38. When the Dawn Breaks

The days that follow grow ever warmer. 

Spring has arrived. The morning after he reads Dean to sleep, Castiel wakes up in his own bed before the sun has risen. He spends a quiet hour sipping on coffee and watching his breath puff up as he sits on the porch step, enjoying the fresh air even as he shivers. The patches of snow that have hidden the yard all winter are beginning to fade, revealing tufts of wet, brown grass and plants that will soon become green and alive, and he can see fluffed up robins pecking around, looking for worms. 

The screen door creaks, and Dean carefully sits next to him, grunting when he has to bend his knee. He’s wrapped up in a blanket, his hair in sixty five directions and wet from a shower, a cup of coffee in his hands. Castiel still isn’t used to that – to Dean getting his own food and drink. It makes him smile to himself. 

“‘s cold,” Dean complains, scowling at the remnants of the snow as though they have personally offended him. The expression is, for lack of a better term, adorable – the tip of his nose and his cheeks are already pink from the brisk air. 

“You could go inside,” Castiel points out, suppressing a grin at Dean’s grumpy look.

“You’re out here, though.”

He blinks. Looks over at Dean a little more carefully. The omega is hiding his face by taking a sip of his coffee. The tips of his ears are bright red. 

Shoving away the odd, fluttery feeling in his chest, Castiel gently nudges him with his shoulder. “Yes, but I have on a coat. And shoes. Unlike you.”

“It’s seven in the mornin’, Cas,” Dean says, shaking his head. “No decent person puts on shoes before eight.”

“I suppose I’m not very decent, then.”

Dean snorts. “Guess not.”

Their days fall back into a routine. 

The omega follows him around the house like a shadow, never straying from his side for more than a few minutes at a time. He completes a full shelf of his book organization project, started what seems like so long ago, and smiles a real, bright smile for the first time in days. 

All the while, Dean reaches out. Touches, nearly constantly – brushes a hand here, leans against him there. And though he is, at first, silent more often than he was before, he soon begins to joke. Begins to try and find his footing. 

Castiel can’t begrudge him any of that – he knows it’s been a rough couple of days. Knows that Dean is looking for security and a routine again; knows, by now, that it takes him a while to process big changes in his life. 

There’s nothing wrong with that, he thinks. Castiel himself struggles with change. Nothing is more evident than that when he thinks about how long it has taken him to make Dean feel truly comfortable here. The familiar guilt sits at the back of his mind like a lead weight. 

The days progress and turn into nights. He reads Dean to sleep again, and then again. He can’t help but feel victorious each time Dean relaxes into the covers. Can’t help but feel ten feet tall when his soft, steady breathing morphs into soft, steady snores. 

In the daylight, Dean seems more at ease, though he looks no better rested than before. Castiel tells himself to be patient. To not push, though he wants to. He knows that Balthazar had tried to encourage Dean to consider a session with Benny, and knows that it went over like a lead balloon. After changing so much so quickly, he doesn’t want to pressure Dean to move any faster than he is comfortable with. So, despite Balthazar’s increasingly irritated hints when he checks in over the phone in the morning, he is choosing not to push. 

This evening is no different than the five or six before it. He follows Dean to his bedroom, hands him a cup of tea that he rarely drinks. Dean sets it next to his glass of water on the nightstand – a welcome habit he’s developed. And then he settles down under the covers and closes his eyes, listening silently as Castiel reads through his book, his scent spiraling down from anxious to calm the longer they go. 

Once he’s sure Dean is asleep, Castiel sets the book down in his lap, unwilling to continue the story without him. He’s not sure The Song of Achilles is really the type of thing that will help Dean along on his recovery – it’s not a happy story, by any means. But that hasn’t really seemed to matter. Over the last few days, it has taken Dean less and less time to relax into the mattress as Castiel progresses through the pages. Tonight, he’d fallen asleep before they had even finished the chapter. 

