If Dean had been able to choose the timing of events in life, he probably wouldn't have picked having his brother move in with him the week Benny was closing the contract with Elysium. He'd spent half his week on the phone with Sam, preparing to share his home for the first time in over a decade, half his week on the phone with Benny, going over details and getting pep talks about his new direction as an author, and the other half of his week moving boxes of stuff around and out of his house. To top off the insanity, he'd overlooked an email from his new editor at Elysium in the sea of social media notifications and literary newsletters that constantly filled his inbox. The man had called him after a few days, leaving Dean feeling like an idiot and scrambling to turn around a bad first impression.

That was why when his younger brother got in from work that evening, he found Dean sitting on the living room carpet with his laptop, surrounded by beat up notebooks, loose sheets of paper, and marked up printouts.

Sam closed the door and paused, his eyebrows shooting up. "Whoa. What's up, Dean?"

Dean blinked a few times, eyes gritty from staring at the bright screen for too long and glanced up, first to Sam, and then to the front windows, where night was clearly falling outside. "Uh… Crap. Is it that late already?" He tried to get up and made a face as his knees popped and protested. After a moment to balance himself, Dean carefully stepped out of the ring of material and moved to greet Sam. "Was just getting together some original draft stuff for my editor. How was work?"

"Good…" Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, glancing at the floor in front of his polished black shoes. "Getting into my first assignments finally after orientation week. Not that different from Topeka. Just busier."

"Glad it's going all right. You hungry? Didn't get dinner started yet, but I got some stuff to make goulash out." Dean motioned to the kitchen and started moving in that direction.

Sam's lips jerked into a quick smile. "You know, you don't have to make me dinner every night, Dean."

"Hey, cheaper than eating out all the time," Dean pointed out. "That reminds me, I go shopping Tuesdays or Wednesdays. Give me a list of things you want, and I can pick 'em up while I'm out. I know you like your healthy stuff. I'm more of a meat and carbs kinda guy."

As Dean turned away, he heard Sam let out a soft laugh. "Dean…"

Dean looked back around and found Sam shaking his head. "You don't have to do all this. I can do my own grocery shopping." Sam looked up, an affectionate, if exasperated, smile on his face.

"Didn't say you couldn't," Dean pointed out. "Just figured you're working and commuting all day; I set my own schedule. Might as well pick up your stuff while I'm at the store." He shrugged, putting up his hands, gesturing in Sam's direction, and holding his gaze, waiting for him to relent.

Sam sighed, realizing it made sense. "Fine. But I want the receipts. I will pay you back."

"You got it." Dean pointed at him and then spun toward the kitchen again. He hoped Sam still ate goulash… If the stuff he ate when they went out in Topeka was any indication, the man hadn't touched pasta in years.

Sam disappeared for a bit while Dean chopped vegetables and started cooking, and when he reappeared, he had swapped out his dress shirt and slacks for a gray t-shirt and sweatpants.

"Hey… didn't think you owned anything less formal than khakis," Dean joked with a grin.

Sam tipped his hands out in a helpless gesture before coming over to lean on the island that divided the kitchen from the area on the other side that served as a dining room. He had to almost bend straight over at the waist to rest his elbows on the countertop. "So… why's your editor asking for all those drafts?" he asked.

Dean thought about his first conversation with Castiel Novak. "I want to see everything you've ever thought about these people…" The deep, smoky voice had Dean imagining some grizzled newsroom editor, or maybe a detective noir character. The Elysium website hadn't had any pictures—Dean had checked—but he was sure the guy had to have, like, massive eyebrows and jowls. The voice was completely at odds with his requests for more character depth, his praise for Dean's scenery descriptions, his favorite scene from Salvation Ridge being the one where Rebecca tells Henry about the flower crowns she made for herself and Anna... Castiel Novak was as strange as his name, a character Dean couldn't have imagined and would have probably thought was purposely written weird for an interesting quirk.

Pulling himself back from his reflections, he explained the work to Sam. "The publisher wants this next book to be different… less action, more character study. So the editor asked me to gather up all the backstory stuff for the characters, figure out what they want to add back in."

