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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

When you pull back, the comforter slides off his shoulders. He's going to blame the pang of regret he feels at the loss of warmth on that, rather than on the loss of your body heat. Drains the last finger-width of whiskey from his mug before he gets up and heads outside to fix his car.

It doesn't take long. He's hotwired the Impala before, either out of necessity, or because he was teaching someone else how it's done. Hooking the wires back into place and replacing the panel is a matter of minutes, even though the only light he has is that of his phone. His phone reminds him of Sam, who's probably waiting for him to come back, so he composes a quick text. Not to worry. Will be back tomorrow midday. Bringing a friend.

He hits send, then looks around, eyes trailing over the interiors of the car. His car. So very familiar. He runs a hand over the steering wheel, a soothing, apologetic gesture. "'m sorry it's been so long." Muttered in the privacy of the empty car's interior. "Thanks for taking care of Cas."

As if on cue, the passenger door opens and you get in. Dean tightens his posture immediately, turns the key in the ignition. He can't help but grin when the engine comes to live with a familiar growl, the seat starting to vibrate underneath. He can feel you pressing against him, your fingers on his inner thigh, curling into the soft skin there. He turns his head to grin at you, not identifying the pleasant tension in his body until he meets your eyes.

Then he does, and his throat suddenly dries out, nervousness clenching his chest in a momentary, brief panic. He's pretending. He's supposed to be pretending. He shifts into reverse, backs the car up towards the road.

"This reminds me of high school. Or, you know, the fun parts of high school." The Impala settles onto the road, and he shifts into first, pulling away up the driveway. "Thing about switching towns every other week was that every time I'd figured out the good spots to take your girl for a nightly making-out session, we'd move."

That was not what he intended to say. He didn't mean to bring up kissing or making out. Too late now. He swallows, accelerates and shifts into second.

"Where d'you wanna go?"

The grin catches him off guard when he turns his head to catch your eyes and sees it. It makes the same sharp shard as before stab into his chest. He hasn't seen you smile in a very long time. You have a nice smile. It made sense to him, after he thought about it, that Michael's vessel would have the trait of righteous confidence. But it's twisted playfully now; there's something sweet in it, kind. His throat closes up as one side of his mouth rises up to return the expression.

You're beautiful, Dean.

The first thing that comes to mind when you say this reminds you of high school is hunting werewolves. There isn't much he knows about your experiences with school, or as a teenager, but he knows you left earlier than expected in order to hunt. That you didn't like school. Though you apparently liked the sexual activity associated with puberty. His eyebrows creep up slowly.

Where does he want to go? To make out?

For a long time he stares at you, lips parted in surprise. He doesn't know how to answer that question. That wasn't what he meant when he suggested they go for a drive. When he asked you to pretend. He didn't expect that you would pretend—to this extent. But if you're offering—if you're willing to do that much . . . it would be foolish not to accept. If you regret it later, you can blame no one but yourself. He didn't force it on you. You offered.

Eventually, he looks down, a soft, shy smile curling up his mouth. He studies his hand on your thigh, the way his thumb smooths over the wrinkles in your jeans. He doesn't know what makes a spot—a make-out spot, or what criteria to use to analyse its suitability. He doesn't know of many "spots" around Bobby's house. But you asked him for his preference. "I think there's a . . . uh, a field. A few miles down Country Road 18." They could park there without being disturbed and—make out.

The box of tapes still sits in the foot-well of the passenger seat. They could listen to music, and . . . kiss. This night is becoming far more perfect than he thought it could be.

He's not sure why you're staring at him, until he mentally recaps what he just said. He mentioned making out in high school, and then asked you where you wanted to go. That would sound like an offer. He didn't mean it as an offer. He thinks. You don't really "go" anywhere when you go for a drive, so he's not sure what he meant. You took it as an offer, though. Your silence and the way you smile when you look down at the hand on his thigh confirms as much.

He shifts in the driver's seat when you speak, not sure if he would like you to move your hand further up his thigh or take it away entirely. You should probably leave it there if they're going to make out. He glances over at you when you mention a field where they could park, careful not to meet your eyes. He just wants to look at you. You're still very much a guy, stubble on your cheeks, angular cheekbones and jaw, a flat chest under the fabric of your shirt. Somehow, that doesn't seem to matter as much as it should. It doesn't stop him from dropping his eyes to your lips and wondering what they would feel like.

He returns his eyes to the road, flexes his grip on the steering wheel. "There's a box with tapes by your feet. If we're gonna do this, we'll need some music." So pick a tape and put it on, while he finds that field you were talking about.

He can feel you watching him, but he doesn't look up. He doesn't know what would happen if he saw your face, what he would see. There's a part of him that can't believe you offered this. It must be a mistake. But he doesn't want to give you the chance to take it back. He didn't force you. He didn't. And if you're only doing it because it's a sacrifice you feel obligated to make . . . there's nothing at this point that says he doesn't deserve it. He's always been willing to take on your battles as if they were his own. Your purposes become his purposes. You owe him. At worse, you're doing this from a sense of obligation; at best, from a sense of genuine kindness and—friendship. He remembers the night with the brothel, when you introduced him to the concept of last nights. That was friendship, in a strange form. You cared about his experiences, and whether or not he would die fulfilled.

