#altdean

  *  *  *

  Dean has said, as others have written, that soup is good for the soul. Now that Jack's soul has been restored - and his true appetite returned - it seems a fitting first meal. Which is why Castiel is currently defrosting a batch of Dean's homemade chicken soup in the microwave. 

He remembers the first time he tried to operate one of these machines; things did not go as planned. But the subsequent lesson from Dean had been worth cleaning up the mess. It had been just the two of them, standing side by side in the bunker's kitchen for what seemed to be longer than necessary to explain the basic functions and demonstrate to Castiel the best settings for particular needs - culinary, or otherwise. 

They've come a long way since then, despite their many painful trials. Castiel has learned much, and Dean's trust in him has grown. Even without words spoken, he knows this. He can feel it through the connection they share, have always shared, the profoundness of their bond; with his Angelic perception, Castiel can sense variations of emotion from Dean's soul. He can feel Dean's trust in him through the solid walls of the bunker just as he can see it in the form of a rotating container through a microwave window. 

There are some minutes left in the defrost-and-reheat cycle when the other world's Dean enters the kitchen. Castiel knows it's him before he speaks, before he himself turns around to see. 

"..Castiel?" 

It's Dean's voice, but not quite. Still, Castiel knows it as well as he knows Dean's soul: this Dean has something he wants to say. Castiel turns to face him, offering a friendly smile. "Hello, uhm.. Dean." It feels strange because it's Dean and not Dean, but it's not exactly the first time this has happened, so he pushes through the strangeness of it all. 

"Hi." His eyes are bright as they flick to the microwave humming on the benchtop. "I was hoping we could talk. Do you have a moment?" His smile is tentative, warm, but edged in sadness. It's familiar, in a way. The fidgeting of his hands is something new, but Castiel knows Dean to fidget in other ways when something is on his mind and making him restless, nervous, even. 

"Of course." Castiel moves to round the counter as the other Dean steps forward to join him. 

"There's something I want to ask you, before we leave." 

It had been a matter of tense discussion on the drive back from the church; while Jack slept beside Castiel, Dean, Sam and himself had talked about the Winchesters from the other world: where they should go, whether they would be safe from Chuck, whether they should stay in the bunker for a time - which was something neither Sam nor Dean found agreeable, and Castiel had conceded that it would not be sustainable. 

With Billie's plan in motion and Chuck's own endgame nearing, the safest place for the other Sam and Dean is as far away from the bunker as possible, for now at least. If they failed in their mission, however, no place in the world, or in any realm, would be safe for anyone. 

"You cook?" 

Is this the question the other world's Dean had wanted to ask him? "I.. microwave." A shy smile sneaks onto Castiel's face and the other Dean nods, looking perplexed. "Dean cooks, I just.. help where he needs me." 

"Oh." His face falls. "We've.. never needed to. Cook, I mean. There's always been room service, restaurants, and the like when we're away on a case. And we have―had―personal chefs at the estate, so.." 

"Ah. I see." The reminders of the loss of their world must be everywhere. Castiel wishes he knew this Dean well enough to know what to say to lessen the pain. Despite his mostly cheerful demeanor, Castiel can see the fluctuations in the wavelength of this Dean's soul; he is hurting. And this is familiar: observing Dean feeling one thing but expressing another. 

He can't help but wonder how much of the Dean he knows is carried through to other worlds, other Deans. Do they all have a love for cooking, or a desire to learn how to cook? Do they all have an unparalleled care for some sort of vehicle? Are there Deans out there who Castiel would not recognise by sight or sound? 

"You're an Angel." 

The statement brings his attention back into focus. "Yes." 

"And yet, you're so.." 

Castiel raises an eyebrow. 

"..human." 

Oh. It is possible, despite the spellwork needed for them to open a rift into an alternate universe, that this Dean has not encountered any Angels himself, or at least not ones who have made their home on Earth, among humanity; changing day by day, becoming more like humans in innumerable small - but not insignificant - ways. 

"It's just.. peculiar. My Castiel―" 

"―Your Castiel?" The clothing, the mannerisms, the stories of their world all differentiate this Dean from the one Castiel knows. But it's still jarring to hear that, of all things, in Dean's voice; to be claimed, in a way. Not like ownership but familiarity; intimacy. He's almost unwilling to let their conversation progress until this Dean clarifies what he meant. 

