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They’re five miles from home, and Dean can’t wait to officially close the book on this godawful trainwreck of a case.
Things were rough from the moment they arrived, bogged down by a slow investigation, uncooperative witnesses, and a rising body count. That’s familiar territory for Dean. His oh-so-noble intentions falling flat. His supposedly intuitive split-second decisions backfiring and leading to some tragic outcome that he should’ve easily prevented, considering his experience. His supposed skill.
He oughta be used to it by now. It’s not exactly news that he’s a fuck-up. It’s a gut punch every damn time, though. And then the crushingly low self-esteem follows, the days-long spiral. He knows he’s a ticking timebomb even on a good day, that a single mistake can send him into a tailspin, self-flagellating and self-analyzing, desperate to figure out where he went wrong and only delving deep enough to conclude that, more important than anything else, he’s the one to blame, and then succumbing to tunnel vision, dwelling on it, unable to move on. Whatever other factors were at play, it was his fault. His.
He knows the tense silence that’s hung over them for most of the drive is because of him. He’s been in a foul mood that turned fouler with every misstep and hasn’t really improved since they put that job in the rearview mirror.
If he tries, really tries, he can almost put a positive spin on it. They’d gotten to the bottom of the issue eventually, and saved enough people to make a difference, despite all the pitfalls. That town’s gonna be a hell of a lot safer from now on. But he was too slow to keep a 14-year-old girl who got caught in the crossfire out of harm’s way, and she ended up in the hospital in pretty rough shape. She’d survived, thank god, and the doctors were very optimistic that she’d recover, even if it might be a difficult road. That was the only thing that stopped Dean from losing it on the spot. He dropped the ball, again, and someone got hurt, but in the end, she’d be okay. So while it could’ve gone better – he’s been obsessing about all the myriad ways it could’ve gone better, over and over and over and over – it could’ve been worse.
He’s only three miles from home and very much looking forward to it, the promise of his own bed and comfortable surroundings pulling back from the ledge. Lately, he’s been questioning more and more why he even takes on these cases in the first place. There are other hunters as capable as he is, at least with the standard stuff. More capable, even. Younger and sharper. Might not have bungled it the way he did, might have—
No. Gonna put those thoughts in the vault for now. He can handle it. He should be used to it. He’s two miles from home.
Then Sam’s phone vibrates in his lap. He glances at it, apparently not liking what he sees.
Dean’s shoulders tense. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam mutters. “Not important.” Could’ve been believable if Dean didn’t know him so well, if he didn’t recognize that specific concerned eyebrow furrow, even through his peripheral vision.
“Sam,” he insists, despite knowing Sam’s only trying to protect him from himself. If anything, that just pisses him off more.
Sam sighs, gearing up for an argument Dean has no interest in hearing. “You—”
“Goddammit, just tell me.” Maybe he should just leave it alone, but he’s committed now.
Sam glances over his shoulder, exchanging some long-suffering, meaningful glance with Cas in the back seat before continuing. “That was Sheriff McFadden. Heard from the hospital—some kinda complications with surgery, and…” He pauses, like that’s gonna soften the blow. Like Dean doesn’t already know what he’s about to say. “Julia didn’t make it.”
Expected or not, hearing it out loud still goes right through him. He feels his chest tighten, his posture going rigid, white noise ringing in his ears. He’s vaguely aware that Sam is talking to him, probably trying to placate him, but Dean’s only catching pieces of it, and what he does hear, he emphatically ignores. Cas says nothing, but the weight of his gaze is heavy on the back of Dean’s neck.
It’s taking incredible restraint not to outwardly react, bang his fist on the steering wheel, swear, raise his voice. But he’s so close to home. He’s only gotta hold it together for a couple more minutes before he can lock himself in his room and… process this information without any judgmental onlookers.
One mile to go, and it’s just a blur. His jaw is clenched so hard it hurts, and he’s barely aware he’s even made it home until he’s hauling himself out of the car, slamming the door behind him and storming inside, not even bothering to grab his things from the trunk.
Sam might say his name, but it’s a half-hearted effort to get through to him, probably knowing that whatever he’s gonna try to say, Dean’s got no interest in listening.
Cas, instead of leaving Dean alone to go punch something in peace, follows him straight to his room, walks right in like he owns the place. Dean should’ve shut the door in his face. It wouldn’t have stopped him, the stubborn son of a bitch, but it might’ve slowed him down a bit, or at least sent the message that it was pointless to try and cheer Dean up, or whatever he has in mind.
