dean's four and a half and he doesn't like daddy's new friends. they're huge and they spit a lot and they talk to dean from all the way up tall and make faces when he doesn't talk back. they smell sour like daddy's beer. he's not supposed to be afraid but he's scared of these big guys.
"he just don't talk much."
daddy gets mad that dean doesn't wanna talk. nobody cares that sammy can't talk yet but everybody wants dean to talk. sometimes he wants to tell daddy stuff but it doesn't feel good to say words so he doesn't. he likes when daddy leaves him alone with sammy and dean can show him the pictures in his books and it's real quiet. the place they're at right now is not quiet. it's got music and lots of people and they're all loud and not very nice.
"yeah well it's fuckin' weird."
---
"what's wrong with the new kid?"
dean's sick of these fucking schools. there's a new one every month and dean's counting down the days 'til dad pulls him out of school altogether to hunt full time. he's gotta go for now so he at least knows enough to help sam with his homework, but god does he hate it. the other kids don't even know everything his dad does for them, everything they should be grateful for. all they care about is that dean's jacket is too big and his jeans don't reach past his ankles. whatever. he doesn't even want these fuckin' kids to like him. hunters don't need friends, and that's all he's going to be.
"he's so weird."
---
"what the hell is the matter with you, son?"
dean fucked up. really fucked up. he wasn't supposed to meet back up with dad until tomorrow, thought he had one more night by himself. he finished the job with a salt and burn before the sun even went down and headed straight for the bar. if he'd known dad was heading back tonight, he never would've looked twice at the dude makin' eyes at him but yeah, that's where he fucked up. dude bought him a drink and was getting cozy, fingers dancing along the top of dean's belt above his ass. so dean leaned over to whisper something stupid and flirty in the guy's ear--why the fuck did he do that--when he caught sight of john, staring stone-faced from halfway across the bar. dean pulled away like he'd been burned but it was too fucking late and now dad's trying to give him some kinda disappointed father speech like he's actually been around the last two years since sam split. bullshit. dean shrinks down in the passenger seat. what did he expect? being himself has never exactly gone well for dean.
"just... knock it off with that weird shit"
---
what's wrong with you, dean?
he's somehow made it to 36 and it's becoming clear that there's something wrong with him. again. there's always something wrong with him. broken in him. sam's greatest dream in life is to find a girl, marry her and probably have a million babies. dean's dream... is for sam's dream to come true. that's about it. dean doesn't want any of that shit for himself. he thinks he's supposed to. he thinks it's not supposed to make his skin crawl and his throat feel tight when he imagines spending his golden years with some faceless imaginary chick. dean's just continuing his lifelong trend of not even being able to fake normality. weird. broken.
no, you know what, fuck that. dean's felt weird and broken his whole goddamn life. there's nothing fucking wrong with the way he loves his brother and the way he loved his mother and the way he loves cas. its not bad or less or a consolation prize. he's different but he’s not fucking broken.
alright friends, i know i promised to have this fic finished for arodeanweek but some shit happened and i am not in a great place so it’s gonna have to wait a lil longer. sincere apologies.
A midnight conversation between everyone’s favorite aromantic hunter and his residant angel companion circa season 6. Not necessarily deancas but also nothing that says it isn’t. ~1800 words.
Dean sat atop the roof of the newest motel in the line-up, an untouched pack of beer to his right and the parking lot laid out in front of him, a deep black tinted orange where the asphalt met the lampposts dotted around the perimeter. A slow, chill breeze kept him company, accented with the occasional gust of freezing air that made him regret leaving his jacket downstairs. He could go back down, but getting up here without drawing attention to the motel staff in the first place was mostly due to luck and he didn’t have a lot of that to go around nowadays. So instead he tucked his arms close to his chest and shuffled his legs around the concrete roof, trying to find any comfortable position he could despite not having an actual seat.
Just as he’d resigned himself to less-than-comfortable night he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention as the breeze picked up once again, only this time coming from the wrong direction.
