Chapter Text
It starts after two months. There was God, and then there wasn't God, and then there is a new God. Cas was alive and confessing his love, then he was dead, and then he isn't dead and confessing his love anymore. The world was empty, back to full, and now it's finally settled.
Really, it starts with a very awkward conversation.
It isn't an awkward conversation with Cas, or with Sam about Cas, because Dean is avoiding both of those things like they're the second coming of Jesus Christ (third?) and he isn't on the list to be saved. In doing so, he's spending a lot of extra time with the new God in his avoidance efforts, and this is very awkward as well for a variety of reasons, but it's less awkward than everything else. Basically, everything is always awkward and Dean has chosen the lesser of two (three?) evils.
That being: Jack. Now, this isn't exactly...fun for either of them, to be frank. Things have been awkward between them since Dean did and said some pretty awful shit and Jack actually had the time to slow down to wrap his head around how awful it was. In short, they spend a lot of time riding around in Baby in stilted silence, not looking at each other.
Despite this, every time Dean asks, Jack always agrees to go on a drive with him—likely unaware that half the motivation is to keep a wide berth between him and Cas, but Jack doesn't need to know that. In Dean's defence, he is...trying. Sort of. It's hard to stare at the repercussions of his actions directly, especially while aware that a lot of it is something he can't exactly brush under the rug and move on from.
One day, out of the blue, Jack turns to him and says, "I want us to be okay."
They're pulled off at a lake, parked out on the bank while people walk the trail around it. They've just been sitting there with Mumford & Sons playing on the radio, not saying a word. Dean looks at Jack, blinks, and thinks oh, we're doing this now? Shit.
"Yeah, Jack, me too," Dean admits gruffly.
"We're not okay," Jack tells him. His eyebrows pinch together. "I think sometimes we were, but I don't know if that's true anymore."
"Ya know, kid, me neither. It's—uh, it's on me. You know that, right? This is my fault," Dean says.
"I'm not blameless," Jack murmurs.
"You're a kid."
"I'm not just a kid. I've never been just a kid."
Dean swallows. "I know, and that's not fair. You had to grow up so quick, and you didn't even—you never even got to—to—"
"It made my mother sad," Jack says, his gaze downcast. "When she saw me in Heaven, she was sad that I had to grow up so quickly. She never wanted me to be—to have to be—"
"Hey, Jack, that's not your fault," Dean cuts in, his voice softening. Mothers are always a sensitive topic in the Winchester family, and Jack isn't an exception. Despite absolutely everything, Dean feels a sharp sense of pity and anger on the behalf of Jack, who has so much grief wrapped up in his mom as well. "The world you came into—it wasn't safe like it is now. You had to do what you had to do to survive, kid, and I'm sorry that's the way it was. Hell, I'm sorry that I—that I was part of the problem."
Jack looks at him, frowning. "Were you?"
"I'd say so," Dean mumbles. "Shit, kid, I shot at you just a few minutes after you were born. You think I would've pulled that if you were a freakin' newborn? I mean, fuck, I hope I wouldn't have. I was outta my mind with grief, but I should have never—I wasn't right for doing that. Just 'cause you don't look like a kid doesn't mean you aren't one."
"If a monster is a child, does that mean it's not a monster?" Jack asks quietly.
Dean heaves a sigh. "You're not a monster, Jack. You were—at times, you were as dangerous as a nuke, but you weren't intending to bomb anybody. Your intentions have never been monstrous, okay? I know that. I'm sorry I ever thought differently."
"I'm not a monster," Jack agrees slowly, like he's tasting the words. His lips twist bitterly. "No, I'm just God now."
"Yeah," Dean says, raising his eyebrows. "You don't look too happy about that one."
Jack darts a look at him, then quickly away. "I'm not. I don't want to be God, Dean. The one before me proves why no one should be. I don't regret doing what I had to, but I never wanted—I just want…"
"What? Whaddya want, Jack?" Dean asks, peering at him with a sharp tug of sympathy in his chest. This poor kid. It isn't fair to him. He should have everything he wants, 'cause Dean knows for damn sure it isn't anything bad.
"I just want to be a kid," Jack says softly.
Dean releases an explosive breath. "Well, I've got some good news and some bad news. Good news, you are a kid. Bad news, you aren't just a kid."
"If I could be…"
"What?"
"What would happen to me?" Jack looks at him, his eyebrows furrowed, curious.
"Um, you'd be a kid, I reckon," Dean says. "Don't ask me what that's like. I barely remember." I'm not sure if I knew for long enough to have any opinion on the subject, he thinks but doesn't say. "But uh, kids don't have to—well, kids who have a life they should don't have to worry about a lot of things. Ya know, that's on the people taking care of 'em. They just get to be. Grow, learn, be looked after."
"Hm." Jack tilts his head slightly. "Cas would look after me."
"Yeah." Dean nods easily. "'Course he would. He already does."
"But as a child."
"That, too."
Jack holds his gaze. "Would you?"
"Would I, uh—you mean if you were a kid? Like, an actual four-year-old?" Dean asks in surprise, his eyebrows rising. When Jack nods, he clears his throat and nods back. "Yeah, sure I would, Jack. I know I haven't—I know I've made a lot of mistakes with you, but I want us to be okay, too. You're—I mean, you're my—you're—"
"I've always regarded you as a father, no matter the complications of our history," Jack tells him. "You know that."
Dean swallows past the lump in his throat and averts his gaze. "I do know, Jack, and maybe you don't know, and I know I fucked up showing it, but I saw you—I see you as my… Well, you're my kid."
"Except I'm not just a kid."
"Yeah, well, semantics. Whatever."
