birthday on a different day next year, or in fact whenever he felt like it. Dean swallowed. His angel could have three hundred and sixty five birthdays a year if he had them with Dean.

“So, what are we talking here - balloons, party games, cake?”

“Yes,” said Cas, simply. “’Cos it’s my birfday and those are birfday fings. And I’ve never had a birfday before.”

“Okay, then,” said Dean. “Well, you should definitely have one.” His stomach growled emptily, which wasn’t surprising seeing as he’d missed out on lunch, angsting about on the beach all by himself. Time to set that crap aside and enjoy the time he had with his little angel. “I’m hungry. Shall we make some dinner?”

Cas nodded. “Miners need lots and lots of burgies and dogs, Dean!”

Sam groaned. “Not again.”

They cooked burgers and hot dogs over the fire outside the hut. His brother insisted on corn cobs too, which was fine, even though the bits got stuck in Dean’s teeth, and salad, which wasn’t fine.

Sam regarded his lettuce-stuffed burger without much enthusiasm. “Could we maybe have something else tomorrow? We’ve had the same thing every day since I got here.”

“That’s not true,” said Dean. “We had pizzas the night you arrived.”

“And tomorrow’s my birfday,” said Cas, mustard and ketchup running down his chin and dripping on his shirt (orange, with a smiley mouse and a wedge of holey cheese.) “We’ll have lots and lots of birfday food. Little teeny sandwiches,” – he made a high squeaky voice – “and big, big, pieces of cake,” – his voice deepened as much as a three-year-old’s could. “And lots of uvver fings that are nice and tasty. We’ll have to go shopping!”

“We’ll go in the morning,” said Dean. He sat back and patted his stomach. “I think that’s me done.”

“Me too,” said Cas, licking his fingers. “Now we need to go down to the ocean!”

This had become a nightly ritual. And Sammy could roll his eyes if he wanted – Dean had caught him tearing up and doing that squishy, soppy smile every time. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The sun was still a way over the horizon, but Cas had had a busy day and Dean would be happy to put him to bed in Sam’s chalet and get in some TV time, especially if there was some Dr Sexy on.

Cas held his hand as they picked their way down over the pebbles (flip-flops on this time – no bruised feet) and over the sand to the frilly edges of the waves. They all kicked off their footwear and Sammy didn’t even pretend he didn’t want to. And they stood in a row, Cas in the middle, hands linked, and looked out at the yellow-orange path over the ocean, and dug their toes into the sand.

Sometimes Dean said it, sometimes Sam. But tonight it was Cas who said it first.

“Sand beteen our toes, Dean and Sammy. Sand beteen our toesies.”

Hands were squeezed. Dean pretended not to get choked up. They’d waited so long for this. They’d fought so hard. And Dean still struggled to believe that all three of them had, in the end, made it - Team Free Will.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Sand between our toes.”

Cas’s legs waggled backward and forward and his little body jigged up and down as if he were riding a horse, not sitting in the kidseat of a shopping cart.

“You have to get everyfing I say, ’cos it’s my birfday!” he declared.

Dean held the trolley with his arms straight so he didn’t get kicked. “How old are you?”

The small face screwed up and the blue eyes rolled up toward the bright striplights of the superstore. “Um…” Cas laughed. “Can’t ’member,” he said. “Weely, weely oldy-old!” He leant forward and whispered. “Let’s pwetend I’m four now.”

“Okay, four years old today. You got it.”

“’Cept maybe it’s four million. Or four billion! Or four-”

“Hold it right there, cowboy.” Dean stopped pushing next to a display of red and green apples. “My brain don’t go any further than that.”

Cas giggled. “Where’s Sammy?” He twisted around.

“Sammy!” Dean bellowed, earning himself some disapproving glances from other shoppers.

From behind one of the waist-height displays, his brother appeared to grow out of nowhere. “They have an amazing selection of fresh herbs here, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to stick your whole head in them. People might mistake you for a hairy herb!” He caught Cas’s eye and grinned. Never miss an opportunity to make fun of Sammy’s hair - a rule for life. And he scored an eye roll and pissy expression, so - job well done.

“Sammy!” Cas sat up straight and glared. “Come here! You have to do as I say today and put everyfing I say into the cart!”

Sammy played up to the role nicely, bowing and wringing his hands and humbly mumbling.

“Mumbly, humbly,” muttered Dean. “Humble mumbler.”

“Dean!”

“Yes! What?”

“Pay attention.” His voice was as growly as a three- no, four year old could go, and Dean got the narrow-eyed glare of an angel about to go smitey too. “I want some grapes and some bewwies.” The eyes narrowed even further. “But not goosegogs.”

“No gooseberries. Right you are.”

Cas was having a great time. And so was Dean. He wasn’t sure about Sam, who’d never been as much into role-playing, even though he’d been in an actual stage play, that one time in high school.

A costume would have been nice - a footman’s uniform, like Cas was a royal prince, or maybe Dean could have a kind of aladdin outfit - a little embroidered vest and some billowy short pants - so the kid could be a grand sultan. Either way, Dean and Sam were definitely the bowing minions and Cas was the one giving the orders.

They were getting the stink-eye from an old gal with her grey hair in a bun, who looked like she hadn’t spared the rod in her time and didn’t see why anyone else shouldn’t do the same. And a young Mom with one kid in the cart and an older one in tow had stared at them – whether in admiration at Dean’s cool parenting style or horror at the way he was spoiling his kid, Dean wasn’t sure.

“That’s too many vegables, Sammy! Put some back!”

“Cas, vegetables are good for you.”

“Servants don’t argue,” said Cas. He smirked. “Or I hafta punish you!”

Sam reluctantly put back one of his fancy lettuces.

“Now we need balloons and lots of party fings and a great, big cake!”

“And pie,” said Dean.

“No!” said Cas, crossing his arms and tipping up his chin. “Cake isn’t for birfdays, so you’re not allowed!”

The little angel immediately dropped his role, gripping the handle of the trolley and leaning forward. “I didn’t mean it, Dean. You can have pie really,” he whispered. “‘Cos you can be a naughty servant and sneak it in when I’m not looking.”

“Oh, I get it. Okay, I’ll be real naughty.”

The cart was full by the time they approached the checkout and Cas was pink-cheeked and sparkly-eyed with all the play-acting. They joined the line, next to a display of flowers and pot plants.

“I want that too, Dean! Bring it to me at once!”

“What?” Dean followed the pointing finger to a tall plant with weird-shaped orange flowers.

“Hey, that’s a Bird of Paradise plant,” said Sam, shambling up and sneaking his fancy lettuce back into the cart.

“I want it,” said Cas. The little angel gave a flicker of a wink.

Jeez. He wasn’t going to play-act a whole tantrum, was he? “I don’t think that’d fit inside Baby, Cas.”

“But I want it! And what Castiel wants, Castiel gets!” He folded his arms and gave Dean his best down-the-nose glare. Which was real cute with the little button nose and hair flopping in his eyes.

“Young man, you shouldn’t speak to your Daddy like that!”

Oh, shit. Iron-bun woman had joined the line behind them. Sammy pushed his way past Dean, putting his brother between himself and the threat, the big wussy.

“Why not?” demanded Cas.

“Because it isn’t polite!” Dean was treated to some thin-lipped disapproval. “Your boy is going to grow up wild if you don’t discipline him.”

Cas hung out of the side of the cart so he could see around Dean.

“Look, lady, we’re just playing-”

“When you get to Hell, Mrs Lady, could you say heyo to Wowena, ’cos she’s my fwend?”

Shit.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Wowena. She’s the Queen of Hell and she’s my fwend. And when you go to Hell for being mean and horrid to all those childruns you could say heyo. From me. Fank you.”

Now they were in for it. Cue the outrage. But instead, she began to flap and flutter.

“Children? I don’t know what you mean. I’ve only ever done my Christian duty.”

Dean’s neck prickled with unease. Glancing left and right, he could see faces turned toward the scene, like a little pool of listening stillness in the checkout lines.

Cas did a little pouty shrug. “Hurting childruns wiv a big stick isn’t nice, lady.”

“Oh!” She let go the handle of her cart and, her face draining of colour, both hands drifted upward until her fingertips touched her cheeks. “But- but the Bible-”

“The best bits of the Bible are where it says peoples are s’posed to be nice to each uvver. Didn’t you read those bits? Mrs Tanner?”

Whoa. If Dean hadn’t known Cas, he’d be freaked out by now. Those big angel eyes were shiny-bright, and not just from the reflected striplights.

“How- how do you know my name?”

Cas smiled, a cheery, little-boy smile. “Angels know lots of fings,” he said. Then he looked up at Dean. “I don’t really want that plant, Dean. They look better in the jungle anyway. Where the lickle monkeys wiv black faces live.”

“I guess they probably do,” said Dean, not sure what else to say. The lines to either side were full of shifty glances, mostly directed at Mrs Tanner, who had abandoned her cart and was pushing her way out through the crowded store. From somewhere, Dean caught the words all those foster kids and shuddered. “Did she really hurt kids, Cas?”

The little angel nodded. “Yes, Dean. She did.”

“Oh.”

Tiny fingers brushed his cheek and he looked up from his own hands gripping the cart handle and found Cas’s eyes still on him. “Don’t be sad, Deany. Lots of peoples are nice and good too. You’re nice.”

“I’ve done some bad shit, Cas.”

Cas’s mouth twisted, but his eyes didn’t leave Dean’s. “We’ve all done bad shit, Dean.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Hey!” Sammy’s pissy voice snapped Dean out of his and Cas’s bubble. “Are you guys gonna help at all with this?”

He was chucking their stuff onto the conveyor in a big jumble.

“Put all the fridge stuff together, Sammy.” Dean elbowed his brother out of the way and Sammy elbowed back.

“Oh, I didn’t realise there was a Dean Winchester way to organise groceries.”

“No, there’s just a right way.”

Nice. You could always rely on Sammy to create a diversion, and two grown men fighting over their grocery shopping might not quite match up to an avenging kid-angel in the eyes of the local shoppers, but they’d give it a go.

You can’t put raw sausage next to lettuce, Sammy!”

“I wasn’t going to, Dean!”

“Yeah, well you coulda fooled me, Sammonella!”

“Oh, ha ha, says the poster child for food hygiene. How old was that burger, Dean? The one that came back to visit?”

“There was nothing growing on that burger, Sam. It looked and smelt fine.”

“Oh. No. I forgot. It was stomach flu, wasn’t it? Quite a coincidence!”

“Yeah? Well how about that Earthquake Salad Shake crap? More like Assquake bathroom shake!”

Sam spluttered. “That was nothing to do with the salad!”

“Oh, so just your normal rankness then?”

“Dean!” There was a tug on his sleeve. “Dean, the lady wants you to pay.”

The checkout girl was shooting daggers at them. “Cash or card, sirs?” Assholes, she meant.

Dean gave her his best winning smile, which did nothing to blunt the weapons heading their way. “Card, please,” he said meekly.

“Well, that was one fine birthday picnic, Cas,” said Carlos, wiping his mouth on a Bugs Bunny paper napkin. “Thank you very much for inviting us.”

The breeze caught the coloured scrap and it flung out like a little flag. Carlos stuffed it in his pocket. The awning flapped and cracked and the attached bunches of balloons bounced and bobbed against each other. Gusts of campfire smoke stung Dean’s eyes.

Pongo woofed his own thanks.

“Fank you for coming,” said Cas. “You’re vewwy welcome, Pongo. I’m glad you liked the sojusses.”

Brenda pushed the pink sparkly crown further back on his head. “I think I’ve had too much cake.” His chair dug further into the gritty sand as he turned around to look down over the beach. “I might need a walk to work it off a bit.”

“There was a lot of fwosting,” said Cas. He regarded his sticky hands, sucking the tip of one finger thoughtfully. “I like fwosting.”

“I think you’ve had enough for today, little guy,” said Dean. “You don’t want to get sick on your birthday.”

