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There’s one more thing you could do for me.
–
Every morning, Castiel wakes up to his beloved.
“Mornin’, gorgeous,” Dean says, smiling at him. It’s one Castiel isn’t familiar with, small and private. It doesn’t reach his beautiful eyes, but Castiel has his attention. He basks in it from five inches away. Dean leans in to kiss him, exhaling softly through his nose against Castiel’s cheek. He settles against Castiel, licking into his mouth, and pushes warm hands up his shirt. When they break apart, Dean licks his lips, looking self-satisfied. Castiel wants to run his fingers through his bedhead, so he does, and laces his fingers together behind Dean’s head. He hears himself ask, “You sleep okay?”
They both knew the answer was “No, not really,” not with Dean’s nightmares. But they bother Castiel less now, he can fall back asleep or sleep through them more easily. Why do they bother him at all?
“Slept great,” Castiel says, smiling up at him. Dean looks like the sun and his face is tired, and he’s looking through him. Castiel has never seen him like this.
Dean leaves their bed too soon, in Castiel’s opinion. He stretches, feeling the warmth he left behind, but not lingering long, either. Castiel hears the shower start and has the good sense to join him in the hot water. He’s lucky this morning; Dean fucks him from behind under the spray. He always makes sure Castiel comes first, never asks for too much in return, always tries to please him, like he’s making up for the rest of him. They’re good like this. It’s easier than talking.
The water pressure is better than it used to be because Dean fixed it last month. Their life together is complicated, but Dean is good like that, fixing things around the house. Of course he is. He shouldn’t have to.
Usually, Dean cooks most of their meals, another point in his favor, because apparently she is keeping score. This morning, however, Castiel is making breakfast for his family. He pours ready-made pancake mix into a bowl and cracks an egg into it to make it taste a little more homemade. “If you want something other than pancakes, you’re gonna have to make it yourself,” he tells Dean when he pads into the kitchen with wet hair and bare feet. He looks too good like this, in a worn-thin white t-shirt and jeans, feet endearingly bare. Castiel appreciates it. He doesn’t look long enough. He takes for granted what he has. She only had it because he thought–
“Yes ma’am,” Dean says, squeezing his waist and kissing his cheek as he passes by to get to the fridge. Castiel burns one side of a pancake watching him load up a plate for their son and can’t help but laugh at himself, tucking his hair behind his ear. He should pack him lunch for work, but he doesn’t. Castiel is new to being human, and there is a lot to being someone’s wife. He could do a better job.
Dean takes their son to school on his way to work; Castiel leans against the doorframe, seeing them off. It must all look so good from the outside. Castiel hates himself for thinking that. It is good on the inside, too. Their home is beautiful, and most importantly, Dean is in it. The only thing that could make it better is if Dean were happy. Castiel is trying.
Dean is a frequent topic of conversation among his friends. Some are envious. Some of them had stopped talking to him after he took a virtual stranger off the street and started playing house with him, and sometimes he thinks some of the rest only stick around to watch it play out, but Dean has been proving them all wrong, mostly. This experiment, mid-life crisis, whatever it was, was going well. They were happy enough together, most of the time. Their son has a father figure. Castiel has Dean. He should count himself lucky.
Once, while their son is in school and Dean has a day off, they go to a park. They don’t do this often, Castiel is fairly certain. He looks at Dean with new eyes. Dean will listen to him talk about his day, hold his hand, but he looks away quickly, and his face is still guarded and unfamiliar. Castiel kisses him, first and often, at least, and savors it. Dean is a good kisser, he has learned, although he supposes he knew this already from context clues. He holds Dean’s face between his small hands and hears himself say, “You can talk to me about anything, you know. I mean,” he huffs a laugh, a nervous tick, and bites his lip. “I know I can’t understand, not really. But I can try?”
Dean’s hand comes up to cover one of Castiel’s, but he’s still looking away, somewhere else. “Yeah, I know,” Dean says. He turns his head to kiss the palm of Castiel’s hand, and finally smiles at him, meets his eyes. Your eyes are so beautiful and I have always thought so , Castiel wants to say. You are perfect, you have done more than enough, I will take care of you, I am trying to .
