A/N: So why am I writing a fourth story when I've already got three in progress ?! I literally couldn't tell you. But I fell in love with the idea of Dean and Cas being in love even as children, and then decided to write a super beautiful/painful fic about it. This one's gonna hurt, but it's gonna be worth it (I swear to everything there is that it ends happily, even if it doesn't feel like it.

Also, listen to "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra and "Holding On" by Johnny Stimson.

Chapter 1

A rainy, empty road, lit only by streetlights that flare at the windows of Dean's car, setting fire to the water droplets collected on each pane, flitting past the window in a constant, silent, banality. It's cold in the way only late fall seems able to be; Dean's fingertips and toes are numb, turning white, the rest of him a comfortable enough temperature, for the time being. It only serves to add to the confusion drenching his insides.

The streetlights flitting in and out of view as the Impala cruises past them are reflected in the water on the road; the only sounds are the car's wheels gliding through the rain-slick streets, the thumping pitter-patter of rain on the roof, the scrape of windshield wipers, Dean's breathing, and, rather appropriately, he considers, the muted sound of Pink Floyd's Hey You oozing out the car radio at low volume.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," He sighs, frowning, gripping tighter at the wheel in an unfamiliar kind of nervous anticipation. Grief and anxiety twist in dull, throbbing pains at his insides.

Lost. Dean feels lost, again, and is doomed, he thinks, to feel this way forever.

"I'm your mother. You have to do what I say."

Mary's reasoning is sound, though it doesn't make Dean feel any kind of better.

He presses his lips together and glances up at the sky, an odd kind of green-black colour.

It's been raining a weird amount—two weeks of what feels like torrential downpour, and it seems kind of appropriate. They're driving to the synagogue Jimmy went to for twenty-three years, and then, Mary tells Dean, will be proceeding to the cemetery.

Dean doesn't know what to expect—he's only been to two funerals before, and neither of these were Jewish ceremonies.

"You're sure you know the way?" Mary asks. Dean takes a steadying breath.

"I can remember. I was at Cas's bah mitzvah," He replies shortly, words clipped, but his mother only rolls her eyes.

"Last I checked, Dean, you were thirteen and couldn't drive, back then. Are you sure you know the way?"

Dean doesn't reply.

Jimmy is—was, fuck, was—a good man. Warm and kind and awkward and like a second father to Dean when his parents had been fighting late into the night, and then, even more so, when John had been crushed in a burning building that had collapsed before he could get out in time. Everyone else Dean had turned to for comfort had said that these were the perils of firefighting. Only Jimmy had held Dean close and told him it was okay to be sad and okay to be angry and okay to be confused about losing his father.

That was Jimmy, that was what he did—always validating every fibre of other people's lives. He'd chosen his profession well: psychiatrist. Normally Dean hated them, the lot of them, for being so damn useless at helping out his younger brother, Sammy. But Jimmy was different. Jimmy was good.

Dean had begged Jimmy to take Sam on instead of all those hopeless shrinks and therapists who'd put his brother on a cocktail of other drugs and spoke in clipped, alien sentences. Jimmy had only frowned and smiled—at the same time, as he always did—eyes sad, telling Dean that it would be a conflict of interests, and totally unethical. He knew Sammy personally, he reasoned. He couldn't treat him.

And it'd hardly have mattered, anyway—Sam couldn't speak to anyone, not about what happened. He could hardly stand to speak about everything to Dean, let alone to some stranger in a pantsuit and horn-rimmed glasses with a master's from Yale.

No, Jimmy was different to all of them. Truly worthy of the name counsellor, Jimmy had treated everything with kindness and questioned everything he encountered and rebuked Dean so gently Dean had hardly known it was happening.

God, and now Dean is crying.

A surprisingly warm hand slides onto Dean's forearm, squeezing gently.

"You want me to drive? We can pull over."

Dean's breath stutters in his chest.

"No," He shakes his head, scrubbing at his eyes with a balled fist. "I can—it's just—"

It had been early morning when Dean had got the call.

At five forty-three in the AM, he'd blinked, bleary-eyed and angry, at his phone, rattling on his bedside table, threatening to fall off it with each renewed vibration.

"Mom?" He'd growled angrily down the receiver. "The hell do you want that couldn't wait til some more godly hour?"

The sound of Mary's sniffles down the wire had Dean sitting up suddenly, his anger forgotten and replaced with a flash of fear.

"Mom? What's up? Are you okay?"

"Dean—Honey—Oh, Dean… Jimmy's dead. I'm so sorry, baby—"

Dean hadn't replied.

