Chapter Text
Cas sits at the end of the pier, his bare feet dangling in the water. Dean slows and takes a breath. He prefers this dream to the one where he’s at the foot of a mountain and Cas is at the top. That’s the one where Dean claws at the cliffside until his hands are raw and bloody but he gets no closer to the angel.
He makes his way down the pier, and if Cas’s presence weren’t enough of a tipoff that this is a dream, the absence of goose shit would do it. Cas doesn’t turn when Dean reaches him but he scoots over, making room for Dean to take a seat. Dean removes his boots and lowers his feet into the water.
“Dean,” Cas says, his voice gruff. It’s all he ever says. They sit side by side, shoulders brushing.
There’s two ways this dream ends. One, Dean starts talking, words pouring out of him until malevolent tendrils of black ooze rise from the lake and drag Cas under. Dean wakes screaming.
Or, two, Dean says nothing, just soaks in his presence until the sun has completely risen over the lake. If he’s lucky, the sensation that Cas is near lingers for an hour or so after he wakes.
Dean slowly, carefully, twines his arm with Cas’s and takes his hand. He holds his breath for a beat, watching the water. Still. Placid. Good. As long as Dean doesn’t push it, stays quiet, keeps his eyes on the scenery instead of on Cas, the dream doesn’t fight back. He rests his head on Cas’s shoulder. Cas lets out a contented sigh and leans in. Dean watches patches of golden light bob along the surface of the water. Even if it’s temporary, it’s nice. An echo of a hope he never had the guts to pursue.
There’s a sound like a branch breaking. That’s not right. That’s not part of this dream. The water ripples. It’s too early for this, the sun is hanging over the trees. It’s too early. The cracking sound echoes across the lake. He clenches Cas’s hand. Dean’s shoulder throbs. The first of the black coils unfurl from the lake. No, he did everything right. This was the peaceful version of the dream dammit!
Fuck. He’s awake. Dean’s phone is ringing insistently.
“Claire?” he grunts. “This an emergency?” He’s already hauled himself out of bed and toward his closet.
“No, I’m calling at four in the morning for your gumbo recipe,” she retorts. Dean halts pulling on his pants. Underneath the sarcasm, he can detect a hint of panic.
“You need me there?” he asks.
“I need information,” she says, her tone suddenly professional. She lays out the situation. A missing seven-year-old in rural Kentucky. Witnesses report seeing a black stag with flaming antlers in the woods surrounding the child’s house. It’s a sixteen-year cycle. It starts with sightings of an eerie woodland creature though not always a stag. Followed by a child going missing from their bed. Resulting in the child turning up dead in 48 hours. It’s hour 44.
“Right. Hang tight. I’ll call you back.”
Dean sets his laptop on the kitchen table and starts searching the database Sam created. It contains digitized, searchable copies of the Men of Letters’ archives, Bobby’s collection, their dad’s journals, Garth’s files, and hundreds of other resources they’ve collected over the years. Technically, Claire has access to it herself but Dean knows what it’s like to be in the field with a ticking clock and lives on the line. Focusing on research ain’t easy.
It takes forty minutes of narrowing down and cross-referencing to find what he’s ninety percent sure is the culprit and another thirty minutes of brainstorming how to deal with it. He calls her with the best strategy for getting the kid back safely and taking the monster out for good. He tells her to call him when it’s done. It’s five-thirty, he could try to get back to sleep but that’s not going to happen until he hears from her. He opens a can of wet food for Miracle, who’s been patiently waiting for breakfast, then pops some bread in the toaster for himself. While waiting for Claire’s call, he checks his email. There’s already a conditional offer on the Thunderbird. That was fast. He fires off a response to arrange a time for the prospective buyer to have a look. There’s also a message about a possible commission to restore a Ferrari 308.
The 48-hour mark passes and Claire doesn’t call. Dean is getting antsy. Maybe he was wrong about the creature. Maybe the kid is already dead. Maybe Claire or Kaia got hurt. Or worse. Christ, what will he say to Jody?
