Chapter Text
“It's a thing to see when a boy comes home.”
– John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath
Castiel floats his hand across the tall wheat stalks. He doesn’t want to get swept into memory, not right now. Not yet. But the sun is setting and he yearns to think about his father, his family, his pack. Or even more vivid, a sight he revisits in his dreams: green eyes flashing in his direction, outreached hands, running till his lungs burned, sweaty and laughing and young, best friends racing in the fields. What wild boys they were...
Dean. Castiel sighs, the gesture involuntary and inescapable. The omega has consumed his thoughts more than usual lately, thanks to his current return to Lawrence. But he can’t afford to think about this, about him. Not until Cas accomplishes what he’s here to do, the role he’s here to play.
“You haven’t changed much,” Bobby notes, his voice comprised of deep and disapproving grumbles, and Castiel can’t help but smile at the sound.
“You’d be surprised,” he replies, knowing he sounds enigmatic and distant, but hoping the mid-fifties beta—clad in two-decade-old flannel—will cut him some slack. Surely today of all days.
Castiel fixates on the wheat, the tickle of the spike as it meets his palm, the brustle of the leaves and the sheer density of the crop. It’s difficult to reach this place, to find the narrow creek that runs along the side of it, following it down and through fields and fields of golden harvest until he sees it: the clearing, the acres of land that seems untouched and yet have been tended to, cared for, decades before him. Decades after him. A small cluster of homes and cabins fill his vision, and the gravity of his situation hits him for the first time today.
Castiel Novak is home again for the first time in twelve years.
He’s not a kid anymore, not like he was when Bobby last saw him. He’s a twenty-nine-year-old alpha, and the son of the most prominent were packmaster in Kansas. And though he rarely considers his age or secondary gender to be particularly defining of his character, these are things that mattered to his father—tradition and family, folklore and history. So his eyes sweep the property and notice all the changes time has wrought. He forces himself to blink away the recollections, the homes that are no longer burning red and cindered but are strong and sturdy and expertly crafted. The crops that are thriving, not scavenged and cut. The animals that are well-fed in the nearby barn, the overwhelming feeling of safety and home permeating the small community.
Today in this beautiful, implausible place, Castiel is burying his father.
“Burying” isn’t the correct term, of course. He’s been gone for so long that it almost feels archaic, the traditions that weres have upheld in their grief. Cutting down trees to make the pyre, igniting the body in flame, and the next day, taking the ashes back into the ancestral vessel in some ceremonial way. Castiel has options, he knows, but one way or another he will do this. He must. He could grind the ash into a powder, maybe ask Bobby to toss them into a stew or a pie until the taste is unrecognizable. That’s the polite, palatable way that many modern weres choose to consume human ashes. In his childhood he once saw an omega sprinkle them into a cup, pour in a hefty helping of moonshine, and drink the remnants of her deceased mate in one gulp. But Castiel can’t imagine doing either of those things, not now, not after so much time has passed.
Silently Castiel and Bobby watch the buzz of families walking to and from the various buildings. Some of the older pack members seem to recognize Castiel, but very few come up to offer condolences. There’s a pecking order, an unspoken hierarchical system, and with Chuck gone that makes Castiel…
What does that make Castiel?
“Still chatty as ever,” Bobby says, and Cas realizes the pack elder must have been speaking to him, tossing him an olive branch of “welcome home” chit-chat. The alpha flushes, embarrassed to be so lost in thought.
“Apologies,” he mumbles. “I was marveling at…all the changes.”
That’s an understatement. When Castiel left the community they were still dependent on century-old wells, still collected rainwater and used outhouses—even in the winter. But someone had ushered the pack into the twenty-first century, with indoor plumbing and electricity, not to mention a large cabin in the center of the property that seems to be some sort of communal food bank, recreation center, and bar.
Bobby hums in approval. “Dean pretty much single-handedly rebuilt this place from the ground up after...y’know…”
“I know,” Castiel says quietly, but doesn’t expand on the subject. His father is gone and so are his official orders, that much is true. But it still wouldn’t be very intelligent of him to tell a pack elder that Dean had ignored a direct decree from their packmaster, keeping in touch with Castiel all these years...
“Where is Dean?” Castiel tries to keep his voice level, but the question comes out as a trembling, meandering croak. Bobby looks at him fully, a knowing gleam in his eyes that has the alpha looking down at his feet awkwardly.
