Chapter Text
The sun hangs low in the late afternoon sky, the heat of summer set in with the first week of June even as the wildflowers continue to bloom on the open prairie. With the seeding done, Emma spends her days at the homestead with them while they do odd jobs and pray for rain.
While she naps, they venture out to the paddock to fix a loose post in the fence that could go down with just one temper tantrum from Betsy. It’s rotted out from the winter snow, and Dean has a new post to replace it. He kneels on the ground, cutting the notch by sight alone while Cas hacks out the old post.
They work in silence, and Dean relishes in the comfort of getting a straightforward job done. Cas wanders over to the water pump after successfully rooting out the old post, promising Dean a somewhat cool drink.
Dean wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. Sam and Jess had promised to visit after church tomorrow, and he’s trying to think of what they could pull together at the last minute for Sunday dinner. There’s fresh bread and butter of course, and one of the old hens was looking down in the mouth– maybe he could figure out his Ma’s old fried chicken recipe...
“Dean.”
Dean drops his hammer at the tone of Cas's voice and rises to see Cas standing stock still at the edge of the yard, face to face with Lydia Winchester. She’s surveying Castiel, arms crossed over a blue dress she didn’t have when she left. Her pointed gaze is offset by her soft auburn hair, pinned up just as it was the day she and Dean were married.
“I see the shirt I made is being put to good use,” she says, eyes finally shifting to Dean. He squares up, crossing his own arms.
“You didn’t take it with you when you left,” he replies, “And as I recall, we ‘owed each other nothing’.”
Lydia’s eyes flash but Dean stands his ground. She’s not the wronged one here.
“I’ll...check on the house,” Cas interjects, carefully not mentioning Emma by name, which Dean is grateful for, “Unless, Dean, you want me to-”
“No,” Dean says, “Thanks, Cas. That’ll be helpful.”
It kills Dean not to reassure him with touch, and Castiel must feel the same impulse, as he makes an aborted step towards Dean before offering a jerky nod and heading for the house.
“You aren’t going to introduce me to your friend?” Lydia asks, watching Cas's retreating back. Dean steps into her line of sight, feeling strangely protective.
“He knows who you are.”
Silence falls again.
“You look well,” Lydia offers.
“Don’t sound so disappointed.” Dean shouldn’t snap. He should school the heat from his voice. He should be on bended knee, begging his lawful wife to return to their home and care for their child, but even after a year’s gap the mere sight of Lydia’s face is enough to reignite the anger Dean thought had gone long dormant.
“I’m not,” she replies, sharp, “At least, I don’t think I am. I’m honestly not sure if I would have been happier to find you broken. But then, I guess that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“You mean your complete indifference to the man you gave a marriage vow to?” Dean snaps back, “You’re the mother of my child and you don’t give a damn about me. I’d call that a problem, Lydia.”
Lydia looks away. “I’m no one’s mother.”
“You made that pretty clear.” The anger is finally bubbling up in earnest. “You left her alone. In an empty house with the door unlatched.”
“For a few minutes” Lydia protests, “You told me what time you were coming in.”
“That’s not the point,” Dean shouts, “You left her. You looked into her eyes, the child that we made, and you dropped her in her crib with that damn bottle and you left. Emma cried for you. She cried for days, and you don’t even care.”
“Did she live?” Lydia asks, and Dean is so taken aback that he sputters.
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t said,” Lydia replies, “Did she survive the winter? I heard it was a hard snow.”
Dean feels the strangest urge to cross himself, as he’s seen Cas do on more than one occasion when an ill will has been spoken carelessly. Lydia asks after their child’s life like he would ask after a neighbor’s barn cat.
“She had her first birthday a few weeks back,” he manages to reply, “Healthy as can be.”
“That’s good.” Lydia still looks unsure, but she smiles faintly. “I’m glad.”
Dean sighs, pushing the sweat damp hair from his eyes. Lydia’s words are leaving him turned in circles. “Do you want to come back?”