Jack huffs a quiet laugh and leans his head back against the seat, smiling. "We're going to be okay."
"S'good," Dean mumbles. "I'm glad."
"And you'd look after me if I was actually four years old, completely?" Jack murmurs.
"I would," Dean admits, because he would. He's oddly very sure about that, actually, though he has no way of genuinely proving it.
Or, well, he thinks he doesn't.
"I love you, Dean," Jack says softly, and Dean looks away with a tightening band of emotion in his chest, and things grow quiet.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his jaw. He can do this. He can say it, because he knows it's true, knows it has to be true. Things are complicated between him and Jack in a way that can only conclude that they're family, for all that Dean had the audacity to deny it, arguing against it like that would lessen the impact of the shit that had hit the fan and was falling prey to gravity, coming back down on them. Jack is family, and he's Dean's kid, and Dean can tell him that he loves him back. If Jack looked the age he actually was, Dean knows he'd be able to soften enough to do it, to be better, and he can't keep using Jack's appearance as an excuse.
So, he croaks, "Yeah, kid, love you," and opens his eyes with a harsh exhale. He turns to see how that goes over and is met with the passenger side window instead of Jack's head.
The seat squeaks, and Dean follows the sound, his gaze trailing down. There—where Jack sat moments ago—is a much tinier version of him. He looks mostly the same, just...smaller and more dimply and cuter, if that's possible. His clothes have shrunk to fit him, so he's casually sitting in a t-shirt, jeans, and scuffed tennis shoes. He swings his feet from side-to-side over the edge of Baby's seat the same way Sam used to in the back, and he stares up at Dean with clear eyes.
"Mhm," Jack says, his voice just as small and cutesy as the rest of him, "I love you, too," and his mouth spreads into a toothy, exuberant smile.
"Oh," Dean blurts out, eyes bulging, "Cas is going to fucking kill me."
That's an understatement and a half, to be frank, and Dean proceeds to go into crisis mode, panicking about the literal child sitting next to him that he has no idea how to explain. He tries to remind himself that this literal child was sitting next to him a few minutes ago, except he didn't look like one, so it isn't exactly a comfort. Cas is going to kill him. Cas is going to just murder him for this, and ya know what? That's fair, at this point.
Treating this like some kind of triage situation, Dean decides to run down a list of priorities and handle the rest of the shit later. First, he has to learn what the hell Jack knows. As it turns out, it isn't very much. Jack hasn't just given himself a tinier body; he legitimately turned himself into a four year old. Dean spares a second to be grateful that Jack hadn't decided to have a do-over from farther back, because he has no idea what the hell he would have done if he looked down to see a baby in his Baby.
Anyway, Jack makes it very clear that he knows only what a four year old would know. To hear him tell it, his mommy is in Heaven, he's in the car with Daddy Dean, and Daddy Cas is at home. Oh, and what is God? Is that a person? Is she nice?
Dean clenches Baby's wheel and breathes for a very long time while Jack—who believes he's just a kid now—rambles with questions that Dean's just flat out ignoring. Jack continues to ramble, jumping from subject to subject without seeming to need a response, and he doesn't slow down when Dean turns Baby on and mindlessly reaches out to hold onto Jack's arm.
"Are we going home now?" Jack asks.
"Yep," Dean says shortly. His funeral, more like, but that's beside the point. He's literally walking into his death. Jesus. "Hey, buddy, uh… Can I ask you something? What do you remember about when you were younger? Anything?"
Jack grabs Dean's thumb and holds onto it, scooting down to try and nudge the radio dial with the tip of his shoe. "Uhhhhh," he says distractedly, "I guess I was born, and my mommy went to stay in Heaven, and then Daddy Cas was away for a while, but then he came back, and I got really sick for a little bit, but then I got better and everything was fine."
"Right," Dean rasps and carefully tugs Jack back farther in the seat so he can't reach the radio.
In the end, Jack won't stop trying to wriggle around and do shit he shouldn't, so Dean slides him across the seat and flings his free arm across him like a seatbelt, holding him in place. He should put him in the lap belt, but honestly, Dean doesn't want to stop his progress back to the Bunker. Jack takes this with grace and proceeds to beat on Dean's arm with his hands and do some kind of kid's version of beatboxing, except it involves a lot of spit that makes Dean grimace every time it hits his arm.
Jack is still singing and trying to make drum sounds with his mouth to an unrecognizable song when Dean pulls them into the Bunker. The moment Baby cuts off, Jack tries to scoot away and dart out of the car, but Dean hastily grabs him by the back of the shirt so he can't go running.
"Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up," Jack chants, bouncing in place, getting his feet under him and on Baby's seats.
Dean quickly scoops him up with a quiet sound of distress—come on, not Baby's seats—and hefts him out of the car. Jack hangs limply from his grasp like a sack of potatoes, giggling like a small kid would. Which he would, because he is. Dean stands there for a moment with his arm tucked around Jack, his heart racing. How the fuck can he explain this?
"I'm so dead," Dean whispers under his breath, grimacing and starting the march into the Bunker, distantly aware he'll likely never survive to see tomorrow. He can probably literally count his breaths—what, twenty, between now and the moment he plops Cas' kid in front of him in an altered state than he left with him? Fifteen, maybe, if Cas doesn't need any additional seconds to snap his fucking neck.
Jack lets out a piercing giggle when they start descending the steps at the entrance, and Dean frantically claps his palm over Jack's mouth to muffle it. Jack seems to find this even more hilarious because he's laughing into Dean's palm and trying to lick it, which is just—unsanitary, really. Dean grimaces and continues down, relieved when no one is waiting in the war room.
"Dean?!" Sam calls from the kitchen. "Is that you? What the hell was that?"
