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“The house is a bit of a fixer-upper but I think we have what it takes,” Jimmy said as Dean pulled into the underground parking garage. He parked the Prius in their assigned space and turned to face his husband.
“You seriously think we could do it?” Dean asked. “Or are you just looking for an excuse to get me into a tool belt?”
Jimmy laughed, his eyes crinkling with that genuine mirth that he’d fallen in love with and had yet to find anywhere else.
“Look, maybe it’s a little column A, little column B,” Jimmy joked. “But yeah, I think we can do it. And if we can’t, we’ll get a contractor or something.”
“We’re doing this then. We’re buying a house together,” Dean said, a little stunned by the concept. Despite the months of bank meetings and tours, it hadn’t really sunk in until just now.
“We’re buying a house together,” Jimmy confirmed. Dean leaned over the arm rest between them and kissed his husband. He hadn’t been this happy since their wedding day nearly a year ago. Visions of a backyard with a dog and two kids filled his mind. A plaque on the front of the house reading Smith-Novak Residence. It could only go up from here.
…
“God damn it, I think a few squirrels died up here…” Dean yelled down from the top of the ladder.
It turned out this place had more than a few secrets including, but not limited to: some faulty piping in the basement bathroom that caused a small flood the week prior, utterly baffling light switch setups that unintuitively controlled outlets in other rooms, and an attic that apparently the previous owner didn’t know about seeing as it wasn’t mentioned in the listing or the inspections whatsoever.
“Language,” Jimmy scolded from the base of the ladder.
“Sorry, sorry,” Dean called back. “You should come up though. There’s a ton of space up here!” Swinging his flashlight across the space, Dean could see a number of old boxes and an old trunk sitting in the corner. The dust covering every surface and cobwebs from the rafters seemed to suggest that no one had been up here for a significant while.
“Woah, it’s like a whole other room up here…” Jimmy said, his head poking up through the trapdoor.
“Yeah, just don’t sneeze in here,” Dean warned, chuckling at the grimace in response. “Wanna check out what’s in the boxes? Could be some valuable stuff someone forgot about.”
“Or it could be some old Christmas decorations that are now fire hazards,” Jimmy suggested in sing-song amusement. “Yeah, why not, could use a break from tearing out drywall. Hold this.” Jimmy passed his own flashlight to Dean and carefully crawled the rest of the way up.
Dean handed back the flashlight and walked to one end of the attic while Jimmy checked out the other. Despite being an attic, the floor was impressively solid, perhaps the most solid part of the house. Dean had been expecting to have to tiptoe around creaky, water damaged floorboards but that simply wasn’t the case. He sent a silent thank you up to anyone who might be listening for that small miracle.
“So, where do you wanna start? Cardboard boxes or cool trunk?” Dean asked, tilting his head toward the trunk and waggling his eyebrows.
“Save the most interesting for last. Let’s see what’s in box number one!” Jimmy said, setting his flashlight on one of the stacks and pulling a box down, setting it in the center of the space.
“Fiiine, be boring,” Dean moaned.
“I’m savoring it, Dean,” Jimmy chided, pulling the flaps open.
“Hey! Wait up!”
“I thought it was boring?” Jimmy said, looking a picture of pure innocence. Dean knew how much of a crock of shit that was.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, carefully skirting the trap door as he made his way to the other side of the attic. “Alright, big money, no whammies, daddy wants some old war medals”
“How about some old clothes?” Jimmy said, revealing some old but completely worthless torn jeans.
“Well… At least there’s more,” Dean said, not willing to lose hope after just one box. They split up and opened every cardboard box. Jimmy was right in one respect, there were indeed some old Christmas decorations whose plugs were concerningly out of date.
“I suppose this just leaves the trunk,” Jimmy said, putting his last box back on the stack.
“I’m telling ya, that’s where the good stuff is,” Dean said, shoving an encyclopedia back into the box he’d opened. Not bothering to close it up, he headed over to the trunk where Jimmy was waiting.