Sex wasn't fulfilling to him, then. But this—is. This night with you is.

Keeping his hand on your thigh, he leans forward to snag the box of tapes onto his lap, rummaging through them for ones he might recognise. He knows your music by sound, but not by name. "What's the song that goes . . . " There is no way to finish that statement; he knows the sound but he can't reproduce it or think of a way to describe it. "It mentions birds. And freedom." He's thinking of Free Bird. "I like that band." He wants to listen to them.

He waits for your help to select the tape, and then turns it down low, so he can talk over it. Even with the snow and ice, the field off CR 18 isn't far. There are some things they should clarify before they get there. He watches his fingers pick at the creases in your jeans, smoothing them out over the top of your thigh and then plucking them up again. It could be read as a nervous gesture. He enjoys the sensation of the rough fabric against his fingertips, your thigh warm and solid beneath it, muscular. He wants them squeezed around his ribs, and your fingers digging into his shoulders, as his hips pound into yours.

Not that he plans to mention that.

"You've, uh—you've never done this before." Kissed him. They've never had sex here. "With—me. I died an angel." He sneaks a glance at you out of the corner of his eyes. "Any sexual desire I felt towards you I still confused as something else." Right? He never made sexual advances to you here? He pauses for a long moment, fingers trailing mindlessly up and down your thigh while he tries to think how he wants to phrase it. "It was—a mistake. The first time I kissed you. I don't, uh. I know this is—pretend. But I don't want to make a mistake this time."

And hurt you. He's not sure why it hurt you before, why this hurts you. But he knows that it does. He doesn't want to hurt you. If there's something you want out of it, that you can get out of it, kissing him, then he wants to give that to you.

The song that mentions birds and freedom. He smiles at your description and reaches over to shuffle through the tapes, one eye on the road.

"Freebird. Lynyrd Skynyrd. Second top 40 of the band, but trust me, it should've been a straight number one." There you go, that's the tape. He waits until you take it, then returns his attention to the road. Drums his fingers on the wheel when the drums kick in half-way through the intro. You've got decent taste in music, Cas. You're also playing with the fabric of his jeans, pressing your fingers into his thigh. It makes his skin prickle pleasantly, the music distracting him enough so he can enjoy the sensation without having to think about it. He likes it that way.

Your words dull the pleasant buzz he's feeling and make him look over at you. Is that a question? When you glance over at him, he shakes his head, looks back at the road, flexes his grip on the steering wheel. "I dunno if you felt anything." He never got the impression that you did. "We never made out."

You're still stroking his thigh as you explain that kissing him was a mistake. Was it? Then why are they on their way to do it again? That makes him frown a little, but the frown smooths out when you continue. It was a mistake the first time, but you don't want it to be one this time. That makes some amount of sense.

"Why was it a mistake?" He glances over at you. What went wrong the first time? If you tell him, they can avoid it happening this time.

In hindsight, it was obvious that it was a mistake. But he can't tell you why. Their friendship might have been—better, less brittle and fractured in places, if sex hadn't been a brief part of their relationship. Initiating sex never got him what he wanted, and it harmed what they might have had otherwise. That's why it was a mistake. He knows no way to explain that, though. It's largely irrelevant now. This is one night, and they have no future.

He turns his face towards the passenger-side window, leaning his weight into your side, hand settling against your thigh. "I felt something."

The version of him that existed here, and died. He doesn't know how he wouldn't have felt something for you. He doesn't know when it started, if something changed in him the moment he saw you in Hell, but he should have been aware of it by now, even as an angel. He should have known he loved you, even if he didn't know how or whether to express it.

It's not something he sees a point in discussing. He doesn't want—to ruin whatever small amount of peace they've established for right now. He wants to pretend that none of that ever happened, or that none of it matters now. They're together; he wants to be together.

You don't answer him. Not really. You just lean against him and tell him that you felt something. It takes him a moment to understand that you're referring to his previous statement about the Cas of this world rather than his question. When he does, he feels a twinge in his chest, an uncomfortable contrast to the pleasant tingling spreading out from where your hand is resting on his thigh. You felt something. But he wasn't there until it was too late.

He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think about you, the you of this world, or the fact that you're not a girl. He doesn't need to think about it. Shifts a little so he can slide his arm around your shoulders, tug you in a little closer against him.

"Let's just pretend right now, all right?" That's what you asked for. He'd like to do that. Pretend for one night that things went differently. Pretend for one night that it doesn't matter that you're a guy, that they can do this and it won't be wrong, or bad, or doomed. Pretend for one night that they can do whatever they want. They can go back to the real world tomorrow morning.

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