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

Current Location: Sioux Falls, South Dakota

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

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.

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He doesn't understand why you've decided to sit on the floor. The table has a chair to go with it. The box spring is warmer than the floor. It leaves you in the way. He doesn't like it, or your hesitancy. But if that's what you choose.

The space between the bed, the table, and the door isn't great. Awkwardly, he has to pick his way around you to be able to vacate the bed. The comforter he gathers around his shoulders, looping part of it over his head like a hood for warmth. It erases the space he made for you next to him and protects him from the wind as he steps outside to turn off the Impala, killing the radio and the headlights. He shuts the door behind him with a firm tug, the frame warped and preventing an easy seal.

Water stands in a plastic carafe on the table. He pours it into the sauce pot on the hotplate and flips the switch to start heating it up. Because you're blocking access to the bed, he takes the chair instead, stretching his legs out until he can press his feet against the grill of the space heater. If he leaves it too longer, it will burn him. But for right now, the heat feels good against his numbed feet.

He doesn't look at you as you speak, instead watching the water for the first hint of a boil, but he listens. He can't stop the grin that breaks out when you pause, a silent laugh accompanying it. "You know better than to think that you were ever mine." That he ever had you. Don't say yours. Just don't. That's ludicrous.

The rest of it, he remembers. If you're Past Dean. If you were, once, Past Dean. Twice over. He lived through 2009 with you, and then, six months ago, the long drive from the camp to the Sanitarium. He sees no point in reminiscing.

Obviously things went differently here. He tilts his head at you, gaze snagging yours for a split second before he looks away again. Six months ago, you were—too bright to look at, almost painful, like exposing a burn to the sun. It's similar now, in an opposite way. If your soul was a sigil, it would be one for grief, anger. Loss. "You changed it." The world. The Apocalypse. He mocks your tone. "Obviously." There's nothing obvious about that.

Once upon a time, as recent as this morning, he would have wanted the answers to what changed, how things were changed. No omens and silence from demons seems to bode ill rather than good, leaving him paranoid. But he can't find it in himself to care now. You changed things. Whatever the consequences are, you're dealing with them. Leviathans, apparently. Leviathans that he freed and that killed him. That seems as though it should bother him; a distant awareness tells him that some reaction, any reaction, would be more appropriate than no reaction. That you expect him to react. But—there's nothing. Apathy soothes over his nerves like a thin, protective plastic coating. He's almost relieved to feel it.

When the water approaches a boil, he fishes out two mugs he pillaged from the ruins of the kitchen, chipped in places and streaked with burn marks, but still serviceable. Snagging the bottle of whiskey from the table, he pours a generous amount into one cup and then waggles the bottle at you, contents making a pleasant sloshing sound, and lifts his eyebrows in silent question. Do you want your coffee "Irish", Dean?

He didn't really decide to sit on the floor, it just kind of happened.
When you pick your way past him to head outside and turn off the Impala, he shifts out of the way, then gets to his feet and goes to sit on the bed after a moment's hesitance. It creaks as he sits down, and he shifts forward to perch on the edge of the mattress.

It's a lot warmer in here with the door closed. He notices the difference almost immediately when you pull the door shut and cut off the cold February air sneaking in. The wall has still holes, it's still not warm. But the heater is doing its job.

The tone you use to tell him that he was never yours delays his next words. He'd forgotten how pained and bitter that version of you sounded. How much you'd so obviously lost. Now you've lost even more; your world, and your friend. If the other Dean was your friend. He's glad that you don't meet his eyes for long, watches your profile instead as you turn back to making coffee.

"We shoved Lucifer back in the cage. Stopped the Croatoan virus from spreading. No apocalypse." He laughs a little without any humor, shakes his head. "Not that one, anyway. Apocalypse, you'd think there'd be only one, but no dice."

He glances up when he hears liquid sloshing in a bottle to see you holding up the whiskey. He nods. "Yes, please." Since when is that even a question, Cas? He takes the mug from you after you've poured the coffee, wraps his fingers around it for warmth. Looks around your room again, and smiles a little. "I like what you've done with the place. Didn't think there was anything salvageable in the rubble." He ducks his head, takes a small sip of coffee. It's hot, but comforting. Kind of like the pictures arranged on various surfaces, the books sitting in the nooks beside your bed. "How long have you lived here?"