This part’s familiar too. He’s fully expecting Cas to try to reason with him, reassure him. Remind him that all three of them were working together, that it’s not all on Dean. That he did everything he could in the moment, that he saves so many but can’t save everyone, that there are other people actually responsible for this girl who failed to look out for her if she was even in the woods that time of night to begin with. It’s all stuff Dean knows and has heard about eight thousand times before, but, ultimately, hearing it does nothing. This is a well-tread path for them. Cas will say all the right words, do his damnedest bully his self-loathing into submission with some angelic wisdom and relentless, misguided faith in Dean. Honestly, sometimes it even works. Just not all the time, and never for long enough.
As usual, he’s not in the mood, bristling at the sensation of Cas hot on his heels. He wheels around, some biting, sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue, only for Cas to beat him to the punch.
“You cannot keep doing this to yourself.”
Dean blinks, taken aback by Cas’s tone. “What?” He expected Cas to be gentle, wary of agitating Dean further, but this is… provocative? There’s a stern look in his eye, a hint of a growl in his voice, his frustration palpable. Dean manages to forget how shitty he feels for a second because, uh. That’s surprising.
Here Dean was pretending to be composed about the whole thing. Thought he was pulling it off, too, but it shouldn’t surprise him that Cas knows him too well for that.
Cas sighs and closes the door behind him. “I understand how you feel, Dean. I really do.” There’s the typical sincerity, only it’s laced with undeniable impatience. “But this is not the way to handle it.” He takes a few steps towards Dean, likely encouraged by the fact that Dean is actually shutting the hell up, for once. “I know you think that being this hard on yourself will make you… better, in the long run, but in reality, it will do the exact opposite.”
Dean tries not to flinch because like always, Cas has him pegged. He’s spent a long time telling himself that this particular brand of self-hatred was intentional. Constructive. That burying himself in the full weight of his mistakes and then some was the only way to prevent them from happening again. And sure, maybe he knows that’s bullshit, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting to hear Cas say it.
“You can’t fall apart over every mistake,” Cas presses on, “Eventually, you won’t be able to put yourself back together.”
Unthinkingly, Dean tries to butt in. “I’m not—”
“I wasn’t finished,” Cas smoothly cuts him off, and Dean, to his slight mortification, promptly quiets down. “Your coping mechanisms are abysmal.” Blunt as ever. “You need to find a healthier way of dealing with these things. Some way to settle yourself, or relax, or—”
“Relax?” Dean repeats, incredulous, with a disdainful scoff. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am.” Well, of course he is. It’s Cas. “How do you expect to be any use to anyone, including yourself, if you completely shut down every time something goes wrong?”
“Wow, Cas, that’s so fucking helpful. I feel more relaxed already.” Almost as soon as he gives in to the urge to snap at Cas, he regrets it. He doesn’t know why he has to do that. He’s damn lucky that Cas puts up with his crap. There’s probably some limit to that patience, and he’s suddenly realizing he doesn’t want to find out.
Cas levels Dean with a withering glare that Dean pretends not to be affected by. “I’m worried about you,” he says, almost defiantly, not softening because he knows Dean’s going to be an asshole about it, as he always does when anyone shows any kind of care or concern for him.
“Well, don’t be,” Dean replies, just as defiant. “I can handle myself just fine. I don’t need to be coddled, so you can—”
“Sometimes you do, Dean.” The vehemence in Cas’s voice takes Dean aback. Cas doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes like he usually does when he thinks Dean’s being an idiot, just holds an unwavering, intense stare. “Everyone does. You more than some, quite frankly. Acknowledging that doesn’t make you weak. But pretending you’re perfectly fine when you clearly aren’t makes you a fool.”
Dean’s breathing is ragged, his hands threatening to curl into fists… but he has nothing to say to that. He had so much fight in him, and there are at least three things Cas has said in the last couple minutes that Dean could latch onto to keep this argument going, but that would take more energy than he currently has. Especially because, if he’s really gonna force himself to admit it… Cas is right.
Cas steps closer again, and Dean fights the absurd urge to lean forward and meet him halfway. “You’re so tightly wound,” he says, soft and careful like Dean had anticipated at the beginning. “You did your best, and the danger’s passed now. You’re home. You’re safe. If you’re going to keep doing this with your life, you have to find a way to move forward, despite the setbacks.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like that’s just a thing Dean can do.