It’s not a question Lydia expected, judging by his wife’s look of alarm.
“What?”
“Are. you. here,” Dean repeats slowly, “Because. you. want. to. come. back.”
“What if I said yes?”
Dean stares at the woman he once thought he could love. After a few seconds he clenches his jaw, and steps aside, leaving the path to the farmhouse clear.
“After everything I’ve done,” Lydia says, “You would let me back into your home.”
“It was supposed to be our home,” Dean mutters.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Into your bed?”
“What?”
“As man and wife.”
“What else would I do, make you sleep in the hayloft?” Dean snaps, “You’re worried I’d deny you children, what, out of spite? You don’t even want the one we have!”
Lydia doesn’t rise to Dean’s anger.
“I thought I would arrive here to face a divorce.”
Dean thinks of Castiel. Of Ellen and Sam with their pointed comments on remarriage. “I don’t want a divorce.”
“Do you want me to come back?”
“I want Emma to have a mother,” Dean replies, eyes on the packed earth at his feet, “I want her spared the shame of explaining why you’re gone.”
The waiting silence threatens to smother him. Dean waits for a reply, his thoughts torn between his lover and his child, both in the house waiting to hear what course their lives will take from this moment forward.
“I can’t.”
The first thing Dean feels is relief, followed by a wash of self-loathing.
“You can’t, or you don’t want to?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Is Emma well?” she asks at last, “Is she happy?”
As quickly as Dean’s self-loathing bubbled up it’s gone, like a receding tide. Emma has survived this long without a mother. Besides, she’s had no lack of aunts and uncles and godmothers on her side. Honorary as they may be, they’ll serve her better than a reluctant Lydia. And they have Cas now. Dean and Emma will carry on as they always have.
“I reckon she is.”
Lydia nods, satisfied.
Dean shakes his head. “I don’t understand you.”
Lydia smiles, and it’s impossibly sad.
“I know.”
Their words run out, anger cooled and questions answered. Dean isn’t inviting Lydia into the house, and she doesn’t seem to expect it. There is nothing left to connect them but for the contract in the church office and the child sleeping in the farmhouse.
“Are you staying in town?” Dean asks, grimacing to think of what neighbors already spotted her heading for his land.
“Only for the day. I didn’t take a room.”
“I can give you a ride back.”
“I walked here,” Lydia points out, “I can walk back just as well.”
“Have a sip of water, then,” Dean urges, “It’ll only stir gossip if the neighbors find you passed out on the side of the road in this heat.”
Still reluctant, Lydia nods, and Dean follows her the short distance to the barnyard proper.
Eyes on the ground, Dean doesn’t see that Lydia’s stopped walking, and nearly trips.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“I see now,” Lydia says, and Dean’s heart stops when he follows her gaze and sees Cas watching through the open doorway of the lean-to with Emma in his arms. The scene is too familiar, for a supposed farm hand to be holding his employer’s child. Emma is too comfortable nestled against Cas's chest, playing with the strings of his hat.
“I see now why a divorce would be...inconvenient.”
His gut full of ice, Dean opens his mouth to deny Lydia’s words, only to catch Cas's wide eyed stare. He’s terrified, the question clear. Is she staying?
Urgently Dean shakes his head, and Cas turns away, murmuring something to Emma, though his gaze doesn’t leave Dean’s until he vanishes from the doorway. How is Dean to tell him that their worst fear is passed, only for a worse one to take it’s place.
“Lydia.”
“I know where the water pump is,” Lydia says, “You should go reassure him. I’m leaving on the evening train.”
“It’s not what you think—”
“Goodbye, Dean.”
Dean stands frozen as Lydia has her drink and goes, vanishing as quickly as she arrived. He feels distant, like he’s watching his body from above, as he enters the house and accepts a cheerful Emma into his arms. Cas pulls him in for a soft kiss, his eyes full of relief. Dean can feel the press of his lips but he doesn’t get to enjoy the warmth and peace that he’s come to associate with touching Cas.