Jack starts squirming in his grip, apparently excited to hear Sam's voice.
"Um," Dean calls back hoarsely, slowly making his way towards the kitchen, his heart racing. He halts by the door and holds Jack away from it, peeking around the corner and wincing the moment he sees Sam and Cas both sitting at the table. They stare at him with raised eyebrows, and Dean tries a smile, though it feels very weak. "So, uh, listen… I need both of you to not freak out about this."
"About what?" Sam asks, eyes narrowing. "Dean, what did you do?"
"Where's Jack?" Cas adds.
Jack goes still for a second in Dean's grip, then redoubles his efforts in squirming around, apparently very excited about hearing Cas. Dean swallows and deliberately tugs Jack further to the side, feeling like he's about to fucking lose his cool any second. There's a butter knife sitting on the table, and Dean does not want to die being stabbed by a knife that isn't even sharp.
"Just—just hear me out," Dean wheezes, straining to keep Jack from getting free. "I want it on the record that this isn't—I didn't come up with the idea, okay? So, really, it's not even my— oomph!"
With a well-placed elbow right into Dean's gut, Jack manages to get free and land on his feet. He immediately darts around the doorway to hightail it into the kitchen, shouting, "Daddy!" at the top of his lungs before launching himself right at Cas.
Dean knows he'll never forget the sight of Cas quickly jerking to the side and catching Jack before he can collide right into the table, scooping him up with both hands under the arms and holding him out as he stares at him with wide eyes. Jack rocks forward to wrap his little arms around Cas' neck, and Cas lets him, his wide eyes flicking to Dean.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Sam breathes out, his startled gaze bouncing between Dean and Jack.
"Dean," Cas says softly, "what happened?"
Flashing a wincing-grin, Dean holds out his hands like tada! and says, "Oops?"
Dean has a comb that looks like one of those knives that flick out really fast. The handle looks threatening, but when you press the tiny button on it, the comb part flicks out and reveals itself. They plant Jack at the table and let him play with it while they all crowd each other a few feet away, watching him press the button, giggle, tuck the comb back in place, then press the button again. Just that, on a loop, his legs swinging from the chair and his quiet, little-kid laughter ringing out in the silence.
He's literally four. Jesus Christ.
"You—" Cas' voice trembles for a moment, and he seems to need a second of calm breathing before he pins a sharp look on Dean. "You were gone for less than two hours."
Dean's so glad he didn't get stabbed with a butter knife, but this is shaping up to look...really bad. He swallows. "Cas, I swear to—I swear I didn't do anything. This was all him. This was—I didn't—"
"It seems, every time I think you can be trusted with Jack, I am proven wrong, time and time again," Cas interrupts coldly, and Dean draws up short.
"Woah, Cas, hey," Sam says when no one else is saying anything, "that's not—this isn't…" He seems just as lost as Dean feels. "Look, Dean said Jack chose to do this, right? So maybe—maybe—"
"Tell me why," Cas snaps, making Sam rear back, blinking. "Explain to me how Jack came to this decision without being influenced into it. Sometimes, he needs someone trustworthy to step in and tell him that his decision needs a second thought, to not be hasty, but Dean—" He cuts his gaze to Dean, eyes blazing. "You didn't think to stop him? You let him just—"
"Cas, you weren't there," Dean cuts in harshly. "You have no idea what happened. You act like I gave the kid the green light or goaded him into it."
"So, tell me," Cas hisses. "Tell me what happened, and tell me how you somehow failed to do right by Jack again, and tell me why—"
"Fuck you." Dean steps forward to jab a finger into Cas' chest, a sensation like a vice tightening around his throat making his words gruff, strangling him. His heart is racing. "This is bullshit. I—I know my faults with him, where I fucked up, but I didn't make him do this. I didn't tell him to do this. Only thing I said was—all I said—"
Some sort of spatial awareness hits Dean like a gut punch, the world around the shape of Cas coming into focus with abrupt force as Sam twitches out of the corner of his eye. Dean swivels his head to see Sam looking down, and Jack is standing right beside him, tugging on his shirt and waving him down. Sam darts a quick look to Dean and Cas, then crouches down at Jack's insistence.
"Yeah, Jack?" Sam asks awkwardly.
"They're fighting," Jack whispers—or, he probably thinks he's whispering, but everyone can hear him. He's got his small hands cupped around his mouth as he leans in like he's telling a secret.
"Um, yeah, they—they do that sometimes," Sam replies a touch sheepishly.
Jack makes a low, grumpy sound and whispers louder, probably on purpose this time. "You should tell them not to."
"You know," Sam says dryly, "I might just do that, buddy. Hey, uh, do you think you'd wanna go get Dean's comb for me? Bring it over here."
"Okay," Jack chirps, pulling back and throwing a suspicious look at Dean and Cas before turning to dart off towards the table.
Sam pops up and regards them with a flat look. "I'm not going to say it, but...he's got a point. Look, you've got maybe twenty seconds before he comes back over here, so you better explain fast, Dean."
"Okay, it's like this. The kid and I—well, we started talking. Ya know, airing our shit out. He said—he told me he wanted us to be okay, and we were—" Dean clenches his jaw, averting his eyes. "We were starting to be, I think, but then he—he brought up his mom. Started talking about how sad she was that he never got to be a kid. Then he started talking about how he didn't like being God, how he just wanted to be a kid, and he asked me if I would—if he was a kid, would I look after him. And I—I mean, what was I supposed to do? Lie? Tell him I wouldn't? 'Course I would. Next thing I know, I look over, and he's just—he's…" Dean looks down as Jack comes running back up to them, brandishing the comb like it's a trophy. "That. He's that."