Cas squinched his eyes up, like his eyes were stinging too. “Can lickle angels get sick?” He looked at Dean, smiling like a lightbulb had gone off in his head. “I could try eating and eating and eating to see what happens.”

“Hey, no - have you forgotten the gooseberries already? That wasn’t much fun, was it?”

“Oh. No. My tummy hurted a lot.” His shoulders fell. “Oh well. Never mind.”

Sam emerged from the hut, his paper plate laden with another large piece of cake.

“Leave some for the rest of us!” said Dean.

“Dean, that cake’s huge. There’s enough for us to keep going all evening if we wanted.”

“Well, we don’t want. We already had that discussion.”

Sam sat down, the old plastic chair creaking warningly. His eyes brightened as he dug his fork into the squishy cake. Paw Patrol. Designed to be enough for about fifty kids. Or one moose.

“We could have anuvver game of pin the tail on the Sammy,” Cas suggested.

Frowning, Sam shook his head and swallowed his mouthful of cake. “No, we couldn’t. I’m done being the donkey for today. It’s Dean’s turn.” He scooped up another forkful of cake, muttering, “He’s an ass every day,” which Dean thought was very weak. Not even worthy of a rejoinder. Yet.

Carlos groaned as he got to his feet. “Well, I agree with my better half. A walk to work some of it off would be good.”

“You might just work up an appetite for more,” said Dean.

“I can live with that.”

Brenda got up and slid his arm through Carlos’ “Will you folks join us? Then we can help with the clear-up when we get back.”

“That’s okay,” said Dean. The loose edge of the awning cracked in another sharp gust. “We’d better clear up before it all blows away. It’s okay, you go ahead and have your romantic walk in the sunset.”

Carlos and Brenda looked at each other with little soft smiles and hearts in their eyes. And suddenly, Cas slid down from his seat and ran up to them, flinging his arms around their legs. Probably leaving sticky little handprints all over them. He tipped his head back to look up at them, still clinging tight. “Fank you,” he said. He reached out one hand to pat Pongo’s head. And then he said, “I wuv you, Carlos. I wuv you, Brenda. And I wuv you, Pongo.”

That made the two men even more mushy. Misty eyes were wiped. Pongo whined. “We love you too, little Castiel.”

Then they turned and scrunched over the grit and clumped down the bank of the pebbles, waving over their shoulders before they reached the hard sand below.

Pongo poked his nose into Cas’s stomach and made a sad little whistling sound. “It’s awight, Pongo.” Cas kissed the top of his head. “You go and play.” The dog licked his face and then turned and, with a howling bark, he galloped after Carlos and Brenda.

They were still holding hands, silhouetted against the fading blue of the evening sky, streaked with pink and orange, like a movie backdrop. There was even a single bright star, low down toward the horizon. A house by the beach and a life full of love - Dean was glad his friends had that. And he was glad he’d helped make a world where some people could be happy, if they were lucky, if they made good choices. Even if he might not get that chance, in the end.

“Okay!” Dean clapped his hands together and stood up. “Let’s get this clean-up on the road.” Sam and Cas stared at him. “What?” Sammy’s eyebrows waggled, his head jerked somewhere over Dean’s shoulder. Oh, they weren’t staring at him.

“Hello!”

Dean turned around, and he stared too.

“Heyo, Jack,” said Cas.

Chapter Text

Jack was holding Cas, the little angel’s arms wrapped around his neck. And Sam was standing up, smiling, giving a brief one-armed hug around both of them, then stepping back.

They were all smiling, all talking at once.

Talking, talking, talking - Cas’s high-pitched chatter, Sam’s soft, deep murmuring, and Jack’s characteristic measured brightness, each word used with care, as if his words meant more than anyone else’s; which they did.

Dean couldn’t move.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t think.

The only things in his head were the scene in front of him and another scene, back in the bunker, when Jack had appeared, and he’d said, “Take him, Dean.” And Dean had. Dean had taken the tiny angel.

He had taken him then and he wanted to keep him now - big, small; angel or not; cursed or not he’d said once. He’d have Cas any way he could and keep him close, for always and forever.

Cas slid out of Jack’s arms.

And Jack approached Dean, one hand raised in a wave. “Hello, Dean.”

He stopped, facing Dean directly, looking at him, and in him, and through him, his expression so open and innocent, even though he wasn’t, couldn’t be innocent anymore. Or perhaps he always would be. Perhaps that was the best way to be, if you were God.

“Hey, kid,” said Dean. He cleared his throat. “Good to see you.” Because it was. It was always good to see Jack, who he’d feared and been ready to kill, but loved like a son. So he hugged him, wrapping his arms around and being wrapped in return. Then he pulled away, his hands lingering on the kid/God’s shoulders for a moment. “Huh,” said Dean, patting black fabric before sticking his hands in his pockets. “Awesome shirt.”

“Thank you,” said Jack. He looked down at his outfit. “I didn’t think the white suit was me. So I’m experimenting.”

He had on a black Zepp shirt, the Icarus Rising one that Dean used to have before it had got shredded on a hunt. Beneath that he wore black skinny jeans (too skinny, Dean thought) and a sturdy pair of brown hunter-style boots. What really set the outfit off, however, was a very short, frilly net skirt thing in layers of red and blue.

“Nice, uh…” Dean flicked a hand at the netting.

“Thank you,” said Jack again. “I like the way it…” - he fluffed both sides out and jumped in place so that the skirt flared up and down. “But I’m not sure about the colours.” He ran his fingertips over the fabric and the red changed to green and the blue to yellow. He looked up at Dean. “It’s fun. Finding out different ways to be me. Don’t you think?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess.” Was that what he and Cas had been doing these past weeks? Finding out different ways to be themselves?

The balloons on the awning bobbled together in the breeze. He and Sam hadn’t tidied up.

“Uh, you want some cake?”

Jack smiled. “Yes, thank you, Dean. I would love some cake.”

“Okay, sit down. I’ll get you some.”

Jack sat down in one of the old, stained plastic chairs. Dean went into the hut, and behind him his brother, his son/god and his little angel picked up their chat.

It was warmer in the hut, the air dry and still. Cas had left Cloppy on the couch. Dean picked her up and put her down again. The voices outside blended together like three layers of a song, like the bass guitar, the lead and the singer. Like John Paul, Jimmy and Robert. Would Dean be John Bonham, bashing away on his drum kit?

He shook himself, his breath catching on a sob. Shit. He was holding a knife; a knife, his hand firm on the grip, as it had been so many, many times. But the knife was blunt, because there was no monster to be killed here, no corpse slumped beneath his bloody hand, unless you counted the sticky, messy corpse of the birthday cake.

Jack wanted some cake. So Dean would get him some. And Jack would eat it and he’d smile and then he’d say good-bye with his awkward wave, and he’d take Cas away.

The knife shook. Dean’s free hand rested on the edge of the cold stovetop.

The cake was too big, really, for just the three of them, or even for four. Its foil-covered board completely covered the work surface of the tiny kitchen - a tiny kitchen in a tiny home, the only home Dean and Cas had ever had together, just the two of them.

And now he was here, in this moment, where it was all coming to an end.

Zepp played in his head. Since I’ve been loving you, I’m about to lose my worried mind. Dean’s favourite band wasn’t always a safe place to go, when his thoughts were spiralling away from hard truths. The words, the pain in the music - it didn’t take away his own pain, but matched it, made him feel it more.

A heavy wet splat fell and blurred a smear of frosting, clearing the way to the shiny silver below.

Oh my tears they fell like rain. Don’t you hear them? Don’t you hear them falling?

Was this it? Was this all Dean got? A few days, a couple of weeks and then – what? It was over?

He wiped his eyes roughly on the sleeve of his shirt. His shirt. Not Eileen’s, but his, because Jody and Eileen had packed up his stuff and given it to Sammy, and Cas had chosen the shirt this morning - one of Dean’s oldest, most worn-down flannels. It’s soft, Dean, he’d said. I like it when you wear soft things.

Cas had insisted on wearing his mouse shirt again today, so Dean had done his best to get the ketchup stain out. Would the angel go back to his badly-fitting suit and his old trenchcoat when Jack changed him back? Would he miss his bright clothes and his sandals? Would he miss Dean?

Yes. Of course he would miss Dean. He’d said he loved him, hadn’t he? As a man and as a child, he’d said he loved Dean, and Dean didn’t doubt the truth of that – he was loved. He was loved by an angel. And he loved the angel in return. Like a plot from a seventies sitcom, or an ancient myth carved in stone - Dean Winchester, the man who fell in love with an angel.

But Jack had given Cas to Dean to look after, just for a short time, so that Cas could heal. So that he could be a simple kid, playing and learning to be happy. And he was happy now, wasn’t he? Yes, said Cas’s laughter, drifting in through the door of the hut, and the flutter of little hands clapping. Yes, he was happy. And Dean had helped to give him that happiness.

But no, said Dean’s heart. A desperate no, not without me. He couldn’t be happy without Dean, could he? Cas needed him. Cas still slept with him at night and Dean held him close as soon as he felt those little twitches and heard the soft whimpering that meant the little angel’s dreams were haunted by darkness and fear.

Dean still needed Cas, that was for damn sure. But he didn’t own him. Little Cas was Castiel, after all. He was a huge celestial being of light and energy and now, thanks to Dean, love. And if he could spread that light and love around heaven and earth, then he should. He shouldn’t limit himself to Dean’s little ant-speck of existence.

Dean sniffed and cleared his throat and wiped his eyes again. His own prayer had been the trigger for getting Cas back. But ultimately, this little vacation had never been about Dean. It had been about Cas, healing. And Cas was healed. So. Man up, Winchester.

He took a long, slow breath. He wiped his face on his sleeve again. And then Dean Winchester cut a slab of cake for God, scooped it up on the blade of the knife and slapped it onto a plate. He pulled a fork from the drawer and put that on the plate too, because maybe Jack would want to get his hands covered in frosting, and maybe he wouldn’t.

Dean stepped outside, holding the plate. Cas was chattering and waving his arms.

“And the wavies came up this high! And I was vewwy fwickened.”

Dean handed the plate to Jack, who took it with a smile and immediately stuck a finger into the thickest part of the frosting.

“But I knew Dean would wescue me,” said Cas. “And Dean came and he did wescue me!”

Dean sat down in Carlos’s chair as a tight throat-clearing drew his eyes to his brother. “I have to ask – why send a storm, Jack?” Sammy’s shoulders twitched and he shifted in his chair. “I mean – maybe I’m wrong to assume omniscience, but I would have thought you’d know – what was happening. And,” – another rough throat-growl – “maybe you would have done something to – I don’t know – help?”

There was steel behind Sam’s hesitance. Anger, even. Ah, the old Winchester protective streak.

Jack sucked the frosting off his finger. He tapped at the edge of his plate, fingernails chink, chink, chinking softly. He looked at Sam with a half-smile. “I didn’t send the storm, Sam. I don't “micromanage” Earth’s weather.” Frosting-covered fingers made air-quotes. “I could have stopped it. Of course I could. But then what? All that energy has to go somewhere. If I stop a storm in Oregon, then there might be a Tsunami in Japan. I could save two lives and lose thousands.”

Sam chewed his lip. “But you’re God. You should be able to just… deal.”

Jack pursed his lips. For a moment he stared at his boots. Hunter’s boots, just like Dean’s. And for a moment, Dean could see through the layer of innocence to the knowledge beneath. Jack had changed. It wasn’t always obvious, but he had changed. That’s what you get for becoming God.

Eventually, Jack looked up. “You’ve seen what happens when God is selfish, Sam. Chuck played with you two like dolls, because you were his favourites, in his twisted way. You’re my favourites too. You two and Castiel. I love you. You know that, don’t you? But manipulating events to protect you would be as bad as manipulating events to bring you to harm. Do you see?”

Sam hummed, shrugging his moose shoulders grudgingly. Of course he saw. He’d told Dean about that butterfly effect thing loads of times. But it wasn’t just weather that Jack had control of. It was everything. He could change everything if he wanted. Mostly he didn’t, though. Except…

“You didn’t mind manipulating the Empty,” said Dean. “To get Cas back.”