Sam tipped his head, watching the pan of simmering tomatoes and macaroni. "Wait… So it isn't another survival-nature suspense story?"

"Well, it is… but it isn't. Like, they want it to be the same plot I had but bring out the character stuff more. See, they picked it up because they liked the cast diversity and want more."

"Wow… that's like the reverse of everything Bobby did with your last one, right?"

"Yep." Dean stirred the pot, making sure the pasta wasn't going to stick.

"That's great."

Dean glanced over. "Yeah?"

"Well, yeah. They're giving you a chance to do more, Dean. Do what you can do."

Dean checked Sam's face again, but everything there told him that his brother was being earnest. He ducked his head and kept stirring. "Yeah, well, first I gotta dig up two years worth of scraps and try to put them into some order the editor can actually understand. Guess it's a good thing I kept all that junk…"

When the food was almost ready, Sam set out plates and forks, and the two of them ate together at the table. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd sat there for a meal before his brother moved in. He listened to Sam talk about Kansas City, and they went back and forth about businesses of interest between there and Olathe. After dinner, Sam sat on the couch, fiddling on his phone. Dean returned to his pile and continued to sort. Long after Sam had stood, stretched, and headed off to bed, Dean was taking photos and typing notes on his laptop. It was after midnight by the time he thought it had something resembling organization.

"Better look this over in the morning…" he muttered to himself. You never knew how work done in the wee hours would look in the light of day. He turned off the lights and made his way to bed.

He was up before Sam hours later. After making a pot of coffee, enough for two people now, he poured himself a mug and carried out his usual ritual, watching the warm dawn light creep over the hills in silence. Sam rose and took time to shower and dress; Dean was careful to stay out of his way so he could be out the door for his commute to Kansas City. They only exchanged a few words, the last being Dean's "see ya" as he left. When the house was quiet again and Dean felt more energized, he sighed and opened up the document he'd been putting together last night.

It was mostly cohesive, a digital collage of typed paragraphs and pictures of handwritten pages. He fixed some typos and added a few more notes where things didn't flow easily, but there wasn't much else to do without starting to rewrite.

"Guess that's as good as it's gonna get," he figured, then typed up a quick email to Castiel Novak, to which he attached the doc. When it was sent and had left his Outbox, he sat back and took a few breaths.

Dean had long since exhausted the winter prep he could do on his own property, and now that Sam was settled in, he needed something else to occupy him while he waited for Castiel Novak to get back to him. Hunting and migration season was starting in Kansas; it was one of the periods of the year where he worked a lot of jobs as a guide. While writing and blogging was finally providing some noticeable income, he couldn't do without the side gigs. He'd already had a few voicemails asking about making reservations. These days, he did more wildlife and photography treks. They would never pay as well as the big game hunting used to, but his heart just wasn't in ferrying rich guys to an easy shot any more. He mostly brought out the old skills when teaching youth hunting courses or when the local authorities called him up about tracking down a nuisance animal.

Dean dove into returning calls, setting up jobs, and updating his wilderness guide website. By the third day, he had driven out to Cheyenne Bottoms wetlands to scope out conditions for a guided tour later in the week. It was for a group of birders, and the weather was looking good to get in plenty of migratory cranes and other birds. Dean always liked to make sure he went through any trails each year prior to bringing paid guests. The last thing you wanted was to lead them into a mud mire, and wildlife didn't always frequent the exact same spots from season to season.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he grabbed it to check the caller ID out of habit. He gave a start when Castiel Novak appeared. After a short debate with himself, he answered it, glancing around to make sure no other groups were nearby to disturb.

"Hello."

"Hello, Dean."

Castiel's rumbling voice sent an odd thrill through Dean's chest. Weirded out, he took a moment to firmly stomp that down, during which the editor continued.

"We agreed to meet for discussion in one week. Have you gotten a chance to review the email I sent yesterday?"

