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urne-buriall · 20 days

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so I said there was one more spirit of the west alternate scene to go. this time we pose the question: "what if Cas wasn't away at the lawyers' after the final fight with John?"

John would look for him at Bobby’s or Ellen’s. He couldn’t bring them into his mess.

He had the option to pass through town or around it, but he didn’t want to attract attention. The Impala was a beautiful car, but everything that made it so distinct made it impossible to hide. He felt that just driving through with his broken window, even if all the others were rolled down, people would simply take one look and know. The evening deepened, but it wasn’t dark yet. They’d peer in the windows and they would see a battered boy, see the way Dean gripped the wheel to hold himself up when his whole back curved in a vain attempt to ease the horrible pain in his ribs.

It was tempting to go to the laundromat, to try finding Cas once more, but there was nowhere in town to conceal his car. Street parking only. He didn’t know if John would try to follow him now or later. Whatever happened, he couldn’t afford to be found out.

He didn’t even know if Cas was there. He hadn’t been this morning. He’d be so busy and he wouldn’t want Dean’s problems and...

No, that wasn’t it. That had never been it. Dean spent so long not wanting anyone to know, but he’d announced it for the first time to Kate, yesterday. That barrier had broken. The worst had happened. There was no point in trying to hide. This was the time it had to come out. What else could he do? What else could he lose? He’d lose Cas if he hid from him now.

Still, he had to get off the map before he figured any of this out.

He took himself out of town. He didn’t have much money, didn’t want to spend the last of it on a motel room that would only grant him one or two nights of shelter. As darkness fell he pulled the car in at a truck stop favoured by long-haul drivers. There was a row of payphones along one wall. The one nearest the kiosk door was in use, so he took the furthest possible to avoid being overheard. He put a quarter in and dialled Cas’ number from memory.

It rang three times and Dean despaired, but before it could ring the fourth Cas picked it up.

“Hello?” He sounded tired. He was likely sick of phone calls. He didn’t like phones at the best of times, and Doc’s death compounded the amount of time spent answering calls.

“Cas, hey,” said Dean. “It’s me.”

“Dean.” His voice relaxed over the line. “Cesar said you were looking for me.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “God, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Same here,” said Cas. “I was wondering if I should call.”

“No,” said Dean, too quick. He cleared his throat briefly. “No, it’s. You can’t call the ranch for a while.”

“Oh.”

So much could be said about that ‘Oh.’ Dean closed his eyes. He should talk more, but his words were too thick in his throat. He closed his eyes.

“Is there something wrong?” Cas asked.

Dean nodded his head first, even though it couldn't be seen. A tear slipped down from his closed eyes. He turned his body to angle away from the parking lot, bent towards the phone and the separating glass. “I just—” he said. Tried to get control of himself. He couldn’t confess to it all over the phone. That didn’t feel right. “I just had to leave there.”

“Where are you now?” It was a fast question, splitting down straight to the important elements without first asking why.

“Truck stop,” said Dean. “Thirty minutes out of town. I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Can you come here?” asked Cas.

“No, Cas,” said Dean. “I can’t be in town. Because the car… I mean, the— the gossip. People would know where I am.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Cas,” said Dean. By which he meant, he was not in current danger. Likely. If he was spotted crying to his boyfriend over a payphone at the edge of a truck stop, that might not be the case for long. He straightened up, although it strained his sore ribs again to do so. He wasn't sure how bad he looked yet. Sometimes it took a while before bruises found their colour.

“You want to stay somewhere out of town,” Cas clarified, thinking out loud.

“I don’t have loads,” said Dean. “I thought maybe a motel, but that... that won’t work long.”

“Can you call me back in ten minutes?” Cas asked abruptly.

“What?”

“I have to ask someone something.”

“Oh. Okay.” Dean didn’t want to hang up the phone. He didn't want to lose his connection to Cas. He was afraid he’d never get it back. “I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

“Ten,” Cas said again.

Dean checked his watch after he hung up so that he could be precise. He went back to his car, closing the door and looking over at the passenger seat covered in glass. The rock that John threw sat against the door. Part of Dean wanted to get rid of it, to pitch it into the pine forest that bordered the large parking lot, but part of him didn’t have the spirit. It reminded him of his father and of why he could never go back. A horrible talisman of what had just happened. It felt too powerful for him to mess with.

