#ALL THE GODDAMN SOAPS I GOTTA BUY AND I CAN'T BUY THE ONE SOAP THAT ACTUALLY WORKS WELL

[ohparis]

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing(s): Dean Winchester/Castiel, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Original Female Character

Rating: T

Tags: Angst and Feels, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Summary: Dean finds him in her eyes and smile and laugh, even in her name; and he can't fucking bring himself to let that go.

ao3

He meets her on a June afternoon, the sun so fucking bright it hurts his eyes.

And it’s not that- he just can’t help himself, he really fucking can’t.

Never stood a chance, with eyes like that.

Her dog runs him over, that’s how it happens, and she apologizes and tilts her head and he just, he needs to get out, out, out of here because he can’t breathe, and his eyes sting and he knows, it’s not the light.

He excuses himself, pats the mutt on the head and flees.

-

When he gets home, it’s a whirlwind of bourbon and cheap whiskey.

Sam finds him passed out on the couch, glass shattered on the floor and against his hand, maybe yells at him, but he doesn’t really remember much.

On their way to the hospital, Sam is silent, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles may have turned purple, and he doesn’t look at Dean, spread out on the backseat, murmuring incoherently.

He wants to explain himself, say he’s sorry Sammy is stuck with this mess, but instead just mutters that he needs more time.

“One minute, Sammy, just one.”

Sam doesn’t answer, stares at the road.

“Just to say goodbye. Tell him, just once”

And he can hear his brother sigh, then, shoulder slumped and eyes closed, and maybe he speaks, this time, but how would he know; by the time they arrive at the emergency room, he’s unconscious again.

When they discharge him, when he’s back in baby, her leather stained with blood, Sam looks tired and stressed and so worried.

He says, “You need to stop this. Please.”

Dean looks down, asks for the keys. Sam doesn’t let him drive.

-

They bump into each other again at the grocery store, and this time she doesn't let him run away.

"We met at the park, the other day, I'm Cassandra."

Because of course she is, and Dean wants to tell her to get lost, that he doesn't really care, hasn't been able to for a while now, but piercing blue eyes are staring back at him for the first time in so very long.

He's only human, he tells himself, can only fight with himself for so long- and it's only coffee.

Only coffee turns into a movie and that turns into dinner and he can't really say how the hell he got himself in this situation but here he is.

And this girl is wonderful, looks at him amused but doesn't really mind that she's the one doing all the talking.

She has a pretty voice, some pretty interesting stories to tell.

A beautiful smile.

Christ, he's such an asshole.

When they say their goodbyes, he closes his eyes, says: "Goodnight, Cas", and it's been so long.

Fuck.

So long, and his eyes are closed and it's almost real, almost alright.

They make plans for the weekend.

-

When he goes to bed, that night, he opens the drawer where he hides his secret stack of liquor and it’s empty.

Sam must have gotten rid of all the alcohol in the bunker, he supposes.

It’s fine, he tells himself as he lays on the bed, scrolls through his phone looking for pictures that are not there, cause if he can’t drown himself in booze, he can do it in sorrow instead; but there’s nothing tangible, here, no homevideos or polaroids, anything he has left is in a box under his bed.

The coat, the tie, a cassette; but that, he won’t touch.

He searches through his contacts instead, dials the number he refuses to deactivate.

“This is Castiel...”

He falls against the pillows with a loud thump, phone tucked against his neck-

“...make your voice, a mail.”

-and cries himself to sleep.

-

“I used to be a pilot, you know.”

And, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

He tells her that.

She just laughs against her ice cream.

“I swear, is that so hard to believe?”

He sobers up, offers a tissue for the cream dribbling on her chin.

“No it’s just, I was friends with a pilot. Sort of.”

“You sort of were friends or they sort of were a pilot?”

He gives her a smile that’s barely there.

“Both.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just,” she says “I don’t know anything about you.”

Dean hums, keeps strolling through the park.

“You know what my favorite ice cream flavor is.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes, playful; she chuckles, her nose scrunches up when she does so.

He’s not an idiot, he knows he’s not imagining things, connecting dots and finding similarities that are not there, that he would find suspicious, was he not so desperate for something, anything to cling to.

“I have a brother.”

She looks at him encouragingly.

“His name is Sam. We’re really close.”

“Does he live here too?”

Dean nods.

“And the rest of your family?”

There’s a park bench behind them, a playground.

Dean closes his eyes against the staining sunlight.

“He’s the rest of my family.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out harsh, but it does.

Cassandra doesn’t pry.

“What about you?” he asks.