Email? Crap. Dean made a pained grimace. "...I gotta be honest, Castiel. I'm bad with email. We're talking 'inbox like a black hole' bad. My agent always calls if he needs to send me something, and when I worked with Bobby Singer, he used to do the same thing." Dean paused, but the other man didn't immediately respond. He strained his ears. Was that the wind or a sigh of annoyance…? "If that isn't your thing, maybe you could text me? Just trying to save us both some frustration here."

There was another beat before Castiel finally said, "Very well. Consider this your email notification."

The call abruptly ended. Dean pulled back to glare at the phone, feeling a combination of disgust at himself for continuing to make a terrible impression on his new editor and indignation at Castiel's pissy dismissal. "Nice fucking morning to you too, buddy…"

His phone vibrated a couple of short bursts, and a new text message popped up on screen, from an unknown number.

Check your email.

Dean raised his eyebrows; it couldn't be anyone but Castiel. Ass.

He all but stomped through the next few miles, and a background feeling of irritation dogged him for the rest of the day, including the four-hour drive home. Sam gave him a couple inquisitive and concerned looks; Dean dodged discussion with a scowl and a head shake. He avoided even looking at his inbox until long after dinner, knowing he was being passive aggressive but too worked up to care. When he finally forced himself to dig in and find Castiel's email, he realized he was just looking for things to spin up on in the text. He sighed aloud and shut his laptop.

Sam glanced up from his reading. "Everything all right…?"

"Just not in the right mood for this. Wanna watch a movie?"

Checking his watch, Sam pulled a face. "I have work tomorrow, so no."

Dean looked at the time on his phone—21:47. "Ug, didn't realize it was that late…" He leaned back and rubbed his face. He'd taken some good pictures at Cheyenne Bottoms that day… Maybe he could write a blog post, work in advertising his birding tours. "Okay, you get your beauty rest, Sammy. I'll switch over to blogging."

"That series from Glacier did really well," Sam observed.

Dean dropped his hands down to look across the room. "Uh, yeah. Lots of commenters on there and on Facebook. Really pretty spot."

"It's good stuff, Dean. It's really gotten big the last few years."

Dean felt his face warm; the praise made him uncomfortable. "Yeah, wish people would get out more instead of just liking things online though," he groused.

His brother looked down, still smiling. "Well, you get them thinking about it, at least."

Sam stayed for a few more minutes reading and then excused himself for bed, leaving Dean to crop and adjust photos and write up copy for the day. Dean had been churning too much during his hike to really enjoy himself, but looking over the images in quiet, he felt his frustration start to melt away. Photos of pools reflecting the crystal blue autumn sky dotted with flocks of white pelicans against a backdrop of fading yellow grasses were interspersed with closeups of fall wildflowers. Dean didn't have the right equipment or patience to get closeups of the songbirds, but he tried to summarize what he'd seen to his birding audience, hoping to get some photographers interested in coming through. By the time he'd posted to his social media accounts and blog, he felt calm, and remembering the day's interaction with Castiel only brought up minor annoyance.

Dean put away the laptop and headed off to bed. He knew tomorrow he'd be able to give the editing feedback the serious focus it needed.

11:26

Hey, for Jaime's relationship issues, did you want about Ray or Richard?

Dean sent the message, not sure if Castiel would respond. He probably shouldn't abuse the guy's cell number, but the idea of trying to wait for an email reply when he was in the thick of it wasn't appealing. It took several more minutes before his phone buzzed.

Castiel Novak - 11:42

Both, please. Inserted at different points, obviously.

"Obviously." Dean rolled his eyes, then got back to trying to figure out how to work in more hints and background details in ways that weren't ham-handed flashbacks. It was about twenty minutes before he hit another question about Castiel's email.

12:07

For the shed argument, did you mean Maria instead of Dana? Dana was in cabin

12:31

Not sure can move that truck scene around. sets up gas can for use in Ch18

Castiel Novak - 13:11

I would like Dana present in the shed for the argument. If you can't move the trouble with the truck, move the conflict between David and Maria, with an alternate triggering situation.

