Chapter Text
If anyone had told Dean that it would all come down to a simple choice made in a tiny corner office 10 years ago when he enlisted in the US Navy, he would’ve probably laughed his ass off and tossed back a finger of whisky for good measure (or two, maybe three. He does love his liquor).
They don’t train you for this — for the painful choices and decisions you have to take after you get lifelong injuries. They don’t teach you how you’re supposed to choose between leaving and shattering your entire career (that same career you’ve dedicated your entire life to for the past decade), or staying but having to live with the bitter taste of being left behind a desk in a dusty office for the rest of your life.
They teach you how to lose friends and partners, how to compartmentalize so that your emotions can’t take over. That, they do. But what’s left to separate once you’ve been put back together dozens of times and your pieces don’t really fit anymore?
Dean doesn’t know how he’s supposed to choose. He left Lawrence more than 10 years ago, packed his whole life neatly into the back of the Impala, and never looked back. With Sammy settling down in California and Charlie being more than eager to make the drive from Kansas to Virginia and deal with Dean’s hectic schedule several weekends a year, he hasn’t been back to Kansas since February 2010.
Master Chief Laffite, privately known as Benny who happens to be one of Dean's best friends, is looking at him like he's expecting an answer. But no matter how many times he ponders, Dean is at a loss for words.
“Listen, you still have a couple of days to decide,” his team leader says, his Cajun accent as thick as ever (sometimes Dean thinks the man does it on purpose). “But you gotta know that whatever you decide, we’re still gonna be here for you. Bravo Team isn’t going anywhere, no matter what you do,” he continues. "Neither am I," he says, his voice a little softer.
Dean feels his heart fracture a little further inside his chest.
No one could have predicted this turn of events. Truth be told, when Dean decided to enlist 10 years back, it came as a surprise to practically everyone around him. He slowly worked his way up the ladder and became one of the youngest Navy SEALs to ever make Chief Petty Officer after only 7 years on the Teams.
He had it good, really. He loved his teammates, loved his job, loved the sense of clarity and purpose it gave him. It kept him busy enough so that he didn’t really have to care for any other aspect of his life. Sammy was safe and cared for, and no one was waiting for him back home.
Of course, of all the things that happened to him over the course of multiple deployments and missions, the thing that got him had to be a fucking IED. He had been stabbed and shot, broken more bones and torn more flesh than anyone on the team (well, maybe Barry would beg to disagree on that, but he’d probably run a close second). But ultimately his downward spiral started with a goddamn IED, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop getting mad at himself for it.
It was an innocent recon op. It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.
He woke up from a drug-induced coma 2 weeks after with a titanium hip in lieu of his left hip, a big part of the left side of his body marked forever by a stupid explosive device, and his whole career shattered to pieces.
And now he’s here. Declared unfit for duty and having to choose between leaving or staying.
Dean has never been a believer, but if he was, he’d say he probably pissed someone off big time upstairs at some point to end up being this fucked .
“Dean,” Benny inquiries, tearing Dean away from his inner monologue. “Come on brother, let’s go see the boys. That’ll cheer you up. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this grim since Marv ordered a Cosmo for you at Lloyd’s. And that’s gotta be, what? At least 4 years back?”
“Three.” Dean interrupts him, the corner of his lips turning slightly upwards, “three years ago, and it was a freaking strawberry daiquiri, Benny.”
Benny laughs at him as he stands up. “Is that a yes? We’re gearing up for an op, everyone’s here. They’ll be happy to see you.”
Benny is a good-looking guy, bordering the big old forties, and it’s seriously infuriating to see him wear the uniform like he’s some kind of model still. He’s been Dean’s mentor, if not father figure ever since he touched down in Virginia a decade ago (truth be told, if not for Benny, Dean would probably have been lost in Little Creek forever). Benny was Chief Petty Officer when Dean officially graduated Green Team, and he’s one of the massive reasons he’s been drafted on Bravo in the first place.
Hell, if not for Benny, Dean doesn't know if he'd be here at all.
