Lord it's a hard life God makes you live.

[decadency]

With the cessation of holiday hours at Target, Cas once again has the onerous task of filling free time. He avoided that problem for the last four months. The final weeks of September and the entirety of October he devoted to refitting a living space in Bobby's old house. Whatever happened to the house—a fire, he thinks, with neat illogic, because fire follows the Winchesters, the fires of childhood homes and the fires of Hell, until they burn, burn, burn—much of it remains uninhabitable. The wind of a strong storm would likely topple two of the exterior walls; most the interior is nothing but char. But there are some salvageable things—always, always something to save.

When the weather turned cold and the winter wind bites through the newspaper on the walls, that thought makes Cas grin, as hard and brittle as the wind. It's a joke Dean wouldn't appreciate, but would have understood nonetheless. Wherever Dean's soul is now.

He arrived in Sioux Falls in mid-September. As far as he can tell, Lucifer sent him exactly three years into the past—an alternative past. What the value of "alternative" is remains to be discovered. Due to various circumstances, none of them relevant now, it took him six weeks to travel from the Sanitarium that housed Lucifer's garden and Dean's final resting place in 2014 to Bobby's house in Sioux Falls in 2011. Six weeks or negative one hundred and fifty weeks.

The destruction of the house, and within two weeks, the discovery of the Impala, proved to Cas that Dean and Bobby are no more alive in this world than they were in his own. He doesn't know what happened to Sam. The world hasn't ended; he has no reason now to search for Sam Winchester.

Whatever demise the Winchesters met, and Bobby by extension, it didn't happen here. Through his careful exploration of the first floor of the house—his drive for self-destruction takes the form of ingesting as many chemicals as possible to provide relief or stimulation, not breaking his leg on navigating derelict stairs—he found a few books that survived the fire, as well as a few pieces of furniture he could appropriate for his own use: a kitchen chair, a table he could repair, a bed frame. But no bodies. No bones. He tried not to decide if that was a cause for relief (foolish hope) or despair (funeral rites are human practices, and he's not, he's not).

One of the books contained photographs. His employee discount at Target purchased a collection of picture frames. He tried not to crumble the charred edges when he tucked the photos safely behind glass.

They litter the surfaces of his room now: Sam and Dean as children or as young men; Bobby and other hunters Cas made the acquaintance of before they died. He likes the photographs, pieces of memory frozen eternally, even if they aren't his memories. He likes them almost as much as he likes the books. Very little of Bobby's library survived, but he saved what he could and then added his own in the last few months. Short-story fiction and philosophy are his favourites, but he buys whatever hooks his attention, or whatever seems popular with the shoppers at Target.

Humans craft stories to explain the world to themselves. He always wanted to understand them, resolved himself to live among them, even if now he lives miles and miles from another living person and contents himself with a room full of paper-thin images and distant knowledge. Living here isn't much different to being an angel. In a way, he's gone home.

For all that it may be lonely, he likes the home he's made for himself here. It may not involve waking up in sheets that smell like Dean and sex, or coming into a kitchen to be greeted with the smell of bacon frying and Dean smiling. But Cas has known those desires were only fantasy for years. Here, a generator runs two lamps, a space heater, and a hot plate when he needs it to eat up cans of soup. The bathroom down the hall miraculously still has running water, even with one of the walls missing. It's cold, and he worries as winter sets its teeth into South Dakota that the pipes will freeze, but it's better than no water. All in all, the commodities are no different than what they had at the camp, but with the addition of no one trying to kill them, no Croatoan virus, no torture, no traumatized refugees.

No Dean.

His shift ended tonight at eight, but they sent him home at seven due to lack of customers. Early on the floor manager decided it was better for him to focus on stocking and cleaning rather than interacting with people, but no customers means nothing to stock. He had spent the last hour leaning on the handle of his mop in the children's section, reading Harry Potter. Now, two hours later and dinner already prepared and consumed, he wishes he had bought Chamber of Secrets when they told him to go home. He has National Public Radio playing on the radio in the Impala outside, but listening to it means keeping the door open, and the evening February chill is no match for his space heater. He lies on the box spring he pulled out of what he thinks is the living room, curled under the pink and green floral comforter he bought as a set from Target's clearance aisle, despite having no pillows to put the pillow cases on, and tries to let the soft voices debating abortion lull him to sleep. Questions of mortality no longer interest him, but the news will be on in another hour, the nightly debrief for any signs or clues what happened in this world to keep it from becoming his own. Until then, he has a bottle of whiskey to keep him occupied, as well Bobby's stash of pain killers and sedatives in the table drawer.