“I—” Dean stops short, biting back another dickish comment when he catches Cas’s eye, seeing the concern and determination there. He swallows against a sudden lump in his throat, overwhelmed by that internal voice that can acknowledge he doesn’t like this side of himself but is genuinely afraid he can’t do anything about it. Cas had it right; he’s always told himself there was a point to berating himself like this. That he was acting as his own drill sergeant, more or less. Sure, it could be tough to bear, but it made him do better in the future. It was something he had control over and simply chose to do in order to get stronger. A necessary evil for the greater good that he could utilize in the right moment and then stop any time he wanted. Reflecting on it now, it’s hard to deny: he’s not actually in charge of any of this shit. “Easier said than done, Cas,” he mutters, aiming for flippant, annoyed even, and a little concerned he might’ve missed the mark.
“I know,” Cas replies, earnest as ever, not discouraged in the face of Dean’s supposed brusque dismissal. He’s probably picked up on exactly what Dean had been hoping to disguise, the way it felt more like a vulnerable admission than a thoughtless rebuttal. Damn mind reader. Dean complains, but in moments like this, he’s grateful for how easily Cas can see through him, because anyone who took Dean at face value would be long gone by now. “I’ll help you,” he promises, resting a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder.
Dean quickly speeds past the suggestive places his mind wants to wander at the idea of Cas helping him relax, plus the mushy feelings he gets from the intimacy of it all, Cas so soft and sincere. “What, you gonna make me meditate? Find my Zen or whatever?” he asks, defaulting to sarcasm to distract himself from how his heart pounds when Cas just… offers his services like that.
Cas huffs, likely suppressing an eyeroll. “I suppose I might try something like that if I thought you’d be remotely receptive,” he says. “I was talking about a more direct method.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, while I’m not some new age expert,” Cas says, glancing away thoughtfully for a moment, “I do know how to heal.”
Dean’s brow furrows as he processes that suggestion. “So, you’re gonna just… whammy the stress right out of me?”
“I might phrase it more delicately than that,” Cas replies patiently. “But yes.”
“Really? You can do that?” Dean is intrigued.
“Of course.” That easy confidence is a good look on Cas. Might be part of why Dean already finds himself softening to the idea. “Emotional injury is not entirely the same as a physical wound…” Cas continues, “But it isn’t all that different either.”
Dean’s close to asking if this isn’t in the same category as drinking the pain away, but truthfully, he knows there’s no comparison. The part of him that initially bristled at the suggestion of needing help desperately latches on to the suddenly very real possibility of actual relief. He’d never dared to hope because the usual kinds of crap don’t seem to work. But those things aren’t Cas, the guy who literally pulled him out of hell. Though that’s a thought that’s hard to scrutinize too closely.
Dean’s been standing there silent for too long, by the look of it, because Cas jumps in again. “It won’t be invasive.” His voice is gentle, almost hypnotically deep. “And it should go fairly quickly.”
“Don’t have to talk me into it,” Dean says, “I’ll give it a shot.”
Cas eyes him warily, obviously skeptical of his agreeability. Which is fair, given Dean’s track record of being uncooperative for no good reason. “You will?”
“I mean, yeah,” Dean says with a shrug. What other options does he really have? Therapy, medication, working on himself in a deliberate, consistent way? None of that is exactly compatible with his lifestyle. Those are normal person solutions and he does not have normal person problems. He’s not sure he has much faith in that kinda stuff anyway. Cas, on the other hand… “Not like I like feeling this way.” He almost never said things like that out loud before Cas was around.
“No, of course not,” Cas says quietly, such tenderness and understanding in his expression, his frustration fading away, determination remaining. It’s not the first time Dean’s felt overcome by gratitude for Cas’s steady presence. Cas always makes him feel… supported. Seen.
Dean forces that sudden rush of emotion down, eyes darting away self-consciously. “So are we doing this, or are we just gonna stand here with our dicks in our hands?” he says, pretending his impatience is simply that, not a growing eagerness to see what Cas’s familiar magic touch can really do.
One eyebrow goes up, the exasperation making a reappearance on Cas’s face. “You can drop the attitude,” he says easily, a bit playful about it but still stern. “I’m trying to help you.”
