Chapter Text
“It was a dark and stormy night.”
Hee hee. Okay, no.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
What? You didn’t think I could pull Dickens out of my ass? Think I’m such an idiot that I don’t know great literature?
“Call me Ishmael.”
Motherfucker.
“All this happened, more or less.”
Dean sighed and pressed the backspace down hard until the virtual page in front of him lay bare, taunting him. Putting his thoughts and fears and dreams down on paper was supposed to be therapeutic. Once identified and out in the open, they could be seen for what they were instead of what Dean imagined them to be – ridiculous, unworthy, painful, hopeless. But he didn’t even know where to start.
This is shit, he thought, pushing away from his small bedroom desk. He closed Sam’s laptop a little rougher than he should have and stood, stretching his back. I need a drink, he convinced himself. Hey if it worked for Hemingway…
Reaching out along the cold, concrete wall, Dean’s hand found the hall light switch he knew waited for him. He trudged up to the kitchen, and once there, stood staring into the refrigerator’s belly. He pushed the bologna to the left and grabbed the last bottle of Bud before plopping down on a chair next to the metal table and twisting off the cap. The first swig cooled his tongue and slipped down his throat. As he watched, a bead of condensation slowly dripped down the amber-colored bottle, reminding him of the last time he talked to Cas and the reason he was pouting in the first place.
--------------------------------------------
He had been driving back to Lawrence from Utah through a rainstorm that had come out of nowhere, but more accurately, over the Rockies. Windshield wipers were going crazy trying to keep up with the onslaught and Dean’s real concern was hail messing up his baby’s gorgeous curves. He was alone with his thoughts, concentrating on the road and the other asshats jockeying for position in the fast lane on I-70, when suddenly he wasn’t; he heard a slight rustle of fabric and then blue eyes locked on his from the passenger seat.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Heya, Cas,” he returned, breaking the gaze with a quick smile before looking over his shoulder for the Fiat 500 he was pretty sure was about to cut him off. Fucking idiot. There were seven seconds of quiet, during which the only sound was the furious beating of the wipers against the glass. Dean exhaled. “What’s up?”
“Forgive me, Dean, but I sense that the nightmares have returned.”
A weaker angel might have wilted under the look Dean shot in Castiel’s direction. Cas, however, was not that angel. He tipped his head slightly to the right and raised his left eyebrow, challenging Dean to dispute him. After what seemed like an hour and a half of stony silence but was probably closer to two minutes, Dean relented. He tried to think of a way to minimize the truth behind Cas’ words and settled on a shrug.
“I understand that many in the field of psychoanalysis believe that writing your dreams down in a journal of some kind allows you to process them later, in the light of day.”
“A dream journal, Cas?” Dean countered. “Are you… are you serious?” For some reason, to this day Dean still felt uncomfortable swearing in front of his best friend/angel of the lord. “How about instead you, me ‘n Sam sit in a circle and sing Kumbaya?”
Cas didn’t seem at all perturbed by Dean’s comment, merely watched the hunter evade the issue by concentrating on changing lanes while avoiding a hulking shadow of an SUV. “Consider how easy it would be to slay a paper dragon, Dean.”
Dean blinked and considered. I put the shit that’s eating me up on paper and then tear it into little pieces. Hmm.
“Or,” Cas continued, “you could write your memoirs.”
“Like the books Chuck wrote?”
“With more insight,” Cas added, nodding. “More of what you are really thinking and feeling. No one need ever read them, Dean. This is more about you getting these things, um, out of your system.”
“My memoirs, huh?” Dean replied. “Well, that’s better than dream journal. Lead with memoirs first, next time,” he said with a chuckle. If the rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers was anything to go by, Dean felt sure that the Impala agreed.
“How much farther will you drive this evening?”
“Couple more hours, then I’ll pull into a rest stop.”
“Would you like a traveling companion? I would be happy to stay and make sure you don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”
It was a joke – falling asleep at the wheel – delivered in Cas’ typical deadpan. Never in the years that Cas knew him had Dean fallen asleep while driving. Sam had joked that when Dean drove, he must have a guardian angel on his shoulder, because Dean had never once been in an accident that wasn’t caused by someone else being an idiot. Or a semi-truck trying to kill him. Or driven by a monster. Anyway, Dean was solid, immediately awake and sober when he slid over the Impala’s leather seats.
“Yea, Cas,” Dean answered. “Stay.”
So Cas did.
-----------------------------------------------------
The angel hadn’t brought up the memoirs or dream journal business again, but honestly, he also hadn’t shown up for a while. Off doing angel things, Dean guessed. While Cas’ absence left him feeling a little out of sorts, it did give Dean a chance to further contemplate writing down his life story without anyone hovering over him, asking questions. He had ultimately promised he would try as long as Cas did NOT, under any circumstances, tell Sam about it. Talk about nagging. Sam would want to read it, and talk about Dean’s feelings, and seriously, why?
So Dean finished the last of his beer and made his way back to his bedroom. He grabbed the laptop and sat on his bed, but instead of writing his opus, he instead decided to start up Season Two of Dexter. There was one serial killer Dean thought he could probably hang out with. He was asleep by the end of Episode Four.