Perhaps tomorrow he'll drive back to Target to buy Harry Potter. His day off can involve learning what becomes of Harry.

Comments

[whatrhymeswith]

That smile is different than your usual one. Your usual one kind of gives him the creeps. This one—it's almost sweet. It makes the corners of his mouth twitch upwards a little, too. You should smile like that more often, Cas.

He glances down when you press your leg against his, a warm weight against his skin. He's still fairly warm, but he should maybe put his jacket back on soon. Not quite yet, though. When you ask him if he enjoys sex, he glances up at you, surprised. You think he conned people into thinking he likes sex?

"Uh, no. I mean." He smiles, laughs a little. "I like sex." He shifts a little, leans more comfortably against the door, his leg pressed up snugly against yours. Maybe this could be a date. He would date you for one night. "There's a lot of pressure to, I dunno. Get it right?" He tilts his head a little. Do you know what he means? "When there's a lot going on, I kinda—I don't do it as much. I haven't had a lot of it in the past couple years, because something was always going on. But generally, yeah. I like it."

He tilts his head a little, curious. He know what he saw in your world, but that's really just one impression. "How about you? I take it you like it?"

[decadency]

When you laugh, his throat tightens up. He has to swallow against the lump that forms. He likes when you laugh. He hasn't heard you laugh—in years.

You like sex, though you feel pressure to do well. Looking back over his experiences with you, he can see that. But it's not what he wanted you to say. It would have explained the way things worked between them if you had said you didn't enjoy sex. He looks down, trying not to let the wave of disappointment engulf him. Did you feel pressure to "get it right" between them? Did you think that was right? Did you care?

He doesn't want to talk about this anymore or think about the past. He wants to go back to kissing you.

"I don't know." If he likes sex or not. He shrugs one shoulder, frowning down at his lap. He's too consumed with his own questions to think very hard about yours. "Humanity is so isolated, trapped alone in your bodies and minds. Disconnected. It makes sense that you engage in acts of gluttony and violence and lust to stave off facing the desolate solitude of your existence." If he was thinking more clearly, he'd acknowledge that fact that, unlike angels, humans don't live with ties to a collective consciousness. His experiences at the camp taught him that some humans still strive for that kind of connection, and even though no shared substance or mutual orgasm can achieve it, enough people were willing to fool themselves that it could. It made it easy for him to fool himself along with them. To keep the loneliness at bay.

He glances over at you. "Do you feel pressure now to get it right?" Between them. Shifting towards you across the leather seat, close enough that their legs tangle, he reaches forward to rest a hand on your thigh. He slides it up to your hip, rubbing gently up and down your side over your t-shirt. Touching you like this is still a rarity, a gift. He stares earnestly into your eyes. You said they could continue to pretend. "If we—had sex. Would you want to get it right?"

Make it be how it's suppose to be? He swallows again, convulsively. He would consider having sex with you if they could get it right this time.

[whatrhymeswith]

You seem a little disappointed with his answer. He's not sure why. You seemed like you would enjoy having sex with him not ten minutes ago. Why are you disappointed when he tells you that he does, in fact, enjoy sex? That's—kind of a dumb question, actually. Since the only explanation can be that the him in your world didn't enjoy sex with you. And that you know that. That realization makes him watch your face, curious, thoughtful. He feels like he'd enjoy having sex with you. It's surprising, but a pretty definite impression he's getting. He's not sure if that impression is wrong. Or if the him in your world had other reasons not to enjoy sex with you.

You distract him by talking about the desolate solitude of human existence. That's cheerful, Cas. It makes him frown a little; he wants to protest, but can't really think of anything to say. You look up, though, meet his eyes and ask him a question, and then you move closer. His throat dries up immediately, and he swallows, shifts a little to be able to reach out, slide his hand over your thigh to where you're resting your hand that you're not using to touch him. Tries to interlace his fingers with yours, still holding your eyes.

"Yeah." That's kind of quiet, so he clears his throat. "I'd want it to be good. To be right." He wets his lips, swallows. "I don't know—if I could get it right. Tonight. This is all, uh. It's all happening kinda quickly."