Dean snatches up Baby’s keys in one hand and his phone in the other. Claire picks up on the third ring.
“Hey, loser,” she says, voice too casual.
“Well? You or Kaia bleeding out?”
“Uh, no?”
“Nope,” Kaia chimes in from the background.
“The kid’s alive?”
“Yeah. He’s back with his family.”
“And you didn’t call me, why?” he growls.
“I was just about to. We stopped for pancakes,” she says, defensiveness making her voice raise a few octaves.
“Pancakes? I’m about to tear ass to Kentucky and you’re eating pancakes? C’mon Claire!”
“We got hungry! We were on the case all night. We haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. We’re not supposed to eat?”
“Of course you’re supposed to eat but call first. Let me know you made it out alive, first, okay?”
She sighs. “Fine. Whatever you want, Mom.”
“Can the attitude. I know Jody makes you call to say you’re safe.”
“Yeah, true. She gets more bent out of shape than you if we forget,” Claire concedes. “Anyway, thanks for the help. Later.” She hangs up.
It’s going to take a while for Dean to come down from “high alert.” It’s about the time of day that he would take Miracle for a walk around the lake but the dream is still echoing behind his eyelids. He lets the dog into the yard instead and heads for the garage. His current commission, a ’57 Eldorado convertible is less of a restoration job than a full rebuild, but it’s all good, he’s billing by the hour, and for the parts, all on top of the substantial deposit. It’s a beautiful car, or will be once he’s done with it.
He spends the rest of the morning with his head in the hood, the radio blasting in the background. It’s as close to Zen as Dean gets these days. He’s shaken off the business with Claire and nearly forgotten the dream, by the time he needs to clean up for lunch. He leashes Miracle and debates taking the longer route to the diner to avoid the lake. He decides to rip the bandaid off. It’s bad enough he let the nightmares chase him out of the bunker, he’s not letting them ruin the lake house. Miracle leads the way, sniffing at his favorite spots. It’s just the same old lake, nothing sinister.
They amble into town and Dean lets Miracle into the little gated patch of grass near the back with a full bowl of water. He heads inside and takes a seat at his regular booth.
“Hey, Dean,” Tish greets him, setting down a menu and filling his water glass.
“How’ya doing, Tish?”
“Not bad. Your girlfriend isn’t joining you?” she asks.
“She’ll be here. Must be running late. So, you see last night’s episode?”
“Of course! Nia and Jillian were this close to kissing! Then stupid Nat walked in.”
“I knew you were going to be pissed!” Dean laughs.
“My OTP! They’re killing me. I need them to kiss already! And they were so close. I wanted to mash their faces together. It’s going to happen soon. It has to.”
“No way.” Dean shakes his head. “After thirteen seasons of Doctor Sexy and four of the spinoff, I know this stuff. They’re gonna drag it out for at least another season.”
“I hate it, but you’re probably right. Hey, here’s your girl now.” The bell over the door chimes.
“Hey, guys.” Sam pushes a stroller toward the booth.
“Uhh Dee! Uhh Dee!” Ramona chants, kicking her chubby little legs.
“Momo!” Dean unbuckles her and lifts her into his lap while Sam gets the stroller folded and stowed. Tish brings a high chair for the baby while Dean is busy blowing raspberries on her cheeks.
“Sorry we’re late. Eileen needed the car so we took the bus from campus.” Sam is getting his master’s at the local university while working part-time at the campus library. It doesn’t pay much but they get free daycare.
“Not like I was going anywhere.” Dean shrugs.
Tish takes their orders: yogurt and a banana for the baby, a disgusting sprout and hummus wrap for Sam, and a bowl of chili for Dean. Dean fills Sam in on Claire’s case.
“There I am, half-convinced she’s dead and she’s on a breakfast date with her girlfriend,” Dean grumbles.
“Who does that sound like?” Sam chuckles.