Since Castiel didn't ask him to stop, Dean continued working in that fashion through the rest of that week and into the next. Oftentimes, the text replies would be hours later; Castiel either was purposely ignoring him or wasn't as attached to his phone as Dean was. But still, Dean felt like they were developing a sort of rhythm. Castiel's long text replies with perfect grammar, spelling, and punctuation vaguely amused him, and he started purposely trying to leave out words and abbreviate them until he was met with a terse, 'I don't understand that.'

It went on that way until the following Thursday, when Dean's phone unexpectedly blared in response to one of his texts. He winced and picked it up, wondering if he'd pushed the limits of his editor's patience.

"Dean, it's past eleven here." It was stated factually, if with a bit more emphasis than usual. Castiel's voice was deeper when he was tired.

Dean didn't bother checking his phone screen. Now that he'd looked up from his laptop, he realized Sam must have already gone to bed. It was way too late to be texting. "Uh, sorry. Lost track of time. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Do you ever sleep?" There.... maybe a tiny bit of aggravation.

"A little. Don't need much. Although I'm assuming you do, so maybe I shouldn't text you at eleven at night?"

"Well, realistically, you shouldn't text me outside the hours of nine to five, New York time, but I can only blame myself for replying to you outside the office. Doing these feedback cycles via text is going to make it difficult for me to review our editing history later on."

"...Or you could just message me feedback too. Then it would all be in one place," Dean countered, feeling contrary.

The irked sigh was clearly audible this time; Dean could only imagine the editor's face as angry eyebrows and a wrinkled scowl. He found himself grinning at the caricature.

"While I have you," Castiel said, "we might as well go over something I noticed today: none of your characters talk about their family outside the cast of the novel."

Dean blinked. "...Should they?"

"Of course. People talk about the people they care about, whether by name or by reference. I haven't known you for long, but I already know you have a brother who recently moved in with you. Even your backstory notes don't describe their families or relationships."

Dean chewed the inside of his lip, going over in his mind the histories he'd pictured for his characters. He was sure he had imagined Jaime having a sister… Why hadn't that been in his notes?

"A lot of these spaces I've been pushing you to fill in… the reasons some of your characters behave the way they do… So much of a person is defined by the people in their lives, the way they were raised. I think you should explore that, figure out where it shapes each character." Castiel's voice had lost a lot of its coarse edge as his tone became imploring. It made him sound younger, less careworn.

Dean exhaled, relaxing his shoulders and pulling himself out of his tangle of thoughts. "All right. I'll work on that over the weekend and send you notes with some more rewrites by Monday."

"Good. Make certain you text me, so that I'll know you sent an email. Also, in response to your previous message, no, I don't think Eric should 'shack up' with Atticus. The story is better served by keeping that tension unresolved. Besides which, Eric obviously tends to desire things and people that he considers unattainable. Good night, Dean."

A beep announced that Castiel had ended the call. Dean lowered the phone. Make certain you text me… Had that been a joke?

Sam waited until Friday night to bring up Sunday supper. They had just finished eating, and Dean was trying to get motivated to clean up the plates, when Sam cleared his throat from across the table.

"So… Mom asked about having us over for a meal Sunday afternoon." He kept his head tilted to one side, eyes on the wood surface under his hand. "I told her I thought we could make it."

Dean kept his expression flat, suppressing the instinct to grimace. "I dunno, man… I have that all day tour Saturday out by Great Bend, and I need to get some edits done for Monday."

"Dean." Sam fixed him with a stare, and Dean could tell he was also schooling his face and tone. "It's a few hours. It's been months since she saw you. Take a break to eat some food. Please."

For a moment, the silence stretched, but there wasn't any further argument to be made that made any sense. Dean knew he was just being difficult. "All right."

He rose and cleaned up the table, then stepped aside without a word when Sam moved to wash the dishes. After working on his laptop for a few hours, he headed to bed, before his brother for once. It would be a very early morning drive in the dark to Cheyenne Bottoms.

