Feathers and Leathers ((Destiel shorts))

Forty

Dean turns forty tomorrow.

Birthdays are the kind of thing he'd normally pass right over – Sammy always remembers to wish him a good one and slap him on the back, of course, like congrats, we've (mostly) survived another year! and Cas'll do that confused head-tilt thing because he still doesn't understand why humans celebrate the anniversaries of their own birth. But there's never a party, or anything; Dean can't really remember having a birthday party since he was four, unless you count precious nights in hotel rooms with only Sammy while Dad was gone on a hunt where they'd blow out his lighter and pretend it was a candle.

Make a wish, Dean!

Dean pushes his head further back into his pillow and sighs at the ceiling. The room's dark, Sam's probably asleep down the hall, and insomnia sucks. And Dean's thinking about birthdays.

Yeah...they probably won't do anything fancy to celebrate. Usually they're too caught up with the next big bad to even pause for cake. Or pie, for Dean's birthday. It's not like Dean wants it to be different this year, it's just...

It's just, Dean's turning forty. It's kind of a big one.

Because tomorrow, for the first time in almost a decade, he'll have spent just as much time on Earth as in Hell.

He won't act like it makes a difference, tomorrow. He doubts anyone will bring up Hell at all – for Sammy, it's already a distant memory, a third of his life away. Dean, though – well, sometimes Dean feels like hardly any time has passed at all. What's a decade out, when he spent three on the racks getting ripped to pieces on the daily, the only constants the sounds of his own screams and the glinting darkness of Alastair's eyes? And the fourth decade, the one that still gives him nightmares at least twice a week: dreams where he shreds into innocent souls with his bare hands, flaying them alive, a gleeful chuckle coming from somewhere that he desperately hopes isn't his own mouth.

Even thinking about it now causes guilt to crush him like a physical weight. The horrible things he'd done with the Mark of Cain didn't hold a candle to the savagery he'd committed, he'd enjoyed, in Hell. His crimes wearing Amara's mark weren't his, after all – but in Hell, every ounce of suffering he'd caused, well – that was on him.

He's hoping turning forty will change things.

Maybe that last little piece of him that still believes he's Alastair's bitch will finally roll over and die and let him try for some actual happiness. Maybe the nightmares he keeps so tightly under wraps he's convinced even himself they don't happen will finally taper off.

Maybe the next time he hugs Sam, and they're both alright, and he's filled with such dizzying, spinning relief that everything's okay, the voice at the back of his mind will shut up instead of telling him it's just a trick, only a trick, and when I open my eyes and all there is is fire and pain it will hurt all the more because Sammy and Cas and Kevin and Charlie and Bobby were never real in the first place.

Maybe the next time Cas smiles at him and he feels that glowing warmth beneath his ribcage he won't tell himself you're hallucinating, angels don't exist and God doesn't exist because there is no way someone out there loves you unconditionally, because out of everyone, you are the least deserving of love like that.

And maybe the sharper, more painful voice that usually says he's just going to leave you, like everyone leaves you will shut up.

And –

A snore shatters the silence and easily derails Dean's thoughts. He wipes his eyes and turns his head to the side.

Cas is curled up on the other half of the bed, sleeping heavily enough that he and the memory foam have become one. There isn't a single inch of him that's touching Dean, but it doesn't matter when just the sight of him calms Dean down like a whiff of anesthesia. The angel's wearing Dean's softest white undershirt and a pair of Dean's sweatpants, the latter of which is too long in the legs but snug in the thighs. He's comfy and tender and the warm feeling in Dean's chest is enough to push aside Hell, for the moment.

The two of them aren't a thing, despite Sam's eyebrow-raising. Dean just hadn't wanted to sleep alone, too scared that he'd wake up on his fortieth birthday drenched in sweat and shaking with terror and shame and guilt, and Cas had wordlessly snuck into his room after the lights were out without even being asked. He always knows what Dean needs, and what Dean needs is the one person who, despite everything, makes him feel safe.

As usual, it's like Cas can sense his attention. The snores turn into snuffles, then the angel turns and a pair of sleepy – but piercing – blue eyes are boring into Dean's. Those are the eyes that make all of Dean's walls come crumbling down. He doesn't cry loudly, but when tears escape his eyes Cas's gaze stays soft, understanding. The angel rolls onto his back and lifts an arm in invitation. With anyone else, Dean might've hesitated. But this is Cas. Cas. He shuffles over and fits himself against Cas's side, head pillowed on his chest. Cas's arm drapes across his shoulders, and the anxious chatter in Dean's brain goes instantly and blissfully silent.

They breathe together in silence for a long time. Dean lets the rise and fall of Cas's chest guide his own so he doesn't have to worry about anything, even something as mundane as that. For the first time on his birthday-eve, he lets his eyes slip closed. He never gets nightmares with Cas this close.

He can feel Cas thinking. Maybe it's the power of his grace, or some instinct Dean's got; he can always tell when the angel's brooding. Dean wants to tell him to stop and go back to sleep, but he's too lethargic to even open his mouth.

Instead, Cas starts talking. As usual, he packs the results of his long contemplation into just a few words.

His voice is gravelly, more so than usual, pitched quiet. "You still deserve to be saved, Dean."

Dean's heartbeat quickens. His instinct is to deflect, deny. Only – he trusts Cas, more than he trusts himself. So he tries to believe him, instead.

"You deserve all the good things. Earth deserves you. And Sam and I will never leave you."

Tears squeeze past Dean's closed eyelids and soak Cas's shirt – well, Dean's shirt, really. It belongs to both of them, just like the Bunker and free will and Dean's heart. The pad of Cas's thumb starts rubbing comforting circles against the back of his neck.

Hell was, and always will be, a large piece of Dean. Turning forty won't change that, but he can. He can turn his focus to the real world, to the things and people that matter. That he loves.

Somewhere distant through the halls of the Bunker, a clock chimes the hour.

"Happy Birthday, Dean," Castiel murmurs.

And Dean falls asleep, cradled by the angel that will always watch over him.