Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or anything associated.

A/N: Thanks to my amazing friend rileyluvr13, who was kind enough to look this over. Please let me know what you think. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy it.

Dean stumbles into Lisa's house, his edges jagged and sharp from having his other half yanked away from him, and nothing gets better. The lines from his tears itch on his face, and he can still feel the weight of Lisa's arms, but the lost, barren feeling pounding inside of him stays. He staggers through the door, hears the deafening click behind him that sounds stupidly like a shovel smacking against tombstone, and he's still nowhere near close to okay.

He knows he made the right choice, because a small, desperate voice inside his head keeps whispering so, but he doesn't feel it. Dean ends up on Lisa's couch, stares at the water she slips into his hand, and wonders what the point is now. Small footsteps creak on the stairs, and he hears this voice that sounds so young, and Lisa tells Ben to go back to sleep.

She sits next to him gingerly, each move slow and covered with glaring yellow caution. Dean can see her out of the corner of his left eye, and she raises a hand, as if she wants to touch him but isn't certain if it'll be allowed again. In the end, he's not sure if he's grateful or sorry that her hand twitches back into her lap, but Dean knows what she's asking.

"My brother's dead."

It's three simple words, easy, uncomplicated in their definition, basic enough for anyone to understand and yet too complex in their meaning for anyone to ever truly comprehend. Each syllable feels like poison on his tongue, curdling and churning enough to make him sick, because those are never words a big brother is ever supposed to have to say.

Especially a big brother like Dean.

Lisa doesn't do anything other then take in a harsh breath, and she shifts on the cushions. She's uncomfortable, because outsiders to these things always are, but Dean knows she wants to comfort him. She doesn't know how, and there really isn't anything anyone on this earth could do.

'On this earth' is added on because Dean knows there's one Being who could, but He's too busy fucking around to give a shit that Sam Winchester went to Hell so He could go on sitting on His ass.

Excuse us the blasphemy.

In the end, Lisa spends a few hours by his side until Dean whispers that she should go to sleep. She finally reaches forward, aiming to touch his cheek, but he pulls back and her lips set like she accepts that.

Dean stays there as her hushed footsteps sound like gunshots in the empty house, cementing everything with painful thuds. He plants his elbows on his knees, drops his heavy head into his hands, and Dean cries for the second time.

The morning comes, and Dean hasn't slept. Lisa finds him where she left him; only his eyes are swollen and tell more than Dean's lips ever will. Ben races down the stairs with the energy and innocence of the only person who's allowed to be free and laugh, the only one unknowing of a bloody secret. Even though Lisa tries to hush him, to guide him towards the kitchen, he slips past her towards Dean, eyes excited and grin spreading.

Ben still remembers everything, and this is the hero he hasn't gotten to see in such a long time.

He's quickly in front of Dean, all graphic t-shirt, baggy jeans and gelled hair, and Dean doesn't want to ruin this. He doesn't want to taint this, the happiness of a child. One comes to appreciate it more when it becomes such a rarity, and so Dean pushes himself back, because he doesn't matter anymore. He smiles and nods when Ben asks if he's staying, suggesting that his haggard appearance is from one hell of a hangover, which always earns respect among boys. Ben leaves for school like a rocket, feet racing to the bus and a shout of unrestrained joy propelling him forward.

Once Ben's gone, Dean shuts down again, feeling all that fake light seep out of him and spill onto the floor. Lisa watches Ben through the window, one hand fluttering at her breast nervously, but she doesn't try to force anything from Dean. Instead, she tells Dean she has to go to work, waiting for a moment as though she's preparing for him to ask her to stay, but in the end, he doesn't, and she goes. Lisa leaves her number on a garish post-it note on the coffee table in front of him, looking up through her hair to say that if he needs anything, she'll be there.

They both don't say that Dean just needs to be alone, and Dean's glad she understands that enough to leave with nothing more.

The door shuts, and Dean feels tired, like every part of him is sore and useless. For a moment, his eyes fight him and slip shut, and dreams come in a series of clipped images and sounds. His head crashing against the Impala. A flash of white. Sam's face as Dean slides onto the ground, mangled. The fluttering of wings. The little, insignificant pieces of negligible dirt that fly through the air from Sam's shoes as he falls over, never dreaming that they would be part of something like this.

Dean's eyes slam open, and he decides not to bow to sleep again.

The thing about Time, which we have learned, is that it doesn't care. Time pays no attention to personal tragedies and grief, wars of carnage and death, or even brief, flickering moments of great joy. Time passes, because that is what Time does, and that's what it was created for.

So time drifts by, and Dean tries. He listens to Ben, helps him with schoolwork and tries not to be bitter that the head bent over in concentration doesn't have shaggier hair. He gives Lisa the bare details of everything, because he knows she deserves answers but Dean just can't give her anything else. She accepts that; he knows she's confused and frustrated, but those are just facts. Facts usually don't change, and sometimes they just aren't meant to.

They watch television and eat dinner together, and Dean's always been perfect at wearing masks, so he smiles and laughs and grits his teeth through this life that Sam made him promise to live. He wants it to be enough; he wants to be alright and to enjoy what he's managed to scramble together after everything, but he can't. It's like strings are attached to each part of him, his hands and feet, the corner of his smile, and he's not in control anymore. At least with someone else at the reins, Dean doesn't really have to try.

Every night, Lisa and Ben go to sleep, and Dean finds his way back to the couch. He rarely cries after the first day. Sometimes he just thinks of Sam, of everything they went through and managed to still survive, but more often, he'll pick through his life and wonder when he started to fail so terribly, finding the moments where he couldn't handle his job and which ended with his baby brother in Hell.