“Where’d’ya think,” the beta grumbles, crossing his arms on his chest. Castiel tilts his head, trying to understand what the other man might mean. And then it dawns on him—
“The pyre,” he breathes. It’s late spring and barely sunset, but still, the alpha shudders. “He shouldn’t be making—I mean, surely someone else…”
“He wouldn’t let anyone else do it,” Bobby answers, and this time his voice is softer, kinder. “You know how he is.”
Castiel doesn’t bother replying—they both know that he does know Dean, perhaps better than anyone. Or he used to. He can’t deny that there’s a flicker of electricity, an undeniable buzz of nerves and hope and excitement, at the thought of seeing Dean again after twelve years apart.
“He’s down by the brush?” Castiel is surprised how easily the shorthand comes to him, “the brush” being the place where the pack always hosts funerals: a pocket of space in the middle of the woods, a meadow overrun with bugs and flowers and vegetation. Just thinking about the place and its history is enough to suppress some of his eagerness to seek Dean out. He thinks of the five pyres he never got to light, the ashes that went unconsumed, the healing he was robbed of because of war...
Bobby nods, adjusting his worn baseball cap, and Castiel thanks him—excusing himself for now, knowing he’ll see the beta again for the funeral. He cuts through the center of the property, admiring the new homes and landscaping as he goes. This was his home for seventeen years, and everything feels both familiar and foreign, somehow at the same time.
He wonders if his reunion with Dean will be just as complicated, or if his childhood best friend will swallow him into a tight hug and they’ll just…
Pick up where they left off.
***
Dean swipes at the sweat dripping down his forehead. He really should’ve rested after patching up Charlie’s roof, but rain is in the forecast for the next three days and he didn’t wanna risk it. His redhead partner-in-crime is generally cheerful, a beta through and through, but Dean knows from personal experience that when suddenly cold and wet, she more readily resembles a pissed off alpha on his worst day. Or, in other words, John Winchester…
Dean chuckles darkly at the thought, the sound reverberating in the stagnant air of the forest. He palms the ax handle, staring down at the cut wood and wondering if it’ll be enough for the pyre. Dean never allows himself to say what he really thinks about his dad, not even to Sam, who’s so often blathering on about all of John’s shortcomings that Dean doesn’t need to be active in the conversation. He listens, sometimes even nods, then claps his brother on the shoulder and says some form of, “But he’s Dad, Sammy. Old dog, new trick…you know how it is.” Then he reaches into the fridge, grabs them both a Margiekugel so cold the glass is frosted, and they sit together in comfortable silence until it’s time to grab four fitful hours of sleep.
At least, that’s how things were before last year, when his alpha brother broke the hearts of every available were-woman in a ten-mile radius and tied the knot. Dean almost snorts aloud at the thought, just imagining himself telling Sam— get it, dude, you tied the ‘knot’? In his head, he can already see his brother’s classic bitch face overwhelming all his features.
Making jokes to himself doesn’t help with the loneliness, though, which Dean has staunchly been ignoring for the past year…around the same time Sam moved to a house above ground and left Dean alone in the bunker with Dad. Even though John had built the space nearly thirteen years ago—right in the middle of the war—it had always felt more like a home to just Sam and Dean. To their dad it had only been a safehouse, a defensive weapon against forthcoming demon attacks. Now the alpha considers the bunker a botched experiment, a reminder of his failure—not a home to grow old in or make his own. Sometimes Dean wonders if his dad hates the bunker, if it’s a symbol of everything they’ve lost. ‘Cause even buried in the safety of the underground, Mary had still been taken…had still been killed right before John’s eyes.
Dean shakes his head at the thought and flutters his eyelids closed, focusing on the echos in the forest. Concentrating like this, tapping into his were instincts, he can hear the buzz of every insect, the rustle of every flower petal, the distinct whirr of low winds. He’s always been one of the better hunters in the pack, though they hadn’t had a real need for wild game in many years now. He can sense a doe, though, maybe twenty yards east of where he stands now, and he thinks about shifting right here and now, stalking it closely in his wolf form before leaping behind the tree cover and sinking his sharp teeth into the deer’s neck—
But it would be a senseless kill, a way to scratch the nervous itch he feels about today, smothering the apprehension he feels about seeing Castiel again after so many years...
He sighs and gets back to work, trying to keep his mind clear. The passing of the packmaster is a somber time, and rare as well—the first death in leadership during Dean’s lifetime. He’s no genius, but he has enough common sense to know that that the community will be in political turmoil until the next packmaster is chosen, which means it wouldn’t be very smart of him to show how much Cas’ forthcoming return home had ignited a spark of… What, exactly? Hope? Courage? Expectation?