He should have expected it, really, but he still had to keep himself from jumping when he inched his head around and saw the darkened silhouette out of the corner of his eye.
“Jesus Christ, Cas! What did I tell you about doing that?!”
Castiel’s brow dropped a bit as he glanced around. “I’m sorry, Dean. I would have knocked but there aren’t any doors up here.”
Dean bit back his sarcastic retort, which was going to be incredibly witty no doubt, grumbling as he turned to pull a beer from the ground to his right. “Well what are you doing here? Got another angelic instrument you need us to find?” He tried to keep the bitterness out his voice as he set to work opening the bottle but the combination of the chill and the interruption to his alone time was slowly grating at his nerves.
Cas didn’t respond at first. The wind ruffled his hair and the lapels of his coat swayed back and forth. Eventually he asked, “Why are you sitting on the floor?”
“Technically it’s the roof.”
Cas sighed, and though Dean didn’t look he was sure he was rolling his eyes too. He heard quiet scuffing noises to his left and then Cas was sitting next to him. Dean frowned, keenly aware that a heavenly powerhouse compressed into the size of a dude had just plopped himself down next to him. Gracefully plopped, of course.
Dean legs shifted around.
He could only see as far as the parking lot, the field beyond it a pitch black that blended into the night sky. The only stars were few and faint, not providing much for Dean to look at. He searched instead for something else to say to Cas but decided if the angel had chosen to appear he probably had some reason and would eventually spit it out.
Just as expected Cas soon admitted, “I’m sorry about Lisa.”
Okay…not quite as expected then. “Excuse me?”
Cas looked down at the concrete below him. “I had hoped you would be able to stay with her. Apparently…that is no longer possible.”
Dean stared at him blankly before he snorted and turned back to the parking lot. “Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.” He took a swig from his beer and added, “Pretty sure that makes you the only one who thought this would work out.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” When Dean looked at him again his head was turned towards Dean and his eyes were pinched in confusion and frustration.
“Man – I’m not cut out for the domestic life. I mean, it was nice to play along for a while, nice to have a family after I lost Sam, but I never would have lasted there. I knew it. Lisa knew it. She was just waiting for me to bail on her and Ben.”
“I thought Lisa was what you wanted.”
“Yeah well, me too.” The wind suddenly whipped past in a sharp gust and Dean shuffled around again. He couldn’t help but notice that Castiel seemed completely indifferent to the dropping temperature. Probably that stupid coat. Or the angel mojo. Yeah probably that last one actually.
In the distance he heard a bird caw. The sound echoed for a moment and Dean glanced around until is dissipated in the air around him. This vibrations seemed to sink into his bones, like he was hollow inside. His crossed his legs.
“Well what do you want then?”
Dean’s fingers tightened around the base of his beer. “I don’t know Cas. But I know I have more important shit to worry about right now. Sam’s been acting weird, hell even monsters have been acting weird…for monsters anyway.” As he took another drink from his beer he considered offering Cas one, but that would just encourage him to stay longer and Dean really didn’t want to put up with these invasive questions for much longer. “Anyway the whole…love thing never really worked for me. I can’t do it right.”
It was comical really, looking back, the speed at which Cas swiveled hid head to stare at Dean again. Kind of like an owl.
“Dean Winchester, I’ve watched humanity from its very conception, and I’ve heard a lot of bullshit.” Dean snorted but Cas simply ignored him. “Humans used to think the earth was a cube, and if you walked to far it was possible to fall off of the side of it. They thought that the natural actions of the planet, volcanoes and lighting, were signs of the end of times. They convinced masses of people that the only way to get into heaven was by monetarily paying the ruling clergy at the time, as if God cared about the amount of money they had. And I can honestly say, in all of my existence, I’ve never heard anything as wrong as what you just said.”
Through the span of Cas’ little monologue Dean had shaken off his initial shock and now he just chuckled. “Wow, Cas…way to make a guy feel humble.” He took another swig of his beer.