Sometimes Dean just sits and breathes, because that's the only thing he can handle.

But in the end, Dean falls asleep; because there are only so many days a man can fight nature, which pounds away until one succumbs. It's the sixth day when the sunlight scorches his eyes, making them burn as he loses control and topples over, sagging onto the couch because the puppet master needs a break, too.

Dean isn't aware when Lisa slips down the stairs, biting her lip with worry as she watches him, his face pained and unwilling even in sleep. Her hand reaches out again, but in the end she only touches air.

The wind is cool by the road, and Dean lets himself feel it as he sits, the cold pavement seeping in through his jeans. He feels clean, lighter, and he's gotten so used to identifying when he's coated in dreams that it doesn't even have the same effect anymore. So Dean gazes out at the empty field he's apparently conjured up, green grass growing blindly because that's all it was ever taught to do, and he waits to wake up.

It's only a few moments before he hears footsteps behind him, solemn in the previous silence, but Dean simply waits until they stop to his right. His head feels heavy so he doesn't lift it, and eventually his visitor sits next to him stiffly, legs jutting out uncomfortably and scratchy fabric hitting Dean's bare arm without his permission. It's only a few seconds until, "Dean," rough, unchanged, and only the slightest bit hesitant, and even this is barely noticeable.

Dean sighs, letting it drift out heavy and low as he tilts his head back and to the side, gazing upwards. Castiel stares down at him with an unreadable expression, but one that Dean can define as much more than a simple fabrication.

"What do you want?" Dean asks gruffly, and he can suppose from a small twitch in Castiel's stony face that he had prepared for something more. The oh so newly restored angel probably expected something with a little more color, a little more character, and some part of Dean wishes he cared at all. Still, that miniscule part that's sorry isn't enough to change the fact that he really doesn't.

"You are not doing well," Castiel states, and Dean almost rolls his eyes. Castiel watches each movement of Dean's face carefully, gaze shifting here and there so quickly that Dean almost feels dizzy.

"You want a medal for that brilliant deduction?" Dean bites. Castiel's brow furrows, "No," nothing more. So that's how it is; Castiel gets dipped back in shining grace, everything reverted like it never was. Dean almost feels transported back in time, when Castiel had more control of everything, even how much showed on his face and with which subtle tells his voice revealed his secrets. Dean doesn't like it, but there's not enough in him at the moment to get angry or disappointed about it. It just is.

"I was…worried," Castiel continues, and his hands settle on his thighs uncertainly, as if he isn't sure where to put them.

"You were worried," Dean echoes hollowly, and isn't that downright hilarious. "Well you can flutter right back up and leave me the hell alone."

He's on his feet and walking in seconds, and it feels strange. That empty, miserable pool inside of him is bubbling with rage, and since he's landed at Lisa's, he hasn't really been angry. All that furious ammunition fizzled out when the tears came, but here it is, raging and boiling, and suddenly he feels ready to burst. Instead, a few trees up ahead suddenly snap with a deafening crack, hitting the ground with pathetic impotence. Dean feels his chest heaving, and it hurts; he stares.

"We did not part on the best of terms," and suddenly Castiel is right in front of him, blocking his view and going on as if nothing had happened. Dean glares down at him, lip curling as Castiel goes on, "I understand that my words were not tactful, even if they were true."

For a moment, Dean's almost ready to thrust his fist into Castiel's face again, and maybe since this is his damn dream, it might actually do something. With his luck, and the fact that Castiel's obviously intruding uninvited into his subconscious, he'd still only break his hand and be even worse off.

"Yeah, well, you were right. I'm so overjoyed that I chose this instead of Paradise," Dean spits, taking a step back because he needs more space, and it feels as though all the air is being sucked somewhere else where he can't breathe it.

Thankfully, Castiel doesn't press forward as he says, "You're angry, but you still know you made the decision you should have. You, and Sam, saved the world, Dean."

It's worthless, because this is all information that Dean knows, that he's pounded into his brain too many times. Because it doesn't matter how many times one repeats something, how often it's echoed like an inevitable mantra, constant and never-ending, if one doesn't believe it. When the mind fights the heart, it is the heart that often wins, even if that victory is unwanted and bitter.

"We're done talking," Dean mutters, and there's a flash of his soul in that, a tiny crack of something that Dean wishes he could stuff back in. All the anger's gone, a rash wildfire that is blown out all too quickly. The sadness, the emptiness, is coming back, and Dean just wants to wake up, plaster on a fake smile, and do what he has to do.

Castiel almost starts to look pained, and he reaches forward until Dean jerks back, because how hard is it just for him to get some time alone. "Dean-"

"You know what, take all that fake sympathy and shove it up your ass, Cas!" Dean snarls, and Castiel's face melts like wax into something impassive and esoteric. "Fine, I did what was right. I know! I get it!"

Dean shoves his finger into Castiel's face, vicious and uncaring, his eyes starting to tear and his voice cracking. He hates it. "But I saved the fucking world, and Sam's rotting in Hell, and if all I want is to have one damn dream to myself, then let me have it!"

Dean's alone by the time he takes his next breath, head splitting with pain and hands back at his sides, clenching. He thinks maybe, at any other time, he'd feel guilty, but here he just feels vindicated. Dean wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, tilts his head back to stare at the sky. It's a soft, endless blue, and Dean wishes it were gray and clouded.

In the end, Dean starts walking, forcing one foot in front of another until he doesn't need to think about it, his body taking over and allowing his thoughts to drift. He walks for a very long time, but the scenery doesn't change and neither does the road. Eventually, he supposes the road doesn't lead anywhere.