Dean clears his throat, embarrassed to realize his cheeks are starting to flush. “Sorry,” he mutters, not even getting his back up over being chastised like that. Honestly, it’s reassuring that Cas means business.
“That’s all right,” Cas says, forgiving Dean for his bullshit as quickly as he called him out on it. “Come here, sit down.”
Cas reaches for Dean’s hands, clenched at his sides, and takes them in his own, leading him towards the bed. Whatever reflex Dean has to protest the vaguely intimate contact is weak, occurs to him too late to actually stop what’s happening. Cas situates himself on the edge of mattress and urges Dean to sit beside him, thighs close enough to touch.
“Is this really gonna work?” Dean asks, mostly to break the silence and distract from the way looking into Cas’s eyes like this makes his pulse speed up. “I mean, you’re good, but this is me you’re talking about,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Don’t worry,” Cas says, squeezing his hands briefly. “I’ll take care of everything.”
There Dean goes again, exposing his insecurities in a way he doesn’t with anyone else, even if he tried to pass it off as a joke – one that Cas immediately saw through, of course – and he only gets encouragement, a promise of reliability in return.
“Close your eyes.”
Dean’s eyelids drop shut heavily, like they’ve been waiting for permission to do so. Cas lets go of his hands and Dean misses the contact shamefully. His sense of loss is short-lived as Cas’s hands trail up his arms, smoothing across his shoulders, along his neck, and finally cradling Dean’s face. Cas doesn’t ask, just puts his gentle – apparently giant – hands on Dean’s like he knows it’ll be allowed. Welcomed, even. Maybe he’s not wrong. Even Cas just touching him like this soothes something in Dean, some lingering ache he ignores like all the others. That’s never something he likes to admit, but alone with Cas, eyes closed and relying on Cas to keep him grounded, it’s a lot harder to deny too.
“If you want to stop, just tell me.” When they’re this close, Dean swears Cas’s deep voice rumbles right through him.
He swallows hard. “Okay.” He knows Cas must be looking at him intently, and he kind of wants to see it, but Cas said to close his eyes, so he keeps ‘em closed, feeling Cas adjust his hands, palms more securely fitting against Dean’s jaw. He’s always wondered if this kind of contact was actually necessary for healing, or at least touching in some way, like Cas usually does with him. It probably isn’t. But he’s never said anything about it, always just barely managed to hold himself back from making some kneejerk joke or complaint. Honestly, it always made him feel kinda, well. Special. So he wasn’t really inclined to question it. He especially isn’t right now.
“Just breath with me,” Cas says, “I’ll go slow.”
Dean squirms at the intimate tone, the vaguely suggestive words. He can only nod in reply, taking a steady inhale to match Cas’s.
“That’s it,” Cas murmurs. “Good.”
Something about being praised for that hits Dean right in the gut. He’s been feeling like such a failure that it’s nice to know he’s doing something right, at least. Maybe that’s pathetic, but clearly Cas doesn’t think so. He almost seems genuinely proud.
They have a few moments in quiet stillness, and with the combination of deep breaths, Cas’s touch and his gentle words, Cas’s insistence that he relax doesn’t sound quite so absurd.
He’s not sure what to expect now. Maybe he should’ve asked more questions. He’s realizing that he didn’t because he just… trusts Cas. He can put himself in Cas’s hands, literally, and Cas would never hurt him, would do anything in his power to help him, make him happy, ease his many burdens.
He doesn’t get a chance to fully examine that revelation before the first traces of something start to flow through him.
Dean had been bracing himself for what he was accustomed to, and those expectations were warranted. The recognizable, tangible sensations of Cas’s grace healing him creep in – not cool, not warm, but also both at once, undeniably divine in the way it almost defies human description. For a moment he thinks, that’s it? And he tries to tell himself he’s not disappointed, unsurprised he’s beyond even Cas’s capabilities, but then…
He definitely lacks the proper words for this too, but something within him, this nebulous negative pressure that he’s carried with him since he was way too fucking young to be worrying about anything like that, finally starts to ease.
The compulsive urge that normally has a strangle hold on his brain, the constant anxiety, the irrepressible desire to move, make himself useful, reflexively jostle his leg when he has to sit this still, begins to ebb away. It’s like a physical tightness loosening, and he starts to settle, shoulders dropping even as he’s taken away by an odd sense of lightness.