This you, the one that didn't die. The one who never had to face Raphael in a civil war, who never decided to be God and kill his brothers and sisters. Sure, you lived through an Apocalypse. But it's over for you now. You've got a home, and seem to have some means to sustain yourself. Maybe you steal, or hustle pool; maybe you've even got a job. You've made a life for yourself. That's more than he's managed to do since you died. Maybe you'll let him stay here for a couple of hours. Take a break, catch a breath. That'd be nice.

Yes please. His eyes narrow, a line forming between them in confusion. Since when you do say please, Dean? It's strange to hear from you. He says nothing about it, though. He adds the coffee to the water and tops up both cups. He gives you the mug that proclaims the joys of travelling the world with Pan-America Airlines. It's likely petty, but he hopes you enjoy it.

The truth is that he hasn't acquired a taste for coffee. It's bitter, and often comes with a sour after-taste. But it's warm and it clears his head in the mornings, which are two important values. The third is that it goes well with whiskey. He finishes half the mug in one large sip for that reason. Settling into the chair again, placing his feet back near the heater, he stares straight ahead at the wall. There's a photo perched on the crossbeam of you and Sam. You must be in your early-to-mid teens, Sam still a few inches shorter than you as he cradles his own shotgun in his arms, posture uncomfortable. In direct contrast, if looks could kill, yours would. Guns seems to have always come naturally to you.

He can't tell if you're mocking him when you compliment the room. You never "liked" what he did with his cabin. But a part of him always hoped you'd like a house with books and pictures. That you could like it. If things just—stopped for a while. If they had time. His best memories are the months they lived on Bobby's house, before they relocated to the camp. Then, every other refugee and survival group pierced their small bubble of dependency. But it was good before that. They could have been happy.

Not that you were there.

"I arrive in Sioux Falls . . . on or around September 14." Or a date near there. He tried to mark the passage of days, but it was—difficult to achieve with any reliability before he found the Impala and began listening to the radio. "I assume there was a fire. I thought everyone was dead." He said that before, but he needs to make it clear. Why he stopped here. Why he stopped looking. He didn't think there was anything to look for. "The load-bearing ability of the stairs seems dubious. I haven't checked the upstairs or the basement. But I was able to construct this—," he nods at the wall he resurrected behind you "—before the weather turned too cold."

You can mock it all you want, but he put effort into this. He built this. That deserves at least some acknowledgment and respect. He finishes the last of the coffee in his mug, and replaces it with more whiskey. A glance over at you shows that you're not done yet. You drink too slowly, Dean.

"I found tools in the garage." If you're curious how he did it. Even if you aren't, he has a point to make. "Along with the Impala." The pause comes accidentally, a desire to hesitate before admitting a shameful thing. "I stopped looking for you then."

You wouldn't leave the Impala unless you were dead. Or as good as.

The comfort of the coffee, of finding you here in your small, homely dwelling, it's almost too much. It makes him feel brittle, cracked open, as if you caught him off-guard and managed to land a disorienting right hook that's slowly but surely making his defense crumble. He wants to resurrect his walls, crawl back behind them in the knowledge that good things don't happen, that the world will make you fail and lose everything you love and then demand that you smile and face the pointlessness of it all. He can do that when he's sure of the fact that any hope he's ever had was futile. It's much harder to do it with you sitting right there, like a bittersweet echo from the past—not untarnished, but untouched by the corruption and betrayal that happened between him and you after the first Apocalypse.

He takes a long drink of coffee, the burn of the whiskey scraping his throat as you explain that you thought everyone was dead, so you built yourself a home in the ruins of Bobby's house. It seems appropriate. His eyes linger on a picture of himself and Sam as kids, then another of Rufus scowling at the camera. Of Bobby. They're all dead now. Sam isn't. Not yet.

You seem to expect something after finishing the explanation about your house, so he nods. "It's good." It feels lived-in, unlike all the shacks and barns and abandoned houses he and Sam have been staying in. He purses his lips. "It's warm."

He takes another long drink before looking up when you mention the Impala. Holds his mug out to you. There's still some coffee in it, but enough space to top it up with whiskey. "I had to leave her. She-- " He tilts his head with a small, wry smile, shrugs one shoulder a little. "She attracts too much attention."

He shifts to sit on the bed a little bit more comfortably, the whiskey warming his numb fingers as well as loosening the clenched muscles in his chest. At least a little. "The Leviathan have infiltrated everything. They're tracking our cards, our IDs. We're laying low. Even lower than usual." He pauses to take another drink, then shakes his head a little and glances up at you. "We don't know how to kill them. Way it looks like now, we saved the world to let it get wiped out by unkillable black goo monsters who want to turn everyone into a McDonald's value meal."