Spending their evenings like this has been… nice. More than nice. It has brought them both peace, he thinks – Castiel has left Dean’s room at the end of each night feeling quietly content. He’s not sure, of course, but he thinks it has something to do with his alpha brain; it’s easier for him to relax when he knows that Dean is relaxed. 

And Dean is peaceful in his sleep, his face smooth, the seemingly perpetual lines and creases erased as he rests. Physical manifestations of his difficult life, put to rest by Castiel. It is, somehow, a heady feeling to watch the omega let his guard down – something he’s become eager for. He wants to think that it’s doing Dean some good, this rest – he still looks tired during the day, but perhaps slightly less so. They’ve not talked about it. 

He rifles the pages of the book with his thumb and watches Dean silently, a small smile resting on his face that has become habitual around the omega. Dean’s mouth is slightly open, one hand behind his head and the other resting on his chest, rising and falling slowly. His blanket has slipped down to his waist and his shirt has ridden up to his ribs, and the smallest sliver of pale stomach greets Castiel’s eyes in the low lamplight. He’s beautiful. 

He’s absolutely beautiful. 

Castiel closes his eyes, a small sigh escaping him. He rifles the pages of his book a little faster, then faster, until his hand comes to a rest. 

No matter how much he tries, it is difficult to keep thoughts like that under control. He is well aware that his feelings for Dean are, at best, inappropriate, and he’s trying his best to keep his view of their relationship firmly in the vein of friendship. It’s just… it’s so difficult, at times like this. Times where Dean’s trust is so visible and obvious. 

Dean wants to stay with him, free or not – Castiel understands that now. Believes that now. But that doesn’t mean he’s interested in anything more than their current dynamic. His loyalty is proof of nothing but their friendship, and even the incident in the bathroom – a week ago now – is proof of nothing other than that he is beginning to heal. It makes him hurt, how much he wants to love Dean without limitations. But he can’t. And the reality is that he may never be able to. And Castiel has to make his peace with that. 

Thoughts swirling in never ending circles, he goes down to his bed and tries his damndest to go to sleep. 

He has to hold back a groan when he wakes up and realizes that only a couple hours have passed. The clock blinks at him, mocking – it’s only three in the morning. Sleep, it seems, is not his friend tonight. 

He tosses and turns for a while before he gives up. Perhaps a quick look in on Dean will help him settle. So, ignoring a slightly guilty conscience, he rolls out of his bed and stumbles into his robe, climbing the stairs as quietly as he can. He pauses in front of Dean’s door, listening until he’s sure there’s silence inside. Tries and fails to convince himself not to peek in on him, knowing that it would probably be considered creepy to do so and being just tired enough not to care. 

Frowning, he rubs at his face and blinks sleep out of his eyes. He pushes open Dean’s door without knocking. And, as he does so, his brain comes back online just in time for him to remember that was a mistake. 

Something in the air, in the room, is wrong.  

In his bed, strikingly opposite of how he’d been when Castiel had gone downstairs, Dean is scared. 

He’s still asleep, but where he’d been sprawled out and loose before, he is curled in on himself. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth a thin line – and he’s shaking. Most tellingly, he’s covering his neck, mumbling something inaudible. Castiel doesn’t need to know what he’s saying to understand, though. He knows by tone alone that Dean is pleading. Feels Dean’s terror in the room like a physical force; a looming, red-eyed figure in the corner. 

A nightmare. Dean is having a nightmare. 

He’s kneeling at Dean’s side with his hand on the omega’s shoulder before he can think better of it, wide awake and choking on the scent of his fear. The only thought in his mind, right now, is that he doesn’t want Dean to stay in this headspace any longer than he already has. 

When the omega draws in a sharp breath, Castiel lets one out, relieved that he’s awake. But when he opens his eyes to look up at Castiel, there’s no recognition in them at all. They’re empty. Void of everything other than pure, raw fear. 

Stomach lurching, Castiel recoils, struck by the horrifying knowledge that Dean is not seeing him right now. He’s seeing someone that he knows, without a doubt, is going to hurt him. 