“I don’t think you understand, Dean. You were made to love. It’s what you’ve always done best.”
“Alright Dr. Phil, why don’t we save the feelings for after the commercial break, yeah?”
“No.”
It was said with such finality, with no room for argument that Dean finally snapped.
“Then explain to me, Cas! Tell me why everyone seems to be in on some secret that I don’t understand. Why does it feel like I’m always on a completely different page than everyone I’ve tried to have a relationship with? Where’s the rulebook they’re all following and where can I get one?!” Dean’s upper body was turned toward Cas now, the bottle clenched in his hands so tightly he was afraid for a moment it would break. As he relaxed his grip all the tension in his body fled as well. He sighed and turned back to the parking lot. He uncrossed his legs.
It took a few moments before Cas responded, but when he did his voice was soft and somber. “There is more than one way to love someone, Dean. The way you feel about your brother, about your father, your mother, Bobby, Lisa, Ben and everyone else lucky enough to be a part of your life…that is more than enough. You love people wholly, unconditionally… passionately and protectively…there’s no better way to love. You think because it doesn’t look or sound the way everyone says it should that it’s not good enough but you’re wrong.” Here, he turned his body entirely towards Dean. “You were made to love. You were supposed to love your brother enough to go to hell for him, but you loved him even more, enough that even Heaven couldn’t fight it. My brothers and sisters could never love our God as much as you love your family. Dean Winchester…your love is holy.”
Dean felt trapped. He couldn’t look away from Cas’ eyes trained on him, looking into him, making him feel as if his skin had been pulled back and everything inside had been laid bare. He was suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the fact that Cas had been literally created to love God, and later to love humanity. Although he’d probably taken that last one a bit too far if the state of Heaven’s host was anything to go by. Maybe Cas did know a thing or two about not loving in the way he was supposed to. Maybe Cas loved in too many ways, and Dean in too few. Then again, they’d both managed to stop an apocalypse, and so Dean decided right then, on the roof of some no-name motel in front of an empty parking lot in the middle of the night, maybe it didn’t matter what other people expected of them. Maybe he was enough.
And with that thought he finally broke eye contact with Cas and looked away. The silence hung over their heads as Cas patiently awaited Dean’s reaction, to see if he would make his usual joke or angrily leave him sitting alone on the roof. Instead he turned to his right, pulled a beer out the pack by his hip and handed it to Cas who took it quietly and smiled in thanks. Still, he needed to say something. Change the subject.
“What about you? You ever get the whole…candle-lit dinner thing?” Dammit.
Cas squinted and rolled the bottle of beer back and forth between his hands. Oh, Dean probably should have opened it for him. But he seemed content to just hold it for now so Dean shrugged it off.
“I was created to love as well…but to attempt to qualify that love by human standards would be foolish at best and – “
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re old and made of light or whatever. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that word enough to last me a lifetime anyway.”
Cas rolled his eyes but his smile stayed fond and Dean wasn’t worried. Not about a thing. The breeze had calmed now, still cool but it no longer bit at his nose. There was an angel sitting on his left picking at the label of a beer bottle, peeling it and then smoothing it back down again. The lamps in the parking lot glowed at him warmly, the stars sat in the sky just as dim as they pleased, and as he leaned back on his hands, his legs crossed comfortably at the ankle.
Five times Sam tried to tell Dean he was aromantic, and one time Dean told someone else.
1.6k words; teen and up; crossposted to ao3
The first time Sam asked him, Dean misheard and started sniffing his pits to make sure he was wearing deodorant.
"I smell awesome, Sammy," he said. "Don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
Sam opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He sat there with his journal in one hand, a pen in the other, and his mouth hanging agape like a fish with no instinct for survival. Sam had planned this conversation in his head for over a month; what he hadn’t planned for was the roadblock that mondegreen built.
"'Are you aromatic?’" Dean repeated in the most obnoxious impression of Sam he could muster, rolling his eyes for his own benefit before diving back into his novel.