Dean looks at him, studies the way he stands as if it’ll give him some insights on what his once-upon-master-chief is trying to accomplish (as if anyone could ever read Benjamin freaking Laffite like an open book anyway), and stands up in his turn, following him into the base’s large corridor.
It kills him to see how weak he still is. It’s been a solid month since he got out of the hospital. At least 3 weeks since he got rid of the crutches and he’s still going to physical therapy twice a week, but walking is still a constant work in progress and he hates the way it feels like he’s just turned 50 instead of barely pushing 28.
They’re turning the corner to the cages’ room when Dean’s phone rings. He’s about to dismiss it when he notices the caller ID and stops in his tracks, not bothering to stop Benny from walking.
Sam never calls unless there’s something important. It’s a rule they set very early on, because Dean rarely had time to answer. Always in-between missions or plainly unavailable. He can count the number of times Sam called him on one hand: when he got accepted at Stanford, and when Charlie had a car accident and was in the hospital for a week. Also when he graduated, and when he got the job at Lawton and Smith a couple of months back.
Blood stills inside his veins when he picks up, and his gaze set on Benny’s face who finally turned back to look at him.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says as he picks up, his voice way thinner than he intends it to be. “What’s up?”
“Dean,” Sam answers, and Dean practically feels his stomach turn into stone as he recognizes the tone in his brother’s voice, desperate and gloomy, “It’s Jimmy.”
“What about Jimmy?” he asks, trying to muster all the possible scenarios not involving something terrible (and failing miserably).
“He’s dead, Dean.”
That’s when Dean finds out being told your best friend is dead kinda feels like being blown up by an IED all over again.
✧✧✧
If he had to describe it, Castiel would say that suddenly losing your twin brother in a shooting while he was out getting a bottle of milk at the convenience store down the street in the middle of the night, and subsequently being the only member of the family left alive at 27 feels like shit.
Utter shit.
Massive shit.
Mega shit.
He’s having a hard time finding more superlatives right now, but that’s probably what staring at the ceiling for countless hours is for anyway.
He doesn’t really remember how long he’s been here, lying on his back on the fluffy carpet Jimmy brought back from Ikea some random afternoon years ago. He always went to Ikea during the most bizarre hours, arguing that it helped him think. Sometimes he’d spend hours looking at kitchens and random furniture just to come back home with an entire paper written on coronary artery disease development. It was maddening.
That’s how half of their stuff got here, including the fluffy carpet Castiel is lying on right now. He’s so lost in his thought that he doesn’t hear the front door open and doesn’t realize he’s not alone anymore until Balthazar’s voice chimes in from the corridor.
“Cassie? It’s Balt, where are you?”
Castiel doesn’t move, keeping his gaze firmly glued to the white ceiling. Some parts of his brain still naively think that if he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t think , maybe he can pretend things are fine.
As it turns out, things are not fine.
“Jesus Christ, Cas. How long have you been there?” Balthazar says, British accent as smug as ever as he drops next to him, sitting crossed-legs, “Not that I don’t enjoy ceiling gazing, but I’m not sure the roof is suddenly going to come alive and tell you to get dressed.”
He met Balthazar the first day of class he attended at Johnson County Community College, purely because they sat next to each other during their first Mass Media and Society course. They hit it off quickly, Balt’s dry sense of humor sealing the deal, and have been close friends ever since.
“I don’t want to get dressed,” Cas finally uses his voice for the first time in hours, and he hates the way it comes out hoarse. Painful.
“Are you telling me you want to go to your brother’s funeral wearing JCCC sweatpants and that old ratty AC/DC shirt that’s literally been through war?” Balthazar playfully says. And Castiel doesn’t know if he wants to cry because his friend is trying so hard to cheer him up, or laugh because goddammit, Balthazar truly is a work of art. “I know Jimmy would laugh his ass off if you did, but uh… Maybe the rest of the attendants expects you to wear more formal clothes.”
Jimmy had met Balthazar only a few days after he and Cas started hanging out, when he came home after a night shift at Lawrence general and found Balthazar and Cas cursing at each other while they played Mario Kart sitting on the floor. He’d declared Balt a good influence on him, and even took time to go out with them both when he had some free time.