It’s a ridiculous thought and Dean knows it. Fifteen years of friendship means something, sure, but Cas has spent his entire adult life away from the pack, from the call of nature, from Dean. They can’t just dive back into their relationship—uh, friendship—as if no time had passed. Besides, for all he knows Cas has settled down with a nice omega guy or gal and has a pup or two on the way. Just the thought sets his teeth on-edge.
He drops the tree limb on the heavy oak stump and hacks it in halves, then fourths. Pretty soon he’s back in a rhythm, engrossed at the task at hand, loving the burn in his shoulders and the ache in his biceps. He bends down to stack the freshly cut wood whenever he scents it—the bland, unfamiliar odor of a nearby were. A stranger.
He tenses up immediately, gripping the ax handle with his right hand. He knows the scent of all fifty weres in their pack, has memorized their unique perfume. He can conjure up their essence as easily as he can their silhouettes. This particular scent is not only unfamiliar, it’s wrong, like the burn of chemical cleaner filling his nostrils.
The pack never receives visitors this far into the woods...they’re almost seven miles from the city, more in the backwoods of the neighboring town than strictly in Lawrence. This far out—with only muddy trails and bumpy gravel roads—and this close to dark, there’s no such thing as a friendly visitor.
He waits to make a move, noiseless as hunted prey, and when he hears a twig snap he rushes the figure behind him. He slams the lurker against a large oak tree using sheer force, pinning him down with the handle of the ax. The stranger—a man—gives a startled gasp, but Dean still hasn’t stopped, hasn’t taken a moment to look at his face. He’s blind with adrenaline and aggression and a sliver of fear, until—
“Dean.” The voice is rumbling and low but gentle and insistent, instantly recognizable to Dean’s ears, and he feels the tight knot of dread begin to loosen in his chest. He blinks, his vision clearing, and beneath him is…
“Cas,” he says, his own voice sounding muddled and astonished, like waking up from a fever dream and not knowing what’s real or imagined. The alpha stirs beneath him and Dean loosens his grip, dropping the ax at his feet. He should apologize, he knows, but his mouth feels cotton-dry and rigid. He stares at Castiel without embarrassment, figuring twelve years apart has allowed him to look his fill, and Jesus, have the years been good to Cas. Where he was once a lanky and skinny teenager, now he’s broad and thick with muscle, thighs hugged firmly in denim. His hair is still the same shade of brown but cut short and scruffy, the sort of haphazard display that makes Dean’s fingers yearn to touch, to make messier. The alpha has a dark spread of five o’clock shadow on his chin and his eyes have turned even more blue and startling, though maybe Dean had just forgotten how alluring they are, after all this time…
When he comes back to himself, he becomes aware that Castiel is staring back at him—appraising his body just as intently. Dean flushes, knowing his tank top and jeans are a little too tight, but he was working all day and hadn’t stopped yet to change. When Cas’ eyes flash back up their eye contact is locked, intense and filled with a longing that makes Dean’s heart begin to race.
Twelve years ago he had been left wondering how Castiel felt about him. And now, crowded up face-to-face against a tree, checking each other out with obvious transparency, Dean thinks he might finally have his answer. The reality makes him nervous, anxious, wondering if he’s reading into things too much. He nudges Castiel on the elbow playfully and gives him a clap on the back, allowing the heated gaze to finally break.
“Shoulda said it was you,” he says, giving a lopsided grin.
“You didn’t exactly give me an opportunity,” Cas points out. “You caught me...quite off-guard.”
“Been in the city too long,” Dean quips, smirking now, his hand on Castiel’s back wandering longer and lower than it should. “You barely put up a fight. Gonna have to put you in ‘were bootcamp’ or some shit.”
Castiel snorts, and any remaining tension seems to dissipate between them. This is how it always was—the easy chitchat, the natural ease, the glances and touches that last just a little too long.
“Seriously though, Cas. Why the hell do you smell like…” Dean tries to find a polite word for fucking garbage but sadly comes up short.
“It’s a scent blocker,” Castiel explains, scratching absently at the collar of his t-shirt. “I, uh, wear them now.”
“Huh.” Dean tries not to sound too judgmental, but he doesn’t understand why any were—especially an alpha, for fuck’s sake—would feel the need to hide who they are. Being an omega isn’t all sunshine and roses, and Dean does frequent town at least once a week, so he’s not living in a vacuum. But he’d never consider shelling out fifty bucks to cover himself in some synthetic stench that reminds him of bleached cardboard.