“Dean?” Cas's hands are firm at his waist. Dean wants to offer him reassurance. He wants to hold him close with Emma celebrate the end of their endless uncertainty.
“We should finish the fence post,” is all he can manage. Castiel frowns, but he strokes his thumb over the curve of Dean’s cheekbone, eyes weighted with understanding.
“Alright.”
They take Emma out to the yard with them to finish the short project, setting her down with a blanket on a fresh patch of grass. It’s near sunset by the time the paddock fence is righted, and still Dean hasn’t been able to say a word that isn’t asking for a tool or checking on Emma.
“Looks good,” he says, and they head back inside.
They should be working on supper by now, but Dean could hardly eat, with too many of the day’s events still unresolved. Cas is on tenterhooks, having caught on to Dean’s anxiety. Even Emma is subdued, quietly playing with her doll on the floor. Restless, Dean parts the curtains to his room.
Still laid out on the bed he made this morning is the quilt Emma was conceived under. Dean hadn’t put much thought to it, the quilt Lydia made to warm their marriage bed. He’s slept under it, sweat out a fever covered by it. He and Cas have made love on it, more than once.
Now it seems heavy, suffocating in the room. On an impulse Dean pulls it from the bed, yanking up the carefully tucked corners of the mattress. He folds it roughly, sitting on the edge of the bed. The weight of the material is heavy against his thighs.
“Dean?” Cas is in the doorway, staring at the quilt in Dean’s lap.
“This was our wedding quilt.” Dean fingers the red and gold calico squares, tracing the even rows of stitching.
“I know,” Castiel begins, hesitant, “I know this must be...confusing for you. If you’re angry or, or disappointed? I understand.”
“I...don’t know what to feel.” Dean’s fists clench in the quilted material.
“Dean.”
“She saw you,” Dean bites out, “With Emma. Just for a damn second. It should have been nothing.”
Cas blanches. “But?”
“She knew.” The dormant fear threatens to punch through the surface. “She guessed it without a blink. I couldn’t deny it. I wasn’t quick enough.”
“What are we going to do?”
Dean stares at the quilt in his lap. He gathers it up in his arms.
“The only thing I can do.”
Castiel paces around the house, pushing in chairs and and pulling them out only to push them in again. He starts to stoke a fire, but then abandons it. Emma is content with a bottle and a few pieces of bread for supper, and his stomach roils with anything but hunger. He starts toward the front door instead with a tin pail full of grease to get rid of the squeak in the door hinge Dean had meaning to do that afternoon. The sun disappears over the horizon while he goes about his work, and Emma crawls around on her quilt, a safe distance away from his frenzied working.
He works the grease into the hinges, moving the door back and forth.
Castiel lifts his face to the sun, closing his eyes and wishing that he were anywhere else in the world. He wishes he could turn back the clock, and live a select number of years again, changing nothing. Only relishing.
“Castiel,” Ezekiel pronounces his full name carefully, “I confess I would like to know your thoughts.”
Castiel sighs, dropping his hands from his hips and rubbing his eyes. Only Zeke had spoken thus far, giving excuses.
“I understand our position, Zeke.” His voice is even and soft now, whereas it had cracked light broken glass before. “I only wish you had told me before my sister had read it to me from the society newspaper across the breakfast table.”
Zeke blanches at that, running a hand through his russet-colored hair. Cas silently curses the jump in his heart. He always loves what he knows he can’t have.
“You should have told me first,” he repeats.
“I thought,” Zeke says, “Hannah knows about us, she knows what’s at stake–”
Castiel holds up a hand. “No. I won’t add adultery to the list of my sins.”
Ezekiel’s eyes darken. “Was this just a sin to you?”
“It feels like it now.”
The door hangs straight and without a sound when he pulls it shut. Dean is nowhere in sight, and the vision of Lydia by the barnyard, watching him with her child in his arms plays again and again before his eyes.