“No.” Jack nodded slowly. Then he picked up the fork and dug it into his cake. “But that is between me and the Empty.” His eyes crinkled mischievously as he impaled a large chunk of cake and posted it into his mouth, his eyes on Dean, challenging.

It wasn’t a challenge Dean was going to take up. It looked like that was all he was going to get, anyway. And he didn’t need an explanation, and wasn’t sure why he’d brought up the subject – except maybe to push Jack into saying exactly what his intentions were for Cas. A nice bit of self-sabotage. Dean always had to push and push until he got the crap that he felt was coming to him.

“This is delicious cake,” said Jack. “Paw Patrol. I like Paw Patrol. Pups at Work. Or Protect and Wag.”

Jack-the-kid was back and Jack the unknowable God had gone, or at least He was hidden somewhere behind that innocent gaze and the floppy fall of brown hair.

“I like Paw Patrol,” said Cas. “And Animaninacs. And lotsa fings.” He squirmed around in his chair raising each arm and looking under them and then over his shoulder. “Cloppy’s not here,” he said. “Dean, where’s Cloppy?”

“Inside. On the couch.”

“I get her.” Cas slid down from his seat and scuttled into the hut, reappearing a moment later with Cloppy in her usual place, tucked under one arm. He held her out to Jack. “This is my horsey called Cloppy,” he said. “She’s my fwend.”

Jack put his empty plate down on the sand and took the toy. “Hello, Cloppy,” he said. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“I wescued Cloppy when she was lost,” said Cas. “And she sits in the cart wiv me when we go shopping. And she plays wiv me and she snuggles wiv me at night. And wiv Dean.”

Sam snorted.

“And she’s my bestest lickle fwend. Dean is my bestest big fwend. And Sammy,” he added. He took Cloppy back from Jack and cuddled her close to his chest. “I wuv her vewwy much.”

Earlier, at the store, he’d been big, powerful Castiel in a little boy’s body, scaring the pants off that woman. Now he was in kid-mode, his speech at its most baby-cute.

“I can see that you do,” said Jack.

“Vewwy much,” repeated Cas, with a glower. Then he ran to Dean and climbed up onto his lap, shoving Cloppy between them and hanging off Dean’s neck.

Dean slid his arms around the little boy and held him close, while he still could.

The wind rustled in the trees that lined the little valley behind the hut. Dean could hear the waves too, long runs of rushing water up the beach and then a slow slide back. He’d watched them for hours yesterday, kneeling on the beach, his knees abraded by the tiny crystals of sand.

Jack would stand up, any second now, and say that it was time to go. Maybe he’d change Cas back right in front of Dean and Sam. Or maybe not, because that would be a bit like making Cas change clothes in public, except worse.

Maybe it’d hurt. Dean hoped it wouldn’t hurt Cas, even if it would hurt him, when Cas was back to his adult form and he went off to do whatever Jack needed him to do. He squeezed the little body in his arms and pushed his face into the mop of dark hair.

“Oh.”

Dean looked up at Jack’s exclamation. Here it was then. He’d say it was time to go. But instead the boy God was looking down at the circle of stones, surrounding black embers, where they’d cooked burgers and sausages for a good few days in a row.

“It’s starting to get dark,” he said. “We should have a campfire!”

Then suddenly flames were dancing in the circle and wood was crackling and spitting cheerfully. Jack grinned at him and Dean tried to smile back.

“I’ve never had a campfire before. You took me fishing, but we never had time to camp.”

“No,” said Dean. “No, I guess we didn’t.”

Cas wriggled around in his lap and the orange light reflected in his wide eyes. And off the faint dampness on his cheeks. He looked up at Dean, heaved a big sigh and then turned his face to the flames again. Was he as confused as Dean? He was heavy on Dean’s lap, slumping into his chest more and more, just a tired kid at the end of his birthday, worn out by excitement. Or maybe like a tired angel at the end of being a kid. Who the hell knew? Hope and fear and love and pain and all kinds of shit were a tangled mass inside Dean’s head.

Of course, he could just ask. He could just come right out with it and say, What now? When are you going to take him? Will he come visit? Will I ever see him again? Will I never see him again?

He took a steadying breath. Okay. He’d just ask, then. He’d just go ahead and put it right out there.

“We could sing campfire songs,” said Jack. “Do you know any? Sam? Dean?”

Sam cleared his throat, his expression far too tense for someone sorting through their massive card-index brain for silly songs. Was he psyching himself up too?

“Uh, Jack…” Sammy gave his throat the usual rasping treatment. Dean swallowed a painful gulp. “So, I, uh… we were wondering-”

“What happens now?” Dean blurted.

Jack looked at him, blankly. “We… sing? Isn’t that right?” He looked at Sam and then back at Dean. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Around a campfire?”

Fuck. Why couldn’t he just take the hint? Why did it have to be so damn hard?

“I mean, what happens-”

“Oh, hey - you’ve got a visitor!” It was Carlos’ voice. He and Brenda stepped within the circle of light. Dean hadn’t realised it had gotten quite so dark.

“Hello!” said Jack, standing up and waving.

Dean stood up wearily, sliding Cas around to perch on his hip. He wished he was in his soft bed up in the chalet, in the dark and the quiet, with Cas tucked against his side and not a single thought in his head. But here were his two friends again, when earlier it had seemed like Cas knew things were coming to an end and was saying his goodbyes. And so Dean had to hold himself together a bit longer and bite back the question that he didn’t want to ask and definitely didn’t want to be answered.

Carlos and Brenda were still holding hands. They must’ve watched the sun set over the ocean, hand in hand. Brenda’s curls were messy, falling forward into his face.

Dean introduced them. Then with a scratch of claws, two eyes reflected firelight and then a wet nose glinted as the dog sniffed his way into the scene. “And that’s Pongo.” Nose to the ground, Pongo sniffed around his owners’ feet and then sniffed across the sand until he met Jack’s boots.

Jack crouched down. Pongo sat back on his haunches and offered a paw, which Jack shook. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Pongo.” He looked up at the two kind-of-human newcomers, the firelight splashing over his face. Did his eyes light up gold for just a split second? Dean wasn’t sure. Jack smiled. “Oh!” Then he spouted a whole string of gobbledigook.

Brenda immediately glued himself to Carlos’ side, his face taking on a rabbit-in-the-headlights stiffness. He mumbled a couple of words to Jack that Dean couldn’t decipher. Then said, “I don’t remember much of the Gaelic. It’s been a long time.”

Jack stood up. “But you’re one of the doonyah shee! Aren’t you?”

There’d be some crazy spelling, but that’s what it sounded like. Even Sammy had taken a while to get his head around Irish and Scottish Gaelic spelling, which Dean took every opportunity to remind him of. Sam-hain, indeed. When it was supposed to be said sown or something. But Brenda was looking very uncomfortable.

“And you’re…” – Jack narrowed his eyes at Carlos – “You’re a witch!” he said, as if he’d guessed the right answer in a board game. “Do you know Rowena?”

“Dean, who is this?”

Their hosts had both taken a step back, and looked like they were about to turn tail and run off into the darkness.

“It’s okay, guys. It’s just Jack. He’s… he’s a friend.” They didn’t look particularly reassured. “Seriously, he’s solid. You don’t need to worry.”

A nice, friendly evening was quickly going to shit. The two guys looked terrified.

“He’s a hunter,” said Carlos.

“No, he’s something else,” said Brenda, backing further away. “He’s… glowing.”

Glowing? Jack wasn’t glowing. Not that Dean could tell, anyway. Thank fuck Jack was still smiling, though. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d reacted badly to what he saw as a threat, to himself, or more often to his loved-ones.

“I’m not a hunter,” said Jack. “Well, I was for a while. But I’m God now.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Okay, that’s enough,” said Dean, hitching Cas higher up his hip. Someone had to take control of this situation and, as usual, that someone was just gonna have to be Dean, even if he did still want to hide in bed with his head under the pillow. “Everyone just sit down and… chill.” He looked at the witch and the fairy, who had become his friends, both of them wide-eyed and white-faced. “You have my word - you’re safe. Jack’s one of the good guys.” He turned to the god in question. “And you – you’re supposed to stay undercover. What are you thinking of, Jack, telling these nice guys that you’re God? They don’t want to get mixed up in the whole Winchester shit storm.”

Jack smiled broadly. Fuck. Sometimes it seemed like the kid didn’t even have the sense he was born with. “You called me a Winchester! Am I really a Winchester, Dean?”

“Of course you’re a goddamn Winchester!” There was a sharp tug on his collar.

“Am I a Wincherstester, Dean?”

“Yes! Yes, Cas, you are! Everyone’s a goddamn Winchester if I goddamn say so! Now everyone shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down around the goddamn fucking campfire!”

For a moment, nobody moved. And then Jack sat down. And Carlos and Brenda, giving Jack a wide berth, sat down, pushing two seats close together and perching uneasily, as if they were about to break and run.

Dean sat down heavily, and Cas wriggled until he was comfortable on Dean’s lap, Cloppy between them.

“Uh… Dean?”

“What, Sammy?” he barked.

“Maybe… maybe you shouldn’t, uh, curse so much? In front of…?”

“What? Jesus fuck, Sammy, Cas is a million-year-old angel, not a three-year-old kid!”

“I’m four now,” said Cas.

“Okay, a four-year-old. He’s still not!” He glared at Sam.

“Am too,” muttered Cas.

“No, I mean…” Sam twitched his head to one side, hair swinging.

“What, Jack?” Huh. Well, yeah. Dean had actually just dropped a few goddamns in front of actual God. Not to mention the fucks. And the Jesus.

“I don’t mind,” said Jack brightly. “Dean needs his bad words sometimes. And sometimes he needs alcohol.” He frowned. “I think he needs sex too, but-”

“No! Jack!” Dean put his head in one hand. “Jesus fucking Christ. Sorry. For fuck’s sake. Sorry.” Cas’s little hand stroked his back like he was an agitated pet.

“I said I don’t mind, Dean. If you need to say swear words you should say them.” Jack leant forward, a hand on each knee, an interested audience to Dean’s meltdown.

“I’m done now,” said Dean. He pushed his hand up through his hair. And then he hauled himself upright, straightening the kinks out of his spine, pushing his shoulders back. Okay. Time to man right the hell up. And maybe even if everything else went to shit, he might at least get Jack to fix his shoulder and all the other aches and pains that had him hobbling around like an ancient dude.

“I feel like we walked into a situation here,” said Carlos.

“We were about to sing campfire songs,” said Jack, oblivious to the atmosphere, or pretending to be.

“No, we weren’t,” said Dean. “Maybe later,” he said because Jack’s smile had faded and Cas had given a little sigh. But Dean wouldn’t feel like singing later, probably. Anyway, manning up right the hell now, in the usual gender-free sense because quite a few of Dean’s female acquaintances could see him off in a manning-up contest, no problem at all.

“Jack,” said Dean. “I need to know. Right now. What’s next?” He carried on quickly at Jack’s confused expression and parting lips. Because no one else was getting a single word out until Dean had finished his question. He was getting his answer right the hell now, even if he absolutely did not want it. “What’s next for Cas?” he demanded. “Because you said he needs to heal and he’s done some healing - probably not enough, but that’s not up to me. None of it’s up to me. It’s up to you. So I need to know right now, because if I have to deal with you taking him away to do important heavenly stuff, then fine – but it actually isn’t fine – but you need to tell me so I can start dealing with it, except I don’t think I can, I really don’t think I can, but I need you to tell me now.” He couldn’t keep his eyes on Jack and there was no point because he’d gone all blurry anyway. So Dean looked down at Cas who was looking up at him with those massive blue eyes and he was holding Cloppy close with her head tucked under his chin, bright streaks running down his cheeks and landing on her fur. “I need you to tell me, now, please, because I don’t know what I’ll do.” His breath hitched and his throat closed up. “Because I can’t lose him again. I can’t. I just can’t.”