Dean would be angry if that wasn't the way it's always been.

When Dean wakes up, it's because Ben is thundering down the stairs. It's only a few minutes before he slides into the living room, because it's a weekend and Ben's no longer a captive of the educational establishment. Dean has his smile perfected with a few seconds to spare.

They spend the day talking, because Ben wants to hear about "the badass monsters" Dean's wasted since he's seen him, and if Dean keeps his stories dated a few years back, well, Ben doesn't need to know. In the light that's lit up behind Ben's eyes, in the eager way he talks so fast that his mouth seems to have to catch up with him a few seconds after, the way his hands move as he talks; Dean knows that Ben is more than willing to toss Dean right into his waiting role of Father Figure. It's one poignant memory coated with years of hero-worship, and even more years of wanting, and it breaks Dean's heart even more, because if he were the man he used to be, Dean could be a real father to this kid.

As the sun slips away like a coward, Dean doesn't want to fall back asleep, too sure of what's going to be waiting for him that he doesn't want to deal with. Still, one can't go six days without sleep and be unprepared for the consequences, and Dean slips away on the couch for the second time, one deflated cushion trying to give him whatever comfort it can.

This time there's no road. It's a grassy, fleshed out hill bowing before mountains, snow capping the tops and rivers sloshing down. Endless trees cover the surface until that forbidden spot where nothing can grow anymore, all that growth cut off cleanly without argument. Dean looks down from where he's standing, and it's more of a cliff wearing a mask than a simple hill. He's so high up that his stomach wiggles a little, uncomfortable and unnerved, and he spends only a few seconds glancing at the lake that's carved a place for itself in between miles and miles of determined trees. The water's bright blue, unnatural, and Dean shivers.

"I came here once, when I lost faith."

If he were surprised, Dean would jump and whip around, but he's too used to these things. He just sighs and listens, registering Castiel once again to his right, standing straight and tall, proud.

"It is…easy to have faith until moments of suffering," Castiel almost whispers, as though he doesn't want to disturb the mountains and the water. "We often chastise those who do not believe, but belief is hard in loneliness. In grief."

"Did you come here to preach to me, Cas?" Dean inquires, voice tired, but Castiel just continues looking forward, eyes flittering over peaks and valleys.

"I came here," Castiel repeats, not even flinching as a sudden bird flies ahead, "without conscious thought. I needed space, and I ended up here."

"This place is beautiful," he states, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean registers this as something true, even if he can't muster up any appreciation for it. "But it has its ugliness."

"Part of this forest is dying," and Castiel lifts a hand, pointing at the rippling sea of trees. "Each tree fights for the sun, and in the end, this brings death." Dean reluctantly glances where Castiel is pointing, and he notices the silver branches of suffocation. He blinks, and suddenly he can see it everywhere, patches here and there of brown and gray, dotted among all that fresh, breathing green.

"It is both beautiful and hideous, glorious and vicious. It is a battle for life with both victors and those who must fail, but from here," Castiel breathes, as though he's sharing something profound and sacred, "it is magnificent."

"This is what we both have sacrificed for," Castiel presses, and Dean shrugs with discomfort as those blue eyes come to settle on him. "This is what you persuaded me to turn against Heaven for. This is what we have saved."

"Cas," Dean groans, overloaded again with information he already knows. Castiel still reaches forward to grasp Dean's shoulder, pressing even when Dean edges back, rejecting it. Castiel succeeds anyway, and this abrupt contact is so startling and foreign that Dean is shaken.

"I am not diminishing what you have lost," Castiel goes on, and Dean can't look away, even though he tries, and the desire causes him to grimace. "I mourn my own brothers in ways you cannot know, and I don't dare to compromise the loss of Sam."

"You can't-" Dean starts, gritting his teeth as that feeling of brutal pain washes over him, but Castiel isn't done, and he squeezes Dean's shoulder in warning.

"You survived," Castiel states, like it's a miracle and a blessing. "Against all odds, one Winchester still walks this earth. I know you have no faith in my Father, but he has a plan, Dean, and this is part of it."

At the mention of God, Dean feels his defenses rising, and Castiel notices his mistake quickly, preparing to backtrack.

"Dean," he begins again, pulling out the one card in the deck that is plain cheating against Dean Winchester. "Think of Sam, of-"

In only a span of a few seconds, Dean shrugs off the touch of an angel and spits out, "I'm already doing all this for Sam, because he made me promise! Made me promise I'd live this joke of a life. If he hadn't-"

"You'd be dead," Castiel intones plainly, freezing Dean's tirade. "Or ruthlessly searching for the means to save Sam, which simply do not exist."

"Maybe what your brother asked of you is selfish," Castiel offers, giving a little when before he wasn't giving at all. "Perhaps he chained you to something you cannot accept, but Sam did it becomes he loved you, Dean."

"And he wanted you to live, Dean," Castiel finishes, and Dean knows what he means. The hollowed out shell he's been, fake laughs and plastic smiles, barely functioning and shutting down when there aren't any guests to his show; that's not living, it's surviving. But he never promised Sam he'd be happy.

Dean stumbles a few steps back, shaking his head and wondering what it is about these dreams, why he can't keep himself in check. He rubs his eyes, which suddenly feel itchy and sore, with the sleeve of his jacket.

"I can't do that," he grumbles into the dark green fabric. "He never should have made me promise-"

Castiel simply tilts his head, lips twitching into something of a smile while he says, "We have time."

At this point, Dean wakes up on his own, eyes snapping open to stare at Lisa's ceiling. There's one stain in the corner, a few dots of something unidentifiable, and Dean suspects there's a story attached to that, if he could only bring himself to ask.