He doesn’t feel dirty now, as he had when Ezekiel had told him that he would be marrying Hannah. His shoulders sag with heartbreak, knowing the worst will come when Lydia and Dean would return together to reestablish their bond. Where would his and Dean’s conversation occur? Would he ask him to stay for the harvest before it became just too hard? Or was the distraction worth it to make it through the winter again?
“‘As!”
The word is less his name and more high-pitched yell. He smiles, wiping his hands and striding over to where Emma crawls under the table, staring at him with a wide smile.
“Ok you.” He picks her up, swinging her around his front to her delight as shown with her bubbly laughter. He sits down in one of the rocking chairs, setting her on his knee.
“Were you happy to see your Mama again?” he asks, voice thick.
Emma sucks a finger into her mouth, staring up at him intently.
He shakes his head, laughing to himself. They fetch her doll across the room at her insistence before settling back in the rocking chair. Her eyes are at half-mast as she cradles her doll, and he realizes that she should be already in bed. He takes a deep breath and sighs, cradling Emma in his arms.
He hums a tune his mother used to sing to him as she fusses slowly with the doll’s dress. When he reaches the end her eyes are heavy and the doll falls to the floor.
The dim light of the kerosene lamp illuminates her blonde curls. He rises, bringing her over to her crib and laying her down on the quilt. He tucks her doll in beside her.
He checks to make sure the embers in the stove have completely died away before extinguishing the lamp. Darkness hangs heavy over the still house, the quiet sound of Emma’s even breathing steady in the night.
Castiel takes one last look around the small homestead, standing in the doorway with the moonlight at his back. He pulls the door shut, the familiar click of the latch unusually loud. He starts toward the barn, each step more labored than the last.
Dean pushes Jet through Ava at a gallop, tying him up out front of the depot just as the last train of the evening pulls into town. The sun is near set, a few hanging lanterns lit to give light to the handful of passengers disembarking.
Lydia is getting ready to board, handing a small suitcase to a conductor.
“Wait,” Dean calls, breathless as he runs to the platform from the street. Lydia’s head snaps toward him, her brows drawn together in confusion. As he draws near he sees the conductor express some concern, but Lydia waves him away.
“What do you want, Dean?”
Words bottle up in his throat. He holds out the quilt, silent.
“That doesn’t belong to me.”
“You made it, it should be yours,” Dean says, “Sell it in the next town if you like, but I don’t want it.”
Lydia reluctantly steps forward to accept patchwork quilt. She glances over her shoulder to make sure the conductor has moved on to help another passenger before meeting his gaze, her gray eyes uncertain.
“You didn’t come here to give me a wedding keepsake.”
Dean shakes his head, swallowing his nerves.
“I married you in good faith,” he says, “I don’t think you hate me. And if you do, it’s not enough to put Emma through what would happen if you revealed us.”
“Ask me what you want to ask.”
What he needs to say can only be whispered, even here in the dark of the evening with only a few sleepy passengers in sight.
“Don’t come back,” Dean pleads, closing Lydia’s hands around the folded quilt, “If you know, then you know what I need, and that’s peace. Don’t take it from me. Let us be.”
Dean is more vulnerable before his wife now than he ever was in their marriage bed. If Lydia takes any pleasure in her position of power, she doesn’t show it.
“I know what you must think of me,” she says, gaze weighted with self-awareness that Dean hasn’t seen from her since she appeared this morning, “But I made my choice. You’ve made yours. I find myself in no position to judge you, nor do I wish you ill.”
“We will live or die by your word.” The fear strangling Dean’s belly gives one last roil.
Lydia promises, “You won’t hear from me again.”
The train car doors open, welcoming the sparse outgoing passengers.
“I guess this is goodbye, then.” Lydia looks toward the waiting train, and Dean can’t keep the words from spilling out.
“I wouldn’t change any of it.”