After ten minutes passed, he went back to his previous phone. He ignored a few looks from two truckers standing by the front end of an eighteen-wheeler. He was looked at sometimes. He knew his deficiencies. This time, he couldn’t tell if what they eyed were his injuries or his too-delicate features. He didn’t want to stay past this phone call, jumpy under the attention. He felt increasingly unwell. The sky was dark not just with encroaching night, but with rain clouds carried in by a cool wind.

“I have somewhere you can stay,” Cas said after he answered.

“You serious?”

“Missouri mentioned it to me at her barbeque. That she had a place a little quieter and out of town. She’d been renting it to a writer, but he left. I have a lease on the apartment, but I said I’d remember it. It’s still available. We can go there tonight.”

“We?”

“I— I won’t stay if you don’t want me to,” said Cas. “But I want to make sure you’re set up.”

“No, I want you to stay,” said Dean. “Just…” He didn’t want Cas to expect too much. He didn’t want to share the only thing he had to bring: the pain and the damage. “It’ll be good to see you. We’ll... We’ll talk when I get there.”

Cas gave him directions, said he’d be there before Dean. Dean pretended he didn’t see one of the truckers peel away from the cab to slowly make an approach. He got into the front seat and started up the car, feeling the eyes follow him as he drove away.

In the night, it was slow going to make out the roads, the varying turns. His muscles kept spasming as if they only now understood the pain. He felt ghastly and sick. He wanted to fall asleep. It took all his focus to keep his vision straight. He wanted to stop driving and rest instead.

Finally he reached the cottage with its open gate. He parked the car under a leanto, where he might avoid rain coming in the window. The motorbike rested there too.

Inviting light seeped around the curtains of the front windows. Dean opened the door to step in and Cas looked up from where he’d been unloading a paper bag of groceries.

The expression on his face changed. Dean knew what it meant. Knew how bad he must look. That distress as Cas swept forward from around the island to meet Dean at the door. When Cas hugged him it was fast but careful. An arm around behind his shoulder blades, one around his waist, close but not tight. Leaving it to Dean to lean his body in and grip Cas tightly in return. It was hard to breathe, hard to think, and his eyes felt hot again with unspent tears.

“I thought— You said you were okay,” said Cas.

That was all it took. Someone saying, definitively, that this was not okay. Dean shuddered with the first wave of tears, face bent into Cas' collar. And he was held, rocked, hair stroked until he’d collected himself enough for Cas to lead him to a couch and sit down with him. An arm still around him, encouraging him to stay close.

“What happened?” His voice was low as gravel, quietly encouraging.

“Sam left,” said Dean.

“Sam left,” Cas echoed.

“And I knew it was over. I told Adam’s mom what he’s like, and he found out.”

“He’s done this before,” said Cas.

“My whole life,” said Dean.

Cas let his hand stroke over Dean’s shoulder, a reassuring touch, thumb rubbing. He paused and looked over at where his hand rested, then down at Dean. “You never fell off Jagger.”

Dean shook his head. “Bad fight. Went down the stairs.”

Cas slid his hand back across Dean’s shoulders, then gently lifted it to Dean’s face. His thumb traced outside the edge of a bruise. “Where else are you hurt?” he asked.

Dean gestured at his ribs. Cas helped him out of his flannel shirt, lifted off his t-shirt to check on the bruises.

“Lie back,” Cas said as he stood. “I’ll get you some ice to help the swelling.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” said Dean, and Cas stopped. He looked at him steadily, and even though his expression hadn’t changed there was something about that look, that suspended moment. Dean wiggled his way to lie down against the couch.

“Please let me look after you,” said Cas. And Dean nodded his head.

No one had taken care of him before. He’d hidden every hurt. Even from the person who caused them, never letting on to John the consequences of the pain he caused because it would only inflame his anger all over again and make him despise Dean more than he already did. For being weak, for being useless, for accusing John of bad conduct by holding his own actions up to him. Dean had spared everyone but himself from witnessing the reality of his distress.