As soon as his touch leaves the omega’s shoulder, he scrambles out of the bed. Lands with a dull, sick thud on the carpet, his back to Castiel. 

Horror punches him in the gut when he understands the significance of the position that Dean has dropped into. Head on the carpet as he kneels, hands locked behind his back, legs spread apart. He’s not making a single sound, immeasurably worse than the pleading had been, terror rolling off of him in waves that make Castiel want to vomit. 

“Dean,” he finally chokes out. 

The omega doesn’t react. He’s perfectly still. Eerily so. 

“Dean,” he repeats, softer, his voice breaking. There’s not so much as a twitch. 

Heart pounding, Castiel edges forward, faltering when Dean tenses impossibly farther, his grip white knuckled around his own forearms, his breath escaping in short, sharp pants. He pushes forward, sits at his side and does the only thing he thinks he can. 

His hand is shaking when he places upon Dean’s back. It’s the same anchoring touch that has worked to keep him calm so often in the past, and Castiel needs it to work now.  

But Dean’s jaw just tenses further, the revulsion and terror in his scent far from the calm, gentle fragrance Castiel wreathed himself in before going to sleep. And, despite that fear, Dean doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t apologize or plead. He doesn’t even cover his neck, like he’s done so often in the past. That scares Castiel more than anything. 

It hits him like a tidal wave, the realization. 

This is Dean as he’d been in Hell. Utterly beaten. Utterly sure that no amount of pleading or apologizing will get him anywhere. This Dean knows that he will be hurt, knows that there is nothing left for him to do but endure. His very scent is hollowing out, the sharpness of the terror from before sinking into something closer to acceptance. Submission. Sorrow. 

Five years. Dean had survived five years of this. 

He swallows around the spikes in his throat and pulls Dean up out of his trained stance, holds him to his chest. Dean goes without protest, a ragdoll in his hands. His gaze is still blank, still unseeing, and it stays that way even when Castiel cards a hand through his hair and whispers that it’s okay, that he’s safe now, that he has nothing to fear. 

And then, without meaning to, he brushes a finger over Dean’s nape – and finally gets a reaction. Dean flinches forward into his chest, a sharp gasp escaping him, hands clutching at his shirt and feet scrambling on the ground as he crowds forward. Castiel has to hold him back by his shoulders so he won’t send them both sprawling to the ground.

“Cas, help me–” 

“I’m here, Dean. I’m here. Please, wake up–” 

The omega’s cries don't stop. His voice cracks with the intensity of his sobs. “Please, Cas. Cas, God, please. Don’t let them– Please–”

“Dean!”

And the fight leaves him immediately. Dean’s breath hitches in short gasps as his eyes flick around wildly, finally landing on Castiel. There’s still a heart stopping second where Dean doesn’t recognize him, but when he does, it’s all the more devastating. His realization that Castiel is here – that Castiel has seen this – is an obvious and devastating implosion in his eyes. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Castiel says slowly, badly shaken. 

Dean pants harshly, his face pale. “I– you’re not – I thought –”

A shudder rocking through him, he snaps a hand to his mouth and pulls back from Castiel’s grip around his shoulders. “I’m – I’m gonna be sick–”

Castiel drags the small trashcan next to the nightstand over just in time. Dean retches and heaves until there’s nothing left inside of him. 

When he’s done, he stays hunched over the can, his hands wrapped around his middle as he trembles. His face is pale and there’s cold sweat on his neck, physical remnants of the terror from before. He closes his eyes. 

Silently, hands shaking a little, Castiel hands him his glass of water from the nightstand, and Dean takes it woodenly. He doesn’t drink it, nor does he reach out to Castiel for comfort. He just stares at nothing. 

Castiel is quiet for a long time, kneeling next to Dean on the floor of the bedroom. His book is laying in a forlorn heap next to the armchair. Dean’s blankets are half off the edge of the bed, trailing out to him like a reaching vine, half snarled into knots from the omega’s thrashing. The scent of his terror hangs in the room like decay. Like death. 

When Dean finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. 