His words faded to a stop, like an engine running on for a couple of seconds after you shut off the ignition.

The fire crackled. Dean’s jerky breaths wheezed.

And Cas said, “I don’t want to leave you, Dean.” His face crumpled. “And- and big angels don’t have horseys.”

He buried himself in Dean’s chest and sobbed. And Dean couldn’t hold any of it in any longer. He curled himself around his angel and let it all out, joining with Cas’s heartbroken weeping.

And even if he didn’t get to keep Cas, at least he had this. At least he had this moment, when they were wrapped around each other and it was all coming out – and he’d never known what people meant before when they said letting go was like a knot loosening in your chest. But now he did. Now he knew there’d been something tied up tight inside him for years and years and years but somehow, at last, it was coming loose and untying and all the things that Dean wanted and all that he was, right down inside, were coming loose and spilling out everywhere, in front of everyone. And he didn’t care that they could see him. He didn’t care.

“I love you, Cas,” he said. “I love you. I love kid-you. I love trenchcoat-you. I just love you, man. I love you.”

“I wuv you too, Dean.” The tiny voice was muffled against his neck.

“I know, Cas. I know you do.”

There was a sniff from one direction, a sob from another.

And then Jack, sounding as unsure of himself as he’d ever been: “Please. Don’t. Don’t cry. Please. Nobody should be crying.”

Dean sniffed. He couldn’t help crying. But it was time to stop. Time to listen to the verdict. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. And then found an unused corner for Cas to blow his tiny button of a nose. There was a honking blow from Sam’s direction and sniffing and wiping from Carlos and from Brenda.

Out over the ocean, the moon had risen so that the distant waves winked with silver. It was beautiful, but Dean looked away from the view at the God who hadn’t created it but would look after it all better than its creator. He had to trust that that was true.

Jack’s face was pale, his brow furrowed. His lips parted and closed and parted again.

“I- I came here to visit,” he said. “Just to visit. I came here because I wanted to see you. Because I missed you.” Was that the glint of tears on his face too? “All of you. Because- because you’re my family.” There were definitely tears running down his face now. “I haven’t come to split you up. I haven’t come to take Castiel away from you.” He sniffed and his mouth wobbled. “I wouldn’t do that. Don’t you know I wouldn’t do that? Dean?”

Dean opened his mouth but there were no words ready. He’d cried them all away.

“I would never do that to you.” Jack’s head hung down. His shoulders shook.

“So…” Sammy always had words, even when they were rough and raspy. “So, you aren’t going to take Cas back to heaven? You don’t have work for him that he has to do?”

“No,” said Jack, sitting up suddenly. “No! I brought him back for you, Dean. And because he needed to be brought back, because he couldn’t rest – he couldn’t sleep in the Empty without you, because he loved you so much and he left you behind. He couldn’t rest.” The young god wept openly, not hiding behind his hands or wiping his face. He looked at Dean, his mouth drooping, big tears rolling and rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto his legs and making the turned up corner of his net skirt tremble each time one fell.

Dean had made God cry.

He swallowed. Words still wouldn’t come.

“I don’t hafta go?” Cas’s little voice wobbled. “I can stay wiv Dean? And Cloppy? And Sammy?”

Sammy came after the stuffed horse. Dean would give him shit about that later, when his words had come back, when he’d got his stupid head around anything at all that was being said here.

“Yes. Yes, you can stay. I want you to be happy,” said Jack. “I want you to be happy.” He got up and stumbled toward them, opening his arms.

Cas slid down from Dean’s lap, but grabbed Dean’s hand so that he had to go too. And then Jack scooped Cas up with one arm and held him, while he wrapped the other arm around Dean. And sasquatch arms wrapped around them all, and then it seemed like Carlos and Brenda couldn’t stand by and watch because they got in on the hug too.

Dean was squashed up tight in the bundle of hugs, pressed from all sides, Cloppy’s tail halfway up his nose, Sammy’s hair tickling his ear and Pongo’s damp nose tickling the back of one calf.

He was safe. They were safe. They were safe together.

And Jack’s voice was like a promise and a lullaby, softly repeating over and over, “You belong together. I won’t ever separate you. Not forever and ever. Forever and ever.”

Forever and ever.

The last threads of the knot came undone.

Dean was Cas’s and Cas was Dean’s.

Forever and ever.

“Thank you, Jack,” said Dean.

Cas yawned, a tired, little-boy yawn. “Fank you, Jackie-Jack. Fank you vewwy, vewwy much.”

“You’re welcome,” said Jack.

Chapter Text

Jack loved the beach.

He loved making sandcastles (Dean’s was the biggest, no matter what Sammy said); he loved playing with the beachball, running after it when the wind took it and laughing as loud as Pongo barked as they chased it down. He loved the woodland walk with its coloured lights, his eyes wide with delight as he followed the running squirrels and hopping frogs. He loved the bright, airy chalet with its wide views of the ocean, but even more than that he loved the little hut, and he especially loved the little campfire and was happy to eat anything cooked on it, even Sammy’s vegetable kebabs. Vegetable kebabs. Ew.

He also loved singing campfire songs, warbling and yodelling with little regard for tune and a complete lack of understanding of some of Dean’s spicier lyrics (and Dean had only suggested the full-on version of Barnacle Bill the Sailor to wind Sammy up. There was no need for that massive bitch-fit. Or maybe there was. That song was truly filthy). Or maybe Jack understood very well, but just took the undertones as another example of the ‘wonderful variety of human life,’ air quotes included free of charge.

He wasn’t always there. Sometimes Dean would set a place for Jack at breakfast and he wouldn’t appear. Sometimes Dean would catch the beachball, turn around to hoof it in Jack’s direction and there’d be nothing but empty sand. But mostly he was around, joining in, smiling, laughing, looking at Cas and then at Dean and then back at Cas again, his eyes soft.

And things always seemed to work out better when the kid was around. If Jack was there, the burgers never burnt. If Pongo bit the beach ball a little too hard, miraculously it’d reinflate, no harm done. And it only ever rained, a soft pattering, when they were sitting under the awning outside the hut, or got really windy when they were already bedded down for the night. How did that work? What about the butterfly-flaps-its-wings-and-causes-a-hurricane thing? Oh, well. Dean wasn’t gonna question it.

The best thing, though, happened when they put on their swimming stuff (or just took everything off if you were Cas - and Jack, before Dean had covered his eyes and held out a spare pair of swim shorts) and splashed around in the shallow waves. The first time it happened, Dean had grabbed Cas around the waist and hurtled out of the ocean, yelling, and spluttering, because, man, those fins had looked like something straight out of Jaws. Of course, Sammy had pissed himself laughing. “They’re dolphins, Dean!”

But Dean had quickly got over his embarrassment. Because they were actual real, live fucking dolphins, waving their tails and making those weird scratchy dolphin noises. And if you walked a bit further out, to just above waist height (holding Cas up with his head right next to Dean’s), the dolphins would swim all around and stick their heads out of the water and do that chuckling thing, like they were laughing, which they probably were. Dolphins struck Dean as guys that could see the funny side of life.

“This is a wonderful place,” said Jack one evening as they sat around the campfire. He turned his stick to toast his marshmallow evenly. “But I think any place is wonderful when you’re with the people you love.”

Dean blinked and swallowed and tried to look stoic and manly, when his insides were as melty as his marshmallow. “Yeah. You got that right, kid.”

He picked up one of the chocolate-covered graham crackers, slid the marshmallow onto it, then put a lid on and squished it down.

“There you go, Cas.”

“Fank you, Dean.”

Cas gripped the s'more in both hands. “These make me vewwy happy, Dean.”

Dean ruffled his hair. “I know they do. Just try to get most of it in your mouth, yeah?”

Cas looked down at his stained shirt and shorts and the chocolate smears on his knees. “You hafta get messy or it’s not as much fun.”

“Oh. Well. In that case.” Dean lurched out of his seat, snatched the s'more that was heading for his brother’s mouth and stuffed the whole lot in his own. The crackers shattered in an explosive spray, and a slurry of chocolate, marshmallow and spit ran down his chin and onto his shirt.

“Dean!” Sammy fumed satisfyingly. “That's so gross! You're so disgusting!”

Cas shrieked with laughter, sprayed his own mouthful so far that the fire erupted in a shower of sparks.

Jack held his s'more carefully between finger and thumb. “Should I try that? Is that really how you're supposed to eat them?”

“No!” said Sam. “No, it's not, Jack. Don't copy that Neanderthal!”

“I'm a nanderful too!” said Cas, giving everyone a good view of mashed up s'more.

“You’re such a bad influence, Dean.” Bitch face number two - a classic.

“I ma’ you nuvver, Thammy,” offered Dean. He grinned, letting gloop ooze through his teeth.

“I'll make my own, thank you.”

Dean swallowed and nudged Cas. “Watch this, Cas. Probably the only lettuce and tomato s'more you'll ever see.”

Cas smirked. Sam snorted crossly. He layered chocolate onto a cracker with pinch-mouthed precision, arranging the lid-cracker parallel to the base like it really mattered. He’d done stuff like that as a kid, Dean recalled. The macaroni mustn’t touch the peas, Dean!

“This is nice,” said Jack. “We should do this again.”

“He’d better not snatch my s’more again,” muttered Sam. He skewered another marshmallow and held it above the glowing embers. Dean liked to stick ‘em right in the flames. It was more fun that way, seeing how long you could get away with it.

“Thank you.” Jack smiled at each of them in turn.

Okay, something was up. That thank you held more weight than it should.

“Uh, you’re welcome?” said Dean. “What’s going on, kid?” Something weird, judging by the way Jack’s eyes lingered on Sam, then Dean, then Cas, as if he were trying to memorise their faces. He’d memorise Cas’s face half covered in chocolate, then.

“Thank you for sharing this time with me,” he said. Then he stood up. “But I have to go now.”

“Huh?” Dean dropped the cloth he’d been wiping Cas’s face with. “What? Why?”

“I am God, Dean. I do have work to do.”

“Yeah, but…” He cast around for something to make Jack stay. “There are still marshmallows left. You can have more s’mores. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Have some more. S’more. See?” He forced a smile, but it fell away in the face of Jack’s unchanging expression. “You have to go,” said Dean.

“I do.” Jack held out his arms. “But I have time for hugs first.”

Cas pulled away from Dean and homed-in like a guided missile. Jack scooped him up and held him tight, and then Dean added himself to the mix and felt Sammy move in behind him. For a moment they were still, wrapped in each other and Dean wanted to stay there forever. But then they broke apart.

“That’s what heaven’s going to be like,” said Jack. “When I’ve finished remodelling.”

“What - sticky hands in your hair?” Sam tugged a piece of marshmallow out of his flowing locks.

“Sowwy, Sammy.”

“No. I mean the feeling you get when you’re hugging everyone you love,” said Jack.

Dean nodded and met Jack’s eyes, but kept his mouth shut in case he said something extra mushy or started to cry or whatever.

“I’ll see you again soon,” said Jack. He held up a hand. “Good-bye.”

“Bye-bye Jacky-Jack,” said Cas.

Dean closed his eyes against a sharp flurry of wind, and when he opened them, Jack had gone.

The last flame flickered and died as a stick burnt through and collapsed. A chill breeze shivered across the back of Dean’s neck. The stubble on his jawline was itchy and his fingers came away tacky with sugary moisture.

“Well, that’s that, then.”

He poked the toe of his flip-flop into the grit and dug it in, flicking up little bits of stone and sand.

There was a heavy sigh and a creak of over-worked plastic. Sammy’s great hooves appeared in Dean’s line of vision, his toes wiggling toward the heat of the dying fire.

Little arms slid around Dean’s legs and tangled, sticky hair leant against his thigh. Dean picked Cas up and kissed his nose, tasting chocolate and inhaling the caramelised sweetness of the s’mores, and the indefinable essence of angel.