He doesn't want to rush and mess it up. He's not sure how that synchs up their agreement to keep this to one single night.

[decadency]

The touch to his hand causes him to look down. Lifting his hand off his leg, he watches you slide their fingers together and presses their palms together, fingers folding over the back of your hand. That's strangely intimate. For all that he's touched you in ways considered by human society to be private and committed acts, sex—isn't that, in practice. This, right now, feels more personal and more vulnerable. It feels more akin to touching your soul.

He wishes he could still do that.

His mouth quirks up in a tiny smile when you say you'd want it to be good between them. He wants that too. They could try. Except that you don't want to. You don't want to—mess it up. He holds your eyes. "You know how, Dean." To do this right. He trusts that—you love him. Even if it's a different kind of love than how he feels for you.

Slowly, he tilts his head and leans into your space. He sucks a soft kiss against your mouth, tender, squeezing your hand in his once. It's not exactly sexual but not exactly chaste. Meeting your eyes for a moment, he places another kiss on the arch of your cheekbone, lingering there, his nose resting against your temple. His chest aches. He closes his eyes.

It's this, Dean. It's this. This is what has never worked between them.

For a second, it feels like he can't breathe, and then he forces his body to take in a small gasp of air. "Dean." His cheek slides against yours. "I miss you." He doesn't know what to do without you.

[whatrhymeswith]

He knows how. How what? How to get it right? You lean in, slow enough so he can watch you. He lets his eyes slide half-closed when you press your lips to his, tightens his hand in return when he feels your fingers squeeze his. You still taste like you did a few minutes ago. You still make his heart beat in his throat, make him want to pull you closer.

He doesn't. Instead, he raises his other hand, brushes his fingers against your knee, trails them along the lines of your leg and thigh as he briefly meets your eyes. You seem upset all of a sudden. He's not sure why, until you tell him. You miss him. That doesn't make a whole lot of sense for you to say right now, except he understands. He misses you, too.

He slides his hand up over your back until he can cup the back of your neck. Rubs your skin there with his thumb, then turns his head just enough so he can press a kiss to your cheek, just below your ear. He leaves his mouth cupped against you, warm breath condensing against your skin. "I'm right here, Cas." Low, quiet. "Right here."

And so are you. Don't go away.

[decadency]

You keep touching him. It's—new. It's nice. You haven't been this demonstrative since he first became mortal, and you held him up, literally and figuratively, until he figured out how to do it himself. He's missed it. He's missed being—friends. The kind who can care for each other rather than hurt. He slides the hand on your hip around to the small of your back, leaning into you, against you. It's getting cold in the car, the fog on the windows from earlier now dissipating. But for the most part, he's perfectly content to sit here with you for the rest of the night—for every night—reclined against the door in the back of the Impala with one of your tapes playing.

He doesn't say anything for a long while. There's nothing to be said. He slouches down a little until his head can rest against your shoulder again, comfortable and comforting. You're right here. He knows. You're here now. You're still you.

As he relaxes against you, he plays casually with your fingers, stretching them out and rubbing his thumb over the callouses on your palm. They're familiar. Eventually he speaks.

"Do you still want to get, uh—burgers?" He tilts his chin to be able to glance up at you. Are you hungry, Dean? He would like to eat a cheeseburger again with you.

[whatrhymeswith]

It's funny how well they fit together. He thinks about that as you rest against him, about how easily your body fits against his, even though you're not a woman. You don't have boobs, or curves, or delicate limbs that you can fold up to huddle against him, but you still fit. Maybe even better than anyone else ever has. It's odd. But it's also nice.

He's not sure if that means that he's gay. He's getting the impression that he might be, a little. But on the other hand, you're not a guy. Not really. You're an angel. He's not sure how the male/female thing works with angels. Maybe he should ask. Not right now, though. Right now, he's fine just sitting here and absentmindedly threading his fingers through the strands at the back of your neck, enjoying your weight and your warmth resting against him.

When you speak and glance up at him, he shifts his head just enough to be able to look down and meet your eyes. Smiles a little when you suggest to get burgers. It's midnight, Cas. Probably a little later. Not exactly dinner time. Not that it matters.

"Always." He tightens his fingers around yours, rubs his thumb along the side of your hand. "And pie. We should get pie. I haven't had pie in weeks."

At least three. Since Bobby died. He didn't feel like it. He feels like it now.