"Can I have this?" Jack asks Dean, little fingers wrapped around the handle of the comb, and Dean thinks about how it looks like a knife until you find out what it really, truly is inside.
A kid who's God and doesn't even know it holds a comb that looks like a knife and wants to keep it.
"Yeah," Dean says weakly. "You can have it, kiddo."
"Jack," Cas murmurs, his voice quiet and sort of rough, strained with—with—
He's mourning.
"Yes, Daddy?" Jack asks, blinking up at him.
Cas flinches slightly, then smiles tightly. "Ah, Dean and I are going to—talk for a little bit. Stay here with Sam. I'll be right back."
"Okay," Jack says, then looks right at Dean, still holding the comb. "You're coming back, too?"
If I'm alive, Dean thinks. "Yeah," Dean says.
Jack apparently decides that's good enough for him, because he turns to Sam and immediately starts flicking the comb open, asking Sam to do it, too. Sam huffs a quiet laugh and crouches down to do as he's told, his face soft and open and Dean can't look at him. He can't—he can't even—
Dean turns on his heel and walks out of the kitchen, his fingers flexing. He marches towards his room, not really sure where else to go for privacy, even though this is the last place he wants to fight with Cas. He can barely sleep at night as it is. He really doesn't need another reason to toss and turn in his bed, his mind playing everything Cas has ever said or done in a loop.
When Cas follows him into the room, he moves away from the door to go stand by Dean's desk, bracing his hands on it. His head is bent, shoulders pulled taught. Dean carefully walks the door back, shutting it, and he tries to ignore the urge to go over and rearrange Cas until he looks more relaxed.
They haven't—they aren't even—
Dean leans his head back against the door with a quiet tap, his eyes drifting shut. He's so fucking stupid, which isn't news, but this is a new low, even for him. If he'd just—if he had gathered the stones to open his big fucking mouth and just—
They haven't talked about what happened before Cas died. Hell, Dean wasn't even here when Cas got back. He was off getting drunk at every bar across the midwest, ignoring Sam's phone calls and coming scarily close to putting Baby in a ditch a time or two. Not his best moments, admittedly, but a day doesn't go by that he's not thankful that no one saw him the morning he woke up to a voicemail on his phone from Sam saying that Jack was back, that Cas was back, come home, Dean, you can come home now…
Dean had leaned out of Baby, nearly falling right out the car, and he'd vomited in the parking lot of some bar he'd been parked in the back of because he'd been too trashed to drive the previous night.
Despite that, he'd shakily driven himself home that morning, sweating every smile, the liquor pouring right out of him. He'd come in stumbling, breathless, smelling awful and looking worse, and Cas had been right there. He was there. Just—there, and Dean had nearly vomited right on his shoes.
"Jesus, Dean," Sam had breathed out, stricken, and Jack had frowned, frowned, so fucking sad, but Cas…
Cas had eyed him critically and said, almost with no inflection in his tone, "You need a shower," and Dean had laughed until he was almost crying, except he wasn't, and then he was suddenly shoving Cas right at his chest, shoving and shoving. He didn't scream. He didn't yell. He just kept putting his hands against Cas' chest and shoving. Go away, he'd thought, go away, go away, just go away.
He'd shoved until his own chest was heaving, and Cas had let him, and Sam and Jack had looked so confused. That was all there was until Dean just made his hands into fists and thought, almost violently and not at all, I want to make him bleed, and then, he already has. He'd walked away, rattling like loose change in a dryer, taken a shower and didn't meet Cas' gaze for days after.
They haven't talked. Every time Dean thinks about how they should, he just comes right back around to anger—the kind he can't escape, the kind he's never been able to escape. It has made things so terribly awkward for everyone, and Dean knows clearing the air would be—it'd help, maybe, but he doesn't want the air to be clear. He wants it to be sludge, oily and slick, grime. He wants it to be bloody.
No one can get free of that. Clearing the air cleans all that away, and then what? It's so much easier to walk away when things are clear. Fuck clarity. Dean's had enough of clarity.
Dean's never had clarity, but that's besides the point. Don't fix it if ain't broke, and Cas hasn't left yet, so.
"Dean," Cas says, and Dean lifts his head, opening his eyes to see Cas turning, every line and shadow and curve of his face packed with tension.
"Yeah, Cas?" Dean rasps. It's like Russian Roulette. What are they talking about? What will it be? Put the bullet in, spin, and is it them, is it Jack, is it the weather, or what torment Cas must have suffered in the Empty, or Dean's torment while he was gone?
"Jack—" of course it's Jack, Dean thinks, "—if this is his doing, we can't—there is no way to reverse it. God's will… If he made it so, so it shall be."
Dean swallows. "Cas, he did this. He wanted this. I didn't realize he meant it this literally when he said he wanted to be a kid. Maybe—maybe I did encourage him, but not on purpose. I wasn't trying to get him to do it, man, you gotta know that. I just told him—Cas, I just told him exactly what you would have told him if he asked you. I said I'd take care of him. What the fuck was I supposed to say?"
"You were supposed to tell him that you'd take care of him as he was. You were supposed to tell him that he didn't have to become a child to be treated as one when he already was one. Dean, you—you were supposed to tell him that he was perfect, he was already perfect, there was nothing wrong with him, and we would miss him! We would—" Cas cuts himself off, his shoulders hunching in, head ducking as his breath shudders out him. "He's gone, Dean. He's—I lost my—and we can't get—we can't—"
"Fuck," Dean chokes out, because Cas is crying, he's mourning, and Dean's only ever seen him cry once, never with a sorrow like this. It had pinned him in place then, such a shock to his system to see someone—see Cas—cry out of joy, but this isn't that. This is...this is… Dean should move, he should be moving, doing something, doing—
"It wasn't supposed to be like this anymore. It wasn't—I wasn't supposed to lose—" Cas' chin trembles, and then he lifts both hands and covers his face, shaking his head back and forth.