Cas came with painkillers and a glass of water. He had Dean hold an icepack wrapped in a tea towel to his cheek and Cas iced the worst parts on his ribs. The throbbing pain abated some under these two influences. Meanwhile, Cas returned to the kitchen to make up a can of vegetable soup and buttered toast. While he found the pots and plates in the kitchen, Dean’s eyes danced around the ceiling of the cottage, then took in the furniture.

“This place reminds me of somewhere,” he commented, the first words he’d spoken in some time.

“Where?” Cas asked.

Dean tried to place it, thinking of any guest house he might’ve stayed at while travelling for events, but his mind came up with nothing. John favoured cheap motels when they weren’t at the farm, and with so many horses to look after they didn’t leave it often.

“I can’t remember,” said Dean.

Outside, the rain picked up, sounding against the cottage roof and hushening the rest of the world. Cas looked up from scraping butter across toast and said, “I’m glad you’re not out in that.”

That night Cas stayed with him, sharing the bed in the cottage’s pale blue bedroom, a white afghan draped only up to their waists in the warm night. One side hurt less to sleep on than the other, so Dean slept facing Cas, their arms and knees intertwined. Cas’ soft, even breaths did more for Dean’s peace of mind than anything else could’ve.

Still, he had a dream that didn’t seem like a dream. Watching his mother move through this cottage, her blond hair loosely braided, setting Sam down in a white wicker bassinet while Dean, just four years old, leaned over with her to make sure that Sam was okay, and to be there if his mom needed anything, like the hug she then wrapped Dean up in, stroking his hair and kissing his forehead.

He woke from the dream with an aching mix of feelings. Confusion and tenderness and a wish that he could’ve known how to make things right. In the moonlight he took in Cas’ sleeping face. Those dark eyelashes against his cheeks, his lips faintly parted. It struck him in a way that he hadn’t quite understood before that this was right. This was where he was supposed to be, and who he was supposed to be with. This was the beginning of the life he wanted to have. The love he wanted to have. This was the choice he got to make.

It wasn’t about that final fight. It wasn’t about the fear of John or the feeling that he couldn’t return home. Dean wasn’t accepting whatever fate handed him: he was choosing this. He would choose a life with Cas, whatever that future might look like. He would choose someone who could heal rather than hurt. Who didn’t need to offer anything other than a lifetime of love and regard. Who believed in Dean and saw him as the person Dean wished himself to be. The person he could be with Cas’ love.

He fell asleep again with more love swelling his heart than he had ever known. This night had set him free.

#afternoon rb

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urne-buriall · 20 days

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[from my last message] I enjoy your chapter and story notes just as much as your stories. the care and detail you give the stories that i, as a reader, can feel as i'm reading but also get even more out of the story with those behind the scenes looks.

it's really encouraging to know that you've enjoyed these asides and glimpses into what wasn't. as I said, I really never thought I'd share them because they're a departure from what the story needed to be. but I still care for these and they could've been different stories, if I'd reconciled myself to different goals or endgames other than the place I wanted to reach. thanks for the kind words!

#ask #pt ii

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urne-buriall · 20 days

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i also would take a writing course from you, or literature. you understand and can convery storytelling techniques and ideas and have an appreciation of the way media interacts and what it means to us and how to delve into the layers of things better than professors i've paid to listen to.

we're here because we love stories, and that love is the most essential key. my taste is pretty omnivorous, motivated by passion and intellectual curiosity and the excitement that comes out of immersion in a created world. it can be scholarly and creative and personal, but I get such a kick out of just feeling awake to all that's happening in a book or media, going into it prepared to throw off my own preconceptions and look at it with new eyes every time

#ask

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urne-buriall · 20 days

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so I said there was one more spirit of the west alternate scene to go. this time we pose the question: "what if Cas wasn't away at the lawyers' after the final fight with John?"

John would look for him at Bobby’s or Ellen’s. He couldn’t bring them into his mess.

He didn’t even know if Cas was there. He hadn’t been this morning. He’d be so busy and he wouldn’t want Dean’s problems and...

Still, he had to get off the map before he figured any of this out.

It rang three times and Dean despaired, but before it could ring the fourth Cas picked it up.