The Saturday guide job needed his full attention, so he kept his thoughts away from Sunday after he got on the road and concentrated on planning the best route for the group of bird enthusiasts. The day ended up being a huge success. In the morning, they hunted for Whooping Cranes, a rare and famous fall migrant. Dean had been keeping his eyes and ears on the local birding groups online all week, and there had been a few sightings the previous day at dusk. They raced to find the birds, with every other birder in the preserve, before the cranes took off to continue their journey south. The internet grapevine was a huge help; as soon as one person posted a photo, Dean recognized where they were and guided the cars to the right pond to find the trio of cranes. For most of the group, the two pristine white adults and their single mottled brown offspring made a "life bird", meaning it was their first time seeing the species in the wild, a big thing for birders.

After that scramble, he took his charges on a more leisurely circuit of some of the best birding areas and some of his favorite hidden spots, working by which birds were active at different times of day. That meant the waterfowl and migrating songbirds early and late in the day and the grassland insect feeders and birds of prey in between. Weather was excellent and sunny, if a bit crisp. There were several people with scopes and cameras with the group, which meant they found good spots and camped out for a little while so members could make observations and try to capture the perfect photo. Moving from location to location in between, plus breaks for water and packed food, ate up the hours. By sunset, everyone was tired but buoyant with the day's successes. Dean was thanked profusely, and the group's organizer handed him an extra envelope before they parted ways with a substantial tip.

"Today was incredible," she said, beaming beneath her wide-brimmed hat. "Never had a better trip out here, even with one guy who was an ornithologist. Thanks for getting us off the beaten path."

Dean ducked his head and gave her his toothiest smile in appreciation. "Thank you. You were a great group to work with. Being willing to get out of the cars and hike a little makes all the difference. I even learned a thing or two."

It was dark again on the drive back home. Dean blasted the local classic rock station and kept time on the steering wheel, staying on the highway until he had to exit and then taking the winding roads at a more sedate pace, watching for wildlife. He'd had several close calls with deer during his life and didn't want to end up in a ditch after a long day. By the time he reached his property and pulled up to the house, it was past ten. The lights were still on in the living room, and he could see Sam sitting on the couch closest to the window, head turning to glance out as the Impala rumbled in.

"Hey," Sam greeted him as he stepped inside.

"Hey." Dean bent to unlace his boots, placing his pack on the floor for a moment near the entrance.

"Good day?"

"Yeah. Lots of birds and lots of happy birders. Worth the trip."

"Great. Seems like you're going to be busy the next few weeks."

"Yep, few more birding groups, a fall color photography tour in Konza… Just hope the bad weather stays away." Late October to November, right before winter, could be a rough period in the plains. "You're welcome to come along if anything strikes your fancy."

Dean looked up in time to see Sam give a distracted nod that he knew meant 'no way'. "Sam, you oughta get out and do something," he nagged. "Not good to sit inside the office all week and the house all weekend."

"I didn't sit here all day. I went into the city, checked out some of the museums."

Dean thought for a minute, drawing a blank. "...What museums?"

"The Mahaffie Stagecoach Stop, the Museum of Deaf History, Art and Culture, and the Automotive Museum."

"...They have an auto museum?"

"They do," Sam answered, raising both eyebrows high, "with cars and everything. Maybe you're the one who needs to get out more."

Dean glared and then shook his head—although he did make a mental note to check online about the museum. "You know what I meant. A bit of physical activity won't kill you." He stood, wincing and hissing as his lower back protested. It wasn't appreciating the twenty non-stop hours of driving and hiking. His brother looked as though he was going to make a comment about it, so Dean gave him a hard scowl.

Sam settled for pulling a bitchface. "Well, I used to go jogging in Topeka, but somehow running a single-lane road through empty farmland and getting catcalled by teenagers in pickup trucks just isn't the same."

Sam's lips set into an honest-to-god pout, and it was all Dean could do not to snort in laughter. When had his little brother become such a city boy? He started counting off on his fingers. "Cedar Niles Park. Raven Ridge Park. Oregon Trail Park. I could go on. Hell, if you want a real challenge, go up to the Mill Creek Streamway Park entrance at Northgate and hop on the trail there. You can run straight to the Kansas River."