"Please. Please don't—Cas, please don't do that, man. Come on, please just—just—" Dean releases an alarmed sound, only making sense of the words halfway into saying them. He doesn't usually beg. Not very often. Only when things are very dire. When things are so fucking desperate that he can't help it, can't stop it, can't force the pleas back without gagging on them.
Like right now. Dean becomes viscerally aware of how many times he's begged Cas, prayed to him, got down on his damn knees to do it, and he would again. He swears on his life he would, right here and now, just outright fucking beg Cas not to do that. Suddenly, it's the most harrowing thing he's ever experienced in his fucking life just to see Cas cry; he's never seen it, not like this, and if he could spend the rest of his life never seeing it, he'd be grateful.
Cas releases this tiny, stuttered sound that goes muffled into his palms, his shoulders wrenching up, trembling, and Dean's suddenly a flurry of motion. He sort of just—bursts into it, helpless to stand still and do nothing. Cas is crying, Cas is crying, Cas is crying, he thinks on a loop, followed by: that's not allowed, stop it, make it stop.
"Hey, don't—Cas, don't—" Dean can't get his mouth to work right, and he feels inadequate, useless, helplessly reaching out to fumble his fingers over the bend of Cas' wrists and tug his hands down. It's a mistake immediately, forcing him to see what Cas looks like as he breaks down, and he feels like he can't breathe when met with it. It's like his chest is caving in on itself. "Jesus. Jesus, Cas, stop. You gotta fucking stop, man, I'm—I'm so—"
"Don't you think I would if I could?" Cas snarls, sounding supremely pissed off about the fact that he's crying, and the additional frustration apparently works counterproductively to make him cry more, tears spilling from his eyes faster.
"Okay, okay, okay," Dean chants, his voice rising in pitch as his panic spikes. He shuffles closer, not even thinking when he bats Cas' hands down and reaches up to grab his arms, dragging his hands up and down frantically over the fabric of his trenchcoat sleeves. His heart pounds with some misplaced kind of adrenaline that urges him to fucking fix it, whatever it is, burn the goddamn world if he has to, but this is—it's on him. It's his fault. "Okay, let's just—we can not think about it for a while, we can just ignore—"
"What, the literal child?" Cas snaps. "Ignore him? Ignore the fact that I've lost Jack yet again, and—"
When Cas' words choke off, halted in a stilted way, Dean flexes his fingers on Cas' arms and then drags them down to grab Cas' hands, squeezing them, his mouth dry and his head one blaring alarm playing on a loop, complete with red flashing over and over. Cas' fingers are limp in his, and he's got his eyes clenched tight, but the tears are still coming, and Dean doesn't know what the hell to do.
"You—you haven't—" Dean swallows, his heart thudding. He swings Cas' hands a little, trying to get him to open his eyes, but he refuses. "Cas, that's still Jack in there. It's still him. He's just—he's...a kid now, is all. You haven't lost him."
Cas' eyes snap open then, and Dean knows instantly that he has fucked up somehow. It's obvious because Cas' top lip curls up, trembling, and the tears still aren't stopping, and then he's gritting out, "I know that he's still Jack. I'm not stupid, Dean."
"I'm not saying you are. I'm just—"
"Completely missing the point! How would you feel? What would you do, after I had made my mistakes with Sam, and say I left with him for a few hours, and he was fine—he was okay, and things weren't perfect, but he was okay, happy, and safe, and the world was finally safe, but then I brought him back, after everything, as a child both in mind and form; what would you do, Dean?"
"Cas," Dean whispers.
"What would you do?" Cas presses, voice trembling with fury, then anguish when he speaks next. "What would you do if you realized you would never see him again, after all the things you'd been through? What would you do if your child was still here, but he was gone? What would you—what would you—"
He can't say anything else and more tears flow from his eyes, his watery blue eyes that have no business still being this bright. He looks right at Dean, leaving his expression open and naked and raw where Dean can see it, like he never learned to hide things such as this, and Dean can barely look at him. He can't look away, but looking at him is torture.
"I'm sorry, I'm so—" Dean releases an aggrieved sound and drops Cas' hands to shakily cup his face and brush the tears away with his thumbs, not even thinking of the intimacy in the action. He just does it because he has to do something, because he can't bear to see the evidence of Cas' crying anymore, and Cas lets him. Cas leans back against the desk, resigned, all the fight seeping out of him at once, and he lets Dean swipe his tears away as he steadily replaces them. Crying. Just crying. "Please, man. I can't—I just… I'm so sorry. God, I'm so fucking sorry. Please stop. I'm—Cas, I'm—"
"What would you do, Dean?" Cas rasps, just staring at him, just fucking crying.
Dean keeps hastily swiping the tears away, his palms wet, Cas' skin damp and soft and warm. He thinks he's breathing through the eye of a needle. "I would be pissed," he admits in a croak. The truth comes flowing out of him like a busted tap, like Cas weeping is the sledgehammer to his walls. "It would fuck me up, and I'd be—I'd be jealous, deep down, that he gets to—" His mouth clamps shut for a moment, and he can't—he can't— "I know, Cas. I'd be just like this. Worse, maybe. Definitely more—more destructive about it. I'd hate it, and I'd almost be glad that he could have something better than what he got, and I'd miss him with him right there next to me. You're right. You are, and I'm sorry. Cas, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking—"
"He's gone. He left," Cas whispers, and he laughs wetly, his gaze a little unfocused like he's barely aware of where he's at. "All Gods abandon their subjects. Perhaps I'm merely making assumptions, Dean, but I've got the vaguest idea that the pressure becomes too much for them. Everyone wants to be God until they are."
