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The concrete floor of the bunker felt practically frigid under Dean’s bare feet, and he belatedly wished he had stopped to put on his slippers along with his robe before making the pilgrimage out of his warm, dark room. Outside, spring had nearly finished cloaking over the long Kansas winter, but that timid warmth had not penetrated far under the surface. Ignoring his discomfort (a patented cure in the Winchester Medical Field Journal), Dean tried to focus his drowsy mind on the mission. He had woken to find his husband’s side of the bed empty, which he simply could not abide at 4am on a Sunday morning. Truthfully, he only begrudgingly tolerated Cas’s absence at any time, but after a grueling, rainy, six-body (six-grave) salt-and-burn, Dean had been looking forward to a long, lazy Sunday. And if there was a part of him that knew he would never be able to sleep until he laid eyes on a safe and whole Castiel—the same small part that felt choked with fear upon waking to find him gone—well, two birds, one stone.
Hearing the metal creak of the front door, Dean’s suspicions were confirmed. Excited about the spring weather, Cas had planted some seedlings in the garden—a first anniversary present from Dean (“No need to go all misty-eyed, it’s just some dirt—“ “Dean, please stop talking. I love it. I love you.”). The weather forecast had dipped in the preceding week, and Cas had been fretting constantly over the health of his plants.
Rubbing his bleary eyes as he rounded the corner to the map room, Dean called out, “Cas, baby, are you checking on the garden again? I told you, they’ll be f—“
Dean jerked back in shock, then froze. John Winchester, looking road-weary, but sharp, stood at the foot of the bunker stairs. “Dad?” It came out as more of a squeak than Dean would ever care to admit. When he had recovered enough of his muscle function to move his eyes, Dean immediately looked to Cas, who was hovering just a few steps behind John. A silent question.
“It’s really him, Dean.”
———
The next few weeks passed in a surreal haze. Unable to determine who or what had brought John back, he was nonetheless moved into the bunker. Sam and Dean (but mostly Sam) had filled him in on their greatest hits over the last decade. John seemed pleased by their hunting prowess, and the four of them had even gone on a few small jobs together. No longer a boy, Dean found that he still struggled against a knee-jerk impulse to obey his father. It felt physical—like his body yielded to an instinct to survive, even though the threat no longer held weight. It was a strange thing to realize how tense he had always been around John. It was strange how much that tension seemed like fear in hindsight. The strain was notable now, Dean realized, because it had been so absent from his body in the bunker for so long. He wasn’t quite sure when his hands had unclenched, his shoulders slackened. A voice in his head scolded him for letting his guard drop.
John sat across from him at kitchen table, coffee in hand.
“Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?” Cas, sitting beside Dean at the table, was the first to break the silence. Dean smiled at him sympathetically, seeing the greeting as the olive-branch that it was, and loving him for making it, again.
“There’s word of a nest of vamps that’s been picking its way east along the I-80.” John addressed this information toward his son, ignoring the angel entirely. This seemed to be the strategy John Winchester had chosen to apply to all things Castiel. He ignored Cas when he spoke, and had “bumped into” Cas rather forcefully on a few occasions before Dean had shoved John right back to put a stop to it. It was a convenient mindset, Dean supposed. A figment of the imagination couldn’t be married to one’s son, after all. That son wondered, not for the first time, which John hated more: that Dean had married an angel, or that Dean had married a man. When John wasn’t ignoring Cas, he was lobbing badly-concealed snipes. Other than the occasional snarky retort or cosmic-scale eye-roll, Castiel had borne this ill-treatment with grace. Dean knew this was a sacrifice was made on his behalf, and the guilt and shame of that knowledge sat like a rusty cannonball in his gut every time his father showed his seemingly boundless contempt. He clung, still, to the hope that this ice would eventually thaw.
“Word? Word from who?” Dean asked, looking at his father over his own mug of coffee.
“Not that it should matter to you, but I heard it from an old buddy of mine up in Nebraska.” Dean hated the way his muscles tensed at even this mild reproach. “Apparently the nest has been holed up near Wood River for the last day or two. We should head out after breakfast.”