“Hello?” He sounded tired. He was likely sick of phone calls. He didn’t like phones at the best of times, and Doc’s death compounded the amount of time spent answering calls.

“Cas, hey,” said Dean. “It’s me.”

“Dean.” His voice relaxed over the line. “Cesar said you were looking for me.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “God, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Same here,” said Cas. “I was wondering if I should call.”

“No,” said Dean, too quick. He cleared his throat briefly. “No, it’s. You can’t call the ranch for a while.”

“Oh.”

So much could be said about that ‘Oh.’ Dean closed his eyes. He should talk more, but his words were too thick in his throat. He closed his eyes.

“Is there something wrong?” Cas asked.

“Where are you now?” It was a fast question, splitting down straight to the important elements without first asking why.

“Truck stop,” said Dean. “Thirty minutes out of town. I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Can you come here?” asked Cas.

“No, Cas,” said Dean. “I can’t be in town. Because the car… I mean, the— the gossip. People would know where I am.”

“Are you okay?”

“You want to stay somewhere out of town,” Cas clarified, thinking out loud.

“I don’t have loads,” said Dean. “I thought maybe a motel, but that... that won’t work long.”

“Can you call me back in ten minutes?” Cas asked abruptly.

“What?”

“I have to ask someone something.”

“Oh. Okay.” Dean didn’t want to hang up the phone. He didn't want to lose his connection to Cas. He was afraid he’d never get it back. “I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

“Ten,” Cas said again.

“I have somewhere you can stay,” Cas said after he answered.

“You serious?”

“We?”

“I— I won’t stay if you don’t want me to,” said Cas. “But I want to make sure you’re set up.”

Finally he reached the cottage with its open gate. He parked the car under a leanto, where he might avoid rain coming in the window. The motorbike rested there too.

Inviting light seeped around the curtains of the front windows. Dean opened the door to step in and Cas looked up from where he’d been unloading a paper bag of groceries.

“I thought— You said you were okay,” said Cas.

“What happened?” His voice was low as gravel, quietly encouraging.

“Sam left,” said Dean.

“Sam left,” Cas echoed.

“And I knew it was over. I told Adam’s mom what he’s like, and he found out.”

“He’s done this before,” said Cas.

“My whole life,” said Dean.

Cas let his hand stroke over Dean’s shoulder, a reassuring touch, thumb rubbing. He paused and looked over at where his hand rested, then down at Dean. “You never fell off Jagger.”

Dean shook his head. “Bad fight. Went down the stairs.”

Cas slid his hand back across Dean’s shoulders, then gently lifted it to Dean’s face. His thumb traced outside the edge of a bruise. “Where else are you hurt?” he asked.

Dean gestured at his ribs. Cas helped him out of his flannel shirt, lifted off his t-shirt to check on the bruises.

“Lie back,” Cas said as he stood. “I’ll get you some ice to help the swelling.”

“Please let me look after you,” said Cas. And Dean nodded his head.

“This place reminds me of somewhere,” he commented, the first words he’d spoken in some time.

“Where?” Cas asked.

“I can’t remember,” said Dean.

He fell asleep again with more love swelling his heart than he had ever known. This night had set him free.

#spirit of the west #alternate realities #these alt scenes often concern really critical moments of the story #so that's why they are often emotionally turbulent and surround the more serious events #but again we see that there's more than one way to reach the same place #but with different ways events would've played out

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urne-buriall · 22 days

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ok. so i would totally taking a writing class from you, just so you know 😍

you're very kind! the writing advice I dispense most often, including to myself, is simply to just sit down and write it