Call him crazy, but he can't shake the feeling that the straight-up biblical apocalypse, as nasty as it sounded, would have been a better way to go.

He doesn't need you to offer any opinion on his room. You asked him when he came here and he answered. A recitation of facts doesn't need a personal commentary. But you offer one anyway. He doesn't know what to make of your apparently sincerity. You're suppose to criticise him, or judge him, for failing to live up to some standard you have for him. Appreciation is new and strange. It makes him uncomfortable. He doesn't understand it, just as he doesn't understand what you're doing here, now, after months.

As eager as he was to greet you originally, now he wants nothing more than for you to leave. You being here—pulls open some old familiar ache he is doing his best to ignore. It highlights the outline of the numbed area inside of him, like an infection inflames the scars around an amputated limb. All of this belongs to you. The longer you're here, the more obvious that is. The Impala, the photos, the house—this is your world, and your things, and your memories. They aren't his. The best he could manage was to pretend, to fool himself for a while.

When you hold your cup out, he adds another finger of whiskey, but no more than that. If you're going to kick him out, he'd rather you do that now, or give him a deadline, or otherwise state your purpose. They've never sat around and reminisced. They can't. He doesn't have the patience to pretend.

"That—sucks." That the Leviathans have risen and are trying to take over the world. He killed something a month ago that had been following him that bled black goo. It sounds as though that was a Leviathan. He doesn't know what else to say. The world is still ending, but in a different way than it was meant to end. Second verse, same as the first. You said things were different here, but it doesn't seem like it now. It won't be for long. He finishes off the rest of his whiskey and leans forward to set the mug on the table with a heavy thud.

Fortified by alcohol, he meets your eyes. "Why are you here?" If you have Leviathans to fail to fight. If you're meant to be hiding. He doesn't know who we means. Maybe Sam. Maybe Bobby. Maybe people he doesn't know. Why aren't you with them?

That sucks. Yeah, it does. He nods, looks down into the mug instead of up at you. There's not a lot of whiskey in there. There's still enough in the bottle, so it's not that you're running out. You don't want him sitting here telling you his life story. That's fair enough, he supposes. It makes him sit up straighter again, swallow the rest of the whiskey as you ask him why he's here. Yeah, time's up. If he was going to get to take a break, that was it.

"Came to check on my car." He indicates the door, raises his eyebrows at you. "You might wanna find a different ride. She's on Dick's radar if any car is." A pause. You don't know who that is. "Dick Roman. Monster extraordinaire 'n top of my current hitlist."

That's all. He came to check on his car and found you. He didn't plan on finding you. He's not sure what to do with it. He raises a hand, scratches the hair at the back of his neck.

"So—what do you do? Do you hunt?"

You're not planning on reclaiming the Impala. Suspicious. His eyes narrow. The name Dick Roman is familiar, though he doesn't know where or when he heard it before. Leviathans don't have names, as far as he knows. They're too primitive for that. But you're planning to let him keep the car, as long as he knows it will draw the attention of the Leviathan.

That doesn't seem right to him. Like a thing you would do. But he can't say why.

"I work at Target." He tilts his head towards the door behind him. The red uniform shirt and khaki slacks hang on the back of it. "And I don't fear the Leviathans." They can come for him if they want. He needs a car to get to work. The worse that will happen is they kill him. He's never feared death, either.

He glances over at the uniform on the back of the door. Target, huh? He looks back at you, studies your face for a while. This is where they've ended up. You, Castiel, angel of the Lord, living in a ramshackle shed, drinking cheap whiskey and stocking shelves at Target. Him—well, he was never anything as glamorous as an angel of the Lord. But he used to be better than this. He used to be that kid in the picture next to your bed, cocky and self-assured, if not self-confident. Convinced that his action had meaning. He misses that. He misses both of them.

"You should." He shifts forward to the edge of the bed, rests the heels of his hands against it. Finds your eyes. "Here's the deal, Cas. My life's not awesome right now. You just got out of an apocalypse, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to get right back into one. You've got—" He gestures at your room. "—this. You've got a job. If you wanna stay . . ." He trails off, watches you. This is your life, Cas. He doesn't want to tell you to come with him if what he can offer you isn't necessarily better. Shrugs a little.

"But I could use you. We could. We just—" —lost someone. Lost a friend, an invaluable asset, a core member of their team. He swallows. "We're spread pretty thin. We could use your help."