Lydia turns back. “What?”
“I had never hurt,” Dean says, “The way you hurt me the day you left us. But you also gave me the greatest joy of my life, and I’m grateful for her, even now. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“I think we’re very different people, you and I,” Lydia says, holding the quilt against her chest.
“I think you’re right,” Dean agrees. The train whistle blows and he gives her a hand stepping up the short stair to her car.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Dean says, releasing his wife’s hand as the train pulls away from the station. Lydia waves goodbye, a few loose tendrils of her red hair stirring in the nighttime breeze. Dean watches her until the train is only a speck in the distance.
The ride back to his land is a relief compared to his mad dash to catch Lydia’s train. Dean lets Jet slow to a trot once they’re free of town, the stars bright over the open prairie. For the first time in a year, the black cloud of Dean’s marriage and Emma’s undecided future is gone, and never to return, if Lydia keeps her promise. Dean opts to trust her word. He has little other choice.
Dean’s relief is tempered when he arrives home to find the house dark. A peek inside reveals Emma sleeping peacefully in her crib, but Cas is nowhere to be seen. Dean leaves Jet in the paddock to cool down and graze in the cool night air and makes for the barn.
He finds Castiel awake, perched on the edge of his bed. His satchel is packed at his feet. His head is bowed over his lap, and his hands are folded, either in prayer or defeat.
“Cas?” Dean’s heart is in his throat. “What are you doing?”
Cas's head snaps up, and he stares at Dean, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Dean,” he replies, then, looking behind Dean into the barn, “Where’s Lydia?”
“Lydia?” Dean repeats, confused, “She’s on the train east. Probably almost to Kansas City by now.”
A strange kind of shudder ripples through Castiel, and he drops his face into his hands with a sound that Dean could only call a sob.
“What,” Dean asks, “What happened?”
“When you left,” Cas admits, “I-I thought you changed your mind.”
Dean can only shake his head. He could never.
“I thought you meant to bring her back. To save us. Because she saw me.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Dean touches a trembling hand to the crown of Cas's head. Tips his chin up. Wills him to believe his words.
“I couldn’t stand in the way,” Castiel breathes, “Not if she came back. If Emma could have—”
“Lydia’s gone,” Dean promises, “For good. She gave me her word. We’re safe.”
Cas shakes his head, distraught. “For now. It’s always temporary.”
“Maybe,” Dean says, “Maybe. But we’ll deal with it. Together.”
When Cas doesn’t push him away Dean drops to his knees. He pulls Castiel’s hands to his face. Kisses his palms.
“Don’t leave,” Dean begs him, “Not now.”
“I should,” Cas replies, eyes closed, “It would be the right thing.”
Dean shakes his head. “No,” he says, “Not for me. I need you.”
Cas leans forward, hands shifting. One to cradle the back of Dean’s neck, the other to touch softly at Dean’s bottom lip.
“I need you, too.”
Cas lets out a soft, vulnerable noise when Dean sucks one of his fingers into his mouth. Dean tongues over the pad of Cas's forefinger, and nips at the webbing between his finger and thumb before taking the digit back into his mouth with an intentional suction that has Castiel’s breath hitching and his other hand going tight at the base of Dean’s skull.
Cas's eyes are dark, and Dean is already aching for him. Bold, he traces Cas's inseam to the center of him, where he can feel his arousal.
“Let me,” Dean pleads, leaning in to nuzzle the hardness in Cas's trousers. His mouth is watering. “I need it. Cas, please.”
Cas nods and Dean fumbles at the fastenings of his pants, frantic, until finally, finally, Cas is freed from his drawers and Dean can pull him between his lips.
Dean has no finesse. He is in no doubt as to the lack of his own skill but he needs to offer Castiel something and this is it. His own jealous, fragile self. Dean can’t stop shaking, but his hands are steady enough to pull Cas's hips closer to the edge of the bed. He can push himself further onto Castiel’s cock until he’s near choking and tears blur his vision.