“Woah there, cowboy. Your buddy happen to mention how many vamps we’re talking?”
“What, you worried you’ll break a nail?”
You should be worried I’ll break your arms is what Cas would have said, if Dean had not preemptively squeezed his knee.
Dean held his ground. “I’m assuming your friend from Nebraska didn’t take them out himself for a reason.”
John smiled, seemingly pleased that he had raised his son to be so perceptive. “Hmm. Truth is, he’s starting to get slow. He’s one of the few hunters I knew before who hasn’t… Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking it might be called ‘dying from old age’.”
Dean let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it. Alright, once Sam gets back from his run, we’ll hit the road.”
———
It had been a matter of luck, in hindsight. Castiel would like to claim that it was skill or instinct that made him turn around and catch the angel blade before it had been plunged into his back, but it had been chance. He had wanted to try, again, to ease the fractious relationship with his father-in-law by inquiring about his well-being, now that the group of vampires they had surprised in the woods had been dispatched. His own well-being became his primary focus as John began rapidly chanting enochian, pushing a surprised Castiel—whose grip was still iron around his wrist—into a nearby tree.
“John, stop! Why are you doing this?” Castiel recognized the enochian as some kind of weakening ritual targeted at angels—thankfully, not a very potent one—as he continued struggling to fend off the angel blade that was now aimed at his throat.
“Don’t act all innocent with me!” John bellowed into the darkening woods. You’re going to release whatever hold you have on my son’s mind, or I’ll just kill you and see if that does the trick.”
Seeing that reason wouldn’t do the trick, Castiel pressed his back harder against the tree, using the added support to land a powerful kick to the elder Winchester’s knee. Wresting the blade from his hand, Cas was able to tuck it away just before Sam and Dean, who had been calling for them moments before, came into view.
“Dad! You alright? We heard shouting,” Sam clapped his father’s shoulder, looking him over quickly.
John, who had been holding Castiel’s gaze all the while, finally dropped it to look at his son reassuringly. “I’m fine, Sammy. Just teaching these vamps some manners before they meet their maker.”
Dean, who had not failed to notice the look on his husband’s face when he first spotted him through the trees, glanced anxiously between his father and the angel. Coming to stand close to Cas with his back turned to his father and brother, Dean spoke quietly, but intently. “You gonna tell me what just happened?”
Cas, whose gaze had been shifting between father and son, finally settled on Dean, softening from alert to something almost sad. “Later.”
———
The bunker door slammed open with about as much force as a heavy metal door is capable of slamming.
“You tried to kill Cas?!” Briefly, Dean gripped the bannister with such force that it seemed like the metal may snap improbably beneath the weight of his outrage. Sam and John, who had arrived at the bunker in John’s truck a few minutes earlier, stood stunned for a moment, watching Dean descend the stairs.
Sam, who had more practice responding to his brother’s outrage, recovered first, turning an astonished eye toward his father across the map table. “Wait, what? Dad, is that true?”
The bunker fell silent as the Winchester brothers stared, expectantly, at their father. The bunker door creaked and shut with a metallic thud. Castiel approached the bannister, world-weary, and leveled his gaze down to meet John’s glare.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” John looked to his eldest son, “but I was trying to help you.”
“Help me?” The anger rolled through Dean like waves in the deep ocean, finding expression in every movement of his body. “How exactly is killing my husband supposed to help me? What, because it worked wonders for you?” It was a cheap shot at a festering, shared wound, and Dean regretted it the moment he said it. Sam, who knew his brother’s self-loathing well enough by now, could read that regret on his face. His father, who did not know his son from a socket wrench, could not.
“You’re not yourself, son. That thing,” John’s eyes darted to Cas, who now stood a few paces behind Dean, “is in your head—yours and your brother’s. You two may be in so deep you can’t see it anymore, but I can.”
“Dad, Cas is not controlling our minds,” Sam spoke with a hand half-raised, as if subconsciously trying to calm a spooked horse. “He’s our friend, we’ve known him for years.”