“Well, fuck the rest of the attendants, for all I care,” Cas deadpans. “The funeral is several hours away Balt. I’ll be fine.”
“No, actually. I think you’ve been ceiling-gazing for too long, Cassie. It’s in two hours, and we have stuff to do.”
“What stuff?”
“First off, you’re gonna hit the shower. Now.”
“But—,“
“No buts, Cas. If you don’t I’m going to push you in there myself,” Balthazar interrupts, and Castiel finally tears his eyes away from the ceiling to look at his friend. “And then you’re going to answer the hundreds of messages that your phone keeps receiving, and you’re gonna start acting like a decent human being again.”
“But—,“
“I’m not done talking, Castiel,” Balthazar cuts him off again, eyes soft but determined, “I know it hurts and I know you don’t want to go through today, but you have to. And I won’t let you get swallowed up by your pain, not today. I’ve let you do so for the past 3 days. I’ve had enough.”
Cas huffs, defeated. Eyes going back to the ceiling, “You’ll leave me to it tomorrow, then?”
“If that’s what you want,” Balthazar grumbles as he raises from his spot on the floor. Dusting off his legs like he’s gotten dirty in the 3 minutes he just spent sitting next to Cas, “I’ll leave you to your misery. But not today. Come on, up!”
Castiel sighs deeply, half defeated half relieved that someone is there to help him go through what is probably the worst day of his entire existence.
The shower is too hot, and despite his best attempt, Castiel doesn’t manage to drown under the scorching water. It’s easy, getting lost into the sensation. Liquid gliding over his skin, thoughts and head empty. He doesn’t really feel the pain anymore. It’s not like it can be worse than the pain that’s been filling his lungs for days. He spends so much time under the spray that his skin stays bright red for a long while after. He’s finally gotten dressed and walked out of the bathroom, but it’s also somehow grounding him.
Balthazar hands him his phone once he joins him on the couch, and Castiel’s head starts spinning once he scrolls through all the messages and missed calls.
He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to see the pain on anyone else’s face. Doesn’t want to hear or read how much Jimmy meant so much to everyone. Doesn’t want to witness the tears, the pain, the ache.
If it was up to him, he’d disappear from the face of the Earth. Unfortunately, Balthazar seems adamant about not letting this happen. So Cas swallows up his pain the best he can, and lets his friend take the reins.
✧✧✧
It’s a 20-hours drive from Little Creek to Lawrence, but Dean makes it to Sam’s in less than 17. He’s exhausted but relieved to make it in time for the funeral. It’s probably going to be the most unpleasant thing to attend ever. Between the pain of losing one of the best friends you’ve ever had, and the exhaustion and emotional mess of having left behind everything you spent a decade building; the trunk of your car filled with whatever’s left of the life you’re quitting. Also the fact that he’s probably gonna have to cross paths with…
Yeah, it’s gonna be awful. But it’s Jimmy . His best fucking friend in the whole world. The guy who’s been by his side for what seems like forever. And sure, things might have shifted a decade ago, but people change. That’s the cycle of life. They’d still call, and text. Hell, they’d texted back and forth just a week ago, discussing sports and Jimmy complaining about his shifts at the hospital (“You’re complaining about shifts? To me? You know what I do for a living, James?”).
Dean hates the way his heart aches when he thinks about not receiving any texts from Jimmy ever again. Even the annoying one with stupid jokes at random hours. Dean would read them on the C-17, en route to an op or back to base, and it would make him laugh like a maniac half of the time.
“Dean, you sure you’re okay?” Sam asks as he hands a beer to his brother over the arm of the couch Dean is slumped on, “Maybe you should stay and sleep instead—“
“I’m not skipping the funeral Sammy, quit it,” Dean answers as he uncaps the bottle. “Besides, I ain’t staying here, I booked a motel room for the next two weeks until I can find something.”
“You know it’s stupid,” Sam sighs, dropping on the couch next to his brother, “you could’ve stayed here. We’ve got room for you.”
“Yeah, I could have. But if I did that I would probably never leave, and I don’t want Jess to turn into my in-home caretaker. She has enough on her plate at the hospital already without my stupid injured ass to take care of.”