“Me?” Dean scoffs. “Are you serious? Bobby woulda tore me a new one if I pulled that crap.”
“Uh-huh, right.” Sam smiles, looking down at his plate.
“What?”
“It just hit me that you’re older than Bobby was when you were Claire’s age.”
Dean does the math in his head. “Fuck you,” he groans.
“Fuc ooh,” Ramona echoes. Dean laughs into his fist. Sam grimaces.
“Thanks a lot.” He turns to the baby. “That’s right sweetie, trucks are cool. Yay trucks!”
“Tuc coo,” she parrots.
“Nice save.” Tish hands Sam a kid-size cup of apple juice. He transfers a third of the juice into a sippy cup and fills the rest with water before giving it to his daughter. Dean downs the remaining juice before the kid can notice she’s been stiffed.
The bell chimes again and Dean glances over to see a head of wavy black hair enter. Leo. Dean slumps down in the booth but it’s not like he can disappear. It’s surprising this hasn’t happened more often since the breakup, there are only so many places in town to get a decent meal. Sam notices Dean’s attempt to become one with the quilted booth cushion. He glances over his shoulder then turns back to Dean, lips pulling taut in sympathy. For his part, Leo has noticed them but is doing his best to pretend he didn’t. He picks up a takeout order at the counter and makes for the door.
“Hi!” Ramona chirps, waving enthusiastically at him. “Hi hi hi!”
Leo stops in his tracks and turns on his heels. He walks toward them, a cordial smile plastered on his face.
“Hello Ramona.” He gives her a genuine smile then nods at Sam. “Hi, Sam. Dean.” Dean gets a cursory nod which he returns before averting his gaze. This is so fucking awkward.
“I was just picking up lunch on my way to the hospital. I’m on the late shift. And um… I should get going.”
“Okay, yeah. Good to see you,” Sam says.
“You too.” Leo waves.
Dean nods and then brings his hand up to wave but it turns into a salute. Leo squints in confusion then nods again and leaves.
After a couple more seconds for Dean to fully absorb his weird-ass gesture as the cherry on the top of the whole humiliating interaction, Ramona starts fussing and squirming in the chair. Sam lifts her and confirms that it’s time for a fresh diaper.
“I better get this. Unless Uhh Dee wants a turn?” Sam holds her out to him.
“Pass. Your kid, your poopy diapers.” Dean has no problem changing a diaper when he’s babysitting but he changed baby Sammy enough times that he feels no guilt over not giving grownup Sam a break from diaper duty.
They finish lunch then walk to the park down the street. They take turns pushing Ramona in a bucket swing and throwing a Tennis ball to Miracle. Eventually, the kid and pooch curl up together on a blanket for a nap.
“How are you holding up?” Sam settles onto the bench next to Dean.
“I’m fine. Sam. I made it through being possessed by an archangel, I’ll survive bumping into the handsome doctor who dumped my ass.”
“Uh. Right, that’s not— I just thought with today being today… I wanted to check in. You know?” Sam’s expression says ‘I’m concerned but I don’t want you to bite my head off for being concerned.’
“What are you going on about? What’s today?” Dean is lost.
“September 18th?”
“Oh.” Dean lets that set in. Of course, he’s dreaming about Cas today. “Oh. I…uh… yeah I wasn’t paying attention to the date.”
“Shit.” Sam shakes his head. “Now I feel like an asshole for bringing it up.”
Dean waves it off. “I would’ve noticed what it day it was eventually. I’m okay, though. Thanks for checking.”
“I just… The first year or so, between school and Eileen and then Mona coming, I missed what was going on with you, and I…. You were floundering and I should have been there more. Dean, I don’t—”
Dean puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder. He hates seeing guilt in his little brother’s eyes. “Sammy, you are not responsible for me or my decisions. You were taking care of exactly what you should have been taking care of. What happened is on me, alright?”