“Ready to find out?” Jimmy said, kneeling down in the dust to grab hold of the latch.
“Go for it,” Dean said with a grin. He didn’t know what but this felt important.
Jimmy lifted the lid and to both of their surprise, there was only a single bundled cloth in the bottom of the trunk.
“The fuck?” Dean’s grin fell. “Who wastes a whole trunk on that?”
Jimmy was completely silent as he reached for the bundle. The moment he touched it, there was a bright blue flash and Jimmy collapsed to the floor.
“Jimmy!” Dean yelped, falling to his husband’s side. “Oh fuck, oh Jesus fuck!” He grabbed either side of Jimmy’s face but he was out cold. “Oh god, don’t be dead, don’t leave me.” Planking two fingers to his neck, Dean felt for a pulse. Dean forced himself to steady his own breath, pouring all his concentration into searching for a heart beat. For a moment, Dean felt nothing and feared the worst. Then, he felt it. Faint, but there.
“Oh thank god,” Dean breathed out a shuddering gasp, realizing that his face was wet.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and hastily dialed 911 but before he could start the call, and hand grasped his wrist. Dean looked up from the screen and saw that familiar blue of Jimmy’s eyes.
“Jimmy!” Dean threw his arms around Jimmy’s neck as he sat up. “Fuck, I thought you were… I can’t…” Dean just held Jimmy tighter.
“Dean.”
It was then that Dean noticed that Jimmy had gone stiff. His voice was gruffer and much deeper than his husband usually spoke outside of being incredibly sick or tired. Dean leaned back, keeping his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders. The look on his husband’s face was pure anguish but was quickly replaced with flat apathy. He’d never seen that look on Jimmy's face in the whole three years they’d known each other.
“What… What’s wrong?” Dean asked, nearly unable to find his own voice.
“Dean, I’m not Jimmy,” Jimmy replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean? This isn’t funny.” Another tear fell from Dean’s cheek.
Jimmy turned back to the trunk and reached back inside. Dean tried to pull him away but it was like the man was made of stone. He wasn’t sure Jimmy even noticed his frantic scrabbling. There was no blue flash this time. Jimmy lifted the bundle of tan cloth up out of the trunk and unwrapped it, revealing a worn book.
“Dean, you have to touch your journal,” Jimmy said in that strange voice, holding the book out to him.
An odd sense of familiarity rushed over Dean. He’d never seen it before in his life and yet, he recognized the soft leather, could practically smell it. It sent ghostings of pride, fear, and resentment through him. It reminded him of his father but how that book would relate to Bobby was beyond him. That book scared him and was a part of him.
“No, fuck that. What do you mean you’re not Jimmy?” Dean asked, shuffling back, kicking up a cloud of dust around him.
“I promise, I can explain everything after you touch your journal.”
Dean’s head was spinning now, his breath coming fast as his eyes blurred.
“That’s not my journal! What the fuck happened to you Jimmy?!?” Dean demanded, scrambling to his feet and further away from whatever had taken over his husband’s body. Because that was the only reasonable explanation here. Jimmy touched that cloth and now he’s being possessed.
“My name is Castiel and I promise this will all make sense. Please, Dean.”
“Fat fucking chance. You stay the fuck away from me,” Dean spat, turning for the ladder. He almost expected to be grabbed as he retreated but Dean just watched the blank expression on his husband’s face as he lowered himself down.
…
Dean spent that night locked in their room debating if he should call 911. What exactly would he say? ‘Hello, my husband was possessed after touching some weird cloth in a trunk in my attic?’ Sure, if he wanted a one way trip to a padded room. He set his phone on his bed side stand and crawled into bed. He laid on Jimmy’s side and shoved his nose in the pillow. He fell asleep comforted by the scent of his husband’s conditioner.
…
The next morning, Dean unlocked the bedroom door and took a careful glance down the hallway. It was silent in the house. He stepped out into the hall and made his way back toward the attic. The ladder was folded up and returned to the hole in the ceiling. The trapdoor was closed once more.
