#featherverse

“I said I'm fine.”

“I'm just saying! I mean, you say some pretty stupid things sometimes, I know that, Cas knows that too, but--”

“Sam, if you don't shut your mouth I swear,” Dean growled, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned to stare out the window. There was no point arguing with Dean when he was like this.

It started to snow again as they merged onto the highway that would take them back home, and after a very long moment, Dean said, in a low voice, “Three weeks.”

“I know,” Sam said.

“It's been three weeks, Sammy,” he repeated, and for the first time he looked at Sam, his eyes desperate. “Three weeks with no nothing, no dreams, no visits, not even a goddamn phone call. Three weeks—would it kill him to say hello?”

“It probably wouldn't kill you to say you're sorry,” Sam pointed out dryly, “but that doesn't mean you're going to do it.”

“Dammit!” Dean roared, smacking his fist into the wheel. “I've said I'm sorry, he's not friggin' listening to me!”

“You did tell him to get the hell out,” Sam reminded him. “And that you never wanted to see him again.”

Dean didn't speak.

“And you punched him in the face,” Sam added, counting on his fingers. “Twice. And threw your pendant on the ground. And stomped on it.”

“I know,” Dean snarled, looking furious, but after a second the anger faded from his face and was replaced by exhaustion. “I know,” he repeated, and fixed his eyes ahead, his throat working visibly against tears.

“Hey, maybe he'll come back tomorrow,” Sam said, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder.

“Yeah,” Dean managed in a rough voice. “Maybe.”

It was twenty minutes later that he pulled up to the curb outside of the house and climbed out into the snow. If nothing else, he thought wearily, at least he knew the heat in the house worked.

He slammed the door and turned towards the house to head inside, but halfway there he stopped dead. “What the--” he began, staring.

“What?” Sam asked as he got out of the car, and then slowly turned around.

The apple tree in front of the house had been probably seven feet high the last time they'd been home, and despite the best efforts of the resident angel, one of the scrawniest and most pathetic-looking trees Dean had ever seen. He'd kept saying it wasn't going to live through their next hunt, and he knew he'd said it then, but he couldn't have been more wrong.

In less than a month, the tree must have grown to easily six times its old height and width, which would have been pretty incredible even if it wasn't the middle of winter. Considering it was January, it couldn't be described as much less than a miracle.

That was the thought that made it click. All at once the pieces fell together: an angel, a tree, and another, very similar miracle that they'd seen a long time ago.

“Shit,” Dean said as it sank in, and a second later he was running for the front door and fumbling with his keys at the same time, trying to find the house key. He dropped the keys on his first attempt at unlocking the door, growled under his breath, and grabbed them again, jamming the key into the lock and shoving the door open.

The house was dark and silent and freezing cold. With his heart in his throat, Dean reached for the lights, his hand searching the wall blindly for the switch. He found it just as Sam came in and flipped it on to reveal the front room.

“Christ,” Sam said, looking around at the black feathers scattered across the floor.

Dean threw his jacket on the floor and sprinted into the living room, looking for the light switch there too. “Cas!” he shouted, a second before he managed to turn on the lights, and saw Cas lying on the floor, motionless. His throat tightened and he ran across the room to fall on his knees beside Cas. To Sam, he called, “He's alive, he has to be, he's breathing, he's—human.”

He hadn't been sure until that second, but Cas was definitely breathing, albeit shallowly; Dean could see the rise and fall of his chest and the faint mist that formed around his mouth when he exhaled.

“Hey, wake up,” he said desperately, shaking the fallen angel's shoulder. “Cas, come on, wake up, wake up, look at me, wake up!”

Cas stirred and coughed, his eyes flickering open. “Dean,” he managed in a voice like sandpaper. “I...was hoping...”

“Shut up,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Don't try to talk, I just wanted to know you were alive.”

“I—have something for you,” Cas said, shifting around to reach into his coat pocket.

“Don't,” Dean repeated, trying to stop him. “Just stay still, would you, you're barely even conscious--”

“Here,” Cas said weakly, and thrust something into Dean's hand. It was the feather pendant Dean had thrown at him on New Year's, with the feathers all repaired to their usual sleek shine.