He'd dropped his phone on the floor and it landed there with an odd, hollow kind of thump, Mary's voice echoing down the receiver as Dean gasped for air, water flooding his lungs.

Jimmy.

"Dean, honey? Dean?"

Jimmy Novak.

"Dean, are you okay?"

The man who had been like a father to Dean.

"Dean, please?"

Dead.

That was around seventy four hours ago. Apparently, burial traditionally happens within about twenty-four hours in the Jewish community, but what with the Novaks being now scattered across the four corners of the world…

Dean grips the wheel as tight as his hands will allow; they feel too weak to do much of anything. Jaw clenched, his lips still somehow manage to tremble, and he finds himself forced to take another shuddering breath.

Rain. Rain seemed appropriate, what with how much Jimmy had liked it, liked to sit out and go fishing in the shittiest weather imaginable, liked to light up fires in the evenings with the most torrential downpour and just listen—Dean can still remember looking out of his bedroom window and seeing the Novak living-room set in a golden blaze, Jimmy prodding the fire, happy, thoughtful… God, the rain just fit Jimmy. He shouldn't have lived in Lawrence, should've moved to fucking Scotland or Ireland where it could rain every day of the year, the sky permanently gray, and he could've been happy. But that was the thing. Jimmy had been so happy anyway.

It's right that it should be raining today, Dean decides; right that everything should be overcast, right that the weather seems to have anticipated Jimmy's passing from the world and had filled his last days with something he loved with all of his kind, gentle heart.

It's early morning. Still dark. Dean scrubs at his eyes again.

He had driven out from town to pick his mom up, and is now en route to Sammy's apartment, and then the three of them would be heading up to Jimmy's old temple. Mary said it'd be easier on Dean if he wasn't alone. It doesn't feel any easier.

It's eight when Dean pulls up in front of Sammy's apartment block, leaving his mom in the car as he goes up to get his brother. Sam's eyes are sunken and bloodshot and he's still wearing sweats when Dean lets himself into his younger brother's apartment, looking about the place to dissect how his brother is really feeling, rather than how he wants Dean to think he feels.

Books, fucking everywhere. Books, and a couple of bottles, which, considering everything else, is nothing to be worried about. At least, nothing to be too worried about.

"C'mon, man," Dean sighs, masking the fact that as ever, he's relieved to see that his brother's alive, if nothing else. "Funeral's in just over an hour. Have you even showered, today?"

Sam pulls a puppy-dog face—unintentional, this time, though he has them practiced pretty damn perfectly—and looks down, worrying at his chapped lips. His skin seems to be sucking in all the light from the room like a black hole, he looks pale and awkward and his face appears fixed in a sad, worried expression.

"No," He admits. "...Sorry…"

"Dammit, Sam," Dean rolls his eyes, but at the look on his brother's face he pulls him into a tight hug. "You go have a shower. Be quick. Service starts at nine thirty. I want to get there a little early. Have you got your suit sorted?"

Sam paws at the ground. Dean sighs again.

"It's clean, at least…" Sammy mumbles.

"Right," Dean mutters distractedly, pushing past his brother. "In your closet?"

"Yeah—" Sam seems a little distressed that Dean should be going through his stuff, but Dean orders him into the shower, rummaging through Sammy's sock drawer for a clean pair for his brother.

His ring finger catches on something plastic and flat. He frowns and rummages again, finding and pulling it out, heart stopping—a small baggie of a light brown powder.

He drops it as soon as he pulls it out and realises what it is, drops it onto the jumbled pile of socks, like the thing has sent an electric current right through him.

Shit.

Shit.

Sammy is getting bad again. Sammy is relapsing. Again.

Shit.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Dean places the bag on top of the crumpled sheets of Sam's bed, anger biting through him. He'll focus on that later. Suit first.

The jacket is hung up in Sam's closet. It's a discoloured kind of black. Dean finds a crumpled shirt in a drawer and does his best at flattening it out—hell, he knows he doesn't have time to fucking iron the thing, so this'll have to do.

What next? Oh, right. Pants. Where the hell does Sammy keep pants? Does he have any suit pants?

Eventually, Dean finds a pair, inside-out, on the floor of Sam's closet. He hears his brother exiting the bathroom, the gushing water turning off, the click of the door unlocking. Dean sets all the clothes of his brother's bed and picks up the bag of brown powder.

He holds it up to his brother as he enters the room. Big, hazel eyes graze over the baggie, widening, before meeting with Dean's own green gaze.

An odd, sputtering noise comes out of Sam's mouth before he even finds himself able to speak.