“Sorry you had to see that.”

Castiel stops himself from blurting reassurances. He takes a breath, and considers his words more carefully. “What did you dream about?”

Dean swallows audibly, still turned away from him. “Not sure you wanna know, Cas.”

Gently, Castiel takes the soiled trash and puts it as far from them as he can reach. He settles against the edge of the mattress, crossing his legs, and tries his best to give Dean time to unknot himself. Tries his best to give him space. “I would like to know. If you want to tell me.”

Slowly, movements hitching and uneven, Dean settles himself against the bed next to Castiel. His hands are trembling as he balls them into fists and stuffs them under his arms. Quiet for a long time, a careful – and maybe intentional – foot of space between them, Dean visibly tries to calm himself. He takes deep breaths, worries his shirt in his hands. Bows his head and presses it into his knees, eyes clenched shut. 

It looks, Castiel realizes, like something he has done many times before. His heart twists. 

“I was back in Hell,” Dean finally says into his knees. “Don’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

He doesn’t take Dean’s defensive words personally – his tone doesn’t match it anyway. It is scraped raw, not angry. “Yes, I figured as much.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. “It was just him at first. Kicked me awake and…” He swallows, the tremor in his hands betraying the faux callousness of his words. “Put me up for use. Same shit that happened all the time, nothing new. Nothing real bad.”

“I would hazard a guess that anything that happened to you in that place would be considered ‘real bad,’ my friend,” Castiel corrects softly. He is ill, thinking about what being used must mean in the context of Dean’s life. Even more ill at the realization that the experience Dean is describing had obviously become commonplace.

Dean snorts, dropping his head against his knees in frustration. “Your feel for what’s bad and what’s just par for the fuckin’ course starts to change after a while, when you’re there. Shit just becomes… normal.”

“Well, it isn’t normal now. Perhaps your brain is remembering what normal actually is, and is adjusting accordingly.” 

Dean makes a choked sort of sound, probably something that’s supposed to be a laugh. He wraps his arms around his legs. Keeps his eyes closed. “Gonna have a lot more nightmares, then,” he whispers. 

More than anything, Castiel would like to reach out and hold him close. More than anything, he’d like to keep the man’s fears at bay. But he can’t. It’s never been more obvious that he can’t. His sorrow for Dean; his shaking, fist clenched rage at Alastair – those emotions are useless if he can’t find a way to translate them into feelings of safety and security for the man he loves.

Eventually, Dean uncurls all on his own, crossing his legs. He sniffs. Scrubs a hand over his eyes, chewing on his lip like he’s debating about something.

“You can tell me, Dean. Whatever it is.”

The omega closes his eyes again. He looks… defeated. Sick. “You were there. In it. At the end.”

Ice lands squarely in his stomach. “Me?”

Dean half laughs, miserable. “Yep,” he confirms, popping the ‘p’. 

The distance between them is glaring, now – it chills him. “Please tell me I wasn’t…”

“Nah. You were in the room, but you didn’t, uh. Touch me. You were just…” 

Dean’s voice goes achingly quiet. “Watching. You were just watching.”

Castiel stomach sinks to the floor as he replays Dean’s frantic words, smells the sorrow in his scent that is here even now. That crack in his voice had been betrayal. Dean had asked him for help – had pleaded with him – and his worst nightmare was that Castiel would refuse. 

He feels bitterly, instantly guilty. What has he done to make Dean, even subconsciously, believe that could ever be a possibility?

“Dean, I would never –” 

“I know,” Dean cuts him off, his voice flat. He looks down at his hands, and his tone softens into something more fragile. “I know. But it’s hard to tell when I’m dreaming. It seemed real to me.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

Dean finally looks at him, a tiny, sad smile curling half of his mouth. “Can’t apologize for Dream Cas, man. That dude is a direct product of this fucked up dome,” he says, tapping his temple. 

Somehow, Dean is managing to sound very much like he doesn’t care. Castiel isn’t fooled by his nonchalant tone, though – not for a second. He can still see the sweat soaking through the omega’s shirt. 