Tucking his feet into his shoes, he heads towards the door, stopping hesitantly with his hand on the knob. Dean turns back and scribbles a note on the pad Lisa keeps on the kitchen counter, head pounding for sleep he still needs to catch up on. After that, it's a simple opening and closing of the door, and he's outside.

The thing is, Dean knows that Castiel is right, because this isn't what Sam meant when he forced Dean into a promise he still feels he never should have made. Sam was probably picturing Dean waking up every morning with a smile, pitching little league, getting older without any new scars. He must have pictured Dean happy, and there's that arcane word again.

But one of the bitter little voices tumbling around in Dean's head hisses, 'Fuck Sam. Did he sit on his ass while Dean was burning in the Pit? Would he have followed through if Dean chained him to a corner like this?'

And Dean doesn't want that; he doesn't want this to become that. He doesn't want to feel so trapped, so lost in this life that he starts to curse some of the last memories he has with his brother, with Sammy. It sends a shock of panic down his chest, and Dean starts running.

He hasn't done much of anything since he's come to Lisa's, mostly staying inside or in the yard, but this isn't something one forgets in a week. Dean flies down the pavement, muscles moving with content groans, getting into a grove and keeping him there. The beautiful thing about running is he doesn't have to think about it; it's just a cycle of movement and sweat. For an hour, Dean gets to feel free.

That night, Dean falls asleep drained, although he isn't expecting much relief before morning.

It's him, the Impala, and the night sky this time, and Dean's hands almost feel like they're burning when he finds them already placed on the wheel. His foot jerks on the pedal, and mentally he apologizes as they swerve slightly on the road.

"You haven't driven since the confrontation."

Dean's eyes slide to the mirror, and he finds Castiel seated in the backseat, hands folded in his lap like the complacent passenger he without a doubt isn't. Castiel's gaze moves from the passenger seat to Dean's swiftly, but Dean knows what he's asking. Castiel's been in the front before, but he doesn't let the pang of hurt blossoming inside of him show as he grunts, "Just get up here."

In less than a second, Castiel's suddenly there, and Dean doesn't even twitch, making no move to reply to the previous statement. Castiel seems to notice this and says nothing more on the subject, instead sitting quietly as Dean drives. This time there's changing scenery, trees fading into fields, grass morphing into roadside inns and gas stations. There's no sign to give this place a name, and Dean wonders if this dream is all his own, or if Castiel manipulated it once his subconscious gave up the fight.

"Do your angel buddies know you're sneaking out?" Dean asks, and Castiel replies, "It's not of their concern." Dean scoffs at that, slowly sliding his hands over the steering wheel without really realizing it.

"Thought you needed to go 'restore order,'" Dean releases with unashamed sarcasm, but Castiel doesn't bite. This Castiel has his emotions tied down much tighter, has a little more omniscience for the dealing of these things.

"I am," Castiel acknowledges, glancing at Dean before turning his head to look out the window. "But I am also needed here."

Silence spreads at that, because Dean isn't sure how to respond, and Castiel is content enough to add nothing more.

Finally, Dean settles on, "I'm not a pity-case, Cas," without any real heat. It's just the tired expectation of a belligerent nature.

The sky above them is shadowed, traced with stars and abstruse patterns that lost their meaning long ago. Wherever they are is far enough from city life to lack the ubiquitous glow of electric light, allowing those stars to glimmer and shine freely.

A look of uncertainty dances across Castiel's features until they smooth out again, and he says, "My reasons are not purely unselfish ones."

Dean turns towards him, still keeping a quarter of his attention on the road, one eyebrow quirking.

"There is much on Earth that I have not yet experienced," Castiel goes on, shifting to face Dean. "I would like the chance before truly returning to Heaven."

The words are clumsy and practiced, and Dean wants to call bullshit. He's ready for it, tongue poised and annoyance flaring, but behind those recently shielded eyes is a look so earnest that, for a moment, it strikes Dean dumb. It all dies on his tongue, and Dean swallows it, feeling a little stranded. Castiel appears relieved at what he must take as acceptance if not belief, and he settles again.

They drive in silence after that, no concrete purpose and no pinpointed destination, and Dean is shocked at how simple and good it feels. There are no expectations, no facades he has to pull out from his bag of perfected tricks, because Cas knows.

Dean never puts on any music, and Castiel doesn't question him about it.

Miles stretch out before them, and because this is a dream, no other cars appear on the highway. Dean has no idea how fast he's driving, doesn't care enough to check, and he has no worry about what would happen if he crashes. He'd just wake up, and whether that's worse than dying, well, that's not easy to push out of his mind, but he does it anyway.

After an unknowable span of time, Castiel talks about the changes upstairs, the pandemonium that had erupted and that he is slowly breaking apart, piece by piece. Dean listens in the way that Castiel's voice washes over him, something familiar and safe, and a part of him appreciates this effort, because Castiel's never been the garrulous type. He's sure that hasn't changed.

Castiel goes on about that final meeting, Lucifer and Michael and how they had all intervened, and how the angels Upstairs had watched and begun to truly understand.

His mouth moves before he thinks, and Dean comments, "So is assbutt the new catchphrase in Heaven?"

Castiel turns to him in surprise, and then suddenly he laughs, and Dean wakes up.

Dean spends the day in knots, guilt and confusion raging inside of him with guilt constantly gaining the upper hand. Ben's in school, but Lisa has the day off, and she chooses this day to try to slip underneath the armor he's been gluing to his skin.