"Dean, I—"

"Save it," Dean rolls his eyes, shoving past his brother and striding into the bathroom, still filled with steam. Water streaks down the single, tiny window in the room, discoloured by dust and soot He drops the bag into the cracked toilet and flushes, staring hard at his brother when he appears round the doorframe.

"I can explain—" Sam shakes his head, eyes wide and pleading, but Dean can't listen. Not today.

"Get dressed," He says, voice quiet, though he surprisingly manages to keep it pretty even. "Get dressed, get in the car, and we can just try and fucking get through today. I'll—" Dean cuts himself off, lip curling. He gestures dismissively at his little brother. "God, Sam," He sighs.

"Dean I'm sorry—"

"I don't wanna hear it," Dean shoves past the younger man again. "Get dressed. The car's waiting outside. I won't tell mom. But you will."

"I can't—"

Dean only glares.

Then he stomps out the dingy, cluttered apartment. Mary gives him a confused look as he lividly opens the car door, getting inside and slamming it shut.

"What's up?" She frowns. "And what's the holdup?"

Dean grits his teeth.

"Sammy's… Not even dressed yet," He answers. "Had to tell him to shower when I got in there. Place is a mess. Had to find his suit for him while he washed."

He doesn't tell his mom about the smack. That's Sammy's job.

Sadness seems to move like a river through Mary's eyes.

"Dean," She starts, voice cracking in her throat, "I know you—I know you're hurting, today. But just go easy on your brother, okay? He's… He's hurting, too, you know?"

Of course Dean fucking knows. Resentment courses through him. Dean knows better than fucking anyone, it's like Dean's mom has forgotten who was there to pick up the pieces after Jess died, after Ruby gave Sam his first dose of smack, and called Dean in a panic because Sam was vomiting and crying; it's like Mary has forgotten who was there for Sammy when he first overdosed, who called the ambulance and sat, sobbing in it with him, who was there for Sam when Ruby left him. It was Dean. It was always Dean. And it was Dean who failed, failed his brother, failed his mom.

Ten minutes later, and Sam piles into the Impala, glancing worriedly at Dean, who only rolls his eyes and tears his gaze away from his younger brother with as much aggression as possible—that is, without his mother noticing. It's eight-thirty now, and Sammy is squishing his knees up to his chest to fit into the back seat, looking out the back window with sunken, weary eyes.

Dean hurts. Everything hurts. And he knows Sammy hurts too, knows Sammy's depressed, knows he's broken, knows that losing Jess had meant Sammy losing a part of himself, too, but… Fuck, it's Jimmy's damn funeral, and Sam hadn't been dressed when Dean arrived and has been stashing heroin in his drawer, and, Dean realises now, probably all over his apartment, too. Along with god knows what else.

Eight forty. Traffic. The rain is easing a little, the sky no longer black, but gray-white. It's well and truly morning, now—and were it not so cloudy, the sun would be peeping over the buildings and storefronts in town. Instead, the sky seems heavy with the same heartbreak Dean feels and there is a bleakness in the air, the rain easing into an indecisive drizzle.

Nine AM. Still caught in traffic. Dean sighs and drums his fingers on the steering wheel, turning up the stereo. Mary and Sam share a few words. Dean doesn't speak.

Nine-seventeen AM. Dean pulls up in front of the temple, glancing up at the tall, cream-coloured building, all stone and glass. He swallows.

Last time he was here, it was Cas's Bar Mitzvah.

Fourteen years ago.

A lot can change in that time—a lot had changed.

The place looks exactly the same, except now there's no air of celebration, no happy people pouring in, now all the folk climbing up the steps wear black and gray and muted tones and keep their faces still and inexpressive. Dean doesn't feel any kind of excitement as he looks up at the building, only a deep and intense kind of dread, mingling to form an ugly cocktail with the regret and grief already swirling murkily in his stomach.

Mary tugs Dean back into reality.

"The hell is this?" Dean frowns at the brimless black hat his mother has pressed into his hands.

"It's a kippah, Dean," Mary rolls her eyes. "You're going into a synagogue."

Dean frowns down at the cap.

"If it's that necessary to wear them, you know they'll probably hand them out, right?"

"It's out of respect, honey—you knew Jimmy for twenty-three years—"

"I know how long I knew him," Dean grumbles, opening his door and slamming it shut, eyes burning. His mother and brother get out after him, Mary handing Sammy a skullcap, too.

"Put it on, Dean," Mary sighs. Dean swallows thickly, placing the kippah on his head.

"How's this gonna stay on?" He frowns at his mother.

"I've got bobby pins, but unless you're planning on racing around the place, I don't think you're gonna need them. Honestly, Dean, I thought you said you went to Cas's bar mitzvah?"