“I fink it’s beddytime, Dean.” Cas’s soft lips brushed his ear as he whispered.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

Sammy stood up and kicked sand over the embers. “Beddytime for me too,” he said. He stretched, his hands tenting the awning. “Any plans for tomorrow?”

Cas yawned. “We could have burgies again?”

Sam deflated with a long-suffering sigh. “Burgies again,” he said, sensibly bowing to the inevitable. He shuffled past Dean, trailing a hand over his shoulder with one of those casual pats that meant everything. “You coming?”

The little angel whispered in Dean’s ear again. “Needta say nighty-night to the stars, Dean.”

“In a bit,” said Dean to his brother. “You go on ahead.”

“Okay. G’night, Dean. Night, Cas.”

The moon was high in the sky so Dean could see pretty well as he carried Cas down to the shore, over the steep bank of pebbles, across the hard sand, something stringy catching in his flip-flops as he crossed the line of washed-up seaweed and assorted junk.

A frilly line of white stood out against the black water, rippling toward them and then scuttling away to rejoin the surging surf.

“Look, there’s a penguin,” said Cas, leaning out of Dean’s arms to point high up above the horizon.

“With a fish,” said Dean.

“Lotsa fish.”

The waves shushed in and out. Dean was alone with his little angel in the darkness. It might have been creepy, if he hadn’t been so used to getting up to all kinds of crazy action and foolhardy adventure on nights way darker than this.

“That looks like Baby,” said Dean. “Right there, zooming across the sky.”

“Faster than a wocket!” said Cas.

“Yeah. Eat Baby’s dust, stupid rockets.”

“Stupid wockets.”

Cas yawned. He yawned again and Dean couldn’t help joining in, his jaw cracking.

“I like saying silly fings, Dean.”

“Me too, Little Wing. Me too.” He yawned so wide that the sky completely disappeared. “Beddytime?”

Cas nodded, knuckling his eyes. “Beddytime. Wiv snuggles and huggles,” he said.

“Juggles and wuggles?”

Cas giggled. “No. No juggles or wuggles, Dean.” He pushed his face further into Dean’s neck and held on even tighter.

“Okay, then.” Dean turned away from the ocean and made his way back up the beach. And by the time he reached the wooden bridge, he could tell by the slack heaviness of Cas’s body, that the little angel was fast asleep.

Summer continued, with days of burning heat, another storm (Dean locked them all inside the chalet and hid the key), but mostly with even-tempered weather – not too much sun, not too much wind, not too much anything. After Sam had picked up a few kids books from the local library (as if he needed to teach Cas to read, for fuck’s sake), the little angel said the weather and the beach and everything and everyone on it were just right. ‘Like Goldilocks’ powwidge.’

Eileen came for a couple of weeks. She totally kicked Sammy's ass at beach volleyball. So much for his Jolly Green Giantness. Cas cheated, getting his wings out to plop the ball above the net, but seeing as his little legs were about a tenth as long as the sasquatch’s, nobody minded.

Then Sam and Eileen left, with the idea of taking a road trip together before deciding what their plan was for the rest of their lives. Or maybe the road trip was to help them decide. Perhaps they were going to drive through ordinary towns and look at ordinary white picket fences and try to imagine themselves living the lives of ordinary American citizens.

So Cas and Dean were, once again, on their own. Apart from regular visits with Carlos and Brenda of course, and more random visits where Pongo turned up (and ate all the damn sausages, for fuck’s sake).

But the summer weather was leaving too, slowly changing day by day so that they stopped having breakfast outside and stopped splashing about in the ocean (the dolphins hadn’t come since Jack left anyway) and before long, Cas needed to wrap up in wellies and raincoat to play on the beach.

One day, Dean spread a blanket on the sand so he and Cas could have a picnic lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and bright pink plastic cups filled with a mix of candy and banana slices. See, Sammy? We do eat healthy stuff. Sometimes.

Cas nibbled a sandwich carefully, like it was about to explode.

“What’s up, Little Wing?” Dean took a huge bite of his own sandwich. He could have fit the whole thing in at once, in fact. Sandwiches lost a lot of their fight once you’d cut the crusts off. But Cas had insisted.

Cas grimaced. “My sammich is cwunchy.”

Dean chewed. Something caught and grated between his teeth. He ignored it, carried on chewing and swallowed. “It’s just a bit of sand, Cas. I think that’s traditional when you eat on the beach.”

“I don’t want sand in my sammiches, Dean.”

“No. Well.” The brim of Dean’s hat flipped up and he grabbed it before the wind flung it away. And it was Brenda’s straw hat, so he mustn’t let it get lost. “I don’t think we’ve got a lot of choice there.”

Cas nibbled a bit more. “It’s a bit coldy-cold.” He looked up at Dean, his sandwich gripped in his two little hands, like a hamster. He was all hunched up like a hamster too.

“D’you wanna go in?”

Cas nodded.

“Okay.” Dean dumped everything back in the old green cooler and Cas scrambled to his feet, gathering up the blanket in loose folds. “Can you manage that?”

Cas nodded again. His lips were pale and he started to shiver.

“Come on, then, little buddy. Let’s get inside and get you some hot chocolate.”

“And a movie?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dean threw down the remote. “Son of a bitch!”

“What’s wrong, Dean?”

Cas had a large, brown chocolate moustache. Dean wiped his own upper lip and his fingers came away brown. Huh.

“Sammy’s logged us out of the whatever and I can’t find the thing where the password’s written down.” Shitty streaming crap. What the hell was up with TV these days?

“We can watch deev-deevs instead.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Dean slid off the couch and pulled out some of the DVDs that were stacked on the lower shelf of the coffee table. “What’ve we got here. Uh… Shawshank Redemption. Yeah, not right now. When Harry met Sally. Fuck, no. My Little Pony: The Movie.”

“Ooh.” Cas froze in the act of helping Cloppy to a sip of his hot chocolate. “That one, Dean, please! Cloppy wants the lickle ponies!”

Cartoon ponies? Or unicorns or pegasuses… pegasi. Whatever. Judging by the cover art, It’d be the visual equivalent of that cotton candy and bubble gum ice cream with extra jellybeans that had seemed like such a good idea that one time, and Dean had had to eat it all and pretend he was enjoying it so he could tell Sammy told you so. He’d puked in the next gas station bathroom.

“Uh… Oh, hey! The Muppet Movie. Let’s watch that one.” He’d take muppets over cutesy ponies any day.

“Muppets?”

“Yeah.” Dean slid the DVD into the player. “Here we go. This’ll be great.”

They watched the movie. And Dean came to two conclusions. Firstly, that he was a muppet of a man – which seemed like an okay thing to be. And secondly, that there was no way he’d take on Miss Piggy hand-to-hand… hand-to-trotter. That pig had a killer karate chop.

“Life's a happy song,” sang Cas, snuggling up to Dean. “When there's someone by my side to sing along.”

“Did you enjoy that one?”

“Yes.”

He pushed one hand beneath Dean’s and Dean curled his fingers around it.

“I’m a muppet,” said Cas. Dean waited to hear his reasoning, but the little angel just rolled off the couch, pulled another DVD off the pile and held it up. “Now we watch the ponies.”

Dean sighed. “Now we watch the ponies,” he said, bowing to the inevitable.

They had snacks with the ponies, which Dean had decided were essential to his well-being. If he was doing this, he was going in well-fed. He made popcorn and put out some chips and cut up cheese into the little cubes that Cas liked and mixed them around with chunks of apple and pineapple. And there was a pack of extra spicy salami leftover from a Scooby Doo sandwich session, so he put that out too. It’d help to counteract the cutesy pony sweetness. Ugh.

As it turned out, even though every scrap of food disappeared during the movie, Dean didn’t remember eating a thing. In fact, he was so into the pony-drama that he started chewing on his own fingers. When it ended, he blinked like he’d been in a trance. The room swam back into focus, the scene outside the tall glass windows dark and gloomy with lowering clouds covering the weakly setting sun.

“That was good, wasn’t it? Dean?”

Dean cleared his throat, dry from open-mouthed fixation. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Dean.”

He looked at Cas, who had that head-tipped, look-right-through-you thing going on. Cloppy, tucked under his arm, was also on a tilt, so it was double jeopardy.

“Dean, tell me what you really thought.”

Oof. Just like that guy, what’s-his-name. One of the demon-blood kids. Andy. Tell the truth.

Okay, then, whatever. Dean grinned. “It was freaking awesome, dude.”

Cas’s whole face lit up. “It was! It was awesome! I wuv ponies, Dean.” He squeezed Cloppy tight, wriggling around in an active cuddle. “We should watch more. Are there more pony movies?”

Dean sorted through the stack. “There aren’t here. But if I can get the TV to work, we’ll probably find some.”

“Good. ’Cos horseys and ponies are my new favourite fings.” Cas flicked Cloppy’s tail up and down with one little finger. He chewed his lip and his pink tongue poked out and got chewed too. “Dean…”

“Yeah?” Uh-oh. Awkward question coming, like one of those hellish klaxon alarms was going off.

“Do you fink, maybe…”

Oh shit. What was he going to ask for?

Cas took another breath. His blue eyes flicked up to Dean’s and then dropped again and Dean’s stupid eyes prickled so that he had to blink pretty fast to clear them. He’d give this little guy anything. Or the big guy. Whatever it took to make him happy.

“D’you fink maybe that big angels can have horseys like Cloppy and uvver horseys too, like maybe a real horsey and some ponies like My Lickle Ponies?”

Dean took a moment to replay the scrambling run of words. “Oh.” He swallowed. “Of course they can, Cas.” The little angel wouldn’t care that Dean’s hands were greasy from the salami. And a bit orange. He pulled Cas into his lap and wrapped him and Cloppy into a hug. “Big angels can have whatever the hell makes them happy, Cas. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Will you?” The little voice was muffled in Dean’s shoulder. “Will you weally?”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely I will. Abso-fucking-lutely.” He kissed the top of Cas’s head.

“Fank you, Dean.”

Cas sighed and relaxed. In a minute he’d yawn and go extra floppy and he probably wouldn’t want to walk up the stairs to bed, but Dean would happily carry him. He kissed the tangled mop again. He’d carry Cas anywhere.

And actually, Cas’s idea had given Dean an idea. That little trigger had sparked a chain of thought in Dean’s head, and the thought grew into a wish into the beginning of a plan. If Cas wanted horseys, he’d have horseys. And horseys… horses meant a place to keep them – a barn, a field, and next to those, a house that could be theirs.

The Bunker had been home for a while. It had been the first home Dean had known since the old Winchester place had burned to a blackened shell all those years ago. But it was a home for a hunter, a killer, and suddenly Dean couldn’t think how he’d had any doubts about the life he wanted to lead. Now that he had a choice.

Because he did. He really did have a choice. It would take a while before he was convinced, through and through. In fact, maybe he wouldn’t ever be totally sure. Maybe there’d always be a part of him that thought he should be out there, saving people, hunting things. But he had saved a lot of people. He’d been through a lot of shit, and that right there was one major-league, serious understatement.

So he’d just have to lock down his doubts and take the chance that Jack had offered him. Offered them.

Cas’s lips fluttered slackly in a soft little snore.

“Beddytime,” muttered Dean. “For both of us.”

He stood up, carefully, sliding his hand up the little angel’s back and spreading his fingers amongst the bird’s nest hair to stop the floppy head from rolling around on his shoulder. And he carried his mini Castiel, his Angel of the Lord, his little boy, up the stairs.

Setting Cas down on the rumpled bed, Dean left him in his soft sweats and tee (a cloud on the front, with a cartoon smiley sun peeping from behind it) and flipped the comforter over to cover him. He got himself ready for bed and as he slid in beside the little boy, Cas turned toward him and muttered a series of soft little syllables.

“Good night, Little Wing,” said Dean.

Sometime in the night, the bed bounced and cold air hit Dean’s body. But before he could come properly awake, the mattress dipped again and the soft warmth of the comforter was pulled back into place and all was quiet once more. So he went back to sleep.