#read a lot and write a lot #my other advice #ask

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urne-buriall · 22 days

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whenever you grace us with extra bits or alternatives for stories it's such a treat ❤️❤️ i read the alt sotw scenes - the bread, the kiss - and it was so interesting to see how things could've gone if those moments had happened at those times. but i prefer the way you wrote things in the fic initially, i think everything happens when it's supposed to happen and it's so strange reading what else could have been, because while reading your fic i did wonder, but it's like seeing those other scenes has confirmed that the original order of events truly works best. again, i love the alts! but it strangely satisfies 2 things in my brain: seeing the alt play out, and knowing the original was the best choice for the story and characters (imho) ❤️❤️❤️

thank you! and I think I do know just what you mean, because of course I was hesitant to share these alt scenes at first. because there is a reason they weren't pursued. for pacing, for payoff, for themes or character motives. there are a lot of reasons that events happen the way they did in the fic. as much as I was still finding the ending as I was publishing it on ao3, I had strong instincts about the way things should unfold that I didn't want to betray

it is kind of fascinating to explore the other side, though. when I'm writing I try to do two things. (1) set myself up with things that I can use later by leaving a few openings, whether or not I take them up in the end. (2) leave room for the reader to imagine. these are the glimpses and gaps I freaking live for when I'm engaging in something. when I've been given much of the world but not all of the world. it's like playing a video game and there's a corner you can't turn down, but you can fill in without trying very hard with all sorts of enticing possibilities. it's exciting and it leaves you just a little bit unsatisfied and that's where the room for dreaming is, and I usually hope that when I'm writing there's space for readers to think, "but what about this?" or "what if they went there?" or "what if this unexplored part of the world played a role?"

this is the transformative element, the thing that is so great about our source material: spn is infamous for offering us SO MUCH potential and then not delivering on what you might expect. pockets and gaps that artists and writers fill in with wondrous works, or that we simply dream about after we've taken in the story. and I always think there's a way to sate cravings and leave cravings at the same time, and that's what I aim to do

#ask #long answer #I have one more alternate route to share #all these alt scenes were written AFTER the whole thing was finished #they were just the moments where I'd caught a possibility for a different direction that didn't quite fit #but that might've had it's own interesting friction #they weren't the story I wanted to tell but that doesn't mean they never held their own particular shine

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urne-buriall · 23 days

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— happy valentine's day @disabled-dean 💕

( in collaboration with @destielvalentineexchange2024 )

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urne-buriall · 23 days

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The Mary that you know, the good Mary, she’s hiding behind impenetrable psychic walls. And I’m afraid these walls...Well, they can’t be torn down with grenades. Your mother can’t be saved.

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urne-buriall · 23 days

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On the subject of sotw, Jesse and Cesar were an amazing choice for a mentor figure to both Cas and Dean. They deserved more than one episode

the og spn gays who wanted to start a horse farm. honestly I loved the scenes in the show between Dean and Cesar, who felt like such a Cas analogue as it was. I would've loved to see Cas meet them!

#ask #spirit of the west

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urne-buriall · 24 days

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so you've told me now you like sotw alternate realities. well here's the river scene were Dean opens up to Cas about John's abuse way ahead of schedule, mere days after the 4th of july:

“There are things I want to tell you,” said Cas, “and questions I want to ask. But I’m never sure if I can.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dean.

“Sometimes I want to tell you about my family because I think you understand,” said Cas. “Other times… I’m just not sure.”

“You could tell me if you wanted,” said Dean. He wished Cas would say. He wanted so badly for Cas to trust him. “It wouldn’t change anything. You’d still be my friend, no matter what you said.”

Cas slowly nodded his head. “Right,” he said. He turned again. Started walking. “I don’t want to burden you. And like I said, talking isn’t my strength.”

There had been a test and Dean failed it. He was sure of it. He just didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Had he come on too strong? Had he seemed insincere?

Maybe he was supposed to offer something first. Maybe he needed to be the one to break open that levee, the one that would never close again. To find out if they shared anything, perhaps it was on Dean to say, my dad beats the shit out of me and has since I can remember.

“Cas, wait,” said Dean. He caught up with Cas, then continued walking. He didn’t quite look over his shoulder as he said, “I’ll tell you.”

At the river. He needed to be still, not in this in-between space on the path.

And as he walked, feeling Cas trail slowly after him, studying Dean, he wondered what he was about to do. How would he say it? Could he really confess this? Could he trust Cas with it?

He went to a rise above the river, where grass and clover turned into a straight-edged bank a few feet above the water. He took off his boots and set them aside, bare feet coming to rest in the cool green clover.

Cas came beside him and cautiously did the same. Dean wrapped his arms around his knees, unable to look at Cas next to him. Nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

They’d sat like this the day of the rainstorm, talking idly before the downpour. That night, Cas stayed over and wore Dean’s clothes. Had stripped to nearly nothing on the covered porch, skin gold in the light and shining with rain.