Dean looks down. Still drizzling, the light rain has now set a thin, silvery kind of sheen on his suit.

"Long time ago," He shrugs. And it was. "Cas leant me one of his, I think."

"Right," Mary presses her lips together. "Well, then. Shall we go in?"

Dean can only glance up for about half a second to nod at his mother.

"Sure."

He climbs up the wet steps after his mom and brother. He doesn't look up.

He takes a seat next to his mom. Sam is sat on the other side of her, Dean at the end of their row. They're near the back, and it feels appropriate, considering everything that transpired nine years ago. Dean scrunches his hands together. The casket is at the head of the chapel; he can't look at it, he thinks that if he even stole a as much as a glance in its direction he might find his body lost to convulsions, might retch and retch until he couldn't see or think anymore.

At least the casket is covered; Dean can't stand the thought of seeing Jimmy's motionless body, no longer animated, no bright blue eyes peering out at the world with gentle inquisitiveness, no soft frown, no comforting hands on shoulders no—

No Jimmy. Not any more. Jimmy dead.

More people enter behind Dean. He doesn't turn to look, but as they walk to the front of the chapel, he catches a mess of dark brown hair, so dark it is nearly jet, in a ruffled suit and a blue tie. The owner of the suit doesn't even glance back at him—it figures, Dean berates himself—but the sight of him has Dean's heart crumbling and burning inside his chest, turning his lungs ash as he attempts to force air back into his body.

He wants to go home. He wants to go home, there are too many ghosts in this place, he doesn't even realise that he's crying as they sit down, not until Mary's hands are on his shoulders, squeezing tightly.

Eyes, somehow caught between being cobalt and arctic, flit back to meet Dean's gaze. Those eyes. Fuck, if that doesn't take Dean back, if it doesn't make him break apart even more, make his heart turn to ash. He rips himself away from the gaze, sobs not subsiding. Azure eyes still press at his body; he can feel them—they burn his skin the same way his tears continue to burn at his eyes.

Bright blues. Dean can remember them by heart, could be on his deathbed, and were somebody to ask him to map them out, he'd be able to do it. Every facet. Every sapphire vein, every teal ring, every charcoal eyelash, the way they bunch up at their corners when pressed into a smile, every star glittering behind their surface. All of it.

His hands tremble. He bunches them together again, nails pressing into his palms.

How could he be so damn selfish? It isn't his father who's died, even if it sure feels like it; today isn't his day, he shouldn't be the one crying hysterically at the funeral service, he should be staying quiet and respectful—really, Dean thinks, he shouldn't even be here. Not after everything.

He glances back toward the owner of the startling blue eyes. They have turned away from him, as if they had never been trained on Dean's face in the first place, as if they had never rested upon Dean in all of their existence.

Dark hair, nearly black. Dark stubble. Of course he hadn't bothered shaving today, of course he never would. Crumpled suit. Blue tie. It's all almost picturesque, how ruffled and beautiful and heartbreaking the man looks. Dean presses his trembling lips together.

Twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of head-over-heels, unknowable, destroying, renewing, devastating adoration and devotion and love, love, love. Even if Dean hadn't always known what to call it.

He knows what to call it now. Broken, broken in a synagogue, Dean knows what it was he felt all those years he looked into the eyes of purest blue imaginable, knows what it was he felt every time their shoulders or hands strayed a little too close, brushed, touched.

Fourteen years of friends, best friends, of 'I'd do anything for you's and sneaking to each other's homes and playing ball and sleeping in each other's rooms and stealing liquor from parents to drink it on the same rooftop together, always together. Fourteen years of always together.

One moment of rejection.

Nine years of apart. Nine years of heartbreak. Nine years of continents apart, of not speaking, no acknowledgement, no interaction, no closure, no peace. No happiness. Nine years of Dean's life entering motions, going through them, constant, cold and mechanic, like clockwork. Nine years of alone.

Castiel Novak. Castiel. Jimmy's son in the big white house across the road. Cas.

It's the first time Dean has seen him in nine years. He can't make out the other man's face, it's turned away from Dean, now. He wonders how it's aged, if Cas has laugh-lines or worry lines like his father, if he's muscular, wiry, if he stands tall or if he slumps his shoulders, if he still inclines his head as he speaks, still squints when he's confused, still uses words longer than anyone could ever think necessary in casual conversation, still can't dress for shit and wears strange, endearing clothing that shows off his awkward, elegant frame.

God. Nine years. A lot has changed. And yet Dean still loves Cas just the same. Even if his heart hurts all kinds of different.