"I know you've been through something traumatic," she opens, biting at her lower lip as she sits down next to him on the porch step. "I'm not trying to pry, but I feel like I can help you, if you let me in."

It's not unreasonable, and Dean knows that, but he can't deal with it right now. He snaps at her, and her eyes flash, because this is her life, too, and he showed up unannounced and won't give her even an inch. Dean's sorry, and something must hint at that even if he can't say the words, because she doesn't kick him out on his sorry ass. Lisa stands up, settles with the fact that she'll be willing to listen when he's ready, and goes inside.

Dean grits his teeth and storms down the street, finding a bench and launching himself on to it. He jams his head onto his arms, trying, but sleep doesn't come during the tempest, and the sun beats down at him mercilessly. Sweat pools on his neck, and Dean struggles to even out his breathing, because he feels wrong. Eventually he drifts, and it's shaky but enough.

Castiel's already waiting as though he knows, and Dean can't help it, bursting, "You can't replace Sam!"

That's for the guilt. How can he laugh and smile and dare to be happy with his brother in Hell? He can't do this, having dreams with Cas in the Impala where he can tell jokes like it's normal.

Dean knows he doesn't deserve it. He was weak and worthless, not strong enough when he had to be, not intelligent enough to come up with other options; he failed.

A look like thunder passes over Castiel's face, and the words stutter to a stop in Dean's mouth, because that's the first sign of anger Castiel has shown since he's been back.

"Do you need to be miserable?" and suddenly there's a whole lot of angel too close to Dean. "Why do you have this idea that you're only allowed to be happy with one person?"

Castiel has a hand twisted in Dean's shirt before he realizes it and stumbles back, breathing heavily and looking embarrassed. Dean's frozen, completely lost on what to do, hands up in defense that he no longer needs.

"I'm," Castiel starts, shaking his head like it hurts, or something's all muddled inside. "I am not trying to replace Sam. I would never-"

"I know," Dean interrupts without meaning to, and Castiel's eyes look up at him from where they have been determinedly focused on the ground. "I-"

"I'm being an ass," Dean states, because he feels stupid and ashamed. Because Castiel's…right, and Dean's been wallowing in his misery like a pathetic piece of nothing, lashing out and finding a reason to fight everything. He's not okay, and if he's being honest, Dean doesn't believe there will ever be a time where he reaches that point again, but why does he have to ruin it for everyone else?

"No, Dean," Castiel breaks through Dean thoughts as if he can read them, and there's a distinct, frightening possibility that he can. After that, though, neither of them seems to know what to say, each catching their breath even though all they've been doing is standing and baring souls.

"I know you have doubts," Castiel finally begins, and his eyes shine with a hidden something, as though this is a joke they share. "But please, let me help you."

And Dean doesn't want to. He wants to wallow, to drown and suffocate and suffer, because that's easier, because he deserves it, because he's not strong enough to pick up all those crumpled pieces and make something of them again. Sam's burning, and even if Dean has promises he's forced to fulfill, Dean should be burning, too.

Through it all, Castiel just stares at him with patient but determined eyes.

Dean whispers, "Okay," and he swallows down the feeling of betrayal.

There's the loud explosion of a car horn, and Dean startles awake, almost falling off the bench and catching himself just in time, hands gripping the measly planks of wood instinctively. Blinking rapidly, Dean sees Lisa seated behind her little blue car, and he pushes himself off the bench and staggers towards her. She rolls down the window, her lips set into something stiff, and says, "You should get in." Dean obeys, but she doesn't start driving, instead yanking out the keys and letting them sit abandoned in her lap.

Dean settles into the seat, feeling caged and too big for it, and the silence stretches until he breaks it.

"It was the end of the world."

Lisa's head turns his way, but Dean stares down at his hands. His feet fidget against the floor, but he forces himself to keep going.

"It was the end of the world, and I don't want to talk about it," Dean grits his teeth, knowing that he isn't going to cry. That doesn't make it any easier, though. "I know how it started, why, but, no. But, but it ended thanks to Sam. He gave it all up for what was right, to save all this."

"I don't want to go into details, to pick at it, and," Dean stumbles to a stop, his head pounding in time with his heart. "I just can't." He finally lifts his gaze to catch a glimpse of Lisa, and her hair is strewn all around her face and her eyes are wet. It hurts him to see, so he looks back at his hands, perfect with a gun but failures with everything that matters.

"I know that's not fair," Dean acknowledges, going on even as Lisa breathes out his name, "to you, and I'm sorry. But that's all I can give you."

Lisa takes in a deep breath, the faded red of her t-shirt rising up and down, but she only whispers, "Alright," before sliding the keys back into the car and giving it life again. Dean raises his head, sure that can't be it, but Lisa just sends him a shaky smile before focusing on the road.

It starts to rain just as they park outside the house, and Lisa hurries in after Dean urges her on. He heaves himself out slowly, stepping into the rocky foundations of what's going to become one heck of a puddle, but he doesn't mind. Dean leans against this car that feels all wrong, scratched and short where it should be glossy and long, and he lifts his head up. The rain hits him, drops splattering against his face and sliding down, drenching his hair and the collar of his shirt mercilessly. Dean stays out there until the storm starts to even out, allowing the rain its meager attempt to wash everything away.

One may remember a short while ago the mentioning of Time, and its unique and sometimes agonizing ability to continuously exist and carry on, no matter the traumas or blessings affecting one at the moment. Before, this was mournful, but now Dean's grateful for that fact. Because the thing about Time, about how relentless it is, how it never gives up or slows down, never gives its victim a break while it drags him or her under; well, eventually we all catch up with that current and can lift our heads and breathe again.