Sam sighed and resigned himself to trying again in the morning. "I just got this whiff of bullshit over here and figured it was coming from you."
Dean laughed, and Sam smiled, and they returned to their reading.
* * *
The second time went about as well. Perhaps it was because Sam approached it academically. Then again, maybe it was because he introduced the subject before Dean had his coffee. It could even have been because he led off with the L-word, which is easily Dean's least favorite topic, which is kind of why Sam prompted this discussion in the first place.
"Did you know," he began after jogging into the kitchen, fresh from his morning run, "that the ancient Greeks defined four different types of love?"
"Sounds fake, but okay," Dean mumbled as he swished his coffee around in his mug.
"There's agape, which describes love that is selfless and unconditional. Agape is about sacrifice and helping your fellow human beings with no expectation of reward."
"Well doesn't that sound fucking familiar."
"Philia is a platonic love," Sam continued, "one that denotes—"
"That sounds like a sandwich."
Sam blinked. "What?"
"Philia," Dean said. "Makes me want a cheesesteak."
"Of course it does. Anyway, where agape is a verb, philia is a noun and—" Sam hesitated as Dean pushed away from the table. "Dean, where are you going?"
"Ain't got time for grammar," Dean told him. "We need to make a grocery run."
* * *
The third time is really a continuation of the second because Sam is hopeful to a fault.
"Storge is the type of love we feel for family and friends," he said in the car on their way to the nearest supermarket. "It's a love that means security and comfort."
"What, because you store your feelings with them?"
Sam wrinkled his nose in confusion. "I don't get it."
"Storage," Dean elaborated. "If it's called storage, then it means there are emotions goin' somewhere."
"Storge, Dean. Not storage. Storge."
"Yeah, okay, whatever," said Dean with a dismissive wave of his hand. "C'mon, give me the fourth one so I can figure out what the fuck the point of all this is."
"The fourth love," Sam continued, his eyebrows knitting themselves together as he attempted not to make a sour face, "is eros. It's about passion and romance."
"The Greeks had a special kind of love for archers?"
"No, Dean, ero—You know what? Never mind." Sam slumped over against the window and tried to figure out his next approach. This was much harder than he ever expected.
* * *
The fourth time, Sam decided to approach the problem cinematically. He also chose to argue from the opposite direction; after all, Sam was not only pre-law, but Lucifer’s vessel. If anyone could play devil’s advocate, it was Sam fucking Winchester.
"Dean?" he asked over their cheesesteaks later that day.
"What's up, Sammy?"
"You know how in Pacific Rim, Raleigh and Mako aren't a couple? How you expect them to kiss at the end, but they don't?"
Dean tilted his head as he chewed his bite of sandwich. "I didn't expect them to kiss."
"But they were set up romantically the entire film."
"Not really," Dean scoffed. "I mean they're as close as two humans can possibly be, yeah? They share brainspace."
"Don't you think that's kind of...intimate, though?" asked Sam.
"Well, yeah," agreed Dean. "That doesn't mean they're dating. Or even boning. I mean technically they're already inside each other but—"
"Okay, what about Fury Road?" Sam interrupted.
"What about it?"
"Max and Furiosa."
"What about them, then?"
"Didn't you expect them to be an item by the end of the movie, considering everything they'd been through together?" asked Sam.
Dean shook his head slowly. "No. It's the Apocalypse. No one's got room for chick flick moments in the Apocalypse, Sam."
"Okay," Sam said, setting down his sandwich. "Had it ever occurred to you that they might have romantic feelings for each other?"
"I mean, they could be more than friends," Dean conceded, "but they're not, like, a thing or anything. Not gonna go shack up in a cave and play house. What they've got's bigger than that. More profound."
Sam winced internally at Dean’s use of the word ‘profound’. Obliviousness, thy name is brother. "How so?"
"They're family," said Dean. "They need each other to survive. Plain and simple."
"So they love each other like family?"
Dean popped the last bit of sandwich into his mouth before saying something that sounded like, "Only love there is."