Jess’ voice chimes in from the doorstep, “Well, that’s for me to decide.”
Jess is that special kind of walking sunshine that can light up an entire gloomy room just by walking in, and Dean can already feel the smile growing on his face as she enters the living room, still wearing her nurse coat.
Jess has been a part of the family for 6 years already, and despite not having seen each other in real life as much as they should have (Dean’s schedule was hectic, but combined with Jess and Sam’s, it was almost impossible to find some free time to get together — god bless technology for all the video calls). They’ve managed to develop enough of a meaningful relationship for them to get along like a house on fire. Sam pretends he hates it, but Dean knows he secretly loves it.
She sets her bag on the table and makes her way to the couch, sitting in-between both brothers. One of her hands slips to Sam’s knee while she bumps Dean’s fist with the other.
“How are you doing, slugger?”
“Drive was alright.”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking,” Jess says, her gaze going soft as she takes in Dean’s appearance, her eyes sliding over his left side where she knows most of the damage on Dean’s body is located. “You’re still having PT, right?”
“Yes, I booked my weekly appointment with Dr. Mayer at Lawrence General. Every Tuesday and Thursday. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m sorry, have you met us?” Sam says sarcastically. “I was already worried before you got blown up, but now my anxiety is just through the roof.”
“Yeah, well, no need to worry. I’m never going back in the field. So unless someone decides to poison me with spiked coffee or to run me over while I’m crossing the street, your anxiety levels should get back to normal soon enough.” Dean answers, gloomy.
He doesn’t have to look at his brother to know he’s probably wearing that kicked puppy face, the silence that follows is heavy enough for him to know. After a few tense seconds, Jess breaks the ice tentatively.
“You sure you don’t want to stay?”
Yes, I’m sure. I can’t deal with the hollow smiles. The worried glances. The pity that will inevitably lurk whenever my leg can’t handle me. Or when my back fails, or when you get a good look at how my skin is permanently damaged. Or worse, when I wake up screaming in the middle of the night, and I’ll have to acknowledge the extent of my PTSD. I can handle the pain and the misery on my own, but I sure as hell can’t handle your pity.
“100%. But thank you, regardless,” Dean says instead, a weak smile on his lips.
“Alright. We should probably get ready. The funeral is in less than 2 hours, and we all need a shower,” she says as she gets off the couch and starts unpacking her bag.
“Dean—,“ Sam starts but stops when Dean’s eyes lock-in with his.
“What, Sammy?” Dean answers, already dreading what’s coming.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Sam, Jimmy was my best friend. Yes, I’m sure.”
“Cas is going to be there.”
It’s been more than a decade, and yet it still feels like stones dropping at the bottom of his stomach whenever he hears the name. One would think it would’ve eased with time, but it didn’t. It’s still the same insane rush of feelings, laced with anxiety, laced with so much pain that sometimes it feels like being hit by a truck carrying another truck.
It’s not particularly pleasant.
“I sure hope so. It’s his twin brother.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“Are you sure it’s not gonna be too much to handle?”
“Listen. He wanted me gone, he got what he wanted. I was gone for 10 years, and now I’m back. I’m not gonna skip my best friend’s funeral—,“ Dean’s voice breaks there. He has to breathe to finish, oxygen rushing to his head and making it spin, “just because his brother and I used to have a thing.”
Just because he was the love of my life and I had to let him go. Just because he crushed my soul and left me for dead, and I haven’t been able to properly recover for the past decade.
Sam eyes him carefully as he stands up, “Okay, alright. Was just checking.”
“I appreciate it, but you don’t have to. Go get that shower. I’ll get my suit from the trunk.”
“Alright. We got to be gone by 11, we’re picking up Charlie.”
“Perfect.”
Anxiety starts rising then, and no amount of hot water or perfect coffee from Jess seem to even slightly tone it down. Even Charlie flying into his arms like a high schooler when they pick her up in front of her newly opened coffee/record shop doesn’t manage to calm his nerves down.