“Dean.” Castiel’s grip is almost too tight against his scalp. It stings.
Dean moans around the thickness is his mouth. It’s so good. He feels owned and he needs it so bad. He moves up and down the length of Castiel’s cock, hollowing his cheeks as best he can and drawing every sweet sound from Cas's lips that he can manage.
“Touch yourself,” Cas orders him, and Dean presses the heel of his hand to the bulge in his trousers and moans again. He labors, pleasuring Castiel and himself, until stars blink in his vision and he thinks he might spend himself without even unbuttoning his pants. He makes another sound, muffled by Cas's cock filling his mouth, this one questioning. Asking permission.
“Let me see you,” Castiel pleads in between panting breaths, “I want to see you come while your mouth is full of me.”
Dean chokes, not on the cock between his lips but on the sudden swell of his own orgasm. He hardly gets his own fly open before he’s spilling white onto the packed earth of the barn floor, Castiel nearly slipping out of his mouth as pleasure wracks his body.
“Beautiful,” Castiel breathes, stroking through Dean’s hair as he shivers through it, near collapsed in the vee of Cas's thighs. Dean breathes, clinging until he can regain some of his senses.
He noses under Cas's shirt, dragging his lips against soft skin over firm muscle. With his hands braced on Castiel’s heavy thighs Dean presses a kiss to the wet tip of his cock, still hard and urgently awaiting Dean’s attentions.
“I can finish—” Castiel offers, reaching for himself, but Dean shakes his head, knocking Cas's hand away.
“Let me have it,” he begs, Cas's arousal leaving a wet trail over his cheek and lips.
Castiel nods, stroking through his hair once before pressing against the back of Dean’s head, pulling him back down onto his cock with the gentle force Dean needs and doesn’t deserve.
Cas only manages a few rocking thrusts before his grip on the back of Dean’s head tightens and he’s flooding Dean’s mouth with his release. Dean can’t swallow fast enough, unprepared for the new and bitter taste, and a few drops of white dribble down his chin.
“You’re so good.” Cas doesn’t look away as his grip slackens, the tension of his orgasm giving way to loose pleasure. He cradles Dean’s jaw between his palms, stealing the taste of himself from Dean’s lips.
“Stay,” Dean asks, voice hoarse as he clings to Castiel’s thighs, “Stay with me. Stay with us.”
“How could I leave you now?” Cas replies, still breathing hard, a flush high in his cheeks, “How could I ever?”
The relief leaves Dean weak. He kneels between Cas's thighs, his lover’s release still sticky on his lips and chin, and shakes. This may be the most carnal thing he has ever done.
He doesn't regret it. This is Cas. Dean wants him. He needs him, and today, oh god, today he nearly lost him, but the magnitude of it, of the act he started and damned well finished all on his own, catches up to him all of the sudden.
Dean realizes that he’s crying, and hides his tears in the crease of Cas's hip. The day of tension had left him so cold and now it feels like he’s burning up. He feels red and raw, still nearly suffocated by the fear of a danger already passed by. Dean cries like a child with his head in Castiel’s lap, his soft cock nearly touching Dean’s cheek.
Cas curls over him, sheltering him in his moment of weakness.
“I’m not hers,” Dean sobs, safe at last in the dark, “I’m yours, Cas. Only yours.”
“Shh,” Castiel soothes him, stroking his hair and holding him close, “I have you.”
Cas comforts him until Dean’s breathing settles and his hysteria gives way to bone-deep exhaustion. They tidy themselves up as much as they can, straightening their clothes and fastening their trousers.
“Come inside?” Dean asks eventually, wiping his eyes, “I don’t want to leave Emma alone in the house, but I...I can’t-”
Castiel kisses the top of his head. “Let’s go.”
Dean leads Cas back through the yard to the house, keeping their fingers intertwined with a near clinging grip. They only stop to let Dean give his face and hands a good scrub at the water pump.