“Cas has died for us.” Dean’s voice walked the narrow line between furious and devastated. “Believe me, I’ve had my head head probed by every witch, djinn, and angel around. This ain’t that.”
“I know what I’m talking about, Dean.”
“No, actually, you don’t. You’ve been dead for a decade, while me and Sam and Cas have been taking out threats you never dreamed of.” John’s expression was unmoved. “What is it exactly that makes you so sure about this?” Dean knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.
“I didn’t raise my sons to disrespect their father.” John stepped slowly into Dean’s space, looming, despite the fact that his son now equaled him physically. Dean stood his ground. “And I certainly didn’t raise them to play fairy to a monster.”
Sam stood poised to break up the burst of violence he knew was coming, half-wondering if he really wanted to stop it. Then, something much more surprising happened. Dean spoke.
“Get out.” It came out as a whisper, hoarse but resolute.
John shifted on his feet, squinting indignantly. “Excuse me?”
“I said get out.” It came out stronger, louder, this time. Dean’s fists clenched by his sides.
“I am your father, boy.” John, still standing just inches from his son, shoved him back with rigid fingers to his chest. “You’re going to turn your back on your family-“
In an instant, John’s back was against the cold stone wall, Dean’s arm like steel across his chest. “Cas is my family. Like hell am I gonna let anyone stay here who wants to him dead.” Dean would have sounded righteous if he had not also sounded so broken. “So. You can pack your things and walk out of here, or I can throw you out.” Flashes of a motel room, of John throwing any empty duffle at a confused and repentant Dean, ripple and fade through both of their minds. With a small, final shove, Dean dropped his arm and took a half step back, waiting.
“Sammy, you just gonna stand there and let this happen? I thought you were smarter than that.” John, who had kept his eldest son’s gaze, now slowly dragged it toward the younger brother.
“No,” Sam grimaced, eyes flitting around the room without seeing, before resting again on his father’s face. “I’m going to watch you pack and walk you out.”
“And John,” Dean called to his father’s back as he walked away. “If you ever try something like that again,” John turned slowly to regard his son. “I will kill you.”
Dean watched the figures of his father and brother disappear down the hall, and felt the familiar weight of a hand on his left shoulder.
———
Weeks later, Dean still felt the acrid swirl of guilt swooping across his skin every hour. His father had been restored to him, and instead of being grateful, he had opened a chasm between him and the rest of his family. He knew that he hadn’t had any other choice, but that never soothed the ache before, and it wouldn’t now.
“Cas, what is this? You and Sam have been acting squirrelly all day.”
Cas, guiding Dean by the hand, did not deviate from his path, but continued his trek toward the library. “I have studied the behavior of squirrels very closely, and I do not believe they are capable of deception.” Dean smiled, despite himself, at the back of his husband’s head. Cas stopped just short of the threshold to the library, and turned to face Dean. He shuffled on his feet for a moment, eyes down, before settling and looking softly at Dean’s face. “I know how badly… how much pain it caused you to part from your father. And I know you were forced to do so because of me.”
“Cas, it’s not-“
“Dean, please.” Cas took Dean’s other hand in his. “I’m sure you noticed Sam and I trying to find ways to cheer you up.” He had. The bunker had seen more pie and movie nights in the last few weeks than it had in months. Though Dean hadn’t been in the mood to enjoy them, he had been grateful for the effort. “It occurred to me that perhaps we were not the people best equipped to set things right.”
Dean’s expression took a turn toward suspicious and concerned. He dropped his husband’s hands, but not unkindly. “Cas, no, I’m not gonna talk to some head shrinker or whatever this is.”
“It’s not that. I think this is someone you’ll want to talk to.” With that, Cas led Dean the few remaining steps into the library.
Dean’s step faltered, his mouth opening, trembling, of its own accord. He felt a well of tears already springing up being his eyes, as he eked out a a stunned, “Bobby?”