He would compare it to being drunk or high, but the truth is, it’s hardly the same. There’s something akin to a pleasant buzz but with none of the hazy veneer. He’s more alert, more aware, more present than he’s ever been, seeing and feeling so clearly without the fog of pain and stress hanging over everything. His typical contradictory state of being keyed up but exhausted melts away, replaced by being undeniably calm but refreshed – equally contradictory, but much more enjoyable, and he finds himself wondering, almost deliriously, is this what a good night’s sleep is like?
He doesn’t feel brainwashed or lobotomized, isn’t unnaturally euphoric, just… unburdened. Like the edge has been taken off. And what a brutal, jagged edge it was. He doesn’t know if it’s temporary or not, but it’s a huge relief, even if a fleeting one. A moment’s peace is better than none at all.
His physical pains are fading into nothing. Most of them are probably a side effect from carrying all that stress around. The dull ache in his jaw from clenching, the persistent, pounding headaches, the stiff aching back. But then that awful twinge in his right knee is gone. It could just be a catch-all kind of healing, a widespread wash of grace getting whatever it can, but somehow, he knows – Cas targeted that specifically and made a point to take care of it, knew it had been acting up even though Dean never said anything.
His emotional aches are suddenly far more bearable too. The voice that tells him he fucked up hasn’t gone away, but it’s much quieter, more easily rivaled by the voice that reminds him it was a mistake, that people make them all the time, that he does a lot of good too, saves a hell of a lot more people than he lets down. It even allows the rational parts of his mind to show him how certain things were entirely beyond his control and therefore not his fault, his point of view no longer distorted to view himself in the worst possible light or take on more than his fair share of the burden.
His guilt over the way the last case went is not erased entirely, but he’s weirdly grateful for that, that Cas isn’t taking parts of him away—even as he realizes, with shocking certainty, that Cas would never. Dean cares. A lot. He’s not going to stop feeling shitty when there’s a loss; it just doesn’t sit so heavily, oppress every thought and become a fixation that turns darker, more twisted the more he looks at it. He can experience the tough parts of what he’s going through without them overwhelming him and crowding out the good entirely. He’s perfectly aware of his stresses, but he’s not consumed by them, like the tiniest additional setback is going to make him snap.
He might’ve let himself be comforted like this sooner if he’d known Cas was so good at it. Or maybe it was obvious, and he just didn’t allow his mind to go there. It almost feels wrong, like it’s cheating. This isn’t how most people deal with these things. But he’s not most people. He has an angel in his life who can cure what ails him with a thought and never seems to think it’s a burden to do it. He’d give Dean anything, if only he’d ask. He can tell Cas has been wanting to do something like this for a long time.
Cas’s hands start to slide back down and Dean’s rise up to meet them, fingers curling into Cas’s sleeves before he even realizes what he’s doing. He still senses Cas’s presence – both in his physical proximity and in his very soul, steady and sincere – and he’s not ready to let go. For it to be over.
The last traces of grace start to taper off, and Dean sucks in a breath, bracing himself. But instead of the sense of loss he expects, there’s just a moment when it all truly lets go, tension not snapping but melting away, a release that, before he can even try to get a hold of himself, manifests in tears. “Fuck,” he mumbles, hastily swiping at his eyes, “That’s embarrassing.”
But even as he says that, just a well-ingrained reflex, it rings a bit false. Some of his needless shame over any emotional expression must be fading into the background too, further muted by Cas’s immediate reassurance. “Not at all. That’s a very normal response to something like this. Nothing to worry about.”
Hopeful notions he never allowed himself to nurture are now refusing to be ignored, rushing to the forefront of his mind, no longer crushed by shame, denial, self-doubt. Like his thoughts are fighting to have a rational order of priority for once.
Before, he would’ve balked at this closeness, no matter how much it secretly appealed to him. Now, he finds himself giving in to that long-buried pull, all but collapsing forward into Cas’s space. And Cas, of course, is ready to catch him.
And Cas doesn’t just let him cling, he wraps Dean up, really holds him, offering more supportive words in a soothing rumble. “Just rest for a minute, Dean. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
Cas tightens his arms a bit, giving Dean an excuse to do the same, which he readily takes. He tucks his face into Cas’s neck, not to hide, just because he wants to. His formerly stiff muscles are already loose, but he still wants to cry all over again from how good it feels to have Cas rub his back like this. He’s been deprived of physical affection in his life, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s because it’s Cas.