They come in the lean-to door to hear Emma fussing in her crib. Dean goes to her immediately while Cas lights a kerosene lamp to illuminate the dark house.
“Shh, sweetheart,” Dean soothes, picking Emma up quilt and all to hold her tight against his chest, “Shh, I’m here.”
Emma’s whimpers settle down quickly, reassured by Dean’s presence. “Pabahabh,” she murmurs, gripping tight to Dean’s shirt.
“That’s right, Em,” Dean replies, “Pa’s here.”
“I didn’t mean to leave her alone,” Cas apologizes, “I just couldn’t be in the house if you came back with Lydia—”
“Don’t think on it,” Dean chides gently, turning to welcome Castiel closer, “Emma’s just fine, aren’t you honey?”
Emma spots Cas and breaks out into a sleepy smile, reaching out with one chubby hand.
“‘As,” she demands, until Cas is close enough to offer her his finger to grip.
“Hello, my darling,” he murmurs with a smile, guiding Emma’s fingers to his lips so he can give them a kiss, much to her delight, “I’m sorry I left you earlier.”
Castiel’s eyes are bright, and Dean is twisted with guilt to imagine him alone in the house with Emma, thinking he had to say goodbye. He pulls Cas nearer still, Emma held safe between them.
“I’m not sure how I would have brought myself to leave,” Cas admits, staring down at Emma, “But I would have done it. For her.”
“You don’t have to, though,” Dean reminds him, “We’re alright.”
“Yes,” Cas agrees, “Yes, I suppose the storm has passed us by.”
Dean cups his hand to the back of Cas's neck, stroking his fingers through the hair at his nape. Cas sighs and leans in until their foreheads touch, shaking his head lightly with a breathy laugh. It being nearly midnight Emma is getting understandably sleepy now that she’s ascertained the location of her two favorite people, and she settles into a warm weight on Dean’s chest. It’s been a long day for them all, and Dean can feel it down to his very bones.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says.
This proves a moment’s challenge when Dean attempts to return Emma to her crib. Nearly asleep in his arms just a moment ago, any move to put her down now is greeted with a whimper that threatens to swell into a full blown fit.
“Alright, alright,” Dean sighs, admitting defeat, “It’s been a hell of a day. We can tuck you in with us tonight. Just this once.”
Emma clings happily as Dean nudges aside the curtain to his bedroom. He manages to light the kerosene lamp only to turn and find Castiel hesitating in the doorway.
“Cas?”
“You and Emma should stay in here, together,” he says, “I shouldn’t—I mean it wouldn’t be—”
Crossing the room again, Dean silences him with a kiss. “C’mon,” he murmurs.
Dean turns down the sheets on the bed. They’ll have to choose another quilt from his trunk in the morning to cover the thin cotton.
He makes a little space between the two pillows at the head of the bed and deposits Emma on her back. She kicks and babbles sleepily while Dean strips off his shirt and trousers and climbs in beside her in his undershirt and drawers.
“Cas,” Dean prompts, reaching one arm out past Emma to pat the other side of the double bed in invitation. Cas sighs in exasperation, but the corners of his mouth are ticked up in a smile as he unclips his suspenders and steps out of his work pants. He folds them neatly over the end of the bed before slipping under the sheets with Dean and Emma.
“There you are,” Dean whispers, tangling their bare feet under the covers. Cas cups Dean’s jaw tenderly, Emma already sleeping soundly between them. He leans over the spare space between their pillows, pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s mouth. Then, glancing up like he means to ask permission, Cas presses his lips equally gently to the crown of Emma’s head before settling into his own pillow.
Dean smiles, holding his family close as he’s pulled into a peaceful sleep.