His heart is beating in his throat, making it hard to swallow. Your life isn't awesome, but your life doesn't involve monsters. Doesn't involve the pressure of constant imminent global destruction unless you sacrifice everything to save the world. He doesn't want to put that pressure on you. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't need you. A friend, another pair of hands on deck. Most of the houses they squat in actually come with running water. So maybe that's an upside?

You wouldn't blame him if he chose to stay, given the pinnacle of living he's managed to achieve for himself. That's—so preposterous and unexpected that he can't help himself. He begins laughing, quietly at first, chin tucked to his chest as thin huffs of breath force through his nose, and then descending into a hysterical sniggering fit as you continue and begin to list the things he apparently should be tempted to stay for.

It's backwards and awful and perfect that you think he cares about any of this when he could never demonstrate that he cares about—you. It's funny. He has to laugh. If he doesn't laugh, he fears the pressure burning in his chest might kill him—or force him to do something hysterical like kill himself. Curling forward in the chair, he cups his hands over his face, shoulders shaking as he laughs open-mouthed into his palms. A sharp shard of breath lodges in his throat, twisting until it makes his breath hitch around what could be misinterpreted as a sob. It jerks him out of his spiral, his lungs clenching hard to prevent any air from escaping, lest it become a cry instead of a laugh. Slowly, carefully, he sucks in a long inhale through his nose, sitting back in the chair. He pulls a hand down his face, wiping away any traces of whatever it was that just dislodged inside of him.

Just like rebuilding this room, warped beams and cracked plaster placed just so to achieve the careful balance of stability, so too has he constructed himself. One piece out of place means he'll use the entire structure to collapse. He can't. Building from rubble takes far more time and effort than patching up something half-dilapidated.

He tilts his head towards you to meet your eyes, an ironic, almost admiring half-smile twisting up one side of his mouth. That was a good hit, Dean. You take potshots more like they're full frontal assault, but more than not, they're effective.

"You could use me." Are you sure about that? "Against—creatures who you don't know how to kill, who can track you and drove you from—your home and beloved resources. Who . . . " His eyes narrow as he tries to remember everything you've said about the Leviathan. "—can kill angels." You said they killed him. The version of him that belonged here. While he still had a full battery charge. There are no creatures he knows of with that kind of power, except other angels. "And like usual you have no plan."

Does that sum up your situation accurately? He doesn't know what you think he'll be able to do, how he'll be able to help you. But . . .

He cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders to stretch out the muscle. The muscles between his shoulder blades have pulled tense again, trying to support appendages that never existed on the physical plane. His eyes rove around the room, taking in what it took him four and a half months to achieve. It's not much.

"Have you tried, uh, shouting at them?" You're an effective shouter; it's a half-hearted suggestion. "Maybe, uh—glaring at them and mentioning—vague emotional philosophical terms to convince them to turn back from their wayward path?" He glances at you, still smiling, far more fond this time. This, he knows how to do. He knows how to take your plans, or lack of plans, and find all the holes in them. How to drive you into the determination that somehow pulls missions off despite all odds.

He doesn't know if you understand that. And he doesn't know if his answer is clear. It should be. "Okay." He'll go with you. Of course he will.

You're laughing. Okay. He's never seen you laugh. You've smiled, and chuckled—though even the chuckling, that was you, in 2014, never Cas the angel. He's never seen you laugh like this. He's not sure it's a good thing for you to do. It doesn't sound particularly happy. It sounds more like you're screaming, crying. He's not entirely sure if it's because he's asking for your help, or because he's asking for help at all. Maybe because he thinks there's a chance you'll give it to him. The last time he asked for your help didn't work out very well for you. Maybe it is ludicrous for him to assume that you would consider doing it again.

Your expression isn't derisive when you look up, though. It's sarcastic, dry, but there's more fondness in it than contempt or hate. His own probably just looks confused. He meets your eyes, eyebrows raised. What was that all about?

"Sam's working on the plan." Sam's in Clear Lake, digging up everything about Leviathan that's there to dig up. He frowns when you start to make suggestions, then narrows his eyes when he realizes you're making fun of him. It's not funny. Nothing about this is funny. And right now, you're being a jerk. You do agree, though. He holds your eyes for a few moments before he nods.

"Good." He glances around the room, then shifts to get up from the bed. "Sam's at a motel about a three hour drive away. You've probably got a better chance at a good night's sleep there than here." Then he remembers something and lets himself fall back down on the bed for a moment. Looks up to meet your eyes, if he can. "You gonna be okay working with Sam?"

