AN: I wrote this a while back for the Supernatural writing battle on Tumblr. Re-edited it and thought I'd post it. I do not own anything related to Supernatural.

It's an old picture, taken in some two-bit diner that probably had sandwiches made out of wet cardboard and waitresses in skimpy outfits. Dean doesn't remember. He can't even begin to imagine when Sam took it, since it looks like it was taken with a real camera, not a phone.

But whenever and wherever it was taken it's a real photograph and it's sitting on Sam's desk in his room in the Men of Letters bunker.

It's of Dean, who isn't looking at the camera, and is holding a pen in one hand and grinning at something off to one side. Probably the aforementioned waitress.

Dean is struck by the thought that it almost doesn't look like him. The corners of his eyes are crinkled, his shoulders relaxed, he can almost hear the chuckle he was undoubtedly making. There's no bitterness in his smile, no tenseness in preparation for a fight.

There is no hell inside the man in the picture. No close death besides that of his mother, a long time ago. No purgatory, no letting down his family, no having to choose between the lives of his friends like he's some kind of god.

The man in the photo looks sort of soft, Dean thinks, for lack of a better word. Not jagged around the edges and missing bits and hardened into a weapon. He sort of misses being the man in the picture.

He shakes his head and walks away, not looking back, forgetting why he'd gone into Sam's room to begin with. He's sure it's not all that important.

There's no point in dwelling on the photograph or the man it depicts, he thinks. Sam shouldn't even have it. That man is long gone and he can't be got back, no more than Sam can go back to Stanford and Jessica and become a lawyer and have two kids and a dog with a white picket fence. Those bridges burned a long time ago.

"Dean?" a deep voice calls. "Are you all right?"

He looks up to see Cas standing a few feet away, head tilted with concern. It's jarring to see him like this, wearing something other than that suit and trench coat, bags under his eyes because he hasn't been sleeping well. Dean wonders if he should bring that up but decides against it for now.

"I'm fine," he says gruffly, but Cas looks skeptical. Dean follows his gaze and realizes his hands are clenched into fists and his fingernails are digging into his skin. He forces them loose. "I'm fine," he repeats, feeling less confident this time.

Cas approaches him cautiously and Dean wants nothing more than for him to stop that, to get right into his personal space without a second thought, because as weird as he sometimes thinks it is, that's where Cas belongs.

"You seem angry," Cas says cautiously.

"I'm not angry, Cas." It occurs to him belatedly that his tone didn't really back up his statement.

Cas just looks at him sadly. "I wish I was angry," he says suddenly, softly, and Dean feels that there has been a change in subject without him realizing.

"Why?"

"I think it would be easier. But I'm not angry, just upset and guilty and regretful. Not angry. Maybe if I was angry it would be easier to keep fighting."

"You don't have to be angry to fight, Cas."

"It's how you do it."

And Dean doesn't know how to reply to that, so he doesn't, just looks down at his hands. Is it the anger, he wonders, that's turned him so hard over the years? He'd thought it was the pain and the suffering, but Cas has suffered to, has bled, has been tortured, has died, and he doesn't look hard and jagged at all. If anything, he looks softer than before.

And Dean thinks that he'll have to think about that later, will have to consider it more carefully, if it's the anger that's turned him away from the man in the picture on Sam's desk. Because if it is the anger then maybe he can do something about it. Maybe he can soften himself.

There's a warmth at his shoulder, and when Dean looks up Cas is standing there, closer than most people would be comfortable with, but Dean thinks it feels good. Normal and reassuring.

Their hands brush against each other, almost holding but not quite, and Dean feels himself smile.

He can feel the hard lines of his face softening as he does so.