Sam nodded, satisfied to end the discussion there for the moment.
* * *
The fifth time, Sam asked Dean flat-out if he had ever been in love.
"Dude, I lived with Lisa and Ben for a year. Of course I was in love with her."
"So how did it feel?"
Dean frowned. "As compared to what?"
"I don't know," said an exasperated Sam, "maybe your love for Mom."
"That's gettin' into a whole weird kinky area."
"Not like that, Dean. Jesus, how do I explain this..." Sam took several long, deep, centering breaths before continuing. "When I looked at Jess sometimes, I'd get butterflies in my stomach—"
"Oh no," groaned Dean. "No girl talk. I can't handle girl talk."
"Shut up and stop being an insensitive misogynistic jerk," Sam said.
“...Yeah, that actually was kind of uncalled for. You really loved her. Sorry, Sam." He indicated that Sam should continue, so Sam did.
"When I kissed her, everything suddenly felt right with the world, like nothing bad could ever happen. I couldn't imagine anyone or anything ever taking her place. Being with her satisfied this emotional need within me. Loving her was different from loving anyone else."
Dean grabbed blindly for the remote and paused Black Swan. "What do you mean 'different'?"
"It was the same way with Amelia," Sam continued. "It was more than the love I felt for Cas, a friend; it was more than the love I felt for you, a brother. Being in love made me feel complete."
"Can you...Man, there's something here I'm just not getting. I lived with Lisa. We slept together. We were best friends. What more is there?"
"Dean," started Sam, "there's no real way to explain romantic love. It's something you feel. Loving someone and being in love with them feels different."
Dean just stared.
"Did you feel the same kind of familial, protective love for Lisa and Ben that you feel for me and Cas?"
After a long pause, Dean quietly said, "Yeah. It's stronger for you guys, and there’s never anyone I’d put before you, Sam, but...yeah."
"Did you feel anything beyond that? With her or Cassie or anybody else?"
Dean looked down at his hands. "I didn't know I was supposed to. I thought being in love just meant...I don't know, a best friend I wanted to hang out with and fuck exclusively and cuddle once in awhile or something." He clenches his jaw, and then his fists, and then pushes himself up and off the bed.
"Where are you going?"
"I need to think," Dean threw back over his shoulder on his way out of Sam's room.
* * *
Sam jogged into the kitchen the next day after his morning run. He expected to see a slightly grumpy, bleary-eyed Dean nursing his coffee, the same as every morning since their semi-retirement. Instead, the kitchen was empty.
Confused, Sam started looking through the bunker. War room—no Dean. Library—no Dean. Dean's room—
Bingo.
He heard Dean talking to someone, so he slowed his walk to a vertical crawl—not precisely eavesdropping, but listening nevertheless.
"Cas," said Dean, "you remember how you said that one time that angels don't fall in love, and I said that was stupid and I couldn’t be with someone who didn’t need me like I needed them and..." Dean sighed before continuing. "And I pushed you away? Told you to leave?"
Sam's breath caught in his throat. This wasn't exactly what he expected would happen, though he had certainly hoped for reconciliation.
"I was talking to Sam yesterday, and he said some...some stuff that made me think about what you told me. I misunderstood you, and I misunderstood myself. I think maybe...I think maybe I don't fall in love, either. But I want to be with you, and I...I need you, Cas. And I didn't think we could work because you weren't in love with me, but I had a lot of assumptions about what that meant that apparently...Well, aren't true.
"So I did some research, and I think Sam's right. I think I might be aromatic, too."
Sam sighed loudly and continued walking. "Aromantic, Dean," he yelled down the hall in frustration as he went. "Aromantic."
Angels don’t love. That’s sort of their point. They were made to be warriors and to protect humanity. Love was something that wasn’t really needed nor was compassion nor want nor will. They needed only to be and to strategize.
Being around Cas was supposed to be safe. A kindred spirit. Someone else who couldn’t love in that romantic way. An ally.