Dean buried his face in the crook of his arm and tried to forget that.

“Dean?” said Cas, patience giving way to desperate curiosity.

Cas would say he seemed upset again. And if Dean took an outside look at himself, it was laughable to try and deny. He lifted his head.

He’d promised to tell Cas. It was the only way to find out more about Cas in return, and it was something Dean wanted badly enough that it brought him here. He was going to risk everything. For Cas.

“It’s my dad,” he said, surprised by the weakness of his own voice. Shaky, hoarse.

Cas looked Dean over carefully as he waited for more. He gave a faint nod.

“He’s… Tough.” That could be taken so many ways and Dean knew it. “On me,” he added, like it clarified anything. “Sometimes.”

Cas didn’t shift his posture, but the lines of his face became more deliberately contained. He took a moment to say, clear and even, “Does he hurt you?”

Dean looked sharply to the water. Only because his eyes began to burn, because he was losing his grip on the control he thought he had. He wasn’t supposed to cry over this. He was supposed to bear it. He was just going to state a fact, a fact he had lived with for so long and was strong enough to deal with. And it would have been different if Cas asked ‘does he hit you?’ but instead he’d said hurt, and that was a different question, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be easy to say hit, yes and move on without the impact of that action. But hurt made it so much more lasting.

He winced, trying to find another way around the answer, but then he nodded, a concession timed with the tears that came bitter and fast. He quickly bowed his head into his arms, not enough to hide the catching sound his breath made as he tried not to choke on this feeling.

He wasn’t supposed to be so upset. He wasn’t supposed to be this reactive. He wasn’t dead, it was nothing worth crying over.

Cas’ arm wrapped around his shoulder, a solid warmth that gave shape to Dean, keeping him from coming apart.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, voice deep and low.

Dean tried to push down his feelings, raising his face even if it was tear-streaked and flushed. “About what?” he asked. Cas had nothing to be sorry for.

“That you’ve had to go through it,” said Cas.

Dean had never imagined anyone saying that to him. He thought he deserved to be called weak for putting up with it, or for crying about it now. He thought nobody would care if it happened to him or not. That anywhere he might’ve grown up he’d have been treated just the same because of the way he was. Never enough. All the things John implied and made him believe.

“You should leave,” said Cas.

“Is that what you did?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t,” said Dean. “Sam—”

“Does he hurt Sam, too?”

Dean shook his head. He felt oddly defensive. Of course John didn’t hurt Sam. Dean would never allow it. “I keep Sam out of it,” he said.

“You still shouldn’t stay.”

“It’s not that bad,” said Dean, like he hadn’t been trembling with the force of his tears just moments ago. His voice came thin. “Not enough to leave.”

“Any amount is enough to be worth leaving,” Cas said, so certain of himself.

Dean retreated back into denial. “It’s more complicated than that,” he said. “I’m— I’m not a kid anymore so…”

Cas’ arm fell away from Dean so that he could look at him better. Which was more dangerous and less comforting than his touch had been. “When was the last time it happened?”

Dean rubbed the edge of his hand against his wet cheek, not wanting to answer but unable to resist a direct question from Cas. He looked down at the river and cleared his throat. “Day before yesterday,” he said. If Cas were to roll his eyes, it wouldn’t be undeserved, but Cas stayed perfectly still. Dean’s fingertips brushed against his throat, wanting to say what happened, but unable to describe that part. “He was mad I brought Sam home. Against orders.”

He dropped his hand again, but Cas’ eyes stayed on his throat. Where a fading bruise could be taken for a smear of motor oil. Cas sharply inhaled, putting pieces together. His eyes scanned the rest of Dean’s body, pausing on his shoulder.

“Your broken arm,” said Cas.

“Yeah, uh,” said Dean. Thinking he’d find something better. “Yeah.” There wasn’t really a way to allay it. “He caught me— We were arguing. About eventing, and Zepp, and I thought if I could just get away from him. And he caught me on the steps and I— I fell down.”

“He’ll kill you,” Cas said.