“Well, better rinse that shit off ‘fore the—” Funeral hangs on the tip of his tongue and he reins it in just in time, but the damage is already done. Cas’ expression is crestfallen and Dean reaches for him, pulling the alpha into the hug he had been wanting to prompt for five minutes now. “Cas, I’m really fucking sorry. About your dad, I mean.”
Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s sides, sighing heavily against the omega’s collarbone. Even with the funky scent blockers, Dean shivers against him, not quite believing he’s holding Cas right now. Or being held. Whatever.
“Thank you, Dean,” the alpha says soberly. He pulls away but Dean still has a hand on his neck, then shoulder, then arm. He’s struggling not to retain physical contact and tries not to think about why. He’s just trying to comfort his oldest friend who just lost his dad, he reasons. There’s no hidden agenda here. None.
“And sorry about—y’know, the scent blockers.” Dean gives Cas a small, sheepish smile. “I’m not used to them is all. I’ve heard about those before, but out here...we don’t really gotta need for ‘em.”
“It’s fine, Dean. I’m not used to your scent either,” Castiel replies immediately, and then leans against the tree, looking slightly panicked. “I-I mean...of course I remembered your scent, it’s how I found you out here. But I forgot how nice...you smell. I mean…I did remember, it’s just—” The alpha slides his hands into his front pockets as if he’d rather be anywhere but here, and it’s so endearing and so fucking Cas that Dean can only beam at him. He’s been told he smells good, sure, like some kind of herbal plant or some shit. But somehow the compliment means much more coming from this dorky, hunky alpha he spent his teen years daydreaming about. He’s tempted to rattle his old friend further, to tease him within an inch of his life, but today’s not the day.
“Glad that nose of yours kept some of its old training,” he says gruffly instead, and Cas rolls his eyes dramatically, looking relieved that they’re back in safe territory.
“Dean Winchester…the most self-righteous omega in Kansas,” he grumbles lightheartedly. He elbows Dean’s arms, the touch warm and lingering. “Nice to see some things haven't changed.”
***
Castiel helps Dean finish assembling the pyre. It’s good to keep busy, keep his mind occupied, and anyways, he’s not sure how long he’ll be in town or what his father’s death might mean for his future. In the meantime, though, he wants to soak up Dean’s presence as much as possible. He’s already dreading the thought of leaving, but it’s been more than a decade since he’s lived in this community. He’s not sure he has a place here anymore…as much as he may want one.
Night is in full swing by the time they walk back towards civilization. There’s the high-pitched hum of crickets and cicadas, even the occasional bullfrog from the rushing stream of creekwater. Cas has forgotten how heightened his senses are in nature, how connected he feels to the earth when he’s not surrounded by metal and asphalt. Navigating the forest in the dark would be a dangerous activity for most people, but the eyesight of weres is sharp, crisp even in shadows. More importantly, Castiel and Dean had spent their childhood playing in these woods—exploring together as boys and pups. It’s surprising, but not unwelcome, how effortless this all is for him. His internal blueprint of the forest reappears naturally, detailed as a treasure map.
He tries not to be distracted by Dean’s scent, but it’s wonderfully woodsy, piney, somehow almost minty and musky in flavor. It’s like holding a bundle of fresh sage in his palm and inhaling pure menthol. There’s a sharp, cooling sensation that makes his gums tingle and suddenly, the alpha can’t believe he ever survived without this. Without Dean.
“How’s your exhibit in Chicago going?” Dean asks casually, after five minutes of walking together in the dark, and Castiel has to hold in a small gasp. He knew Dean had kept tabs on him over the years, but he had no clue just how closely. He should’ve expected it, though, because once a year he would receive a postcard from Dean without a return address. He had twelve of them collected by now, kept in a tiny wooden box he carted around to each apartment. Castiel had moved almost every two years, usually drawn to a new artist’s residency or a temporary gig, but Dean always managed to find him. He suspected the tech savvy beta, Charlie, had something to do with that. He only hoped the demons he was running from weren’t as technologically advanced, though they had no idea he had changed his name to “Edlund” and moved to Vermillion to live with his Aunt Becky.
Still, Cas’ favorite day of the year—every year—was postcard day, when Dean would write him a quick note. Usually something like,
Hey C,
The moon was glowing so much last night that it reminded me of the time we convinced Sammy it was made of cheese. Even when he was four freaking years old, the kid called us on our bullshit. But we had the best time trying to convince him, didn’t we?
Hope the moon is bright and yellow and cheesy as fuck wherever you are.