"Cas, hey," Dean mumbles, ducking his head to try and catch his gaze, trying to get him to snap back into himself. Cas blinks. More tears spill, and Dean wipes them away, too. Tender. So tender. "Yeah, there you are. Hey, you with me?"
"I have nowhere else to go," Cas tells him tonelessly, holding his gaze as he says it. "But we can't—we can't stay here. Jack and I—we have to go."
"Okay," Dean says woodenly. Then, violently, "No. No, absolutely not. You can't just—you can't. No."
Cas' lips twitch, and his tone is sardonic with irony threaded through his tone as he murmurs, "Ah, now he tells me, when it's not an option."
"Shut up," Dean snaps. "It's a goddamn option. It's the only option. You can't. You—you can't leave."
"We won't be staying," Cas replies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like those words aren't a knife curving up under Dean's ribs one at a time, individually, tugging until the whole cage is cracking within him, splintering him apart. "I've already thought ahead. What needs to be done."
"Of course you have," Dean bites out. "That's what you do, isn't it? You just—you run six steps ahead trying to solve the goddamn problem, only to make it worse, and then you're gone, you fucking leave—"
Cas starts crying again, worse, his face twisting.
"Fuck," Dean blurts, his frustration draining out of him in an instant. "Shit, I shouldn't have—I didn't mean that. I'm an asshole. Please don't—I'm sorry, please stop crying. Jesus Christ."
"He needs—Jack needs—" Cas struggles with it, with talking through the tears, and he groans like he's furious about it, but then he's laughing in a way that's more heartbreaking than humorous. He lets his face sag forward into Dean's hands, his whole body slumping like all of his strings have been snipped at once. His eyes drift shut and he cries.
"Okay, don't—don't even worry about it, Cas. We'll handle it. It's fine. We'll—it's going to be okay. Just please—just—" Dean's begging again, desperate, but at this point, there isn't a point. It's all just mindless rambling, trying so hard to soothe, making promises he has no way to back up.
Dean slides his hand to cup the back of Cas' head, drawing him in until he's falling, until he falls forward right into Dean with a wet gasp, shaking with the sobs now, and Dean's never felt this scared in his goddamn life. He hasn't seen Cas like this, and it strips him bare and leaves him defenseless so quickly that he doesn't even know what to do.
He wants to comfort, and it's that, really, that gets his arms around Cas, holding onto him possibly too gingerly, like he might break. He lets Cas sag into him, and he thinks, a little mystified, he's so warm.
In this moment, he'd expect Cas to feel smaller than he usually does in Dean's mind, but he's bigger somehow, taking up so much space in Dean's head and arms. Dean can feel the shape of him, feel him shaking, feel him crying hard and helpless. He's stared down multiple apocalypses and never felt as useless as he does right now.
This is dangerous, Dean thinks distantly, his fingers mindlessly carding through the back of Cas' hair. It is, because he knows all the way into the hollow of his bones where his strength originates from that he's weak for this man, that he'd give Cas absolutely anything right now, just to fix this, to stop it. He'd hit his knees and offer himself up without hesitation, not thinking of the long-term, not thinking of all the time he's spent refusing to acknowledge that he's what Cas wants at all.
It's not the answer, Dean knows that, but his knees twinge with the urge to buckle anyway.
Cas isn't holding onto him. He's just leaning into him. Dean can feel his face pressed against his shoulder, wetting his flannel. There's going to be a damp spot, and Dean's going to have to wash it, and something in him wants to burn it. No evidence. Cas didn't cry, and Dean didn't fuck up this bad, and maybe they can finally just clear the air. Fuck, Dean should have cleared the air. He should have—
"He didn't say goodbye," Cas croaks, another shudder running through his body.
Dean's eyes flutter shut. He swallows. "Cas, man, I don't think he—I know he didn't think it'd be like this for you. When he was—well, I guess he was hinting at it, and I didn't realize it—but when he was, he said you'd take care of him. He knew it without even having to ask. I don't think he saw it as him losing you, or you losing him. He wasn't leaving you, okay? He was—he knew I'd bring him home."
"You should have—Dean, you should have…" Cas doesn't seem to know what Dean should have done, but he sounds damn sure that Dean should have done something, and Dean agrees.
He has no idea what he could have done, but he knows he fucked it up, regardless. He always does. All this time, all these years, he's always gotten it wrong. He tries, but it's like he's just...made for ruining things. He never wanted to ruin Cas like this, never wanted to ruin him like he did before this, standing in that moment where he'd smiled and sacrificed himself like he was thankful to have the chance, like doing it for Dean was the closest he would ever get to being good enough for him.
"I'm sorry," Dean says again, unable to stop it. He thinks he's going to learn the shape and taste of the word in his mouth. He thinks he's going to have to place the statement before every sentence he speaks. He needs to apologize for fucking existing at this point, and even then, it still wouldn't be enough.
Cas doesn't say anything. He goes quiet, still leaning into him. His breathing starts to even out, and Dean's wary to do anything to make it shaky again. He thinks maybe Cas' crying is stopping, slowly, and he's prepared to spend the rest of his life making sure it never happens again. It'll fucking kill him.
Pain is so fucking strange, if ya think about it. Dean knows it well, all different shapes and sizes. He's not sure everyone would agree, but he knows—has always known, but knows for sure now—that causing someone else, someone he cares about, to hurt like this is the worst pain he'll ever feel. Worse than Hell. Worse than torture. Worse than the disappointment of a father, or the loss of his mother. It's someone who's here right now, someone who has to keep breathing after he's hurt them like this.