Dean’s head jerked upward, facing Cas directly. “No,” he said. “He doesn’t want to do that.”

“So he’s in control when he hurts you,” said Cas.

“No!” said Dean quickly. Because that couldn’t be true. His father loved him or could. “When he’s mad he just— It flares up and then it’s over. And he’s sorry about it.”

“So he’s out of control,” said Cas. “Which means you’re in danger. Every time.”

Dean parted his lips to answer but Cas had him in a bind. Either John’s anger was out of control and a constant threat or it was in control and was used with full intention. Neither was good for Dean.

“I don’t want to leave,” said Dean, and that was more true than any of the apologies he’d tried to make on John’s behalf. He looked down between them. “I just want it to stop.”

Cas took a breath, almost started to say something, then didn’t. There was a kind of understanding in that holding back.

“What was it like for you?” Dean asked. It was the only reason he’d said anything. So that Cas would open up to him in turn. Cas thought there were things they had in common that Dean would understand.

“Different, probably,” said Cas. He went quiet, struggling with what to say, his eyes gazing nowhere as he grouped his thoughts. It was far easier to talk about Dean’s troubles than his own. “My mother was… unstable. Religious. Which made her hard to live with at the best of times. Never knowing which mother you were going to get.”

Dean could understand that. John was volatile too. It was a lot of work just planning for what version of John he’d meet in any given scenario.

“Would she hurt you?” he asked. He used the same word on purpose.

Cas didn’t cry, but he looked distant. “Yes,” he said. “She’d… She had punishments. She’d drag me by the ear to lock me in a cupboard for— for hours, when I’d done wrong.” Dean knew without Cas having to say that ‘doing wrong’ could be anything from causing trouble to colouring too loudly. He couldn’t imagine Cas being a trouble-making kid, not on purpose. But he mentioned being different when he grew up. Too emotional, finding it difficult to connect. That would be ‘wrong’ too.

“If we didn’t listen or were found impertinent, she would slap us,” said Cas.

“We?” said Dean.

“My siblings and I,” said Cas.

“I never knew you had siblings,” said Dean.

“Four of them,” said Cas. “They never left. I think. If they had, I hope they’d find me.” He shifted, picking at clover. “Then again, they had less trouble listening or understanding the right answer. I could never seem to figure it out. I was… different. And because I was a… a target, I think they didn’t always know that they had more in common with me than her.”

“And that’s why you left?”

Cas looked away and it told Dean how much more complicated it was than that.

“You said once…” Dean wet his lips before he spoke. “You said you didn’t feel like you had a choice.”

“I didn’t,” said Cas. “It was either live the way they wanted me to live, or leave. And I chose to leave.”

That made Cas probably the strongest person Dean knew. And just as Cas found it simpler to talk about Dean’s troubles, Dean found it easier to think of all Cas deserved.

“Remember what else you said?” Dean asked, the idea lighting up his mind as a fix for Cas’ incredible loneliness. “That you’d want a place with fresh air and animals where everything’s right. What if that was us? You know, like, around here so I didn’t really have to leave, but not with my dad, and—”

Cas was looking at him strangely. Dean’s excitement must have been somehow out of place, or the idea unappealing when Dean included himself. Cas hadn’t been making an offer of somewhere to stay, for Dean, when he warned him that John was a danger. This must not be what he was thinking of it all.

“Sorry,” said Dean quickly. His face flushed again, not helped by the heavy heat of the day. “I thought— When you said that, it sounded— It sounded so nice. But you want that on your own.”

“No, not on my own,” said Cas. “That defeats the point.”

“Right,” said Dean, and he placed his hands on the ground beside him, about to launch himself away from his foolish entry into the conversation. He needed to get away from Cas. He was hot. He should swim. If he could bear to get undressed.

Cas curled a hand around the inside of Dean’s arm just above the crease of his elbow. It wasn’t an iron grip, but it was solid, keeping him in place when he otherwise would’ve gone.

“I like spending my time with you,” Cas said in a rush. It was like he was answering something else, something neither of them had said. He didn’t look at Dean. “If I could give you somewhere to stay, away from your father— If you wanted that, I would do it.”