It’s with a heavy heart that Castiel slips out of bed the next morning, the humid morning chill confining him to the warmth of the bed until the second rooster crowing. He steps quietly around the room, gathering his pants and suspenders as the world outside begins to wake up. Emma slumbers on next to Dean, her usually busy little body still. Dean’s face is obscured by a pillow, but his back moves under his shirt with the deep inhalations and exhalations of sleep. Cas’s gaze lingers on them before he ducks through the curtain into the large room.
He steps into his pants and clips on his suspenders before heading out into the dawn, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. The grass crunches under his feet, dry from a few weeks with no rain. There would be time to worry about that, but he pushes it to the back of his mind for now.
He turns the horses out into the barnyard for a drink, and milks Betsy with little trouble. She barely gives him a second look when he sidles up next to her with the milking stool, making him wonder if everyone is feeling just a little bit softer today.
The chores done, he meanders around the barn, tidying up and Jet and Baby’s stall where they had matted up their hay in the night. By the time the sun begins its ascent, his already ripe shirt is damp with perspiration. He stops in his bedroom, rummaging through his knapsack to find a fresh one. His hands rasps against something smooth at the bottom of the bag, unexpected amongst the linens and his few books. His eyebrows knit together in confusion, and he carefully fishes out the piece of paper without ripping it.
His stomach tightens as he reads the greeting, his sister’s name sitting at the top of a page otherwise blank where he had written it almost a year ago. He stares at it, worrying at his bottom lip. He reaches back into his bag for his pencil, setting it to the paper.
Soon after, the sun peeks through the shrunken slats of the barn, rising in earnest. Cas rises, depositing his pencil back in his bag and tucking the letter into his back pocket.
The sun is warm against the back of his neck while he pumps water into the bucket for their morning oatmeal. He washes the sweat away from his face and up his arms to his rolled-up sleeves. He takes his two buckets in hand and heads back up to the house.
“I can’t believe you let us sleep in like that,” Dean says as he comes through the door, Emma squinting sleepily on his hip. His hair is mussed from sleep.
“I am nothing if not compassionate,” Cas says, setting down the milk and water before walking over to steal a kiss.
Dean hums against his lips. “Good morning,” he says when Cas breaks away.
“Good morning.”
They set to work, Cas pouring water into the dutch oven while Dean skims the cream off of the top.
“What’s that?”
Dean gestures to the table where Cas had deposited the letter. Cas smiles, turning back to the stove where he scoops oatmeal into the boiling water.
“You should read it.”
Emma bangs her spoon against her tray table and the paper rustles as Dean opens the letter. Cas stirs the oatmeal, looking out the window to where Jet and Baby graze in the low grass. The sky is a brilliant blue, warming the earth as it rises.
Hands circle his waist from behind, and Dean presses his lips to the side of Cas’s neck. Cas’s heart settles as he leans into the touch.
“Thank you,” Dean breathes.
Cas turns, threading his fingers with Dean’s. The light from the window reflects off of of Dean’s eyes, clear and green.
“I love you.”
Dean smiles, leaning forward until their foreheads touch.
Dear Anna,
I’ve struggled to start this letter many times, as the normal greetings do not seem to suffice in this situation. I hope this letter has found you well, and feeling charitable of spirit, as I write to ask your forgiveness for the transgressions of my past.
I apologize for leaving home in the manner that I did. I can offer no excuses except to assure you that abandoning your company caused in me as near a depth of anguish as the events which led me to take flight in the first place.
I pray that you have read this far, as I wish to tell you of my life now. Fear not, dear sister, for it is one of honest work and simple joy.
This last year I have made my home on the Kansas prairie. I live a few miles from a settled town of God-fearing people who cared for my well-being as soon as my train entered the station. I farm the land, and help to raise a beautiful girl. I have the love of a truly good person, and know the warmth of a good home. Though I may have trials yet to face, I will not face them alone.
I have lived in a way that would not make you proud, but in these past twelve months I have found myself profoundly changed. I can only pray that the man I am today may be worthy of your forgiveness as I endeavor to earn back your love.
I eagerly await your response.
Your brother,
Castiel