[decadency]

He likes your fingers playing with his hair. It creates a light, ticklish sensation, raising goose pimples on the back of his neck. He shivers a little from it, and from the chill settling into the car. It's cold. He shouldn't have let himself get so cold; his room isn't that warm.

But he still wants a burger. And you want pie. "I—forgot. You like pie." He doesn't remember when he found that out originally, or how. He wants you to have pie, and anything else you love. Stretching out his neck, he ducks up for another soft kiss, enjoying the fact that he can for right now. That you seem to like it. He shivers again as he pulls back, more violently this time, from the cold. In truth, he's far more cold than he is hungry.

His shirts and jacket are still in the front seat where he left them. He snags his sweatshirt from where he dropped it and pulls it quickly over his head. He wants his comforter, and the space heater. He wants to go back to cuddling with you. Leaning his elbows on the back of the front seat, he turns to look at you over his shoulder, awkward and apologetic.

"I—you should have pie, Dean. But I . . . I'd like to go back." To the house. Where it's warm. He knows he's lost muscle mass in the last six months, though he doesn't think the food he eats is all that different from what was available at the camp in terms of quality. He's not sure about quantity. Whatever the case, it leaves his body more and more susceptible to cold as winter sets in. Gripping the seat back, he slides one leg onto the front seat, and then the other. As he pulls his jacket back on, he glances around at you.

"Raincheck?"

[whatrhymeswith]

You forgot he likes pie. That makes him give you a sideglance, eyebrows raised. He didn't think that would be an easy thing to forget about him. But then, there probably wasn't a whole lot of pie during the apocalypse. So you would have spent quite a bit of time around him with no access to pie.

That's actually a fairly sad thought, so he's glad when you kiss him, distract him. You shiver as you pull back, and he frowns a little. "Are you cold?"

Apparently, since you're getting your sweatshirt. He watches your shirt ride up a little as you lean over the back of the front seat and expose bare skin just above the waistband of your jeans, which are barely clinging to your hips. You're really skinny, Cas. No wonder you're cold.

He meets your eyes when you glance around, and isn't surprised when you say you'd rather go back. He leans down to gather up his shirt and jacket up when you clamber over the backrest, then looks up to meet your eyes and nods when you ask for a raincheck.

"Sure, Cas. Don't worry about it." They can grab a burger whenever. Shirt and jacket in hand, he exits the car to slide around back into the front seat. The cold bites into his exposed skin, and he quickly shrugs his layers back on before he gets into the driver's seat next to you.

"It's really friggin' cold out there." He blows on his fingers, shudders once before he looks back over at you. "You okay? You should've said something if you were cold."

Without waiting for a reply, he puts the car in reverse and starts to back her up to the street. Meets your eyes as he turns around to see where he's going, and gives you a a slightly lascivious smile. "Let's get ourselves warmed up, all right?"

[decadency]

Once you tell him not to worry about it, he regrets asking to go back. There might be an opportunity later on to eat a burger with you, but not like this. Not—together like this. There will be Sam. And the Leviathans. There will be missions. He doesn't want to fight anymore. He wants to stay curled up with you somewhere and hold your hand and watch your eyes turn glassy from kissing you. They still have the rest of the night left for that.

As soon as you've directed the car back towards the road, he shuffles over to sit next to you again, thighs and shoulders pressed together. He stretches his arm across your waist in half a hug, hand tucked against your ribs inside your jacket for warmth, and sticks his face into your neck. "It's fine, Dean." He'll warm up eventually.

And you seem willing to help, even if you don't want to have sex. That may be the right choice in this situation. He's had a lot of unfulfilling sex with you; he doesn't need to repeat the experience. Not when this is so much nicer.

He mouths a little at your neck, a line of gentle kisses along the column of exposed skin between your jaw and your jacket collar, not intended to solicit any response. For the fifteen minute drive back to Bobby's house, he does that, and otherwise stays quiet, listening to the music and breathing you in.

Once you park the Impala, he moves so he can kiss your mouth, humming lowly in contentment in the back of his throat at the soft, slick feel of your lips. He likes this. He likes being allowed to do this. He pulls back just enough to lean his forehead against yours.

"Will you take your clothes off? Inside." So they can sleep that way, and maybe kiss some more. He hugs lightly at the lapel of your jacket and nuzzles his nose against yours. Please?