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His hair has grown too long again. His heart has grown too cold. It’s shriveled within his ribcage, and Dean wonders if it’s finally failed to continue beating. At least, that’s what it feels like. It’s heavy. Feels like somebody tore out his heart and replaced it with stone; feels like a gaping, aching wound; feels… empty.
Cas is gone, time has slowed, and Dean’s hair is starting to reach past his ears. And Sam — Sam knew this would happen. It always happens; Cas dies, Dean collapses into himself, locks himself away, refuses to take care of his body.
But in the past, Cas comes back . He always comes back, but now he’s still not here, and most days, Dean is lucky to get through without killing himself.
It’s unsurprising, so Sam does what he can. Tries to coax Dean into at least trimming his beard, or getting a haircut so it doesn’t fall into his eyes. It doesn’t do much. Dean eats, of course he eats, but his appetite isn’t what it used to be.
He bathes when he can, brushes his teeth when he can gather the strength to stand in front of the mirror, but he just can’t cut his hair.
It’s interesting. Grief and mourning are not unfamiliar to Dean. They’ve been startlingly constant throughout the years, actually. He’s learned to breathe around the lump in his chest, learned to make space for joy alongside the sorrow.
But this time is different. Because Cas is dead . The Empty has him, and he’s not coming back, and Dean hasn’t experienced this kind of grief in a long, long time.
He’s lost countless friends in the past — family, too — but to lose Cas? To lose a lover?
The thing is, Dean never got to be a lover, never had the chance to love Cas the way he wanted to. Years and years of pining, of stolen glances, of feverish prayers in dusty motel rooms, and all for nothing.
Part of Dean was waiting for one of them to say something. Another part of him was hoping that neither of them would bring it up, that they could continue the weird back and forth that is only present in love that is not allowed to be expressed.
And then, and then, Cas confessed. And he was taken by the Empty, and Dean realized that what he wanted was not out of reach, not out of the realm of possibility, but out of time.
Always out of time.
He wonders what would have happened if they had expressed their feelings earlier, but the thought has his fingers itching for the gun in his nightstand, so he pushes it away.
Jack stops by. He’s been busy — rebuilding heaven is not an easy task, even for God himself — and he and Sam search for ways to bring Cas back. They talk through a million different scenarios, scan through a million different texts, and Dean doesn’t think he can hear anymore.
He lets Jack hug him, clings a little tighter than usual, and shuts himself in his room. If they do happen to find a way, great. But Dean is growing sick with hopelessness now, and the thought of failing has his stomach in knots.
Claire checks up on him, too. She calls nearly every day, and sometimes Dean answers. The others, they’re worried about him. And he can’t bring himself to soothe their concern.
If most nights he locks himself in the bathroom and heaves over the toilet, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
—
When they pull Cas from the Empty, Dean isn’t sure what to do with himself. Jack had found a way, gone in to bring Dean’s angel home, and now, as Dean paces the floor of the bunker, waiting on a call from Sam, he thinks he might actually throw up.
He tugs at his beard, rakes trembling fingers through shaggy hair, and when his phone rings, he nearly jumps out of his skin. Pulling it out of his pocket and almost dropping it in the process, he picks up.
“Did it work?” His voice doesn’t shake. It doesn’t.
“We’ve got him, Dean. We’ve got him.” Sam sounds near tears over the phone, and Dean feels a tremor run through him at the words. “Jack’s gonna snap us back to the bunker, just hang on.”
Sam hangs up, and Dean has stopped breathing. Seconds crawl by like hours. It’s less than a minute later that they appear in the bunker’s meeting room, but it feels like an eternity.
Cas is leaning against Jack, looking tired but otherwise intact. He meets Dean’s eyes from the other side of the room, a little groggy, and before either of them can speak, Dean is throwing himself across the room and right into him.
It’s a messy thing. Months have passed and it seems like Dean’s lived a lifetime without his angel, yet seeing him again, it’s almost as if no time has passed at all. He clings to Cas, buries his face in his neck, chest heaving with sobs. It’s wet and loud and kind of gross, but Dean can’t be bothered to care.