Dean’s senses returned gradually, softly woken by bright light seeping from behind the blinds, lighting up the room’s exposed wooden frame and polished plank floor with a honey glow. His ears and his nose were brought back online by a couple of things he couldn’t pin down; firstly by a slow, deep groaning sound and secondly by a scent, familiar and yet strange – salt and bitter, spice and warmth – a mix of wind and earth and a hint of ash. It reminded him of Carlos and Brenda’s pizza oven.

Then the gentle awakening abruptly turned rude. A shove to his hip and a harder one to his shoulder sent him tumbling over the side of the bed to land, face down on the polished hardwood floor. What was wrong with nice soft carpet, anyway?

“What the fuck?”

Dean sat up and was immediately smacked in the face by a drainpipe wrapped in a whole load of heavy black satin. Or that was what it felt like. The satin engulfed him, tangling around his arms in dense streamers.

“Fuck. Shit. Get off!”

He ducked down and slid under the bed frame to get away from the assault.

“Cas!”

There was no answer. And he was in pitch-dark, all openings to the light covered in the black drapes.

“Cas!”

Shit. Dean slithered and scrabbled his way through the dust under the bed. Got to get to Cas. Got to get to him. If this thing had his angel… If it hurt him…

He rolled out from under the bed on Cas’s side, forcing his way through the mess of black fabric. Shoulda kept a gun under there. He coulda come up firing.

The black drapery flicked away.

Someone yelled – a man’s yell.

A man? A man in their room? A man being attacked by a black, drapey monster?

It burst into Dean’s view again, and some tentacled part of it tangled in the vertical blinds and tore them down, flooding the room with light, striking rainbows from the black fabric - no, shit, black feathers. Then they were gone - not writhing out of his view or flapping away, just gone. Poof! And then – poof! – back.

The man yelled again.

Colour caught Dean’s eye, on the floor by the window. Red - Cas’s shorts. Blue - his shirt. Rage, fear, fury, terror - his whole body fizzed and boiled and he hurtled to his feet, fists clenched, snatched the bedside lamp on his way up and brandished it over the bed, ready to fight the invader to the death and beyond.

He caught a split-second view of the man, naked, face-down on the bed and then the lamp was smashed out of his hand and Dean was flung backward, landing hard against the window frame and thumping to the floor.

“Shit!” His ass took the brunt of the fall. Was it possible to break your ass? Yes, his ass said. Yes it was possible.

But at least he knew what the fuck was going on now.

“Cas,” said Dean. “Cas, stop freaking the fuck out.”

“Dean! I can’t. My wings! I can’t…”

“Yes, you can, Cas. Just - I dunno. Breathe, or something. In, two, three, out, two, three - can you do that for me?”

A whimper turned into a growl and back into a whimper. Cas’s flight feathers pinned Dean in place, his back half against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, the frame digging into his spine.

“You’re okay, Cas. You can do this. Just breathe - nice and slow, yeah?”

Cas’s garbled groan didn’t sound that confident. But the pressure against Dean’s chest eased as the wings relaxed. Then there was the sound of a long, slow inhale and a shuddery exhale.

“That’s it, buddy. You’re getting it. In, two, three, out, two three.”

The huge feathers twitched, flopped, twitched again, and disappeared. Dean rubbed his chest and eased himself away from the window.

There was a rustle from the bed and Cas sat up, white-faced and shaking. And adult.

Dean scrambled up and grabbed the comforter off the floor. He flung it around his shocked angel, tucking it around his shuddering frame and tucking himself around Cas too, an arm around his shoulders. Hands emerged from the parting in front, grabbed Dean’s free hand and drew it inside.

Dean squeezed Cas’s shoulders. “Okay?”

He looked at Dean, his eyes wide in his pale face and nodded, sharply, just once. Then his eyes closed and he leant into Dean.

“You will be,” said Dean. “You will be.”

He rubbed and patted and soothed and the angel’s trembling died away. For a couple of minutes he went soft and loose, like little Cas did when he was tired and sleepy. And Dean’s chest ached and his eyes filled and he didn’t know why, because Cas was here, wasn’t he? Right here in his arms. So he should be happy.

Tension returned with a series of twitches and soft grunts. Cas huffed. Dean braced himself, in case those beautiful but kinda terrifying wings snapped back into existence.

“My clothes got tight,” said Cas. And a little spot inside Dean warmed up to hear that raspy, growly voice again, that he hadn’t heard since… okay, he didn’t want to think about that right now.

“Your clothes?”

“My shorts. My Mr Sun shirt. They felt tight and I got up and took them off.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Then I went back to sleep.”

“Hmm. Me too.”

“And then when I woke up, I was like this and I felt like I was full of fire and I couldn’t keep it in. I’m sorry, Dean. Did I hurt you?”

“I’m okay.” His ass wasn’t that okay, but it didn’t seem fair to bring that up. “Uh. Have you got them under control now?”

“I think so.” He grumbled and shifted in his comforter tent, his head almost disappearing, like a tortoise going into its shell. “It was very disorienting.”

“I can imagine. Well, I can’t imagine. Anyway. So. You’re back.”

“I was here all along.”

“Yeah, but you’re back big now.”

“Yes.” His head poked out of the comforter-shell and he pierced Dean with his angel-gaze, just the same as he always had, adult or kid. “I’m still me. I was me before the Empty and me after and I’m me now.”

“Yeah.” Dean laughed softly. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Um.” The piercing gaze faltered. Long, dark lashes fanned out on his still-pale cheeks and then flicked back up. “Where’s Cloppy?” His gaze fell again and his face retreated a little way into the comforter. “Unless, um. Unless you think-”

“Stop right there,” said Dean, quiet but firm. “Just stop.”

He reached around Cas and felt underneath the pillows and, sure enough, his fingers met with soft fur.

“She always ends up under here.”

Cas’s hands emerged to take Cloppy and she was drawn into the folds of the comforter.

“So, you don’t mind? If I still want to hold her?”

“No,” said Dean. “We agreed, didn’t we? Big angels can still have horseys?”

“Yes,” said Cas. The worried, wrinkled brow smoothed out. His lips, surrounded by dark stubble, tipped up into a tentative smile. “We did.”

“Well, I said I’d make sure you got whatever made you happy. And I meant it, Cas. I meant that with every part of me.” Dean tried to mimic that angel-intense, straight-through-the-soul gaze that Cas used on him. “Anything I can do, Cas. Anything. Because it’s okay for you to be happy now. And no one’s gonna come and take that away. No one.”

Cas had cried back in the dungeon. His eyes had overflowed with tears, and they’d been tears of happiness at the same time as he was saying goodbye. Because finally, he was telling Dean what he really felt. Finally, he was testifying to his love, his love for Dean, which had overwritten everything that heaven had tried to turn him into. Love had made him into something else, and it had brought him happiness, and it had doomed him.

Now his eyes filled with tears again. And his smile told Dean they were happy tears again.

But this time no one had to say goodbye. This time Dean’s tears could be happy too.

He took a breath to speak. But his throat was so tight, so full, so aching with what he’d wanted to say for so long. He’d said it to the child, and he’d meant it. But this was different. This was Dean, not the father-figure he’d had to be, but Dean - the man, the friend, the more-than-friend - sitting next to broad-shouldered, rumpled, tired-eyed Cas, the Cas he loved so much.

Finally. Finally. Against all the odds, against everything, Dean was here, in this moment, getting to speak his words of truth, to give his testimony as Cas had given his in that grief-ridden dungeon that Dean would never, ever enter again.

He spoke.

“I love you.”

It was small and broken and it hurt to force it through his strangled throat.

“I love you.”

Stronger now, as his breaths slowed, the tightness in his chest eased.

“I love you.” The corners of Dean’s mouth twitched. He couldn’t stop them turning up. “I love you.” He was grinning like a- like an idjit. “I love you, Cas. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Then once more Dean was gripped tight, not with one hand on his shoulder, but with two long, strong, muscled arms, gripping tight all around him, squeezing him as Cas buried his face in the hollow between Dean’s neck and shoulder. And Dean gripped him back, circling him and burying his own face and his own freely-flowing tears next to Cas’s.

His angel's words, spoken into the fabric of Dean’s old grey shirt, made their soft, muffled way out. “And I love you, Dean. I love you.”

Chapter Text

The cowboy slouched easily in his saddle, his mount shifting beneath him, her ears twitching against the flies and heat of the wide open prairie.

“It sure is a fine view,” said the cowboy, tugging the brim of his hat down a little more to shade his piercing - penetrating? - no, piercing - to shade his piercing green eyes against the desert glare.

No. Shit. They were on a bluff overlooking the wide-open prairie, weren’t they? Not a goddamn desert. He’d have to start again now.

The cowboy-

“Dean!”

-slouched easily in his saddle-

“Dean, are you coming in? I've made sandwiches. And there's some pie left.”

“Pie? Did you say pie?” The cowboy turned back into Dean. He slithered off the old mule's back and gave her nose a soft pat. “See you later, Cloppy.”

Cas stood by the gate at the bottom of the overgrown meadow and, ideally, Dean would take this opportunity to run down through the knee-high grass and fling himself into his angel's arms, romantic music surging to a climax. But he didn’t do that because his creaky knees wouldn't stand for it. So instead, he stumped ungracefully down the slope, going slow-mo for the last few metres, flinging out his arms while madly warbling the theme to Gone with the Wind.

He engulfed his angel in a romantic embrace.

“Dean. Dean, you smell.”

He pulled away. “Cas! What kind of a way is that to speak to the man you love?”

“A logical way,” said Cas. “You've been scrambling around playing cowboys for hours. You smell of sweat and mule and… other things.”

Dean shrugged in a what-you-gonna-do kind of way. “There’s a lotta shit out there, dude. And it happens, right?” He grinned, annoyingly.

“It wouldn’t happen so often if you took the barrow, shovelled it up and tipped it on the heap with the rest.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Dean hung his head, taking off his cowboy hat and clutching the brim between tense hands. “Sorry, Cas.”

Fingers under his chin raised his head and Dean couldn’t help a smirk breaking out as he met Cas's teasing smile. Cas leant forward and pressed a closed-mouth kiss to his lips. “Come in now, cowboy. Get washed up and then we can have lunch. Together.”

He said it like eating together was a special thing, like they didn’t eat together at every meal. And it was still special. Getting to be together, doing ordinary things like eat a meal and even shovel shit, would always be special.

“We eating on the porch?” Dean asked.

“I've set it out on the kitchen table. We can carry it out if you want.”

“No, that's okay. Getting too cold out here, anyway.”

Dean kicked off his boots and left them on the porch. He ran through the kitchen and upstairs, splashed off the worst of the dirt, thudded halfway down the stairs, then paused on the half-landing. Cas was right. His clothes stank of mule. He rotated on one sock-foot and padded back up to the biggest bedroom.

The upstairs of their overgrown cabin was still full of the resiny scent of wood, and maybe it always would be. They’d had to replace a lot up here and neither of them wanted to cover it all up in drywall and paint or paper, preferring the look and texture of the wooden walls and beams as they were. Dean thought it added to the whole Western vibe, especially with the scattered rugs with their bright coloured Native American patterns.

He flung off his clothes and dumped them in the wickerwork hamper, then pulled on some sweats and a few layers of shirts and a fleece, because while his fantasising had included a baking-hot, glaring sun, it was actually edging away from a mild fall into a decidedly chilly winter. He’d worn his beloved cowboy hat more for warmth than for shade.

There was a shapeless blue chunky-knit garment hanging over the footboard of their bed. Dean grabbed it before heading downstairs again.

“Nice,” said Dean to the platter of thick-cut sandwiches in the centre of the red-and-white chequered tablecloth.

He pulled out a chair and sat, as Cas turned around from the stove with a pot in his hand and poured out golden-yellow soup into two bowls.

“You brought my sweater down,” said Cas, putting the pot back on the stove.