Sam takes a deep breath. “I know I’m not responsible for your decisions but I am responsible for making sure you know that you aren’t alone. And I’m not going to stop checking in, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” Dean blinks away a few tears. “Now, can we talk about anything else?”
“Sure. I’m making eggplant parmesan for dinner. You want to join us?”
“Uh, no. I’m thinking I need to go to church.” He’d been thinking about going even before Sam brought up the date.
“Okay. Good idea.”
“You’ll take Miracle home?”
“Of course.”
Dean hands off the leash and makes sure Sam has his spare key then takes off in the direction of First Methodist. People are already arriving for six o’clock mass and Dean has to weave past a couple of parishioners on his way to the stairs. Half a dozen others are already milling around the basement. He greets one of the regulars with a nod and claims a vanilla sandwich cookie and Dixie cup of fruit punch while he waits.
The designated moderator calls the meeting to a start at five after. He goes over the structure of the meeting for the first-timers and asks if anyone wants to speak first. Dean shuffles to the front of the room.
“Hi, I’m Dean. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Dean,” the group choruses back.
“The last one of these meetings I went to, somebody said something about how there are certain dates where the alcohol is louder. Today’s… today is a friend of mine’s birthday.”
It’s not. As Cas pointed out when Dean asked, he wasn’t born so he didn’t have a birthday.
“Okay, fine you weren’t born but you were created. When’s your creation date?”
“It predates the concept of numbering the times the Earth spun on its axis in relation to the moon’s orbit,” Cas said.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Narrow it down. Pick a date.”
“I can’t. I came into existence eons before the Roman calendar was conceived.”
Dean, too stubborn to let it go, declared that from then on September 18th would be Cas’s birthday (observed). He was just drunk enough at the time not to notice how arrogant it was to tell a being older than the planet that his life began on the day they met.
“He was my…the best friend I ever had. He’s dead.” Dean gulps. “He’ll be gone three years this November. I wasn’t tempted to drink today. Not more than usual, anyway. But in a few weeks, when that day rolls around? I don’t know.
“After he died, I didn’t,” he makes air quotes, ‘“cope with my grief in a healthy way.’”
A couple of people nod in recognition.
“It’s not the reason I’m a drunk. I’ve been a drunk longer than I’ve been just about anything else. Anyway, my friend died and I drank my feelings. Drank so I didn’t have to have feelings. Then I stopped drinking for a while, you know? Even I knew I was going too far. But I told myself I didn’t have a problem. And I tried to prove that I didn’t have a problem by cutting back. I only had one or two beers a day. I had it under control. Then, suddenly, it was November again and there was no controlling it. I drank. I drank for days. Drank through the first anniversary and then some. Not rock-bottom drunk yet but I was on my way.
“I already told you about my rock-bottom, don’t need to repeat myself. I was sober by the next November. It was the second anniversary, but the first post me getting clean. My brother and his wife had just had a baby. I threw myself into helping them out. Making meals, going on supply runs, making sure they had everything they needed. I kept myself too busy to dwell on it. So busy I didn’t hear the booze screaming at me. This year, I’ve got nothing to drown it out.
“I know we say one day at a time, but that’s… that’s going to be a bitch of a day. I’m scared.” Dean laughs out of one side of his mouth. “Scared of relapsing, sure, but more scared of having to get through the whole day without anything to numb it.”
He looks up at the poster of the sad-eyed angel on the far wall. Pain radiates from his bad shoulder down to his wrist. “That’s it. That’s what’s on my mind.”
He takes his seat and the next addict takes their turn. At the end, they recite the Serenity Prayer and everyone goes their separate ways. Dean takes the short way home, going past the lake again. It looks a little more threatening in the dark but Dean knows he’s much more of a danger to himself than any body of water could be.
Dean heads up the front walk and freezes. Someone is sitting in one of his deck chairs. Dean’s fingers go to his pocket knife. The figure stands and steps into the light.
“Hello.” He raises one hand.
“Jack?”