Now, that doesn't happen fast, or easy, and it doesn't happen at some perfect, convenient moment. It's difficult, strenuous and often painful, frustrating, too. But even if one resists, more willing to rip off scabs and keep bleeding sloppily than to let the skin heal and scar, Time's a bitch, and it doesn't let up.

So the time passes, and Dean struggles with that emptiness, with the sorrow and the quick bursts of rage that smack him in the face some days. He succumbs when Ben excitedly begs him to play baseball, but his smiles stay strained. He doesn't fight when Castiel appears in his dreams every night, taking him to bars that used to be where he found comfort, or just roads and roads and roads. He goes freely, but he still feels hollow most of the time, and Castiel looks at him sadly when he thinks Dean doesn't see.

But as previously mentioned, nothing lasts forever, and Dean becomes Dean again, even if it moves slowly. He steps outside and the sun bathes his shoulders, and his first thought isn't "I don't deserve this." It's just that it's nice, that that warmth feels good. Like we said, little things.

The greatest changes, the most prominent healing, occur in his dreams, with Castiel, and there are so many ways to explain that away. Perhaps it's because there's no pretending around Castiel, because this being knows him in so many ways that it makes Dean uncomfortable. Castiel's seen Dean at his best and his worst, and Dean is exactly who he is around him. He doesn't have to close off parts of himself, barricade memories and thoughts like Dean does in that real, normal world that jars against him, like he does for Lisa and Ben.

And Castiel gets him, somehow. He doesn't try to sit down and talk about it, peel back every aching memory until Dean can somehow just accept it like many people would, because Castiel knows that isn't how Dean is. Castiel distracts him with doing, by popping up with movies he must pick out of Dean's subconscious, watching as Dean drives the car he loves but can't really bring himself to touch. They don't always talk, but when they do, it gets easy and familiar, because Dean finds out that this Castiel is still the one he knows, even if he's different.

It's not the Castiel he knew from before, the one that blindly followed orders and refused to let even a little emotion dribble out from under lock and key. And it's not the thing that Castiel became, a mix of human and angel that was sealed together with bitterness, disappointment, and disillusionment. This Castiel is a strange little combination of the two. He has faith, but he smiles, and he laughs sometimes. He flutters around Heaven during the day, respected and treated with awe, but when Dean drifts off, Castiel finds him worth enough to try to save, again.

One night, Dean closes his eyes and opens them again to find himself somewhere with white walls trimmed in pink and purple. His second thought is that it's cold, and Castiel watches him shiver impassively. Looking around, Dean sees words jump out like, "Chocolate Sauce!" and "Free Sundaes!" and when he looks at Castiel, the angel intones, "I've never had ice cream."

Dean leans back in his weak little plastic chair, almost daring it to tip over as he replies, "Cas, seriously?"

Castiel only stands up, brushing down his coat while saying, almost defensively, "Most humans speak of it very positively." Dean feels something bubble up in him that almost feels like laughter, but he suppresses it and stands up, noticing that Castiel looks uncomfortable and maybe even nervous. So he swallows the dozens of jokes he could make, and the surprise that they've come to his mind at all, and follows Castiel to the counter.

The man behind the counter, middle aged and dressed in white with a pinstriped apron, listens as Castiel orders vanilla for himself and chocolate for Dean, with sprinkles. When Dean gives him a raised eyebrow, Castiel only stares back, and Dean wonders how much muddling in his mind Castiel has really done.

Castiel stands straight as an arrow as the man bumbles around scooping and grabbing the little paper cups, humming to himself, and Dean wonders when he ended up going out for ice cream with an angel when he can't even remember going out for ice cream as a kid.

The man, and Dean can just catch a glimpse now of a little name tag that says, "Charlie" with little ice cream cones dancing around it, comes back, pushes their ice cream towards them and nods. Castiel picks them both up, handing Dean his cup, and nods back before heading towards the doors. The fact that they don't have to fork over any cash hammers in the fact that Dean's doing all his inside of his own head, and he supposes that's good, because who knows what comments he'd have to deal with if they weren't.

Dean just shakes his head, following Castiel outside, and of course the door swings open with the dainty little sound of a bell. Castiel walks over to the red bench to the right of the store and Dean collapses next to him awkwardly. They just sit for a few moments until Dean bursts out, "This is weird."

Castiel doesn't say anything, just pokes at his ice cream with the little plastic spoon "Charlie" had speared into it. Dean sighs and decides he's had stranger dreams, and as he eats a spoonful, it suddenly hits him how long it's been since he's done something like this. When he looks back at Castiel, his brow is furrowed and he still has his spoon in his mouth.

"Better or worse than those burgers?" Dean asks, returning to his own, and Castiel sets his spoon back into the ice cream and answers, "Better."

Dean snorts, but Castiel just keeps tasting his ice cream, staring out at the street only a few yards away, where the indistinguishable car rushes past now and then.

"Do you like it?" Castiel questions after a while, as Dean's reached the middle of his cup. Dean just shrugs with, "Dude, it's ice cream. Ice cream is awesome," and this must mean something because Castiel relaxes, nodding his head to himself.

They finish, and as Dean drops his spoon into the little melted pool that remains, Castiel begins tentatively, "How are you doing, Dean?"

Dean knows what he's really asking, and for a minute he freezes up, but then Castiel is looking at him and he drags himself back.

"It's not…easier," Dean mutters, tilting his cup and watching his little private lake slide back and forth. "It's never going to be, you know? I get that. I'm…I'm living with it."

Castiel continues staring at him, and Dean focuses on the melted ice cream more intently, feeling on the spot and awkward.

"Does this…help?"