Cas starts to pull back, taking in as much of Dean as he can, a frown on his face. He knows it’s Dean, can sense that it’s him, but he looks so different. He’s grown his hair out so long, that if Cas were anyone else he might not recognize the man, but it’s Cas . He knows Dean inside and out. Hesitantly, he brushes Dean’s hair out of his eyes.
Dean hiccups, tries to wipe his tears. His eyes still sparkle like the last time Cas saw him, and the beautiful, vivid green of them hasn’t changed a bit. They’re still just as vibrant as his soul.
“Dean,” breathes Cas, fingers tangling in the hair at Dean’s nape. They’re pressed close, touching almost everywhere, and Cas isn’t sure where Jack and Sam went.
“Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean sobs, and he’s pushing his face into Cas’s neck again. “I love you, I love you , I’m sorry I didn’t say it back,” he grips the angel’s trenchcoat in weak fists. He’s rambling, he knows, confessing through gasping sobs, and Cas starts to pull back again, starts to look Dean in the face, and—
And then—
Chapped lips are pressing to his, warm and firm and comforting, and Dean’s brain whites out for a minute before he kisses back, desperate. His beard scratches at Cas’ stubble, his hold on his angel tightens, and they stand there, trading gentle kisses for what Dean deems too short a time.
Eventually, they separate for air, and Cas’ hands cup Dean’s face, petting over his beard with a fondness that Dean has yet to get used to. He huffs a laugh, kissing Dean’s lips once more, then his forehead.
“I know, I uh—” Dean clears his throat, sniffling— “I know I kinda look like shit. Been havin’ a rough time.”
“No, I like it. I always like how you look.” Cas’ voice is soft, the tone he has reserved only for his human, and Dean ducks his head, fighting a blush.
“Thanks, Cas.”
Dean is smiling when he looks back up, but there’s a sadness around the edges, and a tug at Cas’ grace has understanding blooming across his mind. Dean is still unsure that this is really happening, that Cas is really here, with him. Not for the first time, Cas wonders how much time has passed since he’s been gone.
With time, he hopes that Dean will realize he’s here to stay.
—
Dean ends up asking Cas to help him cut his hair. He’s hesitant at first, trying to gather the strength to finally shave, to finally end the mourning period, and he decides that Cas doing it will make things better. Make things more real. It’s a few days after they’ve settled him back into the bunker, Dean is starting to relax again, to laugh again, and he and Cas have set up shop in the bathroom attached to their bedroom.
Cas sits him on a stool in front of the mirror, draping a towel over his shoulders. Supplies are laid out on the counter, and as Cas starts in on Dean’s beard, he works in silence. It’s comfortable, standing beside Dean like this. Neither of them seem to want to speak. Everything feels so tender, so intimate, that perhaps words would shatter the atmosphere. Besides, Cas is content with the quiet.
Humming softly while he works, he loses himself in the rhythm of it all. Dean has closed his eyes, listening.
It’s not long before Dean’s beard is significantly shorter, cut close to the skin but still longer than it has been in previous years. It’s divine. He cups Dean’s face with one hand, smiling softly when the hunter leans into it. His eyes flutter open, holding contact with Cas’ for a long moment.
“Time to trim this, now,” Cas whispers, curling a finger around some of the hair fanning across Dean’s forehead. Dean hums a response, catching Cas’ wrist in a gentle hold and bringing it to his lips to press kisses to. His heart is bursting at the seams, so full of love that Cas thinks he might overflow if he’s not too careful.
“Thank you,” Dean whispers into his skin. He lets go of his wrist, studying Cas’ face affectionately. It’s thrilling, to finally be back in the presence of his lover after months of grief. Dean knows he’ll never tire of gazing into those sweet, blue eyes.
Cas takes his time, when he begins cutting Dean’s hair, all gentle touches and soft snips.
It aches in the best way, sets Dean’s heart on fire, sends blood pumping through his veins.
His chest is warmed from the inside out, and it is enough.
It is enough.