“Yeah. Thought you might need it.” He handed the armful of blue wool to his angel, who pulled it on, revealing the knitted-in image of a smiley sun peeping out from behind a cloud. Okay, so if you didn’t know, you might think it was a monster bug attacking a mountain, but it had been Cas’s first attempt at knitting and he’d made it up as he went along. And Dean thought it was cute, even if it hadn’t been meant to hang down nearly to his angel’s knees.

Cas sat, pushing one of the bowls of soup over to Dean. “How is Cloppy today? Is she warm enough?”

Dean glanced at the stuffed toy, wedged between a third chair and the table, her pink nose poised above a tiny bowl of dry oatmeal.

“Dean.” Cas’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth, one eyebrow raised.

Dean smirked, picking up his own spoon. “I know.” Cas was asking after the mule, original-Cloppy’s namesake. “She seems fine.”

“Did you ask her if she was warm enough?”

Dean swallowed his mouthful and reached for a sandwich, rolling his eyes. “Cas, you know I can’t do that. You want to know, you’ll have to ask her yourself.”

Cas snorted. “I will. But she’s such a chatterbox. Sometimes it’s all I can do to get a word in edgeways.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have your angelic ways.” Mmm. Nothing like a well-filled sandwich. But there was neither chomping nor slurping coming from Cas’s direction. “Oh. Shit, sorry.”

“No. It’s quite alright, Dean.”

Dean reached across and covered one of Cas’s hands with his own. “You know, I’m sure Jack would-”

Cas cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. “I made my decision, Dean. And I’m happy with it. I chose you. To live a life with you, with only a few remnants of my grace. I’m not sure why Jack didn’t just take it all.”

“Aw, Cas.” Dean stroked his thumb up and down along the side of Cas’s hand. “He wanted you to be happy. And what harm could it do? Being a real life Doctor Dolittle? Chatting with chickens. Gabbing with goats. Schmoozing with… uh…”

“Sharks,” said Cas. He turned his hand over so he could squeeze Dean’s. “And as for what harm it could do – you’d be surprised at the built-up resentment in some factions of the animal kingdom. I once spoke to a buffalo who was trying to incite an uprising, but nothing came of it. Perhaps if we had joined forces…”

“Yeah, well.” A buffalo rebellion? Couldn’t blame them, Dean supposed. “Soup’s getting cold,” he said.

Cas hummed in agreement and ate.

And he was right, anyway, about the animals starting to feel the cold. But the barn was fully repaired now and there was plenty of room, even with Baby parked at one end. Unless Cas picked up some more strays. Which was actually inevitable. Taking another huge bite of his sandwich, Dean mentally tallied up the timber supplies they’d need to extend the barn.

Their first animals had come with the house – a warlike ginger tomcat who lived in the tumbledown barn, and an old donkey that lived in the small paddock behind it.

Looking around for the first time, he and Cas had needed none of the realtor’s sales spiel to fall in love with the place, but the donkey had sealed the deal for his angel.

“I thought you wanted a proper horse,” Dean had said. “You know - to ride?”

Cas's eyes had squinched up as he reached over the railing to play with the donkey’s long fluffy ears. “I don’t understand. Why would I want to sit on an animal? That would be considered rude, without a formal invitation.” He had looked at the donkey sidelong as if she and Dean had had a private conversation when he wasn’t looking. “Did she tell you she wants to be ridden?“

“Well, no.”

“And anyway, there's nothing improper about her,” Cas continued, scratching at the base of the donkey's bristly mane. “She's lonely, of course. That cat is not good company. She'll need some friends. Apart from us.” He looked at Dean. “Her name is Rosie.”

“Okay, then. Hey, Rosie.”

Dean had predicted right then that they were going to end up with a menagerie of Cas's animal friends. And he’d been dead right.

Before they'd even moved in, Cas had found an overflowing donkey sanctuary and offered to take the excess off their hands. A trailer containing Shaggy and Scooby had pulled up the day they'd arrived, not ten minutes after Dean had pulled up the roller door of their moving truck, filled with the minimal stuff from the Bunker and the results of numerous stops along their route - Ikea, Target, Pottery Barn. The stores had all blurred into one in the end and Dean didn’t remember buying half of the crap they’d ended up with.

Anyway, there were Shaggy and Scooby, who’d quickly been taught their place in the pecking order by Rosie. Then there were the chickens, rescued from a battery farm. They’d probably never give any eggs. And they always looked at Dean with their heads tipped on one side, like they’d learnt the expression from Cas.

Crowley the tomcat (named in a fit of weird nostalgia) had rounded up a couple of girlfriends - a black and white (Penguin) and a tabby (Joker) - so no doubt there’d be little bundles of fluff filling the barn soon, making Dean sneeze.

Dean got on okay with Crowley, though. He’d been packing hay in the loft one day and the cat had suddenly appeared, huge yellow eyes staring down at him from a low beam. Dean had sneezed so loud the boards beneath his feet had rattled, and the cat had bristled up like a bottlebrush and fled. But ever since then, he popped up whenever Dean entered the barn, perhaps to see if he’d get the same reaction, which he did sometimes. He was okay, though. He was lean and a bit scruffy and Dean felt that the cat had history - like himself.

Dean had had to find ways of protecting all the electric cables in the house when Cas had brought home two rabbits.

“Can’t we keep them outside?”

“Dean! It’s far too dangerous outside for Helga and Hetty! Anyway, they prefer the indoor life.”

So the rabbits roamed and everything worth anything had to be out of the reach of nibbling.

Dean had found Cloppy the mule, though. One day he’d taken Baby for a drive to explore the surrounding countryside, and having enjoyed the twist and turn of the little windy roads and found a couple of places he could really floor it without too much risk of actually coming to grief at the corners, he’d stopped at a natural viewpoint in the trees. He’d got out of Baby and leant against her hood, munching one of Cas’s homemade cereal bars (plenty of chocolate and not too much cereal) and letting the fall colours refresh his soul. Not that his soul had needed refreshing, particularly, but the sea of reds and oranges and yellows were a sight to behold and anyway, admiring views was something he’d decided he should be doing more of, now that he could.

There’d been a break in the trees, though, a little way down the scrubby slope, and for some reason Dean had wondered what was down there. So he’d gone to have a look, the hems of his jeans brushing through the grass, getting wet from the thick layer of dew. (He wasn’t cold, though, because Cas had bought him a quilted jacket, ignoring Dean’s entirely fake protests against too much comfort, which he was far too manly and tough to need.)

Anyway, through the break in the pine trees he found a rickety old fence, mostly rotted, and as he followed it down the line of the slope, he noticed a brown lump on the far side of the fence, in the middle of a clump of messy weeds. Dean had easily got through the gap between two sagging rails and lurched over the uneven ground to find himself being watched by the most pathetic creature he’d come across in a long time, including Sammy when the grocery store didn’t have his favourite frizzy lettuce.

It had the long face of a donkey and the body of a miserably skinny horse. And it immediately reminded Dean of Cloppy, when little Cas had found her in the junk shed, all filthy and damp and squashed.

The mule had made a grumbly noise when he had approached with one hand held out, flapping its lips to reveal long, yellow teeth. For a moment, Dean had been worried that the teeth were heading for his fingers – a flesh-eating mule? It could happen – and he’d taken a swift step back. It had thrown its head up with a squeal and Dean was about to turn tail and run, but then the mule had collapsed back into its drooping posture, its ears had sagged and it had sighed a raspy, unhealthy groan. There was a rope leading from its frayed halter, and Dean realised the poor thing was tethered to a post – way too tight – and that all the edible bits of green stuff around it were eaten down to stalks.

It had taken Dean a while and a good bit of determination to track down the owner, and a lot more determination not to shoot the guy on the spot. Instead of violence, however, Dean had used his other hunter’s resource - subterfuge. He’d gone in as Humane Association – a refreshing change from FBI – threatened the sleaze-bag with prosecution and informed him that he was confiscating the mule.

Cloppy the mule was added to the family the following day. And Cas… Cas had said, “I always knew you were a hero, Dean,” with hearts and tears brimming from his eyes. And then he’d taken Dean upstairs to give him a hero’s reward. Heh, heh, heh.

“You seem to be enjoying your soup very much, Dean. Do you need a moment alone?”

Dean jumped, his surroundings snapping back into place – the chequered cloth, the remaining scraps of sandwich, the last couple of spoonfuls of his soup. And Cas, watching him, all blue eyes and pink cheeks. Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Huh. Uh. No. I was just… you know… thinking?”

That damn eyebrow was at it again, quirking up like it knew exactly what Dean had been thinking about.

“Oh,” said Cas. “Thinking.” He sat back in his chair, head tipped to one side, arms crossed over his mutant sweater. “What about?” As if he didn’t know.

“Just.” Dean shrugged. “Stuff. Whether we need to extend the barn.”

Cas’s knowing expression dropped away and he leant forward, earnestly. Which was maybe a shame, because Dean could have pushed things in a direction that would have led upstairs for another reward. Or he could reward Cas. But still, an earnest angel was damn cute too.

“Yes. I was thinking that too,” Cas said. “Did you know there are approximately one hundred thousand unwanted horses in the United States alone?”

“Hey, hold on there, Cas. I was thinking we could fit in maybe one or two more. A hundred thousand’s gonna be a bit beyond us.”

“Of course. But we should rescue as many animals as we can.” He reached forward and took both of Dean’s hands in his own. “They need us, Dean.”

Dean smiled. “I guess you’ve found a new mission, Cas.”

“I have. Even though I already had a mission.”

And his grace might be depleted to almost nothing, but Dean didn’t think Cas would ever lose his angel-gaze, the one that looked into you and through you and right down to the depths of your soul - or at least to the depths of Dean’s soul.

“You’re my most important mission, Dean. To love you and care for you and be with you for always.”

Heat spread over Dean’s cheeks. “Same,” he mumbled. “Love you, Cas.” He squeezed his angel’s hands. And he lifted them up and pressed them quickly to his lips, one and then the other, before setting them back on the table. He cleared his throat and sniffed.

“And rescuing animals is your mission too, Dean. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He thought about Rosie, who’d been lonely, Scooby and Shaggy, who’d been unwanted foals, Crowley, who purred when Dean scritched behind his ears, Helga and Hetty who sat on their laps when they watched TV, Cloppy who followed him around like a dog and patiently endured Dean’s cowboy adventures. Even the chickens, looking right through him like a bunch of tiny feathery Castiel, Angel of the Lords. They were all worth saving. They all deserved saving, in fact, just like Dean had all those years ago – and it had taken a long time, but he kind of believed it now. Cas had convinced him. Dean Winchester had deserved to be saved.

“Saving animals. Not hunting things,” said Dean. “Yeah. I can live with that.”

Cas’s earnest blue eyes were still fixed on his. “Of course fish are animals too, Dean.”

“Okay… Are you saying I need to dig a lake, Cas?”

“No, of course not,” said Cas. Oh well, that was a relief. He continued. “I’m saying we should dig a lake. We could rescue abandoned turtles.”

Turtles now. “Yeah?” Dean stacked the plates and took them over to the sink. The kitchen looked out onto an open area of dried, ridged earth, flanked by the barn to one side, the level field that Cas had started to dig out for a vegetable plot opposite the house, and the sloping field up to the left. If Dean leant forward over the sink he’d be able to see Cloppy, still at the top where he’d left her. It was her favourite spot to stand and think mulish thoughts.

“Of course, not all varieties of turtles would be happy to live outside in a lake all year around.”

The faucet creaked as Dean turned it on. Might need adjusting. He swilled the remains of the soup out of the pot. Then he let the basin fill with hot water and squirted in some dish soap. And he smiled down at the bubbles. Because this right here, this was one of those moments; the mundane task, Cas’s softly committed words flowing and flowing - this was what his life was now. This was happiness, this was safety and contentment. This was love.

“But there are many fish and turtles that need homes, Dean.”

“Are there?” He wiped the soup bowls out with the sponge. No matter how many sad turtles and fish there were, Dean wasn’t giving up his bathroom to them. He’d only just got the over-size tub plumbed in.