It's Cas. It's Cas.
Slowly, Cas shifts against him. He lets out a quiet breath and starts to peel himself away, backing up. Dean still has one hand in the back of Cas' hair, the other still resting against his cheek. As Cas draws away, Dean lets his hands slide around to Cas' cheeks again, swiping the remaining tears one final time. Cas' eyes are red and watery still, but the tears have stopped. Dean almost sighs in relief.
Jesus Christ. That can never happen again. Dean's not really sure how to avoid it, but he's just—he isn't equipped to handle it. Something about it rips at him like nothing else. He's still jittery from it, hesitant to move too much or say anything wrong.
And then—and then Cas is looking right at him, his eyes wide and red-rimmed, his face cupped in Dean's hands like it's something precious. He seems to freeze, not breathing. Dean's fingers twitch against Cas' skin, and he doesn't—he's not sure if—
I could kiss him, Dean thinks, the thought coming to him unbidden and blindsiding, and then: does he want me to?
It never even crosses his mind to ask do I want to?
Cas' gaze drops, and he deliberately leans farther away, dragging his face from Dean's hands. They fall down, landing limp and useless by Dean's sides, and Cas doesn't look up as he says, "Before Jack was born, I planned to—well, if he hadn't grown up so quickly, I would have raised him. I was going to. He needs stability. Schooling. A home. Safety."
"Family," Dean adds, because he can speak on the importance of that as a child, how influential it is.
He remembers it—a distant memory, but sharp in his mind all the same. He can recall standing at the window in Sonny's Boys' Home, looking out at Baby where his dad waited, where Sam hung out the window playing with his toy airplane.
He remembers standing there, thinking that his family needed him. He remembers the truth of it when it settled into him, staring out at Sam and smiling because that was his kid brother waiting for him, his smile crumbling into tears because he would have stayed—if not for Sam, he would have stayed right where he was at, stayed there at sixteen and left his dad behind like his dad left him. But Sammy—he was family, he was a kid. Dean's kid, really, and that was more important than what Dean would have done. Family's important in a variety of ways, and Jack needs that in the best ones.
"Dean," Cas says softly, "Jack can't stay here. I won't raise him here, not in this."
In silence, Dean thinks about it again. That feeling that had ripped through him at sixteen years old. Anger at his father, anger at his brother, anger at himself. Anger, even back then. But mostly, that crushing realization that he'd give anything for Sam, to Sam, even if it was giving something up, and he didn't hate Sam for it for a second. The part that hurt the most was accepting it fully, because there's something to learning that your life isn't your own before you even get to live it.
That wasn't Sam's fault. It was John's. Dean knows that now. He wouldn't go back and do a damn thing different, not when it comes to giving everything for that kid, and he has no regrets.
So, he gets it. He gets what it means to do what's best for someone else, no matter what you want. You love me, Dean could argue. Don't leave. But he knows better. He's known since he was sixteen what this is, long before he was ever met with the choice to be his father in the scenario, or someone else entirely.
It's different, but it's the same. Dean doesn't want to be his father. Not about this.
"Okay," Dean rasps, forcing it out. He jerks a harsh nod, trying not to think about it—about Cas leaving again, always leaving. "Where're you gonna go?"
"I don't—I don't know," Cas admits in a whisper, his eyes starting to water again and fuck no, fuck that, no, no, no, please don't. "I don't know how we'll even—"
"Jody's," Dean blurts out hastily, swaying forward, his hands raising halfway in alarm. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. "Just—just until things… Just for a little while, and I'll—Cas, I'll find somewhere else. I'll handle it. I'll handle everything, and until then, I'm sure Jody wouldn't mind helping us out, okay? Don't worry about anything else. I'll handle it."
Cas looks startled out of his approaching tears, and Dean nearly fucking deflates like a popped balloon. Crisis averted, apparently. Jesus Christ.
"You'll...handle it," Cas says haltingly.
"Yeah. Yeah, 'course I will. I'll just—" Dean wracks his brain. Fuck, how is he going to handle this? Oh, he's so stupid. "Um, I'll work it all out. Don't even worry about it, man. You just—you focus on Jack. Sound good? Does that—you okay with that?"
Cas narrows his eyes. "You're being...strange."
"Strange," Dean repeats.
"Yes. You're being...overindulgent. To me."
"Because I wanna help?"
"You want to?" Cas challenges, arching an eyebrow, and it's like he never shed a tear at all. No shame, no embarrassment, just Dean's asshole of a best friend.
Dean huffs. "I know my track record is shit when it comes to this, but I wouldn't just toss you out."
"Forgive me for not being sure. Your track record is shit when it comes to that," Cas says dryly.
"Yeah, I—I earned that one," Dean admits, reaching up to scratch his eyebrow, grimacing. He shakes his head and blows out a deep breath, then cuts a hesitant look at Cas. "Just to be clear, I guess… Yes, I wanna help. I'm not gonna leave you hanging, man. Plus, I mean, it's Jack. I fucked up with him enough, and he...um… Well, he—uh, he might've…"
"What?" Cas grits out, nostrils flaring.
"So, again, I didn't tell him to do this," Dean mumbles, his face prickling like it does when he's blushing. God, he hasn't blushed in a while. He's vaguely surprised that he can recognize it. "Thing is, Jack sort of...gave himself a watered-down version of his past. The last four years summed up in a way a kid can be okay understanding. Mommy in Heaven, Daddy Cas away for a while, him sick and then better. But um, I guess he had to, like, give us all our roles in his life, right? Obviously you're his dad. That's just—I mean, it's obvious, so that's—"
"Dean," Cas cuts in, fully done fucking around.