It’s so good Dean could almost float away, but he remains anchored, so safe and secure in Cas’s embrace. He allows himself to actually enjoy it, Cas strong and warm and everything Dean’s been craving.
He’s not sure how long they stay like that. Definitely longer than he would’ve indulged in the past, some insufferable nagging voice always telling him to cut things short after some random, predetermined acceptable amount of time. Right now, he’d be content to stay like this… forever, to be honest.
It’s that realization that ultimately compels him to pull away – not out of fear, but because he wants Cas to know. Wants him to know how Dean really feels.
He doesn’t go far, just enough to see Cas’s face, vision blurry with unshed tears. Cas reaches out and brushes away the drying tracks on Dean’s cheeks, the gesture unbearably tender. Dean experiences the full weight of just how much he likes that kind of attention, heart thudding when his gaze meets Cas’s, so exposed, so aware without the cloud of stress and pain in the way. His base needs for safety and comfort are fulfilled for once, paving way for his wants, for his true, deep desires.
If he were more cynical, more capable of denial at the moment, he might think Cas implanted those feelings in him. That opening his mind, his heart up like that left him subject to manipulation. But again he thinks, Cas would never. He knows it now with striking certainty, vulnerable and completely cared for in Cas’s hands, trust not at all misplaced, utterly treasured by Cas.
More importantly, he knows – can finally admit to himself – that those feelings have been there for a long, long time.
“Cas,” he whispers, not even surprised by how achingly raw it sounds, how reverent.
Cas reaches out, his hand cupping Dean’s cheek, and Dean’s too laid bare not to lean into it. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” Despite everything, he really is. “Yeah, I—I’m good, I just…”
There’s one last lingering bit of tension, one insistent, unresolved little issue gnawing at him. But Dean knows how to fix that all on his own. If he’s brave enough. And he can’t say he’s not scared, but for once he’s clear-headed enough to know it’s worth the risk.
He leans in just slow enough to give Cas the chance to pull away, to make sure he hasn’t read it all wrong, see the desire reflected in Cas’s eyes, then closes the distance before he loses his nerve.
Pressing his lips to Cas’s, the last stubborn knot in Dean’s chest loosens, unravelling completely when Cas eagerly reciprocates. Some wild, desperate, joyous sound catches in his throat because he’s wanted this for years, and he’s not getting in his own way anymore, worrying about the imagined consequences, or doubting Cas’s interest – it’s so fucking obvious now that he’s got the blinders off, now that Cas’s affection is palpable in his touch, his kiss. He hopes his affection is obvious too.
He gets truly lost in it for a moment, head spinning when they part. “Damn,” he mutters, still clinging to Cas’s lapels. “Been thinking about doing that for like… forever.” It’s surprisingly easy to confess that out loud.
“Likewise,” Cas rumbles dryly, the slightest quirk in his eyebrow.
Dean is so helplessly fond that he has to laugh, honest-to-god butterflies in his stomach over the smile he gets from Cas in return. “Cas,” he murmurs again, liking how it sounds on his tongue, laden with new meaning and promise. “…Thank you.” That’s the understatement of the century right there, but he likes to think the for everything part is understood, without him having to say it. He can usually count on Cas when it comes to that.
Dean sways forward to kiss Cas again, short and sweet, because he can do that now and he’s damn well gonna, and he wastes no time tucking himself back into Cas’s arms. He wasn’t exaggerating when he thought he could stay here forever.
He can feel Cas relax into their embrace, and he knows this all meant something to Cas too – that Dean let him in, trusted him enough to take care of Dean the way he’s been tacitly offering all this time.
It’s a profound yet painfully obvious realization that Cas’s grace, his real divine gift, was only a small part of this. Cas wanting to do this for him, attending to him so tenderly, holding him tight, remaining a solid presence for Dean to lean on, without even having to ask – that’s his real power. He’ll step up and give Dean what he needs when he can’t do it himself.
Dean lets the full implications of that hit him. Cas can keep some of the oppressive thoughts at bay just by being there. By… loving him, if Dean lets him. And god, does Dean want to. Now that he’s had this, he can’t go back. And he’s got a sneaking suspicion he won’t have to. For the first time in who knows how long, he’s actually hopeful about what the future has in store.
He knows he’ll have his share of bad days ahead. But he’s pretty sure he’s also got plenty of good ones to look forward to. However it all shakes out, he’s confident about one thing above everything else: he’s got Cas.