✧✧✧
As expected, it sucks. Castiel doesn’t even remember the last time he’s seen so many people gathering for someone else. But then again, Jimmy had always been the most sociable out of the two of them. He would make friends wherever he went, keeping in contact with people from med school as well as his teammates from his high school baseball team. His friends from his job at the hospital became a whole other family, so much that Cas stopped counting how many times he’d found them gathered around the kitchen table after a particularly rough shift.
It’s all a blur. Castiel is glad he didn’t have to organize the funeral on his own, with Jimmy’s hospital clique taking the reigns and only asking for his approval on everything once they were almost done. Several of them give speeches, and once again he’s glad he doesn’t have to, considering the state that he’s in.
It feels like he’s floating outside of his body. Like his soul is elsewhere. If he was still doing drugs, people might have wondered if he was high as hell, but he hasn’t touched anything for the past 8 years.
Not that he would mind anything to ease the pain right now.
“You okay?” Balthazar whispers in his ear as Anna, one of Jimmy’s fellow surgeons, started the ceremony’s closing speech.
“Yes. I just want this to be over so that I can go home and sleep for the next three months.”
“Yeah, okay. No need to be a sarcastic son of a bitch.”
Castiel just sighs, not finding enough strength to come back with a witty response. He lets his eyes scan the crowd instead.
That’s when he sees him.
Standing on the opposite side of the field, and in between Sam and Charlie. Navy blue suit that hugs him in all the best places, sunglasses on the nose, bow-legged in all his glory.
10 years might have passed, but Castiel Novak would recognize Dean Winchester anywhere, even in a crowd full of people he barely even knows.
It takes his mind a moment to register that he’s staring, unable to stop as he scans Dean’s posture. Sam has his arm curled around his brother’s shoulder and Charlie’s holding Dean’s hand solidly, her fingers interlocked with his.
Dean chooses this exact moment to look up. Even if Cas can’t see the forest green irises behind the tinted glass of his sunglasses, he knows he’s looking at him.
It takes him more time than he would’ve liked to tear them away, and once he does, it feels like he might pass out. Balthazar seems to notice, his arm suddenly curling around his shoulder, forcing Cas to look at him.
“What? What is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if I hadn’t caught you, I think you would’ve fallen. Is something wrong?”
Yes, the love of my whole life, with whom I had planned everything, who bailed on me 10 years ago when I OD’ed and went to rehab, who never bothered to give me any explanations or any kind of news - is standing right in front of me. That’s what’s wrong.
But Balthazar doesn’t know. No one except Jimmy and a handful of people he doesn’t see anymore knows. It’s something that Cas has tried so hard to bury deep inside his soul. Because talking about it did more harm than good.
So Castiel just shakes his head, looking obstinately in front of him.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired. Let’s get out of here as soon as this is over, okay?”
Let’s get out of here before I have to cross path with Dean Winchester and inevitably crumble to my feet, for the love of fucking everything.
✧✧✧
Only Charlie’s hand tightly closed around his own, fingers locked in his, is grounding Dean to planet Earth. He didn’t expect to feel like this, really.
The sadness he gets. But it’s the despair that takes him by surprise. The way his heart seems to have moved down his throat. The way his head keeps playing “you should’ve done more for Jimmy, you should’ve come back to see him, you should’ve been here when he graduated from med school, you should’ve been here for the heartbreaks and every single failed attempt at being a successful wingman”, on a loop.
There are so many people here, so many that Dean doesn’t know. It’s not a surprise. Jimmy was the social type. It used to make him laugh, the ability he had to go anywhere and come back with a new set of friends.
He doesn’t know if it’s a remnant of the sixth sense he’s developed after a decade on the Teams or if it’s just a coincidence, but Dean raises his head back up to stare across space in front of him, and immediately freezes.
God . No one should be allowed to look like this, especially not during his own brother’s funeral.
For years he resisted the urge of looking up Castiel’s social media profiles. Resisted sending texts or emails. He had to accept the loss and deal with it, and being so far away in what was essentially another galaxy had been helpful.
But seeing him in the flesh? A few feet from him, looking even better than he did 10 years ago?