Dean began wondering if he’d dreamed the whole thing up. Was Jimmy just at a conference this weekend? How could Dean forget something like that though. Dean pulled his phone out and called Jimmy as he headed downstairs to the kitchen. He made it halfway down the stairs when he heard Jimmy’s ringtone. Ending the call, Dean ran the rest of the way downstairs to find his husband standing in the kitchen, phone in hand and wearing one of his ill-fitting suits beneath a tan trenchcoat that was a familiar shade of tan.
“Hello, Dean.”
A wave of deja vu swept over him, leaving Dean unsettled once more.
Right. Not a dream.
Resisting the urge to throw his phone, Dean sighed and shoved it back in his pocket instead. He stared down his not-husband and determined that he was more like Jimmy’s twin. Visibly identical but Dean could see all the differences down to even his posture.
“You’re not Jimmy…” Dean said, finally realizing that his husband was no more.
“No, I’m not.”
“Castle, was it?”
“Castiel.”
“Can you bring him back, Castiel?” Dean asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.
“No,” he said, having the decency to at least look remorseful.
“Well then, take that off,” Dean said, pointing to Jimmy’s hand.
Castiel looked down at his hand and Dean watched as he slid the wedding ring off his finger and set it on the kitchen counter. Castiel’s face was blank but the clench of his fist spoke volumes. Dean didn’t care, he’d lost his husband.
“I’m going out. Do whatever, I don’t care,” Dean said, as he headed for the front door.
…
It had been years since Dean had drank anything harder than a light beer but if there was any night he deserved to get plastered, it was this one. He’d walked around for a bit, debating calling any member of his family but he decided he didn’t want to have to explain anything yet. He just wanted to grieve. So as early as one opened, he sat down at a bar and grieved. That is, until he threw up in the bathroom and decided that was punishment enough.
He walked back home and crept into the kitchen. Not-Jimmy wasn’t there. He just wanted his husband back. He wanted the man whose smiles brightened his world and whose laugh reminded him that life didn’t have to be completely about work. He just wanted the man he’d fallen in love with back.
Maybe if Dean touched the journal, he could go wherever Jimmy went. It didn’t seem like much of a chance but it was better than sticking around here and having to see someone else moving around in his husband’s body.
Dean stepped forward and regarded the journal on the counter, the ring he’d put on Jimmy’s finger just next to it. He couldn’t ignore the draw now. Dean reached out and laid his hand on the book. A flash of blue light knocked Dean to the floor.
…
Dean Winchester sat up and rubbed the back of his head. He was gonna have a lump there for sure. He stood and winced at the shooting pain at his temple. He probably had a concussion.
“Dean?”
Opening his eyes despite the pain, he saw Cas walk into the kitchen, a hopeful look on his face.
“Cas, ya mind helping me out here,” he ground out, pointing at the back of his head.
“Of course, Dean,” Cas said, sounding relieved. He placed a finger to Dean’s forehead and the cool wash of grace chased away the pain. Finally able to think straight, Dean realized that they were standing in the kitchen of the house he had bought with his husband.
Dean’s stomach dropped out and he looked up to see Cas nervously watching him.
“How much do you remember,” Cas asked quietly. Dean couldn’t say for certain but he thought he saw a bit of hope in Cas’ expression. For what answer, he wasn’t sure.
Dean could lie and say that he remembered nothing. Dean Smith never existed and Jimmy Novak was dead after all. There was nothing useful to be gained by admitting that he remembered their first date, their wedding. All their fights and make-ups. Every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Every kiss. Every time they fucked. Every time they made love.
Then again, love wasn’t a tool to be useful.
“Everything,” he whispered. “Do you remember?”
Cas nodded slowly. “I can make you forget. If you want,” Cas offered.
“I don’t want to forget,” Dean said, feeling brave for once in his life as he palmed the ring and stepped closer to Cas.
“What do you want?” Cas asked, the hope now clearly showing though.
“I want my husband,” Dean said, closing the distance and kissing Cas.
It was the most real he’d ever felt.