Shaking his head, Dean adds, “That Cas ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” And, while Castiel knows that Dean is just trying to reassure him, he does truly sound like he believes it. It makes something in him unclench. Makes it possible to swallow his guilt and put it to the side. 

“I think I’d still like to strangle him,” Castiel replies darkly, and succeeds in pulling a real, if short, laugh from Dean. 

“ Really glad he ain’t you,” Dean admits after a moment, the crack in his voice returning just a little. With one long, released breath, he leans against Castiel gently, and he is so relieved that Dean still wants to touch him that he feels like he might faint. 

Dean tucks his head down to inhale Castiel’s scent. He can feel the man relax, if slowly, and after a while, he rests his arm over Dean’s shoulder. The omega sinks into him fully, closing his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mumbles. He’d sound petulant if he wasn’t so exhausted. “Would’ve locked the damn door, if I’d known you were gonna come up here.”

Guilt tightens around him. “I’m so sorry, Dean. If I’d known that it would trigger a nightmare, I’d never have opened your door.”

Dean says nothing to that, for a long, pregnant moment. He lets out a long sigh. “You didn’t trigger shit, Cas. I’ve been having nightmares like that for, uh. For a minute.” He swallows. “I wake up on the floor half the time, man. Ever since I started trying to sleep on the mattress.”

He’s relieved, and then horribly guilty at being relieved – while it is a weight off his chest to know that he didn’t kick Dean into a flashback, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t had them. All this tells him is that Dean’s been dealing with them all on his own. 

“I…” Dean’s voice is rough. “It’s better on the floor than it was on the bed frame. And I know I ain’t gotta be afraid anymore. But it’s… it’s hard to remember. Sometimes.”

“I wish you’d told me it wasn’t working.”

Dean makes a small, upset noise. “I didn’t want to worry you. What the hell can you do about it, Cas? ‘Cept lose sleep over it,” he adds pointedly. He sounds so very tired. Older than his years.  

Castiel shakes his head, scooting and sliding his other arm around so that he’s got Dean tucked against his chest more firmly. He doesn’t like the guilt that’s crept into Dean’s tone, and he likes the shame even less. “I’m glad I’m here now.”

Dean scoffs. But he doesn’t pull away. 

Dean sleeps through breakfast, curled up on the couch again. 

He’d knocked out cold after Castiel had helped him downstairs, ten minutes away from his bedroom enough to calm him down completely. That held true even when Castiel insisted, guiltily, that they stay up on the couch for the sake of his knee. He’d sat down heavily in the corner, and after just a moment of exhausted hesitation, Dean had followed him. He’d curled up on the cushions with a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his head in Castiel’s lap. 

Castiel had run his hand through the omega’s hair and stared at nothing, numb, while he’d drifted off. 

He’d had no idea Dean was going through that. 

It adds up, now. The evidence. The way Dean had still looked exhausted in the mornings, the way he never comes downstairs before a long, hot, scent cleansing shower. The nose tickling, lingering smell of his discomfort that he’d picked up on each night in Dean’s room, even after an entire day for the air to clear. The way Dean had avoided his eyes each time he’d asked him how he’d slept. 

He’d known Dean had been through unspeakable things. He’d known. But he hadn’t truly understood the depth of his trauma. Or, at least, he’d forgotten it, during the months of separation between him now and the frightened animal Dean had been when he’d first arrived.

It does nothing but make him feel unspeakably guilty. Does nothing but remind him, over and over, that if it weren’t for the Morningstar chip in his collar, Dean would likely have been able to leave Hell behind him before any of that had happened. He cannot stop seeing the blank, sick fear in Dean’s eyes when he closes his own. 

And so he had not slept at all. Had spent the night with Dean in his lap, the omega’s nose buried into Castiel’s stomach and one arm slung around his waist, as though Castiel would ever dream of trying to go anywhere at all. And, while Dean had finally slept peacefully, Castiel had done nothing but wonder how in God’s name he thought he deserved to stay.  

