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

[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?