– D
Castiel could never risk writing back, of course. There was the possibility, particularly in the first few years, that Chuck was having Dean’s mail monitored. But he had wanted to reply with every fiber of his being.
“Sorry man, I, uh...I know I shouldn’t have kept up with you all these years,” Dean admits uneasily. “The one-way-penpal thing was dumb, and I know you couldn’t write me back or tell me how your life was going, but I just...I needed to make sure you were okay. But it was reckless. Chuck forbid me to, forbid all of us, and I still—”
Castiel stops in his tracks and pulls Dean towards him by the elbow. In the glint of darkness, he sees Dean looking back at him, tense and expectant.
“Never apologize for that,” the alpha says firmly. “If I could’ve written you, Dean, I would have. Every day.” His voice is shaking, quivering, imagining all the moments over the years that he had rehearsed this same speech, had hoped to deliver it to Dean one day.
“I hated leaving you. The fire, the carnage, the casualties…” He takes a deep breath but doesn’t look away. “That night was like hell on earth.”
“I know,” Dean says softly, agreeing in the way only a fellow survivor can. “I know, Cas.”
Castiel thinks of that night often, his last night living in the pack, the final battle of the demon war. Enemies had invaded their compound and most of the weres had shifted, paws digging into soil, launching themselves on demons and aiming to kill. The sky had been ashen with dust, gray and cloudy with smoke, as dozens of homes burnt to the ground. The pack had lost so many people, too many to count—Bill Harvelle, Karen Singer, both of Charlie’s parents. He would never forget seeing Mary Winchester reduced to a limp and bloody corpse in her husband’s arms. Running alongside his father in his shifted form, Castiel had torn across the property searching for his remaining family—Michael, Lucifer, Anna, Gabriel, and his mother. But the highest flames were coming from the Novak home, a two-story structure where Castiel had been born, where he had spent his entire childhood. And inside...
Inside only death.
He had shifted back by then, perched on his knees and crying, completely naked, unable to take his eyes off the charred remains of his family. What followed was chaos—Chuck telling him goodbye and ordering Inias, a were only a few years older than Castiel at the time, to put the last surviving Novak pup on the first bus to Ohio. The fire was tempered by then, and Castiel had managed to put on clothes before being swept through the back door. He had screamed for Dean, searching for him despite Inias’ insistence that they should leave silently and not draw attention to themselves during battle.
“Do you remember when we said goodbye?” Castiel asks suddenly, pulled from the memory, and Dean’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Even in the dark, the alpha can spot a flush of red creeping along Dean’s neck. This was not the sort of thing people discussed so openly, but Castiel had been waiting twelve years to hear this. To finally know.
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, then adds sarcastically, “I forgot how subtle you were.”
Castiel exhales, the windy chill making him feel solemn. “Dean—”
“Of course I remember,” the omega interrupts quietly, longingly, with reverence. “Kinda hard to forget a kiss like that, Cas.”
It had been the only proper form of farewell Castiel could think of at the time. When he had finally spotted Dean, he was wearing loose jeans and an oversized t-shirt (noticeably borrowed) and tossing buckets of water onto the burning drywall of the Harvelle home. He was so focused, so fearless in the maddening turmoil and endless loss, though he was just fifteen at the time. The sight was so overwhelming that Castiel couldn’t bring himself to utter any words—they felt too small, too meaningless.
His next move had been purely instinct...spinning his lifelong best friend on his heels, cupping his chin with both hands, and kissing him hard and dry and desperate. During their teenage years he had never known if Dean had wanted him, had been too afraid to even try. But that night, Dean had only pulled him closer and kissed him deeper. When they had finally pulled away, it occured to Castiel that they had both been crying.
“Dean.” Standing in the forest now, Castiel wraps his hands gently around Dean’s elbows, and the omega leans into the touch, their foreheads touching. “We…” He licks his lips, feeling Dean’s breath ghosting over the cool wetness. How easy it would be to close the distance, to… “We should probably discuss it at some point. The kiss.”
“There’s a lot of things we should discuss,” Dean points out, then closes his eyes, shaking his head in annoyance. “But not now, ‘kay? My nose tells me we’re about to be interrupted.”
“By who?” Castiel asks on instinct, but then a familiar scent floods his system. It’s similar to Dean’s earthy scent but slightly more burnt, singed—soiled.
“Your father is coming,” Cas whispers, and Dean nods miserably.
“He’s already here,” he answers, eyes glued to a spot behind Castiel’s shoulder. “And I gotta feeling he wants to talk to you.”