He doesn’t make breakfast, because Dean doesn’t wake up. Castiel isn’t running on enough sleep to want to do it for himself, as hungry as he is. 

Around lunch, Dean stumbles off the couch and disappears upstairs for a shower. When he’s done, he takes one sniff of the air and eyes Castiel suspiciously. “We should eat,” he says pointedly. Castiel takes the hint. 

He insists on helping Castiel put lunch together, even with the lingering pain in his knee and his sleepless eyes, and Castiel can’t muster up the strength to deny him when he looks so determined to solve something. In silence, they split the duties in the kitchen – Dean slicing up cheese and apples, Castiel carefully arranging greens on their sandwiches. They both wash the dishes from the night before. Dean scrubs, Castiel rinses and dries. 

It is domestic. Peaceful. He likes it, and he wishes he could enjoy it without hearing the echoes of Dean pleading with him every time he has a spare moment to think.  

They sit in his office to dine, leaning against the couch with their legs kicked out in front of them. Castiel has bitten off an argument about Dean using the furniture correctly more times than he can count today, and he has a feeling that Dean knows that. He’s been deliberately ignoring him every time he lowers himself to the ground. Not meeting his eyes. Castiel, as much as he wants Dean to be in as little pain as possible, hasn’t had the heart to push it after already pushing him to stay on the couch last night. 

They eat in silence. It’s Dean that breaks it. 

“Balthazar said he tried to kill you,” he says out of nowhere, eating an apple slice. 

It takes a moment for Castiel to understand what Dean is talking about. He stares at him for a second until it clicks into place, and all the while, Dean munches calmly, sprawled out in a comfortable heap. It is an image that is sharply juxtaposed with his memory of Balthazar, still bright after all these years – the hatred in his eyes, the cold press of steel against his throat. 

“I’m… surprised he told you that.” 

Dean shrugs. “He told me a lot of stuff. I think it was his way of trying to protect you.” 

Castiel blinks at that. Sometimes he forgets just how intelligent Dean is – just how much he is able to see through the intentions of others. He supposes that it is a skill the omega has been perfecting for a long time. 

“How do you figure that?” he asks, voice a little weak. 

Dean raises an eyebrow, eating another apple slice before he responds. “I think he wanted to be sure I didn’t have plans to shank you, or somethin’.” 

Castiel can’t help but laugh at that. It sounds a little nervous, he knows. “Do you?”

The omega rolls his eyes. “‘Course not. I’m not an idiot.” 

He says it so easily. So confidently. And while he didn’t ever think that Dean would result to violence, he did believe that the revelation of his kin would be the end of their relationship. So he can’t help but push, at least a little. 

“Balthazar isn’t an idiot, either,” he begins carefully, watching Dean for a reaction. “He had a right to be angry.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, he didn’t. You didn’t do anything to him. And you didn’t do anything to me, either,” he adds, and Castiel is smart enough to know they’re not just talking about generalities. Dean is scent bonded with him too. He is probably very familiar with what Castiel’s guilt smells like.

Again, there is no hesitation in his voice. Nothing to suggest that Dean believes anything other than what he’s saying. 

“My father certainly did. My brothers did.” He doesn’t have the heart to dig into the specifics, doesn’t have the heart to remind Dean how many times his escape was thwarted by the very chip that his father invented, and by the tracking system that his company maintains. 

“And what the hell has that got to do with you?” Dean demands, irritated. “You can’t control the fucked up shit your dad did.” 

Castiel swallows. “I… I could have stopped it. Or I could have tried,” he says, his chest constricting. “After Gabriel left, Michael offered me what would have been his job. He tried to make me a leader in the company. Had I agreed, I could have changed things. Could have sabotaged things. But I ran away instead.” 

Dean shakes his head. “I’m glad you didn’t take it. That life ain’t for you, and it ain’t your burden to bear.” 