“We’re just—” Dean hesitated. “We’re just talking dreams, Cas,” he said.

“Why should it only be a dream?” said Cas.

This was more than Dean had ever reckoned on. So heavy it felt like lifting a weight from the bottom of a river.

“I mean that if you want to leave,” said Cas, “then you should. You could do it.” He let go of Dean’s arm, fingertips dragging away from his skin.

“It’s not as simple as that,” said Dean, finding himself confused. In one breath he suggested buying a farm with Cas, and in the next that he could never leave his father. It was just that what they talked about sounded too perfect to ever truly exist. How could Dean put any faith in something that exceeded his wildest dreams like that?

“If I bought a house with space for horses,” said Cas.

“Jeez, Cas,” said Dean.

“Would you come stay?”

“Are you for real?”

“If I could do it this minute, I would,” said Cas. “I don’t want to say goodbye and know you’ll go back to that house with John.”

“Could you do it?” said Dean. “Is that even possible?”

“I could figure it out,” said Cas. “One word. From you, and…”

“You think we can do this?” said Dean. “Then… Okay.”

And that was all it took. Cas leaned forward and kissed him.

Dean didn’t have time to think of it or react. The press of their lips was warm, sudden. A dangerous spark in a dry forest. As he pulled back, so did Cas, looking anxious.

“What was that?” said Dean.

Cas hadn’t looked away from Dean’s face, although there was something to the way he held his body, like he expected to run. “I just—” he said. His voice was every bit as gravelly and flat as usual, but he sounded uncertain, a rare note. “I…”

Cas had kissed him. Dean’s brain and body couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t work together in any sensible way any longer. His heart started pounding. The heat of the day made sweat rise on the back of his neck and above the lip of his mouth. He was frozen but he was supposed to be doing something. Running from this, striking out, kissing Cas, jumping into the river.

“I shouldn’t’ve—” Cas looked stricken now. “I want to help you and it’s not— I made a mistake.”

Wasn’t this Dean’s fault? Just days ago he had wrapped himself around Cas in the shade of a garden and silently begged for his affection in any shape. He’d had that untoward dream the same night. The colour rose high in Dean’s cheeks and he looked swiftly at the river. Cas hadn’t kissed him in the dream, only touched him, but already Dean’s mind was conflating the real and the imagined, completely out of his control. Dean had stared too long the night of the rain storm. He’d been wrong to and he’d made this happen and it was all because he was broken up into pieces and he got things confused and now there was this, which was too much to handle.

Next to him, Cas rested his forehead against his fist, eyes scrunching closed. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said.

Dean’s mouth remembered the touch of their lips and wouldn’t let go. He felt they were reddened by Cas’ kiss, the same as that day in the attic, that day when enchantment poisoned itself into sharp fear and which was exactly like right now. There was something wrong with him for all of this. For the fact that he wanted to kiss Cas again and really know what it felt like. If he was damned he wanted to know what he was damned for.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said again. “I thought you were like me.”

It struck Dean for the first time what that would mean. What it would be to be like Cas. What it meant Cas was. And how if he were to say Cas was correct right now, that Dean was not like him, it didn’t feel at all true. How if he were to be able to act on what was true, that would mean giving over to what was in him. He felt so miserable and scared and all he wanted was for Cas to cover over Dean’s body with his own. To hide in Cas’ collar, in the very hollow of his clavicle, the place he’d wanted to kiss just three days ago when he stole comfort from Cas in the garden.

He dragged his gaze back to Cas, who looked equally mired in his own despair.

“Cas,” he said, not certain of what he meant to follow. And when Cas looked at him he leaned in and kissed him.

Cas lost a sound against Dean’s mouth, a melting hum. His hand found the small of Dean’s back. This kiss came with another renewed one, chasing it, then Dean bowed his head, breaking it off but not breaking away. His body shifted deeper into Cas, his hand clutching Cas’ shirt, his forehead resting against the base of Cas’ neck. Cas held onto him this time, cheek brushing against the top of Dean’s head. A hand came up to stroke through Dean’s hair.

“Cas,” he said wretchedly.

“It’s okay,” said Cas. As much as anything could be okay. For a bare second, Dean wanted to believe it would be.

#morning rb

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