He never told Sam about your world, but he remembers it very well. He doesn't know how much you hate Sam for what he did in that future.

Ah. So Sam is alive. That's—something. He watches you reconsider and sink down onto the bed again. You're concerned about him working with Sam.

"Why wouldn't I be." It's a flat question, a non-question. He hasn't thought about Sam Winchester much at all in years, besides wondering how much of Sam remained aware behind Lucifer's Grace. If Sam ever regretted saying yes. He must have, if he retained any moments of consciousness.

Your question makes something clear, however: Sam will always have your loyalty before he does. For you to allow him to stay, he needs to get along with Sam. He's never very good at getting along with people when it doesn't involve sex. But he'll try.

For now, though, since it won't be just them together again—he'd still like you to stay the night. "I don't have—a bag." To put his things in. He has two other shirts, besides what he's wearing, but he'd like to bring to the comforter and his books. "Tomorrow morning when Target opens, we could buy one."

We. It forces them to spend the night here. He'd like to spend the night here with you. In a house full of photos and books.

Why wouldn't you be. He just raises his eyebrows at that. You really have to ask that? Sam said yes, in your world. He gave Lucifer his true vessel and let him reign Hell on Earth, literally. He wouldn't blame you if you were holding a bit of a grudge against his brother. But apparently, you don't. Fair enough. He inclines his head, shrugs a little. "Suit yourself."

He makes as if to get up again, but then you point out that you don't have a bag. He looks around. Do you want to bring your stuff? The pictures and books? He supposes it would make sense if you wanted to bring them. He thinks he has a bag in the back of the Mustang, but something in your expression stops him from pointing that out. You want to sleep here. And tomorrow morning you want to go to Target—the Target you work at, he assumes—to buy one. That's not an unreasonable request. He is asking you to give up everything you've worked for in the past few months. So he nods.

"All right. You can pick up your outstanding paycheck." He gives you a slight smile. It's the middle of the week. They probably owe you a few bucks, which would probably cover the bag. No reason to waste that money. He glances around the room. There's no second bed, and the only available surface to sleep on seems to be the floor. He's slept in worse places. Looks back up at you. "You got a second comforter?"

Right. His—paycheck. He hadn't considered that. In the table drawer, behind where he relocated Bobby's stash of painkillers, he keeps what money he hasn't spent yet. It isn't much, just over 200 dollars. He doesn't know what the spend that on, let alone whatever they own him since his last pay day. Maybe he'll give it to you. The only major expenses he has are gas and alcohol. Those are expenses you also have.

But good. You're willing to spend the night with him here. He looks around the room as you do, until it occurs to him a second before you ask what you're question will likely be. He meets your eyes, if you let him, and answers very carefully.

"No."

He has one bed and one blanket. The bed is big enough for two, though, and weather cold enough to insist on coveting all the warmth possible. He'd like you to sleep with him, Dean.

He does meet your eyes. There's no reason to avoid looking at you; his question was a perfectly casual one. Or so he thought, at least. Your voice and your expression, however, carry something deeper, almost a little ominous. He tilts his head a little, not sure what to make of the sudden shift in tone. You don't have a second comforter, so they're going to have to share.

They're going to have to share.

He sits up, his back stiffening a little. He remembers you in your world. He remembers walking in on you about to have an orgy, he remembers talking to other people at the camp—mostly Chuck—and what they said about you. He remembers observing the way you looked at the Dean in your world, and what he thought when he saw the expression on your face. He'd forgotten about that. Probably on purpose.

"I don't—" Do that. Swing that way. Want that. But the night is very cold, and all he'd be doing is sharing. He doubts the Dean in your world ever requited your feelings, if you had any feelings to be requited. It would have always been a one-sided thing. He hasn't slept next to anyone else in a very long time. And they're alone here. Nobody would know. "—sleep very well. The past few weeks. Haven't been sleeping very well." He swallows. "I might keep you up."

Something in your expression changes when you understand. He sees it, watching your face closely. It doesn't seem like outright rejection. Wariness. Panic? Maybe. But not—adamant refusal. He has some wiggle room.

He doesn't want to force it on you.

"I'm used to your nightmares." So, no, you probably won't keep him awake, if he sleeps anyway. He drops his eyes to the floor. "And I would—appreciate it." That's hard to ask for. It leaves him ashamed, though he doesn't examine too closely why that is. He doesn't want to have sex with you; he only wants to sleep with you, for one night. He's had this fantasy for years. This isn't perfect, but he knows this is as close as he'll ever come. He doesn't want to give it up now from being too cowardly to insist on it. He closes his eyes and swallows. "I know you—don't like it. But it's one night, Dean. If you could just pretend . . . " That you like it, or want it.