“I’ve got a bunch of siblings I’m not really close with, and an older sister who’s like a mother, father and hippie aunt all in one package.”

He smiles at that.

“Must be fun.”

She shrugs, “She’s family.”

-

When Sam finds out he’s seeing someone, he starts asking questions a thousand miles a minute, looks so excited Dean fears he might actually pee himself.

The thing is, he doesn’t really want to answer, doesn’t know how to be truthful and avoid Sam seeing through his bullshit at the same time, so he downplays it.

“Sammy, don’t take this the wrong way, it’s just… I wanna take this slow, be quiet about it.”

And of course, Sam takes that to heart, ensures him they’re going to do just that, that he’s going to encourage it, whatever it is.

“It’s, I mean, this is really good. I’m happy for you. This is good.”

And he looks so goddamn relieved, Dean just wants to cry and scream and drink and cry again.

He tells Sam he’s gonna need the Impala to take her out, and for the first time in weeks, he sits in baby again, drives to town.

He buys a bottle of scotch, downs it sitting on the ground next to the car, and waits for the sun to go down.

Then, he prays.

He prays to stardust and dirt and lighting and everything that Castiel used to be.

He sobs, says “I hate you so fucking much,” and “Why won’t you return to me?”

He falls asleep in baby’s backseat, curled up on himself; when he gets home, in the morning, Sam smiles at him.

-

Cassandra works at the library, volunteers every other weekend to read to the kids, then talks about it with Dean when they go out for coffee on Sundays.

He brings a book with her, once, opens it when they’re lying on a worn sheet in the park.

She thumbs the pictures, explains the story, starts reading bits and pieces of it in between plot points.

“You - you alone will have the stars as no one else has them...” she recites, “...In one of the stars, I shall be living. In one of them, I shall be laughing.”

Dean rests his head on hers, closes his eyes.

“And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You - only you - will have stars that can laugh.”

A beat.

“Do you like it?”

He drops a kiss against her hair, “It’s beautiful, Cas.”

She tilts her head, then, kisses him, soft and tender, on the lips.

Dean holds back the tears.

-

He calls him, that night.

The voice on the other end of the line is colder than the metal against his cheek.

“This number has been deactivated, if you...”

The box under his bed lies untouched.

-

Sam runs into them as they’re about to enter a Soap Shop Cassandra likes, greets them with barely feigned surprise and excitement, a grin the size of Texas.

“I’m Sam, it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, I’ve heard so much. I’m Cassandra.”

“Oh”, says Sam.

And Dean tries to make himself smaller,

“Or Cassie, if you want,”

and smaller,

“or Cas, but only Dean has ever called me that”

and smaller.

He can see it unravel on Sam’s face, as he begins to take in her hair, and her eyes and the shape of her mouth, just like Dean has.

His expression flickers momentarily, in anger or disappointment or pity or all of them.

He schools it almost immediately.

“Well, it was a pleasure, I gotta go now.”

They start to go their ways, when “Dean, I’ll see you at home?”

He can only nod.

-

Of all the things he expects to find when he gets back, booze definitely isn’t one of them.

“It’s not for you,” Sam says.

“I figured.”

A beat.

“Look, I’m-”

“Yeah, you’re sorry. Good, you’d better be.”

Another one.

“Tell me at least you’re not fucking her.”

At that, Dean recoils.

“I’m not that much of an asshole. I wouldn’t use her like that.”

Sam nods.

“She seems great.”

“She is.”

“You should break up with her.”

“I know.”

“But first...”

And he’s holding it out, the box, he’s opening and taking the tie and coat, leaves the mixtape alone.

“...First, we say goodbye.”

And the booze, the coat, and in his pocket, a fucking lighter.

“No,” he says, furious, “No way, Sam, no fucking way,”

“Dean...”

“Give that back.”

“Hear me out, Dean-”

“Give it back or I fucking swear, Sam.”

“Why are you keeping them?”

“It’s called fucking mourning, am I not allowed?”

“Except that’s not it.”

And the thing is, he’s right. Because there’s a reason he won’t touch them, there’s a reason he chose to keep them.

“It’s not,” Sam sighs, passes a hand through his hair, on his face, rubs at grim filled eyes, “He’s not coming back.”

Dean takes it, then, grips it tight, looks at Sam, is suddenly so, so much younger: “Why?”

And Sam is shaking his head, taking him by the shoulders and pulling him in.

-

He says goodbye to Cassandra the following afternoon.

A few hours after, the coat is burning in a pile of leaves and wood on the ground.

The wind blows.

The stars are getting there.

As the sun sets, he says “I love you”, like it’s not the first time.

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