They watch The Witches to Dean’s protest – that whole gruesome, bald-headed shit scarred him as a kid – so he goes into the kitchen to make hot chocolate, putting three marshmallows in each mug and giving each a good stir. Just before he’s about to cross back into the living room, he hears voices echoing down the corridor.
Jack speaks, his words soft and lilting and marked with the sort of innocence Dean wishes he could've had. But he's happy that he can hear it in Jack's voice, in the way the kid smiles in the mornings and helps him cook dinner at night. Maybe he'll never admit it out loud, but Jack's stronger in spirit than he could ever imagine. Despite all the shit he was put through, all the shit Dean put him through, he remembers with a sharp pang of remorse, he came out the other side a good person.
“Cas. Cas. Would you love me even if I was a mouse?” he asks. Dean pads silently to the edge of the door. From his vantage point, he can see Jack’s head pillowed against Cas’ shoulder, their silhouettes framed in the light of the television, half-merged in the darkness.
“Of course I would, Jack,” Cas replies with a whisper, his voice so full of adoration that Dean thinks oh, right, this is why Jack turned out kind and loving and everything he shouldn’t be in this kind of world – because of Cas, and holds his breath, waiting until another ten minutes have passed to walk in. By then, the hot chocolates have cooled just right. Jack takes his mug in both hands – the one with daisies painted around the rim – and sips until he has a pale brown stain on his top lip. Cas plucks a marshmallow from the top of his and chews it carefully, watching Dean with an unreadable look in his eyes.