He sets his jaw and glances off to the side, annoyed with how pathetic he sounds. Annoyed with how tight his throat has become with anxiety. "You're the one who taught me about . . . last night's on Earth. The mission you're conducting against the Leviathans is a suicide mission." He hopes you know that. "I would like this night to be—my last-night-on-Earth night."

Glancing back at you, he lifts his chin a little in defiance. This is what he wants. From your own free will, please agree.

You want this to be your last night on Earth. Not literally, but metaphorically. You want to do this, because once you've done it, you can be okay with dying. There aren't a lot of things that have left him speechless in the course of his life, but this is one of them. His throat is dry, his lungs tight as he stares at you, trying to keep a hold on the ball of emotion that's clenching in his chest. He's your last night on Earth. Not even sex with him. Just being with him. Sleeping with him.

Or is he? He blinks, shifts and glances off to the side. Might be that you're just lonely. That you don't want him, just want a warm body next to you when you fall asleep. He's not going to ask, just looks back at you to meet your eyes.

"All right." He clears his throat, then shrugs one shoulder with a slight smile to cover for the tension in his posture. "Don't know if I like it. I've never done it."

He doesn't think you're disgusting, or repulsive. Not at all. He's not gay, but he wouldn't mind sleeping next to you. He's slept next to Sam. Sleeping next to another guy when space limitations dictate it doesn't have to be weird. Could be nice. It's definitely better than sleeping on the floor.

All right? He doesn't know if you understand. You seem very tense, but you don't want to say you don't like. You can't pretend that you do like it, Dean, if you won't admit that you don't like it in the first place.

"Dean." He said it for you. You don't need to worry about hurting his feelings or disappointing him, but you do need to be honest. "I'm asking you to pretend like we're in a relationship for one night. You don't want that; the thought alone makes you tense and uncomfortable. It's obvious from your posture."

He raises his eyebrows at you, eyes wide. Do you get it? They need to agree on where they're starting from in order for him to get what he wants.

You what? He just stares at you. He didn't realize that's what you were asking. He didn't know that's—what you want. Is that what you want? You just said so, but he still can't quite believe it.

"Were you—" He clears his throat. "The Dean in your world. And you. Were you—an item?"

That is the worst way possible of putting it, but he's too focused on watching you for your response to cringe. Were you, Cas?

It's tempting to ask, an item of what? To pretend as though he doesn't know what you're asking. That he doesn't understand the idiom and brush it off.

He doesn't know the answer as it is. There is no simple answer. For a long time, he says nothing and stares at you. In the end, he swallows and glances down.

"No. I don't know." What they were. If they were anything, it was a long time ago. "What does it matter now."

That version of you is dead. The version of you who—knew this history and the answer to that question, as well as others.

"I used to dream about this. A house. With books and photographs. And you. That you would cook breakfast in the mornings. That you were happy." It sounds stupid out loud. It barely sounds like anything. But he's coddled that dream for years, the dream of waking up in the mornings with you in their house. A home for both of them. He takes a deep breath and lifts his head. "It was just a dream, Dean, but—." He meets your eyes. "It's what I want." For his last night on Earth. He wants to get as close to that as possible. The books and photos and house exist, in some fashion. He just needs you.

You don't know and it doesn't matter. That doesn't sound like there was nothing between you. He remembers the Dean of your world. Harsh, angry, violent. Torturing. He thought about him on and off over the past couple of years. If he's going to become like him. If he's already become like him. Since Lisa, he hasn't dared to be close to anyone. Doesn't know whether he wants to. Whether he could if he tried. He doubts it was any different for the Dean in your world.

He lowers his head when you continue, keeps his chin tucked against his chest as he listens. You used to dream about him being happy. Them having a house with books and photographs. Their house. It's a very human dream, familiar in its generic domesticity. It's what he used to dream about as a kid. A house, and a family. Someone to share a living space with, to be happy with. It's both the simplest and the most unreachable dream a hunter can dream. Or a fallen angel. He glances up at the photos and the books surrounding the bed, feeling a tightness in his chest when he realizes why you've put them up. This is your house. This is your dream. And you want him to be a part of it.