It’s essentially the coup de grâce.
“Dean, are you okay?” Charlie whispers. Her grip tightening instantly around Dean’s hand.
Am I okay? I’m pretty fucking far from okay, thank you very much.
“I’m fine,” Dean grumbles lowly, unable to look away from those cobalt blue eyes.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Might as well have,” he says in a breath.
“What do you— oh,” Charlie says, everything finally clicking into place when she notices Castiel in her turn.
Dean doesn’t answer as he tries to push the whirlwind of feelings down, hard. But there’s sour at the back of his throat when he notices the blond-haired dick standing next to Cas curling his arm around his shoulder. The way only someone who’s deeply comfortable with him would.
It’s not like he expected him not to be there. He had to be there, Jimmy was everything to him. His last man standing. It’s not even like he was holding out hope for Cas to still be available, for Cas to still want him. He made it pretty clear a decade ago that Dean wasn’t what he wanted.
But still. Witnessing it playing out in front of his eyes even after 10 years, especially with all the pain that Jimmy’s death brings?
God, this whole thing sucks.
“Can we get out of here?”
“Dean —,“
“Please tell me you’ve got whisky on you.”
Charlie silently laughs, bringing her second hand to Dean’s wrist. “Just breathe. It’s almost over, and I swear we’ll leave as soon as it is.”
Dean does as he’s told, but somehow his eyes just keep going back to the dark-haired man standing across from him. To the way his black suit seems to be tailored the perfect way to display everything that is perfect about him. Dean mentally smacks himself for even having the nerve to notice this.
Please, let this day be over.
✧✧✧
21-Mar-2010, 0006
Great Lakes, IL
I’ve made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t text or try to call you. It’s been hard to keep it, because all I want to do is talk to you. It’s been so long that I don’t remember a time when you weren’t there to talk. So instead I’ve decided I’ll write. I won’t send these letters, they’re for me to pour out my soul and prevent myself from spiraling.
Jimmy made it clear that this was your choice. That things would be better for you if we stopped seeing each other. Maybe leaving was the cowardly way out, but I couldn’t see how I could stay in Lawrence knowing you were still around. That I couldn’t have you. I would’ve liked to see your face, though. I would’ve liked to hear it from you. At least I thought you owed me that much.
There are places I expected to be reminded of you; places that grief calls home. I was prepared to hide from the songs, the movies, the places we shared. But your memory keeps finding me in all the places we never shared. It keeps finding new ways to cut me.
If I’m honest, I wonder if you're not leaving pieces behind. I wonder if I’m taking them with me. Maybe all these shards are lodged in my skin, and I just don't have the bravery to pull.
Most days I hold your name on my breath, but say nothing. Because to speak it is to attach weight to my throat; to hear the sound of a broken wing beating. Some days, to speak anything at all is to remember what it was to be a grown, growing thing. To remember who I was before you.
I cannot bring myself to think of love as anything other than a dying thing. I know only of its decay behind my ribs. Yet, we are still forced to carry it long after the starlings have fled. Long after this bone-caged heart began beating in echoes.
Whenever you were next to me, there was no rest of the world. There were no stars painting light to the darkness. No wind to carry our names through the grass. To me, there was only ever you.
Even now, the world's turning slows when I think of you. It’s as if my body can still remember the weight of your touch. I know it won't always be like this, your name won't always be razor wire in my throat. But for now, I have to accept that the pain will still hang around the edges of the hole you left inside my soul.
I miss you. I hope you’re okay. God, I hope you’re okay.
— Dean
LEXICON
IED — Improvised Explosive Device
Master Chief — the ninth, and highest, enlisted rank (with pay grade E-9) in the United States Navy
Chief Petty Officer — the seventh enlisted rank (with pay grade E-7) in the U.S. Navy, just above petty officer first class and below senior chief petty officer.
Recon op — reconnaissance mission
Little Creek — Joint Expeditionary Base–Little Creek (JEB–LC), formerly known as Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek and commonly called simply Little Creek, is the major operating base for the Amphibious Forces in the United States Navy's Atlantic Fleet.
Green Team — Navy SEALs training team