But here Dean sat, watching as Cas fought another personal demon. But here Dean sat, watching Cas try to come back to him all over again.
He wished he could love him in that way. Sometimes, he did. Sometimes, Cas was home. Sometimes, Cas meant more to Dean than his bedroom or burgers. Sometimes, Cas was a reason to live another day. Sometimes, he wondered if dying for Cas was the noblest cause.
Other days, he couldn’t bring himself to love that much. It took so much energy out of him. It made him tire before the day even began. It made him slow and sleepy. Other days, Cas was a liability.
Angels weren’t supposed to love, but Cas did. Cas loved him, loved him wholly and completely, despite that he was an angel, despite that he wasn’t made for that purpose.
Dean hoped that what they had was enough.
Cas assured him that it was, offering a pained smile while he shivered through another surge of the curse.
Today was a day that Dean could bare to love. He scooted closer to Cas on the couch and Cas tried to push him away to keep him safe.
Today was a day that dying for Cas would be a noble cause. So, he didn’t let Cas push him away. He snuggled into him; his fevered skin burning Dean’s where it touched.
Today, Cas meant more than burgers, so Dean didn’t eat. He sat with Cas and cooed to him through the curse’s pulses. Today, Cas meant more than his bedroom, so he didn’t leave to sleep in his bed; he stayed curled up with Cas.
His eyes drooped and he noted that the day before was a day that he loved Cas and the day before that. He wondered if tomorrow would be a day that he loved Cas or if he’d be too exhausted.
He nuzzled into Cas’ shoulder and Cas let him. They’d have to wait to find out.
Is it ok for me to head canon Dean as aro if I'm not aro? Most if not all of the people participating in aro Dean week are also aro and they relate to aro Dean and I don't but I still love the idea of aro Dean. I just don't wanna overstep my boundaries or upset anyone.
i’m not aro either! of course, whenever i say that i’m not aro i get a message from an aro person saying i shouldn’t write characters as aro because i don’t really understand it and my definition of aromanticism is incorrect and blah blah blah.
point being yes of course u can headcanon dean as aro even if you’re not aro. there are plenty of headcanons i enjoy that do not apply to myself.
I found out Monday that it’s Aro!Dean Week and, now that I don’t feel like my body’s in a state of complete and total rebellion (I didn’t even tax you, organs, and you have plenty of representation, okay, chill out), I’ve filled up my queue with lots of posts about Dean Winchester, the Righteous (aro)Man(tic). (Basically, I’m reblogging @pecanpiedean‘s entire aro!Dean tag. Sorry about that, friend.)
Even if it isn’t one of your personal headcanons for Dean (honesty time: I’d never even considered it until a couple of months ago), learning about and respecting other romantic orientations is important, as is supporting those who identify with them. We are all of us deserving of representation, regardless of who or how we love. We each interpret characters differently because we are all unique little snowflakes, and there’s no one right way to build a snowperson. Furthermore, having a character to relate to can help a person to better understand and accept themself.
If you’d like to learn more about aromanticism, I encourage you to pay a visit to the following pages, sites, and blogs:
Aromantic FAQ by the Asexual Visibility and Education Network
Aromantic Linkspam by @anagnori
actually, just check out their entire aromanticism tag, which is fantastically educational
@littlegreenpiyg‘s comic on aro-ace experience is beautiful
Resources for Aromantic Sexual People by The Thinking Asexual (you don’t have to be ace to be aro, after all--sexual orientation =/= romantic orientation)
@arocrona put together this awesome slideshow/photoset about aromanticism and the aromantic spectrum
@arospecawarenessweek has tons of information on the various identifications along the aromantic spectrum, as well as this handy glossary of terms
@aro-ace-space is an excellent safe place of support for individuals who identify as arospec and/or acespec
last but certainly not least, I can never say enough about the tremendous and valuable resource that is @aroacereads
I’ll be tagging posts as either/both “aro dean week” and “righteous (aro)man(tic)” in case this isn’t content you’re interested in seeing and want to block it. Otherwise, come join the party over at the aro!Dean week tag!