"Right. Just. Like, okay, Daddy Cas," Dean says, gesturing to Cas, then he points towards the door with a cough. "Sam is—well, he's a little weird, actually. It's kinda funny. He's Uncle Daddy Sam, apparently, because he's...he's my brother, so that makes him an uncle, too, except Jack's always had a lot of dads, and it's a little complicated, so Sam is—a dad and not, and he decided that I'm, um…" Weakly, Dean gestures to himself, sheepish and embarrassed and absolutely not thinking about this too hard. "Daddy Dean. That's what he—I mean, the family tree was wild to begin with before he even—but he made the call, so I'm—in his mind, I'm…"
Cas watches him struggle like he's a worm on a hook, then he says, dryly, "You're Daddy Dean."
"Right," Dean croaks. "That."
"Congratulations," Cas tells him flatly.
"Thanks," Dean mutters, making a face.
"In that case, Daddy Dean," Cas muses, emphasizing the words with something barbed and amused all at once, "feel free to provide, since you're so inclined."
Dean's brain packs up and goes on vacation.
Provide plays on a loop in his head, followed closely by a slightly ridiculous bringing home the bacon, which is immediately followed by wait, there's got to be a home first. At this point, his brain reaches the vacation destination, and he's not thinking about much of anything. He has clicked off like Sam's electronics when he forgets to charge them, suddenly dying right in the middle of something important. This is very important, and Dean just.
The ocean is a lovely vacation spot.
"Dean," Cas says.
"Hm?" Dean manages, blinking hard, smacked back to earth by Cas' gravelly, unimpressed tone.
"You're being strange again," Cas informs him suspiciously.
Dean doesn't argue it this time. He just nods. "I know. Anyway, um. Jody's?"
"Yes," Cas murmurs. "I'll call her. Claire as well. She should—in case she's there, I'd like to make sure she's okay with it first."
"You probably won't have to stay long," Dean says, despite the fact that he has no idea how much time this will take. "We'll have you set up in no time."
"Are you sure you—"
"Cas, buddy, I got this. You just...worry about the kid. I'll handle the rest, okay?"
"If you insist," Cas grouses.
Dean clears his throat and sets his shoulders. "Well, I do. So, yeah. Uh, are you—you're...okay? Now?"
"I'm not going to start crying again," Cas snaps, pinning him with a sharp look.
"Oh, good," Dean breathes out, then immediately coughs and feels that abnormal prickling in his face again when Cas crooks an eyebrow at him. "S'just that you're not—you don't usually...ya know."
"Cry."
"Yeah. I've never seen—not like that. Have you ever even—"
"No, it's not a normal occurrence," Cas says.
"Oh, good," Dean repeats, and then he's waiting for the floor to open up and swallow him whole because Cas is looking at him oddly, and this isn't fair. Cas was the one crying, for fuck's sake. Where's his mortification? Jesus Christ. "Not—I mean, you don't, which is...um. Yeah, so, if you could keep not doing that, I'd feel—I'd be—it would be...better."
"Better," Cas echoes, both eyebrows raised now.
"For me. It'd be better—for me." Dean should stop talking. He should stop talking. He should— "I don't like it."
Cas squints at him. "Crying?"
"When you cry," Dean clarifies, and he should absolutely shut up, but for some reason, his mouth has fully disconnected from his brain. "I'd like you to...not."
"You don't like it when I cry," Cas says, putting it all together, framing it that way like he's just realizing what Dean meant. "You don't want me to."
Dean doesn't really know why his brain skitters around those sentences like they're not the final product of his deconstructed thoughts, broken up and spoken around, stilted but honest. Of course he doesn't like it when Cas cries; of course he doesn't want him to. Jesus, that's not weird. It's not anything but common fucking decency, so Dean's not so sure why it gives him a strange lurch of paranoia, like he's being exposed. Oh, what, he's so goddamn fucked up now that showing he cares is an issue?
"Anyway," Dean says forcefully, "I'm going to give you my credit card."
"Your—what?" Cas blinks at him, startled.
Dean takes a step back. Why were they so close? Right, he was fucking cupping Cas' face in his hands not even five minutes ago. Jesus. Coughing, Dean fumbles for his wallet to go digging around for his credit card. The credit card. The Charlie Bradbury special, if you will. "Yeah, here you go."
"Why are you giving me this?" Cas asks cautiously, reaching out to take it when Dean shoves it at him more and more insistently.
"Kid's gotta eat, and he'll need clothes, and—well, a lot of things. It's for anything he needs. Or wants." Dean clenches his jaw. Don't, he thinks, almost fucking begging himself not to. Don't do it, don't say it, don't fucking— "Buy yourself something nice."
Jesus Christ.
"Nice," Cas echoes, staring at him with genuine incredulity, which is a rare look for him.
"Yeah, something nice," Dean says, digging his hole deeper, his voice growing weaker. "Um. Something you like. For yourself. With my—" And nope, he's not. He isn't. He flat out fucking refuses to say with my money. Regrouping, he manages to wheeze a strained, "Like a...plant."
Cas opens his mouth, then closes it, then looks down at the credit card and says, in a very confused tone, "Thank you?"
"Ya'welcome," Dean mumbles, ducking his head.
"I'm...going to go call Jody and Claire now."
"Yeah, Cas, you do that."
Cas does, in fact, leave to do exactly that, and Dean closes the door behind him, listening to his footsteps fade, and then he proceeds to very quietly, very steadily bang his forehead against the door.
Doesn't change much. He's still an idiot.