“Sadly, alligators would not be welcome,” said Cas.

Dean rinsed the bowls and stacked them on the drainer. “Yeah. That sounds like a good line to draw, angel.”

“Alligators can be perfectly amiable companions, though, Dean. Even articulate, if you catch them just before they get too hungry.”

“Yeah, no. No alligators, please.”

“Shall I dry?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m just gonna let them drain.” He tipped water away. Maybe they didn’t need to get a dishwasher after all.

A chair scraped. Strong arms slid around his waist and Dean turned within their circle.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas.”

Dean could see every little black hair around his angel’s jaw and mouth. He could count them if he wanted. Cas probably knew precisely how many hairs Dean had.

“I won’t offer accommodation to any alligators,” said Cas.

“Good decision.” There was a smear of yellowy-orange at the corner of Cas’s mouth. Dean kissed it away.

His angel smiled. “I’m happy, Dean. Are you happy?”

“You know I am,” said Dean. He pinched up his mouth and frowned. “A bit tired, though.”

“Oh. You need a nap,” said his angel, nodding decisively. “An afternoon nap will refresh you. And then, after dinner, we can stargaze. The sky will be cloudless tonight.”

“That sounds perfect,” said Dean. “Come on, then, angel. Let’s ‘nap’.” Air-quotes included. Free of charge, as always.

“Yes. Come on, Dean.” Cas grabbed his hand and led him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. But he paused when he reached the half landing and looked down at Dean. “Just to be clear - by a nap, I meant sex. That is - we can also have a nap, but first we should have sex. Is that okay, Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas. That’s okay. That’s very okay.”

“Good.” He made no move to climb the rest of the stairs. His hand was dry and callused in Dean’s, his other hand gripping the rail, fingers curling around it when they should have been curling around Dean’s… anyway, he wasn’t moving.

“We going? Or hey, I don’t mind sex on the stairs. Whatever floats your boat, man.”

Cas gave a little shiver, like he was coming back into the moment. “I’m sorry, Dean. I was just admiring you. You’re very beautiful.”

“Oh.” Dean discovered some stray wood-shavings in the corners of each stair, left from where he’d planed a bit off the handrail to make it smooth. “Uh, thanks. Uh…” He made himself look up and huffed when he saw Cas’s grin. “You only say stuff like that to make me embarrassed.”

“No, I say it because it’s true, Dean. But the way it makes your face glow is a bonus, I must admit.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Dean pushed past his angel, keeping a firm grip on his hand and towing him up the remaining stairs. “Bedroom. Now.”

When they had driven away from the bunker, Dean cursing the crunchy stick-shift of the mostly empty moving truck, Cas had said, “We need some of those chairs, Dean. Like Carlos and Brenda had. So that we can stargaze in comfort.”

They’d found some in Target - solid wood with cushions in a grey and red plaid pattern almost exactly like one of Dean’s old shirts. He and Cas had added them to the growing load in the truck - a dining table and chairs, a couple of bookcases, some sets of drawers, and a gigantic bathtub for the new bathroom Dean had planned. But when they’d arrived at their new home, with its rotted boards and flaked-off paint and only the first floor actually habitable, it turned out they’d forgotten the most important items - a bedframe and mattress. So, they’d set up the two lounger chairs and slept on those for the first couple of nights.

A whole night spent on a narrow recliner chair wasn’t much fun. And besides, there were other things you could do on a bed that might break a garden chair. But they were perfect for stargazing, especially when you dragged them right out to the paddock behind the barn so you could lay out flat and look straight up without any trees or the house getting in the way. Rosie sometimes got in the way, but mostly she just stood nearby, glad of the human company, snorting at Scooby and Shaggy if they ventured too close.

“There’s a butterfly,” said Cas.

Dean followed his pointing finger. “Oh yeah. A great big one.” He squinted at the stars. Maybe they should get a telescope. Or maybe he needed glasses. “If you follow it down that way, though,” - he traced a line with his hand - “and up the other side too, I think it could be wings.” He smirked, nudging Cas’s side with his elbow. “Wings on a lickle pony.”

It was dark, but there was definitely an eye-roll aimed his way. “Fluttershy,” said Cas. “There’s no need to make fun, Dean. You like My Little Pony too.”

“Yeah, within reason. I don’t get all obsessive over it.” He held up a hand and counted off. “The original series, Friendship is Magic, Pony Tails and so on. Not to mention all the movies.”

Cas grunted. “The art is beautiful. And the dialogue is quick and witty.” He squirmed around so that he was facing Dean. “And it wasn’t me who compiled a list of all the shows and movies to watch in chronological order, Dean.”

Dean cleared his throat. “You gotta have a system, Cas,” he mumbled. “Hey, that looks like a rocket launcher right there and a great big fuck-off explosion.”

Cas hummed and glanced at the sky. “Very nice, Dean. Manly credentials reestablished in one easy move.”

Dean giggled, which wasn’t very manly. Although who made the rule that men couldn’t giggle if they felt like it? That was a shit rule. And he couldn’t help giggling when Cas went all dry and extra growly like that.

His angel leant over, blotting out the stars. “I love you, Dean Winchester.” He kissed the tip of Dean’s nose. “You’re so manly and strong.”

Dean giggled again and grabbed Cas’s flopping hair, pulling him into a proper kiss, which went on for a while. Then Cas pulled away, collapsing back onto his lounge chair with a dramatic sigh. “How could a poor innocent maiden resist?”

“Shut up, Cas.”

His angel’s giggle was rough and suggestive. Then he levered himself up on one elbow and Dean saw Cloppy’s silhouette, tucked under Cas’s free arm. She was always popping up somewhere. Dean wondered if Jack had left Cas the juice to summon her, to keep her on an angelic tether, to be tugged to his side at will.

“The fabric we wanted is back in stock, Dean. I’ve ordered ten metres of each.”

“What? Oh, yeah. For the spare rooms. Are you sure you know how to make curtains? And bedding?”

“Yes.” Cas’s chair creaked. “How hard could it be?”

Dean recalled various sewing projects - altering his own clothes so they wouldn’t be too big on little Sammy, patching worn-through jeans until eventually holes became fashionable, stitching up tears in fabric – and tears in skin.

“The pattern is perfect for when Carlos and Brenda visit,” said Cas, the chair creaking again as he lay back down.

“Fairies and witches,” said Dean. “They’ll love it.” He smirked at a constellation that Cas had christened The Hamburger. “And Sammy will love his too.” Who knew you could get fabric covered with great big grumpy cartoon mooses? “Let’s invite them all as soon as the rooms are done.” He scratched his chin. “Do you think Pongo will be okay? With the animals, I mean? I don’t want him chasing the girls.”

“I thought the chickens ‘creeped you out,’ Dean.”

He shrugged and pulled his blanket up over his shoulders. It was getting a bit cold. “I don’t want them to get chased.”

Cas’s blanket rustled as he rearranged it, stretching it halfway over Dean. “You like the chickens. Don’t you, Dean? Admit it.”

“Yeah, okay. They’re not so bad.”

“Pongo won’t chase them, anyway. I’ll speak to him about it.”

“Okay, then.” Dean let his eyes wander around the night sky. All the light had gone, even the faint pink glow that, a couple of minutes ago, had still been there, hiding behind the trees at the lower end of their valley.

Cas shifted and rustled. His nails clicked together. He made a little popping sound with his lips. Dean waited. There was something coming.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“You like Pongo, don’t you?”

“Of course I like Pongo. I just think, even if you have a word in both of his floppy ears, that he might not be able to resist messing with the girls.”

“Possibly,” said Cas. “But I was thinking, maybe he’d be less inclined to chase the hens if he had a companion.”

Oh, right. Of course. Why hadn’t Dean guessed straight away?

“Did you know, Dean, that there are millions of dogs without homes? Millions, Dean. Think of that.”

“Yes,” said Dean.

“Oh. You knew that already.”

“No.”

“Then…”

“I meant yes to getting a dog, Cas. Just not a little yappy one, okay?”

“The little yappy ones need homes too, Dean.”

“Okay, just… can we get a big one first? One that’s gonna be, like - in charge? Keep the others in line.”

“Others?”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna stop at one, because I won’t believe you. And you’ll have to make sure they don’t get a hold of Cloppy.”

Cas’s chair protested as he lurched to hold his toy horse tightly to his chest. “Nobody touches Cloppy, Dean. That rule is absolute.”

Wow. Smitey-voiced Cas. Dean hadn’t heard that in a while. His own chair creaked as he eased a certain amount of constriction in his underwear.

“Except you, of course, Dean,” Cas continued.

“Yeah, okay.” He lifted his hips and lowered them again, which didn’t do a lot to gain any comfort, now that his thoughts had turned in that direction. “Are you getting cold?”

“No. I find the night air refreshing, Dean.”

“Oh. Good.”

“The moon will be rising soon,” said Cas. “Would you like to fly?”

Jack had left Cas his wings. Not to flap him out of existence and pop up the other side of the world, but just to fly around their home, like one of the crows that roosted in the old oak tree. He’d lift Dean up like he was nothing and sometimes they’d sit in the branches alongside the birds and watch the sunset. Dean wasn’t afraid of flying when Cas was in charge. But he wasn’t in the mood for flying right now.

“Uh, no. I’m, uh, kinda tired, Cas.” Why couldn’t he just ask? Why couldn’t he just come right out and ask for what he wanted? For fuck’s sake. He did a big fake yawn instead. “Real tired, in fact.”

“Oh. Of course. Beddytime,” said Cas. “You should go up. I’ll circle the perimeter and then put the chairs away.” He flung off his blankets, stood up and stretched out his arms. And suddenly half the sky was blotted out and great, sleek feathers reflected the starlight.

Dean sat up, letting the blanket pool below his waistline. “Beddytime,” he muttered, pushing one hand through his hair. “Uh, Cas?”

“Dean?”

Dean stood up, letting the blanket fall. He reached out and took his angel’s hand. “Come with me?”

“Oh.” There was an audible swallow. “I see. Yes, Dean.”

“And Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Keep your wings out?”

“Of course, Dean.”

Dean was wrapped in comfort, soft feathers against his skin, smooth like silk, fluffy like cotton balls, but strong beneath, stronger than the branches of the old oak tree. He let out a breath as long and satisfied as when cat-Crowley stretched out in a perfect patch of sunlight.

“Are you happy, Dean?”

“Yeah.” His thoughts stretched out too, smooth and sweet like softened taffy. “’m real happy, Cas.”

“Good.”

A strong arm held him close and long fingers carded through his hair. Dean could drift into sleep, easily, right now, and normally Cas would be ready to drift along with him. But that strong arm held tension, not the slack softness of sleep.

“Do you miss him? Me?”

“What? Huh?” Dean blinked and the moon had risen fully outside now and Cas hadn’t made curtains for their room yet. Blue eyes with moonlight and starlight in them looked into his, looked past his, right down into his soul.

“Little me. Little Wing. Do you miss him?”

“You’re him, Cas. You’ll always be my Little Wing,” said Dean.

Cas kissed him, but the searchlights stayed on, looking inside Dean for something.

“Do you miss looking after him, though? Looking after a child?”

Dean followed the path of those searchlights, sifting through his own thoughts, his long-held, secret desires, his soul-deep need to protect those weaker than himself. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, I do.” He swallowed and Cas’s blue eyes were blurry pools. “I really do.”

Cas held him closer and patted soft kisses across his forehead and down his cheeks. Then he stopped.

He shifted and rustled. His nails clicked together. He made a little popping sound with his lips. Dean waited.

Because he knew his angel very well. And so he knew that there was something coming.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Dean, did you know that in the US alone there are over one hundred thousand children waiting to be adopted?”

Dean took a breath, like he was standing at the beginning of a long, long, winding road – a new road, but one he’d always wanted to take.

“Over one hundred thousand children, waiting for a home? Dean? Did you know?”

Dean smiled. “Yes,” he said.

And Cas kissed him again, because Dean hadn’t known.

But he’d said yes.