Dean is saying, “Thanks, Lis. I know I’m not easy.”
“You’re trying,” Castiel says, but he knows that she feels like Dean should be trying harder, deep down.
They pick their son up from school together. See? He is trying. He is engaged in conversation with their son, animated, fun, charming, everything she remembers him as and wants him to be. Of course she can accept the best parts of him. Castiel is greedier. They pick up food for dinner, despite Castiel’s objections, and it’s a good night. Their son is happy. Castiel is happy, too, but he feels the worry, because not every night is like this.
Despite everything, the sex is always great. He wonders if that’s Dean’s way of apologizing sometimes, if going down on him even when Dean’s less in the mood than he is a version of sorry I said three words all day. Castiel thinks she is selfish, but, then again, so is he. He takes it in, selfishly, knowing what he is taking, wanting what he cannot have, always. His desire is a black hole.
Weeks later, they’re on a date, which is rare these days. Dean used to take him out often, sometimes whenever their son had something after school, but he’s been drawing into himself lately and drinking alone more.
As he sits across from him now, Dean is quiet and shifty, tearing a paper coaster to shreds.
“Do you want to switch seats?” Castiel offers. “Am I— you know, blocking an exit?”
“Huh? No, no, sorry,” Dean says, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. Just a lot of— lots of people in here.”
Castiel reaches his hand across the table to Dean’s. He is going through so much; he’s trying so hard. He deserves peace. “We can leave,” Castiel offers, even though she doesn’t really want to, his eyebrows knitting together. She should take better care of Dean. “I know it’s been tough lately.”
“No, it’s,” Dean says, “no, c’mon. It’s been forever. You deserve this.”
It has been forever. He does deserve this, but Dean deserves compassion. Dean deserves peace. She isn’t doing enough for him, he would be kinder. They stay, but it’s a quiet dinner. Castiel savors it more than anyone else.
They pick their son up from baseball practice together. He tells them the latest team gossip while Dean drives them home, tense and white-knuckling the steering wheel, clearly somewhere else. Castiel puts a hand on his arm and tries to be understanding, but he feels the undercurrent of annoyance run through him. She thinks:
Should I leave him? Where would he go? What about Ben? Am I fucking up my kid?
He is repulsed by these thoughts.
When Sam showed up alive, Castiel knew it would end. It had to, one way or another. But they cling on to what they have; Castiel lets Dean move them around, try to keep them safe. She knows firsthand what’s out there, after all. But it becomes too much. Safer for everyone if they are apart. She resents him, a little. Castiel resents her more.
It’s been months, but when he gets a call from Dean saying he’s working a case close by, she's more excited than he expected to be. She’s kept busy, Castiel sees, not surprised to find that she’d been entertaining the idea of seeing other people. She takes for granted what she has. But he is looking forward to having Dean over. Maybe he would be able to leave his baggage at the door, she thinks. Castiel counts himself fortunate to know the darkest parts of Dean’s soul, to know him entirely, cherishes it like a gift. Lisa does not know him, but she still loves him. Castiel understands that, at least. It is easy to love Dean.
When Dean comes home, late at night, Castiel can see what Lisa could not; he is undergoing a transformation. He is terrified. Why didn’t he pray to him? Why come here , where she cannot help him? Worse, she is afraid of him. He feels her fear, almost physically recoiling from the strength of Lisa’s negative feelings toward Dean. He does not understand her. He has no desire to. He could not if he tried. The situation devolves. He erases it like the rest.
He knows what is next, because he himself set it in motion. Still, he feels everything as it happened. He feels the knife slide into Lisa’s stomach when Crowley’s demon decides to kill its vessel. She does not deserve it, despite everything. This is his fault. Perhaps this is penance.
He draws his hand back. In the hospital room, the time it took him to live and remove a year of Lisa’s life was barely more than a second. Lisa is sleeping peacefully in front of him, and despite everything, Castiel resents her for not doing enough, not caring enough. He envies her, a dark, secret emotion, one on a long list of transgressions Castiel has become prone to committing. Most of all he pities her that she will wake up and Dean will be a stranger to her, but privately, he thinks that it is no different from all the mornings they shared together.