"Uhm," the other Dean clears his throat at what Castiel knows is his own visible confusion. "There was an Angel, in our universe, also named Castiel, but.." he looks away; at the floor, the wall, the microwave and it's container of soup. "We never met." Castiel waits, watching him as he watches the soup, until he says, quiet, "Not in the mortal realm, at least. He was.. out of my reach―quite literally―but.. he saved me, once. He watched over me.. And I would pray to him, now and then. Talk to him. Thank him.. Ask him how things were in the divine realm," he chuckles softly, ducking his head. 

"Did he.. respond?" Castiel keeps his voice equally quiet, suddenly eager to know as much as he can about this other Castiel and his relationship with this Dean. 

"In a way. Not with words, but he would.. visit me. In my dreams." 

Castiel has many questions, but the other Dean pushes on. 

"I was just wondering if you knew what happens to them. To Angels." He glances up at Castiel. "Where do you go?"

"Go? You mean..?" 

"I don't know what happened, exactly, but a few years ago the dream-visits stopped. And now, with our world gone, I just.." He lets go a sigh, shoulders drooping on the exhale. "You being an Angel, I hoped you might have a real answer. One way or another." His eyes are sad, his soul less luminous, for a moment, and it's achingly familiar; it's the presence of loss, deep in one's being. Castiel deplores the sight of it, the all too familiar pull of it. 

He wishes he knew the answer, if only because for certain things not knowing is worse than knowing, even if the outcome is not what one hoped for. It's a cruel reality, living with false hope. But, when there is no certainty, one cannot assume there is no hope. 

"Your world may have been vastly different to ours, in many ways―including your Angels, for all I know. But if there's one thing I've learned in my time here, in this world, it's that nothing is really impossible. You being here, now, proves that, I think." 

The other world's Dean brightens some, his soul noticeably less pained, however slight the change may be. The persistence of sadness dulls it in ripples, but sparks of hope shoot through the shadows. "Thankyou." His smile is less tentative as he turns to take his leave. 

The timer beeps, but before Castiel can retrieve a bowl from the cupboard the other world's Dean speaks up again. 

"He's lucky to have you." Castiel stills, glancing toward the doorway, seeing only earnestness in this Dean's face and soul just as he hears it carry through his voice. "I hope he knows that." With a small wave he disappears into the corridor, leaving Castiel to ponder on that sentiment, wondering whether the distance that his relationship with Dean has come in all these years is as far as it will ever go.  

 *  *  *

 It's instinctual. 

It's been a long time coming, and Dean feared maybe it never would, that Jack might never be himself again, but it's him. It's their kid, sitting hunched over and alone, tears of remorse flooding his voice and spilling down his cheeks. 

Dean's arms are wrapped around him, gathering him into a hug before he even registers his feet having moved. He tightens the embrace as Jack's chest jumps with hiccups, his hands grasping at Dean's shirt, tears soaking through the layers of cotton and warming his skin in a way that tears shouldn't; but this is Jack. 

As much as Dean can tell Jack's hurting right now, he also knows this is a good thing. The same way he knows it was a good thing when Sam got his soul back, and when Cas was freed of the Leviathan, and when Dean himself was rid of the Mark of Cain. 

They all have baggage. They've all done bad things they can't undo, and it hurts. But none of them were themselves when those things went down. And he's so tired of being angry, tired of defaulting to hatred, tired of not being able to change things for the better, to undo what's been done. 

But this right here―? This kid, pained and crying into his chest, snot and all―? It's a win. 

Sam sits on Jack's other side, rubbing his shoulder and back, letting him know he's there for him, too. They all are. Jack gravitates to him after a little while, leaning into his side as Sam pulls him near. Cas sits opposite them at the little wooden table, their family huddled together in the residual warmth of the kitchen, each of them silently reeling from the events of the day. 

They're one step closer to defeating Chuck, according to Billie, but for once it didn't cost them anything; instead of losing something, they gained something, someone. 

Dean catches Cas' eye across the table, presses his leg up against his where no-one can see. He smiles a tired, hopeful thing, wishing he was dumb enough or daring enough to reach across the scant space between them and take one of Cas' hand in his where they rest folded in front of him. 

Cas returns his smile, looking just as tired, just as hopeful, his leg pressing against Dean's under the table, and it feels like an answer to a question Dean still doesn't know how to ask. 

 *  *  *

 At a rest-stop by the Kansas state line bordering Oklahoma, while his brother fusses with a paper map and wonders aloud why on Earth this world's Winchesters don't have a dedicated GPS for each of their procured vehicles, Dean takes a moment outside of the car.

Under the fading stars as dawn approaches, prayer beads held in his hand instead of adorning it, he voices an invocation; murmured between his lips, held close to his heart, sent out into the universe―to every universe―impelled by his soul. 

Just one word, born of and survived by hope. 

A name.