It's gravely and monotonous, but Dean knows there's a whole ocean of uncertainty pushing it forward, because Castiel may know Dean, but Dean knows Cas, too.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean lets himself admit, and the words dredge up a rusty little smile. "It does."

He turns towards the other and even adds, "Thanks," and Castiel's expression melts into something almost prideful and pleased.

"I'm glad," Castiel says quietly, and for a moment, there's a foreign splatter of guilt for how he's forcing Castiel down here because of his own weakness and inability to cope. Just as it's about to affect him, Castiel gives him a look that Dean would describe as "Stop being a ridiculous moron," although he'd add coarser language and Castiel would give it an even more refined label. Somehow, that makes him feel lighter again, and it's good.

That's where it starts, although if we're honest, it all started very long before that. Still, we'll say it starts here because when a burning fire is doused, and then brought back to life later, that new fire is a little different than its sister, even if they both dance bright and strong.

Dean used to have a dream; not the kind that formed when he was asleep, ephemeral and cloudy, but the type where it was like a vision, a hope. He dreamed of a nice house with a backyard, and in that house were Lisa and Ben. Dean could slip right in there with ease, be a father and a husband, have the family he never really could when there were monsters under his bed and in the motel closet. Sam would be nearby, though, and they'd see each other often, at barbeques and picnics, and normal people things. Whenever Dean thought about that dream, it didn't end with him and Lisa sharing a kiss, or tucking Ben into bed, even though those ideas still warmed his heart back then. That dream ended with him letting go and pulling Sam into a (manly) embrace, where they'd clap each other's backs and laugh, because they survived.

There is a part of that dream that can't happen anymore, and as immature as it might be, the rest of the dream collapses after it. Because Dean is recovering, honestly laughing at some of Ben's jokes and at the story of the stained ceiling that he finally learns (Ben was drinking a giant soda and flicked his straw against the lid). Lisa touches his arm sometimes, because he lets her, and it's nice. But he doesn't feel like a father, not really, and as for Lisa…well, he just doesn't love her.

And there's no Sam.

The strange thing is, the way things keep going, Dean starts to prefer sleeping to the moments after waking up. Or, in another language, he prefers his time with Cas. Somehow, Castiel is there every night, waiting or showing up soon after Dean falls asleep, and it's these meetings that really send Dean back on the path of Okay.

Dean makes Castiel try a burger again, even though just the mention of the word makes Castiel look sick at the beginning. For the first time, Dean manipulates his dream himself, and they're both seated in a cozy little dinner, table covered with a checkered cloth, with fully stocked plates at their waiting fingertips. Castiel gives him a pleading little look once, but Dean just digs into his burger with exaggerated relish, and Castiel really has no choice. He never did.

Castiel decides he doesn't like burgers very much anymore. However, he does like fries, and he steals Dean's.

It feels comforting and good, and Castiel makes Dean smile in a way that doesn't hurt. When he's with Castiel, all those jagged, sharp, awful pieces get shoved under a neat little rug, and he's happy. Dean doesn't even mind his dreamed up waitress giggling behind her hand while Cas makes surreptitious, or sometimes just blatant, advances on his fries, and if Dean did imagine up her giggling here, he decides he doesn't have to think about what that means.

Another time, Castiel decides he wants to learn pool, but instead of Dean finding himself in a bar, it's just an empty field with a pool table. Dean slaps his knees and just laughs, because it feels amazing and because he can, and Castiel just waits with the pool sticks, not apologetic or embarrassed at all.

They spend the night like that, and once Dean shows him the basics and explains the rules, Castiel ends up being decent, if not pretty darn good. He has the concentration, and once he fumbles past the awkwardness, they have themselves a nice little game. Dean guides him here and there, adjusting Castiel's arms to aid his grip, helping him get the position right. Dean's hands burn and shock a little when they make contact, sending thoughts to his mind that scare him and make him draw back, but Castiel just looks at him calmly, knowingly, and doesn't let him pretend those thoughts are anything else but what they are.

When Castiel sinks a ball, even though he's all narrow-eyed focus up until the moment, his eyes sparkle proudly with accomplishment when it tumbles in. He looks at Dean quickly before lining up his next shot, and that little search for acknowledgement hits Dean worse than the fleeting touches did. That's how Dean knows he's in trouble.

Remember that fire we mentioned? Well, this is how half of the pair notices that it's burning.

And because Dean thinks too hard when he really settles down to it, he ponders and goes over it in his head for a while. When he wakes up, he grabs a beer from Lisa's fridge and plops himself down on the steps, trying to really sort out what he felt and thought. He thinks about the previous night, and the ones before that, where he smiled with indulgence when Castiel swiped his food, or the way Castiel kept glancing at him for approval whenever he made the choice and molded the little dream space in Dean's mind. He goes further back, before Sam's death deadened his soul, blocking the sun and killing anything that may have been trying to grow there.

It's all little snapshots of blooming friendship and sudden sacrifice, people standing too close but not really minding, gazes that lingered, that turned bitter and jaded but would flash with something at unexpected times.

Dean shakes his head and swallows the rest of his beer, heading inside to help Lisa force Ben to finish his math.

But although Dean's always been good at suppressing, this doesn't allow Dean to bury it under all other thoughts. He sees Castiel every night, and this doesn't change even as he gets better, because Castiel seems to enjoy this quiet time with him when the world isn't collapsing around them. The confusion inside of him must be showing, because Castiel looks at him plainly and doesn't try to hide anything. Instead, a part of him almost appears relieved, like Dean finally gets it and now he's not alone.