He looks back at you to meet your eyes, blinks against the itching feeling under his eyelids. Clamps down on it, as well as the empty, hollow feeling that spreads in his chest as he remembers you as an angel, you as God, you coming to him and asking for help when it was much too late. He didn't get to you in time. He didn't listen, and he didn't get through. Now you're dead, and he's going to follow soon after. Except now you're here, and you're asking him to pretend things had gone differently for one night. He nods, slowly, swallows once.

"All right." His voice is rough, kind of choked, so he clears his throat. "You can't tell anyone." He doesn't care if you think he's embarrassed, or ashamed. Maybe he is. Mostly he can't bear the thought of doing this, of sharing this, and then being mocked for it. Or even just asked about it. "If we do this, it's going to stay between the two of us."

When you glance around this time at the objects in his room, panic flares up hot and hard in his chest. He doesn't want you to see any of it. To see how obviously fake and foolish it is. They aren't his photos, and his house is a glorified lean-to, catching drafts of cold air any time the wind blows. The illusion, as is, is thin. But it's still there. One word from you will shatter the dream. He wishes you wouldn't look at it. He wishes he had never told you, that you would leave and not come back. He can meet you in Clear Lake in the morning.

It seems to take ages for you to say anything. The twisting in his chest seems akin to torture. Melodramatic, perhaps, but torture is the only time he's had to impose the same ruthless determination to remain still and let the moment wash over him without touching him. How to stay patient and distant without actively trying to leave or lash out. You nod, and he swallows along with you.

All right? Honestly this time. You consent to pretend for one night. Once again, it feels as though everything has gone completely still, as though he's just floating in space, his heart beat loud and echoing inside his chest. He takes a deep breath and releases it on a laugh, accidental, when you say he can't tell anyone. It feels like relief. Like—happiness.

"Of course." Who would he tell?

At some point, he shuts his eyes. He leaves them closed for a moment, smiling softly to himself, enjoying the moment. Of course, he doesn't know what to do. His assumptions or fantasies for how things might occur displays a distressing lack of relation to how things ultimately play out. But he can try. He's thought about it often enough that putting it into practice shouldn't be too difficult. Improvisation is your forte. But backing out now isn't an option.

Taking the whiskey bottle from the table, he grabs his coffee cup and stands up to cross to the bed. He offers you the bottle and the cup to hold while he slides the blanket from his shoulders and wraps half of it over your own as he sits down next to you, shoulders pressed together. His knee rests on top of your thigh when he crosses his legs beneath him on the box spring. Sharing the blanket, settled close against you like this, he waits intently for your response, to make sure it's okay. To help, and in gratitude, he takes the bottle again from you and pours a couple shots of whiskey into each glass. He leaves the bottle on the floor, and then, tentatively, reaches for your hand, placing his on top of yours.

"Thank you." For doing this. For agreeing. He can't look at you as easily when he's seated next to you, which works for this moment. His face already feels overly warm. He's sure if he met your eyes it would turn an uncomfortable shade of red. The reflexes of the human body are strange and nonsensical. Instead, he concentrates on the whiskey in his mug, and eventually takes a sip. He wants to sit like this for a few moments before they go to bed. He's not tired yet.

When you laugh, he glances up sharply, but his expression relaxes when you confirm you won't tell anyone. You're not laughing at him. Good. You don't get to. You're the one asking for this.

He watches your face when you keep your eyes closed for a while, traces the lines in the corners of your eyes and around your mouth. You look tired, Cas. Tired and too skinny and worn out. Worn thin. You'll fit right in with the ever-diminishing anti-Leviathan team. Not that there is anyone else at this point other than him and Sam. He hopes Sam will accept you being around. He hopes Sam will understand why Dean never told him about your world. Maybe he can ask you not to tell Sam what he did in your world. Sam's struggling with enough shit, he doesn't need even more piled on.

You getting up returns his attention to the present, and he watches you come closer. Takes the bottle from you, his shoulders tensing only a little when you wrap the blanket around both of them and press up against his side. This is just huddling together for warmth. It doesn't have to mean anything more than that. He holds out his mug for more whiskey, drains half of it right after you pour it. Looks down at his hand when you rest yours on top of it and tell him thank you.

"'s all right." He doesn't actually mind it so much. It's weird, being this close to another person. He hasn't done it in a long time, didn't think he'd ever do it again. But you wanted it; you're not going to tease him about it. And you're not going to tell anyone else. He's safe letting you sit close like this. Holding your hand like this, as he turns his own palm-upwards and interlaces his fingers with yours. "'m glad you're here. It's good to see you."