Instead of looking annoyed, Sam looked surprised and intrigued. "Thanks."

Dean sighed and shook his head. Whatever got Sam out in some fresh air. "All right. I'm going to get cleaned up and head to bed. Don't wait up."

"G'night, Dean."

"G'night, Sammy."

Dean didn't remember to be annoyed at Sam until the following morning after a very late wakeup and his second cup of coffee. He buried his head in his writing until he had to get ready to go, barely grunting in reply to Sam's attempts at conversation and ignoring the hurt looks his younger brother shot his way. Sam may have gotten him to agree to a family dinner, but Dean didn't have to be happy about it.

They pulled into Lawrence a little after one o'clock, parking in front of the two-story home that their mother now lived in alone. The siding had just been repainted a couple years prior, and it was a cheery moss green, trimmed in white. The old picket fence that had ringed the front yard when they were children was long gone, but the hedges were still there to either side of the steps, the same exact plants, looking a little more bedraggled every year.

Mary Winchester answered shortly after Sam rang the doorbell, smiling broadly. The decades had brought more lines to her face, but her wavy blonde hair still floated around her like a halo, her sharp blue eyes missed nothing. She reached up to hug each of them around the neck. "Sam. Dean. Come in."

She chattered about the week in town as she led them into the kitchen; she worked as an emergency services dispatcher these days, a definite step up from the job at the plastics plant she'd kept during their childhood. The work stories were certainly more interesting. Dean scanned the rooms off the hallway as they passed through; everything looked clean and tidy. Not pristine Martha Stewart—the furnishings were too dated for that—but nice, homey. Not much had changed since they were kids. The television and phones were newer, and Mom had replaced the old couch and chairs with cushier faux leather numbers. The wall-to-wall carpet in the living room was also a more recent addition. The wallpaper and interior paint were the same though. The floor outside the kitchen still creaked as they approached. The kitchen table was the same one he'd poured Sam bowls of cereal at, still set for six with faded pink cloth placemats.

Dean let Sam carry the conversation as much as he could, making tight smiles in the right places, throwing in side comments about the move to Olathe and Sam's workaholic lifestyle. They made it through half his plate of meatloaf (probably from a box) and mashed potatoes (definitely from a box) before their mother turned to Dean.

"How's the latest book going, Dean?"

"Picked up by the same publisher and in editing already." He flashed her a quick smile.

"That's great!" It was the overly bright tone she used when she was trying to be supportive. "I know you were worried about what would happen when Bobby retired. Do you like your new editor?"

"Yeah, the guy that picked it up is looking to put it into a slightly different genre. I'm working with his editor to rewrite parts of it."

"What genre?"

"Um, sorta more drama and suspense… with a lot more character study and relationships." Dean hedged around it on instinct before realizing what he was doing and clenching his teeth, solidifying his resolve. "They want to market it in LGBT—gay representation—as well as the previous survivalist-wilderness thriller genre."

"Oh." Her voice went extra bright as she raised her eyebrows.

Dean had finally come out to Sam and Mom as bisexual after his first book was published. Sam had been somewhat surprised but really supportive. Their mother mostly avoided mentioning it since. Dean felt the tension as she paused to find the right words.

"...Are they worried about the effect that might have on the survivalist sales?" she asked, mouth twisting in concern.

It was a reasonable question; Dean knew that. He kept his voice calm as he answered. "No, they seem to know what they're getting into…" He shrugged a shoulder and shovelled another bite of potatoes into his mouth.

"And what about you? Have you thought about your hunting guide business?"

Dean bit down harder than necessary on the mouthful of food, almost catching the inside of his cheek.

"Mom, you know he's mostly out of that now," Sam interjected, trying to turn her off the topic.