Bobby, smiling in his trucker cap, stood shimmering and slightly translucent, a few feet from a misty-eyed and pleased Sam. “Heya, son. I hear you boys have been busy.”
Dean let out a choked sound between a laugh and a sob. “What is this? How are you here?” His eyes went back and forth between Sam and the specter.
“It’s a temporary summoning spell.” Sam supplied, quirking a watery smile. “He’ll get zapped right back to heaven after a few hours. It took a while to find all the ingredients, but Cas and I thought it was worthwhile.”
“I’d hug ya, but…” Bobby flapped his hand casually through the great table as he took a few steps toward Dean, eliciting a proper chuckle this time.
“It’s good to see you, Bobby.” They shared a meaningful look. “So, Sam’s been filling you in, huh?”
“Been trying. I gather there’s more than a few hours’ worth of telling to do, but we’ve done more with less.”
They passed some time in that manner—swapping stories of earth and heaven over beers. Finally, when Bobby followed up a story about Eileen by counseling Sam, “You better marry that girl before she wises up,” Dean knew it was time to stop lying by omission.
He cleared his throat. “Speaking of,” he began, hesitating over exactly how to phrase what came next. Feeling every inch the coward, Dean looked at the floor and willed himself to sound casual. “Cas and I got hitched a few years back.” He took a long draft from his bottle, refusing for several moments to yield to the morbid desire to see the shock and shame, however brief, flicker across Bobby’s face. When Dean finally lifted his eyes, he found Bobby smiling knowingly.
“I was wondering when you were gonna mention it.”
Dean blinked once, twice, five times before sputtering a response. “You knew?”
“Yeah.” Bobby sounded almost insulted that Dean could have believed otherwise. Sam and Cas suppressed their laughter with only moderate success. “Matter of fact, I knew before you did.”
“Come again?” Dean looked sidelong at Bobby—confusion and relief leaving him uncertain of his footing.
“Cas here showed up out of the blue one day, nearly made me keel over a second time.”
“My apologies, again, Bobby. I hadn’t intended to startle you.”
“You started talking from behind me in a locked room. What exactly did you expect was gonna happen?” Suitably chastised, Cas allowed Bobby to continue his story. “Anyway, after the blood stopped rushing in my ears, and Mr. Bashful here stopped beating around the bush, it turned out he was asking for my blessing.”
“Your blessing?” Apparently, when surprised, Dean reverted to the intelligence of a parrot.
“Cas was asking Bobby for your hand in marriage.” Ever the little brother, Sam never missed an opportunity to mock.
Dean rounded on his husband, who was living up to the name Mr. Bashful. “You never told me any of this.” Even as Dean tried to piece this new reality together, he feared what Cas’s reasons for silence might have been. Maybe he never told Dean about this little jaunt up in heaven because he knew Dean wouldn’t like what he heard.
Cas began slowly, “Bobby suggested that you might be… displeased at the notion that someone else had authority over your marriage.”
“I believe my exact words were ‘If Dean finds out you asked me first, he’ll rip the flat right out of Kansas’.”
“Yes, that is as I remember it.” Cas smiled ruefully at Bobby before turning back to Dean. “I had thought you might appreciate the custom, but ultimately decided Bobby’s response might have some wisdom to it. I’m sorry I never told you.”
Dean turned back to Bobby with a trepidation that surprised him. “So?”
“So what?”
A beat. “Did you give it?”
“What kind of fool question is that?” For a microsecond, Dean felt the ground slip out from underneath him, before Bobby slammed him right back onto solid footing. “Of course I did.” Another choked sound bubbled out of Dean without his permission. “I watched you two moon over each other long enough while I was alive, I wasn’t about to let you keep burning daylight.” Adopting a slightly softer tone, Bobby held Dean’s gaze. “You know I think of you boys like my own, and as far as I’m concerned, Cas has more than earned his place right alongside you. All I ever wanted for you was a shot at being happy. Dean, I am so proud of you.” Bobby smiled, sweeping his gaze now across his whole family. “I am so proud of all of you.”