He's missed you very much. He's never really let himself think about how much. Apparently enough to make sitting with you like this more comfortable and soothing than weird.

You interlacing their fingers comes as a surprise; it makes him startle, shoulders jerking before he quells the impulse. He isn't sure how far you're willing to pretend—or how far you're able to pretend. He doesn't know how much it would take for you to . . . pretend that you love him. Like he loves you. Your hand in his is a pleasant effort.

Those aren't the words of someone who shares a house with someone else. But that might be taking this too far. It's nice to here, whatever the context. It's very nice. His heart beats faster in the hollow of his throat as his stomach churns nervously. He wants to wrap his arms around you. To hold you. He'll get to hold you, later tonight. You agreed for the entire night. There's time for it. Right now, he can focus on enjoying holding your hand. He rubs his thumb along the side of your index finger, trying to remember that, and squeezes your hand tightly, hanging on. His head finds your shoulder.

"I missed you, too, Dean." During the last six months. Longer than that, actually. Sometimes it's felt as though he's been missing you for years. He's glad you're here too. He likes having you here, sitting here with you. After a pause, he adds more quietly, wonderingly, "I think I miss you all the time." In every moment where he can't see you. When he can't be close to you. Feel—connected to you.

He nuzzles his cheek against your shoulder. He doesn't miss you right now. Right now, he feels—content. Or as close as it's possible to be.

Taking another sip of whiskey, he tries to identify what else they should talk about before going to bed.

"Tomorrow you should take the Impala." Rather than leaving it here. Her here. If he doesn't want to leave the Impala here, unused and unattended, then he can't imagine what it's like for you. "Lots of black '67 Chevys exist; the Leviathans have either found a better way to track you by now or their ability to recognise the Impala won't make a large difference in the long run. The sacrifice isn't worth the slight advantage to stealth." Not with how much you love that car. How much a part of you she is. He pulls their joined hands into his lap, and tilts his chin up so he can your jaw and the corner of your eyes above the plane of your cheek. You should have your car, Dean. "I, uh, would like to go for a drive."

Right now. Can they go for a drive in the Impala and hold hands like this before going to bed?

It's odd, you being physical like that. You were never physical as an angel. Touching was something you did out of necessity, to heal him, to hold him back, to get his attention, to punch him in the face when he let you down. He can't remember if they ever hugged. They definitely never held hands. It's—not bad. It's slightly awkward, but feeling your fingers clasp around his, the rough fabric of your fingerless gloves against his palm, it's not an unpleasant feeling. As far as favors go, it's far from the worst anyone's ever asked of him.

He just sits there quietly as you tell him you've missed him, holding your hand with one of his, the other wrapped around the whiskey mug. Turns his head a little when you continue—he's not sure what you mean by that, but he doesn't want to ask. Traces the creases and streaks of dirt on your jeans, wonders how many pairs you have. If you have more than one. If someone showed you how to wash your clothes or if you learned it by yourself. There are a lot of things you would have had to learn. He hopes you had some help with that, back in your world.

He does glance over at you when you tell him they should take the Impala tomorrow. Starts to shake his head—they can't do that, Frank said it's too dangerous, and while Frank's got a few screws loose, when it comes to being sufficiently paranoid, he's the best—but then stops when you suggest to go for a drive.

"Now?" He thought you wanted to go to sleep. Play house. Pretend to be in a relationship with him. But your expression seems to suggest that you do mean now, that you'd like to include going for a drive in his car in your last-night-on-Earth program.

It is what he came here for. He nods. "All right. I'll have to put the ignition back together first."

He's not going to hotwire his baby. Not when he has the keys right there in his pocket.

Yes now. He likes—driving in the Impala with you. It's familiar. In a strange way, it's comforting. It's not something he's been able to do in years. He leans away when you agree, giving you space to get up and fix the ignition. Once you head outside, he swallows another mouthful of whiskey and finds his boots and his jacket to pull on.

Down the hallway, in what remains of the bathroom, there are three knives arranged next to the sink, including the machete he found in the Impala's trunk. He debates bringing them. Apart from one altercation, he hasn't seen anything that suggested itself as a Leviathan. It's dark out and the roads around Bobby's house are empty. The chance that something will find them, find you, seems minimal.

He goes outside to meet you once his boots are on, sliding into the passenger seat and crowding into your space again, so that there's shoulders touch. His hand settles against your thigh, mid-way between your knee and your hip; his fingers curl around the inside, hanging on.

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