"Still, it was something good to be able to fall back on when money got tight." Her voice took on a sharper edge, the authoritative tone she used when she knew she was right. "Dean, you're still making payments on that land you bought. You never know when you might need to pick up a job."

Dean shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter and resting his fork on his plate. He fixed his eyes firmly on his mother's. "So, you're worried that me writing a book with gay people in it means no one is gonna hire me? Too late for that, Mom."

Her mouth slanted more deeply. "You know what I mean, Dean. You know that crowd. Your first book slipped in a few around the edges, but the more you branch into that, the more it's going to be publicized. Eventually, someone is going to open their mouths about it and it will go viral or whatever."

Sam opened his mouth to jump in, but Dean got there first. "Well then, guess I'll just be picking up more ecotourism jobs. Or, hey, times get really tough, I know the fast food joint on 56 is always looking for help." He threw up his hands. "Not too old to flip a few burgers, right?"

"Dean." His mother gave him a look that reminded him exactly where Sam got his expressions of disapproval from.

"Mom. Mom." Sam stared at her until she broke eye contact with Dean to look at him. "I know you're worried… but the world is a different place now." He raised his fork as their mother went to speak, stopping her with the gesture. "Yes, there are certain people who will never be accepting, but there are a lot more who are. ...Especially nature fanatics." He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head at her with a beseeching look.

Their mother bobbed her head from one side to the other and looked up in a gesture of surrender. "I guess… I just don't want you to limit your options, Dean. You aren't out yet for a reason."

Dean couldn't stop the angry frown that fell across his face, but a large bite of meatloaf helped him hold his tongue. He hated that she was right.

He could barely manage a full sentence the rest of the meal, speaking in clipped phrases when prompted, sipping water after he'd exhausted the supply of food. He slipped from the kitchen in relief as Sam helped their mother clean up and wandered down the hall to the living room. He stood in the center of the room, distanced from the murmuring voices and clinking of plates, taking deep breaths in through his nose. Eventually, he drifted over to the wall of framed photographs, running over the familiar snapshots of their lives—Mom and Dad's engagement picture, their baby photos, Dean with his first big buck, graduation ceremonies. His eyes landed on a shot of him and Sam with their father. Dean had been ten, Sam six. It was the last photo of the three of them together. John had died of a heart attack a few months later. In the photo, John was smiling broadly, and so was Dean. Sam's smile looked a bit like the Mona Lisa, Dean had always thought. He was still looking at the photo when his mother came up behind him.

"You boys remind me so much of him," she said quietly. It was meant to be an apology; she couldn't have known the way it made Dean's stomach twist. "Hope I haven't soured your appetite too much for pie…?"

Later, after Sam and Dean had said their goodbyes and pulled away from their old homestead, Sam exhaled loudly. "Well, that went well."

Dean kept his eyes on the road and turned up the radio.

It felt like the longest weekend Dean could remember in years, and that included the weekend he thought it was a good idea to book a couple day-tours of the wetlands back to back. It was after dark now, and he sat outside in his fleece-lined coat and hat, lying on one of the wooden lawn chairs behind the house, face turned upward. The cool night sky was filled with a crisp dusting of stars. He was two and a half bottles deep into the emergency beer supply he kept in the vegetable drawer of his fridge and finally starting to feel the tightness in his shoulders ease. He took in a big lungful of the autumn air and sighed it out. It didn't fog. Dean supposed it was a month too early for that. Maybe the hat was overkill.

There was no way he was going to have those backstory summaries done tonight, he realized. Maybe he could power through them tomorrow and get them to Castiel's inbox before close of business. Technically still Monday, right? A snippet of their conversation on Thursday came back to him suddenly in Cas's growling tones. "Even your backstory notes don't describe their families…"

Dean picked up his phone. He typed a message and sent it before he could overthink it. After considering, he sent one more. He started typing a third, then reconsidered and deleted it. Rolling his eyes at himself, he tossed the device a few feet away into the grass. That could just stay over there for a while. A breeze ruffled the grass, and Dean drew in another deep breath, staring up into the vastness of space and letting everything else feel small, insignificant.