Mary doesn’t remember meeting her son until six hours after his birth.
The delivery was a difficult one, and she wasn’t exactly lucid enough to hold Dean before they took him away. When she woke up, John was sitting in a chair across the room rocking their newborn son in his arms and staring down at him with tears in his eyes. He told her she had been out for six hours.
“How long have you been holding him?”
“About six hours.”
When Dean was old enough to sit in a high chair at meals, Mary got in the habit of patting his head (which eventually turned into ruffling his hair--once he grew hair) after setting food in front of him.
At the age of 3, Dean spent two months refusing to walk. He would reach up for Mary, and she would hold him on her hip while she went about her day. Sometimes he would say things or ask to be set down to play, but for some reason he decided that his primary mode of transportation was in his mother’s arms. He was very disappointed when she became too pregnant to carry both him and his brother all the time.
After Mary’s death, Dean didn’t like to be touched. He recoiled whenever John would try to hug him or tuck him into bed at night. When John asked if there was anything he could do to help, Dean didn’t speak. For an entire year, he didn’t speak.
He held Sam, though. More often than John did. When Sam began walking, Dean gripped his hand tightly and made sure he never fell. (Even when Sam became steady enough on his feet to walk by himself, they still held hands.)
Dean is 14 when he goes on his first date. She reaches for his hand. He tenses and thinks it’s normal to be nervous.
He’s 25 when he falls in love with Cassie Robinson. He’s 26 when he realizes “falls in love” isn’t really the right phrase. She touched his face a lot, and he never shied away from it. He supposes that’s why he thought he was in love.
Touch becomes a sacred thing somewhere between almost dying and losing his father. Touches are reserved for grabbing Sam’s face after he’s been hurt, wrapping Sam in a hug when he can’t stand on his own, hitting Sam on the shoulder to get his attention. Other people touch Dean, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. (He doesn’t put it together that every touch feels like a reaper gently guiding him into death.)
There is no touch in hell.
Bobby touches his face when he returns, just to check if he’s real, and Dean closes his eyes and leans into it without realizing what he’s doing. Bobby doesn’t say anything, but he thinks he understands.
He holds Sam for too long, enough for the chick in Sam’s hotel room to clear her throat and ask if they’re a couple. When Sam pulls away and says no, Dean aches at the loss of contact. He aches, and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what he wants.
When the angel Castiel steps into the barn with a blank expression on his borrowed face, Dean no longer aches. He knows, somewhere in his chest, that this being was the first to touch him since the hellhounds dragged him down 40 years ago. It feels like life, not death. He never figures out which one he prefers, which one feels more peaceful, more at home. All he knows is that he aches again.
Lisa Braeden gives touches freely, without preamble, with a casualness reserved for mothers and children. Dean grows accustomed to her touches, and he unapologetically reaches for them. Lisa knows that they mean more to Dean than they do to her, that what she does on autopilot sends Dean into overdrive. She reminds herself that Dean loves differently, wholly, with the sort of blind affection that doesn’t differentiate between lover and friend, brother and child. They are all the same to Dean, and she knows that he has no idea.
Cas’ touches change. They change from life to healing to, eventually, home. Dean doesn’t recognize the progression until he’s bleeding on the floor of a crypt and hardly notices when he doesn’t hurt anymore because that’s Cas’ hand against his cheek and it’s Cas’ hand it’s Cas’ hand it’s not the robot Dean’s feared for the past several months. The touch of Cas’ fingers feels better than the power of his healing, and Dean knows that he is home.
He is home where his mom would ruffle his hair and hold him on her hip and wipe the dirt from his cheek before patting his face and kissing his forehead. He is home where his father would come in from work and scoop him in his arms and ask about his day and scratch his belly and challenge him to a wrestling match. He is home where Sam’s hand is clenched in his because they have nothing left in the world but each other and nothing makes sense except their hands clasped together.
He is home when he is touched, and he may not know a whole lot about love but he knows home.