Eventually, every road branches off, and one can run and run and run, but in the end there's going to be a fork, and there's going to have to be a choice. Dean's ready to let this drag out for a while, but either Castiel's impatient or has been waiting for longer than Dean's aware of, because a few nights later, Dean finds Castiel on a beach.

It's not the soft, sandy kind. There are rocks jutting out along the shore, forming black, inky wet paths that waves crash upon violently.

"It surprises me," Castiel mumbles, and they're only standing a few feet away from where the waves hit, "how the ocean never seems to change."

"Give it a few years and say thanks to BP," Dean replies, and Castiel gives him a disapproving glance. "What?" The disapproval in Castiel's face fades after a few moments, and then he's giving Dean a completely different look that sends Dean running.

"We're not talking about this," Dean announces, turning away to glance around at the rocks Castiel has used his head to imagine up. A few feet away he finds a small little gray shell, and Dean picks it up, tossing it up and down.

"I think we should," Castiel counters, but Dean shakes his head, throwing the shell as hard as he can, watching it arch and splash into the thrashing water, one tiny movement amongst such grander ones.

"Dean," Castiel presses, and when Dean doesn't reply, he says harshly, "Dean, I never asked you about Sam."

It's a low blow, and Dean unleashes a wild glare at Castiel to make sure the angel knows it. Castiel has the shadows of repentance in his eyes, but his lips are set and his entire expression is defined by obvious determination.

"Don't pull that shit with me," Dean growls, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the shaking, and stares out at the ocean. There's a change in the air, and then Castiel's right there, and Dean stumbles, his shoes slipping on wet rock. He feels himself falling backwards before he can help it, eyes widening in surprise if not panic. Then firm hands encircle his wrists and pull him back, and Castiel saves him.

Castiel keeps a hold of Dean's wrists after he's settled back on even footing, even though Dean makes a brief motion of pulling away. He stares up at Dean, hair dampened from the water the waves shot up into the air, eyes hard, not in anger but with the desire to win this. Dean feels like he's breathing too fast, heart thumping, and it suddenly hits him that this is the first time his heart's hurt for a reason other than Sam.

"I know you, Dean," Castiel states, his grip tightening just slightly, his face betraying nothing. "So you can't lie to me." It comes out gruff and somewhat rushed, and Dean can only swallow in response.

All Dean can think is that if he was being his horny little self, this wouldn't be that big a deal. He's had the urges to have sex with more people than he can remember, and if he just wanted to sleep with Cas, well okay, that'd still be weird, but it'd still be something he can label as Normal Dean.

But Dean doesn't want to sleep with Cas. Okay, no, that's not right either. He doesn't want to only have sex with Cas? Well, really, Dean's barely thought about that at all.

The way he feels about Cas…and that's the answer right there. The way Dean feels about Cas.

It's emotion, stupid, stupid, stupid emotion, not just some explainable physical need. It's Dean too eager to fall asleep every night just to spend time with Cas. It's the way Castiel watches him like he's something precious and worth everything, the small little smiles he gives and the way that turned Dean from something torn and broken into something that can be called a human being again. It's everything from before and everything from now, and…

It's Dean falling in love. With Cas.

Dean suddenly wants to rub his hands over his face in frustration, but Castiel's not letting go of his wrists so he stops trying after a few little tugs. Then something in him snaps; his eyes go wild and daring. Dean starts struggling harder, and when Castiel won't let up even then, he blurts out, "Let go so I can kiss you!"

Castiel's eyes widen and his hands drop simultaneously, and it'd be funny if Dean wasn't already leaning down and drawing Cas' face closer. They're lips meet, and Cas lets out a small breath like a sigh of relief, which Dean ignores. It's a soft, delicate thing, nothing like either of them, but Dean's still not sure what else he's doing, and Castiel just brings up one hand to Dean's cheek like it's a revelation that he's claiming for himself.

They draw apart after only a few seconds, and Dean feels like crying from confliction because he doesn't just want to tear off Cas' clothes, even though he's pretty sure he'll get to that moment eventually. He's okay with just this softness, this obvious admittance of something deeper; he's happy here. And why won't that word just go away?

"Because you're allowed to have it," Castiel interrupts his thoughts, and Dean opens the eyes he's kept closed. Castiel's right there, blue eyes flickering over Dean's face in a way he seems fond of doing, taking in and coveting everything. "The war's over, Dean. No matter what guilt you may carry, you are allowed to be happy."

The "with me" isn't tacked on sloppily, girlishly, but Dean knows that's what Castiel means, what he's offering and promising.

Dean's going to have so many freak-outs later, about a dozen things. Some superficial and expected, but most of all it'll be about his complete failure at keeping anything together, especially relationships. He'd been copy-pasted into the perfect one, and that hadn't even been enough.

But for now, right here, Dean just whispers, "Okay." This time Castiel pushes up and meets him, and this kiss seals the deal, open and wet and without compromise.

Throughout, Dean keeps pulling back and muttering, "Okay," until Castiel pretty much growls and tells him to shut up, but with more finesse.

A few months ago, he never thought he'd get here. Now it's all he can think to say.

Dean laughs and complies, fisting Castiel's coat between his fingers as Cas reaches up to tangle his own in Dean's hair.

Even though he's been with Lisa and Ben for months, and he knows he's going to stay there, strangely enough, here, in this moment, is when Dean feels like he's finally fulfilling that promise to Sam. It's not that "apple pie life" Sam was expecting, but Dean is living again, and goddamn it, fine, he's really, honestly happy.'

That's when it also hits him that Dean has never had Castiel try pie. He pauses for a second, but only for a second. They have endless nights to choose from, so for now, Dean just sticks with kissing Cas.