“But I–” 

“Fucking with those people,” Dean interrupts vehemently, “would have gotten you killed. You don’t mess with the richest industry in the nation, Cas. You just don’t. You’re just one person, and I don’t care how strong you are – you wouldn’t have been able to even scratch the damn surface. There are too many people making too much money off of it.” 

Castiel closes his eyes. “They do so much harm.” 

Dean scoffs. “Believe me, I know,” he says, and though it’s angry, it’s not accusatory. “You’re preaching to the choir. But you have to let that shit go, man,” he continues, shaking his head. “You do too much friggin’ good to keep beating yourself up for something you can’t change.” 

“But what do I do that matters? Nothing I’ve done even makes a dent in the damage that they’ve–” 

“It matters to me!” Dean breaks in, nearly shouting as he shoves the heel of his palm against Castiel’s shoulder and physically knocks him out of his self-deprecating spiral. “It matters to Balthazar! It matters to all the omegas you’ve helped, all the ones who get to wake up at night and feel safe – some of them for the first time in their fucking lives!” 

Stunned, Castiel cannot find a word to say. Dean glares at him, eyes blazing. He looks ready to take on the world. “The people you help matter, Cas. Every little piece fucking matters. You don’t get to say it doesn’t.” 

Castiel swallows. Tries, and fails, to make eye contact with Dean, tries to find a defense or a leg to stand on. But Dean is right. Every time Castiel says that he isn’t doing enough, what Dean hears is that he isn’t enough, that the other omegas Castiel has worked to help aren’t important to him. And he’s ashamed to say he’s never thought of it that way before. That’s not how he feels – he knows that every life is precious, knows that every soul is valuable. 

He’s gotten so caught up in the bigger picture – the scale, in his mind’s eye, of the impact his family has had on the world, tipped forever in favor of his brothers – that he has forgotten the importance of each individual weight. 

“And,” Dean continues, just as angrily, “you don’t get to feel guilty that I have nightmares of what my life was like before you. God. What part of that is your fault?”

“I–” 

He chokes on his words. “But I was in it, Dean. You thought I’d–” 

“It was a nightmare!” Dean shouts, baring his teeth in frustration. “It ain’t about logic, Cas – ain’t about what I actually think! It’s about all the fucked up, worst case scenario shit that sits in the back of my head that I can’t dig out, no matter how hard I fucking try, no matter how much I want to! It’s got nothing to do with you.”

Dean takes a breath. “I am fucked up. No,” he snaps, cutting Castiel’s knee jerk protest off at the pass, “I am. I think I’m entitled to be.” His voice breaks, some of the anger leaking out when it does. “Think I’ve earned being a little screwed up in the head.”

He doesn’t pull away when Castiel reaches down and holds his hand. He holds it tight. Exhales. 

“And I also think I should be in therapy.” 

The words hang in the room like a gunshot. Castiel does his best to pick his jaw up off the floor. “But I thought–”

“I know what you thought,” Dean says, clenching his jaw. “And I don’t fucking want to. It scares me, the idea that some shrink is gonna be digging around inside my head. But if it helps,” he insists, his voice hoarse and a little desperate, “then I’ll do whatever the hell I need to do.”

Castiel bites his lip. “Helps me, or you?”

Dean scoffs, shrugging. “You. Me. Both. Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he says softly. “It does matter, Dean. I don’t want you to do this just because you think it will help me.” 

Dean’s face crumples right along with his faux indifference. “I can’t help the way I’m built, Cas,” he pleads. “I know it’s supposed to be for me, but… if I can justify it and say that I’m doing it for you. That I’m doing it for – for Sammy,” he chokes out, a tear streaking down his face, “Then I can do it a lot easier.”

He wipes at his eyes, the movement angry. “It ain’t just last night that convinced me. But it was a good kick in the ass.”

Castiel can’t help himself – he pulls Dean to his chest and buries his face in the man’s hair, so full of love and heartache it feels like he’s going to catch flame. The words are right there, at the precipice of his mouth. Begging to be said and heard and felt. 

“I am so proud of you,” he says instead, and holds Dean as close to his heart as he can.